synopsis: you and suguru geto have spent three years trying to outdo each other. somewhere between top exam scores, late-night study sessions, and arguments neither of you wanted to end, the line between rivalry and something far more dangerous begins to blur.
a/n: omgg new seriess, im very excited because i never write for geto and I KNOW he's top tier when it comes to yearning 😭
masterlist | part 2 |
you and geto were never subtle about it.
not enemies. not friends.
something far more complicated—
two people who understand each other too well and pretend they don't
everyone else called it a rivalry because that was easier than naming the tension that followed you both into every room. easier than explaining why your conversations always felt like they were one breath away from becoming something else. easier than admitting neither of you seemed capable of leaving the other alone.
three years ago, the first time you met suguru geto, he looked at you for exactly three seconds too long.
not enough for anyone else to notice—
just enough for you.
he stood at the back of the lecture hall, leaning against the wall with that unreadable calm he wore like armor. the instructor listed the top incoming students, the room buzzing with whispers.
your name had barely been spoken before someone murmured,
"thats the one who placed first."
then quieter:
"thought geto would've taken it."
you didn't look at him right away. that would've been too obvious. you set your bag down, pretended not to hear the murmurs— until curiosity won.
you glanced over.
he was already watching.
calm. assessing.
like he was trying to figure out what, exactly, you were.
his stare didn't break when you caught him.
if anything, it sharpened.
you raised a brow.
he smiled—barely—and looked away first.
it should've ended there.
instead, it started everything.
⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚
after that, geto was everywhere.
a few rows away in lectures.
lingering after assessments.
watching whenever things turned competitive.
always across from you during partnered work, even though neither of you ever chose the other.
you noticed things before you meant to.
the way he rested his cheek on his fist when bored.
the way his voice dropped when he was irritated.
the effortless confidence he carried, like the world rarely surprised him.
you wanted to be the exception.
it started small— a correction during a debate.
he countered.
you corrected him again.
the room went silent as the two of you argued with perfect politeness and razor-sharp precision.
"your logic only works in theory."
"and yours only works under perfect conditions."
"better than relying on assumptions."
"they're called predictions."
"they're called excuses."
someone laughed quietly.
you expected irritation.
instead, geto smiled—sharp, interested.
that was the moment you realized he enjoyed this.
enojyed you— not romantically, not personally, but intellectually.
you challenged him.
and suguru geto was not used to being challenged.
from there, it escalated.
if you topped an exam, he beat your next score.
if he mastered a technique first, you stayed late until you surpassed him.
you recognized his footsteps.
he recognized your handwriting.
it became routine.
predictable.
dangerous.
"you're staring again."
the words slipped out one afternoon as sunlight filtered through the half-empty classroom.
geto sat two seats away, chin in hand, watching you write.
he didn't deny it.
he didn't even look embarrassed.
"you tap your pen when you're frustrated," he said.
you froze.
he noticed.
of course he did.
"there it is again."
"you're insufferable."
"and yet," he murmured, gathering his papers, "you keep talking to me."
"you hated how easily he said things like that— how they lingered long after the conversation ended.
because he wasn't wrong.
you did keep talking to him.
even when you told yourself not to.
rivalry shifted into something quieter.
he saved you seats without acknowledging it.
he slid his notes toward you when you missed part of a lecture.
he waited outside classrooms like it was a coincidence.
and you let him.
your arguements changed too.
less hostile.
more familiar.
comforting almost.
you knew exactly how he’d react before he did.
knew the slight narrowing of his eyes meant he disagreed with something.
knew the quieter his voice became, the more genuinely invested he was in the conversation.
and he knew you too.
far too well.
"you're tired."
you looked up sharply.
geto stood beside your desk, unreadable as always.
"i'm fine."
"you've rewritten the same sentence four times."
your grip tightened.
he noticed that too.
"why are you paying attention to me?"
the question came out softer than you meant.
he hesitated—just a fraction.
then,
"because you're distracting."
your chest tightened at how simply he said it.
before you could respond, he reached over, took your pen gently, and circled the mistake you'd missed.
his sleeve brushed your arm.
you went still.
he noticed.
the air shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.
his fingers lingered near yours for a second too long before he stepped back like nothing happened.
husband!nanami who carefully threads his fingers through yours the moment a crowd forms, like his body chooses you before his mind even catches up.
husband!nanami who wakes before the sun just to brew your coffee exactly the way you prefer, quietly setting it beside you so it's the first comfort you feel.
husband!nanami who steps through the door, loosens his tie with a sigh, and immediately scans the room for you—his real sense of home.
husband!nanami who notices your favorite snacks running low long before you do, and restocks them without saying a word.
husband!nanami who insists he doesn't want a pet, then ends up carrying the cat around like its royalty
husband!nanami who reads beside you in quiet companionship, believing that sharing silence with you is its own kind of peace.
husband!nanami who leans down every morning to press a soft kiss to your forehead before leaving for work, no matter how rushed he is.
husband!nanami who rests a steady hand on your thigh while driving, a silent reminder that he's right there with you.
husband!nanami who quietly murmurs "text me when you arrive" every time you head out, not out of worry—out of love.
husband!nanami who can read your exhaustion the moment he sees you, even before you speak a single word.
husband!nanami who pulls you into his chest without hesitation on the days everything feels heavy, holding you until your breathing steadies.
husband!nanami who learns your habits so well that he starts doing small tasks for you before you even think to ask.
husband!nanami who may intimidate everyone else, but with you, he is impossibly gentle—soft hands, soft voice, soft heart.
synopsis: everyone on campus seems to have an opinion about Satoru Gojo. frat president. genius. untouchable. you just think he’s irritating. but between late-night study sessions and quiet moments away from the noise, you start to see a different side of him, one no one else seems to notice.
pairings: frat!gojo x uniterested!reader
wc: 1.7k
a/n: communication skills are actually beating his ass right now 😭, but if i had gojo, sukuna, and higuruma wanting me yall genuinely couldn't tell me shit LMFAOO
also i got the images from pinterest—if anyone knows the artists, pls let me know so i can give them proper credit 🩷
masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter
chapter 8
the classroom is louder than usual.
not chaotic.
just buzzing.
presentation days always are.
note cards are being flipped through.
laptops open everywhere.
people rehearsing under their breath, checking slides for the thousandth time.
nervous energy thick in the air before the professor even walks in.
gojo barely registers any of it.
his eyes find you instantly.
of course, they do.
you're across the room instead of next to him.
sitting with your roommate by the windows, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through something on your laptop like you've got all the time in the world.
focused.
calm.
like today is nothing special.
his jaw ticks once before he forces himself to look away.
fine.
whatever.
it's not like you have to sit together anymore.
the project's done.
technically.
your presentation got moved to thursday instead of today.
which means there's no reason to talk unless one of you decides to make one.
neither of you do.
he drops into his seat with a dull thud, tossing his bag to the floor.
geto glances over.
then follows his gaze immediately.
"...ah," he says.
gojo doesn't look at him.
"don't."
"i didn't say anything."
"you were about to."
geto smirks, opening his laptop.
"you've been very defensive lately."
"gojo's always defensive," shoko says as she sits beside him.
then she spots you.
her eyebrows rise.
"...oh."
he regrets showing up today.
"you're both insufferable."
"you looked over there before you even sat down," shoko says.
"because i can see."
"mhm."
he ignores her, leaning back as the room shifts around him.
his phone ends up in his hand without him noticing.
blank screen.
no notifactions.
his thumb taps once against the side before he locks it again.
then—
your laugh cuts through the noise.
soft.
quick.
still enough to pull his attention like a magnet.
you're smiling at something your roommate said, head tilted, easy and unguarded.
not the stiff politeness you've been giving him lately.
synopsis: finding out the jjk men have been stealing/keeping your underwear
contains: PERVY JJK MEN (i love them), suggestive themes, panty stealing/underwear theft, possessiveness, voyeuristic behavior, invasion of privacy, embarrassment, non-consensual implications
a/n: ayee something a bit spicy because i made a 92 on my first final 😛
content warning divider creds: @cafekitsune
satoru gojo
you don't intend to snoop through his things.
not at first.
it starts with something tiny—your favorite ring, maybe, or that watermelon lip balm you swear you had when you walked in. something that should've been easy to spot.
gojo, naturally, is useless.
he's sprawled across the bed like it's his throne—which, irritatingly, it kind of is, he's watching you with that lazy, too amused expression that never bodes well.
"you're tearing the place apart," he murmurs.
you don't look at him, already kneeling by his dresser, pulling open a drawer.
"then help me, i know you're stealing my stuff gojo"
"i could help."
he stays exactly where he is.
you let out a sharp breath and start digging through the drawer yourself—shirts, random junk, things that are unmistakably him—until your finger brushes something softer. smaller.
you freeze.
just for a second.
then you pull it out.
and the moment your brain registers what you're holding, your stomach sinks.
everything clicks.
not just this.
not just today.
all of it.
the missing things. the way he never actually helps you look. the way he watches—really watches—every time you start getting annoyed.
you turn your head.
slowly.
and he's already staring at you.
smirking.
not startled. not confused.
just... waiting.
like he's been waiting for you to catch up.
"satoru."
"hmm?"
you hold the pink lace thong between two fingers, your grip a little tighter than before.
"...you wanna tell me why this was in your drawer?"
a pause.
then—
"you went through my stuff?"
you just look at him.
because now you understand.
"... how many?"
that finally gets something out of him.
not denial.
not even a joke to dodge it.
his smirk shifts, barely, but enough to tell him you've hit the mark.
"enough," he says lightly.
your stomach twists. "you've been taking them?"
"taking is dramatic."
you let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "then what do you call it?"
he pushes up onto his elbows, eyes flicking to the item in your hand, then back to your face—slow, deliberate, assessing.
"collecting," he says.
like it's the most reasonable thing in the world.
heat crawls up your neck. "you're unbelievable."
"you say that like you didn't notice."
that stops you cold.
because he's right.
some part of you did notice.
the patterns. the way he always seemed a little too entertained. a little too focused on you when you were searching.
you just didn't want to admit it.
didn't want it to be true.
but now it is.
and he's still watching you.
still tracking every flicker of embarrassment, every shift in your breathing, every bit of tension curling tight in your chest.
like this—
this was exactly what he wanted.
suguru geto
you don't call him out immediately.
you watch.
that's the only reason you notice it at all.
a pattern.
little things disappearing, reappearing, shifting just enough to make you doubt yourself, but not enough to ignore. you feel it every time.
and suguru—
suguru is always nearby when it happens.
quiet. attentive.
too composed.
so you wait.
and when you finally speak, it isn't an accusation.
it's a test.
"you've been in my room."
he doesn't even lift his head.
"have i?"
the tone is light. effortless.
like the answer doesn't matter.
you step closer. "yes."
that gets his eyes on you.
there's a softness there— but it doesn't settle anything inside you.
if anything, it tightens the knot in your chest.
"... half of my underwear is missing."
a pause.
brief.
measured.
"are they?"
your breath stutters.
"you know they are."
he studies you for a moment, gaze tracing your features like he's reading something you haven't said aloud.
like he understands exactly where your mind is going.
"and that bothers you?"
the question hits wrong.
not mocking.
not evasive.
sincere.
like he genuinely wants to hear your answer.
"...shouldn't it?"
he hums under his breath, thoughtful.
then he sets aside whatever he was holding, giving you his full attention.
that alone feels deliberate.
"if something of yours ends up with me," he says slowly, "it isn't lost."
your pulse jumps.
"...then what is it?"
another pause.
he doesn't look away.
"kept."
the word lands between you.
warm.
unsettling.
final.
and the worst part?
he doesn't look the slightest bit remorseful.
choso kamo
you usually don't go in his room.
it's not forbidden—he's never said that—but it feels...personal in a way that keeps you lingering at the threshold.
today is different.
you're looking for him. or for something of his. you're not even sure anymore.
the room is quiet. undisturbed.
you walk in anyway.
"cho?"
silence.
your eyes drift, settling on the dresser.
you don't think about it.
not really.
your body just moves— hand reaching out, sliding the drawer open with a casual curiosity that evaporates the moment you see what's inside.
your breath stutters.
"...oh."
you see your red lacy thong staring back at you.
you don't touch anything.
you don't have to.
you recognize every piece.
"i was looking for—"
"i know."
his voice comes from behind you.
he isn't startled.
he's just...still.
watching you.
quiet.
your throat feels tight. "...those are mine."
"yes."
no hesitation.
no attempt to lie.
just the truth, offered plainly.
you swallow. "...why?"
for a moment, he doesn't answer.
his gaze drops—not away, not in avoidance—but just below your eyes, like he can't quite meet them right away.
not out of guilt.
something gentler.
heavier.
"...i—i'm sorry."
the words are soft.
careful.
you blink. "choso—"
"i shouldn't have taken them."
he steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he's approaching something fragile.
like he's trying not to make this worse.
"i know that."
your chest tightens.
there's no defensiveness in his voice. no excuses.
just acknowledgment.
and something else beneath it.
"...then why did you?"
that's what makes him pause.
not being caught.
not the confrontation.
that question.
his fingers flex at his sides before he stills them.
"...because they're yours."
it's simple.
too simple.
you stare at him.
"that doesn't—choso, that doesn't make it okay."
"i know."
soft. immediate.
he lifts his gaze then, finally meeting yours, and something in his eyes makes your breath catch, steady, earnest, almost pleading.
"i wasn't trying to disrespect you."
you hand tightens on the edge of the drawer.
"... it feels like it."
that hits him.
you see it.
a flicker across his expression—small, but real.
not shame.
hurt.
"i...i didn't think of it like that."
honest.
completely.
his steps closer again, careful, like he's giving you room even as he closes the distance.
"i just... wanted something of yours."
your pluse jumps.
the room feels smaller.
quieter.
"...you could've just asked cho."
another pause.
longer this time.
"... i didn't think you would say yes."
there's not bitterness in it.
no self-pity.
just quiet certainty.
and somehow, that makes it harder to breathe.
his hand moves then—slow deliberate—reaching past you to close the drawer, as if he's removing the evidence, removing the weight of it.
"...i'll return them," he says softly.
then, after a moment—
"if you want me to."
not defensive.
not assuming.
just waiting.
for you.
⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚
i also wrote half of this on my phone pls don't judge 😓
synopsis: everyone on campus seems to have an opinion about Satoru Gojo. frat president. genius. untouchable. you just think he’s irritating. but between late-night study sessions and quiet moments away from the noise, you start to see a different side of him, one no one else seems to notice.
pairings: frat!gojo x uniterested!reader
wc: 2.3k
a/n: yall finals are next week, pray for me 💔, butttt that means maybe back to a consistent posting schedule 🤗🤗
also i got the images from pinterest—if anyone knows the artists, pls let me know so i can give them proper credit 🩷
masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter
chapter 7
the classroom feels muted today.
not silent—just subdued.
everyone's already tucked into their groups, voices low, papers scattered, laptops humming.
last workday before presentations.
final edits.
it should feel productive.
ordinary.
it doesn't.
he catches it the moment he steps inside.
not the atmosphere.
you.
of course it's you.
you're already in your spot, notebook open, pen moving steadily,
focused.
actually focused.
his eyes stick to you for a beat.
you don't look up.
that's new.
his jaw shifts before he forces himself forward, walking over like it's routine. like nothing's changed.
like last night didn't happen.
like you didn't walk away.
like he didn't let you.
he drops into the seat beside you, leaning back, stretching his legs out like always.
"we done, or are you still tweaking it?" he asks, voice light. casual.
empty.
there's always something under his tone.
not today.
you don't pause your writing.
"almost."
short.
clean.
he glances at you.
waiting for the usual follow-up.
it never comes.
"...lemme see," he says, leaning in a little—same habit, same expectation, like you'll just angle the page toward him.
you do.
without a word.
no teasing.
no "ask nicer."
nothing.
just the paper sliding into his space.
his fingers hesitate on the edge.
that's...different.
he reads anyway, forcing himself to focus on the assignment.
it's good.
of course it is.
you've always been—
he cuts the thought off.
"this part," he taps near the middle, "you could tighten the wording."
you nod.
"okay."
no debate.
no spark.
no anything.
his brows pinch, barely.
"...you're just agreeing?"
you shrug, finally giving him a glance.
"is it wrong?"
"no."
"then it's fine."
you take the paper back.
just like that.
conversation closed.
he leans back again, slower this time, eyes lingering on you.
you're already writing.
calm.
unbothered.
like he's not right there.
his fingers tap once against the desk.
then stop.
this is ridiculous.
it shouldn't feel like this.
"...you finish the slides? i did some on my own time," he tries
you nod.
"i already finished them, i'll send them."
"well i did some citations—"
"don't worry about it, i did them too."
"oh."
a pause.
everything's done
nothing left to adjust.
nothing left to talk about.
and somehow, that feels worse.
he exhales, dragging a hand through his hair.
"so we're just...done?" he asks.
you look at him again.
same steady, distant expression.
"for the project? yeah."
no hesitation.
no hidden meaning.
just the assignment.
he stares a second too long.
"...right."
of course that's all you meant.
what else would you mean?
you turn back to your notes.
and he—
he's got nothing.
no opening.
no reaction to work with.
no excuse to keep talking; that doesn't sound forced.
so he doesn't.
for once—
he doesn't push
he leans back in his chair, his jaw tightening as his fingers tap once against the desk before falling still.
this shouldn't feel different.
it's the same setup as always.
same class.
same seat.
same you.
and somehow—
it isn't.
his eyes flick toward you again.
quick.
casual.
like it's nothing.
like he's not checking.
you don't react.
or maybe you do—
and just choose not to show it.
his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek.
irritated.
at you.
at this.
at the way the whole conversation just collapsed.
"...whatever," he mutters, barely audible.
too low for you to catch.
he looks away after that.
forces his attention to the front.
like he's over it.
like it doesn't get to him.
like none of this matters.
and this time—
he doesn't make another attempt.
⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚
chairs scrape the floor the second the professor dismisses the room.
voices rise again.
zippers. footsteps. movement everywhere.
he doesn't hurry.
he never does.
he gathers his things slowly, like he's got all the time in the world.
like he's not paying attention to you packing up right beside him.
you're quick about it.
efficient.
no lingering.
of course.
his eyes flick over once—
you're already on your feet.
"i'll send the final doc," you say, not meeting his eyes.
same tone.
same distance.
he gives a short nod.
"yeah."
you don't wait for anything else.
you just turn.
and leave.
his fingers tighten around his bag strap.
he exhales through his nose.
fine.
it's fine.
it's—
"you heading out already?"
the voice cuts in—easy, familiar, amused.
he knows it before he even turns.
sukuna.
obviously.
his gaze shifts.
you pause mid-step, turning slightly.
and this time—
you actually look up.
"yeah," you say, adjusting your bag. "i've got stuff to do."
not warm.
but not the coldness you gave gojo either.
just...normal.
and somehow, that hits worse.
sukuna steps closer, hand in his pockets, expression lazy as ever.
"walk with me," he says like it's nothing.
not a question.
you hesitate.
barely.
but gojo sees it.
catches that tiny pause like it matters.
like it should matter.
"...sure," you say.
and that's it.
no tension.
no second-guessing.
just easy.
you fall into step beside sukuna like it's natural.
like it doesn't cost you anything.
like you're not thinking twice.
gojo's jaw shifts.
small.
almost invisible.
he watches the two of you head toward the door.
sukuna says something low—probably a joke.
you let out a quiet breath.
not quite a laugh.
close enough.
gojo's grip tightens on his bag.
just a little.
he looks away.
then back.
like he didn't mean to.
like it doesn't matter.
it shouldn't.
you can talk to whoever you want.
walk with whoever you want.
leave with whoever you want.
it has nothing to do with him.
he knows that.
he does.
...so why does it feel like it does?
the door opens.
you step out first.
sukuna follows.
it swings shut behind him.
and just like that—
you're gone again.
he stands there a moment too long.
then slings there a moment too long.
"...whatever." he mutters.
same word.
different weight.
and this time—
it doesn't land like he believes it.
⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚
the hallway empties behind you.
your footsteps echo softly against the tile—steady, unhurried.
sukuna walks beside you like it's the most natural thing in the world.
hands in his pockets.
easy pace.
like he's got nowhere else he needs to be.
"so," he says after a moment, glancing down at you, "you always this quiet after class, or am i just lucky?"
you let out a small breath.
"you're not that special."
he smirks.
"never said i was."
a moment passes.
not uncomfortable.
just there.
when you reach the dorm building, he pushes the door open with his shoulder, holding it without making a production out of it.
you step inside first.
"thanks," you mutter.
he shrugs, letting the door swing shut behind him as he falls back into step beside you.
"that project finally done?" he asks.
"yeah."
"about time. you looked like you hated it."
"i didn't hate it."
"no?" he glances over again. "just hated the company, then?"
you shoot him a look.
he grins.
you look away first.
"...something like that."
it slips out easier than you expect.
quieter, too.
he hums under his breath, like he caught more than you meant to give.
but he doesn't push.
he just walks with you the rest of the way.
when you reach your door, you slow, pulling out your key.
"this is me," you say.
"figured."
you glance at him, hand on the handle.
"you didn't have to walk me."
"i know."
a small pause.
"...see you around."
casual.
but real.
you nod once.
"yeah. see you."
you slip inside, the door closing softly behind you.
and just like that—
he's gone.
your dorm is quieter than the rest of campus.
door closed.
music low.
just enough to fill the room without demanding attention.
you drop you bag by your desk, kicking your shoes off as you move further inside.
your roommate's already sprawled across her bed, phone in hand.
she looks up the moment you walk in.
"you look like someone just humbled you in broad daylight," she says.
you blink.
"...i went to class."
"mhm." her eyes narrow. "and?"
you shrug, settling at your desk and flipping open you notebook like that's suddenly urgent.
"and nothing."
a pause.
she watches you a little too closely.
"...didn't you have work on your project with gojo today?"
you pen pauses.
barely.
then keeps moving.
"yeah. we're done."
"okay..." she drags out, suspicious. "and?"
"and what."
"and how was it?"
"fine."
too fast.
too flat.
you hear it.
she definitely hears it.
"...right," she mutters, sitting up. "so what actually happened?"
"nothing happened."
you underline something pointless.
once.
twice.
"we finished the project. that's it."
another pause.
"you didn't even talk?"
you exhale quietly.
"we talked."
"and?"
you shrug again.
"and it was normal."
the word lands wrong.
you feel it.
she feels it.
"normal," she repeats. "rightttt that's not how you were talking about him before."
your grip tightens around you pen.
"well, that was before."
quiet.
not defensive.
just final.
your roommate tilts her head, studying you now.
"...did something happen at that party?"
you don't answer right away.
your eyes stay on the page, even though you're not actually reading.
"no."
not a lie.
not the truth either.
she doesn't push immediately.
just watches.
waits.
"...you like him," she says finally.
you let out a small breath, shaking your head.
"no."
too quick.
again.
"you did," she corrects softly.
that one hits.
you don't respond.
and that's enough.
her expression softens.
"so what, he said something stupid?"
you let out a humorless laugh.
"he didn't say anything."
"oh..."
yeah.
exactly.
you close your notebook with a little too much force.
"it doesn't matter," you say, getting up to grab your charger. "we're done with the project. i don't have to deal with him like that anymore."
practical.
clean.
easy.
you plug your phone in, glance at the screen, set it down.
your roommate watches you the whole time.
"you sure about that?" she asks.
you pause.
just a second.
then shrug.
"yeah."
you move on.
start doing something else.
anything else.
converstation over.
on the surface
but later—
when you're alone for a moment—
you pick up your phone again.
your thumb hovers over his contact.
just for a second.
long enough to notice the name.
plain.
no emoji.
no nickname.
you must've changed it.
you don't remember doing that.
you stare at it a moment longer.
then lock your phone.
set it down.
and this time—
you don't pick it back up.
⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚
the house is quieter than usual.
not empty.
just—
late.
most people have either gone home or crashed somewhere upstairs, the music long dead, whatever noise is left fading into a distant hum.
he shouldn't still be here.
he never stays this long.
but he is.
leaning against the kitchen counter, cup abandoned somewhere he can't remember leaving it.
his phone sits in his hand, screen black.
he hasn't checked it in a while.
doesn't want to.
easier that way.
he exhales through his nose, eyes drifting across the room without really landing on anything.
it's all the same.
same house.
same chaos.
same everything.
and somehow—
it feels wrong.
his jaw tightens.
annoying.
he drags a hand through his hair and pushes off the counter, moving without any real intention, steps slow as he heads down the hall.
he doesn't have a reason.
not one he'll admit.
just—
restless.
a door creaks upstairs.
someone laughs.
he ignores it.
keeps walking until he reaches the back door, hand pausing on the handle for half a second before he pushes it open.
cool air hits him immediately.
quieter out here.
better.
he steps outside, letting the door fall shut behind him.
same spot.
same railing.
same place you stood last night.
he leans against it without thinking.
then freezes.
his grip tightens on the metal.
...right.
he exhales again, slower.
this is stupid.
it doesn't mean anything.
it was just—
a conversation.
a question.
he shifts his shoulder like he can shake it off.
like it's that simple.
"...why do you care?"
the words hit him again.
clear.
sharp.
unwelcome.
his jaw sets.
he stares out into the dark like it'll help.
it shouldn't be sticking like this.
it was a simple question.
he's handled worse.
answered harder.
so why—
his tongue presses against his cheek.
because—
the thought comes fast.
too fast.
he goes still.
completely.
"...because you—"
it slips out under his breath before he can stop it.
quiet.
unfinished.
he cuts himself off immediately, jaw clenching as he pushes away from the railing.
"yeah. no," he mutters.
like that settles anything.
like that shuts it down.
he runs a hand through his hair again, sharper this time, pacing a few steps before stopping.
this is why exactly why he avoids things like this.
pointless.
messy.
unnecessary.
he doesn't need it.
doesn't want it.
and yet—
you keep showing up anyway.
in his head.
in his space.
in conversations he never finished.
his exhale comes out rougher.
he tips his head back, staring up at nothing for a moment before letting it drop again.
"... fuck. i should've just said it," he mutters.
barely audible.
like he didn't mean to let it slip.
but it's the closest he's come.
and it lingers.
longer than he expects.
his gaze flicks toward the door.
just a second.
like he's waiting for it to open.
like you might walk out again.
you don't.
of course you don't.
his jaw tightens.
"whatever."
automatic.
familiar.
easy.
but it doesn't land the same.
not tonight.
he pushes off the railing and heads back inside without looking back.
synopsis: you try to stay awake for them… you don’t quite make it.
contains: fluff,fluff, FLUFFF, they’re soft for you idc
a/n: ik, ik i haven't been posting, but trust i got like 5 things sitting in my drafts 🩷
satoru gojo
he sees it instanly.
the tv is still on, murmuring to an empty room— except you're there, curled up small on the couch, blanket slipping, phone barely hanging on between your fingers.
gojo stops in the doorway.
"...you waited for me?"
it's the softest he's sounded all night.
he shuts off the tv with a flick, then kneels beside you, brushing you hair gently away from your face. you don't wake—just lean into his familiar touch.
he huffs a quiet laugh.
"could'nt fall asleep without me, huh?"
he lifts you with practiced ease, arms wrapping around you as you instinctively curl into his chest. something in him melts at the way you fit there.
when he sets you down, he doesn't step away.
not right away.
he presses a slow kiss to your forehead.
"next time," he murmurs, tucking the blanket around you, "just call. i'll come home."
suguru geto
the apartment is still when he walks in.
too still.
geto toes off his shoe, expecting to find you asleep in your room, only to spot you curled up on the couch instead, the lamp beside you casting a gentle glow over your face.
he stops in his tracks.
you must've been waiting for him.
his expression softens immediately, something tender and a little guilty settling behind his eyes.
"hey..." he murmurs, knowing you won't wake.
he kneels beside you, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. his fingers linger, slow and careful, like he's afraid to disturb you.
then he gathers you into his arms.
you stir faintly, your hand curling weakly into his shirt before relaxing again.
"i've got you," he whispers.
by the time he settles you into bed, his movements are practiced, quiet, full of care. he pulls the blanket up around you, adjusts your pillow, the leans down to a soft kiss to your forehead.
"don't wait up next time," he says, though the small smile tugging at his mouth gives him away.
he knows you will.
choso kamo
he tries not to make a sound.
really tries.
but when choso steps inside and sees you asleep on the couch, he stops completely.
you look so small like that.
curled up, clearly waiting for him.
his brows knit together, worry softening his expression.
"...you stayed up for me?" he whispers to no one.
he approaches with slow, cautious steps, unsure if he should wake you. but the peaceful look on your face keeps him still.
so he doesn't.
he gathers you into his arms instead, lifting you with tenderness he rarely shows out loud. he notices everything—the steady rhythm of yor breathing, the way you head naturally finds his chest, the warmth of you settling into him.
you shift, pressin closer.
he freezes.
then lets out a quiet breath.
"...you're okay," he murmurs, almost to himself.
when he lays you down, he tucks the blanket around you with careful precision. adjusts it. checks again.
his hand rests on your shoulder,
not moving.
just guarding you in the quiet.
toji fushiguro
/p>
the tv's still buzzing when he comes in.
figures.
toji barely gives it a second look—until he spots you.
out a cold on the couch, blanket slipping off, clearly having tried. to stay awake for him.
he lets out a low breath.
"dumbass."
but it's soft. almost fond.
he nudges your leg lightly. nothing.
"...really?"
he hesitates for a moment, then bends down and lifts you—careful, steady, nothing like the rough edge he shows everyone else. one arm under your knees, the other bracing you back.
you curl into him instinctively.
he goes still.
"...yeah. thought so."
he carries you to bed, sets you down, and pulls the blanket over you. it's quick, almost careless—but he lingers anyway, eyes tracing your face in the dim light.
"...don't wait up."
a pause.
"...unless you want to."
ryomen sukuna
he catches it the second he walks in.
of course he does.
you're sprawled across the couch, fast asleep, clearly having tried to wait him out. he stops, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he takes in.
"...you really passed out waiting for me?"
his voice is flat, unreadable.
a low scoff follows.
"pathetic."
and yet—
he moves toward you anyway.
he stands over you for a moment, gaze lingering, then slips his arms beneath you and lifts you with effortless control. the motion is smooth, deliberate—too careful for someone who pretends not to care.
you shift, your face brushing faintly against him.
he goes still.
"...annoying," he mutters, though his grip only settles more firmly around you.
when he sets you down, his voice stays sharp, but his movements betray him. the blanket is pulled up, smoothed out, adjusted with precise care.
his fingers hook under your chin, tilting your face enough for him to look you over.
"don't start making this routine brat."
but he doesn't turn away.
not yet.
kento nanami
nanami gets home later than planned.
much later.
he loosens his tie as he steps inside, ready to apologize—until he sees you asleep on the couch.
waiting.
he exhales, the sound soft and weighted.
"aw honey... you should've gone to bed."
it's barely spoken,
he sets his briefcase down, rolls his sleeves up, and approaches with quiet care. his hand brushes your arm, gentle and warm.
you don't wake.
so he lifts you.
slowly. steadily. like he's afraid to disturb the moment. you lean into him without thinking, and his hold shifts to support you fully.
"i'm sorry," he murmurs, voice low.
when he lays you down, he moves with practiced gentleness—blanket pulled up, pillow adjusted, everything made comfortable.
he pauses beside you.
then leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.
synopsis: nanami carries the world all day. you give him somewhere to put it down
contains: fluff, fluff, FLUFF, nanami needing you
a/n: im so so so sorry about my lazy ass posting schedule, im telling yall school is kicking my black ass 💔💔💔
nanami doesn't announce himself when he comes in.
the door shuts with a muted click, his shoes placed neatly by the entryway out of habit.
but the rest of him is... different.
looser at the edges.
moving like the day drained more from him than he intended to give.
you catch it right away.
"rough day?" you murmur, curled into the corner of the couch, blanket pooled around your legs.
theres a moment of silence.
fabric shifting.
the slow, tired slide of a tie being pulled free.
"...something like that."
his voice is lower than usual—scraped down, worn thin.
you finally look over.
his shoulders sit too tightly beneath his dress shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the tension in his forearms. his expression is composed, as always, but there's weight behind it tonight. something he hasn't shaken off yet.
you don't pry.
you never do.
you just pat the space beside you.
nanami pauses.
not long, just long enough to take in the quiet offer, the way you're not asking him for anything he doesn't have.
then he crosses the room.
the couch dips under his weight.
for a moment, he stays there, close, but not touching. hands on his knees, posture still too proper, like he hasn't fully stepped out of the world he came from.
you let the silence breathe.
let him arrive in his own time.
and then—
carefully, almost like he's testing the idea.
his shoulder leans into yours.
it's small.
tenative.
like he's unsure whether he's allowed to want this.
your breath softens, but you don't make it a moment. you simply shift, angling toward him, letting the blanket fall over his lap as well.
that's all he needs.
the tension in him loosens— first barely, then more.
a slow, heavy exhale leaves him, the kind that sounds like something finally slipping out of his grip.
"stay like this." he murmurs
it isn't really a request.
and it isn't an order.
it's something gentler.
something that feels like a need.
your hand finds his before you even think about it, fingers brushing his knuckles before slipping into his palm.
warm. steady.
his grip tightens right away.
not enough to hurt—just enough to anchor himself.
likde he'd been waiting for that touch.
you let your thumb drift over his skin, tracing slow, absent shapes across his knuckles.
back and forth.
back and forth.
the rhythm is soft. soothing.
and little by little, you feel him ease.
his shoulder leans more firmly into yours, the tension in his posture loosening in small, gradual shifts, like he's finally letting the day fall away.
minutes pass.
maybe more.
time moves differently when he's like this.
slower. quieter.
safer.
"...inefficient," he murmurs eventually, voice low, stripped of it's usual edge.
you hum, tilting your head. "yeah?"
"the entire day."
there's frustration there—not sharp, not loud.
just heavy.
you shift closer, nudging your shoulder against his.
"you did what you could."
another pause.
then softer—
"and that's enough."
he goes still.
completely.
like the words hit somewhere he wasn't prepared for.
for a moment, you think he'll pull away, slip back behind that composed exterior he shows everyone else.
but he doesn't.
instead,
his head lowers.
slow. intentional.
until it rests against you.
it's light. almost unsure.
but it's there.
and he stays.
your breath catches for a heartbeat. before settling, your hand adjusting in his, thumb continuing that same quiet pattern.
he exhales, softer this time.
less burdened.
"... i see."
not quite in agreement.
not quite acceptance.
but close.
closer than he usually lets himself get.
silence settles again, but it feels different now—warmer, fuller.
his fingers loosen just enough to lace with yours, the hold more natural, less guarded.
and then, eventually—
his shifts.
just a little.
enough to lift his head, enough to look at you.
his expression is still composed.
but the edges have softened.
his free hand rises, slow and deliberate, like he's choosing every movement instead of bracing through it.
his fingers brush your cheek.
gentle.
steady.
grounding.
and before you can fully register it.
he leans in.
presses a quiet, lingering kiss to your forehead.
soft.
unhurried.
certain.
the kind of kiss that speaks for him when he won't.
when he pulls back, his hand lingers, thumb brushing once across your skin.
"...thank you."
barely a whisper.
but this time—
you hear it.
and you feel the way he stays close, leaning into you again, like he's already decided—
contains: pervy roommate!katsuki, panty stealing/sniffing, voyeurism themes, suggestive content, creepy but hot, sexual tension, slight dubcon vibes, reader playing along, no explicit smut
a/n: should i make a part 2 😏
he's never been subtle.
katsuki never pretends to be.
it starts small—at least, that's what you tell yourself. clothing out of place. things are going missing. your red lace pair of underwear folded differently than you left them, or the cute pink bra with bows nowhere to be found.
you blame your forgetfulness.
you blame the shared washing machine.
you blame anything but him.
until one night
you're supposed to be asleep.
the hallway light is off, the apartment is still, except for the soft hum of the AC—yet there's a sound.
quiet.
intentional.
your door easing open just enough for someone to slip inside.
your hearts jumps.
you stay still.
barely breathing.
you feel him before you see him. the familiar presence, the heat—katsuki.
he pauses.
like he's looking at you.
trying to make sure you're asleep.
then you hear the faint slide of your dresser drawer opening.
slow. controlled.
fabric shifting.
another pause.
and then—
a sharp inhale.
your stomach twists.
because you know that sound
and you know exactly what he's holding.
you can barely see it—
the faint glint of the rhinestones
your VS thong.
you almost sit up. almost call him out. almost ask him why he's in your room in the middle of the night.
but you don't.
because there's something worse than him being here.
the way your thighs press together.
it's the way your breath goes shallow.
it's the way you goes completly still,
just to see how far he'll go.
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪
the next day, he doesn't even bother pretending
that's the part that gets you.
you catch him—
not by accident, not by luck—you set it up.
a trap.
laundry day, you leave a realll pretty pair out. not hidden. placed just carelessly enough to look like you forgot. like your easy.
and then you wait.
it doesn't take long.
you're in your room, door cracked, pretending to scroll when you hear his footsteps.
heavy.
familiar.
completely unbothered.
he doesn't knock.
of course, he doesn't.
katsuki fills the doorway like it's his, eyes landing on you first...then sliding, slow and unmistakable, toward your dresser.
to them.
your pulse jumps.
"real subtle", you mutter.
he snorts, pushing off the frame and stepping inside. "didn't think i had to be."
your stomach tightens.
"don't play dumb," you say, sitting up straighter. "my stuff's been disappearing for weeks."
silence.
not defensive. not surprised
just...still.
then he opens the drawer like it's routine.
your breath stumbles. "katsuki."
he doesn't answer.
his fingers move through the fabric—slow, deliberate.
like he's choosing.
like he's done it before.
"you gonna stop me?" he asks, voice low roughened at the edges.
you don't
that's the problem.
your body betrays you before your brain can catch up—heat pooling low, thighs pressing together as he pulls a pair out between his fingers. holds them up. examines them.
"thought so," he mutters.
heat rushes to your face. "you're sick."
he finally looks at you—sharp red eyes, heavy-lidded, knowing.
"yeah?" he says. "then why'd you leave them out?"
that hits.
hard.
because you did.
becuase some part of you wanted to see what he'd do. wanted to catch him.
your breath stutters when he steps closer.
too close.
"answer me," he says, quieter now, which somehow makes it worse. "was it for me?"
you don't even realize you're backing up until your legs hit the mattress.
"i didn't—"
"don't lie." his hand lands beside your head, caging you in. the other still holding them— your underwear—like proof. like a weapon.
your heart is pounding so loud you're sure he can hear it.
"you knew," he continues, voice dipping. "knew i've been in here. knew i take 'em."
your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
because he's right.
and he knows it.
a slow, dangerous smirk pulls at his mouth.
"and you didn't stop me," he adds.
your fingers curl into the sheets.
"didn't even say a word."
he leans in just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath.
"shit, you didn't even lock your door tonight."
your stomach flips.
"you're insane," you whisper.
"maybe." his gaze drops—brief, heavy—before dragging back up to yours. "but you're not telling me to leave."
silence stretches.
thick.
you should shove him away, tell him to get out, end this—
instead, your voice comes out softer than you intend.
"...what do you even do with them?"
his expression shifts—darkens, sharpens.
his grip tightens slightly on the fabric in his hand.
"do you really wanna know?" he asks.
you hesitate.
just a moment.
then—
"yeah."
barely a word.
but enough.
his smirk returns, sharper this time.
"careful," he murmurs, leaning in until your breath catches. "keep asking things like that, and i'm gonna think you don't mind."
your thighs tense before you can stop yourself.
and he notices.
of course he does.
a low, satisified exhale slips out of him, like he's just confirmed something.
"yeah," he mutters. "that's what i thought."
⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚
a/n: got the images from pinterest—if anyone knows the artists, pls let me know so i can give them proper credit 🩷
contains: pervy roommate!katsuki, panty stealing/sniffing, voyeurism themes, suggestive content, creepy but hot, sexual tension, slight dubcon vibes, reader playing along, no explicit smut
a/n: should i make a part 2 😏
he's never been subtle.
katsuki never pretends to be.
it starts small—at least, that's what you tell yourself. clothing out of place. things are going missing. your red lace pair of underwear folded differently than you left them, or the cute pink bra with bows nowhere to be found.
you blame your forgetfulness.
you blame the shared washing machine.
you blame anything but him.
until one night
you're supposed to be asleep.
the hallway light is off, the apartment is still, except for the soft hum of the AC—yet there's a sound.
quiet.
intentional.
your door easing open just enough for someone to slip inside.
your hearts jumps.
you stay still.
barely breathing.
you feel him before you see him. the familiar presence, the heat—katsuki.
he pauses.
like he's looking at you.
trying to make sure you're asleep.
then you hear the faint slide of your dresser drawer opening.
slow. controlled.
fabric shifting.
another pause.
and then—
a sharp inhale.
your stomach twists.
because you know that sound
and you know exactly what he's holding.
you can barely see it—
the faint glint of the rhinestones
your VS thong.
you almost sit up. almost call him out. almost ask him why he's in your room in the middle of the night.
but you don't.
because there's something worse than him being here.
the way your thighs press together.
it's the way your breath goes shallow.
it's the way you goes completly still,
just to see how far he'll go.
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪
the next day, he doesn't even bother pretending
that's the part that gets you.
you catch him—
not by accident, not by luck—you set it up.
a trap.
laundry day, you leave a realll pretty pair out. not hidden. placed just carelessly enough to look like you forgot. like your easy.
and then you wait.
it doesn't take long.
you're in your room, door cracked, pretending to scroll when you hear his footsteps.
heavy.
familiar.
completely unbothered.
he doesn't knock.
of course, he doesn't.
katsuki fills the doorway like it's his, eyes landing on you first...then sliding, slow and unmistakable, toward your dresser.
to them.
your pulse jumps.
"real subtle", you mutter.
he snorts, pushing off the frame and stepping inside. "didn't think i had to be."
your stomach tightens.
"don't play dumb," you say, sitting up straighter. "my stuff's been disappearing for weeks."
silence.
not defensive. not surprised
just...still.
then he opens the drawer like it's routine.
your breath stumbles. "katsuki."
he doesn't answer.
his fingers move through the fabric—slow, deliberate.
like he's choosing.
like he's done it before.
"you gonna stop me?" he asks, voice low roughened at the edges.
you don't
that's the problem.
your body betrays you before your brain can catch up—heat pooling low, thighs pressing together as he pulls a pair out between his fingers. holds them up. examines them.
"thought so," he mutters.
heat rushes to your face. "you're sick."
he finally looks at you—sharp red eyes, heavy-lidded, knowing.
"yeah?" he says. "then why'd you leave them out?"
that hits.
hard.
because you did.
becuase some part of you wanted to see what he'd do. wanted to catch him.
your breath stutters when he steps closer.
too close.
"answer me," he says, quieter now, which somehow makes it worse. "was it for me?"
you don't even realize you're backing up until your legs hit the mattress.
"i didn't—"
"don't lie." his hand lands beside your head, caging you in. the other still holding them— your underwear—like proof. like a weapon.
your heart is pounding so loud you're sure he can hear it.
"you knew," he continues, voice dipping. "knew i've been in here. knew i take 'em."
your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
because he's right.
and he knows it.
a slow, dangerous smirk pulls at his mouth.
"and you didn't stop me," he adds.
your fingers curl into the sheets.
"didn't even say a word."
he leans in just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath.
"shit, you didn't even lock your door tonight."
your stomach flips.
"you're insane," you whisper.
"maybe." his gaze drops—brief, heavy—before dragging back up to yours. "but you're not telling me to leave."
silence stretches.
thick.
you should shove him away, tell him to get out, end this—
instead, your voice comes out softer than you intend.
"...what do you even do with them?"
his expression shifts—darkens, sharpens.
his grip tightens slightly on the fabric in his hand.
"do you really wanna know?" he asks.
you hesitate.
just a moment.
then—
"yeah."
barely a word.
but enough.
his smirk returns, sharper this time.
"careful," he murmurs, leaning in until your breath catches. "keep asking things like that, and i'm gonna think you don't mind."
your thighs tense before you can stop yourself.
and he notices.
of course he does.
a low, satisified exhale slips out of him, like he's just confirmed something.
"yeah," he mutters. "that's what i thought."
⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚
a/n: got the images from pinterest—if anyone knows the artists, pls let me know so i can give them proper credit 🩷
synopsis: everyone on campus seems to have an opinion about Satoru Gojo. frat president. genius. untouchable. you just think he’s irritating. but between late-night study sessions and quiet moments away from the noise, you start to see a different side of him, one no one else seems to notice.
pairings: frat!gojo x uninterested!reader
wc: 1.3k
a/n: my heart was actually hurting as i wrote this 💔
also i got the images from pinterest—if anyone knows the artists, pls let me know so i can give them proper credit 🩷
masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter
chapter 6
he's posted up at the edge of the room, drink in hand, pretending he's just scanning the crowd.
not that he wants to be here.
he never does.
the bass thuds against his ribs, the laughter grates on his nerves, the whole place feels too loud, too bright, too much.
and still, he notices you.
of course he notices you.
how could he not?
you're weaving through the crowd, your roommate tugging you along, smiling at someone else, just... existing in his line of sight.
he should look away.
he tells himself to look away.
but his eyes don't listen.
and it irritates him.
because he hates paying attention like this.
hates the way it makes him feel.
hates that the room doesn't fade into nothing like it usually does.
he taps the rim of his cup, pretending the motion matters.
he shouldn't be thinking about the number you gave him.
and yet... he is.
he doesn't move toward you.
doesn't even pretend he might.
he just watches—jaw tight, expression unreadable—acting like it's nothing.
even though it isn't.
then his phone buzzes.
he doesn't want to look.
doesn't want to deal with anything else tonight.
but he checks anyway.
it's his father.
his jaw tightens.
he swipes to answer, forcing on a smile that feels more like armor than expression.
"yes," he says, voice flat.
the voice on the other end launched immediately—sharp, critical, relentless.
"gojo, are you even taking this seriously? you can't coast through being president. you need to prepare. you need to lead. this fraternity—this school—this is training for the company. you will take over, and you are not ready if you keep avoiding responsibility."
he exhales slowly.
he hates this.
hates the tone.
hates the expectation.
hates the way his life feels prewritten.
" I know what i'm doing."
"don't lie to me. you're wasting time. you're not ready."
the words hit him, but not the way his father thinks they do.
he's not intimidated.
he's irritated.
and angry.
because he never asked for any of this.
never wanted the title.
never wanted the future they carved out for him.
never wanted to be molded into someone else's idea of a successor.
and yet here he is.
mask still on.
eyes drifting back to you.
because now you're here.
and sukuna is here.
even with his father's voice drilling into his ear, all he can think about is you.
he ends the call without responding, letting the line cut off mid-sentence.
silence follows.
just the bass.
just the noise.
he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled.
this is exactly why he never stays long.
never has.
never will.
his gaze lifts—
automacially
finding you again.
like it always does.
except,
you're not where you were.
that registers instantly.
his eyes sweep the room once.
twice.
nothing.
and something in his chest pulls—sharp, unwelcome, irritating.
you left.
of course you did.
you said you didn't want to be here anyway.
he looks away.
jaw tightening just a fraction.
it doesn't matter.
it really doesn't
you can leave whenever you want.
it has nothing to do with you.
he knows that.
he does.
...so why is he still looking?
his grip tightens around his cup before he sets it down—harder than necessary.
this is stupid.
he exhales sharply through his nose.
turns toward the hallway.
not thinking about it.
he's not.
he's just—
making sure you didn't disappear.
that's all.
the hallway is quieter.
still loud, but muted— like the party is happening behind glass now.
he slows.
listens.
a door creaks somewhere down the hall.
then shuts.
he glances toward the sound.
he hesitaites, just for a second.
he knows it's stupid.
but he goes anyway.
pushes the door open—
and there you are.
outside.
cooler air, softer noise, and a little space to breathe.
you're leaning against the railing, shoulders tense, like you're trying to shake off the chaos you just escaped.
he pauses in the doorway.
watches you for a half a second longer than he should.
then steps out, letting the door fall shut behind him.
the sound is quieter this time.
contained.
you turn at it.
your eyes meet his.
and for a moment—
neither of you speak.
no crowd.
no music.
no distractions.
just this.
he slips his hands into his pockets, something to do, something to keep himself grounded.
"...you left."
simple.
but heavier than he intended.
you blink at him.
like that wasn't the line you expected him to open with.
"...yeah"
your voice sounds different out here—quieter, less guarded—but not soft.
not for him.
a moment passes.
he nods once.
like that settles something.
like it shouldn't bother him.
"...party wasn't your thing," he says.
you let out a small breath. "yeah i already said that."
"yeah"
another pause.
you shift your weight against the railing.
"why are you out here?"
he doesn't answer immediately. his jaw tightens.
"needed air"
"oh."
you don't push, at least not there.
but you don't drop it either.
you just shift slightly.
"...and you were gone."
your breath stutters.
barely.
"okay?..."
he exhales, frustration edging his voice—at you, at himself, at the whole situation.
"you just—left."
"i told you i didn't want to be there."
"yeah, i heard you."
"then why does it matter?" you straighten a little, not backing down. "why do you care?"
it lands
hard,
quiet.
no crowd to hide behind.
no noise to blur it.
just the question.
and him.
he goes still.
comepletely.
for a second—
he almost answers.
you can see it.
the shift in his shoulders.
the way his gaze locks onto yours, steady, unguarded in a way he never lets himself be.
he steps closer.
not much,
just enough.
"because—"
it's low.
your chest tightens.
this is it.
this is where hr finally—
he stops.
jaw tightening.
something shutters behind his eyes.
and just like that—
its gone.
he lets out a short breath, shaking his head.
"...forget it."
your expression drops.
barely, but enough.
"no, say it."
he doesn't
of course he doesn't
instead, he leans back, putting space between you again, like the distance will be safer.
like the distance will fix anything.
"it's nothing"
the same line.
the same wall.
and somehow, it hits worse this time.
your fingers curl against the railing.
"right."
you look away first.
and that, that's what gets him.
more than the question.
more than anything else.
he watches you turn your head like you've already decided he's not worth the answer.
and something in his chest pulls tight again.
too late.
because he already let it slip away.
again.
a second passes.
then another.
still nothing.
no explanation.
no correction.
no attempt to take it back.
you swallow, harder than you meant to.
"... i should go," you say. "see you in class."
quiet.
final.
not a question.
he eyes lift at that.
like he didn't expect it.
like some part of him thought you'd stay.
he doesn't stop you.
that's the part that stings.
he doesn't reach for you.
doesn't say your name.
doesn't try to fix it.
he just stands there.
watching.
again.
"...yeah." he says eventually.
too late.
too easy.
you nod once, mostly to yourself, and push off the railing.
you step past him, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushes his.
nearly.
but not quite.
and that tiny, intentional gap feels bigger than anything else between you.
he doesn't turn.
doesn't follow.
just listens as your footsteps fade.
slow at first.
then softer.
then gone.
the door opens.
closes.
and just like that—
you're actually gone.
for real this time.
he exhales, long and tired.
runs a hand through his hair, fingers tightening for a moment before dropping.
synopsis: jjk men and the kind of kisses they only give you in private.
a/n: oh, how i love jjk men
contains: fluff, suggestive themes, kissing, jjk men x reader
satoru gojo
he plays it off at first, acting like the whole thing is just something to tease you about. he leans in close, lets his mouth brush yours, then pulls back with that infuriating little smirk.
but the moment the room goes quiet—no one watching, no one to perform for—he shifts.
his hand slides up to your jaw, thumb nudging under your chin so you look at him. the kiss he gives you then is slower, more deliberate— like he's finally letting himself feel it.
he stays there afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in like he's not ready to step away.
"don't get used to it," he mutters.
you know better. he doesn't mean it.
𐙚⋆.˚
suguru geto
his kisses are steady. measured.
one hand always finds your waist, drawing you in that extra inch, like having you close is something he can't help but reach for.
he'll kiss you once, then again, gentler, as if he's tasting the moment, committing the shape of you to memory.
sometimes a quiet hum slips out against your lips—unintentional, warm.
ansd when he finally pulls back, he lingers in the space between you, eyes holding yours a beat too long.
like he's looking at something precious.
𐙚⋆.˚
choso kamo
he's... almost shy about it.
at first, his kisses come tentative, like he's still learning where to place his hands, still unsure how close he's allowed to be.
but the moment he realizes you're staying right there with him?
he just folds into you.
his hands rise to cradle your face, thumbs sweeping over your cheeks with this fragile kind of care, like he's scared you might slip away of he isn't gentle enough.
his kisses stay soft. slow. a little unsteady— yet so full of feeling it tugs at something deep in your chest.
and when he finally pulls back, he barely moves, breath brushing your lips, eyes flicking to your mouth like he's already missing the contact.
"... could i do that again?"
𐙚⋆.˚
toji fushiguro
his kisses are never gentle at the start.
they hit you all at once—his hand at your waist or hooked behind your neck, pulling you in like he's been holding himself back for hours and finally stopped trying.
but when it's just the two of you... something eases.
he slows. just a fraction.
his fingers trace up to your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip before he leans in again, the kiss deeper, more deliberate.
there's a quietness in it now. something almost tender.
he doesn't say a word afterward.
he just keeps you close, like letting you go isn't even on the table.
𐙚⋆.˚
ryomen sukuna
he acts like it's nothing.
like kissing you is just another thing he does, barely worth reacting to.
but the second you're alone?
everything changes.
his hand slides to the back of your neck, firm and certain, pulling you in like the space between you belongs to him.
his kisses turn slow, deliberate—intense enough to steal your breath without ever feeling rushed.
he lingers just long enough to leave your thoughts spinning, then pulls back with that maddening little smirk.
"don't look at me like that," he mutters.
but he's the one leaning in again first.
𐙚⋆.˚
kento nanami
private kisses with him feel... uncommon.
which is why, when they happen, they carry so much weight.
it's usually at the end of a long day—his tie loosened, sleeves pushed up, fatigue written in every line of him.
he takes your face in both hands, warm and steady, and presses his mouth to yours in a kiss that's firm, sure.
not hurried, not messy.
anchoring.
like he's grounding himself in you, reminding himself you're right here.
when he exhales afterward, he lets his forehead rest against yours, eyes closed for a moment.
synopsis: jjk men and the kind of kisses they only give you in private.
a/n: oh, how i love jjk men
contains: fluff, suggestive themes, kissing, jjk men x reader
satoru gojo
he plays it off at first, acting like the whole thing is just something to tease you about. he leans in close, lets his mouth brush yours, then pulls back with that infuriating little smirk.
but the moment the room goes quiet—no one watching, no one to perform for—he shifts.
his hand slides up to your jaw, thumb nudging under your chin so you look at him. the kiss he gives you then is slower, more deliberate— like he's finally letting himself feel it.
he stays there afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in like he's not ready to step away.
"don't get used to it," he mutters.
you know better. he doesn't mean it.
𐙚⋆.˚
suguru geto
his kisses are steady. measured.
one hand always finds your waist, drawing you in that extra inch, like having you close is something he can't help but reach for.
he'll kiss you once, then again, gentler, as if he's tasting the moment, committing the shape of you to memory.
sometimes a quiet hum slips out against your lips—unintentional, warm.
ansd when he finally pulls back, he lingers in the space between you, eyes holding yours a beat too long.
like he's looking at something precious.
𐙚⋆.˚
choso kamo
he's... almost shy about it.
at first, his kisses come tentative, like he's still learning where to place his hands, still unsure how close he's allowed to be.
but the moment he realizes you're staying right there with him?
he just folds into you.
his hands rise to cradle your face, thumbs sweeping over your cheeks with this fragile kind of care, like he's scared you might slip away of he isn't gentle enough.
his kisses stay soft. slow. a little unsteady— yet so full of feeling it tugs at something deep in your chest.
and when he finally pulls back, he barely moves, breath brushing your lips, eyes flicking to your mouth like he's already missing the contact.
"... could i do that again?"
𐙚⋆.˚
toji fushiguro
his kisses are never gentle at the start.
they hit you all at once—his hand at your waist or hooked behind your neck, pulling you in like he's been holding himself back for hours and finally stopped trying.
but when it's just the two of you... something eases.
he slows. just a fraction.
his fingers trace up to your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip before he leans in again, the kiss deeper, more deliberate.
there's a quietness in it now. something almost tender.
he doesn't say a word afterward.
he just keeps you close, like letting you go isn't even on the table.
𐙚⋆.˚
ryomen sukuna
he acts like it's nothing.
like kissing you is just another thing he does, barely worth reacting to.
but the second you're alone?
everything changes.
his hand slides to the back of your neck, firm and certain, pulling you in like the space between you belongs to him.
his kisses turn slow, deliberate—intense enough to steal your breath without ever feeling rushed.
he lingers just long enough to leave your thoughts spinning, then pulls back with that maddening little smirk.
"don't look at me like that," he mutters.
but he's the one leaning in again first.
𐙚⋆.˚
kento nanami
private kisses with him feel... uncommon.
which is why, when they happen, they carry so much weight.
it's usually at the end of a long day—his tie loosened, sleeves pushed up, fatigue written in every line of him.
he takes your face in both hands, warm and steady, and presses his mouth to yours in a kiss that's firm, sure.
not hurried, not messy.
anchoring.
like he's grounding himself in you, reminding himself you're right here.
when he exhales afterward, he lets his forehead rest against yours, eyes closed for a moment.
streamer!kirishima gets distracted by you mid-stream
chat thinks he's focused... he's not
a/n: i had to come back to my roots with my sexy man kiri 😏
streamer!kirishima who's already high-energy during his stream, but the SECOND you walk in, his whole vibe shifts, like he's trying to keep his composure (he's failing)
streamer!kirishima stammers, "yo chat uh—gimme a sec, someone just came in." while his eyes to you. (never saying who it is.) you lean on the back of his chair, casually resting your hand, and he goes completely quiet for a moment, like he's is trying to process you being here.
streamer!kirishima notices his chat clocking his distraction immediately.
pinkcheeks: WHY HE FREEZE
sparkboy: SOMEONE GOT HIM HELLA NERVOUS 👀
streamer!kirishima can't help but get nervous when you tease him mid-stream, brushing a hand over his shoulder or whispering in his ear. his grip on the controller tightens, jaw clenches just a little, and he mutters, "... you're playin' with me right now."
streamer!kirishima mutes his mic without even thinking, turning just enough to look at you over his shoulder. "you trying to sabotage me now?" he mutters, voice low as his hand finds your waist like it's second nature. when you don't budge, he tugs you in closer, eyes flickering toward his monitor. "keep hoverin' over me like that and chat's gonna start getting ideas..."
streamer!kirishima unmutes his mic like nothing happened, trying to slip back into his usual tone, but it comes out lower, rough around the edges, and absolutely impossible for chat to miss. within seconds, the messages start flying:
spiderman2.0: HELLO?? WHY DOES HE SOUND LIKE THAT
greatexplosionmurdergoddynamite: WHO'S IN THE ROOM WITH HIM RIGHT NOW!?
streamer!kirishima, who shuts it down the second chat starts getting bold. if anyone so much as hints at you being nearby, he laughs it off, but there's a definite shift in his tone. "alright, chill—focus on the match," he says, easygoing on the surface, but there's a quiet warning threaded underneath the humor that chat doesn't miss.
streamer!kirishima, who ends the stream earlier than planned, brushing off the flood of messages with a quick, "i'll catch you guys later—something came up." he doesn't bother addressing the spam. the moment the camera light clicks off, though, his whole vibe shifts. he's lighter, teasing, warm in a way he never lets chat see. and even though streaming is what he loves, he makes it obvious that when it's just the two of you, his attention is yours completely.
streamer!kirishima shows it all in the small, casual gestures—tugging you onto his lap without thinking, fixing the hem of your hoodie, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. every look he gives you, every soft gesture, carries the same message: you're the one he's focused on, the one who matters most.
᭡୧ Fix your route? Nah, Fuck you right. — N. Kento.
᭡୧ synopsis: in which nanami is a longtime divorced man but got a very active sex life. and in which a new, bimbo… and a very much younger neighbor moves in next to his apartment. worst part is, he’s not able to control himself around you. especially when you’re at his door, asking him to fix your wifi late at this hour.
᭡୧ pairing: older!nanami kento x kinda bimbo fem!reader
᭡୧ c. warnings: age gap, heavy sexuál tension, eyefu cking, solo m. mast urbation, nanami is in his 40s and reader is early 20s, belly/tummy bulge, fing ering, did i say heavy se xual tension?, pus sy eating, overstim ulation, squi rting, weak plot/heavy po rn — if there’s more to tag lmk. w.c: 7.8k+
nanami kento has always kept his life neat and quiet, the kind of man who folds his shirts the same way every morning and times his coffee exactly seven minutes after the water boils. forty years old, divorced once a long time ago, and now he lives alone in the corner apartment on the fourth floor where the hallway light flickers just enough to remind him he should probably call maintenance but never does.
his sex life is the same as everything else he controls, sparse and deliberate. a few times a year he lets himself download one of those bland apps, meets a woman his age in a hotel bar, fucks her slow and polite in the dark so neither of them has to look too closely at the other.
most nights though it is just his own hand in the shower, quick and efficient, eyes closed while he thinks about nothing at all. he likes it that way. clean. no mess. no complications. until you moved in next door three months ago and ruined every single one of those careful rules without even trying.
you showed up on a rainy tuesday with too many cardboard boxes and a laugh that carried through the thin walls like it belonged there.
early twenties, fresh out of whatever college or job that spat you into this building, always in oversized shirts and tiny sleep shorts that rode up the back of your thighs when you bent over to pick up your mail. nanami noticed you the first time he passed you in the hallway, the way you smiled at him like he was just another neighbor instead of a man who suddenly felt every one of those twenty years between you. he told himself it was nothing. just new noise in a building that had been quiet for years. but then the noise became something else.
the soft thump of your music when you cooked dinner, the way your balcony light stayed on late while you scrolled on your phone, the faint vanilla scent that drifted under his door every time you took out the trash. he started catching himself pausing at the peephole when he heard your keys, hating the way his cock twitched at the mere sound of your footsteps. hating it more when he realized he was hard again in the shower that same night, fist wrapped tight around himself while he pictured those sleep shorts pooled around your ankles.
he tried to ignore it at first. threw himself into longer office hours, came home later, kept the volume on his television higher so he would not hear you humming in the shower through the shared wall. it did not work.
every little thing you did chipped at him. the way you waved from your balcony in the mornings wearing nothing but a thin tank top and no bra, nipples stiff from the cool air. the way you asked him once, all sweet and shy, if he knew how to fix a leaking faucet and stood too close while he worked, soft focused grunts leaving is chest and his rolled-up sleeve. after that night he jerked off twice before he could even get his jeans off, coming so hard he had to brace one hand on the shower tile just to stay upright.
he hated how easily you affected him. hated that a girl barely old enough to rent her own apartment could make a man like him, a man who prided himself on control, feel like some desperate teenager again. his sex life used to be something he managed. now it was just quiet frustration and the occasional guilty stroke while he thought about how small you would look under him, how tight you would feel, how pretty you would sound moaning his name.
then came the router. you knocked on his door at nine-thirty one random night, voice small and embarrassed over the phone first, then in person when he opened up still dressed in his white button-up and black jeans.
nanami stands at your doorway with one hand already in his pocket, the other holding the small toolbox he keeps for these exact random neighbor emergencies all ready, and he tells himself for the tenth time that this is nothing. just a quick fix.
your voice is soft and a little embarrassed over he’s not surprised. “sorry to bother you, nanami-san, but my wifi router just died and i have no idea what i’m doing with these things.” he had sighed, told you he would be right over, and now here he is, hating every single second because the moment you open the door he feels it again. that pull. that stupid, inconvenient heat low in his gut that has been creeping up on him since the day you moved in.
you are wearing your famous oversized t-shirt that slips off one shoulder and tiny sleep shorts that ride up when you shift your weight, bare feet on the hardwood, skin glazed with a thin layer of sweat like you had been lounging on the couch all evening.
you smile at him, grateful and a little shy, and nanami’s jaw tightens. he is forty, a divorced but settled, a man who likes order and quiet and routines that do not include getting half-hard at the sight of his much younger neighbor’s collarbones. yet here he is, eyes dragging down the line of your neck before he forces them back up.
“thank you so much for coming,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. your voice is warm, a little breathy from the relief of not having to deal with it alone. the apartment smells faintly of vanilla and whatever takeout you had for dinner.
nanami nods once, polite as always, and follows you toward the corner where the router sits on a low shelf. he can feel the weight of his own body, the clean but lived-in scent of his white button-up clinging slightly to his skin after a long day, black jeans sitting snug on his hips. he is musty in that grown-man way, soap and faint cologne mixed with the faint trace of office air and the walk over, nothing overpowering but undeniably male. he knows it. he hopes you do not notice how it fills the small space between you.
you hover close while he crouches down to look at the router, your thigh brushing his shoulder as you point at the blinking lights. “it just stopped working out of nowhere. i tried restarting it but…” your words trail off when he glances up.
his eyes catch on the way your t-shirt hangs loose, the soft swell of your tits visible at the neckline, the smooth skin of your legs right there at eye level. he should look away yet nanami does not. instead his gaze lingers, slow and heavy, tracing the curve of your hip, the way the hem of those shorts digs into the flesh of your thigh. he feels his cock twitch in his jeans, thickening against the zipper before he can stop it.
fuck.
he shifts his weight, trying to hide the growing bulge, but the movement only makes the fabric pull tighter.
“let me see,” he mutters, voice lower than he intends, rough around the edges. his fingers work the cables, checking connections, but his mind is not on the router. it is on you. on how you smell like warm skin and faint lotion, on how you keep biting your lip while you watch him, on how easily he could reach out and slide his palm up the back of your thigh.
he has been trying to ignore it for weeks. it takes him back to the way you wave at him from your balcony in the mornings, the sound of your laugh carrying through the thin walls when you are on the phone with friends, the soft thump of your music when you cook.
every little thing has been chipping away at his carefully built restraint. he is older. he should know better. but his body does not care about should.
he stands up slowly, taller than you by a good amount, and when he does his chest brushes your shoulder. you do not step back and the air between you feels thick, charged, and nanami’s eyes drop again, this time to your mouth, then lower to where your nipples have tightened under the thin shirt.
he swallows hard. his cock is fully hard now, pressing insistently against the front of his black jeans, the outline obvious if you were to look down. he turns slightly, pretending to fiddle with the router settings on his phone, but the movement only highlights the bulge.
he can feel the heat of it, the way it throbs when you lean in closer to see what he is doing, your breath ghosting over his forearm.
“is it the cable?” you ask, voice quieter now, like you have noticed the shift too. your eyes flick to his face, then down, then back up, and nanami sees the faint flush creeping up your neck. good. at least he is not suffering alone. he clears his throat, forcing his attention back to the device, but his free hand flexes at his side, knuckles whitening. he wants to touch you. wants to back you against the wall and slide those tiny shorts down your legs, wants to feel how wet you already are because he can smell it, that sweet faint arousal mixing with your usual scent.
his mind supplies the image without permission: you bent over the couch, his cock buried deep while he grips your hips and fucks the whimpers out of you. he exhales sharply through his nose.
“try it now,” he says, stepping back just enough to give you space, but not enough to hide anything. the router lights flicker green. you pull out your phone to test the connection and let out a small happy sound that goes straight to his dick.
“it works! oh my god, thank you, nanami-san.” you turn to him fully, eyes bright, and for a second he lets himself look. really look. at the way your chest rises with each breath, at the bare stretch of thigh, at how your lips part when you realize he is staring.
he does not smile. his expression stays bland, almost stern, but his eyes are dark and hungry, eye-fucking you so openly now that there is no pretending. his cock strains harder against the denim, a small wet spot forming where he is leaking, and he makes no move to hide it.
he is half heartedly relieved you do not notice. your gaze still stuck on your phone screen, lashes fluttering, and when you look back up, you read there is something new in his expression, something needy and waiting to be unleashed.
nanami’s voice comes out rougher than he means. “you should get a better router. this one is outdated.” it is the most neutral thing he can think of, but it does not matter.
the tension is already there, thick and undeniable, wrapping around both of you in the half-unpacked living room. he can feel his pulse in his cock, the heavy ache of it, the way his balls feel tight just from standing this close to you. he wants to hate how easily you affect him.
he does hate it. but he cannot stop the slow drag of his eyes over your body one more time, imagining exactly how you would look spread open on his bed, taking every inch while he tells you how long he has been fighting this.
you shift on your feet, thighs pressing together, and nanami catches the tiny movement. his jaw clenches. he should leave. he should say goodnight and go back to his quiet apartment and jerk off to the memory like he has done more nights than he cares to admit.
your heartbeat picks up its rate, your finger tips sweaty. you feel the air thickening already, noticing the print of your neighbors dick without even looking down.
“so maybe you could stay and i could make you some te–” your proposal is short lived.
“i’ve fixed what you’ve called me to help for. goodnight.” his stern voice catches you off guard, watching him collect and grab the toolbox on the floor that was forgotten seconds ago. you try to say something but stay frozen when he pushes past you, his neck veins slightly showing on his skin.
nanami strides out fast. because right now, with his cock hard and obvious and his control fraying at the edges, he is not sure he has the strength to stay in the same room with you.
and so he leaves you standing in the middle of your apartment with your wifi fixed and a pile of notifications ‘ding-ing’ every seconds.
+
a week drags by in thick, unspoken tension that sits heavy between the thin apartment walls like smoke that refuses to clear.
nanami wakes each morning with the same stern resolution burning behind his eyes: keep the distance, lock it down, pretend the night you called him over for the router never happened. he leaves for the office before the sun fully rises, comes home long after the hallway lights have dimmed, and when he passes your door he keeps his gaze fixed on the scuffed floorboards like they hold the answers to every moral question he has been asking himself since he first felt that inconvenient throb in his jeans. but the memory refuses to fade.
it lingers in the shower when hot water runs down his chest and his hand wraps around his cock without permission, stroking slow and frustrated while your freshly known name slips out between gritted teeth like a confession he wishes he could swallow back.
it follows him into bed at night, where he lies stiff on his back and remembers the exact shade of flush that crept up your neck when his eyes dragged too long over your body.
he hates it. hates how easily a girl barely out of her early twenties can unravel the careful, quiet life he has built for himself. he is older, disciplined, a man who values order and restraint above almost everything, yet here he is, reduced to stolen glances through the balcony railing and late-night strokes that leave him emptier than before.
you do not make any of it easier. you still wave at him from across the narrow gap between your balconies in the mornings, soft smile curving your lips like you know exactly what you are doing to him. you leave polite little notes taped to his door about shared packages or the new recycling bins downstairs, your handwriting neat and looping in a way that makes his fingers tighten around the paper every time.
each accidental brush of your fingers when you hand him mail in the hallway sends a spark straight down his spine, and every polite “good morning, nanami-san” you offer chips away at the walls he keeps trying to reinforce. he catches the sound of your laugh through the thin wall sometimes when you are on the phone with people… your age, light and warm, and his cock thickens in his slacks before he can stop it.
he tells himself it is nothing. just proximity. just the natural reaction of a man who has been alone too long. but deep down he knows the truth: you have gotten under his skin, and the more he tries to push it away the harder it pulls.
tonight the last thread of his restraint finally frays and snaps.
the familiar knock comes at exactly the time he wishes it to, soft but insistent, cutting through the quiet of his evening like a hook sinking into flesh.
nanami opens the door still dressed from the office, white button-up with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, black jeans sitting low on his hips, the faint musty-clean scent of him drifting out into the hallway, clean and faint cologne and the long day clinging to his skin.
you stand there in another oversized t-shirt that slips off one shoulder and those same tiny sleep shorts that have been haunting him, hair not perfect like you had been caught up in something… private, cheeks already carrying that telltale pink flush. it’s as if last week was repeating itself.
“the router again,” you say, voice small and breathy, but your eyes are not on any imaginary problem. they trace the open collar of his shirt, the broad line of his shoulders, the way his chest fills the doorway. “it keeps dropping signal. i tried everything you showed me last time but… i think i need your help again.”
he should tell you no. should suggest you call the building manager in the morning this time and close the door before the air between you thickens any further. instead he exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight, and reaches for the small toolbox he keeps by the door without saying a word.
he follows you next door, the faint click of the lock behind him sounding louder than it should. the moment you are both inside the living room the atmosphere shifts, warmer and heavier, like the space itself is holding its breath. you lead him to the same corner shelf where the router sits, but this time you do not hover at a polite distance.
you stand close enough that your bare arm brushes his rough skin when he crouches down to look. the lights on the router are steady green. he knows it is working fine the second he glances at it. and most definitely you know it.
the excuse is paper-thin and neither of you bothers to pretend otherwise.
nanami rises slowly, turning to face you fully, his tall frame casting a shadow over you in the soft lamplight. his eyes do the same slow, solemn drag they did the week before, only heavier now, sharpened by seven long days of fighting the memory of your body.
he watches the way your nipples have already tightened under the thin fabric of your shirt, the subtle press of your thighs together like the ache between them is already building. his cock responds immediately, swelling thick and heavy inside his black jeans, the thick ridge becoming obvious as it presses against the denim. he’s sure a faint damp spot is beginning to form, but he does not try to hide it this time. he lets you see. lets the weight of his stare settle on you like a touch.
“the router is working fine,” he says, voice low and rough, carrying that same stern tone he always uses, like he is delivering a verdict in court rather than standing in your living room with a hard-on he cannot will away. “you know that as well as i do. why did you really call me over here?”
you swallow visibly, eyes flicking down to the clear outline of his cock straining against his jeans before rising back to his face.
your chest rises and falls with a heavier breath, lips parting slightly, but instead of answering you take one slow step back. then another. your hands move to the waistband of your sleep shorts, fingers hooking under the fabric, and you bend forward just enough to slide them down your legs in one smooth motion.
the shorts pool at your ankles and you step out of them, leaving you in nothing but a pair of grey lace panties with delicate pink ribbons threaded along the edges. the soft fabric clings to the curve of your pussy, the faint outline of your folds visible through the thin material, and nanami’s right leg twitches involuntarily, his cock jerking hard inside his jeans at the sight.
his brows draw together in a quick pretend of frown, serious expression tightening. “what are you doing?” he asks, voice dropping even lower, a clear warning threaded through the words. but you do not stop. your fingers catch the hem of your oversized t-shirt next, lifting it slowly, inch by inch, revealing the soft skin of your stomach, the delicate dip of your waist, the underside of your breasts.
you pull the shirt up and over your head, letting it drop to the floor beside the shorts, and now you stand there in only the grey lace panties, tits bare, nipples stiff in the cool air of the room. nanami’s breath catches, his hands flexing hard at his sides, the long fingers curling into fists as he fights the urge to reach for you.
he says your name then, low and rough, the syllables heavy with warning. “don’t.” but you only smile, small and soft and knowing, and continue. your thumbs hook into the waistband of the panties, sliding them down your hips with agonizing slowness, the lace catching briefly on the swell of your ass before you let them fall.
you step out of them completely, now fully naked in front of him, skin flushed warm under his heavy gaze. you walk toward him, bare feet quiet on the floor, hips swaying just enough to make your tits move softly with each step. when you are close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from your body, when his mouth opens to speak again, you lift one finger and press it gently to his lips, shushing him.
nanami lets out a small, broken sound, half whimper, half groan, the noise slipping out before he can stop it. his cock throbs visibly in his jeans, another bead of pre-cum soaking into the fabric as the tension coils tighter in the narrow space between your bodies.
he exhales shakily against your finger, eyes dark and conflicted, thick needy lines deepening on his face. “you’re a very young girl…” he trails off, voice rough and strained, the words carrying the weight of every reason he has been telling himself to stay away.
you pull your finger back just enough to speak, voice soft but steady. “i’m legal.”
“barely,” he counters immediately, the word clipped, his gaze dropping despite himself to the bare curve of your breasts, it taught him to squeeze on them and make you feel good, the soft swell of your hips, the smooth skin between your thighs where he can already see the faint shine of arousal. “you’re barely twenty-something. i’m more than twice your age. this… this is not appropriate.”
you tilt your head slightly, still standing naked and unashamed in front of him, the tension so thick it feels like the air itself has weight. “and yet you’re standing here with your cock so hard i can see it twitching through your jeans,” you murmur, eyes flicking down pointedly to the obvious bulge. “you’ve been avoiding me all week, nanami-san, but you still came over the second i knocked. tell me again how inappropriate this is.”
caught him red handed. fuck you.
he lets out another low groan, the sound vibrating in his chest, his hand coming up like he might push you away but instead hovering just above your waist, fingers trembling with restraint. “you have no idea what you’re asking for,” he says, voice quieter now, almost pained. “i’m not some young man who can just… give in without consequences. you deserve better than an older neighbor who can’t keep his eyes off you.”
the banter stretches, slow and heavy, every word laced with the electric pull between you. you step even closer, your bare breasts brushing the front of his white shirt, nipples dragging against the fabric, and nanami’s breath hitches sharply. “then why does it feel like you’ve been thinking about this as much as i have?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “why do you look at me like you want to bend me over every time we pass in the hall?”
his jaw clenches, the muscle ticking visibly, but his eyes stay locked on yours even as his cock continues to throb between you.
“because i do,” he admits finally, the words dragged out like they cost him something. “i want to. more than i should. but you’re young. barely out of college. and i’m… this.” he gestures vaguely at himself, the musty yet cleaned scent of his body stronger now with the heat rising off his skin, the faint sweat dampening the collar of his shirt. “a tired man who should know better.”
you smile again, softer this time, and reach up to trace one finger along the line of his jaw. “then stop fighting it for one night,” you whisper. “just let yourself have me. i want you, nanami. i’ve wanted you since the first time you fixed my router and looked at me like you were starving.”
the silence stretches again, thick and humming with tension, his breath coming heavier now, chest rising and falling against yours. his hand finally settles on your waist, large palm warm and slightly rough against your bare skin, thumb stroking once, slow and deliberate.
he does not pull you closer yet, but he does not push you away either. the battle is still there in his eyes, solemn and conflicted, but the hunger is winning, inch by aching inch, as the minutes tick by in the quiet room and his cock continues to strain painfully against his jeans, waiting for the moment his restraint finally gives out completely.
nanami’s hand tightens on your waist, fingers spanning wide enough to nearly wrap around the curve of it, and the last of his resistance crumbles like dry paper under the heat of your bare skin against his palm.
he exhales once, long and shaky, eyes still calculated but dark now with the kind of hunger he has been trying to bury for weeks, and then he is moving, guiding you backward until the backs of your knees hit the couch and you sink down onto the cushions. he follows without a word, dropping to his knees between your spread thighs like a man who has finally stopped pretending he can walk away.
his broad shoulders push your legs wider, the white button-up stretching tight across his chest as he leans in, breath hot against the inside of your thigh. he looks up at you one last time, jaw set, like he is giving you one final chance to tell him no, but you only slide your fingers into his neatly combed hair and tug him closer. that is all it takes.
his mouth finds your pussy like he has been starving for it, lips parting to drag a slow, broad stripe up your folds, tongue flat and heavy as he tastes you properly for the first time. the groan that vibrates out of his chest is low and rough, almost pained, because you are already soaked, slick coating his tongue in a way that makes his cock jerk hard inside his jeans.
he licks again, slower this time, savoring the way your thighs tremble on either side of his head, then seals his mouth around your clit and sucks gently, tongue flicking in tight little circles that have your back arching off the couch. one of his huge hands slides up your stomach, palm pressing flat just below your navel, and he pushes down with just enough pressure to make your pussy clench around nothing.
the size of his hand there is obscene, fingers spread wide so his pinky rests near the base of your ribs and his thumb brushes the top of your mound, the sheer scale of him against your smaller frame making everything feel tighter, hotter, more overwhelming.
nanami eats you out like he has all night and nothing else matters, tongue sliding deep between your folds before circling back up to your clit, sucking and licking in a rhythm that builds slow and relentless. his free hand grips your thigh, spreading you even wider, thumb digging into the soft flesh while he buries his face deeper, nose pressing against your mound as he drinks down every drop of you. the wet sounds fill the quiet room, wet and loud, his groans mixing with the slick slide of his tongue and the shaky breaths you keep letting out.
he keeps that steady pressure on your lower belly the whole time, palm rubbing slow circles that make your insides twist and flutter, the tummy bullying so deliberate it feels like he is trying to feel exactly where his mouth is working from the inside. your hips twitch, trying to ride his face, but he holds you down with that big hand, keeping you exactly where he wants you while he pushes you closer and closer to the edge.
when you come it hits hard and sudden, pussy pulsing against his tongue as your thighs clamp around his head and a broken moan spills out of you. nanami does not stop. he keeps licking you through it, slower now but just as thorough, tongue dragging over your oversensitive clit until your whole body jerks and you try to squirm away from the intensity.
he only presses his palm firmer against your stomach, holding you in place, the slight overstimulation making your eyes water and your voice crack on his name. “nanami…plea– fuck, it’s too much,” you whimper, but he just hums against you, the vibration sending another sharp spark through your core, and slides two thick fingers into your still-clenching pussy without warning. they stretch you wide, the size of them so much bigger than your own that you feel every knuckle, every ridge, as he curls them deep and starts pumping slow and steady.
he lifts his head just enough to watch his fingers disappear inside you, eyes dark and tempting, lips shiny with your slick. “look at how well you take them,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough, the praise low and almost reverent as he presses down on your belly again with his other hand, feeling the way his fingers create a very faint bulge against your walls from the outside.
the pressure makes everything tighter, more intense, and you clench hard around him, another wave of overstimulation crashing through you while he keeps fingering you through the aftershocks. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow circles that have you shaking, the combination of his thick fingers stretching you open and the firm press on your tummy turning every breath into a broken little sob.
he does not rush. he just keeps working you, long fingers dragging along that perfect spot inside while his palm rubs steady circles on your stomach, bullying that soft lower belly until you are dripping down his wrist and whimpering his name like it will make it better than it already is.
only when your thighs are trembling uncontrollably and your pussy is fluttering helplessly around his fingers does he finally ease up, sliding them out slow and careful, bringing them to his mouth to lick clean with a low groan that makes your stomach flip.
he stays on his knees between your legs for a long moment, forehead resting against your thigh, breathing hard while his cock strains painfully against his jeans, the front of the fabric dark with pre-cum. when he finally looks up at you his eyes are still determined, still carrying that quiet conflict, but the hunger has won completely now, and the way he stares at your flushed, marked body makes it clear he is nowhere near done with you tonight.
nanami stays on his knees between your spread thighs for another long, heavy breath, forehead pressed to the soft skin just above your knee while his chest rises and falls like he is trying to steady something inside himself that already broke minutes ago. his fingers are still shiny with you, the faint scent of his skin mixed with the sharp sweetness of your pussy hanging thick in the air.
when he finally moves it is slow and deliberate, like every motion costs him something. he rises to his full height, towering over you on the couch, white button-up wrinkled and damp at the collar from the heat rolling off both of you. his hands, large and steady, slide under your thighs and around your back in one smooth motion, scooping you up off the cushions like you weigh nothing at all.
your legs wrap around his slim waist on instinct, heels digging into the firm muscle of his lower back, and the sudden shift leaves you gasping against his shoulder because he lifts you so easily, strong arms locking you against his chest while your bare pussy hovers right above the heavy bulge still trapped in his jeans.
he does not give you time to look down. one arm stays banded tight under your ass, holding your weight like it is effortless, while his free hand works between your bodies to unbuckle his belt with a quiet metallic clink. the zipper follows, the sound loud in the quiet room, and he shoves both jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself.
you feel the thick, heavy length spring up against your inner thigh, hot and velvet-smooth, the blunt mushroom head already slick and leaking. before you can even tilt your head to catch a glimpse he shifts you higher in his arms, pressing your back against the nearest wall for leverage, and uses that same free hand to guide the fat head of his cock right to your dripping entrance.
the broad tip nudges through your folds, rubbing slow and deliberate, coating himself in your slick while he watches your face with those solemn dark eyes, brows knitted tight like he is still fighting the last scraps of restraint.
“breathe,” he mutters, voice low and rough, the single word almost gentle even as his hips tilt forward. he helps you sink down, one thick inch at a time, the stretch burning so good it makes your jaw go slack and your eyes flutter half-shut.
he is big, thicker than anything you have taken, the veined shaft dragging along your walls as he lowers you steadily until your ass meets his hips and he is buried to the hilt. a quiet groan tears from his throat when he bottoms out, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours, and for a long second he just holds you there, letting you feel every inch of him pulsing deep inside your smaller body.
you’re pressed and folded in an awkward position, and it only makes the size difference feel more obscene, your soft curves dwarfed by his tall, solid frame.
nanami does not wait long. his hands grip your ass harder, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he starts to move, lifting you up and dropping you back down onto his cock with controlled, powerful strokes that hammer into you deep enough to punch the air from your lungs. each thrust makes your whole body jolt in his arms, tits bouncing under nothing. bare and free for him to watch, back sliding against the wall while he fucks up into you like he has been imagining it for weeks.
his height towers over you completely, shoulders broad enough to block out the room, white shirt straining across his chest with every roll of his hips.
the mushroom head of his cock drags perfectly along that spot inside you on every downstroke, the sheer size of him making your belly bulge slightly every time he bottoms out, a faint outline visible under your skin if you looked down, but he keeps your face buried against his neck so you cannot.
he keeps that steady, punishing rhythm, hips snapping up hard while his arms hold you suspended like you are weightless, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing louder with every thrust. sweat beads along his hairline, dampening the collar of his shirt, and his breath comes in hot, measured pants against your ear.
“too big for you?” he asks, voice strained but still carrying that solemn edge, even as he grinds deep and holds you there for a heartbeat, letting you feel how completely he fills you.
your only answer is a broken moan and loled nod, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, legs tightening around his waist as another wave of overstimulation starts building fast. he does not slow down. he just keeps lifting and dropping you onto every thick inch, eyebrows still knitted in concentration, eyes flicking between your slack mouth and the way your body takes him so greedily.
his shirt keeps getting in the way, bunching up between both of you, so he shifts his grip, one hand sliding up to yank the fabric higher until it is completely off of him, exposing his sweaty chest completely to the cool air and your half-focused stare.
now there is nothing between you but sweat-slick skin and the relentless drag of his cock stretching you open. he leans in, mouth finding your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin while he hammers into you harder, the angle shifting so the head of his cock bullies that perfect spot with every upward thrust. your smaller frame jolts in his arms with each powerful stroke, pussy clenching tight around the thick length splitting you apart, and nanami groans low and deep, the sound rumbling through his chest as he feels you start to flutter around him again.
he keeps you pinned against the wall like that, towering over you, strong arms never tiring as he fucks you deep and steady, the size difference so stark it makes your head spin. every time he bottoms out his hips grind against your clit, the pressure on your lower belly from the inside making everything feel tighter, fuller, more overwhelming.
you are already close again, thighs shaking around his waist, voice cracking on his name, and nanami just holds you there, determined eyes locked on your face while he drives you closer to the edge with every heavy thrust, determined to feel you come around his cock before he lets himself follow.
nanami’s rhythm starts to falter just a little, hips snapping up with shorter, more desperate strokes while his breath comes hot and ragged against the side of your neck. he can feel it building fast, that tight coil low in his gut, his heavy balls drawing up tight and aching as your pussy flutters and squeezes around every thick inch of him.
but he refuses to let go first. he is older, more controlled, and right now that control means making sure you fall apart completely before he does.
with a low grunt he shifts his grip, one big hand sliding under your ass to tilt your hips forward while the other presses flat against your lower back, forcing your spine into a deep arch that pushes your pelvis out and opens you up even more obscenely. the new angle is nasty, almost cruel, your body folded and suspended in his arms so your clit grinds hard against the base of his cock on every upward thrust and the fat head of him drags directly into that spongy spot inside you at a brutal upward curve.
your legs dangle wider, heels kicking uselessly against his lower back, the sheer size difference making you feel like you are being split open and rearranged from the inside while he holds you like a toy.
he starts hammering into you with that filthy new angle, cock bullying that spot over and over until your eyes roll back and broken sobs start spilling from your slack mouth.
the overstimulation crashes in hard and fast, your already sensitive pussy clenching and spasming around him while tears prick at the corners of your eyes and start to slip down your flushed cheeks.
your hand flies down between your bodies on instinct, palm pushing weakly at his lower stomach like you can stop the relentless drag of his cock, fingers scrabbling against the damp fabric of his white shirt. nanami’s eyes narrow, jaw tightening, and he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he hisses the words low and dark, “do that again and i’ll fucking hurt you good.”
the threat hits you like a live wire. your whole body seizes, a choked cry tearing from your throat, and then you are squirting hard around his cock, hot fluid gushing out in messy pulses that soak his jeans, drip down his balls, and splatter onto the floor beneath you.
nanami groans deep and filthy at the feeling, the wet heat flooding around him making his cock twitch violently inside you. he does not slow down. if anything he fucks you harder, hips snapping up with wet, punishing slaps while his free hand slides between your bodies and starts tracing tight, relentless infinity signs over your swollen clit with two thick fingers. the pressure is mean and perfect, circling and dragging in that figure-eight pattern while he keeps pounding into that nasty folded angle, cock bullying your g-spot and his fingers never letting up on your overstimulated clit.
“i know, baby, i know,” he rasps against your ear, voice hoarse and strained, the words almost soothing even as he wrecks you. “you can take it. just let it happen.” your legs shake violently around his waist, tears streaming freely now, little hiccuping sobs mixing with the wet squelch of your pussy taking every brutal thrust.
nanami keeps that freaky rhythm going, hips rolling deep, fingers drawing those endless infinity loops over your clit until your vision whites out and another shattering orgasm rips through you, pussy clamping down so hard it almost forces him out. he hisses through his teeth, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest, but he powers through it, fucking you straight through the peak and into the trembling aftershocks.
his own control finally snaps. his balls tighten almost painfully, cock swelling even thicker inside your fluttering walls as he buries himself to the hilt one last time, grinding deep while thick, hot ropes of cum flood you. he comes with a low, broken groan that vibrates through his chest, pulsing hard and endless, filling you so full that it starts leaking out around his cock in creamy white streaks every time he gives one last shallow thrust.
the mess is everywhere, your squirt and his cum dripping down your thighs, soaking the front of his jeans and pooling on the floor, the obscene wet sounds slowly fading as he keeps you pinned against the wall, still buried deep, both of you heaving for air.
nanami’s forehead drops to your shoulder, breathing hard, the last energy well spent, showing of with both of your sweat-soaked body mixing with the sharp smell of sex filling the room. his arms stay locked around you, holding your smaller frame effortlessly even as his cock twitches with the last weak spurts inside you.
for a long moment the only sounds are your shaky sobs and his ragged breathing, bodies trembling together in the aftermath, messy and spent and still connected. he does not pull out yet. he just keeps you there, suspended in his arms, the quiet weight of everything that just happened settling heavy between you while his cum continues to leak slowly out around where he is still buried deep.
nanami stays buried inside you for what feels like forever, thick cock still twitching with the last lazy pulses while warm cum slowly leaks out around where your bodies are joined, dripping down your thighs and onto the floor in messy little trails.
your legs are still wrapped around his waist, trembling, heels digging weakly into his lower back like you cannot quite let go yet, and he keeps holding you up without any effort, strong arms locked under your ass, keeping your smaller frame suspended against the wall like it is the most natural thing in the world. your shaky little sobs eventually quiet into soft, hiccuping breaths, tears drying on your cheeks, but the overstimulation still makes your pussy flutter weakly around him every few seconds, milking out another thin trickle of his cum.
finally he shifts, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he carefully pulls out, the wet sound loud and obscene in the quiet room.
a thick glob of his cum follows immediately, sliding out of your swollen, puffy pussy and running down to join the mess already pooled beneath you. he lowers you gently until your feet touch the floor, but your legs are too shaky to hold you, so he keeps one arm banded around your waist, steadying you against his chest while his other hand tucks himself back into his briefs and jeans with a quiet zip.
the white button-up is wrinkled and damp with sweat when he puts it back on, black jeans dark at the front from your squirt, but he still looks put-together in that quiet, solemn way of his, even now.
he does not say anything at first. just looks down at you with those dark, heavy eyes, thumb brushing slow circles on your bare hip like he cannot quite stop touching you. then he exhales, long and tired, and rests his forehead against yours for a brief second.
“this…” his voice comes out rough, low, almost reluctant. “this can’t happen again.”
the words hang between you, simple and final, even as his hand lingers on your skin and his cum continues to drip slowly down the inside of your thigh.
he presses one last, almost gentle kiss to your temple, the kind of kiss that feels heavier than any promise, before he steps back. his fingers flex once at his sides like he is fighting the urge to pull you close again, then he turns toward the door, shoulders straight, footsteps quiet on the floor.
“get some rest,” he murmurs without looking back, the manly scent of him still clinging to your skin. “and… call the building manager about the router next time.”
the door clicks shut behind him, leaving you standing there naked and trembling in the middle of your living room, thighs sticky, pussy aching and full of him, the quiet weight of what just happened settling deep in your chest. you know he means it. you also know, deep down, that neither of you really believes it.
well y’all i had to claw my nails onto a wall to storm this idea so it better do good or you’re not hearing from me again.. (i’m literally posting in few hours again 😛)
streamer!kirishima gets distracted by you mid-stream
chat thinks he's focused... he's not
a/n: i had to come back to my roots with my sexy man kiri 😏
streamer!kirishima who's already high-energy during his stream, but the SECOND you walk in, his whole vibe shifts, like he's trying to keep his composure (he's failing)
streamer!kirishima stammers, "yo chat uh—gimme a sec, someone just came in." while his eyes to you. (never saying who it is.) you lean on the back of his chair, casually resting your hand, and he goes completely quiet for a moment, like he's is trying to process you being here.
streamer!kirishima notices his chat clocking his distraction immediately.
pinkcheeks: WHY HE FREEZE
sparkboy: SOMEONE GOT HIM HELLA NERVOUS 👀
streamer!kirishima can't help but get nervous when you tease him mid-stream, brushing a hand over his shoulder or whispering in his ear. his grip on the controller tightens, jaw clenches just a little, and he mutters, "... you're playin' with me right now."
streamer!kirishima mutes his mic without even thinking, turning just enough to look at you over his shoulder. "you trying to sabotage me now?" he mutters, voice low as his hand finds your waist like it's second nature. when you don't budge, he tugs you in closer, eyes flickering toward his monitor. "keep hoverin' over me like that and chat's gonna start getting ideas..."
streamer!kirishima unmutes his mic like nothing happened, trying to slip back into his usual tone, but it comes out lower, rough around the edges, and absolutely impossible for chat to miss. within seconds, the messages start flying:
spiderman2.0: HELLO?? WHY DOES HE SOUND LIKE THAT
greatexplosionmurdergoddynamite: WHO'S IN THE ROOM WITH HIM RIGHT NOW!?
streamer!kirishima, who shuts it down the second chat starts getting bold. if anyone so much as hints at you being nearby, he laughs it off, but there's a definite shift in his tone. "alright, chill—focus on the match," he says, easygoing on the surface, but there's a quiet warning threaded underneath the humor that chat doesn't miss.
streamer!kirishima, who ends the stream earlier than planned, brushing off the flood of messages with a quick, "i'll catch you guys later—something came up." he doesn't bother addressing the spam. the moment the camera light clicks off, though, his whole vibe shifts. he's lighter, teasing, warm in a way he never lets chat see. and even though streaming is what he loves, he makes it obvious that when it's just the two of you, his attention is yours completely.
streamer!kirishima shows it all in the small, casual gestures—tugging you onto his lap without thinking, fixing the hem of your hoodie, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. every look he gives you, every soft gesture, carries the same message: you're the one he's focused on, the one who matters most.
⋆˚࿔ 𝐤𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐚𝐚 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ @bl4ckprincess - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag