#and he can find at least a little meaning in trying to help this other guy

[harrington-stevie]

Hello! I wanted to request an angst-to-fluff fic with Steve Harrington and reader?

Maybe something along the lines of Steve's father saying something horrible about him that stays with him, and because he's struggling with his father's words, he becomes cruel to reader without realising it, taking out his anger at her, etc.. She lets it pass multiple times because she loves him. Until one day, he says something mean when she's just asking him for some of his time, and reader finally breaks and they have an argument that lets Steve realise how much he's been hurting her.

I love lots of angst as long as it is a happy ending!! my poor heart can't take sad endings. Lots of grovelling too!!!

Also i love your work, you write so well, and its so detailed. It makes my heart ache(in a good way) . ANYWAYS LOVE YOU

Hi!! Thank you so much for the compliment, I'm really glad you like my work and I appreciate it a lot!! 💖💖 Love that idea, it goes with the idea I've had recently, but I love the angst toward reader tbh.

Steve Harrington x f!reader

Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

Word count: 5k

-

Steve and you had been friends for as long as you could remember. You always did everything together; he would hold your hand whenever you hung out, whether it was at the cafeteria, bowling, or even when he walked you home. It was his love language, until he realized he was in love with you. It felt wrong, because what if it didn’t work? What if he broke your heart, or you broke his? He wouldn’t want to force anything.

He had thought about kissing you multiple times. Your eyes crinkle when you laugh too hard, and he can’t stop staring at your lips. Steve loves the way you are so carefree, how you treat your friends well and how you help everyone around you. He worships you in a way that’s almost unhealthy for him. His fingertips almost tingle when he touches you, his heart skips a beat, and his ears buzz. 

He loves you in more ways that he can actually explain. Steve doesn’t know you feel the same aggravating affection for him, but he started to become distant somehow. 

He had never been mean to you before. At least not in a serious way, only playfully. But he started giving you short answers, cold responses, eye rolls that you wouldn't notice. You two were close to each other ever since primary school, that's why you're always together.

He’s closer to you more than with anyone else. Even with Robin being his best friend as well. Whenever you would ask something, he would shrug and just say “yes” or “no”. It was weird for you, he was acting weird.

Steve punched his bedroom wall once after a call with his father. He completely forgot you were supposed to meet at his house to make pizza. You find him in the kitchen, holding his bleeding hand with his jaw tightened. The phone is still dangling off the hook, and you can see a small hole in the drywall.

Your eyebrows furrow. You blink once, twice, trying to take it all in, how shallow his breathing is. The way his fist is trembling even though it already made contact with something it shouldn’t have. 

“Steve?” Your voice is careful and soft. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t flinch an inch.

You step forward slowly. “Hey. What happened?”

He scoffs under his breath, short and bitter “What do you think?”

You glance at his hand, his knuckles are a little scrapped with a red smear along the skin of two fingers that are already swelling. You grab a towel, dampen it, and step beside him, not touching him yet.

“Let me see.”

“I’m fine” he mutters.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I said I’m fine.”

You don’t listen. You reach out gently, carefully wrapping the cloth around his hand. The moment you touch him, he stiffens.

Your voice stays steady “Was it your dad?”

There’s silence, a pause that stretches and it’s uncomfortable.

Then a hiss of breath through his teeth “Doesn’t matter.”

You look up at him, but he doesn’t want to meet your eyes, he’s somewhere else. As if he’s in a daze and his mind is stuck on the previous words he heard through the phone. Something he didn’t deserve, something that has been said way too many times for his liking. He knows he shouldn’t care, he knows it’s not true. But he hears them so much, he’s starting to believe he’s not special.

“You’re not special, Steve” His dad had said “You’re a disappointment with good hair. That’s all people ever see.”

You hold his hand a little firmer, cleaning the blood from his knuckles “It matters to me.”

That’s when it breaks. He laughs sharply, it's as sharp as a knife.

“What, so you can feel bad for me?” He snaps, yanking his hand away “So you can play nurse and patch me up like I’m a little broken kid?”

Your hands still and you freeze, your mouth parting, but nothing comes out. He glares at you and his shoulders heave, Steve’s chest is tight with something he doesn’t know what to call. 

“You always do this. You always hover. Like you’re waiting for me to fall apart so you can swoop in and fix it.”

Your throat tightens “Steve–”

“I don’t need you to fix me!”

The silence that follows is loud and immediate. It buzzes in your ears like a slap.

Your voice comes out quiet. Hurt. “I’m not trying to fix you.”

He falters, and his face shifts for a second. There’s regret flashing like a crack of light through a storm, but it’s too late now. The damage is already there.

You take a step back “I just didn’t want you to bleed alone.”

His jaw tightens again.You nod slowly, heart squeezing in your chest “But if that’s how you see me... I’ll go.”

You turn, taking two steps forward when you hear him. It’s barely there, a whisper of him asking you to stay. 

You don’t turn around, even though you have stopped. “Don’t. I didn’t mean it. I just... I’m mad. And I don’t know where to put it. And it keeps coming back to me, and then to you, and I hate that I do this to you.”

His voice barely holds itself. You stay quiet, and he sighs “I called him. I thought maybe it’d be different this time. Maybe he’d say something, I don’t know, like he’s proud or he’s glad I’m okay. But he just said I’m still a waste of space.”

You feel the pain coming through his voice, your chest mourning for him. When he turns to look at you, his eyes are already red. His tone is shaking “I hit the wall because I couldn’t hit him. And you walked in and you’re just... you, and I panicked. I thought, ‘Why are you still here?’ Because if I were you, I’d have walked away already.”

You take a breath, walking right up to him, taking his injured hand again gently, as though it’s made of glass. You dab his skin carefully with the towel. 

“I’m here, Steve. Not because you’re perfect. Not because I want to fix you” You glance up at him and meet his eyes “I’m here because I love you. And that means staying when it’s hard. Not just when you’re charming, or sweet, or making pancakes at midnight.”

He swallows harshly “You shouldn’t have to stay when I’m like this.”

You smile sadly “Then stop giving me reasons to leave.”

And that’s when he almost breaks down. He presses his forehead to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

“I’m sorry” He breathes. “For what I said. For pushing you. For being so scared all the time.”

You squeeze his hand, bruised and broken and still worth holding.

“I know,” You whisper. “Me too.”

It started slowly, when his dad showed up, he stopped meeting your eyes when you made sure he's okay. He just says he is okay and kisses your forehead, and you let it go. You thought things wouldn’t be so difficult, not when he apologized and seemed to be so regretful after that day. But you were wrong.

He cancelled plans with no explanation. Not just with you, but he knows it's harder if it's you, because you ask questions. Eddie doesn't. Not that he doesn't care, he fucking loves Steve. He just knows he needs some boundaries, so he lets it go.

It gets worse once. You've planned a picnic, you pack his favorite snacks, you borrow his mother's old blanket. It's how he feels closer to her sometimes. But he didn't seem to remember to have had plans with you, because he never showed up. You waited and waited. You called him when you got home and he never answered. You broke down after finishing brushing your teeth, when you finally laid in bed.

He was drinking with Jonathan, Eddie and Argyle. He wanted to distract himself from his issues and apparently, from you. He dodged questions when Eddie asked about you. He didn't even notice he was supposed to meet you earlier that day. While you're crying in bed, he's drowning his sorrows with alcohol.

He clenches his jaw when you're excited about something small, like a new song or a movie you want to watch with him. He tries to go out of his way to make it less bothering, but he can't. Steve feels pressured, he feels like he can't stay normal around you. Whenever he raises his voice at you, he startles you. 

You had called out his name and he snapped, like you were interrupting something important.

"What?" He asks, his tone is sharp and his jawline is clicked.

You had wanted to ask him if he wanted to grab milkshakes, but immediately regretted even thinking about it. You look down at your feet, he doesn't notice your sadness. You gave him some excuse to leave, to which he didn't wonder if it was true or not.

You still love him, though. So you stay. You hold onto the Steve who sang loudly in your car, the Steve who brought flowers to your job even though they were half-wilted, the Steve who kissed your knuckles as if he was a knight in shining armor. But even though he's been acting like an asshole, you know he's still in there.

His father's words etched in his head. And it stuck. Those words became something dark inside him. So when you reached out to him, for his time, for his attention, for his love– he heard accusation. Expectation. Pressure. He mistook your softness for judgment. And he lashed out.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the carpet of his living room, flipping through one of his old yearbooks while he sits on the couch, eyes glued to a TV he isn’t watching.

“Hey” You say gently, “can we do something together this weekend? Maybe just hang out? I feel like we haven’t really talked in a while.”

He doesn’t look at you.

You try again “Even just a walk? Or–”

“God” He says sharply all of a sudden “You’re always asking for something.”

Your heart drops, blinking “I’m sorry?”

He scoffs like it’s obvious “I’m tired, okay? I don’t need you clinging to me every second. I don’t have time to entertain every little mood you’re in.”

You freeze. You’re not sure what hurts more. His words, or the way he says them. Like you’re a burden. Like your love is annoying. He still doesn’t look at you.

You swallow, hard. There's a forming lump in your throat and you try to push it down “I’m not asking you to entertain me. I’m asking you to spend time with me. Because I miss you. Because I love you.”

That gets his attention. His eyes flicker to yours and he realizes something’s wrong. But it’s too late. You’re already standing.

“I let so many things slide, Steve. I let you ignore me. I let you snap at me. I told myself you were tired, or upset, or going through something. And I gave you space because I care about you.”

He opens his mouth, but you keep going.

“But I can’t keep loving someone who makes me feel like I’m a burden just for wanting to be around them.”

You wait for a response, but he doesn't say anything. He feels the pressure inside his chest, something tightening and a nauseating feeling of guilt.

You nod slowly "Okay, whatever. I guess that's it, right?"

You get up and grab your purse, looking over your shoulder for a second before leaving. The door closes harshly behind you, and it makes him flinch at the sound. Steve immediately gets up from the couch and flips the coffee table from his living room. This is not just his dad's fault. It's his fault as well. He's letting his words get into his head and he's losing his mind. The anger doesn't sip away, it stays there during the night.

Robin feels like she's in the middle of a crossed fire. She hears your complaints about him, she listens to his complaints about his father. She knows you're hurt, she knows he's hurt, and she doesn't know what to do. She tries to talk him into apologizing to you, but you have decided to give him the cold shoulder.

She ends up telling you what his father told him. She rambles so much, she always says something she shouldn't have. But maybe it was for the best. Because then you finally knew why he was being mean to you. You know how much of an asshole his father is. You feel bad for him, you feel sorry for him, and now you realize why he acted the way he did.

He had distanced himself from you and from his friends, despite all he wanted was some company. In frustration, he began to lash out at his father whenever he had the chance. One day, they got into a heated argument when his dad came home, and in a moment of anger, he punched his father. His dad landed a punch that split the skin on his cheek slightly. 

Steve was furious, because how would he hide that from anyone? He couldn't just say he fell. At Jonathan's birthday party, they all ask him what happened to his cheek and he finds an excuse no one actually suspects.

You sit on the couch with the girls. You're all gathered around Nancy, who just got the perfect gift for her boyfriend and she's so happy about it. You're happy for her. You're so happy, you're almost jealous. You've wanted that with Steve, you wanted to have something like that with him, but maybe you had misread something. Because if he truly wanted to date you, he wouldn't have treated you that way. No one would be bold enough to do that.

And he looks at you from across the kitchen while Eddie talks out of his mind. He's like a submachine gun of words. The other guys laugh and tap each other's chest when they agree with something. He's just standing there, sipping on his lukewarm beer like it's the most boring thing. Steve keeps drinking as if that would solve any problem in his life. 

He becomes short fused out of nowhere, because he starts thinking about things that make no sense. Nancy's father would never say she's a failure. Eddie's uncle is proud of him, even though he failed school and has his name stained. Jonathan's stepfather– Hopper, doesn't care he gets stoned and doesn't have the perfect job.

He looks down at his drink too many times, he stops listening to the chatting around him. He starts giving short answers to everyone, including Dustin, who's so dear to him. You meet his eyes a few times, he doesn't look like he's okay. He doesn't seem to be interested in being there. He doesn't know how to shut it all out. He gets drunk. Worse than that, he gets bored drunk. He sits on the kitchen island and stares at his drink. Steve doesn't even know what he's drinking anymore. Is it beer? Is it whiskey? Is it vodka?

You don't enjoy the party that much. You can't. Your eyes can't stop being pulled like a magnet at him. His eyes lack confidence, happiness. All because of his father. You follow him when you notice he left the kitchen. You find him sitting on the bench in the backyard, his head thrown back and his eyes shut. You sit beside him and he doesn't shift, he doesn't move. He knows it's you because of your smell, because of your calm presence.

“You okay?” You ask, even though you know he's not.

“Do you ever stop?” His voice comes out slurred, his cup is filled with margarita. Well, half of it. He's drank the first half in one swig.

You blink, confused “What?”

“You always need something. Always pushing, always wanting. It’s exhausting.”

The words don’t register at first. Your brain fumbles them. You look at him confused, your heartbeat skipping.

“I’m... asking to see you, Steve.”

“I’m tired” He snaps “I don’t need to be your entertainment every time you get bored or lonely.”

And there it is. That’s what breaks you, you look at him for a long second. Your mouth is parted, and your breath is caught in your throat.

“That’s what you think I am?” You whisper “A bored girl looking for a distraction?”

He exhales, already regretting it, but not enough to take it back.

You nod slowly “Wow.”

“I didn’t mean–”

“Yes, you did.” Your voice cracks, but you straighten your back “You’ve been meaning all of it, haven’t you? Every eye roll. Every cold shoulder. Every time I ask if you’re okay and you look at me like I’m annoying.”

He falls silent.

You keep going, and now your voice is shaking. “I let it slide because I thought you were hurting. Because I know you’ve got things buried deep. But this? This isn’t just a bad mood anymore, Steve. This is you making me feel like loving you is a burden”

His mouth opens slightly, like he’s going to speak, but there’s nothing. Just guilt. Just stunned silence.

You take a shaky breath. “All I ever wanted was time with you. I’m not asking for flowers. Or grand gestures. Just... you. And you treat me like I’m clingy. Like I’m too much.”

You turn, wiping a tear as it falls “Maybe I am. Too much. For you.”

You don’t expect him to stop you. So when his hand catches your wrist as you turn to leave, you flinch.

“I’m sorry” His voice cracks when he speaks and it makes you freeze.

“I didn’t mean it” He says again “I didn’t– God, I didn’t mean any of it.”

You stay still, not facing him. He steps in front of you, forcing you to see his face. Bloodshot eyes, which you don’t know if it’s from the drink or for suppressing his tears back.

“My dad said... he told me I’m nothing. Just a pretty face people keep around until they get bored. That people only want me when I’m fun, or happy, or convenient.” His voice trembles. “And I started believing it. So when you loved me anyway, I got scared. I pushed. I made it hard to love me, just to see if you’d go.”

You stare at him, tears blurring the edges of your vision.

“You were trying to make me leave.”

“I know” He whispers “And I hate myself for it. I don’t want to lose you.”

You shake your head “You hurt me, Steve.”

“I know.”

“You made me feel small.”

He nods, with tears slipping down his cheek “And you made me feel seen. And I punished you for it.”

You don’t answer.

He swallows hard “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The silence stretches. A few minutes pass until he speaks up again, and this time it's like he wants to say it all out loud.

“I'm sorry” He says, a tear escaping his eyes that are closed “I'm so sorry if I'm such a fucking loser.”

You place a hand over his wrist, his knees keep bouncing as his head still falls back against the wall.

“Stevie” You say gently “You're not a loser. You're smart, you're gentle and caring. You work hard, you became better after school.”

You take the cup away from his hand and place it on the ground. You pull both his hands with yours and cradle his face, lowering his head. He doesn't open his eyes just yet, his brows crease when he tries to hold back his tears. But he just can't find strength to do that. He wants to cry, but he thinks he's just being weak.

He doesn't believe it, he never has. Because if that was true, his father wouldn't be so disappointed at him.“I'm sorry for acting like a total jackass with you. But I– My father keeps telling me I'm a fucking joke, he doesn't stop. We had a fight the other day, I threw a punch at him and he punched me back.”

“You're not even close to being anything he says you are. You are more than that, sunshine” He softens at the nickname. You have both called each other that ever since you made a deal when you were younger.

Your thumb brushes his skin gently and he leans into your touch “You have to stop listening to everything he says. He just wants to hurt you and you're giving him what he wants.”

Steve finally lets the tears roll. It falls easily, and you try to wipe them away, until he starts sobbing right in front of you. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you close to him in a tight hug. He keeps apologizing, hiccuping. His head digs into the crook of your neck and his crying comes out muffled. You stroke his hair and then let yourself cry as well. You have never seen him so broken before.

Finally, you speak.

“I don’t need perfect. I never did. But I need honesty. And I need someone who fights with me. Not against me.”

He nods pulling back just a little bit “Then let me fight for you. Let me earn back what I broke.”

You look at him, really look. He’s not perfect, he’s raw and flawed and scared. But this time, he’s trying.

You nod once, tears still falling “Then start now.”

He leans in, presses his forehead to yours, and breathes you in like you’re the only thing keeping him steady.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I promise.”

Steve starts taking you out. He holds your hand as if he’s afraid you’re going to disappear. He brings you your favorite snacks at work, he picks up movies for you both to watch. When he knows his father is around, he doesn’t stay home, he stays with you. He ignores his father’s call at all costs. His mother has to call Nancy’s mother so she can talk to him, and sometimes he can hear his father in the background. 

And this time, when he holds you, it feels like he means it.

It doesn’t reach him like it did before, it doesn’t do much damage like it would. He’s still angry sometimes, his temper would swing at times, and he would have to hold back at some moments. But when he sees you, when he knows you are not letting him go, he lays it all down. 

On his birthday, he goes to The Hideout.  He’s in the booth, half-smiling because Robin had forced him into wearing a party hat, it’s crooked and ridiculous. His arms are folded on the table, his shoulders feel relaxed like it hasn’t been in a while. His face light up when he watches as you enter the place and approach the table with a gift for him. 

You slide into the booth beside him, nudging your shoulder against his “Birthday boy.”

He huffs a laugh “That’s me.” 

He looks older, a little tired, maybe. It’s not easy to have parents who don’t give you enough of their love, who aren’t proud of who you are. Who aren’t there when you need them. They didn’t even call and he’s not even surprised, he thinks being with his friends is enough already.

“Are you having fun?” You ask him gently and he nods. 

“I am” He nudges your shoulder back and you nod. 

A few minutes pass with Robin drunkenly singing into a beer bottle like it’s a mic, Eddie yelling “encore!” way too loud, and Mike and Lucas arguing about something you don’t care to understand. 

And then you reach into your bag and pull out a small package in a brown paper. It doesn’t have a bow or anything fancy, just your handwriting on a folded scrap saying “for you”.

Steve raises an eyebrow “You got me something?”

“Obviously” You say, with a smile on your face that can make his days so much better “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?”

He smiles, a little shy “The kind who’s already giving me way more than I deserve.”

You shake your head “Open it.”

He tries to ignore the way his heart thumps when you say “friend”, but you know it’s more than that. You just don’t have a title yet. 

He removes the paper carefully, not ripping it off, but he freezes when he sees what’s inside. 

A framed photo that looks a little blurry and kind of off-center. It’s you and him, on your back porch last fall. There are leaves everywhere and he laughs. He's literally cackling, and you’re squinting at him as you grin like a stupid 12 year old girl in love. Robin took it without either of you knowing.

There’s a handwritten note on the back of the frame, and he glances at you before opening. 

I know birthdays are hard sometimes. I know you still hear him sometimes. I just wanted you to have proof that you're loved. That you laugh like that. That you're someone people stay for. Especially me.

He swallows hard, his fingertips carefully grazing the edges of the picture. He’s quiet at first, they tighten around the frame and his eyes are locked on it, his jaw works a little and his breath trembles as he leans his head down. He presses it to your shoulder. 

“Thank you” He murmurs quietly “This… you didn’t have to…”

“I know. I wanted to.”

One of your hand tangles in his hair, the other one holds his hand under the table, your thumb brushes over his knuckles. He leans back and meets your eyes, smiling. A true smile, a kind one. 

Steve wanted to kiss you so bad that night, he longed for that. But he knew it wouldn't be the perfect timing, he wanted it to be good for both of you. Even though he can see how much you liked each other, and not just as friends.

“You make it easier. Being here, being myself.”

You rest your forehead against his “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

His heartbeat skyrockets when he kisses your cheek and places the photo back gently into the wrapping. Outside the booth, the band starts playing something truly awful. Someone throws a napkin. Dustin howls. Robin does a split that no one asked for. And Steve laughs, that same laugh from the photo. The one that makes your chest warm. It’s not a perfect night. But it’s a real one. And Steve, for once, lets it all in.

One night you were both sitting on the roof of his car, looking out at the vast starry sky. Airplanes passing by, trees rustling with the soft autumn wind. There's a blanket thrown over your shoulders, half for the breeze, half because he put it there without asking.

You haven’t spoken much tonight. And that’s okay. It’s not the kind of silence that feels like a wall anymore.

It’s the kind that feels like safety. The kind where you don’t need to fill the space to feel wanted. Steve's arm is resting behind you, long fingers tapping lightly against the metal of the car. You glance over at him, and he’s already looking at you. Not like he used to, not distracted or anxious or distant. Now he looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

His eyes soften, and he swallows. And when he speaks, his voice is quieter than the wind.

“I think I’ve been in love with you since before I even deserved to be.”

You blink in surprise, your heart starts beating faster. He feels nervous, his hands shake and he’s not sure he’s doing the right thing. Because Steve broke you many times already, he can’t keep doing that anymore. 

“I just didn’t know how to say it before. Or maybe I was scared that if I said it, you’d see right through me. I was scared I would throw everything away, ruin everything we had.”

You don't respond right away. You let it land, let the words sink into your chest.

Then, gently, you ask “Do you mean it?”

He nods, just once. And then, he locks his eyes on yours, with a whirlwind in his head. But he’s sure of it, he knows.

“I love you.”

There’s no hesitation. No bitterness clinging to the edges like before. No fear behind his eyes. Just this raw, open truth he’s finally ready to give you. It’s not the same love he usually shared with you, this one is different.

Your chest aches in the best possible way.

“I love you, too” You whisper “Even when it was hard. Even when it hurt.”

His hand slides up to your cheek, gently and expectantly “I’m so sorry for the ways I hurt you.”

“I know” You say, your lips curl and you lean into his touch “You’ve been showing me.”

There’s a pause there, you two are just breathing, feeling each other’s closeness. Steve sees how your face lights up when he strokes his thumb against your cheek.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, suddenly.

It’s such a Steve thing to ask. Always gentle, careful, almost shy. And it’s the easiest answer you’ve ever given.

“Yes.”

He leans in, slow, like he’s still half afraid you’ll disappear. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb brushing just under your cheekbone, and when his lips meet yours, it’s soft, like he’s memorizing the shape of you before he ever dares deepen it. Your hands curl into his shirt without thinking. He kisses you like he’s been waiting months, even years, for permission.

Like he’s finally found something worth staying for. Like he means every word he’s ever said, and all the ones he couldn’t say until now. When you finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“I’ve wanted that since the day I met you” He murmurs “But this... now... it feels like the first time I’m really me. And I’m so glad it’s you.”

You smile. And this time, when you kiss him, it’s not cautious or heavy or full of everything unsaid. It’s warm and certain, your tongues collide and there’s a million fireworks bursting inside of him. Inside of you. 

Two people choosing each other, finally, completely.

No fear, no walls.

Just love.

[l0sercat]

Mark x Yandere!Reader

Guys I messed up and I thought Viltrumites could sense people, but I didn't want to fix my mistake so just bear with me. And also I hate how it turned out, but I hope you enjoy the porn 🙃

You've been stalking Mark for years, and now that he has his powers he finally notices you.

Cw: Stalking, Parents are platonic yanderes, Major Character death, obsessive behavior, hate fucking, MDNI, Mark heavily dislikes reader, breeding but no pregnancy, Mark is a little mean to reader, yandere stuff but at least the sex is consensual

You don't know why you're like this. Why you're so weird and obsessive. Could it be from birth or from childhood; who knows you certainly don't. Neither did your parents or the doctors they took you to. No one could understand you, no one could help you. You were just broken, and your parents tried to help you. They really did try, they did anything and everything to make you happy. But their efforts were for nothing. You were like a doll, emotionless and unresponsive to most things. You communicate with them, but not like how a normal child should. You just always look so uninterested. You were forced to move and change schools many times. You were just bullied too much especially at the last one. Not like you really cared, but when you came home with a bruised face your parents decided it was for the best. The first day you arrived at the school you had no idea where your classes were at.

So you looked around the hallway, you laid your eyes on a boy. He seemed average but nice, black hair and dark eyes with a big sweater. You made your way over to him, tapping his shoulder. He looked at you with a small smile gracing his lips. "Hello, can you help me find these classes please?” Your voice is flat and monotonous and your eyes are dull. Mark however doesn't even flinch, He Just smiles even bigger. “Sure! You must be new here right?” He looks at the schedule in your hand. “Oh! We have most of these classes together!” He laughs in surprise. You just give a small ‘hm’ and walk with him. “I'm Mark, what's your name?” he asks, you blink at him and for the first time in your life you smile. A small smile but one nonetheless “Y/n” Mark grins “Nice to meet you Y/n, you're going to love Mr.Mandela he's such a laid back teacher”

Mark continues to talk until you've reached your shared class. Your heart races like never before, and your face is heating up. Your thoughts are consumed by Mark and only him. You don't understand what's happening, all you know is that you don't want this feeling to stop. You finally feel what it's like to be normal. This is how everyone feels, right? Mark and you sit down at a table with another guy. But you paid no mind to the dude. Your eyes only focus on Mark, only his voice fills your ears. Only Mark. Someone taps your shoulder and you turn around. You send a chilling, spine rattling stare at the person who disrupts you. They immediately paused and turned around, apologizing and rushing away. The whole day you followed Mark around like a lost puppy. And he doesn't even notice, just happy he made a new friend. When you get home with a smile on your face your parents are shocked. They looked at each other and decided to approach you gently.

When you all gather at the table to eat. You still have the smallest of smiles on your face. “Sweetie, how was school today?” Your mom asked, your eyes twinkle as the day replays in your mind. You start to slowly talk but as you get to talking about Mark. Your smile grows and you talk faster, rambling about Mark. How amazing he is, how cute and smart he is. How you only want him to look at you, only smile and talk to you. You only want Mark and you need Mark to only want you. Your heart races and your face heats up. You craved him, you do anything for him. Your parents listen intently, sparing each other only a glance and a nod of confirmation. In that moment they both decided they would do anything to keep you happy.

“Well Hun do you have a picture of him?” your dad questions, you nod your head excitedly and fast. You pull out dozens of photos of mark. Your parents just smile as you finally show emotion. They don't even see this as weird or creepy. “That's great Sweetie, and remember if you need anything just ask!” you beam at them and grab all your photos and scramble to your room. Your parents hold each other's hands and lean on one another watching you happily scurry to your room. And they meant what they said. They bought you anything you needed. Whether it was a better camera and photo albums. It didn't matter if the things you asked for were for stalking Mark. They didn't even care that you stayed out late stalking him. The smile that you had when you came home just made them so happy. Their baby girl was finally happy and showing emotion.

The shrine you made for him grew so big you asked your parents for either another room or a shed for everything. They bought you a large luxurious shed, costumed to how you wanted it. It was honestly more like a trailer.

You collected anything and everything of Marks. But his figurines and comic books you wouldn't touch out of respect for him. You knew how much they meant so you left them be. But stealing his worn boxers or toothbrush was on the table. When he was at Williams, much to your annoyance, you would lay in his bed and smell his scent. Getting yourself off to his smell, your juices lightly soak his pillow you were riding. The same one he would rest his head on. With how much you stalked him you'd eventually find out that his dad is Omni man. But who cared Mark was all you cared about. The only thing that surprised you was that Nolan didn't know you were stalking Mark. You thought since he was an alien he could sense you. But who cares even if he did know, you would never stop, only death could put an end to your obsession.

—

You tried really hard to continue to be friends with Mark. But it seems like the gods hated you. Mark tried as hard as he could to be nice to you, he really did. But you were rude to William and very creepy towards himself. At first he didn't really notice, he just thought you were shy. Your face is always heating up and you'd have a slight stutter. But then he noticed how obsessive and possessive you sounded. If he mentioned anyone you'd get a scary look on your face. If it was a girl you'd ask who she was and why he would be talking to her. Mark had enough and told you to leave him alone. You felt your heart shatter and that day you came home crying. Your parents were confused and when they learned what happened they were livid. But you told them to leave it be that you were fine. You weren't fine, you started plotting how to take him for only you. You would blend into the background and watch him. Getting rid of any competition that was in your way.

When it was senior year of high school the obsession seemed to be at its peak. You craved Mark like never before. You didn't know how long you could control yourself. You needed Mark so badly, there were nights where you touched yourself for hours thinking about him. Your face buried in his shirt you took, your fingers expertly making you come undone. His name is moaned out loudly as your back arches when you finally reach that sweet release. Your body twitches as it comes down from the sweet sweet high. Dopamine floods your brain as a possible future with Mark presents itself in your mind. You are living happily with Mark and an adorable pet and possibly a child on the way. You grin and start touching yourself again to the thought of him breeding you every single night. Whimpering and chanting in your ear ‘mine’ until he spills his sticky seed inside you. He kisses you passionately and doesn't stop until you cum again.

The next day at school you hummed to yourself when you were on your way to find Mark. Only to immediately frown and have to hold yourself back from raging out. There was Todd harming your Mark. Your eyes darted around and you made the connections. The realization made you livid, your fist clenched and shook. You were going to tear those bitches apart. The bloodlust oozed out of you, you were plotting a thousand ways to torture and kill them. First you'll get rid of Todd for even daring to touch your Mark. Then Amber for causing Todd to hurt Mark. When Todd walked away Mark's eyes briefly met yours, they filled with disgust. Then he looked away, you bit your lip and turned around walking away. That night Todd was locked in your shed, the one where you worshiped Mark. His eyes bulged, not just in fear but shock at what he was seeing. Every square inch of space was dedicated towards Mark. Everything was Mark, he screamed as loud as he could. Not like it would help considering he had a gag in his mouth. He thrashed in the chair he was tied down to. You didn't even find his pathetic self amusing. You just glared at him from across the room. “Oh shut up Todd you piss me off” you spat at him as you made your way towards him.

You clench the small knife in your hand as you trace his throat with it. “You shouldn't have messed with Mark and now you're going to have to pay” you whisper in Todd's ear making him sob, who knew that he had to pay for his actions. He tried to beg, tried to plea for forgiveness, to appeal to your humanity but it was too late. You made up your mind a long time ago that anyone who messed with your Mark would have to die. You would love to torture Todd but you grew bored of his crying. But then again on the other hand the way he hurt your Mark he deserves to hurt for a bit. A small smile quirks upon your lips thinking about Mark and what he would do if he saw you right now. Would he embrace you with a gentle smile or would he look at you with disgust and call the cops on you. You sigh as you already knew the answer but you couldn't help but be delusional even just for a little bit. You're giggling confused and scared Todd as he felt like he was going to piss himself from how terrified he was. That night you spent hours hurting Todd like how he hurt your Mark. But as soon as you saw the sun break out you knew you had to end things, so with a flick of your wrist you slit Todd's throat making him gasp. Blood oozed out of the wound and he started to choke, tears flowing freely from his eyes as he realized he was now dying. He was scared but there was nothing he could do, but just sit there and bleed out to death. Slowly and painfully as his vision faded in and out black spots formed in his vision. If only he decided not to antagonize Amber and not to touch Mark all this could have been avoided. But it was too late for that now what was done is done.

You yawned as you made your way out of the shed reminding yourself to clean up the body later as you had to get ready for school. You grinned at the thought of seeing your handsome Mark again.

—

When you arrived at school you immediately rushed to find Mark. What you didn't expect was for him to be walking down the hallway with Amber by his side, they're both chatting it up like they've known each other for years. You can't believe the sight you see in front of you. Anger clouds your mind and all you can do is just silently stand there and watch them. You want to bash the bitches brains in but you know you couldn't do it here in public. Before she could get any closer to your Mark you would end her life tonight. You couldn't even bear the thought of her being with Mark for just another second, but you'd have to try. You just have to make it through another 7 hours without thinking of how they're joking with each other like how you used to with him.

You smiled to yourself thinking of ways to hurt her, and deciding how to kill her. But for now you have to make it through English first. You sigh as you open your notebook and start to doodle him. Hearts are drawn around him and your initials are written in them. You suppress a giggle thinking about how happy you and Mark are going to be.

—

Amber screamed through her gag, she thrashed about in her restraints. The first thing she saw when she awoke from unconsciousness was Todd's dead body. Then she noticed she was gagged and tied to a chair. Her mind and heart started racing a thousand miles per minute. She looked around the room and noticed how everything was covered in Mark. Tears spilled out of her eyes and she muttered a ‘what the fuck’. She didn't know what the hell was going on and that scared her.

She knew she needed to try to get out of her restraints. So she tried her best to tug and pull on the rope, but it was tight and hurt her everytime she moved. A sound came from the corner of the room making her head snap to face that direction. Her eyes were impossibly wide as she saw your figure stalk towards her. “Stop struggling already, it's pointless, you're not getting out” you spoke in a dull flat voice.

Mark truly seemed to be the only one to spark any kind of emotion out of you. Well except when dumb bitches hurt or mess with your Mark. Then they are able to make you rage like never before. You twirl a knife in your hand, Amber shakes and tries to plead. Of course you don't really care and her pleas are muffled. Making it very hard to understand her, but even if you could it wouldn't change your mind. She was going to die tonight.

—

You sing to yourself a tune that your mother used to sing to you. You cleaned up the trailer and put the bodies in bags. You asked your parents to help you dispose of them which they happily agreed to. You skipped all the way to school that day knowing that another obstacle was gotten rid of.

Mark got to school and was confused when he didn't see Amber. And when he arrived at the place that they were supposed to hang out at and she didn't show. He was sad and tried to call her, but to no avail she didn't answer. She couldn't answer. Mark walked home wondering what happened and what he did wrong. You just stalked him and admired the kicked puppy look on his face.

—

You watched Mark take out the trash and throw it all the way to space. Your eyes widened and you covered your mouth to not let out any sound. You were surprised but excited for him. Although if he had powers now it would make things very difficult to take him.

You watched him run home after his shift and excitedly tell his parents about his powers. And you just giggled as the look on his face just made you so happy. Mark sensed something and he looked towards your direction. You were hiding in the bushes so he couldn't see you, but it felt like he was seeing right through you. Nolan glanced at him and then what he was staring at. Debbie's brows furrowed and she asked what's wrong. Mark's eyes wavered and he turned back with a smile. “Sorry Mom it was nothing” he forced a laugh, you froze in your spot as Nolan was staring right in your direction. But he quickly turned away and faced a confused Debbie. Your body shook in excitement and fear. He sensed you, he finally noticed you. But so did his father, who could so easily kill you. You normally wouldn't mind but you were so close to your goal you didn't want to die now.

—

You watched Mark every day, and he felt your presence every time. But he didn't do anything knowing that you couldn't hurt him. But it was annoying and he quickly grew tired of your stalking.

He talked to his dad about it, and his dad admitted knowing about you. Mark was stunned when Nolan explained how he didn't do anything because you weren't a threat.

The next time Mark caught you following him he decided to do something about it.

—

You were following Mark home as usual, you were in a normal outfit; nothing too suspicious. Mark sensed your presence at once, he turned around before you could hide. He flew so fast to you, you thought he teleported. You gasped and jumped back as his face was inches from yours. Your heartbeat sped up rapidly, skipping a few beats. Mark scrutinized you, he didn't completely hate you, but he didn't like you. “Why do you keep following me?” Your brain fries, you can't believe he is talking to you! You stutter out a few words but then quickly shut your mouth in embarrassment.

You try again as he just looks down at you, “Hi Mark!” You're able to say with a lot of enthusiasm, he sneers “Answer me” you smile “I just want to make sure you get home safely!” he scoffs “Oh cut the shit you know that I'm capable enough to defend myself” you just smile sweetly at him. “What will it take for you to just leave me alone?” your sweet smile forms into a smirk as something mischievous glints in your eyes.

—

You gasp as you're tossed onto his bed, your body is shaking in excitement. Mark tosses his clothes onto the floor, and he scowls at you. “Can't even take off your own clothes?” He grabs your legs and pulls you towards him. His fingers hook underneath your pants and underwear, yanking them down. He tosses them onto the floor, he pulls off your shirt and unclasps your bra. You feel hot all over watching the guy you've had feelings for is about to fuck you.

You let out a small moan as he climbs on top of you. His brown eyes glaring into yours, you bite your lip “Just to let you know Mark I'm a virgin, I've been saving it for you…” you lovingly gaze into his eyes and you notice a slight blush form on his cheeks. “Shut up” you know he also hasn't done anything yet. You made sure you both would be each other's first. Mark pins your wrists by your head and your legs straddle his hips. The tip of his cock slowly prods your entrance. He sucks in a breath and curses “Fuckkk~ you're so wet hah…”

You whine as he slowly sinks into you, your hands curl into fists. Your nails dig into your palm, his grip on you gets tighter. Inch by inch he fills you up, you both moan and he is finally all the way inside you. Your hips squirm as it feels uncomfortable, but you force yourself to relax. At long last Mark was finally inside you, you've been waiting forever for this moment. You wish to kiss him but you're not able to. Your legs wrap around his back, just wanting him to stay for a moment. Mark has to calm his body down before he begins to move. But then your legs wrap around him, and he gets irritated. He doesn't want you to be in control.

So he releases your wrists and grips your thighs, pushing them up towards your chest. You whimper out his name in surprise. “Be quiet I'm in control here” he pulls out leaving only the tip in then slams back in. Your back arches and you toss your head back. You groan and your fingers dig themselves into his biceps. You shut your eyes closed for a brief moment, your body trying to adjust to him. Mark bites back a moan as he feels his tip kissing your cervix. He picks up his pace and slams into you hard, he does his best to ignore you and your sounds. He grits his teeth, he hates how you feel and how you sound. But oh how you feel so good, it makes him want to just fill you up to the brim. He already feels his orgasm coming, your mouth is hung open and his name falls from your lips. Your mind is blank and your seeing stars, your nails drag across his skin.

You keep saying his name like it's a prayer, he's like a gift from God themselves. “You better be able to cum from penetration because I'm not helping you out” Mark growled into your ear. You whined and wanted to plead with him to play with your clit. But you saw the look on his face and decided not too. You were lucky enough he was fucking you. So you snaked your hand around to play with yourself. Mark looked at you mewling as you circle your clit with a finger. He laughs cruelly and sped up his pace. He should swat your hand away but with you getting closer to orgasming, your walls tighten up and clench beautifully around his cock.

His body shudders and he can't hold on any longer. He groans and slams hard into you, his sticky seed shoots deep inside you. You moan out his name and your feet curl, you don't complain as he fills your womb. Your eyes roll back into your skull and you rub your clit harder and faster. You're soon cumming after Mark, he whines as you clench around him and milk his cock for more. He leans over you and his chest heaves up and down. Your body relaxes as you come down from your high. Your mind is foggy, but happy as you can't believe you just had sex with Mark Grayson.

Mark releases your thighs and moves to grip hips, you look at him and tilt your head. His eyes are dark and lust filled all he mumbles is ‘more’. He flips you around so you're laying on your stomach. You lay still wondering what he was planning. He moves his finger and traces your slit, watching how his cum spills out of your puffy lips. You whimper as he stuffs his middle finger inside you, forcing his cum back inside you. He then readjusts you so your ass is in the air.

He presses his tip to your weeping hole, he sinks in easier this time. But he doesn't bother giving you time to readjust, he bottoms out instantly. You bury your head into the sheets and cry out his name. He grips the fat of your ass as he slams in and out of you. He leans down so his chest is on your back, his face buried into your neck. He hisses your name like it's a curse, he bites your neck as he pounds his cock into you. You moan as his cock rubs against your g-spot deliciously, it prods your cervix every thrust.

Mark closes his eyes and focuses on pounding into you, you just feel so good and warm. Mark has felt anything this good and he doesn't want it to end. Your face is hot and you're moaning out Mark's name into the sheets. “Who knew you were such a slut? Haha it's kinda pathetic” he leaned up and stared at your ass that jiggled with each thrust. But his words were sent straight to your pussy, it clenched hard around him “Ohh fuck!-” he almost collapsed on top of you if he had less restraint. He quickened his pace as his peak got closer and closer. The way his cock rubs and slides into you, you think you could just cum from penetration. He moves to grip your hips again, slamming his hips harshly against your ass. The sounds of skin slapping skin echo off the walls. He groans and soon he is shooting another warm sticky load inside of you. Filling you up even more, some starts to leak out of you. You whine out and cum on him again, pussy spasming around him and milking his cock.

He grits his teeth and tosses his head forward, resting it on your back. He thrusts one more time into you, spilling the last of his seed into your greedy cunt. He grabs your waist and flips you over, his cock pulling out of you. Cum spills out of you and he just smirks “Oh we're not done yet, hope you have more energy because we are just getting started” his half hard cock hardens with a few lazy pumps of his hand. You whimper and you think you've reached heaven. You're so happy right now, you never want this to end. Your Mark has finally claimed his stake on(more like in) you, what else could you want. Maybe you don't have to kidnap him anymore…

[that-androgynous-lightweaver]

not sure how original this take is, but i've seen a lot of frustration about the lack of a fem genius in bsd to complement Dazai, Ranpo and Fyodor. but honestly, i think we as a fandom tend to underestimate Louisa due to her shyness and the failure of The Guild as a villain (which in my opinion has more to do with Francis not being strong enough to beat sskk rather than Louisa's planning itself failing). when Francis explains how he knew the ADA would try to infiltrate the Moby Dick, he doesn't really describes Louisa's talents as supernatural, and we see later for certain that Little Women doesn't actually give her the ability to make predictions; it just gives her time. i think we can all agree that, even with Louisa's ability, most people wouldn't be able to write two inch thick plans including contingencies for every possibility like Louisa does. she's clearly extremely smart, and i don't think we give her enough credit for that.

in fact, i was going to point out that her being unable to plan spontaneously like Dazai or Ranpo doesn't mean she isn't a genius. honestly, though, it's possible that she can come up with things on the spot like that. she might only need the time Little Women gives her to collect her thoughts and transfer them into a form other people can understand since communication is hard for her. similar to Ranpo and Dazai's difference, Louisa and Dazai's difference is in physical power and leadership skills. Louisa isn't a combatant like Dazai.

however, each of the three have their flaws.

Ranpo isn't a combatant either, and Louisa doesn't have to manipulate (for lack of a less negative word) people into following her plan like Dazai seems to do. also, she neither considers herself better than other people nor avoids cases (or, in her case, situations to write plans for) like Ranpo does. like Ranpo, Louisa has clearly earned people's respect, and they trust her to direct them to success. her main flaw is that she seems to struggle with communication, but she still finds a way to work through that to help her organization. i think Louisa fulfilled the same role in the Guild - both the Moby Dick Guild and the renewed Guild - as Ranpo does in the agency, and that's part of why it's so hard to tell how smart she is; she's not in one of the main organizations, so we rarely see her intelligence at work.

anyways! my point is just that we should look past her shyness for once and consider that she likely is on the same level of intelligence as Ranpo, Dazai and Fyodor - or at least close to it - even though it's hard to tell on a surface level due to her portrayal in the anime and even the manga sometimes. and although i do think bsd needs way more complex fem characters, i also think we don't talk about some of the ones we do have enough - especially Louisa.

[crispy-art-on-fire]

Ooooooo, can we see the rest of the team with pregnant Optimus, like their reactions and like behaviours yk

HA YOU DIDN'T SAY IN A PERFECT WORLD, TIME FOR PAIN!

The team wouldn't find out until Blitzwing kidnaps Optimus. Ratchet, the only one who knew Optimus was pregnant at that point, puts two and two together who the sire is. The first reactions was shock, horror and betrayal before fading into worry because they don't know what the Decepticons have planned for Optimus and no matter what they feel he's still their friend.

After they rescue him Optimus is in a bad state, physically he's fine but mentally he's... not doing good to say the least. He's gotten pretty far along and the extra drain he barely has energy to do anything other than recharge.

Bumblebee's worry manifests in trying to act out and get Optimus to act more like himself, "c'mon I did the thing you said I shouldn't do! Get angry!" and when Optimus keeps not reacting like he used to it just makes Bumblebee more agitated and worried. To describe his feelings about Optimus' pregnancy he thinks of it as a parasite, he doesn't understand why Optimus kept it and hates how it's effecting his friend.

Bulkhead is probably taking this the best because he don't want to think about all that other things about the sire and kidnapping and what that means. What he knows is that Optimus needs support and a reminder that life isn't all doom and gloom. He's also the one most excited for the little sparkling to emerge and just talk to Optimus about it without any baggage.

Sari doesn't really get it nor the extent of what is happening, she's mad at Optimus for having been with a Blitzwing but it's also not fun to be mad at Optimus. She comes around much quicker and just tries to get Optimus to get up and out of recharge by explaining games and shows to him or just trying to drag this robot out of berth.

Ratchet tries to be mostly professional about it and helping Optimus through his pregnancy without judgement. But he got worried grandpa energy about it. Optimus' depression won't hurt the sparkling as long as he's eating and resting but as a friend it's not good that's all Optimus is doing. So while he sucks at using his words he tries to soften what he says and be willing to listen without having state how stupid Optimus was for beginning the relationship in the first place.

Prowl doesn't know how to face Optimus, he respected him as a leader and trusted his opinion and learning he had slept with the enemy broke his perception of who Optimus was. It takes a long while for him to come around and get back to 'normal' but he still showed his care in other ways. It was very rare for Optimus to go wanting even if it's just something he mentioned in passing it usually shows up in his room with no sender.

[h0pebloomedfromtheabyss]

giyuu's idealism and moral compass because my brain will explode (part 2/2) if you stumbled upon this before reading the first part, here.

part two: are giyuu's actions influenced by morality, logic, feelings or intuition? (note: this is my interpretation and is going to be messy)

one of the things I find so interesting about giyuu is how the author placed him out of all the characters in the beginning and end of demon slayer and how we get to see his thoughts while making a choice so that we can learn about him as a character. based off of my experience at least, people see him as either the good guy who does no wrong or the embodiment of hypocrisy. no in between. and I believe this misses the point. let me (peacefully) go through the (two) main dilemmas he's put in

1) you're running to a mission because your ancient crow messed up the orders (again) and find a demon trying to eat someone. when you try decapitating the demon, the human it's trying to eat deflects your attack. like the empath you are, you ask "what the fuck?" and the human ie a teenager replies "that's my sister!!!" and starts rambling on about how she would never kill anyone (she tried eating him). you start projecting a little bit too much and both of you argue for a while and BOOM! HE THROWS AN AXE- SHIT- THE DEMON LEAPS AT HIM! SHE'S ABOUT TO EAT HIM-

it- no no no... she protected him under the impression that he was in danger despite being injured and not a single demon has ever done that before! she really might be different!! do you:

a) spare the demon

pros → she could be different, her brother has great potential and determination (he could become the next water pillar!), she hasn't killed anyone, you protect someone and follow your own principles.

cons → you're going against the rules meaning that there will be consequences, she can kill her brother later, you're going against rules, no one ever dared do this before, urokodaki probably won't help you out

b) kill the demon

pros → you don't break rules, the boy is certainly safe from her, you do your job, this decision is safer

cons → she's an innocent person, her brother lost everyone else (you failed to save them) and he'll probably be depressed, she really could have been different from other demons and it'd be a wasted chance.

in the end, giyuu spares her. his decision ignores what would be deemed as "common sense" just for the possibility of it being ethical and relies on logic as well as a bit of instinct. wouldn't it be terrible of him to kill an innocent girl who ended up unfortunate circumstances that he failed to prevent? anyone would've ended her before even reaching this point but currently he's in a position of a pillar, someone who should support people. sure, he's going against the law but does he care? giyuu abides to his principles strictly but how far will he go to for their sake? choosing not decapitate a demon is to go against everything the corps stands for and lose the respect of basically everyone. the corps exists exclusively for getting rid of demons. on a surface level, his disobedience would be deemed as immoral. but then again, the fundamental reason demons are assassinated is because they kill humans and nezuko has proven that she won't eat humans no matter the circumstances. he saw it with his own eyes. this shows that breaking rules doesn't automatically equate to immorality and they shouldn't be blindly followed. giyuu not letting rules restrict him and choosing to be open minded so that he can do what he deems as the right thing brings me so much life especially considering how the belief that killing without hesitation equates to being powerful is so enforced. giyuu doesn't mindlessly kill. he assesses his situation. he rethinks his choices. days after encountering the kamados, he's still thinking about his decision and mentally reciting tanjiro's words.

do u know the most fever dream-ish thing about this? he's put in another moral dilemma in the end with the same pair of siblings.. except that their dynamic is completely switched. sigh...

2) after the battle has ended, you find the boy whom you might as well refer to as family dead, start crying, and continuously saying sorry in your head and wait? is that a heart beat? blinking? OH SHIT-

TANJIRO TRANSFORMED INTO A DEMON. what do you do :3

a) attack and decapitate him

pros → everyone's efforts to eradicate demons won't all go to waste.

cons → you're probably going to die due to blood loss and exhaustion and the boy whom you protected for so long will die.

b) don't decapitate him

pros → you won't have to go through the mental torment of fighting.

cons → everyone is going to die and demons will continue to exist.

the choice might seem obvious but if you were the only conscious person, on the brink of death, and had to make a decision with such limited possibilities, acting quickly would be difficult. giyuu chooses the former. the deceased slayers and pillars did not die for this. I have seen some ppl call this blatant hypocrisy. "he's trying to kill tanjiro despite loving him" that's the point! does he want tanjiro dead? of course not. and yet, he still has to suck it up and fight him anyways because if he lets their bond affect his next decision, their work will go to waste and the remaining survivors will die. I cannot stress the development in this. before, he used to rethink his decision repeatedly to make sure that he's doing the right thing but now? he doesn't doubt himself and instantly does the right thing. I call this character development. he doesn't give up on the possibility that tanjiro could be kept alive but until that happens, he's making sure that no one dies. overall, his decision in more rational and selfless. he attempts to kill him quickly and-

WAIT- HE'S IMMUNE TO THE SUN? this situation has become hopeless and your chances of winning have been reduced to practically nothing. two more survivors attempt to help you out and BOOM

HE BITES HIS SISTER- WAIT HE'S NOT EATING HER? (this feels like horrible gameplay) so not only is he immortal and immune to the sun, he also has a bda. giyuu has no choice but to cling to the hope that tanjiro might have some humanity left in him and could be turned back into a human just like his sister. is his decision rational? no! nothing logical can be done in this situation anymore and the chances of an outcome that isn't failure is practically non-existent. but maybe he could save everyone. maybe he could turn tanjiro back human. maybe he could protect people and not fail again. he's still doing what he sees as the right thing knowing damn well that he's being irrational. (I genuinely believe that this fight with tanjiro is supposed to parallel his encounter with nezuko in the beginning because he's the person who fights him the most. the same pair of siblings where one of them is a demon while the other is desperately calming them down. no objectively correct choices. yet, he chooses to risk everything for the sake of possibly doing the morally good action and relies on intuition) more fighting happens, kanao arrives, uses medication on him, and with the power of friendship and will to live (and medication), he thankfully turns back to normal.

I love the way the narrative shows us that giyuu did the right thing in the end one way or another. sparing nezuko led to the final battle and eventually muzan's defeat and fighting tanjiro despite their close bond served as a distraction and helped in turning him back human. another cute detail I believe emphasizes this is that in kanji, the gi (義) in giyuu means justice and the yū (勇) translates to courage.

and here's the very last part of my delusional shitpost

giyuu is amazing, wonderful, *insert positive adjective* as a pillar. he understands the position he's in well. but as a coworker and employee? we see giyuu as the good guy because the story is told from tanjiro's pov and most of his actions can be defended because they were done for the greater good but do you know what can be difficult to excuse? his asocial behavior towards everyone (especially the pillars)

imagine you're shinobu here. you're (not so) peacefully doing your job and your coworker who is supposed to be on your side just decides to go against you and let a demon live without explanation. this panel shows how important context is. and do you know who would do literally anything but explain themselves? (tbf, he does try but is cut off. this applies more to his other shenanigans) if we had as much knowledge on this situation as shinobu, giyuu would be the one in the wrong. he somehow gets easier but also harder to defend later on in the meeting. even though giyuu was being a bit of an asshole to tanjiro after the fight with rui, he at least helped him and nezuko get away. when the morning arrives and tanjiro is literally injured, tied up, and surrounded by people who want him dead, giyuu was doing jack shit

he could be doing literally ANYTHING but stare into nothingness like that. buddy fight for your cause. and before anyone says that it's because of his inferiority complex, this is him by the way:

he prevents shinobu from doing her job, he distracts sanemi so that tanjiro can hit him strongly enough, and he grabs iguro's arm while simultaneously cutting the ropes off of tanjiro's wrists. giyuu does have an inferiority complex but he will take measures to get others out of his way if they attempt to harm the kamados ie result in him failing to protect them. if giyuu was actually scared of the pillars, he would not be doing any of this, let alone spare a demon. so giyuu was capable of defending tanjiro from the beginning. he simply chose not to do and only interfered when/after sanemi stabbed nezuko. (😭)

giyuu in general seems to stir up copious amounts of drama with the other pillars and when you reflect on all the shenanigans that happened between them until now, the realization that this is mainly giyuu's fault lowkey dawns upon you. the light novel confirms it

the manga confirms it

and whenever he does choose to speak, it's to insult people.

as we learn later on, giyuu's words were misinterpreted and his social isolation was a result of his imposter syndrome. but how far can this go? the hashira don't have the context that we do and giyuu just plays into their belief of him. if someone states "i'm not like you" anyone would perceive it as condescending especially considering how his facial expression is described to "make others think that he was looking down on them" in the LN. giyuu not wanting to talk to the pillars is one thing but not cooperating with them is a more significant problem. (especially when he refused to participate in the pillar training despite being aware of how much of a dire situation the corps was in. this is arguably the definition of hypocrisy) the LN states that all the pillars put effort into cooperating with each other no matter how hard it was for some of them and that giyuu was the only person who didn't bother doing so. this begs the question, can giyuu's behavior really be excused or defended? nope. don't defend him. he doesn't always have to be the good guy in every conflict. there is literally no logic behind his actions here. some of yall defend him too much especially considering how he canonically isn't the nicest. that's the dude who shamelessly knocked out a 13 year old. sure, his guilt plays a heavy role in his actions but this should only be used as an explanation not an excuse. "giyuu's behavior was heavily influenced by trauma and doesn't inherently mean that he's a bad person" and "giyuu is the person in the wrong and the pillars' hatred towards him is perfectly understandable" are two factual statements that can, in fact, coexist. *cue clapping*

conclusion paragraph? just stop reading!! (giyuu is inherently a good person who strives to do the right thing and values morality and logic regardless of any negative consequences as shown in the manga multiple times. however, he sometimes makes wrong decisions that are influenced by feelings more than anything because at the end of the day, he's meant to be a flawed character and that's fine)

"why is this five days late?" a weird mixture of internet problems, having to urgently travel, and mommy issues. sorry everyone 😔

[quinnverse]

"In the eyes of many, speaking to one another is enough scandal fodder for an entire season. Undoubtedly, I'd be considered a proper harlot if you dared to do such a thing. Breathing in close proximity? Without a chaperone? That's the definition of scandalous." Amelia let out a dry, humorless laugh. She had no plans to do anything untoward with a stranger, but that didn't mean a scandal wouldn't ensue. All it would take was one word from a chatty peer to spark a blaze of gossip, one that would surely swallow her whole if she weren't careful.

“No broken bones, no, but we also were hardly allowed to play outside. Unless there was a garden party or outdoor gathering, we were kept inside like pretty little birds. Father didn’t want anything happening that might dissuade future suitors from taking an interest in us. Though, I technically didn’t fall under those same rules.

"By one and ten, I believe I had already threatened to run away at leave a dozen times. I had my engagement party at thirteen in the hopes it might usher a quicker marriage, but my sisters took it upon themselves to revel in the excitement." Covering her mouth with her hand, Amelia couldn't suppress the giggle at the memory. "My sister, Millicent, knocked over a tower of champagne glasses. It nearly reached to the ceiling. She bumped into it and the entire thing came crashing down. The Duchess of Wyndham nearly had a conniption at the chaos."

Back then, her future marriage to the Duke had still been exciting. A woman coming of age, not having to worry about trying her hand at the marriage market. She attended parties and balls with a faux sense of confidence, a feeling of superiority still heavy on her shoulders. By now, such boons had worn off and Amelia felt more jaded than any woman her age ought to. The very girls she paraded past with her head held high were now married with children while Amelia remained engaged, with no marriage in sight.

He laughed and it took her a moment to realize he didn't believe her. Blinking, she stared at him incredulously.

“Why wouldn’t you? You may not have a fortune to your name, but the Bridgerton family are infamous for their unorthodox marriages, favoring their children’s happiness over societal expectations. A noble endeavor, surely. And you are handsome, and charming, and well-spoken. All things that any mama would hope for in a son-in-law."

Amelia hated how much she sounded like her own mother, but she held her head up high.

“Still, you did not answer my question. Though, take note that I do acknowledge your deflection as an answer in itself. Trust me, as an avid employer of deflection tactics, I see through your rouse, Mister Tallmadge."

She felt a wave of relief wash over her at his easy demeanor. There were many men--her own fiancé included--that found gossip to be heinous and improper, but for a woman of the peerage, it was one of the few things she could look forward to. In a world where every move was calculated and judged, it was often refreshing to take one's mind off of the worry--even if it were at the expense of another. She knew it was cruel and immoral to find pleasure in another person's destruction, but there was little use in denying her fondness for gossip. After all, she had been an avid reader of Whistledown since the first issue.

“Maybe I am." She crossed her arms over her chest and bore a coy expression. "If I cannot have a happy love story of my own, I can at least help others find theirs. Besides, I do so adore weddings." Especially, she thought, when they were not her own.

"Possible scandal?" Benjamin echoed, feigned dismay seeping into his tone. "Just what do you intend to do out here, madam? Though for some, I suppose two people of the opposite sex standing side-by-side is enough to warrant gossip. It's very racy stuff." Here, he lifted his brows in mock horror. "If you're not careful, I might take it a step further and deign to breathe the same air."

Amelia seemed adamant about her girlhood. “True, I may not have the same reasons as you, but I did my fair share of rebelling."

"Did you, indeed?" Benjamin asked, his tone giving off the impression that he did not, in fact, believe her. Though the more she spoke, the less amused he felt, and his smile faded as he noted the exasperation emanating from her frame.

Admittedly, he did not know much about the fairer sex, and he knew even less about what it was to be a woman. Perhaps she had needed to rebel in her own way; skinned knees, loud voices, and raised fists weren't the only methods to gain attention, after all.

Deciding to deflect, he focused more on the positive angle of her commentary. "You have sisters?" he asked, turning to better appraise her. "I grew up in a household of brothers, so I'm curious how that experience differs from mine. If I had to guess, I would wager there were probably a lot less broken bones on your end." He grinned. "By age one-and-ten, there were already four accidents in our family."

Amelia tilted her chin, sparing him her profile as she gazed up at the dazzling heavens. Folding his hands behind his back, Benjamin followed her gaze and hummed at her assessment. "I'm afraid the mothers of the ton haven't quite been so desperate as to be sincere, but yes...I imagine most of them tolerate me, despite my birthplace."

"The Bridgertons still have unwed daughters," Amelia pointed out. "They're rather beautiful, from what I hear. Do none of them interest you at all?"

Benjamin blinked at the question, breathing an uneasy laugh. "You truly think that I have a chance with a Bridgerton?" he asked, amusement sparking behind his eyes. "I may get along quite well with the family, yes, but I don't imagine they'd want their youngest son's tutor to marry into the family." He shrugged, dismissive. "I adore them quite dearly, but I imagine the eldest brothers would have something to say about such an arrangement."

Amelia apologized, but he waved a hand, unbothered. "I've heard far worse," Benjamin assured her, "and in the way of gossip, that's far from offensive...just horribly, horribly misguided." He chuckled. "If I didn't know better, I would think you were trying to play matchmaker."

[s0fter-sin]

trans!soap taking his baby and running away from his rich abusive husband

(cw angst, financial abuse, single threat of child abuse, single mention of transphobia)

he's owned soap for years, since he was a teenager; paid for his medication and all his surgeries and tied them so deeply, soap’s lost hope of ever getting away. he gets even worse when soap falls pregnant. he was always controlling; blowing up at him if he spent too long out of the house or did something without telling him. but he becomes utterly possessive during the pregnancy

soap knows it has nothing to do with his safety or the baby's

he knows he sees his baby as an investment; another being he can control and hold over him

he gets worse and worse but there’s nothing soap can do. there's been nothing he can do for a long time. then a few months after the baby is born, soap doesn’t watch his tone closely enough and his husband threatens to drop his baby in punishment for it

soap doesn't think. he doesn't plan

he takes his baby and runs

he sneaks out of the servant's quarters of the sterile mansion he's been forced to live in for almost a decade and walks down the street without a backwards glance; his baby the only thing in his arms. he knows all of his husband's cars have trackers, all of them in his name since he never lets soap drive or go anywhere by himself, so he walks far enough to be out of view of the mansion's cameras and steals one. it doesn't have a car seat and all he can do is clutch his baby to his chest as he drives

he doesn't know where he's going beyond away

he doesn't know what he's going to do; he doesn't have any money, no supplies for his baby, he doesn't even have water for himself so he can reliably breastfeed him. he's terrified his husband will find them; he’s always felt omniscient, always everywhere and seeing everything he did. if he didn’t have eyes somewhere, he paid someone who did and they always dutifully reported back to him

soap just keeps his eyes forward. just keeps driving and driving, lost to the road and numb until the low gas light pops up on the dash and it all hits him at once

he turns into a gas station he can't pay for, in a car he stole, and parks behind it and his baby immediately starts getting fussy

he can't even call him by his name sometimes; too afraid to get attached, too afraid to lose him. as if he doesn’t love him more than life itself

even throughout his pregnancy, as happy as he was to finally have a baby, he didn't know if he could carry to term and that fear just let his husband dig his claws in even deeper; paying for extra scans he could never hope to pay for, favours on top of favours so he would aways owe him and isn’t he such a loving husband? taking soap in when his parents kicked him out for being trans, looking after him for all these years? you can’t even take care of yourself john, you’d still be a woman without me, john, what is this tantrum about john-

soap tugs his shirt up to let his baby feed, drops his head back and cries

he can't stop it; wails loud and uncontrolled, chest heaving with his sobs enough that it sways his baby, occasionally breaking his latch and he can't even do this right-

he can't save him

a light knock sounds on the window and soap flinches, curling over his baby to protect him from his huband's cruel hands

but it's not his husband outside the window

soap blinks tears from his eyes and looks at the large stranger standing beside the car. a neck gaiter covers his mouth and it should be off-putting… but something about him stops the feeling in its tracks. the stranger takes a half-step back and lifts a chilled and sealed water bottle, pressing it towards the window

soap quickly swipes his face clean and rolls down the window. "sorry 'bout that," he apologises with a choked laugh, the careful front he’s built over the years cracked and bleeding

the stranger gives a dismissive but somehow not diminishing shrug. "long day?" he asks

"could say that," he gives a shrug of his own and pats his baby's back as he makes a disgruntled noise, unconsciously swaying him

he politely keeps his gaze up on his face. "looks like you could use a break."

soap's breath hitches, anxiously darting his tongue out over his bottom lip. "could say that," he repeats uselessly and takes the water with a quiet “thanks,”; his throat dry and screaming for it after crying so hard

the stranger hums, watching him down the bottle and soap doesn’t notice his eyes drifting to the backseat and footwell of the passenger side. doesn’t notice the slight tension in his fists at what he sees. "how long you been runnin', lad?"

soap freezes, the water settling in his stomach like a stone. he swallows thickly and the bottle falls from his lips

"not long enough."

the stranger just nods, looking idly back down the highway

"you know, this place is connected to a garage,” he starts, nodding back to a building attached to the station without taking his eyes off the road. “lotta people drift through 'ere on road trips; too many to keep track.”

soap frowns slightly, shifting his hold on his baby

“funny thing is, plenty of 'em just abandon their car when they break down. like yours,” he adds and finally turns back to him with a pointed look. “got a whole junkyard of 'em. just rustin' away. be pretty easy to convince me to trade ya one."

soap’s mouth parts in a gasp as he realises just what the stranger’s saying. "how easy?" he whispers

he shrugs and even with his face hidden beneath the gaiter, he doesn’t feel afraid. "i'd say this car'd be a good deal. would blend right in with the rest of ‘em; no one’d ever notice it. what say i take it off your hands?"

soap's breath shudders out of him, his whole body going limp with relief. his baby's eyes fall shut with a satisfied hum and for the first time he can remember, he feels the gentle touch of hope

"i think we can work something out."

🧼💀

ghost owns the service station soap pulled into. he wanted something quiet and isolated after he retired and you can’t get much quieter than a backwoods servo surrounded by forest. he hasn’t had anyone pull in in days so he’s quick to notice soap’s car. he’s also quick to notice soap's subsequent breakdown in one of the cameras. the sight of him crying, desperately clutching a baby like they’re all he has left in the world, is so familiar he felt sick with it

he knows someone running when he sees it

if he didn't check on him, if this lad disappeared one day and the baby along with him, he'd never forgive himself. the lad doesn't even have a baby bag or car seat with him, and the personalised sticker on the back window of a lady and a dog is a dead giveaway that the car is stolen

but the lad is terrified. and when he startled him, he didn't turn. didn’t lift his arms to protect himself. no

he covered his baby

like he was afraid he'd be hurt

that's enough for ghost

🧼💀

i'd wanna set this in the 80's or 90's, just to make it even harder for soap to get away from his husband. he's a trans man with a newborn; he has no one to run to and no resources to help him. his husband's bought and paid for everything for him since he was 17; a few whirlwind weeks of unbelievable dates and extravagant gifts and he was living in his mansion, getting married the day after his 18th birthday. he thought it was love. thought he was being looked after and cared for the way he’s always wanted

he was in pain and alone and naive enough to believe the first person who came along and promised to make it better. nothing's in his name, not his insurance or his meds, he doesn’t have a bank account or savings; other than a birth certificate, nothing even ties him to his baby. his husband could take his world away from him with a snap of his fingers and he made sure soap always knew it

he never had a chance of getting away

but ghost is ex-military

he doesn’t know the lad’s story, doesn’t know the details of what he’s running from. he doesn’t need to know

he decided he was helping him the second he pulled into his service station

[icewindandboringhorror]

Recent life photos

[thatgayunoriginalbastard]

*at dinner, Penelope, Odysseus, Telemachus, Peisistratus, and a disguised Athena and Poseidon (for the sake of being subtle around the staff) eating in tense silence*

Penelope: With how quiet everyone is being I can imagine that we all must have had quite busy days.

Peisistratus, very nervous: Oh, yeah, so busy.

Telemachus, also nervous: I'll be king sooner or later so of course I've been keeping busy with everything.

Odysseus, amused: I hope you're not awaiting my death, boy. Especially not with how you've still needed to come to me for help.

Peisistratus: Oh really? With what? I mean, as Machus' husband and future co-ruler it wouldn't be great if I wasn't as ready as he was.

Odysseus: It was nothing much. I'm surprised you don't already know.

Poseidon: But since you're so curious, he just wanted to tell you-

Athena: Nothing that he can't say at a later time.

Telemachus: Really, Stratus, don't worry about it. Your little dove isn't hiding anything from you.

Penelope, suddenly more interested: His what?

Peisistratus: Oh, ha ha, you know, just a silly little couple nickname.

Poseidon: One that aligns with one of the symbols of Aphrodite?

Peisistratus: I WAS JUST DOING AN BIRD THING BECAUSE OF ATHENA!

Athena: Not the bird I would have chosen, especially due to the goddess it's connected to. But I suppose it makes enough sense. Surprised you didn't pick one of the easier nicknames. He's already called "little wolf", so calling him something like "puppy" would make far more sense.

Poseidon: *starts laughing*

Odysseus: Since when are you the expert on couples nicknames?

Penelope: You did go to her for advice on how to court me. Maybe she has decided in the years since then to learn more about love-related matters to help any future students.

Athena: No, I just think that if you're going to give your lover a nickname, you might as well give them one that's logical.

Peisistratus: WE AREN'T LOVERS!

Poseidon, teasing: I thought you were married.

Peisistratus: Well, I mean, yeah, but like...it's just a political thing.

Athena, Odysseus, Penelope, and Poseidon: *look at Telemachus*

Telemachus, tearing up: And...it wouldn't be great to give anyone the wrong idea. At least not here. The public doesn't have to know but, you know, no point in lying to any of you, right? We're just...friends. And clearly we don't want to be anything more.

*tense silence*

Peisistratus: But, you know, who knows what could happen, right?

Telemachus, shocked: What do you...

Peisistratus: Let's go talk in private, my dove.

Telemachus: Okay. Yeah. I think I know a good place.

*Telemachus and Peisistratus leave, Telemachus taking Peisistratus' hand as he does and leading him away, silence*

Poseidon: Huh, seems like he's going to take my advice from earlier about better uses for what he tried offering.

Athena: What's that supposed to-

Odysseus and Poseidon, simultaneously: They went in the direction of their bedroom.

Athena: ...gods damnit

Poseidon: Believe me, I've tried, but unfortunately Aphrodite thinks they're too cute and made sure Eros wouldn't be convinced by any of my bribes.

Odysseus: You were trying to ruin my son's marriage?

Poseidon: Before I realized how funny the whole situation is! Wow, you're seriously always just looking for an excuse to try and kill me again, aren't you?

Athena, glaring: He might not be the only one anymore.

Poseidon, standing up: Well, good thing birds don't do well in water. Thank you for the lovely dinner and I wish you both the best. You both will make amazing grandparents. *turns into water and leaves*

Odysseus: ...

Penelope: ...is he implying that-

Athena: He told you that Aphrodite finds them cute. She is, among other things, the goddess of love and sex. And gods can easily manipulate the bodies of mortals. He was most likely just trying to get under your skin but...I'll do what I can to make sure that she doesn't try talking to my step-mother about how your family deserves to be expanded.

Penelope: Thank you Athena.

Odysseus, face in his hands: The gods are never going to leave my family alone, are they?

Athena: It's unlikely. Unfortunately you, and now your son, made the worst mistake a mortal can make. Becoming entertaining.

Odysseus: *loudly groans*

Okay okay okay. Wait. Wait wait wait. The Telestratus marriage of convenience thing. Omg that… that tickled something in my brain. Marriage of convenience to restrengthen trade for Ithaca after distrust spreads from the suitor slaughtering fiasco or something along those lines maybe, they were friends before from Tele’s travels back before Odysseus returned so the two of them figure “why the hell not he’s a cool guy and it’s not like I have anyone else” cue years of playing it up like they’re OdyPen levels of in love to make it look good and then suddenly realizing “oh… OH… oh NO…” now NEITHER of them are acting but BOTH of them think the other still is and they both joke about it behind closed doors but they’re really NOT joking because they’re down so bad ahhhhhhhh I LOVE this!!

@theshroud-thechallenge-thearrow (dang side blog curse)

Odysseus: Hey so I know you're friends with Nestor's kid Peisistratus. Do you think you could like, I don't know, try dating one of his sisters? Getting a connection between Ithaca and Pylos would be helpful for both of us. Only if you want to, of course. And if you end up falling in love with someone else we can work something out.

Telemachus: ...or I could just get with Peisistratus himself? You know, since he and I are friends then that'll make things easier. We'll get married platonically, help both of our kingdoms, and then when we find people we actually love we'll just have them as "lovers" on the side. That'll take care of the whole heirs thing too.

Odysseus: Yeah, sure, that works.

~A while later~

*"chilling" in their shared bedroom post-marriage*

Telemachus, internally: oh shit oh fuck of shit I actually fell in love with him oh gods this can't be happening I'm the one who told him this idea he thinks that he has such an easy out with this with the whole lovers thing so it's not like I can tell him that I'm actually in love with him...

Peisistratus, internally: oh no I actually fell in love with him oh dear gods he created this plan as just a practical thing he's literally a student of Athena I can't fuck this up by actually falling in love with him I was his first real friend I can't ruin our friendship and what was supposed to be an amicable way to help our kingdoms without any attachment

~Meanwhile~

Odysseus: Man, our son sure is able to sell being in love really well

Penelope: He sure is.

Odysseus: ...

Penelope: ...

Odysseus: So they absolutely caught feelings, right?

Penelope: Obviously.

[donaviolet]

Friendship is the most special thing in the world because no award could be give me bigger happiness than jumping around in my room and smiling because my pookie asked me if I wanted to match pfps

[spikeisawesome456]

.

[sceletaflores]

HALF YOUR BRAIN JUST AIN’T THERE!

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｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x babysitter!fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 11k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, pov switching, trailer park joel awooga wooga, tommy miller appearance because daddy i love him, joel is kinda sleazy and pervy, large girthy age gap (53/early 20s), and it’s very much brought up, finding joel’s porn drawer because he’s vintage, reader is called jailbait like once, reader is also a little creep lmao, just two freaks coming together praise, masturbation, fingering, brief allusions of fisting, the BAREST hint of ass play, p in v, rough sex, riding, pussy pronouns, spanking, finger sucking (told you i can’t stop), erectile dysfunction? yeah we don’t know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he’s twenty, porn with too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: i blame tommy gunn for this…and my period for rearing its ugly head and making me act like an animal. i don’t know i guess my brain is just fully rotted, but y’all’s are too so here’s a nice little gift from me to you, i’m lovingly placing this on your dash xoxo. this isn’t really based on manchild sorry for the false advertising babies, i just thought the lyric was super cute and it’s been stuck in my head so yeah here we are lmao. hope y’all love it, mwah!

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S HEADPHONES: Manchild - Sabrina Carpenter

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics! plus the delicious icon from @iamasaddie!

joel miller needs a babysitter, you’re back in town…

Gruene hasn't changed much. Not really.

You're not sure how much different it'd be after only a couple years away, but still. Something in you had expected it to feel even smaller—like the way old t-shirts shrink in the wash when you’re not paying attention.

The air felt the same when you first stepped out of your beat up Chevy, heavy and humid like a wet mouth. The pavement in front of your house still burned the bottom of your shoes, and the cicadas were buzzing in the dry grass like they never stopped.

You left for college thinking you’d never come back. And yet, here you are. Spending summer back in your hometown, a little more than half a degree under your belt, flat broke, and bored to death.

Your room’s the same, maybe just a little smaller now that you’ve lived other places, slept in other beds. All the posters are still up, faded from the sun and curling at the corners. Your mom left your old tennis trophies on your dresser, like maybe she thought you’d want to see them. You don’t, not really. You appreciate the effort anyway, at least she didn’t turn it into a yoga room or a place to keep extra boxes and Christmas decorations.

You try not to spend too much time at home, even though you technically don’t have anywhere else to go. You kill time with long drives down the streets you memorized years ago, past beat up gas stations with sun bleached lotto signs and eighteen wheelers parked in the back.

You try your hand at some half-hearted job hunting at a few different places that promise to call but never do. And you sit in the back booth of an old diner where you and your friends used to sneak fries from abandoned tables and smoke paper wrapped joints in the alley out back.

Every place you go feels like a ghost town version of what you remember. Familiar, but all hollowed out.

“You know who might be looking for help?” Your mom says one morning, standing at the stove fussing over a pan of bacon. “Joel Miller, you remember him don’t you?”

You pause, your fork stuck hovering just above the plate. “Sarah’s dad?”

“Mhm. I ran into him at the market a couple weeks ago and we got to catching up. He’s needing to pick up some extra work, and it’s just him, you know. Sarah’s starting high school in the fall but he’s still not wanting to leave her on her own. He looked stressed, poor thing.”

You hum warily, pushing your eggs around your plate to distract from the way your stomach flutters.

Joel Miller.

You haven’t heard that name in years. Not since you stopped babysitting Sarah, not since you left. It has something low and guilty stirring somewhere deep inside you.

You shouldn’t be surprised that it’s floating back into your life like cigarette smoke—all pungent and sour and impossible to ignore. In a town of less than two thousand people, you were bound to circle around some old memories sooner or later. And Joel Miller was a big one.

Mr. Miller was a few years older than your mom, a single dad that lived with his daughter in the trailer park a few miles past the city limit. You met him when you were seventeen and trying to save as much as you could for college, when your puny part time job flipping burgers and serving ice cream cones wasn’t cutting it. 

He needed someone to pick up Sarah from school and watch her until he got home from work, you needed the extra money. It seemed like a perfect fit.

But Joel was always…different. He scooped you up off the gravel and carried you into his living room to bandage up your knee when you took a bad fall outside his trailer. He never ratted you out when he caught you smoking one of his Marlboros in his backyard after you put Sarah to bed one night. He drove you home when you got too drunk at a field party and couldn’t stomach the thought of calling your mom. 

You can still remember the way his truck smelled—gasoline, sunbaked leather, sawdust. 

He didn’t say much, just kept his gaze trained on the road as you watched him through glassy eyes while Johnny Cash floated through the cab. He looked back once, slow and quiet, like he was really thinking something over. 

It’s been a long time since you thought about that night, but the reminder of it resurfaces sharp and sudden, like a thumb pressed into a bruise.

Now, your mom’s pouring more coffee into your cup and saying his name like it’s no big deal, like she didn’t just drop a live wire into your lap. Like he didn’t take up way too much room in your seventeen year old imagination.

“You should go down there and talk to him sometime,” she says, casual. “It might be a good way to make some money while you look around for something else.”

You bite back a grimace, conflicted. “Isn’t Sarah old enough to stay home alone by now?”

Your mom shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe, but like I said Joel’s always been a little…anxious about leaving her on her own too many nights. She’s at that age, you know—boys, phones, lord knows what else.”

You frown, stabbing at your eggs. You only remember Sarah as the sweet little girl who’d beg to stay up and watch Disney with you, who was more interested in her Barbie dolls than any screen. You used to braid her hair while she did her times tables, let her wear some of your lip gloss when she begged.

You take a sip of coffee, the burn of it trickles down from your throat to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “You really think he’d hire me again?” 

Your mom shrugs again, plating the bacon. “I don’t see why not. Sarah always loved you, Joel too. He’s asked about you once or twice, said you were a real good girl. Very responsible and all that.”

You try not to laugh at that. 

Good girl. Responsible. Right.

You nod vaguely, standing to clear your plate into the trash even though it’s still half full. “Maybe,” you mutter. “I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, alone in your room, you find yourself scrolling through Facebook like an angsty teenager. 

You kicked your sheets off a while ago, cracked your window open to let in the cool breeze swirling outside. Crickets sing quietly in the background, only drowned out every once in a while by the sound of cars passing your street.

Joel’s profile is still public, but it’s sparsely updated. A new truck photo here, a blurry picture of Sarah’s eighth grade promotion there. She looks the same, maybe a little older. Her hair’s longer, but still curly as ever.

There’s no recent pictures of Joel anywhere. Not posted by him or any of his friends. You can’t tell if the feeling that blooms inside of you is disappointment or something else entirely.

You’re about to exit the app when finally, a tagged post catches your eye.

A post by an account with the name Henry B. attached to it. It’s just a grainy photo of someone’s backyard littered with wood pallets and stray tools, Joel standing in the middle of it all with a few other people you don’t recognize.

His account is tagged in the caption underneath. Big thanks to my buddy Joel Miller for the extra set of hands tonight. Saved our ass! It’s dated June 13, 2023.

You pause, your thumb hovering over the screen. So he’s still handy, you think distantly, chewing on your bottom lip.

You remember that much. There were always new projects cluttering the yard in front of his trailer. A crib for the expecting couple a few doors down, a rocking chair with ornate vines and flowers carved into the armrests, a soccer goal for Sarah to practice with when she started getting serious about it in the fifth grade.

You zoom in on the picture, just a little.

The angle’s weird and it’s overexposed as shit. Joel’s face is half shadowed by an old Longhorns baseball cap, but even still—there’s that jaw. That mouth. That same broad width of his shoulders you used to trace with your eyes when he’d lean on the doorframe after he got home from work. 

It’s still an older picture, and you can’t help but wonder how much he’s changed since.

You breathe through your nose, one long uninterrupted breath before you close the app and toss your phone face down on the mattress.

Joel Miller was handsome when you were in high school and stupid and still biting your nails. 

He was a late forty-something, tired around the eyes. Always in pair of ratty, stained jeans and those soft, worn down flannels with the sleeves rolled up. Sarah’s dad. The hot one, according to the girls at school. The divorced one, according to the snooty moms at the PTA. He was tall and strong, thick arms with dark hair dusted along veiny muscle. Big hands that were calloused and rough to the touch when he slipped you a couple folded twenties at the end of every night. 

You haven’t seen him since the summer after you graduated, but sometimes you still think about the way he used to look at you.

Like he shouldn’t.

Like he knew he shouldn’t, and did it anyway. 

You can still feel it. That heat, that weight. The way his eyes always lingered a little too long when you bent down to grab your homework off the coffee table. The way his voice got low and syrupy when he asked what you were doing that weekend.

You were young then, but now?

Now you’re not sure who you are, not entirely—but you know you’re not that same girl. You’ve lived. You’ve done things he couldn’t even guess at.

You’ve grown up. And you wonder if Joel would notice too.

You don’t plan on going. Not really.

The next day, your mom leaves a note taped to the fridge that says she’s out running errands and won’t be back until later. You stare at it for a while, then glance at the clock.

It’s barely noon.

You have nothing to do. No plans. No job. So you get into your boiling hot car, roll the windows down, and drive.

You’re not sure what makes you do it. 

Maybe it’s the antsy feeling that’s been worming around under your skin since you got here. Maybe it’s the way Joel’s name has been bouncing off all the corners of your mind like a moth against glass ever since your mom said it.

Either way, you find yourself veering onto a familiar exit off the highway, tires crunching under gravel until it turns to dirt when you pull into the same trailer park on the edge of town. The same one you spent most nights back in high school.

You sit in your car for a little longer than necessary, keys still in the ignition, engine ticking quietly as it cools.

The place hasn’t changed much either. Same sloped roof, same white paneling, same wind chimes clinking together on the porch. There’s a pair of muddy work boots by the steps, and your stomach knots.

You didn’t bother calling ahead. You don’t even know if he has the same number. You’re regretting that now.

You should leave. You really should. But you’re already pulling the car door open and stepping into the dry afternoon heat. The air’s thick again, the sun sitting high and mean in the sky. Your shirt sticks to the sweaty skin along your spine as you walk through the gate and up the short gravel path.

You hesitate at the foot of the stairs, clenching and unclenching your fists a couple times like that’ll magically relive all your nerves. You wonder, and almost hope, if Sarah will be the one to open the door. If she’ll even remember you.

Then, the screen door cracks open before you can knock.

Joel’s standing there. He looks the same as the last time you saw him.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters, opening the door wider. He’s in jeans, barefoot, nothing but a tank top clinging to his chest, a dark patch blooming at the collar where it’s damp with sweat. “Look at you.” 

No, not the same.

Older. Broader, somehow. More worn in, like a favorite jacket that’s been well loved. His hair’s longer than you remember, messier. His beard is thicker too, dusted with more gray, and there’s a little more weight around his middle. But his eyes are just the same—dark, steady, and sharp in a way that makes you feel instantly, achingly seventeen again.

He looks you over once. Not quick. Real slow. Real deliberate. A single drag of his eyes from your flip flops to the shorts you maybe shouldn’t have worn. His gaze sticks when it reaches your chest, lingers there a beat too long before flicking back up to your mouth. And then, finally, your eyes.

You shift your weight, offering a small smile. “Hey, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes narrow, and there’s the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Don’t start with that ‘Mr. Miller’ bullshit. You’re grown now.”

Your stomach tightens.

“I, uh...my mom said you might be looking for help,” you say, fighting the urge to squirm where you stand. “With Sarah, I mean.”

He leans against the doorframe, one hand gripping the wood above his head. The movement lifts his shirt just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing under the waistband of his sweats. “She did, huh?”

You nod, still frozen in place at the bottom of the steps.

Joel lets the silence hang in the air, heavy and charged. Then he huffs a quiet breath through his nose—half amusement, half something else—and steps aside. “You comin’ in or what?” he asks, jerking his head impatiently, giving you another long, lazy once over. “Ain’t polite to keep an old man waitin’, kid.”

Your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, and with one last quick, steadying breath you hope Joel doesn’t notice, you climb the stairs.

Joel hadn’t expected to see you again. At the very least like this, showing up at his place in the middle of the day—standing at the bottom of his porch like a mirage in the heat, older and more grown in all the places a man like him shouldn’t be noticing. 

And sure as hell not in those shorts.

He watches you walk past him into the living room, slow and uncertain, that little sway in your hips you maybe don’t even mean to have. Or maybe you do.

Either way, it’s a goddamn sight.

Joel closes the door with a soft click, dragging a hand over his mouth like that’ll help wipe the look off his face. It doesn’t. The look of you—bare legged and smiling, sun kissed and back in his house after all this time—sticks to the inside of his skull like syrup. 

You look around the room with a small smile, eyes scanning the familiar furniture. Some of it’s new, some of it’s the same. Joel’s never been much for decorating. You pause in front of the bookshelf he built a few years back, Sarah’s old school pictures still sit in a few mismatched frames next to a couple of paperbacks.

He clears his throat, scratching at his beard so he has something to do with his hands as he walks to the kitchen. “You want somethin’ to drink? Water, iced tea? I think I got Coke in the fridge somewhere.”

“I’m good, thanks.” You follow slowly, looking younger somehow in the kitchen light. You rest your hip against the doorway, eyes watching him as he walks to the fridge. “I won’t stay long. I just figured I’d stop by real quick and see if you still needed some help.”

Joel pulls the fridge open anyway, grabbing a beer from the half empty six pack. He cracks the tab with a soft hiss and leans back against the counter. “Sarah’s mostly independent now. She don’t need a sitter like she used to, but I still get caught up workin’ late. Don’t like the idea of her bein’ here by herself too often. 'Specially not with some of the boys sniffin’ around lately.”

You laugh, soft and bright. “Well, I’ve got time,” you say, toying with a loose thread on your cutoffs. “I don’t know how much help you actually need, but my schedule’s pretty much open. I can do evenings, weekends, whatever you want.”

Joel has to bite back a grin. Whatever he wants. 

If you only knew the half of what he really wants.

Joel shifts his weight against the counter. “It wouldn’t be every night,” he says, shaking his head. “Just the evenings I pick up extra hours, or if I get called out for a job.”

You nod. “I can help. You don’t have to worry about paying me a whole lot. I’ll just be happy to keep busy.”

His mouth pulls into something that might be a smile. “I’ll pay you,” he says, almost gruff. “You’re doin’ me a favor.”

The silence that follows feels familiar. Not awkward—just full. A little tight around the edges. 

He’s always known how to talk to you, but now there’s something different to it. You’re not seventeen anymore. Not biting your lip and looking away when he catches your eye. You’re standing there calm as you please, looking straight at him, like you already know he’s thinking things he shouldn’t.

Joel watches you from across the kitchen, beer can sweating against his palm. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, stirring warm air that doesn’t help much with the heat climbing under his skin. You’re standing there across the way from him like nothing’s changed, like you never left. Like no time has passed at all.

Except that it has. And it shows.

“You still in school?” he asks, voice rougher than he means it to be.

You blink, head tilting to the left. “Yeah. I’m up in Chicago now, Northwestern.”

“Big shot,” Joel whistles low, nodding appreciatively. “That’s a ways away from here.”

You shake your head, smile small and bashful. “It is. It’s expensive as hell too, my scholarship’s the only reason I’m there.”

He makes a soft sound in his throat, impressed. “Smart girl.”

“I try.” You shrug, but there’s pride under it. “I’ve got one year left, usually I stay for the summer to try and make as much as I can in the city. I—I just needed a breather, I guess. Some time to figure shit out, you know?”

There’s something soft in your tone when you say it, an openness he didn’t expect, and maybe shouldn’t pry into. But part of him wants to. Always has.

“You don’t seem like the type that needs figurin’ out,” Joel says, voice a little quieter now. “Always thought you had your head on straight.”

Your smile flickers into something crooked, something secret. “That’s because you didn’t really know me.”

He chuckles, deep and rough. “No, sweetheart. I think I knew you just fine.”

Your eyes lock for a second too long after that, thick enough with heat and history to make the air feel heavier than it already is.

You look away first, your eyes flicking to the living room. “I, uh–sorry, do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

Joel gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Go ahead, you remember where it is.”

You push off the doorway with one last grateful smile and duck down the hallway, footsteps silent against the linoleum. Joel watches until you disappear around the corner, his gaze dipping low without shame.

He waits until he hears the click of the bathroom door shutting behind you to exhale a slow breath, setting his beer down on the counter harder than he has to.

Jesus Christ.

She’s not a girl anymore, he thinks to himself. And you’re not, you’re far fucking from it.

But that feeling, that ugly one churning deep down in Joel’s gut, it’s still there. It feels just as dangerous as it used to, maybe even worse now. All because of you. 

The look of your glossy lips forming around the words whatever he wants. The shape of your thighs, those damn shorts clinging to you like a second skin. The way you were looking at him, eyes all wide and shiny under his shitty kitchen light. 

Joel can’t help himself, he thinks back to a few years ago. You, curled up on his couch every night when he got home from a long build, looking so soft in the hazy glow of the TV. Barefoot and sleepy, blinking up at him in those skimpy little after school clothes you’d always throw on.

It was a vision, something to settle his aching bones.

He thinks about how he started looking forward to it, coming home to you. It was sick, he knew that much, the fucked up little game of house he played, projected onto you. An old man like him leering at you, thinking of you long after you’d left, waving sweetly from the window of your moms car.

Joel should’ve known better. Should’ve done better. But that never stopped him before, not when it came to you.

A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts. Two quick raps, followed by a heavy creak.

“Joel?” Tommy’s voice fills the trailer before he can even move, loud in the quiet. “You home?”

Joel sighs, brows pinching together as he pushes off the counter. He didn’t even hear the damn truck pull up.

Tommy rounds the corner, sweaty and covered in dirt. He’s got a ratty bandanna hanging from his jean pocket, sleeves pulled up around his shoulders and a pair of aviators covering his eyes.

“You ever heard of callin’ before you just barge in on someone?” Joel doesn’t try to hide the annoyance in his tone, brow arched as he stares at his brother.

“Hello to you too, jackass.” Tommy just walks past him like he owns the place, opening up one of the cabinets above the sink. “You gettin’ memory loss already, old man? You said Saturday.”

“Yeah, well now ain’t a good time, Tommy.” Joel cuts his eyes to the hall, to the light bleeding out from under the bathroom door.

Tommy just snorts, still rifling through the cabinet. “Yeah right, you got a woman over or somethin’?”

Joel doesn’t answer, eyes still fixed on that thin sliver of light glowing under the bathroom door like it might give him away.

Tommy catches on, turns slow with a shit-eating grin already stretching across his face. “You do have someone here.”

Joel gives him a hard look, one that should tell him to shut the hell up—but Tommy only laughs, knowing.

“C’mon,” he drawls. “Didn’t know you were even seein’ anybody. You been holdin’ out on me?”

“It ain’t like that,” Joel mutters, too fast, too defensive.

Tommy tilts his head, chewing on that like a dog with a bone. “Huh. So she’s not yours then?”

Joel doesn’t get the chance to answer. Before he can shoot back with something mean enough to shut him up. From down the hall, the bathroom door opens with a quiet click, and then—

Then you're back, smoothing your hands down your thighs as you reappear around the corner, voice drifting back into the space.

“Jesus, that sink is still running freezing cold water? I nearly put my-oh…” You’re clearly caught off guard, your eyes catching on where Tommy stands in front of the sink. “Tommy?”

Joel watches it click in real time—your eyes lighting up with recognition, mouth parting into a surprised smile like you’ve just stumbled on an old friend. Which, in a way, you have. Tommy was around a lot back then. Backyard beers, watching football on the TV, leaning against Joel’s truck while you wrangled Sarah inside for dinner.

“Well shit,” Tommy says, slow and low, pulling his sunglasses down. “That isn’t the little babysitter, is it?”

You smile, sheepish and sweet, and Joel feels something sour twist in his gut. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” Joel watches Tommy take a good long look at you just like the one he did, eyes wide as his gaze rakes from your head down to the bare skin of your legs and back up all over again. “No kiddin’.”

It makes the space behind Joel’s ribs burn with something hot and ugly, Tommy’s eyes on you. Shameless and obvious as all hell. He might just be the biggest hypocrite in the country for it, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Tommy goes on, leaning in like he can’t help himself. “You home for the summer?”

“Yeah, just for the summer,” you say brightly. “I thought I’d see if Joel needed help with Sarah again.”

“Oh, I bet he does,” Tommy says, and Joel’s had about enough of this.

“We were just finishing up,” Joel cuts in, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air. “She was about to head out.”

You don’t seem to notice the tension, if you do, you ignore it with grace that makes it worse somehow.

Your eyes flick to him, and for a second, Joel thinks maybe you notice something’s off. But your smile is still easy. “Yeah, I should probably get going.”

Joel gives a short nod and steps toward you before Tommy can open his mouth again. “I’ll walk you out, honey.”

You look between the two brothers for a second longer, then nod and head back into the living room, Joel right behind you. The sound of Tommy’s boots are hot on his heels, following.

You bend down to swipe your keys off the coffee table, not by much, just enough for your shirt to ride up and your shorts to dip low. Joel nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of lace. Bright pink, thin. A pathetic little scrap of fabric clinging to either side of your hips.

Joel’s throat goes dry, heat rolling under his skin like a slow burn, thick and unrelenting. You straighten back up, smooth the hem of your shirt down, but the damage is done. He feels that familiar ache stirring low in his belly, his cock twitching with interest in his sweats.

He doesn’t look at Tommy, he doesn’t need to. The quiet crunch of a beer can bending under a tight grip is all he needs to know that he isn’t the only one taking that lace peeking out from under those damn shorts as a neon sign flashing all the wrong kinds of welcome.

Joel barely has enough wherewithal to drag his eyes up to your face when you turn back around—that sweet, oblivious smile still pulling at your lips.

“Okay.” Your fingers toy with your keys, the metal soft and jangling in your palm. “Ready.”

Joel gives you a short nod, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Tommy, of course, steps in the silence, voice syrupy. “Hey, don’t be a stranger, alright? Good seein’ you again, sweetheart.”

You glance over your shoulder, lips parting into a lazy little grin. “You too, Tommy.”

Joel holds the door open for you, watching the way the light hits your shoulders, the back of your thighs, the little shadow that dips right at the curve of your spine.

The cicadas are buzzing, your car parked half crooked along the curb. You walk slow, gravel crunching under your sandals. Joel stays beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The sun’s lower now, soft gold spilling across the lawn.

You open the car door, pausing with your hand on it. “That was…fun.”

Joel nods, biting back a frown. “Yeah, sorry about him. Tommy hasn’t got much of a filter.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s okay, I missed you guys.”

Joel’s heart kicks hard in his chest. He’s not sure what to do with that. 

“You know where to find us,” he says finally.

You nod, climbing into the car. The engine kicks up and the window rolls down.

“Thanks for the talk,” you say. “And the job, I’ll call you?”

Joel leans down a little, arms resting on the open window frame. You’re so close like this. Too close. He can smell the sweet perfume mixing with the bright tang of sweat on your skin.

“Of course,” he says, eyes flicking down to your lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

You smile. “It was nice seeing you, Joel.”

Joel watches you drive off, his reflection shrinking in your side mirror until he’s nothing but a speck in the dust your tires kick up.

He lets out another long breath, turning to walk up to steps. When he comes back inside, Tommy’s on the couch now, feet kicked up on Joel’s coffee table.

Joel shuts the door a little too hard behind him.

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“I told you,” Joel says, low and firm. “Now ain’t the time.”

Tommy’s grinning. “No shit it ain’t the time. Jesus, Joel. She’s what—twenty? Twenty one?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel says, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Oh, well never mind then, that makes it fine,” Tommy says, laughing. He cracks open the beer in his hand, taking a slow sip. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind, you know that?”

Joel clenches his jaw, not bothering with an answer. His heavy silence speaks louder than any words could.

Tommy watches Joel closely, taking his silence for what it is and grinning wide enough to show off the sharp point of his canines. “She filled out real nice though, didn’t she?”

Joel shoots him a warning look, brows pinched together. “Don’t.”

Tommy holds his free hand up in surrender, but he’s still smirking. “All I’m sayin’ is—I remember when she was this pretty little thing runnin’ around here. Now—” He makes a vague gesture at his own chest. “—jailbait’s a whole lotta grown.”

Joel takes a step forward, hands clenched into fists at his side. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

Tommy raises a brow, and the air goes real still between them for a beat. Joel knows his little brother—knows he’s testing the waters, seeing just how deep the river runs.

Joel shakes his eyes off him, walks to the kitchen and snatches his forgotten beer off the counter.

He hears Tommy chuckle again, more to himself than anything, his voice is louder so Joel can hear him. “You better watch yourself, man. That one? She’s trouble.”

Joel downs the rest of his beer in one long, bitter swallow, eyes peering out the window—locked on the road your car disappeared down. His voice, when it comes, is low and final.

“You got no idea.”

It’s almost too easy, falling back into the routine of it.

A few nights a week, just like before. Joel calls. You come over. The knock on the door doesn’t even feel necessary anymore, since Sarah already knows it’s you when she yanks it open and launches into talking before you’ve even stepped inside. 

You know where the snacks are. The remote. You know how to work the tricky thermostat and still have all the emergency contacts scrawled on a paper tacked to the fridge memorized.

It all comes back like muscle memory—like no time has passed at all. 

Sarah’s older now, a little more sarcastic. Witty and bolder in a way that surprises you sometimes, just enough edge in the way she talks to you that reminds you how much time has passed since you used to sit on the same couch and color. She’s brimming with the kind of secrets she’s aching to spill to someone she knows won’t tell her dad.

You’re still not quite a “grown-up” in her eyes, but you’re not a kid anymore either. You’re in that sweet spot—a cool older girl with her own car who lets her say things like shit and dickweed when Joel’s not around.

You’re not supposed to let her stay up this late, but you both pretend not to notice the clock. She’s curled up next to you on the couch, draped over the armrest only half watching the reruns you turned on with her chin propped on her palm.  

"Can I ask you something?” Sarah says suddenly, grinning. 

You narrow your eyes at her, mock suspicious. “You can, but I’m not promising I’ll answer.”

She laughs, kicking you gently with a socked foot. “Did you ever, like, sneak around when you were my age? Steal beer? Hook up with anyone?”

“Jesus, Sarah.” You raise your eyebrows, but she’s too amused to be embarrassed. You toss a throw pillow her way lazily. “You know your dad would kill me for answering that, right? He’d think I’m giving you ideas or something.”

“That’s not a no,” she sings, smirking.

“No comment.” You shake your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “I don’t need to give you any blackmail material to use on me later if I piss you off.”

“Please,” she huffs with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “I’d never narc on you like that. Besides, Dad still thinks I’m eight, I don’t even think he knows that I know what “hooking up” means.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you turn your attention back to the TV. “You’re his baby.” You shrug as a new episode of Daria starts. “It makes sense that he’s treating you like one.”

“Gross,” Sarah huffs again, letting her head fall back against the cushion to stare up at the ceiling. “He’s just so overprotective sometimes. I mean, I guess I get it but, come on? I’m basically in high school now, I’m not really a baby anymore.”

You glance over at her, and she isn’t. Not really. Not the gap toothed little girl who used to fall asleep on your shoulder watching Finding Nemo. She’s growing up in the kind of terrifying, beautiful way that makes your chest ache a little—already too smart for her own good.

She cracks her eyes open a bit, peering across the way at you. “Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently.”

You blink. It’s not the words that shake you—it’s the timing. The way they hit, low and close to the bone. 

Because yeah, you did notice. You still do. Especially now. Especially here.

Before you can say anything, the alarm you set on your phone blares loudly, cutting through the quiet.

“Alright!” You push her feet off your lap and stand, happy for the distraction as you clap your hands together. “That’s curfew.”

Sarah groans, but she rolls off the couch with no argument and starts down the hall. 

You busy yourself with tidying up the living room as she brushes her teeth, pointedly ignoring the growing pit in your stomach. Her words ring in your ears like church bells, her voice tolling a little too close to something you’ve pointedly ignored since you got back. Something half buried and dangerous.

Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently…

You breathe out slowly, shutting off the TV and dropping the remote onto the couch a little harder than necessary. You shouldn’t read into it. She didn’t mean anything by it. Just a kid mouthing off, reaching for connection, for understanding. 

But it rattles you more than you want to admit, especially here—especially in his house.

You swallow hard, clearing the dirty dishes off the coffee table and walking into the kitchen. You just won’t think about it anymore, it’s that easy.

You're just being ridiculous. Paranoid. That's all.

A little while later, you’re still tidying up.

The dishes are all done, washed and drying in the rack next to the sink. The living room looks better than when you got here. It’s damn near pristine. 

Sarah went to bed almost half an hour ago. You crane your head down the hallway as you fold an old blanket, her door is cracked open enough that you can see the light from her alarm clock shining in the dark. The soft sounds of waves drone quietly from her noise machine.

You smile, a warm fondness blooming in your chest.

That fuzzy feeling doesn’t last long, not when your eyes drift almost on their own, landing on Joel’s door. 

Joel’s room.

It’s cracked open too, just like Sarah’s, but there’s no light shining from inside. You keep folding the blanket, distracted. It’s not like you haven’t been in Joel’s room before, you have. Passing through it with clean loads of laundry or sneaking his phone charger from the plug near his nightstand when your phone died.

But you’d never gone in alone, and you’d never stayed long. Sarah was always hot on your heels, catching your wrist in her tiny hand to drag you back out—following you around like an overexcited puppy. Not to mention it was always in the light of day, never at a time like this. When the moon is shining high in the sky and the stars are scattered across vast velvety darkness like spilled sugar.

You drape the folded blanket along the arm of the couch, eyes still glued to the door. The cogs in your mind turn and turn, spitting out an idea that has your stomach clenching with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, eyes cutting to the clock above the door.

11:53

Joel told he’d be a while tonight, before he left. He said they’d be short a man, that the job would drag on because of it.

That’s not an excuse, you know that.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

Your feet are moving before your brain can catch up to how bad of an idea this really is.

Your steps are silent on the linoleum, barefeet not making a sound. The wood of his door is dark and shiny, cool against your hand when you lay your palm over it. You give Sarah’s room another sideways glance, you can see the shape of her beneath the covers. Sound asleep.

The door creaks when you push it open, just barely. The sound isn’t enough to scare you off, and you step inside. The carpet is plush under you, it silences your steps even more as you walk to the nightstand and flick the light on.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you take it in. The messy, unmade state of Joel’s bed. The covers are thrown back, there’s a dip in the pillow where his head rests. The nightstand has a paperback open and laying face down, a pair of wiry reading glasses resting next to it.

The room smells like him. 

That scent that used to cling to you by accident when you were younger—clean cotton and cedar, a little motor oil and sweat, and whatever body wash he’s been using for years. It hits you all at once.

It has something stirring in your core, the familiarity of it. You look around some more, greedy eyes taking in every tiny detail you can. There’s a few paintings and framed pictures littering the walls. Pictures of Sarah, of Tommy, all kinds of different Texas landscapes. 

An old guitar rests on the wall across from you, you can see that it’s a little beat up even from where you’re standing. The glossy wood chipped and well loved.

Then your eyes land on the dresser.

It’s old, stained a light brown. You wonder distantly if he built it himself.

Your gaze catches on the top drawer, the pull handle worn with use.

Again, you know it’s wrong. That you’ve already crossed every line imaginable by just being in here, but you seem full to bursting with bad ideas tonight. 

You’re across the room with your fingers resting gently on the handle before you can even blink. Slowly, like something’s pulling you on a leash, you slide it open.

Socks. Boxers. Old, ratty belts. It’s nothing special, but heat climbs up the back of your neck all the same.

The next drawer has shirts, old band tees and fancier button downs that really should be hung up. You press your hand against one of them, feeling the starchy fabric beneath your skin.

The third drawer sticks a little, enough that you need to yank on it harder than the last two. It slides open with a dull thud. You wince, your eyes flicking to the door like Joel could be standing there, catching you rifling through his underwear like a sick little perv. 

The darkness of the hallway is all that greets you. Quiet, empty.

You take a steadying breath, but your hands don’t stop trembling as you tug it the rest of the way open.

You’re not sure exactly what you’re looking for, but then, you see it.

There, tucked toward the back under a couple old flannels, a small stack of magazines. 

Playboys. A couple Hustlers. From the look of them, they're mostly 90s, maybe early 2000s. It’s so vintage, so Joel. The covers are glossy, edges curled and worn. 

Your breath hitches. The heat between your legs is instant, sharp and impossible to ignore.

You pull one out, heart hammering, and flip it open carefully. Your eyes skim over picture after picture, some of the pages sticking together as you thumb through them. The scent of paper and dust and something faintly musky drifts up, and the centerfold you finally land on is obscene—posed, yes, but raw in a way that makes your thighs press together. 

Legs spread wide on a bearskin rug, pink mouth parted, full bush and glossy nipples.

She’s brunette, hair poofy and curled up to Jesus like they used those big old school rollers. Her eyes are the same color as yours, half lidded and covered in a sparkly blue shadow.

You glance down at the caption under her photo. 

“Turn-ons: Older men. The kind that know how to use their hands.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

You should be laughing. Maybe grossed out. But instead—

Instead you imagine Joel, sitting in this room, flipping through these pages alone. Hand between his legs. That rough, big, calloused hand. Not fast, not frantic. No, you imagine him slow.

Measured.

Probably gritting his teeth, because he seems like the type who doesn’t let himself sound desperate even when he is. Grunting softly. Breathing hard. Coming into a tissue or his palm or maybe just letting it land on his stomach. Because there’s no one here to see. No one to touch him. Just him and the sound of paper turning.

You shut the magazine too fast. Slide it back in place, heart pounding.

Before you can push the drawer closed, your eyes catch on one of the flannels that covered Joel’s little secret.

It’s an old one—soft looking, broken in, a faded green and black. You should put it back, lay it down exactly where you found it so there’s nothing even hinting at you digging around in places you shouldn’t.

Instead, your hand closes around it, and without letting yourself think too long, you hold it up to your nose.

God. It smells like him. Like his detergent, like summer sweat and wood and something faintly smokey. Warm and safe and so damn inappropriate in every possible way.

It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s obscene.

You can’t help yourself, you push the rest of the flannels back over the magazines, but the one in your hand gets tucked under your arm.

You don’t even try to justify it. You don’t even look back.

You don’t touch yourself right away.

You wait. You ride the buzz all the way home. Eat a popsicle standing barefoot in your kitchen, flannel in a heap on the counter like a loaded gun. You pretend to forget about it. You go about your night like normal. Shower. Brush your teeth.

Then you’re in bed and it’s just there. Laying on your mattress.

You unfold it. Run your fingers over the soft, worn fabric. You should feel guilty. You do, but that doesn’t stop you from pressing it to your nose and inhaling a deep lungful. You crawl into bed, tearing your shirt off and kicking your shorts down your legs all at once.

You lay back against your sheets, flannel still clutched in your hands. You rub it along your chest, over your peaked nipples, down your stomach. Rubbing Joel’s scent into your skin like it’s your own personal brand.

Your free hand slides down your body, down the lacy fabric of your panties. You’re already wet. You’ve been wet since the minute you opened that drawer.

You close your eyes, fingertips teasing along the wet expanse of your pussy as you let your mind go there—

To the thought of Joel finding you like this.

His flannel draped over your face. Your hand between your thighs.

Would he be mad? Would he punish you for it?

Would he take it back? Rip it out of your hands?

Or would he make you put it on—just so he could see you wear it while he ruined you?

You want to come like this. Wrapped up in something of his. Want to ruin yourself in it. You dip your fingers into your underwear and finally—finally—brush them over your clit.

The gasp you let out is sharp.

It’s not just his cologne. It’s his scent. That hot-skin smell that clings to the inside of his hats and his truck and his work boots. It’s Joel, soaked into the fabric like he’s holding you down.

You rub slow circles over your clit, hips twitching. You can’t stop picturing him. Not just his face, but the sounds he’d make. The weight of his body over yours. The way his voice would rasp against your ear if he caught you doing this.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl, so desperate you’re gettin’ off with my dirty laundry?”

You slide two fingers inside yourself and gasp, mouth falling open. You imagine his hands instead. Rough, thick, calloused. Bigger than yours. Slower. Crueler.

“Oh fuck, Joel—” you whisper without thinking, the name catching on your teeth like a sin.

You come hard, pressing the flannel to your face, thighs trembling, biting down on soft cotton as you ride it out. It rolls through you in hot waves. Shame, lust, guilt, need—all tangled up.

When it’s over, you lie there panting, the room silent except for your heartbeat in your ears. You relax your jaw, the flannel falling from between your lips, fabric soaked with your spit.

You drift off with it clutched to your chest. Still wet between your legs. Still aching. Still imagining what he’d do if he ever found out.

And you sleep better than you have in weeks.

You don’t think anything of it when you see Joel’s truck parked in front of the trailer. It’s not out of the ordinary, he’s almost always there to make sure you get in safe before he leaves.

You climb the creaky steps and knock like usual. Three little raps, your knuckles against the thin aluminum of Joel’s door, already shifting your weight to the side as you wait for Sarah to yank it open and start catching you up on all the latest gossip from her last summer soccer practice.

Only—it doesn't swing open. Not right away.

You frown, Sarah’s usually opened the door before you can even raise your fist to knock again. It’s only then that you notice how quiet it is. 

No music thumping out from her window, no light flicked on in her room. No hum of the TV playing. No voice yelling “Just a second!” from down the hall. Just the light hanging above your head buzzing faintly and the dull thud of your knuckles against the door.

You knock for a fourth time, less sure.

A few more seconds go by. One, two, three, four. 

You count all the way to ten before the door creaks open, the screen with it. Joel fills the frame, one shoulder leaning against it. The light floods out from behind him, a warm yellow glow spilling into the dark and haloing around his broad shoulders. 

He’s not dressed in work clothes, just an old grey short sleeve and a pair of jeans that ride dangerously low on his hips—a beer bottle held loosely in his left hand. He doesn’t even have shoes on.

You’re hit with a violent wash of déjà vu, your traitorous mind thinking back to the first day you saw him again. 

“Hey,” you say as casually as you can, shifting on your feet. You peer around him into the living room. Empty. “Where’s Sarah?”

Joel doesn’t move, head tilting as he watches you. “She’s stayin’ over at a friends.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” The corner of Joel’s mouth raises slightly, it’s not quite a smirk, but it’s close. “I texted. You didn’t check your phone?”

You shake your head slowly, but you can’t help the way your brows furrow. You had checked it, right before you left your house, like you awake do. No calls. No texts.

“I must’ve missed it.”

Joel gives you a lazy once over, eyes dragging down your front like a slow lick. “Huh,” he says, but it’s far away. “Guess you might as well come in anyway, wouldn’t want you to waste your time comin’ out here for nothin’.” 

He steps aside, holding the door open expectantly. 

“It’s fine, really.” You laugh, but it’s awkward. “I can just go—”

“Come inside.”

He says it low. Not a suggestion.

You hesitate for half a second, nerves suddenly scraping just beneath your skin. But you step in anyway, brushing past him into the cool dimness of the trailer, the familiar scent of cedar, beer, and Joel hitting your nose all at once. 

The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.

Joel walks past you, sets his beer down on the coffee table before his eyes find yours again. You can see his face better in the light of the living room, his eyes are hard. Dark in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. It has your stomach clenching tightly, the sour edge of alarm churning with arousal inside you.

“It’s good you’re here. We oughta talk.”

You open your mouth, then shut it. His tone is strange—off—but not angry. Amused, almost. You wring your hands behind your back anxiously. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, rough, “I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’. Just been waitin’ for the right time.”

You frown. “Ask me what?”

Joel drags the silence out. He watches you try not to squirm, mouth tilted in another half smirk. 

"You go through my shit, baby?"

Your heart trips three times over in your chest, stomach dropping down to your feet. “I—what?”

Joel huffs hard out his nose, that smug smirk spreads. It’s all teeth now, feral and amused. “Did I stutter?”

You’re shaking now, hands trembling in time with the frantic beat of your pulse. “I just thought—I didn’t think you—”

Joel clicks his tongue, cutting you off. “Yeah that’s the problem, ain’t it? You didn’t think.” He takes one slow step toward you, eyes locked on yours, heavy and dark and hot enough to burn.

“It’s real funny,” he says offhandedly, too casual—like you’re talking about this week’s forecast. “There’s only a few people who’ve been in and outta here lately. And I know Tommy ain’t the one riflin’ through my drawers, takin’ shit that doesn't belong to him. I ain’t dumb, baby.”

Your mouth opens and closes desperately, mind racing to say anything. To lie, to defend yourself, to beg for forgiveness. Nothing comes out. Your throat works around nothing, and your hands are clenched so tightly behind your back they’re going numb.

Joel just hums. A low, throaty sound that vibrates down your spine. His fingers curl under the hem of your shirt, lifting it slightly, just enough to show the little strip of skin above your shorts. “You touch yourself in it?”

The question punches the air from your lungs. You don’t need to ask him what it is.

“I—Joel—”

“Don’t try lyin’ to me.”

Your face burns. You can’t bring yourself to nod, let alone speak. You don’t have to. 

Joel laughs—dark and low, like he already knows the answer. He trails his hand along the skin of your stomach, his touch featherlight. You can’t hide the shiver that wracks through you, goosebumps pebbling along your skin.

His hand falls away, only so he can drop down onto the couch behind him. Legs wide, thighs spread, jeans tugging tight across them as he leans back like he’s settling in for a show. His voice is pure gravel. “Go on, then. Show me what you did.”

You just stand there. Eyes wide. “What?” 

Your voice shakes, quiet and small in the tension. 

Joel shakes his head, sighing like he’s dealing with a stubborn child. He hooks one finger in the waistband of your shorts, tugging. You move without thinking, stepping into the space between his spread thighs.

“See, I don’t wanna have to ask you again, baby. So, are you gonna show me?” he says slowly, his touch dipping low enough to brush over the lacy edge of your panties. “Or am I gonna have to make you?”

Your breath catches in your throat, heat flooding your body in less than a second. “Joel—”

He cocks a brow. “What’s wrong, sweet thing? You were bold enough to sneak into my room, go through my drawers, take what don’t belong to you. Don’t get shy now.”

You feel it then—that impossible to ignore, deep, slick throb between your legs. Shame and heat twisting up your insides. Your whole being pulses with heat, phantom flames lapping over your skin.

You don’t know if you’re more humiliated or turned on—your body doesn’t seem to care either way. Joel hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

There’s no way out of this. And you’re not even sure if you want one.

You bite your lip, cheeks burning as your fingers trail down your belly, under your shorts and down between your thighs. Already wet. Slick with the shame of it, slick with how bad you want him watching you.

Joel swats your hip, not hard enough to sting. Just enough to make you feel it. “No ma’am, none of that shit. Shorts off.”

You freeze, your hand still buried under the waistband, your pulse thudding in your ears like a war drum. Apparently, you don’t move fast enough, not for him, and Joel’s already leaning forward, hands on your hips as he yanks them down himself—your shorts and panties in one brutal tug.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he mutters, almost to himself, dragging the fabric down your thighs and letting it pool at your ankles.

Your breath hitches as he sits back again, arms draped lazily over the back of the couch, dark eyes fixed on the wet heat between your thighs like he’s starving.

You step out of your clothes, naked from the waist down, cheeks burning, heart beating so hard it’s making you lightheaded.

Joel tips his chin toward the floor. “Go on.”

Your stomach flips. You’re sure he can see it, the way your chest heaves, nipples pressing hard into the thin fabric of your top. Your hand drifts between your legs again, slow and shaky. Joel’s eyes follow every motion. Every tremble.

Your middle finger dips down and slides through your folds, slow. You let out a shaky breath. You brush over your clit, and twitch, hips jerking without meaning to.

“That’s it.” Joel nods, his hands clenched into fists. “See how easy it was, sugar? Feel’s good, doesn't it?”

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice threadbare. You’re rubbing yourself faster now, pressure building fast. “It feels so good, Joel.”

Joel groans at his name falling from your lips. “I bet it does. Bet you fucked your fingers into that tight little cunt while smellin’ me on the collar of that damn shirt. You nasty little thing.”

You nod, barely, lips parted as you circle your clit again, breath hitching on contact.

“I should spank your ass red for that,” he growls. “Should bend you over my lap like a fuckin’ child. You need discipline, don’t you?”

Your knees nearly give. “Joel. Please—”

He cuts you off again, gesturing lazily to where your hand disappears between your thighs. “Open her up. Let me see.”

You press two fingers between your folds, spreading them apart so he can see your glistening pussy, sticky and swollen from just a few strokes.

“Goddamn,” Joel groans, reaching down to adjust the thick shape of his cock hard under his jeans. “She’s fuckin’ drippin’. That for me, baby?”

You nod, lips slack as your thighs tremble.

“Yeah,” he drawls, stretching the word like out taffy between his teeth. “That’s real pretty.”

You moan at that. Loud and desperate. Your touch dip that much lower to push one finger inside. Then another, like you just can’t help yourself. You’re so wet there’s no resistance, your pussy welcoming them in like it’s done this a hundred times thinking of him. Slick drips down your thighs, shining under the light of the lamp.

Joel licks his lips slowly, deliberately. “Look at that.” He leans forward, pupils wide and dark as an oil spill. “Just a little rub like that, a little stretch and you’re already makin’ a mess.”

You whimper, hips rocking against your hand. “Joel, I—”

“Give yourself another finger. Show me how you take it”

You grind down onto your own fingers, mouth slack with soft moans that breathe to life before you can muffle them. You press in a third finger. The stretch burns, but you don’t stop. You’re panting now, skin dewy, hips jerking forward to meet your hand. Joel watches like a man starved.

He grins, smug and handsome and infuriating. “Yeah, three feels nice don’t it, honey?” He reaches out, his hand sliding up your thigh in one slow motion, lazy and unhurried through the slick. “Bet you could take my whole fuckin’ fist if you wanted it real bad.”

A pathetic little whine fills the air, more of a mewl than anything. It takes you a second to realize you’re the one making the noise, so desperate and gone from the tiniest amount of touch. It makes your walls clamp down harder around your fingers.

Joel sees. Joel knows.

And it’s all he needs to finally break.

“Come here,” he growls suddenly, jerking his head impatiently.

You scramble over, straddling him, bare thighs spread over his denim clad ones. Joel undoes his belt with one hand, the clink of the metal making your pulse trip. He pulls himself out of his soaked boxers, hard and straining, the rosy head drooling precome onto his shirt when it slaps up to rest against his stomach.

Your mouth falls open at the sight of it, flushed and big. Bigger than you’ve ever seen, outside of guilty late night porn searches. 

Joel chuckles darkly, taking himself in his hand. He strokes himself slowly, twisting his wrist over the head. “You think you can take all this?” he taunts meanly, dragging the tip through your folds, wetting himself with your slick. “You’re just a baby, sweetheart. You think you can handle this dick?”

You moan as he rubs himself over your sensitive clit, warm and wet. Your hips twitch down, desperate for more. Your pussy clenches around nothing, overwhelmingly empty.

He slaps your ass, hard. He kneads the tender skin in his rough hand after, dragging out the sting. “How old am I? Tell me, honey. Say it.”

You gasp, eyes screwing shut in embarrassment. “Fifty–ah! Fifty three,” you breathe, not looking Joel in the eye as you say it.

You can’t, not with the humiliation coursing through your veins like pure kerosine. It’s white hot, burning so bright, but it’s still not enough to stop your pussy from dripping sticky all over his cock like a broken faucet.

“Damn right,” he growls. “Old enough to be your fuckin’ daddy.”

Joel thrusts into you in one brutal push.

You scream. Your nails dig into his shoulders hard enough that you feel the thin material of his shirt straining under it. The stretch feels like it’s tearing you in two, like your fingers didn’t do anything to prepare you for his cock carving a place for itself inside you.

Joel kisses you, sucks the noise right off your tongue. He tastes like beer, like sweat and salt and something that’s only him. You moan into his mouth, your fingers threading into the soft hair curling at the nape of his neck.

He pulls back, a string of spit connecting your lips until it bends and breaks under the weight of gravity. “Come on, darlin’.” He slaps your ass again—once, twice—and you squeal, the burn sharp and perfect. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you couldn’t keep those thievin’ hands to yourself, huh? Well now’s your chance. Fuck me, give it to me good.”

You don’t ease into it, too worked to even think about starting slow.

You bounce on his lap like you’re possessed, thighs slapping, slick drenching his jeans. Joel groans with every roll of your hips, low and drawn out. He lets his head fall back against the couch, the tan column of his throat on display.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he pants. “Since the day you showed back up. Actin’ all grown. Look at you now. Cryin’ on my cock.”

You’re drooling. Dizzy. Brain turned to static as you ride him, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll bruise.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he growls, raising his head to watch you. “This pussy wasn’t made for boys your age. Needs a man to stretch it out. To ruin it.”

You whine, your pussy tightening around the throbbing length of his cock. Joel notices, of course he does.

His hands grip your ass, urging your hips up and down faster. “You like that, sweet thing? You like lettin’ an old man fuck you raw like this?”

“Yes,” you whine, tears burning at your water line. “I love it, want you to come inside me so bad Joel, fuck-”

“I know, baby.” Joel kisses your cheek, softly. Too soft, too tender. “You ain’t ever gonna want some college boy after this. You’re gonna be thinkin’ about how Mr. Miller fucked you open better than they could.”

Your moan is muffled by his fingers pushing between your slack lips, filling your mouth. You whine at the taste of yourself coating his skin, sucking obediently as he presses them down on your tongue.

“Gonna make you mine,” he pants. “Mine. No more sneakin’ around, no more stealin’ my shit—you want something, you ask for it like a big girl, and I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

You shake your head, babbling around his fingers. “Yes—yes, only you. I’m yours—”

You can feel your orgasm building deep in your belly, the coil of pleasure tightening and tightening until it threatens to snap.

Joel rips his fingers from your mouth with a dark growl, reaching back down to grip your ass again. He spreads you open, the cool air making you gasp. One finger, wet with your own spit, rubs over your rim. 

He doesn’t push in—just teases, circling, pressing, tugging—enough to make you clench and cry out as he starts pounding up into you. His hips lifting off the couch and filling the room with the loud noise of skin on skin as his balls slap against your ass with every thrust. Your pussy squelching around him with dirty, wet noises would make your ears burn if you weren’t so far gone already.

“You gonna let me play with this too?” he murmurs, lips brushing against your. “You lettin’ me train this hole next?”

That’s it. It’s all you can take.

You shatter with a scream, pussy squeezing so tight it makes Joel snarl and buck wildly up into you. He grabs your ass, choking out a strained string of  “fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He curses, pulls you down hard onto his cock one last time as he spills inside you, so deep you swear you feel it behind your ribs. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as he comes and comes. 

It feels endless, spurt after spurt of hot spend flooding your walls until it’s forced to leak back out along the fever hot skin of his cock, slipping down his balls to drip onto the couch.

It’s filthy.

It’s obscene.

It’s exactly what you wanted.

You both lean into each other, breathless and spent as you come down. Sweat drips down your back, rolling down your spine as your hands stay buried in his hair.

Joel strokes your thigh lazily, still inside you, watching the mess drip down where you’re spread open around him.

“You’re stayin’ the night,” he says simply.

You can’t fight the tiny, secret smile you press against the sweaty skin of his throat as you nod wordlessly, thighs still shaking violently around his hips.

You’d never make it to the door anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: what's so funny to me about this is that i didn't realize how much i actually missed writing for joel until i took a little mini break to work on my other frankie and harry fics like it’s so dramatic truly, but baby we’re so back! back and hopefully pissing off the joel age gap haters!

shoutouts to baby rylea for giving me the flannel idea cause this fic might have been lost without it. it was rescued from being just another abandoned wip and instead turned into a literal monster which was never supposed to happen but uh that's chill i guess…two fics over 10k words in one month? that’s literally unheard of over here. ALSO my first venture into ass play to spite @ebodebo and @yuenity sooo that’s fun. i love them both really LMAO

once again it's four a.m because i just can't function like a normal person. thank you to femme bot by charli xcx, pink red bull, and ofc my geeky bar for letting me power through and finish this mess. okay i'm done now sorry for talking so much, i just love yapping to you guys :(( thank you so much for reading, love you!

[carrots-bear]

Using this its so helpful

i think its so funny when people take the way donnie acts at face value even though its a horrible lie because he's a horrible liar, while understanding leo is bullshitting very well despite him actually being GOOD at bullshitting. many such cases

[honey-tongued-devil]

Arcane characters finding you asleep at their workplace

The devil works hard, but I work a little harder, so I’m back to writing Arcane headcanons a month before season two comes out.

Jayce:  

- Strong sense of guilt,  

- The first thing that comes to his mind is that you must have waited for him for a long time to fall asleep 

- He will make it up to you by trying to cook something for you, stopping to buy your favorite sweets before heading home, and giving you a shoulder massage the moment you sit down somewhere after you wake up.  

- The man of the Hamlet-like dilemma: he doesn’t want to wake you, but he also doesn’t want you to be uncomfortable.  

- If he has something urgent to do, he’ll try to cover your shoulders with something, even just his jacket, to keep you warm while he finishes only the essentials.  

- Once he’s free, he will very gently try to lift you from the chair, apologizing when you wake up and mumble something incoherent.  

Viktor:  

- In the early years of university, it sometimes happened that he found you in his room asleep, slumped over on a chair or bed with your shoes still on.  

- But as the years went by and the lab became his main space, that sight became a constant, repeating at least twice a week.  

- He tries to make as little noise as possible, whether with his aides, the door, or the stack of books and notebooks he needs to organize.  

- Before getting to work, he leaves the room again to bring you your favorite hot drink with a plastic lid pressed on top, so it doesn’t cool down.  

- Then, in complete silence, he works, deciding what to leave for tomorrow and what to do now, so he can finish as soon as possible without delaying too much.  

Ekko:  

- It’s hard to define what exactly a workplace is for Ekko,  

- But he often finds you at the Firelights' tree, in that room that’s supposed to be his, having likely sneaked in through the window to surprise him.  

- There are days when he comes back fairly early but stays to tell stories to the kids, and others when things go wrong, and he returns when it’s already dark, and almost everyone is asleep

- Finding you like this always makes him feel the absence of something more stable

- But he shakes his head and quickly pushes aside doubts about his ideals, stepping out of the room again and making more noise as he enters again, so you wake up, and he can pretend to be surprised in front of your open eyes.  

- By now, you know he steps out and comes back in, but it makes you smile every single time.

Vander:  

- You always sit at a table in the back of the Last Drop to wait for him, trying not to bother him, doodling, doing calculations, or planning something for the next day just to keep yourself entertained.  

- But by now, the sound of drunkards and the clinking of coins and glasses have become background noise that helps lull you into a catatonic state.  

- Vander usually notices after about an hour that you've fallen asleep; he always keeps an eye on you, but sometimes the customers cause problems.  

- He doesn’t like leaving you there, so far away, so he usually waits for a quieter moment to come over, pick you up, and bring you behind the counter, laying you down with your arms and head resting on the wooden bar.  

- He knows it’s not a big improvement, but his priority is to keep you safe.  

- When he finishes working, he closes the bar without doing the closing duties, sets his alarm for earlier than usual, and carries you to your room in his arms, covering your forehead with kisses.  

Silco:  

- The problem with Silco finding you asleep in his office is that he rarely arrives alone.  

- There’s always either Sevika or at least two other henchmen following him.  

- He sighs and sends them away, not without Sevika giving him a provocative look that means everything and nothing.  

- He hates those situations because part of him feels a strange warmth at the thought of you sneaking into his office for whatever reason, but on the other hand, he knows it negatively affects his image to be seen as a leader who tolerates certain insubordinations.  

- Because sneaking into the kingpin’s office is something that would get almost anyone else outside decapitated. But not you.  

- He huffs, pacing the room to deal with both emotions, and when he finally calms down, he approaches you, shaking you slightly to wake you up.  

- It’s certainly not the gentlest gesture on his part, but most of the time, it ends with you either going back to sleep in his bed while he works, or sitting on his lap while he flips through papers without paying them much attention.  

Jinx:  

- She can’t contain her excitement at all. When she notices your figure in her workshop, she always lets out a little happy sound that wakes you up.  

- From there, she immediately starts apologizing at least a thousand times, feeling guilty for waking you up but still too happy that you came to visit her.  

- She helps you up, talking nonstop about her day and anything that comes to mind as she leads you outside.  

- It’s not because she doesn’t want you around, but because she assumes you must be hungry as soon as you wake up, so before you're fully awake, you’ll find yourself at the Last Drop with enough food in front of you to feed her father’s entire gang of henchmen.  

- And she will absolutely feed you herself when she sees you haven’t taken a bite in too long, while stealing food here and there and continuing to talk.  

Vi:  

- For her, too, a "workplace" is a somewhat vague concept,  

- But in return, she has her secret spot, where she hides at night and tries to survive when she’s not out on the streets looking for trouble.  

- Every time she finds you there, she feels an indescribable pang in her heart.  

- She always feels like she’s neglecting the person she loves and failing to make you understand how much she cares about you.  

- She always hesitates before waking you up; sometimes she’ll even go change into clean clothes and wash the grime off her hands and face first.  

- Then she’ll wake you by sitting next to you, giving you a kiss, calling you by a silly nickname only the two of you know, and rubbing her forehead against yours before asking, with a rhetorical smile,  

- "Did you miss me?"

Caitlyn:  

- Sometimes you find yourself in the inner waiting room of the precinct, with her colleagues pointing out your body slumped in the chair and raising their eyebrows, teasing her. Other times, you simply sneak into her room, which isn’t much different from the police station anyway.  

- Every time, she sighs and gently wakes you, her pale eyes a little sad.  

- “Why didn’t you call me?” It doesn’t matter to her that you didn’t want to disturb her, because to her, you’re never a disturbance. It’s not a problem to have you around, even in public. She just feels bad that you waited instead of telling her, so she could have come much sooner.  

- She takes you away from the station without any issues, letting you continue resting against her shoulder as a Kiramman private vehicle takes you both to her home.  

- If you’re already in her room, she usually changes and lies down next to you, taking the chance to nap together, wrapped in each other's arms.  

Mel:  

- Falling asleep inside the Senate? Impossible.  

- But the keys to her office and her room are always in your pocket, and you usually bring her something to eat when you visit, though by the time you fall asleep, both the coffee and the treats are cold.  

- She’s not used to displays of affection, so she stays still for a few seconds before smiling and shaking her head.  

- She doesn’t wake you immediately, not because she doesn’t want to, but because if the sound of the door didn’t wake you, you probably need the rest. So she lets you sleep for at least 30 minutes before coming over, brushing your hair behind your ears to wake you, laughing when you lift your head with your eyes still closed.  

Sevika:  

- The first thing anyone would think is that falling asleep at the Last Drop is extremely dangerous. However, Silco’s henchmen aren’t too different from bipedal dogs by now; they know who you are, recognize your face and scent, and if they notice you’ve fallen asleep somewhere, at least three of them sit at your table to ensure your safety.  

- Sevika is always tasked with the worst imaginable jobs—tedious, long, and often dangerous—so when she finally returns, it’s usually either time to open the bar to the public or time to close it.  

- Even when she sees you, she can’t come to you right away, so she makes a face at whoever is watching over you, as if urging them to protect you better while she heads into the office.  

- Like Silco, part of her feels subconsciously softened by the idea that someone would feel the physical need to be with her so much that they’d wait, sitting until they fell asleep.  

- But on the other hand, she’s terrified that someone might see you and come after you to settle personal scores in a cowardly way.  

- When she finally comes down, she pulls you into her arms without saying a word, holding you under her large cape as she carries you away.  

[koling2345]

Just Simon with a cute new recruit. NSFW

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・

Lieutenant! Simon who: Thought you'd be just another recruit, until he saw that you were such a cute little bird. So obedient and pliable, always listening to what he had to say without refuting it.

Lieutenant! Simon who: Never even looked at any recruit in a different way until you arrived on base. The way you looked at him with sweet little eyes and called him 'Sir' was almost a symphony in his ears.

Lieutenant! Simon who: Loved it when you asked him for help with something on the base, sometimes purposely disappearing with things, only to see you coming after him to find out where that item was.

Lieutenant! Simon who: Made a point of training you, he never let any other superior do it. Not even Johnny. Simon wanted to be solely responsible for your success, or rather, he wanted to be solely responsible for giving you orders. And watching you obey them.

Lieutenant! Simon who: Started glaring daggers at any other soldier who looked at you. Not only that, but any soldier who even spoke to you or flirted with you was magically given a month's worth of hard duties. What a shame ;(

Lieutenant! Simon who: Was in charge of you at the gym, giving you several repetitions of exercises, never passing up an opportunity to put you in some positions that were a bit... Lewd, to say at least. Always keeping a close eye on every exercise you did, his eyes roaming over your body as you knelt down to stand up when you finished a set. The sight always made his pants a little tight.

Lieutenant! Simon who: Always gave you heavy workouts, tiring you to the limit. Just to make sure you'd get tired enough, then he'd have the excuse of helping you to get your bearings. Putting a hand on your lower back. Sometimes even being bold enough to put his hand on your waist, pulling your body against his in an attempt to help you. And if you were really, really tired, he could carry you on his shoulders. No, it wasn't an excuse to stare at your ass and thighs, feeling your body pressed against his. He swore it was just his good intention, he just wanted to help!

Lieutenant! Simon who: Would let you sleep in his room, there was a storm and the base was without power, you didn't want to be alone because you were scared. And he wouldn't let you be alone after learning that you were afraid of thunder, poor thing. That night he wrapped you up in his sheets, pulling you into his lap as he comforted you.

Lieutenant! Simon who: Helped you forget the fierce storm outside, pumping his thick fingers into your pussy, slipping in and out of you, scissoring and curving inside you. He made you come once, twice, three times, enough to make you tired and sleep on his lap, in the mess you made on his thighs, and he didn't care. In fact, he was proud to see the mess you'd made, that he'd given you.

Lieutenant! Simon who: After spending one night with you, he refused to sleep in separate rooms, so every night he dragged you to his room, at which point he already considered you his cute little thing. Normally, he would hold you all night with a death grip, so don't even try to escape.

Lieutenant! Simon who: Couldn't sleep peacefully until he'd buried his cock in you. Sleep only came to him after he had slid his thick cock into your wet folds, deep into your tight warmth. Slamming into you without mercy, he swears that his lullaby is your whimpering sounds under him.

Lieutenant! Simon who: Was mean to you, used you until he had his fill. It didn't matter if you'd already come for the thousandth time, he didn't care, because he went after his own pleasure, he would pound into you all night if he wanted to.Even if you were whimpering underneath him and saying you couldn't take it anymore, he'd respond with:

“You can and you will.”

[saatorus]

whisper of the heart — a nerdjo fic

synopsis — after reading about a book series that mirrored everything you’d loved about a past favourite, you were thrilled to find it in your college library. the copies were old—worn enough to still have checkout cards—but what caught your attention was the same set of initials, G.S., scrawled across nearly every one. the same G.S. who had filled the margins with sharp, thoughtful annotations. you couldn’t stop yourself from thoroughly enjoying the silly little comments written in the margins, leaving your own notes alongside theirs. it wasn’t until much later that you realised G.S. wasn’t some long-gone bookworm. it was none other than the man you had sworn to hate. gojo satoru.

pairing — nerd! satoru x reader

genre — academic rivals to lovers

word count— 32k (oops)

warnings — sexual content (unprotected sex), swearing, mentions of not eating, slight angst.

small playlist i listened to while writing

"You all can come and grab the papers now—do not ask me for any re-evaluations, the mark presented on the paper is your final mark—"

You barely listen. The professor could be reading a grocery list for all you care. Your focus is already on the stack of midterms in his hands, your heart pounding like a drum against your ribs.

The exam had been brutal—200 marks, covering classical mechanics and electromagnetism, some of the toughest material in your Physics II course. Past students had called it a horror show, a midterm designed to crush dreams and expose weaknesses. It was weighted heavily in your final grade, which meant every single mark mattered. The room is filled with a tense hum, a mixture of eager whispers and anxious murmurs. Some students hesitate in their seats, mentally preparing themselves before facing their doom. But you? You don't wait. You weave through the aisles, manoeuvring past people, determined to be one of the first to grab your paper.

And, of course, Gojo is right behind you.

"Jeez, you could at least pretend to be patient," he muses, his tone dripping with amusement as he strolls lazily down the steps, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. You roll your eyes. "Not all of us have the luxury of cruising through exams without trying."

"I do try," he says, flashing you a grin. "I try just enough." Before you can shoot back a response, you reach the professor’s desk. Professor Takeda raises an unimpressed brow as he sorts through the papers.

"You two again," he sighs. "Half my life as a professor has been spent watching you bicker."

"Don't be dramatic, sir," Gojo says smoothly, resting an elbow on the desk. "It's only been three years." Takeda shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about headaches before handing you your paper. You grab it without waiting, fingers slightly shaking as you flip it over.

98.

The relief rushes through you instantly, so strong you can’t help the triumphant burst of excitement. "Ninety-eight!" you blurt out, beaming as you hug the paper to your chest. It’s a damn near perfect score, and after all those sleepless nights, all those hours of grinding through problem sets—you earned this. Gojo, still waiting for his turn, glances at you with an expression you can’t quite place. His usual smirk is still there, but there’s something else—something quieter, almost thoughtful, before he smooths it over with his usual easy confidence.

Takeda hands him his paper. Gojo flips it over, barely reacting as he reads the number at the top.

"Ninety-five." Your grin widens.

"You mean I beat you?" You practically bounce on your heels. "Me? The one you said was ‘too uptight’ and needed to ‘relax and accept second place’? Me?"

Gojo exhales through his nose, shaking his head, as he folds his paper out of your sight. "Don't get too cocky," he drawls, shoving the paper under his arm. "It’s just three points."

"Three points above you."

"For now," he corrects smoothly, nudging your shoulder as he moves past you.

It’s been this way since freshman year. You and Gojo had ended up in the same introductory physics course, and from the very first midterm, it was clear: you were the only two truly competing at the top of the class. But while you poured everything into studying—late nights, flashcards, equations scribbled on napkins—Gojo seemed to barely put in the effort. He’d show up late to lectures, half-asleep in sweatpants, glasses slightly skewed, yet somehow still aced every exam. He never took notes, never stressed, never seemed to break a sweat. It drove you insane. Because no matter how hard you tried, how much effort you put in—he was always right there with you. Sometimes ahead, sometimes just behind, but never far enough to ignore.

And worst of all? He made it look easy. By now, the entire physics department knew about your rivalry. Professors expected you to fight over test scores. Study groups would take bets on who would score higher. Even during practical lab sessions, it was always a silent battle—who could get through the calculations faster, who could figure out the trick questions first. You hated him. And now, after years of this, you finally had something over him. A small, almost imperceptible shift in the universe.

You beat Gojo Satoru. As soon as class ends, you’re practically floating out of the lecture hall, midterm still clutched in your hands. The second you step into the cafeteria, your eyes scan the room for your friend, and when you finally spot her at your usual table, you don’t even bother with a greeting. “I got a ninety-eight,” you announce, sliding into the seat across from her with an undeniably smug grin. “And I beat Gojo.”

Her head snaps up from her laptop. “Wait— Gojo Gojo?”

You roll your eyes. “As opposed to what? Some other Gojo in our department?”

“Oh my God, you actually did it?” she gasps, setting her drink down as she stares at you in something close to awe. “I thought that man was unstoppable.”

“Well, turns out he’s not.” You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head. “Guess he finally met his match.” Your friend is still blinking at you in disbelief when a voice cuts in from behind you, slow and amused.

“One good score, and you think you’re the shit.” You freeze. Then, before you can even turn around, Gojo is already there, stepping up behind you like a shadow that refuses to be ignored. You feel the presence of him—tall, lazy, entirely too smug—before you even lift your head to meet his gaze. He’s leaning in just slightly, close enough to loom, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. That familiar, insufferable smirk is plastered on his face, condescending and infuriatingly amused.

You huff. “Can’t a girl enjoy her victory in peace?” 

He tilts his head, that same damned smirk never wavering. “Victory?” he echoes, voice dripping with mockery. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you? One midterm doesn’t erase three years of domination.” You scoff, crossing your arms. “Oh, please. Like you’ve actually dominated me.”

“Oh, you want me to bring out the stats?” Gojo hums, slipping into the seat beside you like he owns the place. He props his elbow on the table, resting his cheek on his palm as he begins, “Physics I final—97 to your 96. Thermodynamics midterm? 95 to your 91. Electromagnetic Fields exam—”

You groan. “Jesus Christ, you memorized all of them?”

“You think I don’t keep track?” He arches a brow, eyes glinting with amusement. “It’s not my fault I have a consistent history of kicking your ass.”

Your friend snorts into her drink. “He kinda has a point—”

You shoot her a glare. Gojo, meanwhile, is clearly having the time of his life. He leans in, that imposing height of his making his presence impossible to ignore, his voice dropping just slightly, almost teasing. “But sure,” he drawls, chin resting in his hand. “Enjoy your one win, (name). I’ll let you have it.”

You grip your cup so tightly the plastic crinkles. “Let me have it?”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Wouldn’t want you to cry when I obliterate you on the final.” Your friend nudges you under the table, mouthing he’s so full of shit, but you barely register it—because the air between you and Gojo is charged in a way that makes your stomach twist. You won’t admit it out loud, but part of you wonders— is this how he always talks to you?

So close, so taunting, like he enjoys watching you bristle. You hate how natural it feels, how effortless the rhythm of your bickering has become. But more than anything, you hate the way your heart stutters when he pushes himself out of his chair, hands still stuffed in his pockets, and grins down at you like he already knows how the next round of this fight is going to end.

“You should really start studying,” he hums, walking backward toward the exit. “You’ll need it.” And with that, he’s gone, leaving you fuming at the table. Your friend watches him go, eyebrows raised. “So, uh,” she says slowly. “Are we sure you guys aren’t flirting?” You glare at her.

“I hate him.” She smirks. “Mhm.” You seethe a little, realising—with a stab of annoyance—that yes, that motherfucker is actually leading right now in terms of grades and rankings. It’s not even about the marks. Okay, maybe it’s a little about the marks. But you’ve always been the smart woman in your course. The one who professors hold up as an example. The one whose name has been printed on merit lists and whose email is always flooded with internship offers and research opportunities. You’ve spent years perfecting your academic standing, earning every achievement through sheer effort and discipline. But for some odd reason, none of it ever seems to matter until you’ve compared it with Gojo Satoru. You glare at his name on the leaderboard, one place ahead of yours. A single midterm shouldn’t be enough to infuriate you, and yet—

Your eye twitches. How the hell did you even get here?

Well.

Actually.

You know how. You just try not to think about it because, frankly, it’s one of the most mortifying moments of your entire academic career.

—

It was the very first week of freshman year, and you were, for lack of a better term, an insufferable know-it-all. Not in a bad way—okay, maybe in a slightly bad way. But it wasn’t your fault that you took your education seriously, or that you actually read ahead in your courses, or that you genuinely cared about learning. If anything, you were doing everyone a service by answering questions when no one else raised their hands. So, on that particular day, when your physics professor asked the class a question about vector components, you barely hesitated before speaking up.

“The perpendicular components of a vector are independent of each other,” you’d answered smoothly, sitting up a little straighter as you prepared to elaborate. “That’s why we can analyse them separately using—”

“Ohhh, wow,” someone cut in, voice dripping with mock wonder. “Look at that. We got a genius in the house.” The interruption had been so unexpected—so audacious—that it completely derailed your train of thought.

And when you turned around, irritated beyond belief, there he was. White hair, round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, an undeniably punchable smirk tugging at his lips. You had no idea who he was at the time. Just some tall, obnoxious guy slouched lazily in his seat, all limbs and arrogance, tapping a pen idly against his notebook as he stared at you with barely concealed amusement.

Your brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugged, “you must be so fun at parties.” The class chuckled. Your jaw clenched. “Well, someone has to answer when no one else even tries.”

“Right, because we’re all just too stupid to understand vectors,” he drawled, stretching lazily in his seat.

“I didn’t say that,” you shot back.

“Didn’t have to,” he grinned, tapping his temple. “I could feel the superiority radiating from you.” You exhaled sharply through your nose, forcing yourself to turn back around before you said something that would get you in trouble on the first week of class.

“Okay, okay,” your professor cut in, looking thoroughly unbothered by the exchange. “Let’s keep the debating to actual physics concepts.” That should have been the end of it. But then you heard a low tsk from behind you.

“I bet she memorized the textbook cover to cover before the semester even started,” the white-haired menace mused under his breath to his friend with the long, black haired locks, who seemed disinterested in what his friend had to say.

You whipped around. “I did not—”

“Don’t lie, nerd.”

“Excuse me?!” The class chuckled again. And when you shot a glare toward your professor, expecting some kind of reprimand, he just sighed and muttered, “God, I already know you two are going to be a pain in my ass.” From that moment on, it had been war.

Your first set of midterms was when you realized he wasn’t just talk. You walked into class with a 97 on your physics exam, feeling confident—only to glance over and see Gojo slouched in his seat, grinning as he casually flipped his test paper over to show a 99. He made eye contact with you as he tapped his fingers against the big red number. You nearly broke your pen in half.

And so it began.

Every exam, every assignment, every single class discussion became a battleground. You would argue over formulas, nitpick each other’s solutions, and constantly try to one-up the other. You worked your ass off to close the gap, pouring hours into perfecting your work. And Gojo? Gojo barely looked like he was trying. That was what infuriated you the most. He never seemed stressed, never looked exhausted, never talked about pulling all-nighters. He just showed up, half the time looking like he hadn’t even studied, and still somehow stayed ahead. Until now. Until your 98 finally beat his 95. A single win isn’t enough. But damn, does it feel good.

—

You step into the lecture hall, already bracing yourself for the inevitable. Sure enough, Gojo Satoru is exactly where you expect him to be—sprawled out in his usual seat, legs stretched obnoxiously far like he has no concept of personal space. His sunglasses rest on top of his head, keeping his messy white hair from falling into his annoyingly pretty eyes, and the second he spots you, that familiar smirk tugs at his lips. You’re already exhausted. 

“You’re early,” you mutter, slipping into your seat and pulling out your laptop.

“And you’re predictable,” he shoots back. “What, do you set an alarm just to make sure you get here before me?”

“You wish.”

“Nah, you wish.”

You pause, narrowing your eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

He shrugs, propping his chin on his hand. “Still got under your skin, though, didn’t it?”

You make a sound of irritation in the back of your throat, ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his smug attitude, but your friend plops into the seat next to you, completely unaware of the storm brewing between you and Gojo. You exhale sharply, forcing yourself to shift gears—there’s something more important than your ongoing war with him. Something much, much more important.

“Okay, so, I found this book series last night,” you begin, your fingers twitching excitedly as you pull out your phone. “I was going through one of those book recommendation guides—you know, the niche ones that aren’t full of the same ten bestsellers—and this one just caught my eye.” Your friend hums in interest, booting up their laptop. “What’s it about?”

You practically buzz with excitement. “So it’s kind of like—ugh, how do I explain it—it’s this really well-written like narrative, mystery, suspense, romance, but with, like, existential themes? And this insane world building? And apparently, no one talks about it because the publisher went under before it got the recognition it deserved, so it’s kind of a hidden gem.” As you speak, Gojo, who had been staring blankly at the front of the room, blinks. That sounds familiar.

“You’re really selling it,” your friend teases.

“Right?! And apparently, it’s super hard to find, but I checked, and our library actually has a few copies.” You tuck your phone away, already feeling a rush of excitement. “I’m gonna borrow the first book after class.” Gojo leans back in his seat, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

Yeah, he thinks. I’ve definitely read that.

He doesn’t say anything, though. Just rests his chin in his palm and listens as you keep gushing. Because now that he thinks about it, he really liked that series too. It had been one of those random books he picked up between classes, half expecting to get bored, but then something about it hooked him. The way it wove together philosophy and adventure, the quiet melancholy lingering in the prose—it was the kind of book that stuck with you. But he never finished it. Midterms had hit, and between exams, research papers, and group projects that made him want to rip his hair out, he just… forgot. He never went back to check out the last few books. He had meant to, but by the time he had free time again, his brain had moved on. And now here you are, unknowingly digging it back up.

His fingers drum idly against the desk, and for some reason, he can’t shake the thought: She’s gonna love it.  He steals another glance at you. You’re still talking, eyes bright with excitement, flipping through your phone as you read off little details from the guide you found. The enthusiasm is contagious—he can’t remember the last time he saw you this animated about something that wasn’t academics. Usually, all your energy goes into perfecting equations, arguing with him over points lost on exams, and trying to one-up him in every possible way. This is… different.

And weirdly, he finds himself kind of liking it. Not that he’d ever admit it.

–

So after class finally finishes—thankfully, your professor had been going through a hard topic that he kept droning on and on about, emphasising how likely it was to appear in the final exam—it was enough to sate even Gojo, who, for once, shut up and took notes diligently. You head out at lightning speed, managing a small “see you later” to your friend before disappearing into the hallway. Honestly, ever since the new year of college had started, you’d barely had time to indulge in activities you actually enjoyed.

Sure, you squeezed in a few books here and there when you had the chance, but it was difficult finding ones that hit just the right way—ones with the same kind of engaging plot, the same writing style that kept you hooked. You’d tried, but nothing had stuck with you the way your favorite books used to. It had been frustrating, going through these long periods without anything to read. But this time, you had a feeling it would be different. 

Turning a corner, you step into the vast college library, its sheer size never failing to impress you. The high, arched ceilings, the rows upon rows of bookshelves, and the dozens of students scattered across large wooden tables, heads buried in textbooks—it’s an environment that should feel welcoming, yet all it does is remind you how much work you still have waiting for you. You shake that thought away.

Right now, you’re here for one thing.

You glance at your phone, rereading the author’s name one last time before slipping it into your pocket and heading straight for the fiction section. It’s tucked away in one of the quieter corners of the library, past the heavier academic texts, and while it’s not as large as the science or philosophy sections, it still has an impressive selection. The shelves here are a little dustier, the books a little more worn—proof that they don’t get checked out as often as the physics or chemistry textbooks. You trace your fingers lightly along the spines, scanning for the title. When you finally spot it, you feel a flicker of excitement. There it is.

The first book in the series. The cover is simple yet striking, the title embossed in slightly faded silver lettering. You pull it off the shelf carefully, glancing around to see if the rest of the series is there. To your delight, every single book is lined up neatly in order. Some of them look well-loved, the edges softened from use, some even slightly bent, as if they’d been carried around in bags, read and reread countless times.

You flip the book over and read the blurb. Even though you already know the gist of the story from your research, there’s something about reading the official summary that makes your excitement spike. It’s exactly what you’ve been looking for—an underrated but brilliant story, the kind that feels like a hidden gem. Unable to resist, you take the book with you and settle down at one of the smaller, tucked-away tables. You’re a slow reader, someone who likes to absorb every word, letting the imagery settle in your mind before moving on. But the moment you turn to the first page and begin reading, you’re immediately pulled in.

The writing is crisp and immersive, the kind that hooks you effortlessly. Within moments, you’re completely lost in the world of the book, eyes darting across the pages, flipping to the next before you even realize it. The characters are compelling, the descriptions vivid, and the dialogue sharp. You can already tell this is going to be one of those stories that sticks—the kind that lingers in the back of your mind long after you’ve finished. Just as you reach a particularly interesting part, your phone buzzes.

You blink, momentarily disoriented before glancing at the screen. It’s a reminder you set for yourself. Right. You still need to study. A sigh escapes you. As much as you want to keep reading, you know you can’t afford to waste too much time. With some reluctance, you close the book and stand up, making your way toward the borrowing counter. You check it out quickly, securing it in your bag, already planning when you’ll carve out time to read it between your study sessions. It’s something to look forward to, at least. And if you had known just who had been the last person to check it out before you, maybe you wouldn’t be so eager.

–

The ringer from your Pomodoro timer goes off, its sharp chime cutting through the quiet of your dorm room. With a sigh, you drop your pencil onto your open notebook, rolling your shoulders back as you stretch in your seat, feeling the slight stiffness from hours of hunching over your desk. Lazily glancing at the glowing numbers on your laptop screen, a small grin tugs at the corners of your lips.

Four hours of focused work.

Good. You’ve finally finished studying for the night, trudging through a mountain of tricky concepts and endless equations—just enough to ensure you’ll keep up with the next few lectures before the actual final exam looms over you. The weight of the work you’ve put in settles in a satisfying way, a quiet reassurance that you’re keeping up. Yawning, you grab your phone, thumbing through a few unopened texts, sending half-hearted replies where needed.

Your mind is already half-tuned out, already drifting toward what you actually want to do now that your responsibilities are out of the way for the night. Pushing yourself up from your chair, you shuffle toward your bed, sinking into the softness of your mattress with a pleased sigh. And then, with an eager flicker of excitement, you reach for the borrowed library book resting on your side table, fingers running over the slightly worn edges of the cover.

Finally.

Opening it to the page you had left off, you settle deeper into the blankets, eyes scanning the words slowly, absorbing every detail. The prose is effortless, pulling you into the world woven between the lines. The atmosphere is rich, each description vivid and carefully placed, the characters full of depth. There’s a certain feeling you get when a book is just right—something that clicks into place, the rare kind of story that makes the outside world blur at the edges. You don’t rush through it.

You savor every word, taking in the dialogue, the intricate details of the setting, the careful unraveling of the plot. Then, just as you shift slightly, readjusting your grip, a small slip of paper flutters from between the pages. You blink, momentarily pulled from the trance of the story, watching as it lands lightly on your blanket.

Frowning, you reach for it, fingers brushing against the slightly yellowed, aged texture of the paper. It’s rectangular, not quite as thick as a regular bookmark, with neat printed lines running across it in faded ink.

A borrowing card.

You stare at it for a second, a vague memory surfacing. Back during your university orientation in first year, you remember a librarian offhandedly mentioning that some of the older books in the collection still had checkout cards inside them, relics from a time before everything became digitized. But since you’d only ever borrowed course-related books—ones that were constantly replaced with new editions—you’d never actually come across one. Huh. 

Your fingers trace the faded lines as you sit up slightly, eyes scanning the list of names scrawled across it—

Except… there are no names. Just one. Or rather, just a set of initials, written neatly in blue ink

G.S.

The date beside it is from a while ago, though not too long. But the strange thing is, it’s the only entry on the entire card. You blink, flipping it over, checking the back. Nothing. So… no one else has borrowed this book? You hesitate, gripping the card a little tighter. You’re supposed to write your name down now, right? That’s how these things work. It’s a log of borrowers. But then—why had this person only written their initials?

A weird feeling stirs in your chest. Not unease, exactly—just something you can’t put a name to. It’s probably nothing. Maybe this book just wasn’t that popular. The only reason you found it was because of some obscure online guide, after all. Maybe no one really checked it out over the years, and the one person who did just didn’t feel like writing their full name.

Shaking your head, you push the thought aside, grabbing a pen from your nightstand. Without thinking too much about it, you write your own name neatly beneath G.S., along with today’s date. Then, you tuck the card back into its place and return to your book, letting yourself sink back into the story. A few more pages in, about a quarter of the way through the book, your eyes catch something that makes your brow furrow.

Are those… scribbles?

Your annoyance flares up immediately. Who the hell desecrates a library book? It’s practically sacrilegious. Your fingers tighten slightly around the spine as you bring the book closer to inspect the crime against literature, fully prepared to be enraged—

Wait.

They’re not just random scribbles. They’re annotations.

Your irritation dims slightly, curiosity piqued as you squint to make out the neat, slightly slanted cursive handwriting running along the margins. Some words are underlined, a few sentences circled, and in a crisp blue ink, a note is scrawled beside a particularly tense conversation between two characters:

“I can just tell he’s gonna be the one dead first. He’s overreacting to everything.”

You blink. Then, despite yourself, a small giggle escapes. Because—okay—whoever wrote this isn’t wrong. You literally thought the same thing just a few moments ago. As much as you love a good, well-written novel, you’ve read enough books in your life to recognise the telltale signs of an early death flag. And this character? He’s practically begging to be taken out of the story. Your amusement lingers as you scan the page again, eyes flitting to more scribbles running alongside the printed words.

"God, she sounds so insufferable."

You smirk a little at that, suppressing a chuckle.

"I like this line—the quote kinda speaks to me."

Your gaze follows the arrow pointing toward a particularly well-crafted piece of dialogue. Huh. You actually like that line too.

"I take the previous statement back—no way did he say that entire motivational monologue just for him to throw his morals aside..."

A small, surprised laugh escapes you. You love when characters do this kind of thing—spend pages waxing poetic about their grand principles, only to completely toss them out the window at the first sign of trouble. It’s frustrating, but also wildly entertaining, and you find yourself nodding unconsciously in agreement.

You shift slightly, adjusting your grip on the book as your initial annoyance starts to morph into something else—something you don’t want to admit is enjoyment. Because as much as you usually hate unnecessary markings in books, these annotations don’t feel disruptive.

They feel… engaging. Like you’re reading with someone. It’s a strange feeling—an unexpected, quiet kind of companionship in the margins of the book. You scan ahead, flipping a few pages forward, wondering if this mystery annotator—G.S., you assume—has left their thoughts scattered throughout the entire book.

Oh. They have.  Almost every page has at least something scribbled in the margins. Some annotations are sarcastic, others incredulous. A few are simple observations or predictions about the plot, and some are just random, dramatic reactions that make you snort.

"Oh my GOD, just kiss already!"

You huff out an amused breath, shaking your head.

"He is so painfully oblivious it’s almost impressive."

Honestly, you were thinking the same thing. Before you realize it, you’ve started reading out loud—not the annotations, but the actual book. It’s something you do sometimes when you’re alone, when a scene is particularly well-written or emotional. And now, with G.S.’s thoughts scattered alongside the text, it almost feels like you’re having a conversation with them. Like they’re some ghostly presence in the book, reacting alongside you in real time.

You catch yourself before you say something back to one of the notes.

Which is insane. Because this is just a random person’s handwriting in a library book. And yet—

You exhale through your nose, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the page. You kind of… want to know who they are. Who is G.S.? Because if their annotations are anything to go by, they have the exact same thoughts as you while reading. The same exasperation, the same eye-roll-worthy observations, the same appreciation for the well-crafted lines. And you can’t help but wonder—just who was sitting with this same book in their hands, reading the same words, thinking the same things? It’s an odd, fleeting curiosity, but you push it aside for now, shaking your head as you turn the page.

You settle deeper into your blankets, the book resting comfortably in your hands as you turn the page. The words on the paper blur slightly in the dim light of your bedside lamp, but you don’t mind—you’re too immersed now, drawn into both the story and the unexpected presence of G.S. in the margins. The next chapter begins, and you take a slow breath before diving in, eyes flicking between the printed text and the handwritten notes.

"Oh, I just know this is going to go terribly."

You glance at the line it’s referencing—a scene where the protagonist makes a bold, arguably reckless decision. Yeah, G.S. is probably right. A few more pages pass. The tension in the book rises, and you’re so absorbed that you nearly miss the next annotation.

"There it is. The classic ‘staring at the moon in emotional turmoil’ scene. Authors love this one."

You snort. Okay, but they’re right. You tilt your head, momentarily pausing your reading to stare at the note. It’s a little strange, this dynamic you’ve somehow fallen into with a complete stranger. You feel like you know them, or at least, their reading habits. Their humor. The way they react to the exact same things that pull at your attention. It's unsettling in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. You flip forward, skimming ahead to see if the notes continue—and they do.

"I KNEW IT. I CALLED IT. HE’S A TRAITOR."

You blink, pausing mid-sentence. Your gaze darts back to the text, where a major plot twist has just been revealed. Your mouth parts slightly, rereading the words to make sure you’re seeing them correctly. Damn. You did not see that coming.

You exhale, a small smirk tugging at your lips. Fine. Point to you, G.S. You keep reading, now almost waiting for the next annotation, like it’s a second voice in your head providing commentary as you go. And when the protagonist makes another questionable decision—

"Why are men in fiction like this?"

—you laugh, shaking your head. It continues like that for pages. Every now and then, G.S. 's notes make you chuckle, or nod in agreement, or roll your eyes because come on, that was an obvious metaphor. And as much as you want to be annoyed by the interruptions, you find yourself… enjoying it. Maybe even liking it. At some point, you shift your position, getting more comfortable against your pillows, completely absorbed. The words feel alive, and not just the printed ones, but the ones scribbled in blue ink alongside them. It’s a conversation you never expected to have—one separated by time, by anonymity, by the unlikelihood of ever knowing who G.S. is. Your fingers brush over the ink of the annotations, slightly faded but still legible. Thinking back to the date listed on the library card from quite a while ago, you wonder if G.S. has even thought about this book since then. Or if they’ve forgotten about it entirely. You stare at the letters for a moment longer before shaking your head, pushing away the odd sensation curling at the back of your mind.

It’s just a book. Just some random person’s annotations. It doesn’t mean anything.

A reminder notification pops up on your phone—one you’d set earlier to keep your study schedule in check. You sigh. Right. You should get some sleep soon. Reluctantly, you close the book, running your fingers over the cover one last time before placing it on your nightstand. You’ll finish it later—between classes, between assignments, between all the little gaps in your schedule where you can steal a moment to read. And maybe, you’ll keep an eye out. Because now, you kind of want to know if G.S. ever came back for this book.

–

By the time your next Physics lecture rolls around, you’ve already finished the first book in the series. It had consumed your nights, pulling you in with its immersive world-building and gripping storyline—but, if you were being honest, the experience had been made infinitely more enjoyable because of the annotations left behind in the margins. The presence of another reader, someone who had walked the same narrative path as you and left breadcrumbs of their thoughts along the way, had made the book feel less like a solitary escape and more like a shared secret. So, naturally, when you stride into class that morning, you’re already prepared to discuss it at length with your friend.

What you aren’t prepared for is Gojo Satoru.

Not that you ever are, really. He has a habit of making his presence known, like some self-appointed force of nature existing solely to get under your skin. And today is no different—he walks past you with an easy, sauntering gait, the kind that’s deliberately slow enough to be obnoxious. There’s a telltale smirk tugging at his lips, the glint of mischief in his strikingly bright eyes as he leans in, as if he’s about to say something insufferable just to throw off your morning. You pretend not to see him.

Your willful ignorance must be obvious because you hear him scoff under his breath as he passes by, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of looking.

Instead, you beeline toward the row where your friend is already seated, setting your bag down with an eager bounce in your step.

“Dude,” you start, flipping open your laptop with a flourish, “remember that book I told you about a few weeks back?” Your friend raises a brow. “The one from that super niche book guide you were raving about?”

“The very same one,” you confirm, barely able to contain your excitement. “I finally finished it, and oh my god, it was so good. The plot? Phenomenal. The pacing? Perfect. But you know what actually made it even better?” 

You don’t notice the way Gojo hesitates just as he’s about to settle into the seat behind you. He freezes, fingers hovering above the keyboard of his laptop as his ears zero in on your conversation.

“You found another book to obsess over?” Your friend teases, but you shake your head fervently.

“No, no, listen,” you insist, your voice lowering slightly as you lean in, “someone left annotations in it.” 

Satoru’s fingers twitch.

“You mean like, study notes?”

“No! Like, actual thoughts—comments, reactions, opinions. And not just boring analytical stuff, either. They were funny. Snarky. They made fun of the characters at the exact moments I wanted to. It was like reading the book with someone, you know?”

A very distinct, yet invisible, sense of dread creeps into Gojo’s chest.

Oh. Oh, shit. The annotations. He had completely forgotten about those. He had scrawled them in the margins ages ago—mostly on a whim, partly out of boredom, and entirely because he physically could not read a book in silence. If there was one thing Gojo Satoru was incapable of, it was shutting the fuck up, even when he was the only audience for his own commentary. So, naturally, when he had found himself enjoying the book way more than expected, he had started treating it like a private conversation with himself, writing down whatever thoughts came to mind.

He never expected anyone to see them. And now, sitting barely a foot away, he’s listening to you—of all people—excitedly gush about his stupid little scribbles, completely oblivious to the fact that the person you were praising, the one whose humor you found entertaining and whose insights you had agreed with, was him. He schools his expression, keeping his head tilted just enough to appear disinterested. But his ears are wide open.

“Whoever wrote those notes,” you continue, flipping your pen between your fingers, “had some serious opinions. And honestly? I kind of love them. Like, I think we have the same brain.”

Satoru presses his lips together, biting back a grin.

You? Agreeing with him? That was new. 

Your friend hums. “So you’re basically having a book club with some anonymous person who read it before you?” You chuckle. “I mean… kinda? It’s weird, but it’s nice in a way. Like, usually when I read, it’s just me and the book. But with the annotations, it’s like there’s this extra layer of interaction. I get to see how someone else processed the story, how they reacted to the same moments I did.”

Satoru knows he should stop listening. He should. But he doesn’t.

Because something about this whole situation—the fact that you, of all people, had unknowingly connected with him through a book—has him equal parts amused and intrigued. You, who always huffed when he teased you. You, who rolled your eyes at his antics, who made a point to ignore him even though he knew you were hyper-aware of his presence.

You had spent nights poring over words he had written in passing. And you had liked them. God, if you knew, you’d probably strangle him on the spot.

“I actually wanna see if this person has read the rest of the series,” you muse, mostly to yourself. “Like, maybe they annotated other books too.” 

Satoru exhales through his nose, staring at his laptop screen but not actually registering anything on it. Well. This was going to be interesting.

–

You make your way to the library once again, the first book of the series clutched in your hands, ready to be returned. It feels weird, parting with it. As if you’re saying goodbye to something that had, for the past week, been a quiet companion during your late-night reading sessions. But not to worry, there’s still like five more books in the series. Your steps slow slightly as you approach the return counter, fingers absently reaching into your bag’s open pocket for a pen. Without much thought, you flip open the book and scrawl the date of return onto the inside of the back cover, where the borrowing card is located. Your thumb absentmindedly drags across the faded blue ink of the initials scrawled in the row above where you’ve signed your name. 

G.S.

Whoever they were, they had made your reading experience infinitely better with their wry, sarcastic observations and strangely thoughtful insights. It was like reading alongside a particularly sharp-witted friend—one who, frustratingly, was just out of reach. You’re lost in thought, mulling over the mystery of G.S., when you abruptly walk straight into something firm and unmoving. And warm.

Something that smells like sandalwood and fresh linen and something inexplicably, irritatingly familiar.

You barely have time to stagger back before a voice—deep, lazy, and dripping with its usual brand of smugness—drawls, “My, my, pretending to walk around with your nose in a book so people think you’re more studious than you actually are?”

Your stomach sinks. You do not have the patience for this right now.

“Fuck off, Satoru,” you mutter, not even looking at him as you try to sidestep. Predictably, he moves right in front of you again, blocking your path with that insufferable ease of his. Hands in the pockets of his impeccably tailored slacks, sleeves of a stupidly expensive cashmere sweater pushed up to reveal the sharp line of his wrists and veiny forearms, and his ever-present glasses glinting under the dim library lights—he looks as if he owns the place.

His head tilts, white hair falling slightly over his frames as he glances down at the book in your hands. That smile—all teeth and smugness—spreads across his face like he’s caught you in something scandalous.

“Oh? Reading a book that isn’t course-related? Scandalous. What happened, got bored of being a try-hard? Or are you just begging to score lower than me on the final?” He exhales dramatically, shaking his head. “Tsk, tsk. Not that I’d expect you to actually be on my level, but it’s cute that you try—”

You stop listening after that. Normally, you’d throw something equally sharp-tongued back at him, tell him to go get hit by a bus or something equally creative, but you’re too drained to bother. The exhaustion from back-to-back lectures, plus the fact that you haven’t eaten anything substantial today, has dulled the sharp edges of your patience. A dull ache pounds at the base of your skull, and every word out of his mouth makes it throb even harder. Your expression must give away more than you intend because, for a split second, Gojo falters.

It’s quick—barely there. But you see it.

A flicker of something almost resembling concern flashes behind his glasses, like he’s actually noticed how drained you look. The moment is gone before you can process it. His usual smug expression slides right back into place, and you don’t have the energy to care.

“I need to return this,” you say flatly. “Get out of my way.”

Instead of stepping aside like a normal person, he falls into step beside you, hands still lazily stuffed in his pockets. “Oh? So now you acknowledge my presence,” he muses, voice light. “What, you didn’t miss me in class today? I even waited for you to roll your eyes at me like you do every morning. Felt almost lonely without it.”

“I genuinely do not care,” you reply without looking at him. He presses a hand to his chest as if wounded. “Ouch. Someone’s moody today. Low blood sugar? On your period? Brain finally given up trying to keep up with mine?” 

You don’t dignify that with a response, instead sliding the book into the return pile with a little more force than necessary. Gojo watches, his gaze flickering between you and the book.

“What book were you returning, anyway?” The question is so casual, so offhanded, that you almost don’t clock it as strange. Almost. You narrow your eyes at him. “Didn’t take you for someone interested in my life.”

His lips curl into something unbearably smug. “Oh, I’m not.” He rocks back on his heels, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “I just like knowing what my rival is up to outside of class. You know, studying your weaknesses. Gathering intel. The usual.” 

You stare at him. “You are so full of shit.”

“I really am,” he agrees cheerfully. You exhale through your nose, patience wearing thinner by the second. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere being a general public nuisance?”

“This is me being a general public nuisance.” He grins. “And you’re the lucky victim of the day.”

“God, I hate you.”

“Aww, that’s cute. But you should be honest with yourself,” he says, following you as you make your way toward the exit. “I think you’d miss me if I suddenly disappeared.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You so would.”

“I would thrive in your absence.”

Gojo makes an exaggerated show of wiping away an imaginary tear. “How cruel. And here I was, thinking we had something special.”

You push open the library doors, stepping out into the crisp afternoon air. Finally, freedom. But, of course, Gojo keeps following you.

“…Why are you still here?” you ask, tiredly. He hums. “Dunno. Walking this way.”

“You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “A mystery. How exciting.” You consider throwing your bag at him. You settle for walking faster. You quicken your pace, hoping Gojo will get bored and wander off. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He easily keeps up with you, long legs making it effortless, his stupid grin never fading.

“Walking faster won’t shake me, you know,” he muses, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you enjoy my company.” You don’t bother responding, gripping the strap of your bag tighter and staring straight ahead. He walks backward in front of you, head tilted, watching you with an almost lazy amusement. “So, where are you going? Café? Student lounge? Maybe a secret nerd meeting where you all discuss the best highlighters for maximum efficiency?”

You give him a deadpan look. “Yes, Satoru. That’s exactly what I’m doing. We’re all going to sit in a circle and ritually sharpen our pencils while whispering incantations about final exams.” He gasps dramatically. “I knew it. I bet you have a shrine dedicated to good grades too. And, like, a little altar where you sacrifice people who get higher scores than you—”

“I don’t need to sacrifice anyone,” you cut in, dryly. “Because I get the highest scores.” His grin widens. “Not all of them.”

You bristle, and he knows it. You both know that you and Gojo have been locked in a constant academic battle since the semester started. It’s maddening how often you end up in the top two spots. Even more maddening that he acts like he doesn’t even try. You exhale slowly, trying to focus on literally anything else. “I’m going to get food. Why don’t you go fuck off somewhere, like, I don’t know, ruin someone else’s day?” 

“You wound me with such crass language,” he says, clutching his chest like you physically struck him. “I’m just being a good friend.”

“You’re not my friend.”

“Wow.” He sighs dramatically, as if genuinely offended. “All this time we’ve spent together, and you still call us enemies? I’d like to think of us more as… frenemies.”

“I would like to think of us as strangers.”

“And yet,” he says, smirking, “you still talk to me.”

You roll your eyes. “Only because you won’t shut up.” 

Gojo shrugs. “Details.” 

By now, you’ve reached the campus café. The smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries drifts through the air, making your stomach growl embarrassingly loud. You knew skipping lunch was a bad idea. Gojo hears it, of course.

“Oh?” His eyebrows lift, delighted. “Was that your stomach? Should I be worried? Are you dying of starvation? Is this how our rivalry ends?” You ignore him and step inside. The café is buzzing with students, some hunched over laptops, others chatting over coffee. You head straight for the counter, scanning the menu, debating if you should just get something quick and easy or actually sit down for a meal. Gojo, uninvited, leans casually against the counter beside you.

“Getting a drink too?” he asks, peering over your shoulder.

“Why do you care?”

“Maybe I wanna know what fuels my biggest competition,” he says, tone exaggeratedly thoughtful. “What’s the secret? Triple shot espresso? Pure willpower? The tears of your academic rivals?” You give him a look. “You’re projecting. You probably run on the suffering of others.”

“Obviously,” he says easily. “But I like to mix in a little sugar sometimes. Keeps me balanced and shit.” You’re about to tell him to go bother someone else when the barista glances up. “Next?” You quickly place your order. Just as you’re about to pull out your wallet, Gojo’s voice rings out:

“I’ve got it.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What.”

“I’m paying.” You stare at him, genuinely baffled. “Why?”

He grins. “Because I’m so generous, obviously.” You narrow your eyes. “No, really. What’s the catch?”

He puts a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “You think I’d trick you? I’m hurt.”

“Yes.”

Gojo just laughs and hands his card to the barista before you can argue further. You glare at him. “This better not be some elaborate scheme to hold this over my head later.”

“Oh, it definitely is,” he says cheerfully. “I plan to bring it up all the time.”

“Of course you do.” Your drink– tea to be specific– is ready a moment later. Begrudgingly, you take it, mumbling, “Thanks.” Gojo gasps, eyes wide. “Did you just thank me?” You exhale. “Never mind. I take it back.”

“No, no, it’s too late, you already said it.” He grins. “You like me.”

“I hate you.”

“You adore me.”

“I tolerate you at best.” Gojo sips his drink, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “That’s basically the same thing.” You groan and turn to leave.

Thankfully he doesn’t make the move to follow you this time.

–

Your… somewhat friendly interaction with Sa—No, Gojo—was forgotten by the time the next week rolled around. Not deliberately, of course. But between your physics assignments, math problem sets, and an unrelenting pile of lecture notes to review, your brain had simply discarded the memory. College had a way of pushing everything that wasn’t directly necessary for survival to the furthest corners of your mind. Currently, you were in the library, hunched over a thick textbook, your fingers curled into your hair as you skimmed the same paragraph for what felt like the tenth time. Nothing was sticking.

You groaned, tilting your head back against the chair and letting your gaze drift to the high ceilings of the study space. It was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages and the rhythmic clicking of laptop keys. Your physics notes sat in front of you, covered in a desperate sprawl of formulas and diagrams, but the more you stared, the more meaningless the symbols became. You needed a break. Your eyes flickered toward the fiction section.

It wouldn’t hurt to get another book.

A moment later, you were standing in front of the shelves, fingers tracing the spines as you searched for the second book in the series. It didn’t take long to find—it was positioned neatly with the rest of the series, the cover slightly fading due to how long it had probably been there. As you turned to leave, your thumb brushed against the inside cover, where the borrowing card was located.

And there, scrawled in the same faded blue ink as before, were the initials:

G.S.

You paused. Your mystery commentator had been here before you. Again. You traced the letters absentmindedly, your mind flickering back to the first book. Their annotations had been witty, sometimes mocking, but always sharp. You had enjoyed them—more than you expected.

You flipped to the borrowing card. G.S. had checked out this book multiple times. At least three dates next to their initials. A strange feeling settled in your chest. Who were they? You shook your head, pushing the thought aside as you made your way to the borrowing counter. It doesn’t matter. It’s just some random person. Still, as you returned to your study space, setting the book beside your untouched notes, your fingers itched to open it.

You tried—really tried—to focus on physics. For maybe ten minutes. Then, with a sigh, you slid your textbook aside and cracked open the novel. This one picked up right where the last had left off—the protagonist, an ambitious scholar, now forced into an uneasy alliance with a rogue historian, both of them hunting for a long-lost manuscript said to contain the secrets of the universe. Their journey took them through ancient libraries, shadowy alleyways, and grand halls of academia filled with intrigue and suspense that you thoroughly enjoyed. 

It wasn’t long before you noticed the annotations.

"What an idiot. Why would you trust someone who literally betrayed you three chapters ago?" You huffed a quiet laugh. It was scrawled in the margins of a tense conversation between the protagonist and the historian, who had indeed been suspiciously untrustworthy.

Another note, a few pages later: "This argument is painfully dumb. If they just communicated, we wouldn’t need three more chapters of tension." You found yourself smiling. Whoever this was, they were blunt, maybe a bit cynical, but entertaining.

Then, another annotation caught your attention—this one different. It was scribbled beside a passage where the protagonist was deciphering an ancient mathematical equation, trying to understand the patterns behind the manuscript’s code. The handwriting was just as casual, but the content—

"This is basically just Fourier analysis but dressed up in fancy old-world academia. If the author actually wanted to be accurate, they’d at least mention waveforms. But nooo, we get poetic nonsense instead."

You blinked. That was… oddly specific. And not the kind of thing your average literature enthusiast would comment on. For a fleeting second, you wondered—

Does G.S. study physics?

The thought was strange, lingering in the back of your mind even as you continued reading. Minutes turned into hours. Slowly, students trickled out of the library. The rustling of papers faded, the soft murmur of whispered conversations disappearing into the silence of the near-empty study space. You didn’t notice.

Not until the overhead lights dimmed slightly, signaling that the library was closing soon. With a sigh, you shut the book, stretching your stiff limbs. Physics could wait a little longer.

–

A few days later, you found yourself in yet another grueling lecture. The classroom was buzzing with low chatter as students filtered in, some sleep-deprived, some over-caffeinated, and most looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. You were somewhere in the middle—tired but functional, flipping through your notes with half-hearted interest as you tried to prepare yourself for another two-hour session of mathematical physics. You adjusted your laptop screen, took a sip of your tea, and just as you settled in, you felt a presence.

A familiar, irritating presence. 

“Morning, rival,” Gojo Satoru said cheerfully, dropping into the seat next to you with all the grace of an avalanche. You didn’t even look up. “Go away.”

He tsked. “Is that any way to greet your favorite classmate?”

“You’re not my favorite classmate.” He grinned, propping his chin on one hand.

“Don’t lie. You’d miss me if I wasn’t here to make class interesting.”

You ignored him, resolutely staring at your notes. The professor arrived a moment later, quickly settling into the day’s topic—wave equations and their applications. The discussion meandered through standard examples, Fourier transforms, and the different methods used to break down complex waveforms.

You barely registered the name of the theory—just a fleeting recognition of something familiar—before you were back to jotting down notes. At first, you were focused, diligently taking notes and absorbing the information. For the first thirty minutes, you managed to avoid paying him any attention. You scribbled down notes, underlined important formulas, and even managed to listen without feeling the urge to slam your head into the desk.

But then—of course—Gojo had to open his mouth.

“So, hypothetically,” he mused, voice carrying just enough to be heard by the surrounding students, “if we were to apply this to a broader model, say… nonlinear oscillations, wouldn’t that mean—”

You immediately frowned. He was already trying to sound smarter than he was.

“That’s not how that works,” you cut in before the professor could even acknowledge him. Gojo turned to you, looking far too entertained. “Yeah, it is.”

“No, it isn’t.” You shifted in your seat, twisting to face him fully. “You can’t just apply Fourier analysis wherever you want and expect the results to be useful. Nonlinear oscillations don’t break down the same way because of the introduction of chaotic behavior—”

“Oh, come on,” Gojo scoffed, waving a hand. “It’s not that deep. Sure, chaotic elements make things messier, but that doesn’t mean the framework is useless.”

You let out a sharp breath. “It means the entire assumption of the analysis changes. You can’t approximate a nonlinear system with linear components and expect the results to hold up—”

“You can if you use a perturbative approach,” he countered smoothly.

You almost growled. “A perturbative approach only works when the nonlinear term is small relative to the linear system. If the nonlinearities dominate, your entire model collapses.”

“Not always,” Gojo shot back, shifting in his seat with that insufferable smirk. “It depends on how well you construct the higher-order terms—”

You threw your hands up. “At that point, you might as well scrap Fourier analysis entirely and just use a different decomposition method!” A few students had stopped taking notes. Some were watching out of curiosity; others, out of sheer amusement.

Gojo, completely unbothered, shrugged. “But that wasn’t the question, was it? The point is that Fourier methods can still be useful, even if the system isn’t perfectly linear—”

You gritted your teeth. “Useful doesn’t mean accurate, dumbass.” Gojo gasped dramatically. “Did you just call me a dumbass? Right here? In front of our professor?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you stopped saying objectively incorrect things—”

“Oh, please,” he drawled, leaning back in his seat. “You’re just mad because I’m right.”

Your jaw clenched. “You’re not right.”

“I am right.”

“No, you’re—”

A loud cough. You both froze. Slowly, you turned toward the front of the room, where the professor was staring at you both, unamused.

"Would you two care to bring your literary debate outside of my physics class?" You swallowed. Gojo scratched the back of his neck, looking entirely unbothered.

"...No, sir."

"Good," the professor said flatly. "Then kindly stop interrupting the lesson." You resisted the urge to sink into your chair. Gojo, of course, had the audacity to look amused. As the lecture resumed, you shot him a glare.

"This is your fault." 

He winked. You swore you were going to strangle him one day. As soon as class ended, you were out of your seat, shoving your laptop into your bag with slightly more force than necessary. Behind you, Gojo was taking his sweet time, stretching like he hadn’t just spent the past two hours actively making your life worse. “Man,” he sighed dramatically. “That was a great discussion, don’t you think? Nothing like a little intellectual sparring to keep the brain sharp—”

You spun around so fast he almost bumped into you. “Discussion?” you repeated incredulously. “That wasn’t a discussion, that was you talking out of your ass like usual.”

Gojo placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “Wow. You wound me. You know, I feel like I say that phrase a lot. Would you prefer it if I said thee painfully wrench mine own heart with such careless words–”

You rolled your eyes and stormed out of the lecture hall, weaving through the crowd of students. Of course he followed, long strides easily keeping pace with yours. “I’m just saying,” he continued, completely ignoring your clear irritation, “it’s kind of funny how you always shoot me down but never actually prove me wrong—”

Your jaw clenched. “I do prove you wrong. Every time.” 

He smirked. “Do you, though?”

“Yes!” You turned on your heel, walking backward so you could glare at him properly. “Just because you talk like you know everything doesn’t mean you actually do—”

Gojo’s smirk widened. “So you do think I sound smart.” Your eye twitched.

“That’s not what I said.”

“Sounds like that’s what you said.”

“Go kill yourself.”

“Only if you join me, sweets.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Why, you don’t like being called sweets?–”

You groaned, turning back around and quickening your pace. You weren’t going to stand here and let him twist your words into whatever self-indulgent nonsense was brewing in his head. Gojo, naturally, kept up with ease. “You know, it’s weird how you always get so mad at me. Maybe you should work on that anger problem of yours.”

“Oh, I have an anger problem?” You spun around again, narrowing your eyes. “You’re literally the most aggravating person I’ve ever met.”

“Really?” He tilted his head in mock thought. “I dunno, you seem to get pretty riled up over nothing—”

“You are nothing.”

Gojo laughed, the sound bright and infuriatingly genuine. “Damn, that was actually kinda good. You been practicing comebacks in the mirror?”

“Leave me alone, for the love of god, before I strangle you, bastard–”

“Oooh, kinky–.”

Before you could actually commit violence, someone stepped between you. “Alright, enough,” a smooth, tired voice interrupted. You looked up to see Suguru Geto, Gojo’s ever-patient best friend, standing between you with the exasperation of a man who had dealt with this before.

“Satoru,” he said, dragging a hand down his face, “leave her alone.” 

Gojo pouted. “But we were bonding.”

“We were not bonding,” you snapped. Suguru gave you a knowing look. “And you,” he sighed, “stop encouraging him.”

You scoffed. “Encouraging him? I—”

A hand suddenly clamped down on your shoulder. You glanced up to see your own friend standing beside you, looking just as exasperated as Suguru. “Come on,” she muttered, tugging you away. “We’re going to lunch before you actually try to kill him.” You didn’t resist, only because the temptation was strong. But as you turned to leave, you caught a glimpse of Gojo flashing that stupid, insufferable grin at you.

You stuck your tongue out at him. Gojo only winked again in response. Why did he keep winking at you? It made you wanna puke. You definitely needed lunch. Maybe something very, very spicy.

–

You're sitting in your dorm again, cross-legged on your bed, laptop open in front of you, but your mind is elsewhere. The textbooks and notes are pushed to the side of your desk, proof that at some point you had every intention of being productive tonight. A third empty cup of tea is perched precariously on your nightstand, and the finished second and third books of the series stacked besides your laptop. 

It had been a slow burn, working your way through them between lectures and study sessions, but now, the empty feeling of finishing a book you enjoyed is settling in. Worse yet, it's late at night, which means you can't borrow the fourth book until tomorrow. The thought alone makes you sigh as you shut your laptop and flop back against the pillows.

You flipped open the third book, fingers brushing over the slightly worn borrowing card tucked inside. The neat, slanted initials ‘G.S.’ were there again, written in blue ink. And just like before, the pages had been marked with the same sharp, and sometimes frustratingly perceptive annotations that had made you laugh, scoff, and even—on some particularly well-argued points—begrudgingly nod along. Your mind drifts, replaying some of your favorite annotations from the books.

There was the one where G.S. had written, "Oh, he's totally gonna betray them," followed by a later note that read, "I CALLED IT. WHERE’S MY PRIZE?" That one had made you laugh out loud in the middle of the library, earning a few disapproving stares. Another one of your other favorites from the third book had been an annotation scrawled in the margins of a pivotal scene:

“The irony of this moment is almost painful. She sees herself as the heroine, but the real tragedy is that she’s just another character in someone else’s story.”

You had reread that line about five times before closing the book and staring at the ceiling, feeling somewhat existential. Another annotation had been pure sarcasm:

“Yes, because when faced with adversity, the best solution is always to run directly into danger. Genius.” That one had also made you laugh out loud in one of the study halls located in some part of your university, earning a weird look from the girl across the hall. But the annotation that had really stuck with you—really made you pause—was in the third book, written in response to a section that delved into the intricacies of time and choice:

“If you think about it, this entire dilemma can be broken down into a fundamental question of physics. If time is just another dimension, then isn’t every choice we make just another coordinate on an already-existing map? So is it really ‘free will’ if we’re just tracing a path that’s already there?”

That one had thrown you for a loop. It was the kind of thought that lingered, weaving its way into quiet moments when you least expected it. And, you hated to admit, it made you think—whoever this person was, they were kind of brilliant.You sighed, snapping the book shut. You needed to get the fourth one. Now. But a quick glance at your phone reminded you that it was almost midnight, and the library had closed hours ago. You groaned, letting your head submerge deeper into the pillows. You grabbed your phone, scrolling mindlessly, until your eyes flicked to the messages her friend had sent earlier—recommendations for movies she’d been meaning to watch. You scrolled absentmindedly, not really expecting to find anything interesting, until your thumb hovered over one title:

Whisper of the Heart.

Something about the name tugged at your memory. Wasn’t this the one with the girl who loved books and a mysterious boy who shared them? On a whim, you pressed play. The soft hum of the opening scene filled the quiet of her dorm, and soon, you were drawn in. The gentle storytelling, the warmth of the animation, the way the main character, Shizuku, slowly became obsessed with the name written in all the books she borrowed—

Oh. Oh, shit.

Your face grew hot as you sat up straighter, eyes darting to the books stacked beside you. You weren't doing that. Right?

…Were you? Because if you really thought about it—if you really thought about it—weren’t you kind of doing the same thing? You buried your face in your hands. This is so embarrassing. And yet, as you peeked between her fingers at the screen, you couldn’t help but draw the comparison between Seiji Amasawa and your mysterious, faceless G.S. Seiji had been intriguing, a presence felt long before he actually appeared. Just a name scribbled in books, a person she hadn’t met yet but somehow felt connected to. And wasn’t that exactly what G.S. was?

You groaned, flopping back onto your bed, kicking your feet against the mattress. “I need to stop,” you mumbled into your pillow, but your shoulders shook with barely contained laughter. It was stupid. This whole thing was stupid. You didn’t even know this person. For all you knew, G.S. could be some forty-year-old professor or a girl who just happened to find the same series as you on the niche book guide you were on. And yet, there was this tiny, ridiculous, completely unserious part of you that wanted to believe—

What if it was some guy? A guy with sharp wit, someone who thought deeply about things most people glossed over, someone who liked this series enough to leave behind thoughts for others to find. A guy who— No. Nope. Nope. You were not about to mentally script herself into some shoujo romance anime over marginalia.

But the damage was done. Because now, your brain had latched onto the idea, spinning daydreams faster than you could stop them. Some dramatic, cinematic first meeting. Some passing moment where you’d reach for a book, and a hand—slender fingers, ink-stained maybe—would brush against yours, and you’d look up and—

You shot up again, shaking your head violently. God, this is pathetic. But even as you scolded herself, you couldn’t wipe the stupid little smile off your face. You were allowed to have a little fun, right? Just a tiny bit of harmless romanticising? You collapsed back into the pillows, eyes drifting back to the ceiling as the movie played on. And as Shizuku’s voice echoed through the room, musing about stories, destiny, and the people we stumble upon by chance, you thought—just for a second—Maybe, maybe, you kind of liked this. The idea of it all. The way life sometimes felt like a story waiting to unfold. Maybe it’s silly, maybe it’s unrealistic—but right now, in the quiet of your dorm, with the soft glow of your laptop screen and the remnants of Whisper of the Heart playing in the background, you don’t really care.

–

Satoru Gojo had always been considered a prodigy. A genius. Someone born with an innate brilliance that set him apart from others. It had been that way since he was a child—where other kids had to struggle and study, he breezed through school without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t just academics, either. He was quick-witted, sharp, and effortlessly charming in a way that made people gravitate toward him. But when you grow up with everyone expecting greatness from you, it becomes suffocating. 

So he learned to play the fool.

It started as a mask—being overly cheery, always teasing, never taking things too seriously. It was easier that way. No one could see the weight of expectations if he always had a grin on his face. And at some point, the mask became second nature. Satoru Gojo, the carefree, insufferable genius. The only person he could ever drop it around was Suguru. His best friend, the one person who could keep up with him, who understood what it meant to carry something too heavy to put into words. Then, freshman year of university, he saw you.

He had noticed you before—how could he not? You were diligent, meticulous in a way that fascinated him. You always sat at the front of the class, always had color-coded notes, always took everything so seriously. And maybe that was what caught his attention first. You were everything he wasn’t. Where he coasted through life, you worked hard for it. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t quite know how to communicate with someone. So he did what he always did. He teased.

“The perpendicular components of a vector are independent of each other,” you’d answered smoothly, sitting up a little straighter as you prepared to elaborate. “That’s why we can analyse them separately using—”

“Ohhh, wow,” he cut in, voice dripping with mock wonder. “Look at that. We got a genius in the house.” He had meant it playfully. A joke. But the way your expression hardened, the way your eyes flickered with irritation, made something click in his brain. You didn’t like him. And yet, he couldn’t stop teasing you. Even when he knew it annoyed you, even when he knew you hated him. Maybe it was because you challenged him. Maybe it was because, for once, someone didn’t look at him like he was untouchable. Or maybe it was because he liked you.

Not just because you were pretty—though you were, infuriatingly so—but because you were determined. Because you cared about things deeply. Because you fascinated him in a way nothing else did. He found himself watching you more often than he cared to admit. The way you bit your lip when you were concentrating, the way your eyes lit up when you finally understood something, the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear when you were nervous when results came out. It was all so... endearing.

And maybe that’s why he finds himself watching you sometimes—when you’re scribbling furiously in your notebook, when you’re biting the end of your pen in deep thought, when you’re rolling your eyes at something he says but still, still responding. He watches, because for the first time, someone makes him want to understand more than just equations and theories. And if the only way to keep your attention was by being your rival, then so be it.

–

The next morning, you had a practical class, a hands-on session designed to reinforce the theory you’d been learning. Since it was held in a laboratory, students were sorted into small groups to share lab tables. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it—you weren’t grouped with Satoru, but by some cruel twist of fate, his group was at the same table as yours. The setup was simple: four students per group, two groups per table.

A long, clean expanse of black lab benches stretched across the room, each one covered with neatly arranged equipment: a set of metal ramps, photogates, a timer, and a set of small carts. Today’s experiment was a classic: measuring acceleration using a motion sensor. Each group was supposed to release a cart down a ramp and use the photogates to measure velocity changes over time. Simple, right? Satoru, of course, had already started causing trouble before the experiment even began.

“You know, it’s kinda unfair that I wasn’t put in your group,” he mused, leaning against the lab bench with a smirk. “Would’ve been fun watching you pretend to know more than me.” You didn’t even look up as you adjusted the height of the ramp, focusing on making sure it was aligned properly. “Oh please, Gojo, you would’ve just copied all my calculations and then taken credit for my hard work.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, feigning offense. “I’d let you take, like, fifty percent of the credit.” Your lab partner snorted beside you, shaking their head as they double-checked the photogate placement. Satoru, undeterred, watched as you bent over to place the cart at the starting position. His group was still setting up, which meant he had time to bother you before he actually had to do any work.

“I bet my group’s results will be more accurate than yours,” he declared. You rolled your eyes, finally sparing him a glance. “You do know accuracy depends on precision and minimising errors, right? Which means—” you motioned to his group, where one of them was currently struggling with the timer, “—your chances of that happening are slim to none.” 

Before he could retort, your professor called for everyone’s attention, signalling the start of the experiment. Both of you fell into your respective tasks, measuring, calculating, and recording values with practiced ease. You got so caught up in fine-tuning your results that Satoru didn’t get the chance to throw more taunts your way. That was until, while waiting for your next trial to begin, you turned to your friend beside you, excitement bubbling over.

“Oh my god, I finally watched Whisper of the Heart last night,” you gushed, voice dropping into that high-pitched, dreamy tone reserved for things you were completely obsessed with. Your friend gasped, clutching your arm. “Stop. You did not.”

“I did.”

“DID YOU CRY?”

“OBVIOUSLY.” 

Satoru, who had been focused on adjusting his group’s ramp, stilled slightly. He knew that movie. More than that, he could predict exactly why you were talking about it. Casually, he glanced over, pretending to check his photogate readings while shamelessly eavesdropping. Your friend squeezed your arm excitedly. “I told you it was perfect. The vibes, the music, the slow-burn romance. Tell me you loved Seiji.”

“Oh, I loved Seiji,” you sighed, eyes sparkling. “Like, the way he was so ambitious but still so soft? And the way he believed in her? And the fact that he left little signs for her without even realizing how much they’d mean?” You could feel yourself getting lost in the emotions of it, and your friend was right there with you, nodding along enthusiastically. “It was so romantic,” she said dreamily. “The idea of someone quietly believing in you and pushing you forward. It’s just—”

“SO good,” you finished for her, and the two of you squealed quietly before catching yourselves and trying to focus again. Then, almost absentmindedly, you added, “Honestly, I feel like I’m in Whisper of the Heart right now.” Your friend perked up. “How so?”

You nudged her lightly. “Because of G.S.”

Satoru, who had been handling the cart for his next trial, fumbled slightly. Your friend’s eyes widened knowingly. “No way. You mean your G.S.?” 

You groaned. “Don’t call him that. But yeah. The whole leaving-annotations-in-the-books thing? And how I keep borrowing them? It’s totally giving Seiji and Shizuku. Like yeah I kinda sound corny right now–”

“Not really honestly, I get it–”

“Exactly! See? I knew I wasn’t crazy. Imagine G.S is like Seiji– scratch that, imagine he’s better, like some sweet, studious, hot book nerd–”

Satoru swallowed, suddenly feeling warm despite the sterile chill of the lab. You thought he was like Seiji? More than that, you thought G.S could perhaps even be better than Seiji? That was—that was something.

“And next week,” you continued, stretching your arms over your head, “after I finish studying, I’m going to borrow the next book.”

Satoru barely heard the rest of the conversation after that. His brain had latched onto one horrifying realisation—

The last four books weren’t annotated. Oh, shit. He hadn’t really expected you to grow this attached to his stupid thoughts scribbled on the edges of the frayed pages, hadn’t expected you to burn through the series so fast. He completely forgot that he didn’t bother annotating the last few books because he had gotten so busy with work. But you had just sat there, eyes sparkling, gushing about his notes like they were some grand romantic mystery. You liked them. You liked his words. Not just the books themselves but the tiny, scribbled thoughts he had left behind. Satoru’s stomach did a weird little flip. It seemed to be doing that a lot every time his nosy ass overheard you talking about his writing.

You really liked his writing. The writing you’d been gushing for about two weeks now. You really found it special. You liked it so much that the thought of continuing the series without it made his chest ache. Because what if you borrowed the next one and found nothing? What if you flipped through the pages, searching for his voice, only to be disappointed? No. No way. That wasn’t happening. Initially he had done it as a way to, y’know, simply yap, maybe desecrate the pages of a book from a library with his oh so superior commentary. But now? He was going to do this for you. Because the way you had talked about Whisper of the Heart—the way your face had gone soft and dreamy, the way your voice had gotten all excited—he wanted that. He wanted to hear you talk about how much you enjoyed the little quips that made their way into his head every time he read something. He wanted to be the reason you spoke like that again. Maybe it was pathetic, but he wanted– really wanted to once again be the reason why your cheeks slightly went pink when your friend called him yours. Even if they were his initials, they were his, and it insinuated he belonged to you, right?

The second class ended, Satoru bolted. There was no time to waste. He had four books to annotate, and he didn’t care if it took him all night. If you wanted G.S., then G.S. was going to be there.

–

Satoru burst into his dorm, heart pounding as he dumped his bag onto the floor. His fingers fumbled with the zipper as he yanked it open, pulling out the four books you were inevitably going to borrow next. He stacked them on his desk, staring at them like they were some kind of urgent mission—because they were. You liked his notes. You liked his notes. That thought alone sent a weird, warm feeling blooming in his chest. He flopped into his chair, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled sharply. This wasn’t just about keeping up the act anymore. It wasn’t about maintaining the mystery of G.S. or feeding into some casual curiosity you had. No, this was about you. About the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the books. The way you had called him—unknowingly, of course—your own Seiji. The way you were so excited to continue the series, fully expecting to find more of his little thoughts nestled between the pages. He wasn’t going to let you down.

Satoru grabbed the first book off the stack and flipped it open, his pen poised over the margins. He scribbled his initials in the borrowing card in the same blue ink that he always used– he always thought the blueness of the ink was much better than any other pen colour out there. Before he started reading, he did this in all the library cards, and made sure that the date corresponded to the previous dates– so you wouldn’t think it was suspicious that the last remaining books were all borrowed on the same day. He then started reading—not just skimming, but really reading, more carefully than he ever had before. Thankfully he did remember the plot of the first three books, so catching up with what was going on wasn’t too hard. Every sentence was weighed, every line considered. What would make you pause? What would make you smile?

When he hit a particularly poetic passage, he underlined it and wrote in the margin: Bet whoever is reading this– I just know this made your heart do that stupid fluttery thing.

He smirked to himself. If only you knew. 

A few pages later, he found a scene with the protagonist staring out a train window, deep in thought. The description was vivid, full of melancholic longing. He tapped the pen against his lips before jotting down: Ever feel like this? Just existing, watching life happen? He could already imagine you reading it, tilting your head slightly, considering his words. Would you reply in your head? Would you wonder what kind of person wrote something like that? The thought of it sent a thrill through him, and he leaned in closer, more invested than ever. Hours passed, but he barely noticed. The desk lamp cast a warm glow over the pages as he worked, annotating with a mix of teasing, sincerity, and the occasional cryptic remark just to mess with you. In the fifth book of the series, there was a passage about finding comfort in routine—about how little, familiar things could feel like home. He thought back to all the times during your early morning classes, how you’d bring a steaming thermos filled with a tea of some kind, something to sip on while you reviewed the lecture slides before the professor started the lecture. The half cold tea in that same thermos, he’d seen you nursing it outside the exam hall before a midterm while your eyes furiously scanned your meticulous, colour coded notes. Satoru probably guessed that it was a habit of yours– to have a warm comforting drink while you read– lecture notes, physics textbooks, or fiction.

He hesitated for a second before writing: Hope anyone who ever reads this is reading this with a warm drink. Tea, in my opinion, is the best kind of beverage to drink while reading a book series like this. 

Would you pause when you read that? Would you glance around, suddenly hyper-aware that maybe G.S knew you? That someone had been paying attention? Or maybe you’d think he’s just like you? The thought sent a rush of satisfaction through him. By the time he reached the second last book, his hand was cramping, but he didn’t care. He stretched briefly before diving back in. This one had more banter between the characters, something he knew you loved. He played into it, adding sarcastic commentary in the margins. When the heroine had a particularly dramatic internal monologue, he scribbled: Relax, you’re not in a soap opera.

And a few pages later: Actually, never mind, maybe you are.

He could already hear your reaction. The annoyed little huff, the way you’d roll your eyes but secretly love it. You always did have a tendency to refute things first, only to realise you enjoyed them later. He’d sometimes see it in the way when you’d roll your eyes or let out a disapproving noise at Satoru plainly criticising one of the professors under his breath during a lecture– but Satoru’s eyes were sharp, he never missed the smallest twitch of your lips as soon as you’d finished your melodramatics. The last book was the longest, and by then, the city outside his window had gone quiet. His dorm was dim except for the glow of his lamp, and his body was buzzing with a mix of exhaustion and excitement. He was too far in now, too absorbed in the thought of you reading all of this soon. This book had a recurring theme about missed chances—about words left unsaid and moments that could have changed everything if only someone had spoken up. It hit a little too close to home, but he didn’t let himself dwell on that. Instead, he carefully underlined a sentence: Sometimes, we don’t realise what we mean to someone until it’s too late.

Beneath it, he wrote: I hope this never applies to y̶o̶u̶ whoever is reading this.

And then– and then he wrote another little thing, but it felt a bit too intimate, a bit too revealing so he neatly crossed it out. His pen hovered over the page for a moment. That was the most honest thing he had written all night. Satoru exhaled, rubbing his eyes before sitting back, staring at the stack of books now filled with his thoughts. He had done it. You wouldn’t get a single blank page. You’d find him in every single one.

–

Satoru strolled across campus with a tote bag slung over his shoulder, weighed down by four thick novels. The books—now thoroughly marked up, pages lined with his messy scrawl—felt heavier than they should have, but maybe that was just him. He’d spent the entire night annotating them, barely stopping to eat, sleep, or think about anything that wasn’t you reading his words. Now, all he had to do was return them before you got to the library. He wasn’t about to let you see him checking them in like some lovesick idiot. He carefully managed to place them back on the shelf after scanning them as ‘unborrowed’.  He was a few steps from the library doors when someone rounded the corner, and before he could react—

Bam. The collision wasn’t hard, just enough to jostle him off balance, and he barely had time to reach out and steady you before you could stumble back. “Damn, could at least pretend to watch where you’re going,” he drawled, glancing down at you with a smirk. “Or do you just like running into me?”

You scoffed, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. “Yeah, I totally planned that. Just desperate to bump into you of all people.”

“Oh, come on,” he teased, stepping aside so you could walk past him. “If you wanted an excuse to see me, you could’ve just said so.” You rolled your eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Please. I’m actually on my way to the library, unlike some people who just loiter around.”

His grip on his tote bag tightened for half a second, but he kept his expression easy, unreadable. “Library, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I finished this book from a series I’m actually enjoying, so I figured I’d borrow the next one today.” You didn’t even know why you told him that, but you figured it was an improvement from the usual bickering you two always had going on. He hummed, nodding slowly. “Oh, okay. Well…” He took a step back, flashing a lazy grin. “Have fun with that.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why do you sound weird?”

“I always sound weird.”

“Yeah, but more than usual.” 

Satoru shrugged. “Dunno what you’re talking about.” You stared at him suspiciously for another second before shaking your head. “Whatever.” And with that, you pushed past him, making your way toward the library doors. Satoru watched you go, fighting the smug grin threatening to take over his face. He could already picture it—the way you’d flip through the pages, expecting plain text, only to find the familiar, scrawled handwriting in the margins. He wondered if you’d smile. If you’d talk about it again the way you had in class. He shook his head to himself, finally turning away. Yeah. He was so in trouble.

–

You settled into your usual spot at the campus café, tucking yourself into the corner by the window with the newly borrowed books. Yes, books. Not a book. You figured that if there were just four more books left in the series, you’d just borrow them now, instead of continuing the annoying walk from your dorm or lecture rooms to the library. The familiar scent of aged paper and coffee beans wrapped around you, grounding you in your routine.

With your drink beside you and your phone silenced, you flipped the fourth book open, eager to dive in. You didn’t even bother to check the borrowing card this time, neither had you written your own name in it yet, heart beating a little faster as you childishly hoped that the familiar cursive scrawls were still present in the weathered pages.  You had barely made it past the first few pages when your eyes caught something in the margins next to one of the more romantic lines.

Bet whoever is reading this– I just know this made your heart do that stupid fluttery thing. You blinked. Your stomach did an odd little flip, completely unprovoked. Honestly speaking, your heart did that little flip more in regards to the familiar blue handwriting rather than the line on the page. You knew exactly whose handwriting that was. 

G.S. had struck again. A slow smile pulled at your lips as you traced the ink with your fingertip. You had gotten so used to these notes, the little jokes, the occasional deep thoughts, that it almost felt like a conversation now. Like you weren’t reading alone, but with someone who understood exactly what you’d linger on, what you’d pause to appreciate. And yet… something about this one felt slightly different. You glanced at the ink again. It looked a little… darker? Not as faded as some of the earlier notes in the series.

You frowned slightly but shook the thought away. Maybe it was just your imagination. You kept reading. A few pages later, the protagonist stared out of a train window, lost in thought. The description was melancholic, vivid, and all too relatable.

Ever feel like this? Just existing, watching life happen? You exhaled sharply through your nose. Yeah, you thought. All the damn time. You tapped your fingers against the table, feeling that same strange connection as before. Whoever G.S. was, they had a way of making their presence known—not just through the words they chose to underline, but in the little thoughts they left behind, the questions they posed, the moments they chose to comment on. It was like they could hear your thoughts before you even formed them, like they knew exactly where your mind would linger on the page.

The sun dipped lower outside the arched windows of the campus café, casting long shadows across the floor as golden light pooled over the tables. The afternoon crowd had begun to thin, students trickling out one by one, their conversations fading into the hum of the espresso machine and the occasional clatter of cups behind the counter. The once-busy space was quieter now, more intimate, like the world had momentarily shrunk down to just you and the book in your hands. You traced the ink of the latest annotation with your thumb, barely skimming the words but feeling them all the same. It was a strange thing—to be so affected by someone you had never even met. Had you met them? The question pressed at the edges of your mind, unspoken yet persistent. The specificity of some of these notes, the way they seemed to know you—it made your stomach flip in a way you weren’t quite sure how to name.

You glanced at the café entrance, as if expecting to see someone standing there, watching you, waiting to see your reaction. But no one lingered. Just the usual stragglers—people buried in their own work, in their own stories. Still, the feeling remained. With a quiet exhale, you pulled your focus back to the page and turned it, sinking further into the book. The story continued, but now, each annotation felt like something more. Like a conversation waiting to happen. And by the time you could hear the cicadas chirping outside, you had successfully finished the fourth book.

–

Your luck today had been astoundingly awful. The first sign was your hair—a complete disaster from the moment you woke up. Brushing it down did nothing. Water made it worse. Mousse? A grave mistake. You finally resorted to tying it up, accepting defeat. Then came the sharp pain on your forehead, a telltale sign of a forming pimple, because of course your skin had decided to betray you too. But the true betrayal came from your kettle, which, after years of faithful service, had chosen this morning to stop working. No tea. No caffeine. No hope. And now? Now, as if the universe hadn’t already tested you enough, you were seated next to Gojo Satoru, his chair pushed obnoxiously close, his long legs stretching out under the desk like he owned the place. His expression was insufferably smug, like he had personally orchestrated all of this just to get under your skin.

Have you ever mentioned that you shared more than one class with Gojo? Sure, you were both in the same physics course, but once again, your luck with picking extra subjects was nothing short of terrible. That’s how you ended up in psychology—a field that couldn’t be further from the world of physics you were so deeply immersed in. You had figured it would be a nice change, to explore a different kind of science. 

Unfortunately, a certain white haired freak seemed to share the same thought process. 

You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms. “We’re not choosing your dumb topic.”  Gojo gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “Excuse you, my brilliant topic.”

“You want to write about the psychology of humor.”

“Exactly! It’s fascinating.” He grinned. “What makes something funny? Why do people laugh? Why am I so naturally hilarious?” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “We’re in a psychology class, Gojo, not a stand-up workshop.”

“And yet, humor is deeply psychological.” He leaned forward, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Maybe if you had a better sense of humor, you’d agree with me.” You scowled. “I have a perfectly fine sense of humor.”

“Sure you do,” he teased, “in the same way a brick has mobility.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not doing a research paper on why people laugh.”

“And I’m not doing one on cognitive dissonance,” he shot back, drumming his fingers against the desk. “It’s been done to death.”

“It’s interesting,” you argued. “It actually ties into real-world behavior.”

“So does humor.” You stared him down. He stared right back, his lips curving just slightly, like he was having the time of his life getting you riled up.

A muscle in your jaw twitched. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

Gojo snorted. “What are we, five?” You held out a fist. He sighed, then did the same.

Rock, paper, scissors, shoot. Your scissors to his rock. Your eye twitched. His grin was downright gleeful. “Looks like we’re writing about humor.”

“You are insufferable.”

“I’m a visionary,” he corrected, stretching his arms behind his head. “You’ll thank me when we get a great grade.” You grumbled something under your breath, flipping open your notebook to at least try and plan the assignment. You weren’t about to let him ruin your GPA over jokes. But Gojo wasn’t looking at the notebook. He wasn’t even thinking about the project anymore. His gaze lingered on the way a few wisps of hair had escaped your ponytail, framing your face. He wasn’t used to seeing your hair tied back—it made your features more striking, somehow. It made him notice the little things, like the way your brow creased when you were annoyed, or the way your lips pursed slightly when you were trying really hard not to snap at him. And it was funny. All morning, you’d been looking at him like he was a headache, while he… well. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t kind of enjoying himself. He propped his chin in his palm, watching you jot something down in your notebook.

“You know,” he mused, “for someone who’s so against my topic, you sure do make me laugh a lot.” You shot him a suspicious look. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Gojo smirked. “Just an observation.” You scoffed. “An annoyance is not the same thing as amusement.”

“Tell that to your cognitive dissonance.” You rolled your eyes, but before you could fire back, something distracted you. A shift in the air, a fleeting scent—something clean and warm, like cedar and the lingering spice of cologne. You blinked. You didn’t know why you noticed it now, of all times, but the way he smelled was… oddly pleasant. You shook it off, focusing on your notes again. Only, now you were very aware of other things, too—like the fact that his hand, resting casually on the desk, was a lot bigger than yours. His fingers were long, his knuckles prominent, and his nails were annoyingly well-groomed for someone who clearly put zero effort into most things. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to refocus. It’s just Gojo, you told yourself. He’s just being annoying. As usual. I’m probably ovulating or something. Gojo, meanwhile, had caught the way your eyes flickered over to him, how you quickly looked away after.

He tilted his head. “Something on your mind?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, deadpan. “How fast I can finish this project so I don’t have to deal with you.” Gojo chuckled, and despite yourself, you felt the sound of it—low and amused, like he found you far too entertaining. “Oh, sweets,” Gojo drawled, his voice lilting with amusement, “no way in hell am I gonna let you finish this project fast enough to escape me. C’mon, in our three beautiful years of rivalry, you’ve never once tried to get to know me—”

“Let’s just start the project,” you cut him off, already pulling out your stationery and notebook, flipping to a fresh page with more force than necessary. You barely resisted the urge to groan at the topic glaring back at you. Humour. Ugh.

Gojo, of course, noticed immediately. He didn’t even have to try—he just always noticed things. The way your lips pressed into a thin line, how your fingers fidgeted with the cap of your pen, how your shoulders tensed slightly, like you were already resigning yourself to suffering through an assignment you hated. His smirk faded—just a little. And then, before he could think about it too hard, he sighed.

“You know what?” he said, nudging his notebook aside. “Screw it. Let’s do your topic.”

You blinked, pen hovering mid-air. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said, waving a hand. “Cognitive dissonance, weird little psychology experiments, all that jazz. It’s fine.”

Your eyes narrowed. “This feels like a trick.”

“Wow, you think that low of me?,” he said, clutching his chest in mock betrayal. “I am capable of compromise, you know.”

You gave him a flat look. “Since when?”

Gojo rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows propped on the desk, watching you with a lazy kind of curiosity.

“Seriously, though. If you hate my topic that much, let’s just do yours. No big deal.”

You stared at him, suspicious. Gojo Satoru? Giving up? It felt wrong.

“Wait,” you said suddenly, narrowing your eyes further. “What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch,” he insisted, but the way he said it, all breezy and casual, made you even more suspicious.

“… You want me to owe you a favor, don’t you?”

He gasped, scandalised. “Sweets, I would never manipulate you like that.”

You scoffed. “You absolutely would.”

“Okay, yeah, I would,” he admitted easily, grinning. “But this isn’t that.”

You hesitated, drumming your fingers against the notebook. Then, you exhaled, shaking your head. “No. We’ll do humor.”

Now he was the one taken aback. “Huh?”

“I don’t want to hear you complain about how boring cognitive dissonance is for the next two weeks,” you said, scribbling down a rough outline. “And you’re actually interested in humor, so we’ll get it done faster.”

Gojo just stared at you, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

“Hold on. You’re giving in?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh, I’m definitely making it weird.” His grin was slow, teasing, like he had just won something. “This is, like, a historic moment. I should get it framed.”

“Gojo.”

“I mean, imagine if people knew—”

“Gojo.”

“—that you actually care about my interests? That you—gasp—want to make me happy?” You kicked him under the desk.

“Ow!” He laughed, rubbing his shin. “That was uncalled for.”

“You deserved it.”

“But really,” he said, still grinning, “this is kinda nice.”

You quirked a brow. “What is?”

He shrugged, tilting his head. “Usually, we’re arguing for ourselves. This is the first time we’ve argued over, like, what’s better for the other person.” Your lips parted slightly. You hadn’t thought about it like that. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, absurdly, a little laugh slipped out of you. Just a small one, but it was enough to make Gojo’s eyes flicker with amusement. And before you knew it, he was laughing, too. It wasn’t even that funny, but somehow, the realisation of how ridiculous this entire thing had been—bickering for fifteen minutes over who should get their way only to insist on the opposite—had you both quietly shaking with laughter in the middle of the library.

“Okay, okay,” you finally said, breathless. “Let’s get this outline done before we completely fail this class.”

“I’d never fail,” Gojo said, flipping open his notebook. “I’m naturally brilliant.”

“You would if I weren’t here keeping you on track.”

He grinned. “See? You like being my partner.” You rolled your eyes, but as you both started drafting the project together, something about this—about working with him, actually working—felt… nice. And even though he was still Gojo, still distracting, still annoying, still insufferably smug, for once, he didn’t feel like an opponent. He just felt like Satoru. Not Gojo, but Satoru. Of course, the moment things got too productive, he ruined it.

“Y’know,” he mused, leaning back in his chair, “I am gonna make sure our humor project includes at least one joke at your expense.”

You deadpanned. “Then I’m making sure our references include an article on the psychological effects of annoying classmates.”

Gojo gasped. “I would love to read that.”

You smacked his arm with your notebook. And, as usual, he just laughed. You two managed to get a lot of the work done– not just a solid outline of your project, but the finer details too. Gojo suddenly shoved his chair back, standing up so abruptly that you startled. “I need to do something,” he announced, brushing imaginary dust off his clothes. You frowned, confused. “What? Where are you going?”

“Just wait here,” he said, already turning on his heel. Your brows furrowed. “Wait—what? Gojo—”

“Just wait!” he called over his shoulder before disappearing down the hallway. You stared at the empty space where he had been, utterly bewildered. What the hell was that about? For a moment, you debated packing up your stuff and leaving just to be petty, but curiosity got the better of you. Huffing, you tapped your pen against your notebook, drumming your fingers impatiently. Three minutes passed. Then five. Then—

Gojo reappeared, striding back toward your table with an obnoxiously triumphant grin. In one hand, he held two drinks, in the other, a small paper bag. He set them down in front of you like he was presenting some kind of grand prize.

You stared. “... What is this?”

“Snacks,” he said, like it was obvious. “I see that,” you said, eyeing the drinks. One was clearly milk tea—yours, probably—but the other was some sugary monstrosity topped with whipped cream, which was obviously his. “But why?”

“Well, we’ve been working,” he said easily, plopping back into his seat. “Figured we deserved a break.” You blinked, then looked down at the tea again. It smelled… exactly how you usually ordered it.

Suspicion prickled at you. “Did you—did you get this on purpose?” 

Gojo took a sip of his own drink, unbothered. “Yeah?” 

Your eyes narrowed. “How do you even know what I drink?”

Gojo shrugged. “Dunno. Guess I just noticed that one time when I ended up paying for it.”

You paused. The thought of Gojo Satoru noticing anything about you—remembering how you liked your tea, going out of his way to get it without even asking—made your brain short-circuit for a second. You weren’t sure what to do with that information, so you just focused on unrolling the top of the pastry bag, peering inside. There were two croissants—one chocolate, one plain.

“… Okay, but the pastries?”

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got both.” You squinted at him. “That doesn’t make any sense.” He smirked. “Sure it does. If you like chocolate, I got it right. If you don’t, more for me.” You stared at him, then at the pastries, then back at him.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head.

“Unbelievably thoughtful?” he supplied.

“Unbelievably annoying.”

Gojo grinned. “That too.” Rolling your eyes, you took the chocolate croissant anyway, breaking off a piece. The tea was still warm when you took a sip, and you hated that it was perfect—hated that Gojo Satoru of all people had somehow memorized exactly how you liked it. He propped his elbow on the table, chin resting in his hand as he watched you. “Y’know, for someone who’s been roasting me for the last five minutes, you seem to be enjoying that a lot.”

You shot him a look. “Don’t push it.” He only laughed, reaching for his own pastry. “No promises.”

–

Over the next week, you and Gojo fell into an oddly stable rhythm. It wasn’t immediate—nothing with Gojo ever was—but slowly, the sharp edges of your interactions dulled. The bickering still happened, but it felt different, less like clashing swords and more like an inside joke neither of you wanted to drop. Your study sessions were always in the same corner of the library, where Gojo insisted on pushing the limits of how far back he could tilt his chair before it inevitably crashed to the floor.

(“Gojo, if you fall and crack your head open, I’m not calling an ambulance.”

“Nah, you totally would.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, you would, sweets. You like me too much to let me die like that.”)

You’d grumble and go back to your notes, but a traitorous part of you was starting to find his antics almost… endearing. Your actual progress on the project was steady. It surprised you—Gojo might’ve been infuriating, but when he actually focused, he was sharp. He had a way of cutting through useless information, pinpointing the most interesting angle on a subject, making connections you hadn’t considered. Begrudgingly, you kind of understood why he was always neck to neck with you in grades.

(“So, humor as a psychological coping mechanism?”

“Mhm.”

“And you want to include self-deprecating humor as a subsection?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, twirling a pen between his fingers. “It’s like, prime material.”

“You literally never make fun of yourself.”

“I make fun of myself all the time.”

You scoffed. “Oh, really?”

He smirked. “Yeah. I mean, look at me—six-foot-three, gorgeous, built like a god—my life is so hard, y’know?”

You stared at him. “That was not self-deprecating.”

“No?” He shrugged, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach do something weird. “Maybe I just want you to compliment me.”

You threw a balled-up piece of paper at his head.) 

There were… moments. Small, fleeting things you didn’t know what to do with. Like the time your pen rolled off the table and he picked it up, spinning it between his fingers before handing it back to you, and you noticed—really noticed—how big his hands were. Or how, sometimes, when he was reading something on your laptop, he’d lean in too close, and you’d catch the faint scent of his cologne—fresh, clean, but with something warm underneath. You ignored these things. Obviously. 

But then came the gym. You were only there because you needed to de-stress. The project had been long, your classes demanding, and you just wanted to move your body and clear your head. You weren’t expecting to see him there. At first, you didn’t even realize it was Gojo. You were just filling your water bottle, minding your business, when your gaze flickered to the squat rack and landed on a very tall, very shirtless figure. And then your brain short-circuited. Because it was Gojo.

And Gojo was—

Built.

Like, really built. You had known he was tall. You had known he was in shape. But knowing and seeing were two different things. His usual oversized hoodies and button-ups had hidden the fact that his entire torso was carved like a damn statue. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, a defined chest, abs for days and—

Your gaze dropped lower.

—Happy trail. Something inside you malfunctioned. Because, okay, fine, sure—objectively speaking, Gojo Satoru was attractive. You had always known that. But this? This was different. This was some kind of cruel joke. This was the universe personally handing you a vision of a half-naked Gojo and saying, Hey, enjoy struggling with this one! You were staring. Oh, god, you were staring. You needed to leave. You were about to spin on your heel and get the hell out of there, but that was when he noticed you. His gaze locked onto yours in the mirror, and something slow and amused curled across his lips.

“Yo,” he called, turning around fully now, like he knew exactly what he was doing. You were so close to pretending you hadn’t heard him, but there were only so many places to run. You forced yourself to walk over, as if this was normal, as if your brain hadn’t just imploded from seeing Gojo Satoru shirtless. “You work out?” he asked, wiping sweat off his forehead with a towel, and you hated that even that was distracting.

“Yes, Gojo, I work out,” you said flatly, crossing your arms. He grinned. “Huh. Never would’ve guessed.” You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He just shrugged, all easy confidence and knowing smirks. “You don’t exactly look like the gym type, sweets.”

“Because I don’t look like I can deadlift a hundred kilos?” you shot back. 

He tilted his head. “Can you?”

“… No.” 

He laughed, tossing the towel over his shoulder. “Then I rest my case.” You scowled. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re staring,” he quipped, and your breath caught in your throat. Your face heated. “I—I am not.” His smirk deepened. “Sure you aren’t.”

You clenched your jaw, trying to school your expression into something neutral. You refused to let him know he was right. But as you turned on your heel and all but stomped to another part of the gym, you could still feel his gaze on you. And the worst part? You didn’t hate it. 

The next day, you almost considered canceling your study session. Not because you were avoiding Gojo. Obviously. You were just busy. Lots of work. Essays. Big academic responsibilities. But you weren’t a coward. (And okay, fine, maybe a tiny part of you was curious to see if things would be normal again. Not that things were weird, but—well. Whatever.) When you arrived at the library, Gojo was already there, feet kicked up on the chair across from him, lazily flipping through his notes.

“Look who decided to show up,” he said without looking up. You dropped your bag onto the table with a little more force than necessary. “Shut up.” He smirked. “Feisty today, huh?” You ignored him, pulling out your laptop. “Did you actually get any work done?”

He held up a single, crumpled page. 

You groaned. “Gojo.”

“Hey, hey,” he said, leaning forward, “in my defense, I was busy yesterday.” You knew exactly what he was referencing. You refused to react. Instead, you snatched the page from his hands. “We’re never finishing this at this rate.” 

Gojo leaned on his hand, watching you with a lazy smile. “Maybe I just like dragging this out so I can keep seeing you.”

Your fingers twitched around your pen.

He was messing with you. Obviously. That was what he did. But it was getting harder and harder to pretend you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered sometimes. Or the way your stomach dipped when he said things like that. You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to focus. “We’re getting this done today, whether you like it or not.”

“Bossy,” he murmured, still watching you. You gave him a look. And then you got to work. And as much as you hated to admit it, your study sessions with Gojo had started to feel… comfortable. It was weird. In some ways, nothing had changed—you still bickered, still teased, still rolled your eyes at each other every five minutes. But there was something different underneath it now, something you couldn’t quite name. And you weren’t sure you wanted to. Not yet.

–

The lecture hall was packed, the dull hum of students settling in filling the air as you pulled out your notes. Today’s topic was something about fluid dynamics—not that you were paying too much attention. Mostly because you were tired. And, maybe, because there was a certain someone sitting behind you.  You don’t know when or why it had started– maybe it was the fact that you’d, well, always been deprived of male attention (since you were hyper focused on academics instead. Those men won’t bring you scholarships, but your GPA will!), or the fact that you had seen him multiple times in the past weeks without feeling the urge to rip his head off, or maybe you actually were ovulating, you hadn’t checked your cycle on your period tracking app yet but it was likely—

You had been doing your best to ignore it, to ignore him, but Gojo had a way of making his presence known. Even when he wasn’t doing anything, you were now even more hyper aware of him—the occasional shift of his chair, the absentminded tapping of his pen against the desk, the quiet sighs of boredom that you knew were dramatic. And then, just as you were finally starting to concentrate, you felt it. A presence leaning in behind you, the faintest brush of breath against your ear.

“Sweets,” Gojo whispered, his voice low, teasing.

Your whole body went rigid. “What,” you hissed, barely moving your lips, keeping your eyes trained on the professor at the front of the room.

“There’s a fatal flaw in this lecture,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. You refused to turn around. “Gojo, I swear—”

“I mean, really,” he continued, like you hadn’t spoken, “how can they expect us to focus on physics when you’re sitting right in front of me?” Your grip on your pen tightened. Your face was definitely heating up. Slowly, finally, you turned your head just enough to glare at him. “Are you seriously flirting with me in the middle of a lecture on fluid dynamics?”

Gojo grinned, chin resting on his palm, looking utterly unrepentant. “I’m not flirting. I’m just… y’know… testing like behaviourism, or whatever.”

You inhaled sharply, willing yourself not to react. Noticing your silence, his smirk grew.

“Or,” he whispered, tilting his head, “is the idea of me flirting with you not so bad?” Your brain short-circuited for half a second. Then you turned back around, focusing very hard on your notes, pretending you hadn’t heard him, pretending your heart wasn’t doing something very annoying in your chest. Behind you, Gojo chuckled softly, and you could feel his smirk.

You hated him. You hated him. Nah, you didn’t.  You just… now mildly disliked him.

–

By the time the physics final rolled around, your life had been reduced to a frantic cycle of cramming formulas, flipping through notes, and barely surviving on caffeine. The psychology project with Gojo had taken up way more time than you expected—not just because of the work itself, but because of him. His constant presence, his insufferable teasing, the way he somehow made long study sessions more bearable with his antics. It was irritatingly easy to fall into a rhythm with him, and by the time you’d turned in your joint paper, you were too mentally exhausted to even think about anything else. Which was probably why you forgot about book five. When you finally let yourself have a break, that you found it tucked away in your bag.

The sight of it sent a flicker of guilt through your chest—you’d been so eager to read it, and then you just… hadn’t. You curled up by the window, the campus café bustling quietly in the background, warm drink in hand as you flipped open the book. This one was slightly smaller than the other ones in terms of length– you’d be able to finish it in an hour or so. The familiarity of the prose was comforting, like stepping back into a world you knew well. And then, right beside a passage about finding comfort in the little things—the warmth of a cup of tea, the quiet joy of returning to a familiar book—was an annotation.

Hope anyone who ever reads this is reading this with a warm drink. Tea, in my opinion, is the best kind of beverage to drink while reading a book series like this.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Okay. That was… oddly specific.

A chill—not unpleasant, but strange—crept up your spine. It wasn’t just the words themselves, but the fact that G.S. knew this about you. It was as if they’d noticed your habit of your love of tea. But it was probably a coincidence. I mean, tea is enjoyed by millions of people in the world, right? You exhaled slowly, shaking the feeling off as you flipped a few more pages. The wittiness of the quips grew, and you eagerly read through each one with heightened interest. In about forty five minutes, you had managed to finish the fifth book with ease. Since you had some free time to spare, you started on the second last book.

The first note you came across was pure sarcasm, scrawled beside a particularly dramatic inner monologue from the protagonist.

Relax, you’re not in a soap opera.

And a few pages later: Actually, never mind, maybe you are.

You huffed a quiet laugh, rolling your eyes. The teasing was familiar, familiar enough to imbue a sense of relaxation in you. The annotations drew you in, the ink curling across the margins like whispered thoughts meant just for you. It was easy to imagine G.S. sitting beside you, their presence warm and familiar, flipping through the pages with quiet amusement. Someone who knew exactly which passages would make you pause, who understood the way certain lines lingered in your mind long after you’d read them.

Your fingers traced over the words they had left behind, and for a moment, you let yourself daydream. You imagined meeting them—G.S., whoever they were. The two of you sitting in some hidden corner of a library, books stacked high around you, the world outside fading away. Maybe their voice was soft, thoughtful, the kind that made you want to lean in a little closer. Maybe they smiled when you argued about a particular passage, when you pointed out something they’d written in the margins.

Maybe they would look at you like you were something worth understanding.

The thought sent a strange warmth curling through your chest. It was silly, this little fantasy, but you let yourself indulge in it anyway. And that was when your brain betrayed you.

For a brief, horrifying moment, the faceless idea of G.S. wasn’t faceless anymore. The image of Gojo flashed into your mind, unbidden and unwanted. But it wasn’t just him reading beside you, wasn’t just him scrawling out these notes with his long, annoyingly pretty fingers.

It was him kissing you.

Gojo’s lips brushing against yours, lazy and confident, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand sliding up your spine, the heat of him pressing against you, that teasing voice of his murmuring something you wouldn’t quite catch—

Your entire body froze.

No.

No, no, no.

You tried to shake it off, tried to focus on the book in front of you, but the words blurred together, unreadable. Your mind was stuck, caught on the vividness of the thought that had just invaded it.

Gojo.

Not just Gojo sitting across from you, running his mouth like he always did. Not just Gojo tossing a wadded-up paper at your head or poking at the end of your pen when you were trying to write. No—your brain had conjured up something else entirely. Gojo leaning in too close, his breath warm against your lips. The weight of his hand pressing into the small of your back, fingertips splayed across your lower back, your waist, your sides. The slow, unhurried way he would kiss you—because of course he’d be like that, because he was always so damn self-assured. Because he never did anything halfway.

And worse—worse—you could almost hear him. That stupid teasing voice, low and amused, murmuring something between kisses, something only meant for you. Your fingers twitched, and you slammed the book shut.

No. Nope. Not happening.

Your pulse was erratic, your skin burning like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. You blinked rapidly, as if that alone could erase the thought from existence, but the sensation lingered, the imagined heat of him refusing to dissipate. It was just stress. That’s all it was. You were exhausted, overworked, and had spent way too much time in Gojo’s orbit lately. Of course your brain was short-circuiting. You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to reopen the book. Back to reality. Back to G.S. 

Back to anything that wasn’t Gojo Satoru and the absurd, fleeting idea of what kissing him might feel like.

–

Gojo’s deep voice cut through your thoughts, pulling you back into the present as he tapped the end of his pen against the open physics textbook in front of you both.

“And then—are you even listening to me?” You blinked, realizing you’d been zoning out. “Yeah—yeah,” you mumbled, scrambling for something relevant to say. “Professor Takeda can be an ass sometimes, even if he’s awesome at teaching.” Gojo grinned, apparently satisfied with your response, and continued yapping as he absentmindedly worked through some small equations on the paper in front of you both. His handwriting was quick and fluid, annoyingly neat for someone who acted like he never took anything seriously.

You didn’t quite know how it had happened, but after the two of you had finally submitted the psychology project, something between you shifted. It wasn’t spoken aloud, wasn’t even acknowledged outright, but it was there—an unspoken understanding. You still bickered, still argued over trivial things, but there was something else now too. A companionship. A quiet, reluctant camaraderie that neither of you had actively sought out but somehow settled into with surprising ease. And now, you were in the library with him, ironically revising for the upcoming physics final, less than a week away. You weren’t sure when he had become your unofficial study partner, but here he was, scribbling down formulas as he complained about Takeda’s obsession with fluid dynamics.

“You’re still struggling with Bernoulli’s principle?” you teased, shifting your chair slightly to get a better look at his notes. 

“Struggling is a strong word,” he said, twirling his pen between his fingers. “I prefer ‘strategically choosing to ignore it until I absolutely have to care.’”

You scoffed, but before you could argue, your eyes landed on the book beside your bag—the sixth book in the series you’d been slowly working through, the second-to-last one before the finale. You had completely forgotten about it. You were pretty sure you had hit the maximum borrowing period, and at this rate, you were lucky the library hadn’t sent you an overdue notice.

“I need to go return this,” you muttered, grabbing the book and standing up.

Gojo glanced at it, tilting his head slightly. “That again?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“That series,” he clarified, nodding towards the book in your hand. “You’ve been reading it forever. What’s the deal?” You hesitated for a moment, not really sure why you felt the sudden urge to explain, but then the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I… I don’t know. It’s comforting, I guess,” you admitted. “It’s one of those series that just sticks with you, you know? And it’s not just the story—it’s the annotations.”

Gojo raised an eyebrow. “Annotations?”

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah. Someone else read these books before me, and they wrote all these little notes in the margins. Some of them are funny, some are insightful, some are just straight-up teasing—but they make the whole experience feel… shared, I guess.” For once, Gojo didn’t say anything. He just listened, head tilted, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher.

You coughed, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Anyway, I should go return this.” You turned before he could say anything else and made your way to the library’s return section—only to find the drop-off shelves completely blocked off with construction tape. A small sign informed students that book returns had to be made manually at the front desk. With a sigh, you made your way to the librarian’s desk. She smiled at you as you set the book down.

“Returning this?” she asked, flipping open the cover to check the borrowing card.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding. She hummed, scanning the barcode. “You know, someone else borrowed this whole series a while back.”

No way.

No way, no way, no way.

Is this how you were going to finally find out who the faceless stranger you had grown attached to was? Your heart skipped a beat. You forced yourself to keep your voice casual. 

“Oh? Can you recall who?” 

She paused, tapping her chin as if trying to recall. “Give me a moment dear. He’s a male…about the same age as you, actually. Well I think he might be the same age as you. Hmm, he was tall, quite tall, had this head of brilliant white hair, and glasses. His eyes were startlingly blue too. I can’t remember his name but you two’d get along, he seemed very interested in these series too!” She chuckled, taking the book from you to store it under one of the accompanying shelves.

Your blood ran cold.

She continued, oblivious to your internal panic. “Had this little keychain on his bag too. It tinkled a lot when he came in to borrow the books.” Your mind flashed back to the small jingling sound of Gojo’s keychain— a digimon one. The one that always made a tiny noise whenever he slung his bag over his shoulder. Oh my god.

Your grip tightened on the desk. “Right. Thanks.”

Somehow, miraculously, you managed to return the book without your hands shaking. But the moment you turned away, the weight of the realization slammed into you like a tidal wave. Your breath hitched, your vision tunneled slightly, and for a second, you weren’t sure if your legs would carry you back to the table.

Gojo.

Gojo was G.S.

The knowledge settled in your bones with a dizzying clarity, making the library around you feel unreal, like you were wading through a dream you couldn’t wake up from. The notes, the teasing comments, the underlined passages—it had all been him. The same Gojo Satoru who drove you insane with his arrogance, who somehow wormed his way into your study sessions, who made physics revision bearable with his endless chatter. And he had never said a word about it. By the time you reached the table, your emotions were tangled beyond recognition—embarrassment, frustration, something dangerously close to hurt. You dropped into your seat, a little too forcefully, the noise drawing his attention.

Gojo barely glanced up from his notes. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

You swallowed, pulse thrumming against your ribs. Your fingers curled into fists against your lap. You felt like you were standing on the edge of something sharp, something that could cut you open if you weren’t careful.

“It’s you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He finally met your gaze, his pen stilling against the page. For a second—just a second—there was nothing but blankness in his expression, as if he truly didn’t understand what you meant. But then, recognition flickered in those bright, unreadable eyes. And slowly, like he had been waiting for this exact moment, he grinned.

“Took you long enough.”

A sharp breath escaped you, like the wind had been knocked from your lungs. Something twisted in your chest. He knew. He had known. You exhaled shakily, trying to hold onto your composure, but your voice wavered when you spoke again. “You—” You swallowed hard. “You knew it was me reading those books, and you just—”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t even try. You hated the way he was looking at you, like this was funny, like this was just some game he had been playing all along. Like he had been waiting for you to connect the dots, to put the pieces together while he sat back and watched. Something inside you cracked.

“You were just messing with me.” The words came out quiet, but there was something raw beneath them, something unsteady. “That’s what this was, right? Just another one of your games?”

For the first time, his smirk faltered.

“That’s not—”

But you didn’t let him finish.

You stood up too fast, your chair scraping loudly against the floor. A few heads turned, students shooting you mildly annoyed glances, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You felt like the library was closing in around you, like you needed to get out before you drowned under the weight of it all.

“Forget it,” you muttered, voice tight. You grabbed your bag, barely able to look at him. “I’ll see you in class.” And before he could stop you—before he could say something that might make you stay—you turned on your heel and walked out of the library. Your pulse roared in your ears, your face burned with humiliation, and your heart—God, your heart was a tangled, aching mess you weren’t ready to unravel yet.

–

You didn’t talk to Gojo for three days. Not once. Not in class, not in the library, not even in passing. If he was in a group conversation, you found an excuse to leave. If he tried to sit next to you, you conveniently needed to be somewhere else. And if you caught even a glimpse of him from across campus, you turned in the opposite direction before he could call your name. It wasn’t out of pettiness. At least, you didn’t think so.

You were hurt.

The weight of it had settled deep in your chest, a slow, heavy ache that didn’t fade no matter how much you tried to distract yourself. You felt stupid, looking back at all those late nights spent tracing the loops of G.S.’s handwriting, at the way you had let yourself get caught up in the fantasy of someone—someone you thought understood you. Someone who had felt just as deeply about those books as you had. And the whole time, it had been him.

Had he just been laughing at you? Watching you get wrapped up in his words, in him, while he sat back and waited for you to figure it out? Had it all just been some kind of joke? You didn’t know what answer would hurt more. Gojo, however, wasn’t making your avoidance easy.

He noticed, of course. The first day, he seemed ashamed. You saw it in the way he frowned when you brushed past him after class, in the way his gaze lingered when you sat on the opposite end of the library instead of your usual table.

The second day, he got annoyed.

“Are you serious right now?” he had muttered when you blatantly ignored him outside the lecture hall, your fingers tightening around your books as you sped up. By the third day, his frustration had given way to something else—something quieter, something bordering on concern.

He caught your wrist as you passed him in the hallway that morning, his grip loose enough for you to pull away if you wanted.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Are we—?” He hesitated. “Did I—?”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time in years, you saw it—uncertainty.

Gojo Satoru was scared. But you weren’t ready to talk. Not yet. So you shook him off and kept walking.

He let you go. For the rest of the day, you tried to pretend like it didn’t feel like a mistake. That night, unable to sleep, you reached for the last book in the series—the one you had borrowed before you found out. You had been meaning to return it. The thought of flipping through those pages again felt wrong after everything that had happened. But something about the weight of it in your hands made you pause. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you curled up in bed and opened to the first page.

And read.

At first, it was mechanical. You skimmed. Skipped paragraphs. Let your eyes pass over the words without really taking them in. But then—somewhere along the way—you found yourself slowing down. The story was familiar, but it felt different now. The annotations were there, just like before. The same small, thoughtful notes in the margins. The same underlined passages, the same occasional sarcastic remark scribbled beside overly dramatic monologues.

And it still felt intimate.

Your chest ached. Gojo’s handwriting had always been a little messy, but now, you could hear his voice in it. The playful quips, the teasing corrections, the occasional rambling thoughts that trailed off mid-sentence. He hadn’t just read these books. He had shared them. With you. But it wasn’t until you reached the end of the book that you froze.

A note, scrawled beneath a passage about missed chances. About how sometimes, you don’t realise what someone means to you until it’s too late.

To whoever is reading this, I… really hope that this never applies to you. 

And then, right underneath it, you spot a small sentence. Your eyes narrow as you lean in, catching the faint blue ink beneath the initials G.S., nearly lost beneath the hurried strike-through. It’s messy, almost like he had written it in a rush, then panicked and scratched it out before anyone could see. The ink is slightly smudged, the letters not quite as crisp as they should be. But you can still read it.

T̶o̶ y̶o̶u̶, I̶ h̶o̶p̶e̶ I̶ d̶o̶n̶’̶t̶ m̶i̶s̶s̶ t̶h̶e̶ c̶h̶a̶n̶c̶e̶ t̶o̶ t̶e̶l̶l̶ y̶o̶u̶ h̶o̶w̶ m̶u̶c̶h̶ I̶ r̶e̶a̶l̶l̶y̶, r̶e̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ l̶i̶k̶e̶ y̶o̶u̶.

Your breath catches. The frustration twisting in your chest falters, cracking under the weight of what you’re seeing. This wasn’t just about G.S. This wasn’t just about some stupid rivalry, some elaborate, long-running inside joke only he was in on. He had liked you.

All along.

The truth of it presses against your ribs, turning your anger into something else—something hot and unbearable and aching. Because of course Gojo Satoru wouldn’t have just let you take that book without noticing. Of course he wouldn’t have just been some faceless mystery behind the initials. He had been right there, all this time. Watching. Waiting. Never saying a damn thing. You press your lips together, gripping the book tighter, torn between wanting to shove it in his stupidly smug face and the overwhelming realization that this—this whole thing—had never been a game to him.

Not really. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the page, heart pounding. You should be mad. You are mad.

But now? Now you don’t know what to do with the way your chest is clenching, your stomach twisting, the words replaying in your head over and over again. He really, really liked you. And he had been too much of an idiot to say it.

It wasn’t just a game. It never had been. Your fingers curled around the edge of the page, heart hammering against your ribs. And in that moment, without a second thought—

You didn’t hesitate.

You barely registered slipping on your shoes, grabbing your jacket, heading across campus toward the dormitories. Your pulse roared in your ears as you climbed the stairs, the weight of the book heavy in your bag. You remembered the way he’d joked about it once—how it was almost too easy to find his dorm because the boys’ rooms were stacked directly above the girls’.

("It’s like fate, babe," he’d drawled, slinging an arm over your shoulders. "You’re literally sleeping right below me."

"Don’t say it like that," you’d deadpanned, shoving him off.

He’d only grinned, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "What? It’s true. If you ever get lonely, just know I’m right there—" he pointed up dramatically "—in room sixty-nine."

You’d groaned at that. "Of course it’s sixty-nine."

"Oh, absolutely." His smirk had been positively insufferable. "The universe practically insisted on it.”)

And now, here you were. Standing in front of his stupid door, his stupid room number glaring at you, mocking you, reminding you of how easily he had wormed his way into your life. You knocked. There was a pause. Then—footsteps. The door cracked open, and Gojo blinked down at you, disheveled, his glasses slightly askew. He was in a hoodie and sweatpants, and for once, he looked genuinely caught off guard.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered sharply. “What if the dean catches you? It’s past curfew.”

You ignored him. “Explain.”

Gojo stared at you. Then, with a sigh, he opened the door wider and let you in. His dorm was surprisingly neat, save for a few open textbooks on his desk. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling before leaning against the edge of his bed.

“You want an explanation?” Gojo muttered, rubbing his temple as if trying to collect his thoughts. His voice was uncharacteristically hoarse, lacking its usual teasing lilt. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze.

“Fine.”

And then—something shifted in his expression. That raw, unguarded look returned, cracking through the facade of the cocky, untouchable Gojo Satoru.

“I liked you this entire time.”

Your breath caught. His words were quiet, but they landed like a stone in your chest, sending ripples through every assumption you had made about the past few months. No—longer than that. Yes, you had gathered from that scribbled annotation that he had liked you, but hearing it was different from reading it. The weight of what he was saying pressed down on you, curling around your ribs, making it hard to breathe. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His gaze flickered away for a second, like he was considering taking it back, like he was still terrified of saying it out loud. But then, with a short breath, he pressed forward.

“I—” He licked his lips, shaking his head slightly. “When I overheard you talking about the books, about G.S., I thought… I don’t know. At first, it was funny.” He let out a weak laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You, of all people, getting caught up in my annotations.”

A pang of hurt flared in your chest at that, but Gojo’s face twisted almost immediately, like he regretted saying it that way.

“I don’t mean it like that,” he murmured. “I just mean—” He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You always had this way of looking at me, like you had me all figured out. Like you already knew what kind of person I was. And I guess… part of me thought it was funny that I got to be something different in your head for once.”

Your fingers curled at your sides. You weren’t sure how to respond to that, but Gojo wasn’t done. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. His eyes darted back to you, searching, waiting for you to interrupt, to tell him he was ridiculous. When you didn’t, he exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was bracing himself.

“But it wasn’t just the books,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “It wasn’t just some joke to me.” His lips pressed together for a moment before he continued. “Because the truth is, I—” He hesitated, then finally met your eyes again, his own brimming with something raw and unguarded. “I’ve liked you since freshman year.”

The air between you shifted. Your fingers curled at your sides as his confession settled in. You wanted to say something—anything—but all you could do was stare at him, pulse pounding in your ears.

He let out a breathy chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Long time, huh?” His voice was softer now, tinged with something almost self-conscious. “It sounds stupid when I say it out loud. But I did. I do.”

Your mouth felt dry. “Since freshman year?”

His lips twitched, like he wasn’t sure if he should smile. “Yeah.”

Your mind reeled. Freshman year. That meant before the rivalry, before the teasing had turned sharp, before you had convinced yourself that he was just some cocky, insufferable show-off who loved to push your buttons. Before you had started believing he only saw you as an opponent to one-up. Gojo sighed, dropping his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at you. “You remember that first day of class?”

You blinked. “Where we had to introduce each other to the class?”

He nodded. “You were wearing that stupid oversized sweater that practically swallowed you, and you kept tugging at the sleeves like you wanted to disappear. I just– at first I thought you were just so cute” His lips quirked slightly at the memory. “And then you opened your mouth when we argued for the first time in class– remember? When you answered that question on vector components and I poked fun at you or something, and when you responded back to me, you had this… fire in you. You wouldn’t let me get a single word in edgewise, like you had something to prove.”

His expression softened, something unbearably fond flickering in his gaze. “And I just remember thinking—shit.”

Your breath hitched.

“I wasn’t supposed to like you,” he murmured, like it was a confession he had never meant to say out loud. “But I did. And when we started arguing all the time, when it turned into this whole thing between us, I thought—fine. If I couldn’t have you the way I wanted, then I’d settle for getting under your skin.” He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “And trust me, I tried to stop thinking about it. About you. But I couldn’t. And then you started borrowing those books, and it was like—” He exhaled sharply, like he didn’t even know how to put it into words. You swallowed hard, heart hammering. 

All this time.

Every argument, every smug grin, every lingering glance across the room—he had liked you this entire time.

“But then you kept reading them.” His voice had softened, like he was talking to himself now as much as to you. “You kept flipping through those pages, talking about how much you liked G.S– and god, who am I to deny you when you speak like that? When you speak like that about my thoughts, my feelings, spilled onto the pages of those stupid books? And suddenly, I was waiting for you to borrow the next book. Waiting to see which parts you’d pause on, which annotations you’d react to. Waiting to hear what you’d say about G.S. So I–”

He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the fabric of his hoodie.

“– I borrowed the remaining four books or so. I annotated every last one of them, annotated them so maybe, maybe I’d get to hear that gorgeous voice of yours talking about it in class again. I’d get to see that giddy smile when you’d refer to me as your Seiji Amasawa again. As your G.S. And honestly, it was worth the entirety of the long night I spent, just so I’d see you fucking smile throughout the day and snap less at me because G.S. wrote something that made you think he was similar to you– because in reality, with the way you viewed me– entirely my fault by the way– it would never be possible.” He took a deep breath after saying that.

“And I realised—” He paused, just for a second, like he needed to steady himself. “I liked it. I liked you. Not that I didn’t already like you, but— but I was falling. Like really deep.”

Something inside you twisted painfully. Your lips parted, but you couldn’t force out a response. You had spent the past three days agonizing over the idea that he had been toying with you, that this had all been some elaborate joke, but this—this was different. This was Gojo Satoru, stripped of his usual bravado, laying his feelings bare in a way that felt like it might physically hurt him.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Gojo let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He looked away, shaking his head as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Because I’m an idiot?” he said dryly. Then, quieter, “Because I’m Gojo Satoru, and I figured you’d never take me seriously?”

Your chest tightened at that.

Before you could process that, he spoke again.

“I know I was arrogant. I know I still am arrogant,” he muttered, his lips curling bitterly. “I push too hard. I’m too much. I act like I know everything, and maybe I do most of the time, but—” He swallowed thickly. “Those annotations… they were the only time you ever saw me.” His voice had dropped lower now, almost vulnerable, and something about it made your pulse stutter.

“Not the dumbass you argue with in class. Not the rich kid with the perfect grades. Not the guy who has to prove he’s the smartest person in the room.” He let out a slow breath. “Just… me.” 

The silence between you stretched, thick and charged.

Gojo’s hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles going white. He looked like he was bracing for impact, like he had just thrown every last piece of himself at your feet and was waiting to see if you’d step on them. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for him.

Then—

You stepped forward. Gojo stilled the moment your fingers brushed against his hoodie, his breath catching in his throat. He stood up, towering over you, an unfamiliar glint in his cerulean eyes. You hesitated, your fingertips barely grazing the fabric before curling into it, fisting it lightly like you needed something solid to hold onto. His whole body went tense under your touch, his usual easy confidence absent now, replaced with something far more uncertain—far more vulnerable.

“You really are an idiot,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath against the space between you. His lips twitched, like he wanted to smirk, wanted to tease, wanted to be Gojo—but he didn’t. Instead, he just let out a shaky breath. “Yeah?”

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening against his hoodie. “Yeah.” 

The word hung in the air between you, weighty and full of something neither of you had the strength to name. And then—before you could second-guess yourself, before doubt could creep in—you surged up onto your toes and kissed him. Gojo made a startled sound against your lips, his whole body going rigid for half a second, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. But then—slowly, desperately—he melted into it. His hands found your face, cupping it with a tenderness that made your heart twist. His palms were warm, his grip firm, like he was terrified you’d slip away, like he needed you to know this wasn’t a joke to him. That it had never been. He kissed you like a man making up for lost time—deep, searching, like he had been waiting for this moment far longer than even you had realized. When he tilted his head, his lips pressing more firmly against yours, you felt it—all of it.

Every unspoken word. Every missed chance. Every moment that had teetered on the edge of this but never quite fallen. His fingers slid into your hair, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek, like he was memorising the way you felt beneath him. Your heart was a wild, unsteady thing in your chest, thundering against your ribs as you pressed yourself closer, your hands sliding up from his hoodie to clutch at his shoulders. Gojo let out a quiet, almost desperate sigh against your lips, like he had been holding back for so long that finally getting to kiss you was unraveling him.

And maybe it was.

Because as much as you had spent the past few days convincing yourself that this had all been a game to him, this—the way he was holding you, the way his fingers trembled just slightly against your skin—told a different story. Gojo Satoru didn’t play games with things that mattered. And you—somehow, impossibly—mattered. When you pulled back, slightly breathless, Gojo just stared at you, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Then, slowly, he grinned. “So,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your cheek. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t step away. “Don’t push it.” Gojo laughed, bright and real, before pulling you back into his arms.

“God, do you know how beautiful you fuckin’ are? It drives me insane,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. His breath is warm against your lips before he swoops down, capturing your mouth with his own again, his large hands grounding themselves against your waist as if he’s afraid you might slip away.

You giggle against his lips, trying to push him off, but he refuses to budge. “S-Satoru—wait!” Your protest is muffled, barely audible between the kisses he keeps stealing, his lips soft but insistent against yours. 

He lets out a quiet, needy sound, almost a whimper, his grip tightening on your hips. “Shut up,” he murmurs breathlessly, squeezing lightly at your waist as if that alone will silence you. “Been waiting to kiss this pretty mouth for sooo fuckin’ long… Let me get my fill, yeah?” You barely have time to respond before his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips, coaxing them open. The second you allow him in, he kisses you deeply—desperately—his tongue sliding against yours, tasting, claiming. The soft little noises you make against him seem to spur him on, his fingers pressing firmly into your sides as he tugs you even closer. His legs bump against the edge of the bed, steadying you between his parted thighs, and the world around you fades, leaving only the two of you tangled up in each other.

A surprised squeak leaves your lips when his thumbs slip just beneath your shirt, brushing against your bare skin. His hands are cold, the contrast against your warmth sending a jolt of electricity through you. He laughs—a quiet, smug chuckle—and then the bastard has the audacity to bite your bottom lip in amusement. “Shh,” he teases, lips brushing against yours. “Don’t wanna get caught sneakin’ into my dorm after hours, do you?”

Before you can even process a response, his hands move to the backs of your thighs, gripping firmly as he lifts you off the ground with ease. A gasp leaves your lips, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he manoeuvres you to the bed. He turns smoothly, lowering you down onto the mattress before climbing over you, his movements slow, deliberate, eager. And this time, you don’t hesitate. Your hands fist the front of his hoodie, yanking him down in a clumsy rush to kiss him again, your breath mingling with his as your noses bump. His glasses shift slightly from the movement, and with an annoyed huff, he pulls them off, setting them aside carefully before his gaze returns to you—hungry. His mouth is back on yours in an instant, moving with a mixture of urgency and something softer, something deeper. His lips trail from yours to your jaw, to the delicate skin of your neck, to the dip of your collarbone—his hands following the path his lips leave behind, fingers toying with the fabric of your open jacket. He pushes it off your shoulders tentatively, almost testing, waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

A pleased hum vibrates against your throat as his confidence grows, his hands sliding over your arms, your waist, memorizing the shape of you beneath him. Your arms wrap around his neck, tugging him impossibly closer, like you could mold yourself against him if you just tried hard enough. The kiss is more than just the heat of the moment. It’s more than just the weeks—months—of built-up tension. It’s the culmination of years of frustration, of stolen glances, of biting words laced with something deeper neither of you had wanted to acknowledge until now.

And maybe, maybe, it’s also the weight of finally realising—fully understanding—that the only person who had ever been able to keep up with you, to challenge you, to drive you absolutely insane, yet make you feel like this… was him. Satoru groans against your skin, nipping at your neck as his hands slip beneath your shirt, his fingers splaying across your waist. But even in the heat of the moment, he’s calculated. His lips map out a path of possessive little marks just below your collarbone—places that can be covered easily. Even now, he’s thinking things through. Your breath hitches when his fingertips skim the skin of your hips again, this time firmer, testing. Your cheeks burn, and the words slip out before you can stop them.

“You can—you can take it off.” 

Satoru goes very, very still. You swear you can feel the exact moment he processes what you’ve just said, the exact moment he realizes that you mean it. His hands tighten slightly against you, his breath coming out a little shakier than before. And for once, for once—he doesn’t have some cocky remark ready to go. Because this? This is real. And for the first time, Gojo Satoru doesn’t want to ruin it with a joke. He gently tugs your shirt up and over your head, eyes eyeing the new expanse of skin that has just been made available to him.

“My gorgeous girl…”

He whispers out, before he’s back to lavishing your skin with attention, paying close attention to your breasts, lips lovingly, reverently moving across your skin with gentleness you hadn’t thought possible by him. You don’t know what possesses you, but something suddenly clicks and shyly, you unclasp your bra, leaving your entire upper half bare, making Satoru’s breath hitch. And then, in a moment that takes you completely by surprise, he does something that makes your heart both melt and swell—if that was even possible.

Because instead of his usual teasing, instead of his cocky grin or some flirtatious remark that would make you roll your eyes, Satoru simply looks at you. Really looks at you. His intense blue eyes don’t dart downward like you half-expected, don’t darken with some unchecked hunger. Instead, they stay locked onto yours, unwavering, all traces of playfulness and impulsive need fading away. What replaces them is something quieter—something gentler. A tenderness that makes your breath catch, your chest tighten. 

Satoru, who always had a joke ready. Satoru, who always teased and never took anything too seriously. Satoru, who could have had anyone but had spent years bothering you instead—staring at you now like you were something fragile, something precious, something he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch. His throat bobs as he swallows, and then, carefully, softly, he speaks.

“Are you sure you wanna… do this?” His voice is quieter now, laced with something that sounds an awful lot like uncertainty. Like he’s terrified of ruining whatever this is. “I’m not—pressuring you or anything, am I?” His fingers twitch slightly at his sides before he hesitantly lifts a hand, reaching out toward you—not to pull you in, not to take what you’ve offered, but to tuck a few strands of your hair away from your face. His touch is featherlight, barely there, but it sends warmth spreading across your skin.

“I just—” He exhales, gaze flickering between your eyes, searching, as if trying to read your thoughts. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to. If me kissing you made you think you needed to… y’know, do anything more—then I’m sorry.” The words leave his lips like a confession, like the idea of you feeling obligated to be with him hurts him. And that—that simple fact—makes something inside you ache. Because Gojo Satoru, for all his arrogance, for all his relentless teasing and larger-than-life presence, was standing before you now with uncertainty in his eyes. Not because he didn’t want this—God, did he want this—but because he needed to be sure that you did too. For a moment, you just stare at him, your heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your fingertips.

Because this isn’t how you thought this moment would go. Not with him—not with Gojo Satoru. You had braced yourself for teasing, for him to say something infuriatingly smug, to grin like he had won some long-fought battle. But instead, he was looking at you with quiet hesitation, with care. With something that felt like love. Your throat tightens.

“Satoru.” His name– his first name, not Gojo– leaves your lips in a breath, barely above a whisper. His hands—so sure and confident only moments ago—remain frozen where they rest against your sides, like he’s afraid that if he moves, you’ll change your mind.

“I want this,” you say, and you make sure there is no room for doubt in your voice. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his hoodie, grounding yourself in the feel of him. “I’m not saying it just because you kissed me, or because I think I have to. I want this.” His lips part slightly, but no words come out. His grip on you tightens just a fraction, like he’s trying to make sure you’re real.

You take a breath, steadying yourself, because you need him to understand—really understand. 

“I’ve wanted this for longer than I want to admit,” you confess, a nervous laugh bubbling up in your throat. Your fingers flex where they rest against his chest, feeling the steady thud-thud-thud of his heart beneath your palm. He’s warm, impossibly so, like he’s radiating heat just for you. “And it scares me, Satoru. You scare me.” His brows furrow, the corners of his mouth dipping slightly downward. “Scare you?”

You nod. “Because you make me feel things I don’t know how to deal with. You drive me crazy. You make me want to strangle you half the time, and the other half I—” Your voice catches, and you swallow thickly before continuing. “I want to be near you. I want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.” His hands slowly slide up your sides, not rushing, not pushing—just holding. His thumbs brush against your ribs, barely ghosting under the underside of your chest, but even that light touch sends a shiver up your spine.

“You have to know this isn’t just some impulsive decision for me,” you tell him, voice softer now, filled with something you can’t quite name. “I don’t do things just because they’re convenient, or easy, or expected. I do them because I choose to.” You reach up, cupping his face between your hands, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. His breath stutters when you stroke your thumb over his cheekbone, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks completely lost. “I’m choosing you,” you whisper, staring straight into those brilliant blue eyes. “Not because you kissed me. Not because of some annotations in a book. But because I want you, Satoru. I want this.”

A shaky exhale leaves his lips, and for a second, you swear he stops breathing altogether. His grip on you tightens just enough for you to feel it, his fingers pressing into your waist like he’s holding himself back. Then, slowly, so slowly, he leans in, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm against your lips when he speaks.

“You can’t take that back now, y’know,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost reverent.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

In a flurry of kissing and movement, his hands roamed over your breasts, fingers pressing and kneading with a slow, deliberate touch that sent shivers down your spine. Every brush of his palm left a burning trail in its wake, making you arch into him, craving more—needing more. His lips never left yours for long, only breaking away to breathe, to murmur your name against your mouth like a prayer, before diving back in, desperate to claim every inch of you. Your own hands found their way under his hoodie, fingertips exploring the firm ridges and planes of muscle beneath. He was all taut sinew and warmth, his body solid beneath your touch, the faintest tremble betraying just how much he wanted this too. Heat pooled in your lower belly, a slow and delicious ache, as you pressed your palms flat against his stomach, feeling the way his muscles flexed under your touch.

And then you felt it—the thin trail of hair below his navel, soft against your fingers, leading downward. Your breath hitched at the realisation, a flush creeping up your face as your hands lingered there, tracing along his happy trail. The sensation made him shudder, his breath stuttering for just a moment before he let out a low, breathy chuckle. “You’re teasing,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rougher now, his grip tightening slightly where he held you.

You shook your head, though your fingers betrayed you, still trailing feather-light touches just above the waistband of his sweats. “Just exploring,” you whispered, emboldened by the way he reacted to your touch, the way his muscles tensed as if he was barely holding himself back. His entire body felt heavier now, weighted with desire as he sucked in a slow breath. His fingers twitched against your sides, like he was restraining himself, before he finally gave in.

With one fluid motion, he pulled his hoodie over his head and tossed it aside, leaving his torso bare. The sight of him knocked the air from your lungs. He was beautiful—lean but strong, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, skin warm and golden in the dim light. The definition of his abs trailed down to his happy trail, disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweats. There was something intoxicating about seeing him like this, vulnerable yet utterly self-assured, the usual cocky glint in his eyes replaced with something softer, something just for you. You traced your fingers lightly over his stomach, watching the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. His breath came a little heavier, his hands gripping your waist like he was holding onto the last thread of his restraint.

"You're staring," he teased, though his voice was lower now, rough around the edges.

"Maybe," you admitted, dragging your fingertips just a little lower, reveling in the way his breath hitched. His lips curled into a smirk, but there was a heat in his gaze now, something dark and wanting. “Careful,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I might start thinking you like what you see.”

Your pulse thrummed wildly, heat licking at your skin as you met his eyes.

“I do.”

He gave you a full-blown grin, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners, his canines glinting in the dim light of his dorm room. It was a look you had seen a hundred times before—mischievous, teasing, effortlessly confident—but now, there was something else underneath it. Something softer. Something real. His hands, warm and slightly rough, hesitated at the waistband of your sweats, fingers grazing the fabric as if waiting for permission. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach. But despite the heat in his gaze, despite the way his breath was uneven and his chest rose and fell just a little too fast, he didn’t move forward. Not yet.

“Are you sure?” His voice was lower now, quieter, cutting through the thick silence that had settled between you. His usual bravado was nowhere to be seen—no teasing remark, no cocky smirk. Just Satoru, looking at you like you were something delicate, something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have. Like he was terrified of doing something wrong, of ruining this moment before it could fully begin. You could feel his hesitation in the way his fingers flexed against your waist, could hear it in the way his voice wavered just slightly, as if he was bracing himself for you to change your mind.

It made your heart ache. You reached up, cupping his face gently, your thumb brushing over his cheek. His skin was warm under your touch, and he leaned into it instinctively, like he couldn’t help himself. His breath hitched, just slightly, and you saw the way his lips parted, the way his lashes fluttered when your fingers traced along his jaw.

“Satoru,” you murmured, voice steady despite the way your heart was hammering against your ribs. His eyes flickered to yours—deep, cerulean, searching.

“I’m sure,” you whispered. “I want this. I want you.” For a moment, he didn’t move, like he was letting the words settle, like he needed to make sure he heard you right. And then—

He exhaled, something tight and heavy leaving his chest, and his hands finally gripped your waist properly, fingers digging in just a little, grounding himself in the reality of the moment.

“God,” he muttered, his forehead pressing against yours, his voice almost shaky. “You have no idea how much I fucking love hearing you say that.”

He gently coaxed you out of your sweatpants, hand finding itself atop your underwear, breath hitching at the dampness that was present. Seems like this fueled his ego a little bit too much, because the next thing you knew, the Satoru you knew was back.

“Dang you’re wet as fuck.”

You gave him a pointed look and he faltered, the smirk on his lips morphing into a grin as he ushered out apologies. Your hands clutched the sheets when his fingers began to gently touch you, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you eyed his hand with need. You couldn’t stay mad with him for long the way his fingers tugged the flimsy material down and began to work his hand between your legs. He grinned, experimentally probing around, ocean eyes half lidded.

“This is where you’re weak, right?” He murmured sensually, fingers finding your sensitive nub, eyes flickering up to watch your reactions, his pretty pink lips parted open in pleasure as he watched you come apart under him. He was precise with his fingers, circling you, teasing, pinching and rubbing, before thrusting in all the right spots, reaching places your own hand was unable to take you. Before long you had to let out muffled whimpers into his big palm that he had slapped gently across your lips; it covered almost the entirety of the lower half of your face– you were a bit loud. 

Unable to take it anymore, you finally reached your breaking point, squirming underneath him as you came all over his fingers. Your chest was heaving, rising and falling in rapid succession, your breath coming in short, uneven pants as the aftershocks of pleasure rippled through you. Every nerve in your body felt like it had been set alight, over sensitised and trembling in the lingering warmth of his touch. Your skin was flushed, heat radiating from every inch of you, and the room felt impossibly small, like it was holding the weight of everything that had just passed between you. 

Hungry for more, you made quick work of his sweats, sliding them and his boxers down (pokemon boxers but you were too needy to make fun of him for it). Satoru loomed above you, shakily guiding himself to your entrance, pale lashes fluttering as he looked down at you. He was hard– had been hard the moment you two had started kissing, pressing up against you in a needy manner.

“Su–Sure you can take it? Don’t need a break?” He breathed out, referring to the fact that you had practically jumped at the opportunity to take things further right after having an earth shattering orgasm thanks to his lanky fingers.

“So fucking sure– please, Satoru.” You flutter your eyelashes up at him, and he swears he almost comes from the sight. He nods, leaning down to kiss your lips gently, all the while he ushers himself inside you slowly. 

Now you knew he had meant you not being able to take it because you might have been tired after your first orgasm, but now it felt more like he was warning you, because he was long, pressing inside of you deliciously. Once he had buried himself to the hilt, he halted in his tracks, giving you time to adjust. His face was screwed in pleasure, likely trying not to give in the urge to move. After a few minutes, when you deemed the feeling of him inside you as highly pleasurable and not the slight uncomfortableness that you initially felt while being split open in two, you murmured out a small “I’m ready,” and that was all it took for Satoru to start moving.

He kept up a slow, steady yet deep pace, his muscular form looming over yours, and for a moment, all you could do was look at him. The dim light of his dorm cast shadows along the sharp lines of his body, emphasizing the taut muscles in his arms, the sculpted contours of his chest, and the way his abdomen flexed with each controlled movement. His skin was flushed, a faint sheen of sweat glistening over his toned physique, catching the light in a way that made your breath hitch. His broad shoulders framed his lean build perfectly, his biceps taut as he braced himself above you, his fingers curling into the sheets as though restraining himself from losing control entirely.

And then there was his face. Messy white hair fell into his eyes, strands sticking to his damp forehead, and his lips—God, his lips—were parted, slightly swollen from kissing you breathless. His sharp jaw clenched subtly, his throat bobbing with a swallow, and when his gaze flickered down to meet yours, you felt like all the air had been sucked from the room.

His usual cocky grin was nowhere to be found. Instead, his expression was intense—raw, focused entirely on you, like nothing else in the world mattered. His impossibly blue eyes, darkened with something deep and consuming, dragged over your face, your body, drinking you in like you were something precious, something his. “Satoru—” you breathed, voice barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to make him groan, his grip on your waist tightening as he dipped down, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough, strained. “You have no idea how good you look right now. How good you feel right now.” He moved his hands from your waist, his fingers trailing over your skin as he shifted, bracing his forearms on either side of your head. The new position brought him even closer, his body pressing against yours, heat radiating between you as he continued to move within you. His breath was heavy, mingling with yours, and for a moment, it was all-consuming—the feeling of him, the weight of him, the slow, deep rhythm that sent shivers down your spine. When you had imagined being with Satoru like this, you’d thought it would be… different. You had expected teasing, cockiness, maybe even some ridiculous commentary, because that was just who he was. You thought he’d smirk down at you with that usual self-assured gleam in his eyes, crack some joke between kisses, whisper something infuriating just to make you blush. You had even braced yourself for the possibility of him being downright kinky, because he was Gojo Satoru, and he loved pushing limits.

But this? This was something else entirely.

This wasn’t just cocky flirtation or the result of years of pent-up rivalry and tension—this was intimate. It was raw, real, and so incredibly him, stripped of bravado and playfulness, leaving behind only the man in front of you. The one who had been waiting, wanting. The one who had loved you quietly, even when you didn’t know. His movements were deliberate, his touch reverent, his normally mischievous eyes dark with something softer—something deeper. When he leaned down, his lips ghosting over your cheek before pressing to the corner of your mouth, it wasn’t just a kiss—it was a silent confession. A plea. A promise. His fingers threaded through your hair, brushing over your temple, before trailing down to cup your jaw with aching gentleness. “You okay?” he murmured, voice hushed, almost breathless. You swallowed, overwhelmed by the warmth in his voice, the concern laced into every syllable, and you nodded, reaching up to lace your fingers through the soft strands of his hair. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t expect this.”

A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He tilted his head slightly, pressing another lingering kiss just beneath your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. “Didn’t expect what?”

“For it to feel like this,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “For you to be like this.”

Satoru stilled for half a second before exhaling softly, lowering himself further so his chest was flush against yours. His nose brushed against yours, lips hovering just out of reach, and when he spoke, his voice was almost fragile. “I don’t think you realise how long I’ve wanted you,” he murmured. “It was never just some passing thing, y’know? It was always you.” Your chest tightened, your fingers gripping his hair just a little harder as his words settled deep within you. The air between you felt electric, charged, as if the weight of every unspoken feeling had finally caught up with you both. He kissed you again—slow, deep, purposeful—and you melted into him, your hands roaming over his bare back, nails lightly dragging along his spine. He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing against yours as he moved, his body fitting against yours so perfectly that it made your heart ache. There was no rush, no urgency—only the quiet, lingering touches, the shared breaths, the whispered words against flushed skin. It wasn’t just about desire or need anymore. It was about something much more.

And before long, you were coming again, whispered cries of his name leaving your mouth as you tightened around him– and if he had indulged in the feeling a second longer, he would have finished inside. He splattered on your stomach, hissing at the feeling, pale eyes fluttering shut. After a few seconds of basking in the afterglow, he quickly went into his bathroom, grabbing a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach down. Your breath came in quick, unsteady gasps, each inhale failing to steady the trembling in your limbs. A slow burn lingered beneath your skin, every nerve alight with the remnants of his touch. The air felt thick, pressing in around you, charged with everything that had just transpired. Heat clung to you, pooling in the spaces where his hands had been, leaving you adrift in the aftermath.

Your fingers curled into the sheets beneath you, gripping them like an anchor, like you needed something to steady yourself against the dizzying sensation still coursing through your veins. A shuddering breath escaped your lips, and you swore you could still feel the phantom imprint of his hands on your skin, the way they had mapped out every inch of you with a reverence that made your chest ache. Satoru was watching you.

You could feel his gaze—heavy, intense, something unreadable flickering behind those endless blue eyes. His hands hadn’t left your body entirely, his fingertips still resting against your hips, warm and grounding. There was something in his expression that made your breath catch—a mixture of awe and something softer, something tender. Like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened, like he was committing every second of this moment to memory. He swallowed, his own breathing uneven, before he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder—slow, lingering, like he just needed to feel you. His lips brushed over your skin again, trailing up toward your jaw, soft and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.

–

​​The room was bathed in the dim glow of his bedside lamp, casting long shadows across tangled sheets and discarded clothes. Your body still hummed from the aftermath, warmth pooling in your limbs as you lay half-draped over Satoru, your cheek pressed against his bare chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. For a while, neither of you spoke. His fingers idly traced shapes along your spine, the touch featherlight and absentminded, while his other hand rested lazily on your hip, holding you close. You could still feel the heat radiating from his skin, the aftershocks of everything you had just done settling between you in the form of comfortable silence.

It was intimate, more than anything. More than the way he had touched you, more than the way he had moved inside you—this moment, the stillness, the way he exhaled softly like he was content, was what made your chest tighten.

Then, of course, he ruined it.

“So,” he drawled, breaking the peaceful quiet. “Would it be weird if I rated that experience a solid twelve out of ten?” You groaned, weakly smacking his chest, but he only laughed, the vibrations rumbling beneath your palm. “Oh my God, Satoru—”

“I mean, I am the strongest,” he continued, completely undeterred, stretching one arm lazily above his head. “So it makes sense that I’d be great in every department.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” 

He grinned, tilting his head to peer down at you. His hair was a mess, white strands sticking out in different directions, and his lips were still kiss-bitten, smugness radiating off of him in waves. “Oh, don’t worry, sweets, I’d never joke about my performance in bed—”

You smacked him again, this time harder, and he let out a dramatic oof, clutching his chest like you’d wounded him.

“You were being so sweet just a second ago,” you muttered, pouting as you nestled closer against him. “Why do you have to ruin it?” Satoru chuckled, his arms wrapping securely around you as he pulled the blanket over both of you. “C’mon, you wouldn’t want me any other way.”

You sighed, exasperated, but deep down, you knew he was right. He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side so he could face you properly, one long leg tangling with yours. His hand came up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch softer than you expected after all his teasing.

“…Was it really okay?” he asked, voice quieter this time. Almost hesitant. Your heart ached at the sincerity laced in his words, the way he was still Satoru, even after everything. Still checking in. Still making sure. You smiled, cupping his face in your hands as you pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “It was perfect.”

A slow, almost shy smile spread across his face, and for a moment, the cockiness was gone, replaced by something softer. Something real.

Then, of course—

“Perfect, huh? So you are saying I’m the best you’ve ever had—”

“GOJO SATORU, I SWEAR TO—”

His laughter rang out through the dorm, loud and unfiltered, and despite yourself, you couldn’t help but laugh too, the warmth of it curling around your heart. The warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the lazy way his fingers traced along your spine—it was all lulling you into the kind of peace you hadn’t felt in a long time. The teasing had settled into something softer, something quieter, and as sleep tugged at the edges of your consciousness, you thought that maybe, just maybe, you could stay like this forever. Satoru shifted beneath you, his hand sliding from your hip to your waist, pulling you just a little closer. His lips brushed your temple, his breath warm as he murmured, “Hey.”

You hummed in response, not quite opening your eyes. His fingers tapped against your skin, hesitant. “Be my girlfriend.”

That woke you up. Your eyes fluttered open, your head lifting slightly to look at him. “Huh?”

He huffed out a soft laugh, like he couldn’t believe he had actually said it. The Satoru everyone else knew was loud, arrogant, untouchable. But right now, he was just a boy with messy white hair and sleep-heavy eyes, holding you close like he was afraid you might slip away.

“I mean,” he continued, clearing his throat, “we’re already doing all this. And I like you. A lot. So…” He exhaled sharply, his thumb brushing over your waist. “Be my girlfriend.” Your heart clenched at the quiet sincerity in his voice, at the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t just another one of his playful remarks. This was real. A slow smile spread across your lips. “Wow. That was kind of romantic.”

He groaned, tipping his head back against the pillow. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, sweets.” You giggled, shifting to prop yourself up on one elbow, fingers threading through his hair. “You really like me?”

He turned his head back toward you, his eyes—those striking, endless blues—soft in the dim light. “Yeah,” he said simply. “I really do.” Your chest felt too full, your heart racing faster than it should have been after everything you’d already done tonight. But it wasn’t nerves or fear—it was excitement, warmth, the dizzying rush of knowing Satoru Gojo, of all people, wanted you in a way that wasn’t fleeting.

“Okay,” you whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be your girlfriend.” He grinned instantly, arms wrapping around you as he rolled you onto your back, settling half on top of you with a triumphant look. “Took you long enough to say yes,” he teased, but the relief in his voice gave him away.

You laughed, shaking your head. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he murmured, kissing you again, slow and deep, like he was trying to seal the moment in time. And maybe he was. Maybe you both were.

—

Getting into a relationship with Gojo Satoru was like being swept into a whirlwind—one that was loud, chaotic, and entirely consuming. Everyone around you had the same reaction when they found out: About time. 

Shoko had rolled her eyes, exhaling smoke from her cigarette as she smirked. “Honestly, I thought you guys were already dating. You’re both just that disgusting.” Nanami had simply given Gojo a long, knowing look before shaking his head, muttering something under his breath about finally. Even Geto—before everything—had grinned, clapping Satoru on the back and saying, “I was starting to think you’d never get your head out of your ass.”

Satoru, naturally, took it all in stride, tossing an arm around your shoulders and grinning like he’d won the lottery. “What can I say? She couldn’t resist me forever.” 

Your life since then had been… a lot. In the best way possible. Because being with Satoru meant being at the center of his world, whether you liked it or not. And he was obsessed with you. Absolutely obsessed. It was the way he always had to be touching you—his hand warm on the small of your back, his fingers playing with yours, his arm slung around your shoulders. It was how he looked at you, like you were the most fascinating thing in existence, eyes always following you, filled with nothing but admiration. It was the teasing—“I get it, babe. I’m super hot, but please let me study for five seconds without you getting distracted by me.”

It was the sweetness—bringing you your favorite snacks when you were stressed, pressing kisses to your temple when he thought you weren’t looking. Intertwining his large hand with yours and placing it in his coat pocket And, well, it was also the other things—

“Satoru, we have a lecture in twenty minutes—”

“Plenty of time, sweetheart. What, you don’t want to study with me?”

“This isn’t studying. You’ve been making out with me for the past ten minutes. And you really do need to stop. What if someone catches you in my dorm?”

“C’mon, I can’t resist you–”

“Sure you can, ‘Toru.”

“But you love me.”

You did. God, you did. And he loved you. He never let you forget it. You’d studied together for your physics final, working hard side by side. Even though Satoru acted like everything came easy to him, he did work for it. And so did you. You spent countless nights pouring over equations, bouncing theories off each other, fighting over who got to use the good highlighters.

And when results day came—

“Oh my God,” you whispered, staring at your score.

100%. Your hands trembled slightly as you clutched the paper, the weight of all those late-night study sessions, the stress, the endless debates with Satoru over formulas and theories—everything culminating in this moment. Pure, unfiltered pride swelled in your chest. Before you could fully process it, a loud whoop filled the air.

“YES! I knew it!”

Suddenly, you were lifted off your feet, spinning in a dizzying circle as Satoru’s wild laughter bubbled over. His strong arms wrapped around you, keeping you pressed to him as he twirled you around the hallway like an overexcited kid. 

“My baby’s the smartest person in the world!” he crowed, not caring about the amused stares from your classmates. “Geniuses bow to you! The world kneels before you! Einstein weeps in his grave—”

You were laughing breathlessly by the time he finally set you down, his hands still firm on your waist as he grinned down at you. Your heart swelled at his excitement. “You did well too, right?”

“Pfft, of course.” He flipped his own paper up dramatically, flashing his score.

99%.

“I mean,” he sighed, shaking his head with mock sorrow, “you totally obliterated me, absolutely wrecked my pride, but it’s fine. Matter of fact, I think it was the fact I didn’t revise Bernoulli’s principle enough that resulted in me getting only 99%-”

In another world where he wasn’t your boyfriend, you would've smirked and gloated about beating him, and he would’ve snapped back with something equally smug. But instead, all you felt was pride—pure, unrestrained pride for him. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you.” Satoru melted into you, his arms encircling your waist as he hummed into your shoulder. “Mmm, say it again. I like hearing that.” You chuckled, pulling back slightly—just enough to see the sheepish grin creeping onto his face.

“Actually…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes glinting with something suspicious. You frowned. “What?” He exhaled dramatically. “You’re probably gonna kill me when you hear this.” Your eyes narrowed. “Satoru.”

“Okay, okay—” He raised his hands in surrender, before leaning in like he was telling you a juicy secret. “Technically, I got a 99 on the midterm.” You blinked. “…What?” He grinned. That smug, trouble-making, up-to-no-good grin. “Buuuut you looked so beautiful when you were all happy about your score, so I lied and said I got 95 last minute.”

Your mouth dropped open. “You—WHAT?!” 

Gojo Satoru—the cockiest, most competitive man you knew, the one who never let anyone forget how brilliant he was—had lied about an exam score for you? He burst out laughing at your expression, reaching out to ruffle your hair. “Don’t go feeling all bad about it, sweets. This final weighed more than the midterm, so technically—” he booped your nose, “—you’re better than me.”

You were still reeling, warmth spreading through you as you realised he had lied to see you happy. “You changed your answer for me—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved off your shock, smirking. “I’m the best boyfriend in the world. You can say it out loud, babe.” You rolled your eyes, exasperated, before tugging him down into a kiss.

He instantly responded, his grip on your waist tightening, his lips warm and eager against yours. The teasing faded for just a second, replaced by something softer—something real. When you finally pulled back, he looked way too smug.

“…Still smarter than you, though,” you teased, just to knock him down a peg. Satoru gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Oh, you absolutely crushed my heart and then ate it—”

Before you could react, he suddenly straightened, towering over you with a wicked glint in his eye. His large hands slid around your waist, ushering you closer until your bodies were flush against each other. His voice dropped, suddenly deep and velvety, amusement laced with something more sensual. “Guess you’ll just have to make it up to me in bed, huh?”

You groaned, immediately shoving at his chest. “You’re the worst.”

“Your worst.” He waggled his eyebrows, entirely unashamed. You shoved his face away, laughing as he grinned, easily catching one of your wrists in his hand. Instead of saying anything else, he simply lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to your wrist, his lips warm against your skin.

–

Later that night, you were curled up in his dorm, forcing him to watch Whisper of the Heart. He had grumbled and groaned, saying he’d already watched it way back in high school and that he "totally got the whole love and dreams thing," but you still made him sit through it. He spent the first twenty minutes sulking, arms wrapped around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder like a spoiled cat.

“I’m way better than Seiji,” he huffed after a particularly sweet scene. “Like, a million times better.” You snorted. “Jealous of an anime boy, Satoru?”

“I’m just saying,” he drawled, tightening his arms around you. “If I was in this movie, she wouldn’t even look at him.”

“Uh-huh.” You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the warmth. “Sure, babe.” His fingers absentmindedly toyed with the hem of your sleeve, and for a while, you both watched in silence, the glow of the laptop screen painting soft shadows over the room. Halfway through the movie, you reached into your bag to grab your laptop, but something tumbled out and hit the floor with a soft thud. You blinked at the familiar cover of the last book.

“Oh crap,” you muttered, picking it up. “I forgot to return this.” 

Satoru turned his head, eyes narrowing. “Wait…” He plucked the book from your grasp, flipping through the pages with an expression that immediately made you suspicious. “You didn’t return this yet?” You nodded, smiling sheepishly. “Guess I kinda forgot.” His fingers slowed as he reached the back cover, eyes landing on the borrowing log where the name “G.S.” had been scrawled in blue ink.

For a moment, he just stared. His thumb ran over the initials like he was absorbing the weight of them, of what they had meant to you before you knew the truth. His usual teasing expression softened, something almost nostalgic flickering in his eyes. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he grabbed a pen from his desk, twirled it between his fingers, and, without saying a word, carefully crossed out “G.S.”

You watched as he replaced it with something else—his full name, written neatly, in the same familiar shade of blue ink in the column beneath the crossed out G.S. He paused, then handed you the pen. Understanding settled between you like an unspoken promise. Without hesitation, you leaned down, pressing the tip to the page to the column under his name, adding your own in smooth, looping letters.

The same date. The same ink. Together.

Satoru stared at it for a long moment, his usual cocky grin nowhere in sight. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his lips, something softer, something fonder. He looked at you with that unreadable, almost reverent gaze—the one that always made your breath catch. And then, with absolutely no warning, he grinned and yanked you straight into his lap.

“Sooo,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear as his arms locked around you. “How does it feel to know you’ve been fantasising about me this whole time?” You groaned, swatting at his arm. “Satoru—”

He just laughed, effortlessly dodging your weak attempts at smacking him. “Nah, nah, don’t try to deny it! I knew you had a crush on me.”

“I did not—”

“G.S.,” he sing-songed, his breath warm against your skin as he nuzzled into your shoulder. “You thought I was some mysterious, tortured genius. Bet you used to daydream about me in class, d’you think I showed up as some mysterious faceless guy in your wet dreams?—” You grabbed a pillow and shoved it into his face. His muffled laughter rang through the room, and when he pulled the pillow away, he was still grinning. He kissed your shoulder, lingering there for a beat longer than necessary.

And this time, you let him gloat.

a/n: summary of this entire fic basically (art creds to su2kuna on 𝕏)

sorry if there are error/grammar mistakes or slight plot issues uni is lowkey gnawing at the folds of my brain and a girl gets sick of reading 32k words over and over again.. but i hope you all enjoyed reading this because i really enjoyed writing it :) huhuhuhu much love