#moonboohoo

[moonboohoo]

[yuukri]

hello chel chan ;)))) i'm still laying in bed contemplating abt life and i'm so tired omg ): like my mind is all over the place and goshhhh i miss you sm TT but i'm all g lmao i slept around 2 yesterday and i woke up at 8 like bruhhhh HAHAHAHAHAHAHH anyways baby love you my amazing honey baby talented writer wish you a very very merry xmas darling chan ;)))))))

hey moooon!! i hope you’ve gone to bed or woken up well rested (i have no idea how timelines work!!) fingers crossed your contemplation ended semi-positively or at least constructively!! i’ve spent xmas being spoiled and drinking and watching so it was plenty of fun!! merry xmas my beloved!! you’re an amazing writer yourself and such a hard worker, much love sweetie!

[4dtk]

spider anon makes me so horny omg please IM SCREAMING SO BAD TRICIA

BAHFHD me 2 moon

[violetsoju]

stay here with me (your heart in mine)

kunimi akira · fluff · 3.8k words

summary: 10 years. a lot can happen in 10 years. but if no effort is made in that span of time, then it's just back to square one, since one plus zero equals to one. and thats where Kunimi has been standing in these 10 years.

song rec: leehi - savior (feat. b.i)

a/n: im terribly late, but here's my fictrade piece for @heatwave2021 for dear mimi (@mimi-cee-hq)! ive gotten to know kunimi a lil better through this piece and i hope i did kunimi justice!! i hope you like it too <33 a huge shoutout to cath and amy for hosting this fictrade event too! this was really fun and also to moon (@moonboohoo) for giving this a once over ♡

“Do you know how great of a good friend you are?”

“Of course, I do.”

“Good. Because I’m revoking your good friend status now.”

Kunimi peers at the source of the voice over his shoulder, groaning in pain when he strains his neck sideways a little more than intended.

“Why so?” He croaks out, stretching his neck to ease the jabbing pain.

“Because a good friend would give their support by revising together or making themselves useful like bringing snacks or coffee. Not coming empty handed and sleeping on all fours like a slab of dead meat on the bed right next to me.”

A slab of dead meat is quite the fitting description, in all honesty. Kunimi’s face is buried into the pillow, butt up in the air, arms stretched out straight by the sides while his legs dangle over the edge of the bed just a little. It isn’t the best position to sleep in, but he can’t find an ounce of energy to move.

It’s quite the contrast from the latter. Kindachi has his face buried in the pile of notes before him, laptop screen staring brightly back at him with notes swamped all over his desk, a couple of empty cans of coffee sitting right on the edge of the messy desk waiting to be recycled. His supposedly easy-to-maintain short hair is somehow tousled from the non-existent wind. And if anyone didn’t believe that it was possible for a giant to shrink to a midget, then they would have to think twice because Kindaichi is the living proof in flesh. He’ll definitely be aching everywhere after his exam tomorrow from hunching all day long.

“Why should I use more brain energy when I’m finally done with my exams? There’s no more space for snacks or coffee on your desk either, so why bother.” Kunimi’s muffled response doesn’t help in relieving the stressed hunched giant.

“You could go somewhere else instead.” Kindaichi points out, jabbing his pen towards the window.

“She’s having her exams now. Plus, your place is nearer to mine.”

“Fancy you knowing who I’m referring to.”

Kunimi doesn’t need raise his head to see the ugly smirk dancing on Kindaichi’s lips teasingly. “You would have the same person in mind if it was you.”

“Nah, I thought it would be Yahaba-san you were referring to.”

“It’s not my fault that my building’s electricity is out till night without any prior notice.” He tries to change the topic.

There’s no way Kindaichi is going to let this slide easily. “Yeah, yeah. Sure. So you would’ve gone to her place if she was at home, am I right?”

Kunimi sighs into the pillow as he fails to make him drop the topic. “Don’t blame me for not being able to finish revising on time later on.”

“I’m already planning to place the blame on you after all.”

【☾】

“Aren’t you going to see her off tonight though?” Kindaichi questions, eyes still focused on the scribbled words inked on the papers scattered before him.

“For what?”

“Don’t you know? She’s leaving tomorrow.”

The new piece of news sparks Kunimi’s attention. “Where to?” He asks, rolling over to his side to face Kindaichi.

“I’m not quite sure,” Kindaichi taps his pen against his chin in thought. “Not quite sure what for either. Work placement, maybe? But I know that she won’t be coming back anytime soon after tomorrow.”

Kunimi’s raised eyebrows matches Kindaichi’s ones, albeit one in scepticism and the other in surprise.

“You seriously don’t know?” Kindaichi asks disbelievingly.

He finds the answer in Kunimi’s shift in position, back facing him again.

Sighing at his friend’s actions, Kindaichi resumes back to the pile of doom before him. “Well, this may be your last chance. Just saying.”

“For?”

“You know yourself best.”

Kindaichi knows that he should focus on the issue on hand that calls for urgency, but his idiot of a friend requires his immediate attention too.

“You’re actually pretty lucky, you know,” He can’t help but say. “All of these years, from primary school, middle school, high school, and even now in university. That’s more than 10 years. And you’re still in square one. That’s honestly quite an achievement.”

“I’ll take that as a complement.” Kunimi snorts.

“Seriously. I know life is a game, but it’s different from volleyball. There are still other matches after losing one, after the ball drops, but in life there’s some matches that end forever after the whistle blows. Even if you try and save the ball in the last minute, the libero may not be there to save your dig after the whistle blows.”

“I didn’t know you were so good with words.” Kunimi rolls over slightly to look at his friend.

His eyes light up in excitement. “I am?”

The grimace written on Kunimi’s face tells him otherwise.

“Okay, but in all seriousness again, you’re really an idiot if you don’t grab hold of the final chance this time. Don’t say I didn’t give you a heads up in advance.”

“You’re starting to sound a lot like Oikawa-san now with the nagging.” Kunimi comments as he rolls back to face the wall, shutting out the latter’s retorts as he sinks into his thoughts.

But Kindaichi’s right. From baby seedlings to the sturdy plants now, it’s been more than 10 years of knowing you. You have been a part of his life for more than half of his years, witnessing his and your growth over the years of stumbling and climbing back up again. To call you a mere childhood friend would be an understatement. Because he knows where you place in his heart. He’s smart enough to know, but perhaps not smart enough to acknowledge it.

But maybe Kindaichi’s wrong too. Maybe life is similar to volleyball too. The positions in volleyball can be used in real life too. Him being a wing spiker and you being a libero. He doesn’t need to look behind his back because you’re always there behind for him, no matter what.

But maybe Kindaichi isn’t completely wrong either. Because he knows time waits for no one. He knows the bitter taste in the gut when the whistle blows just as his hand is mere inches away from the ball dropping to the ground. He knows efforts pay off at the end of the day.

Maybe he should try going all out just this one time. His first that may be his last.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Kunimi doesn’t know how, or even why he ended up here, right in front of your doorstep. There’s still a chance to turn back. Even after a text that has been sent out or the ding on the doorbell that has been rang, he can still back off if he wants. The bag of beer and snacks can be kept for lazy weekends in the comfort of his blankets alone.

Why did he buy snacks anyway? Maybe he should’ve gotten ice cream instead.

But they would melt on the way here. But again, snacks aren’t the best option either. Not to mention beer. Talk about being healthy…

His train of thoughts snap apart when the door swings open before him.

“Hey, you’re here!”

He can leave those thoughts for later, he guesses.

“Come on in. Watch your steps along the way!”

The mini sea of shoes flooding the genkan and the aromatic whiff of dashi soup in the air has him halting his steps. He doesn’t even need to take a peek inside to know that he should’ve went home instead.

“Uh, are you sure you’re actually free now?” He asks over the chatter coming from the inside, still taking a peek at the small crowd huddled in the living room, nonetheless.

You stand in the small hallway connecting the genkan to the living room. “Yeah! We’re actually finishing up, so don’t worry. You can join us for a few bites if you want.”

“Is your friend here? Bring him in! You’re gonna miss out the last serving of pork slices if you don’t hurry.” Kunimi recognises the voice. It’s one of the girls from your friend group that he has hung out with a few times before.

“I-”

“Who is it? Shabu shabu waits for no one. The meat isn’t nice when it gets cold.”

“Don’t be shy! Just come on in! Unless you’re too shy to be graced by our beauty.”

You laugh at your friends’ antics, ushering him to come in. “Come on, you know who they are. They won’t skin you for extra meat.”

Another voice booms from the inside. “We might actually do that if you don’t make your way here now!” A round of hearty laughter that’s mixed with a couple of beer and sake roars loudly.

Kunimi heaves a wary sigh, calculating his options. “It isn’t that. It’s just…”

“Just what?” You ask.

He looks up to your quizzed look, then to the sudden quiet living room where multiple heads are craned out like a flock of ostriches, each with a devious knowing look on them.

Now there’s definitely no way to make it out of here unscathed.

One of the girls clears her throat loudly. “You know what’s the best way to wrap up the feast? Ice cream.”

“Yes! We forgot to pick some up along the way. Could you go get some for us?” Another girl chirps in, while the others nod their heads in agreement.

You scoff playfully at them, hands crossed against your chest. “You’re asking me, the owner of the place, to go get ice cream for the guests? And leave my friend alone here in danger?”

“Who said he’s gonna be here with us?” A girl raises her hand in defence. “Take a look outside! The moon is so lovely tonight. Isn’t it such a beautiful night to walk under the moonlight with your dear friend together hand-” Her sentence gets cut off by the others who cover her mouth before she blabbers any further, smiling meekly at the both of you.

You stumble a few steps to catch the jacket thrown in your way. “Any ice cream will do! And take your time! Don’t worry about us.” They wave you off, resuming to the steaming shabu shabu on the table.

The both of you look at each other bewilderment, digesting what just happened seconds ago.

“Well… Ice cream?” You chuckle, soothing the jacket in your hands.

He chuckles too. “Yeah, ice cream it is.”

So maybe getting snacks was the right option.

The early autumn wind nips on the skin lightly. The crunching sounds of dried crumpled leaves on the pavement makes up for the comfortable silence that blankets the both of you on the way back, bag of assorted ice creams in hand.

“What a great bunch of friends you have.” Kunimi comments.

“They’re quite a handful, but yeah, I can’t imagine the past four years without them.” You laugh light-heartedly. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in? I promise they won’t bite.”

He shakes his head lightly. “It’s alright. Just dropped by to bid you goodbye and to pass you these.”

You peer at the bag handed out and swiftly turn on your heels. “I know you’re lying.”

He almost drops the bag in his hands. “I’m not. Seriously, that’s all I came here for.”

“You could’ve just sent me a text for this. Why bother making your way all the way here?”

Your question has him frozen in his steps, brain malfunctioning as he fails to come up with a convincing and rational answer.

You take the chance to plop onto the nearby stone bench, ignoring his snorts when you hiss from the coolness of the surface. “Well, I’ll be seated here until you tell me what’s the purpose of your special visit.”

“The ice creams will melt.” Kunimi reasons, digging his hands into the pocket of his jacket.

“Doesn’t matter. We can go get them again. I’ll just charge them double.” You shrug, waving him off dismissively.

“Plus,” you emphasize, “they told us to take our time. So I have all the time in the world to hear you out.”

He knows that you won’t budge until he gives in, given your personality. So he heaves another long breath and drags his feet next to you.

You rummage the bag for the ice cream you picked earlier, handing him a caramel flavoured one as he thanks you. You catch the little smile tugging his lips as he rips open the ice cream packet.

“You still like this specific brand after so many years.” You tease.

He bites the tip of the ice cream to spite you, in which he succeeds. “They’re the best. One of the only ones that hasn’t changed their recipe after all these years.”

You narrow your eyes at the crime he committed as he munches on the ice cream with a deadpan face. One of the things that hasn’t changed all these years is this habit of his too.

“So, ready to come clean now?” You ask. The ice cream in both hands is long gone, melted into a pool of liquid that chills the stomach.

Kunimi sighs for what seems to be the thousandth time of the night. Resting his arms on his knees, he trains his sight on the concrete pavement below. It’s funny how his hands start to feel clammy again despite the cool wind in the air. “So… You’re leaving tomorrow, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Keep calm, he tells himself. “What time?”

“Early in the morning. I almost missed out on the tickets because I got them last minute.”

“Can’t wait to leave, huh…” He mutters.

“A little. I’ve been looking forward to this day for quite some time, and it’s finally here!” You exclaim, excitement lacing your voice.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

You snap your head towards him in surprise. “I did. I remember telling you and Kindaichi at the same time. You guys would be one of the firsts to know.”

Kunimi groans in despair as he tries to rack his head for the past memory yet no avail. He blames the now unnecessary scribbled notes from the exam earlier for taking up so much space in his brain.

The bare concrete pavement seems to be more interesting than ever tonight. “When will you be coming back?”

“I don’t know. It depends.”

“So this may be the last time I’ll be seeing you?”

“In a while, I guess.”

Another sigh escapes his lips unconsciously as he buries his face in his hands. What happened to playing it cool, huh.

“You’ll miss me, won’t you?”

A scoff sounds in the air. “As if.” He hastily replies, turning sideways to hide the tint of flush creeping on his cheeks.

You chuckle at his actions. “I know I’ll miss you.”

His eyes finally meet yours. And although his soft hair falls past his eyes a little, you see your reflection in them, as clear as day.

“Then why can’t you stay?” He asks, voice just above a whisper.

It’s your turn to heave out a long sigh. “I can’t, Akira. I can’t.”

“As much of importance you are to me, there’s just as much of importance waiting on the other side for me.”

“That just means I’m not that important.”

He doesn’t know how those words carelessly fell out through his gritted teeth. All he knows that the moon is, indeed, lovely tonight.

It is indeed beautiful night, with the moon bright and round above. But why does he feel like the moon is mocking him? As if on such a beautiful night, with the person that takes up a significant place in his heart, his wishes are fated to not be granted. They fall on deaf ears, discarded aside as he feels his hope slipping away from his fingertips like fine sand in the wind. Maybe this is the price of not going all out all these years.

Time had been kind to him, offering so many chances and opportunities to him. But he wasn’t one to grab hold on them, because he’s used to making it up at the last moment. And it always worked.

However, maybe it’s all too late this time round. Maybe he outsmarted himself this time.

In all these years of knowing Kunimi, you’ve never seen him like this. Not even when they lost the ticket to the nationals for three years straight. Not even when life got him all tied up, juggling schoolwork and work on a thin thread, struggling for a gasp of air. You know he’s a master of keeping his emotions to himself, and you should be grateful that he shows this vulnerable side of him to you on rare occasions, because he trusts you enough to be there to pick up the pieces with him. But today, it hurts even more to see him like this, like a star that has lost its glow, a balloon that is gradually deflating. Because today, you’re the one that’s causing him to fall to such a state.

“Akira. Look at me.”

He doesn’t.

Because he knows that he’ll find something that he detests with all his heart staring back at him: pity. He neither needs your pity to offer solace, nor needs your pity to stay. That would be the worst kind of consequence that he knows he will regret for the rest of his life. Yes, his selfishness and self-interest may be screaming to reign over at the moment, but he knows this isn’t the right way to keep you by his side.

You don’t belong to him; you belong to yourself.

“Akira.”

He shudders as he feels your warm fingers cupping both sides of his cheeks, turning his face to yours. He avoids your gaze on reflex, but as his eyes sweep past yours, he stops. Maybe he really outsmarted himself this time.

Instead of pity, he finds concern, warmth, sincerity. Why is that?

“You know how I feel about you, where you lie in my heart. You’re smart enough to know that.

“But it seems like you’re not smart enough to know yourself.”

He does. Or does he?

You brush his hair that covers his eyes to the side gently, a small smile tugging the side of your lips.

“If you aren’t important, then why do you already have a piece of my heart which I have never given you?”

Kunimi’s breath hitches. The butterflies in his stomach are so close in fluttering their way out from his mouth as he comprehends your words, reciting them aloud again and again in his mind.

He immediately misses your touch lingering on his skin when your hands fall to your sides. “It sucks that I’m not smart enough to know whether I have a piece of your heart that you have never given me.” You chuckle bitterly, looking up to the moon.

You may have been there to pick up the shattered pieces of his heart and soul over the years, but at the end of the day, you return them to him. It’s awfully tempting to smuggle a few pieces, hiding them in your pocket to keep them safe and sound, but you don’t. It’s his heart, his only.

It’s your turn to hitch a breath. “You do,” Kunimi says, placing his hand over yours. “You always have.

“And now, I’ll give you not only a piece of my heart, but my whole heart.” His squeezes your hand gently, leaning in close. “Is it too much to handle?”

It takes a few seconds for you to apprehend his words, and once it links together, the butterflies on your end take flight in frenzy.

“Yes. I mean, no. I-” The chill autumn wind isn’t helping much to cool down the heat rising on your cheeks and ears. You can’t look him in the eye without averting elsewhere other than him. “It’s my honour to be bestowed your heart.

“And I hope it’s the same for you.”

“Look at me.”

Kunimi tips your chin up to face him, and you are welcomed by the soft smile that you love seeing, the one you don’t know that’s reserved for you only.

“Thank you for trusting your heart with me.”

He wondered where the stars in the night skies went tonight. It turns out they were all in your eyes, and they shine so ever brightly even without the sliver glow of the moonlight.

“Come on. We need to get more ice cream.” Kunimi nudges towards the now soggy bag that has tainted the stone bench with colourful liquid.

He picks up the sticky bag with a tissue from his pocket, shaking them a few times lightly as he stands up and extends his other hand to you. “They’re all on me.”

You place your hands in his. “What about the broke student you are?” You quip, footsteps falling in line together with each gentle swing of the hand.

“Hmm, I would rather be broke than be skinned alive in the lionesses’ den back there.”

【☾】

“Where are you leaving for though?”

“Miyagi. Our hometown.”

“What for?”

“It’s my grandma’s birthday tomorrow! I’m going back to give her a surprise and celebrate with my family over the week.”

You turn to him quizzically as he halts in his steps, rooted in place. His face is twisted and contorted in ways you never thought possible. It’s a mixture of shock, dumbfoundedness, and flabbergast all together. Words die at the tip of his tongue as he struggles to find the right words, brain buffering from the sudden new input of information, resulting in information overload as the new and existing information fail to fuse together.

“Where did you think I was leaving for? Some other prefecture for work?”

It takes a whole lot of effort to come up with a complete sentence. “Then why don’t you know when you will be coming back?”

“Because the train tickets back for the week are all sold out. So it depends on when my parents want to drive me back, I guess.”

You drag the babbling mess towards the konbini up ahead like a stone statue that looks like it’s stuck in a daze, caught in a trance.

“I’ll be starting work here in a month’s time. It’s not that far by metro, so I’ll still be renting my place here.”

“Kindaichi you lil shit…”

“Hey, don’t blame him. The best wingman award goes to him! It’s all thanks to him that I get to hold your hand now.

He loses himself in the endless galaxy in your eyes once again, losing sense of gravity.

“And your heart.”

[illyaana]

The Romans believed that pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath and sloth were the seven behaviours in mankind that made man move towards the dark side - to serve a much more devilish purpose; to go astray from their path in righteousness. But if these seven behaviours didn't bloom in one person but seven people - each one having one, distinct sin - how would their world change? Would it be not like what the Romans believed; peace and harmony maintained - or would it be a world filled with heathens and monsters alike?

Hello, guys! This is my first ever collab with a bunch of my mutuals <3 I've wanted to do a collab for so long, so it was fun to plan this whole thingy <3 Small thanks to @yamnotes and @silversslut for helping me develop this idea <333 hope all of you enjoy this~ Do check out all the talented authors involved!!!!

All works are SFW!

.·:·.✧    ✦    ✧.·:·.

@silversslut (Mia -> she/her)

Sin: Sloth

Character: Suna Rintarou | Haikyu!!

Link Here!

.·:·.✧    ✦    ✧.·:·.

@arquitecturadelanada (elle -> she/her)

Sin: Pride

Character: Tsukishima Kei | Haikyu!!

Link Here!

.·:·.✧    ✦    ✧.·:·.

@myloriahh (mylo -> she/her)

Sin: Wrath

Character: Akaashi Keiji | Haikyu!!

Link Here!

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@illyaana (juju -> she/her)

Sin: Lust

Character: Hawks | Boku No Hero Academia

Link Here!

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@yamnotes (ash -> she/they)

Sin: Greed

Character: Iwaizumi Hajime | Haikyu!!

Link Here!

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@vindictivtsumu (felix -> they/them)

Sin: Envy

Character: Miya Atsumu | Haikyu!!

Link Here!

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@moonboohoo (moon -> she/her)

Sin: Gluttony

Character: Gojo Satoru | Jujutsu Kaisen

Link here!

[tejxswini]

Yes I stalked you, @moonboohoo I wanted to :)

[moonboohoo]

Update: 

I’ve been contemplating things for a while now and I think it’s best for me to take a break. I am really exhausted and I don’t have the energy to brainstorm ideas or working on graphics. I’d regularly go into dark places mentally and I’m trying to distract myself by reading books and watching movies. 

I am still trying to find my inner peace, and I know this is not forever - I’ll be back after a month or two. Uni is starting this week and I need to focus on my studies since I’ll be graduating this semester. I’d still respond to dms though, but it might take longer than usual ): 

Anyways, please please take care of yourself. Eat your meals regularly okie <3 see ya <3 

[4dtk]

WHAT'S HIS NATIONALITY. WE NEED TO KNOW. SPIDER ANON PLEASE TELL US OMG BUT IF U FEEL UNCOMFY THAT'S FINE JUST CURIOUS ʕ ᵔᴥᵔ ʔ

the gals want to know baby @🕷

[4dtk]

warnings: DARK CONTENT, priest!geto, dom!geto, afab!reader, religious themes used in inappropriate ways, reader is legal, filthy smut, bit of plot ig, reader is a virgin and inexperienced, loss of virginity, public sex, cunnilingus, oral (f receiving), fingering, clit stimulation, unprotected sex, creampie/breeding

tags: @multistan-247, @wh0reforlevi, @moonboohoo

a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY BITCH!!!!! hope i’m not too late... also, in front of the altar, mans is down bad for you. previous part is here.

N//SFW UNDER THE CUT! MINORS DNI!!!!

“father… geto?” it’s genuinely hard to keep in your frustrations, especially with how you were left hanging like a naive little girl in the eyes of the father. even with how close you were to him, igniting trails of flames along his skin like the constellation from one star to the next, like marking out each and every star that’s turned inside out from dark matter, you wonder if this really was the right choice. swallowing, you enter the church against his command from the previous week, the night transitioning from the normal time of rest to midnight.

“w-what?” you’re brought off his lap gently by the priest who’d asked you if you trusted him, a pained look on his face when he trails a thumb over your lips. with your flawlessness, geto doesn’t want to paint the pretty little thing — you — as temptation, but with your pleading eyes and pouty lips, he finds that his heart beats faster and his legs feel like lead. chains of sin, years of study, all geto saw was you. but he couldn’t risk it, not yet. and even when he thinks that, he doesn’t know when will he move again.

against his every desire, he tells you, “go. and don’t return,” while you restrain the urge to sigh in disappointment later at home. you’re already reminiscing the tingle that comes and goes with countless thoughts of his tattoo under your fingertips. geto remains hungover to your scent and touch and whole being that he almost crushes the wood under the pressure of his hand, that each exhale comes with a shaky breath of your name. the most he could do was hope.

under the faint lighting of the old, battered cathedral is the very father at the altar, kneeling like it was any good at saving the sins he’s supposed to be taking away. under his breath was broken prayers, with your name mixed in every now and then, and then—

“father geto… are you there?” and suddenly all penance is gone, mind centred around you and he curses at how fast he turns around. geto swears God had been taking his time decorating you, clock ticking like it was laughing at the priest’s downfall.

in one breath, geto stalks right over to you with purpose in his step while you’re stuck on flat ground, too unused to the grandness of the altar. “f-father?”

the next moments happen too fast: geto’s hands on your face, his body heat right up next to yours, the dramatic whooshes of his cassock and his lips, on yours. even with everything, the kiss is gentle as it can get before it turns rough, head turning to get deeper into you that it’s almost suffocating with his body pressing against yours.

the other pulls away in haste, searching your eyes for any objection and this time you’re leaning in with a harsh clash to your mouths. geto takes it as an invitation to lift up your top, hands heading straight for your tits where he groans at how your nipples are already hard. he unbuckles your bra smoothly, breaking the second kiss to dip down right into your breasts.

“g-geto...” you sigh, his unkempt hair brushing over and tickling your skin. swirling his tongue over your buds, he enjoys how your moans sound and they’re so much better than whatever he had in his head. you’re addicted to how large his hands feel around you, containing your excitement when they move under your skirt.

“every bit of you is stunning, it’s a sin i haven’t tasted you sooner.” stumbling back, you grab onto the pew behind you just as a whimper falls from your lips, feeling his tongue flick over your exposed cunt. his eyes hold everything terrible, and he sure has no qualms about repenting when he eats you out like a man starved of pussy, sucking on your clit while his finger prods at your hole.

“you’re fucking soaking, baby,” the priest groans into your core, speaking in between slurps before he eases his finger into your cunt. it sparks a squeal from you at having a thicker, rougher finger in you that you shiver from the sensation and geto only offers a smirk. “you still trust me, yeah?”

nodding, your legs turn to mush while geto plunges another finger into you, prepping you for what’s to come. he expertly feels around for your g-spot, tilting his hand at an angle that you twitch each time he thrusts it into you.

“your fingers are s’thick, father...”

“was this what you were imagining, huh?” geto switches between sucking and flicking his tongue on your clit, “fingering yourself this whole week just thinking your fingers were mine instead?” you’re barely holding onto the pew until you fall onto the seats, legs spread far beyond your comprehension while the pastor cannot get enough of your sopping, little pussy.

“n-no, father, i wanted your cock. i want your cock, geto—” you moan out with hands flying to his tangled hair, slightly flustered at how it echoes against the walls of the church that you mute your sounds of pleasure but the other wants the opposite with a sickeningly sweet smile spreading. his bun unravelled more and more, just like you.

“what is it that you wanted? i need to hear you, darling,” he removes a finger against your will, tongue now drawing lazy circles on your clit as he revels in the slick that continues to flow from your cunt. you only hide in the comfort of your arm, curling in more when you hear him tut.

“that’s no good, baby,” to your chagrin, his finger removes itself, both hands going up to take away your hiding spot while he runs his thumbs over your fingers and licking a long stripe up your pussy. “tell me what you want like a good girl.”

your mouth opens to beg, but you’re stuck on how to with how intensely he’s looking down at you that it makes you conscious. you reach up to touch him instead, hoping actions would do you better. fingers travel over his already hard dick, hopefully giving enough indication of your neediness when they squeeze it. just like the first time, it positively drives geto crazy as he groans out.

“tell me what you want, slut.” something about seeing the outline of his cock against something so sacred, something about the insult, it makes you feral. “i want your cock in me s’bad, father geto. i wanna be your cockslut, please, please, please fuck me!”

you hardly have the time to finish your sentence before you’re yanked off the seat, dragged mercilessly to the front of the altar to rest both elbows to display to God about what a sinful minx you were, and while it wasn’t in geto’s plans to get involved with you, one look of you and your virgin cunt made him cave a second time.

his robes are already to the floor and you whimper weakly again at the sight of his tattoos, colours decorating his arm that you don’t notice how pretty his cock is, thick in girth and fairly long with a tip that’s leaking pre-cum.

“what a dirty little girl,” you moan in surprise when geto drags the tip along your still leaking pussy, both gasping when he first slips it in, “t-tempting me with your short fuckin’ skirts—” your head lols back and your back arches the more he enters as your slick providing for easy lube, but there’s still a faint sting as geto stretches your virgin cunt.

“you’re so big, i don’t think it’ll—!”

“you’re sucking me in so good, baby, i believe we’ll make it fit,” and you whine at the words muttered by such a holy figure, “can’t believe a whore like you is a virgin,” he grunts out, breath hot on your shoulders. there’s a breath of silence, like he can’t believe a priest like him is committing a sin so immoral, but a cute little plea from you makes his hips jolt.

“you doin’ okay?” a small whisper upon your ears.

your heart and pussy flutter at the question, letting a lovesick smile break through, “f-fine. just fuck me already, father. use me.”

and geto takes it to heart, slamming his hips right into yours that causes lewd moans to spill, and slowly he gets his pace going. your elbows aren’t enough to hold you up, already feeling weak in the knees at how a priest — a young, promising priest — fucks you into oblivion, in front of the altar no less. the visual is intoxicating to you, the crucifix above condemning every inch of your sins while you can only focus on how his length moves in and out of your cunt, arousal so copious that it drips right to the floor. his grunts fill your ears, praises among insults making your pussy clench around him non-stop.

“show the Lord how much of a slut you are,” geto pulls you up and supports you by your elbows, back fully bent as you cry out in the empty cathedral. your tits that bounce from his movements are shamelessly exposed to the cross while your hips move back to meet his, grasping at his forearms and hearing the wet, sloppy thrusts as he bullies his cock into you. your words are gone, reduced to babbling and pleads for him to fuck you harder and deeper and he obeys you like he obeyed the saviour, wings of white and purity lost to the allure of a pretty thing like you.

you’re hardly in any place to make out anything other than the man that’s ramming his cock into you, grateful that it could’ve been anything, anyone that could’ve taken away your card of innocence away, and still, you chose him. you’re dirty, used. from now on, you’ll only get father geto to please you, to fuck you like the whore you are. understand?

you’re drunk on how he asks you to beg for (H)is mercy, his cum, hearing your sin on holy walls as the cathedral hums in disapproval of your malignancy. he’s drunk on your sweet, addictive pussy, paired with your breathy, whiny moans. want this cunt to be full of my cum, hm? want it to be dripping right onto the altar’s floors?

and as he twitches and stutters in you, with the hot, sticky release of his cum in your tight, wet cunt, you can taste yourself on him briefly when his lips collide with yours and you find yourself muttering thank yous over and over while you revel in the twisted praise he gives you. just a little cumslut, huh? that’s all you’ll ever know, i’ll make it so, as long as my cock’s buried in your pretty pussy.

[4dtk]

based on a lil discussion with me and @moonboohoo btw this is a little ooc since sukuna is a cat lol. enjoy!

[yuji is typing...]

oh my godddd you're ordering food? i want food too wtf

anyway. i hear u about your problem. why not just ask the first person you see when you get back home?

[(y/n) is typing...]

you want me to ask my cat??????

[yuji is typing...]

oh no not the cat, that feline is the devil himself im sure

the person delivering your food, ask them!!! maybe they'd be willing to give you a chance

[(y/n) is typing...]

hey!!!! :( dont be mean to sukuna :((

your maine coon curls up against you as you flop down on the couch with phone in hand, the other switching on the television with not much thought. your hand naturally strokes the cat's fur, jumping channels from one to the next in boredom as you wait for the delivery.

sukuna's purring carry on even when the doorbell is rung, accepting the food with a smile and careful hands. when you don't return, however, the cat perks up in curiosity, seeing the familiar twirl of your hair around your fingers as you engage in a conversation with the person at your door.

"so... is tomorrow okay?" you ask, tired of waiting for the perfect partner to come and sweep you off your feet. the other goes to answer, but sukuna interrupts before they can, hissing with the swishing of his bushy tail. it's as if he was a human himself, staring down at the delivery person despite the massive height difference.

"ah, s..sorry," you rush to place the food down, picking up the majestic cat into your arms to cradle him, "my cat's pretty aggressive to strangers."

"we could always reschedule it?" they say, shrugging their shoulders, "doesn't look like your cat wants me in the house if i were to come over tomorrow."

you smile apologetically, "'m sorry again."

they wave a hand, both in goodbye and dismissal of your apology for such a trivial thing.

the cat descends from your arms gracefully, walking off like he hadn't just cost you a future partner. as sukuna prances off, you roll your eyes at his dramatics, reaching for the food before finally settling down in front of the television again. at least now you had a purpose of going channel surfing.

it wasn't a very productive day, clocking out at an early 11pm to get ready for tomorrow. scrolling through social media was your favourite pastime, slotting in a bit of 'me' time before succumbing to sleep with sukuna snuggled up against your side. 

the next morning wasn't merciful; with its bright rays shining through the window and the annoying construction going on from across the street, you could almost feel your annoyance levels rising before you got the morning routine.

"she wanted to invite them into the house? thank god i swooped in before they could agree. what right do they have to hang with (y/n)?"

what's worse is there was murmuring just at the foot of your bed, the pacing of their footsteps deemed too loud by your groggy, grumpy self.

wait.

"who's there?!" your shout catches the attention of the male, hand pointing at the owner of the noisy-ass footsteps with fear.

his messy pink hair was enough to catch your attention, but the tattoos littered across his arms and face was enough to make you gasp. you keep your mouth shut when he looks you over with red eyes, meeting yours with a tilt of his head. it's a sukuna habit, even when he's a human.

"who... are you?"

"seriously?" he asks unimpressed, crossing his arms over his exposed chest.

"sukuna!" you jolt in surprise at your missing cat, "sukuna?"

there's genuine concern and confusion when you repeat his name for the third time, coming to terms that he might really be in front of you.

"s...ukuna?" you whisper in caution, inching towards him as he keeps his eyebrow raised at your clueless state. tracing your hand across his carefully drawn tattoos was the first thing you did before moving on to his unkempt pink hair and mouth, where he still possessed his canine teeth.

he recoils as part of instinct, an uncharacteristic blush appearing on his face.

you overlook his behaviour but instead groan, falling back into the bed behind you in panic from the situation you've just encountered. your head comes up to gaze at the other, frustrated that he hasn't gone away after slapping your face, blinking your eyes or even falling off the bed.

"fuck. so you're real then."

"tch, then what am i? am i not matter, a material that constitutes the observable universe and, together with energy, forms the basis of all objective phenomena?"

you blow a raspberry, "did you get that from my science notes? god, whatever, let's get you some clothes."

luckily, with your wide array of oversized shirts, you were able to dress him decently. despite your confusion, you still were very interested to know how he came to be in your small apartment. with a skilled hand, you brew some coffee for the both of you, handing him a steaming hot cup after a few minutes.

"i change every night," sukuna says nonchalantly, immediately spitting out the bitter drink in repulsion.

he makes a disgusted face, “what the fuck is this?”

you deadpan, "really? all over my floor?"

getting up, your hands reach for the paper towels to clean up the mess that your cat-turned-human made, cringing at the way the paper towel turns brown with the immediate soak-up.

“but this is the first time i’ve struggled to change back. i’m not sure how i do it normally, but jeez, drinking your goddamn coffee makes me wish i was a cat again.”

with each passing minute, he gets on your nerves and by now, he’s shoved the drink back to you. standing up, he stretches his muscles like how he usually does in the mornings, allowing for every part of his toned body to show itself.

there goes the annoyance...

"well, i can't say i'm not attracted either..." you mutter to yourself, gulping down the extra cup before placing them in the sink. the laptop you frequent makes its way onto your lap not so long later, bringing up a essay due in the next week. you decided to start early this time and made sure to pace yourself, trying to rule out the last minute rushes you always settled for.

an arm encircles around your waist, taking you by surprise when you let out a squeak. sukuna is nuzzling himself into your arm while you try to frantically delete the out-of-topic sentence that was making its way onto the word doc.

"what are you doing?"

"morning routine," he simply says, laying his tongue on you without any warning.

"oh god, sukuna, no!" you groan, pushing him away from his tight grip on you like he usually does when his body is propped against your chest. you've woken up too many times, struggling to breathe because of his weight.

he retreats reluctantly, really wishing he was a cat again as he grunts at your behaviour.

"have it your way," sukuna mumbles, his naturally grumpy self amplified by your rejection. you thought back to the times your maine coon normally sat beside you quietly, basking in the way your fingers typed on the keyboard.

what could be any different? plus, you'd have a reciprocation of your head pats.

there's a tug on the other's wrist, "you can lay. just no- no licking, okay?"

you almost scoff at the sukuna rolls his eyes, but his actions betray him anyways because he's laid down beside you, curling into your side as he places his head into your stomach.

the desktop's illumination shines brighter than the morning's rays, hypnotising sukuna into a slumber as you play with his hair.

you wouldn't have noticed the male if he hadn't introduced himself, but his brash personality matched your cat too closely, knowing you were the only one he'd show affection to despite the constant hissing and glares he sent to your friends.

a gentle grasp of his hand snaps you out of your thoughts, bringing back memories of the way he'll lay his paw on you, even during the first time where you met him in the animal shelter.

sukuna stays peaceful throughout his sleep, pink hair slowly becoming messier the more he cuddled into your person. he was content now, at least, as you read over the essay to correct any mistakes.

it lulls him in and out of consciousness, stuck between wanting to hear your tender voice and relishing being embraced in his sleep.

either way, he was positive he wanted to spend the rest of his cat (or human) life with you.

[4dtk]

op.47 (you're the space in between the notes) — ii. exposition

pairing: soloist!gojo x violinist!reader (fem)

summary: gojo satoru always had a place in your life, whether it’s from the endless teasing at the age of ten to the dashing photoshoot of him with his violin in the concert you aimed to meet him again at. although when you’re caught in a messy situation, your childhood friend’s first solution is to announce that you’re dating. and so you’re stuck in this predicament: for you to figure out your feelings and for gojo to get one more chance. at what? even he doesn’t know.

tags: fake dating au, extreme slow burn (check masterlist for the full tags!)

word count: 8.2k

a/n: ooh. complications. the breaks for this is REALLY weird, i originally wanted to put the last scene as a single chapter but decided against it lol. also thx to @moonboohoo for always beta reading my shit LMAO 😭

taglist: @daddyissuesmademe @fiona782

previous │ masterlist │ next

“are you aware of the story, guys?” nanami asks, going over the details of your relationship, takeout from the same restaurant yesterday lay on the table, “your first test’s coming up, (y/n).”

the afterparty of the infamous Menuhin Competition was the first event that you were put to the test. that was where gojo was invited to. he was still far from getting a spot in the judge’s panel but was called to the event anyway to meet the aspiring young violinists.

following up on the dating statement two days ago, you had to follow the white-haired male as his significant other, greeting other renowned and respected figures in the classical music scene that even you couldn't fathom you were meeting. smoothing out the fancy dress gifted to you by nanami at the last minute, you secured a hand over your clutch.

“the… paparazzi?” you voiced your concern with a small voice. nanami gestures with a shake of his head and a brief glance to gojo, “they’re gone for now.”

“okay. okay, yep, i remember every detail,” there’s a firmness in your voice, trusting in your good memory to not fail you at such essential times. this event, amongst many others, felt like a buildup before you faced the final boss. except, you didn’t know what the last challenge entailed.

was it going to be in the public’s eye? were publishing firms and paparazzi going to be there? were you meant to stage your break-up and potentially never hear from gojo ever again?

that last one made you shiver, the weight of gojo’s hand in yours feeling awfully comforting compared to the last time. the onslaught of cameras came almost immediately after exiting the car, however, at least thankful for the one thing anchoring you from running away.

squeezing his hand became second nature, showing your nervousness through squeezes where words were stuck in your throat. gojo proceeds smoothly, bowing and waving at the cameras like it was his second nature. he tugs on you gently, the grasp turning into something more intimate as he interlocks your fingers. all snarky remarks are gone from your head, focusing rather on the warm hand pulling you into the afterparty. gojo shuts down any questions directed to you, concentrating on making you feel your most comfortable.

“come,” gojo smiles amid the noisy interruptions of camera shutters going off, “stay close to me, ’kay?”

the gentle smile separates itself from the one-sided smirks he usually donned, sparking a warmth in your heart as you followed him close. he manoeuvres around the party with ease, nailing the greetings and subtle introductions to people he wasn’t so familiar with.

with every word he mutters, you get pulled in deeper and deeper, wishing what it’d be like if the words weren’t just a front. if they were said with meaning as he translates his definition of love to you. you’re given a glance into how gojo would be as your lover, and you’re cursing yourself for how much you enjoy it. the dumb, schoolgirl feelings make their comeback from years ago, recalling how you’d get dizzy from just a smirk from the violinist.

you decide to let yourself go for just one night.

“she’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“i have nothing but adoration for this woman beside me.”

a kiss on your cheek has you tensing up, ignoring the heat blowing up on your cheeks, “a common phrase, but (y/n) serves as my muse when i’m struggling in practice.”

the last time the violinist is asked about the ‘girl on his arm’, it makes you melt into a puddle, in awe of gojo’s unfazed state. while his voice remains smooth as silk, your heart is heading a hundred miles per hour.

“yeah... i think she opens up a whole new perspective. (y/n)'s given my playing meaning and the space in between every note no longer feel empty. she’s done that much for me.”

there’s the same smile, again, raising your intertwined hands to his lips while his eyes stay trained on yours. they were soft and vulnerable and gentle, something you’d only show to your lover.

and god, you want to believe him so bad.

“ah! so you’re the mysterious woman who has swept satoru up by his feet?” a prying sponsor voices his opinion after an hour deep into the party. he looks you up and down with a hint of a scowl, the side-eyeing going off the charts.

gojo doesn’t miss the way your body sags at the sponsor’s body language, though, swooping in the save the day once again. “i’d say i was the one who swept her off her feet, Mr. Yamamoto,”

gojo jokes, bringing you closer, “better than you did with your wife, i suppose.”

you could only smile and bow your head quietly, struggling to keep in the giggle spilling from your lips.

“and here we have Mr. Yamamoto, classic misogynist. he knows he can stop supporting gojo at any time, but the guy knows that he’d lose many business partners if the sponsors stop. he’s basically forced to continue contributing on behalf of his company,” nanami explains, pointing to a picture on a flow chart.

“huh, i thought that guy dropped off a long time ago. i hadn’t bothered to meet him because he doesn’t even come to my concerts,” gojo states calmly, putting on an disinterested expression as nanami continues the introduction for you.

Mr. Yamamoto grunts at his blow, clearly irritated by gojo’s cheeky quip. he’s torn between two options but settles for the one that saves his ass. “enjoy the party, lovebirds,” he basically spits, bitterly walking away from the loss yet again as gojo shoots you a secret smile over his shoulder.

a gasp interrupts your fit of giggles, coming from beside you as gojo nods to the curious heads turning your way. the routine squeeze from you catches his attention, turning to face the girl who had come up. you’re expecting the admiration to go to the world-class soloist, however, you’re surprised when she calls out your name instead.

"(y/n)-sensei?"

your shock is unmatched when you recognise the features of the girl’s face, her grin spreading from ear to ear when you call out her name.

“akane-chan!” a joyful sound spills from your lips, cooing at the familiar features you’ve grown to love when you took up the job of teaching her violin.

it wasn’t a surprise that she was present at the event. plus, growing up as the daughter of one of the most renowned violinists had its perks. a stay-at-home dad slash teacher, non-stop education about theory, promises of a snack when she finished a scale in tune.

the forceful nature of akane’s father reaped some benefits, but he found her focusing less and less each day.

that’s where you came into the picture.

having just finished your graduation recital, you were left to ponder about jobs. they were hard to come by for fresh graduates, especially with wedding or event gigs since you personally preferred chamber music.

well... to enter a professional orchestra, you’d basically have to be crazy talented. although for now, you decide to stick to small gigs, amateur orchestras and... casual teaching?

the stumble over your words was embarrassing, to say the least, when the violinist had called, inquiring about your rates and services.

“i’m sorry, sir? what services are you talking about?”

“classes, miss. someone recommended me to you, as you’ve studied with the suzuki violin method before,” he says,

“who... recommended me?” you asked at the time, heading over to the practice room to get the necessary books.

“ah, that’s just a minor detail, don’t you worry about that.”

akane came to love you as a teacher despite your flaws, brushing up your skills with your own instructor when you had the chance to. her smile stays bright regardless of her mistakes and shortcomings, naturally finding her own talent as she grows older.

“you never told me your dad was Mr. Joshua Bell,” whispering, you revel in the laugh coming from her at the inside joke you shared, letting go of gojo’s hand as you squatted down.

“how are you, akane?”

now at twelve, you can see her father’s traits in her, mirroring the parent as he steps up to the three of you. he holds up a hand to prevent you from standing up, encouraging that you continue the conversation with akane. she gushes about her new school and teacher while talking about the pieces she’s currently learning, from Bach’s gigue to corelli’s allegro, while your eyes and ears stay attentive to her.

you’re oblivious to the conversation beside you, as well as the way gojo’s looking at you with a fond smile. even gojo satoru, a world-class soloist praised for his accuracy and meticulous manner of playing the violin, found himself struggling to maintain stability when he looks at you.

he feels as light as a feather when he’s near to you, taken away into a walk-on-air spectacle like how howl guides sophie through the air. at the peak of his fluttering heart, only the two of you existed while the rest of the world stay rooted to the ground.

where gojo’s hand reaches the highest pitch on the fingerboard, you take him with you, providing clarity and wholeness to a note that would usually sound like a whining child to him. his heart flutters again when he hears your laughter and adoration towards the girl.

and that’s when he realises he’s fucked, a feeling he thought he’d only witness in cheesy rom-coms. a feeling like that oh. that appears time and time again in books.

his smile fades as Bell cuts in, “you’re staring again, gojo.”

gojo could only sigh, looking back to the american violinist with a solemn look, the usual sparkling eyes dull with the awareness of his liking to you.

“you still haven’t said anything?” he says, sipping from his wine glass. gojo widens his eyes and whispers.

“i- you- wait, how do you know?”

Bell only purses his lips, “when i saw the news, i was happy for you, but... now you’re staring longingly again and well...”

gojo cringes at how easily he’s read like a book, expecting nothing less from his mentor from before. there’s visible distress in the way gojo’s body deflates and how nervously he’s fiddling with the fabric of his suit, his collected facade stripped away so quickly.

“you’d best be sweeping her up for real this time, gojo. she’s not like any fish in the sea for you, but she is still available in other oceans. it’s a matter of time before the space in between every note becomes empty again,” he huffs at the cheesy line he used earlier, no doubt overheard by the american violinist in conversation. gojo doesn’t have the time to sort out his thoughts before you pat akane’s head, rising from your position to greet the parent with an outstretched hand.

“nice to see you again, Mr. Bell!”

as you indulge in the conversation with your former ‘boss’, your empty hand unconsciously reaches for your date’s, unaware of the sweaty palms gojo had. if you had noticed, either way, you give it no thought as the ease of speaking with a familiar face comes with no difficulty.

“hey, you feelin’ okay?” gojo asks later, uncharacteristically soft that has you raising a curious brow. he’s brought you to the in-house bar right after the exchange, eager to quench his thirst with some water.

“why’re you so doting today?” you nudge him back playfully with a question, foot continuing the tap on the barstool to the classical music that travels throughout the large hall. it boasts a calm melody of chamber music, specifically Hadyn’s, but gojo is anything but calm.

“why can’t i ask about you? i think it’s fitting for me as your boyfriend, no?” gojo tightens his hold on your hand, shielding you from the passing attendees who only give him knowing smiles. “and why are you so short?”

it’s true, how much taller he is than you even when you were sitting. that only garners a roll of your eyes, but you choose not to answer, allowing yourself to recharge through your silence. gojo, on the other hand, desperately hopes his his confidence distracts you from how slimy and sweaty and clammy his palms feel— “...ay?”

“huh?”

“oh uhm- just... don’t leave me, okay? i’m not used to these kind of events.” there's a small laugh in your next confession, “i’m not sure what i’ll do if you wander off to talk to old geezers.”

a grin stretches on gojo’s face, voice now dropped to a murmur as he places yet another kiss on the back of your hand that you purposely avoid his gaze in your flustered state, “yeah, yeah, i won’t.”

“that would be cruel of me, hm?”

as the night progresses, gojo finds his energy depleting more and more, stepping up only when busybodies wanted to find out about your relationship. a wave to akane, a pat on the back to Mr. Bell and a plethora of goodbyes to everyone who attended, you both find yourself relieved as you settle in the car that drives you back.

gojo is uncharacteristically quiet, the ride home being as uncomfortable as you felt at the party. albeit, you decide not to press it, sending the other a squeeze that you’ve become accustomed to. gojo relaxes at that, the ghost of a smile lingering on his lips even if his head’s turned away.

that night is exchanged with silent glances and nods of acknowledgement, the mood a direct opposite of the one earlier. the dimness in his eyes worries you, not possessing the shine you always knew, even at his lowest.

perhaps you weren’t one to speak when you were gone for half of his life. what would you know about his lows?

the next few hours are spent thinking about gojo and the way he felt in your hands, tracing over the skin he’s held so tight all night and wondering if you’d ever be able to look at him freely and call out his name without reserve again.

“no no, (y/n), you’re forgetting to stretch the legato note as long as you can. you’re rushing to go to the next phrase, and that’s fine if you’re gonna play like a robot, but…” your teacher sighs, “i apologise, can i just inquire if that’s the way you wish to play it?”

you grunt in response, “no, not really. i- i can feel myself rushing but, i’m always just too excited that i’m gonna miss it, y’know?”

“honey, you’re the only one controlling the piece. it’s a solo piece for a reason; of course it’d be different if you were residing in an orchestra, but hey, you did graduate with soloist studies and you’re taking lessons from a fellow solo study kid.”

the joking tone eases your nerves just a bit, and you calm down even more when she places a hand on your shoulder, “you’re a talented one, (y/n), but when you get nervous, there’s that tendency to abandon the things we’ve gone over. it’s natural human instinct, but you could also practice the nerves away. i know you can.”

your mind goes over the short conversation with your instructor on the ride home, instilling the need to relax into your brain whenever you tackle difficult passages. your fingertips always felt like they were put on autopilot as you liked memorising pieces beforehand. you figured that maybe that could be the reason why you’re anxious — extremely anxious to finish the piece that would’ve stayed true to how the composer would’ve liked it.

classical music could only live on through interpretations, however. if there were various other violinists playing a single Bach piece in the same way, then classical music would’ve died from the first day. you’re well aware of that, yet you can’t bring yourself to stray from the rules and the general connotation of the piece. with a soft whisper, you wished to yourself to continually remember that fact, to always push yourself out of the box.

“ah man, when are they gonna show their faces again?” your ears pick up on the voice. you recognise it from the first time you’re met with DSLRs shoved into your faces, standing out the most against the crowd as he dared to ask the first question, “mr. gojo? what is your relationship with this person?” if he’s here, then there definitely are others too.

now, there’s one more shameless wish you’d make to whatever deity was up there. while you hide behind a pillar, you want nothing more than to dash your way through the flashes of those animals. but you wouldn’t make it, obviously, having failed the school fitness test the first time you took it. It’s not like you were surprised but still…

shaking the irrelevant memory from your head, you sift through the different options that could take. there’s the option to carry on in the same direction you came from toward your teacher’s house, although you’d have to take the bus. you didn’t mind, except you remembered she mentioned that she had an outing with her spouse.

the second involves running through the nosy reporters camping outside, praying and hoping that they wouldn’t grope at your bag and case straps. you already ruled that one out, not trusting your sprint timings wholeheartedly.

the third option involves either nanami or gojo, where you could knock one or two fellas out together before you break into a sprint. it didn’t seem too bad of an idea, except for the fact that you’d probably be shamed in countless articles for taking out the paparazzi with a sweet punch that made your knuckles ache.

and the fourth option only involved you: braving the stormy seas yourself while your head is kept held high, ignoring every single question and every single prompt sent your way until you satisfyingly slam the fucking door in their faces.

with a quick check to your phone, your first thought is to contact nanami. the first thing the phone does is go straight to voicemail, which makes you roll your eyes in exasperation. this meant you had to call gojo, who would never let you live it down with his constant teasing. you really do need my help, don’t you? you owe me one now!

his infuriating voice circles around in your head, letting out a shaky breath and a calculated step, gravel crunching under your shoe. a renewed resolution fills your bones when the first flash of cameras start, focusing your energy on your front door as if you could teleport there in an instant. it attracts many other similar flashes, making you tense your hands around your phone and you take long strides to make sure you’d reach your front door fast.

“hey, hi, miss (y/n)! could you spare us a few ques—” one cuts off the other, others stumble over their feet just to get the microphone all up in your face. “are you dating him only to get lessons from him?”

“miss (y/n)! how has it been like dating the gojo satoru? is he as passionate in the bedroom as is he on stage?” your face contorts in something of disgust at the question, albeit entertaining the thought for just a second. it sends your cheek flushing and your mouth letting out a poorly stifled giggle. one foot in front of the other and you’ll get there soon.

the questions are mild, ranging from asking about your behind-closed-doors dynamics of the relationship or other focused questions about gojo’s plans for touring. you were even offered a piece of paper, with a plead to get an autograph from the soloist. with your eyes guided to the floor you see that among sports shoes and loafers, a pair of dress shoes stand out the most.

“did you expect the untouchable gojo satoru to date someone like you?” it’s delivered like a rhetorical question, something to mock you with. your breath hitches.

dress shoes. those words sounded from the lone reporter from your right penetrate through the space like a bullet. he looks how you’d expect him to look: a gloomy coat, tailored pants, polished shoes, as if he’s just stepped right out of a film noir. the reporter shifts in his place, as if revolted that he was sent to this job.

“well?”

his aura certainly affected the other paparazzi, as well, carrying it around like a stubborn odour only he was able to utilise well. lifting your gaze, you stare right into nothing, eyes hidden behind a cap that didn’t match his dress code very well. it glues you to the spot nonetheless, hands reaching for something to ground yourself. one foot in front of the other and you’ll get there soon, but the man had more words to contribute.

“i can’t see how such a renowned soloist would set time aside to date-”

“i—” mumbling out your words, the rest leaned forward to hear your answer, seemingly expecting a corny hollywood plot of catching gojo’s eye. the words die in your mouth, however, when another stern, yet familiar voice cuts through. you thank the heavens, visibly relaxing at gojo coming to the rescue.

paparazzi rush to him instead, snapping out of their daze before they bombard him with questions originally directed to you. you offer a small smile among the chaos, which gojo returns briefly as he strides purposefully toward you. he towers over you comfortably, shielding you.

“do you… guys fancy being sued?” he asks menacingly, a sick smile appearing on his face. his voice is laced with venom. “because i certainly don’t! i have my lawyer’s number in my phone, surely you wouldn’t want me to diaaaal—” he fishes out his phone, feigning the act of searching for the number. “—her number, right?”

one of them foolishly asks, “your lawyer’s a woman?”

“like i’d let a man be my lawyer.” gojo replies without missing a beat, a bright grin plastered on his face.

you’re not sure what gojo does, with his eyes or mouth or expression, but with one point of his finger the lot of them are scurrying out of the lobby. the man stuck in the 1930s fashion scene trods away silently, but not before giving you both a piercing glance.

“satoru! thank god,” you laughed, wiping off the sweaty palms with your shirt, “i was gonna call nanami but he- he didn’t answer so, i just came in here-”

gojo murmurs something that you didn’t catch.

“huh?”

“why didn’t you call me, then?” his features are pulled into an expression of worry.

you search his face for a joke, finding none when his hands are placed on your shoulders before they reach your hands. if anything, it confirms his feelings. “i... i didn’t want to owe you a favour so- y’know, because who knows what you’ll make me do right?”

you laugh. he doesn’t. rather, he pulls you into the lift that conveniently made its way down, dragging you protectively in and out the elevator, then into your flat. the way gojo maneuvers around your flat almost convinces you that he was the one who lived there, brought back to reality when there’s occasional questions about where certain things are.

soon, you join him to avoid shouting from the living room, surprised to see that he was preparing something for you. eggs, some bread, custard, burning butter in the saucepan. it sizzled like pavement on a scorching hot day and immediately you push past him to lower the heat.

“please don’t burn down my house. nor my pans,” you state, spreading the butter to all sides of the pan. wordlessly, gojo passes you the bowl of soaked bread, a job that he already completed. despite the setting of the sun, you accept his kind act of preparing french toast, a breakfast meal, even if you had to step in to help him. “did you add oil?”

“i thought-” it was rare to see him tongue-tied. “isn’t butter enough?”

“nope! it would burn the bread otherwise, it’s like a safety net, i guess,” you recoil at the sounds when the bread hits the pan after you add in oil, mixing it around calmly with a spatula. “think you can handle it now?”

gojo’s wince makes you laugh out loud, eyeing the angry sizzles of the butter before you grab his hand gently. “c’mere.”

he looks like a kid, flinching every time a bit of butter jumps from the pan. each time it makes you giggle at him, using all your might to uncurl his tight fists. gojo relaxes eventually, letting your smaller hand wrap around his as you juggle two acts at once. dunking the bread in the poorly whisked custard while flipping over the gradually darkening bread. it takes gojo by surprise, remembering when you tried to help your mother as a kid, only to run away when she asked you to watch something over the stove.

he remembers laughing uncontrollably at you before taking up the task, describing to you when and how to stir the thick soup. it smelled delicious each time your mother added a new ingredient, as it does now when the butter seeps into the bread. although the roles are reversed, he can’t help but smile fondly at the memory — so much so that he doesn’t notice that he’s doing it on his own, now.

“you’re a pro now, satoru,” the warm, genuine smile you give him catches him off guard as you move around the kitchen again, placing two plates on the countertop next to him. two bodies, like years ago, understand familiarity with the other, giving space to the other whenever either of you reached for something.

it was exactly how gojo instinctively moved his body so your violin bow wouldn’t hit the cupboard, or when you’d duck under his arm in crowded trains. sure, you were grown up, with unsaid feelings and complicated lives, but he’s glad that he never lost that with you.

imagining domestic life with you wasn’t difficult, either, considering how much he’s resided in your life for the past few weeks. a drowsy good morning or an excitable good night, or maybe a simple set of the table together when you’re preparing something small for lunch. hell, he was sure that supper took up more of your stomach than lunch, thinking back to the many times you two would stay up late to watch new shows on disney+.

“okay, you know how to take it out of the pan?” you ask as you prepare the fruits and maple syrup, plating them accordingly: more strawberries for you and more blueberries for satoru. the other decides not to risk it, shaking his head.

“you can either use the spatula or... a fork!” brandishing a fork, you stick it into the softened bread, “if you’re worried it’ll fall,” your actions follow the words you mumble to yourself. “make sure your plate’s right next to the rim of the pan, so the butter won’t drip, and you’re done!”

gojo smiles, azure eyes zoned in on yours while his hair welcomes the half-past-six p.m. breeze, along with the intrusive sunset that paints your kitchen with an array of colours. they boast their hues, tempting either of you to capture a photo while the other suggests other appealing angles.

none of you are rushing to do that, though, locked instead in the moment, that the only thing moving is the light from the windows.

the soloist’s bright hair glimmers under the sun, even shimmering like glitter and sequins and starlight as they dance comically on his head. the wind and rays have cooled down by now, but gojo satoru still looks like a god, glancing down at you with affection in his eyes that he reserves for no one else.

still, it takes your breath away, even if you believe it to be fake. “thanks, babe,” gojo gives into himself just this one time, planting a kiss onto the crown of your head. “i’ll do the other one too. thanks for your help.”

he recovers quickly, but you take a while, coming out of your stupor only when he required more space in front of the stove. you weakly and barely manage conversation later, distracted by everything about him from head to toe as he talks. from the way he jabs his fork into the bread to the way he looks up at you when you’re talking, you’re hooked.

you’re indescribably hooked and undeniably hopeless.

as the events increase in number, the front the both of you put on becomes more manageable. the kisses on the cheek don’t feel awkward, the interlock of your fingers feel routine, and the exchanges you have reflect those of a real couple. an invitation from one of his older mentors, who was the conductor for the night, came next, thankfully with minimal interactions since it was a concert.

“it’s not going to be good if you fall asleep on me, babe,” gojo whispers, squeezing and unsqueezing your hand, “cameras.” he simply states, pleading with the striking blue of his eyes as he places your locked hands on his lips. the audience is still filling in as the orchestra slowly gets to their seats on stage, snippets of the woodwinds tuning while casual chatter is heard.

“well, if you’re gonna sleep, at least do it on my shoulder, ’kay?”

you hum, opting not to listen to the man as you adjust your head on your fist, elbow propped up on the armrest of the seat. there’s a look of disgust when he kisses your intertwined hands, tugging them away from his lips when you feel the stickiness of the sweet he ate earlier.

“you’re gonna get ants all over my hand, stop...” a slight lilt takes place in your sentence despite your sleepiness, and gojo knows you don’t mean any of that when you tighten your hold on his hand. the other just shrugs, turning to the programme book to read up about the symphonies being played tonight.

luckily for you, there’s no interaction with other artists before the concert, allowing for you two to be in your own little bubble before the lights dim and the announcement starts. with a quick check to the side of your phone, you make sure that it’s on silent.

the applause happens instantly when the conductor makes his way out, meeting eyes with gojo as a gesture of thanks. the white-haired man nods in response, naturally getting his head in tune as he hums an A just in time with the oboe.

“oh man, 442 Hz?” gojo sighed, leaning over to murmur to you, “442 messes up my perfect pitch,” you roll your eyes.

“yes, yes, satoru, you have perfect pitch. you don’t have to remind me,” with a playful shove, you nudge him with your shoulder while you stifle a smile. the upward curl of the corners of gojo’s lips is almost embarrassing if you hadn’t smiled yourself, but all of that is amplified when the symphony starts out powerfully.

it starts out so powerfully that he sees the sparkle in your eyes at how the instruments blend. they carry the melody so coherently that it’s a rollercoaster ride, and you react with a gasp that’s masked by the triumphant brass theme.

and when the strings come in, he’s convinced you’re floating amongst the clouds in moments of bliss as you appreciate the harmony and passion. like him, you’re flying high in the skies as the fingers on your lap mimic the notes the orchestra played. you don’t care if they’re correct or not, but there’s no hesitation in the way you lose yourself in the composer’s visions of the piece.

gojo’s lost for a completely different reason, though. the same striking blue eyes that stared boringly into repetitive reporters and droning interviewers finally softens when it’s settled on you. at the heart of his passion for classical music, he’s seen you laugh, cry, raise an eyebrow at many, many pieces, but nothing quite pulls at his heart than the scene in front of him.

gojo satoru’s decided that he’s willing to do anything. he keeps this small little secret hidden in his heart, the smile on his face never leaving even when the symphony wears down into the central theme with a single violin.

but in that moment of soaring and admiring, gojo’s wings turns to wax. he’s flying too close to the sun with heights greater than olympus that when he falls, the descent down would be a long and hard one.

does she really want you, satoru? accolades linked to your name only make her crave more for the perfection she lacked. you left her behind, didn’t you? what makes you think she’d want you to go back to where you left her stranded?

gojo’s smile fades when his thoughts drift around uncertainty and doubt, never forgetting the frustration you tried to mask in classes.

“i think i could probably play that. what d’ya say?” you leaned over to joke. your eyes stay glued onto the concertmaster with awe, thankfully distracted enough to not notice the gentle sigh gojo lets out.

“yeah, you could do it.” the atypical relaxed tone he used seemed out of the blue, the rustle of your clothes standing out when you turn to him.

i mean it. i mean it. i mean it, (y/n). i know you can play that, effortlessly, flawlessly with the articulation down to its last detail because you always emphasised that in your practice sessions, even if i never understood it.

i mean it.

“you mean that?” you smile, giddy with sleep that you can’t bother to care about the insecurity clawing at your throat, “if the crazy talented satoru says so, then maybe i could.”

no, you don’t. no, you don’t. no, you don’t, gojo. you don't know my ins and outs, with the wooden instrument that feels so heavy after every rehearsal.

no, you don’t.

you’re glad for the easy-to-fake facade, turning away to face the stage while the other could only shake his head. his attention was brought back to the main stage of his mentor’s intense conducting and musicians moving in sync and hopes you don’t notice the small glances he shoots your way.

fatigue catches up to you, though, and you’re left drifting in and out of consciousness around the third movement. with reluctance, your head takes residence on gojo’s shoulder, liking the shirt he’s chosen today a little too much.

“we’ve got another symphony after this intermission, i don’t think i can hang on,” you groan, blinking your eyes promptly to rid of the sleepiness. in your bouts of drowsiness, it led you to be more clingy with the soloist, hanging onto his arm for dear life. your words slur together from the intense weariness, and it makes you all the more cuter.

“babe, we can leave if you want, you know? technically only i was supposed to come, but... you insisted-”

you slapped his arm, “nanami asked me to go. i’m not about to disrespect your manager, satoru.”

he rolls his eyes, “well... if nanami said that, then, that settles it!” the familiar, upbeat tone returns, “let’s get you out of here!”

you’re not ready for whatever gojo had up his sleeve, but in a blink of an eye, he’s got you in his arms as he speeds down the escalator. concert-goers are shooting you weird looks as you struggle between wanting to enjoy gojo’s secure embrace and cringing from the questionable furrow of eyebrows.

“h-hey! wait, shouldn’t we go back for the second half? what... satoru, slow down!” his ears was sewed shut, letting out a laugh at the adrenaline that’s flowing through his veins. yours was flowing through your body for an entirely different reason, tense and uptight that contrasted with the carefree personality that gojo possessed.

it wasn’t anything unusual from the standard nature of your childhood friend, but you do notice that the corners of his eyes crinkle just a bit more, and the flush on his cheeks look a little too inviting.

with a jerk of your head, you try your best to push away the thoughts, but gojo’s beam remains as radiant as ever. it’s accompanied by a laugh, and it sounds like a schoolboy’s laughter, innocent and pure, that it has you smiling too.

he’s out of the building in a second before the instant change of temperature makes you sigh.

“i can run, you know?” in your haste to show your commitment, you remove your heels with your free hand. the comment he makes after earns him a flick to the forehead.

“didn’t you fail the school fitness test?” gojo teases but lets you down, either way. with silent movements, he removes his footwear for you, who laughs when your feet’s significantly smaller in the dress shoes. there’s so much space! you exclaim, and he reaches forward to take your heels from you.

amidst your interaction, satoru loves the way your hair flutters in the wind. it’s like the wind dances in between your locks as your eyes hold galaxies beyond wonders. he notes how it shines hazel under the street lamps, despite staring into black irises time and time.

“do you trust me?” it’s clear that gojo’s writing out the same exact story as before. but like a fool, you mutter out a ‘yes’ anyway and place your hand in his, noticing the comforting warmth that you always told yourself to ignore. you’re taken back by the strong wind against your face. just like the previous time of running away from your mcdonald’s.

today felt no different. the only thing hindering you was your bewilderment and, well, your dress.

the glimmer in his eyes looked like it returned for once, and you were able to witness, again, the boyish smile satoru always bore. his cackle is contagious, no matter how maniacal it may sound. his bangs that always fell into his eyes was still there, but no matter how much he complained, you were glad that he didn’t cut it.

you began to notice different things about satoru, and you weren’t sure if the pit you were falling into had a landing or not. the annoying voice in your head stayed, took residence, set up its damn home in your head.

it was always there, but this fleeting feeling of seeing satoru in a different light was something new. it wasn’t on a pedestal, but one that had you on it with him.

you’re not equal on skills, sure, but as people? that’s all you ever want.

gojo’s pulling you through shortcuts and through traffic lights, disregarding the speed he’s guiding you at. you don’t blame him, though, knowing he was thrilled enough to leave the concert, with you lucky enough to be included in his escapade. he finally stops.

“recognise the building?” satoru calls back to you, feet coming to a still as the tall skyscraper looms over the both of you.

you stumble to a halt in his shoes, heels clicking on the floor as you glance up at the countless flats built up high in front of you.

“oh my god, did they revamp it?”

anticipation turns into excitement, a grin spreading on your face as you take the turn to tug on gojo’s hand. you’re glad they kept the same old structure to the building: a left turn to pass by the in-house supermarket and straight down to the elevator that you took each time after rehearsals.

it was meant to be a one-time ride, exploring the tall, intimidating buildings with rooftop gardens every ten floors. the structure was winding and confusing, so you, at ten, told satoru with a finger that “we’ll only take this lift and only this lift.”

he’d whine and gesture to the expanse of the area, finally relenting when you said you’d leave him behind.

“okay, okay! you know i’m bad with directions. you don’t have to rub it in...”

you deadpan without missing a beat, “just like you rubbed it in the conductor’s face when he started on the wrong line for the second violins?”

the eleven-year-old gojo could only laugh at you, “but it’s true!” his hair is barely dropping over his eyes, unevenly cut because of a reckless hand that decided his hair looked terrible one day.

“it’s also true that your haircut is ugly as hell,” you sputter out, immediately running toward the lift as a way to escape from the other. you and satoru’s laughs fill the space, prompting the adults around you to coo at the youthful nature of your friendship.

“well,” you look over at the gojo you know now, admiring the head of hair that’s caught your eye in the first place, “your haircut’s not too shabby this time.”

gojo pushes you with a glare of faux anger, hooking your arm around his to get into that very same elevator. the third rooftop garden was the one you always frequented, standing tall at 30 floors up that you could see the world and not worry about a thing.

in a quiet minute, you’re out of the elevator and admiring how insignificant life felt on the ground. up here, you could say anything and fall asleep without care later in your bed. the rooftop garden was your sanctuary for rants of the infuriating guest concertmaster that you couldn’t make known to your conductor otherwise.

you’re the first one to leave his side, going straight to the parapet to look at the bright lights of the residential place in the city. it seems magical, quickly spotting the concert hall from where you were. although soon, the sky flushes over, turning crimson with the hint of rain just as you were starting to enjoy the night.

“why did you bring me here?” your hands clutch onto the parapet in nervousness upon hearing the other come up beside you.

“to make another memory, i guess. there’s too many that’s frozen in the past that it felt wrong to be fake dating. it felt wrong only for our memories to consist of those in front of the camera.”

you whistle at that, “so much depth... playing professionally really changed you,” with a dramatic hand, the back of it meets your forehead, “oh, satoru! fame changed you!” gojo sports a snicker which you reply with, glancing at you with relaxed features. you try your best to ignore his piercing stare, but you get drawn in soon enough that you’re matching his position on the parapet as your surroundings get quieter and quieter.

you know his breath is held by the way he’s frozen like the icy blues of his irises, and similarly, you find your breath being taken away, too. none of you break away when the first drop of precipitation falls, building up one by one on your cheek, hair, outfit, until it becomes a decent bout of rainfall.

at that moment, you feel like you’ve been portrayed as a painting with you as the artist. gojo looks over the uneven brush strokes and chunks of paint that hinders your ability to blend your colours amidst your stiff pose.

you can hardly reach the ends of the frame, and you’re struggling. with every hand that reaches out, you push away. no, no, i’m the artist, you say. i need to do this myself, you say.

and with brush strokes light enough as watercolour, all gojo wants to do is wipe away the tears that stain the canvas, the tears that wash away your hard work. he knows you’re more than capable of existing alone as your own painting,

even if your mediums differ from one another. although, you’re still learning to see yourself in the eyes of others, unrestricted by the massive frame coated gold from expectations.

your eyes linger over the vast city, taking in the lights that pollute the sky. your wish to see the stars doesn’t go unanswered, realising that the spheres of fire in the sky took place in satoru’s captivating eyes instead.

everything is crystal clear as his irises are now: the way your skin feels electrifying from head to toe and the clammy hands that you fumble with. you’re well aware of the unrelenting stare from him and the droplets falling from the sky.

“hi,” you whisper.

there’s a hint of red on his cheeks, “hey, you.” you’ve lost your cool, hiding your face in your arms as your ears pick up on the rise of the downpour, of the sweet chuckle spilling from his lips.

“stop staring at me like that, you idiot!” you mumble, face hot at the confidence gojo displayed when in reality, all he could centre in on was your flustered voice.

satoru says nothing but a grin, taking the chance to inch closer while the rain starts to soak both of your clothes. it sticks to your skin annoyingly like how the violinist usually does, pestering you endlessly to this day.

even now, you’re afraid for the crash of your heart and the descent into the pit.

down, down, down you fall, but you’re almost certain of a landing when satoru’s hand grips onto your waist. the rain droplets felt like a gift from the gods, cascading down his face and amplifying his features.

it’s the last thing you admire before his lips meet yours, and the landing is rough, miscalculated. there’s a clash of teeth and an embarrassed laugh from you before you go back in.

this time, you’re the one holding his face, coming onto the kiss fully. your heart fills up with ecstasy when his arms wrap around your waist, just like the many nights you’ve imagined. it feels hot to the touch, his body against yours and his tongue inside your mouth.

you can’t get enough of him in the heated moment, hands winding around his neck to deepen it. you exhale through your nose when satoru smiles into your lips, causing you to do the same.

in a gentle lift, he brings you off the ground just a little, causing your laughter to fill the space. if anything, satoru’s laugh feels like a weekend morning, now, dancing around your ears like a fairy that makes your stomach turn and churn and stir (in a good way).

the rain is loud in your ears, banging on your eardrums as it’s begging to be let in, but all you can hear is the beat of your heart. with the very same beat of your heart that echoed in your ears when you watched gojo grudgingly. it rang in your ears when you glared at his name on the programme booklet of yet another concert.

no. no no no no...

a noise of surprise escapes you once your heart realises its mistake of blurring the lines, travelling too close to the other side.

you pull back from gojo harshly.

and the hurt expression that appears starts to pull at your heartstrings, making your fingers twitch as it pairs with the heaviness you felt.

it was the heaviness of a promise you made to yourself. and when you realised you let your heart fall again for the one boy you had met at six, you were almost certain there was nothing else to pull you back up from the pit.

scrambling for an excuse, your hands go through the cycle of tensing and un-tensing, seemingly unable and unsure of how to work your hands like a normal person. you almost want to lean back in with his swollen lips tempting you, sensitive from only a few seconds of kissing, while yours longed for any sort of heat in the cold weather. his eyes bore into yours.

“sorry.” gojo mumbles it too softly for his liking, not even sure if you heard it with the noisy background, but he takes your nervous laugh as a response. the rain now becomes a racket against his ears, like nails on a chalkboard as your rejection renders him speechless.

gojo counters it with a nervous laugh of his own, but it doesn’t quite reach his ears, let alone his cheeks. you take one for the both of you, knowing your fake smile was the last thing you wanted on your face.

“let’s go, satoru,” it’s said quietly with the poor attempt of a smile, void of most emotion when you grab his hand. it felt weird, now, the callouses uncomfortable and prickly against your skin as you depart from the building where you had the most memories.

“i... just got a bit shocked, that’s all,” you mumbled, thumb caressing his skin which had turned cold, certainly not only from the rain, “i liked it, satoru, don’t worry.” you turn back too fast to see the sad smile spread across his face, and he instead took a moment to savour the last bits of your affection before eventually facing the problem tomorrow.

ijichi doesn’t seem to recover from shock even after he’s dropped you off at your home, the heavy rain driving off the nosy reporters. and as the night progresses, no words are exchanged, and you’re almost glad for the ignorant nature the two of you possessed.

how you always naturally let time do its thing.

[4dtk]

op.47 (you're the space in between the notes) — iii. development

pairing: soloist!gojo x violinist!reader (fem)

summary: gojo satoru always had a place in your life, whether it’s from the endless teasing at the age of ten to the dashing photoshoot of him with his violin in the concert you aimed to meet him again at. although when you’re caught in a messy situation, your childhood friend’s first solution is to announce that you’re dating. and so you’re stuck in this predicament: for you to figure out your feelings and for gojo to get one more chance. at what? even he doesn’t know.

tags: fake dating au, extreme slow burn (check masterlist for the full tags!)

word count: 7.3k

a/n: they’re so down bad for each other. also thank you again to @moonboohoo for beta reading!!! (also for clarification both satoru and y/n has photo sets of their own (where the photobooth usually prints out both sets for two people) and they’re both own set of three pics. the missing fourth pic? well read on!!!! it’s only towards the end of this chapter tho LOL)

taglist: @daddyissuesmademe @fiona782

previous │ masterlist │ next

it seemed like the few years you took was more than enough for time to ‘do its thing’, though. like always, you reconnect the following day in a blend of complaints and headaches, unknowingly on edge for every joke that you had proposed to the other.

“satoru, i hate you,” you coughed out with a gruff voice, head hurting from the incessant reporting on the morning news. everything’s a blur even after drinking the soup that nanami had cooked up, using a store-bought formula that tasted decent.

you’re thankful that you were able to at least sit across him, face on full view, to see how gojo would react to your quips.

“shut it, (y/n). you were the one acting like rachel mcadams in the 40s,” gojo groaned, downing another cup of steaming hot water in an attempt to quell the burning sore throat.

“pipe down, the two of you,” nanami sighed. he’s obviously picked up on the clouds hanging over your heads, from both your health and a possible argument, but doesn’t comment anymore as he cleans up the kitchen.

“i didn’t even get a chance to wife nanami up,” you yawn, snuggling more into the warm blanket, hardly minding the uncomfortable position on your small couch.

nanami let out a chuckle at that, “i just might have to take you up on that offer. all satoru eats is delivered food when i’m over at his place.”

satoru could only scoff, “do not!”

the manager isn’t one to fight back, so you argue in nanami’s stead.

“do too!” clearly, the noise only contributes to your splitting migraine, sinking back into the cushions as the pain shoots up the back of your head.

gojo’s ‘hmph!’ is heard, albeit quiet, the room soon dissolving into a comfortable silence. the news fades off into the afternoon dramas that no one usually watches, with the occasional rustle of gojo’s tee and the whispered clangs of pots in the kitchen.

the next few days are filled with tissue and hot water, while your relationship with the violinist slowly patches up like the shaky support of masking tape on a glass crack.

“no way she’s actually checking out the noise... bitch run!” gojo screamed at the television while you hid behind a cushion, prepared for the jumpscare that could happen at any time.

“you’re telling me,” you wiggle your mug of boiled water like a wine glass, “that you’ve never seen princess diaries?!”

“he was so horny that he had to wake up another girl?” satoru raises an eyebrow at the movie passengers, inclining back on the sofa with a disgusted look. “yeah, like you wouldn’t do that?” the narrowed eyes gojo shoots you make you crack up, even more so when he launches forward to send you into a fit of giggles with tickles.

it’s coming back, the gleam in satoru’s eyes when he talks to you and the unconditional smile he had. you see it in the way he throws his head back when he snorts and when he reuses the insults he’s used back in the day. they never fail to make you react in the same way, unfortunately always returning to your default state with a bit of caution and guilt.

“you’re terrible at blackjack, (y/n).” nanami states blankly one day, unfortunately being dragged into a game when he came over to check over the two of you.

“i will— not go that low— to insult nanami, because it is true. i am but a mere loser at blackjack, but! gojo satoru absolutely sucks at go fish,” gojo could only throw a dollar bill at you as a reply, stifling a laugh when it instead flies in nanami’s direction to hit him in the face.

“you suck at synonyms; why’d you pick codenames?” you scoff, “the fanfiction i wrote as a teenager would say otherwise.”

gojo hums in thought, “were any of your fanfics written about me?” you chuck the hourglass prop at him in retaliation, both jaws dropping when the sand inside leaks out. the other recovers first. “well, now we have all night for you to scour your brain for a word that describes both angry and sad!” the grin he had was shit-eating, clearly loving that he got to poke fun at you.

“that was one time! i said smad once!”

satoru notices your walls are lowering again, remorseful for having put you through countless days of dismantling and rebuilding but he hadn’t meant to do so. it was unintentional, and all he wanted was to be there for you when the walls fall. he wasn’t aware that behind those walls held more layers of protection.

“what the fuck are you doing?” you look him up and down, clearly uncoordinated from the waist down. as much as you know him to be talented at almost everything, dancing wasn’t one of them.

“tiktok, babe. come join!”

“what? nooooo!” the tug on your wrist is hard to resist, leaving you to stand cluelessly in front of the camera.

“what even is the dance? what- do i just stand here?” satoru answers your question by wrapping an arm around your waist, dipping you way too low. your surprised expressions are captured terribly well on the camera even after you’ve stumbled to stand up, leaving gojo with a smile as he reviews the video. “what even are you supposed to do?”

“copy a pose from one of those rom-com movies—i just chose the dipping down one. it technically woooould be better if we were dressed for it, but...” he shrugs. the immense amount of views the next day shock you.

among many movies, board games and tiktok reenactments, you could feel your body clearing up as it gets back its strength. the four days it took you to recover felt like a movie montage full of smiles and sunshine. it rang true, though, knowing you couldn’t remember the last time you had so much fun and laughed so much.

“oh my god, are you actually practising while you’re sick? you’re crazy!” gojo calls out, peeking into the practice room where you went over the many pieces you’ve been doing for the past weeks. you simply raise an eyebrow when he refuses to leave.

“are you just gonna stand… there? can you help to close the door when you leave?”

“who said anything about leaving?”

“ugh, fine, just don’t be annoying or anything.”

“baby, this is gojo satoru you’re talking about, of course i’m going to be-” you launch an etude book right at his face, an old one that you don’t practice much anymore. it hits the floor more harshly than you intended, but the whistle of your friend causes no regret that you just did that.

“okay, okay, i’ll keep quiet. i just want to watch you practice,” he renounces his attitude, settling on the old bed that you always kept in the practice room.

gojo hums as you call out to him, the sizzling on the stove from nanami providing background noise paired with the muted action movie being played.

“did you enjoy yourself these few days?” it was a timid question, but one that you were set on knowing the answer for.

all satoru answered with was the gentle smile he’s given you at events and concerts, wordlessly leaning back to cradle his head behind his hands. his eyes are contentedly closed, but not before catching the mischievous twinkle that mimics a reflection of light on glass windows. it’s the same he’s always done when he’s walking, unbothered.

you know that’s his way of affirming whatever you said, noticing how gojo pops an eye open to see you still staring at him, to which you respond with a whip of your head towards the television.

a nonchalant expression is what you hoped was on your face, but your heart sprinted like crazy, mouth suddenly dry from the way gojo had caught you. you’re hoping that at least a distraction could help you, feeling your body instantaneously relax when nanami calls out for dinner.

“woah, nanamin! this tastes surprisingly good!”

there’s a scoff from nanami from across him, which elicits a shrug from gojo as he continues to scarf down the meal. it’s the only sound coming from the table while you enjoy the food silently, giving a thumbs-up to which nanami replies with a curt nod.

gojo doesn’t give up the chance to talk about the piece he’s currently working on: Wieniawski’s second violin concerto. Wieniawski’s not that hard of a piece, he puts it, even though gojo is speaking about Wieniawski, a complete virtuoso at the violin who just happened to include a crazy amount of techniques in his compositions.

every piece was carefully thought out, meticulous and flawless and intricate. although not as tricky as his first, the amount of practice needed to perfect the second is required as much as for the many other pieces under Wieniawski’s belt.

he talks both your ears off, going on and on about the many bars in the first movement that confuses him (of course, he doesn’t mean it). he mentions how much his fingers hurt to stretch across the fingerboard (he has big hands, he’s lying).

satoru sighs, “i’m also struggling about what story i want to portray. i’ve done this piece before, but it’s always for fun. people seem to like my Sibelius and Beethoven more anyway.”

you barely catch the next thing he says, “it’s like there’s no room to breathe,” seemingly spiralling into a never-ending loop of a curse. the curse of being such a celebrated soloist that he had no room to fuck up. but before you can lay a hand on his arm, he shoots up like a robot whose switch had been tampered with. it scares you, almost, but gojo does this too often for you to know when he’s serious and when he’s joking.

“that’s enough of me! let’s talk about you, nanami~!” in a singsong voice, he’s turned his full attention to the blonde-haired man with a cheeky smile, but the latter has other plans as he stands up.

“excuse me,” nanami cuts in with a monotonous voice and a deadpan expression that incites a laugh out of you. he pays no mind to satoru grumbling under his breath. before you know it, the manager moves to clear the rubbish, prompting you to immediately get off your chair in a fit of giggles to help him stack plates. as usual, the male makes no move to help as he remains there with eyes closed and hands behind his head. you would’ve reached out to brush your fingers through his hair again, but the dishes clanging against your sink is enough to make you reconsider your decision.

the silence is bearable while you clean the dishes, the soft sounds of the sponge mix with nanami’s practised wipe downs of cutlery and porcelain. nanami didn’t seem like someone who talked much, but you avoid eye contact anyway, fixated more on finishing the dishes.

“you know, i don’t care about whatever argument you guys had, but we need him at his best in a few weeks, yes?”

“a-ah, yeah, okay,” you’re stuttering, hands frozen at the sudden voice that’s spoken up.

nanami sighs, a gesture you’ve become used to in the time you’ve talked to him. they’re usually directed towards satoru, but now you can feel that it’s laced with disappointment and resignation that resembled a father figure.

“it’s painful, sometimes, i know. it’s visible in how you look at the man. there’s no lid on your overflowing feeling of envy,” his hands pause, too, the napkin clutched tightly in his fist. “but then, i see your relaxed features when you take secret glances at him, and there’s this longing feeling within you. you don’t know what to do. it’s... bitter.”

swallowing was all you could do, fingers filled with the dish soap as the bowl threatens to fall from your hands.

“is it that obvious?”

the next yes that follows is notably grim, letting on that this was stressing nanami out than he liked to admit. “gojo’s never been this distracted more. i’d like to think it was a mere fleeting feeling, but, well...”

you’re the one to sigh this time, continuing your tasks as nanami with his, the conversation dying off into the routine clean and wipe. the thought of the other violinist weighs heavy in your mind like nanami’s words does.

“thanks for the heads-up, i guess,” you mumble, putting away the last of the dishes that had you hypnotised from its water droplets.

drip. drip. drip. it’s awfully loud how the sound makes as it clashes with the cups just below, the small kitchen now entirely falling into a harsh stillness. “i understand, completely,” nanami’s voice is hoarse from the lack of use, but he doesn’t seem to mind before clearing his throat and leaning onto the counter.

“the feeling of always being second place. it’s not good, it’s not ideal, it’s not satisfactory, right?”

your elbows are then resting on the same counter, staring out the window just next to the sink.

“i just don’t understand how he does it. didn’t i practise just as much?” a shaky breath is heard, wondering what you were doing whispering to his manager when the person of your resentment just resides outside. you didn’t even know nanami that well, but here you were pouring your heart out to him. biting back tears was easy as your eyes linger on the flat across yours, but the next thing nanami mutters has your teeth clenching.

“i can’t be the judge of that, but i do judge based on facts.” nanami places a hand on your shoulder, “some are lucky, and some aren’t. some are picked out for their talent, and some...”

a pang of guilt flashes across nanami’s face as your shoulder tenses up and you sniffle.

“yeah, i’m aware,” the manager had half-expected you to throw a fit, to push him back to defend your position. the last thing he predicted was a gentle smile while you turn to him with puffy eyes.

you know your reaction’s caught the other off guard. “i’ve been made aware of that my whole life, so what’s one more, right?” sighing, you wipe your face of any evidence before patting your cheeks. there’s a torn expression that he puts on, mouth opening and closing as he debates an apology.

“’s fine, nanami. i get your values and stuff; you’re not wrong for stating a fact, yea?” your tired smile has him nodding stiffly, although he still feels the need to apologise with a “sorry” at the tip of his tongue.

“i get it, i get it. you don’t have to say sorry.” by now, you just want to keep quiet and zone out, taking a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. you hope the burning sensation of alcohol doesn’t trigger another sore throat, but you’re ready to bet on it with the lack of events on gojo’s side, “whiskey?”

nanami accepts it, heading outside with the bottle you handed him and some ice while you search through the cabinets for the glasses. it’s dusty, from how long it’s been in there, washing the dirt off before heading out to the main room.

seeing gojo in the same relaxed position that you two left him in brought you a bit of comfort; without a care in the world, without a single speck of worry across his features that made you wonder of the times where gojo had told you to just fuck it. you’ll deal with the consequences later, just take the risk!

you take in the calm breaths escaping his mouth, unusually silent as his finger switches between writing words on his wrist to tapping to the music playing in his head. like a switch, you realise you’re going through all the small things, unconsciously locking them away in your mind.

you’ve oddly memorised how he liked his tea in the morning (coffee’s too bitter for him) when you approach the dining table. as you fill in the whiskey for three, you recall that satoru preferred a slight crispiness on his food, whether it’s chicken or gyoza.

and when you finish pouring the third glass, the clink of the ice snaps you out of the trance, finally remembering that gojo was a lightweight.

gojo realises your thought process, chuckling at your facial expression before giving you a smile. he’s peeking at you with one eye open again, and if he can see that you’ve shed a few tears earlier, he doesn’t say anything.

“’s okay. give it to me,” he murmurs as if nanami wasn’t in the room, as if you’re the bartender in a shady bar ready to hit him up, as if you’re about to tease him about his low alcohol tolerance. but when his fingers brush against yours as you pass it to him — with the usual spark of energy and rush — your conversation with nanami wins against the little surge of feelings.

the thought makes you want to tap out and make a lame excuse of feeling tired, but nanami breaks the quiet with a stretch toward his glass.

“to gojo’s concert, to (l/n)-san, and to my declining physical health of being his manager,” nanami says plainly, and the dull tone elicits a giggle from gojo upon hearing the quip. you merely hum at it, raising your cup to meet theirs in a satisfying clink before downing the alcohol.

the soloist has no problem picking up the awkward atmosphere with his endless chatter, occasionally directing a question to you since nanami can’t be bothered to answer him. gojo stopped trying after the first question, getting only an expression of disbelief at the assumption that the manager would actually entertain his antics.

ah, well, it was worth a try. time passes fast like that and before you know it, laughter is prominent around the dining table. even the stoic male found himself cracking a few smiles, the alcohol providing a bit of slack when it courses through your bodies. you pass off the weighted words from nanami, although he still stays wary of your feelings with each calculated word. after all, you’re not exactly buddy-buddy with the man.

as you and gojo laugh at his manager, the conversation shifts from his career to taking care of the violinist, and then heads towards facts about you and now lastly, the solar system and Holst’s orchestral suite on it.

“if you ask me, nanami seems like a Saturn kinda guy. that piece represents the bringer of old age, right...? it fits him, i feel,” you had to stifle a laugh at that, almost choking on the last bit of your drink if not for your reflexes.

nanami rolls his eyes, knowing that he liked to poke fun at the former’s age despite being a year older. he looks to gojo without missing a beat, “well, i think you suit Pluto very well.”

you relish in gojo’s confused expression as the joke doesn’t sink in, “but there’s no Pluto in Holst’s suite-”

“exactly.”

ooh. burn.

the dam is broken before you burst out in laughter, your laugh taking centre stage in the small flat. the joyful atmosphere has nanami cracking a smile at his playful jab as a pout grows on satoru’s face, eyes flitting between the two of you.

“nanamin~ you’re so mean!”

you’re finally able to calm down from your high of giggling as you blink away a few tears. the other violinist’s also sporting a few snorts himself before you discover that there’s a lack of ice, both in your drinks and in the icebox.

“let me get more ice,” you mutter, quickly excusing yourself from the table. gojo has another idea, though, taking off in the direction of the kitchen but not before he weirdly seeks nanami’s approval and encouragement.

“go.” the manager departs from the dining table, then, heading to the couch to give you both some privacy.

there’s a small thankful smile that gojo manages to muster, expectedly walking in something that definitely wasn’t a straight line as the whiskey gets to him.

“aren’t you gonna ask what planet are you?”

the question catches you by surprise, but the more shocking factor was its murmur from gojo’s lips. his eyes swirl like the clashing of chaotic oceans in calamity among calm seas that lap lazily at the shore, and it shows in the way he’s looking at you: unrelenting contact with a hint of softness.

“huh?”

you’re wondering why he’s up from the dining table, knowing that the man is slowly losing his grip on sobriety before he shoots you the sweetest smile you’ve seen in a while. it’s a wonder you haven’t fallen into his trap that he’s set up tirelessly, where you’d willingly hold onto his hand and play with his fingers and hair.

satoru ponders on the same thing when your eyes focus on him from behind the freezer door, envisioning all the times that he wants to come back to you after a long day as he buries his face into your neck.

“don’t you wanna know?”

you hum, giving your full attention now that the icebox is out of the freezer. gojo moves closer to you with one hand on the door and a piercing stare like any other time. for you both, the hold of your eyes was the only form of communication for a splitting second. your gentle smile wasn’t held back, like the usual caution you had of being the victim of gojo’s pranks, but nor were you fully aware of your surroundings, still a bit drowsy from the mix of lunchtime medicine and liquor.

exaggeration was a result of your hazy state, raising both eyebrows in a state of thought, “enlighten me, satoru.”

satoru was no different, either, smile lopsided and body tired from the past few recovery days. he’s tipsy, you know, but he feels as if his heart’s bursting out of his chest when he watches your tipsy grin.

“Jupiter.”

you’re sure that you were close to freezing your fingers off. your body fits snugly against the kitchen counter as it stays turned towards the other, head tilted to an angle.

“really? why so?”

through your sleepy state, you still can see and hear the hesitation in satoru’s voice as he scours for an explanation. the smirk remains on your face as you enjoy the fluster on the other for a bit, taking note that his eyes glow a little bit more tonight. questions come one after the other, not caring much for the answers as your mind searches for why he’d choose the large gas giant.

“isn’t Sagittarius ruled by Jupiter? it would fit you more.”

satoru shrugs, “well... maybe but, if i were to take Jupiter... then my poor (y/n) wouldn’t have anything,” his silky voice is cut off with a swig of his drink.

you laugh nervously, dumping a few ice cubes into his glass when it departs from his lips. “what do you mean?”

“Mars is too war-like and military-driven. Venus is based on peace, which you... do not— have—” gojo giggles when you slap his shoulder, knowing it was all in good fun.

“Mercury is too jumpy for you. Saturn’s for old man Nanamin. you’re terrible at pranks and magic tricks, so it’s a no-no for Uranus, and lastly, i’m fully aware of all the stupid things you did as a kid, so there’s no enigmatic Neptune for you.” with his detailed explanation, the only response from you is an impressed nod.

“outstanding profiling. you got all that from criminal minds over the past few days? or just from your smart, analytical, musical mind?” even in your teasing, you find a way to show your sardonic speech.

“’course,” while your talk is sarcastic, satoru’s tends to cut off when he’s intoxicated. another fact stored away for another time. “i liked watching late-night reruns of criminal minds with you.” he doesn’t even acknowledge your joke on his advanced mind.

“why?” it’s a stupid question to ask, you know, but it’s the only word you can think of right now.

“why wouldn’t i?” his butt meets the countertop due to his towering height, with arms crossed against his chest with a shade of red dusting his cheeks, “i like—”

he shouldn’t look this attractive this late in the night.

satoru sighs, “i like spending... time with you, i miss spending time with you.” the whiskey provides him with room to daydream, lifted off reality even for a little while his eyes stare at the ceiling. the breath you’ve been holding in lets itself go, and so do the restraints on your heart. subconsciously, your single finger meets the back of his palm, and he wakes from his pondering state.

with that finger, you trace his name onto his skin. satoru, it reads, the singular character of ‘悟’ coming as a breeze to you and his breath hitches.

“are you as sure of that as you are with thinking that i fit Jupiter?” his laugh is like harmony to your ears, and you have to refrain from acquainting yourself with his hand once again. “satoru, to know and understand… enlightenment. i think you’re a little too confident in that when you spent half of an episode covering your face.”

“hey!” the other glares with feigned anger and with pearly whites that you want to be directed to you when he’s happy to see you in the morning.

“i am sure of that,” satoru’s voice lowers, getting to a whisper that’s shared only with the space between the two of you — the space that’s slowly closing.

“i’m glad, i’m glad,” you simply say with frantic nods when his eyes drop to your lips, retreating your finger without much thought before placing both hands on the counter. the same sinking feeling seeps in like the last time at the roof garden, and you’re the first to cower like you always do, fixated on the dull walls of the kitchen like they could pierce holes through the concrete.

“hey— hey hey, love,” the new pet name is barely audible, but it sweeps you from under your feet anyway. hearing it muttered so tenderly, with the gleam in his eyes, felt like everything fit into place.

“look at me, (y/n).” you’re so caught up in your fantasy that you don’t realise the overlay of wetness over your eyes, vision hindered by tears as it gradually dissolves into blurriness. “(y/n), love,” the concern on satoru’s face beat the usual confidence he has. it was the same concern when you’re up against reporters and the pesky flu like the one from hours ago.

“what’s wrong? aw, man, i did something, didn’t i?”

you shake your head, half answering him and half attempting to get his hands off your cheeks.

“it’s nothing, ‘toru. i- i... ugh...” you’re thrown in for a loop when he gently wipes the tears that are overflowing. there’s a significant difference between his hands to yours, grasping onto his wrists for some kind of support.

snot’s leaking, and your nose is scrunched up in pain, but he doesn’t have a care in the world at all. taking one of your hands in his, he brings you closer until your face meets his chest.

“why are you saying all this now?”

“because i want to! can’t i tell my fake girlfriend that? jeez...” his chin rests on the side of your head, partially talking into your hair. satoru smiles when your arms encircle around his torso.

muffled, your words are barely heard as your mouth moves against his shirt, “is that the alcohol talking, or you?”

“the alcohol is playing a part, yeah,” you sigh, and he pulls away to your chagrin, “but it is me talking, too.”

“is it really?” you murmur, temporarily forgetting about your bout of tears as you press a hand to ‘check’ his temperature. satoru swats your hand away jokingly, heading back into that dreamy state when your other meets with his nape.

“why are you telling me that i’d match Jupiter? why are you telling me that you like watching stuff with me?” a whisper and an avoidance of eye contact.

satoru is at his weakest now, as fingers twist his snow-white hair around the curves of your digits and your brushed-away hand ghosts over his shoulder; whatever joke that lingers on his tongue is gone. your eyes which were focused on the spot behind him, flickered back to his eyes and then, down to his lips.

you opted instead to have your eyes linger on his collarbones after, panicky and shifty at the way your eyes found his lips so quickly.

“what do you want me to say...?”

“anything but-!” your energy depletes to his lowest point, replaying this conversation in your head time and time again. writing out a script in your head meant taking on different possibilities, but the way this was playing out seemed to be going on an improvisation mode that left you troubled.

“can you at least tell me why?” your senses are heightened. the faint smell of alcohol laced with his usual minty breath, the tiny micro-movements that he reacts with, the sound of your heart beating in your chest that you weren’t sure even matched satoru’s.

you make a slight noise of objection when you hear the question, brought on next by a knit of your brows when he cups your face in his hands. “why are you making this so hard? why, why, why?”

i’m supposed to despise you! i’m supposed to surpass you and laugh in your face when i finally get what i want. i’m supposed to see you crumble in the seats when i get the applause and the praise and realise that talent isn’t all that.

that fantasy and alternate universe lives somewhere out there, nothing compared to the situation that’s currently playing out. you resented the soft touches he gave you, along with the smirks he’d shoot your way when someone complimented you.

but who were you to resent them when even you weren’t sure of your point of view? did everything appear like a reverie? or did you paint satoru in a world of black and white?

even your mind screamed at you to pick a side, and when your mouth contorts into one of heartache with the overspill of tears, you hated how even more gentle he was. you let satoru sweep you up again, both figuratively and literally, as he shushes you. he’s extra attentive to your growing frustration, recalling all the words he’s said to you on the floor in the very same house.

satoru knows your throat closes up and how uncomfortable you feel when tears get into your ears and neck. he’s aware of your restless hands, reaching everywhere and anywhere to clutch at something — fabric, a stone counter, his wrist.

you’re doing the same things as he remembers. like a cheesy scene, it rivals the one years ago when you’d learn of his mentorship, minus the complicating story and feelings.

“i’m here,” the two words ring in your head ironically, like an unending bell that won’t go away. it taunts you like a jester, surrounding you from all corners until they’re sure they’ve tormented you. when seated on the counter, you fail to meet satoru’s height. he humbles himself, though, by lowering to your eye line as he rubs comforting circles into the back of your hand.

“even when you’re crying, you’re beautiful,” satoru whispers, going back to brushing away your tears once he knows you’ve calmed down. although you’d like to spill more tears over that sentence, you hardly have any left and rather, your head collides with his chest.

“and you’re insufferable.” satoru’s chest rumbles when he lets out a low chuckle, not taking offence to it one bit. like a doll, you let your head go limp when you feel the other take your face into his hands.

“and you’re spent. c’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

everything is quiet in the main room when satoru brings you to your room in a bridal carry, the absence of nanami not registering in your brains. before you can react to the familiar creak of the door with squirming and a faint “no!”, however, satoru’s already standing in the cosy area. the violinist grins, looking around your room to look at the various posters you’ve put up of him. there wasn’t a lot, but any more of those posters and his ego might just shoot through the ceiling.

“you didn’t tell me about your obsession~” he coos. you know he’s trying his best to sound neutral when your face was literally swollen with tear stains, but even then, satoru couldn’t hold back on his teasing nature. when he looks down at you, he finds you turned away from him, eyes narrowed and lips pouting.

“heh, okay, okay, i’ll shut up,” the other sets you down, ignoring the little thank god as he takes his time to admire a performance shoot at carnegie hall and another masterclass teaser shoot in germany. he doesn’t miss the little scribbles you had done either, printouts of worn-down photos next to the pictures of the two of you goofing off in a photo booth.

it’s been years that the corners have curled, and the paper reduces itself to yellow, barely sticking to the wall with the double-sided tape you used. as expensive as the tape was, it still held up after all these years. his fingers trace over the photos one by one, passing over the professionally printed paper of the posters and the inky, rough feeling of the A4 templates you used to jam into the printer.

“you still have these?”

wish i could’ve gone for your masterclass! ~(y/n)

lol, remember when we’d prank shoko and tell her that rehearsal was an hour early?

those memories that you tried to hold onto were plastered on your walls. there was a single pin on a particular sheet of music amongst your posters and pictures. the handwriting’s old, the pencil marks blurring from the years of exposure to light and heat.

ask satoru to teach you this, dumbass!

you can’t bother with a smile, producing a rather pitiful nod as you rubbed your blocked nose.

“i...” satoru pauses with a finger, possibly telling you to wait before taking a light jog outside. there are noises of him rummaging through a bag, and you take the opportunity to sit on your bed as he comes running back with a leather wallet, looking through it with determination in his eyes.

“aha!” his smile widens when he pulls out a folded piece of paper, showing a fancy frame around the two of you at the mall’s photo booth. it matched the three-photo set pasted above the bedside table, wondering why the photobooth decided to cheat your money that day. the bed dips under his weight.

your grins are priceless on the frayed photograph, arms wrapped around each other while your heads are pressed together. it replayed seamlessly in your head, and the next memory (and missing photo) makes you cringe.

“oh my god, i kissed you on the cheek after that one, didn’t i?”

satoru suppresses a laugh, “yes. yes, you did.”

“what happened to the fourth photo anyway?” you took a quick glance at the photos on your wall and back to him, noticing the way his white locks blew in the wind gently, almost in hypnosis. the only other thing bringing you out of the trance is his fingers turning the paper around to show you the one photo you’ve never seen your whole life.

eyes closed, heart thumping, fist clenched, all while planting a peck on the younger satoru’s cheek. the camera at the time doesn’t capture the shock on his face enough, although they seem to enhance the blueness of his irises.

“what? what the hell?” you grunt, kicking at the dispenser when it only produces three photos instead of four, albeit doubled due to the settings you keyed in before. you’re hopeful when you look through your wallet, though finding that you were a few cents short of another round.

you’re unaware of the way your friend manages to distract you, easily tearing out the last photo from each set using the perforated lines before putting it back into the photo tray, still warm from the photo-developing process in the machine.

satoru at the time only shrugs, “don’t look at me. i didn’t bring cash today!”

“liar. aren’t you always loaded?” you make grabby hands at him, ascertained on getting a hand on his wallet. with one glance, you trail your eyes down his arm that was tucked neatly into one of his pockets. “you’re hiding cash in there, aren’t you?”

“naaaah, nope! give me a kiss again.” you scoff, shooting him a disgusted look when he taps his finger against his cheeks.

“you’re insufferable!” you storm off after, leaving the other to fiddle with the two torn photographs in his pocket, slipping it into the wallet you failed to steal with the one photo that made him wish you did it again.

well, he’d tell you when he was ready, when he was sure you’ll stay in his life forever.

you shove him, “so you did tear it out to take it! i thought the machine really was broken.”

his laugh decorates the room with its brightness, “it was the last outing before i left, anyway. i wanted a part of you with me~”

you tch, nudging him with your foot, “that’s gross. cut it out— will i ever get the other picture though?”

his shrug elicits a curl to your lip. he surrenders pretty fast, “ow- ow! okay! give me like ten years, i’ll probably be back to the States by then.”

“it’s in the States? ten years?”

“told ya, wanted a part of you even during my mentorship.”

he sighs after your lack of reply, looking back down at the picture yet again with an uncharacteristic quietness to him. you almost think he’s going to keep it back into his wallet, but instead, he leans forward to you and past you to place it side by side with yours.

it completes the picture and the tear line. the ornate frame, probably created in MSPaint, connects as the exaggerated designs and stickers finally make the photographs whole.

you also almost think that satoru’s looking at the wall as you are, but when you turn back, you don’t expect him to be gazing back at you. his arm reaching past you feels too close, and you can feel his leg touching yours, knee to knee that it ignites your skin all around.

he swallows uncomfortably, and the only sounds apparent to you are the neighbours and his breath on your face. the only touch clear to you is satoru’s eye-catching hair under your hands, sticking out from in between your fingers when you run it through his white locks. there’s a flutter in your heart when he smiles at your soothing affection and leans into it.

you’re ready to conclude what you see: a lick of his lips, a hesitation in his other arm, a melt of his azure eyes.

but the list continues on when he finally meets you halfway with a slight nod from you. you see nothing but blackness as his lips descend on yours. it stops; the photo he was pinning to the wall drops from his hand, the other wraps around your waist and the weight he was holding is now released, breaking your fall as the other hovers over you.

you’re doing it again, (y/n).

he laughs. he has the audacity to laugh and make your heart clench up, to make your palms clammy and your body craving to feel any part of him on you.

and then when satoru kisses you again, blackness turns lighter, lighter until it turns as white as his hair before the colours start. yeah, clichéd, but you couldn’t deny the romance books you’d read under your covers. when you smiled ear to ear as the protagonist kisses the love interest, and their heart feels like it’s about to burst? it was worse than that. it hurt, it hurt so good that you only ever want to feel his body close to yours and his plump lips on yours.

no. no. no. stay away.

the other deepens the kiss when he turns his head, scooting closer with his long legs that it makes you smile at the sight. satoru feels like he’s dreaming, finally seeing you amongst his blurred visions of running away from a chicken or making small talk with an alien in a suit. those were just some of the weirder dreams he had.

occasionally, he did dream of you. he saw how you’d react dramatically to his success. he remembered one where he came back to find you, only to find you gone from your childhood home.

and now, he was dreaming too, in a way that it felt surreal that he finally feels you reciprocate without any hidden feelings. with a grin gracing your lips and your hands tangled up in his hair, all he could feel was you.

“are we really making out in your childhood bed?”

you throw your head back to laugh, even when there’s a big fat NO floating around in your mind, “this isn’t my childhood bed! did you forget that we grow up and grow taller? growth spurt? that cross your mind?”

“no no, not really,” the violinist fully cages you in now, body twisted over yours while you lay on your back comfortably.

“no— stop. are you gonna say ‘i’m the only one that crosses your mind?’”

satoru gasps, “oh, you! who knew you could be so cheesy?”

“piss off.” you push him off you with all your might, and he falls beside you in mixed giggling with you. you forget how strong he is, however, and within the next second, satoru’s pulled you atop of him. his hands trail up to hold your cheeks.

“now, how am i going to do that when i’m holding Jupiter in my hands?” the air is knocked out of you; and when your eyes soften, satoru’s sure he’s struck a chord within you. he offers a smile, and you return it tenfold, bending down to capture his lips passionately.

the no’s fade. it fades, and it dissolves. just let me be selfish for once, for once, you repeat over and over while you press further in his embrace. you smile, and he smiles. you laugh, and he laughs.

the second kiss is messy and uncoordinated, fitting in tiny little pecks before getting into its rhythm. you almost want to cry when his thumb strokes your cheeks tenderly, mouth moving slowly, lovingly when your hands do the same to his face. holding the golden prodigy of the classical world, nanami’s source of endless headaches, and a hell of an asshole of a childhood best friend.

oxygen is scarce, and it forces you to pull away. you’re met again with blue hues and a blinding smile that you need to hide the heat creeping up on your face.

“love, look at me,” satoru says for the second time that night, using little to no force to get you looking when you obey his command anyway.

“stay?”

“stupid, this is my room,” you’ve got no strength to talk loudly, muttering it out with a giggle laced within your tone. sleep and alcohol catch up to you too soon, but you want to be awake with satoru. he only shakes his head, placing one last kiss that lingers for too long that you have to break away, “what do you mean, then?”

satoru hugs you close to his chest, “’s okay, ignore what i said.”

you’re exhausted that you just fall back down onto his chest, content with the moments now and the reunited memory on your wall (even if you had to fish out the other quarter from under the bed).

[illyaana]

ℭ𝔲𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔰 | 𝔐𝔲𝔱𝔲𝔞𝔩𝔰

Meet the customers of Tej's Tavern ✨

IRL LOVEBIRDS <3

-> @sharumoha (she/her) | お姉えさん ♡ (ship: Asahi)

-> @eurushi (he/she/they) | Eurush ♡ (ship: Dazai)

-> @itisielly (she/her) | Elly ♡ bean (ship: Nishilola)

-> @lucky127 (she/her) | Rani ♡ (ship: Kags)

-> @the-mildly-sane-hatter (she/her) | Shvar ♡ (ship: Howl)

TUMBLR BUBS (Y'all might know me as @tejxswini :)

-> @saturnity (she/her) | Saturn ♡ (ship: Iida Tenya)

-> @yamnotes (she/they) | nepho ♡ (ship: Yams)

-> @silversslut (she/her) | mia ♡ mi amore (ship: Kyoutani)

-> @arquitecturadelanada (she/her) | elle ♡ (ship: Tsuki)

-> @vindictivtsumu (they/them) | felix ♡ (ship: Suna)

-> @myloriahh (she/her) | mylo ♡ (ship: Kuroo)

-> @moonboohoo (she/her) | moonie ♡ (ship: Mitsuya)

If we're mutuals and I haven't added you yet, pm me! I'm a forgetful shit for a reason 🕺✨

[4dtk]

i found your blog through the nct tag and for that girl wondering, my nationality is british but that’s all i’m giving you lol. sorry - 🕷

lol sure, @moonboohoo here you go!! >:)