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tojjist · 4 months

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“At Least” S. Gojo

☆ genre: angst to fluff (kinda)

☆ pairings: Gojo Satoru x f! reader

☆ summary: After Geto left, nothing has been the same. Especially not your relationship with Gojo Satoru. Once you decide to move to Kyoto for good, Gojo is less than pleased. But fate does not seem to want to let you go.

☆ cw: mentions of sex, depressed gojo, not spoiler free, hopping between timelines but like i added non-canon events, smoking, drinking, getting drunk, high school Gojo being a high school boy, cussing, mentions of drunk sex but it doesn’t happen, mentions character death (from the anime), gojo satoru (yes that's a trigger warning).

☆ wc : 5.6k

☆ a/n: this has been in the doing for so long? I've been waiting to have the chance to upload it for maybe a year now smh. Also was originally written for an irl of mine lmao

“Oh my god,” you emphasize each word, pushing the wooden chair away with your knee. “Satoru, is it yours?”

His black pupils, lined with iris the color of morning skies, study your figure from behind the shaded glasses, pink lips quirking slightly upwards in approval of your attention.

“Nah, it's only staying with me for a week,” he stated, watching nervously as you strode over to him. “His owner is away for some business.”

Your attention remained fixed on the pet in Satoru's long, long arms. Your face lit up when a bark escaped the infant animal. “Can I hold it?”

Satoru watched over you carefully, pleading eyes coming in line with his blues. You make it hard to say anything other than an immediate yes, but he tries to stretch out the conversation to his best ability.

“It's 400 yen for 10 minutes,” he muttered, sarcasm dripping from his words. He earned a look of amusement from you; a small victory. He then braced himself for the next part. Satoru bent down, meeting you eye-to-eye, and noticed your breath catching in anticipation. “Or... you can shorten your skirt.”

Your face took no time to grow hot, not giving any verbal answer besides the blank expression you stare at him with. For a second, Gojo let himself think he's the victor of this little challenge he started in his head. But he soon came to realize how grave of a mistake he's made.

You're not flustered, you're angry.

“You're such a fucking pervert,” you fume, eyes glaring daggers. He dares not move, noticing the way your eyes flutter over his face.

“You're truly unbelievable,” the shorter male chuckled, making sure he didn't bump into Satoru's now-bruised arm. “What were you even thinking?”

“I thought it was funny, y'know?” He huffed in response. Gojo's fingers ran through his own bright locks as he took a seat on the wood hung up by metal chains. "Besides, has she always been this strong? Physically, I mean."

Geto stared into the reddish sky of dusk, placing himself into a swing in turn and kicking the air so the swing would start moving. "I don't know. Girls are really full of surprises.”

He never thought, not in a million years, things would come to this. Ever since Gojo's last encounter with Geto after he, well, changed... Gojo became unable to face anyone quite the same way he did before.

How did he get here? How did things escalate to this? Thinking about it, Geto had shown signs of a change in his heart and mind. It was Satoru's fault, was it not? He should have done better. He should have noticed. How could he not have? wasn't he the strongest? Wasn't that his job? How could he be so bad at everything?

How could he fail everyone like this?

“Gojo-San?”

Your feminine voice cut his train of thought. He almost forgot the situation he is now stuck in. He's been doing that a lot: losing himself in thought, mind almost immune to the outer world until he temporarily lost his sense of self. Nothing felt quite the same any more. It was like the world had lost its color.

“Sorry- What's up?” He turned to you. Gojo-san, you called him. When did you stop using his given name? What's with the '-san'? Gojo hadn't realized that losing one person was the first step, and now he found himself deep in the road of losing everyone.

And now he's stuck in the elevator with the girl he had liked for so long. He couldn't find it in himself to say anything to you, to push your buttons like he always did or joke around. When did the world become so heavy? He does not know.

“Are you okay? You seemed off.”

Your face is devoid of any genuine emotion, seemingly expressionless. But your voice is laced with concern. Gojo could only guess you didn't want him thinking you pity him or anything of such. But if that isn't the case, he wouldn't know. He's too tired to bother thinking about it.

“Yeah, yeah. I'm fine,” he smiled in assurance, “Just bothered by, well, this-” he threw his hand in the way of the control panel. The elevator doors have been stuck for almost twenty minutes now. How pleasant.

“uh huh,” you sigh, turning back around. How did you turn so cold?

When the silence stretches, you start a conversation, hesitant at first. “By the way, I got accepted as a helper in a nursery in Kyoto,” you mutter, gaze avoiding his own. “they're expecting me to start work right after spring break.”

Spring break?

Holy shit. It hit him like a truck. That’s barely a week and a half from now.

“Spring break? Why so soon?”

“That’s when the students file back in,” you mumble, fiddling with the watch placed around your wrist. You pause to read the time, then turn to meet his eyes. “I’m leaving in four days to get settled.”

“Oh…” His breath caught, “Train?”

What a stupid question. He knows. Satoru has never been unintelligent, especially in conversing. But now his unintelligence shines through as if it’s his only trait. He’s glad you don’t question it.

“Yeah, I have no other form of transport really.”

“Well, uh…” He hates himself. He hates himself for not doing anything. He hates himself for being so weak and cowardly, for being unable to keep his friends around him, for shutting everyone he holds close out. But now, he especially hates himself for being unable to feel happy for you, or to congratulate you on the opportunity, “come visit us every once in a while, yeah?”

Your mouth remains shut, only staring at the tall man before your eyes. The silence stretches between the two of you once again, and you don’t find it in you to speak of how you feel.

“You.. you know you could have died, right? We all could have b-but you…” You trail off, thoughts splattered like a spilled pot of ink. Although you seemed unfazed, in your mind you were anything but. Haibara, Riko, and all the losses that trailed and every event that followed has been stressful and nerve-wrecking. And even in the quietness and silence of the general atmosphere, it has been nearly impossible to find peace within yourself.

“Well, I didn’t. What happened had passed. Can you change that? I doubt so. No point in ‘if’ and ‘could’ve’.”

Before you could respond,the lights flickered back on. You grow unsure if you’ve struck a nerve, but that wasn’t what you meant. Gojo’s response had nothing to do with what you said, you were sure he knew exactly what your words were meant for. Why is he so scared of confronting it?

You don’t know. You could never hope to know because you and Gojo Satoru live in different worlds, the man who was only Satoru some time ago. You were worlds apart, yet Satoru loved to play pretend that he lived in the same world as you, even when he stuck out like a sore thumb. But he was no longer. Ever since Geto left… it’s safe to say everyone has been changing slowly, deforming from their previous lives and personalities. But Satoru flipped, like the head and tail of a coin, he got himself a new face. He turned into Gojo Satoru; the strongest. A soul unalive. A broken boy in an ever growing body. A stranger.

Two days later you find yourself still roaming the campus , searching so desperately for something. Anything. A reason to stay, perhaps? You don’t find it anyway. You have no attachment as this place holds nothing but misery. Or that’s what you told yourself over and over as you packed your things.

Your steps were graceful, walking so cautiously as if careful to not wake someone up. Your fingers find rest on the old, dusty door frame, pushing yourself into the room that hadn’t been used for a good month or so. The classroom looked the same as it always did. Except for the shadow that loomed over it; a gray shade that sent chills down your spine. Or maybe it’s just your imagination.

Then you spot something rather out of place. You’re sure you’ve never seen it before and although you know it’s none of your business, the way it tugs at the strings of your curiosity is undeniable.

It’s red, poking out of what you’re sure is Gojo’s desk. The gloomy classroom was no fit for paper with a color so vibrant.

Your heart skips a beat when you glimpse the seat next to Satoru’s. You do your best to avoid looking at Geto’s desk any further. You busy yourself with the task at hand, reaching out for the mysterious paper hidden in the wooden desk. Shivers run up your arm at the texture of the scrunched paper.

You attempt to straighten it to your best ability, strained by his hard work of crumbling it with obvious frustration. you can barely make out the letters of your name in the middle of the paper, outlined by a messy circle. How Gojo of him. A few lines stick out of the ‘circle’, one of them has the name of a steakhouse somewhere in Tokyo. Another has a date, reading somewhere along February. It’s near impossible to make out what the small combination of letters say, especially when Satoru’s handwriting is closer to symbols than a comprehensible language.

The thought of it was so funny it didn’t feel like him at all. Satoru never planned anything. Every breath he took was based on pure impulse. Never would it have occurred to you that he thinks through things, let alone brainstorm.

The thought makes you smile. But the realization that he never asked you out because he changed his mind or everything that happened getting in his way makes your stomach churn unpleasantly.

You decide it’s probably for the best to never bring it up. It would only make matters worse for both of you. Life ran its course; who are you to try and change it?

“I apologize, but my answer remains. I refuse to take part in this,” you spoke in an even tone. “I have a job and a life away from jujutsu. I’ve made it clear sorcery is not a part of my life anymore.”

"That’s completely understandable,” the old man argued, his voice hoarse with age. You’re pretty sure you hear anger further straining his voice, “but your technique is quite strong. That strength could be of great assistance if put to use.”

“Thank you, sir,” you dip your head, maintaining eye contact with the decaying man. “But I truly apologize. The decision is final.”

“If you ever do change your mind, please let us know. We’d be more than happy to hear it.”

You almost let a sigh of relief escape. Finally he gave up. You end up only nodding your head in response gratefully, retreating from the old man. As soon as you're safe and out of sight, you let your posture drop, eyes rolling back in annoyance. These guys are truly as relentless as ever.

You stopped upon a familiar scent catching in your nostrils. Lifting your head up, your eyes roam around, scanning the room for your friend.

“You look troubled,” Shoko approaches you, taking the cigarette out from between her teeth. “What’s with the face?”

“How is that man even alive,” you look at her, “he’s ancient.”

Your comment earns a light chuckle from the brunette. “I’m glad I never have to get caught up in this bullshit.”

“Blissed aren’t you,” you roll your eyes as you speak. “I shouldn’t have come in the first place, I knew they were going to do this.”

“It’s alright, you’re all done now. Here-” Your friend then lifts the cigarette up, putting it near your mouth. When you don’t show any resistance she, being the bad influence she has always been, proceeds to place it between your lips. You waste no time, making quick work of the drag you inhale, bringing the familiar cloud of toxic chemicals and tobacco into your lungs. Your expression relaxes, shifting into one of relief. Shoko scoffs playfully, muttering that you’re dramatic under her breath before she pulls her cigarette from you, taking in a drag.

“Satoru’s here, by the way,” Shoko didn’t need to look at you to guess the way your eyes snap towards her. She bites back a smile. “He’s calmed down. He’d even seem the same as long as you don’t squint too hard.”

“Good for him,” you mutter, trying to seem as unbothered and nonchalant as your accelerating heart rate would allow. You avoid looking at Shoko, trying to seem disinterested. You know she’d pretend you weren’t gawking at her the second she said his name.

“He’s trying, you know. He’s just as nervous as you are.”

“‘M not nervous,” you scoff, “For god’s sake. It’s been ten years already.”

Satoru is stressed. He's nervous, as Shoko put it. He’d spent so long trying to ignore the past, pretend the past wasn’t at all. He couldn’t confront it. He didn’t want to. Satoru knows what he’s done, he's aware that he hurt you the last time you two had interacted. And that was ten years ago. He even let you leave without so much as a goodbye. How could he look you in the eye and pretend nothing has ever happened?

Gojo didn’t want to face the consequences of what he’s done. More so what he hasn’t. So many things were left unsaid in the elevator that day. They’ve been hanging over Satoru ever since, weighing his heart down and wearing it out.

What if he’s met by another woman? Ten years change a lot as is. What if the eyes that meet his aren’t yours? What if he finds himself talking to a stranger that carries around your name and features? Of all the horrors Gojo Satoru had faced in his life, nothing caused dread to pool in the pit of his stomach like this thought does.

Shoko seems to find something beyond you interesting. You don’t bother to turn to see as the brunette has always been a little in her own head. She’s probably just dozed off.

“Hey, think you can hold this for me?” Shoko muttered once Gojo crossed her sight. She stands facing you, averting his gaze. “I’ll be right back, nature’s calling.”

From his distance, Gojo couldn’t make out what the two of you were saying. He watched as your shoulders shook, presumably in laughter. Shoko then made her away from you, barely sparing Satoru a glance.

Every step he took felt heavy, weights landing on his shoulders as he moved towards you. He watched smoke emerge from over your head. He didn’t know you smoked. And even though he’s not completely sure what you do for a living now, he’s not expecting any nursery to accept a smoker in their team.

His long strides finally arrived, opting to remain a step behind you. Close enough to make his presence known.

The aura was unmistakable, almost as if it could be physically sensed. You freeze in place, the cigarette remaining a few inches from your lips. Even after he changed his perfume to one a lot more manly and appealing, and clearly grew taller judging by the shadow he cast over you, his presence still had the same strength as it did before. If not stronger. Anyone else would say it’s intimidating. But you find surprising comfort in it.

“That’s going to kill you,” his hand reached from over your head, making sure to not cause any unnecessary physical contact. His fingers slip the burning cigarette from your grip. You find yourself unable to make a single move in response, only watching his actions unfold.

He took a step, moving closer, dimming the light from the roll by rubbing it against the metal bars, then throwing it off the balcony. “You’re too young to kill yourself like that.”

“That bitch Shoko set me up,” You hiss, regaining your composure. “Will you look who showed up. You’re killing the ecosystem by throwing waste like this, Gojo.”

Although you haven’t glanced his way yet, You were every bit sure his mouth was quirked in the same smug smirk he wore so much when you were younger. You could even hear it in his voice as he spoke, “You haven’t grown at all, have you?”

“Oh shut it,” you chuckle. “You’re still as immature as ever. How you could be a manchild at 27 is a wonder to me.”

27… It felt so weird to say it out loud. Weren’t you just 17 a few days ago?

“Oh, how you hurt me,” he says in exaggeration, his voice conveying anything but the hurt he claims to feel. “That isn’t very nice of you.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” You say. He laughs a little, you do too. But the silence that follows is not that of a joke. He knew what you’re referring to. Maybe he underestimated your last encounter’s effect on you.

The silence speaks for itself. It’s louder than any conversation you’ve had before. What now? What have we become? Is it of any use to try anymore? Neither of you had an answer to the question that began to surface with this interaction.

The questions remain hung in the air, dimming the atmosphere around you. Was this fate’s doing? Or his karma? Gojo has always been told he’s a god, but how could he be a higher form of life when he struggled so much to hold a conversation?

He’s about to speak again when you cut him off, muttering “here-” as you push your hand down the coat you wore. Your tongue pokes at the inside of your cheek as you search for the anonymous object.

You pull out a worn out paper, grown from what could have been a bright red to an orangish shade. His eyes study as you shove the paper in his direction, eyes avoiding his gaze at all costs.

Seeing your bashful expression made him rather curious, the contents of the wrinkled paper piquing his interest. He hesitates before he pulls the paper from your hand, half-expecting you to bite him.

The letters were scribbles, almost like they’re straight out of some cult’s ritual, that with the wrinkles of the worn out paper making reading it next to impossible. Still, he could make out just enough to realize what this paper is. His eyes widened behind the blindfold. It didn’t take much to remember this paper, trivial as it may be.

“You found this- how did you even…?” he trails off, confused.

“I guess I did,” You confirm. He’s unsure if you’re proud of yourself for your rather… interesting discovery. It’s bold of you to pull this out ten whole years later. But he can’t deny the relief he feels that at least this means you don’t completely hate him. For once, he’s truly at loss for words.

But he wouldn’t let a perfect opportunity like this slide.

“Oh, so you’re in love with me? You’re so obsessed with me that you kept this for so many years, what a loyal fangirl.”

Before he knew it, a weight so crushing landed on his foot. He turned off his infinity around you as a sign of trust. But he soon came to regret his rather unsmart decision. Your foot stomped and crushed his toes. It makes him groan in pain, bending slightly forward.

“Tomorrow, at Narisawa in Minato city, 5:30. I’m leaving for Kyoto in 3 days. Don’t waste your chance again, Gojo Satoru. You’re not getting another one.”

“I take it you’ve been in love with me ever since?” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Say, did you fascinate about me?”

“Hmm..” you hum softly at his childish question, “only a little.” You show no signs of interest in his tactics as you sipped the wine in your hand. Undeniably, Gojo is taken aback by your lack of reaction. He hasn’t known you to be so reserved and smart at keeping him on edge. He couldn’t help finding your new behavior enticing.

Is there anything else you’d like to have?” You nodded your head towards the plates sitting on the table, some empty and some half-full. “Or do you wanna do something else before I go back to the hotel?”

“Hmm? Maybe I could join you at the hotel, actually. Surely it’ll be a lot less lonely with me around?”

You’re tempted by his offer, feeling the heat pooling in your stomach. He looked strikingly handsome today. Maybe you were just really lonely and touch starved, or maybe it’s the way his lips quirk as he teases you that makes your brain a little hazy, inappropriate thoughts floating through it and send jolts to your core. Yet, you set your mind on refusing his advances. You haven’t had a decent conversation since high school, for god's sake.

He keeps his eyes set on you, shining before him. You looked glamorous. He’d lie if he said there wasn’t a certain allure to your matured looks. The years that flew by changed a lot of things about you two, but his breath still catches in his throat when your eyes meet his dreamy blues. The feelings rush back, memories clouding his train of thought.

He’s sure he’s going to pay. He didn’t mind it at all, what a small price for getting to spend an evening with you. But you surprise him when you bring up that you had already put your card down, courtesy of having been the one to ask him out. Or maybe this was your way of telling him that you are in pretty good condition, living perfectly well without needing sorcery.

“How’s working as a jujutsu teacher?” you quip, smiling softly. “Utahime says you’ve got some interesting kids in your pack? Two special grades, too. You’re sure a favorite attraction for wonders.”

“You’re still in contact with her too?” he dodges talking about his students, not meeting your gaze. “That’s ironic. Weren’t we friends too?”

A hoarse chuckle emerges from him. But nothing about it leads back to amusement, as it was a joyless sound devoid of life. Almost as if he were mocking you. The dark lenses of the shades sitting on the bridge of his nose served as a shield. He curses himself for being so weak. He's almost thirty but somehow you’ve got him acting like he did when he was 17.

“You didn’t try to contact me either,” you shrug, not willing to take the blame for your lack of contact.

“You could have visited then. Even Yaga talked about you every once in a while,” he isn’t too happy and it’s showing.

“All good things, I hope-“

“Don’t change the subject,” he frowns, an uneasy edge outlining his words. “He was enough. You didn’t have to go ahead and leave too.”

“I had to move on, Gojo,” the name felt like a jab every time you used it. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. This is how you drew your boundaries. Calling them by their last names gives you a false sense of satisfaction, convincing yourself that your sorcerer friends are past figures now. Mere acquaintances.

“-I couldn’t remain hung there forever, I valued my mental health. You grew distant, the atmosphere was growing uneasy every day. I had to cut ties with Jujutsu before I couldn’t recognize myself anymore.”

“Yet you’re here now. Back to square one,” his playful tone was long gone, now replaced by an even, stern one. “Whether you moved away or called us by our last names. It’s a curse you can’t escape. you’ll always end up back in the palms or jujutsu.”

His words held some truth. You know that. But just as he refused to confront this past, you repulsed the idea of your reality. You truly want to believe that you could escape this part of yourself and live a normal life. You couldn’t come to terms with your inability. You held onto your hopes as if your sanity completely depended on it. Another thing that won’t change no matter how much you grew.

“I'll be okay as long as I refuse to interact with this world.”

Once you leave the restaurant, you find yourself wandering through the rich streets of Minato city. It felt as though the night was pulling you further into its welcoming embrace, with nothing rushing you.

“He was only thirteen,” you chuckle, arm linked in his. “It’s unbelievable how bold kids nowadays are.”

“I would’ve done the same thing, honestly,” he smirks, his gaze fixed on the stores around.

“Of course. You’ve got the brains of a thirteen year old.”

Satoru grins at your remark, pulling you into a clothes store.

“What’s this?” you look around in confusion, noting a woman in a suit welcoming you. The place looked a little too fancy, judging by the display of the items and the lighting of the place.

“It’s a western brand,” Satoru answers. Looking over at him, you can’t help but smile a little. He looks good tonight. His fancy outfit gave the impression that he’s a model to strangers. “Louis Vuitton, I think,” He furrows his brows, trying to remember the name of the brand stores he’s been to with Nobara and Shoko.

“Prada, sir,” The lady in a suit corrected him. “Can I help you?”

“We’re just browsing, thank you.” It’s a phrase he heard from Kugisaki countless times whenever they wandered into a store. His response makes you chuckle, watching as the lady takes a few steps backwards politely.

You’re soon comfortable, searching through the expensive coats and bags. Satoru watched tenderly. Even though the ten years that passed with no contact whatsoever definitely propose a wall between you, he's glad you're able to feel free. You might nit on the same page, but you two can work with what you have.

You stride back to the “S” shaped velvet couch sat in the middle of the checker-carpet store, where Satoru sat. But he was nowhere to be seen.

You walk around in hesitance and confusion, completely aware of the lady walking always a few feet behind you. Surveillance, you guess.

You find him standing in front of the white counter, taking a black bag with the brand’s name printed onto it in golden letters from the man standing behind the counter in a white shirt with the brand's logo on it.

“Gojo,” you call him, confusion fused into your expression.

He extends his arm to you, trying to suppress any sourness at you calling him Gojo. “Let’s go?”

You nod, eyeing him suspiciously before you link your arm in his. You make sure to flash a grateful smile at the woman by the door as you walk past the reflective glass door.

You almost forgot how busy the world outside is. It felt as though the glass building of the store was sound proof. Now you have to adjust to the noise of the full streets again.

Satoru remains silent for the most part. It’s not awkward, rather just neither of you knew what to say. He expected you to ask about what he bought, which you have considered. You decide against it though as you feel it’s none of your business. You’re not too surprised anyway as Gojo has always been a wealthy man. He could buy the entire Prada chain with half of his monthly spending.

“What do you wanna do now?” He asks. “Wanna go somewhere else?”

You think about going to the club to give the night the best closure. But neither of you were dressed for it anyway. You contemplate your choices. Then you grin at him, and Satoru knows it’s best to fear what comes after

You’re well aware that he has a high alcohol tolerance. While you would be wasted a few shots in. Yet you consumed so many drinks recklessly, thinking that maybe you could beat him in a drinking game.

That’s why he’s stuck to your side now, helping your sleeping body out of his car. Satoru is glad your hotel card was so easy to find in your purse, taking it out as he gets into the lobby.

A few people eye the man, glaring at him and at the way he held you in his arms. But he couldn’t bring himself to think too much about it. His mission is to get you to bed now.

“Satoruuu~” You whine, rubbing your face into the pillow once he sat you on the white bedding. “Stay with meeee”

And Satoru is nothing if not human. Despite what everyone else says. It’s proven now that he had come to face a human flaw like this. He is weak, and you are all but practically seducing him.

“Stop crying,” He mutters. He finds himself smiling sheepishly at the unlikely scenario he found himself in. Tucking you in bed, your face hot due to the drinks you had. He really should have stopped you. “I’ll stay the night, so sleep already.”

He convinced himself it’s for the best. He should watch over you for tonight. No funny business. Deep inside he knew he was just finding a reason— any reason to stay around you for a little longer, heart yearning for the lost years. But he ignored the pathetic feeling, convincing himself it’s for your sake instead.

“But I’m uncomfortableee,” you whine again, hands running down your body. “The dress...”

Did you have to make it so hard on him? Satoru is tempted to kiss you, eyebrows knitted in the space between, eyes looking around the room for any sort of aid.

This is probably a form of invading your privacy, but he sees no other choice. He’ll have to hold it together for tonight.

“nngh..”

Your groan came with an impending headache. Your body moves against the rich covers of the bed, sunlight illuminating your physique.

He stopped in his tracks, feet bare against the gray carpet.

Your form is beautiful, one to compete with statues of goddesses. The rays of light complimented every inch of skin in all the right ways. Satoru had to physically shake his head to stop the flowing perverted thoughts in his head.

Your flinch when you catch him standing near the door, heart beating slightly faster. You thought that you’re alone. You don’t think much of it anyway, muttering a “holy shit” under your breath.

“Good morning,” he casually greets, brushing off the mutual shock, albeit for different reasons. “I made coffee, if you wanted some.”

“Oh... thank you,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes as you sit up straight. “Did you eat anything yet?”

“Not yet, no,” he says, holding his overly sweet coffee in both palms. “Thought I’d wait until you woke up.”

“You’re a real sweetheart, Satoru,” you yawn. His name slipped past your lips before you could stop it. You busy yourself with stretching your arms. “What a doting housewife God has blessed me with”

His response is only a chuckle, rolling his eyes as he sighs on the edge of the bed. “Well, at least I wasn’t begging a man to spend the night with me”

“Huh?”

You couldn’t remember anything of the prior night. Nothing that occurred after you sat at the bar, specifically. But then you begin to realize, eyes widening at the revelation. You feel dreadfulness landing in the pit of your stomach a little too late.

He’s shirtless, wearing only his suit pants. And even though you wouldn’t mind the sight any other day, the fact that you are in your pajamas isn’t helping at all.

“Did we...” You trail off, expression darkening. Your eyes meet his own, fear implanted in your pupils. You watch as his expression drifts from confusion to an awkward hesitance. Unsure how to break the news to you.

You don’t know what to expect, not realizing you’re holding your breath.

“I-I’m sorry,” He sighs, gaze faltering as his eyes look away from you. Your eyes widen further, oxygen becoming hard to consume.

What have you done?

“But- don’t worry. You know I’m not some asshole...” if anything, he sounded chivalrous. “I-I’ll be accountable for my mistake. When do you want to hold the wedding?”

You gasp, face feeling hot. “You piece of shit-“ You groan as your foot reaches him, forcefully pushing him off the bed. “As if!”

He breaks into a fit of laughter, the sound full of genuine delight. “I can’t believe you fell for it,” He manages between the laughter.

“Fuck you, Satoru,” you mutter, a smile of relief breaking across your face. “I can’t believe you pulled something so childish.”

“Why are you so down?” He climbed back onto the bed, reclaiming his spot on the edge. “Are you disappointed? You know it’s never too late to just as-“

“Fuck off,” Your heart is pounding as you send him another kick, less forceful this time. “Say one more word about it and I’ll make sure you don’t make it out of this room in one piece.”

He laughs, asking you to pass his coffee. You reach for his coffee from the bedside table. Your fingers lift the glass mug to your lips, sipping at the hot beverage before handing it to him.

Your face scrunches up at the horrible taste. Too much sugar. Too much milk. It’s a lot worse than you might think.

“Your coffee should be criminal,” you push the mug his way, frowning. Satoru hums in response.

There’s no awkwardness between the two of you, and he can’t help but cherish it. He feels content, enough to sit a little closer, at least.

Enough to lean in towards you, mouth closing over yours in an ever awaited kiss, at least.

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appocalipse · 2 years

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ask nicely | steve harrington

summary: you had your fun teasing steve, so it's only fair for him to do the same, right?

pt 2 to this drabble, but you don't really have to read it to understand this | 3.6k words

this content is intended for 18+ readers only!

The very moment your eyes fall on Steve's figure, standing in the parking lot and leaning against his BMW with his hands in his pockets, you know you are in trouble.

You let the door slam behind you and straighten the bag on your shoulder, hopping over to where he is patiently waiting with barely concealed excitement— which makes him laugh all too sweet, all too lovesick, shaking his head as if not believing his own eyes.

"What are you doing here?" you ask once within ear-reach, genuinely curious.

He pretends to be offended, hand over heart.

"What, can't I pick up my beautiful girlfriend after work?"

Before you can reply, Steve hooks a finger around the strap of your bag and pulls, making you trip forward and straight into his arms. He rests a hand on your hip then, the other moving up to your cheek, thumb gentle when it runs over your skin.

You squint your eyes at him. “I won’t sleep at your place tonight,” you already did the night before. It's an unspoken rule.

He squeezes your waist.

“I know,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “But maybe I could sleep at yours?”

Damn, he's pretty.

You look up at the sky for dramatic effect, leaning in just a little to press your body closer and pretend to consider the idea. As if there was something in this world or the next that this boy could ask and you'd say no.

“Maybe,” you tease, “if you ask nicely.”

Steve leans down to kiss the tip of your nose lightly, his smile terribly sweet. “Don’t be mean.”

"You're still not asking nicely, you know."

“What do you want?” he nuzzles your neck, pressing a soft kiss on that spot he knows never fails to make you shiver. Then he brings his lips right up to your ear and murmurs, half playful and half trying to make you blush, “Should I get on my knees for you, baby?”

It works. You gasp, shoving his chest lightly, but Steve doesn’t let go, and when his face comes back into view he’s displaying the biggest shit-eating grin ever.

“There’s people around, you know?” you whisper, more flushed than you care to admit.

“Then get in the car,” he steps away from the BMW — where he'd been leaning — and opens the passenger door for you.

When Steve sits behind the wheel and beams at you, you finally gather the courage to ask, “What are you up to?”

He has the audacity to feign innocence.

"What do you mean?"

You're trying not to grin from the memory alone — it's hard. “This morning?” you offer.

"Oh," Steve says, pretending — in an exaggerated manner — that he's only now remembering what you're talking about, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “You mean when you gave me a boner and then left?”

You press your lips into a thin line, trying to hide a smirk that wouldn't help your situation at all. You look down at the hand he's just slid down your thigh. He gives you an affectionate squeeze and you let out a breath, kind of expecting his hand to go higher and higher and exact some sort of revenge…but it doesn't.

“Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

Steve chuckles. "No."

Your house isn't far from work — in fact, you usually walk from one place to the other every day — but in Steve's car, it takes even less, of course. He makes sure to open the door for you when he pulls up to your driveway; a perfect gentleman, one could believe.

He is still grinning and it's odd; not that Steve doesn't usually smile at you, he smiles all the time, but this smile is different. It's that smile. The trouble smile. The you-are-so-screwed smile. You know what to expect.

You get out of the car and give him a little kiss on the chin, suddenly all innocence and kindness.

“You're gonna torture me, aren't you?” you croon.

Steve laughs. Yes. Yes, he will.

“Just a little bit,” he pats your head — as if you both weren’t thinking of extremely dirty things half a second ago, for God’s sake — and asks, sweet as ever, “Are you hungry?”

Turns out Steve really is nice, even when he's sort of mad. He can’t help but be — especially to you — and not only does he make spaghetti for the two of you while you take a hot shower, but he also sets the table and waits patiently for you to return to the kitchen so you can sit down and enjoy your meal together.

“Was it good?” he asks as soon as you finish eating, brown eyes shining with something that looks like innocence but can't be.

You smile. The food was pretty good, though you're certain you'd be capable of eating dirt if Steve said he'd made it just for you. “The best. Thank you, baby,” you reach across the table for his hand and kiss it softly — which makes him chuckle, the sound warm and soft in your ears.

“Since you cooked, I'll wash the dishes.”

You get up and take the dishes to the sink. Oddly enough, Steve doesn't say anything.

You're wondering if he'd left the kitchen when an arm wraps around your waist and- oh.

A surprised yelp escapes your lips as you're thrown over his shoulder, ass in the air, sink and dishes definitely out of reach.

“Steve!”

He is laughing. Bastard.

Well, to be fair, as he carries you upstairs, you start laughing too — it's hard not to laugh in a situation like this, and Steve revels in the sound of your laughter reverberating against his skin, playful and sweet.

“Steve,” you yell again, this time patting him on the back lightly. “What are you doing? Hey-”

It happens fast. Your skin is suddenly tingling — did he just slap your ass?

“Shut up,” Steve admonishes, but his tone isn't rude at all; is playful and loving and full of intimacy he only had with you. And God, how you love him.

Your room is small; a dresser, a small dressing table, a bed that can barely fit two people. Steve's been here a hundred times — he doesn't even turn on the light before tossing you into the bed with little care, and you gasp as you sink into the fluffy mattress.

“Steve-”

Two seconds and he's on top of you. His breath on your neck makes you giggle, ticklish, and you can feel his gaze on your face even in the dark, hot and full of adoration; but then he grabs one of your legs, hitching your knee up to your hip, and presses down against you, rock hard, squeezing the skin of your thigh into his hand with strength enough to bruise — and you lose it, biting down on your lower lip to hold back a moan, then a louder one when he does it again, even harder this time.

“Oh, fuck,” he hisses, nibbling on your throat.

The fabric of Steve’s jeans is rough and he’s very, very hard under it. He presses your thighs further apart and pushes his weight into you, leaning down to kiss your jaw and neck, slow and open-mouthed, teeth grazing your skin every now and then. Too much and not enough.

You try and remember to breathe. “Take those damn pants off.”

He could. Instead, Steve smirks and runs one hand slowly down your body, though — between your breasts, down your tummy, and even lower…he slides his hand into your shorts, brushing his fingers against your clothed clit and pressing gently down over your panties, slowly, painfully slowly.

He knows exactly where to touch, exactly how to touch.

You moan and his smirk turns into a full-on laugh.

“You like that?” he teases, touching the same spot again, very pleased when your mouth falls open. “I'll take these off now, okay?” he tugs on your shorts, and you nod, arching your back, desperate to be touched again.

He's quick to get rid of it. Looking down at the black lace panties you're wearing with big brown eyes, he asks, momentarily distracted, “is that new?”

“Maybe.”

“I like it,” Steve takes it off too, flinging it across the room, then bends down and kisses your hip adoringly. You don't even realize he's dragging you further to the edge of the bed until he's kneeling on the floor between your legs, holding your thighs tightly on either side of his head….and then he drapes them over his shoulders.

You try to sit up. He pulls you by the ankles, forcing you to lie back down.

“Steve,” there's desperation in your voice. Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.

He kisses your inner thigh first, in a tender way that doesn't quite match the smug look on his face. You throw your head back and sigh, squirming and squirming a little more in anticipation, unable to move an inch as he holds you down firmly, lips moving higher and higher, leaving a trail of wet kisses behind.

Head between your legs, he hums quietly — smiling like the devil — and the sound seems to travel up your body, resonating across your skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Maybe you shouldn't have left him like that this morning.

And then he drags the tip of his tongue over your clit — slowly, once, twice, then again and again. Your legs tremble under his hold, eyes fluttering closed, and Steve seems to find your desperation very endearing, because he chuckles, amused, and his hold on your thighs tightens to keep you in place.

Out of nothing but sheer instinct, one of your hands finds its way down and threads through his hair, trying to bring him closer, to set the pace, to do everything at once.

Not very bright of you.

As if a switch has been turned off, Steve stops altogether, taking your wrist into his hand in a firm grip and smiling; too smug. “What do you think you're doing, hm?”

Even when he scolds you, he smiles. More like smirks, but still.

“Baby,” you sound a lot more desperate than you’d like. “You’re not leaving me like this, are you?”

Still holding onto your wrist, he moves higher to hover over you, pinning both of your hands above your head in one of his, lips finding the sensitive skin under your ear, again and again.

“I should,” he muses, his free hand slipping under your shirt, fingers moving slowly towards your chest. “That’s what you did to me.”

“I’m a terrible person,” you say, your grin a weapon you use with intent. “You’re better, Steve, baby.”

He laughs. You gasp when his hand slides back down, between your legs and – oh.

“Am I?” he murmurs, biting down your shoulder lightly, then running his tongue over the spot to soothe it.

A thick finger slides inside of you — met with barely any resistance, if the wet sounds filling your ears are any indicator, and still, Steve pumps his finger once, twice, way too fucking slow.

You squirm — both hands locked above your head, helpless. So your legs close on his hand instead. Steve chuckles.

“Can't move my hand if you do that,” he croons, clearly having the time of his life being in control.

You can still feel his finger inside of you — Steve has a devilish grin when he curls it up, hitting the right, right spot and forcing a gasp out of your parted lips as you clench around him; he moves to kiss your mouth then, swallowing a loud moan that would certainly be heard outside of your bedroom window.

It's convincing enough for you.

His eyes trail down when your legs hesitantly move away from his hand, spread over the mattress, knees bent, and he's staring when he inserts a second finger and starts pumping in and out, in and out, picking up the right pace in no time.

“Oh. Oh.”

“Oh?” he encourages, grip still firm around both of your wrists as he searches for your reaction. “Like this?”

You arch your back and… oh fuck; he takes the opportunity to suck on your throat.

“Yes, yes, I'm gonna-”

His fingers slide out of you; wet and warm.

"-come?" he teases.

Fucking hell. You could cry.

Above you, he brings his hand to his lips, sucking on his wet fingers right in front of your face, eyes never leaving yours.

You watch – big, pleading eyes, maybe angrier than you should look considering your current position. He seems to enjoy it — both you and the desperation in your eyes — all too much.

“I take it back,” you whine, somewhat playful and entirely too desperate. “You are a terrible person.”

That turns his smug smile into a soft and fond one. You know you've brought this on yourself. Steve leans down and kisses you, nice and slow, lips brushing yours over and over. But you don't need sweet right now. You need fast and hard and bruising. This is frustrating and he's all too aware of it.

“Steve?” words pressed against his mouth. A kiss, then another.

He kisses you yet again before managing a reply.

“Hmm?”

“At least let go of my hands?”

He sighs and kisses the corner of your mouth. “I really need to learn how to say no to you.”

When he lets you go, you touch him; his face, gently on the lips, his neck, his chest, fingertips tingling with each touch, more so when he giggles; he allows you to discard his shirt without any hesitation. When your hands get closer to his belt though, you look up at him, asking for permission. Steve smiles and kisses your chin. Resounding yes.

You undo his belt with shaky hands, sliding the front of his pants down just enough for his length to spring free. When you reach out to touch him, though, he holds your wrist, breath caught in his throat.

“You don’t want me to touch you?” you ask nice and slow, and his hand holding yours falters for a moment.

One moment is enough. He doesn't realize what's happening until it's too late — your hands are on his chest, a thigh on either side of his waist. You lean down and kiss a line from his happy trail — he holds his breath — to the side of his neck, barely a hint of your teeth brushing against his skin as you trail open-mouthed kisses, love bites, anything in between.

You straddle him, arms raised over your head to discard the shirt you're wearing. You're naked and you're wet when he reaches between your legs again and finds your clit, drawing a small circle over and over with his finger.

You're pretty much panting. “Are you- oh. Are you gonna tease me all night?”

“Well…”

“I swear if you don’t fuck me right now-”

Steve laughs full of fondness and pushes you on your back, climbing to be on top once again, his mouth quick to find your throat, his hand holding behind your knee to set the right angle. Reaching down to grab a hold of himself, he presses the tip of his cock to your entrance, just barely, barely brushing against your skin, slick and hard and ready.

“Ask nicely,” he bends down to murmur into your mouth, straightening out once again afterward, kneeling between your legs.

Then something happens — you're not sure what exactly, it's possible you've moved your leg inadvertently, a spasm of pleasure that was his fault anyway — and then Steve is falling, falling right on top of you.

He stretches out his arms, palms down in an attempt to save you from taking his full weight at once. It kind of works — when his body touches yours, bare chest against bare chest, one hand on either side of your head, you feel nothing but a light pressure, far from any discomfort — actually, his skin is warm and it feels good; very good.

"Ow," he grumbles, letting his face fall into the crook of your neck. He kisses your jaw, suddenly all sweetness and concern. "Are you okay, baby?"

The answer he gets is a giggle; an adorable sound that makes your chest vibrate against his. Steve, surprised, lifts himself up on one elbow to look at your face, his kisses growing meaner along your neck to the corner of your mouth, his free hand splayed over your tummy.

He's grinning, caught up in the sweet sound of your laughter when his eyes meet yours. "What's so funny, huh, lovebug?"

"Nothing," but you're still laughing.

He's about to do the same when you give him a bear hug. There's no other way to describe it — you place your arms around Steve's neck and sigh, inhaling his scent before running your hands down his shoulders, down his back, squeezing him tighter and closer to you, feeling his warm skin between your fingers.

The intensity of your embrace has him losing his balance and landing on you awkwardly again — and it's his turn to laugh, a sound husky and deep and full of love. Then your legs are wrapped around him too, knees bent, heels crossed just below the waistline of his pants... and Steve's laugh becomes a half-exasperated sigh, almost a groan.

“Baby,” he moans, lips on your neck, jaw tense. “You’re so– fuck– so wet.”

He moves his hips slowly, up and down, examining your face for a reaction; the length of him slides over you, hot and hard, and oh God, why must he be so mean?

You tighten your legs around him.

“Please,” you don't even have to say what.

He should make you beg more, he knows; that was the plan, after all. But Steve can't. He looks down at where your bodies are almost, almost coming together, at your flushed skin, at how wet you are, the way your hips desperately try to reach for him.

Then he pushes in — slowly. His mouth hangs open immediately, a desperate sigh of pleasure coming out as he slides inside as slowly as he can, one hand on your hip holding you in place.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he squeezes his eyes shut, trying desperately not to come undone right there and then. “You feel so good.”

You do too, you wanna say. You feel fucking perfect. But you can't; he's only halfway inside and you're already losing the ability to form coherent sentences, any thought other than him quickly evaporating from your mind as his skin slides against yours.

Your lips part and you try to mumble an answer, but what comes out is just an incoherent moan that probably inflates Steve's ego a dozen times over.

“Not so cocky now, huh?” he's smirking, far from trying to hide it.

Not wanting to yield, you giggle. You are too fucking much; Steve's head is spinning as he pushes all the way in and the two of you sigh together, bodies as close as possible, his hand squeezing your hips tightly. Slowly, very slowly, he pulls out and pushes in again, and then again, so unhurried it's barely a rhythm. You moan, his firm grip preventing you from lifting your hips to meet his, eagerly taking whatever he wanted to give you instead.

Your nails trail along Steve's back in response. He lets out a deep sound from the back of his throat, furrowed brows, hips thrusting into you just a little bit faster, filling the room with nothing but wet noises and breathless moans as his thighs slap into yours again and again and again.

"Steve-"

You tighten around him, squirming as he moves faster and deeper. It's good, too good — the word doesn't even seem like enough to describe this, doesn't even come close.

Steve's hand lets go of your hip to move up to your chest, squeezing your flesh eagerly. He brings his face back to the point where your neck and shoulder meet, lips on your skin as he murmurs, “Say please.”

It's almost a question, far from an order or a way to tease you this time, voice low and slightly desperate. He starts placing featherlight kisses on your skin, taking his time with each one. “Say it, say it again.”

Not much convincing is needed.

“Please,” the word is sweet in your mouth. He shudders and you hug him, wanting to bring him even closer, wanting to disappear within him, toes curling and stomach tightening, “Please, oh, fuck, I’m-”

You can feel everything, everything inside of you; every inch of warm, wet skin, every slight movement as he thrusts at a more desperate pace, hitting that gummy spot inside of you just right, over and over until you can't take it anymore, walls clenching around him, legs beginning to shake.

Steve can tell. “Are you…shit, are you close?”

“Oh. Yes, very close.”

“Good,” he looks relieved when your eyes meet his and he leans down to kiss you — or to try to, because it's hard without slowing down, which he refuses to do.

You gasp, eyes fluttering closed when one of his hands reaches between you two and finds your clit, drawing quick, rough circles that have you moaning louder than you probably should.

“Look at me, baby,” he pleads.

You do. The only light comes from the corridor outside your door, and under this one faint light you still find him very pretty, very perfect when you two reach your high almost at the same time, bodies together, hands everywhere, his lips ghosting over yours, chasing a proper kiss.

You're quite bewildered this man is real.

Steve collapses on you without pulling out, all too sensitive, all too tired to do so.

Still, he smirks. “How funny do you think teasing is now, sweetheart?”

a/n: idk what this is. i'm half asleep right now, so maybe go easy on me 😭

ly 💞

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