★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ
✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 10.6k
✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! college!au, nerd!Gojo (he’s got glasses in this one), semi-unestablished relationship (poly), light hurt-comfort, pet names (baby, babe, honey), fingering, oral (f!receiving), phone sex (Geto does not hang up the phone)
✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ For some reason socially inept Nerdjo was truly speaking to me. I like to imagine Nerdjo as book-smart with little to no social skills. His strange lost puppy vibes speak to me. Alternate title: local know-it-all doesn’t understand the concept of polyamory.
(★ art credit @/nekozuu_ on twitter!)
✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮
Gojo is a golden boy overachiever. Dean’s list every semester, on track to be valedictorian and it isn’t even close with whoever has to be his runner-up come graduation. Most people around campus don’t like him, but reasons vary. His immaculate GPA, his inability to shut the fuck up. But not an insignificant amount of the hate boils down to him dating objectively the hottest guy on campus. Sour grapes and all that. Gojo is tolerable to only a handful of people, holdovers from high school, though Nanami swears that he hates his guts Gojo still thinks they’re close. The blonde’s aggression towards him has waned significantly since he first met the underclassmen with the bad bangs.
Then there’s Shoko, and Suguru–who barely counts because “I’m your boyfriend, duh, we get along,”–and you. Another academic overachiever, but you do it the normal way. Studying; blood, sweat, and tears; mentally spiraling at three AM because you have an exam in four hours and you keep forgetting all the neat little notes you made for that big essay question. You’re a high school friend too which makes it all the more strange when Gojo finds his thoughts lingering on you more than they used to.
How pretty that new top looked when it slipped off your shoulder the other day, how he could taste your fruity lip gloss on your straw when you offered him a sip of your drink last week, the way he can hear an echo of Suguru in your voice whenever you say his name. Soft and gentle like you could never possibly get tired of him.
And that’s another thing. Suguru. His boyfriend. The guy Gojo has been dating since he was seventeen. He knows Suguru has experience outside of him–but he’s always tight-lipped on who it was, calling Gojo a jealous cow whenever he begs not so subtly for a backstory. He is jealous but he’s also nosy. He wants to know because all he knows is Suguru. Not so much that he swings one way or another, just that he likes Suguru and that’s enough until it suddenly isn’t. Because it’s slowly dawning on him that he might like you too and that doesn’t really check out given his history, romantic or otherwise, with people of the feminine persuasion.
Gojo decides the best person to ask about the whole ordeal is Shoko. She’s the closest thing he has to an older sister even though the age difference is barely a month.
Shoko scowls at him when he shows up, but still lets him inside with strict instruction to shut the fuck up. She’s halfway through a study session and Gojo is happy to which color highlighter corresponds to which topics–green for vocab and pink for the labels of her hand drawn diagrams–while he figures out how to broach the subject of what he’s sure is bordering on emotional cheating. His solution up to this point has been cut and dry abandonment but that can only last for so long. You’re still his best friend and he can’t exactly get away with ignoring you for this long without red flags going up. But he also can’t stomach being around you as much as he used to because you laugh at his jokes and the sound of your giggles make his stomach flutter. He says as much as he sips his extra sweet frappuccino while Shoko double checks how to spell hemorrhage because she always forgets the second H.
“So, what I’m saying is, how did you know you liked girls?” Gojo asks. He’s being serious, earnest, but Shoko glowers at him over the edge of her laptop, looking two seconds away from kicking him out.
“Literally what are you talking about?” She groans before going back to her notebook, the grip on her pen looking just a little bit tighter. Shoko never outright says when she’s annoyed but there are always signs. He isn’t trying to get on her nerves but even Gojo can admit that he’s a bit hyped up on caffeine and anxiety at the moment. His leg is bouncing like a jackhammer as he tries to delicately hold his coffee rather than squeeze it until the plastic cup bursts between his nervous fingers.
“Well, you like girls–”
“I’m gonna stop you right there. I’m a lesbian. Me liking girls is different from you liking girls. Liking women isn’t exactly a transferable skill, wonder boy. If you’re that curious; ask a guy. Ask Nanami.” She suggests.
He could but the stern underclassmen would probably be less help than Shoko. Not for lack of experience but for lack of patience. Like with everything, he’ll assume Gojo is joking and brush him off. Nanami is always so politely articulate when he tells Gojo to fuck off. In fact, he never uses those exact words.
“He’ll probably ignore me or think I’m being funny.” Gojo mopes.
“Ask Suguru,” Shoko says absently, highlighting the header of the next section of her notes. Yellow this time.
“Do you want me to die?” He gasps, not being the least bit dramatic. Shoko makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan that says she wouldn’t be opposed to it at this exact moment. He doesn’t take it to heart. The textbook chapters are getting longer and Gojo is burning through her daylight with his relationship drama that isn’t even about a relationship. He’s brooding and whining over hypotheticals–thoughts!–things that haven’t happened and don’t need to be said out loud. He could’ve gone to the grave with these strange yearnings but he just had to open his mouth. So now Shoko knows.
There are worse people to confess his sins to. Geto being the highest on that list despite Shoko’s suggestion. Telling your boyfriend that you have a crush on someone that isn’t him has to be high on the list of things you should never do. And right beneath that is suddenly developing a crush on your best friend that you’ve known for six years.
Gojo glares at himself in the matte polished metal of the elevator door, a hazy reflection in only the broadest strokes. Long, lanky silhouette crowned in a mop of white hair. He can’t tell if it’s the elevator or his anxiety making it feel like he’s about to buzz out of his skin. Condensation drips in cold rivulets over his fingers, joining the sweat of his palms as he stalks out of the lobby. There’s nothing left in the cup but melting ice and granules of sugar but nibbling on the straw gives Gojo something to focus on that isn’t listing out every note of your scent.
He knows the perfume you like because he’s complimented it no less than a hundred times over the years. He knows what soap you use because you complain when you can’t find it on a grocery run. He recognizes the smell of your detergent because you’re always so diligent about washing any article of clothing that you steal before returning it, and when did Gojo start mourning the smell of dryer sheets where he wished he could smell body mist and sweat and you. A signature scent that’s been unflinchingly synonymous with comfort for years, filed away in his olfactory memory right next to Suguru’s.
It’s deep and fruity, smells delicious in a way fresh-baked pastries do. It makes his mouth water thinking about dragging his tongue over your skin just to know if you taste as tempting as you smell. He bites down harder on the straw and feels the thin plastic splinter against his tongue. When he spits it out the straw is bent where he bit too hard, crooked like a broken flower stem. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and puts the straw back in his mouth.
By the time Gojo makes it back to his own apartment halfway across campus, all the ice has melted and it’s started raining. It doesn’t smell like you inside and it’s somewhere halfway between a blessing and a punishment, but there’s touches of Suguru everywhere. They haven’t quite bridged the gap of living together yet. Something about Suguru wanting to be able to pay for all the things Gojo’s family is lavishing on him for being a good dog and going to the expected college and studying the predetermined major. All according to the Gojo clan’s careful dictation. But even with a high rise apartment all to himself, Gojo can still find traces of who he should be fantasizing about. Who he does fantasize about. Because in all of this Gojo’s feelings for his boyfriend have remained unflinching. Not divided or waning. It feels as miraculous as lightning striking twice. An electric jolt that sings down his spine and buzzes in his stomach any time Gojo thinks of either of you.
Like the thought summoned him, Suguru’s name lights up Gojo’s phone. He considers hitting decline, letting it ring. He’s notorious for long showers and Suguru wouldn’t know the difference between purposeful and accidental avoidance, but Gojo needs to hear something other than Shoko’s dismissal and pessimism. Even if it’s the person least likely to entertain this strange affliction he’s developed.
Suguru’s voice is smooth as honey. Soft and sweet as it comes crooning through the speaker. Gojo is only half listening until Suguru says the name he’s been avoiding for at least a week.
“Are you listening?” Suguru sighs when Gojo can barely force more than a squeaked “yeah,” through the receiver. “Okay, so why have you been avoiding her?” Suguru asks again. ”She’s been asking about you, y’know. S’not nice to ignore people for no reason, Satoru.”
His chiding is mostly harmless. Gojo needs a bit of guidance at the best of times when it comes to social interaction. He’s far from shy, extroverted to a fault. The kind of person that gets comfortable with people far quicker than is normal. He’s been attached to the hip of his closest friends from day one, even when they wouldn’t consider him to truly be a friend, like in Nanami’s case. You’re no different and his avoidance is far more obvious than if anyone else had been ignoring you. He’s made his presence in your life so pronounced that a day without a text about whatever sweet confection he’s found to snack on is enough to sound alarm bells. You gave him a week at least before tattling–asking, more like, but Gojo can’t help but feel scolded like he’s done something wrong. Like he pulled your hair or pushed you down on the playground. His sudden avoidance is comparatively juvenile and Gojo has to work to keep the pout from his face as he paces across his living room.
“I just needed space.” Wrong. His voice is high and tight, eked out in a tone that rings hollow even to his own ears. Suguru scoffs on the other side of the phone.
“You never need space, Satoru,” his tone is mercifully affectionate. “So try again.”
“I don’t know,” he mumbles because despite Shoko’s attempt at advice, Gojo can’t force the words “I have a crush on our best friend,” to cross his lips. Suguru is gentle and forgiving but that seems like a bridge too far even for their relationship, as stable as it is. Or perhaps not since Gojo has been dreaming about tasting that flavored gloss straight from your lips.
It always smells fruity when you put it on in his rear view mirror, smacking your lips and groaning when it gets on your teeth. Clear with no shimmer, a nondescript squeeze tube that you buy at the corner store. It isn’t the expensive kind that requires pencils and painting or whatever it is you do when you make up your face for real and he likes it just as much as any lipstick. Simple and not transfer resistant. If Gojo kissed you he’d get that same sheen on his lips like a mark of possession. A glossy stamp of your love. He blinks hard behind his glasses, shoving the frames halfway up his forehead as he rubs at his eye, trying to wipe the image of you from his mind. He draws in a steadying breath and instead of spilling his guts he asks a question of his own.
“Who was she?” It’s a question that’s been burning a hole in the recesses of Gojo’s mind for years, and there’s no better time to hear the answer than now. Maybe hearing about it will unlock some Promethean knowledge that’s eluded him his whole life. Well until now, until you. On the other end, Suguru laughs. It’s light, genuine, not a trace of annoyance in the sound.
“I’m surprised you still haven’t figured it out. You keep asking me,” he snorts, “but has it ever occurred to you to see if you could just ask her? It’s not some crazy secret. You’ll know if you ask the right person.” Gojo nearly trips over his feet.
“I know her?” He feels half betrayed, half elated. She was a friend, or an acquaintance at the least. Close enough that Gojo could ask if she’d slept with his boyfriend and Suguru was confident she’d answer without hitting him over the head with a blunt object for asking something so strange. He’d spent all these years teasing Gojo with the one secret he’d never tell. Less for privacy and more to watch his nosy boyfriend squirm over who it could’ve been that had Suguru before him. Familiarity lessens his jealousy somehow. Gojo wasn’t keen to share Suguru with the world. But sharing him with just one girl that he knew, Gojo could live with that. He wonders if Suguru would feel the same if he knew about his little crush, then thought better about asking. Instead, Suguru ends the call by reminding Gojo to reach out to you.
“She misses you, baby.” He says before hanging up. Gojo stares at his phone screen until it goes dark. Clicking the power button again and again, watching the picture of him and Suguru light up the screen, minutes ticking past, before he finally opens your last message thread. There are a few from you, timestamps declaring them to be a few days old, all left unanswered. The last one glares up at him. Words stinging even through text.
I’ll leave you alone, then. Call me when you feel up to it.
No emojis, no cute pet name. Proper punctuations.
I fucked up, Gojo thinks glumly as he stares at the messages he chose to ignore. Your contact photo smiles up at him. He remembers the day with startling clarity.
A few months ago. You were wearing blue. Blue to match his eyes. The picture was a bit silly. Outside of the tiny cropped version, Gojo’s cheek pressed against your stomach, eyes beaming next to the soft blue of your shirt. You were taking the photo, arm held high above your heads as your other hand played with his hair. Your nails were white in the photo and you were perfect. Wearing his colors like you knew before he did. Knew that he wanted you, didn’t want anyone else to have you if he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair but neither was this sudden ache in his chest whenever he thought about you.
His fingers hover over the keyboard. Typing and retyping because nothing sounds quite right. He’s nervous, phone screen shuddering as his hands tremble anxiously. His glasses slide down the bridge of his nose until he can’t even see the letters on the screen–stupid nearsightedness. It’s muscle memory that has him tapping out apology after apology until he decides to call you. He regrets it the second he hears that droning ring, knowing somewhere you’re looking down at your phone. He can imagine your face. Surprise, hurt. Annoyance at him taking so long and the audacity he has to call after pretending you don’t exist. By the fifth ring Gojo is sure you won’t answer, but you do, sounding breathless as you say his name. It’s the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.
“Satoru? Are you there?” He realizes he needs to say something, make a noise so you don’t think the first time you’re seeing his name on your screen in a week was an accidental pocket dial. Gojo’s mouth opens and closes, trying to find something substantial to say. Instead he stutters out your name. He can hear the smile in your voice when you laugh and say “hey, baby,” in a tone sweet as spun sugar, melting on his tongue as he parrots it back.
Baby. Suguru calls him that. It’s not a reserved term of endearment, not weird to volley it around between the three of you. Suguru calls you honey when he’s asking where you all should go for lunch, you call Gojo babe when you need help with your calculus homework. Gojo calls you sweetheart when he wants to steal a bite of your food. But somehow it feels different this time and there’s the crux of his avoidance. Nothing has changed for you but, for Gojo, it feels like the world is slipping off its axis. And it isn’t fair for him to act like every moment is something precious and meaningful when for you it’s just a Tuesday afternoon. Your ignorance makes his life harder in ways you can’t imagine, but he feels the need to be selfish as long as he’s suffering.
Once, you called him a peacock. Bright and showy, purposefully fishing for attention because Gojo likes being told how good he is.
Smart and handsome, even with his glasses crowding his face. So tall, and strong underneath the unassuming clothes. He likes to show his pretty feathers and hear you coo over him. Suguru compares him to a puppy in that way. Doing whatever trick he needs to to get a treat and a pat on the head. He’ll be whatever you two want because he’s desperate for validation. The knowledge that he has your attention and knowing that you like giving it to him. Specifically because you know he wants it.
Gojo is easy to please in that way which makes it all the more painful that he can’t ask for kisses for a job well done. Can’t pout and whine until you let him spend some time in your bed as a reward. Gojo goes back to pacing around his apartment as you ask where he’s been, giving clipped answers that probably sound more annoyed than desperate. Because he is desperate. You’re in the middle of asking what’s wrong when he butts in with a request,
“Can I come see you?” He might drown himself in the bathtub if you say no.
“I’m not exactly home yet, but, sure, if you want to. I’ll meet you there.” You sound unsure and Gojo wants to choke himself. He’s been so distant and disjointed with his words and thoughts that you sound doubtful that he wants to see you. Like he’s not fiending to be in your apartment. It’s smaller than his, cozy. Less space to fill so everything is flooded with your scent. Perfume, detergent, the bare smell of your skin after a shower. He licks his lips as he stumbles towards the door. Shoving his feet into his shoes with little regard to anything else. The elevator is halfway to the lobby when he remembers he should’ve grabbed a hoodie. But the rain isn’t heavy and your place isn’t that far.
He listens to you breathing as you both walk, cars rumbling past mask the sound every few moments and Gojo wants to make them all disappear. Even the soft patterning of spring rain is an annoyance getting in the way as he imagines what you’ll smell like when the two of you meet in the middle. Like sweat and petrichor, he imagines. Earthy and sweet. The imagined scene lingers on the back of his tongue as you narrate random things you see on your walk. Some guy playing the guitar under an awning–Gojo can hear the soft strumming through the phone. A dragonfly that doesn’t seem bothered by the soft rain, a car with a bunch of funny bumper stickers. You read each one as you pass it–“Please, let me merge or I’ll cry,” “If you can read this, you’re too close,” “Honk if you heart goth girls,”–and Gojo is sure you could read the dictionary and he’d be just as enraptured as he is now from A to Z. He can see you up the street, rushing into your building but he doesn’t mention it. He listens to you bouncing up the stairs and unlocking your door. He hears the rustling of you setting down your keys and kicking off your shoes.
“I left the door unlocked.” You say just as he’s ducking inside the building. You had your umbrella but he has nothing but his heart in his hand as he steps inside, shivering as the air conditioning washes over his damp clothes. He’s dripping on the welcome mat, phone held desperately to his ear. He takes the stairs two at a time to get to your apartment that much faster, tripping over himself as he flings your door open. You jump and he hears the little yelp played back in a loop before he hangs up.
“You got here fast.” You’re smiling and Gojo loses his breath, realizing he never had it because he all but ran to meet you.
“Yeah,” is all he says and it makes you smile wider until you realize he’s soaking wet.
“Satoru!” It’s all the scolding he gets before you’re grabbing his wrist and dragging him into your room. “Take off your clothes.”
It’s innocent enough but Gojo can’t help but want to make a show of it. He thinks of the way Suguru is always so casually seductive, mimicking the way he peels off the layers of his clothes. Look at me, Gojo wants to whine. I want you to look at me. You do eventually, eyes widening when you notice the deliberate way he’s taking off his wet shirt.
He takes the liberty of stripping down to his briefs before sitting on the edge of your bed, shivering and wondering if he looks as stupid as he suddenly feels. He’s never really been one to know how to seduce someone. In all his years Gojo has usually been the one on the other end of the pursuit. Catching Suguru was nothing short of a miracle arranged by divine intervention. All the stars aligned to get the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen into his bed, and Gojo can’t imagine another phenomenon like that will happen again for a long time. Least of all now, when he really wants it.
He tries to play the part, mimicking what he’s seen in movies because he’s always been clumsy and eager, just happy to be there. Gojo has never had to draw anyone in so it feels strange as he leans back on his hands, feet planted wide to make an inviting space between his legs. And your only reaction is to wrap a towel around him, scrubbing at his damp hair before turning back to digging through your drawers.
He can feel the pout trying to pull at his lips as he tugs the towel tighter around his shoulders. Despite the artificial breeze of the AC, Gojo’s cheeks are warm. Across his face to his ears and down his neck and chest, he can feel the embarrassed flush flowing over his skin like molten lava. He buries himself in the towel and fights the urge to lay back and roll across your sheets, to cover himself in your scent to tide himself over until the next time he can be this utterly enveloped in you.
After a while, you pull out a shirt that looks far too big for you. A holdover from some sleepover. It’s too big to be his so it must be Suguru’s, but it smells just like you after living in your drawers for so long. Same with the sweatpants that are actually his. Gojo puts them on first and makes the deliberate choice not to pull them up all the way, letting them ride low on his hips to see if you’ll say anything about it. You don’t, seeming to politely ignore the way he’s flashing his bright colors like a bird after a mate.
It makes sense though. You’re friends. Best friends. And you know he’s with Suguru, so why would you entertain his clumsy attempts at seduction that could be seen as perfectly normal for someone as socially inept as Gojo can be. You told him to take off his wet clothes, you gave him something to change into. Nothing more, nothing less. Except Gojo wants you to mention how good he looks in his boyfriend’s clothes, wants you to notice how he’s posturing, all but begging for a compliment.
Friends, he thinks bitterly. Just friends. But the thought conjures another and he can’t help but ask,
“Do you know who Suguru slept with?” It comes out in a rush, contradicting the way he’s trying to be suave and alluring. He probably looks silly anyway. Swimming in a shirt two sizes too big, breath fogging up his glasses as the warm air condenses on the lenses. He takes them off to clean the water droplets off, missing whatever face you make at his question, but the shaky little laugh is enough to tip him off. He shoves his glasses back on, they settle crooked on his face as he frowns up at you. That wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.
“Why are you asking that all of a sudden?” You ask, your smile not quite reaching your eyes. “Did he say something?”
“Just to ask our girl friends. And we only really have two.” Because Gojo doubts Iori would answer even if he asked as nicely as possible and Mei Mei would probably be all too happy to brag about it any chance she got. Twisting the knife and all. He would’ve heard from her years ago. That left you or Shoko who definitely wasn’t the culprit. She hadn’t ever found a man attractive in any way that mattered. Maybe it was some other person he wasn’t considering. Amanai, perhaps? But even that didn’t sound right.
“Um,” you straighten your posture, clasping your hands together. Gojo tries not to notice the way it makes your breast sit higher underneath your shirt. “Yeah, I know who it was…” you trail off. Gojo sits up a bit. Years of mystery are about to be peeled away and he gets to watch the answers spring from those pretty lips of yours. They’re shiny, freshly glossed. Gojo licks his lips like he can taste the sticky flavor. “It was me.”
He’s on his feet faster than he can comprehend. It’s not a conscious choice the way he moves towards you, crowding you against the dresser as you squirm under the weight of his blue gaze.
It was me. It was me. It was me.
The words crash around in his head, loud and rumbling like a storm at sea. Breaking against the shores of his sanity. It was you. Images come to his mind unbidden, vignettes of how it must’ve happened between the two of you. He’s been on the receiving end of Suguru’s desire enough times to imagine just how he would have treated you. A guiding hand, firm but gentle. Pressing kisses against the strangest spots. Your ankle, the inside of your elbow. Suguru takes his time, likes to admire before he ruins. He wouldn’t have left marks but he’d have wanted to, because Gojo wants to.
He can’t keep focused. In his mind’s eye the scene wavers, going in and out. One moment it’s Suguru tucking his head between your thighs then the next your fingers and winding between strands of white hair. Blue eyes look up at you as you brush the dark bangs away from his face. It’s him then it’s Suguru. For a dazzling moment his imagination allows for both. The two of them pinning you between them, sweat sticking the three of you together as you writhe against two pairs of arms, grind against two longing bodies.
“Fuck,” is all Gojo can manage. “Fuck.” The word hangs in the chilled air between you as your teeth worry at your bottom lip, hands wringing together like you’re begging for forgiveness. He has none to give. Not for something like this. There’s nothing to forgive. It’s more a blessing than a crime. He should be thanking all the powers that be that it was you.
Before Gojo can consider the consequences, he’s stumbling closer, pressing his mouth against yours. His lips are half parted, tongue already peeking out to see if your lipgloss is as sweet as he’d hoped. You let him taste, let him put his shaky hands on your hips and squeeze. It’s grounding, it’s dizzying. He pulls you closer until he has the wherewithal to push you away. When his breathing steadies, he mumbles out a defeated, “Shit.”
Because as much as he wants you, you’re not his. Suguru is his. It takes all his willpower to pry his hands off your hips, takes every bit of his strength to step back when he wants to tuck his nose into the column of your neck and get lost in the smell of your skin.
“Shit!” He says again, turning his back on you because you’re temptation personified with your wide eyes and wet lips. The kiss wasn’t your fault even if you did kiss him back. Gojo tries not to let the knowledge excite him. This is wrong. It’s been wrong. But he can’t shake away the feeling of your body against his. Perfect.
“Suguru is gonna kill me,” he whines, pitiful tears stinging at his eyes like he didn’t do this to himself. He kissed you, not the other way around. Whatever consequences come of this, it’ll be the result of his own actions. Still, Gojo can’t help but feel sorry for himself. He can hear you moving behind him, coming closer until your hand touches his shoulder. It’s gentle, steadying, and it makes everything worse. But while he’s digging his own grave, Gojo leans back against you, savoring the last few moments before imminent disaster.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I ruined everything. It’s my fault, I’m sorry.” He nearly jumps out of his skin when your phone rings, shattering through the tense silence. Nausea curdles in his gut when he hears your voice shake.
“Hi, honey,” you sound soft and unsure, and Gojo knows it’s Suguru on the other line. Each moment ticks closer to his demise as you pace in front of your dresser, fingers pressed against your lips like you’re trying to keep silent. Or hold on to the feeling of his mouth against yours. The latter is unlikely as you hum in response to whatever Suguru is saying, eyes cutting towards Gojo every few seconds because he’s liable to stop breathing at any moment. His heartbeat hasn’t slowed where it’s crashing against his ribs, breath coming so quick that he’s getting lightheaded.
Even if you don’t mention the kiss, you’ll only be prolonging the inevitable. He’ll have to face the consequences sooner or later. And when he does, his life will come crashing down around him. He’ll lose Suguru, he’ll likely lose you, and everyone else would probably follow. The worst part is that he deserves it for wanting something he couldn’t have.
The conversation is quiet. Not secretive, but soft and slow. Not that Gojo can really hear you over the way his ears are ringing. His hands shake in his lap as he watches you pace. He sees your lips moving more than he registers any sounds. For what it’s worth, you don’t look particularly distressed. There’s a silver lining to it that you seem perfectly at ease in his presence even after Gojo just vaulted across what had been a strict line between the two of you. He’s never kissed you, you’ve never kissed him. The desire has been haunting him for longer than he’d like to admit but he’d resisted temptation until today. Now he has to watch you narrate his betrayal to his boyfriend and try not to think of how Geto knows how your lips taste, too.
He’s had you in ways that Gojo can only imagine and something close to bitterness builds in his chest. It’s selfish but Gojo feels left out, abandoned somehow. It happened before he and Suguru were together, before he knew that what he wanted from you was more than he could have, but it still stings. He reaches out, arm trembling with the fear of rejection as he waits for you to come to him. You do, still murmuring to Suguru as your hand meets his. He presses his cheek against your arm, the cold frame of his glasses drawing out goosebumps against your skin.
“Here,” you say, handing him your phone. It feels like his world is about to implode as he breathes into the phone. It’s enough for Suguru to know he’s listening.
“What’s wrong, baby?” The question is almost cruel because Gojo knows Suguru knows exactly what’s wrong. He kissed you. He wanted to kiss you. Has wanted to for what feels like an eternity. He kissed you, but he shouldn’t have. He’s taken, and worse, it wasn’t enough. Gojo knows how you feel about him. For that one fleeting moment he could pretend you were his and that knowledge is going to burn in the back of his mind forever. The first flame Prometheus brought to man, forbidden knowledge that will bring down wrath upon him. Except Suguru doesn’t sound particularly wrathful. If anything he’s exasperated in Gojo’s ear as he asks why he’s so worked up over a kiss.
“For someone so smart, babe, you’re really stupid sometimes.” Suguru has the nerve to sound affectionate, placating. “You’re not very good at hiding things from me. I knew how you felt probably before you did. I’m not mad at you if that’s what you’re worried about.”
How could he not be? Suguru has always been steadfast, a solid support to Gojo’s more flamboyant personality, but even this feels like a bridge too far. A kindness he isn’t worthy of with how easily he tossed aside his commitment to their relationship. He feels dirty as he listens to Suguru laugh in his ear.
“Don’t think so much, you’ll hurt yourself. You already did the hard part figuring it out on your own,” he says, like Gojo was the last one to uncover some secret truth that everyone else already lived by. “Now tell our girl sorry for making her wait for you.”
Our girl. That fries Gojo’s brain. The way Suguru said it so easily. You’re standing beside him, still hand in hand. Watching him watch you as Suguru pours honey in his ear. Our girl. Something he was meant to have, like all this was inevitable. He’d have an easier time believing that if you didn’t look pained when you catch his eyes, brows pinched and teeth biting at your pouted lip. If anything, you look nervous, uncertain. As if it was your fault that everything is falling apart at the seams. A careless moment is all it took to tear a hole in your lives. And because the damage has already been done, Gojo kisses the inside of your elbow. Lips pressing against your skin with feverish abandon because he isn’t sure he’ll ever get to do it again. But there’s a promise lingering in Suguru’s words. Our girl, as if that’s what you’ve always been.
“M’sorry,” Gojo mumbles between kisses. It’s all over now. “I’m sorry.” He feels a hand in his hair, soothing pets as he teeters on the edge of misery.
“You’re okay,” Suguru hums and Gojo has to believe it or he’ll lose his mind. This is okay. Suguru gave him permission. It unlocks all those secret thoughts he’s kept barely hidden in the recesses of his mind. He tests this new reality with every kiss he presses against your arm until your phone is slipping from his hand and Gojo is pulling you into his lap. You yelp, startled as you settle against him, arms hanging loose around his shoulders as he nips at your neck. You tip your head back to make space for his teeth. He’s too gentle to leave a mark but he tastes where he bites anyway, tongue licking where your pulse is thrumming beneath your skin.
Gojo can hear a vague noise above the sound of your breathing right next to his ear and remembers Suguru is still on the phone. He fumbles blinding then hands it back to you. His mouth is otherwise occupied as he traces the shape of his name against your throat like he has any right to such a brand of possession. You still card your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer like he deserves it. He feels your voice more than he hears it as blood rushes in his ears. His hands find your waist and he wonders if this is how you felt with Suguru. If you felt this perfect in his lap. Gojo can’t imagine letting you slip through his fingers anymore than he can stomach the thought of losing Suguru. He’s selfish that way. A lifetime of only doing what he’s told has made Gojo fierce about the few things he can call his own. And Suguru said you were his. Gojo hopes he’ll let him keep you longer than this small moment of eternity.
There’s nothing outside these four walls. Your bedroom has become a world of his own making where no one can breach. Even the sound of rain pattering outside is worlds away as you kiss his forehead and tell him not to cry. He hadn’t noticed the tears until you mentioned them, but now Gojo can feel the wetness on his cheeks, dripping off the point of his chin. Each tear catches in your lap, sparkling like diamonds on your thighs. Gojo squeezes, feeling you fill the space between his fingers. Soft and warm and his for the moment. He kisses you again, clumsy in his haste. Your noses bump and he swallows your giggles as your lips part against his.
There’s inexperience in every touch as Gojo tries to relearn what’s always come so easily. But you’re not Suguru. He can feel it in the way he can move you–your body easily bending to his strength–in the way you fit in his arms. He still reacts the same. The fitful longing that makes him nearly frantic. Gojo claws at your back, pulling you closer because you’ll never feel close enough until he’s inside you or you’re inside him. He doesn’t care, can’t think of caring when there’s still space between you. He wants you on your back and you move without protest. He only needs to want it and you’re bending to his slightest touch. He tests how much you’ll let him take, sliding his hands under your shirt until he’s pushing it over your head. Your phone falls out of your hand as he pulls your arms free. Suguru is still there, still listening. Gojo’s fingers stutter over the screen, nearly dropping the call before he puts it on speaker.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, hands rubbing comforting strokes along his arms as Gojo sits rigidly still above you. He’s not sure what’s wrong, only that something definitely is. It’s not you. Looking as beautiful as you are laid out beneath him. Without your shirt he can see so much of your skin and he feels faint knowing you’ll let him see even more if he asks nicely. The thought makes him dizzy.
Gojo’s always been a lightweight and right now he’s feeling drunk. Lightheaded at the thought of getting everything he wants so easily. He’s used to rules, restraint, only acting when he’s told or when it’s necessary. But you’re not a necessity. Even when it feels like he’ll stop breathing the moment you look away from him. You’re a luxury, a reward for finally acting without a thought for rules or consequences. But now that he’s here, Gojo isn’t quite sure what to do. He kisses you again because he wants to, put his hands on your waist because he wants to. You return the favor, your own fingers sneaking beneath his borrowed shirt to trace over the dip of his spine. He shivers, a soft sound escaping his lips. Faintly, he hears Suguru laughing through the speaker.
“Help him, baby,” Suguru says before Gojo can admit that he does, in fact, need help. This is new territory for him. Every feeling dense and uncharted as he tries to touch you how he thinks he should. It’s blind faith as he kisses your neck and squeezes your thighs. You don’t seem off put by his clumsiness. There’s a soft smile on your lips as you pull him into a kiss and tell him to relax. It’s easier said than done when he feels like his heart is making a valiant attempt at beating out of his chest. A gentle hand presses against his sternum, urging him out from under you, and you laugh at the way his pulse thunders against your palm. Your lips follow. Kissing his throat and down to his chest. It’s a faint sort of warmth through his shirt. Gojo wants to take it off but the coordination has fled from his body as you pull his hips until he’s sitting heavy on your lap. The position is familiar, soothing to his racing mind. He’s been here before. His hands find your shoulders as you press your chin against his chest, smiling up at him.
“Is this okay?” Gojo can barely nod, shivering as your nails trail up and down his back. Without your shirt, the warmth he felt before has only gotten hotter, like a fire burning in the finite space between you. When he starts squirming, cheeks warm from the way you’re just staring at him, you ask what he wants. “This is for you, honey. Whatever you want.”
Everything, he wants to say. Gojo wants everything. Everything and anything. The words knock around in his head, tangle over his tongue, come out as a slurred whine as your fingers dip below the waistband of his borrowed pants. Elastic stretches over your curious hand until you’re touching skin to skin. It only lasts a second before you’re pulling away and marveling at the wetness staining your fingertips. He forgets to breathe for a second as your fingers pass between your lips, tongue peeking out as you suck the taste of him off your skin.
Gojo feels the embarrassed flush as it rushes over him in a wave of heat; the tips of his ears, down his neck. You kiss where the blush paints over his heaving chest. Wet little marks get left behind. Lipgloss and precum smearing wherever your mouth touches. He’s close to hyperventilating, vision going blurry. He can feel the way you mumble for him to “calm down, honey,” as you kiss his neck, your hand finding its way back into his pants. It’s hard to calm down when the girl of his dreams has her hand around his dick. Your other hand is on his waist, skating across his back. The ticklish feeling of your nails raises goosebumps, has Gojo shivering and curling in on himself, already pitifully close to cumming in his pants.
It feels different when it’s your hand. Not better or worse, just different, and it’s enough to take him apart at the seams. Because it’s you. Your hand on his dick, your arm around his waist. Something straight out of the fantasies he’s been trying to shove down for months pretending every thought of you was nothing more than platonic. Even when he had dreams of you doing exactly this. Kissing him every time he whines, thumbing at the head of his cock until his shivering in your arms, clinging tight to your shoulders like you’re not leaning in to keep him close. But Gojo wants you closer than close even as heat builds where you’re chest to chest. He fumbles–mourning the sudden space between your bodies–finally yanking his shirt over his head. It knocks his glasses askew but he can’t be bothered to care. His sweat drips down the hollow of his throat and lands somewhere between your breasts. He wants to follow with his tongue but it’s hard to focus when you’re kissing him and whispering sweet words against his lips.
“I can feel it,” you tease, pressing your fingertips against his spine as it stiffens beneath your hand. He’s wound so tight his body is shaking from the tension, on the verge of shattering. You lick the sweat off the edge of his jaw and murmur, “Show me what I’ve been missing.”
Gojo cums hard, ropes of white streaking up his chest and spilling over your fingers. It almost hurts. Pleasure stabs through him until he’s on the verge of tears, pawing at your shoulders and whimpering out your name. Your hand doesn’t stop, only slows down as you trace the shape of a throbbing vein with the pad of your thumb. He’s nearly vibrating as you drag out his orgasm, greedy hands working him towards another. He bucks into the tightness of your fist, hips stuttering towards another orgasm. It doesn’t hit as hard–the first is still buzzing under his skin–but this time he does cry. Fat, blinding tears dribble down his cheek to land on your chest. You let him go then and he can barely see as you suck the mess he made clean off your fingers.
It’s hard to wrap his head around how quickly things can change. An hour ago Gojo had been at Shoko’s apartment contemplating the horrific ordeal of human emotions, desire and the sudden expansion of his heart. Enough to encompass two. Now he’s sitting wet on your bed as you lap at the taste his cum left on your skin, lips glossier than ever. He shivers as your hand skates up the length of his spine. Gojo feels himself coming down, steadying, the moment your hand catches him by the back of the neck. You’ve always liked his undercut, he knows. He’s spent many an afternoon happy as a house cat, nearly purring as you brushed your fingers over the short scruff at the nape of his neck. It keeps his heart from beating out of his chest even as his dick throbs against his stomach.
“You okay?” You ask as if he could be anything but as your nails scratch against his scalp. He nods anyway, so hard that you steady him with a hand cradled against the back of his head to keep from giving himself whiplash. Your other hand finds its way up until wet fingers are touching his chest, and Gojo feels himself getting hard all over again. You tap a fluttering rhythm against his sternum and it takes him longer than it should to recognize the cadence of his own heartbeat, slowing with every second as he watches you watch him. His glasses are fogging up with every breath, slipping down the bridge of his nose, but he’s close enough to see you over the lenses. You fix them anyway, pushing the back into place and kissing the tip of his nose. Your tapping fingers don’t miss the way that makes his heart skip a beat.
“Can I have a kiss?” He asks like he hasn’t leaned in close enough to be breathing your air. His mouth is already brushing against yours without the passion to call it a kiss. You tilt your head to fit your lips against his and Gojo groans, getting drunk off the way you let him press his tongue against yours. Spit seeps from the corners of your mouths, making webs stretch between your lips. He chases it with his tongue, finally climbing off your lap to press his face against your chest, slowly pushing you into the mattress. It’s reassuring to hear the way your heart is racing too. He kisses where the edge of your bra meets skin, tongue dipping teasingly beneath the fabric. It feels like unwrapping a present as you arch your back so he can reach the finicky hooks. It takes him a few tries, enough to make you laugh. He pouts, pinching and pulling until finally something gives and your breasts fall loose.
He hears his name, soft and hesitant, then feels your hand around his wrist. It feels like cold rain over his skin. An icy rejection that shocks him into stillness, makes it easy for you to guide his hand away. He sits up, still on top of you, trying not to look at your chest as you stare up at him. Your hand hasn’t left his. It’s some small reassurance after the sudden sting of rejection. It’s pooling thick and acidic in his stomach, drowning the butterflies in something rotten. He tries to keep still–he’s sitting in your lap after all. The slightest shift would notch him just right between your thighs, grinding him against that warm place he knows only in theory. But Gojo wants to behave. There’s a Pavlovian desperation, conditioned from just a single taste, waiting to be fed once more. Finally, you bring your joined hands to your mouth, lips ghosting over his knuckles as you murmur questions of “are you sure?” against his skin. It sounds like he’s choking with how quickly Gojo tries to cough up the words to say yes.
He tries to imagine this from your perspective and it’s not hard to understand the hesitation. Just yesterday Gojo was a friend, your best friend. He was Suguru’s boyfriend, wholly off-limits out of respect for the balance of your relationships. And now he’s here, perched on your lap and trying his hardest not to grind down against you because one orgasm has never been enough to sate him. For Gojo, this is the end of a long road. A path that he’s been walking in lonely silence because he could’ve never imagined that you’d truly be at the end of it. But you’re here, and, for you, this is all new.
Gojo can’t imagine that there were no feelings before given how easily you match his desperation, but he can see a world where you hold out forever. Gave up on the feelings that might never be reciprocated. But they are. Gojo feels it burning in his chest and he knows Suguru wouldn’t let him walk this path alone. The three of you have always been orbiting something inevitable.
New beginnings look good on you. Eyes bright, lips parted. Whispering his name like it’s a sacred oath. You’re overwhelmed. He knows you well enough to know that. It’s almost reassuring to know he isn’t the only one drowning in the newness of it all. Every touch is the first time and he can’t help but want to take and take in case he never gets a chance again. Suguru promised that you were theirs, but that only solidified how easily things can change. In this moment you’re his to touch and taste, to please as best he knows how, but you could tell him to stop just as easily. You have, and Gojo is desperately waiting for the tide to change once more.
“This isn’t about me, honey,” you remind him. “This is for you.” Your voice is soft and sweet, gently reassuring as you let go of his hand. It’s a subtle act of permission, letting him touch where he pleases once more. He grabs your waist, squeezing to feel the way you fill the space in his palms. Warm and soft, smelling as good as you always do. Gojo ducks his head against your throat, trying to imprint the taste of your skin on the back of his tongue. Your chest presses against his, skin to skin as your nipples catch against his pecs. This was always about you. Gojo can’t even consider taking anything for himself when all he wants to do is drown in your taste and sounds. He’s gotten his with your hand around his cock. Now it’s time to give you yours, to pour every fantasy he’s ever had into this moment. Months of longing when he could’ve always had this. He was being selfish in his silence and he’ll die if he doesn’t get to make up for it.
“Were you this careful with Suguru?” Gojo wonders, pouting something as gentle as consideration. Jealousy is creeping in as he thinks about the two of you together. He can’t imagine you were this mindful when it was Suguru in your bed. His boyfriend’s voice suddenly comes unbidden, nearly scaring Gojo out of his skin. You never hung up the call.
“So whiny,” Suguru teases as Gojo wrestles the phone out from under your shoulder blade. It’s burning hot in his hand, screen foggy with condensation after being pressed between you and the sheets. “If you want something, take it. Our girl will give you anything you ask for. Isn’t that right, baby? Give our boy what he wants.”
Gojo is already reaching to put your phone on the nightstand, nearly dropping it on the floor as his fingers shake with anticipation. His eyes rake over your body as he takes in every inch of exposed skin. You squirm underneath him, breath hitching every time his fingertips grace your skin. Goosebumps rise to meet his touch and Gojo can’t help but beam. His girl reacts to him just as much as he does to her. Little whimpers and gasps permeate the air as Gojo lavishes kisses over your face and neck, over the shape of your collarbones, until he’s nuzzled between the valley of your breasts. Your heartbeat races against the bridge of his nose as he rests there, taking in the scent of your skin. You taste like sweat and sweetness as he licks the underside of your breast before closing his mouth around a pebbled nipple.
“Wanna taste,” Gojo murmurs against your ribs like he hasn’t left his spit all over you already. Lotion, sweat, it lingers heady on his tongue, pressing hot against his mouth the lower he goes. He feels feverish by the time his head is between your legs, burning from the tips of his ears to the apples of his cheeks. It’s a pleasant flush that raises goosebumps over his body as he shivers despite the heat. How many nights had he gone to sleep to dream of exactly this?
Too many, Gojo thinks, mourning the time he lost to his own inaction. This was always his. You were always his. He hesitates for a moment, half lost in his mind as reality rushes in around him. He steadies with the feeling of your hand in his hair, petting where sweat has stuck his bangs to his forehead. He returns the affection with a soft kiss to your thigh, trying not to drown in the knowledge that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s always been Suguru. Gojo has never had to learn this. Every desire was a secret he thought he’d take to the grave, a terrible stolen moment that he wasn’t worthy of even in dreams. But now he has you under him, around him, your thighs over his shoulders as he traces his hands over your hips. It should be easy. Gojo has always been good at whatever he sets his mind to, but the thought of disappointing you after making you wait so long is nothing short of humiliating.
“Teach me?” He asks. “Tell me what feels good.” You nod eagerly, sighing as soon as he gets his mouth on you. Not instructions in so many words, but Gojo takes the little noise you let out as approval. There’s no real point of reference but Gojo knows enough anatomy to put his mouth where he knows you want it. Your thighs jump against his ears when he finds your clit, fingers tightening in his hair. The encouragement only makes him all the more eager to please, perfectionist as he is. He’s making a mess between your thighs, the sloppy sounds of his tongue and desperate whining nearly lost to his own ears beneath the hammering of his heart.
I’m doing good, tell me I’m doing good. When he pulls away there’s a string of spit tying him to your lips.
“Can I use my fingers?” He asks, feeling almost bashful like he doesn’t have the taste of your pussy shining on his lips. He can’t tell if you’re teasing him with how long you take to answer. The moment of quiet is filled with your fingers brushing his sweaty bangs away from his face. “Pretty boy,” he hears you mumble, softly like you’re not expecting him to hear. It seems more like a passing thought as you cup his face in your hands, thumbs tracing over his wet cheeks. He melts in the palm of your hands, leaning into your touch as you stare at him. For a moment, Gojo can truly believe he wasn’t alone in his longing, that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. It wasn’t a question for Suguru. Because of course if he’d been with a woman it would’ve been you. He was only waiting for Gojo to catch up. He can’t help but be grateful that he’s had all the time in the world to figure it out.
Gojo presses an appreciative kiss to your mound before slipping lower to drag the flat of his tongue over your pussy. “Fingers,” he reminds you. “Can I?” His fingers are already in his mouth before you can finish saying “yes, please.” There’s a new sound once he gets one finger inside you, a deep exhale as he presses inside. It’s strange and familiar all at once as he gets his lips back on your clit, flicking his tongue just like you told him. He gives you another finger when you ask, groaning appreciatively when he hears a soft sigh of “good boy, Satoru.” He hears Suguru laughing on the phone about how Gojo likes being praised.
He does. Gojo has always loved praise. Gold stars, perfect scores, academic awards. He’s always melted into the sheets when Suguru croons in his ear about how good he is. Gojo grinds against the mattress, pleasure burning low in his belly as he gets drunk off the way you’re drowning his senses. Sight, taste, touch, sound, scent. It’s all you. The way your skin is shimmering with sweat and your cunt is squeezing tight around his fingers. He can barely breathe with how tight he’s pressed between your legs, but Gojo would happily die here if it meant he’d done a good job. You’re making sounds like he is, trying to squirm out of his hold as he curls his fingers inside you.
He wants to ask if you’re close, if the trembling in your thighs means he’s touching the right places, but the thought of pulling away from you for even a moment to ask sounds sacrilege. You end up making the choice for him, nails stinging against his scalp as you claw to keep him close, a symphony of soft moans leaving your lips as your thighs squeeze tight around his head. He can’t tell if you’re trying to run away or drag him closer with the way you’re pushing at his shoulder and pulling at his head but Gojo can feel how good he’s doing as slick drips down his chin. There’s already a puddle on the sheets, growing with every second of your whining and writhing until you finally go still. It lasts for only a moment, just long enough for Gojo to take in a shallow breath before he’s back between your legs, nose nuzzling against your twitching clit because he doesn’t want to go far enough to pull away. He kisses against the swollen bud until you’re kicking to get further up the bed and away from his greedy mouth.
Gojo follows you. Of course he does. He’s massaging the ache of tension from your thighs and kissing over your stomach until he settles with his chin on your chest. It’s hard to see with the way his glasses are knocked askew on his face, smudged and flecked with sweat. You take them off of him, cleaning the lenses with your discarded shirt before setting them back on his face. He can feel the unsteadiness in your hands in the wire frame and catches your hand as you pull away. Kisses are pressed to each of your fingertips before Gojo settles against the cushion of your chest and sets your hand against his cheek. Your heartbeat steadies against his ear as you caress his face. Your lips have gone dull, he notices, lipgloss long since wiped clean. He licks his lips, chasing the phantom flavor.
“Now what?” He asks after a few minutes of soft silence filled by the sound of the rain. He never thought he’d get this far and now Gojo is almost scared to know how far it’ll go, if at all. You hadn’t stayed with Suguru after all, what makes him any different? Instinctively, selfishly, Gojo’s embrace tightens around you as if he’ll be able to hold on to this moment as long as he doesn’t let you out of his arms.
“What do you want, honey?” You ask. Gojo doesn’t think before saying, “Suguru.” It’s the only thing that would make this moment more perfect than it is. The answering chuckle seems to echo, coming from all around as the bedroom door opens. Gojo is too lax to jump to action, but whatever anxiety had welled up from the sudden interruption settles just as easily as it came. Suguru closes the door behind him, finally hanging up the phone. His long hair is loose around his shoulders, falling in an ink black curtain as he pulls his shirt over his head. He’s nestled next to you on the ruined sheets before either of you can extend an invitation.
“You forgot to lock the door.” Suguru hums, pressing a kiss to your forehead and nose before kissing your lips. Gojo’s eyes go wide behind his glasses. Seeing is different than hearing, different than imagining, and seeing the two of you together is enough to send Gojo’s heart racing with dreams he never spoke even in his own heart. The three of you together. He must look absolutely enamored as Gojo stares up at the two of you because you laugh and poke his cheek where he can feel a flustered head blooming beneath his skin.
“Thank you for telling me, baby. Next time, just ask.” Gojo ears are ringing. All he can hear is next time. A promise, a start. He buries his nose in your chest and can’t help but notice, between the sweat and faded perfume, he can smell himself and Suguru on your skin. Perfect.