#i have no way of knowing where she is or contacting her

[saatorus]

almost yours — a satoru gojo fic

pairing — college satoru! x reader

synopsis — when you and your best friend seiko agree to split a too-big, too-expensive apartment, her hot older brother—who you definitely don’t have feelings for anymore—offers to move in to ease rent. what could possibly go wrong?

wc — 35.4k (never let me estimate my own word counts again)

read it on ao3

warnings — smut, p in v sex (unprotected and protected), fingering, oral (f receiving), making out, brief 7 minutes in heaven trope (couldn't control myself sorry) tiny bit of angst, yearning (ur downbad for him), satoru is kind of a gym himbo in this one, kind of unreliable narrator vibes, afab reader, more inaccurate representations of frat parties and possibly frat culture ^_^

“You go down there!”

“No, I already went when I went to get some chips, it’ll look awkward if I did it again.”

“Okay, let’s both go down there together then!”

“Fine, but you’re gonna have to talk to Suguru on your own, his earrings are scary—”

“Wait but I’m scared too—”

You don’t wait for a response, already on your way out the door before Seiko can trap you into her nerves again. She’s panicking about Suguru’s earrings and his intimidating smirk, and you can’t afford to get tangled in her spiral—not when your own is spinning just as fast. Your heart’s pounding in your chest, the way it always does when he’s downstairs. Loud and stupid and unstoppable.

Satoru’s here.

That’s the real reason you said yes to coming over today, and you know it. You knew it even when you told Seiko, “Yeah, totally, I’ll help you go over functions again,” like you were some loyal academic comrade. She said she wasn’t in the mood to start until later—“We’ll just chill for a bit first”—and you nodded like that wasn’t the exact outcome you were counting on. He was going to be here. You’d overheard her say it in class on Friday, casual, “My brother’s back for the weekend before his flight. He and Suguru are crashing at mine until Sunday,” and your body reacted like it heard a fire alarm. Instant adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A weird twist in your stomach like you hadn’t eaten all day.

Her older brother.

The one who used to help you with math back when you and Seiko were dumb little middle schoolers with pencil cases full of glitter pens and zero dignity. He never laughed when you got your decimals wrong, never treated you like you were slow or irritating. He’d just nudge the worksheet toward you with a little grin and say something like, “Wanna try that again, hm? You accidentally turned your eight into a three.” He was kind. And cool. And way too old for you, even back then. He used to wear big, floppy hoodies with strange anime prints on them, crooked glasses that slid down his nose, and he always smelled faintly like fabric softener and shampoo. He’d ruffle your hair as he passed by the dining table where you and Seiko did your homework, like you were some tagalong puppy. And every single time, you’d sit there for at least ten minutes after, heart pounding, replaying the exact way his hand felt through your hair like it was forensic evidence.

But he doesn’t look like that anymore. Not since the summer after his junior year. Something changed. You don’t know what, exactly—maybe it was just time, maybe it was something else—but when he came back from his trip with Suguru that August, he was… different. Taller. Way taller. His shoulders had filled out like crazy, broad and solid under tighter shirts. He didn’t wear his glasses anymore—got contacts, Seiko said, rolling her eyes like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It changed his whole face. His eyes, already bright, looked sharper, clearer. His jaw had become something out of a magazine, all sharp lines and clean edges. And he got hot. Objectively, unavoidably, annoyingly hot. So hot that suddenly he was everywhere at school. Seniors above you whispered about him in the hallway. Seniors with perfect nails and shiny hair giggled when he’d be in the cafeteria with his group of friends. Even the teachers liked him. Everyone did. Liked him in a normal way. Except you—you liked him in that humiliating, unbearable, long-standing way that made your chest ache and your stomach twist and your voice go all weird and high-pitched when he so much as looked at you.

You remember the first time you saw him again after the summer. You’d put on lip gloss—strawberry-scented, sticky as hell—and you’d worn that white, metal supported bra, not your bright, training ones—even though you’d barely matured enough to form… well, boobs—even though it dug into your ribs and made your shoulders itch. And there he was in the hallway, laughing with Suguru, hair pushed back, earbuds hanging around his neck, and you remember thinking—Oh. I’m in trouble. I have the fattest crush on him and he won’t even look at me. It didn’t matter. You were sixteen now. Practically an adult. And he was actually an adult. Second year of college— physics major—nineteen years old. Except now he was going to this stupid 3 year accelerated scholarship program with Suguru in Japan.

Now here you are, halfway down the stairs, hovering just out of sight with your heart going insane in your chest like it’s trying to physically escape your body. Suguru’s the first thing you see—sprawled across the couch like royalty, all black clothes and nonchalant confidence. His hair’s tied up half-assedly, dark strands falling into his face, and he’s twirling something silver in his fingers. Probably a ring, or maybe a lighter. He looks dangerous and beautiful, and honestly, you get why Seiko’s so worked up. And then—there’s him. Satoru’s on the floor, legs folded in a messy tangle, like he hasn’t grown a day since he was twelve, except that he has. So much. His plain white t-shirt clings just a little too tightly to his chest, sleeves hugging his biceps in a way that feels like a personal attack. His hair’s a little wild—fluffier than usual—and he’s wearing mismatched socks, one black, one striped, like he got dressed in the dark and couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

He’s laughing at the TV—some variety show with screaming and subtitles—and the way his head tilts back as he laughs, the way his jaw catches the light—

Your heart actually hurts. You stand there a little too long, shameless, helpless, your entire body screaming don’t look, don’t look, but your eyes refuse to obey. You feel twelve again. Small. Invisible. Watching from the sidelines like always.

And then he speaks. To you. 

“You creeping or coming down?”

Your stomach plummets. “I—what?! I wasn’t—I wasn’t creeping,” you splutter, stumbling down the last few steps in a panic, cheeks already burning. “I was—just walking!” Satoru looks over his shoulder, grinning lazily. He scoots over and pats the carpet beside him. “Come on. Sit. You’re just in time—Suguru’s getting smoked.” Suguru flips him off without looking. “This trivia show’s rigged.”

“You just suck at memory games.”

You lower yourself onto the floor, trying not to hyperventilate. You’re acutely aware of how close his knee is to yours, how warm he feels even from here, how his scent is something minty and expensive and a little too much for your nervous system. He tosses the chip bag into your lap without looking. “How’d that mock exam go?” You blink. “The—what?”

“Math. You had that calc practice test last month, right?” He glances at you, amused. “You and Seiko were complaining about it for like a week straight.” You feel yourself short-circuit. “Oh. Uh… kind of ass?” He laughs, reaching for a chip. “Figures. You always made the dumbest faces doing fractions. Like the paper personally offended you.” You scoff, mostly to hide your dying brain. “Well, maybe if I had a better tutor—”

“Excuse me?” He gasps. “I was the best tutor in a ten-mile radius. Ask Seiko.”

“She failed.”

“That’s on her. I saw her bingeing dramas at 3am instead of studying.”

“I HEARD THAT!” Seiko’s voice rings out from upstairs. You all crack up. Even Suguru snorts. And for a moment, it’s perfect. Easy. Like it’s always been this way—like nothing’s going to change. But you know it is. He’s leaving. He’s going halfway across the world, and this stupid little crush, this years-long secret you’ve carried like a favorite book, is going to stay just that—yours, and only yours. He won’t remember this night. He’ll have new friends, new people. And you’ll still be here, sixteen-going-on-seventeen, sitting on the floor of your best friend’s house pretending your heart isn’t breaking just from how his knee brushes yours.

Then—

“Hey,” he says suddenly, quiet, leaning in slightly. You look up, startled. “What?” His eyes search your face, like he’s seeing something he’s not used to seeing there. Then he reaches out and tugs lightly on the ends of your hair.

“You’re growing this out?” Your voice almost fails. “Uh… yeah?”

“It looks good,” he says, simple and real, and you can feel your entire bloodstream catch fire. He’s still watching you. But then the moment breaks—Seiko barrels down the stairs yelling about Suguru’s Instagram story, and everything shifts back into chaos. He turns away, laughing again, and the quiet slips between your fingers like sand. Still. You tuck it away. Into the little folder labeled him.

Because you’ll remember this night. He won’t. But you will.

–

​​It’s been three years since that night. The one where your heart skittered up your throat at the sound of his laugh, where he’d tugged the ends of your hair and called it pretty, where he’d looked at you like he saw something there. Or maybe he was just being friendly. You over analyze simple interactions with men a little too much.

You’d replayed it for weeks. Obsessively, stupidly. Burned it into your mind like it meant something. But time has a way of softening things, even the sharpest crushes. The ache of it dulled as college rolled on, as you kissed boys who weren’t him, as you got older and started dressing for yourself instead of wondering if he’d notice. Now, you’re sitting cross-legged in Seiko’s childhood bedroom, half in a blanket cocoon, sipping flat soda out of an old anime cup you both used to fight over when you were twelve. The window’s open, the curtains swaying with the breeze, and the room smells like spring air and vanilla body mist. “Okay,” Seiko says, her voice muffled as she flops back dramatically onto her pillows, “I’m literally not kidding anymore. If prices of apartments go up by even one more dollar than the current budget I’m on, I’m just going to live in the campus library like a cryptid.”

You snort. “You’d last two nights before you begged for my airfryer and moisturizer.”

“That is so true,” she groans, throwing a hand over her face. “Wait—why don’t we just move in together? Like… actually. Find a place off-campus. Split the bills. You’re always here anyway, and you hate your housemates. And I wanna get out of this house already. Like, I need to feel like an adult, stat” You blink at her. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Deadass.”

It’s not a bad idea. You are here all the time—your uni ended up being like twenty minutes from Seiko’s family home, and when your dorm got too loud or your brain got too tired, she always had a spare blanket and instant noodles ready for you. Half your stuff’s already in her closet. Living with Seiko wouldn’t be hard. You’ve survived sleep-deprived all-nighters, food poisoning, two breakups, and a disastrous eyebrow waxing incident together. An apartment feels like a natural next step. “I mean, yeah,” you say, stretching your legs out on the bed, “I’d be down. But only if I get the good side of the fridge.”

“You don’t even cook!”

“Exactly. So I deserve extra space for my stash of thirty minute butter chicken and diet coke.”

“Fair point, the thirty minute butterchicken has been one of your greatest finds at the store yet,” she nods solemnly. It’s easy like this. Girl talk, real talk. The kind that only comes after years of shared notebooks and late-night crying and stupid dances in the hallway. You’re mid-scroll on your phone, looking up open listings, when Seiko suddenly straightens up with a weird look on her face.

“Oh shit.” You glance over. “What?”

“I just remembered—my mum texted me this morning… Satoru’s flight from Japan is today.” You freeze, thumb hovering mid-air. “Seiko.”

“I swear I thought it was next week! But turns out she meant this Sunday, not next.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you whisper, heart doing something traitorous in your chest.

She cringes. “Sorryyy. It’s not like he’s crashing in this room. He’s taking the guest one downstairs.”

“That’s not the point,” you mutter, flopping back into the pillows like the dramatic main character you are. “I need, like, mental prep. A warning! A buffer zone!”

“It’s been three years,” she reminds you, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not still—”

“I’m not.” You cut her off quickly, sitting up. “I’m not. I got over it.” You say it with the conviction of someone who has—not just because time passed, but because you actually did the emotional legwork. You remember how you’d finally told Seiko about your crush a few months after Satoru had flown out for that scholarship program. It was during a late-night snack run—Melonpan and slurpee in hand, parked outside the 7/11 under shitty yellow streetlights. Your voice had cracked halfway through the confession. “I think I had a thing for your brother,” you’d said, casual in that fake-casual way. “Like, a crush-crush.” And Seiko, bless her heart, didn’t freak out or make it weird. She just shrugged and sipped her drink like you’d told her the weather.

“Yeah,” she’d said. “That was kinda obvious.”

“Obvious?” you’d gawked. She’d snorted. “You stared at him like he was a Greek god who worked part-time at Uniqlo. And you got aggressively nice every time he walked into the room.” After that, the dam kind of burst. You ended up telling her everything—every humiliating thing you’d done in the name of Satoru Gojo. Like the time you spent twenty minutes curling your eyelashes before a family barbecue, only to blink so aggressively at him that your contact lens folded in half. Or how you once tripped over her cat trying to sprint to the bathroom when you heard his voice in the hallway—because you hadn’t shaved your legs and you simply could not be perceived like that. Seiko had listened to it all with a mixture of horror, amusement, and deeply affectionate judgment.

“You’re disgusting,” she’d said once, fondly. “But you’re my disgusting best friend, so I guess I have to love you anyway.” Now, three years later, you smirk a little at the memory. “I was like sixteen,” you say, brushing invisible dust off your shirt. “And he was older and cooler and looked good in white t-shirts. It wasn’t exactly hard to crush on him.” 

Seiko hums. “You also wore a push-up bra every time you knew he’d be home.”

“Don’t slut-shame me for being sixteen and desperate for attention,” you say with a grin.

“You also practiced putting on eyeliner with a spoon.”

“I hate that you remember everything.”

“You told me your soul left your body when he looked at your knees once.”

“Okay, now you’re making things up.”

“You tried to use cherry lip gloss as blush.”

“That one’s valid. TikTok taught me that.” Seiko laughs and tosses a pillow at you, and the room’s full of that deep, cozy joy that only comes when someone’s known you long enough to remember your awkward era and still wants to live with you. It’s quiet for a second after that. The breeze flutters in, catching on the posters still stuck to her walls—old anime prints, boy band photos from your middle school years, a collage of polaroids with all your worst angles and best memories. You sigh and glance at her. “So… what do we do if he actually shows up?” She shrugs. “We act normal. We’re adults now. You’re not gonna combust from seeing his stupid face again.” You both dissolve into uncontrollable laughter again, that warm, stupid haze settling in the room like an old blanket—the kind woven from late-night confessions and shared snacks, music blasting from your phones, and way too many years of embarrassing stories. And even with all the teasing, the grossed-out big sister act, the ridiculous confessions—you know she gets it. You’re not that girl anymore. Satoru Gojo might be coming back tonight. But you’ve grown up. Gotten your heart broken a few times. Learned how to kiss without thinking about someone else's older brother. You’re not that girl anymore. But you do still kind of hope your eyeliner holds up.

–

The first sign that something’s changed is the sound of the door. Not a knock—of course not. Gojo Satoru never knocked in his own house. It’s the familiar click-clack of the handle Seiko’s parents never replaced, followed by the solid thud of shoes on hardwood and the faint rustle of bags. And then, casually:

“Yo! I’m home!”

Your stomach drops. Seiko, still mid-sip of her Diet Coke, just blinks at you from across the living room. You’re sitting criss-cross on the rug, wearing a hoodie that may or may not have a bleach stain and socks with cartoon strawberries on them. The TV is paused on some half-watched dating show, and you’re surrounded by empty chip bags and your laptop, still open on a tab labeled apartments near campus cheap please.

“…You said tonight,” you whisper, already scrambling to smooth your hair down. “I thought it was tonight!” Seiko whisper-hisses back. “Mom must’ve meant this afternoon!” And before you can gather the scraps of your dignity and disappear up the stairs, he’s already in the room. Gojo Satoru. In the flesh. Three years older. And apparently, bulkier than God intended. He's in a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, and you hate that the first thing you notice is how tight the sleeves are around his biceps. Broad shoulders. Defined chest. Forearms that probably didn’t look like that the last time you saw him. There’s a duffel slung over one shoulder and a Lawson bag in the other. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

He stops short in the doorway when he sees you. “Oh,” he says, blinking. “Didn’t know you were here.” You go stiff. “Yeah. Hey.” It’s weird. It’s so weird. You haven’t seen him since that summer—since the night before he left for that international scholarship program. And now he’s standing there like no time has passed, like his shoulders didn’t double in size and like your brain isn’t short-circuiting from sheer secondhand awkwardness. Satoru looks at Seiko. “You didn’t read my texts again, did you?”

“They were blurry photos of vending machine sandwiches,” she deadpans. “Forgive me for not decoding that.”

He shrugs, dropping his bags to the floor with a loud thump, going over to trap his sister into a bear hug, smirking when she squealed and said something about not being able to breathe.  “I said I was coming today.”

“No, you said, ‘soon.’”

“Well, I meant today.” There’s a beat of silence. You try not to look directly at him, as if eye contact will cause some sort of emotional combustion. You can feel how out-of-place you suddenly are—socks on the wrong foot, posture too stiff, heart hammering in your chest like you’re sixteen again. He looks at you once Seiko has scrambled out of his grip, hands shoved into his pockets. Not weirdly. Just… like he’s trying to remember something. 

“So how’s college? Seiko keeps me updated on the entire experience, but how’ve you been finding it? Big jump from highschool?” He asks, voice casual in that way that somehow makes it worse.

You nod. “Yeah. Um, good! Nice, I like it. Fun, even.” He raises his eyebrows slightly, impressed.

 “Nice. What’s your major?”

“Psych,” you say, then immediately hate how your voice goes just a little too high on the “-ch.” You clear your throat. “Psychology.” He nods again, the way people do when they don’t actually know what to say next. “Cool. Lots of reading?”

“Yeah. Um, way too much.” You try to laugh a little, like a normal person, but it comes out thin. You shift your weight. He shifts his. Somewhere behind you, a fly buzzes. “How was Japan?” you ask, because someone has to fill the silence before your ears implode from the pressure. He perks up a little, like he’s glad for the safer topic. “It was good. Really cool. I was in Tokyo for the most part, did this exchange thing with Todai—Tokyo University.” He scratches the back of his neck. “They had me in this physics program for my undergrad, working with some grad students on quantum optics stuff.”

You blink. “Quantum what now?” He grins, and you hate that it's still the same cocky lopsided thing it was at seventeen. “Lasers.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah,” he says, with a self-deprecating shrug. “Mostly just a lot of math and equipment malfunctions. The usual.” You nod, because you have absolutely nothing to add to that, unless your psych notes on Pavlov’s dogs suddenly become relevant to international laser research. The silence creeps back in, loud as ever. “Cool,” you say, again. Your default setting, apparently. He nods. “Yeah.” 

You both just stand there for a second too long, not quite looking at each other. Then—

“Wow, this isn’t awkward at all,” Seiko deadpans as she looks between you both, sipping her drink with all the grace of a sitcom character arriving to save a scene. You both instinctively reply, “Shut up,” in unison. Which only makes it so much worse.

Seiko just raises an eyebrow at you like you’re the one being weird, and mutters something about grabbing a snack before disappearing into the kitchen again. And then it’s just you and Satoru again. Standing in the middle of the living room. A full foot apart but worlds away. He shifts his weight, glancing around like he’s re-familiarizing himself with the space. The rug. The shelves. The old family photos that haven’t moved in years.It’s weird seeing him here again. Weirder seeing him like this. Older. Bigger. Built like he’s been bench pressing trucks for fun. His hair is a little longer now, swept back lazily, an undercut visible, and his whole presence feels heavier—not in a bad way. Just more… there. Same face. Same dumb grin. But it doesn’t feel like the same person anymore. And god, this is awkward. He clears his throat. “Well. I’m gonna shower.”

“Cool,” you say, like a robot malfunctioning. And trying not to imagine him naked. In the shower. Water running down his built body. He grabs his bag again, nods, and heads upstairs. Only when he’s gone do you let your whole body collapse back into the couch. Seiko reappears two seconds later with a bowl of cereal. You groan into your hands.

 “What the hell was that.”

She chews. “That was my brother. Looking like a protein powder ad.”

“Oh my god, you’re right. Did I act up?”

“You said ‘cool.’ Like someone’s dad.” You scowl. “Okay, well you forgot to mention he turned into a brick wall with legs.”

“Gross. That’s my brother.”

“You’re the one who said protein powder!”

“Yeah, and you looked like you were going to pass out just from seeing his arms.” You huff, closing your laptop screen with a huff.

“Shut up.”

–

It’s the week before uni starts again. The tail end of your well-earned university break—half spent in your disaster of an apartment with even more disastrous flatmates (you genuinely can’t even get into how bad it is without spiraling), and half in the cozy, warm bubble of your best friend Seiko’s family home. You still don’t know why she ever wants to move out of here. The fridge is always full, the floors are always clean, her parents adore you, and the water pressure in the upstairs bathroom makes you want to marry the plumbing. But there is one caveat to all this domestic bliss. Being in the house of your gorgeous, lovely best friend means now constantly being around her equally gorgeous, equally lovely older brother. Now, to be fair, you said you were over it. The crush. The obsession. The years-long pining that began in childhood and ended somewhere between your first college situationship and your second real heartbreak. It’s been three years since he left for Japan. Three years since you confessed the whole dumb thing to Seiko—who just blinked at you and said, “Yeah? It was so obvious.” Three years since you mentally filed away every mortifying thing you’d ever done in the name of impressing Satoru Gojo.

(“Remember when you wore that way-too-small bra and couldn’t breathe the whole day?” Seiko had giggled. “Or when you put on lipgloss just to ask him what time it was?” “Shut up,” you groaned, face down in her bed. “No, you shut up,” she’d laughed. “It’s endearing.”)

And it was fine. You were fine. You got older. You had experiences. You weren’t that girl anymore. But you’re also just a girl. A really hormonal, 20-year-old girl. With eyes. And a pulse. And a deeply cursed memory of the way he used to ruffle your hair like you were some scrappy little sister. So yeah. It’s complicated. Satoru Gojo has been back from Japan for a few weeks now—and oh boy, had he made his presence known. The living room and his upstairs bedroom have basically become dual command centers of chaos, filled with overlapping noise and endless energy. He’s constantly switching between the two, dragging Suguru along for the ride—also freshly returned and, much to Seiko’s unspoken delight, always over. There’s laughter echoing from the TV, loud cackling over dumb reels, or occasional testosterone-fueled howling whenever they’re deep in some Fortnite deathmatch or FIFA playoff. Sometimes you walk into the kitchen and there’s a stranger raiding the fridge. Sometimes you step into the hallway and trip over Satoru’s gym bag, which weighs more than your trauma. And god—he’s jacked now. Not like, oh he works out sometimes jacked. More like, I could throw a car if I wanted to jacked. Broad shoulders. Arms that stretch his t-shirts in unfair ways. Thighs that should be illegal in those loose basketball shorts. You hate that you’ve noticed. You hate that you still kind of care.

You’re coping. Barely. One afternoon, you’re sprawled on the living room couch with Seiko, sharing a packet of sour gummies and flipping between bad reality TV shows when the front door bangs open. “Back from war,” Suguru announces, tossing his keys on the entry table like he owns the place. “We got slushies,” Satoru says, trailing behind him, arms full of way too many drinks. “Someone help, I can’t feel my fingers.”

“Oh my god, why’d you get six?” Seiko says, hopping up. 

“They had a buy-three-get-three deal,” he shrugs. “Math, baby.” You linger behind her, offering a casual wave as Satoru spots you. He nods back, all easy smiles and post-gym glow, looking annoyingly good in a dark tank and sweats. His hair’s messier than usual, like he towel-dried it in the car and gave up halfway through. The four of you end up lounging in the living room, Suguru and Satoru on the floor, you and Seiko curled up on the couch. Suguru’s the first to start shit. “Remember when you two used to pretend to be spies and sneak snacks from the kitchen?” he grins, pointing at you and Seiko. “That was your idea,” Seiko fires back. “Yeah, but you were the one who tried to crawl under the dining table and got stuck between the legs of a chair.” You’re halfway through a laugh when Satoru adds, “She cried for ten minutes. Thought she was gonna die under there.”

“Shut up, you dick,” Seiko says, throwing a gummy at him. He snorts, catching it effortlessly. “I saved you. That makes me a hero.”

“She only cried ‘cause you told her cockroaches resided in the legs of that chair and they were gonna crawl all over her,” you say with a giggle. Satoru turns to you, mock offended. “I was building childhood resilience.” You all laugh again, the energy light and familiar and buzzing. But then—

Suguru smirks. “Honestly, the way you two used to follow him around like ducklings—”

“I did not,” you start, horrified.

“Sure,” Satoru grins, easy and warm. “You were like a little sister. Like I had two little sisters.”

Your heart doesn’t shatter or anything. You’re not a teenager anymore. But something still winces inside you. A slow, dull ache. Not because you wanted him to say something else—but because that confirms it. All the years of wondering, of analyzing every glance or moment, just shrinks down into a single, harmless label.

Like a little sister.

You catch Seiko’s eye for a second. She doesn’t say anything, but you know she saw the exact second your expression faltered. Back upstairs later, you’re sprawled on her bed again, half scrolling your phone, half dissociating into the pattern on her ceiling. “Hey,” she says softly, nudging you with her toe.

You blink. “What?” She winces, dramatic. “I am so sorry. If the guy I liked said that about me I would simply pass away.” You groan into her blanket. “Seiko, stop.”

“No like—why’s he so dumb? He didn’t mean it like that, I swear—he just says the first thing that pops into his head sometimes, you know how he is—”

“I don’t like him anymore,” you say firmly, sitting up. “Seriously. It’s not that deep.” But your younger self stings a little. Because now you know. It’s all been filed neatly into kid stuff. Little sister things. Nothing that ever reached him the way it reached you. You’re not hurt. You’re just… grounded. Suddenly and irrevocably grounded. Seiko flops next to you, throwing an arm over her eyes. “He’s an idiot. A weird, gym-rat, physics-nerd idiot. Weirdo. Total weirdo.”

You snort. “That’s a lot of hyphens.”

“He deserves them.”

–

The first week of uni starts with a heatwave. Everything feels sticky. Pavement melting under your shoes, tote bags sticking to your shoulder, the air around campus thick and weirdly scented with iced coffee and sunscreen and overpriced cologne. Your phone keeps warning you about the UV index. Every lecture hall feels either suffocating or like a freezer on full blast. It's a miracle you haven't already dropped out. Life feels like it's slipping back into place—until it doesn't. Because now Satoru Gojo is here. At your university. I mean, obviously, he was bound to. Something about an honours year. You knew it was coming. You’d heard Seiko mention it offhandedly over break. “He transferred in with Suguru, their credits aligned or whatever, I don’t know. Something about physics and—oh my god, are you listening?”

You’d nodded, but your stomach had dipped. And now he’s just… here. It starts small. A glimpse in the courtyard during the week. You’re sitting cross-legged under a shady tree with your friends when you hear someone laugh loud and obnoxiously behind you. You turn. He’s leaning against a bench, sunglasses perched on his head, grinning while talking to some third-years like he’s known them forever. His presence is so big. He’s always taken up space—but now it feels more deliberate. Like he knows it. Like he expects it. You don’t wave. He doesn’t see you. That should be the end of it. But then it happens again. In the campus gym, where you’re trying to kill time on a treadmill before your next tutorial, and he walks by, all sweat and tank top and biceps that really need to calm down. He’s fist-bumping the guy at the front desk. Later, you hear one of the girls in your class whisper, “That’s Gojo Satoru, right? The hottie in that physics thing in Japan?”

Of course he was. It becomes a pattern. You don’t even need to look for him—he just keeps showing up. In the science wing, at the club fair where he somehow ends up manning the booth for the rock climbing society and the anime club. He’s basically an unofficial campus ambassador by week two. People know him. Your university, for all its massive sprawl and fancy name, is crawling with alumni from your high school. It’s like a silent, unspoken network—people recognize each other, even if they don’t acknowledge it. It means Satoru doesn’t have to try that hard. The guys already like him. The girls—well. You hear his name a lot. For obvious reasons. Floating through stairwells. Written in notebooks with dumb little hearts. There are rumors, already, that he’s seeing someone from the bio department.

You tell yourself you don’t care. And for the most part—you really don’t. Your classes are packed. Your workload’s heavy. You’re constantly flitting from the library to lectures to the café where you work weekends, barely keeping your head above water. And still, sometimes, in the middle of it all—you’ll catch him across campus. Headphones in. Laughing with Suguru. Buying a stupid energy drink at the vending machine by the student union. Sometimes you think he catches you too. But you never talk. You see Seiko more often. She’s in a few overlapping courses with you, and sometimes you sit together on the lawn between lectures, splitting snacks, complaining about professors. She doesn’t bring up her brother unless you do. You never do. 

“Did you get that neuro reading done?” she asks one day. You nod, eyes flicking past her—to the quad where Gojo’s tossing a football lazily with Suguru and some guy from your econ lecture. Seiko follows your gaze, then groans, muttering, “God. He really is everywhere.” You snort. “He’s like a university cryptid.”

“Don’t give him that power.” 

You smile. But your fingers twist in your lap. You don’t say it, but part of you feels it—like you’re in the wrong timeline. Like you’re living in the aftermath of a story that never got its ending. He’s so comfortable here. Like he’s always belonged. Meanwhile, you’re still figuring out how to breathe around the memory of a crush you swore you let go. The closest you get to speaking is when you’re leaving your psych lecture one afternoon, earbuds in, digging for your sunglasses. You bump into someone’s arm and look up—and it’s him. He blinks. Then flashes you that old, toothy grin. “Oh. Hey.” You freeze, smile stiff. “Hey.”

He opens his mouth, like he might say something else—but then someone calls his name from behind, and he glances over his shoulder. “Catch you later, yeah?” You nod, and he’s gone. It’s stupid. So stupid. You shouldn't feel anything about a moment that small. But it stays with you, hours later. The heat of the hallway. The faint smell of his cologne. The way your voice felt weird in your own throat. You walk to your next class and pretend your heart isn’t fluttering like it used to when you were fifteen. You’re older now. You’re different. But maybe some things still live under your skin, soft and stupid and waiting.

It’s a Wednesday afternoon when Seiko texts you last minute asking if you can drop off the notes from your shared class.

can’t believe I forgot my entire folder at yours pls drop it off if u can i’ll owe u one xoxo

You type out a “dumbass ho” and stuff the folder into your tote bag. It’s not a big deal. Her house is barely a fifteen-minute walk from campus, and besides—her mum usually answers the door and immediately offers you snacks, which is always a win. What you don’t expect is for the door to open and reveal him.

Satoru. He’s in a black t-shirt and grey sweats, his hair a little messy, like he ran a hand through it one too many times. There’s a faint shine to his skin, maybe from a workout, and he’s holding a water bottle like he was in the middle of something when the doorbell rang. “Hey,” he says. Just that. A flat, casual hey. Like he wasn’t someone who used to give you heart palpitations for fun. You blink, pulse suddenly louder in your ears than it has any right to be. “Uh—hi. I brought Seiko’s notes.” He nods and steps aside, letting you in. You’re immediately hit with the familiar scent of the house: something citrusy and comforting, and now… faintly laced with deodorant and aftershave. “She’s out,” he says, shutting the door behind you. “Went to grab some stuff from the store. She should be back soon.” You clutch the folder like it’s a lifeline. “Oh. Cool. I can just leave these in her room or something.”

He shrugs, walks past you, heading toward the kitchen. “You can wait if you want. She said she wouldn’t be long.” You follow hesitantly, standing awkwardly near the dining table while he grabs a glass and fills it with water. There’s a quiet tension hanging in the air. Not heavy, not hostile—just… weird. Like you’re both aware of the fact that you used to be on casual, even teasing terms, but now there’s too much time and space between then and now. 

“You want water or something?” he offers, without looking. You shake your head. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He leans against the counter, takes a slow sip. The silence settles again, this odd in-between where neither of you knows how to talk like normal people. Then, he glances at you, eyes flicking briefly from head to toe. “You used to be shorter.” You blink. “…Excuse me?”

“I mean, you’re still short,” he adds, lips twitching slightly. “Just. Less so.” You stare at him, genuinely unsure how to respond. It’s not an insult, exactly, but it also feels like a trap. If you protest too much, it’s pick-me behavior. If you act like you don’t care, it’s awkward. If you joke back, does that make it banter? Are we… bantering? You end up huffing out a weird little half-laugh, scratching your arm. “Cool. Glad my growth spurt was almost imperceptible.” He actually chuckles at that, a small sound that catches you off guard. “Didn’t say it wasn’t appreciated. You’re like—what? An inch taller?”

“Two and a half inches more,” you correct, instinctively defensive.

“That’s generous.”

 You roll your eyes and plop your tote bag down onto the chair, trying to play it cool despite the heat in your cheeks. “Glad to know the years haven’t dulled your talent for stating obvious facts.” He grins, and for a second—just a second—it feels almost normal again. But then it dips back into silence, and you both shift awkwardly in the space. He drinks more water. You pick at the strap of your bag. “So,” he says eventually, voice mild. “You’re studying psych, right?” You nod. “Yeah.” He nods back. “That’s cool. You like it?” You pause, debating how honest to be. “It’s… interesting. Not as glam as people think it is. A lot of research. Stats. Trying not to spiral about your own life because of 2000 word essays in the middle of cognitive lectures.” That earns you another short laugh. “Sounds about right.”

You look up at him, heart thudding in a weird rhythm. “What about you? Japan looked cool from the stuff you posted.” He shrugs, but there’s something almost sheepish about it. “It was good. Managed to complete my undergrad, thankfully. Lot of weird hours. Labs. Professors that hated when I was late. Which was often.” You smile, despite yourself. “Shocker.”

“I know. Me? Unpunctual?” He gives a mock gasp. The words settle in the air, kind of dumb and light—but they cut through the awkward tension just enough that something unspoken slips into place. Like, okay. This isn’t the same as before. But it’s not totally broken, either. Still, you’re hyperaware of every breath, every glance. This close to him, it’s impossible not to notice the slight sheen on his arms, the veins on his forearms, the fact that the Gojo Satoru who once teased you about having mismatched socks is now built like a Marvel superhero who occasionally gets mistaken for a Greek statue. He’s being nice. Not in a flirtatious way. Not in a performative way. Just… like a person. A guy who knows you used to be closer, but isn’t sure how to bridge the gap. A guy who probably doesn’t know you once practiced your signature with his last name in the margins of your math notebook

The front door creaks then, and you both turn as Seiko walks in carrying two tote bags. You both glance at each other, then away, and Seiko bursts into laughter. “God, you both are so weird. I hate it.” You shoot her a look. “You’re the one who made me come over because you forgot your notes.”

“Okay, but I had a lot on my mind,” she says airily, waving you off as she kicks off her shoes.

“You left a folder the size of a small child on my kitchen table.”

“I was in a rush!”

“Doing what? Lying horizontally on my floor and watching edits of Business Proposal?”

She gasps. “That was for my mental health. You know how much better I feel after seeing Ahn Hyo-seop.” Satoru, still leaning in the doorway with his water bottle, snorts. “Nah, she’s been like this forever. You’re braver than I am for entertaining her.” You blink, caught slightly off guard, and glance at him. There’s the faintest grin playing on his lips, like he’s enjoying this a little too much. Seiko glares at him. “Excuse me? Who asked you?”

“I’m just saying,” he says, casual and maddeningly smug, “if she forgot a folder, you know it’s probably still under a pile of her clothes or shoved between couch cushions or something. Classic Seiko behavior.” You can’t help it—you snort, loud and involuntary, and cover your mouth with your hand. “That’s actually so true.”

“Traitor!” Seiko gasps, swatting your shoulder. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“Oh no,” Satoru says, mock-serious, “she’s right to switch teams. You’ve been doing this since elementary school. Remember when you swore you didn’t lose that permission slip and it turned out you’d used it to doodle hearts all over?”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME,” she cries, dramatically throwing her hands in the air.

“You drew Suguru in a wedding veil,” he adds helpfully. You’re laughing now, a real laugh, the kind that warms your cheeks and loosens your spine. There’s something stupidly delightful about the fact that he’s joking with you. Siding with you. Even if it’s at Seiko’s expense. Even if it’s meaningless. But still. A twinge. A fluttery, ridiculous little swell of something in your chest that you stamp down before it can fully form. 

“Oh my god, I actually hate you both,” Seiko mutters, dragging you toward the stairs by your wrist.

“You love us,” Satoru calls after you.

“No, I tolerate you,” she calls back.

“Same difference.” 

You glance back one more time at him before Seiko hauls you up the stairs. He’s leaning against the bannister now, looking amused, eyes flicking briefly to meet yours—and for a moment, it’s not awkward or distant. It’s just… kind of nice. Then you’re being pulled into Seiko’s bedroom, and the door shuts behind you, cutting off whatever weird, fluttery feeling had started to creep up your spine.

–

"I swear," Seiko groans, shutting her laptop dramatically and tossing it onto the floor. "If I have to look at one more studio apartment listed as a ‘cozy urban oasis,’ I'm gonna cry." You snort, lying on your back and tossing a scrunchie at her head. "Maybe we should just live in a van. Free rent. Adventure. Character building."

"Shut up," she says, batting the scrunchie away. "You're too high maintenance to live in a van." You gasp, putting a hand to your chest. "Excuse me?"

She grins wickedly. "You need, like, twelve skincare products and two duvets to function."

"That’s just basic self-care," you argue, sitting up on your elbows. "You’re the one who needs complete silence and two white noise machines to sleep."

You open your mouth to throw another insult when the door creaks open without a knock, and in strolls Satoru, looking wholly unbothered, as usual. He’s wearing grey sweats and a black hoodie, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. His hair is messier than usual, like he just woke up from a nap or something. You really wish you didn’t notice how broad he looks now, or how easily he takes up the space when he steps in like he owns the place.

"Hey," he says casually, rifling through the desk drawers without really explaining himself. "Either of you seen my charger?" Seiko doesn’t even glance at him. "Which one?"

"The black one with the weird fray at the end. It's hanging on by a thread but it's my favorite." You shrug from the bed. "Haven't seen it." He makes a noncommittal sound and keeps searching. Seiko sighs dramatically, flopping onto her back. "God, I hate apartment hunting. It's literally the worst thing ever."

"It’s really not that bad," you say mildly.

"You're just zen because you don’t have to live with your parents and have them coddle you about coming home at 8pm," she snaps playfully. You’re about to argue when Satoru straightens up, tossing something on her desk—some random cable that’s not his charger—and says offhandedly, "I've got a friend who’s trying to lease out his place near the uni." Both your heads snap toward him.

"What," Seiko says, sitting up fast. He leans lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, like he didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb on your conversation. "Yeah. It's a big three-bedroom. Nice kitchen, close to campus. Think he’s desperate to find people soon." You and Seiko exchange wide-eyed glances.

"Wait, close to campus?" she says, voice climbing in excitement. "That's exactly what we’ve been looking for!" Satoru shrugs. "I can text him. Tell him you’re interested." Seiko practically bounces in place. "Yes, yes, please. Tell him! Oh my god, you're a lifesaver." Satoru smirks a little. "You’re welcome. Bow down to me later."

You roll your eyes. "Don’t give him more of an ego, Seiko."

"I can’t help it," she says sweetly. "He’s doing the bare minimum and yet it feels like a miracle." Satoru scoffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You’re lucky I even mentioned it. I could’ve just let you two suffer and die in a moldy shoebox."

"You're such a hero," you say dryly.

"Finally, some respect," he says, flashing you a wink—so casual you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Seiko claps her hands together. "Okay, okay, when can we see it?"

"I’ll text him now," Satoru says, pushing off the doorframe. He’s halfway into the hall before he calls over his shoulder, "Also, I’m charging a finder’s fee." You grab a pillow and throw it at him. It hits the doorframe and flops pathetically to the ground. You hear him laughing as he disappears down the hall. Seiko flops back onto the bed with a loud, theatrical sigh. "Holy shit, what if this is actually it?" You grin. "I'd be shocked if Satoru managed to help us not end up in a hellhole." 

The two of you dive back into excited chatter, tossing around potential decorating plans and screaming every few minutes out of pure relief that maybe, finally, the end of the apartment hunt is in sight.

–

A few days later, you’re sitting shotgun in Satoru’s ridiculously new, ridiculously shiny car—some black BMW that still smells like leather and money. It purrs like a cat when he taps the gas, and honestly, you're a little scared to breathe too hard in it in case you somehow depreciate its value. "Bro," Seiko says from the backseat, arms spread dramatically across the leather, "this is actually disgusting. Why does your car feel richer than my entire bloodline? And that’s saying something because I am part of your bloodline."

Satoru just shrugs, flashing a cocky grin as he taps the steering wheel. "Ask Dad. Mid-life crisis purchase. Shit happens when you graduate at the top of your class, Sei." You huff out a laugh, dragging your fingers across the touchscreen console, which looks like it could operate a small spaceship. You don’t even want to think about how many zeros were in the price tag. The city buzzes by outside the tinted windows, everything sharp and golden under the late afternoon sun. You watch familiar streets blur past, a little knot of excitement tightening in your chest.

Soon, you think. Soon no more nightmare flatmates. No more coming home to overflowing sinks and strangers passed out on the couch. No more psychotic flatmates who think doing the dishes once a week is a favor to humanity. No more passive-aggressive notes stuck to the bathroom mirror. No more coming home to blaring music and weird smells you don't want to investigate. Just you, your own space, peace. You can almost taste it. Seiko leans forward between the seats, tapping your shoulder. "Dude, we're literally gonna cry when we see it. Manifesting washer-dryer units. Manifesting no mold in the bathroom."

You grin. "Manifesting no one stealing my milk." Satoru snorts. "Your standards are tragic."

"Let us dream, Satoru," Seiko says. He just chuckles, pulling smoothly into the parking lot of a nice-looking building not far from campus. It's clean, modern but not pretentious, with a little courtyard in the middle and wide, sunlit balconies. Way better than anything you’d expected. He swings into a visitor spot and kills the engine. "Alright, my buddy’s inside. He's leasing out the place." You all pile out. Seiko practically skips toward the entrance, phone already out to take pictures, while you hang back a little, taking in the quiet street, the trimmed hedges, the general non-crackhead vibe of the neighborhood. The apartment is on the third floor. When the door swings open, you swear you hear angels singing. It’s big. Really big. Real hardwood floors. Tall ceilings. Massive windows that flood the space with light. A kitchen that doesn't look like it was last updated during World War II. Three bedrooms, a big open living area, and even a tiny balcony perfect for pretending you’re a functional adult with plants.

You and Seiko spin in place, speechless. "This is...this is so nice," you whisper. Seiko’s already got her phone out, snapping pictures. "We’re gonna die here. In a good way." Satoru leans casually in the doorway. "Glad you approve." You trail behind Seiko as she bounces around, peeking into bedrooms, mentally decorating hers already. Then, inevitably, the real conversation starts. "So, about rent," Satoru says, scratching the back of his neck. You and Seiko both turn to him warily, like two cats expecting a spray bottle. He names the number.

You feel your stomach lurch. It’s...more than you were hoping. Not impossible, but definitely more than ramen-once-a-day money. More like maybe-don’t-eat-at-all money. Seiko glances at you, and you can see the panic flicker across her face too. But before either of you can spiral, she speaks up quickly:

"It's fine! My parents said they'd cover my share for the first three months," Seiko says, waving her hand like it's no big deal. "Graduation-slash-moving-out present, apparently."

You blink at her. "Seriously?" She nods. "Yeah. They said it’s, like, a 'head start' thing. They’re even willing to pitch in a little extra for the whole place while we get settled—you know, just until we find better jobs and stuff." You stare at her for a second, like she’s speaking another language. "Wait, so... they’re covering you, and kind of helping me too?" Seiko shrugs like it’s obvious. "Just a little. Like a safety net. They trust us to take over fully after a couple months." You let out a slow breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Three months. That’s enough time. Enough time to fix your mess of a resume, beg for more shifts, find something—anything—that paid decently near campus. Maybe you could finally stop living off sad frozen dumplings and caffeine pills. Seiko grins, reading the relief on your face like it’s printed in bold. "We’ll survive," she declares proudly. "You and me. Broke, but beautiful." You laugh under your breath, some part of your chest unclenching just a little. For once, the future doesn’t seem like this endless, terrifying drop-off. Satoru watches the two of you like you're some strange species he's never encountered before. His sunglasses are pushed into his hair, and the way his mouth twitches makes it clear he’s fighting a smile.

"You two are so dramatic," he says, shaking his head. "You’re literally way worse. You threw a tantrum when you found out dad was only paying your rent for only six months," Seiko fires back immediately. "That wasn’t a tantrum, dad promised me two years of rent." Satoru corrects dryly, but the embarrassed glint in his eye makes you glance away to make him feel less embarrassed, smiling helplessly. Rich people and their problems. It’s stupid, really, how something as small as that—him standing there, joking like it’s normal, like you’re all still those dumb kids from the neighborhood—makes you feel a little lighter.

–

The day you move in feels half like the best day of your life, and half like you're dying of exhaustion. The morning is a mess of cardboard, duct tape, and terrible weather—hot, sticky, humid. Sweat drips down your back even though you’re barely halfway through loading the cars. Seiko’s parents showed up for a little bit to help, cooing over their baby girl finally moving out, but they eventually left after a teary goodbye (on Mrs. Gojo’s part) and about thirty different "don't forget to eat real food" speeches.

Now it’s just you, Seiko, and Satoru. Satoru, who pulled up in his shiny Lexus and practically leapt out in gym shorts and a loose black t-shirt, looking like an actual paid model for casual athleticism. You tell yourself you don’t notice.

(You absolutely do.)

Your crappy old car is packed to the brim, and the front yard is scattered with the overflow—boxes stacked on the grass, a battered mini fridge, a whole pile of miscellaneous IKEA furniture Seiko impulsively bought off Facebook Marketplace. You and Seiko buzz with nervous excitement, running on adrenaline and bad convenience store coffee, practically vibrating as you unload your lives onto the pavement. "This is so real," Seiko keeps saying every five minutes, grinning like she's won the lottery. "We’re actually doing it!"

You grin back, feeling it too—that breathless, giddy thrill of something new beginning. Something that’s yours. But then reality slaps you in the face in the form of a very heavy box. You crouch next to it, trying to psych yourself up. It’s your kitchen stuff—or, at least, you think it is. It’s all starting to blur together at this point. You steel yourself, grip the bottom—and immediately regret everything. The thing doesn’t budge. You grunt, trying to shift it with your knee, and that's when you hear it:

A low chuckle behind you. "Need a hand?" Satoru drawls, sounding far too entertained. You whip your head around, heat rushing to your face. "I'm fine," you lie, through gritted teeth, already feeling your muscles screaming in protest. Satoru doesn’t even argue. He just strolls over, leans down, and—

Lifts it. Like it’s nothing. Like it weighs less than your backpack. You stare, mouth slightly open, as he straightens up effortlessly, cradling the box under one toned arm like it’s a loaf of bread. Jesus Christ. You hate yourself, genuinely, for how visceral your reaction is. Your brain short-circuits for a good three seconds—because what the hell, why is seeing a man carry heavy things so biologically attractive? It’s purely instinct, you tell yourself fiercely. Caveman brain. Biology. Nothing more. You absolutely, categorically, do not have a crush on Satoru Gojo.

(Not anymore.)

You huff out a noise—maybe a laugh, maybe a noise of despair, you’re not even sure—and scramble to grab a lighter box to follow him up the driveway. Inside, the apartment smells like fresh paint and possibility. The living room is bright, sun streaming through the wide windows, casting everything in a gold glow. The walls are still a little bare, and the kitchen is empty except for a lonely-looking microwave on the counter, but it already feels like it’s waiting for you. You and Seiko move like hyperactive squirrels, flitting from room to room, deciding what goes where, squealing when you realize your rooms have actual closets, screaming a little when you realize there’s a working dishwasher. Satoru mostly hangs back, ferrying the heavier stuff inside with annoying ease. You catch him watching once or twice—an amused, almost fond look in his eye—but every time you glance over, he just rolls his eyes like he’s too cool to care.

"Where do you want this?" he asks at one point, gesturing with a huge box labeled MISC (HELP) in your handwriting. "Uh—living room," you say, already bent over digging through another box. You don’t even look up. You also don’t notice the way the pretty cerulean hues track over your bent over form.

"Say please."

You whip your head up, scandalized. Seiko cackles from somewhere inside her room. "You’re enabling him," she calls out. Satoru smirks. "Mm, I’ve been lifting heavy all morning. Some manners would be appreciated, sweets." You toss a crumpled piece of newspaper at him without thinking, and he bats it out of the air easily, laughing under his breath.

It’s easy, you realize, surprising yourself. Awkward in the way all transitions are, but... easy. You catch yourself smiling more than you mean to. Feeling lighter, younger, almost stupidly happy. Maybe it’s the air of fresh starts. Maybe it’s just the high of freedom. You sigh, dragging the back of your wrist across your forehead, feeling the sweat stick and smear there. For a second, you swear you’re starring in one of those hopecore reels you always save at 2AM—the ones with strangers helping each other move houses, saving stray cats, planting flowers in busted city sidewalks. Wow. What an awesome life. You almost want to cry out of pure cinematic triumph.

"Alright," Satoru says, clapping his hands together once. "You think you two can handle the rest by yourselves? I promised Suguru I’d try out this new steakhouse thing with him." Seiko pops her head out from whatever random corner of the apartment she was currently fussing over, a suspicious-looking candle in her hand. She pins him with a look so unimpressed you almost snort. "Satoru," she says, voice flat, "your baby sister is moving into her first apartment and you have Suguru on your mind? Seriously? Sometimes I think you might actually have a thing for him." She shakes her head dramatically, huffing as she plops the candle down onto the kitchen counter and grabs a small tote full of your combined toiletries, marching off toward the bathroom to arrange your skincare armies in synchronized little rows. Satoru snorts, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth. "Suguru’s hot," he mumbles, like it's just a random fun fact, "but he’s really not my type." You and Seiko roll your eyes in almost perfect sync.

"You're so weird," Seiko calls from the bathroom. "Beyond weird," you agree dryly, hoisting another box onto the counter and stretching your sore arms out in front of you with a wince. "Whatever," Satoru says breezily, scrolling through his phone with one thumb. "You’re just jealous you don’t have a Suguru of your own." Seiko pokes her head out again, narrowing her eyes. "Fine, Mr. Expert. What even is your type, huh? You look like you’d go for anyone with a pulse." You snicker into your shoulder, pretending to busy yourself with unpacking a box of mismatched mugs. You don’t even have to look up to feel Satoru’s wounded gasp. "First of all," he says, all whiny indignation, "I have standards, thanks." You shoot Seiko a knowing look, mouthing do you? She fights to hold in a laugh.

"I’m not about to stand here and discuss my love life with my little sister," Satoru adds, dramatically tossing his phone onto the couch like this conversation personally victimized him. He straightens up then, stretching his arms over his head in that lazy, catlike way he always does, a flash of skin peeking between his shirt and shorts. You glance away instinctively—because you are a normal person who refuses to acknowledge how unfair genetics can be—and focus very hard on peeling the tape off a box. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch it—the smallest glance he flicks in your direction. Not obvious, not lingering. Barely there. A neutral, casual once-over, like he’s checking the room. And then, in a maddeningly even tone, he says, "Pretty people. That’s my type." Seiko groans, dropping a bottle of toner onto the counter with a thud. "You're so superficial," she accuses.

"Am not," Satoru says immediately, grinning like he’s proud of himself anyway. He scoops his phone back up, scrolling lazily, thumb flicking up the screen without real purpose. He glances over at you again—more obvious this time, flashing you a grin like you’re in on some joke with him. "Obviously personality matters too," he says, like it’s a casual afterthought. "I’m not trying to date a hot NPC." Seiko snorts. "Freak."

"Heh, best big brother in the world!," Satoru sing-songs. He grins wide enough for his cheeks to dimple, looking so pleased with himself it’s almost comical. Seiko tosses a roll of paper towels at his head. "Get outta here, loverboy. Go on your stupid steak date." "Steak is important to my wellbeing," Satoru says solemnly, catching the roll one-handed. "I’m a growing boy."

"You’re hitting thirty soon," Seiko says.

"After like– So many years. And I’m still growing," he insists, already backing toward the door with a shit-eating grin. You shake your head, laughing under your breath as he slips his slides back on and salutes you both lazily. "I’ll be back later to finish lifting all the heavy shit you two can’t handle," he calls over his shoulder. "Don't break anything while I'm gone." Seiko flips him off cheerily. "Break your face!" Satoru just laughs and slams the door behind him. The apartment falls into a kind of humming silence. You and Seiko exchange a look—and then both burst into helpless laughter.

–

So, it’s been three months. You stare into the fridge like it might magically grow a five-course meal if you just look pathetic enough. A lone carton of eggs, a half-empty bottle of hot sauce, two apples that are definitely on their way out, and a single sad yogurt cup blink back at you. You sigh. Deeply. Existentially. Seiko appears beside you, yanking the fridge door wider open like that'll help. She lets out the most dramatic, heartbroken groan you've ever heard.

"Bro," she says, staring into the abyss. "We have nothing." You nudge the yogurt cup with a finger. It jiggles. Threateningly. "I think even the bacteria gave up," you say. Seiko closes the fridge with a thud and slumps dramatically against it. "I'm gonna combust. We had thirty-minute butter chicken twice this week."

"At least it was edible," you mutter.

"At least it was edible," she mocks you under her breath, whipping out her phone and scrolling angrily. After a second, she holds the screen out to you like she's presenting hard evidence. It's a Doordash receipt for forty dollars. For butter chicken. Again. You grimace. "I’m gonna be paying that off in my next life." Seiko growls under her breath and without another word, speed-dials her brother. You hear the faint ringtone buzzing and then—

"What now?" Satoru answers, sounding halfway amused, halfway put-upon. "If you're on your way back from campus, you need to stop by here first," Seiko says, cutting straight to the point. "Emergency." Satoru laughs, but it’s more out of habit than actual amusement. "What, you finally broke the toilet?" You lean closer to the phone. "Worse. We’re starving."

"Oh my god," he says, deadpan. "I'm serious," Seiko insists. "We have, like, apples and eggs. That’s it."

"Protein and fiber, sounds like a win to me."

"Satoru."

He sighs like you’re both his problem children. "Fine, fine. Text me what you want."

"Just food," Seiko says dramatically. "Literally anything. I'm not picky. I would eat wet cardboard right now." You yell, "Preferably not wet cardboard!" in the background. Satoru chuckles under his breath. "Alright, I’ll swing by. Try not to eat each other while I’m gone." He hangs up without waiting for a goodbye. Seiko flops onto the couch with the weight of a war veteran. "He's our only hope." You slide down next to her, feeling your stomach physically gnawing at itself. "God help us." 

Twenty minutes later, the front door swings open and Satoru strolls in like he’s just returned from a victorious hunt, two giant plastic bags dangling from his hands. "You guys owe me," he says, kicking the door shut behind him. "We owe you our lives," Seiko says gravely, already diving for the bags. You help him unload: a greasy box of yakisoba, a pepperoni pizza, fried chicken skewers, random sushi rolls, and—because of course he would—a pack of Hi-Chew candies. "God bless you," you tell him, mouth watering as you tear into a box. "You're welcome," he chirps, dropping onto the couch and slinging an arm across the back like he owns the place. For a few blessed minutes, the apartment is filled with nothing but the sound of wrappers crinkling and food being demolished. Seiko leans back after her second slice of pizza, groaning like she just got hit by a bus. "Rent is killing us," she mumbles around a mouthful of yakisoba. You nod, wiping your fingers on a napkin. "Literally murdering us. I think my bank account cried blood this morning." Satoru raises an eyebrow. "You guys just hit month four, huh?"

"Yup," Seiko says, popping the "p." "Dear parents cut me off like they said they would. I'm officially a broke, independent woman now." You throw your hand up for a high five and she smacks it. "At least you're employed," Satoru says, pointing a fry at you. "Kinda."

"Gee, thanks," you deadpan. He shrugs, shameless. "I'm just saying. Adulting is rough, bro." Seiko pokes at her plate, looking more dramatic by the second. "I don't even have an adulty enough job yet. I just pick up whatever shifts I can. And our rent is like a guillotine over my neck."

"Same," you say. "Except the guillotine is made of student loan bills." Satoru laughs under his breath, head tipping back against the couch. He looks way too relaxed for someone still technically in the trenches of his honours year. You narrow your eyes at him. "You don't seem stressed at all." He shrugs again. "I'm moving soon, actually." You and Seiko both sit up straighter, suspicious. "Moving?" Seiko repeats. "Why?" Satoru rolls a fry between his fingers, like he's thinking about it. "My place sucks. No city view. I'm over it." You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "That’s fair." You deadpan, hoping his brain functions enough to realise that he sounds really out of touch with reality right now. "I want something higher up," he says, waving a hand vaguely. Of course the dumbass doesn’t pick up on it. "Somewhere with a view, maybe a balcony."

"Must be nice," Seiko grumbles. "Manifesting," Satoru says, flashing her a peace sign. There's a beat of silence, all three of you chewing or sipping sodas, and then Satoru looks up at you two, slow and casual. "You know," he says, tone maddeningly light, "you do have a third bedroom here." You and Seiko glance at each other. Then back at him. Then back at each other again. "You’re joking," Seiko says flatly. Satoru grins. "Dead serious."

"You wanna move in with us," you say, like you're trying to process it out loud. "I mean," he says, shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, "cheaper rent for all of us. You two stop struggling. I get outta my hellhole. Win-win." Seiko puts her pizza down, brows furrowed. "You wouldn’t be, like... annoyed?"

"By what, living with you guys?" He smirks. "I've tolerated you for twenty years, Seiko. I think I can survive." You lean back, studying him. "You sure? It’s not just, like, random strangers across the hall. You’d actually have to live with us." Satoru lifts his arms, draping them across the back of the couch. "I’m fine with it. Long as I get dibs on one of the bigger bathrooms." Seiko narrows her eyes. "No way, I’m not sharing the tiny one."

"First come, first serve," Satoru sing-songs. "That’s not how the saying works, we were here before you regardless!" Seiko argues. You laugh, shaking your head. "He'll just barge into whatever bathroom he wants anyway."

"Exactly," Satoru says, grinning wide. "Might as well make it official." Another silence stretches—this one heavier, but not uncomfortable. You glance around at the cluttered, half-furnished apartment. The cheap couch. The stacked textbooks on the counter. The faint smell of fried chicken hanging in the air. The way Satoru looks sitting here, like he already belongs. You share a look with Seiko. You both nod, tiny and almost at the same time. "Alright," Seiko says, picking her pizza back up. "You’re in." Satoru cheers under his breath, pumping a fist like he just won something huge.  You barely even register the words leaving Seiko’s mouth — You’re in — before a weird, fluttery rush lights up in your chest.

Living with you.  Satoru. Living here. Sharing a space. A bathroom. A kitchen. A couch. Seeing him stomping around in sweats and a compression t-shirt. Probably leaving the fridge door open. Probably pumping weights in the living room (hopefully). Probably existing. Constantly. You could go into an extreme probability crisis right now.  Your brain scrambles, short-circuiting at the images it’s pulling out like some deranged PowerPoint presentation. You squash it down instantly, ruthlessly. No. Absolutely not. This is fine. You’re fine. You don’t care that he’s attractive. That’s just biology. It’s science. You're immune. Fortified. Bulletproof. You pick up a slice of pizza and chomp into it aggressively, as if you can physically chew through the ridiculousness in your own head. Across from you, Satoru just lounges back against the couch, already looking way too at home — laughing at something Seiko says, his stupidly pretty profile catching the light. Your stomach does a small, unnecessary somersault. You blame the hunger. And capitalism. And the universe. Anything but yourself.

–

It starts with the sound of his key jangling in the door like it’s always belonged there. You’re on the couch, legs tucked under you in the same pajama pants you’ve worn three nights in a row, when it clicks open and he steps in — arms full of shit. Like, actual shit. Not even boxes. Just random crap. A pair of beat-up Nikes dangling off two fingers, an expensive backpack that looks like it’s been dragged through five years of war, a stupid Luffy pillow slung under one arm, and a tote bag that says Hotter Than Your Ex, Better Than Your Next in neon pink font. Seiko barely blinks. “You couldn’t use a box like a normal person?” Satoru just kicks the door closed with his heel and grins. “Where’s the fun in that?” It’s… real. This is happening. Satoru Gojo — your best friend’s annoying, stupidly hot older brother — is now your roommate. A fact that has not yet fully sunk in despite your best efforts to emotionally detach. You glance toward the hallway where the third bedroom has been sitting empty. Clean. Neutral. Ready. It’s his now. That’s his room now. And of course, within thirty minutes, he’s already got his crap everywhere. There’s a half-unpacked duffel bag in the entryway. A pair of sunglasses you swear you’ve seen him wear inside nightclubs sitting on the kitchen counter. An open Red Bull can next to the sink. A hoodie draped over the back of one of the dining chairs like he owns the place. His smell — some ridiculous overpriced cologne mixed with his laundry detergent — is wafting through the apartment like he’s been here for days instead of forty-five minutes. He’s not even trying to be annoying. It’s just… him. Loud, effortless, omnipresent him. And when he finally dumps himself on the couch next to you, legs sprawled and hair a little tousled from hauling stuff upstairs, he sighs like he just clocked out of work.

“God,” he mutters, cracking open a soda. “My old apartment sucked. This place’s light is so much better. My plants are gonna lose their minds.” You blink. “You have plants?”

“Yeah,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “I have a monstera named Dog. And this succulent Geto gave me but it’s like… almost dead, so we don’t talk about her.”

“…I didn’t know you were a plant guy.” He glances at you, smug. “I contain multitudes.” From the hallway, Seiko yells, “You contain trash. Come get your crap out of the entryway before I put it all in a black garbage bag and throw it off the balcony.”

“Love you too,” he calls back lazily, then looks at you and grins. “So. Roomies now.” God. Roomies. You don’t even know what to do with yourself. Because this isn’t some sitcom. It’s not all fun and awkward hijinks. It’s the reality of him being around all the time. Late night cereal runs. Passing each other in the kitchen in weird pajamas. Accidentally hearing him sing to himself in the shower. Seeing him shirtless. Probably way too often. And you tell yourself, very seriously, that it means nothing. It’s all cool. You’re an adult. You don’t care. You’re not fifteen and hopelessly in love with his dumb pretty face anymore. But when he reaches behind you to grab the remote, warm arm brushing yours, rings clinking against the plastic of the controller, his cologne curling into your brain like smoke—

Yeah. You’re not surviving this lease emotionally intact.

There are, undeniably, perks to living with Satoru Gojo. First off, the rent. You’re paying less now — which is everything. That extra couple hundred a month? That’s groceries. That’s less existential dread. That’s the occasional iced coffee without hating yourself for buying it. It’s not glamorous — you still have to split utilities and sometimes get a little too creative with how long groceries can stretch — but you’re no longer crying every time your bank app loads. Small victories. But then there’s also… him. Not in a weird way. Not like you’re in love with him again. You’ve made that very clear to yourself. It’s just that — he exists loudly. Satoru’s presence is hard to ignore. Even when he’s not saying anything, he’s still there. Shirtless half the time because he “runs hot” (which is just his excuse to wander around looking like a Calvin Klein ad), hair always messy, a faint smell of whatever stupid expensive aftershave he’s wearing that day lingering behind him. You do your best not to look. You don’t always succeed. It doesn’t help that he goes to the gym at ungodly hours of the morning and comes back looking like something out of a fitness TikTok thirst trap. Hoodie tied around his waist, shirt sticking to his chest, headphones around his neck and a bottle of neon blue liquid in his hand like he’s sponsored by Gatorade. Seiko never comments on it — mostly because she’s used to him. She grew up with the guy. You did too, technically, but there’s a big difference between being fifteen and being twenty-one and seeing him towel off sweat in the kitchen while asking if either of you finished the oat milk.

The second major perk? The car. You no longer have to stress about trains or getting soaked in surprise rain while walking to the bus stop. Satoru, as rich kid as ever, insists on driving all three of you to uni every morning. He’s not even annoying about it — it’s just what he does. One honk, and you and Seiko pile into the passenger and back seat respectively, the AUX already queued up. It’s stupidly convenient. You didn’t realize how much money public transport drained from your budget until you stopped using it. You still keep your bus pass topped up for emergencies, but it’s basically become a backup plan. Now, you just show up to class on time and dry, with Satoru occasionally handing you a leftover donut from his morning coffee run like he’s God’s gift to women. 

Which brings you to the third perk: the food. Satoru and Suguru have this thing where they eat out like every second night. You’re not sure if it’s because they can’t cook or if it’s just rich kid indulgence — but either way, you benefit. They always order too much. And they always bring back leftovers. So now, your fridge has a semi-permanent corner filled with half-eaten yakisoba, overpriced vegan cupcakes, gyoza from a food truck that Geto swears is life-changing, and once — a whole tub of cinnamon sugar popcorn from a rooftop cinema they randomly ended up at. It’s not the healthiest lifestyle, but you’re broke, tired, and too emotionally drained to cook half the time anyway, so you don’t complain. You and Seiko split it like war rations. Half a bao bun each. One cold gyoza that’s microwaved and devoured like it’s gourmet. A shared spoon of caramel pudding.

“Living the dream,” Seiko says one night, holding a lukewarm slice of truffle pizza like it’s holy communion. “You’re so dramatic,” Satoru says around a bite of strawberry mochi. You don’t answer, mostly because your mouth is full and also because you’re trying to avoid making eye contact with him in that damn grey tank top again. So yeah. Life with Satoru in the apartment is a little chaotic. A little loud. Full of dumb inside jokes and stolen food and last-minute Target runs. Sometimes he sings in the shower. Sometimes he talks to Seiko too loudly while she’s trying to nap. Sometimes he leaves his socks in the hallway or accidentally takes your phone charger. But he’s a familiar presence. He’s not unknown, which is the best part of having him in the apartment, and he’s always been a constant in both of your guys’ lives. So it makes everything worth it.

–

The physics wing feels different from the rest of campus—cleaner, somehow quieter, with that sharp antiseptic scent that clings to air-conditioned labs and too many equations floating in the air. You’ve never had much reason to be down here. The last time you stepped foot near this building was maybe during orientation week when you and Seiko were trying to figure out where the vending machines were. Now, a few months into the semester, you stand awkwardly at the glass doors of one of the labs, peering through to where a group of grad students crowd around a table. There’s buzzing—low voices, a light laugh, the sound of a wheely chair screeching slightly as someone scoots back. You spot him instantly. White hair disheveled like he’s been running his hand through it, sleeves rolled up, safety goggles hanging around his neck, leaning slightly over a notebook as he points something out to a guy beside him. God, he looks hot. But like, academically hot. Like the kind of guy you'd see in a random STEM girl’s Pinterest board titled "study aesthetic." You suddenly feel out of place in your hoodie and backpack, clutching your phone like a lifeline. Then someone notices you—of course it’s a girl. Tall, pretty, good skin, expensive earrings, and she’s nudging Satoru with her elbow and going, “Hey, I think one of your fangirls is here.” Your stomach drops. Fangirl?  Satoru looks up, squints a little through the glass, then when he sees it’s you, he snorts. “Nah,” he says loud enough for you to hear through the cracked-open door. “Sister’s best friend.” You offer a sheepish wave as the door opens a little more. He slides his notebook off the table and steps out into the hallway with you, all casual like he doesn’t notice the way you’re trying not to internally combust. “Shit,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I completely forgot I was supposed to take you two home today. Where’s Seiko?” 

“Group project,” you mumble. “They’re finishing something up in the studio.”

“Right. Studio kids. Always acting like the world will end if their poster isn’t trimmed perfectly.” He waves back toward the lab, calling out, “Tell Suguru I’ll text him about the readings. And tell Reina and them I’ll probably be at that party next week if I don’t crash out before then.” Someone inside laughs. “We’ll believe it when we see it!” 

Satoru rolls his eyes and then turns back to you. You’ve already started walking, and he falls into step beside you. The hallway is narrow, and when he shifts slightly to let a TA pass by, his hand grazes your lower back in that absentminded way—just a half-second of touch, but enough to send your brain short-circuiting. You pretend it didn’t happen. You’re fine. This is fine. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here, y’know,” he says as you both walk. “Could’ve just texted me again.”

“I did,” you say. He pulls out his phone, blinking at the screen. “...Oh. I have like thirty unread messages. Seiko’s been sending TikToks again.” You huff a laugh. “Yeah, you’re doomed.”

“I am,” he agrees, letting the door swing open for you as you step outside. The afternoon sun hits both of you, and it’s quieter out here, more open. A weird kind of silence falls between you for a second—not uncomfortable, but almost charged. You’re aware of everything. The distant chatter of students. The shift of your backpack against your shoulders. The way he’s walking just a little slower than you now, like he’s letting you lead the way. You can’t stop thinking about the fangirl comment. Is he that popular that he has a whole fanclub? Does that kinda shit even happen in universities? This feels too much like a shoujo anime. Or the way he so casually said sister’s best friend. Like that’s all you’ve ever been. Like it’s that simple. (And it is. You tell yourself it is.) Still, when he nudged you gently toward the passenger side of his car, casually tossing his bag into the backseat, you wonder if that half-second of contact had lingered for him at all. 

Probably not. You buckle in. He turns on the engine. The ride starts off quiet in the way late afternoons tend to be. The sky’s a mellow kind of gold, filtering in through the windshield, painting warm lines across the dashboard and your knees. The hum of the engine is low, steady, filling the silence with something that doesn’t need to be spoken over. Satoru drives like he does everything else—lazily confident. One hand on the wheel, the other resting against the door, fingers drumming to some rhythm only he hears. You’re scrolling through your phone half-heartedly, trying not to look obvious about sneaking glances at him. His profile in this lighting is unfair. Hair tousled like he’s been running it through his hands again, jaw a little sharp with the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek. And his arm, the one holding the wheel, flexes just enough with every turn and adjustment to make your brain short-circuit all over again. Not that it matters. Not that you’re thinking about it. Definitely not.

“So,” he says eventually, tone casual. “Did you end up getting paired with the group of doom or the semi-decent humans for that one communications elective you chose?” You blink, then groan dramatically. “Oh, the group of doom, hands down. I’ve basically become the parent. I write things in our doc and then go delete them hours later because no one else is contributing and I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”

“That’s brutal,” he says, wincing in sympathy. “Honestly, the whole group work concept should be illegal. Like, I didn’t sign up to babysit strangers who forgot what Google Drive is.” You snort. “Preaching to the choir.” He taps his fingers along the wheel, turning the car down the side road toward your neighborhood. “We had this one guy last semester who literally submitted his part of our lab report as a picture of handwritten notes on lined paper. With a Dorito fingerprint on it. I swear to god.”

Your jaw drops. “No. You’re lying.”

“I wish I was. Suguru and I sat in a lab for three hours rewriting it while our TA walked around behind us like we were criminals.”

“You and Suguru sound like the worst combination,” you say, laughing. “Too much brain power. No accountability.”

Satoru smirks. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is when I’m struggling to remember what APA formatting is and you two are running a science empire.”

“I’m more of the face of the brand,” he says modestly. “Suguru does the actual work.” The car slips into silence again, this time a little softer. The kind that fills up with quiet comfort. You glance down at your phone again. No new messages from Seiko yet, just a screenshot she sent earlier of some random overpriced candle she found at the campus market, captioned smells good should i get? lmk.

“Still no update from her?” Satoru asks, glancing over.

“Nah,” you say. “I think her group’s holding her hostage.”

“She’ll claw her way out. Probably with a monologue about art and justice.” You giggle, and then you both fall quiet again, but this time it lingers. You glance sideways at him. He’s driving one-handed again, but he’s leaning a little more now, elbow resting on the window like he’s relaxed—like you being here isn’t strange or unexpected. You shift slightly in your seat, clearing your throat. “That girl earlier,” you say, not looking at him. “She called me one of your... fangirls.”

Satoru glances over, caught slightly off guard. “Yeah,” he says, then smiles. “She’s just being annoying. I don’t have fangirls.” You raise a brow. “Didn’t that one video of you go viral during university orientation and everyone on tiktok was asking which university this was so that they could come here?”

“Okay, correction. I don’t claim the fangirls.” You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “The Gojo name has power, huh?”

“I mean... I am tall, conventionally attractive, decent at physics, and have a sexy ass car,” he lists off, counting on his fingers with a smirk. “It’s a hard combo to resist.”

You scoff. “You forgot ‘humble.’”

“Oh, right, yeah. And humble,” he adds, laughing. Another beat passes. The street outside blurs with quiet houses and kids walking home from practice, and you almost forget what started this whole train of thought. But then, without thinking, you say it: “It didn’t bother me. The fangirl thing.” He glances at you again, more carefully this time. “Good,” he says after a second, voice softer. “Wouldn’t want you to think I’m embarrassed of you hanging around me or anything.” You’re not sure what to do with that. So instead, you change the subject. “Do we have anything at home to eat?” you ask. “Or should I mentally prepare for a dinner of peanut butter straight out of the jar?”

“I think Seiko’s got some questionable microwave rice and like... a rogue banana,” he says thoughtfully. You groan. “We’re going to die.”

“I’ll stop by the corner place,” he offers. “Grab some katsu curry or yakisoba or something. You like those?” 

You nod quickly. “Love them. Bless you.” Satoru grins. “Told you I’m useful.” He pulls into the parking lot of the hole-in-the-wall place that’s somehow cheaper than anything on UberEats, and just before he gets out, he pauses and looks over at you again. “You sure you’re okay with this?” he asks. 

“With what?” You ask, looking thoroughly puzzled. He shrugs. “Me. Driving you. Being around. Existing in your apartment. I understand if it’s like weird with your best friend’s older brother just being around you all the time–”

You blink. “You live with us now, Satoru. It’s a little late to ask if it’s okay.” He laughs and opens the door, stepping out. “Fair enough.” You watch him disappear into the little restaurant, humming to yourself and feeling... weirdly calm. (But your chest feels warm anyway.)

–

The takeout bags rustle as Satoru unlocks the apartment door (somehow) with his elbow, a practiced motion at this point. You’ve each got one in your hands, plastic warming your palms through the handles, the smell of fried noodles and katsu curry already seeping through like sweet, spicy comfort. The elevator ride up had been quiet—at least in the way that being near him always hums with an odd undercurrent. Satoru had been scrolling on his phone, probably checking something stupid Suguru sent him, when his arm nudged against your shoulder. Not aggressive, just a bump. But it lingered for a second too long, a lazy sway of his weight into yours, like he forgot you were shorter, smaller—more affected by that kind of touch than he was. You hadn’t said anything. Just swallowed it and stared ahead at the doors like your reflection in the brushed steel held the answers. Now, stepping into the apartment, it’s dark except for the thin line of city light pouring through the blinds and cutting across the floor. You toe your shoes off while he moves to the counter and drops the food with a sigh.  “I swear this bag's leaking teriyaki oil all over my hand,” he mutters. You’re still standing there by the door, holding your bag like it’s something delicate, looking at the room a little longer than necessary. It’s quiet. Seiko’s still not back. The hum of the fridge is the only sound besides Satoru rustling through a drawer. And suddenly, for no reason at all, you think:

What if it was just us? The apartment feels different like this. Dim and soft. You can picture it so clearly—him coming home later than you do, shrugging out of his hoodie and tossing his keys on the counter, looking exhausted but smug from some lab win, shoes half on, hair wind-swept and eyes heavy with it. You imagine asking him how his day was, and he’d just lean back against the wall and say something dumb like “miss me?” before smirking and stealing food off your plate. You picture him walking past you in a towel after a shower—wet hair dripping onto his shoulders, water glistening down his chest, or maybe you both could shower together, or maybe he’d be the type to bend you over every piece of furniture in the house—and you have to blink, hard, because now you’ve accidentally spiraled into something bordering on indecent and you’re still holding katsu curry in a dim kitchen while he’s three feet away. Jesus Christ. You set the food down quickly, trying to physically shake the thought away as you move toward the cabinets. “Plates?” you ask, clearing your throat. “Top left,” he answers without looking up, still fiddling with sauce packets like they’re puzzle pieces. You reach up to the shelf, stretching on your toes a little. The cabinet is just barely out of reach, your fingers grazing the edge of a plate but not able to actually grab one. You mutter a quiet, annoyed “fuck’s sake” under your breath, just as the warmth of a body steps up behind you. You don’t even have time to turn.

There’s a snicker by your ear. “Need help, sweets?” You hate that your entire body reacts before your brain does. His chest brushes your back as he casually reaches around you, arm flexing as he grabs the stack of plates with ease. His hips press lightly—too lightly to be on purpose but too present to be ignored—into your ass as he leans in. Just a half-second of his weight against yours and your whole bloodstream short-circuits. He’s so close. So casually, blissfully unaware of how much you’re spiraling again. “Got it,” he says, voice smooth with amusement. “Thanks,” you manage to squeak, completely not like yourself. He places the plates down on the counter with one hand and then leans forward just slightly so he can look at you over your shoulder. “You good?” he asks, smiling a little too knowingly. “Fine,” you say quickly. “Totally fine.” You take one of the plates and focus very hard on opening the takeout boxes like your life depends on it, even though your pulse is doing jumping jacks and your head is screaming get it together. He just hums behind you, like he’s not noticing the complete inner meltdown happening a foot away, and grabs two chopsticks and a fork from the drawer. “Seiko said she’ll be home in like twenty,” he says casually, scrolling through his phone again and settling into one of the bar stools. “Group finally let her escape.”

You nod, handing him one of the boxes. He smiles and takes it, eyes on the screen, and says around a bite of yakisoba, “If you want more curry than rice just take mine. I like it drowned.” You stare at him for a second—just… stare. The stupid hair. The lazy voice. The soft lighting that makes the corners of his face look gentle. God. Living with him might actually kill you. 

–

It’s barely noon and the apartment is quiet in a way it rarely ever is. Seiko had texted something along the lines of “kill me I’m gonna be stuck in this library group hell all day,” and Satoru, as usual, was off somewhere—he mentioned errands, maybe gym, maybe campus, maybe both. You hadn’t really been listening when he said it over his coffee that morning, still half-asleep and trying not to drool on the kitchen counter. So now, for the first time in a while, you’re completely alone. No blasting TikToks from Seiko’s room, no loud slams of Satoru’s door because he still hasn’t figured out how to close it without shaking the whole apartment. Just you, the faint hum of the fridge, and the unmistakable theme song of Modern Family floating through the living room. You hadn’t really bothered with getting ready—weekends were lawless like that. Your hair’s a mess, there’s a scrunchie abandoned somewhere on the couch, and you’re wearing this soft, too-thin tank top you usually reserve for sleep and your most battered pair of lounge shorts that might as well be pajama bottoms. Honestly, you kind of forgot anyone else existed. You have a blanket pulled over your legs but it’s too hot to fully commit, so it’s half-on, half-off, like you’re being attacked by fabric indecision. You’re about two minutes into the episode when the front door swings open.

Satoru walks in, keys jingling, sneakers squeaking slightly on the wooden floor. He looks fresh from outside—hair tousled from the wind, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, plastic bag of snacks in one hand, phone in the other. “Oh,” he says, eyes scanning the room. “Didn’t think you’d be here.” You sit up straighter, immediately pulling the blanket tighter over your torso like it’s gonna save you from embarrassment. “Yeah. I thought you were out all day.” He tows off his shoes lazily, drops his keys on the counter without looking, then tosses the plastic bag down on the coffee table. “I was. Grocery store line was hell. Also—” he eyes the TV “—is that Modern Family?”

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“I love Modern Family.” You arch an eyebrow. “Seriously? I thought you didn’t like sitcoms.”

“Yeah, but this one’s special,” he says, flopping onto the couch next to you with no hesitation. “Cam and Mitch remind me of me and Suguru.” You snort, trying to subtly tug your tank top higher over your chest. “That’s unhinged. Which one are you?” He thinks for a second. “I think I’m Cam.”

You stare. “Satoru, Cam is like… dramatic. He cries a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you doing that.”

“I have feelings,” he says defensively, grabbing a snack from the bag and opening it one-handed. “You just don’t respect that.”

“Mmhm,” you hum, turning back to the TV. You can feel the body heat radiating from his side—he’s close, way closer than necessary on this big-ass couch. You’re acutely aware of every inch between you and him. Which is to say, not much. For a few minutes, it’s just the show playing. Comfortable silence. Except your heart is doing this stupid uneven thing because he’s right there. And it doesn’t help that at one point—just as Phil Dunphy is doing something ridiculous—you feel his eyes flicker to your side. And for the briefest second, maybe half a second, his gaze dips. You don’t move. You don’t say anything. His eyes are back on yours almost immediately, lazy grin still on his face like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just (maybe) looked at your chest. You’re not even sure it was a look. It could’ve been your imagination. It probably was. Right? You suddenly feel ten degrees hotter, curling your toes under the blanket like that’ll ground you. “You good?” you ask, trying to keep it casual.

“Yeah,” he says smoothly. “Why?” 

You shrug, eyes glued to the TV even though you’re not processing a single joke anymore. “You looked like you were spacing out.” He leans back on the couch like he owns the damn thing, all sprawled out with one arm tossed lazily over the backrest. His fingers dangle behind you, brushing the edge of your shoulder. Barely. But enough to make you hyper-aware of every exposed inch of your skin. You shift a little in your seat. It doesn’t help. His thigh is still resting near yours, solid and warm, his scent faint and maddeningly familiar—clean laundry, citrus shampoo, and that soft hit of spice from whatever cologne he throws on without thinking. The TV flickers, but you don’t see it. Not when you feel him like that. 

“Dunno,” he murmurs suddenly, voice lower than before. “Just thinking how wild it is that you’re Seiko’s best friend.” You blink out of your daze, glancing over. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  He turns his head toward you, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. He just looks. His eyes flick down—so quick you might’ve missed it, but not really. A lazy sweep across your collarbone, down the slope of your tank top, the faint outline of your chest where the fabric clings too easily without a bra beneath it. And then his gaze flicks back up to meet yours like nothing happened. You’re suddenly burning. “You’re just… eh, you’re like different now,” he says finally, mouth tugging into something softer than a smirk, but still not safe.

Your throat goes dry. “You literally told me a few months ago I was like your annoying little sister.”  He huffs a laugh—low and amused, almost like he’s laughing at himself. “Yeah. People say dumb shit all the time. Obviously I didn’t mean it.” His voice is rough around the edges, like the words cost something. Like they meant something. And you—stupidly, helplessly—can’t tell if you want to shove him away or drag him closer just to find out what the hell he’s thinking. His knee knocks into yours, casual, but it lingers. You glance down at the spot where your legs touch. He hasn’t moved. Neither have you. You don’t want to. He leans in just a little, stretching his arm further along the back of the couch, fingers now brushing fully against your shoulder—his pinky grazing your bare skin. Not accidentally this time. You swear you feel the air shift between you. Charged. Tense. He smells even better up close. You can hear the faint scratch of his breath, the creak of the couch when he adjusts, the thump of your own pulse in your ears. The air in the room feels hotter than it should be. Maybe it’s the blanket, maybe it’s the body heat, or maybe it’s the fact that Gojo Satoru—Seiko’s brother, the guy who used to shove Cheeto crumbs in your face and call you gremlin—is now lounging beside you like he didn’t just casually imply he’s been thinking about you in a way that definitely isn’t brotherly. You try to laugh it off. Try to breathe normally. Try to keep your thoughts from careening off a cliff. But your skin is buzzing under the weight of what he said—what he meant—and it’s getting impossible to sit still. “I’m gonna—uh…” you start, voice a bit too breathy for your liking. “Grab snacks.” He hums, low and lazy. “Of course you are.” You don’t even look at him to know there’s a smirk playing on his lips. Smug. Fucking smug. You peel the blanket off your lap, heart already thudding in your chest like it knows something you don’t. As you rise to your feet, you catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye—subtle, fast.

Satoru’s gaze dips. Straight to your ass. You freeze for half a second, spine locking, suddenly very aware of your little lounge shorts, how they cling when you move, how thin the fabric is. Your skin prickles. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was just glancing around the room. Maybe he— But you felt it. And when you dart a glance back at him, he’s already back to facing the TV. Arms sprawled out. Cool and unbothered. Except—his jaw’s clenched a little now. One hand is flexing faintly against the armrest, like he’s trying not to react. And you swear, if you didn’t know better, you’d think he’s the one trying to calm himself down. You walk to the kitchen way too fast, needing the distance, needing to get air because your thoughts are spiraling again. Did he really look? Was that just your brain on horny autopilot? Are you imagining this whole thing because you’re bored and he’s attractive and close and smells like sin wrapped in cashmere? You yank open a cupboard. It takes you a second to even remember why you came in here.

Oh. Right. Snacks. Behind you, the sound of the TV fills the silence, but your ears are still ringing with what he said. “Obviously I didn’t mean it.” Those words echo in your chest like a struck bell. Over and over and over. You grab a random bag of chips and pop it open just to keep your hands busy. You nibble one. You’re not even hungry. You hear the couch creak. He’s shifting. “Sooo,” Satoru calls out, voice stretched and casual like this is nothing, like he didn’t just nuke your brain two minutes ago, “you bringing those back to share or am I supposed to sit here and starve?” You roll your eyes, half grateful he’s still being a dumbass, half annoyed he’s pretending like your body language wasn��t screaming confusion and want and maybe something more. You return to the couch, tossing the chips between you both as you sink down. This time, there’s a full cushion between you, but the tension doesn’t go anywhere. He grabs a handful of chips without looking away from the screen. “You good?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just… thinking.” He doesn’t push. He just leans forward, his long legs spreading slightly, forearms resting on his thighs. The new position pulls his shirt tighter across his back, and it’s ridiculous, the way you notice the flex in his shoulders. The way your gaze dips now. You're no better than him. Your throat dries again. “So,” he says after a moment, voice still easy, still pretending, “what episode are we even on?” You glance at the screen and realize you couldn’t name a single thing that’s happened in the last ten minutes. “Uh. The one where Phil gets stuck in the portable toilet.”

Satoru laughs. “Classic. That guy’s so fucking dumb.” You nod, distracted. You keep catching yourself staring. At his jaw. His hands. That little shadow of stubble growing in because it’s the weekend and he clearly didn’t care enough to shave. You wonder what it feels like. What he’d look like if those same hands were pushing your head down on his co—

No. Nope. Abort. You try to focus on the TV. You try not to think about how he looked at you. How you’re now almost certain you didn’t imagine it. But then you feel his thigh bump yours again. Well, as much as someone can with a fucking pillow in between you both. Deliberate this time. Just the lightest nudge. You glance at him, and his eyes are still on the TV—but his lips? They’re tilted in the faintest, most devilish smirk. You bite the inside of your cheek and sit there in silence, knees barely touching, heat coiled tight in your stomach like a secret. The tension is coiled tight between you and Satoru—like someone pulled a rubber band back and is holding it in place, fingers twitching on the edge of letting go. Neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes too loud. You’re still thinking about the brush of his thigh against yours, about the way he smirked without really smiling. Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the blanket.

Then—

The front door creaks open. “HELLO?” Seiko’s voice echoes through the apartment like a goddamn fire drill. “This house is full of the rudest bitches, I swear.” You sit bolt upright, practically yanking the blanket up to your collarbones as if she’s about to catch you in something. Satoru casually reaches for another chip, cool as ever. Seiko rounds the corner into the living room, dropping her bag on the floor with a theatrical huff. “I called you,” she says, glaring at her brother. “Like five times. Five. You told me to let you know when I was done!” Satoru lifts a brow, lazy and unapologetic. “I was busy. You survived.”

“I had to take the bus,” she groans, flopping into the armchair like she’s just returned from war. “The bus, Satoru. You know how many coughs I heard in ten blocks? You might as well have sentenced me to death.” You snort, trying to play it cool, heart still racing beneath your tank top. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic, I’m chronically disrespected in this house,” she declares, and then her eyes flick to the TV. “Oh my god, is this the one where Cam tries to be a clown at Luke’s party?”

“Yeah,” you say. “It just started.”

“Perfect,” she says, curling up under the throw blanket and stealing the chips off the coffee table. “God, you and I are literally Cam and Mitch.” You blink. Her and Satoru were eerily alike. “I don’t know how to feel about that.”  She shrugs. “We just have a shared delusional flair and a healthy amount of judgment, and I think that’s beautiful.” Behind you, Satoru exhales a soft, amused sound and stands up, stretching in that obnoxious way that pulls his shirt up just enough to flash a sliver of his toned stomach. You avert your eyes fast. “Well,” he says, voice easy, almost bored, “I’ll let you ladies get back to doing… whatever this is.” He takes a slow step back toward the stairs, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder—but before he turns completely, his eyes flick back to you. Just for a second. It’s subtle. Barely a second too long. But he holds your gaze—and that same faint, almost imperceptible smirk ghosts across his lips. It’s not a full smile. It’s a knowing one. And then he’s gone, padding upstairs without another word, leaving you sitting there with a fake laugh stuck in your throat and your pulse suddenly much louder in your ears. “Ugh,” Seiko says, mouth full of chips. “He’s so annoying. I cannot wait until he gets his own place.” You hum, pretending to agree, but your eyes linger on the stairwell he disappeared into.

Yeah. Annoying. If only it were that simple.

—

You’ve been staring at your reflection so long your own face is starting to look unfamiliar. Two skirts are flung across your bed—one black and slinky, the other plaid and shorter than you remembered it being when you first bought it. You keep switching between them, holding them up against your hips, spinning a little in the mirror, frowning. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It’s just a frat party. But it’s one of the big ones. The kind that gets talked about weeks after. The kind where even the art students who pretend they hate frat culture show up and get drunk on jungle juice in someone’s bathtub. You want to look good. You want to look good. Eventually, fed up with your own indecision, you grab both skirts and swing open your bedroom door, calling, “Seiko, I need you for like two seconds, I swear—”

You barrel straight into something warm and solid and—

“Oof—fuck, sorry,” you mumble, skirts slipping in your grip. Your hands are full, so you bounce off and stumble a step back. Satoru catches your elbow before you can completely lose balance, steadying you with one lazy hand. “Hi to you too,” he says, his voice edged with amusement. You blink. “Hi. Uh—sorry. I was just—I thought Seiko was still here.”

“She left like ten minutes ago,” he says, stepping back and glancing over your shoulder, toward your bedroom. “Grocery run or something. You’ve been holed up in your room forever.” You glance down at the two skirts in your hands and shift them awkwardly against your chest, heat licking at the back of your neck. “Yeah, I—uh—was trying to figure out what to wear.” His gaze lingers. He doesn’t say anything right away. Then: “To the party?”

You nod. A beat of silence. “You sound stressed,” he says, voice dipping a little. “What happened? You sound like you’re about to cry over a skirt.” You roll your eyes. “I just wanted her help picking one.” There’s a softness to his expression now. A twitch of his lips that looks suspiciously close to a smirk. “Tragic.” You groan and hug the skirts tighter to your chest. “This is stupid. I’m being stupid.”

“Nah,” he says, casually leaning a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed now. “It makes sense. Lot of people are gonna be there. First party of the semester everyone actually gives a shit about.”

“Exactly,” you mutter, more to yourself. His eyes drag lazily from your bare thighs to your slightly flushed face. You’re still in the tank top you’d thrown on earlier—one of those thin, soft ones with lace on the straps.  “So,” he says, head tilted, eyes unreadable but fixed on you, “what are the options?” You blink. “What?”

“The skirts,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Let me see. C’mon.”  You roll your eyes, but your voice still comes out embarrassed. “I just wanted Seiko’s opinion.” He grins. “And instead you got mine. Brutal.”

“Yeah, I’m regretting it already.” He pushes off the wall with a little amused hum and steps closer. “Lemme see.” You raise an eyebrow. “You? The fashion expert?” Satoru shrugs. “Hey, I’m good at judging outfits. From the outside and the inside.” Your face burns. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins. “You’re the one asking for my opinion while wearing a tank top that’s basically see-through.”  You make a sound of protest and clutch the skirts against you again. “Okay! Thank you, great, very helpful!” He doesn’t move. “I mean, either one would look good on you. You have—” He pauses, lips twitching, “—range.” You squint at him. “Why do I feel like that’s not a compliment?”

“Because you know me.”

You laugh, but it comes out breathier than you intend. He’s still looking at you. Not in the way guys at parties look. Not even like how he used to look at you months ago—distant, vaguely amused, older brother of your best friend. This look is different. Lazier. Focused. And then he just casually reaches out, like he’s done a hundred times before, but this time his knuckle grazes the bare skin of your arm when he adjusts the hem of the black skirt in your hand. “Go with this one,” he murmurs, suddenly closer than he was a second ago. “It’s a better choice.”

You swallow. “A better choice?” His eyes flick up. “Yeah.” The air feels a little too charged now. A little too tight. You’re still, not sure what to say, barely sure what you’re breathing. And then, blessedly, he takes a step back, his expression shuttering into something light again. “Well,” he says, “I’ll leave you to your existential wardrobe crisis. Let me know if you need my expert fashion advice again.” You nod dumbly, skirts clutched tight. Inside, you drop the plaid skirt to the floor and stare at yourself in the mirror again. Somehow, the decision’s a lot easier now.

–

“What do you mean, Satoru can’t drive us to the party?” Seiko screeches, her voice echoing off the tile as she stalks around the apartment in a pair of clacking nude heels, aggressively tapping his contact on her phone. You lunge across the couch, snatching it from her before she rage-texts him something psychotic. “Seiko—calm down. It’s not because of the fight. Listen! He said he has a late lab or some shit, okay? He’s coming later.” She stares at you, lip curled in disbelief, before deflating with a dramatic sigh. “Oh.” There’s a beat. You watch her face as she recomposes herself—like she’s loading a new expression. A girl rebooting in real time. “So… is he sending us Uber money, or…?” You suppress a grin. “No need. Suguru’s driving us.” The shift in her demeanor is instant. You swear you catch a spark of actual electricity pass through her body. “Oh.” Now her voice is a full octave lower, soft, composed, perfectly pleasant. “That’s nice.” You snort, giving her a shove. “Nice try. But that fake ‘cool girl’ thing is not working. I know how long you’ve liked him, dumbass.” She squeals, spinning in a little circle like you just handed her a backstage pass to her dream concert. “Oh my god. You don’t understand—this is like the first time I get to hang out with him without Toru’s annoying ass being all over the place.” You roll your eyes. “You’re literally acting like a Shoujosei heroine right now. Tone it down before he thinks we’re taking you to the ER for heatstroke.”

But you’re grinning. She waves a hand, unfazed. “Whatever. This is my moment. I need it to be perfect.” You snort and smooth your hands over your outfit one more time. The black skirt he picked sits high on your waist, hugging you like a second skin. It’s short—dangerously so—but structured enough to look intentional. You’d paired it with a slinky backless top in that kind of soft fabric that feels cool against your skin, and lets just enough cleavage peek through to keep it casual.  You might’ve been dressing for yourself. But you’d be lying if you said a part of you wasn’t wondering what Satoru would think when he finally saw it. Seiko squeals again as she double-checks her lipstick. “Okay but wait. You said Suguru’s stared at me before. When? Tell me now. Don’t lie.” 

You shrug, all fake-casual. “Mmm. Like twice last week. When you wore that fitted top to the library. Also when you made that stupid joke and he actually laughed.”

“Oh my god,” she whispers, hand flying to her chest like you just told her she’d been accepted into heaven. “I knew it. I thought I was delusional. But you just confirmed it.” You’re about to tease her again when a familiar honk cuts through the buzz of the apartment. “Speak of the devil,” you grin. Outside, Suguru’s car is parked by the curb, headlights casting long shadows through the blinds. You head out with Seiko, the cool evening air brushing against your legs as you slide into the backseat. Suguru, behind the wheel, turns slightly to look over his shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you reply, amused as Seiko wordlessly climbs into the passenger seat like it’s her destiny. You swear she almost sits with a flourish. She twists toward him. “Thanks for picking us up. You look nice.” Suguru gives her a crooked smile. “You look nice, too.” You almost groan at the tension brewing already. You catch the subtle glance he gives her legs, the quiet, too-smooth “seatbelt” reminder as he reaches across to pull it out for her. She blushes, mumbling a thanks, and you just sink back into your seat, smiling to yourself like you’ve been let in on a joke no one else knows the punchline to. The ride to the frat house is filled with casual conversation—muted music humming from the car speakers, the windows cracked just enough to let in the city air. As Suguru pulls into a crowded residential street littered with double-parked cars and glowing red solo cups on curbs, Seiko leans forward to point out a spot. Typical frat party energy is already bleeding into the night—thudding bass in the distance, porch lights glowing warm, a guy doing a keg stand on someone’s lawn while someone else records with flash on. You smooth your skirt down instinctively as Suguru parallel parks like a pro, killing the engine with a low chuckle. You glance up at him just before stepping out, voice quieter than before. “Hey. Do you know when Satoru’s coming?” Suguru gives you a look—one of those slow, knowing, older-brother-type glances that feels like it sees more than it says. “Not too far away,” he replies, lips twitching. “You’ll see him soon.” He opens his door and gets out, and you follow, the air buzzing louder with the bass as you approach the house. It’s already full—bodies moving on the porch, music pounding out the windows, a mix of cheap perfume and sweat and smoke curling through the air. Inside, the light is dim, string lights casting a low amber haze over the crowd. People call greetings, red cups are pressed into hands, and the house is full of the usual noise—music, laughter, flirtation, chaos. You let Seiko tug you in by the hand, eyes scanning the room—not consciously, not desperately. Just… wondering. If he’d see you tonight. If he’d look.

Inside, the house is buzzing. People are packed shoulder to shoulder, someone’s dog is wearing a backwards cap for some reason, the music’s loud enough to rattle your ribs, and the air smells like a mix of weed, tequila, and Axe body spray. You and Seiko barely make it past the kitchen before you’re intercepted by a group of mutual friends from one of your guys’ shared elective class.

You’re nodding along, drink in hand, when you spot someone across the room—a guy you know from high school? Or maybe the library? The edges of memory are fuzzy from the noise, but you tilt your head and squint, trying to place him. “Wait—excuse me for a sec,” you say to Seiko, squeezing her wrist. You pivot, winding through the crowd, barely making it five steps before someone’s shoulder crashes into yours. You reel back instinctively, blinking up.

White hair. Too tall. Light eyes. Hoodie thrown lazily over a plain tee, but still looking like a full time model for Vogue. He smells like cologne and smoke and something faintly citrusy. “Wow,” you say automatically, blinking again. “You actually came.” Satoru smiles—lazy, tilted, boyish. Like he’s just been caught in something he enjoys too much to lie about. “Yeah,” he says. “Took an Uber. Not planning on being sober tonight.” You laugh, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Same. But Seiko and Suguru are both staying sober, which is kind of impressive given the circumstances.” He raises an eyebrow, like he already knows exactly what circumstances you mean. “Ah. Right, right.” There’s a pause—just long enough for his eyes to drop to your legs. Then, casually, like he’s not saying anything crazy at all, he leans a little closer. “So… you wore the skirt.” You grin. “Yeah, I did. Is it nice?” He snorts under his breath like please, then runs a hand through his hair. “You know it is.” You roll your eyes. “You don’t even remember which one it was.” He pretends to be offended, placing a hand over his chest. “That’s actually insane of you to say. Of course I remember. It was this one. The black one. Little zipper on the side.”

You blink. “There was no zipper.” He squints. “Okay. True. I made that part up. But it looks like it could have a zipper.” You laugh, shaking your head as you sip your drink. You’re about to clap back when someone bumps into him from behind, sending him a half-step into you. His hand lands lightly on your arm to steady himself, just for a second—warm fingers, calloused from god knows what, brushing your bare skin. You both go still for half a beat.

Then he’s grinning again. “You having fun?” You nod. “Yeah. It’s actually a good party. Not too many freshmen. No one’s cried in the kitchen yet.” He laughs. “Give it an hour.” You don’t respond—just bite the inside of your cheek to keep your smile at bay. His gaze lingers on your face for a second too long. Someone behind you pops a can of something and the fizzing sound makes you both blink.

“Well,” he says, standing a bit straighter, “should we find the others?” You nod, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the house. “Yeah. They’re by the pong table.” As you both start walking side by side through the house, you can’t help but glance sideways at him. He’s looking ahead, but there’s that same smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. The same one from the apartment earlier. Knowing. Lazy. A little smug. A little dangerous. You finally make your way toward the makeshift beer pong table someone’s set up near the back of the frat house. It’s surrounded by half-drunken students, red solo cups, and a poor folding table that’s seen too many parties and not enough soap. You spot Ryomen Sukuna chatting to some girl—his chem lab partner? Odd, she was way too nice to talk to a guy like him— by the drinks table, his gaze unabashedly admiring her form. A cheer goes up as someone lands a shot, and you hear Seiko’s unmistakable laugh—shrill, excited—off to the left, where she’s clapping dramatically for Suguru, who’s currently in what looks like…? A competition to see who can stay in a handstand for the longest? Is that Toji Zenin with him?

“I was wondering where you ran off to,” Seiko says when she sees you. Her eyes briefly dart to Satoru, then back to you, and you give her a look that says: Don’t. Start. “Me and Satoru are gonna take a shot at this next game,” you say quickly, already setting your drink down and rolling your shoulders like a boxer entering the ring. Satoru raises a brow. “We are?”

“You scared?” He grins. “Nah, I’d win. I always win these.”

“You’re the one with freakishly long arms, so I guess I need to have more confidence in you,” you say, pointing at him. “You better land every cup.”

“I will. As long as you look pretty while doing the distractions.”

You blink. “That’s so sexist.”

“And yet, you smiled.” You try to smack his arm but he’s already ducking around you, grabbing a couple of ping pong balls from the table while the other team clears out. A small group starts to gather as you both step up to the table—probably because Satoru Gojo doing anything draws attention, but also because you’re not exactly subtle about whisper-arguing with him about technique. “Okay,” he says, tossing a ball up and down like it’s a warm-up. “We’re playing standard rules. Elbow behind the edge, reracks at 6 and 3, bounce shots count for two. You know how to play, right?” You make a face. “Sort of.”

“Oh my god.”

“I didn’t come to college to learn about sports, Satoru.”

“It’s beer pong,” he groans. “It’s not a sport, it’s survival.” You flip him off, but you’re laughing. He lets you shoot first. Your ball clinks off the rim of a cup and bounces harmlessly to the floor. Satoru whistles low. “Strong start.”

“Shut up and make your freak arm useful.” He sinks the shot. Effortlessly. Doesn’t even blink. Of course he does. You sigh, already resigned to being carried. “Come here,” he says, waving you over like it’s no big deal. You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“Your form’s all wrong. You’re like. Flicking it. This isn’t badminton.”

“I don’t flick—”

“Come here.” He’s behind you in a second. You feel his body brush against your back, the faint warmth of him just close enough to register without being obvious. His hand slides along your forearm, adjusting your grip on the ball.

“Relax your wrist,” he murmurs, and now his chin is practically over your shoulder. You swallow. “Like this,” he continues, his hand still guiding yours. “It’s more of a lob. Use your fingertips. Gentle. That’s it— ah, good girl. ” You try not to think about the way he says gentle. Or good girl. Or the way his breath is hitting your neck in warm puffs between words. “You realize you’re totally milking this under the guise of tutoring me,” you say, heart thudding faster. “Obviously.” His grin curls against your cheek. “You gonna shoot or what?”

You shoot. You land it. The group around the table erupts, laughing and shouting. You turn around, triumphant. “Holy shit—”

Satoru’s grinning, arms raised like he’s just coached a champion. “That’s my girl.” Your stomach does something very stupid at those words. You try to ignore it. The game continues like that—banter, shots, shoulder brushes, the occasional low “good job” from Satoru that lights up every neuron in your body. You’re not sure how much is the alcohol and how much is just him, but your face is warm and your hands shake a little more every time he reaches past you. At one point, someone makes a distracting joke and you miss horribly, groaning as the ball flies way off. Satoru leans close and mutters, “You need to take your revenge.”

“How?”

“Distraction tactics. Classic.” You eye him. “What, like flash a tit?” He laughs loudly, throwing his head back. “Jesus, no. I mean, you could, but maybe start smaller.” You giggle. “Like what?” He leans in again, voice lower. “Do that thing where you bend over to pick something up slow.” You look at him, deadpan. “Dude, what?” He shrugs, unapologetic. “I’m not blind.” You end up not bending over or doing whatever Satoru had been telling you to do, instead you just plainly smile at the guy on the opposing end of the table, hoping it does the job. And it does. Dramatically. And the frat guy across from you absolutely chokes on his shot. You land the next cup clean. What can be said? You’re extremely gorgeous. Satoru claps you on the back like a coach. “What’d I tell you? Iconic.” You’re both laughing too hard now. And a little too close. Eventually, the game ends—you win—and there’s a flurry of congratulations and another drink thrust into your hand. You feel light and flushed and way too aware of the guy still standing next to you like he belongs there. 

“You’re better at this than I expected,” Satoru says, sipping from his own drink now. “Yeah, I thrive under pressure.” You’re mid-sip of some questionably pink drink when Satoru leans down, tipping his head toward your ear so casually it makes your stomach do that stupid flutter thing again. “Yo,” he says, nodding toward a different room where you can see bodies shifting and crowding around a makeshift open circle. “What’s going on over there?” You blink. “Dunno. Is that… a dance circle?”

“Nah,” he grins. “No one’s moving that confidently.” 

You snort. “You wanna check it out?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he says, and the way his voice dips just slightly makes it feel like he’s not just talking about the crowd. “Sure,” you say before you can overthink it. The two of you squeeze your way into the room, jostled on all sides by a sea of people shouting and laughing and pushing in toward the circle. The floor’s sticky, the air’s muggy, and someone bumps into your back hard enough that you stumble—and before you can find your footing, a flash of blue disappears ahead of you. “Satoru?” you call, but your voice is drowned out by a chant going up in the center. And just like that, he’s gone. You’re shoved toward the edge of the circle, almost tripping over a couch leg before managing to flop down beside some guy in a bucket hat holding a solo cup like it’s sacred. You glance around, heart racing, trying to spot that stupid head of white hair somewhere in the crowd. The guy next to you chuckles. “First time at one of these?” You glance over. “One of what?” He gestures with his cup. “Spin the bottle. Slash seven minutes in heaven. Slash drink whatever disgusting cocktail that bowl has if you bail. It’s a house rule.” You blink. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Don’t worry,” he shrugs. “You can decline. But then you gotta chug whatever’s in that punch bowl. And it’s, uh… unholy.” You look to the center where sure enough, there’s a half-filled bottle spinning on the floor like it’s trying to find a victim. A few people are already crowding behind it, sitting cross-legged like some cursed sleepover. And the punch bowl he’s talking about? It looks like someone dumped red Gatorade, vodka, pickle juice, and maybe NyQuil into the same pot and called it “edgy.” You whip your head around again—Satoru is, of course, lounging cross-legged on the other side of the circle now, chatting with some people you vaguely recognize from class. He looks like he belongs there, all sprawled limbs and lazy smirk, like this kind of chaos was built for him. When he catches your gaze, he waves. Waves. You shoot him a you left me to die glare. He mouths something back that looks suspiciously like, “Have fun.” Before you can get up and leave, someone shouts, “ALRIGHT! EVERYONE SHUT UP—RULES ARE THE SAME. SPIN LANDS ON YOU, EITHER GO IN THE CLOSET OR DRINK. NO BACKING OUT.” And just like that, the first spin hits a girl in a crop top and some guy who looks like he’s about to pass out. Laughter, whistles, cheers—then they’re stumbling off toward the dark little closet in the corner like lambs to the slaughter. You sit frozen, drink clutched to your chest like a life preserver. The bottle spins again.

Not you. Then again. Still not you. Then: you. You freeze, neck stiff as your name’s called. It’s some guy you’ve never seen in your life. He winks. You immediately reach for the punch bowl. The crowd yells as you choke down the mystery concoction. It burns like betrayal. Another few rounds go by. You watch people you know and people you don’t vanish into that cursed closet. You try not to count the minutes. Try not to watch Satoru each time he gets picked. And yet—you do. Twice the bottle lands on him. Both times he just laughs and reaches for the drink, wincing as he gulps it down. Your stomach does that thing again. You don’t want to care. Finally, the bottle spins, slower this time, teetering between two people. It seems to almost stop on the bucket hat guy next to you—until the neck slides a few inches more and lands squarely… on you. Your heart lurches. Then it spins again—and lands on him.

Satoru. It goes so quiet, you can hear the bass vibrating through the floorboards. Someone cackles. “Ohhhhhh shit—” 

You look at him. He’s already watching you, a crooked, loose-limbed smile stretching across his lips. “Alright, alright,” someone’s saying. “Or you can drink, but I’m warning you, the new mix is, like, fucking illegal.”

“Yeah,” someone else adds, “Toru, you already tapped out of two. You're out of lives.” Satoru throws his head back and groans. “Shit.” He locks eyes with you again. “Well?” you ask, voice a little smaller than you mean it to be. “You tell me,” he says, tone light but eyes dark. “Closet or cocktail?” You hesitate. You could back out. You should back out. But he’s standing already, towering in his black tee and the chain peeking out from under his collar, holding out a hand to you with that infuriating confidence. “Let’s go,” he says. “No way I’m drinking that pickle NyQuil bullshit. My kidneys are failing already.” A cheer erupts.

“SEVEN MINUTES STARTING NOW!” You feel someone gently shoving you forward, and then you’re walking—stumbling—toward the little coat closet with Satoru beside you, hand hovering behind your back like he’s making sure you don’t fall. Inside, it’s pitch black. You both tumble in, bumping into each other, the door slamming shut behind you with a click. It’s cramped. Shoulders touching. Knees knocking. You can hear him breathing. And somewhere outside, someone’s laughing like this is the funniest shit they’ve ever seen. You swallow. “Thank god Seiko’s not here,” you mutter under your breath. “Speak for yourself,” Satoru says casually. “I think this is character-building.”

“Character-building?” you repeat, incredulous. “Yeah.” His voice is low, amused. “We’re trapped. Small space. Zero distractions. Forced eye contact if there was any light.” You laugh, nervous. “This is not how I imagined dying.”

“If we die in a frat closet,” he says seriously, “I just want you to know it’s been an honor.” You laugh again, this time a little too loudly. You don’t notice how close he’s gotten until you shift and your knees knock again—his thigh against yours. Warm. Solid. “Is it hot in here?” you mumble.

“It’s definitely not cold.” You don’t respond right away. Neither does he. It’s suddenly too quiet. You can feel his gaze, even in the dark. And somehow, you know—you know—that whatever happens next will not be played off as just another party game. The silence wraps around the two of you, warm and humming and too dense to ignore. Your back hits the closet wall, and you swear you can hear your own heartbeat pounding louder than the music outside. Somewhere, someone yells about shotgunning a beer, and it sounds so far away compared to the stillness between you and him. Satoru shifts beside you, his voice low and careful. “Hey—just so you know, we don’t have to do anything in here.” He says it casually, like it’s no big deal. His shoulder brushes yours. “Oh,” you say. You try to sound neutral. Chill. Normal. You fail. “Um—no, it’s okay. We can do stuff.” He huffs out a laugh, and it’s so goddamn warm in the closet and so him that your cheeks burn on contact. “We can do stuff,” he repeats, teasing. “Wow. That’s seductive.” You groan and immediately bury your face in your hands. “I didn’t mean it like that, oh my god.” He laughs again, this time a little breathless. “Nah, I’m into it. Super smooth delivery.”

“I’m drunk,” you whine, still hiding. “I’m tipsy. I literally cannot be held accountable for anything I say.”

“Oh, now you’re pulling the legal disclaimer.”

“I’m gonna die in this closet. Like, emotionally.” He shifts again, and you feel it—his thigh pressing more into yours, his arm now behind your back along the wall like he’s boxing you in without even meaning to. Or maybe he is meaning to. Maybe this is the point. Maybe you’re just slow to realize it. He opens his mouth—probably to say something sarcastic and obnoxious, like always—but you don’t let him. You don’t know if it’s the cheap cocktails or the lingering electricity from that beer pong game or just how close he is in this tight little space, but your body moves before your brain can catch up. You lean forward and kiss him. You only mean to peck him once, test the waters, but the second your lips meet his, he responds. Hard. His hand finds your waist with immediate purpose, dragging you closer until your chest is pressed against his, the scent of his cologne and sweat and cheap beer swirling around your head like smoke. His other hand fists into the fabric of your top, knuckles brushing your ribs, and he’s kissing you like he’s been waiting for this, mouth hot and demanding and perfect. You gasp a little when his tongue brushes yours, and he swallows it greedily like he wants to hear that sound again. And again. And again. You’re vaguely aware that you’re making noises, little broken gasps against his lips, but you don’t care. You’re half in his lap now, one leg slung lazily over his as your back presses to the closet wall. His grip tightens at your hip like he’s trying to keep himself anchored, but it’s not working. He breaks the kiss just for a second—only long enough to breathe against your mouth. “Fuck,” he mumbles, voice ragged. “You taste like whatever’s in that drink. That horrifying punch. But you still taste good. What the fuck.”

You laugh a little, dazed. “You too.” Then he kisses you again—deeper this time, rougher—and it’s suddenly impossible to remember what the hell you were ever nervous about. His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, palm flat and hot against your bare skin. You shiver, and he smirks against your mouth, like he felt it. “Cold?” he asks, voice muffled by the skin of your neck as he kisses along your jaw. “Shut up,” you whisper back, breathless. He doesn’t. His mouth is relentless. He kisses like he’s starving. His lips drag down the slope of your neck, his tongue wet and hot as it traces up the column of your throat. “God,” you breathe. “You’re so—”

“Yeah?” he grins against your skin. “Say it.”

“No.”

“Coward.”  You grin and push him back lightly, but it just makes him grin harder—until he catches your wrists and gently pins them beside your head, still smiling like a little shit. “You kissed me,” he says. 

“You let me kiss you.”

“Damn right I did.” And then he kisses you again, harder this time, like a promise. You forget where you are. You forget your name. You forget the stupid crowd outside or the timer ticking down. The only thing you know is his mouth, his hands, the heat that’s spiking through your body like wildfire. You moan into his mouth—and this time, he groans. Low. Rough. Dangerous. And you get the sudden, dizzying feeling that if someone doesn’t knock on this door in the next ten seconds, you might not make it out of this closet with your clothes still on. The closet is too dark to think straight. Too warm. His breath is hot against your skin, and your back’s pressing into the wall like it’s the only thing holding you up. Your legs are still half-draped over his, and his hand’s still under your shirt—his palm splayed wide across your waist like he forgot he put it there and now refuses to move. You’re kissing again before either of you says another word. It’s not careful anymore. Not testing the waters. This is all open mouths and low groans, tongue and teeth and the dizzying clash of teeth when one of you gets impatient. His grip shifts, and suddenly his hand is sliding further up, rough fingers grazing your ribs until his thumb just barely brushes under your bra. You freeze for half a second, the sharp spark of oh shit cutting through your haze. But then his mouth drags down your neck again, open and wet and hungry, and any coherent thought short-circuits in your brain.

“Satoru,” you breathe. You don’t mean to say it like that. You don’t mean to say it at all. It just falls out of you, broken and breathy and a little desperate. He groans.

“Say that again.”

“No.”

“Boo, party pooper.” You’re both smiling—giddy, a little drunk, a little overwhelmed—and he noses at your cheek before dragging you in for another kiss. This one’s slower. He licks into your mouth like he’s tasting you, savoring you, like you’re something he’s wanted for way too long and can’t get enough of now that he has you. His thigh shifts between yours and—god—your hips roll on instinct. You feel his breath catch in his throat. Your lips part against his, and that’s all it takes for him to move. His hands are on your hips, guiding you down onto his thigh again, and the friction makes your brain completely short-circuit. You bite back a sound, but it’s embarrassing how easily your body reacts to him. How natural it feels to rock against him like this—slow, messy, clothed, but blistering. “Fuck,” he whispers, his voice rasping low in your ear. “You’re really doing this, huh.”

“Don’t act surprised,” you mutter, head tipping back when his mouth finds that one spot under your ear. “I’m not,” he admits, voice rough. “I’m just—fuck—I’m so into it.” You’re both breathing hard now, the air between you sticky and thick with heat. Your fingers slide up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, and that’s it. That’s the moment he slips both hands under your skirt, palms warm on your thighs. He squeezes lightly, like he’s checking—asking—and you nod, burying your face into his shoulder. “Touchy tonight, huh?” he murmurs into your skin. 

“Don’t be smug.”

“Impossible. I’m literally in a closet with you grinding on me. I win.” You shove at his shoulder, and he laughs, this quiet, messy sound that turns right into another kiss. His hands wander again, fingers sliding along the edges of your underwear with just enough pressure to tease but not enough to do anything. You whimper. Quietly. Against his mouth. He bites your lower lip. And that’s when there’s a knock at the closet door. You both freeze. The knock comes again—followed by a tipsy voice yelling, “TIME’S UP, CLOSET LOVERS. MOVE IT OR LOSE IT.”

You don’t even move at first. Just sit there. Half tugged up by him around his waist. Half undone. Breathing like you ran a mile. You blink at each other. He grins first. “That was like… two minutes,” he whispers.

“Swear to god, if Seiko’s out there—”

“We’ll lie,” he says, totally unbothered, smoothing down your skirt and grinning lazily. “You fell. I helped you up. We kissed a little. No laws were broken.” You snort, cheeks still on fire. But you can’t help it—you lean forward, just once more, and kiss him. Softly. Just one little press. He hums into it. Hands still on your hips like he’s not letting go the second the door opens. “You okay?” he asks, quietly this time. No teasing. No jokes. You nod. “Yeah.” And then you add, with a shaky laugh, “But next time we do something like this… please not in a literal party closet.” His grin is smug. “Next time?” You shove him again. He opens the door. And the second it does, a wave of music, noise, and light crashes in like you’ve broken the seal on a private, heated little world. You both step out—your hair tousled, lips kiss-swollen, heart racing—and pretend like nothing happened.

“Wanna make another bad decision?” 

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

“Bathroom’s unlocked.” You stare at him. He stares right back. You give a small nod, imperceptible almost, and then he’s grabbing your wrist, dragging you down the hall. You don’t even check if someone’s watching. You just move, fast, stumbling a little behind him as he shoves open the bathroom door and pulls you in behind him. Click. The lock slides into place. Silence. Your back hits the bathroom door. And Satoru’s right there—crowding into your space, bracing a hand beside your head like he’s trying to hold himself back, like he’s giving you that split-second window to change your mind. You don’t take it. Satoru spins you around and backs you up against the counter like he’s done this before—like he’s been thinking about it since the first time you argued over the last chocolate bar or something. His mouth finds yours in seconds, and this time it’s not playful. It’s hungry. Hot. Desperate. You tug on his shirt, dragging him closer, and he laughs into your mouth, breathless and boyish and so into it. His hands slide up your thighs, rough palms on bare skin, fingers playing with the hem of your black skirt like he can’t help himself. “You know, this skirt that you’re wearing? The one I picked out?” he mutters, mouth moving down to your jaw, then under your ear.

You nod, dizzy. “Uh-huh.”

“Good choice,” he grins, hands squeezing your ass over the fabric. “It’s fucking hot.” You whimper. Actually whimper. And he groans, like you’ve just undone him. “You’re killin’ me,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re actually—”

Your skirt rides up. Your thighs part. And his body slots right between them. “You sure?” he pants, nipping at your lip. “We don’t have to—”

You grab the front of his shirt and yank him closer. “I know we don’t have to.”

Pause.

“But I want to.” That does it. His mouth is back on yours before you finish breathing the sentence, and now his hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, under your top. Your hands tangle in his stupid white hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss and grind into you, hard enough to make you gasp. “Shit,” he mumbles against your mouth. “We should be careful.” You bite your lip. “Why?”

“Because if we keep going, I’m not gonna stop.” Your breath catches. You kiss him. Slow and deep. “Someone’s gonna notice we’re gone,” you whisper, even though you make no move to stop touching him. He nips your neck. “Let them.”

“Satoru—”

You don’t have time to laugh before he lifts you—just like that, hands under your thighs, and sits you on the cold marble counter. Your skirt hikes up to your waist, and his eyes drag down your thighs with an audible breath, eyes glancing over on the wet spot forming on the front of your pink panties, fingers already slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear like he can’t wait. You’re kissing again—hot and messy and open-mouthed—while his hand works fast, dragging the fabric to the side and letting out the dirtiest fucking sound when he feels how soaked you are.

“Jesus,” he groans, forehead to yours. “All this for me?” You glare. “No, for Suguru. Obviously for you.” 

That grin—that goddamn smug Satoru Gojo grin—flicks across his face. “Should’ve known,” he says, fingers sliding over you now, teasing but desperate. “I really get you going, huh?” You moan, hips stuttering, hands fumbling with his belt now. “Toru—please.” That does it. The second you breathe his name like that, he’s moving—shoving down his jeans and boxers just enough, grabbing a condom from his back pocket like the cocky frat boy you know he is. “I swear,” he mutters, tearing it open, “I was not expecting to use this tonight.”

You give him a look. “Bullshit.” He laughs low. “Okay, maybe I hoped. Come on, haven’t been laid in ages.” Then? Then he’s right there, dragging your hips to the edge, rubbing himself against you slowly, teasing. Too slowly. “Satoru,” you whisper, grabbing his shirt, pulling. “Now.” He groans—and then pushes in, slow at first, filling you in a way that makes your whole body arch off the counter. “Fuck,” he pants, gripping your hips like he’ll lose it if he doesn’t anchor himself. “You feel—Jesus.”

Your breath stutters out. “Move—please.” And he does. He fucks you like the party doesn’t exist. Like the music isn’t thumping just outside the door. Like someone won’t knock at any second. Hard, deep thrusts—his hand muffling your moans when they get too loud, your nails clawing down his back under his shirt. He kisses you through it, open-mouthed and filthy, murmuring curses against your lips like he’s losing it, too. “Didn’t think this would happen tonight,” he says between thrusts, voice ragged. You’re gasping. “Me either—oh my God—but don’t stop.” He doesn’t. If anything, he fucks into you harder, like your words lit him up, hips snapping forward, making you see stars. You cling to him, head falling to his shoulder, trying so hard not to moan too loud when he shifts his angle and hits just right.

“Satoru—”

“I know,” he grits out, kissing your shoulder, your neck. “You’re so fucking tight—shit.” The counter creaks beneath you. His hands are gripping your thighs, and you’re clinging to his shirt, and when you finally come—clenching around him, eyes fluttering—he groans like you just knocked the breath out of him. He follows fast. Gasping your name, forehead buried in your neck, hips stuttering as he finishes with a shudder and a string of muttered curses. The room falls quiet except for your heavy breathing. You’re still panting when he finally lifts his head, face flushed, hair messy, looking more fucked-out than you’ve ever seen him.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded. “Pussy is too good.” You smack his chest, still catching your breath. “Way to ruin a moment.” He laughs, arms wrapping around your waist, forehead resting against yours. Outside, the bass drops again. Inside, he kisses you—sweet, slow now. Like he wants this again. And again. You're still half-breathless when you peel yourself off the bathroom counter, shaky legs dangling before you touch the floor. Satoru leans back, hair a mess, lips kiss-bruised and glistening, grinning like he just won a game he wasn’t even supposed to be playing. You glance at yourself in the mirror and immediately groan. “God,” you mutter, fixing your hair with trembling fingers. “I look like I just got railed in a frat bathroom.”

“You did just get railed in a frat bathroom,” Satoru offers, obnoxiously proud. He’s zipping his jeans, running a hand through his tousled white hair, utterly unfazed. “Shut up.” You swat his chest as he snickers. “Fix yourself. Your hair looks like you’re Goku from Dragon Ball Z right now.”

He checks. “Oh. Shit.” You both burst into quiet, breathy laughter, like two kids caught in the middle of something reckless and brilliant. The bathroom still smells faintly like the citrusy hand soap, alcohol, and you—God, you—clinging to Satoru’s skin like perfume. You tug your skirt down. It’s wrinkled. Your thigh is slightly sticky. You don’t even want to think about it right now. “Wait,” you whisper, holding your arms out like a human barricade. “Are we going out together?” Satoru looks at you, then toward the door, considering. “Nah,” he says finally, lips twitching. “I’ll give you a 60 second head start. Real secret agent vibes.” He pulls you in before you can leave, pressing one last kiss to your mouth, slower this time, his hand cradling your jaw like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. When you pull back, you're flushed again. “Go,” he says, voice low. “Before I forget we’re trying to be subtle.” You open the door and slip out fast, stepping into the dim hallway. It takes you a second to adjust to the bass again, the flood of people, the bright overhead lights that make everything feel too real. You make a beeline toward the kitchen like you haven’t just been completely wrecked in the bathroom, grabbing the nearest cup you can find and pretending to drink something even though it’s mostly just melted ice and backwash.

Then—

“Yo!” Someone calls your name from across the room. Not Satoru. Just a classmate. You wave, hoping they don’t notice how warm your cheeks are. You’re mid-conversation when, exactly one minute later, Satoru wanders in from the other side of the room. Cool as ever. You both lock eyes for the briefest second—and he winks at you like an absolute menace before joining some people near the pong table. You swear your knees go weak all over again. As you’re sipping from your cup and attempting to regulate your heart rate, your phone buzzes.

Torustill taste u on my tongue lol

You immediately lock the screen and shove it into your pocket like it just caught fire. Across the room, he catches your expression. Smiles. Smug. Lazy. Like he owns the whole fucking house. You shake your head, lips twitching as you pretend not to look at him again. But you do. A few times. And each time, he’s already looking back. 

The car ride home is a blur of motion, low music, and the afterglow of too many drinks and too little inhibition. You’re squished in the backseat of Suguru’s car, shoulder-to-shoulder with Satoru as Seiko loudly insists on shotgunning—“I called it like thirty minutes ago, Satoru, don’t even try me”—and Suguru just raises a brow like why did I agree to this? You're half pressed against the window, the cold glass seeping into your flushed skin. Satoru’s thigh is warm beside yours. Too warm. Or maybe you’re just hyperaware—of him, of yourself, of the fact that less than an hour ago he had his hands under your skirt and his mouth on your neck. “Ugh,” Seiko moans from the passenger seat. “Suguru, drive slower. I’m gonna puke.”

“You said faster two minutes ago.”

“Well now I say slower. Unless you want vomit on your dashboard.”

Suguru sighs and taps the brakes. Beside you, Satoru chuckles low in his throat. It’s not even directed at you, but it ripples down your spine like a dropped match. He shifts, resting his arm casually along the backseat behind you, not quite touching—but close. So close. You try not to look at him. You fail. His hair is still tousled. There’s a mark—barely-there—on the edge of his jawline. You wonder if he noticed it in the mirror at the party. You wonder if he knows it’s from you. You blink away the thought and stare hard out the window as Suguru pulls up to your apartment. The car slows to a stop, and suddenly all of you are groaning and tumbling out, drunk and exhausted. “Everyone drink water before bed,” Suguru calls after you and Seiko, who are giggling as you shuffle toward the door. “Don’t be dumbasses tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mom,” Satoru mutters. You all collapse into the apartment like a pile of overripe fruit—sweet, bruised, and sticky with the night. No words. Just Seiko drifting into her room with a loud yawn, mumbling something about being glad she didn’t drink tonight. Satoru disappearing into his own with an unreadable look over his shoulder, and you stumbling into yours with your head spinning. The moment your door shuts behind you, you exhale hard. And then you feel it. The ache between your legs. The ghost of his mouth on yours. Your lips are swollen. Your hair’s a mess. And there’s a bite mark—not aggressive, but definitely there—on your collarbone. You don’t even change clothes. You just fall face-first into your bed and let the haze swallow you whole.

The morning hits like a truck. You wake up with your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth and your thoughts screaming. What did I do? Your brain floods with flashes: the kiss in the closet. The way he’d looked at you in the bathroom mirror. His laugh, low and cocky. The stretch of his hand around your thigh. His voice against your neck—

You sit up way too fast and groan. Okay. Okay. Think. Was it just the alcohol? A one-time thing? He is a flirt. He does sleep around. But he didn’t flirt with anyone else that night. And he didn’t go into the closet with anyone else. And he kissed you like he meant it. You press your hands to your face. You don’t even know what you want. Do you want it to have been a one-time thing? Or are you hoping he’ll bring it up again? Are you hoping he’ll come knock on your door right now? You stare at your bedroom door. It’s way too quiet outside. No Seiko, no Satoru. You check the time—past noon. They’re probably both still dead asleep. But what if he’s not? What if he’s in the kitchen? What if you walk out there and it’s awkward as hell and he doesn’t even look at you the same? Your heart starts pounding. You’re suddenly, intensely aware that you’re still wearing that damn black skirt. It’s wrinkled and rides up your thighs in your bed like a cruel joke. You pull your blanket over your head and groan. Nope. You’re not going out there. Not yet. Not until you know what the hell to say to the boy who fucked you over a sink last night and then waved at you across the room like he hadn’t just ruined your entire life. You eventually force yourself out of bed. It takes a long, boiling shower, half a bottle of ibuprofen, and several internal pep talks, but you finally open your bedroom door and step into the hallway—blank expression, huge hoodie, and an unholy craving for caffeine.

The apartment is quiet. No Seiko. No Suguru. But you hear faint kitchen sounds—running water, a mug clinking against the counter. Your stomach drops. You turn the corner. Satoru’s there. Leaning over the counter with a mug in one hand and his phone in the other, looking very not hungover. His hair is damp—he’s clearly already showered—and he’s in a pair of loose sweats, shirtless, like he doesn’t even know what modesty is. You almost turn around. But he glances up. And you’re already seen. “Oh,” he says, like you’ve bumped into him at the fucking supermarket, not—well. Not after last night. “Morning.”

You blink. “Hey.” He sets his phone down. You make a beeline for the coffee machine, not looking at him. You feel him watching you, though. And not in a last night way. Not in a “you looked so good riding me against the bathroom sink” way. More like… a confused “are we just pretending that never happened?” kind of way. You clear your throat. “You sleep okay?” He pauses a beat too long. “Yeah,” he says finally. “You?” You nod. Pour yourself coffee. “Fine.” Silence. You sip. He sips. The room is so quiet you can hear the tick of the old wall clock. “So…” you say, and instantly regret it. You don’t even know what you were going to follow that up with. There’s no “so.” There’s no normal segue into hey remember when you pushed my panties to the side and said I was making too much noise? You don’t even finish the thought. He scratches the back of his neck. “So,” he echoes with a crooked smile, “that was a party, huh?” You huff out a laugh that sounds more like a cough. “Yeah. Yeah, it… was.” Silence again. You glance over at him—and he’s looking at you. Not in a teasing way. Not flirty, not smug. Just… like he’s trying to read you. Gauge your reaction. His voice is careful when he says, “I didn’t think we were doing spin the bottle last night.”

“Oh yeah,” you say lightly, hoping your smile doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “That was a… surprise.” He hums. Sips again. Neither of you brings up the closet. Or the bathroom. You both stand there, drinking bad coffee in your shared silence, pretending like nothing did. And somehow that’s worse. You suddenly can’t stand it—the way your heart keeps jumping every time he shifts, like you’re waiting for him to say something. Clarify something. But he doesn’t. And you don’t. So instead, you mutter, “I’m gonna go back to my room.” He looks at you for half a second too long. Nods. “Yeah. Okay.” You carry your coffee out, heart beating stupidly fast. You shut your door behind you and lean against it like you just escaped something dangerous. Because you did. You escaped the conversation where he might’ve said it was a mistake. But now you don’t know if he wanted to say the opposite, either. And the not-knowing might just kill you first. You hear the shuffle of his feet in the hallway—his bedroom door creaking open, the sigh he lets out when he realizes the apartment is still quiet. But you’re already locked inside your room, sitting in bed in one of your oversized hoodies, a brutal hangover kicking at your temples. You don't even check your phone. You just stare at the ceiling, mouth dry, heart pounding. God. What the hell did you do?

–

By Monday, it’s not just a one-day silence. It turns into a pattern. You start rehearsing escape routes—routes that avoid the kitchen, the couch, his side of campus. You’re back to taking the bus instead of the ride he always used to offer, lying to Seiko with dumb excuses like “I left early” or “I had to drop by the post office.” When he passes you in the hallway of your apartment, you duck into your room before he can speak. He notices. You can feel it.

On Tuesday, you hear the jangle of his keys, the creak of the front door, and his heavy, dragging steps like he’s tired. You hold your breath when his steps pause in front of your door for just a second too long. Then they continue—out to the living room. You exhale only after the TV starts playing. You don’t know why you’re avoiding him so hard. Maybe it’s the embarrassment. The fact that you kissed him first. That you dragged him into the bathroom like a fucking hormonal maniac. That you wanted him. That he let you want him. You replay the way he looked at you in the mirror. The way he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. But maybe that’s just how he kisses. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. You feel sick. And then there’s the other thing. The gnawing guilt of knowing this isn’t just some random guy. This is Seiko’s older brother. You practically grew up knowing him, teasing him, getting teased back. She’s known about your stupid little high school crush—but she never knew it’d turn into this. And even though she’d never be mad, a part of you feels like you broke a silent code. Like you crossed something.

So now you smile extra wide when you’re with her. Laugh too loud. Ask too many questions about Suguru, just to keep her focused on anything else. You don’t mention Satoru. You never do. And she doesn’t bring him up either, like maybe she senses something’s off. Satoru, on the other hand? He’s not playing pretend. By Wednesday, he’s straight-up glaring at you in the kitchen. You enter to grab a water bottle and find him already there, shirtless, hair tousled from sleep. He glances up from his mug of coffee, and his jaw tics when you avoid eye contact, grab the bottle, and turn around with barely a “Morning.”

“Seriously?” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t stop walking. You don’t ask what he means. You just shut your bedroom door behind you again and let your back make contact with your bed, heart racing in your ribs. Thursday at campus, he walks straight past you outside the lecture hall, pretending to text. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say hi. You’d feel relieved, but instead you feel… a little sick.

By Friday, you start catching him staring. Not the playful stares he used to throw when you were snarking at him on the couch, or the amused glances during group study when you used to roast Seiko. These are different. Sharper. Tight-lipped. Like he’s trying to understand what the fuck your problem is and fighting the urge to demand answers. In the library, he walks in with two friends and pauses when he sees you sitting alone. For a second, your eyes lock. Your heart jumps. You go cold. He raises his brows just a little—like a challenge. Like he’s asking, So this is how it is now?

You immediately lower your gaze to your textbook.

You don’t look up again until you hear him walk away.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You know the creak of every floorboard by now. You time your kitchen runs for when he's in the shower. You fake calls on the walk home if he’s in the distance across campus. You’ve perfected the art of silence—of vanishing just before your name could leave his mouth.

You’re not proud of it. But you're not ready to talk either. Every time you see him—or almost see him—your stomach knots. It’s not just the fact that you had sex with your best friend’s older brother. It’s the fact that it meant something. At least to you. And now you don’t know if it did to him.

You don’t know what he thinks. You don’t know if he regrets it. You don’t know if he wants to do it again or pretend it never happened. You don’t know anything, and not knowing feels safer than asking. You avoid the kitchen unless Seiko’s there. You don’t ride in Suguru’s car anymore. You take the campus loop bus—even if it’s late, even if it’s raining, even if the seats are soaked and the heater doesn’t work. At least it keeps you away from him.

Every day, you pretend like you're fine.

“Why do you always look like you’re about to throw up when I mention Satoru?” Seiko teases lightly one afternoon when you’re curled up on the couch scrolling on your phone. You blink too quickly. “I do not,” you lie. “Yeah, you do,” she laughs, “like, every time. Are you two fighting or something?” You force a smile, heart thumping. “I just find him annoying. You know that.” She shrugs, unconvinced. “Okay, but you used to like him annoying. Now you look like you’re allergic to him.”

By Saturday, the tension is visible. Even Seiko’s starting to pick up on it—on how quiet Satoru’s become, how he doesn’t crack jokes like he used to, how the apartment suddenly feels like it has an emotional landmine buried under the carpet. And he’s not being subtle either. He slams more drawers. Leaves the fridge open longer than needed. One morning, you hear him mutter, “She’s literally acting like I murdered her family,” through the wall after you ducked out of the bathroom the second he walked in.

You curl into yourself. Guilt swarms you. Guilt for sleeping with him. Guilt for liking it. Guilt for making it weird. Guilt for hiding it. Guilt for lying to Seiko. Guilt for how you can’t look either of them in the eye anymore.

And the worst part?

You miss him. You miss the sound of his dumb laugh from the couch. The way he stole your fries off your plate. The smug smirk he gave when he caught you staring. You miss him when he's in the same room, and you miss him when he's not. But you're too afraid to fix it.

Too afraid of what it could become. Or worse—what it won’t.

It’s Sunday evening when it finally happens. You’d just gotten out of the shower, damp hair sticking to your neck, hoodie slipping too far off one shoulder. You’re halfway through towel-drying it in your room when you hear the unmistakable sound of the front door swinging shut and keys being dumped into the ceramic bowl by the entryway.

And your stomach sinks. You know who it is.

You freeze, listening. It’s late—Seiko’s staying at a friend’s dorm tonight, which means it’s just you. And him. In the apartment. Your heart starts to thump like a speaker at a frat house—deep, rhythmic, inescapable. You think maybe if you stay quiet, if you keep your lights off, if you just wait it out, he’ll go straight to his room.

But then—

Knock. Knock. Knock. Three sharp, deliberate knocks against your door. Not frantic. Not tentative. Just controlled. Frustrated. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Open the door,” he says through it. Calm. But not neutral. There’s heat simmering just beneath it. You don’t move. Another knock.

“I know you’re in there.”

A pause.

“And I know you’re avoiding me.”

You grit your teeth, lips parting. For a second, you contemplate telling him to fuck off. But you can’t bring yourself to say it—not when your whole body still remembers his touch, his voice in your ear, the way he’d held your hips like he couldn’t get enough of you. “I’m not,” you lie weakly, and it sounds like you’re underwater. A dry laugh.

“Right. You’re not.”

You stand frozen for a moment longer before your body acts for you. Fingers wrapping around the doorknob, turning it slowly until the latch clicks. You pull it open just enough to see him—his hoodie slung low over his head, eyes darker than usual, like the week of silence has worn down even his confidence. There’s a long silence. You shift your weight from one foot to the other. 

“Look, I—I don’t think we should talk about it, okay?” you mumble, eyes flicking away. “It was a party. We were drunk. It happened. Let’s just… not make it a big deal.”

His jaw flexes.

“You think I’m making it a big deal?”

You flinch. “Aren’t you?”

“No,” he says, stepping forward, his voice dipping lower. “You’re the one pretending it didn’t happen. You’re the one who’s been acting like I don’t fucking exist.”

You glance back toward the darkened hallway, heart pounding.

“I’ve just been busy, Satoru.”

“Cut the shit.”

His voice is low but harsh now, the syllables snapping through the space between you.

“I text you, you leave me to read. You see me on campus, and you bolt like I’m some fucking stalker. You won’t even look at me. What the hell did I do that was so wrong?”

Your throat tightens.

“It’s not—it’s not about what you did,” you say quickly, voice cracking.

He stares at you like he doesn’t believe you.

“I just—” You hesitate. “I don’t know what that was, okay? I don’t know what it meant.”

His eyes narrow. “Why does it have to mean something?”

You blink. “Because it does.”

The words come out louder than you meant.

And then it’s quiet. Heavy.

You suddenly feel very, very tired.

“I just…” You swallow. “It’s hard. You’re Seiko’s brother. And you’re you. You’re, like, Satoru fucking Gojo. And I’m just—me. And I don’t want to be some… joke you tell your frat friends later.”

His face tightens.

“Is that what you think this is?”

You flinch. He takes a step forward.

“You think I’d fuck you in a bathroom at a party and then just go brag about it to Suguru or some shit?”

“I don’t know!” you snap, voice cracking. “I don’t know what the fuck to think!”

You feel it bubbling up now—hot, sharp, impossible to contain. A week’s worth of bottled-up emotion, self-doubt, mortification, and frustration bleeding into your voice.

“I’ve liked you since I was seventeen and you used to sneak Red Bulls during our tutoring breaks at your guys’ house—I didn’t even like Red Bull, by the way—and now we’re living in the same fucking apartment, and you’ve seen me in my pajamas and kissed me like you were starving for it and then we had sex, and then I had to wake up the next morning pretending it didn’t make my whole world tilt sideways!”

Your breath comes out shaky, chest heaving now.

“And you—God,” you choke out, eyes stinging, “you said nothing the next morning. Not even, like, a normal-person ‘are you okay’ or ‘hey, about last night.’ No. You made some dumbass joke about not knowing they’d have spin the bottle at the party—like that was the most significant thing that happened!”

You throw your hands up, exasperated and hurt all over again.

“And I just stood there like an idiot, laughing it off, because I didn’t know if it was casual for you or if I meant nothing, and meanwhile I spent the whole week overanalyzing every single second while you probably just carried on like it was any other night!” Satoru is silent. Frozen. Jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, eyes locked on you like he can’t believe you’ve been holding all of this inside. That you’ve been carrying it around like this pain belonged only to you.

“I felt like a fucking joke, Satoru,” you say quieter now, voice trembling. “And I didn’t know if I was allowed to be hurt. I didn’t know if I was overreacting. So I did the only thing I could do—I avoided you. Because if I didn’t, I think I would’ve cried or worse—told you I still wanted you, even if you didn’t feel the same.” The air between you two is thick with everything that’s been left unsaid. He takes a slow step forward, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse—real. “I didn’t know what the fuck to say,” he admits. “I woke up and I panicked. I thought if I made it casual, you’d feel like you had an easy out. Like it wouldn’t be weird for you.” You look up at him, throat tight. “Yeah?” you say bitterly. “Well, it was.”

“I know,” he says, wincing. “I know. And I’m sorry.” A pause. You don’t move. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he adds quietly. “I was trying to be cool about it, and I ended up being a complete fucking idiot.” You say nothing. He sighs.

“I should’ve just said I liked kissing you,” he says simply. “Because I did. I liked it too much, and it freaked me out.” You blink hard. Your lips part, but the words don’t come. He takes another step closer. “You weren’t a one-night thing,” he says, voice low. “You’re not a joke. You never have been.” A breathless silence. Your heart is pounding again—but for a different reason now. “So, we’re good now?,” he asks lightly. You manage a small smile. “Yeah.”

Another beat passes, and then his voice drops again—quiet, careful. “Can we stop pretending it didn’t happen?” You take a breath. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your hoodie. Your skin feels hot. You nod. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Okay.”

He smiles—slow, crooked, a little relieved.

“Cool,” he murmurs, stepping past you with a brush of his fingers at your hip. “Now come out and eat. You’ve been emo all week.”

“Don’t call me emo,” you groan.

“Don’t ghost me, then.” You pause in the doorway, watching as he disappears into the kitchen. And despite the pounding in your chest, for the first time in days, something eases in your shoulders.

–

It starts off subtle. A shoulder bump in the kitchen. His fingers brushing yours when he passes the remote. You stealing sips from his drink even though you said you didn’t want one. But over the last few weeks, it’s become undeniable. You and Satoru have gotten so close. Not in the subtle, barely-speaking, ‘are-they-even-on-good-terms’ way you were for that agonizing, slow, emotionally repressed stretch of time—but in the obnoxiously familiar, joyfully flirty, constantly-hovering-near-each-other way that screams something happened, and they’re definitely doing it again. There’s no dramatic sit-down. No DTR talk. But it’s in everything you do. It’s the way he stretches out across the couch just so his legs rest over your lap when Seiko’s watching TV next to you, unfazed. The way you lean into him during group hangouts, like he’s a magnetic pull you don’t even fight anymore. Today, it’s the three of you again—Seiko, you, and Satoru—on a sunny late afternoon, draped across the living room in varying states of half-productivity and snack-crunching. He has his head dangerously close to your thigh on the couch, while he himself is sprawled across on it, flipping through something on his phone, one hand absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of your hoodie. You’re seated with your legs crossed, scrolling through TikTok and trying not to smile every time his ivory hair glints in the afternoon sunlight. 

Seiko’s half-watching a show but keeps glancing, suspicious.

“Okay,” she says suddenly, pointing her spoon at the both of you, “I swear to God you two were being emo little freaks like two weeks ago.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “You literally wouldn’t even look at each other at breakfast, and now you’re basically spooning on the couch like that’s normal.” Satoru doesn’t look up. “I am a very cuddly person,” he says, flipping to the next Instagram story. You nudge him in the side with your foot. “He is not,” you tell Seiko, grinning. “I was gaslit,” she says. “You both made me think I was imagining the tension.”

“You were,” you and Satoru say at the same time. Then you both glance at each other and immediately start cracking up. “Unbelievable,” Seiko mutters, digging her spoon back into her cereal. “I should’ve known when he voluntarily washed a dish that something was up.” Satoru reaches up and steals a spoonful of cereal straight out of her bowl. “Hey!” she swats at him, “Get your own! Don’t touch my food, you asshole.” The rest of the day is just like that—subtle teasing, casual touches, too-long eye contact that gives everything away. When he gets up to grab snacks, he asks if you want anything with this easy, domestic sort of confidence. When you hand him your phone to look at a meme, his fingers graze yours on purpose. And when you walk back from the kitchen later, he slides over on the couch without a word, making space for you in that casual, of course you’ll sit here next to me kind of way. At one point, you’re both squished together, sharing the same blanket, knees knocking under it—and Seiko just stares.

She mutters, “I’m living in hell.” You and Satoru both just grin. 

–

You had the apartment to yourself.

Lectures had moved online because of some water damage in the psych building, so you were living the absolute dream: cozy hoodie, panties, blanket burrito, Modern Family playing at low volume, and a warm mug of tea in your hands. It was gray outside—light drizzle tapping at the windows—and you had zero plans to leave the couch bed you made in your room. That was, until you hear the apartment door slam shut. You freeze. It’s too early for Seiko to be back. And she would’ve yelled something dumb the second she walked in. Which means—

“Yo,” Satoru calls out, voice echoing down the hallway.

Shit.

You panic for half a second, adjusting your blanket like you’ve been caught watching porn instead of a sitcom. “I’m in my room!” you shout back, hoping he takes the hint. He doesn’t. Your door creaks open without hesitation, and you barely sit up before he’s leaning against the frame, one brow cocked, his stupidly gorgeous face framed by the light behind him. 

“Seriously?” you groan. “Ever heard of knocking? What if I was changing and I was naked?” He just grins, blue eyes flickering over you—messy hair, oversized hoodie, bare thighs, popcorn-stained blanket and all. “I've already been inside you,” he shrugs casually, stepping in like it’s his room. “What’s the difference, really?” Your mouth drops open. “Satoru—!”He plops down beside you before you can finish, laughing to himself as you bury your face in the blanket in mortified silence. “You’re unbelievable,” you mumble, trying to will away the heat crawling up your neck. He nudges your leg with his knee under the blanket. “So what’re we watching, sweetheart?”

You hesitate, because saying Modern Family out loud just feels embarrassing now. “...Modern Family.” Satoru squints at you, unimpressed. “Again? You’ve seen every episode like twelve times.”

You turn to face him, making a point of shoving popcorn in your mouth like it’ll shut him up. “And? It’s comfort TV. Sue me.” But he doesn’t argue. He just shifts lower, stealing a handful of popcorn and tossing a few pieces into his mouth while kicking his shoes off. You watch him stretch out beside you, long limbs taking up all the space, thigh pressing up against yours under the blanket. He doesn’t say anything about it, and neither do you. Not until his hand slips under the blanket—just resting on your bare thigh this time, warm and casual, but very much intentional. You shoot him a look. “Seriously?”

“What?” he murmurs, not even glancing over. “It’s cold. You’re warm. Let me live.”

“Your hand is on my skin.”

His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “Oh, is that what that is?” You elbow him lightly, but it doesn’t make him move. If anything, he just sinks further into your side, his knuckles brushing slow, lazy circles against your thigh like he knows exactly what he's doing. Which—of course he does. “You’re the worst,” you mutter.

“I’m your worst,” he says, soft and teasing. You swallow. The blanket suddenly feels a little too warm. A long moment passes with the two of you just… lying there. Watching Cam and Mitch bumble through fatherhood while Satoru’s fingers trace delicate lines higher and higher on your leg, never quite crossing the line, but dancing at the edge of it. He’s so casual about it—like this is normal now. Like it’s his right to touch you, to be here, stretched out in your bed and smirking at you like you’re already his. But this time, he leans in and kisses your jaw—soft, slow, and maddeningly smug—you don’t pull away. You’re kind of surprised, you didn’t think he’d just… do that. Your face is still warm from his jaw kiss, but you try—try—to keep your attention on the TV. It’s useless. You can feel him watching you now, feel the soft trail of his fingers inching up your thigh again beneath the blanket. Barely touching. Barely even real. “You’re nervous,” he says quietly, amused. “Don’t like me touching you?” He hums playfully, squeezing your thigh.

“No, I’m not,” you mutter, not meeting his eyes.

“You are,” he insists, voice dropping. “You’re so twitchy. What, am I distracting?” You glare at him, but he just grins.

“God, you’re annoying.” 

He leans closer, chin resting on your shoulder, lips right by your ear. “You didn’t think I was annoying when you were moaning my name in that bathroom.” You freeze, body going still all at once. Then you punch him weakly in the arm, because what the fuck is he even trying to do right now. “That was so unnecessary.”

“Was it?” he hums. “’Cause you sound a little breathless right now.” You hate him. You do. Especially when his hand starts tracing the hem of your oversized hoodie, pushing it up so slowly your brain short-circuits. It’s featherlight, like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Instead, you clutch the blanket tighter as his fingers drag higher up your thigh, brushing over the edge of your underwear like he’s not doing anything at all. “Satoru,” you whisper, a warning—or a plea, you’re not sure. His mouth is back at your ear. “Mm, I love when you say it like that.” Then, casually, he lifts the blanket and looks. You panic. “Hey—!” But he’s smirking now, pupils darker, lips parted a little as he eyes your bare legs, the little black cotton panties with a small lace trim that were not meant for an audience today. “Cute,” he murmurs, like he’s impressed, like you planned this. “Didn’t take you for a lace girl.”

“I didn’t ask for commentary.” you whisper-shout, trying to tug the blanket back down—but he catches your wrist. His other hand slides fully under your hoodie now, across your stomach, warm and flat, and you whimper when his thumb brushes just under the band of your underwear. You shouldn’t let him. You really shouldn’t. But his voice is so low, so goddamn casual, as he says: “Want me to help you relax?” Your breath stutters. He shifts closer, practically between your legs now, his face inches from yours, and that cocky smirk is gone—replaced by something slower. Hungrier. His hand cups your jaw, tilting your face toward him, and your eyes flutter shut because this is so bad, but you don’t want him to stop.

And then—

You feel his fingers press down through the fabric, right against your core. You gasp, one hand flying to his chest like you could push him away—but you don’t. You curl your fingers into his hoodie instead. 

“Still watching Modern Family?” he whispers, like it’s a joke, like he’s not circling you over your underwear with unbearable gentleness. “You’re the worst person alive,” you hiss. “Mm, maybe,” he murmurs, lips grazing your cheek. “But I’m making you feel so good right now, aren’t I?” You don’t answer. You can’t—not when he’s pressing a little harder, rubbing small, unhurried circles into your clit above your panties, and watching your face like he wants to memorize it. And then—then—he moves down. You squeak, trying to grab at him, but he pins your hips with both hands and laughs into your stomach, breath hot against your skin as he pulls your underwear to the side.

“Relax,” he says again, and this time it’s softer. “Let me take care of you.” You suck in a breath, the kind that gets trapped in your throat and goes nowhere. He has your thighs spread, his palms anchoring them down to the mattress as he looks at you—really looks at you—with that ravenous kind of amusement. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs against your hipbone, lips brushing it like an afterthought. “No, I’m not,” you breathe, even though you definitely are. One slow kiss, then another, lower now, until you’re arching just a little, just enough. You try to close your legs, try to pull the hoodie back down, try anything to regain a sliver of control—but his hands just tighten around your thighs, keeping you right where he wants you. “Settle down,” he says again, voice dropped to something filthy. 

“God, you're always so wound up. Gonna eat that pussy so good you’ll become nice ‘n easy f’me.” And then you feel him lick a stripe up your inner thigh. Your whole body jolts like it’s been electrocuted.

“Satoru—”

“Shh,” he says, almost absentmindedly, like he’s focused. Like he’s thinking about what he’s going to do to you and not much else. His fingers trail back up, slow, pushing your hoodie higher, letting his knuckles brush your ribs. He mouths at your skin the whole way up—your stomach, your side, your breasts, paying extra attention to your hardened nipples—before dragging himself back down again with that same dizzying patience. "You're not stopping me," he murmurs, breath ghosting over your soaked underwear. “So either you really want me to behave badly or you're just shy about asking.” You cover your face with one hand. “Oh my god.”

 He chuckles, dragging his tongue over your inner thigh again. “That’s not a no.” And then he finally—finally—slips your underwear to the side and drags a single, long finger through your folds. You gasp—loudly this time—and his grip on your thigh tightens.

“Fuck,” he whispers, almost reverent. “You’re so wet.”

You can’t respond. You can’t even think. He takes his time, thumb pressing against your clit as his fingers prod at your entrance gently, teasing, but not thrusting them in. And then his mouth replaces his fingers. You cry out—like, actually cry out—as he licks you, slow and indulgent, like he's tasting dessert. One of his hands stays on your thigh, firm and possessive, and the other slips up to squeeze your waist, your breast, anything he can reach. And his mouth—god, his mouth moves in unhurried circles, like he’s savoring it, like he missed this. He drags his tongue up, swirling around your sensitive bundle of nerves, giving it a little suck, before dragging his tongue down to circle against your entrance torturously. You’re squirming again. But this time, he lets you. “Yeah,” he murmurs between licks, “that’s more like it. You sound so sweet when you stop pretending you don’t want me.” You bite your knuckle to keep quiet, but he catches your hand and pulls it away. “Let me hear you,” he says, more serious now. “I want you to be loud for me.”And then—he uses his fingers too. He slips one inside, knuckle deep as he pumps it in and out, adding a second one when he hears you whine his name. 

“That’s it, baby.” 

You writhe, head falling back into the pillows, one arm flung over your eyes as he builds you up with an obscene kind of precision—his tongue, his fingers, the soft praise he keeps murmuring in between. “You’re doing so good for me.” He harshly sucks at your clit again, all while his fingers are pistoning in and out of you, causing you to clamp down. “Feel how hard you’re clenching?” You're dripping. You’re trembling. You're seconds away from falling apart, and he knows it. But he slows down. You whine, hips rocking. “Satoru—”

He pulls back just a little, breath warm against your thigh. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“What you want.” You blink at him, dazed. "You're literally—inside me—"

He grins. “Still. Say it.” Your face burns, but your voice is desperate now. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Satoru,” you choke, “please don’t stop eating me out.” And he doesn’t. He keeps going until you fall apart for him, loud and shaking and so far gone that the only word on your lips is his name. You come, his name falling off your lips like a mantra while he continues licking and slurping until you quite literally yank his head off from between your thighs. And even then—he doesn’t move. He kisses you once, soft and slow, like he’s easing you back into your body. Then again, higher up this time, then again, like he can’t quite stop. Your hoodie is bunched under your arms. Your thighs are limp. Your body’s still trembling—soft and flushed and pliant—when he presses a kiss just below your navel and murmurs, “Told you I’d take care of you.” You barely manage to lift your head. “I hate you.” He grins against your skin. “Liar.” You want to respond. You do. But then he’s kissing his way up, slow and lazy, nudging your hoodie higher until it bunches just above your tits. You whimper into his mouth as he moves up to kiss you again, deeper this time, and while you’re distracted—dazed and gasping—he grabs your thighs and pulls them apart, slotting himself between them like it’s his god-given right. His hands palm at your breasts lazily, grinning when he feels you buck your hips against the bulge in his sweats, canines out on display as he grins down at you.  “Satoru,” you breathe, but he just smiles.

“Round two, baby.” 

You’re still in your hoodie and panties—just tugged out of place—and he doesn’t bother taking them off. Instead, he hooks his fingers into the band and pushes them aside again like it’s easy, like it’s familiar now. And then he’s grinding down against you, hard and slow, through his sweats, and you moan so loudly he laughs. “You that sensitive already?” he teases, rolling his hips again. “Shit—look at you. Still twitching.” 

“Shut up.”

“No,” he purrs, dragging the tip of his nose along your jaw. “Not when you’re soaking through your panties like that. You think I’m gonna shut up now?” You try to glare at him. It fails. He grabs your hand, his plush bottom lip between his teeth, white lashes fluttering when you take the hint and squeeze him through his sweats.

“Mmf– Not that I’m pressuring you or anything, but sweets I need you–”

“You are not pressuring me, so please, hurry up before I genuinely explode.”

“Wow, so eager for me. Having my tongue in you wasn’t enough?”

“Just put it in already before I punch you—”

“Fine! But I don’t have condoms on me right now, used the last one up to fuck you on that sink, remember?”

“I don’t care, I’m on birth control anyways—”

Then he’s pushing his sweats down just enough, lining himself up—and you gasp, grabbing his shoulders as he slides in so slowly you think you might cry.  He hisses through his teeth. “Fuck—still so tight. Like you’re trying to squeeze me out.”

“Maybe I am.”

He laughs again, shaky and breathless. “Too bad. I’m not going anywhere. Other than this pussy.” He sets a rhythm—slow at first, deep and dragging, rocking into you like he wants to take his time—but the moment your nails dig into his back and your breath hitches, he growls and picks up pace. His mouth is everywhere—your throat, your collarbone, your lips—and all the while he’s muttering filth against your skin:

“You feel that? How good I fill you up?”

“Bet you’ve been thinking about this all week, huh?”

“Say my name again. C’mon, baby. Say it while I fuck you.” You do. Over and over. At some point, he shifts—sits back on his heels and pulls you with him, dragging your hips into his lap. The new angle makes your vision blur. “Oh my god—Satoru—” “There she is,” he groans, watching where your bodies meet, sweat-slick hair falling over his forehead. “So fucking pretty like this. Gonna come again for me?” You nod helplessly. He just grins and thrusts harder. And when you fall apart a second time—loud and breathless and clinging to him like you’ll never let go—he follows with a broken moan, burying his face in your neck as he shudders and pulses inside you, the warmth seeping from his cock making you shudder. For a long moment, there’s only your breathing. Then, finally, he flops onto the bed beside you, tugs you into his chest, and says, “So… no head?” You groan. He laughs. And somewhere beneath the covers, his hand is already sliding down your thigh again.

“Round three?” he says, hopeful.

You smack him with a pillow.

He still ends up getting round three.

And then round four.

And then round five, until you both are so exhausted and sweaty that he almost falls asleep instead of getting up to wipe the copious amounts of him trickling out onto your thighs. Once you’re cleaned up, he flops next to you dramatically, limbs sprawled across the bed like a starfish, chest rising and falling. “I’m the love of your life,” he murmurs, trailing a lazy hand across your stomach. “You just don’t wanna admit it yet.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m not filing a restraining order first thing tomorrow.” He fake gasps, curling into you like you mortally wounded him. “You’re evil.” 

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. “And you’re much more evil than me.”

“And yet.” He kisses your shoulder. “You let me hit five rounds.” You shove him again, but it’s gentle this time. Less of a shove, more of a pat. He takes it as an invitation to climb on top of you, settling there like a smug human blanket. “You’re heavy,” you complain, breath catching when his nose brushes yours. “You’re soft,” he says, grinning. You smack his arm again, and he laughs like this is the happiest he’s ever been—like lying half-naked on you, sweaty and spent, is the best part of his day. 

“Hey,” he says after a moment, quieter now, eyes still a little mischievous but softer at the edges. “I meant it, y’know. Earlier.”

“Meant what?”

“That I wanna take care of you.” 

Your breath hitches. He kisses your forehead like he’s sealing a promise. “Not just when I’m being disgusting.” You look up at him—this boy with starlight in his eyes and trouble in his grin—and your chest does a weird little flip. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay,” he echoes, and grins so wide it hurts. “But just to clarify, I am still gonna be disgusting.” He’s tracing shapes on your back with lazy fingers. Random squiggles, probably. Or maybe dicks. It’s Satoru—you can never be sure. But then he pauses. And says, softly, “I’m serious though.” 

You blink against his skin. “About being disgusting? Yeah, we all know.” He chuckles, but it’s a breath short of his usual dramatics. “No,” he says, thumb brushing the curve of your waist. “About you. About this.” Your heart stutters, because the air suddenly shifts—goes tender and quiet and a little fragile. You pull back just enough to see his face. He’s looking at you. Not in the way he usually does—like you’re a puzzle he already knows how to solve, or a joke he’s waiting for you to get. He’s just looking. Like you’re real. Like you’re his.

“Satoru…”

“I like you,” he says, simple as anything. “Like, actually. Not just because you’re hot and I’ve seen your underwear drawer, totally on accident, I came to drop your take out in your room—although, bonus.” 

You huff a laugh. “Wow. You’re really bad at this.”

“I’m being vulnerable, asshole.” You grin despite yourself, heart pounding. “Sorry. Continue.” He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at you, messy hair falling into his eyes. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he says, voice lower now. “Didn’t think I’d end up catching feelings for my little sister’s best friend who constantly calls me a freak.”

“You are a freak,” you murmur.

“Right, but now I’m your freak.” You stare at him. 

“Satoru.” 

He snorts. “Okay, fair. But I’ve been gone for three years, and then I come back and suddenly you’re all grown up and hot and stomping around the apartment like you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.” You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are burning. “And then,” he continues, brushing his fingers along your cheek, “we actually start talking again and you’re smart and annoying and make me laugh, and you’re just so perfect… Like, I genuinely cannot express it in words, and I was stupid to think that you were like a sister to me. Because you're really not. You're so, so far from that assumption of mine that I wanna write it out in an essay just to prove to you how badly I want you in the most romantic way possible and in the least sisterly way possible.” You blink. He looks down, lips twitching faintly. “And now I’m totally fucked, because I don’t not want you anymore. I just want this. You. Always.” 

You swallow, heart in your throat. “You mean that?”

“Dead serious.” He grins, but it’s gentler now. “Unless you’re about to reject me, in which case I was absolutely joking and this never happened.” You laugh, a real one this time, and you kiss him before he can keep talking—soft and lingering, your fingers curling in his hair. When you pull back, he’s staring at you with stars in his eyes. “Okay,” you whisper. “You win. I like you too. A lot. But for clarification I always liked you in a very non brotherly way.” He raises an eyebrow. “So… you’re saying I’m your freak now?” You groan, burying your face in his chest. “Regret.” 

But his arms are already around you, holding you tight. “Too late,” he murmurs into your hair, smiling like he just got everything he’s ever wanted. “You’re stuck with me.” You groan, dragging the blanket over your head. “Go to sleep, dickhead.”

“I will,” he says, pulling the blanket down to kiss you. “Right after I cuddle the love of my life.”

“Gross.”

“You like me.”

“I do not.”

“You let me do unspeakable things to you thirty minutes ago.”

“…Shut up.”

“Love of my liiiiiife.”

“Seiko’s gonna murder me.”

“She’ll have to kill me first.” You roll your eyes, but when he finally lays down properly, arm slung around your waist, legs tangled with yours, you realize you're smiling again. Like an idiot. A very, very satisfied idiot.

You wake up the next morning, tangled in Satoru’s arms and covered in way too many bite marks to explain away, when—

“HEY—have you seen Satoru—”

The door bursts open. You jolt upright. Seiko stands frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, her mouth dropping open in real-time. You barely get out a squeaky “Wait—!” before—

“OH MY GOD!” She SCREAMS, turns on her heel, and is sprinting down the hallway. You immediately start panicking. “Satoru. Satoru. Wake up. She saw—she SAW—oh my god, we’re so done, she’s gonna KILL ME—”

He groans and pulls the blanket back over his head like a child. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, I fucked your sister’s brother! Wait—I am your sister’s—whatever! It’s over! It’s—”

“Relax,” he says, tugging you back down to the bed effortlessly. “C’mere. If I’m going to die today, I want to die cuddling.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” he hums, nosing into your hair. “Good morning, girlfriend.”

“You’re gonna make me throw up.”

“Speaking of,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, “any interest in morning sex? I feel like I didn’t fully appreciate round four last night. Too much of my blood was in my ears.” You slap his chest. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious—”

The door SLAMS open again. 

“MY CHILDREN!” Suguru’s voice rings out, loud and unrepentant. “I WIN!” 

You both sit up in bed, tangled in sheets, wide-eyed. There stands Suguru, holding up a phone like a camcorder. Seiko is beside him, arms crossed and pouting like you just ruined her birthday. 

“Suguru what the fuck—”

“Say hi to the camera!” he beams. “I bet Seiko fifty bucks you two would be together by the start of the month. Thank you for not making me lose money, I really needed this win.”

“SUGURU,” you yell, diving under the blanket like you can hide from your sins. “DELETE THAT RIGHT NOW.”

Seiko flops dramatically onto your bed like it’s her dignity that’s been compromised. “Couldn’t you have waited one more week to bang my brother? You had no self-control?” Satoru is laughing. Fully laughing, his head tipped back like this is the best morning of his life.

“Why are you mad at her?” he asks Seiko. “I’m the one who did all the—”

“NOPE!” Seiko shouts, throwing a pillow at his face. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m leaving.”

“Leaving with the footage,” Suguru smirks, zooming in. You lunge at him with a second pillow. “SUGURU I SWEAR TO GOD—” Satoru just sighs contentedly, dragging you back into bed. “Honestly? This is better than morning sex.”

“You’re the worst person alive.” He kisses your cheek. “Love you too, sweets.”

–

Dating Gojo Satoru is somehow exactly what you expected and also nothing like it at all.

Because yes—he’s still cocky. Still dramatic. Still flirts with you like it’s a sport and throws your shared laundry onto the fan when he’s bored. But he also brings you coffee before your 9AMs, lets you wear his hoodies even though he grumbles about you “stretching them out with your cute little shoulders,” and texts you things like “missing u like crazy. come home and bully me 😞” when you’re gone for more than three hours. Seiko, naturally, has not let you live. “I literally can’t believe you,” she sighs one morning over brunch, watching you and Gojo bicker over who gets the last pancake like it’s her personal sitcom. “I brought him into this house and you betrayed me by falling for him.” You blink at her innocently. “Technically I was in love with him before I moved in.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“She’s gonna be your sister-in-law one day,” Satoru says with a grin, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “You should be happy.”

“I’m going to be sick,” she deadpans, sipping her coffee. “I don’t know who disgusts me more—you for dating her, or her for dating you.” You and Satoru just exchange a look. Then you make out across the table.

Loudly. Seiko drops her fork. 

“I’m leaving the country.”

Later That Week — Somewhere in His Car, 11:42 PM

It’s a warm night. The kind that clings to your skin and makes the windows fog up, even though all you’re doing is eating ice cream in the backseat of Satoru’s ridiculous Lexus like teenagers who just discovered kissing. You're wearing one of his shirts. He’s got his arm lazily around your shoulder, legs stretched out, cone half-melted in his hand. Music hums softly from the speakers—some dreamy indie song he said reminded him of you once.

“I used to wear bras that were too big just because I thought you liked girls with big tits,” you say, out of nowhere.

He chokes.

“What?”

You shrug, licking your spoon. “Yup. Used to stuff socks in them sometimes too. And I tried wearing eyeliner in like… freshman year. I looked like a raccoon. But I was like, ‘he likes girls with winged liner.’ So.”

Gojo is crying. Literal tears are in his eyes as he wheezes, “You wore sock boobs for me?!”

“I was thirteen and stupidly in love with your furby looking ass,” you grumble, face burning. “Nooo,” he says through laughter, clutching his stomach. “No way. You were cosplaying as a B-cup for me??”

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

“I’m honored. I feel chosen.” You roll your eyes, fake sulking. “And you didn’t even notice. Wow.” He wipes his eyes, still smiling like a menace. “Okay but to be fair, I was like… what, seventeen? If I had noticed, it would’ve been a little criminal.”

You groan. “Fine, I guess you’re right.” He leans in, brushing his nose against yours. “But I notice everything now.” You narrow your eyes. “Smooth.”

“Did it work?” You nod, slow. “Yeah. Unfortunately.” You sit in silence for a second, ice cream long forgotten. His thumb grazes the side of your jaw as he looks at you like he already knows every version of you—the teenage one with stuffed bras, the sarcastic college version who screamed at him in group projects, the current one who’s still a little awkward when she’s vulnerable but learning to let him in anyway. “You’re my favorite person,” he says suddenly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And you can’t even pretend to be cool about it.

“God,” you whisper, burying your face in his hoodie. “Don’t make me cry while I’m holding a fudge sundae.” He laughs, pulling you closer, arms wrapping fully around your waist. “No promises,” he mumbles into your hair. “But I’ve got napkins.” You kiss him, soft and unhurried. He tastes like vanilla. The windows fog up a little more. Somewhere in the distance, your phone buzzes. Probably Seiko texting a third reminder that you “better not be defiling her brother in public.” But you ignore it. Because for the first time in a long time, everything feels right. Just you, him, and a car that smells like waffle cones and warm cotton and a hundred what-ifs that have all finally, finally become yeses.

–

Bonus cause I’m the world’s best author or whatever

Five Years Later

It’s a warm spring afternoon. The kind of day where the sky’s cloudless, the flowers look fake because they’re so stupidly perfect, and everyone you love is slightly too drunk and happy. You’re in white. Obviously. Satoru’s in a custom tux, sunglasses perched in his snow-white hair like he thinks he’s a celebrity—which, okay, fine, he kind of is, judging by the way your cousin nearly fainted when he winked at her. Your fingers are still linked as you sit at the wedding table, watching the crowd buzz with post-dinner energy. The string lights are glowing. There’s champagne in your glass. He keeps leaning over to kiss your shoulder because he “can’t help himself,” and you keep swatting him away because the photographer is still here, but you’re smiling like a fool.

And then—

“Alright, alright, everyone, shut up—” comes Seiko’s voice from the speakers. You both freeze. Satoru immediately grins. “Oh god.” 

“She’s giving her speech,” you whisper, gripping his knee.

“I should be scared,” he whispers back. “She’s your best friend and my sister.” 

Up at the mic, Seiko clears her throat. She looks gorgeous, by the way—an elegant dress, her ivory hair so similar to her brothers glinting underneath the lights, champagne in hand, and a very pointed expression on her face. “So,” she says. “Hi. I’m Seiko. I’m the bride’s best friend… and unfortunately, the groom’s younger sister.”

Laughter. 

“I just wanna say—when I was little, I always dreamed of giving a speech at my best friend’s wedding. But I definitely didn’t think it would be this one.” More laughter. You bury your face in your hands. “Let me paint a picture,” she continues dramatically, starting to pace the stage like a stand-up comic. “It’s a regular Tuesday morning. I come out of my room, ready to microwave my sad breakfast. I’m on my way to the kitchen, when I suddenly spot my brother’s shoes and think, ‘Huh, why are Satoru’s shoes here, in front of (your name)’s room?’ Because my brother wasn’t supposed to be home. He had told me he was gonna be out with friends until the next morning. And his shoes sure as hell had never been outside my best friend’s room.”

Gojo groans next to you, forehead hitting the table. 

“And I think, ‘Oh no. Oh no no no.’ So I walk down the hallway. I open her bedroom door. And what do I see?”

Seiko pauses. The crowd leans in. She lifts her glass. “My brother,” she says, tone flat, “in my best friend’s bed.”

The room erupts.

Satoru’s face is in his hands. You’re laughing so hard your shoulders shake. “I screamed,” Seiko says dramatically, over the noise. “She screamed. He didn’t scream, because the bastard was asleep. And then I lost fifty goddamn dollars to Suguru, who bet me they’d get together before the end of the month.” Camera pans to Suguru in the crowd, smug as hell, arm around Seiko’s waist, raising his glass. “ And now,” Seiko says, grinning, “I’m standing here giving this speech, engaged to the man who profited off their hookup, and forced to admit that... I guess love wins. Or whatever.” Laughter. Cheers. Satoru clutches your hand and kisses your knuckles. Seiko softens. Just a little. “But in all seriousness,” she says, voice a bit shakier now, “you two are it. The real thing. And I’m so happy that my best friend is now officially my sister-in-law—even if I had to walk in on her mid afterglow to get here.”

Groans. Cheers. Chants of “SISTER-IN-LAW! SISTER-IN-LAW!”  You’re laughing through tears now, forehead pressed against Gojo’s. “I love you guys,” Seiko finishes, raising her glass high. “Now go make out or whatever. It’s your wedding.”  You blow your best friend a kiss, before leaning into your husband, his arm snaking around you to pull you to his chest. 

“She really brought up the bed thing,” you mumble against his chest. “She absolutely did,” he murmurs, nose in your hair.

 “And the socks in the bra thing didn’t get a shoutout? Unfair.” He laughs, holding you tighter. “Maybe we’ll save that one for the ten-year vow renewal.” You tilt your head up. “Think we’ll make it to ten years?”

 He smiles, wide and stupid and glowing.  “We’ll make it to forever.” 

 You kiss him, slow and full of everything. And the lights twinkle above like they’re cheering you on.

authors note: hi everyone! i hope u liked it LOL i sacrificed my sleep for this i hope it was worth it! i can finally prepare for my exams without the looming anxiety of posting this ^.^

[wosospacegirl]

Legally binding - Part 2

Summary: Alexia Putellas didn’t plan to become anyone’s legal guardian. But a very determined 12-year-old with a forged Barça contract has other ideas — and she’s already moved in.

Warnings: Alexia doesn't know how to tuck anyone is, and Y/n is proudly offering five euros to help with groceries.

Word count: 4.6k

Part 1 here

Masterlist

..

Alexia never realised just how big her dining room was until she sat across from a twelve-year-old stranger in it.

She rarely ate here. 

Usually, dinner was something balanced and boring, grilled fish and roasted vegetables, eaten on the sofa while half-watching a sports talk show. 

But tonight, with the girl here… it felt wrong, somehow, to eat in silence in front of the TV.

So, she set two plates down on the dining table like a proper adult and tried not to feel weird about it.

Now, she just watched, fork halfway to her mouth, as the girl absolutely inhaled her food. 

She was nearly finished already, only a few broccoli left on her plate, while Alexia had barely made it through her third bite.

And she was eating everything. Even the vegetables.

“Aren’t kids supposed to hate that kind of thing?” Alexia asked.

The girl looked up, cheeks full. She looked like a squirrel. 

Alexia resisted the urge to sigh. “So…” she said instead, reaching for her orange juice, “what’s your name?”

The girl shovelled another forkful of pasta into her mouth. “Uhgmm,” she said through it.

Alexia grimaced. “Sorry?”

The girl swallowed, wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, and shrugged. 

“Not telling you..”

“I’m sorry–what?” Alexia said, completely confused.

“I’m not telling you,” the girl said again, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ll just give me back if you know.”

Alexia stared at her, genuinely baffled. “Give you back?”

“To the orphanage,” the girl said simply. “Obviously.”

Alexia’s mouth opened, then closed again. 

Because… she wasn’t wrong. 

Alexia had wanted to know her name so she could pass it to her lawyer, have someone contact the authorities, figure out how to send her back, and if she was going to have to sign other documents cancelling the guardianship.

“I already know where you came from,” Alexia said slowly. “I don’t need your name to find the orphanage, I know it’s the Santa Clara one”

The girl froze, eyes wide, the fork halfway to her mouth again. Her confidence flickered for just a second.

“You can’t give me back,” she said quickly, too quickly. “You’re my legal guardian now. You signed a document.”

Alexia shot her a look. “A document you forged. In a way, I still don’t even understand.”

The girl set her utensils down and folded her hands over the table. The way she leaned forward, her elbows planted, chin tilted, expression serious, made her look like she was about to do business. 

“Look,” she said, “I don’t want a mom. Or a dad. Okay? That’s not what this is.”

Alexia didn’t answer. She just waited.

“I want to be a footballer,” the girl continued. “Like you.”

Alexia stared.

“I don’t need you to parent me or whatever,” the girl went on, as if that part was obvious. “I just need a place to stay. And for you to get me into La Masia. You don’t even need to pay–I’ve got some money.”

She dug into her hoodie pocket and pulled out a handful of wrinkled bills, proudly laying them across the table like she was negotiating something.

Twenties, tens, even a crumpled fifty. Where she got them, Alexia didn’t want to know.

“See?” the girl said brightly. “I can cover the... monthly tuition.”

Alexia looked down at the cash, barely enough to buy shin guards, let alone support a training program, and then back at her.

“You know this wouldn’t even buy one boot, right?”

The girl tilted her head, clearly processing that. “No? Oh….well, that’s okay, I’ll get a job!”

Alexia nearly choked. “You’re not getting a job. You’re a kid.”

“But I can cook! Well, not really. But I can wash dishes!”

“That’s not—” Alexia ran a hand down her face. “That’s not how this works. You can’t just… move in with someone and say you’re gonna get a job in exchange for becoming a professional footballer.”

“Why not?” the girl asked earnestly. “I’ve got a plan. All you have to do is not ruin it.”

Alexia stared at her.

This kid had broken into her house, eaten her dinner, forged a legal document, and now had the audacity to ask her not to ruin her plan.

She took a deep breath, leaned back in her chair, and looked at the girl, who still didn’t have a name. Who looked up at her like this was all normal. 

She forced her own adoption, and she thought it was completely casual.

It should’ve been infuriating.

But instead, Alexia just felt… tired. She had a long day.

She had woken up that morning thinking her biggest worry was the upcoming game. Tactics. Opponent formations.

Now, she was sitting at her dining table. An unfamiliar setting in itself, thinking about how the kid sitting across from her wouldn’tt have clothes for the winter.

Alexia leaned back slightly in her chair, eyes drifting down to the empty plate across from her.

“Do you want more?” she asked, her voice calm.

The kid, who up until now had spoken with nothing but confidence, seemed to wilt a little. 

Her shoulders hunched in just the smallest way, and she looked down at her lap like the question embarrassed her.

“No, thank you,” she said, quiet and polite in a way that felt… off.

Alexia frowned. The plate had been licked clean–well, not literally, but close. 

The kid had eaten her food like someone who didn’t know when her next meal was coming. And now, she was suddenly… demure? 

Yeah. No way was she actually full.

Without saying anything, Alexia reached across the table and took the plate. 

The girl flinched–just a little, a small tightening of the jaw–but said nothing. Alexia turned toward the kitchen, refilled the plate with more pasta, and scooped on an extra spoonful of broccoli, since this one apparently liked it a lot.

Then she returned.

Alexia placed it in front of the girl.

The kid stared. Then blinked. 

Then looked up at her with eyes too big, too round, too unsure.

“Are you sure?” she asked, voice tentative.

“Sí,” Alexia said, nodding once.

There was a beat of silence. The girl’s fingers crept toward the tablecloth, rubbing the edge between her thumb and index finger. Her brows knit together.

“Won’t it, like…” she hesitated, glancing at the plate again. “Won’t there be like… a shortage of food or something?”

Alexia’s stomach dropped.

“No,” she said gently. “There’s plenty in the pantry. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“But your freezer looked empty.”

Alexia flushed. “I haven’t done the groceries yet,” she admitted.

“Oh.” The girl nodded again, like that made sense. 

And then she reached into the pocket of her hoodie. Fingers fumbling a little, she pulled out more crumpled bills.

She took a single five-euro note, smoothed it against her palm, and then, with all the dignity in the world, slid it across the table with one finger.

“To help pay for the food,” she said.

Alexia stared at the note.

 The table felt too big again. 

The kid too small.

  And suddenly, the game or dinner was the least of her worries.

..

When dinner was done, every last bit of pasta and broccoli scraped off the plates, the kid jumped up with unexpected energy.

“I’ll do the dishes!” she declared, already reaching for the sink.

Alexia frowned, rising to her feet. “You don’t have to.--”

“I like touching water,” the girl interrupted, dead serious, like it was a totally normal reason.

Alexia blinked. “Okay then.”

So while the girl stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, Alexia hovered nearby. She dried the plates and set them on the rack, letting the girl have her moment.

She looked comically small next to the counter. The sponge was almost too big for her hand, and she kept having to stretch to reach the faucet.

Alexia cleared her throat, trying to make conversation. “You’re twelve, right?”

“Yes!” the girl said proudly, chin lifted. “Almost thirteen.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes! My birthday is like… in eight months.”

Alexia paused. “Oh. Yeah. Definitely close.”

The girl nodded seriously, as if that settled it. She returned to scrubbing a fork, very concentrated.

Alexia opened her mouth, trying to think of something–anything–she could ask the girl. 

But no question would be enough. None of them could really help her make sense of what had happened two hours ago.

That morning, she was just Alexia Putellas. Barcelona’s captain. Leaving the house with her kit bag slung over her shoulder and her mind focused on training drills.

By the evening? She was… Guardian Alexia Putellas, apparently. Cooking dinner for a twelve-year-old girl who might, technically, be her legal responsibility.

This was insane. Completely insane.

And yet, the girl didn’t look insane. She looked… harmless. Small. 

Too small and far too thin for a twelve-year-old. But also too clever for her own good, too quick with her words, too sharp-eyed. 

And Alexia still didn’t even know her name.

They had begged her to upgrade the security for years, but she had always brushed them off.

She shivered, recalling how the girl had just… barged in. Walked straight into her living room.

Maybe it was time to finally take her mother and Alba’s advice: alarms on the windows, a digital lock on the door. Something that needed a code to open. 

Now? Knowing a pre-teen had managed to scale her building and just walk inside?

Yeah. That needed to change.

Her thoughts spiralled further, carried by a chill that ran down her spine.

What would have happened if the girl had chosen a different house? 

What if she had climbed into the wrong apartment? Found someone who wasn’t kind, who wasn’t safe? Someone with bad intentions?

Alexia’s stomach twisted.

It was obvious no one was looking out for this kid. 

The way she had spoken, so confident, utterly convinced of the legality of her claim, told Alexia that this wasn’t just a prank. 

Something real had happened. Something official enough for the girl to believe it.

And if the orphanage had really let her leave like that…

She rubbed a hand down her face, exhaling slowly. Tomorrow, she was going to call Pedro. Her lawyer would know what to do—he would get the facts straight. 

He could find out who this girl was, where she came from, and what kind of orphanage allowed a child to walk around Barcelona with nothing but a backpack and a forged contract claiming a new parent.

Because right now, Alexia wasn’t even sure what kind of situation she’d gotten herself into.

But one thing was clear: this girl had nowhere else to go.

..

"Okay, everything is done here," Alexia said, sliding the last plate into the cupboard.

The kid, however, wasn’t done. She was hunched over the sink with that same determined energy, scrubbing the basin like it owed her something. 

Her fingers moved fast, precise, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

“I don’t think it looks clean enough,” the girl muttered to herself, scrubbing harder. “I like cleaning. It’s like...you just fixed something, even if it’s small.”

Alexia tilted her head, trying to spot whatever the girl was obsessing over. From where she stood, the kitchen practically sparkled. 

Not a speck of food, not a smear of sauce. It looked better than it had in weeks.

“Hm… no, it’s good–come on,” Alexia said, reaching for the sponge.

The girl rolled her eyes in response.

Oh. So this was what her mother had felt all those years, when she and Alba would roll their eyes over homework or chores. 

It was infuriating.

“It’s clearly not clean. Don’t you see this?” The kid jabbed at the sink with her sponge, pointing at what Alexia could only describe as a small speck of tomato sauce, dried and clinging stubbornly to the kitchen.

Alexia squinted. “It’s just tomato sauce…It’s been there for two weeks.”

“Exactly.”

The girl nodded, satisfied with her mission. She hummed as she scrubbed, making up a ridiculous song under her breath: “Sauce, sauce, go away, come back never again.”

“This is the last thing you’re cleaning,” Alexia declared, watching the wall clock.

Ten p.m. already. It was late for a kid. It was late for her, and she hadn’t even changed out of her training clothes yet. “After this, you’re not touching another sponge again.”

Alexia blinked. The kid was weird.

When she tried sneaking over to the counter to keep cleaning, Alexia snatched the sponge from her hand.

“Hey!” the kid protested.

“I told you, no more cleaning.” Alexia pointed dramatically toward the living room. “Out. Let’s get you sorted.”

The girl huffed but obeyed, shoulders slouched like she was being exiled from her kingdom.

As they walked into the living room, Alexia tried to figure out what exactly “sorting her out” meant. 

Maybe… just continuing her own routine and bringing the kid along? That seemed like a reasonable plan.

The girl paused in front of the television, standing still like she had stumbled across a secret relic. Her eyes locked on the blank black screen, her expression puzzled.

“Okay, so here’s what we’re going to do–” Alexia began, adopting her classic on-pitch captain voice, ready to lay down a game plan. “We’re going to take a bath, then go to bed, and tomorrow we’ll–”

“What is this?” the girl asked, cutting her off completely. She pointed at the television.

Alexia blinked. “What?”

“This. What is this?”

“It’s a television.”

The girl looked at her like she’d just spoken another language. “What is a television?”

Alexia stared. “A TV. You know… televisión?”

Still no reaction. The girl tilted her head.

“It shows things,” Alexia tried again, gesturing vaguely. “Movies, cartoons, serious stuff like the news… and football games. The best kind of content.”

The kid squinted at the screen, unmoved. “I don’t know what any of that means.”

Alexia let out a stunned little breath. “You… you are Spanish, right?”

“Sí,” the girl replied easily. “I just never… I don’t know what that is.”

Alexia swallowed. “Okay. I’ll explain it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Sí. Now come, let me show you the bathroom.”

The girl picked up her backpack, cradling the adoption folder tightly against her chest.

 She followed Alexia down the hall. 

The apartment wasn’t large—just two bedrooms with en suites, a guest bathroom, a kitchen, dining area, and living room. 

Cosy enough. 

Functional. 

Alexia had been meaning to buy a proper house, but right now that felt a lifetime away.

She opened the door to the guest room and stepped aside, letting the kid walk in first.

It was a decent space. Queen-size bed, full-length mirror, desk, and a set of drawers. Only her mom or Alba ever stayed in it.

“You can leave your things there,” Alexia said, pointing toward the corner.

The girl turned, her figure suddenly looking too small for the room.

“Is this your room?” she asked.

“No,” Alexia said. “Mine’s down the hall, to the left.”

“So what is this room?”

“It’s the guest room. You’ll sleep here tonight.”

Alexia crossed the room and started fluffing the pillows, trying to make the bed look more inviting. 

She had no idea what she was doing, but it felt like the right thing. Domestic. Caring. Sort of.

The girl stared at the bed.

“I’ve never had one of those,” she said quietly.

Alexia froze. “What?”

“A bed.”

Alexia’s hands fell from the duvet. 

Her chest tightened as she turned around slowly. 

“Oh… no. Really?”

“Gotcha!” The girl grinned, dropping onto the mattress. Her legs dangled above the floor, nowhere near touching it. “You should’ve seen your face! Of course, I’ve had a bed.”

Alexia deadpanned. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

Por Dios.

“So what exactly do you have in there?” Alexia asked, nodding toward the girl’s backpack.

The girl looked at her with a vague grin, clearly proud of the mystery. 

“Oh, just some stuff,” she said, dragging the zipper open with a dramatic flair and flipping the contents onto the mattress.

A modest pile tumbled out.

Some clothing, only enough for two days. One sock–just one. A toothbrush way too old. 

A few crumpled pieces of paper with what seemed to be drawings on them, and some small photographs–clearly of the girl herself, but younger. 

Maybe five or six.

Alexia’s hand hovered over the photos for a second, curiosity tugging at her, but she stopped herself. It felt too personal.

“This is all my stuff,” the girl announced, smiling proudly. “I’ve worked really hard for them!”

Alexia didn’t answer immediately. 

She was going to enjoy this moment where the girl didn’t seem to focus on cleaning the oven, or was too scared to get sent away to ask some questions.

Alexia turned toward the en suite bathroom attached to the guest room, opening a drawer and casually pulling out a few towels. 

She added a face towel, then grabbed a spare toothbrush, some soap, and the small bottles of shampoo she kept around for guests.

“So… worked for them? What do you mean?” Alexia asked, while keeping her voice very casual, as if she didn’t really want to know.

The girl sat on the edge of the bed, legs swinging. “Yes. Work. We had to clean the orphanage to get stuff.”

Alexia paused, shampoo bottle still in her hand.

Ah.

That explained the obsession with the spotless sink.

She gave a quiet nod and resumed laying the towels neatly on the bathroom counter. 

“Oh…I see.”

The girl didn't seem bothered. In fact, she was proud. 

Not ashamed or bitter–just explaining the rules of the world she had grown up in. Alexia's chest tightened.

When she returned to the room, the girl was organising her tiny pile of belongings into the drawers like it was a personal treasure chest.

Alexia cleared her throat.

“The bathroom’s ready. I left you everything you might need, but you can tell me if something’s missing.”

The girl nodded solemnly, folding her single sock neatly.

“You good?” Alexia asked.

“Sí.”

The bathroom door clicked shut with a soft thud. It wasn’t loud–but somehow, it echoed.

Alexia stood there for a moment, her hand half-raised like she might knock on the bathroom door, but for what reason? She didn't know. 

So she let it drop and looked around.

This was her guest room.

Except… it didn’t quite like hers anymore.

Something about it had shifted, like the room itself had changed and adapted the moment that kid stepped in. 

The light even looked different now….warmer maybe, softer. Or maybe that was just in her head.

Alexia’s eyes caught on the small drawer she had opened earlier to grab a towel. 

It was closed again now, but she knew what was inside: one sock. 

Not a pair. 

Just one. 

Ridiculous. 

One sock shouldn’t change the shape of a room. But it did. She sat down on the edge of the bed–hesitantly, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to anymore. 

The mattress dipped slightly beneath her weight. She stared at the floor.

Should she stay? Or leave?

Give the girl privacy? But what if she needed something? What if she didn’t know how the water heater worked? What if the pressure changed suddenly? What if she…slipped?

Alexia didn’t even know what kind of soap the kid liked. Did she have a skin condition? Allergies? Was she scared of something? Of being alone?

There was a whole person behind that door…a whole history that Alexia didn’t know about. 

Alexia let herself fall onto the bed, arms splayed out, staring at the ceiling. 

The fan rotated slowly above her, barely moving the air.

She hadn’t felt like this in her own space since… maybe ever. 

Not when her mom visited. Not when Olga stayed over for weeks during her injury. Not even when the team came over for dinners and spilt wine on her rug.

This whole situation was a mess. 

It was scary.

Alexia didn’t know how to care for someone in any way. 

Her romantic life was just sad at this point…she couldn’t remember the last time someone flirted with her without also asking for match tickets.

Her family had to remind her to call because she would get too caught up in football…and now a kid? A whole living-breathing kid?

Alexia swore up and down during her teenage years that she didn’t have any maternal bones in her body, but minutes later, when the girl showed up on the bathroom door with a pyjama that barely reached her wrists, she couldn’t help but feel something tugging inside her chest.

The shirt was too snug around her middle. The pants clung to her calves like leggings, stretched out and faded with wear. 

The fabric had once been pink, maybe. Now it was somewhere between peach and grey.

The kid didn't seem to mind how her belly and calves were showing, though, as if it was normal, how it was meant to be worn.

Still, the girl beamed.

“Oh, so… that’s your pyjama?” Alexia asked, trying to sound casual.

“Yes!” the girl chirped. “I got it on my ninth birthday!”

Alexia hesitated. Did the math. 

“Oh,” she said. “It looks a bit… tight, don’t you think?”

The girl frowned, her eyebrows pulling together like storm clouds.

“No.”

Alexia shifted her weight. “What if you change it? I can lend you one of my shirts or something–”

“No.”

“I just don’t think you’ll sleep comfortably in that,” Alexia said, gentler now, trying not to push.

“I like it. It’s mine.”

That last word hit harder than it should have. Mine.

Alexia shut her mouth. Because what was she going to say? That it didn’t fit? That the sleeves pinch? That it wasn’t warm enough?

It didn’t matter. It was hers. 

One of the few things in the world the girl could claim. And maybe that was more important than being warm or comfortable.

Alexia nodded slowly, almost apologetically. “Okay, sorry. You can keep it.”

The girl didn’t smile now.

She just moved to the bed and sat down cross-legged, fingers picking at a loose thread on the hem of her shirt.

Alexia stood up slowly, legs stiff from sitting too long on the edge of the bed. The girl watched her, still picking at the thread on her too-tight pyjamas.

Alexia hovered for a second, unsure, then stepped to the side of the bed. She reached down, took the edge of the duvet in her hands, and lifted it.

“You can get in,” she said, voice gentler than she expected.

The girl blinked at her. Like the gesture didn’t quite compute. Like she was waiting for something else.

Still, she obeyed. Slipped under the covers slowly, limbs careful and unsure, as if waiting to be told she wasn’t allowed after all. Her head landed on the pillow.

Alexia pulled the duvet up, tucked it lightly around her shoulders. Not too tight. Just enough. She didn’t know what she was doing, but it felt like the right thing.

Neither of them said anything.

She had never tucked anyone in before.

And the girl… looked like she’d never been tucked in either.

So it was a first for both of them.

Alexia hovered again, hands awkwardly at her sides, standing like she was posing for a team photo. The girl just looked at her, face soft and eyes half-lidded with sleep. 

Alexia thought about saying goodnight, or sleep well, or I’ll be just in the next room, but the words caught in her throat.

The girl’s eyes fluttered shut. Her breath evened out, slower. Softer. And then, in the smallest, sleepiest voice

“Please don’t send me back.”

Alexia didn’t answer.

She just stood there for a beat longer, then backed away slowly. Reached for the light switch. The room dimmed into a comforting dusk. 

She hesitated at the door.

Looked one last time.

Then she closed it.

Not all the way. Just enough.

..

In her own room, Alexia grabbed her phone off the charger with hands that felt too shaky for someone who regularly captained national finals.

She opened her messages, scrolled until she found Pedro, her lawyer.

Alexia: Hello, I have an emergency. Please call me

Three dots danced on screen for a while.

Then Pedro finally responded:

Pedro: What happened, Alexia? Something with the contract?

She sighed, fingers flying across the screen.

Alexia: Well, yes. A kid, she somehow got her hands on the contract, slipped a guardianship clause in there, and she came to my house, backpack and everything, saying I’m her legal guardian, she had some documents with her.

The phone started buzzing.

Alexia picked up on the first ring.

“Pedro.”

“You have a what?” he said, voice high and incredulous–nothing like the calm, measured tone she was used to hearing from him.

“I don’t know her name,” Alexia said, running a hand through her hair. “She’s one of the orphans from Santa Clara. You know, that orphanage Barcelona partnered with last month.”

Silence. Then the faint sound of frantic typing.

“Oh God,” Pedro muttered. “Hold on, let me check the system.”

Alexia waited, the only sound on the line the rapid clack of keys.

“Dios mío,” Pedro said at last. “It’s real. It’s all here. You’re listed as her full legal guardian. Signed and everything. The orphanage has already taken her off their records.”

Alexia squeezed her eyes shut. “How the hell did she manage to forge that?”

“No idea,” Pedro said, still sounding awestruck. “But it’s clean. Official. Like it went through the proper channels.”

“I’m so tired,” Alexia whispered, pressing her fingers hard into her eyes.

There was a beat of quiet.

“If you want to reverse it, we can start the paperwork,” Pedro said gently. “It’ll take a few months, but we can make a case for immediate annulment.”

Alexia didn’t answer right away. She stared up at the ceiling, letting the silence drag.

“…Yes. Please.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

“Okay,” Pedro said, just as softly. 

“I’ll start tomorrow morning. But until it’s processed, you’ll still be her legal guardian. That means enrolling her in school, getting her on your health plan, and making sure she’s safe and cared for. If we want the court to undo this, you have to show you were responsible in the meantime.”

“Fuck.” Alexia let out a long breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ll take care of her.”

“Good,” Pedro said. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have something.”

“Wait,” Alexia said quickly. “Do you have her name?”

There was a short pause, then some more typing.

“Y/N,” he said. Twelve years old. Born April second. No siblings in the system. Her mother gave her up–claimed she couldn’t afford to raise her. No ID listed for the mom.”

Alexia nodded slowly, though Pedro couldn’t see her.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

Y/n.

Okay.

Alexia hung up. Put the phone down on the nightstand. 

She sat there for a while, staring at the wall. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worried about something that didn’t involve a match or a muscle strain.

Not a press conference. Not a lineup.

Just… a kid.

Maybe that was what scared her the most. Not the responsibility. Not even the legal mess. But the fact that part of her already cared. And it had nothing to do with football.

Alexia allowed her eyes to close on their one.

She dreamt of a sock, folded neatly in a drawer. And a kid with a too-small pyjama, curled under a duvet that didn’t quite belong to either of them.

..

a/n: I’m not sure where this story is going yet, so consider this an open canvas! I’m hoping we can build the plot together, and I’d love to hear any thoughts, suggestions, or ideas you have along the way! <3

Tag list: @edensbreeze @silentwolfsstuff, @goodloe-e @mccabeskcc @blaugranafairy @footy-lover264 @the-fandom-ness @wosofavfanfics

[playbucky]

Cowboy in a Pantsuit - M.R.

Description - Reader has been Gloria's assistant for almost three years, she has learned the ins and outs of her work, but no one knows her until a trauma means she's pulling on the gloves. Word Count - 2.1k Characters - Reader, Gloria, Robby, Dana, Langdon, Mel and mentions of other interns. Warnings - medical emergencies, medical inaccuracies, blood, trauma.

“Y/N, what can I help you with?” Dana greeted you with a forced smile. You weren’t stupid. You knew that no one liked Gloria, so no one liked you. “Gloria needs -,” You started before heavy footsteps rounded you. “I don’t have the time. She can try to corner me herself without sending her lackey down.” Robby grumbled, stretching an arm between you and Dand as he dropped a tablet onto the desk. You clenched your jaw and forced a smile. “Of course, I’ll pass the message on," you said, turning and walking away, then turning back. “I need you all to read this and sign it. Anyone whose signature isn’t on that document will be forced into a meeting with Gloria to discuss the rapid use of gloves.” You added, dropping the bundle of paper down. Dana looked amused as Robby jumped. “You should be nicer to them.” Dana said, Robby looked at her. “Why?” “You’re taking your frustration with Gloria out on them.” She said, he pinched the bridge of his nose over his glasses.

Walking into the ED caused you to freeze. Three gurneys were being wheeled in, vitals quickly listed off to anyone nearby, and Dana was guiding everyone to where they needed to be. Interns had panic on their faces, the shock of how quickly the day can turn. Dana directed one of the gurneys towards you, into the trauma room, before she and everyone else were pulled away when one of the others' vitals suddenly dropped. You tried to walk away, but the patient near you struggled to breathe, his hand came up to his chest, and you watched. You noticed the paperwork you were looking for, and the boxes of gloves that sat there. Sighing, you plucked a pair from the box and pulled them on. Making your way into the trauma room, you watched the screen; the vitals moved quickly. You opened your mouth to ask him some questions, but his head lolled to the side, his oxygen tanked and a silent curse passed your lips. Opening the tray, you found the incubation tube. Tearing the packaging off, you moved above the man, opening his jaw and placing the tube into his mouth. “What are you doing?” Robby asked, you stood at the head of the bed and easily slid the tube down the man’s throat.  You attached the bag to the end and started to pump the air in. A nurse appeared beside you and took over, glancing cautiously at Robby. You ignored him and walked to the patient's side again, carefully resting your hands on either side of his chest, feeling his ribs move underneath. His right-hand side felt bumpy, something had been moved or broken. “Gloria will have your head, you’re not trained.” He hissed, his hand wrapping around your elbow, you yanked it away. “I am," you hissed, pulling the man’s shirt wider, you watched the nurses place more pads on his chest, “Went through medical school and more, just like all the doctors here, so can we please work on the patients?” “You can’t give orders.” He argued, you dropped your hands and faced him. “Look Michael, Jack's the closest and probably twenty minutes away still, so please either help me or give me Mel.” You said, watching the man’s vitals continue to drop. “What has he got?” “He passed out before I could ask, but it's possible punctured lung, right side, going with the bruises.” You told him, gesturing to the purples and blues blooming. Robby pulled his stethoscope from his neck and placed it on his chest. You watched as his eyebrows furrowed together. He straightened and nodded, “You figured that out without any help?” Looking at you. “His chest was moving only on one side, point of contact and all that.” You used two fingers to point to the area. “He’s gonna need scans.” Robby said, you nodded and went to walk away, but the frantic beeping sounded, and both of your heads whipped around. “He’s crashing.” Robby said, he stepped around you as you placed your hand on the patient’s stomach, which had turned tight. “He’s bleeding out.” The beeping continued, the curtain was pulled back, and neither of you looked up. “All operating rooms are full.” Dana announced, and you glanced at her as she shared a look with Robby, nurses noticing your presence as well. “We could do it here?” You suggested, Dana’s eyebrow raised as Robby straightened. “It’s against protocol.” Dana and Robby said, you straightened. “Get us gowned up. I’ll take the blame if anything comes down.” You told them. They looked at you, and the nurses moved to place the cover over you.

“What are you doing?” Gloria’s voice cut through, you had just left a trauma room, everyone stopped to watch the interaction. “Working.” “This isn’t working.” “Gloria you know where my roots lie, I’m not going to be a bitch when someone’s dying.” You told her point blank, small murmurs filled the space, that force once had fallen quieter. “And there are doctors here to do that.” She said, you bite your tongue before removing your stained gloves and chucking them into the bin. “Y/N.” She went to apologise, pursing your lips whilst nodding. “No,” you held your hands up. Gloria, you made it clear. Let me get changed, and then I’ll grab your lunch, and we can ponder over how to better patient satisfaction.” You told her, and without giving her a chance to answer, you pushed past her, ignoring the looks from everyone else.

Exiting the building, you crossed to the car park, your heels clicking in the cement and digging into your heels. Reaching the aisle where your car was parked, you noticed the tall figure lingering around. “I should call security for you lingering around my car.” You commented, he lifted his head and looked at you, you walked around your car. “Why didn’t you tell us?” Robby asked, you raised a shoulder as you stood at your door. “Why didn’t you ask?” You asked back before scoffing. “Oh wait, you automatically thought I was a snobby woman who tried to change the way ED’s work without having worked in one.” “I’m sorry.” He apologised, and you looked at him before you nodded. “Where did you work?” He asked. “West Penn.” You grumbled. “Can I ask why you left there?” He questioned, you dropped your chin before lifting your head again. “It was either have my entire career ruined or move here and keep my certificates.” You admitted, holding eye contact with him. “You must’ve pissed someone off.” “Oh, I did.” You agreed with the statement, “But it seems like I do that daily, so not much has changed.” You said, you unlocked your car, pulling the door open. “You want a lift back?” You offered, he shook his head and took a small step backwards. “No, no thanks. I need to go back in and catch Jack for changeovers," he said, gesturing back to the hospital. You nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.” “I’ll be here.” He replied, you have each other a right smile before he stepped back and you ducked inside.

“How are you feeling?” Robby asked, you sent him a glance as he walked by your side. “I did something that might piss you off.” Robby admitted, your eyebrows furrowed as you looked at him. “Do I need to alert HR?” You quizzed, stopping at your office door. “No, well, not unless you want to report me.” He said, his shoulder resting on the wall against your office door. “For what?” “I have a friend at West Penn -,” “Unbelievable.” You muttered, twisting to your office. “Twelve cases, ten of which had serious lifelong disabilities because of him.” He said, following you into your office, you remained silent as you removed your coat and headed towards your desk. You walked to your desk, pulling the chair out before you dropped into it. You set your bag on the floor and the water bottle on a small coaster. Robby rested his curled hands on the desk. You opened your laptop and switched it on. “Y/N.” He said, you closed your eyes before looking up to him. “It was closer to fifty, Robby.” You said, slouching back into your seat, he looked at you. “I could only prove the twelve malpractice cases, but it was almost fifty, so you can see why I had to move.” You told him. He remained silent as you straightened, focusing on your laptop.

“Y/N?” Dana called, your headache had been inching its way forward all day, since Gloria had called you into a meeting before nine o’clock this morning. “What?” You snapped, turning to them, “Sorry.” You said softly, they took in your run-down appearance, and under your eyes had hollowed. “Is everything okay?” Robby questioned, you tilted your head back and inhaled deeply, blinking as you focused on him. “Yeah, it’s your best day since I’ve been fired.” You announced. “What?” Dana and Robby both stood, you chuckled before shaking your head. “Why?” “Gloria’s bosses got wind of me helping, said that it was against my rules, and I should be ashamed that I put the person's life at risk.” You explained, Robby pulled off his glasses, rubbing his face as Dana shook her head. “You saved him.” He stated, you raised a shoulder as Langdon walked over, placing his tablet on the desk. “May seem that way, but it’s against my contract.” You said. “Yet you’re down here.” Langdon said, your gaze snapped to him. “Yeah, pretty boy, thought I’d come warn you of the shit that coming your way.” You almost snarled, Langdon’s eyes widened slightly at your sharp response. “Y/N, what’s happening?” “One of the bosses is coming in to check everything, dot the I’s and cross the t’s, so all politeness will vanish.” You warned them. “You’re letting them fire you?” Robby questioned. “I keep my words.” You told him, knocking your knuckles against the desk before walking away.

“Why are you here?” You asked. Robby stood in your doorway, his dark eyes taking in your relaxed appearance, having only seen you in iron and sharp clothes. “Has Gloria phoned you yet?” “No,” you watched as he rubbed your hands together, “Do you want to come in?” You asked, stepping to the side allowing him to enter. “Why would she be phoning me?” “To offer you a job.” He said, stopping behind your couch, he took in the discarded blanket and book. “Funny.” You said, he shook his head. “I’m being serious, I put up with the devil, and we talked about what should happen.” He tried to joke, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Gloria understands the sacrifice you made to report the doctor, she wants to help you compile a case so you can go against him.” He explained, your eyebrows pinched together, “and that she’d be willing to allow you to start working in the ED.” “What?” “Why are you being so nice?” You quizzed, crossing your arms over your chest, having Robby in your apartment made it feel tiny. “I’m trying to make up for the times I treated you like shit.” He shrugged, hands tucked into the pockets of the worn hoodie. “I can’t put everyone at risk. He’s a powerful doctor, and I don’t want him to go after you or anyone.” “Y/N, it would be a waste of your training if you sat in an office.” He said. “Thank you.” “Answer the phone when Gloria calls, please.” He said, you nodded, and he turned back to your front door, you followed behind him. “Robby?” You asked, he turned to you and stumbled back as you wrapped your arms around him. He hesitated for a second before wrapping his arms around you, gently squeezing you. You took in the warmth he gave off before pulling back and looking at him. “Thank you.” You replied, he nodded, twisting to open the door. “I’ll see you at work.” He said, you smiled and nodded. Robby walked away, hearing you shut your door before he let a smile take over his face. He only sobered up when he saw his reflection in the mirror when the elevator doors opened.

Tags - @breadsquash @riotsuns @ego-allie-bap @ultimate-geek14 @isla-finke-blog @crabbygabby @snowflames-world @elkitot @internetmultifandomfangirl @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @readergf @agirlwholuvstoread @nihilophobias @omgbrainab @bruher @glitteryturtledeer @chaoticmessneutralplease @cycram0 @princesssunderworld @ilariyalavorowrites @overduelibrarybooks @dev525 @maroonbuttercup @evans-dejong @ay0nha @luminous-99 @velvetpucks @ninasemcafeina @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @brnesblogposts @trustme3-13 @mxacegrey @lol-im-done @girljusttrying97 @3am-at-a-party @nixandtonic @riotsuns @notsochillnerd @marianatrenchprobably @stqrs-thoughts @thatchickwiththecamera @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind

[buldakcorn]

thoughts on a chuu fic 🤭🤭

Nerves

LOONA Chuu x Male Reader

Genre : Blowjob, Titjob, Quickie, Breeding

3791 words

Chuu messaged you to come accompany her at her waiting room as she was alone there feeling nervous for her performance. Though, her method to calm her nerves seems to be rather unique.

---

Chuu's eyes were wide with lustful anticipation, her lips quivering slightly as she gazed up at you. Her delicate hands gently caressed the outline of your growing erection through your pants, her fingers tracing the length of it with a feverish eagerness. Her mouth watered at the thought of tasting you, feeling the warmth and power of your manhood fill her to the brim.

"Please," she whimpered, her voice a sweet symphony of desperation, "let me show you just how good I can make you feel." With that, she began to unbuckle your belt with trembling hands, her eyes never leaving yours, seeking the permission that she so desperately craved.

The sound of the zipper being drawn down filled the room with a tantalizing promise, and she wasted no time in freeing your cock from its confines. It sprang forth, proud and erect, and she took a moment to admire it before leaning in to show you just how much she truly meant her words.

"Look at how plump and soft my lips are," Chuu whispered seductively, her gaze flicking up to meet yours as she puckered her lips into a tantalizing pout. "They are like the gates to paradise," her eyes sparkling with mischief as she leaned closer, allowing the warmth of her breath to caress the tip of your cock.

She parted her lips slightly, revealing a hint of pink tongue that danced in invitation. "They're made to kiss, to suck, to worship every inch of you," she continued, her voice a sultry purr that seemed to resonate in your very core.

She stared at you adorably, her expression a tantalizing blend of innocence and desire that made your heart race and your cock throb even more. Her eyes pleaded for you to let her have her way, to let her show you just how much she appreciated your arousal.

"I promise, I'll make sure you never forget the feeling of my mouth on you," she breathed.

The sight of Chuu's adorable smile and the sound of her playful giggle sent a shiver down your spine as she leaned in to make contact with the sensitive tip of your cock. Her soft, wet tongue darted out, tracing a delicate path along your shaft, her eyes never leaving yours as she watched for your reaction. The first few licks were like electric currents, setting every nerve in your body alight with pleasure.

You couldn't help but gasp as she began to explore you, her touch as gentle as a butterfly's kiss yet as arousing as a lover's caress. Each flick and swirl of her tongue brought you closer to the edge, and the feel of her hot breath against your skin was almost too much to bear. Her eyes sparkled with excitement and satisfaction, knowing that she had you right where she wanted you—under her spell, at her mercy, and utterly devoted to the exquisite sensations she was crafting with her mouth.

With a sultry smile, Chuu lowered her gaze, her eyes shimmering with a newfound sense of submission. "I'm yours to fuck" her voice a soft caress that sent a thrill through you. She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with each shallow intake, and then she opened her mouth wider, revealing the warm cavern of her throat.

"Use me," she begged, her voice barely above a whisper. "Fuck my mouth like you own it."

Her cheeks flushed with a hint of embarrassment, yet she remained steadfast in her degradation, eager to please. She waited, her mouth poised and ready, for you to take the reins and show her just how deep she could take you, how much she could handle. Her tongue darted out to lick the underside of your shaft, a silent appeal for you to accept her self-debasement and claim her mouth as your own.

With a primal growl, you gave in to the temptation, your hand wrapping around the back of Chuu's head, guiding her to take the head of your cock between her plush lips. Her eyes widened with delight, sparkling with a mix of excitement and submission, as she eagerly began to suck, her cheeks hollowing with each bob of her head.

"Geughhh....Nghhh......Ahaha......Mmph...."

Her giggles reverberated around your length, the vibrations adding an unexpected yet incredibly arousing dimension to the sensations she was creating. She took you deeper, her tongue swirling around the tip before she began to take more of you in, her eyes never leaving yours, as if seeking approval with every inch she engulfed.

Each time you hit the back of her throat, she gagged slightly, only to recover with a muffled moan that seemed to vibrate straight to your balls, making you throb with desire. Her hands gripped your thighs tightly, urging you closer, her mouth a wet, warm haven of pleasure that you found yourself lost in. Her submission was absolute, her eyes glazed with lust as she focused solely on pleasing you, her small laughters turning into moans of pure, unadulterated bliss. You could feel your climax building, her mouth working you closer and closer to the edge with every bob of her head, her sweet demeanor echoing through your mind.

"Shit, I'm gonna ruin your face."

As you felt the warmth of your release building, Chuu's eyes grew even more eager, her cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk's as she prepared to receive your cum. With a final, powerful thrust, you let go, your hot seed spurting forth in thick ropes that painted her face with your essence. She squealed with glee, her eyes lighting up as she felt the warmth of your cum hit her cheeks, her nose, and her mouth.

Then, with a playful smirk, she let the rest of your cum coat her features, making a kissy face as strands of it clung to her lashes and trickled down her chin. Her tongue darted out, eagerly lapping up any stray drops, savoring the taste of you as she reveled in the satisfaction of having served her purpose so well. Her cheeks were stained with your cum, and the sight of her like this—so eager, so submissive, so utterly devoted to your pleasure—was almost too much to handle. You watched, breathless, as she licked her lips and swallowed, her eyes sparkling with joy and satisfaction.

With a mischievous glint in her eyes, Chuu reached up to wipe away the remaining traces of your cum from her lips with a delicate finger, smearing it across her cheek as she spoke. "These aren't the only lips that need your cum," she said, her voice dripping with desire.

"Before you get to my kitty, I'm going to make you cum again." She leaned back on her heels, her knees still spread wide before you, and gently began to tug at the hem of her shirt.

Lifting it up, she revealed her ample breasts, the pink tips of her nipples already hard and begging for attention. With a seductive smile, she guided your still-throbbing cock down to her chest, pressing it against her soft, warm flesh. "Let me show you what else I can do," she whispered.

The feeling of your cock nestled between Chuu's soft, warm breasts was indescribable. Her delicate skin enveloped you in a cushion of pleasure, and she looked up at you with a wicked grin, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Does it feel good? Do you like having these soft pillows massaging your juicy cock?" she asked, her voice a breathy whisper. She waited for your response, her chest rising and falling with each eager breath she took. You could only nod your approval, the words lost in the thick of desire that clouded your thoughts.

Encouraged, she began to squeeze her breasts together, her hands sliding over the smooth mounds of flesh to create a tight tunnel for your cock to slide through. The friction was heavenly, the softness of her skin contrasting with the firmness of her grip as she started to move her chest up and down, creating a rhythm that had you groaning with each stroke. Chuu's eyes never falters, her gaze a mix of innocence and hungry desire, sending shivers down your spine.

"Keep going. You're doing so well, Chuu. Fuck, they're so soft."

You urged her to continue, unable to form coherent words as she worked her magic. Her breasts jiggled with each movement, the sight of your cock sliding between them sending waves of pleasure through your body. She giggled, the sound music to your ears, as she watched the effect she was having on you. The warmth of her breath tickled the sensitive skin of your shaft, only adding to the intense sensations that were building within you.

With a pout that could make even the most stoic of hearts melt, Chuu looked up at you with a face that was the very picture of a sad kitten's, her eyes filled with longing and hope. "Baby," she begged, her voice barely more than a whisper, "cum on my tits. I want to feel your hot, sticky love all over me." The vulnerability in her eyes was undeniable, a stark contrast to the fiery passion that had been burning there moments ago.

"Fuck, Chuu, I'm cumming so hard," you groaned, the words ripped from your chest as the intensity of your orgasm grew. Her breasts, a warm and inviting cushion, bobbed with each pulse of your cock, the friction pushing you closer and closer to the edge. With a final, guttural roar, you released your load, the warm juice spurting out and coating her soft mounds with your seed. She squealed with excitement, her eyes lighting up like stars as she felt the warmth of your climax against her skin. The white, thick liquid dripped down her chest, painting her in your essence, a visual testament to the power of your desire. She looked up at you with a face flushed with satisfaction, her eyes sparkling with joy as she watched you come undone in her hands.

The door to the waiting room may or may not have been locked, but in the heat of the moment, the outside world didn't matter. With an animalistic hunger, you grabbed Chuu by the shoulders and pushed her down onto the cold floor, her legs splaying open in a silent invitation that made your pulse race even faster. Her eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and excitement flickering across her features as she looked up at you, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

You couldn't resist the temptation any longer. With a swift tug, you pulled Chuu's skirt up, revealing her drenched panties. The sight of her glistening wetness made your cock twitch, reminding you that she was just as desperate for your attention as you were for hers. She bit her lip, her eyes flickering with a mix of shyness and excitement as she watched your reaction. A soft whimper escaped her as she realized the extent of her own need, her wetness clearly visible through the fabric.

Without a word, you hooked your fingers into the waistband and slid her panties away, exposing her slick pussy to the cool air. She was so wet, so ready for you, and the sight of it had your cock standing at full attention once more. Chuu's cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink, but she didn't protest, instead, she leaned back, her body arching slightly in silent invitation, her eyes never leaving yours as she spread her legs wider, offering herself to you completely.

"We don't have much time," Chuu panted, her eyes filled with a desperate need. "Fuck me hard and fast, breed me deep," she begged, her voice strained with urgency. Her legs trembled with anticipation, her slick pussy glistening with desire.

You didn't need any more encouragement. With a feral growl, you positioned yourself at her entrance, the head of your cock nudging against her wet folds. She gasped as you pushed into her, filling her in one swift, powerful stroke that made her back arch off the floor.

Her tight, velvety walls clamped down on you, her moan a mix of pleasure and pain as you began to pound into her with an unbridled passion. Each thrust sent shockwaves through her body, her breasts bouncing with the force of your movements. Chuu's nails dug into the floor as she tried to hold on, her eyes never leaving yours as you claimed her over and over again. Her pussy clenched around you, eager to feel the full brunt of your release.

With each deep, penetrating thrust, Chuu's hands found their way to her breasts, her fingers pinching and rolling her nipples as she moaned in ecstasy.

"Harder, baby," she begged, her voice a mix of sweetness and lust. "Your cock feels so good inside me. Fuck me like you own me!" Her words were punctuated by gasps of pleasure as she continued to play with her sensitive peaks, her breasts bouncing with every collision of your hips against hers. Her praises grew more fervent as you complied, pounding into her with a newfound intensity.

"Yes, yes, oh fuck yes!" she chanted, her voice growing hoarser with each passing moment. "You're so big, so strong, so perfect." Her legs wrapped around your waist, pulling you in deeper, urging you to claim her fully, to leave your mark on her very soul.

"Someone might see," you whispered, your voice a dark promise in the quiet room, "and they'll know what a filthy little slut you are, taking it like this." Chuu's breath hitched, her pussy clenching around you as the idea of being caught filled her with a thrill that was almost too much to handle.

"Do you like that, baby?" you asked, your voice low and gruff, your eyes dark with desire. She could only nod again, her body trembling beneath you as you continued to pound into her. "Say it," you demanded, your voice a command that she couldn't resist. "Say you like being a slut for me."

With a whine of pleasure, Chuu looked up at you, her eyes glazed with passion. "I like it!" she moaned, her voice barely audible, "I like being your slut, your little fucktoy for everyone to see." The words seemed to spur you on even more, your thrusts growing harder and faster.

"Good girl," you murmured, leaning down to kiss her deeply, your tongues dancing together as your hips continued their relentless rhythm.

"Oh god, your cock is so amazing," Chuu moaned, her voice thick with desire. "It feels like it's made just for me." She bucked her hips up to meet your every thrust, her pussy tightening around you with every movement.

"Fuck me harder, baby, I want to feel all of you," she urged, her voice a seductive whisper that sent shivers down your spine. "Your cock is so big and thick, it stretches me out perfectly." Her words pushing you closer to the edge of reason. You could feel her nails digging into your back, urging you deeper, faster, harder, her lithe body arching to meet yours with an eagerness that was intoxicating.

"I'm your fucking whore," she gasped, her cheeks flushed with arousal. "Use me, fill me up with your hot, sticky cum. Make me have your babies." Her pleas grew more intense, her voice a symphony of filthy praise that fueled your desire.

With a particularly deep and forceful thrust, you hit the spot inside Chuu that sent her spiraling over the edge. Her eyes widened in surprise and pleasure, a scream threatening to escape her throat. Instinctively, your hand shot out, covering her mouth to muffle the sound as she convulsed around your cock.

"Oh shit, I'm gonna fucking cum!" she screamed when your hand retracts slightly.

You felt her body tighten around you, her muscles clenching as she climaxed, her pussy pulsing with the force of her orgasm. The feeling was overwhelming, pushing you closer to the brink. Chuu's eyes rolled back in her head, her body shaking with pleasure as she bit down on your hand, trying to keep the sounds of her passion contained. Her cheeks flushed a darker shade of pink, the veins in her neck standing out as she gasped for air, her eyes squeezed shut as if trying to hold onto the sensation for just a moment longer. Her legs wrapped around your waist even tighter, urging you to keep going, to never stop.

Despite her desperate need for silence, the urge to shout out her name was almost too much to resist. But you remained steadfast, your hand pressing firmly against her mouth as you continued to pound into her, eager to reach your own peak of pleasure.

"Yes.... keep going..... Huh, why did you....? "

With a soft whine of protest, Chuu's body went slack as you withdrew, the aftershocks of her orgasm still rippling through her. But before she could even catch her breath, you flipped her over onto her stomach, her cheek pressed against the cold, hard floor. She looked back at you with a mix of surprise and excitement, her eyes glazed over with lust as she felt the tip of your cock nudging at her swollen, sensitive pussy once again.

"OH SHIT!"

You didn't give her time to recover, slamming back into her with a force that made her cry out into the her hand that continued covering her mouth. Her eyes rolled back into her head again, and she bit down hard to keep from screaming as you claimed her from behind, your hips smacking against her ass with a rhythmic, almost punishing force. Her body jolted with each thrust, her breasts bouncing against the floor beneath her, her pussy gripping you tightly as she felt the beginnings of a second climax building within her. The room was filled with the sound of your bodies slapping together. Despite her exhaustion, Chuu's hips began to move in time with yours, pushing back to meet each and every one of your powerful strokes.

As you continue to ravish Chuu's pussy from behind, you gripped on her shaking tits tightly, rolling and pinching her nipples in time with your thrusts. Her eyes squeeze shut, and her hand is now a fist, pressing her mouth to the floor to block the sounds of her ecstasy. The sensations are too intense, her body a writhing mess of pleasure beneath you. You feel her pussy start to tighten, the sign of another impending orgasm. You reach down and give her clit a gentle squeeze before swiping your thumb over the sensitive bud. Her body jerks, and her silent scream is the sweetest sound you've never heard.

Your pace quickens, her hand clamps down even harder over her mouth, her knuckles white with the effort to contain the sounds that want to escape. A fine spray of spit forms between her lips as she fights the urge to scream out your name, the pleasure too intense to hold back. Her body shaking with the force of her approaching climax.

"I'm gonna cum so much. I'm gonna fill you up until you're leaking out my cum, Chuu."

The room seemed to shake with the force of your combined release, your bodies moving as one as you both reached the peak of ecstasy. Chuu's pussy clenched around you, her entire body tensing as she was overwhelmed by the most intense orgasm of her life. Her eyes wide open, and she let out a muffled scream of pleasure, her nails scratching at the floor beneath her. Your cock pulsed deep inside her, filling her to the brim with your end product, marking her as yours. You held onto her tightly, feeling the warmth of your seed spill into her, the sensation sending you spiraling over the edge with her.

Together, you both shuddered and quivered, your orgasms merging into one, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. Your cock throbbed, each pulse sending waves of pleasure through your body, as Chuu's pussy milked you for every last drop.

For a brief moment, you were lost in the haze of passion, the world around you fading away as you both reveled in the most primal of connections. And then, slowly, the haze lifted, leaving you both panting and exhausted, but utterly satisfied. Your cock finally slipped from her clenching walls, leaving a trail of cum that dripped down her thighs.

With shaky hands, you reach down to pull up Chuu's panties, sliding them over her trembling thighs and up to her waist, sealing in some of your cum and wetness of her freshly fucked pussy. Her legs shake as she stands, unsteady on her feet, and you can't help but feel a sense of pride in knowing that you've left her in such a state of euphoria.

You grab a handful of tissues, gently wiping the excess cum from her cheeks and legs, her blush deepening as she looks down at the evidence of this session. With a soft smile, you help her straighten her skirt, pull down her shirt and smooth her hair, her eyes never leaving yours. Even with the urgency of her impending performance, there's a moment of intimacy that hangs in the air.

"You're such a good girl," you praise, your voice filled with affectionate dominance as you pat her ass, watching the way she jumps slightly at the touch. She giggles, the sound light and airy, a stark contrast to the heavy breaths that still echoed in the room. "Now, go show them what my naughty little slut can do on stage."

With a final kiss to her forehead, you release her, watching as she sashays out of the room, the sway of her hips mesmerizing. Her heart races with a mix of excitement and nerves, but the feeling of your cum inside her, the memory of your cock claiming her so thoroughly, gives her the confidence she needs to take the stage with a seductive smile. She knows that she's yours, that she's been thoroughly used and enjoyed, and there's something incredibly freeing about that.

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving you alone in the quiet room, surrounded by the lingering scent of sex and the echo of her whimpers. You take a deep breath, trying to compose yourself, knowing that you've got to clean up and get ready to watch her perform. But the grin on your face is unshakable, the memory of her pleading eyes and the feeling of her tight pussy around your cock etched into your mind forever. You can't wait for the next time you'll have her begging for more, her mouth open and eager to serve.

[pricesprincess]

Back To You | j. price x fem reader

synopsis: Marriage wasn't as easy as you thought it was, now you're suffering the consequences of your actions that you began to think were in haste.

wc: 4.0k

tags: 18+ only explicit smut + breeding + some angst with happy ending + edited repost from my old blog + this is one of my most treasued pieces

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

You tried to jam pillows against your ears when the water made contact with the metal sink in your kitchen, which was a few feet from where you slept, the sound loud and more than annoying.

Since your bedroom is now shut off from the rest of the house because the windows are so drafty that winter makes it impossible to sleep in without freezing, you opted for the lumpy couch with mixmatched cushions and pillows you bought from tag sales.

Which only reminded you of John.

Ironically enough, it felt like everything was falling apart in the house the moment he moved out, leaving you with more than a broken heart.

Now you had leaky pipes to fix along with your life.

With it being two am, you knew John would still answer but when you called, you weren't expecting a woman to answer his phone.

Her sultry voice came over like a soft purr. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried not to let images become burned into your mind.

Immediately, you hung up and debated calling Kyle; he lived close and would help, no problem, and then your phone buzzed in your hand, hoping it was Gaz, maybe he knew you needed him?

Nope. Not, Kyle.

John was calling back.

"Hello? You okay, sweet'eart?" He asked like there was no rift between you two and he was still your concerned husband, the worry bright and clear under that thick British accent you missed so much,

Part of you wanted to ask who she was but refrained. "I'm sorry, John, but my sink won't stop dripping and it's keeping me awake. Can you come fix it, please?" You asked with a tight throat.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and tried to sink further into the couch, your duvet tucked around you to keep the cold air from penetrating under it and you wanted to stay warm.

There was some background chatter, then John came back speaking in that honey-dipped tone. "I'll be right over." He hung up, leaving you wondering who he was with and what he was doing with them.

Tucking the covers under your chin, you looked at your expenses, wondering if a hotel was out of the question. It would keep you warmer than here and the water would be a lot hotter than it is in your own home and you knew John would chastise you for not telling him.

He wasn't your husband anymore so that wasn't his business anymore; what either of you did or had going on was no longer something you should care about but John moving on hurt more than you wanted to admit, even though you were the one to ask for it.

But John deserved to be happy so when he used his key to let himself in, you didn't ask him about the woman but still greeted him from where you sat on the couch wrapped in a blanket. "Thank you."

"You're livin' in a damn icebox, love." He sighed and made his way over to you, stopping for a moment out of habit to kiss your head but he missed that step and walked straight into the kitchen to work on the sink, which caused him to let out a few colorful cuss words.

Once that was finished, John made his way to the furnace, getting it to start then he checked the vents, making sure hot air was being forced through them. His eyes shifted to the couch you lay on alone.

Silence filled the room as you met his gaze. "I know, the heat stopped working after you moved out and I don't have the money to fix that right now so I was getting by. Thanks again, John." You told him softly.

You only ever called him by his first name when you were irritated with him; during the whole relationship, his name was baby or honey and hearing you call him that made his heart shudder in his chest.

"Why didn't you just ask me?" His question made you prickle.

"Why do you think? You're not my husband anymore."

John took a step toward you, feeling the air become tenser. "Which means I have to stop carin' and lovin' you?" He shot back and sighed, fixing his bucket hat before pulling his keys from his pocket.

John's question left you speechless as he pulled his shoes back on, not wanting to fight with the person he cares about the most. "If you need anything else, let me know, sweet'eart."

Knowing that you were now safe and warm, John could leave and go back to Simon's.

That night you barely slept, tossing and turning, wishing you had asked him to stay the night, maybe for old times' sake but that would only further the crack in your heart and you didn't want to confuse it all, making the divorce harder than it needed to be, really.

The next morning you hardly could get off the couch; the squeaky springs dug into your back all night and it didn't help that the wind kept slamming the shutters against the house, creating so much noise and to make matters worse, you ran out of coffee beans.

John usually kept that stuff stocked.

Slapping a hand over your face, you scrubbed until you felt a little better and snatched something to wear from the tundra that is your bedroom; even with the heat on, it was still too chilly to sleep in.

Once dressed warmly, you set off to work, hoping that the office would be empty. It was a weekend, meaning that no one else should be there, and you could listen to music and crank the heat all the way up. Excitement sizzled through your veins as you drove.

It lasted all but a few minutes when you saw another car in the parking lot, your coworker Lucas, who has been super sweet to you ever since you started, and now that you don't wear your ring, he's bringing you coffee and flowers and lunch during the week.

He was cute and funny so it didn't bother you too much; perhaps you'd finally accept a date from him, seeing that John went on a date, or at least you thought it was because why did a woman answer his phone?

The thought made you clench your fists as you grabbed your bag from the backseat before scurrying inside to beat the chilly air that bit any exposed skin. "There she is. I was hoping you'd come in." Lucas beamed as he greeted you by the front double doors with a smile.

Lucas also held two coffee cups; one he gently thrust toward you. "I always do. I'm beginning to think you're coming in only because of me." You teased taking the cup with a grateful smile and nod.

He stepped in stride with you toward the cubicles where you answered phones, which got your bills barely paid but it was better than nothing and it helped you meet new people. "Is it snowing?"

"Thankfully no, but tonight I think it will start." The idea of having to spend your first winter alone hurts, and being cold isn't your only problem. Being with John for a decade and sharing everything left you stumbling after becoming a single woman after a long time.

The two of you chatted as you began the quick shift; it was something that helped cover the expense of other things you wanted, like the new vibrating clit toy that your friends all talked about.

It was a bit out of your price range but at this point, you'd pay it just to have an orgasm. After almost a year without a man's touch, you swore that if anyone got lucky enough to get you home, you'd hump their leg like a small dog.

"Are you doing anything to stay nice and warm? I could pick you up for dinner tonight." Lucas asked when it approached lunchtime, and you ended up in the break room for a moment to decompress.

Clearly, he was asking you on a date but was too shy to come out and say it outright like that. Being wanted stoked your ego and it had you nodding your head. "I'd love to, Lucas. How does six sound?"

The smile that pulled on his lips had you worried that he'd crack his cheek for a moment as he droned on about the details and how much fun you're going to have with a great man such as himself.

Your idea for a fun night took a dive with how he was bragging about himself. Once you accepted the date, it was like Lucas turned into another person but you didn't want to cancel on him just yet.

Thankfully the four hours ticked by and you were free of people screaming in your ear about getting a refund or how shitty of a person you are for not being able to help them the way they wanted.

You had a few hours to get ready before Lucas came, so you opted for a quick shower and to dive in your closet for something cute to wear. Since the divorce, you hadn't dressed up in such a long time, it felt like.

After applying some makeup and putting your hair in your favorite style, you looked in the mirror, running your hands over your curves that the dress you pulled on clung to and your tits looked good.

With a few sprays of perfume and some accessories on, you texted Lucas you were ready, followed by your address. Like magic, a few seconds later there was a knock on the door that startled you.

Lucas stood on your front porch with a bashful smile, holding a wilted bouquet of flowers that looked like he swiped them from a garbage can and they even smelled like it too, making you scrunch your nose.

"Wow, you're even sexier in a dress." His compliment made you sick to your stomach as he gazed at you like you were his last meal. The facade Lucas used at work was quickly crumbling, making you regret this. Perhaps if you call John, he could come and get you.

The thought was shoved away just as quickly as it came. He's probably on a date right now, and he's probably fucking her—no, you can't think about that or it will drive you insane all night.

You already said yes, Lucas was here and maybe he would cool his jets.

Taking the flowers, you placed them on the table next to the door, making a mental note to throw them away when you came home. Letting Lucas walk you to his car, you stayed a few feet away from him.

The idea of letting him touch you made your skin crawl.

It was painfully obvious he didn't know what to do on a date.

No opening the door, already asking if you could split the bill or at least get something cheap if he has to pay for it all and if he does, then you don't mind putting your mouth to work on the ride home.

You counted down the seconds until you were able to burst free from his car, where you barreled towards the front doors of the restaurant, ready to get this over and done and go home for the evening.

"There's no table available?" Lucas asked the host and then began to argue with the teenager, who seemed uncomfortable and out of his element, as you watched the scene unfold until you finally pulled Lucas back.

"It's okay; it's not that big of a deal. We can go somewhere else."

The angry mask he wore slipped for a moment as he smiled and took your hand to walk you back to his car. "I have a better idea in mind."

The better idea was driving by his ex-girlfriend's house, where she stood in the front window, heavily pregnant and dancing with someone. "That's her husband; she left me for him! Can you believe that?" he asked, white spittle forming at the corner of his lips.

Inside the cabin of the car was dark, making it difficult to see anything else but that or the way he gripped the steering wheel while you stayed silent, afraid to say anything that could set him off even more.

"Did your husband fuck around on you on his job? I couldn't be married while traveling to fuck other women." His voice was cold, void of any emotion at all and you felt your pulse race at his accusation.

You twisted your body to stare at him, your lip curling in disgust. "What the hell is wrong with you? John would never do anything like that and he didn't join the military to fuck around on his wife."

Your chest ached with the soft pulse of pain that never quite went away as you defended your ex-husband. Lucas's face contorted into something dark and dangerous as he pulled into your driveway.

"Sounds like you're still fucking him and I thought you two were over? Why call yourself his wife?" His voice teetered on possessiveness and something sinister as you reached for the door handle, desperate to leave his car and his space as fear took hold of you.

The moment you shoved your door open and stumbled out, you fell right into the chest of the very man you were defending; rough hands kept you upright as he peered into the dark car with a dead look.

John's eyes glazed over, something you've only seen twice since you met him. The first time was when he was talking about his missions and the other time was when a guy slapped your ass at the store.

You curled your fingers into his soft shirt as his scent wrapped you up like a bow on a pretty present. "John..." you whispered, getting his attention. His blue eyes shifted down, softening slowly.

Lucas watched the entire thing with a scoff as he rolled his eyes, not knowing what he just got himself into. John had already texted Simon his license plate and his name so later that night they could visit him.

John guided you into your old shared home. Passing under the threshold made you lean into the man you once promised to cherish and love for the rest of your life; a mistake was what it was, truthfully.

However, you couldn't say that out loud for fear that it was already over. Silence hung over you and John like an umbrella, keeping you two in a bubble of misunderstandings and unasked questions.

"That arseface has been after you ever since you started working there." John broke the silence as he stood by the front door with his arms crossed over his chest, putting you on the defensive.

Your eyes narrowed as you felt the bubble of irritation flare up. It's what the last year and a half of your marriage was like: one wrong move and you stepped on a landmine, and there was more fighting.

That's what did you in. When John wasn't home, it felt like you were single anyway and when he was home, he was more of your roommate. What hurt you the most is you weren't sure when it all started to fall apart at the cracks until it was finally broken.

"I had no idea because I wasn't worried about entertaining another man." You hummed and dropped your purse on the table where the rotted flowers lay, which John picked up, examining them with a grin.

He followed you into the kitchen, where you poured a glass of wine that John took for himself, taking a sip from it. "A man who gives a woman dead flowers wouldn't know how to properly romance her."

You wanted to make some sort of comment about him not knowing either but that was a lie. When you first met John during girls' night, he swept you off your feet and ever since, he has never let you walk.

To him you were his goddess; he worshiped the ground you walked on and there was nothing he wouldn't do for you nor was there any part of your body he hadn't kissed or touched and even though you no longer had the same name, he still felt that way and always would.

"He's unhinged to say the least, and since you're here, will you take a look at the windows in our," You cleared your throat and took the wine glass back from him with a huff to take a sip. "My bedroom, please?"

He leaned over the counter to wipe away the bead of wine on your lip before tasting it off his thumb, making your skin prickle with heat.

"Anything for my wife." With a wink, John headed toward the bedroom, feeling memories haunt him like a ghost attached to his back.

So many nights he carried you to the bed when you fell asleep on the couch waiting for him to get home, evenings you both spent curled up under the covers talking about everything and nothing.

You've seen him in dark times that he swore would take him under but you shooed away the dark, heavy clouds; your light, like the sun, parted them, providing him the warmth and love he needed to flourish.

A few moments later you joined him in the bedroom with two mugs of spiked hot chocolate, a silent apology for snapping at him when he's saved you again.

"I'm an asshole, huh?" You murmured and handed him his mug.

"At least you're a pretty one." He teased taking a drink of it, smearing the whipped cream on his beard that you kissed away without thinking the moment he sat next to you on the edge of the bed.

John stared at you for a moment, drinking in how the light caressed your features. It's been a year since you've been this close to him.

Setting both mugs down quickly, he leaned in to kiss you properly, like how a man should. His calloused palms cupped your cheeks to hold you still as his tongue parted your lips with a deep groan.

You held onto his arms with a whimper, gliding your tongue with his while moving to straddle him, your hands knocking off his bucket hat to grab a handful of his hair as you ground your clothed pussy against him.

It was a kiss that stole your breath as you molded yourself to John; he was the air you needed in your lungs to keep moving on.

He tasted you with desperate licks that made your clit throb with need as his hands trailed down to slowly peel your clothes off you as his mouth left open-mouthed kisses all over your shoulders and neck once they were bare for him; then he lay on his back to touch you.

"I'm sorry John, for letting our marriage come to this." You whispered, your voice teetering between the rush of emotions and the honesty.

With you straddling him, it was difficult to get him naked, and you missed seeing him. He's a bear of a man with thick, dark hair all over his body that softened with age but was still rough around the edges.

His hands roamed your body missing the feel of you after so fucking long. "Stop apologizin' darlin', I'm right where I want to be."

Despite him lying down, you still got him half naked, enough for you to rub your face against his chest with a sigh as he caressed your back with his fingertips and then popped your ass when you licked his nipple with a soft giggle before peppering his face in kisses.

"We should've had a baby." John whispered into the darkness as one hand cupped your cheek with your heart beating in tandem as you stared at him, feeling a rush of warmth wash over you.

It was something you thought about a lot but with him missing so much of it, you let it simmer on the back burner but now your womb was clenching. "Then no man will ask me on a date because I have my husband home waiting for me. No more, John, please, just come back."

Your soft pleas felt like a ton of bricks on his chest as tears matted his hair while you sobbed in his arms, breaking down. John shushed you gently with kisses and rolled you to your back to spread your legs.

He took his sweet time in kissing his way down to your glistening pussy that ached to be stretched out by John. You whined when his tongue finally glided across your sweet and slick cunt, making your back arch off the bed as he devoured you messily.

With slow and measured strokes of his tongue, your ex-husband had you gasping, your fingers curled in the sheets as you humped his mouth.

John slid his hands around your thighs to keep them open as he ate you out like you were made of the sweetest candy that would leave him with aching teeth but that didn't matter when your moans matched just how you tasted.

Everything was covered in diamonds from the sheer amount of pleasure that was pumping through your veins, like liquid desire making your pussy drool as you humped John's mouth.

It's been so long since you've felt his touch and now it was all you could feel; pressure built up the more his tongue swirled and stroked over your aching and puffy clit before he was kissing your cunt.

Then he slid two thick fingers inside you with a wet squelch, hearing you squeal and moan brokenly. "John, give me a fucking baby already."

He chuckled against you and pulled away with a glistening beard. "Being a bit bossy, are we? You're the one who went on a date; steppin' out on me deserves a punishment." He hummed quietly.

Your blood ran hot, making it feel like you were experiencing the worst hot flash of your life. "I only accepted it because you went on one!"

John now laughed as he kneeled between your legs, watching as you propped yourself up on your elbows, your eyes shifting down to his one hand that worked on his belt and then his pants to free his cock.

It sprang free, warm, fat, and heavy. It was thick too and just the right amount of hair covered his pubic bone; a few veins ran up on either side and a bigger one ran from the deep red, engorged head to his heavy and hairy sack that smelled like all John, potent male.

You wrapped your fingers around the base, unable to let the tips meet, and then slowly you jerked him off from the shaft to the tip before wrapping your legs around him.

"When that woman answered my phone, she thought it was hers. I was with my mates, sweetheart."

The sting of jealousy faded to embarrassment. "You never dated?"

"No, lovey, how could I date anyone when I was still married to you?"

You cried out and hugged his neck, pulling him further down to kiss him with passion as he rutted his hips against you blindly, trying to thrust in from the excitement of having you like this again.

When he speared you open on his dick, your mouth went slack, feeling the sweet sting of the stretch. "Keep it slow, John, you're the last person I slept with..." you admitted in between breathy kisses.

John rocked against you with slow strokes that kept you dizzy while you clung to him as he made sweet love to you, his hand cradling your head as he kissed you back with equal fire. Clearly, he missed you just as much as you missed him, and it was shown in hi

His smug grin not only riled you up but also made you want to sit your pussy on his face to give his mouth something to do and dear lord, did you need an orgasm from him? He's the only man who knew your body so well and could make you cry so sweetly for him.

[spookysanta]

Chapter 1: The Suite Life

Ongoing tags:

[Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

i couldn't help myself y'all. i'm TOO excited about this fic. i have the first four or so chapters written so you'll get more very soon! enjoy my loves. make sure to sign up for my tag list and send some prompts to my ask box if you haven't already!

-

It started with sunlight and silence.

Not the kind of silence that meant emptiness — the kind that followed laughter, that stretched long and lazy across a hotel suite still buzzing from the night before. The kind that came with tossed throw blankets, a mostly-empty wine bottle on the counter, and at least three half-packed suitcases sitting open like they’d lost a fight with joy.

You stirred first.

The clock read 9:06.

Your bonnet was barely hanging on. Your phone was wedged beneath your thigh, still buzzing with unread messages and group chat chaos. You blinked, stretched, and reached for the remote with one foot before flopping back dramatically onto the pillows.

From the other bed, Tati groaned. “Who the hell opens curtains before ten?”

You smiled into the blanket. “We did. Last night. For the moonlight.”

“Corny,” she mumbled. “You’re corny.”

“You were crying at 2AM about how the sky looked like velvet.”

She sat up. “You were crying at 2AM about how this is the first time we’ve all been in the same room in six months.”

A pause.

You blinked at her.

She blinked at you.

And then you both smiled.

“Okay, but I was right,” you said.

“You were disgustingly right.”

By 10:00, all five of you were awake — sprawled across couches, floor pillows, or standing in the kitchen in sleep shirts and socks, laughing over bad hotel coffee and one suspicious mimosa someone found in the back of the fridge.

Nyah and Tati flipped through brunch spots on their phones, Jae played DJ from the Bluetooth speaker, and Kris kept reapplying lip balm like they were filming a reality show.

You were on the floor, legs stretched out, drinking something you hadn’t identified yet.

“So,” Nyah said, looking up from her phone. “We hitting the strip today or saving our energy for tonight?”

“What’s tonight?” you asked.

Tati turned from the mirror, one brow raised. “Somebody booked us a spot at that rooftop bar downtown.”

Jae nodded knowingly, “With the floor-length windows and the impossible cocktails.”

“And the DJ who looks like he knows three languages and only speaks in bass drops.” Kris pointed a manicured finger your way.

“Oh that place,” you said, lips curling. “The one where the hostess stares through your soul if your heels aren’t at least four inches.”

“She’ll have to fight me,” Tati muttered, slipping on lashes without looking. “I brought platforms.”

Getting out wasn’t a rush.

Just the slow settling of women who’d worked too hard, cared too deeply, and were finally allowed to be soft for a few days. You painted your toes while Kris pinned your hair. Jae filmed you all on her phone saying “cheers” with coffee cups and sleepy eyes. Tatti rummaged through her duffel to find a partner to her lone earring that she had to wear. Nyah turned on a playlist labeled “vacation softness,” and by noon, there was a distinct shift in the air.

The kind that said: we’re here. We earned this. And something’s about to happen.

You just didn’t know what yet.

And by late afternoon, the suite had turned into a cloud of heat and getting-ready haze.

The Bluetooth speaker was working overtime. The bathroom counter looked like a glam bomb had gone off. You were in front of the mirror, curls wrapped in satin and lashes fanned out on a napkin, deciding between two tops that technically weren’t even yours.

“Go with the black one,” Kris called from across the room, sipping something pink in a wine glass. “No shade, the other one gives Homecoming Lite.”

“Homecoming Lite is cute,” you argued, holding it up again.

“It’s cute if you’re looking for a 4. We’re dressing for tens tonight.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t disagree.

By the time the sun slipped below the skyline, the five of you were glowing — skin glazed, edges laid, eyes sharp. The hallway smelled like setting spray and expensive perfume as you clacked your way toward the elevator, full of nerves and body oil.

“We look good,” Jae said, turning her camera on selfie mode.

“We look dangerous,” Tati corrected, popping her hip.

You smiled into your glass. “Let’s act like it.”

The rooftop bar looked like something from a movie.

You stepped out of the elevator and onto a floor of glass and gold — panoramic windows, shadows moving in silhouette, music vibrating through marble and champagne. A warm breeze swept in from the open terrace, and the bass rolled through your chest like a second heartbeat.

You felt it immediately — eyes on you. Heads turning. A shift in the air.

This city moved fast. But tonight… you moved faster.

“Table’s over there,” Nyah said, pointing to a curved velvet booth with perfect view of the DJ and the skyline. “The hostess said we’ve got bottle service for the first round.”

“So what you’re saying is we’ve peaked.” Kris reasoned with a nod.

Jae, the resident party girl, smiled evilly, almost rubbing her hands together like a supervillain. “Let’s start with tequila and see what mistakes present themselves.”

It was close to midnight when you noticed him.

You were at the edge of the terrace now, cooling off with your drink in hand, hair lifting slightly in the breeze. Your friends were dancing, half-laughing, caught up in the music, and you were lost in your thoughts — until the hairs on your neck stood up.

You felt it before you saw him. And then you did see him.

Across the terrace, by the bar.

Black shirt, low taper, a perfectly lined cut, that effortless posture like he wasn’t trying to impress anybody — and failing miserably.

Michael.

He didn’t move at first, but just watched. His eyes were dark, and his expression was unreadable.

You couldn't help but away... But you looked back.

And he was still watching.

He made his way over slow — deliberate — weaving through bodies like the room wasn’t even crowded. You felt your stomach flip once.

Then twice.

“Hi,” he said simply. Deep. Calm. Like the start of something.

You tilted your head. “Hi.”

Michael smiled. “You from here?”

“Nope.” You replied cooly, popping the 'p'. The name of the game was keeping your cool. Because here he was, smelling like the most expensive cologne out, towering over you, eyes trained on your gaze.

“Visiting?”

You nodded. “Girls’ trip.”

His eyes dropped for just a second — to your lips, then back. “Well… I’m glad you came.”

You raised a brow. “Why?”

“’Cause otherwise I wouldn’t be standing here about to embarrass myself.”

You blinked onece, then smiled. “You shoot your shot like that with everybody?”

“Only the ones who can make me forget my drink order.”

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[katebisxop]

touch-starved ava headcanons

tags: absolute fluff, gender unspecified reader

a/n: i will never stop talking about her

ꕥ — considering for a huge part of her life she was unstable, i feel like physical touch would definitely be a big thing for ava and her partner

ꕥ — she always HAS to be touching you in some way, shape, or form. and i mean ALWAYS

ꕥ — it doesn't matter how: her knee bumping yours, legs touching under the table, pinkies intertwined, her hands clasped together with yours, her head on your shoulder and vice versa

ꕥ — even at night when you're sleeping she either has to be cuddling or at least in contact with you throughout

ꕥ — (additionally, do NOT leave the bedroom while she's asleep. you have to wake her up and tell her you're getting up. i feel like she'd freak if she woke up one day and you're just gone)

ꕥ — her touchiness/slight clinginess is brought on by her fear of losing control of her phasing again. she's scared that not only will she phase out, she'll never be able to hold you ever again :((

ꕥ — she might be great at handing out jabs but she's just a little cutie

ꕥ — also i think she really does not gaf about the other thunderbolts' reaction to her pda.

ꕥ — you'll know she's aware of them staring if she's glaring or makes a comment (it's usually directed at walker..)

ꕥ — they're honestly getting sick of seeing her all cuddly with you and then you leave and she gets all snarky again 😭 like yes they're getting closer as a team but that doesn't mean ava's going to be all gooey and mushy with them 🫠

ꕥ — aside from wanting to hold you all the time you can't tell me ava doesn't just want to be held sometimes. let her be the little spoon. pls hold this baby she deserves all the love ❤️‍🩹

ꕥ — on the other hand she enjoys using her phasing powers on you as well.

ꕥ — you'll go in to kiss her and then she'll phase away and then gets amused by your annoyed expression lol

ꕥ — also what is privacy?? ava'll make her way into any room you're in, no matter where you are or what you're doing

ꕥ — (the first few times she did this were SUCH a fright)

ꕥ — kinda unrelated but she might be a pet name gal. it might just be me projecting but imagine that lovely voice of hers calling you cute little nicknames i'm- 🫠🫠

ꕥ — but yeah. clingy ava my beloved pls never die ❤️

[thewertsearch]

Ask Comp 12/05

@carcinogeneticist-writes-fanfic asked: I know your policy has been to hold off listening to the official albums until you're done with HS and I totally get that, wanting to hear them in the context of the comic first is totally valid. That said, would you be willing to give early consideration to Michael Bowman's solo album, "Mobius Trip and Hadron Kaleido?" It's got the rather dubious honor of being one of only two or three official albums (out of like 30!) to NOT see any rep in the comic at all and I'd hate for you to miss out.

Found it on the Collection! It's generally a very chill album, with a lot of lower-energy tracks that might have been hard to fit in one of Homestuck's high-octane Flash animations.

It's not really my type of music, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate something different every once in a while! I think my personal favorite is Dawn of Man.

@likelyvampirical asked: While on the subject of Bowman, On The Thirteenth Day has been sent to you.

This one's fucking great. It feels like the kind of track you'd hear over the opening/ending to a Homestuck anime.

It also sounds vaguely like Sburban Jungle, but I don't know if I'd call it a remix; it feels more like it's gesturing meaningfully in Sburban Jungle's direction, which I like a lot.

@shelbybunny asked: re: voice headcanons in the (as of writing) latest ask comp; i think a good voice headcanon for John is Toby Fox’s voice in his ska cover of sunsetter or Michael Guy Bowman’s cover of How Do I Live

It's still so weird hearing Toby Fox's actual voice. He feels like the kind of guy who shouldn't have a concrete presence in our reality.

Anyway, these voices are both fairly close to how I imagine John sounding. Toby even looks somewhat like John - or, at least, his hair does.

@heattth asked: Hi, I believe you mentioned once that if Tumblr died you would continue this blog on Discord. I don't know how likely this is to happen, but, could I ask you which server that would be?

I currently run an on-and-off gaming Discord which is open to all the blog's followers. If Tumblr goes down for good, I might just convert it into the new primary liveblogging platform - although Discord has its own issues, so I'm not 100% committed to that. Guess we'll see what happens!

@manorinthewoods asked: I've heard the Hockerberts (Hockengberts?) called the House of J. Unsure how common that is. ~LOSS (28/4/25) @cationicflood asked: the prospit kids may also collectively be referred to as the J-squad, as all four of them have names beginning with J (this is a trait that i do not think any other character outside this group possesses)

Yeah, there's no real way to legibly combine all four names. I came up with 'Prospit Patrol' the other day, and I honestly kind of love it - but I guess that'd technically include the Prospit trolls, too.

Anonymous asked: i think the key difference between jade and jake’s social lives despite being completely isolated is that jade at least had bec and prospit. with jakes dreamself dead (which presumably never woke up) and no guardian to speak of, hes pretty much completely alone out there

Actually a very good point. We eventually learned that Jade was in contact with the White Queen, so she was doing some in-person socialization. Clearly, that mattered a lot more than I realized.

@morganwick asked: Recall that future Jade shared your frustration over causal time loops, wanting ideas to actually come from where they came from. She did manage to get Karkat to be just vague enough to get her to do what she wanted herself to do while still giving herself enough room to come up with as much of the idea as possible herself. Karkat technically didn't even tell her to captchalogue the window, only draw it, the assumption/understanding being that she'd use the scribblepad to do so.

I definitely like that interpretation a lot better than the idea that the information was spontaneously stable-looped into existence, so I'm adopting it as my personal canon. The less loop-generated intel we have, the better.

@that-good-ol-fashioned-mothgirl asked: funny how Jane “biggest fan of a baking empire” Crocker subscribes to empiricism

Clearly, an 'empire' is any organization that values tangible evidence over logical reasoning. Jane's brainwashing is clearly benign - the Condesce is just trying to make her a better skeptic!

@that-good-ol-fashioned-mothgirl asked: the green sun is the theoretically infinite felt on English’s temporal pool table

In other words, the entire multiverse is part of Lord English's game. Seems fitting to me.

@elkian asked: Something I put together recently thanks to your blogging: the more conventially intelligent/sapient a Sprite component, the better a Sprite can communicate with the Player. BUT, these are also more independent and can operate on their own impetus, proving in some cases (like Jadesprite) to be unwilling/unable to help the Player for whatever reason. It's a neat balancing mechanic.

That's actually a really good explanation for why Jadesprite was so independent.

She's not the only one who's exhibited this trait, either - Davesprite also seemed comfortable with resisting sprite programming!

@mhafanlol2000 asked: Dave spent his childhood with Cal, too, and he doesn’t seem hypnotized. What makes you so convinced that Dirk will turn out to be worshipping English, or something?

Ah, but Dave didn't actually own the doll.

Bro was the one carrying it around all day, and he can't be flash-stepping around Dave that often. For the majority of the time, he was the one receiving the lion's share of Cal's miasma, as he has been since the moment he was cloned.

Dirk is the same, of course, but he's only had Cal for sixteen years, while Bro was in his thirties, at least. Dirk seems a lot more normal than his counterpart, so we can at least assume he's less corrupted than Bro.

Anonymous asked: I'm not going to lie, the fact that the entire acts 1-5 of homestuck are ONE DAY is one of my favorite fucked up facts about this story. Like, honestly maybe more than 24 hours passed, but because we got untethered from Earth time immediately after entering and it's not like the Incipisphere has a day/night cycle, A VERY LONG MONDAY AFTERNOON INDEED

The second the camera cuts away from John and Jade, they're going to immediately pass out for a good twenty hours.

Hey, do we think Davesprite needs to sleep? Surely not, right? Alright, he can look after them, then.

@elkian asked: Just wanted to say that I'm loving the liveblog in general, and in particular I really like your take on how the Alpha timeline works. "Based on what this character would most likely do in this situation" not only frees it from some of the rigidity of predestination, which can definitely get stifling or flatten a story if taken too far; it's also a good explanation in terms of meta. It works as both a general explanation and story-themed one, and I like it a lot. Seems accurate, too!

You can thank Terry Pratchett for putting the idea in my head, back when I was first reading Night Watch. It's a really satisfying way to resolve the identity issues surrounding time travel, isn't it?

@drakethedeep asked: Keep that thought in mind regarding a timeline involving interfering with the green sun. On a similar train of thought, timelines seemed to become doomed when they can no longer contribute to the timeloop that created them to begin with. For example, in the first doomed timeline we see, because John dies, he cannot perform the ectobiology that results in the creation of him and his friends/family. so keeping that in mind, what conclusion/ theories about the alpha timeline do you have?

Initially, I thought that any timeline which could no longer satisfy its own loops would be instantly doomed - but that would have caused Davesprite's timeline to fade long before Future Dave actually left, since John's death immediately made the Veil cloning impossible.

However, the wording you use here comes close to fixing that issue. Davesprite's timeline could never fulfil the time loop created by John's Veil cloning - but it still contributed to the Alpha Timeline, via Davesprite. Maybe a timeline only fades once it can no longer contribute to the Alpha in any way whatsoever.

@wolygan asked: Kinda neat how as Sollux is dying his powers change from the red and blue to just his blood colour, as if he is casting from his health instead of just having an ability, now that his eyes are burnt out.

Oh, interesting. I didn't consider that!

Sollux has said he's retiring his duality schtick, and apparently that includes his red/blue motif. After all, he's not really 'the duality guy' anymore - he's just Sollux.

@liliflower137 asked: This is probably a little late as I'm still catching up but,,, gush, Vriska's conversation with John, where she expresses regret, where she thinks back on what she has done… It made her my favorite character for a while. Just. The potential of her learning to be different, of becoming something more than the world she was born into. Seeing a character so HORRIBLE, so AWFUL, turn around and… realize. It's so powerful.

Yup. Super fucked up that she died before she was able to complete her metamorphosis - but I'm confident that her story's not over. After all, we've already started hanging out with her ghost!

@liliflower137 asked: Hello!! I am not quite caught up yet but your description of Scratch as thinking like an author is BRILLIANT, I never would've thought of that and it makes him make so much more sense!!! Man he's way more interesting to me now, thank you!!! This liveblog continues to be the most fascinating read of all time!!

Thanks - it just made sense to me, y'know? Scratch even talks a little like Hussie sometimes, and the idea that he's a pseudo-author is the only thing I can think of that explains some otherwise extremely strange phrasing on his part.

@liliflower137 asked: Hello hello again! I've just seen the map you showed of Rose's coordinates and you can literally see the town i live in on that map!! So I can tell you Northern New York State, at least around that section, is VERY rural. The closest Starbucks is in Canada and its mostly dairy farms and cornfields around here! New York is a big state and aside from the city itself and some other places it's actually surprisingly empty. Hell, I've lived here for like 9 years and I've never even been close to NYC! But its definitely not remote, people live and work in that national park nearby! And there's plenty of burger kings for sure. (I'd even say maybe the one 40 minutes away was the one in my town but I'm pretty sure it opened after I moved here so probably not) It's so wild I could pretty easily drive to where Rose's house would've been… crazy.

Oh, fun - it's like you're her neighbor!

If you're that local, you might be living closer to Rose's address than any other Homestuck fan on the planet. You've got to be at least in the top ten, right?

@liliflower137 asked: Another addition to the jade seer of light fakeout that I've noticed during my own reread (inspired by yours!) Remember Jade's wardrobifier? One of her possible shirt symbols was the symbol for the Light Aspect!

Hussie's Trick continues to bamboozle the unprepared.

@liliflower137 asked: After sending you a bunch of asks while reading, I'm finally caught up!! Whew I can finally stop accidentally staying up until like 5am reading your incredible analysis and being distracted at work! I'm free!! Thanks for the ride!!

Hah, this really is a serious compliment. Don't worry, I've been staying up till pretty close to 5 lately as well. That's what happens when you're gaming on a server in a US timezone!

Anonymous asked: hello ms wertsearch! i have just finished binging your entire liveblog in lieu of any meaningful way to access homestuck OR the unofficial homestuck collection (kind of a lie - i'm sure it's on the wayback machine) and i have to say you might just be the ideal homestuck reader! you analyze these characters AND this story so quickly and perfectly it is very awesome to read. i cannot wait for you to stick it out through the rest of act 6! have a wonderful day!!!

Thank you so much! As far as I'm aware, there are still a couple of unofficial mirrors of the comic floating around online. I asked around on the Discord and was provided with this link, which seems perfectly functional to me.

Anonymous asked: I just want to send a message to let you know how much I appreciate and enjoy your blog. Ive had a very rough couple of years (who hasn't, right?) and reading this blog has been such an escape. It makes me feel like I'm 13 again and reading homestuck on the school computer with my friends. You have such insightful things to say about the comic. I never really jelled with the homestuck fandom outside of my irl friends I read the comic with, so your blog is kind of like a second shot at participating in the fandom for me. I'm having so much fun. Thanks for doing this. <3

As always, messages like these are the greatest motivator I have for continuing to liveblog. I know I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but thank you for sharing! :)

Anonymous asked: Your liveblog is So fun to read, especially when you predict plot points that are either extremely true or extremely false (like when you theorised at the very beginning that jade was genetically modified to be a sburb player! Or when [spoiler] and also [spoiler] and especially [spoiler]) Are you planning to read through your own liveblog when you've finished reading the comments to see how many things you jokingly predicted that came true? Or are you relying on asks to point out things like that?

I'm definitely reading through it when I'm done! I've even half-jokinly considered liveblogging the liveblog, but that might be a bridge too far even for me, lmao

@manorinthewoods asked: I've found another HS liveblog! 'researchhpurposes'. They've not made it through Act 5 yet, so hopefully they're spoiler-free - although, like you, they're going in only mostly blind, so there might be a stray thing here or there. Going to read through and see if there's anything extraordinary. ~LOSS (29/4/25)

(I'm noticing they *do* engage with reblogs, so without reading the whole thing, I'd say there's probably *some* spoilers. -V)

I can't wait to take a gander at some other liveblogs - but, yes, strangely enough, some of them can still spoil the comic, even if they're even farther back than I am!

@mrjocrafter asked: Once Upon a Time, a serialized live action soap opera / fantasy show with a batshit convoluted plot on par with Homestuck (i highly recommend it) has this concept called The Author, who's an individual blessed/cursed with the power to rewrite reality by literally writing in book(s), but if this power is suppressed, overpowered, or lost, the wielder is just some guy with a pen/quill. This is how I like to think of character!Hussie in Homestuck.

I've actually been watching a Once Upon a Time retrospective series on YouTube, and it's been an enjoyable watch so far. I even checked out the first couple of seasons myself - and, yes, batshit is exactly how I'd describe the average day in Storybrooke. Why the fuck wasn't it in Kingdom Hearts?

Anonymous asked: Yo so i was just rewatching Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency and i was thinking since you like homestuck you should watch that if you haven't seen it already. Similar vibes. It's super excellent, it stars Elijah Wood. It did get cancelled after season 2 which sucks but each season is its own story with its own resolution. The stuff they were setting up for season 3 looked so dope tho, it's so tragic i'll never get to see it. It's the only thing that gives me the same feeling as homestuck. I don't want to like, say what it's about cuz like homestuck i think it's best to just jump in blind. If you have already seen it i'd love to hear your thoughts.

I haven't seen it myself, but I know the book it's based off. Dirk Gently shares an author with one of my favourite series, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, so I feel like the show is probably up my alley too. Will definitely add it to the list!

Anonymous asked: Community is a sitcom about a study group at a community college. I recommend it, it's got a wit to it that I think you'd like.

I've seen a couple of clips of Community, but it didn't really click with me. That said, it's hard to judge the overall quality of a show from just a handful of clips, so I may give it another chance.

@manorinthewoods asked: There's a further benefit to the three-year time skip; it'll bring the characters roughly in line with the IRL time movement. April 2009 -> November 2011 is five months off the three-year timespan - which is sensible, since you need that time to actually write the story. Five months is. Probably a reasonable expectation, from the outset, for how long it might take to progress to the end of the timeskip - but, of course, this is a webcomic, and webcomics are very well known for taking absolutely ages to write. ~LOSS (29/4/25)

If that's true, and Hussie is timing things so that the kids emerge in November, then they're kind of playing with fire here.

I mean, committing yourself to maintain a consistent posting schedule for five months? Couldn't be me, is all I'm saying.

[missredherring]

Set Up

Javi Gutiérrez x Harry Castillo

Rating: M

Word Count: 1.1k

Contents: kissing, frottage.

Summary: Matchmaker AU. What are the odds a matchmaker sets you up with a former hook up? Asking for a friend.

A/N: I loved the parallels in the gifs and this idea quickly followed. Thanks to @perotovar for their encouragement.

Not beta read.

Divider by @saradika-graphics.

Javi takes a deep pull of wine and barely tastes it before he swallows. It's not how he was taught one should enjoy wine, but enjoying isn't his goal right now. Maybe he should've gotten something stronger if he really wanted to dull some of the nerves twisting in his stomach.

He's dressed nicely in a fancy restaurant whose waiting list goes out years rather than weeks or months. That he made this reservation a couple of days ago is a testament to the power of an old family name like his, but it makes him feel like even more of a failure.

It'd been a secret wish to find a partner organically. A chance encounter set up by fate where interest sparked with a moment of eye contact, a brush of the hand, an exchange of shy smiles. He knows real life is nothing like the idyllic movies he adores, but the small hope clings to his heartstrings and pulls at the worst times. Besides, when was the last time he's spent enough time in a coffee shop to have a proper meet-cute?

He'd thought Gabriela was the one for a few sweet months of heated kisses and whispered daydreams of a better future out from the thumb of his family. In the end he couldn't bare to trap her in his golden cage just because he was lonely and desperate for companionship. She understood better than he did that his family would never approve of them together.

The pressure to marry and marry well only increased after Lucas' failed coup d'état. The family needed to repair its reputation and present a stable, powerful image to the rest of the world. What better way to do that than with a wedding?

Javi's orders were clear: marry soon or they'd marry him off themselves by the end of the year and he would have no say in the union.

He understands. It's the least he can do to repay the wealth and power that's let him live such a carefree and privileged life, but that hope swings like a pendulum in his chest and he wants one last chance to find love for himself. That's happened before, right? There are a fair few movies that have the protagonists finding true love with the threat of an arranged marriage hanging overhead. Of course they also portray those marriages as a soul-crushing union that's a fate worse than death. He doesn't want to crush anyone or be crushed himself.

Hope swings away and he had to admit that maybe his family isn't wrong about the arrangement idea. So he negotiated one last chance to find a partner for himself and reached out to Nic for advice. His friend (his friend Nic Cage) had offered up the name of a New York-based matchmaker who he swore was one of the best. Some of the successful Hollywood couples? Her doing.

It was a strange experience to trust a total stranger to match him up with another stranger based on a form he filled out, but Javi is the kind of person who wants to trust other people, no matter how many times life delighted in proving him wrong.

Harry C.

He hadn't wanted to see pictures, charmed by the idea of a true blind date, but maybe that had been a mistake. The matchmaker had assured him they matched on the important things and now it was up to them to see if there was any potential in person. He hoped this whole thing wouldn't turn into a disappointment his family would see as another failure.

Javi reaches for his glass again but redirects to the water instead.

His phone vibrates from where he'd placed it next to the table setting. The phone going off during the date would be rude, wouldn't it? He turns the sound off before checking the message. It was from the matchmaker:

"I hope you have a wonderful time with Harry. Of course, if you're not feeling it let me know and I'll get you out of there!"

The emojis depicting a person running away makes him smile. He replies with a thank you and the fingers crossed emoji.

He starts to put the phone back on the table, but should he put it in a pocket instead? Would the phone on the table signal that he wasn't wiling to give his date his full attention? Should he have left his phone at home? No, meeting a stranger in a city he was only passingly familiar with was too naive even for him.

"Javier?" a voice asks as shined leather shoes come into his line of sight just beyond the table.

Javi finishes the movement of slipping his phone into his pocket and stands to greet his date.

"Please, call me 'Javi.'"

"Javi," Harry confirms and doesn't hesitate when Javi takes his outstretched hand and uses it to pull him in for a quick embrace. He lets Javi guide his face to the left and right for two presses of smooth skin against his cheeks. It's over in seconds, leaving Harry with a lingering sense of warmth and a pleasant, familiar cologne.

"Ah, please, have a seat," Javi says, gesturing to the empty seat opposite of him before sitting back down at the table.

It's a nice restaurant with packed tables spaced far enough apart for privacy in low lighting. It would be easy to forget about the city outside when all you can hear is the quiet hum of conversations and the occasional clink of silverware.

With his prize in his sights, Harry's patience feels boundless as he watches Javi finally settle in his seat and look him in the eyes for the first time that night.

Belt buckles rattle and the hiss of zippers are echoed in exhalations as ruddy cocks are freed from pants.

The recognition is slow but steady as Javi studies his face, his eyes darting from feature to feature before landing on his lips when Harry can't hold back his smile.

Harry could spit, but the other man takes his hand and licks along his palm and fingers instead, grunting when Harry uses it to press and hold their dicks together while he kisses him again and again, dizzy with the taste of alcohol and wedding cake.

"I finally get to know your name and of all people a matchmaker is the one to give it to me. What do you think the odds of that are, Javi?"

Seeing Javi's face among the candidates had been a shock. Harry had never expected to see the man he'd hooked up with at his brother's wedding again, but there he was, smiling at the camera wide enough to bring out the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, just as he had when they'd locked eyes across the room at the reception.

"Small," Javi croaks, taking what can only be described as a 'swig' from his wine glass. "but apparently not impossible."

[theshiniestgemstone]

gideon’s preaching and hears screaming from the back. it’s his daughter, mid-meltdown. he sighs and says, “that’s my kid.” the congregation laughs.

It was one of those rare, golden Wednesday mornings when everything felt like it was clicking into place.

The lighting was perfect. The room was packed, and the energy in the room buzzed with anticipation. Gideon stood tall in front of Prayer Room 314A, a little flushed from nerves, but calm. Steady. His voice strong and warm as he spoke.

He was preaching, and it was going so well. He'd finally found his footing and confidence.

You were in one of the middle rows with your daughter in your lap, gently rocking her from side to side. She was squirmy. Only two years old and already inheriting every ounce of her daddy’s fire. Her curls were wild and damp with sweat from fidgeting against your chest, her little hands full of a mangled bulletin and a sticker sheet that had long lost its stick.

From the very back of the sanctuary, Jesse and Eli sat side by side, watching with two completely different kinds of pride. Jesse in his usual bouncing-legged, “that’s my boy!” way, while Eli simply watched with the smallest smile and both hands folded neatly in his lap. He hadn’t said much before the service, just placed a hand on Gideon’s shoulder in that heavy, grounding way he always did when he was proud.

And Gideon?

He was killing it.

“Faith isn’t about the parts of the road we can see,” he said, voice building in quiet conviction, “it’s about trusting the path even when it’s hidden. Even when the light don’t reach all the way down.”

You smiled softly, heart tugging as you watched him. He was glowing. There was no other word for it. Confident. At home. Alive in the moment.

And that’s when it happened.

“Daddy!”

The scream echoed like thunder across the room. Gideon flinched slightly, blinking mid-sentence.

The congregation stirred. Some chuckling, some shifting and twisting around to see the source.

You were already halfway to standing, cradling your wriggling, red-faced daughter who had finally had enough of staying still and decided to make her feelings very known. Tears welled in her eyes, tiny legs kicking as she reached toward the front like he was the only lifeline in the world.

“Daaaaaddy!”

Gideon sighed, a soft chuckle behind the sound as he tucked his hands into his pockets. He looked out over the room, then toward the back where Jesse had visibly lost composure and was openly laughing, elbowing Eli like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“That’s my kid,” Gideon said, smiling crookedly. "Sorry, everyone."

The room erupted with laughter.

He held up one hand and gave a sheepish little shrug. “Sorry, folks. She’s got… excellent timing.”

The laughter softened into warm chuckles and a few affectionate “aawww”s. Someone near the front even said, “She just wants to hear more!”

You were trying to soothe her, bouncing gently, whispering reassurances into her curls, but she was full meltdown now, only one person in the world would fix this.

Gideon caught your eye, gave a little nod, and waved. "I think my wife's takin' her out."

“Sorry, everyone,” you muttered, more to yourself than the crowd, as you tried to keep her wriggling body upright without knocking her tiny skull into the edge of the pew. You started to turn, already calculating the quickest route to the side door without making eye contact with anyone. Laughter rippled through the sanctuary again. A few knowing nods, a couple of whispered “God bless her”s.

But before you could get more than a step down the aisle, Gideon was already coming toward you. He walked straight down the center of the sanctuary like it was nothing, like it wasn’t mid-sermon, like he didn’t have half the town staring at him.

Your daughter’s cries hiccuped the second she spotted him.

“Daddy!” she sobbed again, reaching out.

“I got her,” he said, voice soft and sure as he took her from your arms with practiced ease. “Hey, sweetheart. You okay now?”

She sniffled and clung to his shirt, instantly soothed by the familiar scent of his cologne and the warmth of his embrace. You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for ten years, stepping back and brushing your hair behind your ears. “She’s all yours, preacher man.”

He gave you a crooked grin. “Ain’t she always?”

Gideon adjusted her on his hip with one arm and reached into the inside pocket of his blazer like a magician preparing to pull off a trick.

You blinked. “Gideon, please tell me you didn’t-”

“Course I did,” he said, already holding up a cherry sucker in shiny red cellophane like it was the Holy Grail. “You think this is my first rodeo?”

The congregation chuckled again, watching him pop the candy open and hand it over with a wink. She grabbed it immediately, all drama forgotten, and sucked on it with the kind of focus you wished she gave anything else in life. He set her down, steadying her as she clung to his leg.

Gideon turned back toward the pulpit and gave your arm a gentle squeeze on the way by. “Thank you, baby.”

You mouthed, good luck, as he returned to the stage, now with one small, soothed barnacle trailing behind him, sucker firmly in mouth.

With a casual confidence only someone born on a church stage could manage, he pulled a spare chair from the wings and sat it just behind him, a little off to the side. He helped her climb up into it, adjusted the hem of her dress so she didn’t trip, and whispered something in her ear that made her nod solemnly.

Then he turned, stepped up to the center, and smiled like nothing had happened.

“She said she promises not to yell again. Well, long as I don’t talk too much,” he joked, making the crowd laugh again.

Jesse nearly fell out of the back pew.

Your daughter swung her legs and quietly enjoyed her candy like a tiny VIP guest while her dad finished his sermon, and somehow, miraculously, she didn’t make another peep. Just sat there, legs swinging, head tilted as she watched him with round, reverent eyes.

Like maybe he was magic, after all.

The final “Amen” echoed, and the crowd stood clapping and murmuring their way toward the doors. Gideon didn’t even have to gesture. She slid off the chair, sticky hands outstretched and he swept her right back into his arms.

“You did so good, baby girl,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She beamed, mouth red from the sucker. “You did so good, Daddy!”

You were already walking toward them with her diaper bag, your expression somewhere between amused and exasperated. “She’s gonna want to do this every week now.”

Gideon gave you that lazy, crooked grin. “She can. She’s better than half the youth group.”

“Preacher’s kid,” Jesse said, walking past and clapping Gideon on the back. “Sucker in one hand, the Word in the other. Daddy's gonna eat this up.”

And sure enough, Eli was already on his way over with a rare softness in his eyes and his arms open for his great-granddaughter. She reached for him happily, and Gideon passed her over before turning to you and letting out a long, exhausted breath.

“Okay,” he said, eyes still on you. “Now I need a sucker.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You get a kiss instead.”

He grinned like a fool the whole rest of the morning.

[911coded]

I Can Go Anywhere I Want, Just Not Home. Where Is Home?

I don’t usually write after episode one shots, but I was inspired by this post and helped by @bidisasterevankinard when I couldn’t remember if Buck and Bosko had even spoken to each other. Also, I’ve never written drunk dialogue before and ended up modeling it after myself. I will slur one sentence, forget words, make up new ones, then speak the next sentence in full English. 🤷🏻‍♀️

The next night after shift, he pulls over into an empty parking lot before the turn to his house and sits in it, this feeling. Forget having trouble sleeping there, he doesn’t even want to be there. Will Eddie and Chris be waiting? In the moment, seeing Chris again for the first time in a year, he was able to push aside this feeling. But it’s curdling in his stomach like that time he accidentally drank spoiled milk and he’s afraid he will vomit up all the pain and anger he’s been trying to carry. The anger is new, must be at the next stage, or might just be Eddie’s fault. That’s it, he’s finding someplace to sit and have a drink, he can uber “home” when he can go straight to bed.

The badge and ladder bar only a few minutes from his house wasn’t full, but enough people were milling around inside to get lost in the crowd. Buck thought he recognised the handful of firefighters surrounding the pool tables, but only from scenes, not anyone he knew personally. A couple of minutes after sitting at the bar and scanning the crowd, the bartender made her way over to him. He handed over a card to start a tab, ordered a beer to sip, and a hand full a shots to get started. After he tossed the first one back, he looked the bartender in the eyes. “This is a terrible idea, but I’m about to make this all about me. I’ve had a shit few weeks, my captain died, and I’ve spent so much time trying to keep my team together, this is the first time I’ve had a chance to be still without a list to work from. This is either going to make me feel better, or a whole lot worse. If I start crying to the point of embarrassing, please call my ICE contact, but no one else, even if he doesn’t answer. He’ll answer, though, he always does,” he explained. The bartender stared back at him, silent and stoic, but nodded at him seriously. He nodded back and picked up the next shot.

After the fourth shot, “ICE. Fuck ICE. We should come up with a new name for your emergency contact, workshop it, spread the word.” The bartender tilted her head in question with a quirked eyebrow. “Hmmm, bet I can make it go viral. I have-I have a lot of instagram followers. Bobby would like that. We didn’t talk about it, and I don’t think I ever heard him curse but Bobby would say it too, cause fuck ICE.” Buck waved a hand emphatically and the bartender grabbed a glass before he could send it crashing to the floor.

The bartender was good. She kept the shots coming but made sure he paced himself and occasionally placed a glass of water in front of him with a blank stare until he drank it. “He was a good guy, but he was wrong, they don’t need me. Not now. But maybe I need them? Maybe that’s what he meant? It hurts to need people, though. Hurts when they shut you out, when they leave,” Buck continued with a sniff. Someone settled in the stool next to him and flagged down the bartender who had taken a moment to serve some young women at the end of the bar.

“Buckley? Hey man, you’re crying.” Buck turned to the voice and squinted at the woman sitting next to him. He knows her. Maybe? Oh.

“Bosko? Oh.” Buck touches his face and he can feel the wetness there even if he hadn’t noticed that the crying had begun. “Must not be too embarrassing yet since the bartender hasn’t called my ICE. Fuck ICE, we need to work on that.”

Bosko snorts in amused bemusement. “Yeah, fuck ICE. What are you doing here alone, Buckley? Where’s the rest of your crew?” she asked. She settles into the barstool and turns to face him.

“Don’t know, they aren’t really talking to me right now. I’m sad wrong? Or too concerned about if they are sad? Not sure yet. Eddie is at my place and he is talking too much. Ashhole. Sad wrong for him, too. Make everything about me, selfish. Captain Dad dies but not about me. Said-said I dn’t do enough, could do better. Got in my face, no sorries, just more mean. You were there, you saw. Once is an incident, twice is a-a coinkydink, three times is a pattern; I shouldn’t have to be afraid that my friend is going to hit my face in my own-my own cooking room. Did that once, 0/10 stars, would not recommend. At least he said sorry, made effort to make up. Am I still crying?” Buck asked, trying to make sense but pretty sure he was failing, nothing new there. Bosko had a fierce frown, not scrunchy like Tommy’s.

“Did dickhead Diaz hit you? Is that why you’re in here mourning your captain alone instead of with your crew? Do they know?” she asked, looking around to be sure she didn’t see any firefighters from the 118.

“No, that was Chim, brother. Long time ago, said sorry. Meant it. We’re good. Chim angry at Bobby for dying but not mad at me. Eddie mad at me. Dickhead Diaz, good one,” Buck replied with a giggle.

“I worked with that asshole for months, he didn’t know anything about me but somehow thought we were good friends. He told me all about you, his family, and his kid, but not once did he ask me about mine. Friendship is a one way street for that guy, and if you don’t stay in that perfectly shaped box he put you in, he gets frustrated and angry. He’s a dickhead, I told him we were not friends and walked away, haven’t heard from him since,” she shared.

“No, wouldn’t, didn’t need you anymore. Had me back. Sad. No, stupid. We should start a club. Edmundo Diaz sucky friend club. We need more members. Oh Josh! And Tommy! Was jealous of Eddie taking attention of hot pilot….with a cleft. Edmundo stopped talking to Tommy too! Said it was about me, but thas dumb. Dumb. Am I embarrassin’ yet? Time to call Tommy come get me?” Buck asked with a flutter of his lashes.

“Buckley. Dickhead Diaz doesn’t know how to have conversations that aren’t about him. And he has really good aim, so every fight is an opportunity to cause the most damage. Don’t let him do that to you, man, nobody deserves that, okay?” Bosko insisted.

“Ok. Don’t deserve damage. I’ll be okay. Bobby loved me. Two outta three works, I guess.”

Bosko sighs with a sad shake of her head and flags down the bartender. “Did he give you his phone? I’m pretty sure it’s time to call his ride,” Bosko said. When she turns back to check on him, Buck has folded his arms on the vaguely sticky bartop and is using them for a pillow, blinking slowly at her like a cat. The bartender shakes her head and when Buck actually hears her speak, it’s almost enough to get him to sit up again.

“It’s in his shirt pocket. I’ll close out his tab.” With that, Buck and Bosko are alone again.

“I think you’ve hit the embarrassing stage now, bud, how about I call your ICE?” Bosko asks, as gently as he had ever heard her speak.

“Fuck ICE,” Buck mumbled, blinks getting further and further apart, but he reached into his pocket and handed her his phone so she wouldn’t have to fish for it. His attention wandered and he vaguely heard Bosko’s side of the conversation enough to know that Tommy answered. “Yay!” he exclaimed softly, and raised an arm to fist pump that weakly thumped back to the bar top.

The bartender came back with a receipt, his card, and another glass of water. “Sign. Then drink. Thank you,” she demanded, then gave one more nod now that she had imparted her instructions and wandered away to do bartender things.

After he gulped down half the glass of water and signed a somewhat legible signature, he turned to look at Bosko. “I think she might be the strangest yet most interesting bartender I’ve ever met and I’ve been a bartender. A lot.” Bosko rolled her eyes but nodded anyway to concede his point. It may have been moments or hours when Buck felt a familiar warm hand rest on his lower back and the tension Buck had been carrying around for weeks seemed to seep out of his pores. Tommy. That’s what he had needed this whole time. Dumb. Should have known.

“Evan. Are you okay?” Tommy asked, forehead scrunched up in concern.

Buck twisted up into a mostly sitting position and beamed at Tommy which seemed to shock him into silence, if the wide eyes blinking at him were any indication. Bosko snorted and rolled her eyes at him again.

“He’s fine Kinard. He had a deal with the bartender to call you if the crying became embarrassing,” Bosko answered for Buck who was still beaming up at Tommy dreamingly.

Buck pointed at Bosko. “Yes! I’m sad and making it about me, but that’s ok. It’s my turn and it helped. I think. And Bosko’s here! We didn’t talk when she was my replacement but I think I like her and the bartender is really interesting,” he informed the still bemused Tommy.

“And hot,” Bosko pointed out with a smirk at Buck who had given up on sitting straight and was slumped against Tommy.

Buck’s forehead creased with an offended pout. “Well, yeah, but interesting. More important. Don’t obje-objec….that word. More than pretty. INTERESTING. But I’m done now. Tommy, I’m tired, take me home? Not with Eddie. Don’t-don’t want to see him. Dickhead,” he pleaded as he increased the pout by a factor of ten and fluttered his eyelashes in Tommy’s direction.

Bosko snorts out another laugh and holds out a hand to shake. “Buckley, take care of yourself. I’m sorry about your Captain Dad, he was a good man. Call me some time to hang out, you are a fun drunk. Kinard,” she said and with a friendly nod, went back to her friends at the pool tables.

Buck turns back to Tommy and looks up at him with the look that he knows turns him to mush. “Thank you for coming to get me, Tommy. You always come when I call, you’re the best. Take me home and tuck me in? I always sleep better with you and I’m so tired,” he pleaded.

Tommy sighs with a small smile and hauls Buck out of the barstool and on to his feet. “Come on, sweetheart. I’ll take you home and you can tell me more about Dickhead Diaz in the morning. I’m glad you called me,” he assures Buck and guides him out the door to his truck to go home.

[elliespassagerprincess]

I NEED MORE PROFESSOR ELLIEE

Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader

masterlist

professor ellie / first time / nsfw headcannons / more headcannons (currently reading) / grading

starting a life together / getting married / having a baby

☆ Ellie gets visibly irritated when you mention other professors. Even in passing. If you compliment how “funny” someone else’s lecture was, she tightens her jaw and changes the subject fast — she can’t stand the idea of you admiring anyone else.

☆ She checks your schedule obsessively. Ellie memorizes your timetable. Not just for logistics — she needs to know where you are, who you’re with. It gives her a sense of control over the chaos she feels when she’s around you.

☆ Ellie started sitting in on classes that aren't hers. Just to keep an eye on you. She pretends it’s departmental observation, but she’s watching to see how you interact with other faculty.

☆ If she sees another student get too close, she gets cold. The moment someone touches your shoulder or makes you laugh in a way that feels too casual, her demeanour ices over. You recognize the shift instantly.

☆ Ellie fantasizes about pulling you into her office mid-argument. Half because she wants to shut you up with a kiss, half because she wants to remind you that you’re hers — in private, in the dark, where no one else sees.

☆ She collects pieces of you. A forgotten scarf, a sticky note you left on a textbook, a doodle you made in your notebook. She keeps them all in her desk drawer, like a shrine.

☆ She dreams about being caught. Not in a ruinous way — in a way that feels freeing. She pictures slamming the door behind you, kissing you like she doesn’t care who knows, and the thrill makes her stomach flip.

☆ Ellie acts dismissive in public. She’ll barely make eye contact with you in the hallway, won’t even acknowledge your presence during staff meetings. But her eyes follow you like a storm cloud.

☆ She talks about you vaguely to her colleagues. She’ll say things like, “Some students are… incredibly driven. Borderline obsessive.” They don’t know it’s about you. But you’d recognize that tone anywhere.

☆ Her jealousy is worst when you're not speaking. If you argue or take space, she becomes consumed with the idea that you’re already moving on, already finding someone else to fill the void.

☆ She keeps a second phone. Just to talk to you. It’s not official university property. It's locked, private, and hidden under a loose floorboard in her apartment. She checks it more than her main phone.

☆ Ellie has you saved under a fake name. In her phone, you’re listed as “M.” Short for “Muse.” You thought it was ridiculous — until she whispered it in your ear one night, and it suddenly didn’t feel so silly.

☆ When she gets jealous, sex turns rougher. She’ll grab your hips hard enough to bruise, mutter things like “mine,” and leave marks on your neck she shouldn’t. The next morning, she’ll panic, gently trace them, and apologize with trembling fingers.

☆ Ellie spies on your Instagram using a burner account. She doesn’t follow you, of course. But she checks your stories obsessively, zooming in on every face you tag, every drink in your hand.

☆ She’s obsessed with your lipstick stains. On her coffee mug. On her collar. On her inner thighs. She hates herself for it, but sometimes she doesn’t wash it off — lets it linger like a secret message.

☆ Ellie’s biggest fear is you getting bored. That one day you’ll wake up and realize she’s too rigid, too cold, too closed off — and you'll leave her for someone who can love you publicly.

☆ She hates your ex. Doesn’t matter how long ago it was. If they text you or their name comes up, Ellie shuts down. She’ll kiss you with a quiet desperation that night, trying to erase every memory before her.

☆ When she's drunk, she lets it slip. One time, at a faculty party, she got tipsy and said something to a colleague that almost revealed how much she knows about your life. You had to drag her away before she said your name.

☆ Ellie keeps writing a resignation letter. Over and over. Never submits it. The thought of giving up her position — her career — for you is terrifying. But the thought of losing you feels worse.

☆ She hates hiding, but she loves it too. The adrenaline of stolen glances, the tension of brushing hands in a hallway, the risk — it drives her mad. Sometimes she touches herself to the memory of almost getting caught.

☆ She memorizes your perfume. You once wore something new and she spent all lecture distracted, breathing it in. She bought a bottle for herself the next day just to spray her pillow with it.

☆ Ellie keeps saying "this is the last time." After every heated night. After every reckless kiss behind her office door. She says it while your lips are still swollen. Neither of you ever believe it.

☆ She leaves coded messages in your feedback. “Brilliant insight.” “Could explore further.” “Unexpected depth.” It’s her way of saying: You’re brilliant. You consume me. I see every layer of you.

☆ When she’s jealous, she punishes you academically. Subtly. A harsher grade. A red mark through a paragraph she secretly loved. She always apologizes later, hands gripping your waist, voice full of guilt.

☆ Ellie bought you a necklace. Something simple, something that wouldn’t raise questions. She told you it was nothing. You wear it every day. She notices. Every time.

☆ She’s terrified you’ll leave first. That you’ll grow out of the danger. That you’ll crave stability. Someone your age. Someone who doesn’t flinch every time the dean walks by.

☆ Sometimes she whispers your name in her sleep. You’ve heard it. In her apartment, curled up beside her, while she dreams. You never tell her. But you smile.

☆ Ellie wants to take you away. She fantasizes about both of you disappearing to a city where no one knows her, where she can hold your hand in daylight and not look over her shoulder.

☆ She’s more in love than she knows how to handle. The intensity of it — the fear, the yearning, the possessiveness — it swallows her whole. Sometimes she thinks she might drown in it.

☆ She’s planning an endgame. Whether it’s after graduation or a new job or burning everything down — Ellie’s secretly working out how to make this real. Because despite all the fear, she wants you forever.

[faceofpoe]

On the highly contentious unraveling of Cassian Andor (and how season 2 is at its heart about his relationship with Luthen).

(This has nothing to do with justifying or not fuck-all about Rogue One Cassian beyond getting him to that beach, I'm an Andor girlie just working my head around what we've built and where it's going in the context of the show).

I had a lot of issues with arc 1, and some of those issues (like ducking around pillars at a wedding to have the hey we're gonna have to murder that guy talk or, why is Kleya even here?) are not going to go away BUT as someone whose brain wasn't exploded by season 1 until seeing the full big picture come together (Rix Road, beloved), I promised myself a full season rewatch to try to recalibrate.

I haven't rewatched yet, but let's have a 75% recalibration now that arcs 2 and 3 have led us where they have to much fandom furor, and mulling how we bring this whole thing together.

Which brings me back to: this season is at its heart about Cassian's relationship with Luthen, and his acceptance at the end of season 1 that Luthen was right, he's going to die fighting the Empire - so either kill me right now, or put me to good use fighting these bastards for real.

Season 2 came to us with a gigantic ask: engage with the negative space. We have to imagine how Cassian went from big wet bambi eyes above to Mr Earnest-Reassuring-Come-Into-The-Circle with Niya. Mr Empire's-Most-Wanted is sneaking into top secret facilities and doing it with confidence and -

Shit goes instantly sideways. This isn't even the right ship, did anybody know that?? (they didn't, obviously they didn't, they don't know what's gone wrong, and this is really important I think about the fallout of this arc). Cassian's off having a terrible time while Luthen and Kleya are spying and drinking on Chandrila and he doesn't check in and this isn't normal.

It's been a year+ since season 1. Partagaz tells Dedra she's been on the Axis hunt for "almost two years" I believe so presumably we've jumped decently down the calendar year for the 4bby arc.

I have a lot of feels on how Cassian's arc one story should have had more time to breathe, to make the losses punch harder at the end by showing him leaving home, etc, but perhaps that is also the point -

He's good at this; he's accepted his pact with Luthen, one day he'll die fighting - but they're tucked away safe. Brasso's looking out for everyone, Brasso who he tasked with looking out for Maarva if he could. We're meeting him on the high point of thinking he can have it both ways and... perhaps not fearing what happens back home, if this mission or that is the one from which he doesn't return. They'll pull through. This is perhaps his era of: the Cause comes first; we take what's left. And he's balancing it, or thinks he is anyway.

Dashing off home and having found that unraveled while he was having The Worst time on Yavin - captured by, theoretically, allies -

The balance is upended, and cue crisis of faith. Not in the Cause per se, but in Luthen. He gave his own life up to Luthen but now the situation has changed on multiple levels. He's rattled by the failure on Kleya & Luthen's end on Sienar, doesn't have Brasso, doesn't have this illusion of safety on Mina-Rau, Bix and Wilmon both get involved, but Cassian isn't handling it well. There's no "take what's left" when she's right there in the line of fire too. Bix questions his decisions in the field, Luthen... his exchange with Kleya in 2.6 is telling.

"This isn't the piece we need."

"We knew that already."

"I thought seeing it in person would make a difference."

Cassian is not the operative he was where we met him with Niya. Sending him to Ghorman is something of a confirmation of something they've clearly been realizing/discussing. Luthen going to check on Bix/put her to work/whatever was the deal there - this seems very much Not The Norm by her reaction, they don't have a lot of face-to-face contact I would guess - he's doing his own assessment of just what is the situation here. (In the most dickish way possible of course, my problematic beloved.)

Cassian's at this complicated intersection of having lost this comfortable place where he can risk and trust his family's safety. Luthen and Kleya are having their own meltdown over how chaotic their operation has become. Cassian... is probably thinking about that bad intel for Sienar and wondering when the next catastrophic fuck-up that isn't his fault is going to cost something else while Bix is over here being the far better adjusted one about just what war looks like and how unreasonable his mentality about her presence. And I'm really curious if we're meant to read in the sudden appearance of "I have friends everywhere" that this was an effort to avoid another experience like the Maya Pei Brigade.

And then Luthen asks him to see about stoking the flames on Ghorman. (I'm still trying to decide how I feel about the sort of 'having it both ways' aspect of Ghorman and provocation and 'it never mattered anyway the ending was already written.')

And Cassian says: "I'll sit this one out." He doesn't take the order, he decides he wants no part in it. And that is where the final fracture in kill me or take me in finally happens.

He doesn't trust the vision anymore. Doesn't trust that the inevitable tragedy will be worth something in the end. Is this fighting these bastards for real? And is starting, perhaps, to wonder if it was worth it at all, to walk back off that ship to Gangi Moon.

And somewhere in the next year, Cassian starts to come to terms apparently with the fact that he doesn't trust Luthen with his life anymore. But he's not quite all-in with Yavin and Draven either. He's maybe still grappling with the acceptance, or inevitability, or not, that the fight will claim his life in the end - and he's lost his faith in Luthen spending it well. Sometime in this time gap after arguing over Ghorman, the fallout with Cinta, getting shot and struggling with recovery... it unsettles him into retreating, ducking Luthen's calls, until Wilmon turns up with compelling incentive.

[insert Force-ex-machina plot here to heighten his internal struggle]

And at the root of their conversation before the Mon extraction is basically Cassian refusing the assertion from 1.4 - this end is not already written. His own decisions matter. Arcs 1 and 2 only validated his teenage understanding that rebellion is pointless and all they'll do is fight themselves one way or another and, Ghorman has validated his plea with Maarva that she can't beat them. People stand up, they die.

And he has a very similar sort of conversation with Luthen as he had with Maarva and gets much the same response. Still work to be done. Luthen doesn't ask Cassian to stay, but he gives him the "I can't go." They're done. Cassian's done.

[I have quarantined the unfolding of the Bix departure in my brain, Bix's story is now Tether, sorry, I hate it so much, and it could have very much worked without the Force healer Force-ex-machina of it and probably with different timing, anyway]

Anyway Bix pulls the "if you leave, it won't be for me."

So we the audience know of course that Cassian is going to stay. Ironically, perhaps, in a far less make-my-own-decisions friendly capacity within the military hierarchy than he ever was with Luthen. And it will be interesting to see how we meet him at the opening of arc 4. He's presumably got Wilmon and Vel and Melshi and K2SO. He's finally seen the Rebellion pull together; Bix ripped away his fantasy (and it is a fantasy, he knows it's a fantasy because it's played out already on Ferrix and Niamos and Mina-Rau) that there's somewhere safe they could get away from it all.

Will he trust Draven & co to spend his life for good again? Or perhaps he simply can't bring himself to care so much either way after all of the turmoil surrounding Ghorman and the fallout and Bix. Orders are orders and good soldiers follow orders and here he is now, slapped into a uniform with a rank on his chest (idk if he ever actually wears the uniform with rank insignia between all the amazing coats in R1 but you get me) and he'll play the part because what else is there?

But Luthen is still out there, against just about every prediction for how this season would unfold. Luthen is the one puzzling over Ghorman and Dedra, demanding the endgame. Luthen isn't finished.

And I guess the question is, since we know how this ends - what is the force the propels Cassian along to Kafrene to kick off the final mission?

Just a soldier following orders?

Or are we going to wrap this back around to that s1 claim and that pact and the extension of broken trust and give Luthen something of a chance to earn it back (possibly posthumously), in sending Cassian along to the meaningful death he promised?

[consistentlyguessing]

Joyride

summary: being new at work is always embarrassing, but it’s even more embarrassing when your girlfriend shows up during the middle of your shift.

WARNINGS: fem!reader, she/her pronouns, probably ooc, yelena kind of teasing reader, jobs 🫩, JOHN WALKER, not proof read, that’s all maybe

A/N: i need her so bad it’s not even funny anymore. where are the yelena fics 💔. i feel like thanos rn, “fine..ill do it myself” it’s a little short but it’s cute methinks. ok bye

Starting a new job was always nerve wracking for you. Safe to say you weren’t really a people person. It was your first week at a small tanning salon in NYC. It was quiet and tucked away into a small alleyway. Enough hustle and bustle to keep you occupied for the hours you’d be there, but not too busy.

The job was pretty simple; check people in, give them lotions, towels, goggles, then clean their beds after they left. It made you around $15 an hour, so who were you to complain?

Your coworkers all seemed very nice. They were very extraverted, far from shy. They made a point to make you feel at home right away. You were particularly close with Lydia. She was loud and talkative like the others, but definitely someone more your speed.

She had long blonde hair, bright makeup, haunting green eyes. She often wore dresses and Birkenstocks to the salon, which made you question a lot about her. In her defense though, she was in her second trimester of her fourth child. She’s bound to be tired of being dressed up.

Lydia often ranted about her husband, who seemed to be very similar to a man you once knew. He was abrasive, snarky, arrogant, overall someone you shouldn’t marry. But when you have three kids and another on the way, it’s hard to get rid of a man like that.

During the middle of one of Lydia’s never ending rants about her spouse, making you question if she really was with John Walker after all, a loud revving was heard just outside of the salon. Lydia, sat in front of you blinked slowly, “Who’s that?” She smirked, eyeing the figure. You turned around, disregarding the goggles you were cleaning. You’d be lying if you said you were surprised by who it was.

They had short, messy, blonde hair. Their roots were showing though. Their makeup, despite usually being flawless, was mildly smudged. They were in casual clothing, a T-shirt and jean shorts to combat with the New York heat.

You made eye contact with the person through the window, who shot you a playful look. “You know them?” She asked, inching closer to you, “Pass me their number when you get the chance.” She winked.

You coughed awkwardly before turning to face Lydia, your face pigmented slightly more than before— despite being in the heat of the salon. “That’s my girlfriend, Lydia” you deadpanned before standing up and walking towards the front door, “I’ll be back!” You called out before rushing out of the salon.

You hastily rounded the corner, practically fuming as you looked at the motorcycle in front of you. “Yelena! What are you doing here!? I don’t get off until 8!” You huffed, crossing your arms as you stood on the sidewalk next to the motorcycle.

“Y/n, finally. I missed you, wanted to see your face,” she said earnestly. Her thick Russian accent made her words all the more savory. You swallowed hard as she spoke, trying not to get flustered.

After you didn’t respond, she spoke up again, “C’mon, let’s go for a ride. I brought your helmet.” she smiled as she held up the sparkly helmet she insisted you wore each time you rode the bike. In her words, “it’s harder to hit someone if they look like a disco ball” which was evidently true, but still, you looked like a fool.

“Not a chance, ‘lena. I like this job, I plan on keeping it for a while.” You huffed, shaking your head as you spoke. Yelena stayed quiet for a moment, eyeing you up and down, examining your outfit. “Hm, maybe I’ll like it here too if you come over like this everyday ” She grinned, playing with the hem of your athletic shorts. You sighed, pushing her hand off of you, “Not laughing Yelena,”

Her smile faltered momentarily, “We’ve done it every where else, what’s the difference?” She asked, returning her hand to rest on the handlebars of the motorcycle.

“Each time I’ve gotten fired for leaving the property during contract hours! Again, I really like this job, ‘Lena..I want to keep it,” you pleaded, frowning at her slightly.

Yelena frowned back, “Doll, you don’t have to do these minimum eh—“ she paused, searching for the correct word, “tasks anymore. Valentina can cover the cost of you living in the tower too. What’s the issue?” She said, trailing her hand up your waist slowly. A small shiver crept down your back as she continued her trudge on your body.

“Yelena, you know I don’t want to be mooching off you and the rest of the team. I’ve been providing for myself for years, I can keep doing it. Besides, I like my studio apartment.” You said, your expression softening slightly as you wrapped your arms around her neck, leaning in closer to her.

She rolled her eyes, “You are so stubborn,” she teased, rubbing your side. You shrugged slightly; pursing your lips and looking off to the side innocently, “guilty as charged.”

A few more moments of silence passed, the two of you sat there, looking at each other, enjoying the moment. Yelena smelled earthy with a mix of a little vanilla. A mix of her shampoo and your body wash, that you’ve previously recommended.

“Hey, by the way, who is blondie in there?” She asked, glancing towards the window, you looked back to see Lydia still standing there, watching the scene unfold. “Oh, that’s Lydia. One of my coworkers. She’s awesome, why?” You spoke, turning back around to face Yelena.

“She’s been making goo-goo eyes at me all this time,” she grimaced before looking back at you. You squinted slightly, raising an eyebrow at her, “what do you mean goo-goo eyes?” You asked, your voice lower than before.

“You know— the eyes you make when you really want me to kiss you, like earlier. She’s been doing that,” she said nonchalantly, waving it off.

You sighed, huffing slightly before shaking your head and moving away from her. Sighing loudly you spoke, “Lena, I’m going to go back inside and finish this shift. We’ll start talking about moving arrangements when I get off, leave the door unlocked.”

Yelena smirked at you before moving her hand off of you and back onto the motorcycle, twisting it slightly, causing a loud rev of the engine to set off. She winked at you as you bid her goodbye and walked back into the salon. She shook her head as she drove off.

Boy, Lydia was in for an awakening.

[thequietkid-moonie]

Can you do a Zenless zone zero secret relationship drabble(character sneaking off to makeout with reader) Anby, miyabi, astra, zhu yuan, koleda, ceaser, burnice, jane doe,Evelyn (all separate)

(koledas age is still kinda mystery but I researched and I've picked up that she maybe 20+ but I can still feel how she wouldn't be OK to write for so I'll add an extra charecter in the main ask to replace her)

A sight only for your eyes

[ DRABBLE ] [ Zenzless Zone Zero ]

> Secret relasionship, sneaking away to make out

Anby Demara

It is almost imposible to predict whenever Anby would appear out of nowhere and dragg you with her to spend time together, she kinda likes to surprise you and always makes sure you are not bussy so she can have you all by herself, and, of course, the kisses comes without a warning, she just stares at you for a moment before going for a kiss, gently pressing her lips against you and when you reciprocate is when things start to escalate

Hoshimi Miyabi

Surprisingly she is quite good at hidding your relasionship, still she isn't the best at sneaking away because normally Miyabi just go straight at you and says that she has something important to talk with you, and for how serious she sounded no one would ever guess that you two are actually kissing like there is no tomorrow in one of the empty rooms

Astra Yao

Sneaking is already a daily thing for her, most of the time she does what she wants so of course she have already mastered the art of sneaking away specially when you are close to where she is, again, this is practically already a rutine, when you less expected a hand is pulling you out of the crowd and with a giggle and a wink Astra takes you somewhere else to do something funnier, but if it is for kisses then you two need to be extra careful to don't be interrupted

Zhu Yuan

Zhu Yuan is someone incredibly responsible and respectful of her work, she likes to keep your relasionship in low profile no matter how much she can crave for your love sometimes, so it has to be you the one dragging her somewhere private to make out, she is trying to fight back, to tell you that "not here" and "someone may find you two" but it takes no time for her to get lost on you, to press herself against your body and cling onto you for dear life as you kiss her

Caesar King

She may be the leader of the Sons of Calydon and the Overlord of the Outer Ring but Caesar struggles a bit when it comes to you, she barely get to say good enough excuses to sneak away whenever she needs to see you, still you two can pretend that you need to discuss from work to sneak out, still she will take longer to appear again than you because after that make out session she need a moment to fix her apparience and calm down so her legs stop shaking and the blush in her face fades away

Burnice White

There is a 50/50 with her, sometimes she can keep it neutral and act natural and other times she is being a bit too affectionate and risking making your relasionship public, but Burnice knows better and when she wants kisses she finds a way to get them, either by discreetly dragg you with her somewhere private or challenge you so you two had to get lost in the road, somewhere no one will follow just to make out on top of her motorcycle

Jane Doe

She is already used to having to sneak out to contact people from his work, she knows how dangerous it may be and how risky it is if she is not being careful, but if she sees you across the street Jane will totally sneak out, drag you to an empty hidden side of the street just so she can kiss the hell out of you, of course she is totally up for it! She even likes to keep up her facade of work and playful pretend she is a criminal just to steal your kisses

Evelyn Chevalier

Its not always that Evelyn simple lose her composure, she knows too well how to keep everything under control and act in emergencies, but she is never ready for whenever you casually ask her help just to sneak away from everyone with her hand in yours and start kissing the hell out of her where no one would see, she gets out of the shock a bit too slow, but when she is able to react she will take revenge and not let go until her heart is content

A/N: i have no problem with writing for Koleda but i didn't added her because i just can't see her in a situation like this

[kawhh]

To anyone who was affected or reached by Brynn's (sweetestdesire's) actions who might see this and any of her anons - if you're comfortable to read a direct apology from her and think it'll help you heal or at least understand her actions, or if you were an anon wanting to still be in contact with her and also read the apology, she's coming back tomorrow. She's coming back as @angelichughes and I wanted to take the time to let people know but to also explain why I think she should be heard out and why I believe she's learnt the lesson, has grown as a human being and understands how things went wrong and what she can do to make sure she never falls into the hole she did again.

Everyone who was hurt by her actions doesn't ever deserve to go through it again in any shape or form - her actions were wrong, it shouldn't have happened and shouldn't have dragged on long as it did. I've always understood the frustration from anyone who was hurt and especially those who had reached out and talked with her in the past - I still don't agree with how it was handled and I never have and I don't agree with anyone who was using the situation for drama points or dragging it on.

I'm not saying that was everyone, but this is also tumblr and we're all responsible for being better role models with how we handle drama and conflict. There are children here and they deserve the best from people.

But I do understand how some people felt trapped and felt like they had no other option but to deliver the initial message in the way that they did.

I'm not here to apologise for her actions. I'll be perfectly clear in that. This is NOT what this is and I'm saying all of this because I can see a real change in her and want to help people get what they need or want.

I'm not going to sit here and discuss all of the reasons and explanations and any other details - people deserve that to come from her and I also understand how some people will never want to even hear another word from her and you have no responsibility to hear her out or see her name again.

When I've been hurt in the past, it's helped me often to have an explanation for the actions even if I haven't ended up fully agreeing or understanding or wanting to change my opinion or view after reading it.

I've also had situations where I've blocked any mention of their name because I just don't want to see anything and I'm hoping by mentioning the username that I can also help with that part for people.

I'm not in her brain and I've never pretended to be in her brain, but I can see a full, genuine difference and understanding in her behaviour and her mindset after it's happened. I want to be clear about that - if I didn't see a difference and thought she was the same person with the same understanding, I would not be supporting her like this and I would not be typing this.

I do believe that she needed the shock and needed the blow for it to fully sink in for her, to drag her out. A way her brain couldn't skip over as she fell deeper into the hole.

After spending a month talking to her, I fully understand how everything happened for her and how it did happen, but there's no illusions about how she should've dealt with it and reached out. It's not an excuse coming from me or coming from her, but it'll be the honest explanation and reasons why she did it and I hope that can help people in some way.

I fully believe she understands the hurt she caused and how it went wrong at each turn and how she needs to be better for both everyone else and also herself. I believe she's honestly regretful and not just for being caught out - but for her actions as they were.

That can mean nothing to you and that's also fine, but if that does mean something to you, I'm 100% confident in every word I say.

I'm thankful for the anons of hers who have continued to send asks my way to send to her - she hasn't taken any of this lightly and hasn't avoided any of the emotional damage to both herself and everyone she hurt and interacted with and seeing some of you still wanting to understand and wanting her to heal and be a better person has meant a lot to her and myself.

I understand if any of you would be nervous about interacting with her again, but if you would still like to interact with her and give her a chance to show you how she's developed and how she wants to continue to grow with you, I would be grateful.

I also understand that there's anons who have been hurt by her actions and have distrust in all of her previous actions and interactions with you and I repeat that if you're comfortable with it, I think hearing her apology is the least you deserve.

As a final piece, I'm going to make it very clear that I'm not going to tolerate hate sent my way or sent to anyone who does interact with her. Like I said earlier, we all have a responsibility to be better on this platform and any other platform online.

I understand being hurt, but there's a difference between being hurt and asking for an explanation and being hateful. Asking her for answers and expressing hurt is always going to be fine, but we're also all humans who make mistakes and nobody deserves the kind of hateful messages some people on here send with no regard for any human being on the other side of the screen. Some people would do well to ask themselves how they would feel if it was them or someone they cared about getting some of the pure hate some of you send. Not just even this - even simple things like someone not liking a player you like.

I don't tolerate it when people send me hate. I will not tolerate it being sent to her friends.

Being actually hateful towards someone will not help you. It will not help you heal. It will not bring you comfort or satisfaction. It will not make the situation better for anyone. That's my stance on any behaviour like that on this website.

I'm also not going to be doing a personal Q&A. This is my statement and she'll make hers.

I will also understand if I'm blocked for my stance on this by anyone who was hurt - I will be interacting with my friend and I will be doing it publicly. I believe in her and the changes she's made and I'm very proud of all her development. I see someone who understands the situation and genuinely wants to be better for herself and everyone on this app daily.

I'm tagging a few of you - but I also have no expectations and have no right to ask anyone to read or forgive or be friends with her again. Everyone needs to do the right thing for themselves.

@hughesinthebox @zzbubblegumbitchzz @ruinix @rowdyluv