𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – NSFW!! (18+), sexual themes, MDNI, shameless smuuuuuut, author reader x helpful friend gojo, RAWWWWWWWW, kink exploration, praise, degrading, oral (male and female receiving), use of pretty girl, dirty talk, panty sniffer gojo, panty RIPPER gojo, so much smut im never living it down
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.
You’d been trying to write it for weeks.
And by trying, you meant:
Staring at a blank Google doc.
Googling synonyms for "throbbing."
Reading other works of pure filthy smut for inspiration
Pretending the whole project didn't exist
Start the loop over again
The worst part wasn’t the writer’s block. It was the secret of it. You couldn’t tell your friends.
Couldn’t tell Shoko, she’d cook you alive for not having good sex at the ripe age of 26. Couldn’t tell Geto– the thought of saying the word sex to your long time friend made you physically recoil– not for anything bad, but it just felt like crossing a boundary line you didn’t want to. And you definitely couldn’t tell Satoru fucking Gojo.
Because you knew exactly how it would go. He’d tease you relentlessly. He’d crow about it for months. He’d find a way to turn it into a bit — "oh no, sweetheart, you’re just so innocent, let me teach you a few things!" — until you moved to another country to escape him.
You couldn’t survive that. You were too broke to move, and too in love with him to let yourself go too far away, teasing be damned. So you kept your mouth shut. You smiled when they asked how the project was going. You lied through your teeth.
"Good," you said brightly. "Almost finished."
Meanwhile, your "almost finished" draft consisted of:
Chapter 16: The First Kiss
[Insert hot stuff here???]
You didn’t realize how obvious it was until Gojo started poking at it. First, it was little things.
"You’re tense, sweetheart," he said one night, flopping onto your couch uninvited. "Should I be worried?"
You waved him off, face hot. "Just stressed."
He grinned, predatory and curious. "About what?"
"Writing stuff," you mumbled, scooping up your laptop and clutching it protectively to your chest. "Nothing important."
His eyebrows shot up. "Sweetheart, you’re acting like you’re hiding nuclear launch codes over there."
"It’s private," you said primly.
Gojo whined — dramatic, full-body flailing like you’d mortally wounded him. "How could you betray me like this? You always tell me your juicy story lines." he gasped. "After everything we've been through?"
You rolled your eyes. "Get a grip, Satoru."
But he didn’t let it go. Of course he didn’t. "C’mon," he coaxed, sliding closer, tossing an arm over your shoulders like you wouldn’t notice. "You know I’m your biggest fan."
You huffed at him, closing your laptop as he tried to get closer to read. "Maybe I can help. What’s the genre? Love story? Erotica? Enemies to lovers? Forbidden teacher-student relationship—"
"Ohhh," he said, dragging it out. "It’s a dirty one."
You groaned, covering your face. "It’s not dirty, you idiot. It’s just...hard to write."
"Hard, huh?" he teased instantly. "Well, if you need help writing about something hard, sweetheart, I'm always available for hands-on consultation."
You threw a pillow at him. "You’re disgusting." He caught it easily, laughing. But when he looked at you again — when the laughter faded into something a little softer —
there was something almost real behind it.
"You know you can ask me for anything, right?" he said, voice low, easy, but careful too. "Not just the stupid stuff."
You swallowed, throat tight. Nodded.
"Good," he said, poking your cheek. "‘Cause honestly? I'd be an excellent research subject. Charismatic. Versatile. Very hands-on."
You laughed — awkward and flustered and terrified of how warm it made you feel. You didn’t know it yet, but that was the first crack. The first tiny fracture in the wall you’d built between yourself and what you really wanted.
And Gojo — God help him — had been ready to tear it down with his bare hands the whole time.
You laughed — loud and reckless — tossing a pillow at his stupid smug face. Gojo caught it easily, tossing it aside like he always did, grinning like a cat.
You flopped back against the couch, laughing yourself breathless, hands covering your flushed face. He watched you. He should have been thinking about the plot point you were arguing over. Should have been teasing you about your terrible aim. Should have been making another stupid joke.
But instead — all he could think was:
It hit him like a punch to the gut. And not for the first time, either. He sat there — frozen — watching the way you laughed like nobody could hurt you, nobody could touch you, nobody could break you.
And he realized he wanted to be the one to keep it that way. Always. Forever.
He shook it off with a lazy stretch. Threw another pillow. Made you laugh harder.
But the knowledge stayed. Burrowed deep. Rooted itself under his ribs.
You — bright and brilliant and too good for him — would never know. Not if he could help it.
He could survive loving you quietly. As long as he got to stay close.
It started the way it always did.
Pizza boxes open on the coffee table. Half-empty beer cans everywhere. Shoko draped over the arm of the couch like a queen surveying her court. Geto slumped against the other end of the couch, tossing popcorn at her with lazy precision.
And Gojo — of course — taking up way too much space.
You were curled up cross-legged on the rug — wedged between the table and the couch — trying to keep your laptop balanced on your knees.
"Working again?" Geto drawled, kicking a stray popcorn kernel at you. "Nerd."
"Shut up," you muttered, batting it away. "Some of us have ambition."
"Ouch," Geto said mildly, reaching for another slice of pizza.
Gojo leaned over your shoulder — shameless, nosy — peering at your screen.
"Still writing that book, sweetheart?" he asked, grinning. "What’s this chapter? Forbidden love? Secret yearning? Shameful makeouts in the rain?"
You huffed, slamming the laptop closed with a snap. "Like I told you before. It’s none of your business."
Shoko snorted into her drink. "Translation: yes."
Gojo made a scandalized face. "Are you basing it on me?"
"I mean, I'd get it," he said, leaning back lazily. "Tragic hero. Devastatingly handsome. Deep, tortured longing behind a cocky smile—"
"You’re describing a hero?" Shoko said dryly, picking at her nails.
"You’re definitely not describing yourself," Geto added, deadpan.
Gojo clutched his heart. "Betrayed. By my own people."
You tried not to laugh. You tried harder not to notice how the light caught his hair. How his smile — stupid, wide, easy — lit up the whole room.
"You’re impossible," you muttered, turning back to your drink.
"You love it," Gojo sing-songed, nudging your shoulder with his knee.
You rolled your eyes. You did not blush. (You absolutely blushed.)
Shoko noticed. Of course she noticed. She smirked over the rim of her cup and said — far too casually — "You two fucked yet?"
You choked on your drink. Geto didn’t even flinch — just snorted, shoving another slice of pizza into his mouth like he was watching a live soap opera.
Gojo grinned — wide, wolfish, delighted. "Shoko," he gasped, clutching his chest. "My delicate sensibilities!"
"You have no sensibilities," she said, deadpan.
You were still coughing, face on fire.
"We’re just friends," you wheezed out eventually, voice too high, too bright.
"Yeah," Shoko said, smirking. "Sure."
"Totally," Geto added, not even trying to hide his grin.
Gojo slung an arm around your shoulders — heavy, casual, warm — like he owned the air between you. "Best friends," he said brightly. "Completely platonic. Totally innocent."
He winked at you. You elbowed him — weakly — still burning up.
Geto raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I always sit like that with my best friends too," he said, nodding pointedly at where Gojo’s fingers were very casually stroking your shoulder.
You glared at him. You glared at Shoko. You tried to glare at Gojo but he just smiled wider — the smuggest fucking grin you’d ever seen.
"We’re just friends," you repeated, more to yourself than anyone else.
"Sure, sweetheart," Gojo murmured, dropping his chin onto your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Whatever you say."
And the worst part was —
You let him.
You let him stay pressed against you.
You let them laugh and tease and roll their eyes.
You pretended you didn’t feel his smile against your neck.
You pretended you didn’t want to grab him by the shirt and kiss him breathless.
You pretended —
Because you didn’t know yet how close you already were to falling.
You should have known better. You did know better. But after another brutal night of trying — and failing — to write anything worth saving, you finally gave in. You opened your laptop while Gojo was over — sprawled lazily on your couch, half-asleep, muttering about pizza toppings — telling yourself you could be sneaky. Just a few quick edits while he wasn't paying attention.
No big deal.
Except Gojo Satoru was many things:
The man you were completely in love with.
You didn’t even hear him move at first. Too focused on your screen — too busy trying to polish a cringey paragraph about first kisses and lingering touches.
You didn’t notice him until his shadow fell over you — until a lazy arm slung over your shoulders — until his chin dropped onto the crown of your head.
You jumped about a foot in the air. "Jesus, Satoru!"
He laughed — low and delighted — peering shamelessly over your shoulder. "What’s this, sweetheart?" he asked, faux-innocent. "You writing me a love letter?"
You slammed the laptop shut so fast it nearly snapped in half. "PRIVATE!" you shouted, heart hammering, face flaming.
He cackled, throwing himself dramatically onto the couch like he’d been mortally wounded.
"My poor fragile heart," he cried, clutching his chest. "Denied again!"
You glared at him, cheeks burning so hot you thought you might catch fire. "It’s not about you!"
"Oh please," he said, grinning. "You expect me to believe that with a setup like 'his hands slid up her thighs, sending a jolt of heat straight to her core?'"
You made a strangled noise. "You read that?!"
"I glimpsed it," he said solemnly. "Traumatized, really."
You buried your face in your hands, groaning. "I'm going to die. I'm actually going to die."
Gojo snickered and nudged your foot with his.
"Baby, if you wanted a hands-on anatomy lesson, you could’ve just asked."
You threw a pillow at him. "Shut up, Satoru!"
He caught it easily — laughing — but when he set it down, he didn’t retreat.
Instead, he stretched out on the couch, close enough that his knee bumped yours, and said — almost casually: "You know... You could always run scenes by me if you want."*
You peeked at him through your fingers. "Scenes?"
"Yeah," he said, grinning. "First kiss. First touch. That 'thighs and core' masterpiece you’re working on. I'm a trained professional, sweetheart."
You huffed, trying to play it cool. "And what are your qualifications exactly?"
He smirked. Winked. "Extensive field experience."*
You threw another pillow.
He caught it again.
You both laughed.
But underneath it — underneath the teasing — your heart ached. Because some small, treacherous part of you wanted to say yes. Wanted to let him pull you under. Wanted to stop pretending you didn’t crave every casual touch, every sly smile, every impossible, stupid, beautiful piece of him.
You weren’t ready yet. But you were closer than you realized.
And Gojo — Gojo had known it all along.
You weren’t drunk. Not really. Maybe a little tipsy. Warm and loose from too much wine and too much pizza and too much Gojo.
He sat sprawled across your couch like he owned it — one arm flung lazily across the backrest, socked feet propped up on your coffee table, hair a mess, mouth stained pink from cheap wine.
He looked stupidly beautiful. Unfairly beautiful. And he kept looking at you — that stupid half-lidded look he always used when he was about to wreck you — smiling like he knew something you didn’t.
"So," he said, voice too casual to be casual. "How’s that writing coming along, sweetheart?"
You groaned, flopping back against the cushions. "Don’t remind me."
"Still stuck?" he teased, nudging your knee with his foot. "Still struggling to write the steamy parts?"
You covered your face with your hands. "God, I hate you. I hate that I can’t write this scene."
The confession slipped out somewhere between the second beer and the third slice of pizza.
You didn't mean to say it out loud. God knows you’d spent enough nights not saying it. But tonight, now, the words cracked loose.
"What scene?" he asked, too interested. Even though he knew. He wanted to hear you say it outloud.
You grimaced, staring into your drink like it might save you. "The, uh. The sex scene. In my book."
The pause that followed was long and painful. Then he grinned. That wide, shit-eating, cat-caught-the-canary grin that always meant he was about to make your life hell. "You? Can't write a sex scene? You? Ms. His hands slid up her thighs, sending a jolt of heat straight to her core?"
You threw a balled-up napkin at him. "Shut up, Toru."
He caught it effortlessly. Didn't stop grinning. "I just figured with your—" he waved a hand vaguely at you, "—vivid imagination and all, you'd be a natural."
You groaned, flopping dramatically against the cushions. "It’s not about imagination, you asshole. It’s about — about experience. About knowing what it actually feels like when someone—" you flailed your hands helplessly, "—kisses you like they want to devour you."
The room went a little too still after that. When you cracked one eye open, Gojo was watching you — not laughing anymore. Not teasing. Just...watching. It should have tipped you off.
"So what you're saying is," he drawled eventually, "you need a little...practical research."
You made a strangled noise. "That's not what I—"
"No, no," he said, sitting up a little, looking far too pleased with himself. "I get it. Totally makes sense. Can't write about something you’ve never had happen to you, right?"
You narrowed your eyes. "Where are you going with this, Gojo Satoru?"
He laughed — bright and delighted — and tugged your hands away from your face, forcing you to look at him.
"You know what I’m going to say," he said, tone sharpening just enough to make your stomach twist, "I could help."
You shook your head, laughing nervously. "Yeah, right."
"No, seriously," he said, grinning wide. "We could make it a project. Like study sessions. 'Practical application exercises.'"
You stared at him — heart hammering painfully hard — trying to figure out if he was kidding.
If you were supposed to laugh.
If you were supposed to play along.
But then he leaned in — slow and easy — and tipped your chin up with two fingers, blue eyes gleaming. "Unless you’re scared," he said softly. "Unless you think you couldn’t handle it."
“You’re joking around,” you choked out.
"I’m serious," he said. "Think of it as...method acting. But for writing."
You stared at him, your brain short-circuiting spectacularly. "You’re out of your mind. You don’t actually want to kiss me. Not like that."
"Maybe not," he said, all teeth. “Or maybe I do. Either way you’ll never find out or write a good scene without a little help, will you?"
God, you hated him. You hated how you wanted to say yes.
And maybe he knew that. Maybe he saw it — the way your fingers tightened around your drink, the way your throat worked as you tried to swallow down everything you weren't supposed to feel for your best friend.
You should have refused. You should have run. The world tilted. Your lungs forgot how to work. You tried to look away, but he didn’t let you. "Tell me you don’t want it," he whispered, smiling like a dare. "Tell me you don’t wonder what it would be like."
Your mouth was dry. "Satoru—"
"Say no," he said, cocky and cruel and wrecked underneath it all. "And I’ll drop it. I’ll leave it alone. I swear."
You should have. God, you should have.
You should have laughed it off. Should have thrown another pillow at him. Should have shoved him off the couch and gone back to pretending you didn’t ache every time he touched you.
Instead — you heard yourself traitorously whisper: "Okay."
Gojo froze. Blinking once, twice — like he hadn’t actually expected you to say it.
"Okay?" he repeated, voice rougher now, lower.
You swallowed hard. "Okay."
A slow, wrecked grin spread across his face.
"Good girl," he said, voice made of pure sin. "Knew you'd see reason eventually."
He leaned back — casual, smug, glowing — like you hadn’t just handed him the keys to your whole world.
You sat there — heart hammering, skin burning, every nerve on fire — realizing you had just crossed a line you could never uncross.
And that maybe — deep down — you had been waiting for him to push you over it all along.
And just like that, you sealed your fate.
You just didn't know it yet.
You lasted approximately four days before the first “practice session.”
Technically, you were supposed to be brainstorming. Plotting. Outlining emotional beats, you told yourself — nothing more. But the longer Gojo sprawled across your couch like he owned the air you breathed — barefoot, grinning, spinning a damn pen between his fingers like he was bored — the more unbearable it got.
Finally, when you snapped your laptop closed and said, "Fine. Let’s get this over with," Gojo just smiled like he’d been waiting. He straightened lazily, turning toward you with infuriating confidence.
"Alright," he said, voice light, teasing. "First kiss scene. Set the stage for me. I want every aching detail."
You glared at him. "I know how to set a stage, Satoru."
He waggled his eyebrows. "Then what are you waiting for, sweetheart?"
God, you hated him. God, you wanted him.
You lifted your chin stubbornly. "Just so we’re clear before we start," you said, voice sharp with nerves, "I have been kissed before so I know how it’s supposed to feel."
Gojo blinked. Tilted his head like a curious cat. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you snapped. "And I’ve had sex too, for your information. So don’t think I’m completely inexperienced. I at least know what parts go where."
Something in his easygoing expression fractured — fast and jagged. You caught it. You felt it. The air changed, electric and tense, snapping tight between you.
"Huh," Gojo said eventually, too casual, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. "Guess I just figured—" He broke off. Shrugged one shoulder like it didn’t matter.
But you saw the way his fingers flexed against his knee. The way his jaw tightened. "Not that it’s any of your business," you added, crossing your arms. "It’s just..." You faltered, throat dry. "It’s never been like—" You gestured vaguely, helplessly. "—the way it is in the scenes I’m trying to write."
You didn’t know how to say it right. How to explain that yes, you’d been touched, kissed, fucked — but never shaken apart. Never wrecked. Never ruined.
Never the way you wrote it. Never the way you wanted it.
Gojo’s smile returned then, slow and feral. Something dark and pleased flickered across his face, so fast you almost missed it.
"Well then," he murmured, rising to his knees on the couch, crowding into your space without touching you yet, "guess I better make sure you’re ready to write the real thing."
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
He cupped your jaw, gentle but firm. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. You let out a shaking breath, unable to look away from his eyes. You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. Gojo didn’t move, didn’t touch your lips yet— just sat there, waiting, endless patience hiding something dangerous behind his grin.
"C'mon," he said, voice low, coaxing. "Set the scene, sweetheart. Tell me how it’s supposed to go."
You shifted on the couch, suddenly hyper aware of every inch between you. Every heartbeat. Every breath.
You swallowed hard. "It’s supposed to feel..." You trailed off, cheeks burning. "Like it’s the only thing they’ve ever wanted."
Gojo’s smile deepened. "Yeah?"
You nodded, forcing yourself to keep talking, to lay yourself bare under his gaze. "Like — like it’s all-consuming. Breathless. Like it shakes them apart. Makes them forget everything else. They’ve wanted each other their whole lives but keep making excuses as to why they can’t. But at this moment, they can’t keep pretending any more."
He leaned in slightly, just enough that you could see the sharp glint in his eyes.
"And how does it start?" he asked, softer now. "Who moves first?"
You shivered. "He does," you said, barely a whisper. "He can’t help it. He just — he has to."
Gojo made a low, thoughtful sound, tipping his head to the side as if considering. "Can’t help himself," he repeated, like he was tasting the words. "Because he wants her that bad."
You nodded, throat tight. "Yeah."
"And she?" he pressed. "Does she want it too?"
Your mouth was dry. "More than anything. She’s still scared," you whispered. "But she wants it. She trusts him. She—"
"She knows she's about to be ruined," Gojo said lightly — too lightly — voice laced with something dangerous. "And she wants him to do it anyway."
He smiled then — big, smug, theatrical — pressing a hand dramatically over his heart like he was a lovesick hero.
"Such a tragic love story," he sighed. "Guess I’ll just have to be the devastatingly handsome best friend who falls helplessly for her, huh?"
You rolled your eyes, laughing shakily. "Stay in character, Satoru."
"Oh, I am," he said, voice dropping, hand sliding up your thigh. "I’m very method, sweetheart." (You laugh it off. You miss it. He was telling you the truth.) Gojo’s smile was slow and wrecking now — not teasing anymore, but intent. "Good," he murmured. "Let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like."
And then — before you could brace for it — he was on you. Kissing you.
Not a test kiss. Not a practice kiss. Not a friendly kiss. Gojo kissed you like he already knew every place you’d break for him. Like he was dying for this. His mouth slanted over yours — hot, hungry, devastating. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, angling you how he wanted, holding you there, drinking you down like he’d been starving for it.
You gasped — stupid mistake — and he took advantage immediately, his tongue sliding against yours, deepening the kiss until you moaned into his mouth. He made a low sound in his chest — a rough, wrecked sound — and you felt it vibrate against your bones.
Your hands fisted in his shirt before you even realized you were moving, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left. His other hand found your thigh — warm and heavy — and squeezed, dragging you closer until you were nearly in his lap.
"Still think you know how it’s supposed to feel, sweetheart?" he murmured against your lips, breathless and smug and wrecked all at once. You shook your head, dizzy, desperate. "Good," he whispered, mouth brushing yours with every word. "You’re about to learn."
And when he kissed you again — slower now, filthier — you stopped thinking about books and chapters and deadlines. All you could think about was him. The taste of him. The weight of him. The terrifying, thrilling truth that Satoru Gojo had just set you on fire — and you didn’t think you could ever put yourself out again.
You were still panting, dazed, from his kisses later that night — slumped boneless against your couch cushions, skin burning, mind foggy. Gojo leaned back on his elbows beside you, grinning like he hadn't just wrecked you with his mouth. "Told you I’m good at this," he said, teasing. "Guess it helps that I have the best inspiration."
You laughed — flushed, giddy — shoving his shoulder weakly. "You’re so full of yourself."
He smiled back — wide and cocky — but something in it cracked for just a second. Something softer. Something you didn’t know how to name.
"Only when it comes to you, sweetheart," he said. Quiet. Real.
You laughed it off. Shoved him again. Missed the way he looked at you — like you hung the goddamn stars.
You didn’t mean to let it get this far. It was supposed to be research. Practice. A joke between friends.
But now Gojo had you pinned to your bed — your wrists trapped lightly above your head by one of his hands — and he was kissing you like you were the air he needed to breathe. His other hand slipped under your shirt, calloused fingertips dragging slow, reverent lines along your stomach, your ribs, your hips.
You gasped against his mouth, back arching, chasing him without thinking. His thigh pressed between your legs, the thick muscle grinding deliciously against the aching heat at your core.
"Satoru," you whimpered, helpless. He swallowed the sound greedily, kissing you harder, rougher.
His free hand slid lower — trailing over the waistband of your leggings, lingering — then paused.
You whimpered again — desperate, wordless — and Gojo pulled back just enough to look at you. His breathing was wrecked. His mouth was pink and wet and shining.
"God, sweetheart," he rasped, forehead pressing against yours. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Then show me," you gasped, writhing against him.
For one wild second, you thought he would. You felt it — the shift in his body, the way he flexed his grip on your wrists, the way he ground his thigh harder against you. You moaned loudly, rutting your hips against the hard muscle of his thigh like an animal in heat.
But then — He groaned, low and gutted, and ripped himself away. Rolled onto his back beside you, one arm flung dramatically over his face like it was the only thing holding him together.
You lay there trembling, aching, heart hammering against your ribs.
After a long, shuddering breath, he spoke — voice wrecked: "Not like this," he whispered. "Not yet."
You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.
Because deep down — you knew he was right.
You were supposed to be writing today. Instead, Gojo had you straddling his lap on the couch, both of you still half-dressed — breathing ragged against each other, hands greedy and clumsy and everywhere.
"You needed to practice riding scenes, right?" he teased, voice wrecked, fingers bruising your hips as he rocked you down against him.
"Shut up," you gasped, grinding shamelessly against the thick, hard line of him through his sweatpants. He groaned — low and desperate — tilting his hips up to meet you. It wasn’t sex. It wasn’t.
But God, it felt like it.
Your soaked panties dragged over his cock with every desperate roll of your hips. His hands slid under your shirt, splaying across your back, burning you alive. "You’re fucking filthy," he whispered against your throat, biting lightly. "You like this, sweetheart? Grinding all over me like a needy little thing?"
You whimpered, clinging to his shoulders. He was so hard it hurt. You were so wet it was obscene. You pressed harder — hips grinding faster — chasing the edge without shame.
Gojo’s breath stuttered — his hands fisted in your shirt — and then he was flipping you onto your back, pinning you to the couch.
"Easy, baby," he rasped, forehead pressed to yours. "Gotta be good. Gotta behave."
You whined, writhing underneath him. But he still didn’t fuck you.
He just rocked against you — slow, punishing — letting you rub yourself against him until you were gasping, shaking, almost crying. And when you were right there — right about to break — he stopped.
Pulled back. Left you panting and aching and ruined.
"Next time," he whispered against your mouth. "If you’re good." You wanted to kill him. You wanted to kiss him forever.
You just clung to him — trembling — pretending you weren’t already halfway in love.
You ended up on your back again — God, you always ended up on your back with him — shirt bunched around your ribs, his hands on your thighs, his mouth wrecking your neck.
"Just practicing," he muttered against your skin, sliding his hand under the waistband of your shorts — not inside, not touching — just there. Warming you. Claiming you.
"Yeah," you gasped, grinding up against him uselessly. His teeth scraped your throat. His thumb slid along the bare edge of your hipbone — maddening, teasing, almost. You spread your legs wider without thinking — wordless, begging — and he growled low in his chest.
"You’re gonna kill me," he whispered, kissing your jaw, your temple, your mouth. You arched into him — desperate, clumsy — trying to get closer, trying to get more. But again — again — he stopped. Pulled back with a wrecked noise.
"You’re not ready," he rasped, half to you, half to himself. "Not yet."
You whimpered — broken, empty.
He kissed your forehead. He tucked you against his chest. He held you there — steady, trembling — until you both could breathe again.
After that kiss, things...changed. Not that either of you acknowledged it out loud. Not that either of you could. You blamed it on the book. On deadlines. On the fact that Gojo was a menace who’d never let you live it down if you backed out now.
But really — it was the way he touched you like he couldn't help himself anymore. The way you let him. Practice sessions became routine after that. Casual, almost.
If "casual" meant Gojo pinning you to your bed with his mouth on your throat and his thigh wedged between your legs, making you whimper for more– saying “is this what your character would want, sweetheart?”
If “casual” meant uou sitting in his lap, laughing against his shoulder.
You “casually” daring him to "get into character" for a flirty villain scene. Instead, it ended with your thighs straddling his hips — his cock straining against his sweats— your hands buried in his hair, dragging his mouth down to yours.
He kissed you like he was starving. Held you like you might disappear. His hands gripped your thighs — your waist — desperate and rough. You rocked against him — helpless — feeling every thick, hard inch of him beneath you. You whimpered into his mouth. He made a wrecked, helpless sound — the sound of a man breaking.
But when you reached for his belt buckle — trembling, frantic — he caught your hand again. Stopped you.
"Not like this," he gasped, voice broken. "Not when you still don’t know you’re mine." You froze, looking at him with wide eyes. “That’s what your villain would say. Good guy at heart, I’m sure.” He added after a beat of silence.
You buried your face in his neck and laughed, but it felt more like you were going to cry.
You just weren’t brave enough yet to admit it. It was supposed to be for your writing. It was supposed to be clinical. It was supposed to mean nothing.
You lied to yourself every time.
It started small. A kiss turning greedy. A hand slipping under your shirt. The low, pleased sounds he made when you melted for him without even thinking.
"Relax, sweetheart," he’d whisper against your ear, "just helping you get it right."
But tonight— Tonight he pushed it further.
You were lying back on your bed, breathless, flushed, your heart trying to punch a hole through your ribs. Gojo hovered over you, smirking like he already knew he'd won.
"Next scene’s about foreplay, right?" he said, voice low and sinful. "Might wanna be thorough, don't you think?"
You should have said no. You should have set a boundary. You didn’t. You nodded, trembling, and Gojo’s grin sharpened.
"Good girl," he murmured, almost too soft to hear. You barely had time to register the way your stomach flipped before his hand slid down your body — warm, heavy, possessive.
When his fingers found the waistband of your shorts, he paused. Looked up at you. Waiting. You nodded again, dizzy. And then he touched you. Over your panties first — a slow, maddening drag of his fingers that had your hips jerking helplessly.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, almost reverent. "Already this wet? Just from a little kissing, baby?" You buried your face in your arm, mortified. “Would she be this wet, too? In your book?” You cried out as he pressed an open mouthed kiss against your clothed core. He chuckled — low and wicked — and pressed down harder, circling slow. "Gotta make it real, sweetheart," he teased. "For the story, right?"
You whimpered, nodding into the sheets. "That’s it," he coaxed, voice all sweet poison. "That’s my girl. Let me hear you. Do you think she’d sound like this?"
His fingers slipped under the soaked fabric, finally finally touching you properly — two teasing strokes, featherlight, before he pushed a single thick finger inside. You gasped, clenching around him.
"Tight little thing," he groaned, voice shaking for the first time. "Fuck, you feel good." He set a slow rhythm — curling his finger just right, dragging moans out of you without mercy. "Think your character would be able to stay quiet?" he asked, voice wrecked. "Or would she be begging for more by now?"
You bit your lip hard enough to hurt — but a broken little whimper escaped anyway. Gojo grinned, victorious. "That’s what I thought," he purred. "You’re doing so good, pretty girl."
He added a second finger, and you sobbed into the mattress, your whole body shaking, your thighs trembling against his shoulders where he kept you spread open for him.
"That’s it," he coaxed, "let me ruin you a little, sweetheart. You’ll write it better after."
And you did — you let him. You let him drag you to the edge, over and over, until you were crying for him, pleading into the sheets, not caring about pride or pretending anymore.
"Please, Satoru," you gasped, shame burning through you, "please, I need—"
"What do you need, baby?" he taunted, fingers slowing to an infuriating tease. "Gotta be specific. Writers gotta be specific, right?"
You choked on a sob. "Need to come, please, please—" You were already trembling, already gasping, when Gojo’s fingers slowed inside you — a wicked tease that made you sob helplessly against his shoulder.
"Uh-uh," he murmured, voice syrupy and cruel. "Not yet, sweetheart." Your hips bucked uselessly, chasing friction, but his hand pinned you down with infuriating ease."You wanna come?" he asked, tilting his head, mock-innocent. "Then you gotta do something for me."
You whimpered. "Anything, Satoru, please—"
He chuckled, low and devastated for you."Tell me the scene," he said, words sliding like velvet against your raw nerves. "Describe it like you’re writing it."
You blinked, dizzy and desperate. "What—"
"Your character," he prompted, curling his fingers just right to make you cry out. "What's happening to her? What’s she feeling right now, huh?"
You shook your head frantically, shame and pleasure tangling into one unbearable knot.
"Can't," you gasped. "Can't think—"
"You can," he said, voice almost kind. "You're a writer, sweetheart. You can always find the words."
And then he stroked you again — deep, slow, maddening — and you broke. "She’s—" you stammered, eyes fluttering shut, "she’s—"
"Tell me," Gojo whispered, mouth brushing your ear. "Write it for me, pretty girl."
"She’s—she’s shaking," you gasped. "She can’t think—can’t breathe—" His fingers moved faster, rewarding you. "Feels like she’s falling apart. Like nothing else matters but—" you sobbed as he curled his fingers perfectly again, "—but the way he’s touching her."
"Yeah," Gojo breathed, voice ragged. "Good girl. Keep going."
You choked on a whimper. "She’s — she's never felt this before — never been touched like this —"
"Like she belongs to him," he supplied, and you cried out when he said it, hips grinding helplessly against his hand.
"Yes," you gasped. "Yes, yes—"
"Then come for me," he growled against your skin. "Show me how bad she needs it."
And you did. He fucked you with his fingers until you shattered — clenching, crying out, gasping his name in desperate, wrecked little sobs. You came apart like a snapped thread, sobbing into the sheets, clenching around his fingers, every muscle shaking with the force of it. You barely registered the way he kissed your temple after — almost reverent. Or the way he stayed there, holding you, like he was afraid you'd slip away if he let go.
You collapsed back onto the bed, boneless, trembling.
Gojo hovered over you after you came — body limp, face burning — wiping his hand lazily on your thigh, grinning like the devil himself.
"Now that," he said smugly, "is gonna make one hell of a chapter. Gojo moved and kissed your thigh lazily, grinning up at you. "God, imagine if someone else touched you like that," he said dramatically before flopping onto the bed beside you, hand over his heart like he was physically pained. "Imagine some loser getting you all to himself when I did all the work. Tragic."
You didn’t have the strength to hit him. You didn’t have the strength to lie to yourself anymore either. Not when every nerve in your body was still singing his name. "You’re ridiculous," you mumbled, still trembling.
"No," he said seriously, poking your side, "I'm a martyr. A hero. Taking one for the team. For the story."
He smiled — wide, theatrical — but his eyes... his eyes stayed soft, lingering on your face longer than they should have.
(You giggle. You shove him. You don't see it.)
You barely made it to your couch after the latest "practice session" — boneless and shaking, trying to convince yourself it was still just research. You were staring blankly at your laptop, still in one of Gojo’s old t-shirts, when there was a knock at your door.
You opened it — and there he was. Gojo, grinning like an idiot, holding two takeout bags in one hand and a six-pack of your favorite soda in the other.
"Told you you'd be useless after," he teased, pushing past you into the apartment. "Gotta keep my star writer fed, right?"
You laughed — shaky and tired — and let him shove a container into your hands.
He didn’t ask to stay. He just sat with you — eating off your plate, kicking his feet up on your coffee table, talking about nothing important. Holding you there. Keeping you grounded. Loving you in the only way you would let him.
You weren’t supposed to still be doing this. Weeks of “practice” had spiraled into something you couldn’t even name anymore — kissing, touching, tasting each other like it was second nature, like it was inevitable.
But you still lied to yourself. Still called it research. Still called it safe.
Until tonight. Until Gojo cracked you wide open and left you no place left to hide.
It started with wine — too much of it. Gojo laughing, slouching in your kitchen chair, long legs stretched out, glass dangling from his fingers. You, flushed and giggling, poking his side when he teased you about the utterly obscene chapter draft you were trying to finish.
"You’re holding back in your writing," he said, grinning lazily. "It’s cute."
You pouted, grabbing the nearest pillow and tossing it at him. "Am not."
He caught it without looking, tossing it aside like it weighed nothing.
"You are," he said, voice deeper now, sharpening. "You’re scared to go there. Scared to admit what you really want to write." You opened your mouth to argue — but his eyes pinned you in place. Hot, gleaming, hungry. "Or what you really want," he added, voice like a blade sliding between your ribs.
You tried to laugh it off. Tried to breathe past the wild, frantic pounding of your heart. "It’s fiction, Satoru. It’s not—"
"No pretending you can’t do this," he cut you off, standing up, stalking toward you with slow, terrible grace. "Not tonight."
You stumbled backward instinctively until your spine hit the edge of the counter.
He stopped inches away. Close enough to feel the heat pouring off him. Not touching. Not yet.
"For this next chapter," he murmured, tipping your chin up with two fingers, "you wanted them to try something new, right? In your original draft before you deleted it."
You nodded, dizzy. "Praise... and degradation."
Gojo smiled — wide and wrecked. "You wanna practice, sweetheart? You wanna get it right?"
You squeezed your eyes shut. "Toru—"
"Set the scene," he ordered. "Like you’re writing it. Right now."
You whimpered, throat tight. "She’s..."
"Say it," he coaxed. "What’s happening, pretty girl?"
"She’s terrified," you managed to gasp. "But she wants him anyway. She always has."
"And him?" Gojo murmured, teasing you mercilessly. "What's he thinking, sweetheart?"
"He —" You swallowed. "He’s loved her forever. But he’s scared if he touches her, he’ll lose her."
Gojo stilled. For one second — just one — his hands shook against your hips. Then he laughed — bright and reckless — covering the crack with a smirk.
"Wow," he said, nudging at your entrance. "Sounds like a real simp. Hope he still fucks her dumb though." (You laugh. You shove at his chest. You don’t realize you just made him bleed with your own words.)
"Now come here and let me ruin you, pretty girl," he said, and kissed you like a fucking wrecking ball.
You didn’t even remember how you ended up naked — how your shirt and shorts ended up across the floor, your panties barely hanging on. All you knew was Gojo’s mouth — everywhere, biting, sucking, marking you. His hands — rough, greedy, sliding up your thighs, your hips, squeezing bruises into your skin.
"Good girl," he praised against your throat. "So fucking sweet for me." You gasped when he lifted you onto the counter — manhandling you into place like you weighed nothing. "Stay open," he ordered, slapping the inside of your thigh. "Wanna see how bad you want it."
You whimpered, trying to obey, thighs shaking. He pressed against you then — the heavy, hot weight of him dragging against your soaked core — and you shuddered, instinctively clutching at his arms.
"Satoru—" you gasped. "Wait, wait—"
"What’s wrong, sweetheart?" he cooed, voice dripping mock concern.
"Just the tip," you blurted without thinking. "Just for the chapter. Just—just the tip— I don’t need us to go all the way yet. The chapter fades to black."
He froze. Staring down at you.
And then he laughed — low, wrecked, dangerous.
"Baby," he said, voice shaking with the effort to hold himself back, "you really think I’m stopping once I’m inside you?"
"No fucking way," he growled. "Not when I’ve been dying to do this for months. But fuck. If that’s what you want then fine, just the tip."
He nudged at your entrance — hot, leaking, aching for you. He presses in just the tip of him, the fathead bullying past your tight entrance. The first time you two had ever come together like this despite your weeks of practicing. Your years of yearning and imagination– both of you. All came to a head right now, at this very moment.
"Set the scene," he ordered again, voice wrecked. "Tell me what he does next."
You could barely think. "He—he—"
He grinned, cruel and beautiful. "He shoves in deep, doesn’t he? 'Cause he can't fucking help himself." You sobbed, nodding frantically, working your hips desperately against the tip of him, wanting to feel more your excuses be damned. "Yeah he does," he said, almost broken. "'Cause he’s too far gone. 'Cause he needs her too badly."
And then he drove into you — slow and deep, inch by devastating inch, until he was seated all the way inside you, the stretch making your mouth fall open in a silent scream. "Fuck," he gasped, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he bottomed out inside you. "She’s a tight little thing — clenching like you’ve never had anyone fuck you right before."
You whimpered, overwhelmed, trying to breathe around the stretch, the burn, the need.
Gojo pulled back, dragged himself out almost to the tip — making you sob, your hips chasing him helplessly — before slamming back in, rough and deep. You cried out, nails clawing at his back.
"Look at you," he growled against your throat. "Fucking dripping for me already. God, you were made to be fucked like this, weren’t you?"
You shook your head, shame burning through your skin — but he caught your chin, forced you to look at him.
"Say it," he demanded. "Say you needed it."
"Needed it," you gasped, tears burning your lashes. "Needed you, Toru—"
His grin was pure sin. "That’s right. Needed me to wreck you properly. Needed me to remind you what you’re fucking good for." He fucked you harder, snapping his hips up, brutal and hungry, the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies slamming together filling the kitchen.
You sobbed, unable to hold anything back anymore — not your sounds, not your begging, not the pathetic little whimpers spilling out of you every time he bottomed out inside you.
"You’re mine now," he snarled. "You hear me, sweetheart? Nobody else gets to have you. Nobody else even fucking touches you.You’re just a pretty little thing to fuck and fill and ruin — mine to break apart whenever I want."
You cried out — not from the filth of the words, but from the way they sank down deep into the hollow ache you’d carried for so long — the empty place only he could fill. And he knew it. He felt it.
He grabbed your hips, holding you in place, fucking you through it, his voice low and rough and brutal: "Gonna fill you up," he panted, "fuck you so full you won’t even be able to think about anyone else. Gonna make you forget your own fucking name."
You sobbed his name again — not a protest, but a prayer.
And when you shattered around him — body locking up, spasming helplessly — he let go with a broken, desperate sound, burying himself deep inside you and coming with a shudder that racked his whole frame.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing — wild, wrecked, disbelieving.
Gojo’s forehead rested against yours. His hands stayed locked on your hips, holding you like he didn’t trust you to stay otherwise. And he whispered it again — rough, wrecked, raw: "Mine."
You stayed like that for a long time — collapsed together against the counter, breathing each other in. Finally, Gojo shifted — careful, reverent — and helped you down. Your legs nearly gave out, and he caught you with a low, wrecked laugh, steadying you against his chest.
"Fuck," he murmured, resting his forehead against yours, "you're gonna destroy me, (y/n)." You laughed — watery, wrecked — and clutched at his shirt like he was the only thing holding you up. He kissed your temple — soft, endless — and whispered, "You okay?"
You nodded, trembling. "Yeah."
He smiled — small and real — and nudged his nose against yours.
"You better write the hottest goddamn chapter after that," he teased, voice cracking a little around the edges.
You laughed again — but it broke into something close to a sob. Because this wasn’t research anymore. Because it had never been.
He just kissed you again — gentle, slow — like he was promising to wait until you were brave enough to say it out loud.
He should have said it that night — when you fell asleep against his chest after, clutching his shirt in your sleep like he was your lifeline. He traced the shape of your face with his eyes.
Memorized the soft hitch of your breathing. He brushed your hair back — so fucking gentle — and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"I love you," he whispered, so quiet even he wasn’t sure he really said it out loud. You shifted — nuzzling closer. He froze — heart slamming against his ribs. But you didn’t wake. Didn’t hear him. Didn’t know.
He held you tighter anyway — burying his face in your hair — and promised himself he wouldn’t say it again until you were ready to hear it.
Even if it meant waiting forever.
It wasn’t supposed to be a big thing. Just a casual game night at Shoko’s place — cards, beer, terrible snacks, Geto half-asleep on the couch by nine. It was supposed to be normal.
Except now, whenever Gojo brushed your arm, your whole body lit up. Except now, whenever you caught his eye across the room, he winked slowly and lazily like he was still inside you.
Except now, whenever you laughed at something dumb, he looked at you like he was in love with you and didn’t even know how to hide it anymore.
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, cards scattered between you and Shoko, trying desperately to win at some stupid drinking game you'd already forgotten the rules to.
"Draw two! Draw two!" Shoko cackled, shoving the deck at you.
"This game is rigged," you whined, grabbing more cards.
"You’re just bad at it," Geto muttered from the couch, half-asleep, flipping you off lazily without opening his eyes.
Across the room, Gojo snickered — stretched out in one of Shoko’s terrible bean bag chairs, sunglasses perched on his head like a crown, beer dangling from his fingers.
He caught your eye. Smirked. And mouthed, "Loser."
You flipped him off too. He grinned wider — teeth flashing — and tapped two fingers over his heart like you’d shot him.
It was so stupid. So casual. So easy.
And your heart still fluttered helplessly in your chest, because God, you loved him, even if you couldn’t say it yet.
Later — after Shoko went to grab more beers and Geto actually dozed off — Gojo sauntered over to you.
"Hey, loser," he teased, voice low, smiling down at you like you were the only thing he could see.
"Hey, asshole," you said, grinning up at him.
He dropped down onto the floor beside you — a little too close, a little too casual — and nudged your thigh with his knee.
"Need a prize for losing so gracefully?" he asked, voice dropping a little lower.
You rolled your eyes. "What kind of prize, Satoru?"
He leaned in — slow, shameless — and kissed you. Quick. Soft. Like he couldn’t help himself.
You gasped into it — surprised — but kissed him back automatically, hand fisting in his shirt. When he pulled back, his smile was lazy and smug — but his eyes were soft, wrecked.
"That," he said, winking. "And maybe something better later if you keep behaving."
You laughed — giddy and breathless — and shoved his shoulder. "You’re such a menace."
"Yeah," he said, eyes sparkling. "But I’m your menace."
Your stomach flipped violently, your face going hot. You covered it with another shove, another laugh. You pretended you didn’t feel like crying from how much you loved him.
Later, you were losing spectacularly — cards slipping from your fingers, brain fuzzy with cheap wine and stolen glances. You barely noticed when Gojo got up — disappeared toward the kitchen — and came back five minutes later with a fresh drink in his hand. Without a word, he set it down next to you. Not with a flourish. Not with a joke.
Just quietly. Carefully. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to take care of you.
You blinked up at him, confused. "You looked thirsty," he said, grinning — casual, easy — before flopping back down into his beanbag chair like he hadn’t just undone you completely.
You shoved at him — laughing it off. You didn’t see the way Shoko raised an eyebrow across the room. You didn’t let yourself think about why Gojo always noticed when you needed something — before you even asked.
The night went on. More terrible games. More lazy teasing. More stolen glances and secret smiles.
Gojo threw popcorn at you across the room. You tackled him onto the beanbag chair and almost knocked his sunglasses off. Geto groaned and told you both to get a room. Shoko just watched you both with a knowing little smirk and said nothing.
It was chaos. It was messy. It was perfect.
You were still you. He was still him. You just kissed sometimes now. You just touched like you’d die if you didn’t. You just belonged to each other now, and neither of you knew how to live any other way.
That night, when you both stumbled up to his apartment, you kissed him hard.
Like there would be no going back.
Again.
And again.
And again.
You kissed him like you wanted to tear him apart, like you wanted to tear yourself apart with him.
And Gojo kissed you back like a man who had been starving — like you were the only thing that could ever fill him. The counter in his kitchen dug into your back. His hands found your thighs, your ass, your waist — everywhere — greedy and rough, like he didn’t know what to grab first.
"Tell me how it happens," he growled against your mouth, voice wrecked. "Tell me what you want, sweetheart."
You whimpered, dizzy, overwhelmed. "He can’t stop," you gasped, clawing at his shirt. "He needs her too badly — now that he’s had her once, he can’t stop."
Gojo groaned — deep and broken — like you’d just reached inside him and crushed his heart barehanded. He shoved your panties down your thighs, not bothering to be careful, and lifted you onto the counter again.
"Just like that," he muttered, lining himself up — the blunt, hot head of his cock nudging at your entrance. "Just like I've needed."
You gasped, clinging to his shoulders. "Satoru—"
"You ready for me, sweetheart?" he rasped, voice a low, wrecked murmur. "Or do you still wanna pretend you don't fucking need me too?"
You opened your mouth — to say something, anything — but he pushed forward in one slow, devastating thrust, and every word scattered out of your mind.
"Fuck," he hissed, head dropping to your shoulder as he bottomed out. "Fuck, you feel like heaven."
You sobbed, arms wrapping around his neck, thighs tightening around his waist. The stretch burned — too much, too good — but you needed him, needed all of him, needed to feel every broken, desperate piece of him inside you.
He pulled back, dragging himself out almost all the way, then slammed back in with a grunt that sounded like it cost him something.
You cried out, nails raking down his back. "Good girl," he panted. "Taking it so well. Always knew you would." Another brutal thrust. Another broken sound ripped from your throat. "Still so fucking tight," he growled. "Like you’ve been waiting for me. Like no one else ever touched you right."
You sobbed, shaking your head. "N-No one else has—"
He froze. Pulled back just enough to see your face. His smile was wrecked — something wild and hurt and happy blooming there all at once. "That's right," he whispered, voice almost tender. "Only me now. Only ever me."
He fucked you harder, deeper, driving you up the counter with every slam of his hips, muttering filth into your skin:
"You’re mine now, pretty girl."
"Bet you’d let me ruin you anywhere I wanted."
"Bet you’d let me fuck you on your knees, on the desk, against a goddamn wall."
"Wouldn’t even care who saw, would you? You’d let everyone know who you fucking belong to."
You were crying — not from pain, not even from the stretch — but from the way his voice sounded. Like he was breaking apart as he touched you. Like this wasn’t just need for him — it was love he didn’t know how to name yet.
You clawed at him, keening, mindless, desperate.
"Say it," he growled, snapping his hips harder. "Say you’re mine."
"Yours," you gasped, sobbing. "I'm yours, Satoru, please—"
His groan sounded like it was torn straight from his chest.
He pushed you back against the counter — pinning you there — and fucked you harder, rough and frantic, desperate to drive the truth into your body if he couldn't get it into your mouth.
“You belong to me," he panted. "Say it again, baby. Fucking say it."
"I’m yours!" you cried, the words ripped out of you, raw and shaking and real. "Always yours—"
And that was it.
That was all it took.
You shattered around him, crying out his name, your whole body locking up, clenching around him so tight it dragged a broken, desperate sound from his throat.
He buried himself deep, hips stuttering, and spilled inside you with a groan that sounded like surrender. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing — ragged, desperate, ruined.
Gojo leaned his forehead against yours, trembling, still inside you. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.
Because there was nothing left to say.
You were his. You had been for a long time.
And he —God help you — he was yours too.
You just weren't ready to say it out loud yet. Neither of you were.
And so when he finally pulled back — carefully, almost reverently — you let him. When he helped you down from the counter and caught your staggering body against his chest, you let him. When he pressed a soft, broken kiss to your temple and murmured, "Good girl," you pretended — just for a little longer — that it could still be safe.
Pretended you hadn’t just given him everything.
Pretended you could survive pretending.
You realized it in the stupidest way possible, you remembered as you laid back against your couch alone for the first night in a while.
Not during one of the kisses. Not during the touching. Not during the breathless, wrecked, messy nights where you clung to each other like drowning people. You realized it when he brought you coffee before all of this started.
At Midnight. No questions. Just showed up at your door — sleepy and grinning — your favorite drink in hand. "You’re gonna finish that chapter," he said, tossing you a wink. "Or I’m staging a coup."
You laughed. You took the coffee. You let him sprawl across your couch, half-asleep, while you wrote. You watched him — the long lines of him, the easy grace, the stupid sunglasses perched on his head — and your heart cracked clean in half.
You froze — hands shaking over your laptop — terrified out of your mind. Because if you said it out loud — if you admitted it — You didn’t think you could survive it if he didn’t feel the same.
You closed the laptop. You tucked the blanket over him. You kissed the top of his head when you thought he wouldn’t feel it. And you told yourself it didn’t mean anything.
It started with his hands. Always his hands. You’d always loved them, always stared too long at the way they moved with powerful grace.
You were sprawled across Gojo’s bed, the late afternoon light cutting across the floor in sharp gold stripes, your laptop abandoned somewhere on the nightstand. Gojo lounged beside you, one arm slung over his forehead, pretending — poorly — that he wasn’t waiting for you to ask.
Finally, he broke the silence. "New chapter’s about restraints, right? The villain love interest has her chained up in his castle." he said, voice light but not too careful.
You swallowed, heart hammering. "Yeah."
He turned his head toward you, lazy grin flashing.
"Well?" he said. "Have you ever been tied up?" He asked, voice a tease against your ear.
You hesitated. “No. Before you it was only…” You started, looking away. “Very basic, okay?” He grinned wickedly, heart squeezing at the before you comment, knowing in his heart there would be no one after.
He leaned up on one elbow, gaze sharpening. "Well then, c'mon," he coaxed, voice dropping low. "You trust me, don’t you?"
And you did. God help you, you did. So you nodded. Let him take your wrists — slowly, reverently — and pin them together above your head with a soft, worn leather belt he looped twice, careful but sure. Then, he pulled out a blind fold, black and thin, from his nightstand. He wrapped it around your eyes with precision and care. A gentleness that only he had with you.
You expected it to feel terrifying.
It didn’t. It felt like belonging.
And as he tied your wrists together, he bent low over you — mouth hovering over your ear. "For the record," he whispered, almost too quiet to hear, "this isn’t what I want to tie you up for."
You shivered. "What, then?" you tried to joke, voice wrecked.
He kissed the shell of your ear, almost reverent. "Keeping you."
But then he laughed — bright, teasing, light — ruffling your hair like you were nothing more than a naughty student. "You know," he said, smug and playful, "for realism." (You squirm. You blush. You pretend he was just acting again.) "Now then," Gojo murmured, leaning over you, one hand fisted in the belt, the other sliding down your bare hip. "Pretty girl, you look so good all tied up for me." You whimpered, hips jerking up instinctively, but he pinned you with his body, holding you down with nothing but the sheer weight of his need.
"(y/n)," he purred, "describe it to me. Like you’re writing it."
Your face burned. "Satoru—"
He kissed your throat, biting just hard enough to make you gasp.
"Write it with your mouth, baby. Tell me what the villain does to her."
You swallowed hard. "He—" Your voice cracked. "He ties her down. Covers her eyes. She can’t move, can’t look around for a way out. She can’t do anything but feel him—"
"And she loves it," he growled against your pulse. "Doesn’t she?"
"Yes," you whimpered, thighs trembling. "I love it." You slip. Before you could correct yourself, Gojo groaned, low and rough, grinding against you slowly — teasing you, wrecking you. You writhed against the bed, desperate and mindless, as he fucked you slow and deep — every thrust measured, every breath ragged.
And all the while, he held the belt tight above your head, grounding you to him.
You were lying in his bed after — still half-tangled in the belt he'd used to tie your wrists, your skin flushed and shining under the low light. Gojo hovered over you, lazy and smug, still catching his breath. He reached up — brushed a piece of hair from your sweaty forehead — and smiled.
"You know," he said, voice light, "you're gonna write the best fucking villain love interest ever after this."
You laughed, tired and happy. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he said, grin softening at the edges. "'Cause you finally get it. You finally know what it’s supposed to feel like."
You blinked at him, heart stuttering. "And what's that?" you asked, voice small.
Gojo leaned down — kissed the corner of your mouth — so soft it barely counted as a kiss at all. "Like you're theirs," he whispered. "Like you were always theirs. Like nobody else could ever touch you right, even if they tried."
Your heart cracked wide open. You opened your mouth — to say something stupid, to say something real — but Gojo laughed and pulled back, flopping dramatically onto the mattress.
"Anyway," he said, loud and cheerful and fake, "don't forget to credit your favorite research partner when you hit the bestseller list, sweetheart."
You giggled. Shoved him. Missed the way he closed his eyes — missed the way he swallowed down the truth he wasn't ready to say yet.
It escalated from there. You didn’t even try to pretend you were working anymore.
Gojo pushed you onto your knees on the bed, his palm heavy on the back of your neck, his cock dragging over your lips.
"Next chapter’s about begging," he said, voice rough. "Character's gotta sound real desperate, sweetheart."
You whimpered, opening your mouth for him automatically. He chuckled — low and wrecked — but didn’t let you have him yet. Just teased you — dragging the tip across your lips, your tongue — until you were shaking, tears stinging your eyes.
"Say it," he ordered, voice velvet-wrapped steel. "Say you need it."
"Need you," you gasped, half-sobbing. "I need your cock, Satoru, please—"
"Good girl," he purred, sliding just the tip into your mouth. "Such a sweet mouth. Bet you’d beg for me anywhere, wouldn’t you?"
You nodded frantically, tears slipping free as he pushed deeper, making you gag, making you take it.
And when you looked up at him — eyes wet, cheeks flushed, mouth stretched wide — he made a sound you’d never heard before. A broken, desperate, loving sound. He pulled you off him by your hair, chest heaving, and kissed you — messy and wild — like he didn’t care about anything but having you close enough to breathe.
The next assignment came over dinner. You didn’t even have your laptop this time. Didn’t even pretend.
You were sitting across from him at a quiet, dim little restaurant downtown — candles flickering between you, soft music humming in the background. You were supposed to be normal. You were supposed to be friends getting dinner, like you always had.
Instead, Gojo slipped his foot between yours under the table — hooked your ankle, pulled you open wider — and slid his hand under the hem of your skirt. "Next chapter's gotta be about public risk," he murmured over his wine glass, smiling like he wasn’t palming your bare pussy under the table. "Gotta know what it feels like to almost get caught, sweetheart."
You bit your lip so hard you thought you might bleed. You should have stopped him. You didn’t– you wanted him, all the time now. And when you two weren’t fucking, you were thinking about him, about the way he would hold you after, pressing gentle kisses across your spine.
His fingers slid over you — featherlight, filthy, owning you — as you tried to keep your face neutral, trying not to moan aloud in a crowded restaurant. "Doing so good," he murmured, thumb circling your clit so slow it made you shiver. "So fucking good for me."
You gripped the tablecloth, white-knuckled, as he dragged you toward the edge of orgasm with maddening, ruthless patience. "Bet you’d let me fuck you right here, wouldn’t you?" he whispered, grinning against the rim of his glass. "Make you cry in front of everyone. Let them all see who fucking makes you feel like this."
You came with a muffled sob, biting your hand, tears blurring your vision — and Gojo just smiled, lazy and satisfied as he licked his fingers clean above the table.
You were shaking — legs trembling, body on fire — barely holding it together after Gojo teased you mercilessly under the table. Your hand clenched in the tablecloth, trying to anchor yourself.
Without a word, Gojo reached over — grabbed your free hand — and laced your fingers with his. Squeezed. Held you steady.
Not teasing now. Not playing. Just... there. Just holding you together when you couldn’t do it yourself.
You bit your lip, squeezing back instinctively — pretending it didn’t mean something it wasn’t allowed to. Pretending he wasn’t already holding more of you than you could ever get back.
You couldn’t pretend anymore. Not when you were writing chapters you couldn’t even read without seeing him. Not when you were begging for his touch without even needing the excuse. Not when you came apart on his fingers, his mouth, his cock — and the only name on your lips was his.
You lay tangled in his sheets after the latest “assignment,” staring at the ceiling, heart hammering painfully against your ribs. Gojo’s hand rested on your hip, lazy and possessive. His marks littered your body in places only the two of you could see. His breathing was slow, even.
You almost wished he’d say something. Almost wished he’d admit it too. But he didn’t. And neither did you. Because if you said it… If you admitted it — it would stop being practiced. It would stop being safe, like something you could pretend never happened and go back to normal.
You weren’t even trying to push him. That was the worst part.
You were just sitting there — curled up on Gojo’s couch in one of his t-shirts and nothing else, hair a mess, thighs bare — chewing on the end of a pen while you re-read a sentence on your laptop for the fifth time.
And you didn’t notice — How the shirt kept sliding off one shoulder. How you kept shifting in your seat — little frustrated noises every time you got stuck. How you kept sighing — high, soft, wrecked little sounds — when you couldn’t get the wording right.
You didn’t notice. But Gojo did. He was pacing, pretending to clean up the pizza boxes, muttering about something stupid — when he finally stopped. Froze.
You glanced up, confused. "Toru?"
He was staring at you. No — not staring. Consuming.
His mouth was slightly open. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides. His whole body was drawn tight — a bowstring pulled taut. "You gotta stop looking at me like that," he said, voice rough, broken.
You blinked, startled. "Like what?"
He laughed — short and dangerous — running a hand through his hair like it physically hurt to hold still. "Like you don’t fucking know what you’re doing to me," he said, voice cracking.
You opened your mouth to answer — to apologize, maybe — But you didn’t get the chance.
Gojo moved. Fast. Faster than you could think.
One second you were sitting cross-legged, blinking up at him —The next, he was on you — caging you against the couch cushions with his body, hands braced on either side of your head.
His mouth crashed down on yours — not teasing, not playful — desperate.
You gasped — mistake — and he swallowed it down instantly, tongue sweeping deep, claiming you like he couldn’t stop himself.
You whimpered against him, hands scrambling for purchase — fisting in his shirt, clutching at his shoulders.
Gojo growled low in his throat — a wrecked, starving sound — and shoved a knee between your thighs, spreading you wider, grinding his hips down against yours.
You broke the kiss on a gasp — dazed, wrecked — But he didn’t let you go far.
He chased you — nipping your jaw, your throat, the soft underside of your ear — marking you with desperate, open-mouthed kisses.
"Mine," he rasped against your skin, barely coherent. "Fuck — you’re mine — you don’t even know —"
You sobbed his name, hips grinding up instinctively against the heavy, hot weight of him pressing against your core.
He groaned — full-bodied, shuddering — and pressed harder, rutting against you shamelessly.
"Don’t stop," you gasped, clutching him closer.
He rocked against you — rough, hungry, desperate — driving you higher and higher without ever even getting your clothes off.
"Feel that, baby?" he panted against your mouth. "Feel how fucking hard you make me? Just from looking at you?"
You whimpered, thighs trembling.
"You’re so fucking pretty," he groaned, grinding down harder, the thick bulge of him dragging perfectly against your soaked panties. "So fucking sweet — driving me out of my fucking mind —"
You keened, desperate, hips chasing his without thinking.
Gojo dropped his forehead to yours — panting, broken, trembling with the effort to hold himself back.
"You don’t even get it," he rasped. "You don’t even fucking get what you do to me, sweetheart."
You sobbed his name again, mindless.
He kissed you then — brutal, hungry, endless — hips grinding you into the couch until you were shaking, until you were clenching uselessly around nothing, until you were begging into his mouth.
And when you finally shattered — gasping, crying, clinging to him like you’d drown without him — Gojo let out a wrecked, desperate noise against your throat.
He didn’t come. Didn’t cross the final line. But fuck, he was close.
He continued to fuck into you as you squeezed around him, pumping until you were filled with his cum. Until it dripped out between your thighs when he finally pulled away from you.
He slumped over you — shuddering, caging you against the couch with his body — pressing frantic kisses to your hairline, your jaw, your shoulder.
"I can’t," he whispered against your skin, voice wrecked. "I can’t fucking lose you." You couldn’t hear that second part.
You shook underneath him — overwhelmed, broken open — and held onto him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. Neither of you spoke for a long time.
Because you both knew: You were already way past the point of no return.
And neither of you wanted to turn back anymore.
It should have been normal. Just a lazy Sunday afternoon — you, Gojo, Geto, and Shoko sitting at your favorite little coffee shop, pretending to be productive. But Gojo hadn’t been normal for weeks. He hadn’t sat across from you like he used to. He hadn’t kept his hands to himself.
No. Now he sat next to you. Knee brushing yours. Arm slung casually across the back of your chair — casual only if you ignored the way his fingertips dragged lightly across your shoulder every few minutes.
He touched you constantly now. Little things. Innocent things. Things he could still pretend didn’t mean anything if you called him on it. And maybe you could have ignored it — pretended, just a little longer — if Shoko hadn’t caught your eye over the rim of her coffee cup and smirked.
"You two finally fuckin’ or what?" she asked, voice dry, lazy, like she didn’t really care about the answer. The table went dead silent. You nearly choked on your drink. Gojo — damn him — just laughed. Loud and easy and fake as hell.
"Aw, c’mon, Shoko," he said, nudging your shoulder like it was all a big joke. "You know (y/n)’s the only one to resist me."
You forced a laugh. Forced a smile. Felt your stomach twist itself into knots. Geto raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Shoko shrugged, clearly unconvinced, and turned back to her phone. The conversation moved on. Pretended nothing had happened.
But you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move. Because if Shoko could see it — if it was that obvious — how much longer could you pretend?
Later, walking back to Gojo’s car, you kept a careful, nervous distance. He didn’t seem to notice — or he pretended not to. When he unlocked the car, you reached for the passenger door handle — and Gojo caught your wrist.
Not hard. Not rough. Just...certain.
He tugged you toward him, crowding you back against the side of the car, his body a warm, solid wall.
"You okay, sweetheart?" he asked, voice low, coaxing. "Seemed jumpy back there."
You shook your head frantically, laughing too high, too bright. "Fine. I'm fine."
Gojo’s gaze sharpened — ice-blue and knowing. He leaned in — not kissing you, not touching you — just close. "You’re such a bad liar," he murmured. "You know that, right?"
You swallowed hard, chest tight. "Satoru, we shouldn’t—"
"Shouldn’t what?" he pressed, voice dropping into a growl. "Touch you? Kiss you? Fuck you until you forget your own name?"
You whimpered, shoving at his chest, but he caught your hands easily — pinned them to the car behind you, caging you in. "Thought you wanted to get the book right," he said, smiling like a wolf. "Or are you telling me you don’t want it anymore?"
You stared up at him, trembling, every instinct screaming that this wasn’t practice anymore — it was him. It was you. It was this.
And you finally could admit that you couldn’t survive pretending much longer.
You were curled up on your bed, half-asleep, half-writing, Gojo sprawled beside you — snoring obnoxiously, taking up too much space. You mumbled something — sleepy, soft — about being tired. About needing to kick him out.
He grunted — half-asleep — and threw an arm over your waist, caging you against him. "Not leaving," he muttered against your hair. "You’re stuck with me, baby."
You laughed drowsily. "Toru, you're a menace."
He lifted his head — looked at you with soft, sleepy, wrecked eyes.
"I'd stay forever if you let me," he whispered.
You didn’t hear him. Not really. You were already half-asleep, already drifting. You missed it — the way his voice cracked. The way his fingers tightened on your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.
Gojo kissed your forehead — soft and broken — and tucked you tighter into his chest.
And for one long, shattering moment, he let himself imagine a future where you loved him back.
The next slip happened faster than you could stop it. At dinner a few nights later — another lame excuse, another "writing session" — you reached for your glass and Gojo reached at the same time. Your fingers brushed.
You flinched. He didn’t. Instead, he caught your hand — deliberately, visibly — and laced his fingers through yours. You stared at him, heart slamming into your ribs. Gojo just smiled — lazy and easy and reckless.
“What’s wrong, (y/n)?” He asked with a grin. His eyes dared you to pull away. And you did. You yanked your hand back like it burned. He let you — but his eyes said he knew exactly what he was doing.
When you looked around the restaurant, you caught a few eyes glancing your way — some curious, some amused. You felt like you were drowning.
"You still pretending?" Gojo murmured across the table, smiling wide, easy, fake.
You nodded. You lied. You ordered another drink just to have something to do with your hands.
Because you couldn’t survive this much longer. Because if he kept touching you like you were his — if he kept acting like you were his — You were going to have to admit you already were.
The couch was too small. That was your excuse, anyway, for the way your thighs pressed against Gojo’s. For the way his hand slid — casual, lazy — along your bare knee.
"You know about desperation, right?" he teased, voice low.
"Good," he murmured, leaning in — pressing you back against the cushions, caging you in with his body. The kiss started slowly. Lazy. Teasing.
Then his hands were sliding under your shirt. Then his mouth was on your throat. Then he was pressing you down into the couch like he wanted to carve himself into you.
You gasped against him — writhing, desperate — as his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts.
He touched you. Bare. Skin against skin.
You sobbed his name, hips jerking up helplessly.
"I know," he rasped against your neck. "I know, sweetheart."
He slid two fingers inside you — slow, devastating — and you nearly broke apart right there.
He fucked you on his fingers — deep, slow, cruel — until you were gasping, clenching, sobbing against his shoulder.
You reached for his belt — frantic — but he caught your wrist. Stopped you. Not rough. Not angry. Just... aching.
"No," he whispered, voice breaking. "Not like this."
You whimpered, shaking your head, trying to pull him closer.
But he pulled back — tucking you against his chest, covering your trembling body with his.
"Not until you’re mine for real," he whispered into your hair. "Not until you want me the way I want you."
You buried your face in his shirt and cried.
Because you did. You always had. You just hadn’t been brave enough to say it yet.
The blank page stared back at you.
Accusing.
Unforgiving.
You flexed your fingers over the keyboard, cracked your neck, tried to shake off the lingering weight of him — the scent of him still clinging to your skin, the phantom feel of his hands still bruising your hips. You could do this. You had to do this. It was just a story. Just words. You could write it. You had written it before.
You set the scene mechanically — a girl, a boy, a kiss they were pretending didn’t mean anything. A body pinned to a counter. A whispered name against flushed skin.
But the words rang hollow. Empty.
Because no matter how you twisted the phrasing, no matter how you built the sentences — It was him.
You could feel the way his hands had mapped your body, memorized it, claimed it. You could taste the way he kissed you — like he would carve himself into you if you let him. You could hear his voice — not the teasing, laughing one he showed the world, but the broken, desperate one he only gave you when you were wrapped around him, sobbing his name.
There was no space left in you untouched by Satoru Gojo.
And no matter how you tried to build someone else on the page — he kept slipping in. In the curve of a smile. In the way a hand lingered on a hip. In the way a character said "mine" and meant it like a prayer.
You sat back in your chair, heart hammering, bile rising in your throat.
This wasn’t a story anymore. This wasn’t research. This wasn’t fiction.
It was you. It was him. It was this.
You slammed the laptop shut. Shoved it away like it had burned you. Your breathing came ragged, sharp, panicked. The walls of your apartment felt too close, the air too thick. You stood up — paced — clawed your hands through your hair. Tried to rewrite yourself into someone who could survive this. Someone who could survive him.
You opened the laptop again. Tried again. Typed furiously.
Different names. Different descriptions.
A taller boy, maybe. A rougher one. Or softer. Or sweeter.
Anything but the smirking, broken, beautiful boy with white hair and glacier-blue eyes who kissed you like he would drown without you.
But no matter how you twisted it — It was still him.
Still the way he said your name. Still the way he whispered "good girl" against your skin. Still the way he looked at you when he thought you couldn’t see — like you hung the fucking moon and it killed him every day to want you.
You slammed the laptop closed again. Buried your face in your hands. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t survive pretending anymore.
He ruined you. He ruined you for anyone else. For anything else.
You were wrecked. You were his. And there was no way to undo it.
You slid to the floor — knees pulled to your chest — heart shattering quietly inside your ribs.
You pressed your forehead to the cold surface of the closed laptop, breathing hard, trying not to sob. But the memories kept sliding in anyway, sharp and merciless.
Gojo, swinging by your favorite coffee shop at midnight because you’d texted him you were stuck — grinning, holding out your favorite drink. "Come on, sweetheart. Genius never sleeps."
Gojo, sprawling across your couch, tapping two fingers to his temple. "I believe in you, dumbass. Always have."
Gojo, whispering "My best girl" against your temple after you hit a writing milestone — not touching you like a lover then. Just... proud. Just there.
You squeezed your eyes shut, fists clenched, trying to block it out. Trying to forget what you were throwing away. Trying to pretend you hadn't already lost him long before you ever kissed him. Because maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t want you the way you wanted him.
Maybe to him — It had been just research. Just heat. Just need.
Maybe you were the only fool who had fallen all the way in.
And if that was true — You didn’t know how to survive it.
You didn’t mean to burn yourself. It was stupid — just a slip of the pan, a hiss of pain — but Gojo was on you before you could blink.
"Hey, hey, hey—" he said, grabbing your wrist before you could yank it under cold water. His fingers were gentle but firm, steady as he pulled your hand up to inspect the damage.
"It’s nothing," you said, trying to pull away, embarrassed.
He didn’t let go. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease.
Gojo looked at your hand like it was the worst thing he'd ever seen. His thumb brushed the reddening skin carefully, reverently.
"You’re not allowed to get hurt," he muttered, like he was furious at the universe, not you.
Your throat tightened. "Satoru, I’m fine."
"You’re not fine," he snapped — rough, scared. His voice dropped lower, cracking. "You don’t get to scare me like that, sweetheart."
He carried you to the sink — carried, like you weighed nothing — and ran cool water over your hand, murmuring nonsense against your hair the whole time. It was barely a burn. It would heal in days. But the way he touched you — like you were precious — cracked something in you you weren’t ready to face.
You laughed it off. You kissed his cheek and said you were okay. But later, when you lay awake in your bed, you realized: He didn’t treat you like practice. He treated you like something sacred.
You didn’t mean to start it later that night. You really didn’t.
You were supposed to be working. You were supposed to be safe. But then you crawled into Gojo’s lap — half-innocent, half-teasing — whining that you couldn’t concentrate, that you needed his help, that you were stuck.
And he… He snapped. The second you settled across his thighs — straddling him, wearing nothing but one of his old shirts and tiny panties — he went still.
Dangerously still. "(y/n)," he rasped, voice wrecked. "You gotta stop, baby. You’re not thinking straight."
"I am," you said — breathless, stubborn — rocking your hips once against the hard, thick bulge straining against his sweatpants.
Gojo’s head tipped back — a shuddering groan ripping free — like it physically hurt him to stay still.
"Fuck," he breathed, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "Baby, if you keep doing that—"
You rocked again — slower this time, teasing — feeling the heavy, hot drag of him against your clothed core. His hands snapped up — grabbing your ass, dragging you down harder against him — grinding you against the thick, aching length of him like he couldn’t help it anymore.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he gasped, rutting up against you in rough, desperate jerks. "Gonna ruin you, sweetheart. Gonna fucking ruin you for real."
You whimpered — overwhelmed, dizzy, the filthy friction driving you insane — and Gojo growled low in his throat.
"You feel that?" he panted, voice cracking. "Feel how fucking hard you make me? Just from climbing in my lap like a needy little thing?"
You nodded frantically, grinding down harder, desperate for more.
Gojo’s eyes burned — wild, wrecked, feral — and he cursed under his breath, shoving the hem of your shirt up so he could see you better.
"No panties next time," he growled, dragging the thin fabric of your panties aside with rough fingers so he could feel the slick heat of you against him. "Gotta have you bare for me, baby. Always."
You sobbed his name, hips jerking helplessly against the thick, leaking tip of him dragging over your folds — only the thin barrier of your panties keeping him from driving into you.
"Fuck," Gojo muttered, forehead dropping to your shoulder, grinding up against you in wrecked, helpless thrusts. "Wanna fuck you so bad. Wanna feel you squeeze me. Wanna come so deep inside you you can’t even think straight."
You whimpered — broken, desperate — rocking against him like your life depended on it.
"Please, Toru," you gasped, not even knowing what you were begging for anymore.
He groaned — guttural, raw — and hooked a hand behind your neck, yanking you into a filthy, devastating kiss. You kissed him back desperately — sloppy, open-mouthed, starving — grinding against the thick, pulsing length of him like you could make him lose control completely.
You felt it — the moment he shoved your panties to the side, grabbed your hips, and sank into you hard and rough and real. You felt it — the tremble in his arms, the broken sound he made against your mouth, the helpless jerk of his hips.
Gojo tore his mouth from yours with a wrecked, choked-off noise — slamming his forehead against your shoulder, as you rode him, body shaking with the effort to hold back.
"Not like this," he gasped, voice cracked and raw. "Fuck — not like this, baby. Not when I —" He broke off, voice mangled. Not when I love you. Not when you’re everything. Not when this means too fucking much.
He pulled you tighter against him — rocking you slow, grinding you against the thick, wet head of his cock — holding you there until you both sobbed through it, coming against each other like a pair of desperate teenagers.
He didn’t let go after. Didn’t even move.
He just slumped back against the couch, cradling you against his chest, whispering wrecked, broken praises against your hair.
"My good girl," he murmured, over and over, voice shaking. "My good, perfect girl."
And even though he never said the real words — not yet — you felt them anyway.
You knew the second you kissed him that tonight would be different.
Gojo didn't smile. Didn't tease. He kissed you like a drowning man — rough, wild, groaning low in his chest as he crowded you back against the wall. You gasped into his mouth — hands fisting in his shirt — and he growled, deep and wrecked, lifting you clean off the ground like you weighed nothing.
"Been patient long enough," he rasped against your throat, dragging you higher against the wall, grinding the thick, heavy length of him against your barely-covered core.
You whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist automatically. Gojo laughed — low, wrecked — but there was no humor in it.
"Baby," he said, voice wrecked, "you wore these tiny fucking panties on purpose, didn’t you?"
You barely managed a nod, already half-gone. He groaned — filthy, guttural — and yanked your hips closer, grinding you against him until you sobbed.
"You trying to kill me, sweetheart?" he muttered against your skin, dragging the thin, soaked fabric of your panties aside to feel you bare against him. "Walking around like this? Acting all sweet and shy?"
You whimpered — overwhelmed — and that was it. Gojo’s patience snapped. In one rough, brutal motion, he ripped the panties clean off your body — tearing them down the seam like they were nothing.
You gasped, staring wide-eyed as he tossed the ruined scrap of lace aside — only to catch it mid-air like a goddamn magician.
You blinked — dazed — as he lifted it to his face. And breathed you in. Slow. Deep. Shuddering.
"Fuck," he whispered, voice thick and filthy. "Smell so sweet, baby. Smell like fucking mine."
Your whole body flushed scarlet — burning under the intensity of it — and Gojo just grinned, wild and victorious, tucking the ripped panties into his pocket like a prize.
"Keeping those," he said, voice wrecked. "Gonna jerk off with them thinking about this for the rest of my life."
You made a broken, helpless sound — overwhelmed and burning alive for him — and Gojo kissed you again, brutal and endless, grinding you against the hard, thick length of him like he could brand you with it.
"Fuck," he muttered against your mouth, voice cracking. "Need you, baby. Need you so bad it fucking hurts."
You whimpered — wrecked and shy but oh so ready — grinding against him shamelessly.
"Say it," he growled, dragging the swollen, leaking head of his cock against your bare, dripping core. "Say you need it too. Say you need me."
"I— I need you Toru," you gasped, “Inside me… please.” You cried, nails raking down his back, desperate.
Gojo made a sound like something inside him broke.
"You’re mine," he snarled, lining himself up — no teasing now, no patience — just raw, desperate need. "You’ve always been mine."
And when he finally pushed inside you — when he finally filled you, stretching you wide, claiming every inch of you — he buried his face against your neck and whispered, wrecked and real:
"Not letting you go now, sweetheart. Never fucking letting you go."
He set a brutal, punishing pace — fucking you against the wall, grunting your name against your skin — and you cried out for him, clinging to him, giving him everything. This didn’t feel like fucking, not to you. It felt like making love. The passion, the heat, the worship— it was so much more than what you’d done before.
And somewhere between the rough thrusts, the whispered "mine"s, the broken sounds he made when you clenched around him, or the way he pushed his cum back inside you after he finally, finally pulled out—
You realized: You couldn’t remember the last time you two kissed or had sex and pretended it was about your book.
You stopped answering his texts first. It was easy at first — easy to pretend you were just busy.
Deadlines. Family stuff. Exhaustion.
He played along. For the first few days, at least.
"Working hard, huh, sweetheart?" one text said. "Proud of you. Get some rest tonight, okay?"
"Need a practice session break?" another teased, winking emoji attached. "Promise to be gentle."
You stared at your screen for hours sometimes. Thumb hovering over the keyboard. Wanting to answer. Wanting to run to him.
You left him on read. You told yourself it was mercy. You told yourself it was survival.
Because if you let him keep touching you — if you let yourself keep loving him — you wouldn’t survive losing him when he realized you were never enough.
Better to run now. Better to end it before it ended you.
But then you found it the third day you didn't text him back. A paper bag, sitting outside your door. No note. No dramatic message.
Just a container of your favorite soup from that overpriced deli you loved but never splurged on yourself. And tucked inside the bag — a stupid, brightly colored pen.
Your favorite brand. Your favorite color. The one you used to say made your writing luckier.
You sat down hard against the inside of your door, the bag crinkling in your lap.
Gojo hadn’t called. Hadn’t texted. Hadn’t demanded anything.
He just left it there. Like a reminder. Like a promise. Like he was still trying to take care of you — even when you wouldn’t let him close.
When he called a few days later, you let it ring. When he texted, "Miss you," you threw your phone across the room and sobbed into your pillow.
You stopped going to your coffee shop. Stopped answering Shoko’s casual check-ins. Stopped answering Geto’s lazy "You alive?" calls.
You cut yourself off like amputation could save you.
You told yourself Gojo would be fine. That he didn’t really want you. That it had just been heat. Need. Curiosity. That he would move on faster if you didn’t make a scene.
You told yourself a lot of lies. None of them helped you sleep at night.
It only took a week for him to show up. You should have known he wouldn’t just let you disappear. You should have remembered that he was stubborn. Relentless. Yours.
The knock at the door was heavy, deliberate. You froze on the couch, heart hammering painfully against your ribs. Maybe if you stayed quiet — "I know you’re in there, sweetheart," Gojo called, voice low, rough. "Open the door."
You squeezed your eyes shut, fists clenched in your lap. Maybe he would leave if you didn’t answer. Maybe he would get tired. Maybe—
The knock came again, louder. "You can’t hide from me," he said, voice cracking on it. "You don’t get to run, baby. Not after everything."
Your vision blurred with sudden, helpless tears. "Not after the way you looked at me," he continued, softer now, "the way you let me touch you. The way you begged for me."
You pressed your hands over your ears, shaking, desperate to block him out, to block out the sound of your own heart breaking. "You think it was just practice?" he said. "You think it didn’t fucking ruin me too?"
The silence that followed was worse than the shouting. Worse than anything. When you finally peeked through the peephole, the hallway was empty.
And you? You slid down the door, back pressed against the cold wood, sobbing into your knees.
Because it was too late now. Because you’d hurt him. Because you’d hurt yourself. Because no matter how fast you ran — no matter how hard you tried to pretend — you could never outrun the truth: You were his. You had been for a long time. And you didn’t know if he would ever forgive you for trying to run from that.
Gojo sat behind the wheel of his car, staring blankly at your front steps. The empty passenger seat seemed to mock him. He scrubbed his hands over his face, breathing hard through his nose. "You’re scared," he muttered. "That’s all. You’ll come back."
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. Tried to laugh it off. Tried to tell himself it didn’t hurt. But it did. God, it did.
He dropped his forehead onto the wheel, squeezing his eyes shut.
"I can wait," he whispered. "I’ll wait as long as you need."
His voice cracked. He pressed his fists hard into his thighs, breathing through the burn behind his eyes. He’d always been good at pretending. At teasing. At holding back just enough.
But when it came to you? There wasn’t a mask strong enough in the world to hide what he felt.
"Please," he whispered — to the empty seat, to the cracked sky above — "Please come back to me."
And when the tears finally came, he let them.
Because losing you was the only thing he’d ever been truly afraid of.
You thought you could do it.
You thought if you smiled enough, drank enough, flirted enough, you could forget him. You thought wrong.
The guy across from you — some blandly handsome accountant Shoko set you up with — was perfectly nice. He laughed at the right moments. He complimented your dress. He even offered to pay for your overpriced drink.
You should have felt something. Instead, you kept glancing at the door. Kept waiting for silver hair. A cocky grin. A lazy slouch against the bar.
He wasn’t coming. You made sure of that.
You forced a laugh at something the guy said — something about taxes, God help you — and stirred your drink so you wouldn’t have to look at him.
And that’s when you felt it.
A prickle at the back of your neck. A pull you knew too well. You looked up. Across the bar. And there he was.
Standing half in shadow, hands shoved deep in his pockets, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. Watching you. Not smiling. Not teasing. Just... watching.
You froze. Heart slamming painfully against your ribs.
He didn't move. Didn't wave. Just stared — that unreadable, gutting stare that said everything you were too cowardly to say out loud.
Your date noticed you stiffen. Turned to look.
But by the time he followed your gaze, Gojo was gone.
You stared at the empty space where he’d been, stomach churning, drink forgotten in your hand.
The guy across from you — Rin? Jin? You already forgot — smiled awkwardly and started talking about something else.
You didn’t hear a word. Because Gojo had seen you.
Because you knew — deep down, you knew — You weren’t moving on. You weren’t fooling anyone. Especially not yourself.
You didn’t expect him to be there when you opened your apartment door. You weren’t even thinking — arms full of groceries, keys dangling between your fingers, mind somewhere else — when you looked up and froze.
There he was. Leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. Sunglasses hanging from the collar of his t-shirt.
How did he even get in? You wondered.
"Hey, sweetheart," Gojo said, voice soft and deadly. "Going somewhere?" He asked, twirling the spare key to your apartment around his finger. You internally smacked yourself. Fucking Shoko.
You dropped the groceries. They hit the floor with a thud — apples rolling across the linoleum — but you barely noticed. Your heart slammed into your ribs.
"Satoru—" you choked out, already backing away. "Please, go away, I can’t—"
He pushed off the wall, moving toward you slowly, like he was approaching something wounded and dangerous. "No can do," he said, voice rough. "Not this time."
You stumbled forward into your apartment, but he followed — closing the door behind you with a soft, final click.
"Please," you whispered, backing up against the front door. "Please don’t—"
He stopped. Looked at you.Really looked at you.
You saw it then — the wreckage you had left in him. The hurt he was trying so fucking hard to swallow. "Why are you running from me?" he asked, voice shaking. "What the fuck are you so scared of?"
You squeezed your eyes shut, chest heaving. "Because it’s not real, Satoru! It was never real—"
"Bullshit!" he shouted, voice cracking open. "You think I touched you like that because it wasn’t real? You think I fucked you like that because I was pretending?"
You shook your head, tears burning your throat. "You don’t understand—"
He crossed the space between you in two strides. Fisted your shirt in his hands. Crowded you against the door so you couldn’t run.
"Then make me understand," he said, almost begging. "Tell me why you’re so goddamn scared to be mine."
You sobbed, fists clenching in his shirt. "Because you’ll leave!" The words ripped out of you like a wound torn open. "Because you’ll wake up one day and realize I’m not enough and you’ll leave and I—" You broke off, choking on it. "I can’t survive that, Satoru. I can't survive losing you."
His breath caught — like you’d punched him in the gut. For a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Then — so gently, it shattered you — he cupped your face in his hands.
"(y/n)," he said, voice wrecked, "I’ve been yours since the fucking beginning. Before the book, before the sex." You whimpered, clutching at his wrists like you could anchor yourself to him. "I don’t want anyone else," he said. "I don’t even look at anyone else. It’s you. It’s always been you."
When Gojo grabbed your face in his hands— when he whispered your name like it hurt to say — you saw it. All of it. Him swinging a coffee around a corner, laughing when he spilled half of it down his shirt. Him carrying you home from the bar, your arms looped around his neck, pretending you weren’t crying over someone else. Him curling around you on the couch like you were his home long before you ever kissed him.
All the moments he loved you.
All the moments you never noticed.
And still, you shook your head frantically, tears spilling down your cheeks. "You’re just saying that because—" He kissed you. Not rough. Not filthy. Not like practice.
He kissed you like he was starving for you. Like he would die if you didn’t kiss him back. Like he had been waiting years for this and was terrified he was already too late.
You sobbed into his mouth, clutching him closer, melting against him. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. Breathing you in. Trembling.
"No more pretending," he whispered. "No more practice. No more research. Just us, baby." You nodded, still crying. Still scared. But wanting him more than you wanted to be safe.
"Okay," you whispered. "Okay, Toru." His hands shook as he dragged you into his arms — holding you tight, like he could press you into his skin and keep you there.
You buried your face in his neck, breathing him in. The scent of him. The feel of him. The reality of him.
Not practice. Not fiction. Him.
Gojo carried you to your bed like you weighed nothing — but the way he held you said you were everything. He set you down carefully, stepping back just enough to look at you — eyes drinking you in, soft and wrecked and full. "Still scared?" he whispered, brushing your hair back from your face.
You shook your head, tears spilling anyway. "Only if you leave."
His smile cracked something inside you. "Never," he said, voice breaking. "You're stuck with me now, sweetheart. Hope you like endless flirting and terrible jokes, ‘cause you’re getting a lifetime subscription."
You laughed — shaky, wet — and pulled him down into a kiss. He came willingly, covering your body with his, sinking into you like he couldn’t bear the space between you for a second longer. Gojo undressed you slowly this time. No rush. No teasing. No games.
He kissed every inch of skin he uncovered — your collarbone, your shoulders, your stomach — murmuring nonsense and sweetness against your skin. And when he slid inside you — slow, deep, full — he pressed his forehead to yours and breathed you in like salvation.
"Fuck," he whispered, voice shaking. "You feel like home." You whimpered, clinging to him, already overwhelmed — not just from the stretch, the fullness, the pleasure — but from the way he touched you now. Like he was memorizing you. Like he was building a shrine out of your body.
He started moving — slow thrusts, deep and thorough — rocking into you like he had all the time in the world. And between each thrust — between each kiss — he began to spell out every moment he fell.
"The first time," he panted against your mouth, hips rolling slow.
“First time?” you asked, breathless.
"The first time I knew?" Another thrust — deep, slow, perfect. You gasped, nails digging into his back. "Was that dumb night you made me watch that shitty romance movie four years ago and cried when they kissed. You kept wiping your face when you thought I wasn't looking. I wanted to kiss you so bad it hurt."
Another thrust — deeper this time. You moaned, sobbing into his shoulder. He kissed the corner of your mouth — featherlight, devastating. "And during all this damn practice?” he breathed. "The first time you said you trusted me. When you let me touch you without fear. Without walls?"
Another thrust — slow and aching — and he caught your gaze, refusing to let you look away. "I touched you and knew I was fucked," he said, voice wrecked. "Knew I was already yours."
You sobbed, trembling beneath him, nails leaving crescent moons in his skin.
He kissed you again — slow, endless — hips stuttering like he could barely hold himself together.
"And now?" he rasped, voice breaking. "Every fucking time you look at me like I hung the moon and you don't even realize you're doing it. Every time you laugh at my dumb jokes. Every time you say my name like it means something." He thrust again — slow, deep, perfect — pulling a wrecked moan from your throat. "I love you," he gasped. "I love you so much it fucking destroys me."
You sobbed, dragging him closer, kissing him like you could crawl inside him, living in the space where he loved you.
"Mine," he whispered against your mouth. "Always mine. Say it, sweetheart. Say you're mine."
"Yours," you cried, desperate and shaking. "Always yours, Satoru."
He groaned — low and wrecked — and thrust into you harder, faster, overwhelming you with everything he was, everything he felt, everything he had been trying to hide behind jokes and teasing and lazy smiles for so long.
"Good girl," he gasped, forehead pressed to yours. "God, you're perfect. You’re everything."
You came first — sobbing, clenching around him, nails raking down his back, body arching off the bed — and he followed you seconds later, burying himself deep, shuddering, gasping your name like a prayer.
He didn’t pull out afterward. Didn’t tease. Didn’t pretend. He stayed pressed against you — still inside you, still trembling — breathing you in like he was afraid you’d vanish. You carded your fingers through his hair, whispering his name, whispering "I love you too," until the shaking stopped. Until you both could finally believe it was real.
Because it was. It always has been.
You just needed him to spell it out for you — Between kisses. Between thrusts. Between the broken, desperate gasps of two people who had finally stopped running.
You woke up to the sound of breathing. Not yours.His.
Gojo’s arm was draped across your waist — heavy and warm and grounding. His face was tucked into the curve of your neck. His hair tickled your jaw. You shifted — just a little — and he tightened his arm around you instinctively, a low, sleepy sound rumbling in his chest.
"Mine," he mumbled against your skin. You laughed — soft, wrecked — and rolled over to face him.
His eyes were still closed. His lashes brushed his cheeks. His mouth was soft, relaxed, open in sleep. He looked young. He looked vulnerable. He looked like yours.
You traced his jaw lightly — barely touching — afraid to wake him, afraid to break the spell.
But his eyes fluttered open anyway — heavy-lidded, lazy, so full of affection it made your chest ache.
"Hey, baby," he rasped, voice wrecked from sleep and sex and love.
"Hey," you whispered back. He smiled — soft and stupid — and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Still mine?" he asked, teasing.
"Always," you said, voice shaking.
His smile widened — stupid and smug and devastatingly beautiful.
"Good," he said, nuzzling into your neck again. "Stay forever."
You laughed — giddy and wrecked and stupidly, hopelessly happy.
You sat on your bed, months later, laptop open in your lap. Gojo lay beside you, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes like a man in mourning. "If you don't read it soon, sweetheart, I'm gonna start monologuing about my tragic, star-crossed love for you again," he said, voice muffled and smug.
You laughed — soft, real — and nudged his side. "You’re insufferable."
"You love it," he said immediately, peeking one bright blue eye open and winking.
You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. Because he was right. You loved everything about him. The loud, the soft, the stubborn, the ridiculous. The boy who had loved you long before you were brave enough to notice.
The boy who never stopped waiting. Never stopped hoping. Never stopped loving.
You looked back at the laptop screen — heart hammering — and took a deep breath.
"Okay," you said. "But don’t laugh."
He dropped his arm immediately, sitting up — alert, serious, ready.
"I’d never laugh at you… at least not about this," he said, and for once there was no teasing in it. "Promise."
The new story didn’t start with a kiss. It didn’t start with practice. It didn’t even start with pretending.
It started with a boy who loved too loudly. And a girl who was too scared to believe she deserved it.
It started with late nights and lazy jokes and soft, secret glances. It started with the way he never gave up on her —
Not when she lied.
Not when she ran.
Not when she hurt him trying to protect herself.
It started with love. The real kind. The messy, terrifying, unbreakable kind. It started — and it never ended.
"She thought he would leave," you read aloud, voice trembling. "But he never did. He never even considered it. He stayed. He loved her. He chose her. Every day."
Your voice cracked. You blinked fast, tears blurring the words.
Gojo shifted closer — his hand finding yours, squeezing tight — silent, steady, there.
You squeezed back and kept reading.
"And maybe love wasn’t perfect," you whispered. "Maybe it wasn’t easy. But it was real. And it was theirs."
You finished the last line — breathless, shaking — and closed the laptop with a soft click.
The silence stretched between you, heavy and golden. Full of everything you couldn’t say out loud yet — but didn’t have to. Not anymore.
Gojo didn't speak right away. He just looked at you — with that rare, raw, unshielded look that he saved only for you.
Then — with a shaky laugh — he leaned in and kissed you. Slow. Sweet. Certain.
"You’re gonna win awards for that damn book," he whispered against your lips. "But you already won the only thing that matters, sweetheart."
You smiled — tears slipping down your cheeks — and kissed him again.
"What’s that?" you murmured.
He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye — smiling, glowing, stupid in love.
"Me," he said simply. "Forever, duh."
And this time — you believed him.
Three months later, your life looked... different. There were still late nights. Still coffee shop visits with Shoko and Geto. Still arguments about pizza toppings and Gojo’s tragic taste in movies.
But there were new things too. His sneakers by your front door, permanently. His ridiculous sunglasses, forgotten on your nightstand. The quiet, precious weight of his arm slung around your waist every morning when you woke up.
And love — loud and clumsy and relentless — woven into every part of your days.
You didn’t pretend anymore. You didn’t hide.
When Gojo touched you now, it wasn’t research. It wasn’t practice. It was just him. Loving you. Choosing you. And God, you were so stupidly, hopelessly, wonderfully his.
You were curled up on the couch — laptop balanced on your knees, coffee cooling on the table — when Gojo flopped dramatically onto the cushions beside you.
"Whatcha working on, sweetheart?" he asked, stretching out until his long legs kicked your feet off the couch. "Another story?"
You huffed, kicking him weakly in the thigh. "Maybe."
He gasped, clutching his chest. "Another tragic love story about a devastatingly handsome best friend falling helplessly in love with a stubborn, oblivious idiot?"
You snorted. "If the shoe fits, Satoru."
He grinned — wide, delighted — and propped his chin on your shoulder.
"Need any help?" he asked innocently. "Research assistance? Hands-on demonstrations?"
You laughed, leaning back against him automatically. "You’re insatiable."
"Insatiably in love with you," he corrected, poking your side. "You’re lucky you’re cute, babe. Otherwise you’d owe me so many royalties for stealing my tragic romantic backstory."
You rolled your eyes, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "It’s mutual, dumbass."
He was still behind you. For just a second. Then — softer, almost shy — he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.
"Good," he said quietly. "'Cause I’m not going anywhere."
And you knew he meant it. Knew it down to your bones. Knew it every time he kissed you like he was memorizing you. Every time he reached for your hand without thinking. Every time he said your name like a prayer.
You closed the laptop. Curled into him. Let him hold you like he was never letting go.
Because he wasn’t. Because you weren’t. Because this— this messy, chaotic, beautiful life you built together — wasn’t research anymore. Wasn’t fiction. It was real. It was yours. It was forever.
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