#and since no one else is doing at least that then he gets first place by default

[munsonsmixtapes]

A Guiding Hand

Simon "Ghost" Riley x virgin!fem!reader

You call a sex hotline looking to get some relief Ghost is happy to help.

cw: MDNI (18+) masturbation, dirty talk, use of nicknames

special thanks to @robinfeldt98 for giving me this idea!

Your hands shake as you type in the number on your phone. Your roommate gave it to you when you told her about your…problem. But now you’re afraid to commit, to actually call the number that you’ve typed in. You just stare at it, willing yourself to hit the green button but you just can’t. 

You finally press it and the speaker button then hurry across the room, hoping that they’ll hear that no one is on the line and hang up. That’s what you’re hoping for but all of that goes out the window when you hear that husky, British voice. 

You slowly come over to the phone after he’s greeted you, approaching it like you would a strange noise in your home. 

“Hi.” You finally get yourself to speak and your heart rate picks up when you hear a deep chuckle. 

“There she is,” he replies. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” You know you should give your name out to random men over the phone but this is his job, certainly he wouldn’t do anything creepy with that information-at least you hope not. 

“Y/n.”

“Y/n,” he repeats, the name coming out slowly like he’s getting a feel for it on his tongue. It sounds so…hot when he says it. ”I like that. I wonder what it would sound like during climax.” It sounds like he’s close to the receiver and it’s almost like he’s whispering it to you in your quiet bedroom and it causes a shiver to skate down your spine. 

Simon is never usually this forward. There’s usually a script that he created to make the calls flow easier, but you seem so nervous that he feels like he needs to take a different approach. He’s treading lightly, not wanting to scare you off. 

He doesn’t know why, but you seem…different from all the others. You’re not flirting with him like everyone else does. This is clearly your first time and since he started this job, this is the only time he’s wanted to be sweet and gentle. 

“So what’s the reason for your call, y/n?” He asks, his voice somehow getting even lower and you feel yourself getting wet already. How is he able to do that? 

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name first?” You ask and he chuckles again, making your heart leap again. 

“Oh, where are my manners? I’m Ghost.” 

“Ghost.” You don’t want to admit that you like it. That you can imagine yourself moaning it over and over even though you’ve never done that before. You’ve never done-well, anything. And that’s why you’re calling. To hopefully get some relief. 

“It sounds even better when you say it. So, what’s the reason you’re calling, sweetheart?” The nickname causes your cheeks to heat and you can’t believe how easily you’re playing right into his hand. 

“Well-“ you cut yourself off, unsure to tell him the truth without sounding weird. “I’ve never-I’ve never had sex before.” 

“I see,” is all he says in response, waiting for you to finish your explanation. 

“And I’ve never…masturbated either so I guess I’m just looking for some relief. To take some edge off.” 

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. How would you like me to help? You call the shots.” 

“Me? Why me?” You hate the idea of being in control. You want to be told what to do and how to do it. You’ve never done well in an authoritative role and he clearly has all the experience so you’d much rather have him take the reins. 

“Hey, let’s take a deep breath, darling.” he says. “In,” he says and you both suck in some air. “And out. Good,” he says once you’ve breathed all the air out. “I’m happy to take control if you want me too. I’ll do whatever you want. I’m yours for the night.” 

No one’s ever said that to you. No one has been so…eager to please you in this way and now you kind of wish you knew what Ghost looked like. If he’s as hot as his voice. You’re sure he is but you don’t know why. You want him to be here with you, knowing that it would ease your mind to have him standing in front of you.

But maybe it’s for the best that this is over the phone. You’d hate for him to see just how nervous he’s making you. How hot your skin feels, how your heart hasn’t stopped racing since he answered the phone. 

You’re so grateful that your roommate isn’t home. The wall between your room is so thin that you just know she’d be able to hear everything and you shudder just thinking about  her overhearing this conversation. 

“You take the lead,” you tell him and even though you can’t see him, Simon is grinning from ear to ear, loving the suggestion you’ve just made. He’ll be submissive some other time. Tonight, he’s going to make you his whore. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” he chuckles. “So you’ve really never touched yourself? Let’s start there. What are you wearing, y/n? Something hot?”

“Unfortunately not. Just a big t-shirt and panties. I-I was about to go to bed but I just can’t sleep.”

 Even though Simon has no idea what you look like, the outfit you’ve described is making him hard beyond belief. He closes his eyes, imagining sitting you down onto your bed, spreading your legs wide as he kisses you gently, pulling down your panties before fingering you until you beg him to stop, until you clench around him, screaming his name as you orgasm. 

“Ghost?” You ask and he’s immediately snapped out of his little fantasy. For the most part, doing this doesn’t really do anything for him. He’s done it so often that it’s just starting to feel like his job. But the fact that you want him to help you get yourself off-and for the first time-well that fills him with the kind of confidence he hasn’t had in a long time. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes. “I lost focus imagining you in what you described. What I’d do if I was there.” His voice is deeper, more seductive and you feel your panties getting progressively more wet the longer the conversation goes on. He’s imagining scenarios too? God, you wish he was here. “Where are you?” 

“In my room.”

“Alright, first, I want you to lie on the bed.” You do as he asks and wait for his next instructions. Your phone is by your head now as you imagine him hovering over you, whispering into your ear. 

“Are you on the bed, sweetheart?” He asks, his voice so gentle and you feel your heart warm at how gentle he’s being with you. You just know that other men wouldn’t be so nice.

“I am,” you confirm with a nod even though he can’t see you. 

“Now I want you to take your panties off and spread your legs wide for me.” You slowly take your panties off and toss them to the side before pulling your t-shirt up to your waist so it doesn’t get in the way. You then spread your legs wide, already wet as can be even though nothing’s happened yet. That’s just the effect that Ghost has had on you, suppose. 

“And once you’re ready, I want you to press your ring and middle fingers together then insert them. Your pace doesn’t matter. Go as fast or as slow as you’d like. This is all about you.” 

You bring your dominant hand up and hover it over your face as you do as he asks, you then take a deep breath, letting your eyes flutter shut as you slowly bring your hand to your cunt. You make a sound when they make contact, just the tips of your fingers sliding inside. 

You make a whimpering noise at how foreign it feels and Simon feels his cock straining against his jeans at the pretty sound. God, he thinks he’s going to come. 

“Does it feel good, princess?” He asks in a whisper and this nickname is your favorite of the ones he’s called you tonight. 

“So good,” you reply, pushing your fingers in and out of your cunt. You can’t believe you’ve never done this before. If you had known how good it felt, you would have done it a lot sooner.  

“A little faster. Can you do that for me?” You pick up your pace and all of these noises you’ve never made before start spilling from your mouth as your free hand bunches up the sheets that are underneath you. You spread your legs wider to give yourself more access and it makes all the difference when your fingers get deeper, reaching a spot that feels better than all the rest. 

“That’s it, princess,” Simon responds. “Just like that. Doing so good for me.” He’s now palming himself, so close to whipping it out and getting himself off, but he can’t. This is about you and he doesn’t want to get distracted from helping. Maybe if you call again, he can convince you to switch roles. “Fuck you’re so hot.” 

You’re close already, you can feel it. The movement mixed with Ghost’s encouraging words is making your head spin, making you feel dizzy. This is unlike anything you’ve felt before and now you understand why so many people do this regularly. 

“Ghost, oh my god,” you whine as you finally reach your peak, back arching, your cunt clenching around your fingers. Hearing you moan his name, he lets out a little whimper, knowing that he’s going to take care of himself as soon as the call is over. He has no idea how the hell he’s going to be able to do any calls after this. It’s the best one he’s ever had and now he hopes you call him all the time just so he can hear your pretty nosies again and again. 

“Fuck,” is all you’re able to say as yoou’re coming down, your body sticky with sweat as you remove your fingers.

“You did so good,” he says, his voice soft again, sounding so different from just moments ago. “How do you feel, princess? Bet you feel so good, don’t you?”

“So good,” you agree. 

“Well, I guess my job here is done. Same time tomorrow?” His tone is making it sound like he’s joking, but he really does want you to call tomorrow. And every day after that.”

“It’s a date,” you reply, your voice sounding a little tired.

“Alright, same time tomorrow. I’ll keep the line open so you just call this number again. Now go clean up and get some rest, princess. You’ve earned it for being such a good girl.” The line goes dead and you just lie there, not sure you can go to sleep after that, already counting down the minutes until you can call Ghost again. 

part two

[vampiriito]

Pillow talk and pleading the fifth amendment (r.c flashback)

(JJ Maybank x pogue! reader x Rafe Cameron) ..in which you found yourself torn between two worlds when your best friend, JJ Maybank, who you've been in love with since forever starts dating Kiara. In a jealousy haze you start hooking up with Rafe Cameron, the infamous kook prince. Do you manage to keep everything casual and under control? No, is it fun? Also kind of no, given you hate yourself each time you managed to orgasm. And especially since Rafe's favorite activity is to pick on you and your friends outside the bedroom..

warnings; mentions of drug use, over-dosing? (not quite), me losing the plot lowkey, mentions of troubled family life, (please don't hate me for this chapter i promise the plot is going somewhere.)

Rafe hated the Cut. Hated the trailer park trash that always gawked at his SUV whenever he pulled up for a drop. He made a habit of keeping his interactions with Barry as short as possible. Classism, for him, was less about superiority and more a defense mechanism—a way to cover up the gnawing jealousy he felt toward the recklessness pogues lived with. That dangerous kind of freedom that came from having nothing to lose.

He learned that from you.

You were always in his orbit, whether he liked it or not—Sarah’s best friend, the one always hanging around the Cameron estate like you owned the damn place. It started with the way you'd linger in the pool, shameless in the way you’d swim and sunbathe like it was your home. It probably ended last night. You, in that barely-there vampire costume, looking like a bad decision wrapped in cheap lace and glitter. And then there was the after—after he’d hate-fucked you into the mattress only for something softer to slip through in the comedown. Something far more dangerous. Something that stung worse than a bullet wound—something he'd had the misfortune of feeling both.

You were a storm. He’d point you out in crowds just to mock you with his friends—“that one,” he’d say, “made for party-girl shit.” All smudged mascara, thrifted clothes soaked in body glitter, cheap vodka on your breath. Armor. He knew it. Knew it covered something broken underneath. But that first night you agreed to sleep with him, you didn’t act broken. You were magnetic. And while you were stuck feeling guilty for letting it happen, he was already thinking about how to get you into his bed again.

Luck was on his side. You were in love with someone else—a guy who had a girlfriend. Your best friend. The one who treated you like a sister while trailing after Kiara like a lost dog. Your stupid little heartbreak story sent you spiraling, and you landed in Rafe’s bed like it was where you were always meant to end up.

Rafe was a strong man. He’d had plenty of girls—one-nighters, married women, even two girlfriends at once. Love and sex were background noise to him. A vice, like alcohol. Something to take the edge off. But you—fuck, you were coke. The addiction he hated but kept close anyway, tucked away in drawers and behind locked doors. Just like you.

Naturally, he hated you. You were from the wrong side of the island. Loud-mouthed, sharp-tongued, angry in the same ways he was. And yet he was getting attached. Quietly. Pathetically. He’d rather cut his own head off than admit he’d grown to tolerate you—maybe even like you. Maybe the way he touched you during sex gave it away, maybe his tone slipped sometimes. But he was always high enough to ignore it. And so were you. Until those two times you showed up sober. And he felt it—how the intimacy ate away at you, twisted itself with guilt. And in the worst, most Rafe way possible, he reveled in it.

But you were beautiful. And no man—least of all Rafe Cameron—was built strong enough to survive the full impact of beauty and anger combined. If there was anyone on this island weak enough to beat the shit out of someone for you, to stay up all night taking care of you after you got spiked at a party—it was him. And somewhere along the line, he stopped searching for you in crowds just to laugh.

Now, he looked for you because he wanted you to look back. Because usually, it meant you were bitter enough to let him inside you. And fuck, that was his favorite feeling these days. Second only to coke. Or maybe they were tied for first—he couldn’t really decide, not after you'd let him snort a line off your tits, skin still warm from the anger and lust coursing through your veins.

He thought about it now, standing outside Barry’s trailer, enduring the wait like it was some sick form of penance. The heat was unbearable—thick and clinging to his skin, making his polo stick to his back like a second, sweat-soaked layer. It was made worse by the rot of the Cut itself—the muddy stench of marsh, the sharp tang of rusted metal, the musty funk of damp plywood and moldy insulation. It all fused together into something that made his stomach turn, a reminder he didn’t belong here, not really. Even after all this time.

He was leaning against the passenger door of his SUV, lazily scanning the trailer park like he wasn’t seething inside, already regretting not sending someone else to pick up. And that’s when he saw you.

You were a ways off, just far enough that most people wouldn’t have noticed. But he knew the shape of your body like the back of his hand by now. Legs stretched out on a sun-bleached lawn chair in front of your sad little trailer, which you so generously referred to as a yard. Bikini barely hanging on, skin slick with sunscreen, earbuds in, sunglasses on—completely unaware that he was watching.

You glistened.

And Rafe—God help him—leaned forward slightly like an idiot, squinting past his Ray-Bans as if getting a few inches closer might let him drink in more of you. You looked unreal. Mouth-watering. If he were any closer, he might’ve dropped to his knees just to get a better look. He moved his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, like some parody of a high school jock ogling the prom queen. He was disgusting. He knew it.

But so were you. That’s what made this whole thing feel fair.

He watched as you shifted positions on the chair, angling your head up to the sky, eyes closed behind mirrored lenses. He wanted to reach out and taste the sweat-slick slope of your neck—the dip of your collarbones. He wanted to feel all that sticky sunscreen under his palms, wanted to hear the sharp exhale and sigh when you opened your eyes and found him lingering. He wanted to see your shock.

But you didn’t see him. He watched as you shifted around on the chair, like you were struggling with your headphones. And then he thought about walking over there.

He wanted to feel your heartbeat under his palm—wanted to feel it jump at the realization you’d been watched. He didn’t think about what would come after. He didn’t think about what would happen when you got angry, which would inevitably turn him on. He didn’t think about the fact that you were the reason he was standing outside this shitty, trash-infested trailer park—didn’t think about the fact that he’d never once before been this desperate for somebody. He just thought about walking over there and getting you to look at him.

The screen door of the trailer slammed shut, and he looked straight ahead, gaze locking on your younger brother as he ambled to the lawn chair, plopping down into the seat beside yours. You didn’t even look up. He tried to imagine what your brother’s voice sounded like, but he’d never spoken a single word to the guy. He watched as your brother reached over and tapped your shoulder, said something you didn’t hear due to your earphones. You finally opened your eyes, glancing over at your brother, speaking a few words back before reaching up and pulling your headphones off.

Your expression was solemn, unexpectedly soft as you pushed the cheap sunglasses up onto your head, fingers threading gently through your younger brother’s hair. Rafe couldn’t hear what you were saying—not from where he stood, not over the barking dogs, the buzz of old radios, and the muffled arguments bleeding from cracked trailer windows—but he didn’t need to. The way your lips moved, the way you tilted your head just slightly, like you were trying to protect him from something only you understood, said enough. He hadn’t even known you had a younger brother. And he sure as hell had never seen you like that—soothing, maternal, smiling in a way that wasn’t bitter or taunting, just… warm.

You looked like the perfect fucking picture of an older sister. It should’ve been disarming, maybe even charming. But instead it messed with his head more than he liked. Especially because you were still lounging there in that absurdly small bikini—stars and stripes stretched tight across your chest and hips, and he knew damn well you didn’t give a shit about patriotism. It was probably just the cheapest thing on sale at that trashy lingerie place a few blocks away, the one with flickering neon lights and busted mannequins in the front window.

He felt something in his chest that he had no name for. Something he hated. He felt like an outsider, staring at you through a window, not a part of your world. For the first time, even seeing you in a place like this, he couldn’t think of a single derogatory nickname. He felt… vulnerable, somehow. Like he’d been cut open. Like he was nothing more than a man with too much anger and a heart that bled just enough to be lethal. He didn’t like the feeling, not one bit.

You said something to your brother—something that was probably kind. Something that was probably meant to comfort, or calm him down, or offer some sort of reassurance. Rafe didn’t try and listen or read your lips to figure out what. He was more focused on the fact that you could actually be nice. That you weren’t all harsh edges. That maybe, just maybe, there was some good in you. It was a strange, disorienting thought.

But he got stuck on it anyway—on you. Even as the screen door of your trailer flung open with a violent creak and your mother barreled out two minutes later like she’d been lying in wait for a fight. She was older, but it was hard to place exactly how old. Maybe in her forties, maybe barely past thirty. Women in the Cut aged differently. Stress and cigarette smoke had a way of settling into skin like premature rot. Her bleach-blonde hair was piled messily on top of her head, dark roots bleeding out like a warning sign, and every step she took down those flimsy metal stairs looked like it was powered by rage.

Rafe could tell she was trying to keep her voice down—probably didn’t want the entire neighborhood hearing whatever filth she was spitting—but it didn’t matter. The venom in her posture did most of the talking. And yet, Rafe wasn’t sure what distracted him more: the ugly, unfolding scene or the fact that you’d stood up now, your bikini riding high on your hips, thighs tense, back straight as you stared her down with all the quiet fury she deserved. He felt torn—his eyes flicking between your ass and the fire building in your expression.

Your little brother clung tighter to your side, clearly used to this routine. You didn’t even flinch, just curled your arm around his shoulders and kept your fingers threading through his hair like it was the one anchor you could still offer him. You were shielding him—not just from her words, but from the attention, the shame. Your voice was sharp now, no longer inaudible, cutting through the trailer park air in short, furious snaps as you argued back.

Whatever she said next made your expression flicker, just for a second. Not fear. Not weakness. Something deeper. Something that made Rafe’s gut twist without knowing why. You said something back that made her scoff, loud and bitter, then spin on her heel and disappear back into the trailer, slamming the screen door behind her like it owed her money.

Rafe realized he’d been holding his breath. Still leaning against the SUV, one hand on the roof, the other twitching at his side. You didn’t see him—too caught up in crouching next to your brother now, brushing hair off his forehead, whispering something too soft for anyone else to hear. You looked tired. Not just physically, but in that quiet, bone-deep way that Rafe only recognized because he’d seen it in his own reflection once or twice after a bender.

And fuck if it didn’t gut him a little. Because this wasn’t the version of you he liked to laugh at. This wasn’t the glitter-smudged party girl with a sharp tongue and too many opinions. This was the version of you he wasn’t supposed to see. The kind that made him forget every reason he’d ever convinced himself he hated you.

And it made him want to hurt something. Or someone. Maybe himself.

He wanted to kick himself for looking. He shouldn’t have looked. He should’ve just kept waiting for the coke and driven home, where he could get high and forget every single thing he’d seen. Instead, he pushed himself off the car like an idiot—like a stupid, stupid idiot—and started marching forward. There was probably a reason his mother taught him to stop and think before acting. It never ended well. And right now, Rafe looked like he was itching for a fight. He felt like he was itching to break something. Or someone.

It wasn’t until he was standing a few feet away that your brother’s gaze flicked up, eyes widening as if he’d just realized the strange guy in expensive clothes had seen the whole thing. The look on the kid’s face was all the explanation Rafe really needed, and the thought came quickly:

I hate this place. I hate this trailer park. I hate that I’ve just seen something I wasn’t supposed to.

He hated it. He hated the poverty. He hated the trash. He hated your mother. He hated every dirty second of this.

A part of Rafe wanted to storm back to his car and tear ass out of the trailer park as fast as possible, like somehow that would make him forget what he’d just seen. He wanted to go home, get high, climb into bed, and pretend this shitty little neighborhood existed in a different universe. It would be easier that way.

But what he wanted and what he felt were two totally different things. And right now, he was feeling a whole lot of things. Anger. Disgust. Discomfort. Dislocation. Disgust at himself. Dislocation in this godforsaken place. Discomfort at the raw, naked memories your fight with your mother had managed to drag to the surface.

And anger. Always anger. At the world in general. But right now, it was anger at your mother. At you. Like it was your fault he’d gone and seen something he shouldn’t have—something you would’ve never shown.

The anger boiled hotter in his chest as his gaze snapped from your brother to the screen door, which banged open again—louder this time, like it had had enough of the dysfunction it had to frame. One more outburst and the damn thing would fly clean off its hinges, Rafe thought. But it wasn't your mother coming out this time, not at first. It was some guy. Her flavor of the month, by the looks of him. Probably late twenties, early thirties, barely older than Rafe himself but already worn down in the way people from the Cut often were—too many smokes, too many fights, too many failed get-rich-quick schemes staining his hands and breath.

He stood behind your mother, shirtless, smug, beer in one hand, the other hanging at his side like it was just waiting for an excuse. And then his eyes landed on you—lingering, slow, and lecherous in a way that made Rafe’s stomach turn violently. It wasn’t a glance, it was a fucking appraisal. He looked at your bikini-clad body like it belonged to him. Like he’d already thought about peeling it off you. And it took everything in Rafe not to move.

His jaw tensed so hard he swore he heard something crack. His hand twitched at his side again, itching toward the switchblade tucked in his back pocket—not because he planned on using it, but because the grounding weight of it reminded him he could. He could storm across that busted fence, drag the guy down the steps by his greasy ponytail, and make sure he never looked at you again.

But he didn’t. He stayed right where he was—rooted at the flimsy gate to your yard, stuck somewhere between predator and coward, pride and concern. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing anymore. The coke was the reason he was here. That was it. That was supposed to be it. Pick up from Barry, drive back, ignore the filth clinging to his clothes and the way his lungs always felt heavy after stepping foot on this part of the island. But now he was watching this play out like it was a fucking TV show, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Couldn’t move forward. Couldn’t walk back.

And it was you who froze him. You—hands on your little brother’s shoulders, shielding him again, standing between him and your mother’s latest mistake like a human wall. You were speaking through your teeth now, voice low but dangerous, chin raised in defiance that didn’t match the dread Rafe saw tightening your body. You weren’t scared for yourself. You were scared for the kid clinging to your side.

And that did something to Rafe. Twisted something inside him that had already been straining under the weight of his own damage. He shouldn’t care. He fucking shouldn’t. But he did. Enough to stay longer. Enough to let the sun cook his skin and his temper just a little more as he stared down a man he knew he’d see in his dreams later, face bloodied and broken at his feet.

He stayed there, watching it play out. Listening to the man behind your mother slur insults like he was throwing back whiskey.

When the guy leaned back against the door frame behind him, sucking on his cigarette like he owned your entire property, like the trailer, the yard, and especially you, were his to do as he pleased, Rafe thought about killing him. He could do it. He could do it without breaking a sweat. He’d have never felt better. He’d had the same fantasy about your mother, too. But his eyes were locked on yours now. Watching your face. And he couldn’t look away. Even as the dread in your eyes turned to anger. He almost smiled at the way you’d suddenly transformed from weary to wildfire. It was fascinating in a way. Even if he’d only seen this version of you a few times before. Even if it wasn’t the version he liked to think about. It was like watching you suddenly go feral-—like there was this animal lurking deep down, only kept under the surface by some frayed leash.

And yet he still wanted to stay. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was that same twisted, dark fascination he often felt when watching the trainwrecks that littered his own life. But the other possibility… that was more uncomfortable. Less understandable. It made the back of his neck prickle in a way he didn’t want to think about. So he did the only thing that had worked for him before—he turned off his thoughts. Let his brain go blank. Drowned out the sound of your raised voice and the sound of his own thoughts. Just stood there. Just watched. Just waited.

He felt stupid standing there, stupid watching this play out like it was some reality TV show or an interactive performance. But his legs stayed rooted, and his mind stayed empty as he watched your mother lean into the door frame, eyes flicking over to the guy leaning heavily against the trailer like he had no bones, cigarette dangling from his fingers. She seemed to be looking for backup. Looking for approval. Some kind of validation from the guy who had left behind a trail of skid marks and beer cans to get here.

Rafe’s temper flickered again as he saw the gleam of satisfaction in the guy’s eyes. He couldn’t look away now. It was like watching vultures circle around a dying bird. He felt sick to his stomach as the smirk on the guy’s face morphed into a greasy smile, and he leaned in to whisper in your mother’s ear. You were still yelling, screaming almost, hands clenched at your sides so hard that your knuckles had turned white. It made him hate you. It made him hate your mother. It made him hate the way the kid at your side flinched away from the commotion he usually grew up with. The feeling drowning the anxiety he was supposed to feel once you, your mother or dead-beat boyfriend would inevitably notice him standing there like an idiot.

You were in the middle of biting out another warning, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, when your little brother tugged lightly at your wrist. You glanced down briefly, saw the way his eyes were fixed on something just to the side, brows drawn in confusion. You turned slightly, expecting another nosy neighbor or maybe Barry looking to get involved again—but instead, your gaze collided with him.

Rafe Cameron.

Leaning against the rusting chain-link gate like he owned the place. Still as stone, arms crossed lazily over his chest, one foot pressed back against the gate as if he hadn’t just watched your family drama unfold in real time. But his eyes—those unreadable, ocean-blue eyes—were trained directly on you, not a single flinch of embarrassment or shame for getting caught. Just calm, controlled heat. The kind that made your mouth go dry even though your entire body was flushed with humiliation.

Your stomach dropped. You had no idea how long he’d been standing there. Long enough, clearly. Long enough to have seen your mom screaming and the beer-soaked bastard behind her giving you the kind of look that made your skin crawl. And long enough to see you play the parent for a kid who still hadn’t let go of your wrist.

"Are you fucking serious—" you muttered under your breath, blinking like he might disappear if you looked away.

But he didn’t. He just tilted his head slightly, something unreadable flickering behind his lashes. Not smug. Not entertained. Just… watching. Like this had all been inevitable. Like he’d been waiting for the curtain to drop.

Your mom followed your gaze instinctively. “What the fuck now—” she started, before trailing off at the sight of the Kook prince himself. Her face went through about three different expressions before landing somewhere between irritation and sharp interest, brushing her fingers through her fried hair like she suddenly gave a damn about appearances.

“Isn’t that Ward Cameron’s boy?” her voice cooed, suddenly too sweet, and Rafe’s jaw twitched at the sound of it. His eyes never left yours. He didn’t acknowledge her. Didn’t blink. Just stood there like a storm waiting to happen.

“Go inside,” you told your brother quietly, nudging him toward the steps without taking your eyes off Rafe. “Now.”

Your mom was already halfway to turning into her flirtiest self, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her too-tight tank top, but your tone cut through her like a slap. You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to. It was the kind of sharp that made people obey, especially when it came from you.

And still, Rafe didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just waited. Waited to see if you’d walk to him or pretend like he hadn’t seen every vulnerable, unvarnished piece of your life you never meant for anyone like him to know.

His body tensed almost imperceptibly as your brother disappeared back into the trailer, but he could still feel the heat of his eyes on him through the screen door.

Something twisted deep in his gut as he forced himself to stay still, forced his gaze to remain focused on your face. His fingers dug into his own arms. The taste of anger and humiliation and disgust was all mingled in his mouth now. The guy behind your mother was still looking at your back like you were a piece of meat, and Rafe wanted to knock the teeth right out of his mouth.

He heard your mother’s voice, too sweet and high-pitched and fake, but he didn’t look at her. He just kept his gaze fixed on you, watching your shoulders tense like you were about to face down a storm. He saw the way you looked, eyes like fire and heart pounding in your clenched fists. He saw the way your mother smiled like she’d just won the damn lottery, not even noticing the threat in your eyes.

And he held his breath like he’d never need to breathe again.

He felt your anger like waves crashing on a shore, the tension in your body so hot and powerful he swore he could see the sparks of electricity flashing underneath your skin. It was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. More than the money. More than the parties. More than the drugs. Even in the middle of a shitty trailer park, with your hair in a tangled mess and your face contorted in fury, you’d never been more beautiful. It made his chest hurt.

He was barely breathing now. If it was possible, he was standing even more still, barely blinking. He didn’t break eye contact, didn’t look in your mother’s direction. He just stood there, trying to look casual and failing, like some kind of human statue. Watching you. Watching everything.

It felt like he might snap. Like he might step forward, maybe grab you by the wrist. Maybe storm across the yard and—he wasn’t sure what. He kept his feet glued to the ground, the anger in his lungs turning into something more like anticipation.

You stared back, the fury and everything in between coiling with the shame you felt. At the fact that out of everyone on this godforsaken planet, Rafe Cameron had to be the one to witness your trailer park fights with your tipsy mom, in a cheap, laughable bikini. A sight he only got to see on TV. Something he'd probably skip on Netflix—like another season of Shameless or whatever else the world liked to gawk at and pretend wasn’t real for people like you.

You wanted the ground to split open. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in the ugly, clumsy way things happened in your life. Like maybe the porch would cave in and crush your mother’s boyfriend. Or maybe a power line would snap and knock you out cold. Anything but this—the stillness, the silence, the slow bleed of humiliation.

There was a brief pause. Your mom and her boyfriend lingered behind you like shadows, still buzzing with the energy of the fight, but even they seemed to sense the tension tightening the air. You waited. Braced yourself. For the smirk. The laugh. Some drawled-out insult dressed up in that clipped, condescending tone only Rafe Cameron had mastered.

But he never spoke.

He just stared. Bored. Detached. His weight shifted against the gate a fraction, but the rest of him stayed maddeningly still. Like he was watching the last few moments of a movie he didn’t care about, waiting for the credits to roll. And maybe that hurt more than whatever insult you’d been bracing for. Maybe that dead-eyed disinterest felt worse than cruelty.

Because in his silence, you felt seen. Not in the way people romanticized it—no, not like poetry or connection. This was invasive. Like someone had peeled your skin back and left you raw in front of an audience that didn’t even care enough to react. You felt exposed. Cut open, with Rafe Cameron glancing at your rotting insides with a casual, bored expression.

And yet, there was something else there. Something you couldn’t quite name. Because behind the arrogance and detachment, there was the faintest flicker of something human. A muscle in his jaw ticking. The way his tongue pressed into his cheek like he was holding something back. He looked at you too long, too intently, for someone who was supposedly above it all.

And in that second, you realized he wasn’t just watching you. He was trying to keep his distance. Like this moment, this version of you, was something he wasn’t supposed to see—and didn’t know what to do with now that he had.

He’d never thought it was possible to stare at something and have it feel like acid against his skin, but watching you now, he felt like his body was being burned to a crisp. And, like a idiot, he didn’t do anything.

He felt like a voyeur. A trespasser, sneaking a peek at a family he’d never know. The world around him was on pause. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. It made him twitch like he’d walked inside the wrong dream.

He couldn’t even tell if he was still breathing. Probably not. His heart did feel like it had stopped a few minutes ago, thumping against his lungs like a trapped bird. He wanted to look away so bad, but he was stuck somewhere between the fascination he’d always had for you, and this new feeling that he couldn’t name.

It was like you were two different people. The one he knew and the one you were now, trapped in this shitty trailer park with your shitty mom and her shitty boyfriend like some sort of sick joke.

And it made him feel like all of it—his world, your world—was some sort of sick joke, too. He wanted to wake up. He wanted to look away. To drive back to his shitty house and forget it all in a smoke-filled room or a vodka-soaked bottle.

He wanted to stay. He wanted to look at you. He wanted to see you. To see you like this. See all of you. He… he just wanted.

He felt his jaw clench involuntarily. The words had been perched on his tongue for a good few minutes, fighting to be released. Anything to break this silence, this weird, suffocating bubble you’d both been trapped in for the past ten minutes. Anything. Say something.

Nothing. He felt like his head had been stuffed with cotton, like his throat was lined with sandpaper. All he could do was stand there like a statue, hands clenched in his arms, trying not to blink. He didn’t understand it. He was never one to hesitate. He was action not thought, violence not control.

Your attention shifted over your shoulder when your mom made a comment about how nice Rafe was, in a tone so drastically different from the one she was using a minute ago that it would've made you laugh—if your throat wasn't already burning from the heat, the shame, the sting of old wounds cracked open in the sun. The word “nice” sounded absurd coming out of her mouth, like trying to staple a silk ribbon onto a grenade.

The heat gnawed at your skin, relentless. The sunscreen you’d slathered on earlier was now mixing with sweat, a sticky film that made you want to crawl out of your body entirely. You swallowed hard. The discomfort prickling at the back of your throat and stomach felt almost unbearable—like nausea, but sharper. More personal. Like a sickness born from being seen this way.

You shook your head in response to your mom’s comment—whatever it was—snapping out of your trance like someone had yanked a chain. You scurried to the lawn chair you’d been lounging on, every limb awkward, scrambling to find your denim shorts. As if Rafe hadn’t seen you naked before. As if he hadn’t had his mouth between your thighs less than twenty-four hours ago, like he hadn’t come undone in the dark hush of his bedroom with your name on his tongue.

"He’s not—" you started, voice catching in your throat as your shaky fingers fumbled with the zipper. "He’s probably lost on his way to Barry’s," you muttered, barely audible, stumbling over your words as if they were barbed wire.

Your gaze stayed locked on your hands, unable to meet his. Not out of modesty—because there was nothing modest about what the two of you had done—but out of something much worse: humiliation. This wasn’t the version of you you ever wanted him to see. Not barefoot in the dirt, not in a bikini that cost five bucks, not in front of a trailer with peeling paint while your drunk mom flirted with a boy barely older than you.

Not like this.

You managed to fasten the button with a shaky breath, denim sticking slightly to the backs of your thighs. And even then, you felt like it was too late. The damage was done. Rafe had seen too much. And he hadn’t said a single word. That was the part that made you feel insane—that terrifying silence. That unreadable expression. You didn’t know if he was judging you, pitying you, or worse—feeling nothing at all.

He saw you trying to move, trying to put the pieces of your fractured soul back together as quickly as possible, pulling your shorts on over your bikini bottoms like a shield - a thin, weak shield against something so much more powerful. Your mother’s voice seemed to fade into background noise, the sound of cicadas and the marsh washing it out. All he could see was you. Only you. Your trembling fingers and trembling legs. The burning scarlet spread across your cheeks. The way you couldn’t meet his eye. His chest felt like it was cracking in half.

He’d stared at you like it was the last time he’d ever see you. But he hadn’t said a damn thing. He hadn’t said anything at all, like a complete idiot. He felt like the worst kind of fool. He couldn’t be a coward and he wasn’t a weakling, so why couldn’t he speak? Why couldn’t he speak? Why did the words feel like hot lead on his tongue?

Speak. Say something.

He knew he should look away. He knew this moment wasn’t meant to be his. But he just couldn’t. He just stood there, like a statue. Like a voyeur. A trespasser. A stranger looking at the most sacred version of yourself—the raw, unpolished version he wasn’t supposed to see—and all he could think about was how beautiful you were. How you looked like one of those girls on TV that he was so disgusted by. How you’d somehow turned a trailer park into the most beautiful place on the planet just by being there. A place he didn't want to linger in.

And he did. He lingered. For what felt like forever. He wanted to stay there. Keep his eyes glued to you and your trembling frame like someone watching a car wreck. He wanted to study every crevice of your body and face until he had memorized you like a poem. He wanted to look at you. He wanted to be allowed to look at you. Like that. In the middle of a trailer park that he was supposed to hate like a curse word.

He felt like he’d lost his ability to speak, all because he'd seen you. Something raw and vulnerable and beautiful. Something that made his skin crawl with how real it was—the sound of your mom flirting, the cicadas singing through the thick humid air, the heat, the sweat, the dirt and the gravel; it wasn’t just a movie for a bored audience to watch on the couch. It was real life. You were real. And you were beautiful, even now, even when you were shaking on your feet like he'd punched you.

He might as well have punched you. It would’ve been less humiliating. A bruise would’ve been easier to explain than the feeling curdling in your stomach now—hot and rancid. You could’ve cried, you were that close. Not from hurt, but from shame, from the exposure of it all. The daylight was too honest. Too revealing. There was no bass to drown it out, no party fog to blur the edges, no alcohol to blame it on. Just Rafe fucking Cameron standing there, seeing too much.

Your arms crossed over your chest like they could shield you, like they could rewind time and keep him from seeing what your mascara and vodka usually hid. But he didn’t look away. He wasn’t saying anything, and somehow, that made it worse. If he’d laughed or called you a name or done his usual smirk-and-scoff routine, you’d have known what to do. But this? This staring? It made your spine itch and your jaw clench, made you feel like a bug on a pin.

It was too intimate. Too quiet. Too close to real. And it made you want to scream.

Or maybe he was storing it. Tucking it away to throw in your face later, to wield it like a weapon the next time you told him off or dared to look uninterested in his stupid games. Maybe he’d say something about your trashy little yard the next time you crossed paths, or mention the look in your eyes right now—glassy, tight-lipped, humiliated—when he wanted to remind you exactly where you came from.

He stood like a psychopath, unmoving, silent, like he had all the time in the world and nothing to say. But you knew he was freaking out too. You knew that expression wasn’t as calm as it seemed. Not with how his fingers twitched at his side, like he was deciding whether to light a cigarette or punch someone. Not with how his jaw flexed once, twice, like he was biting something back.

"Barry's down the street—" your voice cracked, breath catching on the way out, and you hated yourself for it. "Two or, uh… three trailers down."

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Not when you were this close to coming undone. The words stumbled out like they belonged to someone else, thin and fragile and stupid. You said it mostly to cut your mom off, who was still cooing about how “polite” he was, still trying to play hostess like she hadn’t been screaming at you five minutes ago.

But Rafe didn’t move. Didn’t thank you. Didn’t say anything. Just stared.

He felt like he was bleeding out, watching you try to hold yourself together like you didn’t want to be seen at all. He felt like he was watching something sacred. Something no one was meant to see. He felt like an intruder in your world. He knew because he was. And he wished he’d never seen it, because it felt like he was watching something die. You were so broken. So raw. So vulnerable. He could feel your fragility from here. You were trembling. He had to look away. Because he didn’t know what to do with this version of you.

He couldn’t look at you any longer. Your brokenness was too much to fathom. Just like your beauty. He was caught between wanting to grab you and put you back together, or run for his life. Because it felt more than human to look at you this way. To look at your broken pieces and feel something close to human empathy. But if he got in too deep, got too close, got too attached… he’d be just as broken as you. Maybe that’s why he was trying to backpedal. To turn around and go back to what he knew. It hurt less that way.

Your mom’s words had become a distant buzz in the background. Rafe’s gaze was trained on you. On your shaking shoulders and trembling hands. On the way you tried to hold yourself together, like it hurt to break apart in broad daylight. And for a moment, there was only the sound of your mother’s high-pitched chatter, the buzz of cicadas in the trees, and the slow, steady rhythm of his own pounding heart, trying to stay calm—trying to pretend like this was an average Friday night and not the most intense moment of his life. He didn’t know why.

And yet. He was glued to your face—to the pain visible in the redness in your cheeks, in your trembling fingers, in your averted eyes. He stared like he couldn’t look away. He stared because you were too beautiful to look away from. And for a second, you weren’t broken—you were just fragile. You were human, and real. And it made his chest hurt.

What the hell was he going to do with that?

He’d never really thought about his own humanity before. But now… maybe it was different.

The silence had settled around you like a haze, thick and awkward and suffocating. But his brain was firing up ideas. And most of them were downright bad. He wanted to say something. Anything. Maybe a joke, or even an insult just to make you look at him… something. Anything, just so you’d look at him. He wanted to say something, goddamn it, but…

But it wasn’t sickness. It was pity. Sympathy. Or whatever passed for sympathy in his cold, cold heart. You were so fragile. So real. Like you were breaking apart in front of him, and all he wanted to do was pull you into his arms and hold you together. And he’d never, never wanted to hold anything so much in his entire life. He wanted it so bad, it hurt. It was scary. It felt like… like he was human. Just like you.

Your brows drew together, knotting in visible confusion and disbelief as Rafe continued to stand there like some uninvited phantom—rooted to the spot, watching, silent, like if he stayed still long enough he'd become invisible. Your mother kept talking, her voice shrill and useless in the background, throwing out nonsense about the weather and whether Rafe liked Coors or Bud Light, and her boyfriend grunted in lazy agreement like he was being paid to play audience. None of it mattered. Not with him standing there like that.

You felt like a fucking joke. Like the punchline to a skit you didn’t sign up for. The sun was too hot, the sweat was sticking to your skin like shame, and there you were���bleeding out in the middle of your own personal circus. You swore you could almost hear a studio audience laugh track behind it all, the kind they used in sitcoms when a character got caught cheating or walked into a room naked. Because that's what this felt like: like Rafe Cameron was watching you with no clothes on, except this time there was no thrill, no teasing, no sex. Just your cracked foundation showing.

He looked at you like you were foreign. Like he had stumbled across a live documentary of something too ugly to process. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. He didn’t even flinch when your mom offered him a beer, like she thought he was a friend of the family and not the guy who had you crying out his name last night to let you cum. You let your gaze wander over him, his expression unreadable but present. Leaning against the flimsy gate like the chaos inside your yard was some exhibit and he was a detached spectator behind the velvet rope. Like he wanted to understand but didn’t know how, or maybe didn’t want to admit he already did.

You fidgeted with your fingers. Something small. Something to do with your hands while your insides twisted up. And then your eyes met his—and the bottom dropped out.

It wasn’t disgust. Not really. It was worse.

It was pity.

Thick and quiet, the kind that radiated off him like a heatwave, the kind that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed until you couldn’t breathe properly. It was the way someone might look at a dog on the side of the road with a broken leg. With that vague ache of guilt that didn’t quite outweigh the urge to look away.

And Rafe didn’t even blink when your mother kept talking about him coming in, like it was some fucking barbecue. Like the scene she just caused didn’t even exist. You snapped—gaze tearing away from Rafe as you turned sharply to her, voice tight, not loud but enough.

"He's not coming inside, Mom."

The silence after your words felt heavy, like it dropped a few degrees around you. Your tone was stiff, brittle, like you were trying not to crack apart in front of everyone. And when she blinked at you, confused, half-drunk, you could barely hold back the shake in your voice.

"You can't be serious right now…" you muttered, the words falling out bitter as you turned away, your jaw locked as you gave her that look—the one you always gave her when she pushed it too far. When she made you feel small in front of strangers. Except this time the stranger wasn’t just anyone. It was him.

He was quiet. His face was calm, but his chest was pounding. It was like you were throwing him through a loop.

Rafe Cameron. The guy who hated everybody and everything, who got off on being a massive douchebag in the hopes of turning people away—was frozen in place.

Because you were the one thing he couldn’t look away from. He was too invested.

And it made his chest feel like it was caving in. His heart was beating so hard it felt like he was underwater. He kept staring, and he could tell you knew it. He felt like his veins were buzzing with something alive and dangerous, like he was falling in through deep, dark water, and all in one brief second he had the insane urge to walk through the gate and pull you against his chest just so he could feel your pulse and know that you were beating too. God, what the hell was he getting into?

He could hear your mother’s voice now, sounding far away in his ears, talking like nothing was wrong. Like the world hadn’t just cracked open in the past two minutes. And he could feel your mother’s boyfriend staring the top of his head, like he thought all of this was funny. And he knew that if he saw the guy’s face right now, he would punch it.

He’d never wanted to protect anything in his life so much as he wanted to protect you now. And it was scary. It was scary to feel a stranger’s pain like it was his. It was scary to want to look after somebody else. It was scary to feel this much about another person. But it was the kind of scary that left his chest pounding, and his lungs expanding, and his blood feeling thick in his veins. Rafe Cameron was never scared of anything, and now he couldn’t figure out how to feel. He couldn’t figure out what to do.

You were fragile. So fragile. And the guy part of his mind was telling him to walk away now, before it got any worse. But the other part of his mind was telling him to fight. To run to you. To protect you from everything. To give you anything you wanted. To put you back together, like you were made out of the same glass that made up his world. He wanted to wrap you in something warm and soft and keep you for himself until you stopped trembling. He wanted to be the one to make you laugh like normal. He just wanted…

He wanted.

And while Rafe was going through a mind-numbing revelation right there in front of your trailer—standing out like a sore thumb in that baby blue polo and spotless white shorts, Ray-Bans perched perfectly on his head—you were unraveling in real time. The silence between you was suffocating. Not the charged kind that hung in the air before one of your usual fights, no. This was something heavier. More humiliating. Like being dissected under a spotlight.

You were growing more and more restless with every second he didn’t speak. The longer he stood there—arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes unreadable—the more it felt like he was watching something rot. Like you were some feral animal in a cage he’d stumbled across on a field trip to the dirty side of the island. This wasn’t one of your friends accidentally walking in on another screaming match with your mom. This wasn’t someone who understood, someone who came from the same mess. This was Rafe. And Rafe had the sick, rich luxury of pretending like your world didn’t even exist until this very moment.

And he was using it. Weaponizing it in the worst way—by saying nothing at all. Just standing there, infuriatingly calm, like he hadn’t watched you fall apart last night in his bed. Like he didn’t know how soft your voice got when you were close to crying. Like he hadn’t held you still with those bruising hands and kissed you too long for it to be casual. He schooled his face so well it almost offended you. Because all that silence? It made you feel small. Powerless. Like a fucking joke.

And just like him, you were frozen. Watching him the way he was watching you. Waiting for a move, a jab, something—anything—to relieve the pressure building in your chest. If he said something, you’d probably drop dead from the shock. If he turned around and walked away, you’d explode with fury. But anger—anger was easier. Cleaner. It gave you somewhere to put the pain instead of just… swallowing it down like bile.

"You have the wrong house, Cameron," you said again, the words sounding thinner now, straining under the weight of everything unsaid. They hung there, stupid and flimsy, especially with the clear view of his expensive SUV parked just a few yards down—right in front of Barry’s trailer. Like he’d walked over here on purpose. Like he wanted to see more. Hear more. Like he wanted to get close enough to witness the parts of you he didn’t deserve to see.

And that thought alone made your throat close up.

He heard your words, but it felt like a fever dream. Everything felt wrong—he felt like his body was moving on its own, controlled by some foreign power because he couldn’t seem to do or say anything else. He looked around, half expecting to see a camera crew or some stranger with a microphone standing behind a camera, filming what felt like one of those candid-camera-style shows. But all he could see was your mom’s trailer, a few stray trash cans, and your mom’s boyfriend with the greasy, stupid face. He wasn’t thinking straight. Nothing could get through to him;

His head and heart were pounding. All he could think was: You’re not supposed to see this, and he felt wrong for feeling something this heavy, this close. He felt like he was stealing something. Like he’d accidentally walked in on your therapy session, and now he was standing there listening in, taking up space and absorbing your secrets without even meaning to. He hadn’t heard you talk like that before. He never knew you could sound that small.

His silence was making your shame curdle into something uglier—anger, red and hot, spreading under your skin like sunburn. Your mom’s incessant babbling about Natty Lights and off-brand beers scratched at your overheated brain like nails on a chalkboard, every syllable amplified by the fact that he was still standing there. The fucking Rafe Cameron. And suddenly everything was louder—your heartbeat, her voice, the sound of your brother's nervous shifting next to you—until it all snapped.

"Jesus, Mom, can you shut the fuck up?" you barked, arms flailing out to your sides in a mix of desperation and rage, your voice cracking just enough to betray how close you were to breaking. "He's not coming inside our shitty trailer like he’s some family friend—he’s not even my friend!" The words tumbled out before you could catch them, too fast and too frantic, fueled by humiliation. And Rafe still didn’t say a word. Not even a flinch. Just stood there, perfectly still, like he was observing some zoo exhibit instead of your actual life burning down around you. Too quiet for it to be deemed as normal.

Your mom went quiet then, her mouth still half open from whatever pointless story she’d been dragging on about, eyes wide with the same shame now reflected back at her. She looked almost sobered by your outburst, like she was just realizing what this looked like from the outside—from Rafe's perspective. And maybe that’s what made it worse. That this had to be the moment where she suddenly decided to act like she gave a shit.

"He’s not even responding to you," you continued, voice rising as the tremble in your body finally bled into every word. "You just keep going on like this is normal—like you weren’t ready to slap me clean across the face ten minutes ago!" Your voice cracked again, this time sharp and slicing, carrying every buried frustration from every night spent slamming doors and swallowing pride. And still, Rafe was silent. Still watching. Like this was a fucked-up show he couldn’t look away from.

He felt like you’d punched him in the chest. Your voice was so loud and so… broken. So desperate and embarrassed. He hated it. He hated that look on your face. He felt guilty. That was new. He was never guilty. He never let himself feel guilty. But for you… guilt felt different. Guilt felt hot and sharp like a knife stabbing through his gut. And all he could do was stand there and listen.

His chest was tight. Tight enough to feel like his lungs were about to give out. Like his heart suddenly couldn’t find any space to beat, and he could feel the world spinning around him like a bad trip. You didn’t sound like yourself. There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm or a sly smile in sight. You were falling apart in front of him, and he was powerless. You were falling apart and he was a stranger, watching you burn. He couldn’t just stand there. He had to do something, anything.

Before he could do anything—before a single word of apology or explanation could leave his mouth—you turned your fury on him, cutting off whatever courage he might’ve worked up. You stormed toward the gate, barefoot and furious, dripping in sunscreen and shame, all teeth and fire. "Did you not hear what the fuck I said?" you snapped, your voice pitching above the ambient buzz of the Cut, your small frame shaking with emotion as you glared up at him—like a warning shot. You probably looked insane: slathered in melting sunscreen, cheap drugstore sunglasses perched atop your head, barking at a trust fund golden boy in a goddamn American flag bikini. The humiliation only made you angrier. "You have the wrong house, Rafe!" you spat, voice louder now, not quite cracked but dangerously close. "Why are you just standing there like some mute? Go the fuck back to your precious SUV, asshole!"

You were clinging to the anger like it was the only thing keeping you upright, letting it fill your lungs so you wouldn’t break down right in front of him. So you wouldn’t cry. So you wouldn’t ask him why he looked at you like that, like he understood something, when he was supposed to be laughing like always. You hated this. Hated that you couldn’t read him. Hated that, for a split second, it felt like he saw you. And you hated that it mattered.

He’d never felt the force of someone’s anger like that before. He couldn’t even begin to think how to respond. He was so used to being the one to make people shrink away, to walk away with their heads between their legs, that feeling your rage come down on him almost felt like a shock of electricity.

He opened his mouth automatically as you kept going, but the words wouldn’t come out. His mind froze the second he saw your face, and… you looked like you were about to cry? He felt his stomach drop.

Rafe had seen plenty of women crying before. Hell, he’d made plenty of girls cry. And he was usually the cause of it. He’d never felt bad about it before. He never bothered to ask if they were okay, or if their crying was his fault, because the answer was usually yes. And that’s exactly the way he liked it. But you were different. Everything was different, and watching his words—or lack of—break you with their absence, left him feeling like he’d just witnessed something sacred.

He’d never seen anything so beautiful. And he was pretty sure he felt the world stop turning just to watch you. The sun, the sounds of the water, the laughter from the neighbors—everything was just background noise as you stared at him. Your face, your eyes, your trembling hands, and the way you held them in trembling fists by your sides. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. He’d never seen this side of you. This raw, naked side of you, like you were giving something intimate and fragile, like a baby bird. And he didn’t even know what to say..

“I thought you’d at least have the common decency to say something.” You spat again, voice raising with your anger as your body trembled, fingers twisted so hard into your palms they'd probably leave new, fresh marks atop of the existing ones. "Are you stupid? Deaf? Or do you just like playing mute? Because if you really did hear me, you’d be running to your car before I shove you there myself."

He was silent. He couldn’t get even a single word to form in his head, let alone make it past his lips. You were livid and he didn’t blame you. He wanted to apologize, but you were yelling before he could even think of where to start. He felt sick, his mouth open, his eyes glued to your face like a man who’d just found religion. He wanted to walk up to you and pull you against his chest. But he was rooted to the ground like his feet weren’t his own. He’d never felt like this before.

Your hands shot out, shoving at his chest as lightly as you could while being angry and on the verge of crying, "Jesus, are you listening to me?" you asked, fingers curled around his forearm now, shaking him lightly as you yelled in his face.

And suddenly it was like the world stopped again. Your hands were on his body—your hands. And he almost flinched, like your touch was poison. The feeling of your touch sent a shiver down his spine, like he was suddenly alive again, suddenly feeling everything he shouldn’t be. Your voice was in his ears, and he could understand you so clearly, he could probably hear your heart beating in your chest if he tried hard enough—and his beat just as hard. He could smell your shampoo. And then he did the only thing he felt like he could do. He snapped back.

“Watch your tone,” he said, his voice a deadly calm as he pried your hand off his arm, holding it in his hand as he stared down at you—or into you, he couldn’t figure out which. His grip was gentle but firm as he held you, not to keep you from running but to keep you from falling apart completely. He was trying not to hurt you anymore than he already had, and he sounded like he was holding back his own emotion, not letting the rage or panic show on his face when he spoke.

Your brows raised enough to probably get lost in your hairline when he spoke, scoffing as you looked up at him, meeting his calm gaze head on like a bull "Me? You're the one on my fucking property, dick!" you yelled back in exasperation, a small gasp escaping from your mom behind you, as if you made the worst mistake talking back to the Kook Prince.

His face twisted into a scowl, his gaze burning into you like he wanted to rip you apart from the inside out. He’d never felt this way before. In all his life, he’d never once felt like this. Like he was stuck between screaming at someone, and dropping to his knees. His grip tightened involuntarily, fingers pressing into the skin of your wrist, his heart thumping so hard he was practically vibrating.

He was struggling to keep it in, his fingers trembling with the force of his restraint. He didn’t know what he wanted more: to punch something, or to pull you into his chest. It was like there were two voices. One screaming, let her go, let her go. and the other, quieter but just as intense, screaming, hold her, hold her, don’t let go. He settled on somewhere in the middle, letting his grip loosen but not daring to let you go completely, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist like a shackle.

He tried to calm his breathing, but he felt like his thoughts were racing a mile a minute, probably from the coke he snorted earlier. He’d just been standing there, watching your life break apart into pieces. Now it was your turn to see his life crumble. He hadn’t felt something this strong—this uncontrollable, ever. And it was making him go completely crazy. His thoughts were coming to him, rapid fire. Words like, let her go, hold her, stop, don’t let go, and let her see what happens to you too.

"What the fuck is your problem?" you asked more quietly now, still angry and ashamed, but you were crumbling under the weight of his touch and gaze.

He felt your anger slipping away like you’d lost your breath, your trembling voice coming out in a strangled rasp as your chin shook with the effort of holding your tears back. You were falling apart, and he’d never felt more guilty. You’d just been standing there, giving everything you had. All your hurt and anger, and he’d stood there like some deaf mute, watching the most beautiful girl on the planet fall apart in front of him.

It felt like the world was ending, like it was falling into a massive blackhole, and the only thing he could do was look at you and listen to the sound of his own heartbeat. It was like your voice was the only thing loud enough to break through the storm of thoughts. Your trembling body, shaking as you bit down on your lip to keep it from trembling as much. The tiny quiver in your voice, and your eyes, full of tears that might fall at any second. He’d never realized how much emotion a person’s eyes could hold. It was like he was seeing you for the first time.

He couldn’t look away from the pain written in that look. He’d never been so scared. He felt like if you cried, he might die. He felt like he’d break, and the world would end. His throat felt so tight, like he would never get another breath in if you actually broke down. He wanted to hold you so bad his palms ached. He didn’t even know why. All he knew was that he wanted your pain to stop so bad it hurt. He wasn’t even sure the pain was from you. It was like he’d taken some of it, just for himself. And for a split second he regretted approaching you that night and getting tangled in your life, like he had any right to be here. He didn't. He didn't know how to act either. It was like someone put him on a stage, in the middle of a performance that he didn't get the script for.

You felt lonely, standing there—ashamed, angry, and so uncomfortably cracked open that it made your skin crawl. Like this was the end of the world, like everything had narrowed to this trailer, this moment, this boy who wasn’t supposed to see you like this. And yeah, it sounded stupid when you thought about it. Because you didn’t feel like this when you saw JJ with Kiara, not even when it gutted you to watch him hold someone else with the same hands that used to hold you. That had ruined you. That pain was sharp, sure, but it was expected. You’d braced for that one, anticipated it like the return of a bad season. But this? This felt different. Like you were walking through that dark, twisted forest from Snow White—the one where every shadow looked like teeth, every tree wanted to gut you—and the hunter wasn’t far behind. Only he wasn’t chasing you with a blade. He was just watching. And that was somehow worse.

Because Rafe fucking Cameron stood there like a statue, silent and unreadable, his baby-blue eyes raking over your sun-pinked face like he was seeing a ghost—or worse, someone he’d never known to begin with. There was no mockery, no smirk, no punchline to knock you off balance. Just that eerie calm, that unnerving quiet that made your chest feel too small for your ribs. It was psychopathic. Disarming.

"Rafe," you said, his name barely pushing past your dry lips, softer than you meant it to be—less a warning, more a sound of panic. Of defeat. Like a cry for help you didn’t have the right to make. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Your voice shook as you tried again, harder this time, shoving the trembling lump down your throat. "Get your coke and leave. Now."

Because if he stayed another second, you weren’t sure what you’d do—whether you’d hit him, kiss him, or crumble right there in the dirt. And you didn’t want to find out.

He wanted to speak. He wanted to say something. Anything. But the world seemed to have been muted. He was stuck in a vacuum. Every sound seemed distant. Every movement felt too slow. Every word froze in his throat. He just stared. Watching you like you were about to disappear. And in that moment he felt like he really was crazy. Maybe the Kook Prince really was just a psychopath. Because the way he was standing there, like the most unfeeling, unbothered person in the world, was more cruel than if he’d just hurt you physically.

He didn’t realize he was holding your wrist tighter. His eyes were glued to your face, watching you with a kind of intensity that felt like he was trying to burn a picture of this moment into his head. He could feel the pounding of his heart in his chest. And he felt like he might be breaking the skin in your wrist, like he’d never feel anything other than this feeling. And he wasn’t sure he wanted anything other than this. Because if this wasn’t the most intense moment of his life, he didn’t know what was. His boring life could never amount to you. His impulsive decisions that made him Rafe Cameron, weren't anything close to the aching feeling he was experiencing while looking at you. While seeing a glimpse of your family life with his own damned eyes.

You shook your head, snaking your wrist from his hold only to grab his, your smaller hand looking laughable trying to assert dominance over him. You tugged him angrily, towards Barry's trailer, and you wouldn't have been able to move him if he didn't cooperate. And he did. He let you tug him away, barely listening to your muttered words and curses as you dragged him closer and closer to his SUV.

He let you tug him forward like a rag doll, the world spinning too fast like he'd just stepped off a roller coast, his blood pumping too fast and hard in his veins. He couldn’t look away from you as you moved away, the sunlight casting over your body and making you look like something too pure for the world you lived in. You looked so beautiful and angry that his throat felt like it might combust. You looked like an angel with a devil on your shoulder, like a fairy that could burn this trailer down if she wanted. And he wanted to get burned.

He felt like a sinner in a church, like a trespasser in a house of worship. Something sacred. Something forbidden. You felt like the ocean. Untamable, wild, dangerous, and beautiful. You could give life and take it away without feeling a thing. And right now, he felt like you could end his heart with a snap of your fingers. He wouldn’t mind. He let you tug him to his SUV, his eyes never leaving your face as he tried to listen to what you were saying—tried to hear your voice over his thoughts.

You slammed him against the driver’s side door hard enough to rattle the metal, the sharp clang echoing down the dirt road like a gunshot. His back hit it with a thud, but Rafe didn’t react—didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t do a damn thing. Just stood there, still as stone, his blown pupils swallowing the blue in his eyes like he’d snorted seven lines back to back. You hesitated—just for a second—your fingers still wrapped tight around his wrist before you dropped it like it burned you. Because maybe it did.

Maybe he wasn’t all there. Especially after last night’s party. Especially after the way he looked at you then—and the way he was looking at you now, like you were the only thing on earth still spinning.

But you didn’t care. Not about the scene you were making, not about your mom’s nosy stare or the man in the doorway who still smelled like your father's ghost. Not about the neighbors watching you manhandle the island’s golden boy like he was a stray that wandered onto your rotting patch of front yard. None of it mattered. Only the anger did. Only the fire simmering beneath your skin, threatening to spill out in full force if he didn’t stop looking at you like that.

"Are you—" you began, your voice sharp as gravel before cutting yourself off with a frustrated shake of your head, disbelief curling your lip. "You're fucking insane. You know that?"

You jabbed a finger in his direction, the accusation shaking in your hand. His gaze followed it, slow and lazy, like he wasn’t high on coke but on you, like your rage fed something in him he didn’t know how to name. It only pissed you off more.

"You gonna go laugh with your buddies about the scene you just witnessed?" you spat, voice cracking as your shame twisted into something bitter. You let out a dry, humorless laugh and looked away, eyes burning. "Make some stupid joke at my expense? Call it the trailer trash matinee special?"

Your voice dropped, quieter but sharper. "You got what you wanted, Cameron. Now get the fuck off my side of the island."

“Jesus..” he muttered under his breath, his stomach sinking in guilt. Because you looked—and you felt—so far away from him. Like you’d run a million miles away, taking his heart with you. He reached out, his hand gently circling around your wrist, stopping your hand before you could poke a hole into his heart. And you flinched away, like he’d branded you with his touch. He dropped his hand, eyes burning with a raw and feral sort of emotion that felt like a knife to your spine.

He never took his eyes off your face, watching you like everything he ever felt depended on your next sentence. It felt like he couldn’t even breathe without your permission. Like he’d burst into flames if you didn’t look at him. He tried to take a step forward, but your eyes burned into him, making him freeze, his fingers shaking with the need to touch you—not like a boy trying to get a pretty girl, but like a man trying to hold onto the only thing in the world worth holding. But you’d only push away.

He bit his lip, his eyes glued to you like you might disappear if he didn’t watch every single twitch of your finger. You felt far away, standing right in front of him. And he hated it. He’d never hated anything more in his life. He swallowed, his throat so dry he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so close to his own breaking point. It took him a beat to find the courage to speak, his voice coming out in a whisper. “I’d never do that.”

"And what the fuck did you do for the past 3 years, then?" you snapped back, words more louder than his soft, broken ones "You wanna tell me you didn't spend your free time picking on me and my friends in your free time, at any chance you got?"

“That’s .. different” he said, almost weakly, his eyes glued to yours like he was trying to remember every detail, every flaw, like he'd forget if he didn't. He wanted to take a step forward, but he'd probably end up on the wrong end of a slap if he tried. And he'd probably deserve it. But he couldn't tell you the reason he used to bully you. Because that would make him sound like some lovesick puppy. And Rafe Cameron didn't get in love. He got into fights. He didn't apologize to people. He beat them up.

“If you’d just give me a chance,” he said, the words coming out like a tired plea even to his own ears. “If you’d give me ten minutes to..” he trailed off. What was he even going to say? How could he make you even listen to him for ten minutes, let alone make you listen to the words he never thought he’d even feel, let alone say out loud? He was at a loss, his fingers shaking as his eyes flicked back and forth, searching for the right words. “I can make it up to you.”

You scoffed, the sound scraping out of your throat low and bitter, curling into something mocking by the time it hit the humid air. It didn’t even sound like you—hoarse from yelling, from biting back too much for too long, your lips chapped and split from the sun and the fury. And somehow, none of this felt like it was about your mom anymore. Not really. That storm cloud that had been hanging over your head since yesterday had finally broken open, spilling everything between you and Rafe into the space between your bodies—hot, suffocating, electric.

You saw it clearly now, how this wasn’t about the trailer park or the fight or even the neighbors who were probably watching from their windows like you were some fucked up episode of reality TV. This was about what changed. What twisted and snapped and rearranged itself after that first time, after the second, after the third. It was about him, standing in your part of the island like he didn’t belong but refused to leave. It was about the way he looked at you last night like he was terrified and addicted all at once.

And it was about you. About the guilt eating you alive. For letting him touch you. For liking it. For wanting it. For betraying everything and everyone you were supposed to be loyal to. This was your side of the island, where your sins weren’t allowed to follow you—but here he was, watching your world rot from the inside out.

You took a step closer, your chest barely brushing his as you stared up at him, venom dripping off every word. Your voice dropped, a private snarl meant only for him.

"Make it up to me?" you hissed, your lip curling. "You fucked me a few times and suddenly you’re finding God? Trying to repent like some born-again saint?"

You tilted your head, sarcasm dark and sharp as a knife. "What—being inside me suddenly made me worthy of your respect?"

You watched his face carefully for a flicker—regret, guilt, shame—anything. But he gave you nothing. Nothing but those stupid blue eyes, wide and fucking calm, and it made you want to punch a hole in the sky.

His hands shook at his sides with the anger building behind an iron wall he’d spent his entire life perfecting. If his body didn’t feel like he’d just been hit by lightning over and over and over, he would’ve been furious. He’d never been this angry before. But he wasn’t sure his body was even able to process that amount of rage and lust at the same time.

He closed his eyes as his head swam with the overwhelming onslaught of emotions flooding through him, drowning him in wave after wave of heat and confusion. For a moment he wished he was still high. Just to cope with what he was feeling. To get rid of that cold, hard look in your eyes that made it feel like you’d punched a big hole in his chest. Like you’d reached into his chest and ripped his heart out and spat it back at him in disgust.

”What the hell was happening?” he muttered, his gaze flicking back up, meeting your burning one with a tired and defeated look. He was used to violence. He was used to fighting, pushing, pulling, breaking anything good that got in his way. But the one look he couldn’t stand? Was the hate burning in your eyes. He shook his head, like he was having a silent conversation with himself, trying to hold back everything he wanted to say. If he did, this would be over. There was no coming back from his confession.

And all it took was a breath and two words.

”Please, listen.” He said, and it felt like a breath of air after weeks of drowning. He couldn’t keep eye contact with you. He couldn’t look away either. He felt like a fool, standing there with his heart in his fist, his life in your hands. But all he could do was stand there and stare at you for a beat, his eyes drinking in your face, memorizing every last detail. It hurt, but maybe he deserved it. Maybe this was the universe’s revenge for every other girl, and for every snide remark, and punch he landed.

"What is wrong with you?" you snapped, the words bursting out of you like a reflex, voice laced with disbelief and something dangerously close to fear. Your face twisted in confusion, lip curled in something between disgust and panic as you stared at Rafe like you were trying to make sense of what he’d become in the span of minutes—wide-eyed, too still, high out of his fucking mind. He looked like he was vibrating inside his skin but anchored to the dirt like he couldn’t move. Like he didn’t want to.

And then your head jerked sideways, zeroing in on Barry slouched on the creaking porch of his trailer like he was watching a rerun of some show he’d already memorized—beer in one hand, a lazy smirk plastered on his face. The bag of coke—Rafe’s coke—rested casually beside him, completely forgotten. That look in his eye, too calm, too entertained, made your stomach twist.

"What did you give him?" you barked, already halfway across the gravel yard, stomping up to him like you were ready to drag the truth out of his mouth with your bare hands if needed. You towered over him, shadows from the half-collapsed porch roof cutting across your face. "Barry. I’m not fucking around. What the hell did you give him?"

Barry leaned back, cool as ever, a smirk pulling at his chapped lips as he took a slow sip of his beer before nodding toward Rafe without a care in the world. "Same shit he always asks for. But he added a little extra on top today. Said he needed to take the edge off."

You blinked, mouth parting in disbelief. "The edge off?" you echoed, looking back at Rafe, who was now just barely shifting, like he was somewhere between space and time. It was like looking at a cracked version of him—one wrong word and he’d shatter.

You spun back around, voice lowering into a dangerous hiss. "Are you fucking serious? Did you watch him snort half the bag? He’s barely functioning, Barry!"

Barry shrugged, utterly unbothered. "He’s a big boy. Didn’t seem like he wanted supervision."

You stared at him, seething, your fists clenched at your sides. The worst part was that Rafe had done this to himself. And still—still—you couldn't stop the way your heart dropped at the sight of him swaying slightly on his feet like gravity was optional.

There were a million things running through Rafe’s mind, but that was the problem—he was thinking too much. He couldn’t get a grip on his body, on his thoughts, on his feelings. And even with everyone looking at him like he was insane, he didn’t feel present—like he was watching everything happen from a third-person point of view. He was too high, he didn't even register it. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this right now. But that was what cocaine did to him, right? Took away the fear. Took away everything. It always made him feel like he was invincible. Untouchable.

In a way, Rafe really was invincible. He could feel his blood pumping like a hummingbird’s, but he could barely hear you. He only caught glimpses of your face, and they burned through everything else. He couldn’t even feel it when his fingers started shaking, his thoughts going fuzzy and fast, a mile a minute. He’d never felt so alive and yet so disconnected. What he wouldn’t give to feel that way without the drugs. What he wouldn’t give to feel like this right now with you.

All he knew was that he was watching himself get high of coke. He was watching you look at him like you despised him and would rather be any other place on the planet. He couldn’t think anymore. Because he didn’t need to, once the drugs kicked in. He was in the clouds. He was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He could feel the world spinning beneath his feet, but he wasn’t even here. He was somewhere else, somewhere far, somewhere better and brighter.

And then he felt your hands on his forearms—small, warm, grounding. And he was back here again. Blinking slowly, vision narrowing until the blur started to resemble your face. You were saying something, your mouth moving with purpose, frustration, panic—but it came through like muffled static. He didn’t understand the words, but he tried. Because despite everything—despite the heat, the shame, the chaos—he was still trying to get something, anything, from you. Like a lifeline he’d already frayed down to threads.

You shook him again, a little harder this time, the panic clawing its way up your throat. "Rafe, talk to me," you hissed under your breath, your fingers curling a little tighter around his arms. "Don’t fucking shut down on me right now, please." But all he did was stare. Pupils wide, lips parted slightly like he was trying to form a thought but couldn’t grab onto one long enough to make it real.

"Jesus," you muttered under your breath, tearing your gaze from his and snapping your head to the side with a glare sharp enough to slice flesh. Your voice rose again, venomous and wild. "He’s fucking gone, Barry! And you were gonna sell him another bag?" The disbelief in your tone cracked mid-sentence as you gestured toward Rafe with one hand, still holding him with the other like he might float away otherwise. "You just gonna let him OD in your fucking yard while you sit there and sip your pisswater?"

Barry just shrugged again, expression unreadable behind the veil of his indifference. "He asked for it. I didn’t tie him down and make him snort it."

"You’re unbelievable," you spat, voice shaking now—not just with rage, but something closer to desperation. Because you didn’t know what to do. Not with Rafe, not with this version of him who had no business being on this side of the island. Not with yourself.

You looked back at him, at the sweat starting to bead along his temple, the vacant stare, the way his body swayed just barely in your grasp like the ground was unreliable. "Rafe," you tried again, softer this time, a tremble in your voice you couldn’t mask, "you have to tell me what you took."

He had to fight to keep his eyes on yours. But you felt like the only thing in the world he could cling to right now. It was easier to look at you. Easier to focus on the sound of your voice, your trembling words, than to focus on the fact that he couldn’t feel anything and everything all at once. You were here, looking at him like you actually cared if he lived or died, and he’d never been so scared yet so in love.

He forced his words past his dry, sandpaper-like throat, struggling to get the words out. “I took uh..” he muttered, his eyes flicking to the half-full bag by Barry’s feet, his throat too dry to speak. Cocaine. “The usual.”

He felt dizzy. Too many thoughts and feelings were running around his head—and his heart and his body. It was like he’d been on a carnival ride, except instead of sugar and junk food, he had snorted way too much coke and now he was stuck on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Everything was going a mile a minute, and he couldn’t stop it.

In a way, he wasn't even surprised. He did a lot of coke. This wasn't anything out of the ordinary. But it was different this time. Because you were here. And you were looking at him like he’d somehow committed a crime you couldn’t even name. You’d never looked at him like that before. He realized he hated it, but he couldn’t find the words to tell you that. Even though he wanted to. Even though his heart was screaming the words in his head.

As Rafe finally spoke, or tried to, you realized—yes, it could get worse. Of course it could. The universe, in all its twisted sense of humor, was laughing straight in your face now, mocking you with its sick, cosmic grin while this 6'2, blue-eyed magnet for destruction stood swaying in front of you like a fucking statue mid-collapse. You could practically hear the punchline being delivered somewhere in the sky, like your life was a sitcom with a very cruel writer.

And now he was maybe overdosing. Slowly. Quietly. Like he didn’t even want to make a scene about it. And that was somehow worse.

Panic gripped your spine and coiled tightly around your ribcage as your eyes darted over him—his slow, unstable sway, the way he blinked like it took effort, like each one was a decision. Your mind reeled. You’d done coke before—too much of it. You knew the familiar rush and crash. You’d even had your heart racing hard enough to think maybe this is it. But you always made it through. You’d sleep, sweat, cry a little—wake up with your nose raw and your pride bruised.

But Rafe? You weren’t sure he’d just sleep this off. Not with whatever the fuck Barry sold him. Not with how he looked like he wasn’t in there anymore.

You bit down hard on your bottom lip, teeth scraping torn skin you didn’t even realize was bleeding. Your hands were still half on him, grounding yourself as much as trying to keep him upright. Your head was spinning and you couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

“What the fuck do I do?” you barked at Barry, voice trembling even under the fury. You whipped around to face him, your body tensed like you were ready to lunge. “What do you do if he fucking drops dead on your porch? Huh? You think the cops won’t come crawling through your front door if they find Rafe Cameron foaming at the mouth in the middle of the goddamn day?”

Your voice broke slightly at the end, too choked up to fully mask the sheer panic rising up like bile in your throat. Because despite the anger, despite the sheer absurdity of the situation—despite everything—you didn’t want him to die here. Not on The Cut. Not like this. Not in front of you.

Barry exhaled slowly, annoyed, unbothered, looking up at the sky like you were overreacting. “He’s not gonna die,” he said with that same careless tilt of his mouth, “he’s just on something strong. It’ll pass.”

"Are you sure about that?" you growled. "You wanna bet your shitty house and freedom on that? ‘Cause I’m not fucking risking mine."

And for a second, you wished someone else were here. Someone who knew what to do. Someone who could take this weight off your chest and carry it for you—just for a second. But there was only you. You, a rattled girl in a sunscreen-slicked bikini, standing between a drug dealer and a boy who looked like he might crumble if the wind blew too hard.

Rafe felt like he was dreaming. Or dying. Possibly both. He’d never been this high before. He’d never felt so invincible. He couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten here, or what he’d said. Just you.. and your voice. He could hear you talking, but it was like he couldn’t see you. And he wished he could see you right now. He wished he could grab on and never let go. Instead, he felt himself drowning. Like he’d taken a swan dive into the water and never felt the bottom.

Everything was a kaleidoscope of color, lights, and noises. He could see everything and nothing at the same time. He didn’t even realize he was sweating, his skin feeling like pins and needles and sandpaper. He felt everything and nothing at once. And he felt like he’d never stop. That he’d just stay floating in that endless black ocean with his head pounding and his blood humming in his veins until he died. Because this is what he deserved. And he could take it. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried. But it was the first time he felt like he was dying.

But then you were standing in front of him and he felt like he could breathe again. You looked like a dream, your voice cutting through the fuzz and noise and panic and fear and pain in his head. And he wished he could just hear you forever. He forgot what you were saying but he was hanging on every syllable like you were the only thing still connecting him to this planet. He tried to say your name, just so you’d look at him—but all that came out was an incoherent mumble.

He felt you grab his arms, and he almost wanted to cry from how good the feeling felt. You were right there. You were real. If you were real, then maybe this was too. Your touch felt like something he’d give his soul to keep. He almost did just by accident. Your hands felt so warm; so much warmer than he’d ever deserved. He could feel everything—the pain, the pounding, the high, your hands. Everything. And it was enough. Enough to make him feel like he’d done a lot of things wrong in this life, and maybe it was time to do them right.

His eyes found yours again. And you were looking at him like you wanted to kill him. Or like you wanted to hold him. He couldn’t tell which one. And somewhere beneath the high, his heart constricted at the thought of you seeing him like this right now. Maybe this wouldn’t end well. Maybe this was it. But for just a few moments, you were holding him. And you hadn’t let go.

Despite the out-of-focus glaze in his eyes, they were still locked on your face—glassy, dilated, and distant, but there. It made your throat tighten. Like he was trying to stay tethered to you in whatever fragmented corner of consciousness he still had left. Like he was trying to say something without saying it, and that killed you even more.

You felt your lips start to tremble, your brows scrunching in on themselves, expression contorted as you fought hard not to sob. Not now. Not in front of Barry. Not while Rafe was looking at you like that. He looked like he was swaying at the edge of a cliff, one strong gust of wind away from toppling—and the worst part was, he was trying to stay upright. Trying to keep it together. Maybe for you.

You turned your head toward Barry again, and the anger you’d been clinging to melted off you like water running off wax. The weight of it—the realness of it—settled heavy in your chest, so thick you could hardly breathe through it. This was real. Not a threat. Not a tantrum. Not some dramatic little scene. This was Rafe Cameron actually OD'ing in front of you.

And you were just standing there. Watching it happen.

"What the fuck do I do?" you asked again, your voice breaking as you stared Barry down like he might suddenly turn into someone useful. Someone responsible. He didn’t. "He’s—he’s dying," you breathed, panic making your voice higher, tighter, thinner. "I just—" your eyes flicked back to Rafe, swaying slightly, fingers twitching like he was trying to hold onto something invisible, "I’ve never had to deal with someone OD’ing in front of me.”

The words poured out fast and frantic, mostly to yourself, more a frantic confession than a real question. You didn’t even care that Barry was watching you unravel. Your heartbeat was in your throat. Your lungs felt too small. Your knees were unsteady, your hands slick with sweat where they’d held Rafe. And you were seconds away from crying, full-on collapsing in front of him, because the idea of him dying right here—on The Cut, under the sharp sunlight, with your name probably being the last thing he tried to say—was enough to shatter something deep inside of you.

He could hear you. He could feel you trying not to let the fear crack through your voice. And he felt like the world’s biggest fool. Because he'd never seen you look so scared in your life, and yet he felt like you were his only lifeline. Like you were the only thing holding him up. And he couldn’t stop himself from staring at you, his lips parted in awe at the fact that you were even here with him right now.

He saw your face contort slightly, and his chest ached at the sight, the high making it feel like he was in hell. He tried to blink and focus on you, but the bright blue and orange and yellow behind his eyelids made his head spin and his stomach lurch. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his hands shaking more than ever. All he could do was stare. All he could do was try and hear your words. All he could do was focus on the sound of your voice, the tone, the cadence, the way your voice would pitch when you got upset.

God, his heart hurt. The more time he spent looking at you, the more he felt like he’d never been this scared in his life. Because despite feeling so high that he wasn’t even sure if what was happening right now was real or not, he could tell you were scared. And he knew he was the one causing it. All he wanted was to make sure you never looked at him like that again. He’d do anything to get you to stop looking at him like you felt sorry for him, like he was some drug addict who couldn’t even hold himself together.

It felt like he was being tortured. The high that was supposed to be an escape was turning into a trap. He felt trapped inside his own body and mind, his thoughts running so fast that they weren’t even thoughts anymore. He kept staring at you, his eyes following you every move, his mind focusing on the sound of your voice. If he could just hear you he'd be fine. It was all he wanted. You were all he wanted. And yet you felt so far away. And he felt more alone than ever.

You kept shaking your head, like denial might somehow undo what was happening in front of you. Your eyes never left him—watching every subtle sway of his body against the driver’s side door of his SUV, like he was barely tethered to consciousness. And suddenly, the pieces started fitting together with the kind of clarity that came too late. He’d already been high when he got here. Maybe not enough to crash right away, but enough for this to be inevitable. Or maybe he was crashing now, unraveling from last night’s high in slow motion. Either way, he shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. Shouldn’t have been anywhere near your house, looking at you like that. Like he was seeing something that wasn't there—or maybe seeing everything too clearly.

You should’ve known something was wrong. From the moment he appeared at the edge of your yard—still, silent, unreactive. He hadn’t mocked you. Hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t said a single cruel thing. And that should’ve been the giveaway. But you’d been too wrapped up in your own shame, too consumed by the heat of embarrassment and anger, to notice that Rafe Cameron was falling apart right in front of you. That he hadn’t come to throw jabs or wave your pain in your face—he’d come because he had nowhere else to go.

And now… this. Now he was here, barely standing, flushed and pale at the same time—like his body couldn’t decide if it was boiling or freezing. The color drained from his face while sweat gathered at his temples, his breaths shallow and slow and wrong. Too wrong. His knees buckled slightly and he slumped harder into the car, mumbling something you couldn’t understand, something fragile and broken that didn’t belong to him. Not Rafe.

"No, no, no,” you whispered, your own voice cracking as your hands shot up to cup his face, thumbs pressing into his clammy skin. “Rafe—Rafe, don’t—don’t fucking do this.” His cheeks were too warm, too damp. His skin felt waxy beneath your palms. You squeezed gently, like the pressure alone could hold him there, keep him there.

He blinked slowly, his gaze slipping somewhere past you like he didn’t even know where he was anymore. And it fucking terrified you.

"Listen to me. Please. You need to stay awake, okay?” you said, forcing calm into your voice, even as it wobbled beneath the weight of panic. Your eyes were brimming with tears now, clinging stubbornly to your lashes. “You’re not allowed to die in front of me. Do you hear me? You’re not allowed to do that.”

You shook him gently, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, trying to anchor him back to you—desperate for something, anything to tell you he was still there. That you weren’t already losing him. And somewhere in the blur of your fear, your shame, your helpless rage—you realized this had already gone so far beyond what you thought it was. This wasn’t about one night. This wasn’t just about guilt. Or anger. Or hate.

This was Rafe, and he was yours—even if only in this moment—and he was slipping through your fingers.

He felt you grab his face, and for a moment he thought the world might be okay. Your hands were so soft. So warm. So real. And for just a second he felt like this was all worth it. Like he would gladly die right here in front of you if it meant you’d keep touching him like this for the rest of his life. It took everything he had to listen to you, but he focused on you as you said his name. He focused on your voice, your touch, the way you said his name. Anything to let him stay there and hear you for a little longer.

Your voice was trembling, and he wanted to tell you to stop, don’t cry. It’s okay, don’t cry. Don’t cry because of me. He wanted to pull you close and never let go. He never wanted to see you cry again because of him. He felt sick thinking about the tears in your eyes, and how this was his fault. He was the reason you were crying. He was the reason you were begging him to stay. And he couldn’t find the words to tell you he’d stay forever if you let him. If you just let him.

He couldn’t even think anymore. Everything was fuzzy and distorted and the air was too heavy to breathe. The world was collapsing around him, slowly and with horrifying clarity. He felt like he might throw up, the thought of vomiting on you adding to the humiliation. The dizziness was getting worse, even when he wasn’t moving. The pounding in his head was getting stronger, and the voices he could barely grasp were fading in and out of nothing, like he was sinking deeper and deeper and he didn’t know how to stop it.

The sound of your voice felt like the only lifeline he had left, his whole body gravitating towards the sound of you, following your touch like you were the one thing keeping him in place. He hadn’t even realized he was trying to speak, trying to say something to you, but the words couldn’t find their way off his tongue. It was like he was drowning, so out of control to even realize his own body was failing him, even though he knew something was horribly wrong. He felt his tongue go numb, his thoughts swimming in his head. But he couldn’t seem to stop staring at you.

You watched as he tried to form words, his mouth moving without purpose, his voice too weak to carry whatever thoughts were trying to crawl their way out of him. And your heart cracked right down the center. What the hell was your life turning into? It felt like a cruel joke—like every time you thought you’d hit rock bottom, the universe showed you it had a basement. Then another. And another. You must’ve done something truly awful in a past life, something vile and unforgivable, because this? Watching Rafe Cameron's body slowly shut down in front of you? This had to be some kind of penance.

Your face twisted, sour and desperate, blinking back the sting in your eyes as his lashes fluttered, his head lolling. You could’ve screamed. “No, no, Rafe—look at me.” His eyes rolled back slightly, and that was it. That was the thing that cracked through your panic and made it burst like floodwater into full-blown terror. You gripped his face tighter, shaking him with less gentleness this time—your voice rising. “Rafe!”

"He's dying." The words left your mouth like a punch to the chest, your voice breaking as you whipped your head toward Barry, no longer pretending to be composed. “He's fucking dying, Barry!” you repeated, louder this time, shriller, more unhinged. “We need to call an ambulance—I don’t know what the hell to do, I don’t—” You were blinking so fast now your vision blurred, hot tears clinging to your lashes, your throat tightening with the weight of the helplessness you never wanted to feel again.

He was going to die right here, in front of you, surrounded by everything ugly and broken you’d always tried to keep hidden. And you didn’t know how to stop it.

He felt you grab his face, your touch so desperately tight that he almost whimpered. He felt like his skin was on fire, like the whole world was tilting and spinning, and the only thing he could really focus on was the way you were shaking him, the way your voice was trembling. He wanted to answer, to say your name. To tell you everything was okay. To tell you he’d stay awake for as long as you asked. He couldn’t find the right words to say. But he could hear you. And that’s all that mattered right now.

His mind was too overwhelmed to care about how bad he looked, how terrified you sounded while you were begging him to open his eyes, to look at you. He felt sick to his stomach. He could feel his heart pounding in his head. He felt like his brain was melting. But somehow, you were still there. Trying to hold him together while he felt himself falling apart right in front of you. And he wasn’t sure if the shame he felt was worse than the terror of dying. Right here, in this moment, he wondered if he deserved your kindness.

His eyes blinked open again, your image flickering in and out of focus. Your face was blurry, tears clinging to your lashes, and he could’ve sworn he saw you start to cry. Or maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe you were just crying for real. He felt like he might throw up or fall. The car was too warm and you were holding him up, but he felt so distant from everything. Like he was slowly drowning. And if he died right here, in your arms, he didn’t think he’d mind so much anymore.

Barry stood frozen for a second, still slouched on his porch like he had all the time in the world, and it made your stomach turn. The sight of him—so unmoved, so casual, while Rafe's body swayed like a tower about to collapse—felt like something out of a fever dream. When he finally stood, slow and infuriating, you could’ve leapt over the porch railing and throttled him.

"Calm the fuck down," he muttered, stretching like he’d just woken up from a nap, and not like someone’s overdose was unraveling feet away. “He’s just ridin’ it out. He’ll be fine. Kid’s built like a tank, he can handle it.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “Handle it?” you echoed, voice cracking as you tightened your hold on Rafe’s face again, trying to make eye contact with eyes that barely stayed open. “He’s not fine, you fucking moron, he’s not even coherent! He can barely stand!”

Barry shrugged, lighting a cigarette like it was just another Tuesday, like he wasn’t witnessing the slow death of a twenty-something in front of your trailer. You could’ve screamed. The rage was making your hands shake now, and Rafe’s full weight leaned into your palms, his legs beginning to buckle. You staggered back with him, trying to keep him upright, your feet slipping a little in the dust.

"Jesus Christ," you hissed to yourself, under your breath. “Fuck—okay, okay—”

You grabbed Rafe’s keys from his pocket with trembling fingers, the weight of them feeling like salvation in your hand. There wasn’t time to wait for help that may or may not come. Not from people like Barry. Not in a place like this. You yanked the door of the SUV open, guiding Rafe with all the strength your shaking limbs could offer, your shoulder under his arm as he sagged deeper and deeper into himself.

"I swear to God, Barry, if he dies—if he fucking dies—" you didn’t even finish the threat, too busy shoving Rafe into the passenger seat, strapping him in with a roughness that was more panic than anything else. You slammed the door, sprinting around to the driver’s side, throwing yourself behind the wheel like you’d done it a hundred times before, despite the fact that you didn't even have a license to begin with. The engine roared to life, and gravel spat out behind you as you tore out of the yard, leaving Barry’s front porch, your mother’s voice, the scorching sun and your shame in the rearview mirror.

He felt the weight of your touch, holding him up, your fingers trembling but strong, your words sharp and strained, and the sound of your voice cutting through the haze in his head. He felt you grab his keys and open the door, felt your arm under his, and the relief that followed even though he didn’t understand why. He could feel the seat underneath him as he was pushed down, something sharp and tight against his chest, and all he could think about was you. How your hands felt. How your voice sounded. And how it would feel if he died right now.

He felt you slam the door, his vision flashing through the window as you sprinted around the car, the sound of something sharp and loud filling his head. The engine roared to life, and for a split-second everything was clear. He could see everything. You, the car, the trees, the street. For just a moment, his head was almost clear. And then he felt the car pull forward, a sharp burst of pain shooting through his head as his head hit the headrest. The trees and street flashed by, one blending into the other, and then he just felt sick.

The car was spinning, or maybe he was. The world was tilting and twisting and he felt like he might throw up, his stomach queasy and churning. His head hurt so bad it felt like someone was pounding on the inside of his skull, making his head throb with each turn of the steering wheel. He wasn’t sure where you were taking him, but he was too sick to think about it. And he didn’t really care as long as you kept driving. His hands shook in his lap, his breathing shallow.

He couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore, his head pounding, the world spinning like a carousel. The trees, the houses, the sky, were spinning and swirling, and the car seemed to be speeding up. Everything was a blur of motion and light, everything was out of focus and he felt so goddamn sick. All he wanted was for the world to stop spinning. He felt like he was going to throw up, but he bit down, trying to swallow the feeling. Nothing looked familiar anymore. He was floating in darkness, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

"Rafe." you tried, your eyes fixed on the road, voice wet with tears and the sickening panic that he was already dead in the passenger seat. "Please, shit. Please talk to me." you mumbled, trying to focus on getting to the hospital and not on the fact that you were actually driving.

His eyelids flickered open, your voice reaching him through the darkness. He couldn’t speak—the sound caught in his throat before it even started. But he heard you. He heard your words, heard the way the trembling in your voice, and the way you breathed his name like an emergency. He felt his head tilt slightly toward you, his eyes slipping open. He felt sick and cold and weak, but your words were loud in his head. And he wanted to respond so badly.

His eyes were so heavy, his vision blurry. He tried to focus on you. On the sound of your voice. On the words you were saying. On the way you were begging him to talk, to say something to show you he was still there. He tried to speak, to say something in response. He wanted to tell you he was listening. He wanted to tell you that he didn’t feel very good. He wanted to tell you he felt like he would die just trying to open his mouth. But he couldn’t. Everything felt so heavy and he could barely move his tongue in his mouth.

One of your hands swiped at your face as the tears finally started streaming down your sun-burnt cheeks as if they were just as shameful as the moment bak in your yard, and you couldn't allow yourself to cry, because your gaze was becoming blurry and one wrong move could probably send you both swerving off the road. "It's gonna be fine, you're gonna be fine. You wouldn't die right now, would you? You wouldn't want me to be the last person you'd seen." you rambled, words blending together as you spared him a side-glance, breathing in relief when you saw that he was looking at you, as unfocused and vacant as he was, he heard you.

He wanted to respond. He wanted to tell you he’d never die so long as you told him not to. He wanted to explain that he would do anything for you. Anything you wished. That he’d live forever for you, regardless of how he felt or how bad he wanted things to change. The thought of you being the last pretty thing he saw was far from the worst death he could imagine. And he wanted so badly to tell you that.

But his mouth wouldn’t move, the words refusing to form. Everything hurt. He felt like he’d never felt this kind of pain before. Everything was so loud, and he felt so cold. He felt so sick. And you were crying. He knew you were crying. He knew his face was probably blurry, and that he couldn’t say a single word to calm you. And he hated it. He wanted to be able to tell you he was okay. He wanted to do so much more than just sit in the passenger seat, dying while you tried to save him.

"And i don't even know how to drive." you continued to ramble, the words stumbling out in an attempt to keep him grounded, or yourself. "I don't have my license, because my mom thought it was useless since i had my skateboard. But now.." you stopped, casting him another glance, dreadfully as if expecting him to be lying there motionless, "You shouldn't die." you spoke stupidly, tears still streaming down your cheeks freely even if you were trying not to sob or hyperventilate "You really don't want me to be last person that you see. I don't even have a license. And i'm panicking like a baby,"

He wasn’t really listening, his mind too foggy, and your voice too distant to really understand every word. But his eyes were trained on you. His breathing was shallow, his body trembling, every muscle tensed and strained. It felt like he was fighting for every breath, his thoughts too disconnected to comprehend the whole picture of what was happening. The pain was getting worse, his head spinning, all of it made worse by the fact that you were crying and he couldn’t do a single thing to help. You sounded scared. That much he knew.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening, the road ahead a blurry smear of heat and pavement as you glanced at him again, needing—begging—for any sign he was still with you. “You shouldn’t die,” you repeated, quieter this time, like maybe if you said it gently enough the universe would listen. “You really don’t want me to be the last person you see. I don’t even have a license. And I’m panicking like a baby, I’m not built for this—”

Your voice cracked as you forced the SUV through a sharp turn, tires shrieking against the pavement like the world itself was screaming back at you. Rafe groaned softly, barely audible, and your eyes darted back to him, relief crashing into you hard enough to nearly knock the air from your lungs.

“Okay, okay,” you whispered, more to yourself, blinking away the salt that blurred your vision. “You're still here. You’re fine. Just hang on.” Your eyes flicked to the dashboard. You were speeding. Hard. But you didn’t slow down. Couldn’t.

“You remember that time you told me I looked like a stray dog?” you asked through clenched teeth, voice warbling with the tears you were trying to hold back. “Well, congrats. The stray’s driving your hundred-thousand-dollar car like it’s a fucking go-kart. And if we die, it’s on you. It’s your fault. You shouldn’t have shown up at my house like that. You shouldn’t have looked at me like that. You shouldn't have—”

Your voice broke and you finally let yourself sob, one hand leaving the wheel for a moment to swipe furiously at your wet face. You had no idea how far the hospital was. You barely even remembered how to get there. But you weren’t going to stop.

Because he was still breathing.

Because you weren’t going to let him die in the passenger seat.

Not like this.

Not when he saw you.

He couldn’t speak, his thoughts too disjointed, but he felt your hand on his arm and he felt the way you tightened the grip, and he heard the words coming from you. He heard you repeating that he wouldn’t die—that you didn’t have a license, that you were panicked. He didn’t know what it all meant, but one thing stuck with him. The last person. He didn’t want to leave you. He didn’t want to die right here, right now. Not with you like this, not with you crying and pleading.

He wanted so badly to say something—to open his eyes, to take your hand, to move or blink or do something. But everything hurt. Everything was too blurry and too loud. And he felt so, so sick. But you were there. Your voice was ringing through his head, his whole existence focused on you, on listening to you. And he felt so, so cold. So goddamn cold, he could’ve sworn he was already dead. And he knew the only thing still keeping him here was the fact that you were there, driving and crying and so, so scared.

He felt the car speed up, his head hitting the headrest as the world around him lurched and swayed. He felt his stomach churning, his head pounding against his skull. The trees were flashing by, blurry streaks of green. He could barely keep his eyes open. He knew you were speaking, but he couldn’t hear what you were saying. Your words were drowned out by the pounding in his head, and all he could see was the way your face was streaked with tears, the way you looked so beautiful even while you were crying.

He wanted to reach out to you. He wanted to help, to tell you he didn’t want to die. But he couldn’t even open his mouth, the thought of moving his tongue was enough to make his head feel like it would explode. He felt so goddamn cold, it was like he was shivering, and it felt like his eyes were getting heavier and heavier. All he could do was focus on the sound of your voice while you drove. Because that was the only thing keeping him here, still alive, even if he was dying. He was still here. And he was still listening.

"You're gonna be fine, Rafe." you spoke, reaching to squeeze his shoulder and almost swerving off the road when you took your hand off the wheel. "Try and speak, tell me something,"

He heard your voice again, loud and urgent, your words cutting through the fog in his head like a blade. He forced his eyes open, his vision blurry, his head pounding. But he saw you. Just barely. Your voice was the only thing that was clear. And the thought of trying to speak was almost too much. He could barely feel his tongue in his mouth, and he was sure the world would spin if he opened his mouth. But he had to try. He had to do something, anything, to know he wasn’t already dead.

He felt his jaw working, his eyes focused on you. His body felt heavy. His head was pounding, and his stomach was revolting. He was so cold, and he was sure if he said anything right now he’d vomit all over everything. He opened his mouth, trying to form words, anything. All he wanted to do was tell you he was still there. That he was still alive. That he wasn’t dead yet. But his tongue was like lead, and every word died in his throat before he could even feel its sound.

He tried again, forcing his lungs to draw as much oxygen as possible. His body was shaking, his heart thumping, his head spinning, and he just wanted to hold you. He wanted to tell you he was okay, that he wasn’t going to die. But everything hurt, and every muscle in his body was straining, and he couldn't push the thoughts away. All he could feel were your fingers, squeezing his shoulder, your soft voice cutting through the spinning, and he would’ve started crying if he had any energy left to cry.

His head lolled slightly, another garbled noise scraping past his throat like it took all the effort in the world. You didn't know if it was a laugh, a cry, or just his body giving out on him. Either way, it terrified you. Your hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, your jaw clenched so hard your teeth ached, and still, you couldn't stop talking—not because you thought your words would help, but because the silence felt like death creeping in faster.

"I don’t even know where the fuck I’m going,” you muttered, breath hitching, but you couldn’t stop the shaky laugh that followed, ugly and frantic. “God, imagine the headlines—Kook prince dies in coked-out crash with barely-dressed Pogue local. That’s gonna be great for my reputation.”

You flicked your eyes over to him again, and he was still slumped, still pale, still… off. You felt like you were in a fever dream. None of this felt real.

“I hate you,” you said again, more forcefully, your voice cracking. “I do. But if you fucking die right now—if you make me the last face you see before you croak—I swear I’ll haunt you in hell. I’ll wear this stupid bikini every day and remind you how humiliating this is. I’m not letting you make me your tragic fucking footnote, Rafe.”

Your throat tightened with another sob you didn’t want to let out, and your voice dropped to a whisper, raw and trembling. “Just stay awake. Please. Just—just don’t leave. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The highway stretched ahead endlessly, the speedometer needle trembling past the limit, the heat outside baking into the metal of the SUV. But inside, it was all cold panic and shaking hands and the horrible, crushing weight of death and the realization that if you didn't get to the hospital, he'd actually die.

He tried to force his mouth to move, his lips trembling as he tried to speak. He wanted to tell you he was fine, that he would never let it happen. But every word felt like a fight, and he didn’t think he had much more in him. But he needed you to know. He needed you to know. His lungs were aching so badly it felt like he was being stabbed with a knife, but he had to try. All he wanted to do was reach out and touch you, to feel your hand in his and have some sort of hope.

A/N: hi..., 😓 pls don't hate me for this chapter, and it if feels like i'm losing the plot and maybe i am a little. but it's okay because i'll make it up to you with a chapter of smut. just bear with me. and i hope i wasn't the only one sobbing while writing and editing this. he's not dying, he's just... being a little silly. i dunno why i start off wanting to write smut and i end up writing angst, i'm sorry ya'll. are you guys mad at me? don't forget to like, reblog, send asks and comment if you liked these chapters i promise to fix my posting schedule.😁💓 don't be shy to join my taglist!

Tag-list*:･ﾟ✧ @cali-888, @bee-43, @jjscoquette, @melsbels-zip @stanseventeen @wh0reforbucknasty,@wtfisastiles,@annaconscience,@pqndxra,@carrerascameron,@nini2mem,@iynsane,@gublerstylesobrien1238,@wrldfilms ,@shayofandom @wren5650 @alimarie1105 @chuuuchuuutrain

[angstywaifu]

Black Dahlia - 50. Friendly Advice

Summary: Dahlia offers Violet some advice when she runs into her at the burn pit before noticing a group of dragons flying in. Black Dahlia Masterlist | Masterlist | Links | Tumblr Community

I watch as Violet walks pass me, completely oblivious to me leaning against the wall where she’d just walked in on. That girl really needed to learn to check her surroundings. She was a walking target just due to her name. Gods, I’d even heard some of the first years saying she was a threat to the wing due to her smaller size. Which hadn’t been helped by Xaden’s display with her when her challenge target had suspiciously fallen too ill to participate. He’d disarmed her so easily, but given his talent on the mat, it had been expected. I know he’d done it to prove a point, but he had also shown everyone how easy of a target she was. Something I knew she didn’t need, even if we hadn’t been friends for years.

”I’m so sorry.” She whispers, barely audible above the wind.

I watch as she heaves the pack up and over the edge, the flames catching and burning the pack as it fuels the flames. Today had been the start of gauntlet training, and her squad was one of the first to run it. They’d also been the first to loose a squad member to it. I push off the wall, walking over to where she leans against the edge, both of us watching as three dragons approach from the west. Three dragons that look very familiar. But they’re too far away for me to be sure. But I do know Xaden, Garrick and Bodhi had all been gone for a while.

”You don’t need to be sorry.” I tell her, alerting her to my presence as she jumps back from the edge.

”Were you following me?” She snaps at me venomously. A tone I’d come all too familiar with when she talked to me now.

I scoff and shake my head as I fold my arms across my chest, leaning back against the corner pillar. “No, you just didn’t see me next to the door when you came in. I have better things to do than follow you around.”

”But you’re friends with them. With him.” She tells me, clearly reciting information she’s gathered herself and from Dain since she’d been here.

I roll my eyes. “Surprisingly there are people who are able to look past the bullshit they’ve been told and can be friends with me Sorrengail. Maybe something you could do if you didn’t take everything at face value. And maybe you would see, they aren’t that bad.”

She turns her head, huffing in annoyance at my words. I knew she wouldn’t like me pointing it out, but it was true. She took everything she was told and believed it. Just like a scribe. Just like she was taught. And her being better friends with Dain than me when it all happened, meaned she happily took his side.

”Have some advice Sorrengail. You are number one here. You need to look after yourself. You are you’re number one priority. Your life is your number one priotity. Dain can’t always be there to protect you.” I tell her before turning and walking back towards the door.

”Is that a threat?” She asks, her voice shaking slightly. I made her nervous. Or at least made her question something enough to make her nervous.

I stop and look over my shoulder at her, noting the glare she tries to give me. I scoff and shake my head. “No. Just some advice no one else here will tell you because they either want to kill you, see you fail or get you out of here to safety. So do something they don’t expect and prove them wrong.”

I walk out of the tower before she can reply, leaving her to ponder my words. I didn’t want her to die despite our fractured friendship. But I wasn’t going to outright help her. This place was a mental game. You could be as strong or as weak as you were in here, but ultimately those with mental strength faired the best. Something I knew she could do. And I hoped she realised that soon. She just had to find a way.

I make it to the Rotunda before I feel a shift in the courtyard, turning to see the door to the flight field open. Even before they walk under the mage light I know who it is. Watching as Bodhi, Xaden and Garrick let the door close behind them as they enter the courtyard. I quickly hide behind the door, propping it open with my foot. Was it wrong to hide and spy on my best friend and boyfriend? Probably. But I couldn’t deny I was suspicious as to where they’d been. Seeing as they’d all disappeared without a word. And it wasn’t the first time I’d noted it. Here and there over the last few weeks I’d noted Bodhi and Garrick, even Imogen sometimes being gone here and there.

“Do you know where they were?” I ask Proth, hoping he might know something from their dragons.

”They’re your friend and mate, why don’t you ask them yourself.” He drawls, sounding almost bored.

”You’re no help.” I snap back as he chuckles down the bond at me.

”There has to be something more we can do.” Bodhi says to the two of them, clearly annoyed by something.

”We’re doing everything we can.” Garrick bites back.

Something was clearly on all their minds. Had them on edge. Xaden stops mid step, his shoulders going rigid. Shit, did he know I was here?

”What’s wrong?” Garrick asks, looking over at the only other people in the courtyard, a couple who had decided to use the courtyard as a make out spot. Lovely.

”Go on. I’ll meet you inside.” Xaden tells them.

Bodhi’s brow furrows, clearly not sure at Xaden’s sudden change in behaviour as he also scans the courtyard. Luckily neither him or Garrick see me peeking around the door. But I can’t guarantee that Xaden doesn’t with his shadow ability.

”You sure?” Bodhi asks as he turns his attention back to Xaden.

”Go.” Xaden orders them, nodding towards the dorms.

I gently close the door to the Rotunda, moving as quietly and quickly as I can to run into them “accidently” on their way to their rooms. I push into the stairwell, hearing their footsteps below me as they shuffle up the stairs. I wait a few more seconds, waiting till their footsteps are closer till I start moving. I pretend to be looking for something in my pack as I dawdle up the stairs.

”Dahlia?” Bodhi asks in surprise, stopping suddenly in the stairwell causing Garrick to run into his as his eyes raise to me. “What are you doing out?”

I look up at them, pretending to be shocked by their appearance. “I had patrol this evening at the burn pit remember?”

I note how both their eyes widen slightly in alarm. They both know that tower has the perfect view of anyone flying in and out of that flight field.

”You expect Bodhi to remember something like that?” Garrick teases as he shoves Bodhi aside, walking the last few steps to join me, taking my hand in his, my body instantly relaxing at his touch.

It was stupid how much he relaxed and calmed me, even when I was suspicious as to what they had been up to.

”I will let you know I have great memory.” Bodhi fires back, scowling at Garrick.

”Clearly not because I told you yesterday I was stationed there after classes today.” I say with a roll of my eyes as he glares at me. “Where are you two coming back from?”

”Xaden wanted to get out for a bit, went on a small flight.” Garrick says with a reassuring squeeze of my hand as he smiles down at me.

”Must have been you three I saw then. Saw some dragons fly in not long ago.” I say casually as I look between the two of them.

Garrick doesn’t even seem phased by my comment, but Bodhi looks nervous. His eyes darting between Garrick and I. Meaning this wasn’t just a casual flight. They were up to something they didn’t want me knowing about.

”More than likely. Don’t think I saw anyone else out tonight.” Garrick says with a shrug, before stiffling a yawn.

I look up at him, noting how tired he looks. Something that seems to be a common thing for him recently. Maybe that has something to do with the late night flight?

”Lets get you to bed.” I tell him, turning and pulling him towards the archway that will take us to the second year floor.

Bodhi groans behind us. “Can you please put up a sound ward if you want to partake in any extra curricular activities? Some of us actually want to sleep.”

”Maybe someone should learn to put their own up.” Garrick teases as we round the corner.

”They don’t teach second years!”

@imtoanonymousforyou @simplyme-fornow @omalmal @lalaluch @wolfbc97 @leptitlu @fullmoon-94 @the-fandom-ness @fan-of-many-bands @awkardnerd @heeseungthel0ml @acourtofsmutandstarlight @fairchild06 @freyagallileaevans @pit-and-the-pen @hannraumari @elliot-rain @thestarseternaal @stupid-and-contagious01 @hyperfixation-train-station @lxnvmvrzx @thebreadisthetruevillian @red0202 @fangirling-galore @craftytrashprincess @taliyahvermillion @xadenswhore @fenixyrie @lagrandeourse @hellodarling1357 @iambored24601  @thegiftofacreativemind @fanfictionjunkie1112 @mysticalfuncollectorus @ohlookitsasinglepoeceofpopcorn @emoravenwolf @imheretobeinvisible @pvrkacciosan

[lucidheart3]

I was thinking over reverse sonamy and realised it’d be so cute in the classic version too. Like, imagine Amy minding her own business but the resident little hero becomes infatuated with her, pops up whenever she least expects him to and brings chaos along. He is definitely the reason she gets caught up on Robotnik’s attacks and also got kidnapped by Metal. But she doesn’t really hold it against him since he manages to save her everytime. It kinda becomes enjoyable once she decides she is going to help him out and takes up her hammer.

No one knows how he even started to like her, one day he saw her hanging out with animals and noticed how much she cares for animals and thought she is cool and cute. Her reactions to his advancements really made him like her more,as she is always blushy and smiles so kindly whenever he does somethin nice for her. The idea of being loved by her draw him in.

Him not talking in his classic era is too cute to imagine too. He appears suddenly before Amy, hands her a flower, doesn’t elaborate further and just leaves Amy there dumbfounded. Amy is at first very oblivious to his actions so he starts to make literal hearts with his hands to make her understand. But he makes an effort to not chase her when he spots her because what do you even do when the fastest thing alive starts chasing you? Run?! So he opts to pop up from the most ridiculous places and at the most unexpected times. Hanging from the tree upside down when Amy passes by, jumping from amidst the bushes or chilling on Amy’s roof. Sadly for him this isn’t any less scary than chasing her lol.

Amy appreciates his love for her and likes that he is being respectful about it, but as an alone little girl her only aim is keeping herself safe so Sonic’s presence kinda clashes with that. She sometimes bakes him cookies to show him how much she appreciates him though. The first time this happens, he just takes a cookie in his hand and tears up because Amy baked something just for him? It takes too much encouragement from Amy to make him eat it.

When they get older and Sonic starts talking, Amy realises younger her had nothing to deal with. Because the bigger Sonic gets, the bigger messes he gets himself and her into. Not that she doesn’t enjoy their adventures but it’d be more peaceful if he’d just stop with all that teasing and flirting he isn’t ashamed to display in front of everyone. Also, he is quite enjoying carrying her and it kinda annoys her that she is enjoying that too. He has also grown taller and cooler, and Amy starts noticing her heart beat a little faster when he is near… But it’s totally because they are in the middle of a fight and nothing else ;)

[synthetickitsune]

Merman!Joshua (SVT) | Pearls fluff | 0.9k | gn!reader -> mermay masterlist

You know it’s been a long time since this became more than just business. No matter how much you insist otherwise, no matter how hard you try to lie to yourself. That’s how the story usually goes, right? One day you’re helping each other out, then the next his eyes mirror the curiosity and longing in yours.

It just makes me a little fonder of you than I would be otherwise, Joshua shyly admitted in early stages of the trade. But by then you already became aware that things weren’t the same.

For merfolk, gifting each other shiny trinkets, jewelry especially, is courting behavior. So you could see how him helping you find and collect pearls in exchange for human-made jewelry would mess with his instincts.

It works, though. You’re able to make a living and he gets accessories that don’t look like everyone else’s - at least that’s what he tells you. It’s not like you know any other of his kind. As far as you can tell, they mostly stay away from humans. Not like you blame them. Joshua also took a long time to come around, to trust you. You supposed the circumstances help - it’s you relying on him, you putting yourself at risk and not the other way around.

Joshua in turn makes your work much easier. He leads you to the best spots and keeps you safe. It’s easy to focus on the job when you don’t have to worry about much or even waste time scouting the locations.

Maybe you’ve gotten too cocky.

You wake up and it’s just another sunny day. By the time you arrive at the beach, Joshua is already waiting there and swims up to you when you push off the boat and get into the water. He always circles you first, assessing if you’re okay. His fingers brush against your waist, to be easily written off as teasing tickling if need be.

“Ready? I’ve found a great place yesterday but it’s a little deep,” he warns softly. Not like you’re unused to it, no matter how unhealthy and dangerous it is. So you assure him it’s fine and he helps you get inside the boat and steers it in the right direction. He barely ever lets you paddle, insisting you should save your strength. 

The spot is further than you thought, than he ever took you before. It’s also, indeed, deeper than you usually dive. The merman gives you a worried look that you hope to soothe with a smile. Nothing you haven’t handled before. Just a little added stress that you’re sure won’t be so bad. Joshua wouldn’t let anything happen to you.

It’s all familiar, the discomfort and growing pressure in your ears. You’re used to it. He was right though - it is a great spot. 

The merfolk treasure pearls as much as humans do, they’re just much more patient about helping them grow. The pearls are basically natural with just a little initial intervention. And if through the long years the underwater farmers forget about all their spots, then all you can say is one’s misfortune is another’s opportunity. You always make sure not to take too many. That would be suspicious to the merchants anyway.

With how deep these particular oysters lay, however, you can only manage to inspect one or two per dive. Your lungs just can’t take more. Pointedly ignoring Joshua’s concerned glances, you kick off the ocean floor and swim up for air. 

The world flips upside down.

Your vision goes dark for a second. The world is spinning. You can’t tell up from down, left from right. But you need to breathe. You watch the bubbles rise up but it doesn’t process in your brain. It burns. It hurts. You recognize the face in front of you, however.

It looks strange. Scared, determined. Close. So close. So beautiful. Your hands have a mind of their own when they grab at the figure’s shoulders in desperation. Your feet brush against scales. His nose touches yours. More bubbles come out when your lips brush against each other’s.

Joshua is kissing you. And as he does, he passes oxygen to you. You want to push him away but you’re too weak and disoriented. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. His hands guide your legs around his waist before safely hugging you closer to his body. He’s shivering. You’ve never felt him shiver before. 

Slowly he swims up with you, stopping every few seconds to kiss you again. To let you breathe even though it feels like you’re even more breathless. Slowly, your mind unclouds. Your vision and thinking clears. His forehead is pressed against yours and his eyes still hold that fear. Vulnerability. Even though he’s the one keeping you alive. 

He helps you into the boat again, gently laying you down before he pulls himself up as well. He’s still shaking. His hands hover awkwardly without touching you. You giggle.

“Thank you,” you smile weakly, “I’m fine. I’m alive.”

“Yeah?” he whispers. He snaps his head towards your hand slowly covering his. When he turns back to look at you, his eyes are wide with shock.

“You don’t have to keep me underwater to kiss me, by the way,” you hope he can’t hear your heartbeat speeding up, “Just a feedback for next time.”

“And here I thought I was making the pressure change gentler on your body,” he jokes but his ears are red. Cute. “I will keep it in mind, though. For next time.”

“Would it be too soon for ‘next time’ now?” you cringe at yourself. But hey, you just escaped death. The adrenaline is yet to go away.

“Not at all,” he purrs. 

It’s pure magic to be fully conscious when his lips meet yours this time. His hands finally settle on your cheek and your waist. He’s even more careful, more tender. 

He smirks when he pulls away.

“My pretty pearl.”

[andielle]

prologue|chpt. 1|chpt. 2|chpt. 3|masterlist

You and Bucky have shared this relationship for almost a year now. He sleeps with you to relieve stress, you sleep with him to free you from your slight crush on him. But what happens when Bucky breaks the rules of your relationship, and yearns for more?

MODERN! Office AU! Bucky x Reader

prologue | 1.0k words | warnings: implications of sex

You're slowly awakened by the beams of sunlight peaking through your binds. Still groggy, you opened your eyes to an empty bed. You still felt the warmth radiating from your side, while the memories of the night before flooded your brain. Kisses, warmth, skin on skin, metal on skin, you remembered how you and Bucky turned into mere creatures of flesh, indulging in each other. He used you, but that didn't matter because you used him too.

It all felt like a dream, but does it matter? Dream or not, you'd still wake up with an empty bed either way. You lay on your side for a bit, feeling your hand on the bedsheets where Bucky laid on. He must've left a few minutes ago, because his warmth and sultry scent still lingered heavily on your sheets — You were used to this even though you wish you weren't.

Couldn't he at least wake me up for work before leaving? You thought to yourself, finally sitting up to give yourself a good stretch before scrambling to get ready for work.

—

God, you already hate this day. Your eyelashes feel like there are weights attached to them, you're constantly having your back slumped, and it's only... You look at the clock... 8:43 am?! You sat drooped over your chair from the revelation, your eyes still groggy, and the cheerful sunshine coming from the windows certainly did not help with your predicament.

"Hey— Oh my God... Who did this to you?" a feminine voice calls out to you. You don't exactly see who it is, but from the corner of your vision, you can tell that the crimson coloured head of hair belonged to the one and only — Natasha Romanoff. Your eye twitched.

"Good morning to you too, I guess," you replied quietly, not even bothering to care about how you looked right now, or to look up. "Bad night huh?" Nat questions, but the answer was obvious enough. With a small tap, she places a cup of coffee on your desk.

"Nat..." you quickly took the cup and sipped, sweet and with a bitter aftertaste, you gulped, eyes closed. With a sigh of satisfaction, you thanked Nat; "Thank you so much... You're my saviour, really."

"'Must've been a long night for you — you know, going back to your place with B-" Nat was interrupted with your look of panic. Instead of finishing her sentence, she gave you mercy by smiling. With a click of her heels, she moved from the front of your desk to your side. She kneeled facing you, holding onto your desk for support. "Why do you still sleep with him? I mean— he's a total hunk! But, like, are you still sure about this?" She says in a hushed tone.

Oh Nat, she has always given you a piece of her mind, albeit a bit brutally sometimes, but she's always been there for you ever since your earlier days in the office.

She was like the older sister you've never had. She knew your ins and outs, and you both often shared secrets with each other that otherwise would not be shared with anybody else.

"Relax, I don't mind, you know how complicated it is," you smiled softly at your best friend, appreciating the concern. She raised a well-groomed eyebrow, scanning your face.

"I promise... I could leave anytime," you added. She didn't look persuaded though. Damn it, she could see right through you easily, which was one of the reasons why she knew about you and Bucky in the first place, a tiny falter in your expression gave it away.

"Well, I trust you, but that doesn't mean I won't care, okay?" she says before standing up and giving you a pat on the shoulder. She strutted back to her desk.

"Okay," you said, right before you were out of earshot.

Another sigh left your lips when you realize Nat has also left some blueprints on your desk when she gave you your coffee. Today is going to be a really long day. You read through the papers, reading all the numbers carefully while occasionally sipping your coffee here and there. You looked at the prototypes and added your own edits all the while doing calculations on your computer, everyday work stuff.

You stood up from your desk and walked to the elevator, hoping to talk to Tony about some adjustments you've made. With a ding, you picked your floor and the elevator doors closed up.

But, when the elevator door was about to completely close, a metal hand cut through, and it opened up again.

You were met with a set of blue-grey eyes. "Good morning," Bucky greeted you as he walked in. With your voice stuck in your throat, you managed to cough up an enthusiastic enough good morning! back. He looked significantly less shitty than you did, despite being in the same situation the night before.

He was wearing a plain black tee and jeans— a typical Bucky outfit. He didn't have to wear anything formal, like you did with your short-sleeved button up and slacks, lucky him. Your eyes wandered from his chest to his arms as he walked to stand next to you. Never mind, lucky you. You snapped your head forward before he noticed you staring.

This was a normal routine. Once a week, you both would spend the night together, and the next morning pretend like nothing happened. It was awkward for you still, but to him it's like it's nothing, well, what did you expect? The tension in the air was really evident, and you were itching to touch him again. But you remembered your agreement with him, so you couldn't act on your thoughts.

You tried your best to not turn your head to admire him again, his piercing eyes, his cute stubble, his dark hair, this man was truly the embodi-

Ding! the elevator made a sound that broke your train of thought.

Bucky moves from your side to exit the elevator, not saying a word. You felt disappointment replace your earlier emotions, wishing to be close to him a little bit more. You opened your mouth to say goodbye, "Have a nice da-" the elevator closed on you before you could even finish, leaving you standing there whilst it moved again.

Yeah, today is going to be a really really long day.

[bakudekublogblog]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65250814

Izuku has been acting strangely ever since the war ended. 

Not that Katsuki can blame him. War has left everyone misshapen: taken things from them, marred their bodies, and robbed them of their innocence. Everyone in Class 1-A has been altered by it. Katsuki catches Jirou crying over her prosthetic ear on the sparring mat; Mina is always half a shade paler pink than she was before; and sometimes, Katsuki will catch Kaminari and Monoma staring at him like they’ve just seen a ghost. Every single one of Katsuki’s classmates are jumpier than they were before, quicker to spring into action, but less likely to laugh. Less likely to goof around in the ways teenagers are supposed to.  

But Izuku seems fine. 

More than fine, really. He’s lost more than anyone, but he’s still going above and beyond to help others. Using precious bits of OFA to reach a near-suicidal Uraraka, visiting Spinner in his jail cell, comforting Todoroki after his brother passes, taking Eri to her quirk-therapy appointments. He laughs like nothing’s wrong. Smiles at everyone encouragingly, assures Katsuki over and over again that he’s alright.

Katsuki knows better than that. 

He knows Izuku better than anyone. Izuku is not fucking fine; he just thinks he has to be fine. He’s doing what he always does: says he’s okay while bottling everything up. Suppressing everything until he’s a pressure cooker set to explode. 

But Katsuki also knows there’s nothing he can do about it. Stupid, stubborn Izuku. He’ll break himself before admitting he needs help, so Katsuki will just have to let him break. Watch him carefully, wait and stay in place to catch him after the inevitable fall out. 

Katsuki can’t tell if Izuku is subtly avoiding him since the war ended or if he’s just so preoccupied with everyone else’s goddamn problems that Katsuki has just fallen to the wayside. He supposes it doesn’t matter. He can’t ask anything more of Izuku, not when he gives so much already. And Katsuki owes him a fucking lifetime of favors, so he makes the effort and reaches out first. 

Sparring practices have just wrapped up. Everyone else is drifting off in pairs, getting ready for dinner, laughing and chatting about what their plans are for the weekend. Of course Izuku has remained behind, though. Katsuki knows he’ll go another two hours at least: not to improve himself, but to help others. Today is Todoroki’s day, and Izuku sits on the bench off to the side, wrapping his wrists while Todoroki converses with Momo. Katsuki settles on the bench beside him, nudging Izuku with his knee. 

“How are the embers doing?” he asks. 

[READ MORE]

[goofycattycat]

Hello! Can you do possessive yandere Dazai and Chuuya ( separate) I think l'm your first request but anyways thank you for responding to me.😌

Hellohello!! Yes ofc ><

Author note; for some reason, I didn't get a notification for your request 💔💔 that being said, I'm so sorry if you waited long after sending this 🙏🙏

Warnings; mention of manipulation, torture, yandere themed stuff in general

Reader; gender neutral

Yandere!Chuuya & Dazai hc's

I feel like Osamus main trait as a yandere would be that he allows you to keep the illusion of freedom you created for yourself, even if you truly know it's not real.

He'd make sure to keep you close, dragging you into all of his mess, making you responsible for truly awful things. He tries to tell himself that he has some deep purpose to his actions, but the truth is, it's all his selfishness wishing to keep you by his side. So, at the end of the day, he believes that the least he can do is let you pretend like you still can go back. Although you're way too deep into the mess he made to return.

His love is deep, possessive and passionate. He values the connections he has made along the way and how they make him feel, yours especially. And while there are many things that make him avoid vulnerability; Maybe it's his disgust for pity, maybe the survival instinct he developed back in port mafia, Dazai longs for the feeling of understanding, which you seem to provide, even if you feel like you can't get him fully. That's when he realises he must keep you close at all costs.

He won't hesitate to control your friends, nor you, doesn't matter if it's mentally or physically. He prefers to hurt you mentally than anything, but if it's more effective he will switch to the physical pain. He also uses it when you mess up a bit too badly, since it's the easiest, most effective way to put you back in your place. He prefers to keep you alive though, so that you'll provide him the connection he desires. Corpses can't really do that, can they.

Speaking of controlling, I believe that his favourite way of keeping an eye on you is breaking you. He'd find one of your friends to turn back at you, just to be the one to wipe away your tears. If he sees you talking to someone else a little too long instead of paying attention to him, there's a high chance they'd disappear the next day, so that he can comfort you with his silly jokes. What's better for a relationship than a cute bonding moment after all?

Unlike Dazai, Chuuya is one who draws the line at hurting you physically. While he may not seem like it, he's extremely strong. Even without his ability he can do a lot of damage to a man. And while he can use his strength to remind you that, he can't imagine raising a hand at you. In his eyes, you're precious, pure, and he cannot allow anyone nor himself to leave a flaw on that.

Speaking of that, he's rather controlling, especially when it comes to who you hang out with, and it's not rare for him to isolate you from your friends or even hurt them behind your back if he decides they're a bit off. Not only possessive, but also overprotective much. He's lost a lot of people in his life, and he refuses to lose you as well.

Although, while controlling behind his back, on the front he's a true gentleman. Yes, he'll carry you around, open doors for you and bring you flowers without occasion. He also remembers everything about you, from anniversaries you find important, to things like your favourite colour or if you look better in silver or gold, even to the smallest stuff like the exact temperature you prefer the water to have while bathing. The truth is, he knows a lot about you. Though it's not like you have to know that much.

That being said, Chuuya always has time for you. Always, no matter what day nor time. You could call with the smallest of things in the middle of the night and he'd drop everything he's doing right away, just so he can assist.

[starkspondwater]

Since prom season is here can I get headcannons for the main 4 😁

At my second job there have been couples taking prom pictures every weekend for the past month, so prom is on the mind! I did kind of turn this into a bit of a drabble so I hope that's alright!!

Main 4 Prom HC's

💙Stan💙

💙Man is a romantic at heart, just fumbles the opportunity a little. If anything it makes things a little more sweet

💙Knows prom is a big deal, and while outwardly to his friends he'll say he's not too interested in it, I know he is lying.

💙Proposal is going to be pretty typical- a nice sign he embarrassingly spent time on with some cheesy pun, flowers, and of course probably a little music (you can pry his love of music from my cold dead hands)

💙I picture him late at night in his room, Kyle on speaker, while he painstakingly tries not to spill glitter all over his rug. His mom already got onto him about how loud he had been practicing his song earlier, and he really didn't want to give her another reason to be pissy.

💙He was aware from the beginning who he wanted to ask, there was no question about that for him. The thing is he continued to beat around the bush each time he attempted to ask. The first attempt he lost track of time and before he knew it you were heading home and he was still dateless. The second one was a bit more embarrassing. He had figured a time and place to ask you, only to come face to face with a strange man in his 30's looking wide-eyed at the boy holding a glittery sign. Stan isn't sure how that even happened or who that was, but he knew he couldn't keep messing up.

💙The entire time he asked he couldn't keep the grin from his face, happy to finally be putting all his hard work to use! The sign was ridiculous and the song was...well it was a song, but that didn't matter. He had missed two opportunities already due to his own stupidity, he wasn't missing a third one!

💙Sharon rented him a tux, a day spent fussing over what would look nice on him. Even as he rolled his eyes, he couldn't deny that this was nice, the time with his mom. He didn't realize all the different styles there were and with each glance he kept trying to picture just what the two of you would look like side by side. By the time they got the deposit paid he knew he should thank his mom- his original choice in tux was...not great.

💙Is down for all the cheesy activities- dinner at Denny's beforehand, gaudy photo op, the group dancing. Will his friends rip on him later? Oh yeah. After years of seeing this experience in media he had been looking forward to it, dammit! Let him have his fun!

💙That first sight of you prettied up (whether in a suit yourself or a dress) he's going to feel that little trickle of nausea. I do not think that will ever go away for him, but he does get better about it over the years. Seeing you? Oh that's a test of his will.

💙Will yap as the two of you sway to the slow ballad playing over the speakers. I think for him those little moments are what he's going to recall the most when he's older- soft words as lights dance around the walls, and the feeling that no one else exists until the music stops playing

💚Kyle💚

💚I feel like prom was not even in the boys radar until there were only weeks left til the big day. One would think Stan freaking out about how to ask his own date and Kenny and Cartman joking about the after parties would've given him a clue, but with finals fast approaching it was in one ear and out the other

💚If he isn't interested in anyone I think it could go 50/50 on whether he'd be okay going stag or not. Like on one hand he'd be fine just hanging out with his friends, but on the other seeing Stan have a date would make him feel left out. He'd probably be strategic on who he's want to ask as a friend at that point

💚If he's got someone in mind then it is very different. He already waited a little too long to get the ball rolling, so he's probably at least a little stressed on what to do. Stan's probably got the most typical proposal suggestions, Kenny just said to streak across their yard (yes, thank you Kenny, that's such a serious suggestion) and Cartman? Well he's not giving the ginger any advice.

💚I think he would end up outright asking you. Nothing fancy, nothing particularly elaborate, just a simple question. He had an idea of what he wanted to do but the worry that he would mess it up coupled with the anxiety of possibly being told no just...made him blurt it out. Red cheeks and all. It was kind of cute to see the tips of his ears go pink as the words stumbled out of him!

💚Sheila is buying that boy a tux. Yes it would save money to rent it, and Gerald will argue that, but in her eyes every man should have something nice in his closet- and her lanky boy had already outgrown his Bar Mitzvah suit. She's got an eye for detail and basically forced him to get the color of your outfit so she could coordinate his tie and boutonniere

💚Pictures, pictures, and more pictures. Doesn't matter that there's a professional photo op at the venue, Sheila will keep you both for way longer than needed to get the pictures she wants. She's posing you, wanting ones of just you, then just him. Yes, somehow Ike is in there and Kyle is whining because we have to go, Mom!

💚Somehow says the sweetest compliments. I don't know why but I feel like he would notice and compliment the little details most guys would overlook- how your earrings match the beading on the dress, the way you pinned up your hair, or how all the slight variations of colors of your ensemble went together. It might not be a usual compliment from a prom date, but it's so sincere you can't help but truly appreciate it

💚I'm in the "Kyle has no rhythm" hc club. You cannot drag that boy out to the dance floor, not for love nor money. He thought about at least joining the little line dance that was going on, but he recalled 7th grade gym class when they were forced into a week of dance. Yeah...he was fine just watching you have fun, large smile and all. At least until the first slow song begins, that's when he finds himself gravitating towards the outskirts of the crowd, your hand in his

💚Is just going to sway, and it's only barely in tandem with the song playing. He avoided actually getting on the dance floor all night, not wanting to embarrass himself, but this was one thing he couldn't miss. He would be stiff at first, unsure of himself, before relaxing into it. By the end you actually had to remind him the song had changed because he just kept swaying, too caught up in how nice dancing with you could feel.

🧡Kenny🧡

🧡Kenny's been working on his prom stuff for a while- tuxes ain't cheap and he'll be damned if he doesn't look at least a little good. Busting his ass at work paid off though, and with a small donation from Sharon he was able to rent a tux along with Stan!

🧡I just have this feeling in my bones that he would've been the first of the m4 to obtain a date. Like he knew who he wanted and went right for it.

🧡Kenny's promposal is not as flashy as Stan's, but he's making use of what he's got and that's what matters. He loves surprises and that's just what you would get. He positioned the old car he had fixed up near your house, hood propped open with him standing in front. He looked downright pensive, and you knew it just HAD the be the engine; He'd been complaining about the thing for weeks. You stepped outside and hustled over, ready to help if needed only to find that along the engine and other parts under the hood were 5 pieces of paper, spelling out the word "prom?" in his familiar messy scrawl. You were pretty sure he had even doodled you and him along the margins!

🧡Kenny's not flashy, and he didn't want to be, but he also knew that life hit oneself pretty quickly and this sort of experience was something to look back on. Why not go all out? That was his motto when it came to a lot of those high school experiences, knowing how shitty things could get once adulthood hit head on

🧡He forgot the corsage, and he doesn't have a boutonniere, but he did bring a few flowers he picked up along the way to yours. He's not shy by nature, his friends making sure of that over the years, but handing over those few stems had him feeling warm under the collar. He might forget a few things, but that doesn't mean he forgot about you.

🧡Has no problem stating how good you look. If he's not saying it with his mouth he is saying it with his eyes- but he's not leering. The jokingly pervy looks he may shoot your way normally have been replaced with something much more endearing and gentle, like he cannot believe that he gets to be here with you. To him you might as well be a million bucks because he felt very rich that evening.

🧡Is going to dance the majority of the time and pull you and anyone else into the mix. Much like Kyle he does not have the best rhythm but he can keep a beat and bring a certain energy that made others want to join in. He's having a ball, and for someone who always seems to have something underlying that stresses him constantly, it's a wonderful sight to see.

🧡Slow dancing is where he has a lot of fun. He has no qualms about being close, not even pretending to hear Mackey's call for "leave room for Jesus!" and bringing you right to his chest. He's going to have a bit more movement, spinning you around from time to time and will attempt a dip only to be met with giggles.

🧡On the way home he's going to pull over that old car of his just to repeat the experience, his radio playing light tunes as you spin around under a streetlight.

❤️Cartman❤️

❤️Cartman had two modes to me. The absolutely most ridiculous shirts covered in memes and other things that could be cringe, and somehow the most stylish outfits out of his friends. He does both and it gives so much whiplash

❤️He had been planning on prom long before he even considered having a date to it. He knew the color he wanted to wear, he knew how he wanted his hair, the vibe, all of it. He has a VISION

❤️Liane handed over the money for whatever he needed. In the years since the hot dog she had pinched her purse strings quite a bit to hopefully teach Eric a lesson, but with prom she just wanted him to have the best time. I do think she gives some really good opinions that he takes into account-his momma does know a few things!

❤️Was going to just ask some broad to go with him (or possibly coerce her) but then you were in the picture and that idea went out the window. In his mind he was going to play it cool, maybe just appear at your locker looking suave before suggesting you two kick it at prom.

❤️He was sweating like a damn pig. You had been with friends and for the love of God his feet would not bring him over. He had no problem talking and being a little shit to you before and yet right now he felt like he was turning into season 1 Stan Marsh. Then, you killed him. Strutting over with friends watching behind you, YOU asked HIM to prom, and all he could do was dumbly nod before rushing off. It took a few days for things to sink in but eventually he did let it get to his head. It was infuriating to his group of friends.

❤️Does try to gently (not really) inform you of the colors you should go for with dresses/suits, not just because it would match his rather fancy tux, but also because he knew how colors worked and in no world was he going to have you look bad, especially standing next to him.

❤️That confidence of his wavers once more once he gets a look at you. The entire time his mother is posing the two of you for pictures and fawning over how precious you both look, he is just trying not to stare. He knew you'd look good, maybe not as good as him, but now he felt like eating those words.

❤️Like Kenny is going to dance, but he's actually weirdly good at it. All those years dancing in his room to pop songs kind of paid off for this one night. Where people normally tried to ignore him, he drew attention to himself and it was actually good!

❤️Slow dancing is where he shined. He's not doing that "his hands on your waist and yours on his shoulders" schtick, he's going to do this correctly. Grabbing your right hand in his you felt him pull you close with the left, your other hand coming to his bicep. While others swayed side to side he led you into some simple steps that soon you didn't even have to think about. It was...romantic coming from the loud boy, and to be honest it was a nice light to see finally see him in.

❤️If anyone ever mentioned how soft he seemed during those few slow dances played, he'd deny it. But you knew and that was just fine

[variouschips]

Beware the cringe post ! (Part 2)

So...I made another one...👀👉🏼👈🏼

(⚠️ Again if you don't like those ships just ignore my post, if you don't want to ignore it don't be hateful, thank you in advance 😊)

I've already shipped some of them since a long time ago, the others are recent (at least 7 of them are)

I have such a huge list for my ships, and yet I won't be able to make another template with those ones, so this might be my last with that specific template 🥲... unless there are other pairs coming, so I can ship them 👀

Anyway, I saw that the first one made many agree with my "judgment" 😂

I'm so sad I couldn't put my favourite ones but well, I had to make a choice 🤷🏽

In case you don't know the characters or where they come from :

⬇️⬇️⬇️

- Because it's adorable : Dogman and Petey - Dogman

- Because it's hot : Bad Kaeloo and Mr. Chat - Kaeloo

- Because it makes sense : Legoshi and Louis - Beastars

- Because it's sweet : Jack Frost and Bunnymund - Rise of the Guardians

- Because of its potential : Sunset Shimmer and Pinky Pie - Equestria Girls (My Little Pony)

- Because it's healthy : Amity and Luz - The Owl House

- Because it's new : Agent Stone and Dr.Robotnik - Sonic Live Action Movies

- Because it's canon : Boxman and Professor Venomous - O.K K.O

- Because they understand each other : Eddie and Venom - Venom

- Because they're different : Tigger and Rabbit - Winnie the Pooh

- Because they're the same : Zoro and Sanji - One Piece

- Because of subtext : Klaus and Jesper - Klaus

- Because of fanwork : Jet and Sonic - Sonic Riders

- Because they're underrated : Walter and Lance - Spies in Disguise

- Because I don't see them with anyone else : Blondie and Tuco - The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

- Because I CAN : Baloo and Bagheera - The Jungle Book

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And this time I'm going to explain my choice for some of them ! :

- Jack Frost and Bunnymund (the "sweet" one) : so at first, no, but there is one scene that made their relationship sweeter and it's this one :

It is when the guardians, in a time of crisis, went to Bunnymund workplace to help him get all eggs ready for Easter.

And at this moment, a little girl entered in the place by accident so everyone take care of her until they bring her back home.

And so the scene is just Jack apologising to Bunnymund for calling him a kangaroo, and Bunnymund laughs at it.

I mean IT'S SO SWEET, YOU CANNOT TELL ME THERE'S NOTHING GOING ON (of course it's a kid's show so there's actually nothing "romantic" going on between them but still)

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- Agent Stone and Dr.Robotnik (the "new" one) : It began to become kind of "canon" (not canon but at the verge of) in the last movie, so that is why I put it in the "it's new" one. Also the fact that Agent Stone is literally a new character into the Sonic franchise.

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- Zoro and Sanji (the "same" one): I know they're not exactly the same, but they have a mindset that is pretty similar, they're literally depicted as the "wings" of the captain, 2 wings are not the same, they're mirrored but don't forget that on a bird they look alike and do the same thing : make sure that the bird/captain fly.

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- Blondie and Tuco (don't see them with anyone else one) : well, that's a little untrue because I saw people shipping Blondie with The Bad and I can see why, BUT I personally think it can only work as a one sided relationship, with The Bad kind of simping for Blondie. But otherwise, Blondie and Tuco where never around any woman for the whole movie, from what I remember Tuco mentioned that he slept with many women and could sleep with many others, but I don't think he ever had any strong feelings for them since he's always on his own (or maybe he prefers his freedom, or maybe because he's a wanted criminal...?). And Blondie is so mysterious you can't tell what's up with him, even his name is unknown, so maybe he had partners, maybe not, but what I can say is that he loves teasing Tuco and mocking him 🤭

And Tuco, to make him suffer 😏...

[quokkaholic]

The Triangle From Hell h.j pt. 2

Pt. 1

Synopsis: After hooking up with your long time fwb, he reveals he has feelings for someone else. A night out with friends helps ease the sting of the news, but at the end of the night you received an unexpected phone call.

Warnings/tags: MDNI, smut with minimal plot, unprotected (don't) pinv, afab reader who is lowkey bitchy, talk of alcohol consumption, cussing

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Feeling around the bed for you ringing phone, you don’t even bother opening your eyes. At this hour, you’d usually ignore it but since you had just been out with your friends, you need to make sure it’s not an emergency. The bright screen stings your sensitive eyes even with them squeezed tight shut as you turn to the side and lay the phone over your ear. 

“You okay?” You ask, cutting straight to the point with who you assume is one of your wasted friends. 

“What? Yeah, I’m fine. Are you okay?” The voice is so familiar but not who you expected. 

“Hannie? What do you want?” Your annoyance and exhaustion evident in your tone. 

“You told me to call!”

“Huh? No I did not. Go to bed!” Aiming hang up on the delusional man but halt your actions after hearing him shouting even when you had pulled the phone from your ear.

“Wait! I need to talk to you!”

“No you don’t! Ji, I’m hammered and so tired, I can’t play whatever game this is right now!”

He just whines your name in response to the sass you’re serving him, but with a half drunk, half already asleep brain, you don’t have the capacity to do this right. Calming your tone to show you’re serious about sleeping this off, you try to end the call peacefully,

“Han, is this an emergency?”

“Well, no, but it’s import—“

“Then it can wait till I wake up. Goodnight.” You say with finality and hang up the phone. Before you can try to decipher his words or even curse his name for keeping you awake, you fall into a dead sleep. 

Rapping on the front door stirs you from your deep slumber, the light peaking through the curtains signal it’s at least the next morning. Rolling over and shimmying further under the covers, you try to ignore the assumed solicitor, but the pounding is incessant. You find your phone again to check the time but instead you see a message from none other than Jisung.

“Bringing hangover remedy around noon <3”

You fling the covers to the side and falter as you drag yourself up to sitting to scan the room for something to throw on to answer the door. He called last night didn’t he? He said you told him to. You were sober when you saw him and have no memory of saying that. No, he was supposed to call his new girl…

You’ll blame the liquor for how long it took you to put two and two together. Your lackadaisical search for presentable clothes turns to a frantic rummaging through piles of clothes for literally anything to cover your bare form left over from being too drunk to put on pajamas but coherent enough to get out of your dirty clothes. After pulling on some shorts, you grab a tee off the floor and run for the door as you wrangle it over your head. Your sudden yanking open of the door surprises Han, frozen with one fist raised and the other clutching a grease stained paper sack from a local diner.

“You called ME!” you blurt out before he can even greet you.

“Uh yeah. That’s what I’m here to–” he begins to explain himself, but you reach for his free hand to pull him inside, intending to lead him straight to the bed. However, once inside, he gently pulls his hand back and places the takeout on the coffee table trying to regain control of the situation.

“Baby, I’m not here for that. I’m here to–” He’s trying to be romantic, but you’ve imagined this moment over and over for literal years; you’re done waiting.

“Just come to bed with me,”

“We at least need to talk first!” he protests.

“No we don’t. You’re here to confess your feelings for me,” you reveal his secret for him, not willing to even allow the possibility of him wimping out.

“I was supposed to say that,” he timidly whines, lips turning into a little pout, slight embarrassment tinting his cheeks pink.

“Doesn’t matter. I have feelings for you too, and have for, let’s see, forever,” you joke, mocking your own eons of yearning, feeling only slightly bad for stealing his moment. Without responding, Jisung grabs either side of your head and smashes his lips hard to yours, teeth almost clanking as neither of you can fight your cheek cramping grins, a little bit relieved he didn’t actually have to confess. Before the kissing cans get too heavy, Ji pulls away and opens his mouth like he’s about to start blabbering again.

“The longer we talk, the longer until you can fuck your girlfriend silly,” pointing out the unnecessary nature of this discussion.

“Girlfriend?” Han questions sweetly just to make sure he heard you correctly, and you nod in confirmation. He lets his loser show when he give a quick fist pump and hisses out a,

“Yessss,” through his goofy smile before practically pushing you towards your room. It isn't difficult; this is what you wanted all along. As soon as you both fall to the bed, your lips reconnect and limbs tangle together. This is obviously not your first time together. Hell, it wouldn’t even be the first time in the last 24 hours, but something just feels different even in just the kiss. Like all these years, you’d both been holding a little back, but now you can finally share every part of yourselves freely. It's so liberating and invigorating, you’re practically vibrating.

His familiar touch feels warmer as he glides his hands all over your cool skin under the shirt you haphazardly thrown on not ten minutes ago. The kiss is intense and passionate bordering on sloppy as you both lack much of any self control, desperate to meld together. Han massages the soft skin of your stomach and sides with one hand and the other travels higher to palm your breasts, gently pinching your sensitive nipples. Moaning into each other's mouths as you too allow your hands to explore his toned chest and back before planting them in his hair holding him firm to your bruising kiss.

The tension is rising impossibly fast, neither of you are interested in prolonged foreplay and endless rounds, you just want to connect on a primal level and finally let the love you had been holding back for so long to freely flow between you. You briefly separate to simultaneously rip off your clothes, craving the skin to skin.

Working along his jaw, you press wet kisses down pausing at the sweet spot on his neck to nip and lick, eager to mark up his chest for only you to see, earning soft whimpers he couldn’t hold back even if he wanted to. Han grips himself firmly at the base and lines up with your entrance, but instead of entering fully he just dips in to gather up some of your wetness. He glides himself through your folds before rubbing his dripping, flushed tip back and forth over your clit, drawing strangled moans from your throat with his teasing. He holds his length to your pussy with his thumb and rests his palm on your pubic area as he shallowly bucks against your lips causing mind numbing friction. The sultry, wet sound mixed with his moans have your head spinning.

“You sound so pretty, Ji,” you just must compliment him. You have to let your man know how much you adore him.

“Fuck, I love your noises, they make me so hard,” he groans out, diligently trying to focus so he can actually last long enough to get inside you. His movements slow, and he realigns with your opening. Tucking his face into the crook of your neck, he slides in, movements slightly jerky as he’s fight his instinct to ram into,

“Finally mine,” Han whispers, breath tickling your skin causing shiver and goosebumps to resonate from the area. 

“I’ve always been yours, Ji,” you correct without thinking.

“Ooouuh you can’t say that. I won’t last,” he confesses exasperated. When he bottoms out, he holds still to give you both a moment to collect yourselfs before he starts moving. You cling tight to one another as he pumps deep and slow. The moaning and mumbling of sweet words only pauses when one of you kiss along the other’s shoulder or neck. You’re quickly shaking under him and Ji’s thrusts are getting faster and more erratic. 

“I’m almost there, baby. Do you want me to stop?” He’s asking to be considerate of your enjoyment, but you aren’t confident that even if you said yes, he’d actually be able to. Lucky for him, his stopping is the very last thing you need right now as you can feel the knot in your stomach on the brink of unraveling.

“Please don’t stop, Jisung. I need you. Make me feel good,” you almost beg, needy for your release. At your words a long, deep groan rattles through Han’s chest and radiates into you through your connected fronts. Rhythmically tensing as waves of pleasure crashes over you as well before you both fall limp, the strength of your orgasms leaving you both gassed. 

You lay in eachothers arms for a while, whispering, sharing gentle kisses, but mostly just soaking up the feeling of not having to worry what your time together meant to the other or having to reel in your swelling hearts. After re-re-dressing, you move to the couch to watch shows and play some games where you’ll spend the rest of the day. Jinsung claims he's not hungry when you ask, but eats half of the breakfast sandwich and hashbrowns he brought. When you poke fun at his classic behavior, he defends himself claiming them as taxes for not only delivering but also re-heating them for you. You don’t fight his as he brought it to you perfectly warmed all the way though and still shirtless,

“God, you’re so hot. That girl you're into is a lucky woman,” Han just rolls his eyes. 

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pic creds x x x

A.n- Thanks for reading babes. I loved the concept from pt.1, but since it was my first fic, I wanted to do it justice by editing and making a pt.2.

-mo

Masterlist

[allykakamatsu]

Twisted Hearts 1 Chapter 7: Witches and Sorcerer's

<First> <Previous> <Next>

Story Summary: When an unknown incident lands the students of NRC in a strange new world, they have to travel across worlds to find each other as well as trying to vanquish the darkness. Sounds.... easier than most of what they've been through this school year at least, but nothing is ever that simple, and a pair or adopted siblings will once again find themselves at odds.

Chapter Summary: The group makes their way back to Atlantica to use Ursula's solution to convince Triton to let them help, but things don't go as planned. Meanwhile in Agrabah, Kalim is starting to get worried.

(Chapter Underneath Read More)

POV, Kalim:

“Jamil?! Where are you?! Hello?!?!” I shout as I make my way through another loop of the streets looking for my friend. Jamil told me he’d be busy with Jaffar today, and that’s fine, working with one of the Great Seven is a big deal and the last thing I want to do is ruin it, but he said he’s be back by about four and that was four hours ago and I’m really starting to get worried.

“Maybe he just went back to our place? Or he’s staying at the castle?” I think out loud as I try to figure out why I haven’t seen him as I finish my… fifth loop I think with still no luck. Jamil has been invited to stay there more recently so maybe he just crashed there after the business was sorted. Or maybe something else just came up. Yeah, it’s probably nothing, he’ll be fine, and I’m better at handling myself on my own so I can take care of myself for one night… right?

“I can but I don’t like being on my own…” I admit to myself with a mumble as I decide to do one more lap before calling it a night. Ever since we showed up in Agrabah things have actually been the closest they’ve been to how they were before Jamil’s Overblot and it’s just been nice. It’s started to feel like we’re actually friends again, albeit with a lot more sarcasm and quips than before, and now that things are feeling right again I don’t want us to be apart for too long. Again, this is a big deal for Jamil and I don’t want to ruin it but, I just hope he’s back soon-

“Any sign of either of them?” A woman asks making me turn on instinct, and while I can’t see who said that properly from where I am, I can see she’s talking to Jaffar! Okay perfect, I’ll just wait for them to finish then ask him where Jamil is, problem solved!

“No, though I figured the traitor wouldn’t be idiotic enough to come here.” Jaffar replies as I get closer to know when they’re finished, and it’s then I see that Jaffar is talking to…. Maleficent?!?!

“Unfortunately you picked them well,” Maleficent sighs as I cover my mouth to try hide my shock, “we can still complete our plan without the boy, but having him on our side will mean there’s no threat of the Keyblade stopping us, not to mention Malleus is out of his mind right now and we need him focused.”

‘Malleus is working with them?!’ I think in shock wondering if anyone else from NRC is here and working with the Great Seven.

“Trust me, I am well aware,” Jaffar replies with an annoyed groan, “that boy was wrapped around my finger from the moment he saw me, I have no idea what spurred him on to do this.” ….Wait…

“Are they talking about Jamil…?” I mutter under my breath starting to get worried again. Did something go wrong that made Jamil want to leave? I don’t know what would make him do that but… well I know from experience he’s not afraid to betray people he’s close to if he has a motive-!!

“It looks like we have a little rat.” Maleficent says with a smug tone as I’m pulled over to the pair with magic. Whoops, guess I was a bit too loud…

“Oh for the love of- you?,” Jaffar groans once he sees it’s me and I just smile as best as I can, “how long were you standing there?”

“Just now,” I admit hoping I’m not in trouble, “I’m sorry for interrupting sir, and it’s amazing to meet you miss Maleficent, but I was just waiting until you two were done talking so I could ask where Jamil is. It’s getting late and I was getting worried.”

“Oh, the traitor has a friend, how quaint,” Maleficent says in a somewhat condescending tone as my hunch is unfortunately confirmed, “He hasn’t come back because he decided to backstab us out of the blue and run off to some unknown world with one of our assets. Though we may be able to draw out the rat with some… leverage.”

“Huh… that… doesn’t sound like… him…” I say trying to keep calm, which becomes a lot harder as I realise how Maleficent and Jaffar are both looking at me with a smug grin. Yeah, based on that and what she said, I think I’m about to get kidnapped and I need to get out of here fast. I don’t know why Jamil did what he did but I trust him enough to know he had a good reason behind this, and I’m not gonna let myself be used to hold him back…. Again.

“I’m just… gonna go… and I’ll let you know if I see Jamil…,” I tell the two as I quickly come up with a plan and reach for my magic pen, “so…. Ahavenwithinthehotsandsanever-endingfeast.Dance!Sing!Oasis Maker!”

“What-?!” Jaffar asks before both he and Maleficent are taken off guard by my signature spell and I take advantage of the chaos to run for it.

“I just did that, I can’t believe I just did that.” I mumble to myself in disbelief as I keep running. I just blasted two of the Great Seven with my signature spell, if I ever tell anyone about this I am never going to live it down. Still, Great Seven or not a kidnapping attempt is still a kidnapping attempt and now that I’m far enough away I need to figure out where to go. I can’t go back to mine and Jamil’s place, that will be the first place Jaffar will look. Uh, I have my purse on me, maybe I can make it to the inn on the other side of town and hide there-!!

“AH!! Ow….!” I groan as I recover someone or something hitting me on the head and sending me flying, and once I recover from the shock I see it landed me in a house?

“Sorry about that, just saw Jaffar and some crazy lady were following you and I had to get you in quickly. Are you alright?” A voice I don’t recognise asks as he helps me up, and when I see who I’m talking to well… it’s a face I very much recognise thanks to my textbooks.

“Yeah, I’m fine and don’t worry, I’ve been hit by a lot worse than whatever that was,” I admit to assure Aladdin, “thanks for the help by the way.”

“Don’t mention it,” Aladdin assures me as a monkey hands me a small glass of water that I gladly take, “but what’s going on out there? I’ve seen you talk to Jaffar before, I thought you two were on the same page.”

“We were, but my best friend apparently betrayed him and he was about to kidnap me for a hostage situation,” I explain making the two look at me like I have two heads, “yeah it’s crazy but somehow not the craziest day I’ve ever had at least.”

“Just crazy enough to be believable,” Aladdin admits and the monkey nods in agreement, “me and Jasmine knew he was bad news for a while but this confirms it.” 

“Jasmine? You’ve met the Princess?” I ask because I haven’t heard about anything from the story happening yet so that’s weird. Oh by the Seven please say me and Jamil being here didn’t accidentally screw up the timeline!

“Yup, it’s a long story,” he admits, “I’m gonna be meeting up with her tomorrow to figure out something to do to fix this mess. Between Jaffar and these Shadow Monsters that have been running around, everything is going wrong in Agrabah now.”

“Shadow- oh, you mean those Overblot Monsters,” I say realising what he means, “yeah they’re pretty bad news but I’m used to dealing with them at least. These ones even go down once I touch them for some reason so I don’t have to use too much magic either.”

“I’m… not gonna question the magic part-,” Aladdin says looking confused before turning to his monkey who’s now making gestures, “huh? Actually yeah, that does sound like what Jasmine did earlier.”

“What did she do?” I ask because I am feeling really confused and I hope this is normal and I’m not just being stupid.

“Again, it’s a long story,” Aladdin tells me, “but kid, I’m gonna let you camp out here for the night regardless, and you don’t have to do anything, but if you really wanna thank me for saving you out there, then you up for tagging along with me and Abu to meet up with Jasmine tomorrow?”

“…. There’s still a lot of this I’m confused about,” I admit, “but I don’t want to stand by and let people get hurt. And if Jamil of all people is going against Jaffar, then this has to be something bad so… count me in!”

“Alright!,” Aladdin says as he and the monkey hold out their hands for me to high five which I gladly return, “I’m Aladdin by the way, and this is Abu.”

“Kalim, it’s nice to meet you two!” I tell them as I hope this ends well, but if this is to help Jamil then it’s time to take a gamble!

POV, Silver:

“Has Ariel given her dad the potion yet?” Sora asks quietly as we all peak out from behind the pillar Ariel told us to hide behind as we watch her talk to Triton, but unfortunately it’s hard to hear what they’re saying given that we’re pretty far away.

“If you let me step out and get closer I can find out.” Ace suggests before getting bonked by Riddle.

“Don’t you dare, we are not ruining this.” Riddle hisses, making Ace pout and mumble something about killjoys.

“He’s just trying to keep you safe Ace.” Cater tells him with an awkward smile.

“Still, this is taking a while.” Trey admits, and he has a point. I don’t want to rush but it has been a good ten minutes.

“I mean, we did run off with Ariel, he’s probably making sure we didn’t do anything to her.” Goofy points out which that does make sense.

“I’m more so curious about the lack of security,” Jade adds, “we’ve swum around the castle enough to know there’s usually quite a lot of guards, and given that you all ran off with the princess you think it would be tighter, not more loose.”

“Maybe they’re all just out looking for her?” Deuce suggests.

“I doubt it,” I point out, “any castle security would be foolish to leave itself completely unguarded, especially if a member of the royal family is there. That might be possible if Triton also left on the search but he clearly didn’t so this just raises a lot of questions.”

“I always forget that you’re training to be a soldier,” Azul mumbles before refocusing, “still, strange as it is this is convenient for us, so let’s just keep our eyes open in case this is a trap and count our blessings.”

“Good idea- oh thank the Seven finally!,” Floyd admits before sighing in relief as Ariel swims back over to us, “I think I might’ve exploded if I had to stay still for another minute-“

“Guys, something’s wrong!,” Ariel tells us, “I gave Daddy the potion but now he’s just sitting there and won’t move or speak!”

“WHAT?!?!” Donald screams as everyone looks some flavour of panicked. Zooterkins that is not good.

“Did ya mix anything into it?” Goofy asks as we all swim over to Triton to see what the issue is. 

“No, I just put it into a cup and gave it to him as a drink, I don’t know what happened!” Ariel answers as we make it and the king is very much paralysed in his chair.

“This is bad, this is very very bad,” Deuce admits in full panic mode, “does anyone know what’s going on?!”

“Hold on, I’ve got it,” Trey tells us as he looks over Triton, “uh…. Okay good news is that he’ll be fine. The bad news is that we gave him a paralysing potion, and I don’t have any of the ingredients on me for an antidote so he’s going to be stuck like this for anywhere from ten minutes to an hour.”

“Uh, that’s good at least I guess,” Floyd admits, “but Ursula said she gave us a potion to make him listen to us, not to stun him.”

“Maybe she made a mistake?” Sora suggests as we all calm down a little but the concern is still very much in the air.

“She would never make a mistake like that!” Azul objects bluntly.

“But that means this was intentional,” Riddle says, “but, why in the name of the Queen would she do that-?”

“GOLDFISHIE WATCH OUT-!! GAH!!!!!!,” Floyd shouts as he pushes Riddle out of the way of a blast of dark magic-!, “I’m… okay…!!!”

“Senpai!!” Ace shouts in concern as we all swim over to him to make sure he’s alright after the attack. Thankfully he is but the scars still look pretty painful.

“He took that for….?” Riddle mumbles in shock and confusion before refocusing enough to cast a healing spell on Floyd.

“What in the world did that…?” Jade mumbles under his breath as I can just about tell by his eyes that he’s panicking despite his best attempts to keep a calm expression.

“Oh you poor unfortunate soul, that wasn’t meant for you.” Ursula says- wait Ursula?!?!

“#What the hell?!” Cater says in ‘meme panic mode’ and I’ve heard Idia dub it as we all turn to the Sea Witch who’s taking the crown and trident from the still paralysed Triton. 

“Hey, that’s Daddy’s, give it back, this wasn’t part of our deal!” Ariel shouts as she tries to grab the trident but gets easily knocked back by Ursula.

“Sorry dear, I guess you didn’t read the fine print,” Ursula replies tauntingly as me and Sora catch Ariel to stop her from spinning, “at last, the power, the throne, it’s all mine!!”

“Ma’am,” Azul incredibly awkwardly points out as we all process this, “I… I really don’t want to be rude and interrupt your moment but you didn’t create a contract so there was no fine print to read-!!”

“AAAGGGHHH!!!” !!!

“!! JADE!!!” Floyd screams in panic as my brain struggles to catch up with what just happened. Ursula she… she fired a lighting blast at Azul and Jade took the hit for him…

“Is he…?” I ask in panic as Trey recovers first and casts a healing spell.

“He’s alive, but out cold.” He assures us all which is a relief but now, now we have bigger problems.

“W Wh What….?” Azul stammers in shock and horror.

“Oh dear, I didn’t mean to hit him,” Ursula says in a mock apology before pointing the trident at all of us again, “Azul dear, get the twins out of here please, I have some pests to deal with and I don’t exactly care who gets caught in the middle.”

“What the hell are you doing?!” Deuce shouts as he swims in front of all of us, which normally I’d be concerned about but he has his magic pen ready so he’s probably hoping to use his Unique Magic to protect us. Good idea, but there’s no knowing if it’ll work so I cast my shield spell again and get ready just in case.

“What Deuce said!!,” Sora shouts as he draws his keyblade with a glare that boarders on venomous, “Floyd, Azul and Jade all trust you, and this is how you’re treating them?! You’re nothing more than a big meanie!!”

“Ugh, you truly are a massive pest,” Ursula groans as the trident charges up, “it’s time to do some extermination then!!”

“I’ll make you pay-!” Deuce starts to cast but gets cut off when Floyd pushes him aside?!

“It was just gettin' good, so how 'bout I butt in?,” Floyd casts in a tone so angry it honestly kind of freaks me out while using his tail to change the tridents aim, “Bind the Heart.”

“What the?!,” Ursula shouts in disbelief as her blast flies past all of us and completely misses Floyd because of the spell, “how dare you?!

“Do you really think, I give a damn about who you are after that?,” Floyd spits out looking the most genuinely angry I’ve ever seen him, “Great Sea Witch or not, nobody hurts my brother and Goldfishie, followed by trying to hurt them both again along with Azul and a lot of other people I care about and gets away with it.”

“Ugh, fine then,” Ursula shouts as the trident starts glowing again, “if that’s how you boys wanna play it, how about I up the stakes?!”

“What’s she doing-HYUCK?!?!” Goofy asks before getting cut off by Ursula casting a spell, but instead of firing more lightning at us she starts… getting bigger?

“I heard about this in the history books, never thought I’d see it, let alone like this!” I admit as I help Floyd carry Jade as we all quickly swim outside to avoid being crushed.

“Alright, this is bad, do we have a plan or are we #winging it?” Cater asks as we look up at the increasingly large problem.

“We’ve been winging it until now, don’t see why that would stop at this point,” Donald points out with a groan, “also stop saying hashtag before things!”

“It’s not my favourite of his verbal ticks but he does it when he’s nervous so lay off!,” Riddle tells the duck which makes Cater look a mixture of confused and happy, “but you’re right, let’s just go in and end this quickly. Everyone ready?!” We all nod in agreement to this, well, besides Azul who still looks like he’s on the verge of a heart attack.

“I know this can’t be easy,” I say to try assure him, “if you need to stay back that’s fine but we have to do this, if for nothing else to make her regret hurting Floyd and Jade.”

“…. You’re…. Right… after what she did….,” Azul mumbles while looking at the still unconscious Jade before turning to Ariel, “could you be a dear and keep him safe?”

“I will, just be careful!” Ariel agrees as she takes the unconscious eel before we all swim over to Ursula to confront her. 

“Okay, I know we’re just winging it,” Sora says, “but while Ursula is distracted I have an idea. When me and Donald cast our blizzard spells together, it gets a lot stronger… what if we all cast at the same time.”

“… Ehe, now that’s a plan I can get behind,” Ace agrees with a smirk as he pulls out his magic pen, “most of us don’t know an ice spell though, so how about we go for some fire for max impact?”

“Sounds good to me crabby!” Floyd says, back to his usual demeanour but a lot more determined as we all get our respective casting tools ready- wait….

“This is dumb but let’s try it.” I mumble to myself as I decide to try casting with my wand and my Keyblade at the same time.

“Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic….” Azul mumbles as he prepares to cast as well despite his hands being very shaky.

“Just breathe, you’ve got this,” Riddle says to assure him before getting into position, “now, everyone on three!! One, two, THREE!!!”

“FIRE!!!!/FIRE SHOT!!!!” We all scream as we fire our spells-!!

“Silver-Senpai?!” Deuce asks as I recover from being sent flying back.

“I’m good!” I assure him as I recover from the recoil-!! “AGH!!!” Ursula screams as the massive fireball hits her and she turns to us with a venomous glare. Well, no turning back from this fight now!

“Let’s hope we all have swimming figured out!!” Trey shouts as we all quickly swim out of the way of her barrage of lightning spells-

“You’re the actual mer here, why am I the one having to drag you?!” Riddle shouts in frustration as he pulls a very much panicking Azul out of the way of the blasts-!!

“MOVE!!” I shout as I pull the both out of the way of another blast.

“Ah… thank you… I apologise for you both having to see me like this!” Azul apologises once we’re in the clear.

“It’s fine-! Riddle!” I say as we dodge another blast.

“Right!,” Riddle replies getting what I meant as he pulls out his keyblade again, “one, two, three!!”

“FIRE!!!” We both shout as we fire another combined spell that thankfully hits.

“Nice one Goldfishie and Jellyfish-!! Sharky duck!!” Floyd shouts before pushing Sora out of the way of another attack.

“Thank you-whoa!!” Sora shouts before the two get taken off balance- wait why are the currents getting heavier?

“What’s happening-AGH!!” Deuce shouts before he’s pulled as well-!!

“Whirlpool everyone brace yourSELVES!!!!” Trey screams as we all get pulled into it before being thrown up- okay we’re above the water now.

“I’ve got you rats now!!” Ursula says with a maniacal laugh as she charges up the trident again as I scramble to cast my shield-

“It’s a Deal: Bet the Limit!!!” !!

“Is everyone alright?!” Goofy asks as we hit the water again, thankfully unharmed.

“We’re fine, but…” Riddle admits as we all turn to the very shocked Azul.

“I just did that…,” he mumbles, “I couldn’t let anyone else get hurt but I actually just did that-!!”

“Ya did good, just try not to worry about it!” Floyd says as we dodge the next round of lighting!

“I’m just wondering when did you get Deuce’s UM!” Ace shouts before firing another spell.

“During the masquerade at Noble Bell, it’s a long story,” Deuce explains before getting an idea face, “wait… if we both do it at the same time… maybe it’ll be enough to throw the spell back at her instead of just knocking it away like what just happened! You up for it Azul-senpai?!”

“…. Well, I’m not emotionally prepared but I suppose it’s now or never!” Azul agrees as he somewhat composes himself and we dodge another round of lightning, “everyone, get behind us! Now then, on three! One, two, THREE!!!”

“I’ll make you pay for that! Brace yourself! Bet the Limit!/ It’s a Deal: Bet the Limit!!” The two cast at the same time right as the next lightning strike hits, but instead of deflecting it almost seems to get stuck and tries to push through the spell?!

“Guys we gotta help!” Sora shouts as he grabs onto Deuce and Azul and starts trying to push them forward.

“Good idea So’!” Cater agrees as we all quickly join in on keeping the pair steady.

“Keep casting!!!” Donald shouts as we keep pushing.

“I’m trying!!!” Deuce shouts back as he’s clearly struggling but he’s holding on.

“As….,” Azul adds with a growl and intense expression, “Am…. I!!!!!” !!!

“WHOA!!!!” Ace shouts as we’re all sent flying back, oh by the Seven that’s bad-!!

“AAAGGGGHHHH!!!!” Ursula screams as she holds her face in pain, so I guess the plan worked after all then!

“Don’t just stand there, do something while she’s distracted! Also when did I get this?!” Azul asks in confusion while holding up a Keyblade- wait what?

“!! I’ll tell you later, but for now, all of us together!!” Sora shouts as he get’s ready to cast another spell.

“He’s right, everyone fire on three!,” I add getting everyone’s attention, “one, two, THREE!!!”

“FIRE!!!!/FIRE SHOT!!!!!” We all scream as we cast our spells again, and thankfully the massive fire blast does the trick as after that Ursula goes down….. I am just now processing that we killed a member of the Great Seven how the hell are we going to tell the others about this?

Masterpost

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[soulless-bex]

hot take: Jason is actually one of the most emotionally intelligent members of the Batfam because, contrary to most of them, he actually expresses his actual emotions. and while those feelings are mostly negative, he still expresses them, which is more than can be say about Bruce (who will bottle it up till it blows up in his face), Damian and Cass (who were trained out of expressing their feelings during childhood by literal assassins), Tim and Dick (who are chronic liars and will bullshit their way through life unless there’s no other way).

[puppppppppy]

for like 3 weeks i was wondering why i was sleeping so much and felt listless. and just now I managed to email 3 people and responded to a month old message in the span of an hour because I got back to TAKING MY FUCKIN MEDS..........

[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

[salemwasnteverhere]

How the Hashira men react to your neighbor asking you to be quiet

Characters: Tengen, Sanemi, Rengoku, Obanai, Gyomei, Giyuu,

Additional shit: Swearing, Sanemi fighting said neighbor, Rengoku being blunt, mentions of sex, ooc mot likely :p

Tengen

He couldn't care less

His whole thing is being flashy and loud so he wants you to be loud

Like it's not his fault that dick is magical

After he shoos your neighbor away he makes sure to be as loud as possible that night

He's pounding into your cunt and you swear your gonna break when he whispers "okay now scream exactly how big my dick is. Don't forget the tip color-"

He gets cut off by you hitting him with the pillow

Way to ruin the mood

But that doesn't stop him and instead he goes harder, making sure the bed creaks loud ASF for your neighbor

"Not my fault he doesn't know how to please a woman." Is his main reason for doing so

He really wants you to scream his name so it's imbedded in your neighbors head

"Morning N/N!" Him to your neighbor from the balcony while your trying to get out of bed and failing

"Actually die." Both you and your neighbor to Tengen

Sanemi

Cares alot

Why the fuck is that limp dick biscuit talking to you and him? Who does he think he is?

You were the one who broke the news to him thankfully cause if Sanemi was the one who opened the door then you'd have to see your husband through glass in a prison

Just kidding. The Slayer corp would get him out of trouble if he didn't do it himself.

Anyways

Sanemi made it his goal to piss your neighbor off as much as possible

Your under him, practically creaming on his cock, and he's slamming the wall yelling "This loud enough yet?! Huh!?"

Not kidding I can see him doing that

He quite literally had you against a window where your neighbors could see him destroying you just to make them mad or uncomfortable, hopefully both.

But then he'd get pissed someone else would see you all naked and fucked out so he settled for the wall next to the window

One day your neighbor, finally having enough, bangs on your door yelling and guess who opens it...Sanemi!!

Good Lord was he waiting for this

It took one punch and the guy was out

Kinda what happens when you put a normal dude against a guy who kills demons for a living

Rengoku

He's a good neutral between caring and not caring

Like he doesn't wanna make your neighbors mad but he also loves hearing your screams

So he tries to keep you quiet during sex but fails since he gets to into it to give a fuck

The next days his loud ass voice wakes you up

"IM SORRY FOR MAKING INCREDIBLE LOVE TO MY WIFE!" He's not being sarcastic thats his genuine apology

Your facepalming and you want to die when you see your neighbor and she can't look at you

"PERHAPS SHES MAD BECAUSE HER HUSBAND CANNOT PLEASE HER!" Rengoku says casually and you know she can hear you from outside in her garden

"Inside voices!" You place your hands over his mouth to try and shut him up.

It works for a bit before he's yelling again

You love your husband but holy shit you wish he would speak normally sometimes

He's actually quiet in bed though

So your the problem (real)

Obanai

I'm not an Obanai fan so forgive me for how bad his section will be

Obanai is a quiet mf, and you're not even that loud

It's your neighbor who was the problem

A little old man whose hearing aids apparently had the power of 67 suns

You and Obanai found this out when he was outside training and your neighbor came over

He was so sweet and polite and even chuckled at Obanai's redness

Obanai cared at first but got over it

You? You make sure to not make a PEEP in bed

Okay that pisses Obanai off but he understands your reasons

At least make a gasp or sum cause he's over here like "Wait does this feel good? Can she feel it? Did I forget where the clit is?"

Brother is STRESSING

Then you cum and he's like "ah"

Then he's like "Did you take it?"

You have to keep yourself from murdering him cause how tf would you fake squirting

Gyomei

Babe I'm not gonna lie, you're a screamer

Gyomei is built like a house and your telling me your just gonna whine and whimper?

NO

Your over here crying and screaming into his chest, neck, the pillow, anything.

And Gyomei loves it!

He can't see your reactions so hearing and feeling them let's him know he's doing good

Gyomei isn't loud but he's not quiet

He'll grunt and moan and praise you, but he's not gonna cry out.

Well he'll cry but you can never tell from what

When the pussy so good you start crying 😭🙏

When your neighbor politely asked you to be a tad bit quieter Gyomei actually laughed

Not in a 'nah we'll keep being loud' way but more of a 'sorry we'll be quiet' way. He also found it hilarious how you actually died of embarrassment.

Don't worry he thinks its endearing

Yet it was kinda hard for him since he enjoyed hearing you

But your touches and now quieter moans made that better

And then there's also you literally drawing blood from his back you were scratching so hard

Giyuu

Holy shit you have never seen him so embarrassed

Like you could shade match his Haori to him and get the exact same color

He was the one your neighbor told and he stopped working when 'loud' and 'moaning' left their lips

If a demon doesn't kill him then his own actions will

Giyuu isn't loud, and he loves that he can make you feel so good that your loud for him.

But he didn't want your neighbor back over at your house so he tried to keep you quiet

You were super confused when he held his hand over your mouth in bed and he just pointed to your neighbors house. Then you got it.

So you nod and try to keep quiet.

You know in school when the teacher tells you and a friend to shut up but they look at you funny and you break?

Yeah that was you

You were riding Giyuu one night and you were loud so he was like "holy shit I love you but please- I can't look our neighbor in the eyes anymore."

And you couldn't help but laugh

Like howling

You calmed down obviously but sex was very giggle filled after that

You've never seen Giyuu so panicked

But give him a week and he'll stop caring