♬♪ ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : beat of my heart ♬♪
♬ pairing. college au // drummer! gojo x psychology major! reader (f)
♬ summary. being a psychology major with a passion for music, you're no stranger to chaos—between juggling school, caring for your mother, and working at a local music shop, you've learned to keep your cool. but when a cocky drummer pushes your patience to the limit, a chance encounter with satoru gojo—an enigmatic, sharp-tongued musician—turns your world upside down. as you're drawn to his dangerous charm, an unexpected connection deepens, but so do the secrets you've both been running from. will you get caught up in his rhythm before you realize it’s too late?
♬ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, slow burn, smut, angst with comfort, some fluff, readers mom has dementia, mentions of suicide, alcohol/weed usage, unresolved trauma, commitment issues
♬ words: 7.3k
♬ a/n. hi lovelies, welcome to the debut of this fic :) very excited to explore this dynamic between satoru and y/n, thanks for reading ♡
♬ taglist: open
series masterlist ♬ next chapter → pending...
ch 1 // the first measure
“Emotional regulation is defined as the process by which individuals influence the emotions they experience, when they experience them, and how they express them in response to different stimuli.”
Staring at the neatly printed words in your psychology textbook, your mind automatically begins to dissect the concept.
Emotional regulation. The holy grail of human behavior, wrapped neatly in clinical terms. It’s the ability to keep yourself in check, to craft a perfect mask that hides what’s boiling beneath the surface. The world only gets to see what you allow. If it were as easy as the textbook made it sound, half your classes wouldn’t exist.
Letting out a breath, you sink deeper into your chair.
People aren’t simple equations you can balance, after all—people are… complicated.
Emotions, even more so.
They ebb and flow like unpredictable tides, swelling when you least expect them, crashing down when you think you’ve regained control. They are messy, stubborn, and relentless—especially when the brain stops following its own rules.
Your mothers face comes to mind—uninvited. Her once-bright eyes are now dull with confusion, emotions flickering in and out like static on a broken TV. Dementia has stolen the filter that once kept her reactions in line with reality. It’s as if her mind is betraying her, one piece at a time.
You press your fingers against the pages of the textbook. Will any amount of psychology truly prepare you to untangle the complexities of the human mind? Can it allow you to help her—or at least understand her—before she’s lost entirely?
Before you can sink further into that thought, an ear-splitting crash reverberates through the store, jolting you back into the present. Glancing up with a sigh, the peaceful hum of the music store is shattered by the clumsy cacophony of someone abusing a drum kit like it owes him money.
Clearly, emotional regulation isn’t on that guy’s radar.
Yet, somehow, you’ve grown used to it. Working part-time here has taught you how to tune out chaos, as if the dissonance of the store has become its own kind of background music.
It’s chaotic, but it’s your kind of chaos.
The strings of guitars being tested, the pounding of drum kits, the chattering of customers—it all blends into a rhythm you no longer notice.
You’ve been working part-time in this quaint little music shop for so long that silence has become unsettling. If it’s too quiet, your mind starts wandering, spiraling into places you don’t always want to go. And so, the chaos is your anchor—it helps you focus, keeps you present.
Studying in silence feels foreign.
“Ugh… I have such a headache,” Utahime’s voice breaks through your thoughts, her hand pressing to her temple. Standing a few feet away, she shoots a glare towards the drum section. “He’s been at it for practically an hour now. Like… come on. Is he trying to destroy that kit or learn how to play it?”
Glancing up from your textbook, you eyes land on a brawny guy with jet-black hair, slamming away on the drums with no sense of rhythm, no control—just brute force.
“Has it really been that long?” you ask, blinking at the scene. The noise had faded into the background for you, becoming just another layer of the store’s soundtrack.
Utahime gives you a look that screams disbelief.
“You didn’t notice?”
You shrug.
“Guess I’ve learned to tune it out.”
“Tch… wish I could do that,” she rolls her eyes, rubbing her temples like the sound is physically burrowing into her skull. “That guy is killing me.”
Oh, shit. Now that your attention is focused, you notice just how bad it really is. It’s not just noise—it’s borderline offensive to music. He’s not even playing the drums—he’s assaulting them—completely unaware of the sonic devastation he’s unleashing on the store.
Utahime lets out another long, exasperated groan, her entire body sagging as she leans forward in defeat.
“I swear, if he keeps going, I’m going to snap,” her elbows rest on the counter, and she presses her forehead into her hands. “y/nnnn,” she whines, lifting her head just enough to glimpse at you. “Can you please do something?”
Glancing around the store, you catch the irritated looks of other customers—one guy near the synthesizers is glaring openly at the drummer, his hand gripping a set of headphones so tightly you half expect him to snap them in half.
It’s like the whole store is holding its breath, waiting for someone—anyone—to make it stop.
A sigh escapes your lips as you close your textbook. It’s one thing to tune out the chaos when you’re focused on studying, but now that you’re paying attention, the noise feels like an assault on your senses too. You can’t blame Utahime for losing her patience—though she’s never been one to take matters into her own hands.
“Fine, I’ll handle it,” you mutter, pushing yourself up from your seat.
“Oh, thank God,” she breathes, finally peeling her hands away from her temples. “Please, work your magic. Before we all go deaf.”
You roll your eyes internally, though you can’t help the grin tugging at the corner of your mouth.
Magic. Sure—that’s one way to put it.
What Utahime calls ‘magic’ is really just years of learning how to manage other people’s shit without losing your cool.
It’s not magic—it’s survival. A skill you’ve honed out of necessity, not desire. And sure, maybe your love for psychology helps—you’ve got the theories to back up the practice—but most days it feels more like wrangling toddlers who never learned how to grow up.
Taking a steady breath, you step into the fray, weaving through the store’s labyrinth of instruments and displays. As you get closer, the vibrations from the drums rattle through your bones, crawling up your spine. The sound is unbearable, like nails on a chalkboard amplified through a megaphone.
The guy doesn’t even look up, his head bent low over the drum kit, raven hair falling in messy strands across his forehead. His arms move with the rhythm of someone who has no idea what rhythm actually is, and the muscles in his forearms ripple with each heavy-handed strike as he slams the sticks down like he’s personally offended by the drums.
You stand off to the side for a moment, watching him have at it. You’ve dealt with a lot of difficult people working here, but this guy? He’s so oblivious to the fact that the rest of the store is on the verge of mutiny.
Clearing your throat, you raise your voice, hoping to break through his focus.
“Excuse me!”
Nothing.
Another crash of the cymbals, loud enough to rattle your skull. Your jaw tightens as you try again, this time louder.
“Excuuuuse me!”
Still nothing. He’s completely in his own world, bashing away with reckless abandon. It’s like he’s in a vacuum, utterly disconnected from the chaos he’s creating around him.
Jesus this guy… your patience thins and you step closer—close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him from his overexertion. His shirt clings to his back with sweat, and the muscles in his arms continue to ripple with each reckless swing of the drumsticks.
He’s not just playing hard—he’s playing like he’s got something to prove.
As you reach out to tap his shoulder, you try to keep your touch firm but not aggressive, although, the moment your fingers make contact with him, his entire body jerks—drumsticks freezing mid-air as he whips his head around to face you.
His dark eyes lock onto yours, sharp and filled with a flicker of annoyance.
“What?” he snaps, voice dripping with irritation.
Keeping your expression neutral, you try not to let his attitude get to you.
“You’ve been at this for a while,” you begin, as calm as you can manage. “We have a limited selection and there are other customers who may be wanting to try this kit.”
His eyes narrow, clearly unimpressed.
“So?” he drawls, waving the drumsticks lazily, like your request is beneath him.
Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you press your lips together in protest. Stay professional, you remind yourself. Shifting your weight slightly, you square your shoulders and look him directly in the eyes.
“So,” you continue, voice firmer this time, “store policy is thirty minutes per instrument. You’ve been playing for over an hour.”
A low, sarcastic laugh bubbles from his chest, the sound filled with mockery as he tilts his head back slightly.
“And… what are you gonna do about it?” leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees like he's settling for a show—eyes glimmering with amusement as his lips curl into a smirk. “Throw me out?”
You bite down on the inside of your cheek—every fiber of your being is itching to knock this guy down a peg.
Ugh. What a tool.
The condescension in his voice grates on you like sandpaper, but you force yourself to stay composed.
“Look…store policy is pretty clear,” you reply evenly, nodding towards the sign behind the counter. “You either give someone else a turn, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Your words seem to pique his interest—his smirk widens, eyes flicking over you slowly, appraisingly. Suddenly you’re more interesting to him than this drum set. He pushes himself off the stool in a slow, deliberate movement, and you hold your breath the moment he towers over you.
He’s by no means, a small guy.
The light behind him is blocked from his broad shoulders, and there’s a new edge to his gaze now. The moment he invades your space, it is just a little too close for comfort.
“Oh yeah?” your stomach turns from the low suggestive timber of his voice, “And what if I don’t feel like leaving, sweetheart? You gonna make me?”
Ick.
This guy might take the cake for being the most difficult prick you’ve had to deal with here, and that’s saying something. Working in this music shop, you’ve come across a lot of full of themselves wannabees, praising themselves like the next big thing—acting like God’s gift to music when all they want to play over and over again is ‘Stairway to Heaven,’ and ‘Wonderwall.’
A surge of discomfort ripples through your body, but you stand your ground. You know how this goes—he wants a reaction, and you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.
“Look dude, I’m not asking,” your tone sharpens, leaving no room for argument. “This is your last warning”
His eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise, and a low whistle escapes his lips, as if he’s impressed—but it’s the kind of faux admiration that makes your skin crawl.
“You’re a tough one, huh?” he muses, chuckling softly.
Leaning in, the heat of his breath brushes against your skin as he invades your space once again—far too close for comfort—and you feel his gaze sweep over you slowly, lingering in a way that feels slimy and unwelcome.
“I like a girl with a little fire,” he adds, voice dropping lower. “It always makes things more fun.”
Gross.
Your hands curl into fists by your sides and you fight the urge to recoil as a surge of revulsion twists through you like a knife.
But before you can respond—before you even have the chance to formulate the sharp retort already forming on your tongue—the air shifts and a new voice cuts in.
“Wow, did I just walk in on the world’s worst pickup line, or are we about to throw hands over a drum kit?”
Turning your head towards the source of the voice, your eyes land on a tall figure standing a few feet away—his hair is a striking shade of snowy white, messy and untamed, falling in tousled strands that almost brush against the black sunglasses obscuring his eyes, and even with his face partially hidden, there’s no mistaking the mischievous glint tugging at the corners of his mouth—like he’s watching the scene unfold for his own amusement.
Despite the casual nature of his appearance—jeans slung low, a loose-fitting hoodie—there’s something undeniably striking about him. It’s the kind of presence that demands attention without asking for it
Who the hell is this guy?
Clearly irritated by the interruption, the drummer straightens up—his smirk faltering as he sizes up the newcomer.
“This doesn’t concern you, man,” he growls, tight with irritation. “I’m just having a little conversation with her.”
The snowy stranger’s grin turns sharp, though his voice remains light.
“Yeeeah, see, that’s where you’re wrong,” he steps up beside you, and without hesitation, his arm slips around your waist, pulling you smoothly into his side like you’ve always belonged there. “Everything concerning her concerns me.”
Your heart skips a beat, caught off guard by the sudden, possessive gesture. Part of you bristles at the boldness, but another part… feels oddly safe in his grasp—like he’s been by your side forever.
There’s a shift in the atmosphere as the drummer's eyes narrow—like the balance of power has tipped—the presence of this stranger throwing him off.
“Oh really? And just who the hell are you?” he snaps.
Your mysterious stranger doesn’t miss a beat—he chuckles softly, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his eyes—brilliant, vivid blue, and gleaming with a spark that teeters between playful and dangerous. It’s the kind of look that makes your heart flip.
“Oh, me?” he feigns innocence with a nonchalant shrug, like this whole thing is just mildly amusing to him. “I’m nobody special.”
Sliding his sunglasses back into place, he casually pulls you in a bit closer, and you are met with the warmth of his body as he leans into you just slightly.
“Just here to make sure my girl doesn’t have to deal with assholes. Y’know how it is.”
Your mind scrambles to catch up.
Your girl? You blink, heat rushing to your cheeks as the words rolling off his tongue begin to register. You barely know this guy—hell, you don’t know him at all—and yet here he is, acting like the two of you are something.
But…maybe it’s working? Because the drummer’s eyes narrow further, his expression twisting as a furrow darkens over his features. Ah…but then you realize he’s not focused on the claim your stranger just made—no, his attention is locked on a different word entirely.
“Asshole?” he echoes, voice rising with indignation, practically spitting the word back. Clenching his fists, he steps forward with a scowl twisting upon you face. “You calling me an asshole?”
“Well, yeah,” your stranger remarks casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He shrugs again, utterly unfazed by the tension mounting between them. “When the shoe fits…I mean, you’re acting like one, aren’t you?”
Pure rage flashes across the drummer’s face, and you can visibly see his fists trembling slightly.
Uhh… on second thought, is this guy even helping?
Now you’re not so sure if your so-called rescuer is making things better or worse, because clearly, the drummer is on the verge of snapping.
“You better watch your mouth man,” the drummer snarls, fury simmering beneath the surface.
But the stranger’s grin only widens, and he exudes a confidence that makes it clear he’s not worried in the slightest.
“Heh. That’s a warning I get a lot,” he muses, tilting his head slightly. “But y’know what? I don’t usually listen.”
It's a wonder the drumsticks the drummer is fisting haven't cracked under pressure, given how tightly he clenches them—his knuckles turn white.
“You think you’re funny, huh?” he growls through gritted teeth.
A low hum rumbles against your strangers’ lips as he ponders the question thoughtfully.
“I mean, I’ve been told I’m pretty hilarious,” he scratches the back of his head, like he’s seriously considering the statement, then, glancing at you, his eyes gleam with amusement as his sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose slightly.
“Whatcha think babe? Am I funny?”
The question—and that pet name—catches you completely off guard, leaving you momentarily speechless.
But the drummer isn’t interested in the little game your stranger seems to be playing. His jaw clenches—teeth grinding audibly as his face hardens into something feral.
“I’m about two seconds away from wiping that stupid grin off your face,” he spits, taking another aggressive step forward.
Fucking hell, is a fight really about to break out at your work?
Your pulse quickens, and for a split second, you think he might actually swing at him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the stranger says, still grinning like none of this phases him.
He releases his hold on your waist and steps forward with a smooth, almost lazy movement, placing himself between you and the drummer. His hands slip casually into his pockets, posture relaxed, but the air around him shifts.
“Let’s pump the brakes, big guy,” he tilts his head slightly, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. “You’re welcome to try. But I’ll tell ya right now—” his teasing lilt diminishes, replaced by something colder, more commanding, “you’re not gonna like how it ends.”
His words—a warning and a challenge wrapped in one—hang heavy, and for a moment it feels like the entire store is holding its breath, waiting to see what happens next. Glancing around, you notice a few customers watching the scene unfold.
Fucking hell—this has gone from bad to worse.
And yet…the drummer doesn’t swing. He doesn’t move—doesn’t even flinch.
He’s seething—rage evident in the set of his jaw, the clenched fists at his sides—but something about the stranger’s calm, unwavering demeanor is throwing him off balance. It’s almost impressive, really.
No, scratch that—it is impressive.
You misjudged this guy. He might have walked in here like a cocky troublemaker, throwing out cheesy one-liners and pushing your buttons, but now? Now, he’s cool under pressure, defusing a situation that could’ve easily escalated into violence.
Body language often says more than words ever could, and his is completely in control—relaxed, hands in his pockets, not a single muscle tensed for a fight, yet there’s a sharpness beneath the surface—an unspoken control that demands attention.
It’s brilliant in a way. He’s defusing the threat without lifting a finger—a textbook example of how to manage tension without aggression. This guy is winning a psychological game the drummer doesn’t even realize he’s playing.
Their silent standoff stretches, until finally, the stranger breaks the silence with his smooth and almost disarmingly casual voice.
“Look, man,” he shrugs one shoulder with a nonchalance that seems almost practiced. “This is me giving you a chance to walk away with your dignity intact.” Tilting his head slightly, he gestures toward you with a subtle nod. “She asked you politely to stop. This is a store, not your personal garage. So maybe it’s time you pack it up and go before you make things worse.”
There’s a moment—a pause that feels like it stretches just a beat too long—where you can practically see the drummer’s gears turning in his head, weighing his options, trying to hold onto whatever’s left of his bravado.
Then, finally, he mutters through gritted teeth,
“Whatever.”
The word is spat out, dripping with frustration and barely-contained rage, and with a sharp movement, he tosses the drumsticks onto the kit—the wooden sticks clattering against the drums in a final act of defiance.
“You’re not worth it, and this place sucks anyway,” he mutters, full of aggravation, but his heart no longer in it—it’s clear his fight has deflated.
Turning sharply on his heel, he shoves past both you and the stranger with a forceful shoulder, storming toward the exit, and once the door slams shut behind him, the sound reverberates through the store with an unmistakable finality.
Just like that, the tension breaks. It’s like the whole store exhales at once—the weight lifting from the air as the distant murmur of customers resumes.
Before you can fully process what just happened, the stranger beside you turns his attention back to you.
“Well, that was fun,” he remarks, “Could’ve gone worse though. I mean, I didn’t even get to throw a punch. Talk about anti-climactic, huh?”
You barely manage to take a breath as he closes the space between you just a little more, his movements slow and intentional, and your heart flutters the moment his sunglasses slip down slightly, just enough for you to get a direct glimpse of his eyes. They lock onto yours—those bright, vivid blues—and for a second, everything else around you fades into the background.
“Seriously though,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “You okay?”
There’s something undeniably genuine in his tone, something that cuts through the playful exterior and lands right in your chest. You weren’t expecting that—this tenderness from someone who moments ago had brushed off a near-fight like it was nothing.
His eyes—soft but still burning with intensity—hold yours captive, and for a second, you forget how to speak.
“Uh… yeah,” you manage, “I think so.”
“Good,” he says with a nod, pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Because I think you owe me a ‘thank you’ for that stellar rescue.”
You blink out of incredulity.
Thank you?
So much for tender—who does this guy think he is? You nearly scoff aloud. He wants a 'thank you' for a rescue that, truthfully, you weren’t even sure you needed?
Unsure whether you’re amused or annoyed by his arrogance, you open your mouth to respond—but before you can say anything, he cuts you off with a wink.
“Kidding,” he says with a chuckle, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction. “Always happy to help.” His hands settle into his pockets and he pauses, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “Especially when it means I get to rescue a pretty girl like you.”
The compliment lands harder than you’d care to admit as you feel the warmth creeping up your neck and into your cheeks—betraying the fact that—against your better judgment—you’re not entirely immune to his charm.
A flicker of something stirs in your chest…
—nope. Let’s not go there.
Pushing it down before it can grow into something more, you refuse to let that feeling root itself.
You’re not looking for attention, especially not from a guy like this—a guy who flashes a cocky grin like he knows it works. The kind of guy who acts like the world bends to his whims.
Romance? No thanks. You’ve got bigger things to focus on. He’s exactly the kind of distraction you don’t need.
“Rescue might be a strong word,” you mutter, finally finding your voice again as you cross your arms over your chest. “I had it under control… mostly.”
“Oh, you did? My bad,” leaning in slightly, his voice lowers as if sharing a secret. “But trust me, that guy? He was one wrong word away from turning this into a full-on disaster. You’re lucky I stepped in when I did.”
You can’t help but raise an eyebrow at his comment, refusing to let him rattle you this time, and there’s a flicker of amusement creeping into your voice as you challenge him.
“Lucky, huh? So, what now? You expecting a medal or something?”
His grin widens—a grin that’s undeniably magnetic, but you resist being pulled into its orbit.
“Naaaah, I’m not that high maintenance,” straightening himself, he regards you with a slight tilt of the head. “But… I’ll take a coffee if you’re offering.”
You blink, momentarily thrown off by his response.
Did he just… ask you out?
“Wait, what?” you stammer, not quite sure you heard him right.
“A coffee,” he repeats smoothly. “Y’know, like a reward for my heroic efforts.” He pauses, just long enough to make it clear he’s toying with you. “Or is that too forward? I can settle for your number instead.”
You can’t help the scoff that escapes your lips—a sharp exhale that’s part disbelief, part amusement. This guy is unbelievable.
Nope. You’re not going to let him get to you that easily.
“I don’t even know your name,” you shoot back, lifting your chin just a little higher, “and you’re already angling for a reward?”
“Ouch, y/n,” he replies, placing a hand dramatically over his chest as if you’ve wounded him deeply—his grin, however, never falters. “That stings.”
You stare at him, your brows furrowing in confusion.
“How do you…?”
“How do I know your name?” he finishes for you, clearly enjoying this a little too much. He tilts his head. “Well, for starters, your nametag.”
Oh.
You glance down quickly and—of course—there it is, printed neatly on the tag pinned to your shirt, and now you are mentally kicking yourself for not realizing sooner.
“Right… of course,” you shake your head in mild embarrassment. It’s infuriating how easily he’s messing with you.
An amused chuckle dances on his lips and he leans back ever so slightly—hands in his pockets like he has all the time in the world.
“But that’s not the only reason I know you,” he adds, voice taking on a more playful tone, almost like he’s daring you to figure it out. “You really don’t recognize me, do you?”
You blink, trying to piece together where you might’ve seen him before. There’s something vaguely familiar about his voice…have you heard it before? Do you know him?
“I don’t…” you start, trailing off, searching for any spark of recognition, but you come up blank. “Uhh… should I?”
Flashing you a toothy smile, he's clearly delighted by your confusion.
“Ouch again. Double whammy,” with a dramatic sigh, he shakes his head in mock disappointment as his crooked grin curves up. “I guess I’m not as memorable as I thought.”
Your eyebrow quirks up at his theatrics, and despite yourself, the corner of your lips do too. Ugh. You want to be irritated with him but somehow, he makes it incredibly hard to be.
“Right… well,” tilting your head, your voice dips with playful sarcasm, “maybe if you told me your name, it might jog my memory?”
With a soft chuckle, he slides his sunglasses off and rests them on top of his head, and just like that, you’re greeted with the full, unobstructed view of his eyes—striking, electric blue, so vivid they almost don’t seem real, and they lock onto yours with an intensity that sends a flutter through your chest.
“Satoru,” he says smoothly, as if his name alone should be enough to make everything click. “Gojo Satoru.”
The name floats in your mind, like it’s circling around something, but still, nothing concrete surfaces. He seems so confident—so sure that you should know who he is—and it only adds to your frustration.
Do you know him?
Generally, you keep to yourself, both at work and on campus—with your moms condition you don’t really have time for the exciting college life. Tilting your head, your eyes narrow as you study his face—surely, you would have remembered someone like him... wouldn’t you?
“Gojo Satoru…” you test the name on your tongue as if saying it aloud might unlock some hidden memory. But still—nothing. “Sorry, not ringing any bells.”
Satoru laughs again, rich and unbothered, like this is the highlight of his day.
“Wow, I’m really striking out today,” he shakes his head in mock dismay. “I guess I’ll have to try harder next time.”
Before you can muster a response, he reaches out casually, plucking a pair of drumsticks from an endcap display nearby, twirling them between his fingers like it’s second nature. He examines them for a moment, then looks back at you with a raised brow.
“So, since we’re here and I’m feeling generous… how about you check me out?”
You glance down at the drumsticks in his hand, then back up at him—his expression is unreadable, that signature smirk lingering as if he’s waiting for you to catch up.
“...you mean ring up the drumsticks, right?” you clarify, though your voice is uncertain.
“Sure, let’s go with that,” he murmurs, and then, with a sly wink, he adds, “But I don’t mind if you do both.”
For a beat, your breath hitches, and you fight back the urge to roll your eyes.
Okay—this is guy is definitely a flirt. You’re not falling for his trap.
“Wow… you’re really not subtle, are you?” reaching out, you snatch the drumsticks from his hand. “How many women actually fall for that?” you turn on your heel towards the counter, and he follows in step.
“Hmm…I’m not exactly keeping score,” he admits. “But let’s just say I don’t hear too many complaints.”
Glancing back at him, you arch an eyebrow as you approach the register—fingers automatically moving to unlock your cash drawer, and he leans casually against the counter beside you, propping his elbow on it—like he owns the space.
“Will say though,” he adds, voice dipping lower, “I don’t usually have to try this hard. You’re pretty special.”
You scoff, your fingers hesitating slightly over the keys, though you refuse to let him see how his words make a tiny flutter bloom in your chest.
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” you mutter under your breath, trying—and failing—to focus solely on the transaction.
Satoru hums, watching you with that same playful gleam in his eyes.
“Nah,” his tone drops to something almost conspiratorial, “you’re definitely one of a kind.”
Yup. He’s a smooth talker—and without a doubt, bad news.
Pressing your lips together, you force your gaze to remain on the screen in front of you. He’s playing a game, and you’re determined not to lose.
As you scan the barcode on the drumsticks, he casually pulls out his wallet to pay, and that’s when something catches your eye—a student ID peeking out from the clear pocket inside his wallet.
Narrowing your eyes slightly, your fingers hover mid-air as you get a better look. The ID is familiar—yet you can't make out the school’s name plastered right across it, but the logo and the colors are unmistakable.
Wait a second…
“We go to the same school?”
Satoru looks up, his grin stretching even wider and the glimmer in his eyes practically daring you to catch up—he’s been waiting for this moment.
“Took ya long enough,” he teases, playful but with a hint of smugness. “Yeah, we do.”
You blink, the pieces clicking together a little too late.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” you demand, unable to stop the half-accusatory, half-embarrassed tone that underlines your voice. A groan slips past your lips and you shake your head in frustration. “I swear…you’ve been messing with me this whole time.”
With an amused chuckles, Satoru lifts his shoulders in a casual shrug.
“Hey, it’s more fun this way,” he leans in a little closer, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. “Besides,” he pauses, tilting his head just slightly while his lips curve into a sly grin. “I like watching you piece things together. You’ve got this cute little furrow in your brow when you’re thinking hard.”
The intensity in his eyes makes your breath hitch, and no matter how hard you resist, there’s that undeniable flutter in your chest, warm and unwanted.
“How come I’ve never seen you around?” you ask, trying to steer the conversation back onto safer ground.
“Oof. You’re killing me, y/n. I pass by you every day, actually.”
You frown, narrowing your eyes.
“Every day? Where?”
“The water fountain,” he says smoothly, tapping his fingers on the counter rhythmically, just a light touch. “Y’know, where you sit and study. Every afternoon, without fail. I walk by almost every day.”
Ah. That’s why his voice must’ve sounded familiar. You probably heard him—another voice blending into the background while you were studying.
“Really? Guess I never noticed you.”
Resting his chin in his hand, a dramatic huff falls from Satoru's lips as they form into a pout.
“Jeez…you don’t quit. I can’t believe I’m that forgettable.”
You can’t resist the soft laugh that escapes you, despite yourself—it’s hard not to find his antics at least a little amusing, and though you’d never admit it, the way he’s so desperate for your attention is almost… cute.
“Maybe you just blend into the background too much,” you shoot back, raising an eyebrow while extending your hand, silently gesturing for his payment.
“Ouch...” he winces dramatically, pulling out his card before placing it in your hand. “Okay, that one stung a little.”
“Yeah, well… I’m sure your ego will recover,” you quip, glancing up briefly before focusing back on the transaction. But there’s a brief pause as you swipe his card—a silence that suddenly feels charged with something else.
You can feel his gaze lingering on you, heavy and expectant, and you try your hardest not to give in to the pull to look at him again—but the heat of his attention is unmistakable, almost like a gravitational force pulling you in, and you can feel your pulse quicken under his scrutiny.
“I gotta say, you’ve got a sharp tongue—I like it,” he murmurs.
Your fingers freeze for just a second, your breath hitching slightly as his tone shifts, and you can’t resist—your eyes flick up and he holds your gaze captive yet again.
“But it’s a bad habit, y’know,” he continues, his voice dropping, growing more intent as his eyes flicker over your features. “Not being aware of your surroundings like that...” leaning in just a fraction, his words become a quiet murmur between the two of you. “What if some creep tried to take advantage of you?”
The gentleness in his demeanor… is he genuinely concerned? It’s hard to tell—harder than you’d like to admit—and it’s easier to convince yourself he isn’t—that this is all part of his charming routine, because that makes it easier to ignore the subtle pull he has on you.
“Well,” you keep your voice steady, despite the flutter in your chest, “lucky for me, no one’s tried. Unless…” tilting your head slightly, a teasing smirk tugs at your lips, “you’re secretly admitting to being a creep.”
Satoru’s laugh spills out, rich and warm, breaking the moment just enough for you to catch your breath.
“Nah, I’m not creep,” his voice lightens as he straightens up just a little. “Just a concerned citizen looking out for someone who’s too absorbed in her textbooks to notice the world around her.”
You huff, though the corners of your mouth twitch upward against your will.
“I can handle myself, thank you very much,” you quip back, determined to maintain control over the situation. In a quick, defiant motion, you grab the receipt and shove it into his hand, a small victorious gesture.
“Right, right. You definitely proved that today when I swooped in for the rescue,” he teases, and his hand brushes yours ever so briefly as he takes the receipt—a touch so light is sends a tiny spark up your arm. “But hey, what if you don’t show up at the fountain one day? I’m gonna have to file a missing person’s report.”
You can’t help but laugh at his ridiculousness, the sound escaping before you can stop it.
“A missing person’s report? Seriously?” you roll your eyes.
“Yup,” he grins, emphasizing the ‘p’. “You’re there so often it’s practically routine. Same spot. Same time. Every day. It’s kinda predictable, y/n. If I don’t see you there one day, I’ll just assume some creep finally got to you.”
You narrow your eyes at him, though you can’t help the faint heat rising in your cheeks.
“Predictable?” you retort, trying to sound indignant. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, you are,” he counters, clearly reveling in your reaction as he slips the receipt in his pocket. “But hey, that’s not a bad thing. It makes you easier to find if you ever disappear.”
Shaking your head, you roll your eyes, a snappy reply ready on your tongue, but he’s already raising his hands with a dramatic flair, like he’s about to paint the scene in vivid detail.
“I can see it now: ‘Missing: Cute girl who spends way too much time by the water fountain. Last seen buried in a psychology textbook. Answers to y/n.’”
It’s impossible not to laugh again, the sound bubbling up as you watch him weave his ridiculous scenario with such confidence and flair. His eyes flick to yours, and a satisfied grin tugs at the corner of his mouth—clearly pleased with the effect he’s having on you.
“Wow,” you manage between chuckles. “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”
“Mhm,” he hums in agreement, leaning slightly closer. “Gotta be prepared. I don’t want anything happening to my favorite water fountain girl.”
Your heart flips—and for a second, it feels like he’s given you some kind of title you didn’t realize you wanted. You try to brush it off, to ignore the warmth spreading across your cheeks, but it’s not so easy with the way he’s looking at you.
“Riiiight… well, lucky for you,” you manage, attempting to sound nonchalant, “I’m not planning on disappearing anytime soon.”
“Good,” he murmurs, low and smooth. “Because I’d miss seeing you.”
You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep the upper hand, though the small smile that tugs at your lips betrays you.
“Uh-huh. Sure you would.”
There’s a brief moment, just the two of you—his gaze still locked onto yours, when—
“Ahem.”
You jump slightly at the sound, turning to see Utahime standing beside you, arms crossed, a knowing smile pulling at the corner of her lips. She gives you a look—a very knowing look—that sends heat rushing to your cheeks all over again.
“I’m taking my break,” she says, her tone casual but her eyes dancing with mischief as they flick between you and Satoru. “So… don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.”
Suddenly hyper-aware of the tension in the air, you swallow hard and offer her a tight smile.
“No promises,” Satoru quips, that cocky grin returning to his face as he leans against the counter slightly—clearly unfazed by the interruption.
After Utahime saunters off, he continues smoothly, picking up right where he left off.
“So...” he starts again, “What do you say? How about you give me your number? Just in case I need it, y’know, for emergencies.”
He’s relentless, isn’t he?
Heat creeps up your neck as you blink from his boldness—with a soft, incredulous laugh, you desperately try to find your footing again.
“You really don’t give up, do you?”
That familiar and confident gleam glistens in his eyes as his grin widens.
“Not when it comes to someone as interesting as you.”
There’s a flicker of something in your chest—a flutter that you’re quick to squash.
“Mmm… sorry,” you murmur, tone sweet but firm. “But I don’t think you’re ready for that kind of disappointment. I’m really not interested in players.”
For the briefest moment, his grin falters, and something unreadable flashes behind his eyes—a momentary crack in his facade. It’s so quick, so subtle, that you almost miss it. But there’s just enough time to wonder if maybe you hit a nerve.
Still, Satoru recovers in an instant, his playful charm sliding back into place like nothing happened.
“That’s cold, y/n,” his voice light and teasing, though there’s a trace of something deeper, almost wounded, lurking beneath. “You really think I’m that kind of guy?”
Tilting your head slightly, you cross your arms over your chest as you study him—gaze sharp but not unkind.
“Yeah, well, I’ve met enough guys like you to know how this works.”
With a soft chuckle, and a smooth, almost lazy motion, he lowers his sunglasses from where they’re perched atop his head—resting them back on the bridge of his nose as the dark lenses now obscure his eyes from you.
He’s hiding behind them—letting them do the work of shielding his real thoughts. Huh. Typical behavior for someone who enjoys the chase but avoids real vulnerability.
“You’re quick to judge. I’m just a guy who knows what he wants. And right now? I just want your number.”
Classic deflection—you think. He’s not even denying it. Still... something about the way he says it makes that familiar flutter stir in your chest, and you hate it.
“Yeah... that’s not happening,” crossing your arms more tightly, you try to maintain control of the situation.
His hands come up in mock surrender as a small, amused sigh slips from his lips.
“Bummer,” he concedes, though there’s no real disappointment in his tone, only amusement. “But hey,” he picks up the drumsticks from the counter, “offer’s on the table if you ever change your mind.”
“Right... I’ll keep that in mind,” you dryly reply, knowing full well that you won’t.
“Please do,” he shoots back with that infuriatingly confident grin. “Besides, I’ll be seeing you around, water fountain girl.”
The familiar nickname brings an unwanted warmth that you attempt to shake off.
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Gojo.”
But Satoru just steps back toward the door, exuding that same unshakeable confidence. “Oh, I’m not worried,” he says with a cocky smirk. “You’re predictable, remember? I know exactly where to find you.”
You open your mouth, ready to fire back with something witty, but before you can, he’s already halfway out the door, twirling the drumsticks between his fingers with effortless ease.
“See ya around, y/n,” he calls over his shoulder, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft jingle before you even have a chance to respond.
And just like that, the store feels quiet again, as if the air shifted back to normal now that he’s gone. You stand there for a moment, blinking at the closed door. You should feel relieved that he’s gone, that the exchange is over, but instead, you’re left with this strange, restless feeling you can’t quite shake.
What the hell just happened?
Shaking your head, you exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. There’s a part of you that’s frustrated—frustrated at how easily he slipped under your skin, how effortlessly he managed to unsettle you with nothing but a grin and a few flirtatious remarks.
You hate that you’re even thinking about it. About him. He’s just another guy with too much confidence for his own good.
But something about the brief crack in his facade sticks with you. That fleeting moment where his grin faltered, and something else—something almost vulnerable—flickered behind those cocky blue eyes.
What was that?
With another shake of your head, you push the thought aside. He’s a flirt. A player. The kind of guy who never takes anything seriously.
That’s all there is to it.
You don’t have time to psychoanalyze every flippant guy who crosses your path, even if there’s a part of you that’s still curious.
Just as you’re about to shake off the thoughts entirely, your phone buzzes in your pocket, snapping you out of your daze. You pull it out, glancing down at the screen.
Kyoko: Hey sweetie, just wanted to let you know your mom's been having a rough day today. She’s more confused than usual, keeps asking for you. Maybe you could visit soon?”
Reality crashes back in—grounding you in the weight of your responsibilities.
With a sigh, you run a hand through your hair, already mentally preparing yourself for the evening ahead.
You: Thanks for the update, Aunt Kyoko. My shift is almost over, I’ll be home soon.
Focus. There’s no room for distractions—not right now.
Not with Satoru Gojo. Not with anyone.
a/n. thanks for reading the debut of bomh (or i guess the re-debut since this is a rewrite? hehe). i'm excited to explore a lot of topics in this fic, and rewriting it definitely helped rekindle my passion for this story. so, i'm looking forward with whats to come! hope ya'll enjoyed 💕
→ you are currently all caught up ♪
taglist:
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Fate/Samurai Remnant launches September 28 in Japan, September 29 worldwide
Gematsu Source
Fate/Samurai Remnant will launch for PlayStation 5, PlayStation 4, Switch, and PC via Steam on September 28 in Japan and September 29 worldwide, publisher Koei Tecmo and developer Omega Force announced.
The game will be available in the following limited editions:
North America
A special Treasure Box version of Fate/Samurai Remnant will be sold exclusively through the NIS America Online Store. It includes the stunning Fate/Samurai Remnant material (art book), a B2-sized cloth poster, original soundtrack CD, Command Spell stickers, bonus costume downloadable content (set of two costumes), the Official Short Story Translation book, and a collectible box. Pre-orders are available now for $114.99.
Europe
A special Treasure Box version of Fate/Samurai Remnant will be sold exclusively through the KOEI TECMO Europe Online Store. It includes the stunning Fate/Samurai Remnant material (art book), a B2-sized cloth poster, original soundtrack CD, Command Spell stickers, bonus costume downloadable content (set of two costumes), the Official Short Story Translation book, and a collectible box.
Japan
-Treasure Box (17,380 yen)
A copy of the game
Fate/Samurai Remnant material – Includes novel written by Fate scenario team.
Book of Kogyoku book cover (duodecimo)
Original soundtrack CD (one disc)
Command Spell Seals (x7)
B2-size cloth poster
-Treasure Box + Figure DX Version (49,380 yen)
Treasure Box content
Berserker / Musashi Miyamoto 1/7 scale figure DX version
The contents of the Treasure Box can also be purchased without the game for 7,700 yen.
Get the latest details below.
■ About
Throughout the Fate franchise, pairs of masters and heroic spirits—also known as servants—have been fighting across history in a series of Holy Grail Wars, with the winning duo receiving an ancient artifact that grants wishes. Fate/Samurai Remnant continues the series’ epic Holy Grail War in the fourth year of the Keian Era, Edo Period Japan. It has been several decades since the end of a turbulent, blood-soaked era, and while the people are finally enjoying peace and tranquility, a battle between seven pairs of masters and servants is about to begin as the “Waxing Moon Ritual” unfolds in the shadows. This is where the game’s hero, Miyamoto Iori, a young man in Asakusa, finds himself caught in the violence alongside his servant Saber, as they fight to be the last pair remaining in order to receive the granter of wishes, the “Waxing Moon Vessel”.
In Fate/Samurai Remnant, players control Miyamoto Iori, a master who studied the Niten Ichiryu style of swordsmanship. He fights alongside Saber, a servant who possesses strength beyond that of humans! When facing enemies beyond human control, players will be able to instruct their servant to attack with powerful magical techniques, or even take direct control of the servant to attack the enemy swarm. Dynamic battle scenes between servants help elevate the action to new heights and are must-see contests for fans of the series!
Throughout the game, players get the chance to explore the town of Edo, where row houses, samurai residences, and brothels stand side by side. Here, many people frequent the streets and characters drawn with a distinct Japanese touch are brought to life. While following the story of the “Waxing Moon Ritual”, players will be able to interact with various characters and animals in town, explore a variety of areas, and take on a wide array of challenges as they fight for survival in the latest Holy Grail War!
■ Story
The 4th year of the Keian Era, Edo Period. Forty-eight years had passed since Ieyasu, the sovereign of Japan, opened the capital to the Tokugawa shogunate. The reign of the Tokugawa was passed down to the fourth Shogun, Ietsuna. The number of people living in Edo increased day by day, and the city seemed to be enjoying its prosperity. However, due to a succession of dissolutions and revocations by the feudal lords, the streets were filled with ronin, and the peaceful days of Edo seemed to be fading.
In Asakusa, a town in Edo, there was a young man named Miyamoto Iori. He was the adopted son and apprentice of the great swordsman Miyamoto Musashi. Iori chose not to serve under a lord, but rather spent his days training his swordsmanship. One day, he noticed an unfamiliar bruise on the back of his hand. Iori would soon find himself trapped in the midst of a horrific conflict, a battle of blood and trickery.
The battle over the “Waxing Moon” which could grant any and all wishes – the “Waxing Moon Ritual”. The seven individuals seeking their wish, or Masters, are the bearers of the Ritual. The seven Heroic Spirits, or Servants, are summoned to this world by their Masters. The curtain rises on the battle between the seven Masters with their seven Servants.
“I suppose…you’re the one who summoned me?”
■ Characters
◆ Master and Servant
Miyamoto Iori (voiced by Kengo Kawanishi)
“A lot of people in Edo could die. It is evil and must not be allowed.”
Adopted son and disciple of the great swordsman Miyamoto Musashi. He is a ronin living in Asakusa, Edo, who studied the Niten Ichiryu style of swordsmanship, but Musashi passed away before he could teach him the secrets of the art. Still seeking to master the Way of the sword, he spends his days training while making ends meet.
Saber (voiced by Hibiku Yamamura)
“You’re weak. Have you no abilities besides the sword?”
A Servant of the Saber class who is dressed in an old-fashioned style and wields a wavy sword. Saber suddenly appeared in front of Iori and saved him from a crisis. Claiming that Iori is weak, this proud Heroic Spirit intends to fight the Waxing Moon Ritual alone. Saber seems to be interested in the peaceful streets of Edo.
◆ Master and Servant
Zheng Chenggong (voiced by Tomoaki Maeno)
“The cruel who lack compassion are not human. I do not want the innocent to die.”
A dashing and vivacious warrior with a heroic appearance. He is a general, also known as “Koxinga,” who is highly respected by the Longwu Emperor of the Southern Ming Dynasty. He is the son of a Ming merchant and a Japanese mother.
Archer (voiced by ???)
???
◆ Master and Servant
Chiemon (voiced by Nobuhiko Okamoto)
“I will take everything, burn everything! All of it, with my own two hands…!”
A mysterious man with many layers of cloth wrapped around his face. He is a survivor of the great rebellion that once took place in Shimabara, Amakusa, that shook the peaceful era. He appears in Edo alone, with nothing in his possession.
Lancer (voiced by Maaya Sakamoto)
“…Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. All things—shall be consumed by the flames.”
A Servant of the Lancer class. She wields two spears and black flames, making dark flowers bloom on the battlefield. There seems to be a reason for her constant gloomy appearance…
◆ Master and Servant
Yui Shousetsu (voiced by Mutsumi Tamura)
“Killing an aspirant who is unaware that they are a Master runs counter to my code.”
An ardent fighter and a military scholar admired by many ronin. Shousetsu runs a military academy in Edo and decides to serve the shogunate before the Waxing Moon Ritual, though not without some reservations.
Rider (voiced by ???)
“With all due respect, killing them in their ignorance would be a mercy.”
A Servant of the Rider class. Clad in black armor, this fearsome warrior wields an elongated sword without hesitation, ruthlessly slaughtering any enemies.
◆ Master and Servant
??? (voiced by ???)
????
Caster (voiced by ???)
???
◆ Master and Servant
Dorothea Coyett (voiced by Aya Hirano)
“You still don’t understand what we mages aspire to, I see.”
A young woman from another country who came to Japan aboard a galleon. She is the daughter of a Swedish nobleman, Fredrik Coyett, and is a mage who belongs to the Clock Tower, the prestigious scholarly institution on magecraft.
Assassin (voiced by ???)
???
◆ Master and Servant
Takao Dayu (voiced by Ami Koshimizu)
“Yoshiwara women are strong. We don’t lose heart when someone disappears or dies.”
A courtesan at Miura-ya, a brothel in Yoshiwara. She is said to be one of the most beautiful women in Edo and attracts many men including feudal lords. “Dayu” is the highest rank of courtesan, and she is one of the three most popular Dayu.
Berserker (voiced by Ayane Sakura)
“Which Edo is this? My Spirit Origin this time isn’t the one I’m used to, but I do still have my swords!”
A Servant of the Berserker class. Her True Name is Miyamoto Musashi. She is an unrivaled swordswoman and the founder of the Niten Ichiryu style of swordsmanship. Though she shares the same identity as Miyamoto Iori’s teacher, her appearance seems to be slightly, or perhaps quite, different from that of the person Iori knew.
◆ Other Characters
Ogasawara Kaya (voiced by Misaki Kuno)
“There’s a battle going on! Which means I’m gonna help!”
Crimson Codex (voiced by Cha Furin)
“I will take everything, burn everything! All of it, with my own two hands…!”
A mysterious man with many layers of cloth wrapped around his face. He is a survivor of the great rebellion that once took place in Shimabara, Amakusa, that shook the peaceful era. He appears in Edo alone, with nothing in his possession.
■ System
Traverse the city of Edo and become victorious in the Waxing Moon Ritual. Fight, explore, converse… Many elements are deeply intertwined in this action RPG!
◆ Master and Servant Work Together During Battles
Control the Master and Servant during battles and use their bond with each other to survive. Use a variety of attacks to gain an advantage while assessing the enemy and situation of the battle.
Master
Iori’s weapon of choice are swords. He fights by switching between five different stances, each with its own characteristics, depending on the situation. For example, Earth Stance is excellent for defense, while Water Stance is best suited for fighting multiple opponents at once. If he is unable to use his sword for certain enemies, he can use magic to counter them. Servant image image image Saber fights with great power as a Servant and can shoot water from their sword. Even the strongest enemies would stand no chance against Saber’s brilliant swordplay. When you control Iori, your Servant will make decisions and act independently.
Servant
Saber fights with great power as a Servant and can shoot water from their sword. Even the strongest enemies would stand no chance against Saber’s brilliant swordplay. When you control Iori, your Servant will make decisions and act independently.
As a human, Iori’s sword cannot overcome powerful enemies, such as Servants. However, if the enemy’s Shell Gauge is depleted by Saber’s Affinity Technique, Iori’s attacks will be able to reach them.
◆ Explore Edo
Yoshiwara, Kanda, Akasaka… Various famous places in Edo will act as the stage of the Ritual. As you explore the city, you may fight with other Masters, or you may also learn things that will help you grow as a Master. You can interact with the people who live in Edo, replenish your energy at a food stall, or play with dogs and cats.
An early demo of Fate/Samurai Remnant will be playable at Anime Expo 2023, which will run from July 1 to 4, 2023 at the Los Angeles Convention Center. Attendees can find Fate/Samurai Remnant playable at the Aniplex of America booth in the entertainment hall.
Watch a new trailer below. View a new set of screenshots at the gallery.
Release Date trailer
English
Japanese
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