#in which I throw all my favourite tropes at salts ask lmao | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tiressian · 1 year ago

Note

Debate? Heated argument?

What about a quarrel because someone is... jealous. 😌🤭

But honestly, I've been waiting for you to write a jealous fic/sex trope. 🥺👉👈

You're in luck 😂 I have a scrapped jealousy scene from Hello Nurse that has kissing, on the house:

content warning for Naoya lmao, rated high T, sensuality, cussing

I’m getting laid, Shoko decides.

Ideally, she’d prefer a targeted lobotomy: erase everything about Satoru that makes her stomach tie up in knots, but anyone who’s manifested such a Cursed Technique has yet to step foot through the school gates. The thing about Satoru is he’s insufferable but also oddly considerate in unexpected ways, and these two facets of him are in constant harmony, which is frustrating, because he also has the nerve to be consistent about it.

Satoru’s stopped munching on her party-sized bag of potato chips and is staring at her.

“Oh,” Shoko says, realising after a pause. “Said that out loud, didn’t I?” Satoru nods slowly. Sorry. What were you talking about?”

“My annual ‘End of Summer; Zero Deaths!’ party,” he says. He goes back to munching. Shoko got the salt and vinegar flavour out of spite, but that doesn’t stop him from stuffing it down by the handful. “Ish gonna be ‘allow-een-feem.”

“Halloween-themed?”

Satoru nods, swallowing. “Yeah, costumes. You’re coming right? Who knows; you might even get lucky.”

“Who are you going as?”

“The Dread Pirate Roberts,” Satoru says, puffing out his chest briefly. Probably another character from all those movies he watches, Shoko assumes. “Wanna go matchy matchy? I think red suits ya.”

“Ha-ha.” Stupid Morgue joke, she thinks. Stupid Satoru, making the same one every year, as if it’ll magically land if he does it enough times.

“Worth a shot.” Satoru shrugs. He tips his head back to empty the rest of the potato chips down the hatch.

“Satoru,” Shoko says, suddenly remembering.

“Yo!”

“What kind of woman do you like?”

Satoru is briefly serious, thinking about it. The moment he smiles, Shoko knows she’s in for mischief. “Hmm, well. I really like women who like me.”

Shoko groans.

“What? It’s the truth.”

“Such a copout.”

“How’s it a copout?” Satoru scoffs, and as convincing as it sounds, Shoko’s ears are highly attuned to filtering out the bullshit.

“Plenty of women like you.”

“Still doesn’t mean my answer’s a copout.”

“Yes it is.” Satoru gives her a blank look. “You’ve noticed all those women liking you; you’ve at least figured out your preference if you haven’t acted on the fact by now.”

Satoru smiles coyly at her. “What an intriguing diagnosis. What makes you so sure I haven’t?”

There’s a fine line between teasing and flirting. Satoru is a deft hand at blurring that line no matter who he talks to. Five years ago, it made her heart race—until she realised he did that with everyone. Now it just triggers an involuntary eye roll.

“I’m not,” she says while Satoru chuckles. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

“It’s Six Eyes, not Six Hundred Eyes. Shoko, come on; I look like the kinda guy with that kind of time on my hands? You know my schedule.”

Another cop out. “I do know your schedule. I also know you have a knack for making space when it’s convenient.”

“Heaven forbid a guy practices time management!” Satoru throws his hands in the air.

“Favourite body part then,” Shoko says. Satoru tilts his head. “Are you a tits man or are you an ass man?”

Satoru snorts, then busts out laughing. He catches the marker pen Shoko flings at his head and sets it down calmly on her desk.

“I’m definitely an uncomfortable man,” he says.

“You’re lying.”

“Am not Shoko, I really am uncomfy.”

“Look, I’ll get the ball rolling: I like guys with nice bodies. That’s why I asked Suguru out,” she says. “See? Nothing you need to think too hard about.”

“Clearly.” Satoru says, catching her in a stare down. Eventually Shoko relents, unnerved. She looks away, digging into her labcoat pocket for the comfort of a cigarette. Stupid man, stupid consistency. “That strung out, huh…”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Shoko sighs. She balances her cigarette between her lips while she feels around her pant pockets for the lighter. It takes a couple of flicks before she finally gets a flame going. Satoru is quiet as he watches.

“Come to my party,” he says eventually, all teasing gone. “You never come.”

“I don’t like the noise.”

“Plenty of quiet corners. And beer.”

“What if I don’t want to wear a costume?”

“Then you’re drinking water.”

“Alright, compromise: I’ll come and I’ll wear a costume if you answer the stupid—”

“Hands,” Satoru says, heading off her rant at the pass with a smile.

Shoko closes her eyes and takes a drag. There’s never any comfortable middle ground when it comes to attention from Satoru. Always the extremes of barely enough, to have her noticing the days between his last visits and his current one, and too much all at once, filling her space with his presence until she feels suffocated by it.

“It’s stupid though,” he says.

“Liking hands isn’t stupid,” she says on an exhale.

“I mean liking only one part of a person. People aren’t made to be experienced in parts. You take them whole: good, bad…kinky.”

Shoko opens her eyes and finds him grinning at her, clearly having added that last part just to get a reaction out of her.

Shoko gives him nothing. She’s had enough years training herself out of knee-jerk reactions. She closes her eyes again and brushes the delusion aside.

“You’re weird,” she declares.

“I’m marking you down as Attending,” Satoru says. “Wear a costume—an actual costume—or you get no beer.”

He goes, leaving her office door open behind him so it can ventilate. “Smoking kills,” he says over his shoulder.

…

The party is in full swing when Shoko finally steps out of the elevator onto the penthouse floor. Sanji (Nanami) is there to let her in before he excuses himself to the bathroom. He doesn’t bat an eyelash at Shoko’s outfit, but then Nanami tends not to bat his eyelashes at most things.

“Utahime’s already drunk,” he explains. “I have to go hold her hair. There’s a walk-in closet where you can leave your coat.”

Satoru, or ‘The Dread Pirate Roberts’ is in the kitchen, finding entertainment in watching a zombie (Itadori) and a witch (Kugisaki) race to see who can shotgun their cokes the fastest while a mummy (Maki) boredly stands off to the side, eating from a skewer.

There’s a large icebox filled with beers set up by the couches. Shoko passes the kitchen as she weaves her way through the throng toward it, pretending as if she isn’t unnerved by the stares following her until she hears glass shattering. When she turns her head to the commotion, she finds Satoru standing there, staring at her like a deer in headlights, with the same blush she’d seen weeks earlier creeping across his face.

Yuki’s about to have a field day.

She gives the downright flabbergasted pirate a polite wave in greeting, careful to hide her glee. Then she continues on, retrieving a beer from the ice box and making herself at home on the empty space of couch that Two-Face (Naoya Zen’in) of all people has just cleared out for her. As she crosses one leg over the other, he leers without an ounce of shame, which seems to be a common denominator for these clan types. Then he shifts closer, draping an arm casually behind her head on the couch’s backrest, bringing her into his domain. He smells nice, Shoko will give him that much.

“Well hello nurse,” he greets, in the pompous tone of a man very used to getting his way. “You’re a long way from the Infirmary.”

The current leader of the Hei is a walking red flag, a veritable patron saint of Rotten to the Core. The name Zen’in is a warning label all its own already, but by god does this man work to make sure it stays that way. Shoko knows this, every woman in the jujutsu world knows this.

But Naoya is also hot and she came here to get laid. She’s already accomplished her primary goal of wiping Satoru’s perennial smirk off his face, and that’s worth celebrating. Shoko considers both truths as she pops open her beer. She decides just for tonight she doesn’t care if Naoya doesn’t respect her. He’s never needed her like everyone else in Tokyo Jujutsu High’s needed her, come crying when there’s something to be fixed.

Feeling wanted, even if it’s by Naoya Zen’in of all people, is way too nice of a thing to not smile about.

“Yes, I walked all this way just to sit here with you,” Shoko tells Naoya.

...

Naoya gets a phone call from the clan head and excuses himself to the balcony to answer, which is good timing for her, because she needs another beer. Most of the drinks have sunk lower in the icebox on account of the ice melting, so she has to bend a bit to reach. She feels a few of the eyes in her immediate vicinity fixate on her ass as she does, but it can’t be helped. She’s just straightening up, two cans in hand when her back brushes up against a wall that wasn’t there before and smirks as she turns. She didn’t expect Naoya to be done with his clan business so quickly, but she’s far from bothered; it just means she can get to her business too.

“Aww did you miss m—oh,” Shoko realises, chuckling. Satoru has taped fake anime girl eyes into his blindfolds which are a hilarious contrast to the tension radiating off of him. He crosses his arms any tighter his head’s going to pop off like a cork, she thinks. “The Dread Pirate Roberts. What an honour.”

“Nice costume,” Satoru says. His smile is so fake, Barbie’s probably ringing him off the hook to sue about it.

“Thank you. I think I might actually be getting lucky tonight, so I appreciate the suggestion.”

The fake smile on Satoru’s face splinters. “Naoya? Really? You couldn’t find anyone else to talk to?”

“It’s so fascinating Satoru; I don’t think he recognises me. Do you think he remembers what you and Geto did to him during Goodwill?”

“What you and me and Geto did to him, you mean.”

“Bygones. We’re adults now, Satoru.”

“He isn’t.”

Shoko smiles, poking him in the chest. “Oh? I don’t think you have any authority to say how an adult’s supposed to act.”

Satoru bats her hand away and holds up a gloved finger, which he probably assumes is supposed to lend him some kind of gravitas but in Shoko’s eyes he just comes across as petulant. “I got enough authority in this finger, nay, my pinky—” he says, wagging it in her face, “to say that that guy’s a hundred percent garbage dressed up in a fancy suit.”

“Well, no one else is interested in talking to me, garbage or no garbage.”

Satoru gestures between them. “I’m talking to ya aren’t I?”

“Doesn’t count; you’re the host. My point stands. No one’s rushing to talk to me.”

“Because they saw Naoya talking to you.”

“Why’d you invite him then?”

“Because he did me a solid.”

“Ahh so he’s only ninety-nine percent garbage then,” Shoko says, and Satoru twitches, one corner of his mouth fighting a smile.

“You’re smarter than this Shoko.”

“It’s sex, Gojo. Nothing to be smart about.”

“Well the sex you’re after is political.”

As if she needed the reminder. Satoru looks at her expectantly. Shoko purses her lips, considering.

“What if I asked him really nicely to let you off the hook?”

“Snowball’s chance in hell that’s happening. Look at him, Shoko: throwing his weight around, already enacting his terrorism over there.”

Proclaiming Naoya as a terrorist is a step dramatic even for Satoru, Shoko thinks, as she follows where he’s pointing. “What, like he’s marked his territory? That is so ridic—” she cuts off with a snort at the scene on the balcony.

Naoya is still on his phone, leaning on the railing, his back to the entire world while he nurses a beer. The other party guests who were on the balcony before him have all instinctively crowded to one side to give him a wide berth.

Yes. Marking his territory does sound like something in the realm of what a man who only viewed women as playthings would do.

“It’s fine,” Shoko decides, turning back to Satoru. He’s staring at the ceiling for no discernible reason, a blush high on his cheeks. “What’s with you?”

Satoru mumbles something.

“Pardon?”

“I said Naoya sucks.”

“That’s what I thought you said. Now quit being a bad host and go save those poor balcony guests if you care so much. I’ll tell you about the sex tomorrow if I’m still alive.”

She squeezes his arm and leaves him staring at her back, mouth opening and closing without any sound coming out.

...

On the spectrum of funny, Naoya is decidedly a lot less funnier than Satoru, which Shoko didn’t think possible until tonight. If there’s anything ‘funny’ about Naoya, it’s the way his gaze occasionally drifts to Maki from time to time. But Shoko also wants to get laid, and clan dynamics incestuous or otherwise are far down her list of things to be judgemental about, so.

It’s an excruciating twenty minute conversation, to say the least.

Shoko can only imagine what she looks like, smiling politely, and occasionally giggling, initiating contact by slapping Naoya lightly on the arm as though scandalised. She’s fervently relieved Utahime’s too drunk to see her subject herself to this, but Naoya’s staked his claim and it’s not as if anyone else is stepping up to the plate. That said, by virtue of his family name, rancid as his personality is, Naoya has to have no shortage of people lining up to throw themselves at his feet for the favours or protection being a Zen’in guarantees. He should be adept at seeing through bullshit pandering, especially since it’s not as if she’s going for the Oscar here. There’s a moment during their conversation where she thinks she sees intuition flash across Naoya’s face, but it seems to be unfounded when he inevitably cracks another unfunny joke and finally rests a hand on her knee. Shoko smiles as she takes a drink of her beer, dimly aware of the sound of glass shattering, amused by a different punchline:

Naoya is just like every other man.

...

And so is Satoru, apparently.

Naoya gets another phone call and Shoko won’t lie: it’s amusing to watch the people on the balcony part like the Red Sea the moment he steps out. She makes her way to the kitchen while Satoru herds everyone into the living room for some party games and starts assigning them up into teams.

The first game is charades. Shoko clears an entire tray of beef skewers while she watches, perched on one of the stools behind the kitchen counter. The only thing more entertaining than watching charades is watching drunk people argue technicalities for points.

The stool beside Shoko scrapes against the floor. Satoru steals the last beef skewer before she can get to it and cleans it off in one bite, chewing with more gusto than seems necessary since every piece has been cooked until tender.

“You n’ Naoya gettin’ real cozy,” he remarks.

“As cozy as one can get, sidling up to a viper’s nest?” Shoko guesses, smiling.

“Well at least you don’t need me to tell ya.”

Shoko watches him pull a tray of dumplings over and steals the one he was about to pick up as revenge, popping it into her mouth and smiling innocently back at him afterwards. Satoru mutters something under his breath and picks up a different dumpling.

“You know, Gojo,” Shoko says while they eat. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you wanted Zen’in-kun for yourself.”

Satoru chokes mid-chew, beating a fist against his chest. Shoko claps him behind the back a few times to help dislodge it, admittedly with more force than required. This sudden burst of protectiveness is appreciated but unnecessary. Naoya and his ilk could stand to attend a gender studies class, but it’s not like she’s setting out to screw a scumbag curse user.

Satoru summons an unopened can of soda, and—after an expectant look from Shoko—a beer from the icebox with Blue. It’s as he’s sliding the beer over that Shoko notices the red smears on his wrists.

She jerks his hands towards her before he can drink so she can examine them closer. No wounds, just remnants of his reversed cursed energy kicking in, and fairly recently, too, judging by the strength of his residuals.

“What happened here? Fistfight with a knife?”

“Tch, no. Pyrex dish exploded.”

“What? How? Why? Those are supposed to be oven safe.”

“Dunno,” Satoru says. He clears his throat unnecessarily and tugs his hands back. Shoko sits back and watches him eat, a hundred percent certain he’s being evasive and trying to figure the angle.

“Never pictured you with a guy like Naoya,” he mutters, before he freezes, eyes wide, like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.

Too late for him, Shoko pounces. She leans against him, smirking. Shoko doesn’t know what possesses her to do it, maybe it’s the costume giving her a boost of confidence, but she curls her fingers over his forearm, idly scraping her nails against the muscle she feels through the black silk of his shirt. Satoru stiffens at the contact, face pink, but he doesn’t move away.

“Oh? You were picturing me with guys? I didn’t know your schedule had space for ‘that kind of thing.’”

“Oh like you don’t have time picturing me with women. Miss ‘what’s your type?’”

Shoko drums her nails against Satoru’s forearm and sighs. “For your information, I only asked because Yuki wanted to know.”

“Yuki?” Satoru repeats, frowning at her. If Shoko didn’t know any better, she’d be tempted to say he looked disappointed. She presses on, tracing an ’S’ in his arm with a nail, amused at how every line in Satoru’s body seems to draw tighter the longer she does it. He’s never been the ticklish sort, so it’s fascinating.

“What kind of guys, Gojo? Go on, tell me. You’ve been so vocal tonight, don’t stop now.”

“Good guys.” Satoru’s tone is clipped.

“Look at Mr. Eloquent over here. What’s a ‘good guy’? Define it for me.”

“Ha, easy: anyone at this party who isn’t Naoya.”

“Anyone, huh…” Shoko lets go of his arm and glances to where the rest of the party guests have gathered, engaged in the most intense game of Pictionary she’s seen, gaze sweeping over the faces she knows.

Kiyotaka’s kind but too awkward. Mei Mei could be fun, but would probably lord it over me if she doesn’t try to swindle me first. Utahime’s already asleep. She tilts her head at Nanami whose lap Utahime has claimed dominion over for the foreseeable future.

“I guess that’s true,” Shoko admits. Satoru nods in that self-satisfied way of his that she’s used to and pops open his soda. “Do you know if Nanami’s seeing anyone?” Shoko asks and Satoru spits out his drink.

“Nanami?” He manages, recovering. Sheesh, from the look on his face you’d think she’d just declared that Suguru was right this whole time and that she’s going to buy a ticket on the genocide train.

“Why not? Isn’t he a good guy? Or would Haibara be a safer bet. He’s nice and I like his face.”

“Well, yeah, but.”

“But what? Is he taken?”

“No, he’s just.” Satoru glances to Nanami and then back to her, managing to look even more put out, which is dumbfounding, considering Naoya as her only other alternative. “Nanami? Seriously!”

The last part comes out so sharply that Shoko startles, and she sees from the way Satoru registers her reaction that the outburst is instantly regretted. She’s used to seeing him emotional, but always as a third party watching him rant at Ijichi. Being subject to that ire is as sobering as a shock of ice water to the face.

Shoko pops open her beer and skulls it, feeling her hands shake. She can’t deal with being sober right now, because then she’d have to contend with the knowledge of the ‘good guy’ sitting right in next to her never, ever, slowing down enough for her to reach him.

“Sorry,” Satoru mutters, massaging his temples. “Didn’t mean to snap. Hosting’s been a real pain. Think I’ll should just… I dunno, hire out an izakaya next time.”

“That’s the smartest, most adult thing you’ve said all day.”

“Tch. I should confiscate your beer.” Satoru continues to press his fingers to his temples, brows knitted together, eyes closed.

“Another migraine?”

“Yeah. From watching you slobber all over roadkill,” Satoru grumbles.

Shoko rolls her eyes and swivels his chair to face hers. Satoru cracks an eye open, looking at her quizzically.

“Here.” She pulls his hands down, replacing them with hers along the sides of his face. Satoru closes his eyes.

She’s done it so many times it’s muscle memory at this point. Locking in on the pressure built up behind his eyes takes her no time at all, and even less time to remove it completely. All in all the process takes no longer than five seconds, but Satoru’s expression remains pinched, so she lingers. She waits for him to move away, because he’s always the first to do so, always laughing awkwardly when he does. It’s a rejection she’s built an immunity to from sustained exposure.

Satoru finally moves, but not in the way she expects. Both his hands come up to cover hers while he turns his head in towards one of her palms. When she feels him press a kiss into her skin, slowly opening his eyes to meet hers to gauge her reaction, she feels her entire body still as the realisation sinks in.

Hands.

Satoru smiles as he tugs her in, his eyes flickering to her mouth. Shoko goes without any resistance, feeling heady from the rush of emotions flowing through her.

Maybe it’s the universe’s way of evening the playing field, that for all of Satoru’s ethereal beauty, the allure of it is always instantly dispelled by the first thing that comes out of his mouth. For years she’s considered herself immune—and to a greater extent, special—because it’s never happened to her. She’s heard every conceivable off colour thing this man’s said, always felt an innate certainty that with all the years she’s spent supporting him, there’s nothing he could ever say to make her want to turn and run.

Until tonight.

The validation of every thought, every feeling, the alleviation of every doubt she’s ever had about the possibility of him returning her feelings; uplifted to heaven in a single gesture only to be dragged straight back to hell in the next. Ruined by the first thing out of his mouth, just as their lips are about to touch:

“Don’t go with him.”

Shoko pulls her hands back, too shocked to even derive some satisfaction from the way Satoru’s face falls. Her body moves automatically, muscle memory kicking in as it registers the grief, discerning no difference to her losing someone on her operating table, or completing an autopsy on a former colleague. She hops out of her stool, calmly goes over to the sink and washes her hands, dries them methodically like she always does, pausing to take in a pile of cracked glass and ceramic swept haphazardly into a corner, red streaks lining some of the larger pieces. Shoko decides she doesn’t care. She strides out of the kitchen and continues to the balcony towards Naoya, past everyone having a blast at karaoke, too drunk to pay them any mind. Satoru follows, ashen faced and stricken.

“Shoko? What’s the matter? Why are you—”

Shoko reaches Naoya and snatches the phone out of his hand, ending the call. Naoya raises an eyebrow at her afterwards, a cruel smirk promising retribution on his face even after she hands back his phone. The few other people on the balcony scatter, heading for the safety of Satoru’s living room.

“The last woman who gave me attitude,” Naoya says, advancing, “I had her—”

“Don’t care,” Shoko says briskly. “You’re hot, I like your face and I want to sit on it. You can fuck me however way you want after. We doing this or not?”

Naoya’s smirk widens, gaze raking greedily over her. He takes another step forward. “Alright, feisty. Your place or mine?”

“Neither,” Satoru cuts coldly in before Shoko can answer, looming over Shoko’s frame like an overgrown shadow. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

“That’s my decision,” Shoko snaps, but Satoru’s attention remains fully focused on Naoya. She turns and prods him in the chest, which is the same thing as trying to poke steel. “Oi. Don’t talk like I’m not here.”

“Naoya-kun.” Satoru says, as politely as he can manage through clenched teeth. He tries to put a placating hand on Shoko’s shoulder but she immediately shrugs him off. “I think you should go. She’s only going to use you.”

“I don’t mind,” Naoya says, really more to Shoko’s cleavage than her face. Satoru’s eye twitches. Shoko inwardly rolls her eyes.

Men.

“Well if he’s leaving then I’m leaving too,” Shoko declares.

Satoru frowns at her, confused for all of two seconds before he clicks.

“Wait…what the hell, you’re mad at me? The hell did I do?”

Shoko pointedly ignores him, looking at Naoya. “Well?”

Naoya’s gaze shifts back and forth between her and Satoru, briefly perplexed before his smirk returns. “No idea what the hell’s going on here, but I’ve seen you—” he nods at Satoru— “watching me like a hawk, and you—” he nods at Shoko— “chatting me up all night. You both want a piece? Fine by me, but I get to top.”

Satoru doubles over laughing. Shoko pinches the bridge of her nose, feeling a migraine coming on. Naoya crosses his arms, watching the two of them, waiting for an answer.

Satoru finally recovers, dropping a hand on Naoya’s shoulder. He shakes his head. “Not even in your wettest, wildest dreams, Nao-chan.”

Shoko is already halfway to the hallway while Naoya shakes him off, digging into her pocket for her phone to call a cab. Satoru swears under his breath as he pursues, only a few steps behind her.

“Shoko! What did I do?”

“Ieiri?” Naoya spits out, aghast. “Fuck! I knew she looked familiar!”

...

Satoru’s hallway feels twenty times longer than it initially felt when she arrived, which is doubly annoying because he remembers he can teleport, and does so, cutting her off at the halfway point. Shoko barely manages to stop herself from walking into him. She tries to shoulder past but he catches her wrist.

“Why are you mad at me? What did I do? Back in the kitchen—look if you don’t want me that’s fine, but—”

“Don’t go with him,” Shoko deadpans. “Seriously.”

“Because he sucks! Why are you being so—”

“The second I start paying attention to someone else then suddenly I’m worth—”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Satoru says, looking hurt. “I didn’t even know you liked me like that until five seconds ago. Give a guy a chance to catch up will ya? I didn’t even know I had a cha—”

“What? Of course I like you like that, stupid dumb idiot! I’m still here, aren’t I? After everything, Satoru!” Shoko hisses, just in case karaoke isn’t loud enough to drown out their argument.

Satoru recoils from the outburst, startled.

I’ve fucked it up. I’ve fucked it. Whatever, I’ll live.

Shoko exhales and soldiers forward. Given time, none of this will matter in the grand scheme of things.

“I’m sorry. Look, it’s just. I put you first, I put everyone else first. I always have. I’m not complaining, I know my role in all of this. I just thought for once it was the other way round. And it felt nice…until you opened your big fat mouth.”

Satoru just stares, saying nothing.

She takes that as her cue to leave, brushing past him. She makes it about two steps before he catches her wrist.

“I’m sorry. Forget I said anything,” she says quietly, feeling too petty and small to look him in the eye even as he tugs her back, that same hand moving to cup her cheek. “I just need—”

She breaks off as Satoru kisses her.

...

Shoko will give Satoru this much, the man knows how to kiss. It’s just as well that he does, because it’s good enough to stop her from wondering about all the other people he’s kissed before he finally got to her. His free hand weaves around, supporting her back so he can tilt her, smiling against her mouth briefly before he pulls away and straightens, taking her weight as she sags against him, her hands resting on his chest.

It takes Shoko a few seconds to bring her brain back online, which would be mortifying, if Satoru didn’t also look like he was having just as hard a time catching his breath.

“Uh,” he says intelligently, possessing only enough braincells to grin goofily at her from ear to ear.

“Y-yeah,” Shoko says, just as intelligently, feeling a sudden hunger thrum throughout her body, sharp and hot until it’s all she can focus on. The equation’s simple enough: she wants him, he clearly wants her; the answer to said equation is even simpler: what the hell are they doing just standing around for?

Satoru clears his throat. “Sooo,” he starts, conversationally.

Shoko curls her fingers into his collar and drags him back to her mouth, a hand sliding up the nape of his neck to card through his hair.Satoru makes a noise as his back hits the wall, hands flailing uselessly in the air as he kisses her back. While he’s so distracted, Shoko goes for his belt, unfurling his shirt from the waistband of his pants. Satoru makes another noise and catches her wrists, holding them up and out towards her sides. Shoko adapts, slipping her tongue into his mouth, pressing the length of her body up against his and rubbing against him. It works like a dream: Satoru’s grip on her wrists starts to slacken, moaning into her mouth—

“Yo! Gojo-sensei!” Yuji calls from the living room, the equivalent of cold water dousing the fire between them. “Your turn on the mic! Anyone seen Gojo-sensei?”

Satoru breaks away from Shoko’s mouth immediately, panting hard as he puts distance between them. He straightens, hands shaking as he tucks his shirt back into his pants, attempting to work his hair into some semblance of the ‘stylishly’ dishevelled look it was before Shoko got her fingers in it. Irritating as it is, Shoko will concede this about the interruption: it’s a nice ego boost on top of the catharsis of having her feelings returned, being able to admire her handiwork and let her imagination run wild on what else she can inflict upon this man.

“Probably sucking face with Ieiri,” Naoya says drily, in a rare display of leaving his self-centred bubble long enough to concern himself with other people. Shoko always assumed that was only something he did in battle.

Satoru just shoots a dirty glare towards the living room, blushing profusely.

Haibara busts out laughing. There's a loud thud and Naoya coughs. “Hahaha! Good one Zen’in-kun!”

Shoko tries to approach Satoru again, but finds she can’t get within two steps of him, thanks to his Infinity. Satoru’s clearly realised that any attempt at restraining her requires their bodies to be touching, thereby opening himself up to further exploitation on her part. He’s probably also considered sitting on her or tying her up, but has wisely refrained because he doesn’t want her more annoyed than she currently is. Shoko huffs and plants her hands on her hips, pursing her lips.

Stupid idiot, Shoko thinks, peeved, moving to lean against the wall opposite Satoru as a peace offering. Always smart only in the nick of time.

“Don’t be crass,” Maki says, murmurs of agreement following. “Everyone knows Ieiri’s too good for that idiot.”

Shoko nods in agreement. Satoru looks as if he’s just taken enough mental damage for his own soul to vacate his body.

“And how much are you willing to bet on that?” Mei Mei chimes in, scenting blood like the dirty capitalist she is. Someone groans. “What? You think this manicure grows on trees? A girl’s gotta eat.”

“Thought you wanted me,” Shoko says quietly.

“You fucking kidding me?” To his credit, he does look both apologetic and similarly frustrated about the situation, raking a hand through his hair, gaze sweeping longingly, hungrily over her, triggering an almost automatic lust low in her belly. He gestures wildly at all of her. “You’re wearing a nurse costume and stockings, for fuck’s sake! I got half a mind to barrel you over my couch.”

“So why don’t you?”

Satoru chuckles. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, dunno if ya noticed, but half the jujutsu community are on that couch right now.”

Shoko fights a smile. Stupid man and his capacity to only be funny in the worst of times.

“I hate you,” she says, managing to keep an even tone about it.

Satoru still smiles, eyes twinkling. “Aww, don’t be like that.”

“No. I hate you.” Shoko enunciates crossly, turning her head away before he realises that charm can be weaponised against her. “I’ve liked you all this time and this is the thanks I get. I don’t even want to think about all the credibility I’ve lost wearing this stupid costume. I got half a mind to go running back to Naoya.”

Silence.

“I mean,” Satoru mumbles to his feet, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought you’d come as Buttercup not… I mean I’m totally not complaining but I didn’t think you’d actually—”

“What was that?” Shoko snaps, an eye twitching.

“Nothing!” Satoru says quickly. He must have lowered his Infinity, because in the next instant he’s in front of her, taking one of her hands into both of his and squeezing. Shoko scowls up at him, feeling her resolve falter at the utter earnestness in his eyes. Damn him. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise. Good things come to those who wait, right?”

Shoko finds herself smirking. “If you say so,” she says.

She snatches back her hand and turns on her heel, striding confidently back to the living room. If there’s anything she knows about Satoru, it’s that Paragon of Patience he is not.

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?” Satoru mutters, trailing a few steps behind. “Shoko?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Shoko lies.

...

If it’s a battle of wills Satoru wants, Shoko’s happy to accommodate. Thirteen years of observing the man, be it fighting or teaching or goofing around has taught Shoko that he does not possess a single reserved bone in his body—ironic, considering the one she’d felt growing against her stomach five minutes earlier. He’s been spoiled by having Ijichi as a pressure valve to let off the steam before too much of it can accumulate, but Ijichi or no Ijichi, it’s not as if he’s ever had any trouble articulating his grievances.

Armed with tonight’s realisations, Shoko’s determined to become the most difficult grievance for Satoru to ever have the displeasure of trying to ignore, let alone protest about. She may have agreed to wait, but that doesn’t mean she’s rolling over and letting the time pass uneventfully for him. She’s spent enough of her twenties doing that, thank you very much, and fuck him for making her wait. Dark corners her foot.

At the very least, it will be an interesting stress test to see how many contrived, misinterpreted scenarios it’s going to take to crack him. Her money’s on Nanami as a heavy hitter, but Haibara could be a wild card, which is why he’s up first. It’s free amusement for her either way.

Haibara is cheerfully munching his way through a tray of pull-apart cheeseburger sliders and occasionally singing along with whoever’s got the microphone at karaoke. Shoko reclaims her seat at the kitchen island beside him while Satoru passes, taking the microphone from Yuji at the front of the living room by the TV. Satoru clearly isn’t concerned because Haibara’s the guy who takes everyone at face value, and wouldn’t know a flirtatious line if she sat beside him and had a name tag that read ‘Hi! I’m Flirting With You’ sticky-taped to her bosom.

“Ayy, park it there, Shoko-san!” Haibara greets, grinning at her through a mouthful of beef and cheese. He doesn’t even get distracted by her boobs which gives Shoko a newfound appreciation and respect for the guy. Haibara may not be special grade, but he is an anomaly amongst his peers, with that endless optimism.

“Hey Yu,” Shoko says, smiling and actually meaning it for once, “how’s life treating ya?”

“Better now that you’re here. So good to see ya out and about!” Sauce dribbles down the corners of Haibara’s mouth.

Shoko realises her cheeks hurt because her smile has turned into a full blown grin. In another life, she’d let that unpretentious charm of Haibara’s sweep her off her feet. Just her luck, falling for a serial schemer instead of someone so wholesome and uncomplicated.

“What?” Haibara says.

“You got a little…” Shoko can’t help but laugh when Haibara uses his tongue to try to mop up the sauce, only succeeding in spreading more of it around his mouth.

“How’s that?”

“Better.”

“Awesome!”

“No, you idiot, you got it everywhere,” Shoko laughs.

Haibara just shrugs like this is his life now, nothing to do except roll with it, which is just the most Haibara thing ever.

And seeing a mess and feeling a responsibility to clean it is unfortunately just the most her thing ever. Shoko grabs a napkin and leans forward, beckoning for Haibara to follow suit. “Come here then.”

“Okay!”

Shoko wets the napkin with water from an opened bottle and wipes away the sauce as best she can from Haibara’s face while he giggles.

“That tickles Shoko-san,” Haibara says, when she pokes his cheek.

A few more daubs here and there and, “Perfect,” Shoko declares at last, leaning back.

“Thanks!” Haibara says. He grabs another two sliders and stuffs them into his mouth and there’s more sauce dribbling out than before.

Shoko tosses the used napkin to an empty part of the table with a sigh. As Haibara goes back to eating, she tunes back into karaoke just in time to see Satoru’s head whip back to the lyrics rolling across the LED, his jaw slightly set.

#answered asks #and scene! lmao

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