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I'll Be The Rebound (Satoru Gojo x Reader)

Summary ˖ ᡣ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

A single blurry club photo shatters everything, and hands Gojo Satoru the opening he’s waited years for.

He’s been your best friend forever, but the second that photo lands in his hands, the leash snaps. He shows up at your door with proof, and when the door slams shut on your ex for good, Gojo is ready to step out of the shadows.

Warnings ˖ ᡣ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

18+, MDNI, Explicit sexual content, recording and sending sex audio, cheating, possessiveness, mild yandere elements, unprotected sex, overstimulation, mild emotional manipulation, mutual pining, college AU, P in V sex, afab.

Word Count ⊹₊⟡⋆

9,457k

⊹₊⟡⋆Masterlist⊹₊⟡⋆

Gojo lay sprawled across his couch, material creaking beneath his weight whenever he shifted. One long leg dangled haphazardly over the armrest, the other bent at the knee so his bare foot rested flat against the cushion, toes flexing absently.

The room was dim, lit only by the blueish glow of his phone screen and the faint amber streetlight slipping through the half-closed blinds. A cracked window let the February chill drift in, carrying the distant hum of campus traffic and the sharp scent of winter air.

His thumb moved slowly across the screen, scrolling through your Instagram feed with the same hungry focus he had carried for years. Every photo of you, alone, received a soft double-tap, the heart icon bloomed red.

Any image that included your greasy boyfriend, his arm slung around your waist, his grin too easy, too pleased, Gojo let slide past without acknowledgment, as though the man had been erased the moment he flicked past.

He paused on your most recent post.

You stood haloed in the soft afternoon light, cream sweater hugging your body, wool tracing the curve of your breasts and the dip of your waist in a way that felt almost accidental, but he knew it wasn’t.

The black-and-grey pleated skirt flared just above your thighs, revealing the smooth, inviting expanse of skin beneath. Your smile was shy, a little uncertain, while the people around you leaned into exaggerated poses for the camera.

To everyone else you were simply this sweet, pretty little thing.

To him you were the only thing in the photograph that existed, the one singular point of warmth and light in a sea full of noise.

Heat gathered low in his abdomen, like it usually did during his nightly retreats to your social media. His cock stirred beneath the denim, thickening until the fabric pulled tight, the zipper biting into sensitive skin.

He pressed the heel of his palm against the growing hardness, not rushed, just grounding himself against the ache that had become second nature.

In his mind the scene unfolded with ease, fingers catching the hem of that sweater, drawing it upward inch by inch until soft skin met cool air and then the heat of his mouth. He imagined pressing his mouth to the swell of your breasts, tasting salt and the tang of your body lotion, then lower, sliding the skirt down your hips until it pooled at your feet, forgotten.

He saw himself sinking to his knees between your thighs, breath warm against damp skin, tongue chasing every shudder that ran through you.

Your glossed lips in the photograph, he pictured them swollen from his kisses, slick with somethingentirely different. Your eyes, soft and hesitant, he wanted them heavy-lidded, glistening with tears as you looked up at him from your knees, lashes clumped, gaze trusting, but hungry.

A tremor passed through him. His free hand drifted to the zipper, metal teeth parting with a quiet rasp that sounded too loud in the stillness.

Then the phone vibrated against his palm.

Maki - ‘You need to see this’.

He stilled. The hand on his zipper paused, suspended. For a moment the only sound was the slow rhythm of his breathing and the faint tick of the clock in the corner.

He opened the message.

The photograph loaded.

Club lighting, harsh flash cutting through bodies pressed too close. Your boyfriend’s mouth locked to another woman’s, hand fisted in her hair with ruthless indifference. The betrayal was captured in unforgiving clarity.

Gojo’s lips curved slowly, not into the usual smirk but something far more dangerous, a smile that belonged to someone who had waited for a single crack in the wall and now got to watch as it finally give way.

He exhaled once, long and measured, the sound almost meditative. Serenity settled over him like a fog.

Maki’s follow-up arrived a heartbeat later.

‘Now’s your chance’

He rose from the couch in one fluid motion, the hoodie already in his hand, pulled over his shoulders. He zipped his jeans up, smoothed the fabric down, adjusted the collar until he looked every inch the gentle friend come to deliver bad news with kindness and a shoulder to cry on.

The mask was perfect, but beneath it, something darker and hungrier uncoiled at last.

He had waited, patient to the point of pain, swallowing every near-miss, every time you turned toward someone lesser, every night he closed his eyes and thought of you in the dark.

No longer.

He slipped the phone into his pocket, carrying the photograph like a poisoned chalice.

He would lay it before you.

Then he would take what had always belonged to him.

And he would savour every breath of it.

Gojo drives through the quiet streets with the window cracked just enough to let the cold night air slip in and brush against his heated skin. The radio hums low, some old track he barely registers, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the steering wheel in time with the melody.

He doesn’t speed. There’s no need to rush. He reaches into the glove compartment as a red light holds him still, fishing out the dark sunglasses and sliding them on even though the streets are dark and the dashboard glow is soft.

If you looked into his eyes right now you would see everything, the bright, sharp glee, the coiled excitement, the raw desire that has been gnawing at him since the day you first met.

He can’t let you see that yet. To you, he’s the angel. The one who never pushes, never demands, a gentleman who waits in the wings with a smile and a joke while you choose someone else again and again. Tonight that carefully constructed image ends.

He knows Maki will be gone. Knowing her, she’ll stay out all night, giving this one-sided obsession of his the space it has desperately needed. The perfect wingman, silent and ruthless.

He parks outside your building and strides up the concrete steps two at a time, long legs eating the distance without effort. No knock. Just a quick text sent as his lingers by the door.

‘We need to talk, open up.’

Inside, he hears the soft patter of your bare feet rushing across the floorboards, the sound muffled but unmistakable. He likes it, likes the way you hurry toward him, eager even now, even when you have no idea what’s coming. The lock clicks, the door swings open, and there you are.

You peek past his shoulder first, half-expecting an entourage, but when it’s only him your face softens, shoulders dropping as the tension bleeds out of you. A small, relieved smile curves at your lips, and his heart kicks hard against his ribs at the sight of it, so warm and earnest.

In a few minutes he’ll shatter that smile. But sometimes, you have to break something to set it right.

You’re in matching indigo sweats that hang loose on your frame, hair scraped up into a messy bun with a few tendrils escaping the elastic to brush your neck. A star-shaped pimple patch sits on your chin like a pretty little constellation. Domestic, vulnerable. Soon to be his.

“What’s going on?” Your voice is soft, eyes scanning his face, his posture. “Are you okay?”

His hearts clenches. You worry about him so naturally, so instinctively, as though caring for him is muscle memory. He nods once, stepping across the threshold. You move back to let him pass, then close the door behind him with a quiet flick of the lock. The sound makes him smile, the casual trust of it, the way you seal yourself in with him without hesitation.

“I need to show you something” he says, pitching his voice low, doing his best impression of contrite, eyes dropping to the floor despite every instinct screaming to drink you in. “I don’t know if I should.”

“Toru, it’s fine.” You step closer, small hand settling on his forearm, fingers warm through the sleeve of his hoodie. The touch is careful, meant to comfort him when he’s the one about to deliver the blow. “You can tell me anything.”

He exhales, slow and measured, then reaches into his back pocket for his phone. He swipes to the photo, hesitates for show, just long enough to sell the reluctance, before turning the screen toward you.

Your eyes slide from his face to the image. You don’t gasp. You don’t cry. You simply blink, then reach out and take the phone from his hand. You pinch the screen, zoom in, studying the grainy details, the familiar jawline, the hand in her hair, the club lights strobing off the two of them.

“Fucking bastard” you growl low in your throat.

The word is sharp, unexpected from you. A dark thrill runs through him at the sound. He raises an eyebrow, lips curving before he catches himself and smooths the expression away. You zoom in again, muttering, “Motherfucker, with Mina as well.”

“You know her?”

“Yeah, barely.” You scoff, rolling your eyes in pure disgust as you hand the phone back. “I knew something was going on. He said he was studying all last week, pulled an all-nighter. Still flunked the exam though.”

He shakes his head slowly, trying to mirror the disappointment you expect, but inside he is alight.

He had braced for tears, for the kind of heartbreak that would require slow, gentle coaxing. Instead you are angry, a clean, bright fury, the sight of which only feeds the hunger he has kept leashed for so long.

You pace into the small kitchen, the overhead light flickering once before settling into a warm yellow glow. You yank open the fridge door, cold air washing across your bare arms, and rummage for a moment. He wonders if you’re reaching for wine or something stronger, but you emerge with a carton of juice instead. You pour a glass, take a long sip, then tip it toward him in silent offer.

He accepts with a small smile, deliberately placing his mouth where yours had just been, the rim still warm, faintly sweet from your chapstick. You don’t seem to notice. He drinks deeply, sets the glass down on the counter, and leans back against it with his arms crossed, watching you.

“I knew he was bad news” he says quietly, voice soft enough to feel intimate in the small space. “You deserve better.”

You hum in agreement, already pulling your own phone from your pocket. Your fingers move quickly across the screen, typing, and a moment later it rings in your hand. You answer on the second ring, pasting on a smile so saccharine it looks painful.

“Hey baby” you say, voice dripping honey even as you shoot him a quick, exaggerated gag. He laughs under his breath, delighted. “Can you come over? I miss you.”

A muffled reply filters through the speaker. You end the call without another word, slamming the phone down onto the counter hard enough that he worries the glass will crack.

“He’s coming over” you say, eyes fierce and determined. Then your gaze flicks to him, softening just a fraction. “Could you stay? You know… in case something happens?”

“You couldn’t force me to leave” The words settle between you, a promise he has no intention of breaking, not now, not when the night is finally bending in his favour.

You move with purpose, the small apartment coming alive around you in sharp, decisive bursts. Drawers scrape open in the bedroom, closet doors bang against walls, old sweatshirts and forgotten hoodies spilling onto the floor like shed skin.

Anything that carries his scent, that cheap body spray mixed with stale beer and entitlement, you snatch up and stuff into a trash bag with ruthless efficiency.

There isn’t much, a couple of T-shirts, a pair of socks that somehow ended up under your couch, a hoodie he left ‘by accident’ after one of his late-night visits.

Fifteen minutes pass in a blur of motion and quiet fury before the doorbell buzzes, followed by the rattle of the handle being tested, then a series of sharp knocks. Your ex, always so sure your world will open for him.

You don’t rush. You lift your head slowly, lips curling into a sneer that looks foreign on your pretty face, but right all at once. The sound of his fist against the wood grows louder, more insistent, but you turn to Satoru instead, voice softening in the midst of the storm.

“Could you hide for a moment?”

He nods without hesitation, already moving toward the bedroom. You follow close behind, the knocks echoing down the short hallway like thunder. The closet door stands ajar, narrow and shadowed, the faint scent of your laundry detergent and lavender body lotion drifting out.

He folds himself inside, long limbs bending, shoulders brushing the hanging clothes, resisting the immediate urge to press his face into the fabrics and inhale.

“Hey” he murmurs as he settles, voice low and teasing even now, “this feels kinda kinky”

The words pull a soft laugh from you, unexpected and breathy, and the sound of which sends a shiver down his spine. You swat his arm lightly, glancing over your shoulder toward the front door where the knocking has turned into pounding. When your eyes return to him they are warm, grateful, a little uncertain.

“Thanks for this” you say quietly. “It shouldn’t take long.”

You ease the door closed, the wood clicking softly into place, sealing him in darkness broken only by thin slivers of hallway light slipping through the cracks. The moment the latch catches, he reaches out blindly, fingers closing around the nearest garment, a shirt that still carries the traces of your perfume. He draws it to his face, pressing the soft cotton under his nose, and breathes in.

A shudder runs through him, cock twitching within the confines of his jeans as the scent floods his senses. He exhales slowly against the fabric, letting the smell settle into his lungs like a drug. Outside, your footsteps retreat down the hall toward the front door.

He is going to have to thank your ex for this.

He presses the shirt tighter to his face, heart steady, his patience finally rewarded.

…

You storm back to the front door, the floorboards creaking under your quick steps as the hallway light flickers once overhead, casting brief shadows across the walls. The fake smile you force into place feels brittle, but it holds long enough for you to flick the lock and yank the door open with more force than necessary.

Your now ex-boyfriend, leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, mouth twisted in annoyance at having been made to wait. When he sees you, he schools his features into something brighter, more practiced, the easy grin he always used to disarm you, the one that used to make your stomach flutter. Now it makes your skin crawl.

“Babe” he says, voice syrupy and bright as he pushes off the frame and steps forward, arms opening to pull you into the hug he assumes you’ll melt into.

You step back smoothly, slipping just out of reach. His hands close on empty air. He falters for half a second, eyes twitching, but he shrugs it off and crosses the threshold anyway, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel.

The black trash bag you’d been filling sits slumped against the foot of the couch. He notices it immediately, gaze flicking down, but the realisation doesn’t land yet. He’s still smiling, still playing the part.

“What’s wrong, babe? You missed me?” The words come out smarmy, laced with that lazy confidence you used to mistake for charm, now you realise is just plain arrogance.

“No” you say simply, keeping your tone light, almost conversational. “I just needed you to get your shit.”

He stills. Blinks slowly, like the words haven’t quite reached him yet. “Huh?”

“Take your shit—” You point at the bag, calm as anything, though your heart hammers against your ribs. “—and get out of my face.”

“Baby, what’s going on?” He moves closer, grubby hands reaching for your arms, the same way he always has when he wants to smooth things over without actually listening.

“Mina is what’s going on.”

The name stops him cold. He freezes mid-step, hand dropping, then drags his fingers roughly through his hair with a long sigh. “Baby, it was a mistake.”

“Oh, so you tripped and fell on her?” The mockery slips out sharp and easy, tasting like bitter satisfaction on your tongue.

“Okay, we slept together. Once.”

Your jaw drops, not from shock, exactly, but from the sheer, stupid audacity of it. The new piece of information doesn’t break you, it just adds another layer of disgust to the grossed out sandwich.

“Wow.” The word comes out flat, stupefied. “And here I was thinking you were just kissing. No. You’ve been fucking her.”

“Wha—”

“Just get out.” Your voice rises, steady but edged now. “I’m sick of you. Satoru said you were bad news.”

You snatch the bag by the drawstring and hurl it at his feet. A faded T-shirt tumbles free, landing in a crumpled heap between you.

“Gojo” he spits the name like an insult, venom curling his lip as he bends to shove the shirt back inside. “Of course Gojo would say that.”

You round on him, eyes blazing, the room suddenly too small, the air too thick with the smell of his cologne and your rising anger. “What?”

“He’s always been waiting” he snarls, straightening up. “Waiting for me to fuck up. It’s no wonder I couldn’t take the pressure!”

You go still. A scornful laugh bubbles up from your chest, harsh and disbelieving. “Oh my god. You really are pathetic.”

“It’s true, he’s always—”

“No. Seriously.” Your voice cracks higher, hands shaking at your sides, fingers curling into tight claws like you might rake them down your own face to make the fury stop.

“You’re so fucking pathetic. It’s nothing to do with him!” The words tear out of you, loud enough to echo off the thin apartment walls. “You just can’t keep your dick out of random chicks!”

He stares at you, mouth half-open, the smugness finally draining from his face as the weight of it all settles. The trash bag sits between you like a stone. The hallway light buzzes faintly overhead. Somewhere down the corridor, a neighbour’s door clicks shut.

“Go. I’m sick at the sight of you.” You sigh, done with conversation and tired of looking at him.

“Baby, we can work it out.”

“Oh, I would… if I wanted to.” The words comes fast, cutting through the air between you. “But you’re not even worth it. I must have been out of my mind to date you. I mean… seriously, how low are my standards?”

His eyes darken, something ugly flickering through the practiced charm, jaw tight, cheek ticking once in warning. “Careful” he growls, low and rough, the word hanging heavy in the small space.

You scoff, the sound bitter and bright. “Or what? Gonna fuck Mina again?”

You step closer, close enough that you can smell the faint sourness of sweat still clinging to his shirt, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to meet your glare. The words come out hot against his face, venomous. “Get the fuck out.”

For a heartbeat he doesn’t move. His hand twitches at his side, fingers curling, and you feel the brief, cold flash of wondering whether he’ll actually strike you, whether the mask will finally crack wide open right here in your living room.

Then he bends, snatching the trash bag from the floor. Plastic rustles loudly as he yanks it up, the loose T-shirt inside shifting with a soft thud against the rest of his discarded things. He turns toward the door, shoulders rigid, steps heavy on the worn floorboards.

You don’t let him leave in silence, you need to twist the knife.

“Oh, by the way” you call after him, voice dripping with mock sweetness, “I’m gonna fuck Satoru all night.”

His head swivels sharply, eyes snapping back to you, wide for the first time tonight.

“Raw.”

The last word lands like a slap. His mouth opens, horror and disbelief warring, but you don’t give him the chance to answer. You slam the door with both hands, the frame rattling hard enough that a small picture on the wall tilts sideways. The lock clicks into place with a satisfying snap, sealing the corridor’s cold draft and your pathetic ex outside.

Silence rushes in after the echo, thick and sudden. Your chest heaves, breath coming fast and uneven, adrenaline buzzing under your skin like static. The apartment feels too quiet now, too still.

You lean your forehead against the door for a moment, eyes closed, feeling the faint sound of footsteps retreating down the hall until they fade completely. The trash bag is gone. He’s gone. The space he occupied feels…lighter, like a weight you didn’t realise you were carrying has finally lifted.

In the bedroom, the closet door remains closed.

But you know he heard every word.

You know he’s still there, folded into the dark, sitting amongst your clothes, heart steady while yours races. The thought sends a different kind of heat curling low in your belly, sharp and unexpected, mingling with the anger still simmering in your veins.

Your hands tremble as you push away from the door, fingers flexing, unsure whether to clench or reach.

You turn slowly toward the hallway.

You take one step. Then another.

The floorboards creak under your bare feet, you don’t stop until you’re in front of the closet.

You wrench it open.

Gojo is already looking up at you. His head tilted slightly to one side, easy smile curving his lips as though he’s been waiting for your return. His sunglasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, dark lenses reflecting the warm bedroom light, his white hair is deliciously mussed, strands falling forward where they’ve been pressed against hanging clothes, framing his face in soft disarray.

You lean down without a single conscious thought guiding you, slip his glasses off with one hand, whilst the other slides to the nape of his neck. Your fingers thread into the soft hair, feeling the heat of his skin, the faint prickle of stubble under your palm. You slot your lips over his in one smooth motion, no hesitation, no preamble.

He reacts instantly.

A low sound rumbles in his throat, a groan bleeding into a sigh. His arm sweeps around your waist in a single, fluid pull, dragging you forward into the narrow confines of the closet. The space is too small, forcing your body to press flush against his, you brace one hand on his shoulder to steady yourself, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath his hoodie as his mouth opens under yours.

His tongue pushes in without seeking permission, stroking deep and thorough, claiming every inch he can reach.

He kisses like he’s starving. There’s no gentleness, only hunger, the wet slide of his tongue against yours, the way he angles his head to take more, deeper, devouring the taste of your anger and hurt and need until nothing else remains. Your body quivers against him, thighs pressing together instinctively as heat pools low in your belly, sharp and undeniable.

You pull back only when your lungs begin to burn, chest heaving. Your breath mingles with his in the warm, claustrophobic space, faintly tasting the juice you shared earlier and the sweetness that always seems to cling to him.

“I just…” The words come out soft, almost lost against his lips. “I want to feel wanted. Really wanted. Not like some… second option.” Guilt twists in your stomach, sour and heavy, even as your fingers stay curled against his neck. Your eyes drop, watching his Adams apple bob as he swallows. “I shouldn’t do this to you, though.”

“No.” His voice is quick, rough around the edges, grip tightening on your waist until you feel the press of his fingers through the fabric of your sweats. “I don’t mind.”

He pulls you closer still, bodies aligned in the cramped dark, his thigh slipping between yours just enough to make you gasp softly at the friction. “Rebound, revenge…whatever you need to call it. I’m in.”

“Toru—”

“Don’t think.” His lips brush your mouth, low and coaxing, his breath warm against your swollen lips. “Just feel.”

The invitation hangs between you, impossible to resist .

You do exactly as he commands.

You lean in again, slower this time but no less desperate, mouth opening against his without resistance. He meets you halfway, tongue sliding back in with ardent hunger, stroking along the roof of your mouth, tracing the sharp edges of your teeth, tasting every shudder that races through you.

His free hand rises to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing the corner of your jaw, holding you steady while he deepens the kiss until your world contracts to the wet heat of his mouth, the solid press of his body, the taste of his lips on yours.

The door stands half-open behind you, spilling a wedge of bedroom light across his shoulder, catching the faint sheen of sweat already gathering at his temple. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, approving hum from his throat that vibrates straight through you.

You’re trembling, not from cold, not from anger, but from the sudden, overwhelming certainty that this is exactly where you’ve wanted to be for longer than you’ve let yourself admit. His hand slides lower, palm flattening against the small of your back, urging you closer until there’s no space left between you at all.

His hand slips into your hair, fingers curling with gentle but firm control, angling your head just so until your mouths align perfectly again. His tongue strokes against yours in slow, deliberate sweeps. His mouth leaves yours, dipping to your throat, sucking and nipping at your skin as his cold finger’s slip beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. Fingertips skim along the soft give of your waist, smoothing up your back to rest at the edge of your bra strap.

“You’re so beautiful” he whispers, voice ragged and low. His fingers find the clasp of your bra beneath the sweatshirt, it unhooks with a soft click, the fabric sagging away from your chest.

Cool air kisses across your skin for only a second before his hand slips beneath the gauzy fabric, palm warm and calloused as it cups the weight of your breast.

His thumb brushes over one nipple, circling slowly, then pinching just enough to make your breath hitch. The other hand joins, kneading the plush softness, fingertips gradually matching the rising heat of your body until every stroke feels like fire licking across your nerves.

You arch into his touch without thinking, spine curving, hips rolling forward in a silent, desperate plea for more. “Satoru” you sigh.

He groans softly against your throat, then grips the hem of your sweatshirt and peels it upward in one smooth motion. The fabric drags over your skin, raising goosebumps in its wake, and your bra slips down your arms, falling forgotten to the floor.

Your breasts are bare now, nipples peaked and aching in the dim bedroom light filtering through the half-open closet door. He stares for a heartbeat, eyes dark, pupils blown wide, then drops his mouth to one tight bud, sucking it into the wet heat of his mouth.

The sensation is overwhelming, the flat press of his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth, the suction that pulls straight to your core. You thread your fingers into his hair, holding him there, nails scraping his scalp as your thoughts scatter like leaves in wind.

He torments the nipple until it throbs sweetly, swollen and sensitive, then switches to the other, lavishing it with the same slow, devastating attention until both ache in tandem.

He finally leans back, hands still cradling your breasts, thumbs brushing the wet peaks gently, drawing broken gasps from you. His eyes, those impossible nebula-blue eyes, are glazed, heavy-lidded, fixed on the marks his mouth has left.

“Fuck” he hisses, the word rough and tender all at once. His gaze lifts to yours. “If you want to stop, you need to tell me now. Because I don’t know if I’ll be able to if we keep going.”

Your body is already throbbing, hungry, empty. “If you stop…” you purr, voice low and trembling, “…I think I’ll cry.”

He laughs, a short, breathy sound, head falling back against the closet wall with a soft thud. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited.”

“Then hurry up and ravish me.” The words come out as a half-joke, but the clench in your gut is anything but playful, it’s a raw, desperate need for him to consume you, to erase every other touch that ever came before him.

He moves in an instant. Hands hook beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. Your legs wrap around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back. His palms cradle your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, kneading as he carries you out of the closet and toward the bed.

His mouth finds yours again, tongue licking deep, almost fucking into you hungrily with every step. You try to match him, but he’s too much, too fast, all you can do is cling and moan into the kiss.

He lowers you onto the mattress gently, the sheets cool against your heated back. His eyes drag down your body slowly, taking in the flush across your chest, the way your nipples still glisten from his mouth, the slight tremble in your thighs.

You’ve never seen his eyes so dark, so focused, like he’s imprinting every inch in his mind for later. His fingers hook into the waistband of your sweats, he pauses, just for a heartbeat, then drags them down your legs in one torturously slow pull.

The fabric whispers over your skin, leaving you exposed except for the simple white cotton panties, already damp at the center.

He settles between your thighs, knees sinking into the mattress, springs creaking beneath his weight. His gaze locks on the growing wet patch, then flicks up to meet yours.

He lowers his head without breaking eye contact, letting you watch as his tongue presses flat against the soaked fabric. The heat of his mouth through the cotton makes you whine, he moans low in his throat as your taste floods his tongue, the vibration traveling straight to your clit.

Your legs draw up onto the bed, toes curling into the sheets. “You taste so good” he rumbles against you, voice muffled.

He hooks a finger under the gusset and peels the panties aside, then dives in, dragging sloppy, eager stripes of his tongue up your cunt, flicking over your clit with each drag. You twist, arch, breath stuttering out in shocked gasps.

“You okay?” He murmurs, leaving your slick flesh for a moment, gazing down at your stupefied expression.

“Don’t stop” You whimper, eyes lidded, gazing down at him between your legs. He smiles wickedly for a moment before diving in again.

He seals his lips around your clit and hums, the low vibration sending sparks flickering behind your eyes. Your mind blanks, everything narrows to the wet heat of his mouth, the slow drag of his tongue, the way he presses it inside you, wiggling until it’s seated snug inside your pulsing walls.

Your mind goes blank, body a mushy pile of electric sensations, but you still needed more. Even with his tongue, you want more.

“Toru—” you almost howl, hips twitching off the bed. “Please, I feel like I’m melting.”

“Behave” he whispers, pulling back just enough to bite softly at your inner thigh, teeth dimpling the flesh, leaving a faint mark. “I want to take my time. Savour this. Savour you.”

One large hand slides up your body, cupping your breast again, thumb stroking the nipple in lazy circles. The other slips between your legs, two fingers gliding through your slick, coating themselves before pressing in, stretching you open with ease.

You lift your head to watch him, the flush high on his cheeks, the glaze in his eyes, the way his lips are shiny with you. The sight of Satoru, your Satoru, the one you’d quietly filed away as untouchable, between your thighs, looking wrecked and hungry, sends another wave of heat through you.

You’d wanted him for years. Every time you worked up the courage to confess, he was with someone else, laughing too easily, touching someone else’s hand. The timing was always wrong. Eventually you stopped trying, convinced it was safer to stay friends.

Even now doubt flickers. Is this just for tonight? A way to pass the time? Or does he feel the same quiet ache you’ve carried?

Before you can chase the thought further, his fingers begin to move, slow, deep thrusts that make your body slicker, wetter, the sound obscene in the quiet room. Heat coils low in your stomach, spreading outward until your fingertips hum with electricity.

You gasp, biting your lip to stifle the sound. His lips wrap around your clit again, gentle at first, then sucking harder, tongue flicking in time with his fingers. Your eyes snap open and flutter closed, vision hazy, thoughts blurring at the edges.

“Toru” you warn, voice trembling. Your walls clench around his fingers in erratic pulses. You grip the sheets, knuckles white, pulling until the fitted sheet starts to lift from the mattress. “Oh, god—”

Your eyes go wide, fixed on the ceiling as the knot tightens unbearably. Your back arches off the bed in small, helpless increments, feet sliding along the sheets.

When the orgasm crashes over you, it feels like you’re free-falling, white noise roaring in your ears, body bucking off the bed, a sharp yelp tearing from your throat.

Your thighs try to snap closed around his head, but his free hand leaves your breast to hold you open, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your inner thigh as he keeps thrusting, keeps sucking, drawing every last shudder and twitch from you while your cunt clenches and sloshes around his fingers.

You come back to earth slowly, senses returning one by one. The cool sheets beneath you, the faint hum of the apartment, the wet press of his tongue still petting your clit in soft, soothing laps, coaxing out the final aftershocks.

He finally sits back on his heels, grinning proudly, lips shiny, cheeks flushed as he gazes down at your trembling form, muscles twitching, stomach clenching in little ripples.

“You good?”

You hum, limbs heavy and light all at once, floating somewhere between bliss and boneless exhaustion. “Mmm… so good.”

Your eyes flutter shut, heavy and unfocused, as the aftershocks ripple through you in slow, lingering waves.

For a long moment you simply lie there, chest rising and falling unevenly, trying to gather the scattered pieces of yourself while the room spins lazily around the edges. The sheets are cool against your flushed skin, damp in places from sweat and slick, and the faint hum of the apartment.

A soft swish of fabric pulls your attention. When your eyelids lift again, heavy and slow, you’re treated to the sight of Satoru stripping above you.

He kneels between your spread thighs, hoodie already gone, the dark button-down shirt he’d worn beneath it now partially undone. The milky expanse of his chest gleams in the low bedroom light, smooth, pale skin stretched taut over lean muscle, a faint sheen of sweat catching the glow from the bedside lamp. He notices your stare immediately, one brow lifts in lazy amusement, blue eyes glinting.

His hands pause at the waistband of his jeans, the top button already popped, denim parted just enough to reveal the sharp cut of his hips and the trail of white hair disappearing beneath the black elastic of his boxers. He grips the zipper and drags it down with deliberate slowness, the metallic rasp loud in the quiet room.

Your gaze follows the winding vein that pulses just above the line of fabric, thick and insistent, before your eyes drop lower. You swallow hard, tongue darting out to wet your lips in an unconscious motion.

He peels the jeans down his legs in one fluid motion, muscular thighs flexing as he shifts his weight, long, powerful lines of him that make your stomach tighten all over again. Then he teases the waistband of his boxers, fingers hooking under the elastic and tugging it down an inch, then another, watching your reaction with hooded eyes.

You frown, shifting restlessly on the bed, thighs itching to press together against the sudden ache of emptiness. “If you don’t get naked this second—”

He laughs softly, and shoves the boxers down in one swift pull.

His cock springs free, annoyingly perfect. Silky-smooth skin a touch darker than the rest of him, flushed pink at the tip, already glistening with a bead of pre-cum that catches the light. Girthy and long, curved upward just enough to promise it will hit every sensitive place inside you. Veins decorate the shaft like delicate ribbons, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat.

You bite your lip hard enough to sting, an involuntary groan slipping out as heat floods your core again.

He wraps a hand around the base, giving himself one slow, deliberate stroke, eyes never leaving yours, then another, coating himself in slick pre-cum until he glistens. “Like what you see?”

You nod embarrassingly fast, half-tempted to spread your legs wider and point, to beg with your body since words feel far too inadequate.

He smiles, slow and wicked, and strokes himself a few more times just for your viewing pleasure before leaning forward.

His hands find your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh as he pulls you down the bed toward him in one smooth tug. His jeans and boxers are kicked off and forgotten on the floor. He notches himself at your entrance, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the sharp points of your hip bones while he guides the head inside.

You’re still so wet, so ready for him, swollen and slick from his earlier attention, that he glides in with relative ease, feeding you inch by thick inch without pause. The stretch is exquisite, filling you until he’s seated to the hilt, hips flush against yours.

A ragged groan tears from your lips as he presses in deep, the blunt head kissing your cervix, every ridge and vein dragging against your walls.

“Look at you” he grunts. He lifts your hips from the mattress, resting them high on his thighs so your lower back arches off the bed. “You’re shaking already.”

“Satoru—” You gasp, reaching out desperately, fingers curling in the air until he leans forward and lets you dig your nails into his shoulders. He begins to grind, slow, deep rolls of his hips that keep him buried to the root.

Your back arches further into his hold, spine curving sharply as his hands slide to your waist, helping you maintain the angle.

You feel him everywhere, the thick slide of his cock dragging against your front wall, the obscene bulge of him pressing outward against your lower stomach with every thrust. Your mind blanks at the filthy intimacy of it, of him claiming space inside you that no one else has ever reached.

He drives harder, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the room, punctuating the haze in your head. Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes, just sharp punches of air forced out every time he snaps forward. Your nails rake down his shoulders, leaving faint red trails that fade almost as quickly as they appear.

You’re cracking open at the seams, reality warping around the pleasure that makes your whole body sing.

“Don’t stop” you cry, legs hooking around his lower back, heels digging in to force his thrusts into shallow, punishing snaps that keep him pressed impossibly deep.

“Fuck—” The word rips from him, rough and feral. Before you can process the shift, he’s pulling out, your cunt clenching around nothing in protest, and flipping you onto your stomach.

You land on your front, limbs too weak to hold your weight. He yanks your hips back, forcing you onto your knees while your chest stays pressed to the mattress, cheek turned against the cool sheets.

He enters you again, slowly, letting you feel every thick inch as he glides back inside. He’s deeper now, in this angle, the head nudging against that same spot until his hand comes to rest on the small bulge in your belly, pressing down against himself from the outside.

His other hand grips your hip as his rhythm turns ruthless, sharp, relentless snaps that jolt your whole body forward with each thrust. The bed creaks beneath you, headboard tapping the wall in time.

“All mine now” he growls, the sound vibrating from deep in his chest. He leans over you, chest pressing to your back, hot breath fanning across your skin. His tongue drags a thick, wet stripe up the back of your neck before his teeth sink in, hard enough to sting, not break skin. You yelp, cunt clenching around him involuntarily as he ruts deeper. “He needs to know.”

Without breaking rhythm he reaches for your phone on the nightstand, fingers fumbling only for a second before he punches in the code, of course he knows it, and opens the camera. He slams it down on the bed, front camera angled upward toward the ceiling, capturing the violent rocking of the mattress, letting whoever might see it imagine the way your body jolts with every thrust.

“Cry for me, baby” he purrs against your ear, fucking even deeper, chasing the broken sounds he wants. “Let him know who’s fucking you.”

“Sa—Satoru—” Your voice cracks, eyes screwing shut as tears slip free, soaking into the sheets beneath your cheek. Your fingers twist in the fabric, desperate for an anchor.

“How good is it?” he growls, one hand coming down to slap your ass, a sharp sting, joining the lewd plap of his hips against your flesh. You yelp again, walls fluttering around him as fresh heat bubbles under your skin.

“So—so good, oh god—” You whimper, rocking back into him despite the ache, hungry for more, deeper, anything he’ll give.

“Look at you, taking me so well” he murmurs, leaning over you again, chest to back. “So fucking wet, all for me.”

“Please… pleasepleaseplease—” The words dissolve into sobs as his hand slips beneath your hips, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, perfect circles.

The second orgasm tears through you without warning, back curling sharply, thighs trembling violently. You arch so hard he nearly slips out, but he clamps a hand on your hip and holds you in place, rutting desperately into the spasming grip of your cunt.

His rhythm stutters, he gives a sharp, broken shout of your name and stills, fingers digging bruises into your hip as he spills inside you, hot, thick pulses that seem to go on forever.

He grinds deep, stirring his release inside you, pressing it into every inch like he’s trying to mark you from the inside out.

You’re too fucked-out to do more than whimper, body going limp, hips sagging forward onto the mattress. His cock slips free with a wet sound, a thick glob of cum immediately follows, trickling down your thigh and into the sheets below.

He stays kneeled behind you, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the messy path of his release leaking from your swollen hole. He reaches for the phone, stops the recording, trims it quickly, right at the moment you’re crying his name in broken, desperate sobs, and sends it.

‘She’s mine. Delete her number.’

He doesn’t wait for a reply. The phone clatters back onto the nightstand.

…

Once Satoru has tasted you, once he’s felt the way your body opens for him and clenches around him like it was made for him, he can’t stop.

He eases you onto your back again, the sheets twisted and damp beneath you.

Nothing shields those piercing blue eyes from you anymore. He wants you to see him, every flicker of obsession laid bare as he settles between your thighs, palms sliding up the backs of your legs to hook them around his waist.

He slides into you slowly, torturously slow, inch by thick inch until he’s buried to the hilt and your breath catches in a sharp gasp.

He doesn’t rush. He fucks you deep and slow, hips rolling in long, languid strokes that drag every ridge along your sensitive walls, withdrawing almost completely so he can watch the way his slick-coated length slides from your tight hole before he sinks back in.

You plead, voice cracking, hips lifting, begging him to go faster, to fuck you into the mattress until you forget your own name, but he ignores it with maddening calm, eyes locked on yours, memorising the way your lips part, the way your lashes flutter, the way your chest heaves.

“Been dreaming of this for so long” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low and ragged. “Your face when you cum is fucking unreal.”

His hand drifts to your throat, a loose, teasing pressure around your pulse, thumb brushing the frantic flutter there, just enough to make your breath hitch and your body arch harder into him.

Praise spills from him in soft, filthy waves. “So perfect… look at you… fuck, you’re made for me…”

He kisses you deeply, tongue stroking slow and thorough until his own vision spots at the edges, until he has to pull back to breathe.

When you shatter again, whimpering his name in broken, desperate cries that echo around the room, he reaches for the phone without breaking rhythm. He records every sound, the wet slap of skin, your trembling gasps, the way you sob

‘Satoru… Toru…’ as you come apart beneath him.

Your legs are still shaking when you push at his chest. He lets you flip him, rolling onto his back with a low, approving groan.

You climb on top, sinking down onto his cock in one greedy drop that makes you both groan.

You ride him hard, viciously, nails digging into the hard planes of his stomach, leaving angry red crescents that will linger for days.

He grips your thighs, fingers bruising, holding you steady while you grind, roll and snap your hips forward. “That’s it” he growls, voice wrecked, eyes dark and hooded, watching the way your peaked breasts jolt with each snap. “Take what you want. Use me.”

You gasp, head thrown back, cumming hard on top of him, walls spasming around his cock, hot and wet and relentless.

He’s obsessed with it, the way you clutch him, the way his cum starts to leak out around his shaft as you lift and drop your hips a few more times, thick strings of it webbing between you, letting him know he’s marked every inch of you.

He can’t keep his hands off you even when you both stumble to the shower, desperate to wash the mess from your thighs. The tiny bathroom fills with steam almost instantly, hot water pounding against the tiles as he presses you to the slick wall.

He lifts one of your legs around his hip, notches himself, and fucks you again, deep, punishing thrusts that jolt your whole body, eager to feel you cum around him again.

His teeth sink into your shoulder, leaving another dark, blooming bite that will show under your clothes for days.

Hickeys follow in a possessive trail, from your neck, to your collarbone, down to the soft swell above your breast, each one sucked and bitten with careful hunger.

He doesn’t stop until you’ve come apart once again, pinned to the wall with his fingers on your clit and his cock driving deep.

Finally, he drop to his knees in the steam, mouth sealed around your clit while two fingers curl inside you, drawing out every last tremor until your legs give out entirely.

…

You shift slightly, the sheets whispering against your skin as you stretch just enough to feel the pleasant ache bloom deeper in your hips, a warm, liquid heat still lingering between your thighs.

You’re pressed to his side, one leg slung lazily over his thigh, arm draped across his waist, fingers splayed against the firm warmth of his ribs, your cheek resting on his chest where his heartbeat thumps slow and steady beneath your ear, like a metronome set to lull you back to sleep.

A large hand glides down your waist, fingers spreading wide against your skin until they reach the swell of your ass. He grips the flesh there gently, kneading with lazy affection, the pressure sending a fresh spark through your already tender body.

You gasp softly, fingers pressing into his ribs in reflex. Beneath you, his chest vibrates with a low, sleepy laugh.

“Morning” he murmurs, voice rough and gravel-thick from sleep, the sound rumbling straight through you.

You crack one eye open, peeking up at him through your lashes. Even like this, hair mussed beyond repair, eyes slightly puffy from the night, brilliant blue peeking out between pale lashes, he looks unfairly good, like he woke up ready to ruin your composure all over again.

“Morning” you whisper back, pressing your face into his chest to hide the sudden rush of warmth flooding your cheeks as last night crashes over you in vivid, relentless detail.

He rolls smoothly, maneuvering you beneath him with effortless strength until you’re flat on your back again, his body caging yours against the mattress. He props his chin on your chest, right above the valley between your breasts, blue eyes twinkling in the soft morning light as he studies your face.

His white hair falls forward, brushing your collarbone. You don’t know where to look, his gaze is too direct, too open, so you glance away, tracing the line of his shoulders instead.

“Why aren’t you looking at me?” His voice is quiet now, vibrating against your sternum. “Do you regret it?”

You shake your head quickly, bottom lip caught between your teeth. “No. I promise I don’t.” The words come out small. “I’m just… nervous.”

He laughs again, eyes curling shut for a moment before he lowers his cheek to rest directly over your heart. You’re certain he can hear how wildly it’s racing, the slow smirk that spreads across his face confirms it.

“Why are you nervous?” His hand begins to wander again, a single fingertip dragging up the inside of your arm, raising goosebumps in its wake.

“You make me nervous” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. You stare at the top of his head, fighting the urge to slide your fingers into that fluffy white hair. “This makes me nervous. I’m scared.”

“Scared?” He hums, fingertip trailing higher, stroking across the top of your shoulder before dipping down to trace lazy circles over the swell of your breast.

“That I’ve messed this up…” Your stomach churns, the fear bubbling up despite the warmth of his body pinning you to the bed. You lose the battle and thread your fingers into his hair at last, the other hand smoothing across the wide plane of his shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin, the faint ridge of muscle beneath. “I don’t want you to think you’re just some… rebound.”

“I don’t.” The answer is simple, but immediate. He shrugs one shoulder, muscles bunching under your palm. Then he lifts his head again, pinning you with that unflinching blue stare. “And even if I was, I wouldn’t let you go.”

You blink, brain sluggish in the morning haze. “Huh?”

He pushes himself up onto his forearms so he’s hovering over you properly now, white hair falling forward to frame his face like a halo.

“I’ve loved you for quite some time now, Y/N.” There's no trace of teasing, no hint of a joke. “I’ve tried to tell you so many times, but the timing was always wrong.”

“Really?” The word comes out on a shaky exhale, your heart slamming so hard it almost hurts. He nods once, solemn, eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m not saying this just because we—” You swallow, the rest catching in your throat. “But I love you too, Satoru. I have for so long.”

A smile breaks across his face, so beautiful you swear you hear something angelic in the room. He lowers himself again, burying his face in the hollow of your throat, arms sliding beneath you to pull you impossibly closer.

Your own arms wrap around his ribs, palms smoothing over the warm expanse of his back, holding on like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go.

“I’ve waited so long for this” he whispers into your skin, voice muffled and raw. His arms tighten incrementally, squeezing until your breath hitches, pressing the steady thump of his heart against yours.

I didn't know how to end it 😩

Please don't steal, reproduce, feed into AI, or repost without my consent.

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