Here, Waiting For Updates On The 999 Fanfics I Follow Without Thinking That People Have To Socialize,

thanks for tag cinny <33

current fave songs

— yes or no - jungkook

— attention - newjeans

— akari - soushi sakiyama

— smitten - leanna firestone

— would that i - hozier

no pressure tags <3 : @saelestia @cheriiyaya @ladyth @yunymphs @tinkerbelle05 @littlekidsteve

thank you for the tag @sweetl4mb <3

current fav songs.

1. if you think im pretty - artemas 2. work - iggy azalea 3. kryptonite - 3 doors down 4. two of hearts - stacey q 5. high by the beach - lana del rey

no pressure tags: @dizzyntrr @lacysturniolo @gwenlore @mattscokewhore @solutopia @sturnioloshacker @stvrlighttgabss @ihrtchris @sadfury @coqvttes @renqiisnce @ghostywispe @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles @intriq @bearrbug @niyizh @mattsnymphette @rootbeerworshiper @lovings4turn

❝ dying (for your love) ❞. . . ⇢ satoru gojo

˗ˏˋsummary: there’s never any time to think about your feelings for each other when you’re so focused on ensuring that you both live to see another day

˗ˏˋwc: 17.5k whew..

˗ˏˋcontains: gn!reader x gojo, zombie apocalypse au, slowburn, angst with a happy ending, descriptive violence, minor injuries, use of guns/other weapons, lots of physical touch, codependency, clingy gojo 🥺, heavy pining/yearning etc etc, sugu + shoko cameo, one (1) heated argument, cursing, suggestive language used near the end (MDNI)

˗ˏˋa/n: [inhales deeply] first of all, big big BIG THANK U to my beloved io @elusivemoon for beta reading this behemoth of a fic u r my rock fr i love u soo so bad. im also tagging @softgirlgonehaywire @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat and @anthoosies for hyping me up so much 🙈<3 + some more lovely beautiful friends tagged below bc this fic was in the works for a good minute now. i hope u all enjoy reading my longest word-vomit to date :3 and do let me know if there's anything i missed for the content warnings!!

extra: fic playlist by @elusivemoon + series mlist :3

you think you’re hearing the haunting moans of the undead echoing in the distance, or perhaps you’re simply imagining things — but it’s a constant reminder of the perilous world you now inhabit nonetheless. a world that succumbed to an epidemic, at the hands of a fatal illness that truthfully did nothing to really make you stay dead.

as the moonlight illuminates the path you and satoru are currently walking on, you have to rely heavily on your senses. the only sounds emitting from the two of you at the moment are that of crunching leaves underneath thick, dirt-covered boots and the occasional shuddering breath being exhaled. in the otherwise eerie silence, you both stand guard beside each other, eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of danger as you trek through the dense forest.

a twig snaps underneath your feet, and in an instant satoru’s eyes are on you — gaze flitting up and down and all around your figure, double and triple checking that you’re out of harm's way. his free hand, the one not holding his weapon of choice, reaches out gingerly; he gently grabs your elbow,tugs once, and a soft “stay close,” is uttered from his lips. two words he finds himself saying to you almost every day.

you couldn’t possibly stand any closer to him, but you nod your head and match your steps with his anyway.

you occasionally glanced at him from your peripheral, unable to tear your eyes away from the man beside you. you both were once part of a small group of survivors — a mere 6 of you in total — but you’ve long since separated from them, though not fully by choice.

it was an ambush that ultimately cut your time with the others short. a large horde of zombies had appeared, and you didn’t have time to assess what was happening before you heard the sound of shots ringing out. one member of the group had gotten attacked, and two more were firing at the horde as they steadily approached. in a last minute effort to save yourselves the group had decided to split-up to divide and conquer, but you were unable to find them again after that.

that same day you had a close call when you turned your back to search for a familiar face, not having realized there was one zombie remaining that you didn’t kill. satoru had never run so fast in his life when he found you and spotted the creature behind you, unsheathing his gun with record speed just as rotting limbs extended in your direction. the sound of the bullet firing didn’t startle you nearly as much as the sight you were met with when you finally turned around — of gnarled, decaying flesh and bones, a mere inches away from your own skin. up close and way too personal for your own liking.

satoru was running on pure adrenaline and fear after that. by the time he reached you, he only remembers hastily grabbing your hand and running in the opposite direction when a part of the horde began to approach the sound of the shot he fired. the two of you never looked back, and to this day neither of you know if the others survived or not.

what you do know is that satoru saved your life that day, and that you both need each other more than either of you realize. there’s never any time to think about the implications of that, though. not when every day is a fight for survival on such a nightmarish landscape.

but that doesn’t affect how he cares for you, nor you him. it’s displayed through subtle actions each day, where you both cling to each other even as you walk with your weapons drawn. how you both subconsciously seek each other out in the night as you sleep, hands tightly clasped together as if you were both afraid the other would float away in their sleep. how every moment is built on a profound trust in one another.

it’s a silent promise that you’ll stay at each other’s side, facing whatever horrors await the two of you.

another twig snaps, though this time it’s not by fault of either of you. you and satoru immediately stop in your tracks, and his hand automatically finds yours as he grips it tight enough to make his knuckles turn white. you’d have probably gotten a little flustered because of his instinct to hold you close if a fear of the unknown wasn’t currently crawling up your throat instead.

by now you’re no stranger to fear, but even the familiarity wouldn’t ever help you get used to the way it makes your stomach sink into your guts.

with bated breaths, you and satoru exchange a glance. it’s quiet, maybe too quiet. you hope satoru’s hearing is better than yours right now, because you can feel your heart thrumming loudly in your ear drums to the beat of the paralyzing emotion overtaking your whole being.

there’s a rustle in the bushes, and just as quickly as you heard it, one of satoru’s weapons is drawn. it’s a small rifle he carries with him, though he has no real intention of firing the noisy weapon right now at least — he knows better than to do so in the middle of a dense forest at night, with you beside him nonetheless. he would never risk your life like that.

satoru takes a small step forward, maneuvering his body to be half shielding yours as he did. even though you have your own weapon ready — a baseball bat fashioned with barbed wire wrapped all around the barrel — satoru was the one to move first, all with the intention of ensuring your own safety. you can take care of yourself, for sure, and he knows that you’re more than capable, but he does it anyway. you think it’s likely for his own peace of mind, but you never question it.

looking out for each other is simply an unspoken agreement the two of you have. you never needed to ask him to stand in front of you or hold you when you’re feeling anxious because he simply does it anyway. just as you do him.

another rustle comes from the bushes, and this one is more prominent, unmistakeable. satoru tightens his grip on the rifle, though you wonder what he’ll do if it actually turns out to be another zombie. he surely can’t fire it, lest he alerts anyone or anything of your location, but maybe he’ll use the butt of the rifle to knock down the zombie. it would definitely buy you enough time to land your own hit as well; just one fell swoop at the head and the undead will be dead once more.

as it turned out, the source of the noise in the bush was merely a false alarm. you were sure you could hear panting, and you tilted your head in confusion until the sound of a whine made you blink in surprise. it sounded like it was coming from an injured animal, perhaps it was a dog? you shared a glance with satoru, who was equally as confused, and then hesitantly you took a step forward.

“careful,” satoru whispered to you, as he slowly lowered the rifle in his hands, his shoulders relaxing but not enough to completely let his guard down. he watched you hold the bat at your side as you knelt down, moving the leaves of the bush out of the way until you saw the source of the noise. indeed, it was a dog — you weren’t sure of the exact breed in the dark but it was an average sized one; it couldn’t have been no more than 30-40 lbs in weight. the dog looked up at you with uncertain eyes, ears tucked back and teeth snarled when you brought your hand close to it.

upon further examination the dog appeared to be stuck in the bush, sharp thorns digging into one of its back legs and drawing small amounts of blood. the poor thing was injured and struggling to free itself.

“it’s stuck…” you murmured softly, voice directed at satoru as your gaze remained fixed on the animal before you. satoru was now standing beside you, leaning his weight on his knees as he hunched forward to examine the dog as well. he hummed softly, a frown making its way onto his face.

you shared another look with him, and he nodded without saying a word (you’ve both learned to silently communicate with each other, after all). turning your attention back to the dog, you began to pull apart the branches surrounding it, making sure not to startle the dog and stress it out any further. once you cleared enough of it you carefully started to pull apart the branches stuck to its leg, shushing it gently when it started to growl and whine at you. the very second you freed it from the branch it lunged forward, jumping past you and several feet away. it was limping on its back leg, but the dog seemed more relaxed in your presence now.

“there we go,” you smiled, standing back up on your feet. satoru mirrored your smile, feeling the weight in his chest loosen up at the rare sight. he liked seeing you happy, it made his heart race in a way that he tried not to think about too much.

he was just… content, seeing the light shine in your eyes in fleeting moments like this. a glimmer of hope in an otherwise barren world, a reminder that he still had you — and you him.

it was only several more minutes of walking — along with the dog you rescued who had begun following you — before you both found the very thing you’d been searching for so late in the night — a creek.

“if we follow the stream, we should find the shop pretty easily.” satoru reminded you, to which you nodded your head. you’d both received some intel from survivors you’d met in passing earlier in the day, information about a convenience store that hadn’t been completely ransacked yet due to it’s remote location. through the dense woods and then along the creek, follow the stream until the river bends west and then walk exactly east of that.

it was pretty straightforward, and the people you’d met seemed reliable enough with their information. thus, you both decided to trek the path earlier in the day — only, you’d underestimated how thick the woods were.

nevertheless, the information you’d both received turned out to be true. just east of the bend at the river you spotted a small road, leading into the parking lot of an isolated convenience store. it was a shocker that there was even something this far out in the woods, but it’s not like you were about to complain.

the gravel crunched underneath your boots as you walked slowly through the parking lot, and satoru fished around inside his backpack for his flashlight before clicking it on, pointing it in the direction of the store.

“let’s make it quick, i already don’t like that we’re doing this at night.” he murmured, gently nudging your side as he spoke. you nodded your head, turning to glance over at him for a quick second only to find that he’d already been looking at you. when your eyes met you gave each other reassuring smiles, and he brushed his hand against yours for a moment; though he was holding the flashlight in that hand, you felt his pinky curl around your thumb and squeeze gently before he let go, eyes landing back ahead of him.

satoru was the first to walk in the store, stepping carefully over the broken glass shards on the ground where the door had previously been. he shone his flashlight down the aisles, looking both ways inside the store before beckoning you over. “coast seems clear, c’mon.”

you glanced behind you for a moment, where the dog had opted to stay outside as opposed to walking all over the broken glass, and then you looked back ahead and began to follow satoru inside. you had your own flashlight, holding it in the same hand that held your bat, leaving your other hand free to grab onto the back of satoru’s jacket for purchase as you moved closer to him.

the store itself was dark and eerily quiet, save for the gusts of wind blowing in from the broken entryway. several aisles in the front had been cleaned out by travelers already, but closer towards the back your luck finally seemed to turn around. you’d spotted a small pharmacy, gently tugging on satoru’s jacket twice to get his attention as you pointed your flashlight in the other direction.

(that was just another way you two figured out how to communicate with each other without saying a word. if you happened to be standing behind him (or vice versa), holding him by his clothing, you merely just had to tug on the fabric.

tug once to stop walking, twice to get his attention, three times if there’s danger. it was simple and effective.)

“let’s stock up on meds,” you whispered, and he nodded, now following your lead as you headed in the direction of the pharmacy. you set the flashlight down on the counter, silently handing him over your bat before placing your palms down on the flat surface. hoisting yourself up, you hopped onto the counter and swung your legs around, landing softly on the ground on the other side. “stay there, i’ll be quick.”

satoru nodded. though, even in the dark, you didn’t miss the look of concern that flashed over his features for a short moment. “be careful.” he whispered back, for the nth time in the night, as he watched you disappear down the aisles in the back, heading towards the stockpiles of medicine. though he couldn’t see you, he could see the shine of the light from your flashlight on the walls, and it calmed him down enough to let you go on your own.

you inhaled a deep breath, making a mental list of all the supplies you currently had, what you were short on, and what you needed. though you and satoru had a means of transportation that you used every now and then, you still couldn’t afford to be carrying too much in your backpacks, lest it weighs on you and slows you down. a quick scan of the short aisles was found to be of use; you pocketed several emergency medications, some over the counter and some that you knew would have to have been prescribed under normal circumstances. they were the harder, more effective painkillers, which were all the more addictive.

you tossed several items in your bag, as well as some extra gauze and other medical kit items you happened upon, and once you were satisfied you zipped it all up and pulled it over your shoulders again. the haul was simple and quick, a little too easy, and you let your guard down too much because of it. you’d nearly missed the low growl just around the corner of one of the aisles, in the very direction you were headed.

you stopped in your tracks, hairs immediately raising on the back of your neck as all of your senses were alerted. you peeked around the corner and lo and behold, there it was — a zombie, limping about with its head hanging low. it seemed unaware of your presence, of the way you nearly stumbled backwards in fear, your heart racing in your chest as your back hit the shelf behind you with a small thud.

you froze in place at the sound, hearing a soft grunt emitted from the creature, and you could hear the way it dragged its feet as it slowly approached the aisle where you were hiding. your hands trembled as you tried to think of what to do, instinctually reaching behind you to grab your weapon from your backpack, except—

fuck. you left it with satoru.

wait— satoru.

you scrambled for purchase as you stood up straighter, trying to peer through the shelves to spot the white haired male, but you couldn’t see him very well from the corner you were at. you were also certain he couldn’t see you, nor the zombie for that matter, but what you could see was the faint glow of the light he was shining inside the pharmacy as he waited for your return.

in that very instant, a lightbulb might as well have shone above your head the way your face lit up with the idea you just got. biting your lip in anticipation, while also getting ready to make a run for it if needed, you pointed your flashlight up at the ceiling — a sight you were certain satoru would notice.

and then, you clicked it off. and on again. three separate times.

almost immediately you heard him, the sound of his boots squeaking on the floor as he hurriedly jumped over the counter, running through the aisles in search of you. the zombie, who was once mindlessly walking around, seemed to be more alert now, as another growl tore through its gnarled lips before it started to follow the sound from satoru. you took the chance to catch it by surprise, grabbing the largest item you could find within reach, and tossing it in the opposite direction, hoping to lead it away from him.

the commotion from the object you tossed helped satoru figure out where you were hidden, but it only worked to anger the creature further, as its eyes seemed to follow the source of the noise and trace it back to you. upon making eye contact you audibly gulped, and just as the creature lunged at you, you quickly dodged its bony fingers and ran past it, shoving it to the side in the process and just barely missing the way it almost tore into your arm.

you weren’t really paying much attention to where you were going, just running on pure adrenaline by that point. you blindly turned a corner and came face to face with another body, one you were too panicked to discern, making you yelp in shock when you felt a strong set of arms wrap around you.

“hey, hey,” satoru’s voice broke through the haze just before you could shove him away, and you could only blink in surprise as he pulled you tighter into him, shushing you gently as his eyes searched the surrounding area. “you’re okay, it’s just me. i got you, you’re safe now.”

as he spoke he pulled back from the hug, eyes scanning over you as best he could in the dark to assess whether or not you’d been hurt. but then his head snapped up at the sound of the zombie approaching, and just as quickly you snapped out of it too. you pulled your bat out of satoru’s backpack as he grabbed another weapon of his, a silencer that truthfully was in need of another reload soon, and you both got into position.

the zombie lunged at you again but you were better prepared this time, swinging the bat in your hands hard enough to knock it down on the floor. just as you did this you felt satoru’s hand on your shoulder, and he stepped around you to point the silencer at the head of the zombie before pulling the trigger, taking the final shot at the creature.

it slumped into the ground, finally dead, and though the adrenaline was still slow to leave your system you were admittedly much more relaxed now. especially because satoru’s hand was now sliding down your back, turning you around and pulling you back into his chest once more.

he held you firmly, about as firmly as he held you on that fated day a few months back, just after you’d both narrowly avoided the chase of a horde. his breathing was labored against your hair, though you were not doing any better — huffing softly against his chest as you hugged him back just as tightly, letting the bat fall to your feet to focus on returning his embrace.

neither of you said anything after that, but satoru couldn’t have been standing any closer to you as you both made your way through the rest of the shop, occasionally grabbing some extra food and other miscellaneous supplies before finally heading back out into the night. the same dog from before had been patiently waiting the whole time, bounding over to your side excitedly once you both emerged into the parking lot.

you both then made the trek back through the forest, weapons in tow and satoru’s hand firmly grasping yours once more.

the sound of you whistling was equally as soft as it was loud enough to capture satoru’s attention, and satoru’s head snapped up from where he was fastening the tarp over the back of the pickup truck you both hijacked a month or two ago. using the tarp to conceal some supplies and belongings you two had gathered over the last few days, he tightened the knot and closed the trunk before stepping around the pickup and over to your side.

“check this out,” you waved him over, eyes fixed on a point past the trees in the surrounding area. you lifted a hand to point in the direction you were staring and he followed your gaze, raising an eyebrow in intrigue when he spotted what you were talking about — a road sign.

more specifically, a road sign with coordinates spray painted over it. longitude and latitude coordinates.

“huh,” he hummed, nodding his head slowly. “what d’you think that’s for?”

you shrugged, turning around to face the passenger side of the car as you spoke. “could be anything, really,” you mumbled, reaching inside through the lowered window of the car and opening the glove compartment to pull out the road map you’d both been using, as well as a small pencil.

you walked over to the hood of the car, placing the map flat on the surface of it and smoothing it down as you read the coordinates on the road sign again. “it could be another supplies shop, an abandoned facility turned refuge, a small community…” you trailed off as you spoke again.

satoru nodded in agreement, helping you pinpoint roughly the exact location the coordinates had set, and it appeared to be about a couple hours worth of driving away from you two.

“you wanna check it out?” he offered, leaning on the hood of the car as his glaze flitted up to your face. the expression you adorned seemed contemplative; you chewed on your lower lip for a short moment before decidedly making up your mind. with a small nod you met his eyes, giving him a small smile of intrigue.

“sure, why the hell not?”

satoru grinned with you — he couldn’t help matching his smile with yours every time he saw it — raising his hand and squeezing your shoulder before wrapping an arm around you. “sounds like a plan, let’s hit the road.”

you both climbed into the pickup, and the dog (the very same one you rescued the other night) excitedly sat in-between the two of you on the cushion of the large seat. and then you were off, headed towards the nearest highway to begin the drive to the unknown location.

“okay, so,” you began, examining the map and the road signs around you as satoru began to press on the brake, slowing down just enough to look at the surroundings. “according to the map it should be a little offset from this road, north east from here.” you pointed forward and satoru nodded, carefully pulling the pickup off the road.

“i think we should find some place nearby to crash for the night, in case it turns out to be nothing.” satoru thought out loud, glancing at you for a moment before fixing his gaze back on the road. the dog at this point had laid down beside you, its head on your lap, and satoru couldn’t help smiling fondly at the sight.

“yeah that’s a good idea, i think down there’s an old residential area… you wanna try scoping it out?” you suggested, and satoru nodded in agreement.

you both drove for several more minutes before deciding to pull over in a secluded area, making sure to mark where you left the car hidden from the main road, and then you both grabbed your backpacks and started the short trek to the abandoned residential area you’d spotted. the dog followed closely behind you two, and as you both approached the street, satoru’s hand once again reached out to grab yours and squeeze it gently.

it seemed that anywhere you both went these days, satoru’s hand always sought out yours. whether it was for comfort or to remind himself that you were nearby, or perhaps to even soothe yourself, you weren’t sure. but you squeezed his hand back, anyway. you let him know you were still there with him.

he doesn’t let go of your hand until you both find a small house down the road, only doing so to fasten his grip around his rifle as the two of you prepared to enter the abandoned home.

it’s important to make sure the place is safe first before entering it. that includes ensuring the home is not only zombie-free but also human-free. you’ve both had your fair share of incidents and run-ins with some bad folk, and you didn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression if they saw two total strangers trying to sleep in the very same place they’d taken as refuge.

but as you both entered the house, the distinct lack of any signs of life was evident in the dusty appearance it had. the door creaked on its hinges as satoru pushed it open, and instantly the dog was squeezing past the two of you,sniffing out the area. whether or not he was also searching for any hints of someone or something’s presence, it was unclear to the two of you. yet you both trusted the dog would react to anything out of the ordinary, so you stepped inside with small sighs of relief.

“it doesn’t have a second floor, so we should both be good here for the night.” satoru said aloud, to which you nodded in response. the two of you spent the next hour or so prepping the home and ensuring all the doors were locked, curtains drawn and windows boarded before sealing yourselves in one of the bedrooms.

it was routine, at this point. find a place to stay, seal it off, stay close to each other. that’s what you both did every time; that’s why you never questioned why satoru was particularly clingier during the nights with you. how he tugs on the hem of your shirt, pulling you closer to him as he approaches the bed you’d both be sleeping in, not wanting you out of his sight even for a single moment.

“i wonder what we’ll find there,” he thought out loud, lifting the blanket on the mattress and shaking the dust off of it before setting it back down. he did the same with the pillows, and then his attention was back on you, grabbing your elbow and gently urging you to climb into the bed with him. it was subconscious, almost pure instinct the way he did it. and you followed without a second thought, just as you always did.

“i hope it’s not a waste of our time, that’s for sure,” you huffed softly, slipping your shoes off and glancing over at the dog laying in the corner of the room one last time before climbing in next to satoru. you pulled the blanket over your legs, and satoru’s arm was soon finding its way across your shoulders, pulling you further into his side. “though this area doesn’t seem so bad, maybe we could stay here for a bit too.”

satoru simply hummed in response, his other arm sliding across your midsection while your own arms wrapped around his torso. your head plopped onto his shoulder, and just like that you both lay, relaxing against the kind of comfortable bedding that you rarely ever come across these days.

satoru closed his eyes for a moment when your head nuzzled further against him, lips parting slightly with every soft breath you exhaled. he felt that familiar pull in his heart again, tugging towards you, naturally. his arms tightened around you with the feeling, swallowing thickly as to push away what he knew was coming next — the intrusive thoughts.

thoughts of not being able to keep you safe, of losing you to the madness that’s overtaken the world. or worse yet — of him dying. of you being left alone, with no one to hold you at night the same way he is at this very moment. he can’t stomach the thought of you being alone; he thinks he fears that more than the prospect of his own death in that equation.

satoru just… he just wants you to be safe and cared for. the world is so, so barren… and so lonely. he wouldn’t be so worried about this if you both still had your group with you, but now you both were all that was left of it. he was all you had left, and you were all he had left. he promised himself a long time ago that he was never going to leave your side, no matter what.

“satoru.”

“hmm?” he hummed, rubbing your shoulder soothingly in a way that showed you that you had his attention.

“stop thinking so much,” you yawned, pinching his waist softly, making the man chuckle. “get some sleep.”

“okay, okay. i’ll try.”

he closed his eyes again, his head lolling to the side and leaning on top of your own as you both drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms. dreaming of a kinder world, a world where he got to simply be with you and not have this lingering fear in the back of his head. one that always seems to remind him that every sweet moment could have such a bitter end.

he falls asleep with you in his arms, safe and sound for the night being. all with the promise of getting to see the sun again by the time you’ve awoken.

“i think this is it,” you muttered, lowering the map shielding your view to scan the area ahead of you once again. yet another stretch of woods that didn’t seem as promising as you’d both hoped it’d be.

satoru whistled lowly, a hand resting on his hip as he quirked a brow and looked around. “should we keep walking? see if there’s anything worthwhile?”

you hummed softly, contemplative but a little dejected in manner. a sigh escaped your lips as you pocketed the sordid map, head lolling to the side afterwards to spare an uncertain glance at satoru. even if he didn’t know you like the back of his hand, if he didn’t commit every single mannerism and expression of yours to memory, reciting it like you were his favorite poem — he still could’ve just as easily picked up on your reluctance to go any further. but he also saw an insatiable curiosity in your eyes, so all it really took was a gentle nudge in your side to convince you.

“c’mon, let’s at least make sure this wasn’t a complete waste of our time.”

you pursed your lips in consideration again before nodding slowly, giving him a playful smile as you gestured ahead of you. “ladies first,” you teased him, followed by a snort when he stuck his tongue out at you in response.

he lead the way for a few steps before slowing down his pace, all with the intent of walking side by side and grabbing your hand. he swung it back and forth for a bit, relishing in the small giggles that left your lips.

“someone’s awfully cheerful today.” you mused, beaming up at him when he gave you a bashful grin in response.

“i guess i just… have a good feeling about this, i dunno.” he shrugged, smiling down at you in a way that warmed up your whole being more effectively than the sunlight peeking through the tree branches above you.

you chewed on your lip as you nodded, eyes flitting down to the dog who was walking just a few feet ahead of you both, curiously sniffing the ground with every step it took. you tilted your head in amusement, about to comment on the action, but then a shot rings out and a bullet hits the ground just ahead of the dog.

a sharp cry leaves the startled animal as he stumbles away from the sudden sound, ears back and tail tucked between its legs while it quickly runs to hide behind you and satoru. the sound also startled you both, as you were instantly grabbing a hold of each other, eyes darting in all directions, frantically searching for the source of the shot.

“you there!” a voice calls out, booming with every syllable, and the moment satoru spots the source of the speaker he’s stepping in front of you, shielding you protectively from the gun pointed in your direction.

“you both travelers?” the man, now appearing more fully from behind a large bush, calls out to you both as he speaks. you and satoru hesitate for a moment in your response, unsure how to assess the stranger, but then you both slowly nod in confirmation.

“this is a protected area.” he states with a click of his tongue, slowly lowering the gun yet still keeping his guard up. his eyes flit between the expressions on yours and satoru’s faces, and then he raises an eyebrow. “how’d you get all the way out here?”

“we, um,” you began, fingers curling around satoru’s arm a little tighter as you cleared your throat. “we came across some coordinates, we weren’t sure what to make of them so we decided to check out the location ourselves.” you answered truthfully, exhaling shakily once you’d finished speaking. “we— we mean no harm to you, promise.”

satoru nodded in agreement, though there was no denying the way his fingers twitched over the strap of his own rifle, pure instincts telling him to pull out the weapon and point it back at the man ahead of you two.

when the stranger took a second too long to respond, satoru took a careful step backwards, hand now firmly gripping the strap of his rifle that was slung over his shoulder. satoru’s other hand slid around your back, pulling you closer to him protectively as he raised his chin. “we can get out of your hair, if you’ll let us go.” satoru proposed, tone firm as he addressed the man who was still pointing his gun at the both of you.

the man tutted, brows still furrowed as he examined you both for another moment longer. he seemed to take a deep breath, grip tightening around his rifle, gaze narrowing, and then— his shoulders dropped, he lowered the gun in his hands and he nodded his head in the direction behind him.

“you two, follow me. you can bring the dog.”

you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and then shared a hopeful glance with satoru as you both carefully took a few steps forward. you're not sure how you didn’t notice it before but the man lead you both to a short trail that was close by, leading to a large fortified community at the end of it. giant wooden gates with watchtowers on every end and several more armed guards. satoru’s grip on his own weapon relaxed, but only for his other hand to tighten on your side, almost like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

he tugged on your sleeve twice, hesitating around a third tug until he felt your arm link with his, pulling him down closer to whisper in his ear.

“this place seems pretty legit.”

his eyes flitted over to your expression, and it was that of pure awe. you were taking in all the surroundings with careful attention to detail as the gates opened up and you were both welcomed inside the community. satoru probably should’ve been paying more attention himself but he found it hard to tear his gaze away from the awestruck look on your face.

the way it made his heart swell, how he had this urge to squish the plump of your cheeks when you grinned widely, how the smile stretched across your whole face. he can’t remember the last time he’d ever seen you look so hopeful.

he was so caught up in your presence, he was almost convinced he dreamt up the next thing he heard.

“…suguru?”

the name registered in his head after a bit of a delay. it all happened so slowly, his senses only working one after the other. his eyes first saw the way your expression froze, your lips spelling out a name that looked familiar. then touch was next; he felt the way you tugged once on his arm, how your fingers curled around his wrist and tightened hard around him, hard enough for it to feel like the joints in your knuckles were going to get stuck in that position. finally, came sound — the sound of the gravel kicking in front of you both as you stopped dead in your tracks, the name you uttered, the object that dropped to the floor a few feet ahead of you both.

satoru turned his head and saw him. his eyes trailed up from the basket of fresh fruits at his feet (honestly, he can’t remember the last time he’s had a fresh strawberry), the trembling hands that had been holding that basket, and then his gaze finally landed on the shocked face of the man in question.

suguru geto, someone neither of you had seen in literal months, someone you thought to be dead for the longest time. a member of the small group of survivors you both used to be part of, the very group that you’d both stuck with since the beginning of the end.

“holy shit.” satoru’s voice finally caught up to him, though it sounded far away. he couldn’t believe his eyes, and neither could you — the two of you were blinking like deer caught in the headlights.

suguru was the one to move first, having caught his bearings faster than either of you. “huh… i can’t say i’m surprised you two made it out alive and together.” he chuckled, his shocked expression morphing into a breathy laugh as he stepped forward.

you were the next one to snap back to reality, breaking out into a laugh of your own as you let go of satoru and ran forward, immediately jumping into suguru’s space and pulling him in for a hug. “oh my god, oh my god! you— you’re alive, suguru! suguru you, you’re—”

you were rambling, laughing with the surprise you felt as you squealed at the sight of an old friend, another familiar face at the end of the world. satoru was silent, evidently still processing the presence in front of him as he took slow steps forward. you let go of suguru to look back at satoru and beckon him forward, and suguru grinned when he sensed the confusion in satoru’s face.

“c’mere man, i don’t bite. it’s just me.”

satoru blinked again, but then he was smiling just as wide as he pulled suguru in for another bone-crushing hug of his own, gripping the other man tightly as he breathily laughed against his shoulder.

“fucking hell, suguru,” satoru laughed, still in shock, and he couldn’t help the way he started rocking side to side as they held each other. “have you just been chilling here this whole time?”

suguru laughed with him, patting his back before pulling away from the hug to look him in the eyes as he spoke. “technically, there were a few weeks of shoko and i just wandering around before we found this place, and we’ve been here ever since.” suguru beamed, his smile growing when he heard you gasp beside him.

“shoko’s here too?!” you gaped, eyes no wider than the smile on your face as you hurriedly spun around, looking around to search for her.

“yup,” he grinned, raising his hand and pointing in the direction of a small shop across the street. “last i saw she was just over there, checking out some vegetables.” suguru said, and before he could get another word out you were excusing yourself to run off in that very direction, searching for the woman in question.

satoru was smiling too at the news, and when he saw you run off to find her he stepped forward to follow you, as was his instinct; only, a firm hand on his chest stopped him from doing so.

“wha—” he stammered as he turned to look at suguru, unsure why the other man was stopping him from following your trail.

“we can meet up with them in a minute, there’s something i wanna ask you real quick,” suguru announced, slinging an arm around his friend as he pulled him back in the opposite direction. satoru was unsure how to respond to that, unsure what to make of this weird sensation in his chest, turning his head to glance over in the direction you’d run off in while suguru knelt down to retrieve the basket he’d dropped.

it was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. suguru almost didn’t pick up on the way it made satoru look desperate to keep you in his sights, if not for the way the taller man kept glancing back every now and then as he followed suguru to a small house down the street.

“so,” suguru huffed, dropping the basket down onto a table before turning to face satoru, crossing his arms over his chest with a raised brow. he opened his mouth to say something else when he noticed satoru was not paying attention, instead anxiously tapping his foot and looking out the windows of the home.

“they’re fine, y’know…” suguru mumbled, seemingly reading satoru’s mind, the concern he held for you plastered all over his face. “this place is completely safe. we rarely get anyone to join the community since it’s pretty remote, and everyone here is extremely nice. i trust all of them with my life.”

when suguru says this satoru only nodded slowly, gaze still fixed on the window as he tried to peer down the street. he finally caught sight of you exiting the shop you ran into a few minutes prior, arm linked with shoko’s while you both excitedly chatted together. there was a skip in your step, satoru noted.

suguru noticed the way satoru’s demeanor visibly relaxed, with the faintest smile appearing on his face.

“you two finally got together, then?”

this is what catches satoru’s attention, what has him facing suguru with his mouth gaping wide open. “wha— what are you—”

suguru cuts him off with a chuckle, shaking his head gently. “is that a no? honestly, the way you were holding onto each other earlier, i’d have suspected otherwise.” he teased.

satoru only frowned with suguru’s comments, a trace of uncertainty mixed with another emotion pooling in his gut and making his heart clench a little. “i— i’m not sure what you’re, uh… we didn’t— i, um…” he stammered, cheeks tinting a dusty pink shade with how flustered he’d become.

suguru’s teasing grin fell a little bit, seemingly understanding the flurry of emotions that caught satoru off guard. it’s hard, after all — hard to entertain something so trivial when you’ve only ever had the time to worry about your own survival for longer than you can even remember.

it’d only been a couple of years since the apocalypse began, but to anyone on the outside of this community, it was like a lifetime had passed.

“forget i said anything,” suguru smiled comfortingly, extending a hand to squeeze satoru’s shoulder. his own attempt at soothing the crease in satoru’s brow, helping bring the taller man back to the present moment and out of the rampant thoughts in his head. “why don’t we go meet up with the others and i’ll show you both around?”

satoru nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat as he let suguru lead him out of the small house and back onto the streets, over in the direction where you and shoko were chatting on a bench.

it was a heartfelt reunion with the four of you, and as suguru and shoko showed you both around and introduced you two to the rest of the community, nobody commented on the way satoru was gripping onto the hem of your jacket the whole time. even though suguru and shoko shared a knowing glance, they knew better than to say anything. not with the way satoru’s voice cracked, lips shaping themselves into a small pout whenever you would move away from him, even if it was just to examine something closer.

even as you both were officially inducted by the heads of the community, and brought to the townhouse you would be staying at, satoru still felt that strange ache in his chest when you unlocked the front door and you both walked in to find that there were two beds, rather than just one.

you could say he was a little attached, but he was just dreading sleeping in his own bed tonight.

“hey, ‘toru?”

you snapped him out of his thoughts, and he blinked a little dumbly as he fixed his gaze on you. he saw the furrow in your brows, and like clockwork he was stepping closer to you, reaching forward to lightly pinch your arm in an affectionate gesture.

“hmm? you okay?”

you nodded your head, wrapping your hand around his wrist and holding his arm gently before you pointed in the direction of the bedroom with your free hand. “which, um… which bed do you want?”

his eyes flitted to the beds behind you, and then back to the expectant look on your face. it was an odd expression, almost like you weren’t sure of the answer yourself.

it doesn’t matter. i’ll sleep wherever you want to sleep.

“uh, you can go ahead and pick first. i’m good either way.” is what he replied with instead, shrugging his shoulders and almost wincing at the tug he felt in his heart when you gave him a sheepish grin.

“alright… if you say so,” you giggled softly, chewing on your lower lip as you glanced over at the two beds before turning back to him. “i think i’ll just take the one in the corner, then, if that’s alright.”

satoru smiled at you, maneuvering the grip you had on his wrist to slide his hand into yours with ease. “it’s all fine with me.”

you gazed at each other like this for another moment longer, and then your attention was pulled away from satoru when you felt the dog pawing at your leg, whining softly beside your feet.

“oh, you must be hungry,” you pouted, giving an apologetic smile to the dog as you turned around. “here, i got you something at the food stall earlier with shoko.”

satoru watched as you turned around, letting go of his hand to walk over to the backpack you’d set down near the front door. you fished around inside of it before pulling out a paper wrapping, revealing the diced potatoes you’d gotten. you picked one out from the wrapping and knelt down, extending your hand forward to offer the piece of food to the dog.

it sniffed your hand for a moment, assessing the food before gently taking a bite. you smiled wider as the dogs ears perked up, tail wagging and walking closer to you to get more of the potatoes.

“here, this is all for you, buddy.” you giggled, setting the wrapping down on the floor to let the dog eat from it in peace. satoru watched this exchange with another fond smile; there was a sort of domestic feeling about this that his heart really liked. it was beating rapidly in his chest when your eyes met his again and it didn’t slow down even as you approached him again.

“let’s get ready for bed then, yeah?”

earlier in the afternoon you were both offered a fresh change of clothing, as well as some utilities to shower and freshen yourselves up. you were pleasantly surprised to find that the running water was actually warm; you can’t even remember the last time you got to have a relaxing shower. you think you even almost cried underneath the shower head, the water dripping around your teary eyes as the relief finally settled after flooding into your body.

you can’t recall ever having felt so calm in your life.

satoru was faring similarly; he was unable to stop the laughter bubbling up in his chest the second the water pellets landed on his head, smoothing down his white hair that had been covered in dirt for months. even as he wiped the steam off the mirror once he stepped out, he almost didn’t recognize himself — almost didn’t recognize the stark brightness of the fluffy strands on his head.

he rubbed his face with the towel before stepping out, and he was surprised to find that you’d already fallen asleep on your bed, curled up on top of the covers and holding an extra pillow close to your chest. he lingered beside his own bed for a moment, his gaze fixed on you for a second longer before he urged himself to climb into his own bed and go to sleep.

he couldn’t blame you for falling asleep so fast, really. it was a blissful feeling getting to wash away the soreness in your muscles, the dirt and grime that’d built up after months of traveling through a barren world. he even thinks the noise he just made was almost akin to a purr; a moan of pure content as he sunk into the mattress, head falling against the pillow as he willed his bones to melt against the cushions.

and yet, he still couldn’t bring himself to fall asleep.

couldn’t quite ignore the building ache in his chest again, an anxious bubble in his heart that wouldn’t pop no matter how hard he poked and prodded at it. he rolled onto his side, facing one end of the room where the dog was laying comfortably on a small bed you’d set up on the floor for it; a pile of throw blankets and a pillow for the little companion you’d both made in your travels.

he squeezed his eyes shut, unaware of how tightly he was gripping the pillow beneath his head. he rolled onto his back again, tossing and turning for what must have been 10 whole minutes before he finally faced you again. he noted the way you were holding the pillow to your chest, nuzzling your head against it.

he thinks if there was anything that could quell the rapid beating of his heart right now, it would be the feeling of your hair tickling his jawline, fluffy strands poking at the exposed skin of his neck as you slept on his own chest.

“satoru?”

satoru blinks, lifting his head up at the sound of your voice from across the table. you were both sitting in the breakfast hall near the community square, having joined suguru and shoko for the morning to catch up with the two of them. satoru hadn’t really been doing much of the talking, though.

“sorry, i spaced out a little.” he murmured, giving you a small smile. he could tell you didn’t fully believe his words from the way you narrowed your gaze questioningly, but he gently nudged your leg with his shoe. “you were saying?” he added playfully, highlighting the lighthearted remark with a small tilt of his head.

truthfully, satoru was exhausted. he barely got a lick of sleep the whole night. he didn’t want to convey that to you, though; how else was he supposed to explain that it was the most relaxed his muscles had felt in ages, and yet he still couldn’t quell the anxious feelings that bubbled up. what initially started as a low simmer in his chest now had the threat of boiling over and spilling out of his heart. he was losing his grip, and he couldn’t even begin to explain why.

“well, i… was just wondering,” you continued after another moment, eyes worriedly scanning satoru’s demeanor before flitting back to the other two on your table. “since it’s just you and shoko here, would you happen to know what happened to the rest of the group?”

you worded the question as carefully as you could manage, watching for their reaction to the presumably sensitive topic. just as you’d anticipated, suguru’s expression fell, his lips curving downwards into a frown as he averted his gaze.

“they, um…” shoko, who was sitting beside you, spoke up to answer your question instead. “most of ‘em didn’t make it. we— we tried to go back and save some of them, but…” she trailed off, chewing on her bottom lip as she too looked to the side.

“there wasn’t much we could do, in the end… we had to be selfish, to save ourselves.” suguru added after a moment, his gaze now focused on nothing in particular while he directed his voice in your direction.

satoru had been silently picking at the food on his plate for most of the conversation up until now. after hearing suguru’s response, satoru’s actions paused, and he slowly lifted his eyes up from the table to see the expression on your face. your lips were also downturned, gaze cast down on the table while you used your nails to pick at the corner of your plate.

satoru’s eyes then trailed downwards, past the small clench of your jaw and your stiff posture before finally landing on your other hand. it was extended a little forward on the table, past your plate and resting near the corner of satoru’s own. he instantly noticed a subtle twitch in your fingers, how they almost tapped absentmindedly on the table.

your wrist then began to turn, fingers slowly unfurling to reveal your palm, which was now facing the ceiling. and when satoru looked back up, he saw that your eyes were already on him. without breaking eye contact for a single second, he lifted his hand from the table and slid it over to yours, gently pressing two of his fingers into the center of your palm.

and he felt that ache in his chest again when your own fingers immediately wrapped around his.

“but what matters is that we’re here now,” shoko breaks the tense silence once more, sliding closer to your side on the seat and wrapping an arm across your shoulders. “all of us. we finally found each other again.”

it’s unanimous across the four of you, how you all stick by each other’s sides. with the dynamic of a found-family in the midst of so much chaos — you’ve all finally reached a point where you can settle down and discuss these things amongst each other. it’s a well-deserved breath of fresh air.

yet, satoru still feels it. the slight tremble in your hands, how your fingers slide into his own palm and grip his hand tightly. it’s then that he comes to terms with it, that near-paralyzing emotion in his chest.

satoru needed this, all of this. he needed the break, the ability to settle down and clear his mind for once — but most importantly, he needed you.

he needs you; he thinks he always will need you, for as long as he has the fortune of living in the very world you reside. your own existence permeates into the depths of his soul, making him feel like he was always meant to be with you — regardless of the circumstances that led you to him. the very same circumstances that forever changed the world around you both.

the breakfast hall starts to clear up, and the four of you gather your plates and set them aside for the community volunteers that work in the kitchens. by the time you’re all back out underneath the sun, the mood seems to brighten up once more. suguru is smiling again and shoko is laughing about something with you but satoru still feels stuck, like the weight of his emotions is finally caving in on his heart. what he actually needs right now is a moment to pull himself together.

it’s not until he makes a move to excuse himself — to walk back to the small house you both share — that he realizes you were still holding his hand in your own. when you turn to face satoru with a questioning glance, he offers you a small smile.

“i’m gonna go check in with the dog,” he tells you, a lie sprinkled with some truth to disguise it better. “i thought i’d give him my leftovers from breakfast.”

it doesn’t seem convincing enough, but his hand slips out of your grasp before you could say anything about it. he dismisses himself from the conversation and waves at suguru and shoko, promising to return a little later before he walks off in the opposite direction.

now it’s your turn to feel his absence, unable to tear your gaze away from the trail he leaves in the grass as he walks away. if you’d asked him for an honest answer, he’d have told you he didn’t want to sour the mood with the raw emotions threatening to spill out of his heart. but then, you’d have simply responded by saying that the lack of his own presence near you was doing just that anyway.

you’d only managed to stick around with the other two for just a few more minutes before it started to eat away at you.

sometime later, a soft knock on the bedroom door is what pulls satoru out of his train of thoughts, and he looks up from where he was petting the dog lying comfortably on his lap to see you poke your head through the small opening in the door frame.

“hey there,” you murmured, smiling softly before slowly pushing the door open and stepping inside the room. “you okay? the others were pretty worried about you.” 

satoru offers you a small smile, eyes lingering on your own for a moment before he looks back down at the dog on his lap. “‘m okay, just a little tired today i think…”

you hummed in response, following his gaze and seeing how the dog nuzzled into his touch, appearing to be so content when satoru scratched softly behind its ear. “i get it. it’s a, um… a bit of an adjustment being here after everything,” you offered, closing the door behind you and walking over to him. you took a seat on the corner of the mattress, your hands fiddling on your lap as you thought about what to say.

ironically, satoru actually thinks that he should instead be having a harder time sitting still. how do you go from constantly moving, day in and day out, never once stopping to absorb anything in your surroundings for months — to then settling in one place for an indefinite period of time. it has barely been 24 hours since they found this small community but satoru simply thinks he should be wanting to do more, he should be craving it.

but he’s yet to feel that itch to keep moving, too caught up in all the other confusing feelings in his chest that weigh on his soul like an anchor. too caught up in the heat of your palm when you hold his hand; how you look at him like you’re trying to read his mind, even though he should be the one to soothe your worries instead. to smooth the crease in your brow with a gentle press of his lips on your skin, if you’d let him.

as you sit on his bed now, carefully studying his reactions — he also hesitates. he should be more surprised that he finally has the room to even think about something like this. when you’re both outside these gates — outside the fortification that protects you both from danger — you can’t afford to hesitate.

he never once had to think twice about his instinct to hold you close and never let you go, but right now it plagues his mind like the very disease you’ve both been running from all these years.

satoru went silent again. the hand petting the dog on his lap stills, and your gaze flits up to see the faraway look on his face. how his eyelids have started to droop, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. every few seconds he widens his eyes and blinks, as if trying to keep them from closing, but then they start to fall again against his will.

“did you get any sleep last night?” you finally asked him, scooting further up the side of the bed until you were sitting right beside him. he watched your movements with a sort of calculated precision, trying to make something of the sudden skip in his heartbeat, but then he sighs and leans back against the headboard.

“i couldn’t really fall asleep,” he admits, his voice heavy with the exhaustion that’s slowly seeping into his bones. you hummed in response, now feeling the urge to reach out for him. you lift a hand from your lap, pausing midair when you start to overthink your action — but satoru notices. his eyes meet yours and there’s this look in them you can’t quite figure out, but it’s like he’s silently screaming at you to do something. to welcome back the physical closeness you’d both grown so accustomed to the past few months. to hold him and never let go.

after another short moment, you finally lift your hand and extend it further, reaching up to smooth down the strands of his hair that were sticking out a little awkwardly. almost immediately his eyes fluttered closed, leaning into your touch with a sort of deprivation that’s been gnawing at him ever since you both got here.

the dog then jumps off his lap, startling you as you watch it land on the floor and walk to the other side of the room. you subconsciously start to pull your hand away, eyes fixed on the dog as it settled into the pile of blankets you left for him overnight. but then you feel satoru’s fingers curl tightly around your wrist, holding your hand in place.

“stay,” he croaks when you meet his eyes again, cerulean irises swimming with an intensity that’s almost foreign to you. “please…”

wordlessly, you nod. satoru moves aside on the mattress and it takes you a second too long to realize he’s inviting you into his space again. you climb in without another second wasted, feeling a weight lift from your heart when his arms wrap around your frame securely and pull you into his chest.

he exhales, closing his eyes and wrapping himself so tightly around you that it’d have been suffocating if you weren’t hugging him back just as tightly. it’s not long before he ends up falling asleep like that, finally able to relax again now that he’s holding you close.

you find yourself falling asleep in his arms as well. neither of you say anything about it, and you surely don’t question it later on in the evening when he climbs into your own bed for the night — as he continuously does for every night that follows.

a week has now passed, and it’s officially the longest time you’ve both spent in any given place for the last 4 months. satoru still climbs into your bed every night, and though the ache in his chest has yet to leave, he thinks it’s much easier to manage now.

that is, until he wakes up one morning to an empty bed.

he thinks nothing of it at first; stretching his arms out blindly to feel around for you, thinking you probably rolled around in your sleep and slipped out of his grasp. no worries, he can just curl up into your side again to sleep in a little more. maybe even slink his arm around your waist and pull you back into him. but when he’s met with nothing but a persistent lack of your lingering warmth on the sheets, he peels his eyes open and lifts his head from the pillow to really take a good look. he finds that you’re not in the room at all.

again, he doesn’t bat an eye. a part of him wishes he could’ve woken up with you but he had a late night chatting with suguru, so he doesn’t necessarily blame you for getting up first to grab breakfast without waiting for him. he stretches his arms above his head with a sleepy squeak, sitting up and craning his neck to the side to catch a glimpse of the dog, who was sleeping soundly in his little corner of the room.

satoru gets up then, changing into some more casual clothing and slipping his shoes on. even as he steps out the door, he doesn’t notice the fact that your backpack is not where you left it the other day.

he reaches the breakfast hall after a short walk, expecting to find you sitting with the others, but he’s only met with the sight of suguru sitting by himself at the table.

okay, that’s… no big deal. maybe you already ate and you’re just down the street with shoko. besides, suguru must have slept in too. it makes sense when satoru thinks about it like that.

satoru grabs a plate of food and takes a seat across from the other man. he smiles politely as he lifts his fork, resisting the urge to ask about your whereabouts before he’s even said ‘good morning’ to his best friend.

“morning,” suguru smiles back, stretching his neck to the side to crack it. they make a bit of small talk, but suguru can tell from the anxious tapping of satoru’s foot that his mind is nowhere near present in their conversation.

“where’d the other two head off?” satoru casually drops the question during a break in the conversation, and suguru hums softly. there’s a knowing look in his eyes as he watches satoru eat another forkful of his breakfast, the way the white-haired man pretends the question hasn’t been on his mind since the moment he woke up.

“ah, they left early this morning,” suguru shrugs, though his nonchalance was poorly misguided. he’s thankful he caught on to the way satoru instantly stiffened, because it helped him choose his next words a little more carefully. “they mentioned something about getting the car you both left hidden not too far from here. shoko suggested leaving early to catch a ride with one of the armed guards that patrols the woods, so at least there’s that.”

suguru mistakenly thinks he did enough to diffuse satoru’s incoming reaction, but he’s proven wrong when the fork slips out of satoru’s hand and drops onto the plate with a loud clatter.

“thanks for dropping us off!”

you waved to the armed guard after shutting the car door behind you, heeding the man’s advice to keep your weapons in tow as you watched him drive off. you turned to shoko then, who was looking around the residential area with an impressed grin.

“there’s a ton of abandoned houses here, it’ll definitely come in handy if the community starts growing more.” she commented, already drafting up all the different ways the community could expand. “within reason, of course.”

you chuckled, nodding your head in the direction you started walking, an indication for her to follow you. “were there that many people when you and suguru arrived?” you asked, making casual conversation as you both began to walk down the empty street. she hummed in response, smiling as she thought back on the last 2-3 months that she’d been there with him.

“honestly, yes and no…” shoko laughed, stuffing her hands in her pocket and kicking a pebble on the ground. “believe it or not, a lot of people actually come and go. they’re pretty strict about the rules to maintain everyone’s safety, but it rarely ever needs to be enforced… everyone’s good about following them,” she explained, swiveling around the toothpick she was holding between her lips.

“that being said, though, some people tend to just up and leave without a word after a few weeks. the first few times it happens you’re kinda like— ‘woah, why is no one out looking for them?’. but after a while you get used to it. some people just… find it hard to get used to living a calmer life again after everything that’s happened,” she says, her expression thoughtful as she speaks. “in other words, i’m pretty sure they’ve become adrenaline junkies.” she adds with a snort. “no one ever stops them from leaving, it’s why there’s always a bed available for the next traveler that stops by — though even that doesn’t happen too often, either… we’re nestled pretty deep in the woods.”

you nodded along with her words, your gaze kept forward as you both continued walking. “that explains why they were so willing to let satoru and i stay there.”

this made shoko scoff playfully, and she nudged your side with her elbow as she did. “trust me, even if they weren’t so willing, they’d have to pull suguru and i away kicking and screaming if they denied you two.”

the two of you laughed together at the mental image that produced. as your laughter died down you spared a glance in her direction, eyeing the pick she was gnawing on. “you quit smoking?” you asked her, gesturing her hand towards the object in her mouth.

she nodded with a proud smile, grabbing the pick with two of her fingers and making a blowing motion, as if she were exhaling smoke. “cigarettes are getting a little harder to come by these days, no one over at the community smokes,” she explained, licking her lips before putting the pick back between her teeth. “this old lady who works the kitchen — she’s a real sweetheart, lemme tell you… she always noticed how antsy i used to get when i was trying to quit, how i would always reach for my mouth expecting to find something there to grab between my fingers. she walked over to me one day and just handed me a whole bunch of toothpicks, so the habit of me reaching for something is a lot easier to manage. kinda like how people used to chew gum to quit, back in the day.”

“huh,” you hummed softly, grinning at her as she spoke. “that was really kind of her to do.”

“yeah,” shoko grinned, looking down at the ground again. “turns out she used to be a heavy smoker too, so she recognized the ticks i’d get. she was really helpful.”

you smiled wider, nudging shoko gently with your elbow. “well, i’m proud of you for overcoming that. it can’t have been easy.”

she grinned bashfully, waving you off for a moment before linking her arm with yours. you both continued down the road, finally reaching the house you and satoru had stayed in about a week ago. you walked around the house, towards a small clearing in the back where you both had tucked the pickup truck away from plain sight.

“here she is,” you grinned, slapping a hand on the hood of the vehicle. “satoru and i found this pickup a little over a month ago — y’know, siphoning gas from abandoned cars outside city areas is actually a lot easier than i thought it’d be.” you snorted, setting your backpack down to fish out the keys you had.

shoko grinned as you spoke, about to respond with a lighthearted comment herself when a rustling in the trees caught her attention. her ears perked up, gaze narrowing as she tried to make out what the source of the noise was.

a low growl was then heard, and you both froze where you stood. just around the car, several feet away, there were two zombies, dragging themselves around the area. shoko reacted quickly, grabbing your arm and pulling you out of sight, the two of you kneeling in front of the car and hiding from the creatures that were yet to spot you.

“shit,” shoko muttered under her breath, her own adrenaline spiking as she tried to look over the side of the pickup. you were now moving a little frantically, trying to find the small set of keys in your bag, occasionally glancing up at shoko who was still keeping watch. “please tell me you’ve found them.”

“almost…” you trailed off, resisting the urge to exclaim out loud when your fingers brushed against the metal ridges of the car keys. you let out a sigh in relief, pulling them out and zipping up your bag, which you then slung over your shoulder. “got ‘em.”

shoko nodded, gulping as she glanced back over at the creatures that were now standing closer to the pickup. “we have to lead them away from the car. i’ll distract them while you get it started,” she suggested, but you were quick to shake your head in disagreement.

“like hell i’m letting you do that on your own,” you muttered, and shoko fought back the smirk that pulled at the corner of her lips.

“then we’ll take one each, whoever kills their zombie first starts the pickup.”

“you’re on,” you grinned, shaking shoko’s hand. “i’ll leave the key in the door, you go ahead first.”

you carefully got up on your feet, bending down low enough to remain hidden as you began to walk around the front of the car. as you were putting the key in the door, shoko stepped out in front of the two zombies, unsheathing the machete she was carrying on her belt as she did. both zombies began to run after her, but you were quick to jump out with your bat and grab the attention of one of them, pulling it in the opposite direction.

you managed to get a good distance away from the car, but the zombies were moving a lot faster than you were used to. you quickly spun around, swinging at the creature before it could lunge at you, instantly landing a hit and knocking it down. though it recovered quickly, too — just before you could swing at its head it attempted to grab at your legs, making you stumble backwards as you narrowly avoided getting scratched.

“you little shit,” you muttered, feeling your adrenaline peak with frustration. you swung again and it was knocked back into the ground, and this time you made sure to kick it down for good measure. your foot landed on its head and you swung your bat at the arms that reached out for you, managing to break apart the already dead limbs with the help of the barbed wire around the barrel of your weapon.

you then removed your foot and took a single step back, lifting the bat high above your head before bringing it down as hard as you could. with your own physical strength and the sheer momentum of the swing, you were able to crush the zombie’s skull in just one hit, killing it instantly.

the sound of the engine of the pickup truck coming to life pulled your attention back to the original task at hand, and you looked over your shoulder to see shoko had successfully killed the other zombie, beating you to the car first. she waved you over, and you spared one more glance at the zombie at your feet to make sure it was really dead before you turned around and ran towards the pickup, a relieved smile making its way onto your face.

“that wasn’t so bad,” shoko grinned at you as you stepped into the car, huffing in relief. as soon as the door closed behind you shoko put the car in drive, pulling out of the area and onto the street as she drove you both back to the guarded community. “you did pretty good back there.”

you chuckled breathlessly, waving off her compliment. you adjusted your position where you sat, moving one leg underneath the other to get more comfortable, but then a sharp pain sensation shot through your ankle, making you wince in pain.

“shit, you okay?” shoko asked you instantly, gaze flitting rapidly between you and the road ahead of her. “you didn’t get scratched, did you…?”

you shook your head no, though you lifted up your own pants up to your shin to double check. fortunately, there wasn’t a scratch, but your ankle looked a little swollen. “ah, fuck… must’ve been when that motherfucker tried to grab at my legs,” you mumbled, pressing your fingers against the joint and hissing softly. “i did stumble a little bit, i might’ve bent my ankle at an awkward angle without realizing.”

shoko nodded, a small frown appearing on her face. she could only catch short glimpses of you while she drove, which made her huff softly in frustration. “i’ll wrap it up for you as soon as we get back,” she promised.

the injury itself wasn’t too bad; you were still able to walk on your own with only a mild limp, but shoko was still insistent on wrapping it up to help with the swelling. you left the pickup with the other vehicles near the entrance of the community, and then you both walked back down the familiar, safeguarded streets. shoko excused herself to search for suguru, wanting to update him on the events of the morning, and you decided to head back to the house to drop off your things before meeting up with them. after you both parted ways, you reached the house in no time, but as you opened the front door you were surprised to find satoru immediately cornering you at the entrance.

“satoru, hey—” you began, about to greet him before he cut you off, grabbing your wrist and immediately dragging you towards the couch. he pushed the door closed with his other hand, a little harshly at that, making you jump slightly in surprise. “um, is everything okay?”

satoru didn’t say anything as he dragged you over to the couch, immediately pulling you down onto the seat and sitting beside you. he then lifted your arm, turning it around in his grasp, inspecting it closely before dropping it and moving on to the next limb.

“what are you—” you tried to say, but as you looked up at his face you immediately cut yourself off. his brows were furrowed, face set in a deep frown as he examined you for any potential scratches or injuries. you’d have teased him for the way he showed his concern for your safety if you didn’t catch the dull look in his eyes next, how the otherwise bright blues were now a pale gray color. his jaw was clenched tight, cheeks puffy and the skin around his eyes red, almost a little irritated. he looked like— wait, was he crying?

“satoru…” you tried again, voice much softer now as you recognized the look on his face for what it was. he was still quiet, now lifting one of your legs up onto his lap, still inspecting. “satoru, i’m okay. we just went to get the pickup truck, we’re both fine.”

he grumbled something underneath his breath, ignoring you again as he lifted your other leg. this happened to be the leg with your injury — and as he grabbed your ankle and hoisted it up onto his lap, he was quick to notice the wince you tried to hold back. he blinked up at you, feeling his heart stop in his chest.

very hesitantly, he looked back down at your ankle. he lifted up the fabric of your pants just a little bit, enough to expose the compression wrap shoko had fastened around it earlier. he knew it wasn’t a bandage wrap, which told him that you likely just twisted your ankle. but it didn’t make him feel any better — didn’t really do anything to stop the way his hand trembled as he gripped the fabric of your clothing.

“what happened?” he rasped, finally breaking his tense silence as he looked up at you. carefully, you pulled your leg off his lap, watching how his hands fell limply to his sides.

“i stumbled a bit and kinda twisted my ankle, it’s a little swollen but it doesn’t hurt too much.” you explained carefully, but satoru was hanging on to every word like a vice.

“you just tripped?”

“well, not really—”

“so, what, you fell?”

“no—”

“were you guys running from something?”

“satoru,” you snapped, your tone a little louder than you’d have liked it to be. “relax, there were some zombies that showed up. we killed them with no problem, i just lost my footing at one point. it’s not a big deal.”

you were getting irritated with the bombardment of questions, that much he could tell. but it felt like something inside of him was trying to claw out of his skin, and he just kept pushing, and pushing…

“…not a big deal?” he scoffed, scowling at your nonchalance. “since when is you almost dying not a big fucking deal?”

it was your turn to scoff now, rolling your eyes in annoyance as you stood up from the couch. “god, you’re so damn dramatic. you’re acting like i was being careless about it.”

“excuse me for thinking you were when you come back hurt!” he exclaimed, voice raising in pitch as he stood up and followed after you. “why the hell didn’t you tell me you were headed out there today?”

“you were still sleeping!” you argued back, raising your hands in surrender. “was i supposed to wake you up for something that didn’t even take up the whole morning?”

“um, yes?” he spoke sharply, staring at you in disbelief as he stopped behind you. “forget letting me sleep in, we’re supposed to do these things together!”

“shoko was with me the whole time,” you defended yourself, voice still raised as you crossed your arms over your chest and glared at him. “i know you always feel insanely protective of me but that doesn’t mean you have to swoop in like some knight in shining armor all the damn time, i can take care of myself!”

“don’t be ridiculous,” he barked back, his tone sharp and words cutting. “you sure did a hell of a job at that, coming back with a fucking twisted ankle.”

satoru heard it as soon as the words left his mouth, but his heart was so far up his throat that he couldn’t stop himself from saying it on time. he clenched his fists at his side in frustration, feeling something ugly twist low in his gut when you flinched at his harsh words.

“oh, go fuck yourself, satoru.”

he feels his breath catch in his throat, helpless to the way you spun on your heel and slammed the bedroom door closed behind you. he should give you your space, he knows he should. but he also knows he’s physically incapable of letting you go, of loosening whatever grip you currently have on his heart. how the muscle rattles against his ribcage to the beat of your name, driving his every action before his brain can think logically through them.

thus, he opens the bedroom door and his feet drag him in your direction.

“where are you going now?”

“what does it matter to you?” you retorted, throwing your hands up in defeat as you walked further into the room. “is the bedroom now too dangerous for me to be in by myself?”

“ugh, that’s not—” he groans in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stops in the middle of the room. “it matters to me, okay!”

“but why?” you questioned, now facing him once again and walking towards him to further drive your point home. “why does it matter to you so much, huh?!”

“because…” he starts, huffing out another frustrated sound when you stop in front of him to poke your finger into his chest. he wonders if you can feel how hard his heart is beating right now. “because—”

“because?” you repeated, growing more impatient by the second as satoru stumbled over his words. “you seemed pretty damn sure of yourself barely a minute ago, don’t start backtracking now.”

satoru stutters again, the frown deepening on his face the longer you look at him, waiting for an answer he can’t bring himself to give you yet. “because, it— it just does, okay?!”

you scoffed at him, rolling your eyes and removing your hand, and that ache in his chest from before is steadily returning as he watches you turn your back to him once more. he takes a risk, reaching out to grab your wrist, but it only makes you shove at his chest.

“i said fuck off,” you groaned as you pushed him back, only to then grip on the fabric of his shirt as you held him in place, keeping him from actually leaving. he blinked at you in confusion, his breathing labored with the way his heart was about to give out on the spot.

he reaches for your wrist again, this time grabbing it securely, fingertips ghosting underneath the hand of yours that’s currently gripping his shirt. you look over at him when he does this, opening your mouth to say something else, but no words come out.

satoru realizes, then, that there’s simply never any time for anything. you both live in a world full of uncertainties, full of so much danger and full of all the longing glances you spare his way when you think he isn’t paying attention. and he can’t waste the unknown amount of time he has left with you any longer. he decides, then, that you deserve to know what it is exactly that he’s been trying to wrap his head around since you both stepped foot inside this community about a week ago.

but the way you’re looking at him right now, he finds it hard to get the words out; hard to convey what exactly it is that you do to him.

he takes a deep breath, eyelids fluttering in surprise when he finally notices the other hand you raised up to his face. you were not quite cupping his cheek but rather tracing your fingers lightly along his jawline, considering grabbing a hold of him. his fingers tighten around your wrist, your eyes meet his, and it all stops then.

time stops; it grants the two of you the chance to catch up to it.

satoru’s face rushes forward before another second could pass, aided by the way you pulled him into you with your tight grip on his shirt.

he kisses you, and he thinks the world must have stopped spinning on its axis, too. how you kiss him back like you’re tired of beating around the bush, like you’ve been craving this as badly as he has.

he could be more modest about it, but there’s no such thing as modesty when you make him feel like someone set off fireworks in his chest. they’re shooting up, up, and out of his mouth — all into yours along with your mingled breaths.

you both pull away for a moment, a rather short one. you blink like you can’t believe your eyes and his hands tremble as he grabs your face to pull you back in. this kiss is more hurried now — rushed and a little desperate. you even feel him whine something incoherent against your lips, the sound instantly swallowed by you before it could properly register in your ears. he kisses you hard and the sheer force of it has you stumbling backwards, bumping into the nightstand beside your bed, knocking down an object that was placed on it.

“oh, shit—” you broke the kiss again, turning your head to look down at the object that fell, but satoru grabs your chin to make you face him again. his lips are back on yours before you can even respond.

“s’toru,” you squeaked against his lips, almost wanting to laugh at how rushed he’s being, but he simply whines again. his hands are all over you now, he can’t figure out where to leave them to rest. his heart is actually beating out of his chest and your lips are so soft and he thinks this is what heaven must feel like. “satoru.”

your tone is firmer now, his name only slightly muffled against his lips. you bring a hand up to his chest and gently push him back, and this time he actually listens. pulling away from the kiss and gasping loudly, like a diver finally coming up for air. his lips are swollen and you’re sure that yours are, too. his cheeks are a dusty shade of pink and his pupils are blown, hair slightly tousled from his movements. you think he looks so beautiful like this.

“sorry,” he huffs after a moment, still panting softly. his hands have now settled on your waist, squeezing the flesh gently as he steps forward, ever closer to you. “‘m sorry, i—… fuck, you’re just…” he trails off, closing his eyes to lean his forehead against yours with a low hum.

“you drive me so insane, you know?”

this pulls a giggle out of you, a soft sound that he finds himself wanting to hear again and again. a small grin makes his way onto his face and he peeks his eyes open, instantly meeting yours. your hands are behind you, leaning on the nightstand he cornered you into, but you lift one of them up to brush some of the hair out of his face. his eyes flutter closed when you do this before he opens them again.

“i’m sorry,” he mumbles softly after a few moments, thumbs rubbing small circles into your sides. “about what i said earlier, i should’ve— i do trust you, but i just… i was really worried about you. i worry about you all the damn time, i don’t know what i’d do with myself if something ever happened to you.”

the sincerity in his words makes you frown slightly, feeling touched by what he’s said. “i know, ‘toru…” you sigh, your hand reaching up again to rub his arm soothingly. “and i really appreciate that, i do… but please just try to have a little more faith in the decisions i make without you, okay?”

he nods slowly, his eyes closing again as he inhales a shaky breath. “jus’ please let me know in advance next time. when suguru told me earlier where you guys where, i think i might’ve actually lost it,” he chuckles softly, the sound heavy on his tongue with the weight he feels in his heart. “i kept— fuck, i kept thinking about all the worst case scenarios. i kept thinking— what if you didn’t come back? what if last night was the last time i’d ever see you? so much…” he pauses, his grip on your waist tightening significantly. “there’s so much i want to say to you. stuff i thought i’d never get the chance to say because i was so scared you wouldn’t come home earlier…”

home, he says. it’s funny — he never uses that word to describe the place you both find yourselves in. they’re simply never permanent enough to bother getting used to; giving it a name would only make you grow attached to what’s essentially more of a pit stop.

satoru doesn’t use the term in a traditional aspect. he just happens to think home is anywhere that he can be with you.

you stayed quiet as he spoke, letting him vent his feelings out before saying anything in response to them. your hand slides up his arm to cup his cheek, rubbing your thumb under his eyelids; he’s not crying but there’s a waver in his voice. and he knows it shouldn’t — there’s nothing wrong with feeling as much as he feels, after all — but the sheer vulnerability makes him feel so weak, so weak and so small. he trails off again when your thumb caresses his cheekbone, eyes fluttering closed for the nth time underneath your touch as he leans into it further.

a heavy sigh leaves his lips, his forehead comes down to lean against yours again. you gently kiss the tip of his nose, and he almost melts into the floor in that very instant.

“it’s… hard,” you began, choosing your words carefully to convey what it is you’re both struggling with. “the world we live in, nothing is— i mean, there’s only so much we can do to look out for each other…” you bite your lower lip, unsure where your thoughts are taking you; what the train’s next destination looks like.

satoru opens his eyes again to meet your own. he sees the uncertainty swimming in them and decides to take a dive — head first into the water.

“i hope you know that there’s absolutely nothing i wouldn’t do for you.”

you blinked, only momentarily caught off-guard before your face fell into a soft grin. “satoru…” you trailed off, shaking your head with another giggle.

“i’m serious,” he huffs a small laugh, his expression finally relaxing into a grin that mirrored your own. a smile as sweet as honey; he could never get enough of you. “i’m so serious, like— i would do absolutely anything.”

“yeah?” you laughed softly, now moving to take a seat on the edge of the mattress. you slid out of satoru’s grasp but his hands were quick to find you again, taking a seat next to you and immediately grabbing your own hands. he held them together on his lap, giving them a gentle squeeze for good measure before you continued speaking. “but what if it was something, like, really stupid?”

he laughs at this, leaning forward to nose at your cheek affectionately. “doesn’t matter, i’m doin’ it anyway.”

you giggled again, feeling a warmth spread throughout your face at his affection. (there was another question you had for him, something a little darker… but that was a thought you didn’t want to entertain. at least, not right now… one of these days, you think to yourself. i’ll ask him when the time comes.)

“so…” satoru hums softly after your laughter dies down, letting go of one hand to snake his arm around to the back of your neck. his fingertips lightly dance along the edge of your hairline at the back of your scalp, the featherlight touch sending shivers down your spine.

you take a moment to think about what to say, gaze holding his as he gently rubs your neck. “we don’t know how much time we’ll have together, with… everything going on,” you began, pausing to inhale deeply before you continued. “but, i don’t wanna waste anymore of it.”

you squeeze his hand back to accentuate your words, a resolute confirmation of your mutual feelings. “if this is what you want, then… i feel the same. and— and i want this, too…”

you don’t think you’ve ever seen his eyes shine so brightly, the way they’re practically glowing with adoration right now. you both share a look and he makes a small sound; a sort of hum, nodding his head in understanding as he does. he brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a firm kiss to the back of your knuckles. he closes his eyes as he does, and when he opens them again he’s quick to pull you into his arms. by the hand on the back of your neck he brings you into his chest, holding you in a tight embrace, laughing softly into your hair.

“i do,” he huffs gently, slowly rocking your bodies side to side when he feels you hug him back. “i do want this, more than anything i’ve ever wanted in my life.”

he pulls back from the hug after a few moments, rubbing his thumb over your cheek and gazing at you with a sickeningly lovestruck look in his eyes. his eyes scan your face, every minute expression, carefully weaving them into the very fabric of his heart.

then his eyes land on your lips again, and you already know what he’s thinking when he slides both of his hands up to cup the sides of your neck, thumbs resting just below your ears.

he pulls you in for another kiss, and this one’s much softer, slower. his lips mold together with yours so perfectly, like you were both crafted by the gods with each other in mind. a love that’s fated, sealed together in the way he pulls you close to him. the way he lets out a content hum as you kiss him back, the corners of his lips curling upwards into a smile he can’t bring himself to hold back.

as the kiss starts to deepen your arms slowly slide up his chest, slinging around his neck to pull him impossibly closer to you. he has half a mind to pull you up onto his lap but he doesn’t want to startle you again, so instead pushes forward, slowly hovering over your body as you start to lean back against the mattress. his hands move back down to glide along your sides, gently moving you down onto your back, and before you even realize it you’re both laying side by side.

satoru’s now half leaning over you and half laying beside you, his legs slowly tangling with yours. your hands card through his hair, his tongue swipes over your bottom lip and when you reciprocate the action he moans softly, the sound reverberating in your mouth—

and then he’s pulling away, tucking his face into the crook of your neck to try and calm himself down. soft, labored breaths tickling your skin as he inhales your scent.

you both continue to lay like this for an indiscernible amount of time; the only sounds in the room are that of each other’s breathing slowly evening out. after a while he lifts his head up and the flush on his face makes you want to kiss him breathless again and again, but before you can pull him in for more, a soft knock on the front door is breaking through the haze he’s cornered you both into.

“hey, you guys there?” suguru’s voice is muffled from the other side of the door, and satoru has to suppress the groan that threatened to leave his mouth at the interruption, which makes you giggle softly. “shoko and i are headed to the park, if you both wanted to join us.”

you hum in contemplation, glancing back at satoru who’s sporting a small pout on his face. he slowly shakes his head as if to tell you to say no, but you just give him your best smile before calling back out to suguru.

“yeah, we’ll meet you guys there!”

satoru actually groans now, his face falling back down to hide in the crook of your neck as a form of protest, making you laugh at his petulance. his arms wrap around your waist as he hugs you tightly, mumbling incoherent complains into your skin.

“i can’t hear you, you big baby,” you giggled, stroking his hair for a moment before you gently pushed at his shoulder. “c’mon, we can grab something to eat from the dining hall on the way there. i’m sure you haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.”

he grunts again, lifting himself up so that he was holding his weight above you, supported by his hands planted on the mattress at either side of your body. “fine, but you owe me.”

you snorted at that, sitting yourself up so you were now eye to eye with him. “owe you what? i didn’t do anything wrong.”

he scoffed at that, shaking his head with a feigned serious expression on his face. “at least one more kiss before we have to go.” he grumbled, though the look in his eyes was entirely playful and doting.

you rolled your eyes at him with a fond smile, lifting your hands up and squishing his cheeks before pressing a short, chaste kiss against his lips. “there, are you happy?”

he shakes his head with another small pout, the sight comical with the way you were squishing his face between your hands. “nuh-uh, one more.”

“satoru,” you warned, but you were already leaning in for another kiss anyway. this one was just a little bit longer than a peck, and as you pulled away you felt him chase your lips with his own before he pulled back with a soft sigh. “you can get more kisses later.”

at that proposal he grinned cheekily, finally lifting himself up off the bed and extending a hand to help you up as well. “i’m definitely holding you to that, just so you’re aware.”

“i wouldn’t put it past you,” you giggled again, graciously accepting his extended hand and getting up on your feet. he smiled down at you as you did, squeezing your hand again for good measure before he led the two of you out the door. the dog excitedly followed you both out the door, providing a picturesque scene of pure content across the atmosphere that surrounded you.

with the promise of finally holding and having each other comes another certain fact — you weren’t going to waste another minute of your time without his heart in your hands. a delicate exchange between the two of you that would last for as long as you have the fortune of living in such a desolate world.

tagging 4 funsies: @cinnamoneve @forest-hashira @ctrltoru @bhaalism @ohimsummer @lovelyless-fiction @yunymphs @marimogf @kissxcore :3 love u guys mwah

ur first and last recent emojis are ur gender now. mine is 🅱👨‍❤‍💋‍👨

LISTEN!! LISTEN!!! I LOVE A LITTLE ANGST WITH MY FLUFF. LIKE–

if @scryarchives says one more thing about tsubame and yuuji and its sad I WILL HANG LIKE AN ORNAMENT

in my adventure time hyperfixation era 🫶🫶🫶 i will still post jaime stuff since i mean, im not done yet with ngotb yet lol, but take these little doodles for now!! (i have more coming soon lmao)

art taglist: @tinkerbelle05

comment or dm me if you'd like to be on the art taglist!

Reblog the writers’ fortune cookie for luck!

free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

summary : satoru gojo is many things—basketball star player, campus menace, objectively the best-looking guy in any room—but he is not a model. so when you, some quiet, intense art student, shove a flyer in his face and ask him to pose for a painting, his first instinct is to laugh. his second instinct is to say no.

it’s supposed to be easy money. sit still, look pretty, collect cash. but between your infuriating perfectionism, your absolute refusal to be flustered by him, and the way you stare like you’re trying to figure him out, satoru starts to suspect he’s in way over his head

tags –> one shot, 22k wc, university au, oblivious mutual pining, slow burn, idiots to friends(?) to lovers, banter, fluff, light angst, first kisses, reader has questionable financial priorities

playlist. | collection m.list.

satoru hates being late.

he’s not a model student, not by a long shot, but failing a long quiz because a horde of fan girls blocked his way to class? unforgivable. he was so close to making it in time, too—if only he hadn’t stopped to sign that last autograph. normally, he’d brush it off, but this wasn’t just any quiz—this was for a professor who already had it out for him. if he fails even one subject, the coach might force him to take a break from the team to focus on his studies, even if he was their star player.

he thrives on attention, okay? what’s the point of being their university's star player if he can’t bask in the privelege and the fame? that last game was legendary—he clutched the final shot, the crowd went insane, and now half the campus is screaming his name. still, if he gets benched over grades, that win won’t mean a damn thing.

now, he’s sulking on a campus bench, spinning his phone between his fingers, wondering how hard his professor is going to roast him next lecture. probably a lot. maybe enough to make him consider actually studying. his teammates will be insufferable about it, especially suguru.

and then, like a gift from the universe, you show up.

“excuse me.”

he barely glances up. he’s still bitter. still annoyed. but when he finally does look—oh, he knows your type. wide-eyed, a little nervous, clutching a sketchbook like it’s a lifeline, like it holds something more important than just paper and ink. he bets you’re about to ask for a selfie, or his number, or—

“i need you to model for me.”

his head tilts slightly, brow arching in lazy amusement. huh?

he waits for the punchline, but you only stare, unwavering. there’s something unnerving about your gaze—not shy, not desperate, just… intent. like you’ve already decided something, and his answer doesn’t matter. then, as if confirming it to yourself, you give a small, determined nod. “yeah. you’re perfect.”

his lips twitch, the ego in him flaring up instantly. “obviously.”

“so you’ll do it?” you lean in, hopeful, hands gripping the edges of your sketchbook like it’s anchoring you.

“obviously not.” he leans back instead, stretching an arm along the back of the bench, his smirk turning sharp. “listen, i know i’m pretty, but i’m not that easy.”

your expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable—then, with a breath, you square your shoulders. “i’ll pay you.”

he barks out a short laugh, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “oh? and what’s my going rate, then?”

without hesitation, you pull out a flyer from your bag, movements quick and businesslike. “i have an hourly rate. cash upfront.”

he plucks the paper from your hands, more entertained than anything, scanning it with a smirk. this is, without a doubt, the most absurd thing to happen to him all day (and that’s saying something). you’re actually serious. actually offering him money to sit still and look pretty.

you must be so down bad.

“sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls, handing it back lazily. “but i’m a busy man. can’t waste my precious time sitting around just so you can stare at me.”

he expects you to stammer, to get flustered and retreat. most people would.

there’s a pause, thick with hesitation, before you finally speak—like you’re pulling the words from somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let people see.

“hold still,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. your gaze moves over his face with the kind of scrutiny that makes people uncomfortable, but satoru doesn’t squirm—he preens under it, smirks like he’s used to being admired. but that’s not what this is.

your eyes narrow slightly, head tilting. “your features are sharp, but not harsh. the lines of your face—” you trail off, thoughtful. “they flow too well. it’s almost unnatural.”

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

you ignore him, scanning lower. “your collarbones frame the composition perfectly. and your hands…” your gaze flickers to them, fingers twitching against your sketchbook. “deliberate. expressive.”

his brows lift. “you’re checking me out.” he accuses, tone dripping with amusement.

“i’m analyzing your composition.” your voice is absentminded, matter-of-fact. you’re still staring, still studying, like he’s some kind of divine anomaly.

and maybe he is.

satoru should be smug about this. should be teasing you. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—serious, unwavering, like you’ve seen something no one else has. something not even he knows how to name.

his smirk falters, just slightly. “…so?”

“so,” you say, straightening, gripping your sketchbook tighter. “i need to paint you.”

not want. need.

and for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo is left without a clever comeback. because—okay. wow. that was a lot.

for the first time, he actually looks at you, really looks at you. and there’s no hint of deception in your expression, no underlying flirtation. your eyes—burning with something too raw, too genuine—throw him off completely.

“sounds like you’re obsessed with me.” he tries, aiming for his usual brand of cocky. but it’s weaker this time. a little off.

“i’m obsessed with getting my pieces right,” you counter, and it lands like a challenge. your voice doesn’t waver, steady in a way that makes his smirk twitch. “i’ll even raise your pay.”

his smirk falters for half a second. “yeah?”

“i—” you hesitate, fingers tightening around your sketchbook, knuckles pale from the pressure. “i can go up to… ten bucks per session. upfront.”

he snorts. “sweetheart, do i look like a discount model to you? you want me to sit still for hours, me—an in-demand athlete, a social necessity at every party, the backbone of this school’s sports program—for a measly ten?” he leans back, draping an arm over the bench like he’s getting comfortable for a long negotiation. “at least pretend to respect my market value.”

you exhale sharply, visibly weighing your options, then straighten with new resolve. “fine. twenty-five bucks per session. i can push to fourty, but you have to commit to at least three sittings.”

he opens his mouth to refuse—just for the drama of it, just to watch you scramble for a better offer—but then he hesitates.

and he sees it.

the way your fingers tighten around your sketchbook, the way your shoulders hold a quiet, unyielding tension. the way your eyes stay locked onto him, not with admiration, not with infatuation, but with something deeper, something urgent. there’s a pull in them, a quiet desperation—not for him, not for his attention, but for the shape of him, the angles of him, the way light bends and softens around the sharp edges of his face. he realizes, with a strange flicker of something he can’t name, that you aren’t begging him—you’re needing him.

…ugh.

satoru groans, throwing his head back dramatically, hands flopping uselessly onto the bench like the universe has personally inconvenienced him. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“nope.” your jaw sets, firm, unwavering.

a sigh. a pause. a moment of self-reflection where he briefly considers if the extra cash is worth sacrificing his free time—his parties, his practices, the worship of a school that already thinks he’s untouchable.

then—he grins, sharp and easy, like he’s the one who’s won something here. “alright, mystery artist. i’ll be your muse.”

he leans in, cocky and insufferable, but there’s something new behind it now—a flicker of intrigue, the curiosity of a man who knows he’s irresistible but has never quite been needed like this before. “but only because i’m feeling generous.”

the next day later, satoru reminds himself—firmly—not to let this happen again. he should have held out longer, should have played hard to get, should have, at the very least, haggled for more cash. but no, he let himself get swept up in whatever this was, in your weird little artist intensity, and now he’s sitting on a questionably stable stool in the middle of your cozy, cluttered studio space. regretting. just a little.

your “studio” is barely more than a corner of your dorm room, wedged by the window where the light slants in at an annoyingly aesthetic angle. the floor is a battlefield of abandoned sketchbooks and paint tubes, half-squeezed and discarded like fallen soldiers. unfinished canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion—some just rough sketches, others hauntingly close to done but left untouched, as if you lost interest mid-stroke. it’s clean and chaotic all at once, the strange contrast between the precisely arranged brushes—lined up by size, bristles all facing the same way—and the paint-stained rags draped carelessly over the back of your chair. the room smells like turpentine and old paper, sharp and familiar, like stepping into the mind of someone who never really stops thinking.

he should be bored—but he’s not.

“shoes off.” you say the moment he steps inside, not even looking up as you sort through your supplies.

satoru stops mid-step, blinking. his latest purchase—some limited-edition basketball sneakers, bought with the last of his cash prize from securing mvp last season, the sheer reason why he is broke right now to be here in the first place—suddenly feel heavier on his feet. his gaze flicks from you to the floor, then back again, a slow, deliberate movement as if testing whether you’re serious.

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

“what, afraid I’ll track in dirt?” he tilts his head, smirk lazy, but his fingers hook around the back of his shoes, already anticipating your answer.

“no, i just don’t want you stepping in paint and crying about your expensive sneakers.” you finally glance up, eyes flickering to the telltale logo on the side of his shoes. there’s no mockery in your tone, just detached amusement, but he still bristles slightly—maybe because you’ve already figured him out so easily.

satoru exhales, exaggerated and put-upon, before kicking them off with a bit more force than necessary. the shoes land haphazardly by the door, slightly askew, pristine against the chaos of your floor. “...fine. but I better not step on a thumbtack and die.”

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

he takes in the room as he tugs at the hem of his hoodie, adjusting it. the space is a contradiction—small, but alive, every inch used with an artist’s careless precision. tubes of paint lie scattered like relics of past battles, pages of half-formed sketches peek from beneath stacks of books, and the air smells sharp—turpentine, charcoal dust, something faintly citrusy, probably from the cup of tea cooling by your desk. he should be unimpressed, but his gaze keeps getting caught on the little details—the careful arrangement of brushes, the single paint-smeared rag draped over your chair, the faint blue smudge on the back of your wrist.

"sit here." you drag a wooden stool into the light, the scrape of its legs against the floor cutting through the quiet.

his eyes narrow. “this thing gonna hold up?”

“unless you plan on moving around like a child, yes.”

satoru hums, unimpressed but intrigued, tapping two fingers against his thigh before finally dropping onto the stool. his posture is lazy, all careless sprawl and long limbs, arms hanging over the backrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

you click your tongue, stepping closer. “sit up straight.”

he sinks even lower, stretching his legs out in front of him. “but I like this angle. mysterious. brooding. like I have a dark past.”

you don’t even hesitate. “it looks like you have scoliosis.”

he barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, teeth flashing under the dim light. “maybe that is my dark past.”

“fix your posture.”

satoru sighs, rolling his shoulders back—but not enough. you click your tongue, unimpressed, and before he can react, your hands are on him, firm but careful, adjusting his posture with practiced ease. your fingers press lightly against his upper back, trailing down to nudge at his shoulder blades, guiding him straighter. clinical, detached, nothing more than necessity. but he still goes still, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

your hands are cool against his skin, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. for the first time, he realizes you’re really looking at him—not like most people do, with admiration, envy, or that desperate need to impress. no, you look at him like he’s a problem to solve, a subject to study, something to be rendered on paper in strokes and shadows. he should say something—flirt, tease, break the moment before it turns into something else—but the words sit strangely in his mouth. and then you’re already pulling away, back to your desk, already moving on.

"good," you murmur, reaching for a pencil amid the mess of supplies. you don’t sound satisfied, exactly—just focused, as if his presence in your studio is nothing more than another detail to get right. then, after a beat, you look up again, really look at him, and say, “don’t move.”

satoru smirks, tilting his head just enough for his bangs to shift, casting a fleeting shadow over his eyes. “no promises.”

you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you adjust the angle of your easel. the wooden frame creaks as you tighten a knob, movements brisk, precise—like you don’t have the patience for his nonsense today. “relax your shoulders.”

he spreads his hands, a lazy, exaggerated gesture, his varsity jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “my shoulders are relaxed.”

you glance up, unimpressed. “you look like you’re trying to fight god.”

“that’s just my natural aura.”

your hand pauses over your palette, fingers hovering just above the tubes of paint. then—a twitch. fleeting. almost imperceptible. but he sees it, the tiny, reluctant quirk of your lips, and his eyes glint with amusement.

“was that a smile?” satoru's grin is all teeth, sharp and victorious, as he leans forward, resting his forearm on his knee. “are you falling for me already?”

you don’t even bother looking up as you squeeze out a streak of cadmium red onto your palette. “i was smiling at the thought of shoving you off that stool.”

he lets out a low chuckle, leaning back again, hands bracing the edge of the seat as if testing its limits. “that’s fair.”

acrylic meets oil in a slow swirl, the colors blending as you mix with deliberate strokes. outside, the sun shifts, casting golden streaks through the dusty windowpanes, dappling his profile in warm light. he watches you in the silence that follows, something unspoken settling between the brushstrokes and banter.

and that’s how the first session goes—him trying to be difficult, you trying to make him less difficult.

but somewhere between the banter, the occasional begrudging moments of stillness, and the quiet scratch of pencil against paper, something shifts.

at first, he’s just counting down the minutes until he gets paid, watching the clock, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. but then, he starts watching you instead.

satoru notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your fingers hesitate before committing to a line, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when something isn’t turning out right. there’s a softness to you when you work, an intensity that feels different from how people usually look at him. no awe, no expectation—just a quiet, unwavering focus, like he’s something worth capturing.

he should be bored. this kind of thing isn’t for him—sitting still, staying quiet, being studied like some museum exhibit. but he’s not. instead he is interested.

not by the painting itself—he still doesn’t get the whole ‘art’ thing, still doesn’t see why people obsess over lines and colors and whatever meaning they think is hidden beneath. but he gets this. gets the way you treat it like it matters, like it’s something real, something worth your time.

so he keeps coming back.

SPRING bleeds into familiarity as summer approaches. the air carries the scent of sun-warmed pavement and freshly cut grass, the kind of early heat that settles into your skin before you even realize it. days stretch longer, the sunsets grow richer, but in this quiet, in the hush between afternoon and evening, it’s routine now—as natural as practice drills, as effortless as muscle memory.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the faint drag of graphite as you sketch his form for the hundredth time. the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you concentrate, brows furrowing in that particular way that means you’re unhappy with a line. the way satoru makes a grand show of complaining, of stretching obnoxiously, of sighing like he’s been sentenced to something far worse than sitting still for an hour—but he always shows up anyway.

“this is cruel and unusual punishment.” satoru groans, slumping back in the chair like the very act of modeling is siphoning the life out of him. his long legs sprawl out, one foot tapping idly against the floor, an unconscious rhythm that betrays his restlessness. strands of white hair fall messily over his forehead, catching in the afternoon light, but he makes no move to fix them. instead, he tilts his head back dramatically, like a man resigned to his fate, letting out a sigh so deep it should echo through the room.

“you’re literally getting paid.” you remind him, tilting your head, adjusting the angle of your sketch with a practiced flick of your wrist. your voice is steady, patient, but there’s a weight to it—a quiet exasperation that makes the corners of his mouth twitch.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the space between you, a contrast to his theatrics. your fingers move with precision, thumb smudging a shadow, expression unreadable as your gaze flickers over him like you’re dissecting every line and curve.

“at what cost?” satoru presses, shifting slightly in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. his arms drape lazily over the armrests, fingers tapping against the wood—anything to keep himself occupied. his restlessness isn’t feigned; he’s never been the type to sit still, and the urge to move tugs at his muscles like an itch he can’t scratch. but he waits, because the way you sketch—brows furrowed, lower lip caught just slightly between your teeth—has him more intrigued than he wants to admit.

“at the cost of you shutting up for five minutes.”

“bold of you to assume i’m capable of that.”

his eyes flick toward you, sharp and searching, waiting for the reaction he knows is coming. for a moment, you’re still, the only movement the subtle shift of your fingers against the page. then—your lips twitch, the barest ghost of amusement, before you catch yourself and shake your head, returning to your work. satoru leans forward just slightly, just enough for the smallest smirk to pull at his lips, because he saw it—saw the way you almost gave in—and he counts that as a win.

you start talking more.

not just the usual corrections or critiques, but more—about your process, your ideas, the frustration of trying to capture his proportions because “seriously, satoru, why are your legs so stupidly long?”

“can’t help that i’m perfect, sweetheart.” he says, flashing a grin, stretching in his seat like he’s on display. his limbs sprawl out with practiced ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other lazily resting against his knee.

“you’re built like a faulty character model,” you mutter, erasing a line with more force than necessary. your brows pinch together, irritation bleeding into your strokes, and satoru watches the way your lips press into a thin line, your focus so sharp it almost cuts.

“so you admit i look unreal.” satoru says smugly, tipping his head to the side, silver strands slipping over the curve of his cheekbone.

you exhale through your nose, controlled and measured, but he catches the slight twitch in your jaw. “yes, satoru. that’s exactly what i meant.”

his grin spreads wider, pleased and easy, tapping his fingers idly against his knee in a steady rhythm. you’re getting used to him now—the sarcasm, the running commentary, the way he moves like he owns the space around him. you roll your eyes less, sigh less, even smirk sometimes—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he catches it every time, cataloging each one like a victory.

he starts talking more, too.

about his classes, about basketball, about how he wasn’t late to his quiz this time because he jumped out a window to avoid his fan girls. he says it so casually, like it’s just another tuesday, like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.

“you jumped out a window?” you ask, blinking, your pencil hovering mid-stroke. your brows pinch slightly, lips parting like you’re trying to process the sheer idiocy of it.

“listen, it was a short fall.”

there’s a beat of silence—just enough for him to catch the way your eyes flick over his face, searching for any sign of exaggeration. his smirk is lazy, easy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him for it.

and then you laugh.

it’s sudden, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you can catch it. breathless, a little incredulous, like even you can’t believe he’s that ridiculous.

he wasn’t expecting that.

it’s not like you never laugh—you do, just not at him. not like this, not in a way that feels so real, so genuine, so—unfair. it hits him square in the chest, something sharp and electric threading through his ribs, like a perfectly aimed free throw sinking straight through the net.

“oh my god,” you say, shaking your head, still grinning. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“thank you,” he says, flashing a smug grin, because he made you laugh.

and that’s the first time he realizes he likes your laugh.

so he starts playing it like a game—how many times can he make you laugh in one session? how many times can he distract you before you start scolding him? it’s almost too easy, the way you fall into the rhythm of his teasing, the way your lips press together like you’re fighting back a smile even when you’re glaring at him. he takes it as a challenge, a personal mission to pull a reaction out of you, to chip away at your stubborn focus just enough to make you crack.

“hey, what if you sketched me mid-dunk? you know, capture my essence—” satoru leans forward, gesturing dramatically, his white hair falling into his eyes.

“sit still.” you mutter, not even looking up, but he catches the way your brow furrows just slightly, the way you grip your pencil a little tighter.

“but imagine the drama! the movement! the raw athleticism—” he babbles, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase the sheer grandeur of his idea.

“sit still or i’m deducting your pay.” your voice is flat, but the way your eyes flicker toward him—just for a second—tells him you’re at least half-listening.

“cold.” he pouts, slumping back into the chair, but his grin never wavers.

sometimes, when you’re too absorbed in your work, he shifts in his seat just to see if you’ll notice. a tiny movement, barely anything—but your head always snaps up, your gaze sharp, the slightest exasperation flickering in your expression. “stop that,” you’ll say, and he’ll throw his hands up in mock innocence, feigning surprise. it’s stupid, really, but he likes it.

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

but somewhere along the way, he starts losing, too.

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

satoru catches himself noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you tuck your brush behind your ear when your hands are full, leaving a faint streak of graphite on your temple. the way your sleeves are always smudged with paint, like you’ve been too caught up in your work to care. the way your fingers twitch when you talk, tracing invisible shapes in the air, like you want to sketch your thoughts into existence. it’s the little things, the ones that slip through the cracks when he isn’t paying attention—except he is, now, and he doesn’t know when that started.

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

it sneaks up on him—slow, creeping, like a game he didn't realize he was playing until he was already losing.

one moment, it’s just a side gig, a funny little arrangement, an easy paycheck. another, it’s something else entirely, something that lingers in his mind longer than it should.

because sometimes—which is already a lot—when he steps onto the court, ball tucked under his arm, the first thing he wonders isn’t about the game, but whether you’ll be sketching from the bleachers. sometimes, when he sees something stupidly pretty—the golden slant of light cutting across the gym floor, a perfect shot arcing through the net, the weightless seconds before it sinks—he thinks, you’d know how to capture this.

sometimes, when you’re concentrating, when your brows pull together, when your lips part just slightly in thought, when your whole world narrows to the page in front of you, he thinks—he doesn’t finish that thought. because it’s just routine, right? just the same way he looks forward to practice, to games, to winning.

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

but then, it starts happening—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. a text invitation left on read, a half-hearted ‘maybe’ in response to a party he’d normally say ‘hell yeah!’ to.

it’s a gradual shift, barely noticeable at first—until it is. until suguru eyes him from across the court, spinning a basketball on his fingertips, gaze sharp and knowing.

“you skipping out?” suguru asks one afternoon, his tone casual, but the way he watches satoru says he already knows the answer. “big party tonight. everyone’s going.”

“got plans.” satoru says easily, crouching to tie his laces, fingers tugging the knots tight like he’s sealing the conversation shut.

suguru bounces the ball once, catching it smoothly. “since when do you have plans that don’t involve getting wasted?”

satoru straightens, rolling his shoulders until they pop, shaking out his arms like he’s gearing up for something. his hair is a mess of white strands falling over his forehead, a little damp from practice, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he flashes a smirk, weight shifting easily onto one foot. “i’m broadening my horizons.”

suguru snorts, spinning the ball in his hands. “yeah? what’s her name?”

satoru flicks his wrist, and before suguru can react, his hand snaps out to intercept the ball satoru just stole from him, catching it last second. suguru narrows his eyes, unimpressed. satoru just grins, rocking back on his heels, the picture of insufferable ease. “shut up.”

he tells himself it’s not a big deal. he’s just picking his battles, choosing his nights, being selective.

but then, one evening, his phone buzzes with an invite—exclusive rooftop party, vip only, the kind of thing that would’ve had him saying ‘hell yeah’ months ago. the kind of thing he used to crave, to thrive in, all flashing lights and endless noise, a crowd that could never quite keep up.

instead, he glances at the time, sees that your session starts in half an hour, and swipes the notification away without a second thought.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

SUMMER arrives with a vengeance. spring’s fleeting softness is long gone, replaced by air thick with humidity, pavement hot enough to sizzle, and days that stretch into slow, languid eternity. campus, once alive with restless energy, now feels like an echo of itself—half-abandoned dorms, quiet hallways, the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence. no fan club lurking outside his lectures, no teammates calling his name across the quad. just heat, stillness, and a lot of free time.

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

your dorm is somehow even worse than outside, the air stifling, unmoving, dense with trapped summer heat. the pathetic excuse for a fan in the corner barely stirs the air, its dull hum doing nothing to ease the sweat clinging to his skin. he’s slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back dramatically as he groans to no one in particular.

“this is inhumane,” satoru whines, shifting again, the fabric of his jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin. his arm drapes lazily over his forehead, white bangs damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded in a show of exaggerated suffering. “you can’t expect a man to look this good while melting, y’know.”

“satoru, i swear to god, if you move one more time—” you mutter, not looking up from your easel, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. there’s a tension in your shoulders, one he recognizes by now—focused, immersed, determined to ignore him.

he cracks an eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “you’ll what?” he drawls, voice syrupy with amusement. “paint me uglier?”

you don’t dignify that with a response, just exhale through your nose and keep working.

it’s been months since you first hired him, and somewhere between his insufferable attitude and your exasperated sighs, something shifted. something settled. something... comfortable.

satoru is still impossible—never quiet, never fully still, always testing limits. but you’re used to him now, the same way you’re used to the hum of your fan or the scratch of your brush against canvas.

and he’s used to you, too.

he knows you never play music while you work (insane). he knows you paint in layers, slow and methodical, as if each stroke is a commitment too big to rush. he knows you hate when people hover over your shoulder—but for some reason, you let him stay.

so he stays.

“remind me why we’re even in the dorms right now?” satoru complains, flopping back onto your bed without permission, limbs splaying like he owns the place.

“because it’s a hassle to go home.” you murmur, brush dragging against the canvas, expression unreadable.

“you say that like normal people wouldn’t want a break from all this,” he gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall limply onto his stomach.

“i don’t like breaks,” you say simply, not bothering to look at him. “breaks mean i stop making things.”

he squints at you, the weight of your words settling in his chest. it sounds like a joke, but it’s not. and just like that, something clicks. maybe you’re here for the same reason he is. not because you have nowhere to go. but because being here is easier than being somewhere else.

he doesn’t say anything. just shifts further onto your bed, limbs sprawling even wider, purely out of pettiness.

the sheets beneath him smell like you—something faint, something warm, something familiar. he exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment.

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

“seriously,” he groans again, tugging at the neckline of his jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer. with a restless sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, sprawling out across your bed like a cat too lazy to move from a sunspot. his cheek presses against the sheets, indigo eyes flicking lazily toward you, half-lidded from the heat. “why is it so hot? isn’t there some artist trick where you suffer for your work without making me suffer too?”

you don’t bother looking up, your focus unwavering, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence between you. there’s a faint crease between your brows, a telltale sign of concentration, though your expression remains unreadable.

“maybe if you stopped talking, you’d cool down.”  you murmur, dipping your brush into a shade of blue.

he scoffs, shifting onto his elbows, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with a lazy flick of his fingers. “bold of you to assume that’s an option.”

and it irritates him—how unfazed you are. does nothing shake you? does nothing break through that focus?

so it turns into a game.

at first, he starts small—subtle shifts in posture, exaggerated sighs, ridiculous flirtation, all carefully designed to draw your attention. a slow roll of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the stretch of long limbs sprawled across your bed as if he owns the space. each movement is deliberate, each word carefully chosen to poke at you, to pry beneath that layer of calm focus you always seem to wear.

“what if i posed like one of those renaissance statues?” satoru muses, arching his back slightly, stretching his arms over his head, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath sun-warmed skin. his voice is thick with faux contemplation, his white lashes lowering as if he’s actually considering it. “y’know, real dramatic, real divine. make me look like a legend in the making.”

“you already think you’re a legend.” you mutter, the barest flicker of amusement crossing your face, so quick he almost misses it.

his grin sharpens, flashing teeth, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you work. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, messy and weightless, catching the light in wisps of silver and white. “i mean, aren’t i?”

you don’t even look at him. just reach for your paintbrush, flick your wrist—and suddenly, a few drops of cold paint water splatter against his bare arm.

he yelps, jerking away like you’ve actually wounded him. “the hell—” he glares at the tiny droplets seeping into his skin, like they’re an offense to his very existence. “are you serious? that’s abuse.”

you hum, not bothering to hide the faint smirk on your lips as you dip your brush back into the paint.

his narrowed eyes linger on your expression, on the relaxed set of your shoulders, on the tiny, satisfied twitch of your mouth.

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

his gaze flickers to the stack of empty ramen cups in the corner, precariously balanced like a monument to bad decisions. his lips twitch, smug and knowing, before his eyes drift toward the mini fridge tucked against the wall. last time he checked—which was purely out of curiosity, mind you—it was nearly empty, save for a half-full bottle of water and a single, sad yogurt cup. it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his damp jersey stick even more uncomfortably to his skin.

“…you sure?”

your brush hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but he notices. then, just as quickly, you resume painting, voice perfectly even, expression carefully blank.

“what’s with the interrogation?”

“just curious,” he says, shifting until his long legs are stretched across the bed. his head tilts back against the sheets, white strands of hair falling messily over his forehead. “plus, if you pass out mid-session, who’s gonna pay me?”

you roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose, the corners of your mouth twitching. “i’ll put that in my will. ‘to satoru gojo, my life drawing model and worst financial decision.’”

satoru's laughter bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered, cutting through the thick, oppressive heat of the room. it’s the kind of laugh that makes walls feel smaller, that shifts the air, that lingers longer than it should.

and you don’t hide your small smile fast enough.

his laughter stutters for half a second, his sharp eyes catching the curve of your lips before you press them together again. fleeting, but unmistakable. something smug and delighted unfurls in his chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer air.

his grin stretches slow and wicked. “oh, you like me,” he sings, rolling onto his back, looking at you upside down with that insufferable glint in his eyes.

“i tolerate you.” you correct, but your hand twitches, and before he can blink, another flick of your brush sends a tiny splash of paint in his direction.

he yelps, twisting away, but it’s too late.

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

a shift of his shoulders, an exaggerated sigh, the creak of your mattress beneath him. his knee bumps against your sketchbook, disrupting the careful balance of supplies stacked at the foot of the bed. then, as if testing the limits of your patience, he stretches, arms extending above his head, his basketball jersey riding up just slightly—just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his waist, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. his head tilts back against your pillow, and he groans, long and drawn out.

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a click before pushing yourself up from your stool.

satoru's eyes track your movement, bright and sharp even in the dim light of your dorm. he’s expecting a scolding, maybe even an irritated glare. but there’s something different this time—your expression unreadable, your gaze fixed on him with that same unwavering focus that always throws him off. you move with purpose, deliberate steps closing the space between you, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the heat pressing heavier against his skin, against the air between you.

he watches, waiting for the usual sigh, the exasperated reminder to stop fidgeting. he waits for you to roll your eyes and mutter something about how he’s impossible to work with.

instead—your fingers catch his chin, tilting it just so.

satoru's breath hitches, barely perceptible, but you don’t notice—or if you do, you don’t acknowledge it. your touch is firm, not hesitant, your thumb grazing just beneath his jaw as you adjust the angle of his face. then, without a second thought, your hand shifts, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, brushing against the sensitive skin below his ear. there’s dried paint smudged on your fingertips, faint streaks of color that leave invisible traces against his skin, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

you don’t stop there.

your other hand lifts, smoothing his slouched shoulders back against the pillows, fingertips pressing briefly into the fabric of his jersey. then you reach for his wrist, shifting his arm so it drapes more naturally across his stomach. and all the while, you’re silent, your movements efficient, unthinking—like touching him is no different than adjusting the angle of a still life, like he’s just another part of the composition you’re perfecting.

before the silence stretches too long, before his brain can fully process the casual way you just handled him, he grins, slow and wicked.

“damn,” he drawls, voice lazy, smug, but there’s something tight beneath the ease of it. his head tilts back slightly against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching you with a mixture of mischief and something deeper—something that makes his smirk seem almost too deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to react. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”

“what?” you say absently, fingers still deftly adjusting the angle of his jaw, your touch steady as you tilt his chin just another fraction higher. the concentration in your expression is unreadable, but your gaze never wavers, sharp and focused. he notices how your brows furrow just the slightest, the way your lips press together in a line that says you’re not going to let him distract you this time.

“nothing,” he smirks, his grin widening, amused by the way your hands move over him with such intention. his fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, itching for something to do, but he forces himself to remain still, curious to see how far he can push you. “just—y’know, if you wanted me like one of your french girls, you could’ve just said so.”

your fingers tighten slightly in response, the faintest press of your nails against his skin—not quite a warning, but close. you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady but accelerating just slightly, as if your touch has an effect on him he’s unwilling to admit. there’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if he's bracing himself, but his eyes are still locked on you, playful but careful.

“if you don’t shut up,” you say, voice perfectly even, calm in the face of his teasing, “i will paint you uglier.” the words roll off your tongue without hesitation, but there’s an edge to them, something you both know you mean more than you let on. your hand doesn’t move from his jaw, but your fingers tighten for a moment—enough to make him flinch, just barely—and it’s enough to make his grin falter.

“mm. bold of you to assume i have a bad angle.” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, his smirk returning in full force, and his hand twitches again as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you in return. but he holds himself back, all too aware that this is your space—your process—and he’s simply a subject in it. yet, his confidence remains unshaken, a challenge flickering behind his eyes.

you give his jaw a deliberate little nudge, the motion slow and purposeful, and barely suppress a sigh as you watch him react—his body tensing under your touch, as if the slight pressure is just the right amount to make him ache for more. but you’re not finished, not yet.

“stay still, satoru.” you murmur, your voice the slightest bit sharper this time, but with a subtle undercurrent of something softer. he could almost mistake it for a command, if not for the way you adjust his position with gentle precision, ensuring every detail of his form is just as you want it. your eyes flicker over him, tracing the angles of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck—something about the way you hold him, make him stay, makes him feel like you’re in complete control, and that’s when it hits him.

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

but because your fingers are cool against his overheated skin, an unexpected relief against the oppressive heat of the room. because for a moment, when you adjusted his posture, you were close enough for him to see the flecks of paint on your cheek, the way your lashes framed your eyes, the soft crease in your forehead when you concentrate.

because you touched him without hesitation. without thought. without treating him like something fragile, something distant, something untouchable.

and he doesn’t move for the next three hours.

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

AUTUMN arrives with brisk winds and golden light, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. the campus shifts with the season, summer’s lazy sprawl giving way to hurried footsteps and layered clothing, students caught between clinging to warmth and embracing the inevitable cold. the world feels sharper now, edges clearer, the sun hanging lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the pavement. satoru gojo hasn’t changed much, still striding through campus like he owns it, but there’s something different in the way he keeps showing up.

it starts with a realization: you’re an idiot with money.

satoru has been modeling for you for months now, first as a casual arrangement, then as an unspoken habit, and now—now he’s not even sure what to call it. at first, it was just a side hustle, a way to fund his snack addiction and make up for his tendency to forget that classes required effort. he still shows up late sometimes, still complains about holding the same pose for too long, still finds ways to annoy you just to see how you’ll react. but somewhere between summer and autumn, it stopped being about the money.

because you’re routine now.

just like basketball practice. just like late-night convenience store runs. just like winning. he doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t poke at the feeling, just lets it settle into the spaces between his days. but then, one evening, it clicks—this thing between you isn’t exactly balanced. because for all the money you pay him, you’re the one stretching yourself thin.

it happens when he catches you eating a sad cup of instant noodles for what must be the fourth day in a row.

at first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you peel back the lid, steam curling weakly into the cool autumn air. he thinks maybe it’s a preference thing, some weird artist habit, until his gaze drifts—to the extra commissions stacked on your desk, the supply receipts stuffed into your sketchbook, the way you barely check your phone unless it’s him texting about a session. your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, movements slower than usual, exhaustion threading through the way you stir the noodles.

you are, quite literally, funding him instead of yourself.

“again?” he finally asks, gesturing at your dinner. his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else behind it, something sharper, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. he watches the way you barely react, how your grip on the chopsticks stays loose, how you keep your focus on the pitiful cup of noodles steaming in your hands instead of looking at him. his knee bounces once, a restless motion, before he stills it with a pointed exhale.

you shrug, not meeting his eyes, stirring half-heartedly, and the broth sloshes over the rim, spilling onto your sleeve in a dark stain. but you don’t react, don’t even seem to notice, just keep stirring, keep avoiding his gaze like you can will this conversation into disappearing. “i have a budget.” you say, voice even, detached, like you’re stating a fact and not making an excuse. your fingers tighten around the flimsy cup for half a second before you force yourself to loosen them, nudging a stray noodle back under the broth like you can’t feel his eyes on you.

satoru narrows his eyes, shifting where he sits, the mattress creaking under his weight. his arms stretch over his head for a beat, but there’s tension in the motion, his jaw tight even as he forces himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance. “you literally raised my pay just to get me to pose.” he says, voice incredulous, edged with something between concern and irritation. he isn’t laughing anymore, isn’t teasing, just watching, waiting, expecting you to have some kind of answer.

“those two are completely different things.” you mumble, slurping up some noodles like the conversation isn’t happening, like you can hide behind the motion. your posture shifts, shoulders curling inward, the steam from the cup rising in thin wisps against your face, half-obscuring your expression.

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

you don’t meet his eyes, either, just keep pushing your noodles around the cup, the movements small, aimless, stalling. his gaze flickers down, catches the little details—the fading paint stains on your fingers, the slight tremor in the way you stir, the tension coiled in your shoulders like you’re bracing for something. he exhales, head tilting, watching you with the same sharpness he saves for an opponent about to make a move, for a moment of weakness he can take advantage of—but this time, it doesn’t feel like a game.

and then, all at once, it clicks. how much you’re actually paying him. how much of your already-limited allowance is going to him just so you can paint. how much you’re giving up without a word, without a complaint, without even a hint of hesitation.

and suddenly, his next paycheck doesn’t sit right with him.

so from that moment on, satoru starts caring for you in ways you don’t even notice.

it’s subtle at first, woven into the fabric of your routine, slipping in so seamlessly that you almost don’t register the shift. he still shows up late sometimes, still drags his feet through the doorway like he’s doing you a favor, but now—now he’s always carrying something. a plastic bag crinkles against his fingers as he drops it onto your desk, careless and offhand, like he isn’t watching for your reaction.

“leftovers,” he says way too casually when you glance up at him, suspicion flickering in your eyes. his voice is loose, unconcerned, but there’s something too deliberate in the way he nudges the bag closer, the way his hand lingers just a second too long before he pulls away. “figured you’d want ‘em before i threw them out.”

you eye the freshly wrapped onigiri and convenience store sandwiches, brows knitting together as your fingers hesitate over the bag. the packaging is neat, unopened, no signs of the mindless picking and half-eaten portions he usually leaves behind when he’s actually careless. “…since when do you not finish your food?” your voice is skeptical, flat, but there’s something guarded in the way you ask it, something careful.

“since now,” he says, flopping onto your bed with the kind of dramatic ease only he can manage. his hoodie rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin, but he doesn’t bother adjusting it, too busy stretching his arms over his head. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

you do. you don’t question it, don’t pick apart the way he shifts his weight against your mattress like he’s making himself at home, don’t dwell on the way his voice sounded just a little softer than usual. he pretends not to notice when you eat in silence, barely glancing at him. but later that night, when you’re alone, you find yourself smiling down at the empty wrapper before tossing it in the trash.

then he starts paying for your drinks when you go out, slipping the cash over the counter before you can argue, calling it his ‘treat’ like he’s some kind of benevolent patron.

“you only say that because i’m the only artist you know.” you deadpan, reaching for your coffee, fingers brushing the warmth of the cup.

“yeah,” he grins, unapologetic, smug, like he’s already won something. his fingers drum lightly against the side of his own cup, restless energy bleeding through the way he leans just slightly into your space. “and you’re killin’ it at first place.”

your fingers twitch slightly against the cup, grip adjusting like you’re trying to steady something that isn’t your coffee. you pretend not to feel the warmth in your chest, pretend his words don’t settle somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous. but when you take a sip, you don’t fight the way the heat lingers.

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

satoru watches the way you flip through your sketchbook, fingers skimming the edges of each page like you’re weighing how much space you have left. he sees the way your gaze lingers on your paint tubes, the way your thumb presses absently against the label, as if debating whether the color is worth using. he notices the way your sleeves push up slightly when you mix paints, the faintest crease forming between your brows when you check how much is left. you won’t take money from him outright—he knows that much—but maybe, just maybe, he can get you to make money some other way.

so he tries introducing you to sports betting, grinning like he’s telling you the best-kept secret in the world. his energy is relentless, all sharp confidence and easy arrogance, like he truly believes he’s about to change your life. you don’t even need to look up to know he’s leaning in too close, elbows braced against your desk, practically radiating self-satisfaction. it’s unbearable.

“satoru, that’s literally gambling,” you say flatly, dragging your pencil across the page, deliberately uninterested.

“it’s strategic investing,” satoru corrects, voice smooth, pleased with himself, like he’s just introduced you to some kind of financial loophole. he shifts slightly, and his jersey slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own nonsense. his fingers tap against your desk, impatient, restless, waiting for you to take the bait.

you don’t. instead, you finally glance up, brows raised. “you lost thirty bucks last week.”

his lips part like he’s about to argue, but then he pauses, reconsiders, and pivots. “okay, but that was a fluke,” he says, already curling his mouth into a perfectly crafted pout.

“was it?”

satoru exhales dramatically, like this conversation is somehow exhausting him, and drops his head onto your sketchbook, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re still holding a pencil. “have a little faith in me, damn.”

you shake your head, amused despite yourself. you shouldn’t be. you should shut this down, make it clear that you have no intention of entertaining whatever scheme he’s trying to rope you into.

but then—

“fine,” you say one day, flipping through your sketchbook, voice too casual, too offhanded. like this is barely worth mentioning, like you’re not actively indulging him. “i’ll bet on your team.”

the change is immediate.

satoru's body goes still, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk, no cocky remark. just a blink—slow, calculating—like he’s processing the words more carefully than anything else you’ve ever said to him. the tension lasts only a second before his mouth curves into something dangerous, something sharp, something entirely too pleased.

oh. oh, no.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice all silk and trouble, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair. his fingers linger for a second, pushing back the damp strands before he tilts his head at you, grin widening. “you’re not gonna regret that.”

he doesn’t wait for your response. he’s already out the door. and frankly, you didn't expect the game to be brutal.

clearly, your estimate was wrong. the gym is packed, filled with students from both universities, the air thick with tension, sweat, and school pride. banners hang from the walls, school colors clashing, chants echoing through the space like war cries. the visiting team—tall, muscular, built like they were engineered for this—carries themselves with the weight of confidence, a roster of starters who have dominated the league all season. they tower over the court, standing like an immovable wall of defense, but it only takes one play for them to realize they’re in trouble.

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

the moment the ball is in his hands, he moves like he owns the court. the opposing point guard—a solid 6’5 with broad shoulders and a killer defensive record—lunges to block him, but it’s over before it even starts. satoru feints left, shifts right, and leaves him grasping at air, breaking into a sprint toward the basket before the others can react. their power forward—tall, heavy, built for blocking shots—steps in, arms raised high, but satoru barely acknowledges him.

because satoru is 6’3, fast as hell, and has a vertical leap that makes people question physics. he jumps, body twisting mid-air, and the slam dunk is so violent it rattles the rim.

the crowd erupts.

the visiting team’s coach is already shouting, hands flying in frustration as his players scramble to reorganize. they try to lock satoru down, try to double-team him, but it’s pointless—his crossovers are disrespectful, his footwork impossible to track, his speed completely unfair. one defender—6’7, easily one of the best in the league—steps up, stance wide, arms ready, but satoru doesn’t even give him time to think.

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

the ball soars through the air, clean, perfect, and the second it lands through the net, satoru is already turning away, smirking as if he knew it would go in before he even let go.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” nanami mutters, watching as the other university’s shooting guard—who up until now had been known for his defense—grabs his knees like he’s questioning his life choices.

“they’re frustrated,” suguru notes, amused, stepping up beside satoru during a dead ball.

“they should be.” satoru says, rolling his shoulders, letting his sweat-slicked jersey shift against his skin. he looks completely relaxed—untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly smug—as if he isn’t systematically destroying one of the best teams in the league.

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. his icy blue eyes flick up to the bleachers, head tilting slightly, lips curving into a knowing grin. his fan girls scream, convinced he’s looking at them, but you know better. because satoru isn’t just playing—he’s showing off.

he breaks past another defender with ridiculous ease, dribbling once before stepping back for a three-pointer that barely even touches the rim. the opposing team’s captain calls for a switch, barking out orders, but it doesn’t matter—they can’t stop him.

the timeout huddle is a mess.

players are breathing hard, jerseys clinging to sweat-damp skin, shoulders rising and falling as they try to recover. the gym is loud—too loud—the crowd still buzzing from the absolute disaster that was the first half. their coach is talking, something about holding the lead, tightening defense, not getting cocky, but no one is listening. because across the circle, satoru is still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“yo, what the hell is wrong with you today?” suguru mutters, tossing him a towel, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely concerned.

satoru catches it with one hand, absently wiping the sweat from his forehead, movements lazy, easy, completely unbothered. his white hair is a mess, strands curling slightly from the heat, the glow of the overhead lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. his jersey is clinging to his frame, fabric damp where it stretches over his shoulders, his chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. instead, he tugs the collar away from his skin, letting the cool air hit, eyes flicking up toward the stands like he’s looking for something.

or rather, someone.

“nothing.” he says, voice easy, light, like he didn’t just dismantle an entire university’s defense and humiliate half their starters in front of a packed gym. his breath is steady, not a hint of exhaustion, only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp jersey, fabric clinging to his frame, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead, white against flushed skin, but he makes no move to fix it. he just breathes in deep, exhales slow, and grins wider, a lazy, knowing curl of his lips, all sharp edges and unchecked arrogance.

then, too casually—“just gotta make sure my girl gets paid.”

suguru blinks. once. twice. then exhales, a slow, measured breath, like he’s trying to process what he just heard.

his expression shifts—not shocked, not confused, but amused. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glinting with something knowing, something entertained. because this is the same girl, isn’t it? the same girl satoru was ditching party invitations for, choosing study sessions over late-night drinks for, showing up to campus early for when he barely woke up on time for class.

“...oh?” suguru says, just to hear him say it again.

but satoru doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t even look away from the stands. just flips the towel over his shoulder, rolls his wrists like this is just another game, like he hasn’t just set the entire gym on fire with a single sentence.

the buzzer blasts. second half starts. and satoru gojo is playing for blood.

the other university comes back from halftime determined, desperate, their coach gesturing wildly from the sidelines, barking orders as if sheer strategy will make up for the fact that they are losing to one man. they throw everything at satoru—double teams, switches, aggressive press defense—but none of it matters. he slips through them like water, like air, like something untouchable, moving with the kind of ease that makes even the referees hesitate before blowing the whistle.

he isn’t just scoring—he’s playing with them.

he spins the ball between his fingers, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, then passes it off last second, only to sprint across the court faster than anyone expects and sink a corner three. when their shooting guard tries to lock him down, satoru just laughs—actual laughter, low and effortless, before stepping back and draining another deep shot, his wrist flicking with a perfect follow-through. it barely touches the net.

you shouldn’t be this invested.

but your eyes track him anyway, caught up in the rhythm of his movements, in the way his jersey clings to the shape of his shoulders, the sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. he’s moving like this is personal, like the entire game is some elaborate performance meant for you alone, and it’s starting to get to you. every time he scores, he glances up, searching for you in the stands, and you hate that your stomach flips when his gaze finds yours.

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

he’s impossible to ignore, too bright, too loud, too much. the crowd responds to him like he’s some kind of basketball god, voices rising every time he moves, a mix of screams, chants, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire row of students calling out his name. his fan girls are in absolute chaos, some clutching each other’s arms, others dramatically swooning, like they’re seconds away from fainting just from watching him exist.

the other team is beyond frustrated.

they’ve thrown everything at him—double teams, switches, aggressive defense—but it doesn’t matter. because satoru isn’t just playing to win. he’s playing to humiliate.

his next victim is their shooting guard, 6’4, all muscle, built like he should be a defensive wall. he steps up, arms wide, eyes sharp, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. but satoru? satoru doesn’t even look like he’s trying. he bounces the ball once, twice, just enough to let the anticipation build, before shifting forward like he’s about to drive in.

the defender lunges and satoru, the absolute menace that he is, just stands there.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even attempt to go around him. just watches—completely unbothered, completely still—as the guy flies past him, momentum carrying him forward, stumbling face-first onto the court.

the crowd gasps.

the defender scrambles to recover, but it’s already over. satoru spins the ball in his hands, takes a single step back, and—without even looking at the rim—launches a half-court shot.

the ball soars, clean, effortless, perfect. it barely even touches the net. the gym absolutely erupts. and then—he winks up at the bleachers.

or rather, at you.

it’s infuriatingly slow, deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling up in a way that is both cocky and playful. his white hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but it only makes the sharpness of his features more pronounced. his lips part slightly, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, the blue of his eyes catching under the lights—bright, focused, sharp enough to be dangerous.

the reaction is immediate.

“he saw me!” someone shrieks, grabbing their friend’s arm in a death grip.

“no, he was looking at me!” another one yells, voice already breaking.

“oh my god, he’s literally flirting with our section!”

meanwhile, you’re still just watching him play, like he didn’t just incite a full-scale riot in the stands. you don’t even think—you just lift your hand, give him a thumbs up, then go right back to pretending this is normal.

satoru freezes.

for a split second, he stares, blinking like he wasn’t expecting you to actually respond. the gym is too loud, too chaotic, but all of it fades into static as he holds your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.

then—his grin stretches slow and sharp, something almost dangerous flashing in his expression.

the opposing team barely has time to react. the second satoru turns back to the game, he’s already moving.

their point guard makes the mistake of hesitating, fingers gripping the ball a second too long as he scans the court for an opening. satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges forward, impossibly fast, cutting through the space between them like a blade. his hand shoots out, fingers slapping against the ball with a sharp, decisive smack, and suddenly—it’s his.

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

the defender barely has time to curse before satoru is already gone, already breaking into a full sprint down the court. his movements are fluid, sharp, ruthless, his jersey clinging to the sweat on his skin as he takes off, the crowd roaring in anticipation.

a single defender manages to keep up, breathing hard, desperate, sprinting beside him in a last-ditch effort to block him. but satoru doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t even acknowledge him.

he takes one step inside the paint—then jumps. and he just keeps going. the crowd screams as he soars, legs tucking, arm pulling back, body arching so high it feels unreal. the defender leaps, arms stretching, trying—failing.

because satoru gojo is 6’3, fast as hell, and plays above the rim like the air belongs to him.

his fingers clamp around the ball, grip firm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he swings forward—then slams it through the net with enough force to make the entire backboard rattle.

the gym explodes. the other university’s bench is silent. their coach buries his face in his hands.

satoru drops back down to the court, landing lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders as if he didn’t just commit a crime in front of a full audience. he turns, gaze flicking up toward the bleachers—toward you. his fan girls lose their minds.

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

you exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your face. you’re not swooning—you refuse to be one of them, one of the girls throwing themselves at him like he’s some kind of untouchable idol. but your fingers curl against your sketchbook, grip tightening, and you know you’re falling for him anyway.

the game is already over.

the scoreboard doesn’t say it yet, but everyone knows. satoru knows. the other university knows. even their coach, red-faced and exhausted from yelling, has stopped trying to call plays that might turn things around. but satoru? he’s still playing like he has something to prove.

his next move is straight-up cruel.

their point guard is waiting for him at the three-point line, arms wide, stance low, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. he isn’t. satoru bounces the ball between his legs once, twice, then shifts forward just enough to make it look like he’s driving in. the defender lunges, panicked, reaching out to block him—but satoru is already gone.

a single, fluid crossover sends the guy sprawling onto the court, hands catching empty air as satoru steps back and sinks another three-pointer like he’s just shooting around at practice. the bench erupts, players falling over each other in disbelief, a mix of laughter and shouts filling the gym. even the referee—usually stone-faced and neutral—lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.

you cover your mouth with your sleeve, shoulders shaking as you try to stifle your laughter. it’s unfair, really, how easily he does this—how easily he turns the game into his own personal stage, his own playground.

he doesn’t even look at the scoreboard. he looks at you.

your breath catches, because this time, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. he isn’t just searching for a reaction—he’s watching. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s confirming something.

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

and from the way his smirk softens just slightly, the way his head tilts, eyes bright beneath the glare of the gym lights—he knows, too.

the final seconds tick down.

the other team stops trying to chase the score—they know it’s hopeless. some of them don’t even bother running back on defense anymore, hands on their hips, breathing hard, completely defeated. when the final buzzer blares, it’s almost mercy at this point, the end of a game that should’ve stopped being competitive long ago.

final score: 112-39.

satoru lifts his arms in a lazy stretch, grinning, completely unbothered, as if he didn’t just personally crush one of the highest-ranked teams in the league. sweat clings to his skin, his jersey damp, hair an absolute mess, but he still looks ridiculously good, annoyingly confident.

his teammates crowd him immediately, patting his back, ruffling his hair, laughing at his absolute disrespect on the court. he takes it all in stride, leaning against suguru’s shoulder like he didn’t just outrun everyone on that court, fingers lifting in a lazy peace sign as cameras flash.

but the moment he’s free—he looks for you.

he doesn’t find you right away.

by the time the final buzzer blares and the court erupts into cheers, you’re already making your way down the bleachers, tucking your sketchbook under your arm like you can pretend you weren’t watching him the entire time. the gym is still loud, electric, the energy of the crowd vibrating against your skin as students swarm the court, players getting swallowed up in a mess of high-fives and celebratory shouts. you keep your head down, moving quickly, telling yourself that you’re just avoiding the chaos, that you’re not actually running from him.

but then—footsteps. fast. deliberate. coming straight for you.

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

you barely have time to react before satoru catches up, falling into step beside you, grinning like he’s won something more than just a game. he’s still breathless from the court, his jersey damp, sweat clinging to the edges of his hair, but he moves easily, like the entire game was just a warm-up. the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bright blue of his eyes, on the smug tilt of his lips as he leans in slightly, invading your space like it’s his right.

“so,” satoru drawls, voice still rough from exertion, breath still a little uneven. his skin glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the stray strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. but he doesn’t seem to care—too busy grinning, too busy basking in his victory. he leans in slightly, crowding into your space the way he always does, eyes alight with something smug, something expectant. “how’s it feel to profit off your favorite athlete?”

you blink, gripping your sketchbook a little tighter, pressing it against your chest like a shield. this is not a conversation you want to have right now—not when he looks like that, not when he’s still riding the high of the game, not when he’s standing too close, towering over you, sweat-drenched and insufferably pleased with himself.

“…i think i probably only made like twenty bucks.”

he freezes. for the first time all night, satoru gojo short-circuits. “...huh?”

you shift your weight slightly, trying not to smile, but he sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your gaze flickers away for half a second, like you’re barely keeping it together. “i only bet the minimum,” you admit, voice calm, unaffected, like you didn’t just shatter his entire perception of the game. “didn’t wanna risk too much.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

satoru's grin falters. his gaze sharpens, like he’s replaying the last two hours in his head, like he’s remembering every dunk, every deep three-pointer, every ridiculous play he pulled off—all under the assumption that you had gone all in.

you see the exact moment he realizes. he ruined a college team’s entire morale for twenty bucks. he also accidentally started several dating rumors.

“no way.” his voice is flat, almost horrified. “no actual way.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. it’s too easy.

he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, still looking like he’s processing an entire life-altering event. “you—you barely even bet?”

“yup.”

“so you weren’t—” he gestures vaguely, looking genuinely lost, like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe itself. “you weren’t, like, invested?”

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, because you suddenly feel kind of bad. “not really.”

his expression crumbles.

“oh my god.” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like this is causing him actual physical pain. “i wasted all my best moves for twenty bucks?”

you nod, lips pressing together, but this time, the guilt outweighs the amusement. you peek up at him, watching the way he slouches slightly, shoulders dropping, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with the weight of sheer disbelief.

“…i mean,” you murmur, hesitant, before reaching into your pocket. “you looked pretty cool.”

he doesn’t react immediately, still looking far too devastated to register your words, but when you pull out a neatly folded handkerchief and raise it toward him, he finally glances down.

his brows lift.

“what’s this?” he asks, voice suspicious, but there’s something softer in it now, something curious.

you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, but you don’t pull your hand back. “you’re, um… sweating.”

his lips twitch.

“oh?” he says, and now he’s watching you instead of the handkerchief, instead of anything else.

you avert your gaze, cheeks warming slightly, but you still reach up carefully, dabbing the cloth against his forehead with quiet, deliberate movements. he goes still, just for a second, just long enough for you to register the shift in the air, the way his breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

then—slowly, teasingly—

“damn,” he murmurs. “if i knew you’d be this sweet about it, i would’ve played even harder.”

your fingers pause, pressing against his skin just a fraction longer than necessary, before you pull back abruptly, heart stumbling over itself.

“forget it.” you mutter, stuffing the handkerchief back into your pocket, turning on your heel.

satoru laughs, bright and unbothered, falling into step beside you like he wasn’t just existentially wrecked a minute ago. and somehow, you know this isn’t the last time he’s going to make you feel like this.

but as it turns out, offering satoru a handkerchief isn’t enough to alleviate his mood—he sulks for an entire week.

he still shows up, still lounges around your dorm like he owns the place, but everything he does is unnecessarily dramatic. he sighs—loudly and often—collapsing onto your furniture like his limbs don’t work properly. he sprawls across your bed without asking, flopping onto his stomach like some overgrown cat, muttering about betrayal every time you glance at him. he pokes at your art supplies absentmindedly, dragging a finger along the rim of your paint jars, staring mournfully at your sketchbook like it personally wronged him.

satoru refuses to play pickup games at the campus court, claiming he’s ‘retired’ after his efforts were wasted on someone who only bet the bare minimum. he stretches out on your floor instead, staring at the ceiling with the air of a fallen war hero, occasionally tossing a basketball in the air and catching it one-handed—just to remind you of what was lost.

“you could’ve told me.” he grumbles one evening, sprawled out in the middle of your dorm, arms crossed like a petulant child. his hair is still damp from practice, the ends curling slightly where sweat has dried, but he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet—too busy sulking.

you hum in response, dipping your brush into a fresh shade of blue, too used to his dramatics to entertain them. “what, that i wasn’t planning to go broke over a basketball game?”

“yes!” he says miserably, rolling onto his side so he can stare at you like you personally ruined his life.

his arms are still crossed, but one hand is half-buried in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at the strands, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “i would’ve toned it down.”

you snort, finally glancing at him. his blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp but lazy, like he’s waiting for you to admit you were wrong. “no, you wouldn’t have.”

satoru opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to deny that he's the most dramatic person alive—but then he catches the look on your face. something shifts in his expression, something slower, something warmer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. for the first time since he walked into your dorm today, he goes quiet.

you don’t look away.

outside, the wind rattles against your window, golden leaves scraping against the glass. the air smells crisp, cold, like the start of something new. autumn is settling in.

“…did you at least have fun?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. your voice is lighter than usual, quieter, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it anyway.

he doesn’t answer right away.

he just grins, lazy, easy, completely insufferable, like he knows something you’re not ready to admit yet.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

the last days of AUTUMN slip in quietly, fading into the edges of routine like the final strokes of a painting.

the air is sharper now, biting, enough that satoru finally stops showing up in just his jersey—though he still refuses to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, claiming he’s "built different." the wind rattles your dorm window more often, slipping through the cracks to nip at your fingers as you paint, and the trees outside stand bare and skeletal, their golden leaves now forgotten heaps on the pavement, damp and crumbling underfoot.

and then, there’s finals.

campus shifts with the season, brimming with stress, the energy heavier, more desperate. the library is always full, lights flickering through the windows at all hours of the night. students hunch over laptops in cafés, their cups stacked high with unfinished coffee, their fingers smudged with ink and exhaustion.

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

he sees it in the way your hands don’t move as fluidly when you paint, how your brushes sit in murky water for too long before you remember to rinse them out. he sees it in the way you rub your eyes more often, fingertips pressing against your temples when you think no one’s looking. the way you sip your coffee like it’s medicine, like you need it just to stay upright.

but more than anything, he sees it in the way you’ve stopped sketching between sessions.

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

because he knows you. knows that you hate being told to slow down, that you treat breaks like enemies, that unfinished work sits on your conscience like an open wound.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, not even bothering to pretend they’re leftovers anymore. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, side-eyes your instant noodles with blatant, unfiltered disapproval.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, no longer bothering with the flimsy excuse of calling them leftovers. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, always with an offhanded comment—"don’t die on me, yeah?"—before flopping onto your bed like he didn’t just shove sustenance into your hands. he drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, the plastic cool against your wrist as you sketch, and side-eyes your instant noodles like they personally offend him. when you ignore him, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering something about "atrocious dietary habits" like he’s one to talk.

“you’re not my mom, satoru.” you say one evening, peeling the wrapper off the snack he just unceremoniously threw at you.

“nah,” he scoffs, propping himself up on one elbow, watching you unwrap it with clear satisfaction. “if i was your mom, i’d actually let you starve so you’d learn a lesson.”

you pause, narrowing your eyes. “...what lesson?”

he shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just say something completely unhinged, dimples showing slightly. “i dunno. that eating real food is important or some shit.”

you roll your eyes, but you still eat whatever he brings.

and when you think he’s not looking, you chew a little slower, savoring the warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food.

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

[10:48 PM] wait dumb question. ofc you are.

[10:48 PM] go to sleep before ur brain melts. if you can’t sleep we can call, im a wonderful singer.

[10:49 PM] also if ur ignoring me rn i’m gonna be soooo hurt u don’t even know.

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

[10:51 PM] just a little tired. i’ll sleep soon.

[10:51 PM] thank you for checking, though.

he doesn’t reply right away.

you stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he fell asleep or got distracted, if he’s still there. as if sensing this, his replies arrive.

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

[10:54 PM] but take it easy, okay?

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

you exhale, something warm settling in your chest, something you don’t have the energy to unpack right now.

[10:56 PM] okay.

you flip your phone over, tucking it beneath your pillow, but you fall asleep easier that night. because it’s nice. having someone to notice. having someone to care.

then, one evening, it happens.

you’re halfway through a painting, something that’s been frustrating you for days, something that isn’t coming out right no matter how many times you fix it. the colors aren’t blending the way you want, the strokes feel too heavy, too forced—like your hands aren’t listening to you anymore.

satoru is there, sprawled across your bed like he has nowhere else to be, phone in one hand, the other tucked lazily behind his head. he glances at you between scrolling, sighing loudly whenever you don’t react, making just enough noise to remind you of his presence. when that doesn’t work, he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes flicking toward your hunched form at the desk. “you’re supposed to entertain me, y’know.”

“i’m busy,” you mutter, barely sparing him a glance, your focus locked on the canvas in front of you. your brush hovers midair, colors blending under the dim light of your desk lamp, but there’s a tightness in your grip, a frustration in the way your shoulders remain stiff.

“so?” he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. “i am literally your muse.”

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a little more force than necessary. “you are literally annoying.”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “harsh.” his voice is light, teasing, but his eyes stay on you, watching as you tilt your head, exhale through your nose, then lean forward again, brush hovering over the canvas.

you’ve been fixated for too long now, barely moving except to mix colors, sigh, and frown at your work. your posture is too stiff, too tense, your shoulders drawn up, the curve of your spine locked in place like you’ve forgotten how to relax. your fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles whitening, the bristles pausing mid-stroke as your breath shudders slightly—too shallow, too uneven.

something itches in his chest. for the first time all night, he frowns.

“hey,” he says, sitting up, his phone forgotten beside him. “id you even eat today?”

"“huh?”

your reaction is delayed, your head turning toward him like it takes effort to shift your focus. you blink at him, slow, eyes unfocused, as if you’re still caught between here and the painting, like you don’t quite register what he’s saying.

then—the brush slips from your fingers. before he even registers what’s happening—you sway.

his heart stops. then he’s off the bed in an instant, faster than thought, hands reaching, catching you before you can hit the ground.

“woah, woah—hey.” his voice is too sharp, too urgent, nothing like his usual lazy drawl. one arm curls around your waist, steadying you, while the other grips your wrist, fingers pressing against the faint pulse beneath your skin. you’re too light in his hold, your weight sinking into him like you can’t hold yourself up.

your head lolls against his chest, and he barely registers the faint smudge of paint you leave on his hoodie because—you’re not responding.

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

“okay, no. you don’t get to just faint on me,” he mutters, adjusting his grip, his breath coming quicker than he’d like. he taps your cheek lightly, the warmth of your skin too cool against his fingertips. “wake up, idiot.”

you groan softly, brows pinching together, your expression twisting like even the act of regaining consciousness is too much effort.

“...m’fine,” you mumble, barely coherent, words slow and heavy like your tongue can’t quite keep up.

satoru lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tight but careful, like he’s still processing the fact that he had to catch you in the first place. “oh, yeah? yeah? that why you just dropped like a damn sack of flour?” his voice is sharp, edged with something that’s not quite annoyance, not quite panic, something he doesn’t know what to do with.

you don’t answer.

his jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he exhales through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. without another word, he shifts, carefully maneuvering you onto your bed, his movements stiff, deliberate, too controlled.

“unbelievable,” he grumbles under his breath, pulling the blanket over you with a little more force than necessary. “who even does this? who just forgets to function?”

you mumble something unintelligible, your voice so soft that it barely even reaches him, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. they’re glassy, unfocused, struggling to stay on him, and for some reason, that frustrates him even more.

satoru exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, his fingers tangling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. after a beat, he crouches beside the bed, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze steady as he studies you.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pressing.

“…m’fine,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t even sound like you believe it.

his eyes narrow.

“you literally just passed out.” his tone is flat, unimpressed, laced with something dangerously close to concern. “try again.”

you blink slowly, like it takes effort, like you have to search for the words. “…just… tired..” you admit, the syllables slipping together as your lashes flutter, fighting to stay awake.

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

you shift slightly, eyes slipping shut again, breath evening out, and he presses his lips together, watching you too closely, his expression unreadable. his fingers twitch against his knee, like there’s something else he wants to say, something else he wants to do.

then, quieter—like he’s speaking more to himself than to you—“you gotta stop this.”

you hum softly in response, already half-asleep, your breathing slow, steady, but he’s still watching you, still too aware of how small you look like this, how fragile you felt in his arms.

but he means it. you can’t keep doing this. can’t keep running yourself into the ground, pushing past your limits like they don’t exist.

he won’t let you.

his arms remain loosely folded over his knees, but his fingers tap restlessly against his leg, his jaw tight. his hoodie is still stained with the smudge of paint from where your head rested against him, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brows even in sleep, like you’re still carrying the weight of exhaustion. he exhales, rubs a hand over his face, then reaches for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the bed and drapes it over you, movements slow, careful.

he stays until he’s sure you’re really resting.

when  you wake up, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over you. the second thing you notice is the smell of something warm, something fresh.

your fingers twitch against the fabric, gripping the edge of the blanket like you’re grounding yourself, like you’re trying to make sense of where you are. your head feels heavy, dull with leftover exhaustion, but there’s something comforting in the warmth pressed against your legs, the scent curling into the cold air. you blink blearily, sitting up, and there—

satoru, on your floor, typing away on his phone. beside him, a steaming cup of instant miso soup sits on your desk.

his back is against the bed frame, legs stretched out, hair a mess of uneven strands where his fingers must’ve run through it too many times. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his forearms, and when he hears you shift, he glances up—expression unreadable, gaze sharp but softer than usual.

“you’re awake,” he says, this time without looking away, without the usual smug edge to his voice.

satoru's eyes flicker over your face, assessing, sharp but softer than usual, like he’s searching for something—proof that you’re really okay, that you’re here, conscious, breathing. his posture is relaxed, but there’s something unnaturally still about him, like he hasn’t quite settled since you collapsed. the glow from your desk lamp casts uneven shadows across his face, catching on the messy strands of his hair, the faint crease between his brows.

“...what happened?” your voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, like you’ve been asleep for much longer than you should have. you shift under the blanket, fingers tightening around the fabric, the weight of exhaustion still pressing against your limbs.

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

you blink at him, lips parting slightly—stunned, too tired to argue.

he holds your gaze for half a second longer before exhaling, reaching for the cup on your desk. “...briefly,” he amends, his fingers barely touching the ceramic as he pushes it toward you, the soft scrape of porcelain against wood filling the quiet space between you. “drink. before you die again.”

your fingers curl around the warmth, hesitating for just a second before lifting it. the heat seeps into your palms, steadying, grounding, and for some reason, your chest tightens in a way you don’t want to name.

you take a slow sip, the warmth spreading through your bones, reaching into the cold, exhausted parts of you that you hadn’t even realized were there.

“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter now, the steam from the soup curling into the cold air between you.

satoru shrugs, but his gaze lingers, watching you a little too closely, a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. there’s no teasing grin, no smart remark—just a quiet, unreadable weight in the way he looks at you. his fingers tap absently against his knee, the rhythm uneven, restless, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s still deciding whether or not to say.

then—"you know," he starts, voice too casual, too calculated, like he’s testing the waters before fully stepping in. "you never let me see your sketchbook."

your grip tightens slightly around the cup, the warmth pressing against your palms, suddenly too much, too distracting.

he notices.

satoru's gaze flickers down—just for a second, brief but deliberate—before meeting yours again, sharper now, curiosity replacing the usual lazy amusement in his expression. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something steadier, something unreadable. “why is that?

“…no reason,” you lie, shifting under his stare, trying to appear unaffected. but the soup in your hands is suddenly too warm, too grounding, your fingers curling tighter around the ceramic like it might steady you. you can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s watching you too closely, too intently, like he’s waiting for the cracks to show.

his brows lift, his expression flat, unimpressed. “bullshit.”

you scowl, gripping your soup tighter, like it’ll shield you from this conversation, like it might somehow block him from seeing through you.

“it’s private.”

“so? i’m literally the subject,” he argues, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his presence suddenly heavier, more insistent. “i should get at least a sneak peek.”

“no.”

his eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lip twitching like he’s already planning a new approach. “why?”

“because,” you say, and that’s all you give him. because you don’t know how to explain it. because you don’t want to.

his lips press into a thin line, his gaze lingering just a little too long, just sharp enough to make you shift under the weight of it.

a challenge.

but you’re still half-buried in exhaustion, your limbs too heavy, your mind still foggy, and he knows it.

so after a beat, satoru exhales through his nose, then leans back against the bed again, arms folding behind his head, stretching out like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t over.

“fine. for now,” he says, voice light, easy. but there’s something about the way he says it—something low, something certain, like a promise rather than a concession.

you glare at him, because you know him—know the way his mind works, know that he never lets things go, never drops anything without a reason. you see the way his grin lingers, the way it tugs at the corner of his mouth just slightly off-kilter, like he’s already planning his next move. it’s not a matter of if he’ll bring this up again—it’s when.

he grins wider, because he knows you know. because you’re predictable in a way that amuses him, in a way that keeps him entertained. you’re trying too hard to brush this off, to pretend like the question doesn’t rattle something inside you, but he’s always been good at noticing the little things. your avoidance, your tight grip on the cup, the way your shoulders stiffen just slightly whenever he pushes too close.

and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, the air turning lighter again, slipping back into something familiar. you take another sip of the miso soup, the heat seeping through your fingers, spreading through your chest, anchoring you in the quiet. satoru shifts, arms still behind his head, gaze flickering away from you for once—out the window, toward the sky, toward the city beyond.

outside, the wind rattles the glass, slipping through the cracks, curling into the room like the first whisper of something colder.

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

the air is colder, sharper, slipping through the cracks of your dorm window no matter how tightly you close it. the ground outside is dusted in frost, the once-vibrant autumn leaves now forgotten beneath slushy sidewalks and the occasional crunch of ice. campus is emptier now, students retreating home for winter break, leaving the dorms quieter, the hallways less crowded, less alive.

but he’s in your dorm all the time now.

it started with quick drop-ins after games—an excuse to complain about how sore he was, to stretch out on your floor like a lazy cat, to toss you a snack without explanation. then it turned into late-night visits when he had nowhere better to be—until, eventually, he stopped pretending he needed a reason at all.

your dorm isn’t much, just a tiny room barely big enough for the both of you, but somehow, it’s become his space, too.

he kicks his shoes off without thinking, leaves his jacket slung over your chair like it belongs there, flops onto your bed without asking. he always brings something with him—sometimes food, sometimes a new brand of tea he insists you try, sometimes just the lingering warmth of conversation when the room feels too quiet.

(you complain about it. “this is not a hangout spot.” “stop making a mess on my desk.” “for the last time, satoru, my bed is not your personal couch.” but you never actually tell him to leave.)

and lately, you seem less exhausted when he’s here.

finals are over. winter break has started. the campus is quieter, the stress that had settled into your shoulders finally lifting, loosening its grip.

you still overwork yourself, still get lost in your paintings for hours, but you’re taking care of yourself now, too.

he sees it in the way you actually eat full meals instead of just instant noodles. in the way you don’t fight him when he shoves a bottle of water into your hands. in the way you’ve stopped waking up with smudged paint on your cheek from falling asleep at your desk.

he’s proud of you. not that he’d ever say it out loud. maybe one day. but for now, he’ll just keep showing up.

tonight, though, you’re running late.

some meeting for an art exhibition, something you were weirdly cagey about when he asked. you had waved him off, barely sparing him a glance as you gathered your things in a rush, stuffing papers into your bag, adjusting your coat with hurried movements. he had teased you—“look at you, so professional. should I start calling you sensei?”—but you had just rolled your eyes, muttered something about being late, and disappeared out the door.

he almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy digging through a plastic bag of snacks he brought for you, tossing a pack onto your desk, then tearing open another for himself. he stretches out against your bed frame, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand, snacks in the other, making himself comfortable in the way he always does. your absence doesn’t bother him—you’ll be back soon, and besides, he’s already claimed this space as his own.

but then—his eyes flicker to your desk. to your sketchbook.

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

he’s seen the way you snap it shut the second he moves too close, how you always turn it facedown, tuck it under your arm, keep it pressed against your chest when you leave a room. it’s deliberate, protective, like it holds something you don’t want him to see—something more than just rough sketches from your sessions.

and he’s been good. he’s been patient. but now? now, he’s alone. and, well—what’s the harm in taking a little peek?

his fingers brush the cover, hesitating for just a second—a quiet moment of restraint before curiosity wins out. then, with one last glance at the door to make sure you’re not back yet—he flips it open.

he expects sketches of his poses from your sessions. the usual. the planned. the predictable.

what he doesn’t expect is—pages and pages of him.

not the carefully composed ones, not the ones you’d shown him before. no, these are different. the lines are loose, unpolished, real—like you weren’t drawing to impress anyone, like you were just trying to capture something before it slipped away.

his fingers still against the page, breath catching slightly, pulse stuttering in a way he doesn’t understand. his own face stares back at him, over and over again, not the carefully arranged expressions from your sessions, but the ones he didn’t know you were paying attention to.

him, tying his shoes before a game, the curve of his shoulders loose and relaxed. him, tossing his head back, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled—drawn in a way that makes him look softer than he’s used to. next to it, in small, slanted handwriting: ‘loudest laugh in the world.’

satoru exhales slowly, flipping the page, movements quieter now, more deliberate.

him, spinning a basketball on his fingertip, drawn from multiple angles like you were trying to get it just right. him, leaning against your dorm room wall, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze sharp but amused—like he’s in the middle of teasing you. his eyes flick to the corner, where you’ve written, ‘always watching. annoyingly perceptive.’

he huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. his throat feels tight.

he turns another page, his fingers careful now, almost hesitant. a corner of a napkin peeks out—he pulls it loose, unfolding it carefully. a quick, half-finished sketch of him mid-sprint, lines rushed, motion barely captured, next to a coffee-stained note that just says: ‘too fast to draw. unfair.’

his lips part slightly, breath catching at the words, at the fact that you even tried.

another, taped messily into the spine of the book—a full-body drawing of him from behind, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, walking away. ‘somehow takes up more space than anyone else.’ you wrote in the margins, the ink slightly smudged, like you had run your fingers over it absentmindedly.

he swallows, jaw tightening. his thumb brushes the edge of the page, lingering there, like if he just holds still, he’ll figure out what to do with the way his chest feels too full, too tight.e because this—this isn’t simply a collection of sketches. this is him, through your eyes.

and then—he flips another page. this one is different.

not a quick sketch, not a half-finished doodle on the edge of a napkin, not something you scribbled in passing. a full portrait. detailed, deliberate, like you took your time with it. like you wanted to get it exactly right.

he recognizes the jersey immediately—it’s from last week, when he had come over grumbling about practice, throwing himself onto your bed like it was his own, arms sprawled out, eyes shut, muttering about how being the best was exhausting. he remembers laughing, remembers the weight of your gaze on him, remembers teasing you about how you were always staring anyway.

but this—this means you had watched him even longer. the expression you captured—it’s him, but it’s softer. relaxed. comfortable. unaware.

oh.

his fingers pause against the edge of the paper, grip tightening just slightly.

but you couldn’t have done all this in front of him without him noticing. you’re always preoccupied, always doing something else whenever he’s around—never reaching for your sketchbook. had you drawn this only after he left? had you memorized these moments, watched him for far longer than he realized, until you could capture him this accurately?

his stomach does something weird again.

like a sharp twist of something unfamiliar, something heavy, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. his throat feels tight, his pulse uneven, a strange warmth creeping into his chest and settling there, stubborn and unmoving.

his gaze lingers on the portrait, taking in the details—the careful shading of his jawline, the way his hair looks slightly messier than usual, the way his arms are draped carelessly over the sheets. he looks like he belongs there.

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

he hears your footsteps before the door even opens—the soft, familiar rhythm of them padding down the hall, the faint rustle of your coat as you shift, the quiet exhale you always let out before stepping inside.

the door creaks open gently, slow and careful, like you’re trying not to startle the silence of the room. “i’m home,” you say softly, the words barely past your lips before you step inside.

but satoru isn’t paying attention. because his heart is still racing, his hands are still gripping the sketchbook, and he’s way too fucking giddy to think of a way to get rid of his crime in time.

you take two steps in before your gaze lands on him—seated on your bed, sketchbook open in his hands, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. your expression shifts in an instant—relaxed to confused to absolutely horrified.

“satoru, what are you—” your voice cuts off mid-sentence, sharp and sudden, like you physically can’t finish.

he looks up at you, eyes bright with mischief, lips already curling into a grin, the kind that spells nothing but trouble. fingers still pressed against the pages, holding them open like evidence, like proof. then—casually, effortlessly, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed—“you like me.”

you freeze, body going rigid, fingers twitching at your sides like you don’t know whether to snatch the book back or bolt.

he tilts his head, grin widening, flipping through the pages with exaggerated slowness, dragging out your suffering. “and here i thought you only liked me for my bone structure—”

“give it back.” your voice comes out too fast, too sharp, laced with something close to panic.

he laughs, flipping another page, gaze flicking between the sketches and your rapidly reddening face. “so you have been staring.”

"satoru—" you take a step forward, but he just leans back against the bed, completely unbothered, holding the sketchbook out of reach.

“oh, this one’s nice,” he teases, holding up the sketch of him mid-game, spinning the book slightly between his fingers like he’s inspecting it. “was this from last week? so you were watching me train and not just pretending to be absorbed in your sketchbook—”

“i was drawing!—”

“—drawing me.” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else under it—something quieter, something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

you snatch the sketchbook out of his hands so fast it nearly smacks him in the face.

he expects you to yell at him. maybe shove him. maybe even hit him with the sketchbook. but instead your expression twists, your cheeks burning, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t, and before he can react, before he can stop you—you groan and slam the sketchbook back to your bed, turn on your heel and leave.

“hey—!” he scrambles after you, nearly tripping over a stack of books, nearly sending an entire pile of papers flying, nearly proving why you never let him near your workspace unsupervised. his breath comes out in sharp puffs of white against the cold air, but he barely notices, too focused on closing the distance between you, on the way your shoulders are stiff, the way you move like you’re fighting the urge to break into a full sprint.

outside, the first real snowfall of the season is drifting down, dusting the campus in white, clinging to the bare branches, softening the edges of the world. but you’re too preoccupied with storming away to notice, too caught up in your own mortification to care.

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, catching up with long, easy strides, like this isn’t a crisis, like this isn’t your worst nightmare unfolding in real time. “don’t just run away—”

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

“i—!” you whirl around so fast he nearly crashes into you, nearly walks straight into your personal space like an idiot. he stops just short, breath catching slightly, eyes flicking down to the tiny sliver of space left between you.

the air is cold between you, breath visible in the space that suddenly feels too charged, too warm despite the winter creeping in.

your arms are crossed so tightly it looks like you’re holding yourself together, like if you let go, you might actually combust from sheer embarrassment.

“you’re so—” you huff, flustered, frustrated, desperate to change the subject, desperate to claw back even a fraction of your dignity.

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

he just grins, all teeth and shameless amusement, because you’re easy to read now. because no matter how much you glare at him, your ears are pink, your fingers are twitching, your weight is shifting like you want to run again but can’t bring yourself to.

“you like me,” he says again, softer this time. more certain.

you don’t answer.

snowflakes land on your lashes, catching in your hair, melting against your skin. your lips are parted like you want to argue, but nothing comes out. your eyes are too bright, too wide, too caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay.

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

he moves before he can think, before he can overcomplicate it, before you can run again. his head tilts, his breath warm against your skin, and then—he leans down, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

his lips are warm despite the cold, despite the way the winter air bites at your skin, despite the snowflakes melting between you. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, those impossibly bright baby blues disappearing beneath pale lashes. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease, doesn’t turn it into something playful. for once, he takes his time.

his free hand lifts just slightly, like he wants to cup your cheek, like he wants to hold you there, but at the last second, he hesitates. instead, his fingers curl lightly around your wrist, grounding, steady, just enough pressure to keep you from slipping away.

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

your breath stutters, your fingers gripping at the fabric of his uniform, hesitant at first, then firmer, anchoring yourself to him. your body tilts forward, just the slightest bit, just enough to tell him—yes.

and he’s already grinning into the kiss, absolutely insufferable, because he knew it. because he knew you wouldn’t pull away. because he knew you liked him.

when you finally pull back, breathless, he doesn’t let you go.

doesn’t want to.

his grip on your wrist stays firm, not tight, not demanding, just enough to keep you here, to keep you in this moment a little longer. his breath is warm against your skin, fanning softly over your lips, his fingers twitching like he’s debating pulling you back in.

“so,” he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours, nose barely grazing your own, “are you gonna admit it now, or do i have to go through another sketchbook’s worth of proof?”

your fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, like it’s trying to make up for every second you spent pretending this wasn’t real. your cheeks are burning, the cold doing nothing to help, but still—you force yourself to meet his gaze, to stare straight into those impossibly bright baby blues.

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

“i like you,” you clarify, somehow both firmer and shyer at the same time, words tumbling out too fast and too soft. then, before he can say anything stupid—“now you say it.”

his grin falters—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in something softer, something fonder, something that makes your stomach flip.

“i like you,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he never doubted it for a second. his ears are pink, his fingers twitch against your wrist, but his voice stays steady, stays sure. “a lot.”

your stomach twists, your face burns, and before he can get even more unbearably smug about it, you shove him, pushing at his chest with more force than necessary, just to wipe the grin off his face.

he laughs, stumbling back a step but still holding onto your wrist, still looking at you like you’ve just handed him the greatest win of his life.

but this time, you don’t walk away.

instead, you sigh, shaking your head as you grab his sleeve properly and start pulling him back toward your dorm, fingers curling around the fabric like you’re holding on without realizing it.

“what, no dramatic speech about how i misread everything?” he teases, falling into step beside you, his free hand slipping lazily into his pocket.

“shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled by the scarf you’ve pulled higher over your face, like it’ll somehow hide the warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

“soooo,” he drawls, bumping his shoulder against yours, “does this mean i’m officially your muse and your boyfriend now? multi-purpose?”

“no.”

“cold.”

he laughs, and it’s light, easy, painfully warm despite the winter air, like it’s found a home between you, settling there without permission. his breath fogs in the cold, but the space between you feels warmer somehow, lighter, like the weight of something unspoken has finally lifted. his steps are relaxed now, shoulders looser, head tilting toward you every so often—a quiet, effortless gravity pulling him closer, even when he doesn’t realize it.

when you get back to your dorm, he kicks off his shoes like always, sending them haphazardly toward the corner. shrugs off his jacket like always, barely looking where it lands. flops onto your bed like always, stretching out like he owns the place, arms behind his head, hair messy from the wind.

but this time, you roll your eyes and curl up beside him, too.

he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to fight the smug grin tugging at his lips. he just shifts, adjusting without thinking, making room like he’s been waiting for this—like you’ve belonged there all along.

when he tucks his arm around you without thinking, you don’t complain.

when you mumble, half-asleep, voice softer than usual, “thanks for taking care of me.” he just hums, low and content, the sound barely more than a vibration against your skin. his fingers move without thought, absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your back, the rhythm steady, grounding.

when he presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head, breath catching just slightly against your hair, you don’t push him away.

outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in quiet. winter settles in around you. and for once, you let yourself rest.

the last of WINTER lingers in the early mornings, cold air curling against skin, clinging to rooftops, biting at fingertips. but the afternoons are warming up, the sun stretching a little higher in the sky, melting the ice that once lined the sidewalks. students swap heavy coats for lighter jackets, trading chattering teeth for the kind of energy that only comes with knowing winter is finally loosening its grip. cherry blossoms are just beginning to bud, hesitant, as if uncertain the cold is truly gone.

campus is filling up again. winter break is over. the once-quiet halls are alive with movement, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against tile, the hum of life creeping back in. the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the cafés, mingling with the crisp air, a sure sign that students are shaking off their winter sluggishness.

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

he was already bad enough as their university’s basketball star before. always loud, always impossible to ignore, always moving through campus like he owned it, like he was more event than person, someone you watched because you couldn’t help it. with that ridiculous, effortless kind of charm, all long limbs and easy smiles, like he’d never once known the weight of the world.

but now? now, he has a girlfriend. and now, he has you. and he makes sure everyone knows.

“my beloved!”

his voice slices through the courtyard like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable, sending heads turning with an almost comical synchronicity. he’s leaning against a vending machine when you spot him, his navy varsity jacket loose over his shoulders, white t-shirt just barely clinging to the lean muscle beneath. his hair is a mess of soft white strands, tousled from the wind—or maybe practice—but his grin is bright, his blue eyes locked onto you with alarming precision.

you freeze for half a second—just half—but that’s all it takes for him to zero in on you, and you can feel the shift in the air, the heat of his gaze on your back as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. the sound of his footsteps quicken, and before you know it, the familiar, teasing voice slices through the space between you.

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

you don’t even hesitate. the instinct to escape rises up, and you walk faster, head forward, eyes fixed on some imaginary point in the distance. it’s an old trick, pretending like if you just focus hard enough on something far away, you can ignore the fact that satoru gojo is loudly, dramatically, chasing after you like some over-the-top rom-com hero.

“stop it.” your teeth grind together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as you force your shoulders to stay stiff, trying to hold onto whatever dignity you have left.

he laughs, delighted by your discomfort, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. with a lazy, unbothered air, he shoves his hands into his pockets and easily falls into step beside you. his white hair is still a mess from practice, some strands falling into his eyes, but he looks effortless, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. “you wound me, darling.”

“i am not doing this with you.” you mutter under your breath, barely glancing at him, hoping that if you ignore him long enough, he’ll just go away. but it’s futile.

he’s faster. it’s always the same. his long legs carry him with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone so tall, and with barely any effort, he’s at your side, matching your pace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. his head tilts slightly, his white hair falling over his eyes in that way you’ve come to recognize so well—shifting and effortlessly falling into place. his blue eyes catch the light, looking so damn intense, you can’t help but notice the way they gleam through the long lashes, unguarded and almost playful.

“starlight, love of my life, future mother of my children—”

you stop mid-step, throwing him a sharp look, and his smile only widens at your frustration. “satoru.”

he gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror, eyes widening as if you’ve physically hurt him. he stumbles back a step, just for effect, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “are you—” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, his expression feigning scandal as he leans in closer. “are you ashamed of me?”

your jaw tightens, the irritation mixing with something else you’d rather not address. “i would like for people to know quietly.”

satoru halts mid-step, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just ripped out his heart. his face contorts into exaggerated pain as if you’ve just shattered him with a single sentence. “you—you don’t want to scream our love from the rooftops? you don’t want the whole world to know how much you adore me?” he flutters his fingers dramatically in the air as if visualizing the grand spectacle of it all.

you groan, shoving your hands into your pockets, doing your best to ignore the amused glances and curious whispers around you. it’s not bad, really. the attention.

you had expected—well. you don’t know what you expected. for people to react badly? for them to wonder why he’s with you, of all people?

but mostly, people are just… surprised. conversations halt mid-sentence, heads whip around for second and third takes, and whispered speculations weave through the air like static electricity.

a lot of:

“wait. gojo has a girlfriend? for real?”

“damn, i thought he was just messing around.”

“no way. no actual way.”

a handful of utterly devastated fangirls, clutching their textbooks like lifelines, staring as if their world has just come crashing down. but no one says anything cruel. no one scoffs or sneers. no one looks at you like you don’t belong next to him.

it’s a little overwhelming. but not awful. just… loud. and satoru? he thrives in it.

he’s absolutely ridiculous about it, keeps throwing his arm around your shoulders, keeps making a show of lacing his fingers through yours, keeps finding ways to bring it up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. when you’re walking together, he tugs you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he wants everyone on campus to see. his hand is always finding its way to your waist, resting there like it belongs, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of your sweater. sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he’ll spin you around in the middle of the hallway, dipping you like you’re in the final scene of a romance movie, just because he can.

and you—earnest, quiet, and in love despite yourself—you let him.

you don’t indulge him the same way he does you. your affections are smaller, tucked between the spaces he leaves, a quiet echo to his relentless declarations. but you don’t pull away when he leans into you. you don’t protest when he sneaks his fingers through yours. and when you think no one’s looking, when his head is turned just so, when he’s grinning at something dumb and impossibly satoru, you let yourself look at him the way he looks at you.

one time, in the middle of lunch, he just sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. his white hair is a mess from practice, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck, but he still looks effortless, still looks like he belongs under the sun, basking in the warmth of his own theatrics. he exhales, long and suffering, tilting his head back so far his chair almost tips. and then, with all the weight of the universe pressing down on his chest, he declares;

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

you don’t even look up from your sketchbook. you’re used to this. you barely even blink anymore when he starts talking like the main character in a tragic love story. “you literally asked for this.”

“yeah, but still.”

he hums, thoughtful, like he’s truly pondering the gravity of his situation—then abruptly flops onto your lap, draping himself across you like he’s meant to be there. his head lands against your stomach, arms sprawled, legs stretched out across the bench, the weight of him pressing down on you like an overgrown cat. his hair tickles your wrist, and when you peer down, his eyes are already on you, bright and full of trouble. he’s grinning, of course he’s grinning, his lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh.

you grunt under the sudden weight, the pressure of his body settling onto you like a heavy, careless blanket. you barely stop yourself from elbowing him off, your muscles tensing from the surprise, but he’s already too comfortable, sprawled across your lap with a dramatic sigh. “get off me.”

“no.”

he sounds so certain, so annoyingly nonchalant as he rests his head on your stomach, his hair messy from practice, damp strands sticking to his forehead like a defiant halo. you sigh through your nose, fingers tightening around your pencil, the sharp tip pressing against the paper as if it could ground you. “what do you want.”

“you know,” he says, his voice light, almost sing-song, as his head tilts just enough to meet your gaze, those ridiculously bright, ridiculously smug baby blues peering up at you with a look that’s both teasing and entirely too pleased with himself. “you kinda have a responsibility now.”

your sigh is louder this time, escaping through your nose as you flip to a new page in your sketchbook, trying to ignore the weight of him and the pull of his presence. you shift a little beneath him, adjusting to make space as your gaze flickers down at him. “what responsibility.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the casual pose, his arms still spread wide like he’s claiming the space between you, his legs stretched comfortably across the bench, his fingers tapping lightly against your stomach. “you have to come to all my games. non-negotiable.”

you finally glance down at him, unimpressed, but your eyes soften just a little when you see the way he’s looking up at you, his grin wide, eyes twinkling like he’s saying something that’s a matter of life and death. you roll your eyes but can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. “all of them?”

“yes. all.”

you blink at him, your hand drifting to your lap, pressing down the fluttering feeling in your chest, the soft affection you try so hard to keep from spilling over. “but i already go to most of them—”

“all. of. them.” his tone is firm now, a little playful but undeniably serious, his finger poking at your side like a reminder of his claim over your attention. he lifts his head just slightly, his lips pulling into a smirk that’s far too smug for anyone's good, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s completely and utterly certain of his win.

you sigh, louder this time, rolling your eyes as he grins up at you like he’s already won. his hair is soft when your fingers brush against it, a stray lock falling over his forehead as he waits, expectant. you hesitate for just a second, then let your fingers linger a beat longer than necessary, smoothing it back into place. “and why, exactly?”

his smirk falters, just for a fraction of a second. almost imperceptible. but you catch it, the flicker of something softer beneath the bravado, the way his throat bobs slightly before he answers.

“because you have to witness your incredibly talented, best-athlete-on-campus boyfriend in action, obviously.”

“obviously.”

“plus,” he adds, reaching up to poke your cheek with the most obnoxious little tap, “i play better when you’re there.”

your fingers tighten around your pencil, just slightly. you don’t answer immediately, because if you do, it might come out too soft, too earnest, too much. but your lips press together, and your gaze lingers, and when you finally murmur, “…is that true, or are you just saying that?” it sounds quieter than you mean it to.

his grin widens, eyes gleaming, mischief and sincerity tangled together like a promise. “guess you’ll have to keep coming to find out, huh?”

you shove his face away.

but later, when his attention is stolen by something else—when he’s laughing with his friends or zoning out as he stretches— you find your gaze lingering, the subtle shift of your focus as you tilt your head. your eyes trace the smooth curve of his cheek, the way the sunlight catches in his hair, making the white strands look like a halo around his face. there’s the easy slope of his shoulders, the way he leans back with that effortless confidence, his legs stretched out over the bench like he owns every inch of space around him. you notice all these things in the quiet moments when he’s not looking, and it’s almost like a secret you keep tucked away.

and then you think, helplessly, hopelessly— he plays better because he’s looking for you. it's not just the game he’s focused on. it’s the stands, it’s you. and for all his teasing, all his dramatic declarations, there’s this undercurrent you can’t deny—that he needs you there, in that spot, where his eyes always find yours.

you go to all his games anyway. it’s not a question, not a choice. you sit in the stands, your eyes fixed on the court, but your mind elsewhere, always waiting, always watching. every time, without fail, he looks for you before tip-off, and the moment he spots you, his expression shifts—just the faintest change in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes brighten as if he’s found something precious. every time, he finds you, like there’s no other place he would rather be. every time, he grins that obnoxious, confident grin, the one that says he will win, that he knows you’re there, and that’s enough.

spring creeps in. the last of the cold melts away, and you notice how the days stretch longer, how the warmth settles in your bones as everything begins to bloom around you.

and satoru gojo never stops being loud about loving you, his voice always rising above the noise, always unafraid of being seen. and you, quiet as you are, never stop loving him right back, holding it all in the space between the moments, where words aren’t necessary.

a/n : i would like to formally announce that i was this close to killing her off in winter via tragic anemia-induced collapse, but in a rare act of mercy, i decided against it. as such, i will be accepting 100-word minimum essays filled with gratitude in the comments. failure to comply may result in me rethinking my generosity. choose wisely.

kidding aside, im glad i finally got this fic out of my drafts—this has been rotting and slowly cooking since the episode with satoru playing basketball released😋 idk much about western school year so i apologize if the schedule is all wrong! i only relied to google writing this. not like they will read this but i still wanna thanks my homeboys for helping me write the basketball scene, i definitely needed that <3 im not an artist so i apologize if there are any misconceptions in my fic ^^

[12:18]

You are a steadily flickering candle in Bakugou’s dim world. He’s not gloomy or upset or tortured– no no, he quite likes the dark.

His mom has always competed with the sun. Bakugou rose first in his childhood home because beating the sun meant a few hours of peace. He wakes up slowly and heavily like he’s shifting under soil while blankets slip into the creased shapes of his body. In those first few minutes of dark the whole world is buried underground.

Now that he lives with his idiot classmates he sleeps early. Bakugou likes to pull the curtains closed as the sun sets and melt deeply into a too-soft pillow before his eyes can adjust to the dark. Making breakfast alone at dawn, training as loud as he wants to be in the gym across campus lit only by the fires of his quirk. Even at high noon he likes to shower with the lights off, for in these rare moments of dark Bakugou can finally think slowly without competition to worry about. If he lived a quieter life he might even get bored, but blessedly his friends can't spare him a sneeze in peace.

Walking through the halls is like trying to hide from fireworks. Running into Deku is as safe as watching a solar eclipse. He’s blinding and always has been; Bakugou startles every time the fucking kid flashbangs with a ‘good morning!’ or a ‘Kacchan!’ Sparkplug might as well be an electrical fire and Mina makes a blaring siren look like an insult to emergency vehicles. Kirishima is at least tolerable. He shines pink like a happy lighthouse but you still can’t look at him directly for too long.

You though. Bakugou didn’t even notice at first the way you could only be seen in periphery. In the bustle of class and patrol you stayed soft and easy to see. As noisy as the rest but not blinding. Like crouching on the beach and watching a sparkler come to life in your hand. Like polished bells.

If you woke up early enough you might catch him in the kitchen and twinkle sleepily past like a shooting star through the common room. ‘Mornin’ you’d grumble through a yawn and candlelight would peek out between your fingers when you covered your mouth.

Titling his head slightly to glance at you in class. A halo of gold outlined your body anytime he let himself linger on you like this. Sometimes he saw nothing but you illuminating the vast expanse of peaceful dark. Easier to look at but still warmer than the sun. Maybe the sun couldn’t compete. Oh jesus the sun would probably love you-

“Oi Dynamight,” you murmur.

Bakugou jumps. His cheek falls out of his hand and his elbow slips off the desk. You weren’t the radiant moon basking above rising tide– you were straddling the back of your chair lazily to chat with Uraraka behind you.

Tch, he spits and turns his head quickly towards the window instead.

Your cheek squishes onto your friend’s desk, “you look red, feeling okay?”

“Don’t get us all sick before midterms dude,” Uraraka adds.

Bakugou doesn’t get sick, your sleepy moonglow smile just makes him ache. Not like a sunburn. It’s like being too comfortable in bed for too long. Like a good stretch.

happy birthday katsuki (*ᴗ͈ ˬᴗ͈ )

hello !! ૮˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ა i really love your writing and your soft scenarios, they bring me so much serotonin and happiness to be honest !

i don’t know if you take requests still, but could you please do a part two of jjk men + short partner with geto? only if you want to of course, i’ll respect your decision either way don’t worry! thank you so much! <3

JJK MEN + SHORT PARTNER

featuring. geto suguru, itadori yuuji, sukuna ryomen x reader

warnings. reader is a non-sorcerer (geto)

note. hihi nonnieeee <33 thank you so much for saying that, you don't understand how much you saying that makes me so happy :(( i'm so glad that my works can bring you happiness omg. this is part two to the short partner headcanons.

part one.

GETO SUGURU. geto honestly could care less about your height — he finds you so adorable that he sometimes can't help but to pinch your cheeks gently, tugging your flesh and squeezing it lightly out of love; it has turned into a small habit that he does to you.

"sugu, no more, my cheeks are going to swell," you tell him, covering your cheeks with your hands to prevent the male from touching it again.

geto couldn't help but to chuckle at your reaction. you're so cute, so small compared to him that all he wanted to do was to poke fun at you. laying his large, calloused hand on top of your head whenever you both sit side-by-side, softly shifting just to pat you.

he will put you on his lap, playing with your hair as you do your own thing. you know a perk of being a shortie? when you sit on a certain height, you get to swing your legs lightly, letting it just flail above ground — and when you do that, geto stares at you lovingly.

"i'm a little jealous of you," your boyfriend mumbles, leaning his chin on top of the palm of his hand. his eyes gazing to your figure as you swung your legs lightly.

"why?"

"you get to swing your legs like that," he pointed his index finger to your legs and you stopped swinging your legs, "why'd you stop?"

"so you won't feel jealous."

geto easily pulls you into his embrace, nuzzling his head into your neck, "keep doing that, 'm enjoying it, you know?" he mumbles, pressing a kiss onto your neck.

he hates non-sorcerers, but when it comes to you? he just can't hate you.

ITADORI YUUJI. ABOSLUTELY LOVES YOUR SHORT HEIGHT. he would and will help you take things that are out of your reach — won't make fun of you, don't worry, I assure you there will never be a scenarios where yuuji makes fun of you. he just thinks you're so perfect, and he gets really sad when you make fun of yourself.

"baby, why would you say that?" he asks you, pulling you close, laying his head on your shoulder.

"yuuji, because it's true," you chuckled, brushing his hair.

"but i like that part of you. your height," he muffles into your clothes, leaning into your touch.

he gets so mushy with you — i'm not even kidding, will grab you, throw you over his shoulders and walk around anywhere. greeting people he know on the way, even gojo or nanami (while you're on his shoulder, also greeting them).

"nanamin, hi!" yuuji greets, walking past the older male as he turned to look at both you and him, you waved at nanami when he turns around to look — and he waves back at you, confused.

yuuji is clingy. but you don't mind — he will latch himself onto you, do you know how parents hold their baby when they're trying to teach them how to walk? yuuji does that with you, even if you're not that much shorter than him; still short, he still does it. because you're his baby, and he won't accept anything else.

"c'mon baby, left and right, left and right." he guides your arms forward, standing behind you.

as you took a step, he takes one too — like teaching a baby how to walk, it's cute really, "yes, just like that," he laughs. god, he's having so much fun with you.

yuuji won't let anyone call you short, even gojo. will fight anyone who makes fun of you, and not even kidding. he will not back down from defending you.

"what do you mean they're too short?" he retorts back, rolling his eyes, "you're too annoying and nobody's saying anything."

SUKUNA RYOMEN. huge. tease. about it. will go on until you cry — but will make it up to you in his own way. he's not one to say how much he loves you, but you do know that he does. he just refuses to say it.

"ryo, stop. it's not funny anymore." you mumble out lowly to him, pushing his chest away.

he chuckles deeply, but when he realizes it was serious; he stops, turns away for a bit before glancing back at you. sukuna isn't much of a crier, so he doesn't know what to do when you cry — he gets a little confused, like, why are you crying because he called you short?

"why are you crying, brat?" he grunted.

"you're being mean to me."

"i called you short." he sighs out loudly, pulling your arm away from your face — revealing your tearful eyes, "stop crying," he thumbs your tears away from the corner of your eyes.

"then stop doing that, you've done that so many times, it's pissing me off." you mumbled at him, sniffling lightly.

the male groans out, rolling his eyes, "are humans this dramatic?" he asks you, wiping your tears away; pulling you onto his lap, burying his face into the crook of your neck — as much as he tries to put up this tough guys demeanor, he feels bad for making you cry.

but will definitely do it again next time.

it's weird; sukuna shows his love by teasing the hell out of you, pissing you off, making you cry — then ends up feeling bad for a few hours before doing the same thing all over again.

"'m sorry, but i'll do it again next time." he murmurs into your neck.

"you're mean."

"i know. but i love you."

© IPINVRSE 2024 , DO NOT COPY OR REPOST ANYWHERE