synopsis: you and satoru gojo absolutely do not have a thing for each other. you only spend time together because of your shared affection for his dragon. at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself—because there’s no way you’d ever fall for the most insufferably cocky, sharp-tongued, ridiculously charming dragon rider on the entire isle of berk… right?
alternatively, in which a dragon plays matchmaker and you save satoru’s ass.
tags: fluff, mild angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex, fingering, riding), action, frenemies to lovers, how to train your dragon!au. pining, idiots to idiots in love. profanity, injuries, blood, reader almost drowns, etc.
word count: 16.1k
a/n: art by _3aem on x. reposted from my old blog :)
“Piss off, Gojo.”
Satoru Gojo does not piss off. You’re fairly certain he doesn’t know how to. It’s stitched into his DNA, being an annoying twat on the good days and an all-round prick on the others.
“I would,” he says. “But Sukuna really wanted head pats and for whatever reason, he thinks mine are unsatisfactory.”
The aforementioned Sukuna, of course, refers to his dragon—the last-remaining Night Fury on the Isle of Berk.
“You couldn’t have picked someone normal to bond with?” you ask the dragon.
Sukuna blinks slowly, entirely unfazed, then shifts his massive head a fraction closer to your shoulder. His scales catch the sunlight like dark, wet marble, but the way he’s leaning into you gives him all the menace of a particularly clingy housecat. A housecat with fire breath, razor claws, and the ability to level a village if he ever got bored enough.
Satoru, stretched out on the grass beside him, grins. “Don’t blame Sukuna,” he says, resting his weight back on his palms like he owns the hill, the sky, the whole bloody island. “He can’t help liking you better.”
“Everyone likes me better.”
“Mm. Bold claim.”
“True claim,” you retort. You scratch absentmindedly under Sukuna’s jaw, right where the scales give way to smooth skin, and he lets out a deep, throaty rumble of pleasure. It vibrates through the ground beneath your feet, a sound that would send most of Berk sprinting for the hills. You barely flinch. He’s impossible not to soften toward—something Satoru has weaponised far too often.
“I’m just saying,” Satoru drawls, “you might be his favourite person on the island.”
“He doesn’t have many options,” you say.
“Wow. And here I thought we were friends.”
You roll your eyes. “We are not friends.”
“Acquaintances?” he tries, silver hair glinting in the sunlight and blue eyes far too bright and mischievous and knowing.
“Barely.”
“Brutal,” he says. “You talk to all your barely-acquaintances this much?”
“Only the ones who refuse to shut up.”
“That’s most people, though.”
“Maybe you’re the problem,” you shoot back.
It’s exhausting, really, how he manages to talk in italics, every word tilted just enough to keep you bristling. He’s the single most aggravating man on the entire Isle of Berk—and that’s saying something, considering the place is full of dragon riders who think personal boundaries is a suggestion, not a rule.
You’d like to say you hate him. Really, you would. It would make things simpler. But hate implies he occupies actual space in your head, and the problem—the infuriating, inescapable problem—is that you refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“Why are you even here?” you demand finally, because you’ve learned the only way to deal with Satoru Gojo is to stay on the offensive.
“Sukuna wanted pats,” he repeats.
“Pretty sure Sukuna can find his own way here.”
“Yeah,” Satoru says, grinning wider, “but I can’t.”
You blink. “Are you—are you implying you used your dragon as an excuse to see me?”
“No,” he says immediately, dragging the vowel out. “Definitely not. I have so many better things to do.”
“Name one.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks for a second. “…Patrolling?”
“That’s not better.”
“Depends on who you ask.” He falls back fully onto the grass, folding his arms behind his head, one long leg bent at the knee. The picture of ease, like he hasn’t just dropped the suggestion that he wanted to see you and then refused to elaborate. Like he hasn’t steadily been driving you insane since the day you met him.
The wind shifts over the hill, carrying with it the salt of the distant sea. Berk stretches out below—scattered houses of stone and timber, smoke curling from chimneys, dragons wheeling in the sky above the watchtowers. Out past the cliffs, the ocean flashes silver under the sun, calm for now but never for long.
“Illegal trapping’s been getting worse,” Satory says idly after a moment.
You glance at him. “And yet you’re here annoying me instead of dealing with it?”
“Hey, I’m off-duty.”
“You’re never off-duty.”
“True,” he admits, shameless. “But my boss doesn’t need to know that.”
You roll your eyes. The boss in question is Yaga the Vast, chief of Berk, who has approximately zero patience for stragglers like Satoru and yet, somehow, keeps putting him in charge of things anyway. Probably because when he isn’t being insufferable, Satoru is annoyingly good at his job.
Sukuna shifts closer again, massive head nudging your shoulder with a low whuff. The force of it nearly knocks you off balance.
“He’s so needy,” you mutter, scratching under his jaw again.
Satoru props himself up on his elbows to watch. “You love it.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
“Do not.”
“Do—”
“Finish that sentence,” you warn, “and I swear I will throw you off this hill.”
He smiles, unbothered. “Can’t, gorgeous. Sukuna would just catch me.”
“Shame,” you say.
Sukuna rumbles again, louder this time, as if laughing at the both of you. Which is ridiculous, obviously. Dragons don’t laugh. Probably. You’re still scratching absentmindedly at his jaw when the shout comes from below the hill.
“Gojo! We’ve got movement near the cliffs!”
It’s one of the younger riders—Yaga’s apprentice, maybe. You don’t remember his name. He’s sprinting uphill, out of breath, waving both arms wildly.
Satoru sighs. “And here I was enjoying my day off.”
“Trappers?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah.” He pushes to his feet. “Looks like it.”
The apprentice finally reaches the top, panting. “They spotted nets near the west cliffs,” he manages. “Could be setting up for a catch.”
Satoru dusts off his hands lazily, as though he hasn’t just been summoned to go handle the exact kind of people who would love to get their hands on a Night Fury. On Sukuna. You glance at the dragon, who’s gone very still beside you. His tail flicks once, sharp and restless.
Satoru notices too. “Relax,” he tells him softly, before turning that insufferable grin back on you. “Rain check on the head pats?”
“Not my dragon,” you remind him.
He winks. “Technicality.”
With that, he swings easily onto Sukuna’s back, all long limbs and practiced motion, like he was born in the saddle. Sukuna launches into the sky a moment later, wings snapping wide, dust kicking up in their wake. You watch them go, a dark shape against the sunlit clouds, until they’re nothing but a speck over the cliffs.
You’re still staring at the empty sky when the young rider clears his throat.
“Uh… hi,” he says awkwardly. He’s about your age, maybe a bit younger, with a nervous energy that makes you want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to relax. He’s holding a map, which he’d pulled out of his pocket and now folds and unfolds with frantic hands. “You’re, uh, you’re the mapmaker, right? The one who lives by the sea?”
“That’s me,” you say, forcing yourself to look away from the horizon.
He nods, relieved. “Right. Yaga said to give you this. It’s the new coastline for the north. He said you’d be able to sketch it out better than anyone else.” He holds out the piece of parchment.
You take the map, unfolding it to see the jagged lines and rough sketches of a coastline you haven’t visited yet. The lines are crude, but the general shape is there. “Thanks,” you say. “I’ll get on it as soon as I can.”
“Right,” he says. “So… you and Gojo. You guys are… close?”
You stiffen. The question is innocent, but it feels like an accusation. “No. Not at all.”
He looks skeptical. “He talks about you a lot. Like, a lot lot. Says you’re the only person who can keep up with him.
You fight the urge to groan. “He’s a liar.”
“Yeah, he is.” The young rider laughs, a short, nervous sound. “But I don’t know. It’s weird. He’s always, like, looking for you. Or waiting for you.”
You don’t know how to respond to that. It’s too close to the truth. You just shrug, then look at the map. “I should get going. I have a lot of work to do.”
“Right. See you around, then.” The rider turns to leave, jogging down the hill with a newfound energy, happy to escape the awkwardness.
You look at the map, then at the sky where Sukuna and Gojo disappeared. You can’t stop thinking about the way Gojo smiled when he told you that Sukuna was just an excuse to see you. It was a joke, you know that. He’s always joking, always playing with words. But the way he said it… it felt like there was a kernel of truth in it, a tiny, infuriating admission that you didn’t want to acknowledge.
You trace the lines on the map, but your mind is elsewhere. You’re picturing him, the way he looks when he’s serious, the way he talks when he’s trying to get under your skin. You’re picturing Sukuna, the way he leans into your touch, the way he rumbles with contentment. You’re picturing the two of them, a perfect pair of chaos, a storm of annoying energy.
You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. You have work to do, a map to sketch. But you can’t help but wonder if Gojo and Sukuna are okay. You can’t help but wonder what he’ll say the next time you see him.
A soft breeze, smelling of salt and distant rain, carries the sound of Sukuna’s contented rumble. You look up from your work, the firelight from your cottage flickering on the parchment in your lap. The Night Fury, a silhouette against the moon, lands with a soft thud, a dark shadow in the growing dimness. You can’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugs at your lips. It’s a happy sound, that snort of his, and it’s hard not to feel a little bit of warmth toward the gigantic reptile. The smile vanishes the moment you see Satoru Gojo dismount.
He slides off the dragon’s back and lands on the packed dirt with a huff. His silver hair, usually perfectly styled, is now adorned with a scattering of leaves and twigs. He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
“Looks like you had a hard day,” you say, voice dry. You don’t bother looking up from your map, a new survey of the eastern coast that is proving to be a nightmare of jagged inlets and hidden reefs.
“The hardest,” he replies, walking toward the fire. Sukuna follows, a low purr rumbling in his chest as he nudges your shoulder gently. You stroke the smooth scales under his jaw.
“Did you, by any chance, get your head stuck in a bush?” you ask pointedly.
He laughs. “Just a little turbulence. But don’t worry, it was for a good cause.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“Well, you know,” he says, pulling a stray leaf from his hair. “I had to make sure the trappers didn’t get away. Can’t have them messing up the ecosystem, can we?”
“But your impeccable hair and abysmal flying skills get a pass, I suppose.”
“Priorities, you know.” Satoru sits down on a log across from you, the firelight glinting in his bright blue eyes. “What are you up to? Still drawing pretty pictures of rocks and water?”
“I’m creating an accurate navigational chart for the fishing fleet,” you correct. “So that they don’t end up on the bottom of the sea.”
“Right, right. Important work,” he says. “You’d be a lot faster if you had some help.”
“I’m perfectly fine on my own.”
“I’m just saying,” he drawls, “a second pair of eyes could be useful. Especially mine. They’re very, very good eyes.”
You roll your own. “I’m not interested in your help, Gojo. Or your eyes, for that matter.”
Sukuna, who had been contently nuzzling your shoulder, chooses that moment to let out a slow, mournful sound, as if he understood the conversation and is deeply disappointed by your attitude. He nudges Gojo’s head with his own, then your shoulder again. He goes back and forth, like a pendulum. It’s slightly annoying.
“See?” Gojo says, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Even Sukuna agrees. He thinks we should be friends.”
“Sukuna thinks you should be less annoying,” you counter, reaching out to pat the dragon’s large head. He lets out a low rumble, pleased.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Satoru says. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He told me on the way here that he thinks we would make a very handsome couple.”
You snort. “He has terrible taste. You’re lucky he hasn’t left you for a better rider.”
“Impossible,” Satoru scoffs. “I’m the best. And he knows it.”
“And the most modest, too,” you mutter.
Sukuna lets out a deep, throaty rumble, and gently nudges you closer to the fire. The action is subtle, but a piece of your parchment slips off your knee and lands with a quiet rustle on the ground near Satoru’s feet. He bends down to pick it up, his long fingers brushing against yours as he hands it back.
“Clumsy,” he says, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s not talking about the paper.
You ignore him, focusing on the map, but your hand trembles slightly, and the ink bleeds on the line you’re trying to draw. You let out an exasperated sigh, and Sukuna, with a loud huff, settles down between you and Satoru. It’s a deliberate move. The dragon’s nothing more than a massive, scaly chaperone.
“Look at him,” Satoru says, his voice softer now. “He’s tired. Trappers, you know. They’re more persistent than usual.”
“Did you catch them?”
“Most of them. They had nets—one almost got Sukuna. If he hadn’t been so fast, it would have been a rough night.”
You look at the dragon, who is now snoozing with one eye open, the firelight catching the dark, wet-looking scales on his hide. A sudden wave of protectiveness washes over you, a familiar feeling when it comes to the dragon. But then you look at Satoru, and see the deep weariness in his eyes, the faint lines of stress etched around his mouth, and that familiar wave of protectiveness becomes tangled with something else, something you refuse to name.
“You should get some rest,” you say, the words feeling foreign and heavy on your tongue.
He looks surprised. “Worried about me?”
“I’m worried about Sukuna,” you shoot back, and the warmth in your stomach curdles into a familiar acidity. “He needs his rider to be in top form. The last thing he needs is to be stuck with a tired, insufferable oaf.”
He laughs. “You wound me. But thank you. It’s nice to know someone cares.”
“I don’t care,” you insist, and you know you’re lying. You also know he knows you’re lying. It’s a game you play, a tense, stupid dance.
Sukuna lets out a snort. He flicks his head towards Satoru, then towards you, as if to say, just talk to each other, idiots. You want to kick him. Affectionately, of course.
“Well,” Satoru says. “I suppose I should go. Duty calls and all that.” He stands up, stretching his arms over his head before shaking it.
“You’re going back out?” you ask, a note of alarm in your voice that you can’t control.
“Nah,” he says, smiling a little softer now. “Just kidding. Yaga told me to stay put until morning, ‘cause he said I caused enough trouble for one day.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
He reaches down and ruffles Sukuna’s head, though his words are addressed to you. “I’ll be back tomorrow for some more pats, okay?”
Sukuna huffs happily in response.
Satoru turns and walks away, a long, lanky shadow disappearing into the darkness. Sukuna watches him go, then turns his gaze back to you, his garnet-coloured eyes flashing. He nudges your hand again. You know what he wants. He wants you to talk to Gojo. He wants you to go after him.
You sigh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not his keeper. I’m not yours, either.”
Sukuna snorts, a clear, exasperated sound, and settles his massive head on your lap. He’s warm, a solid weight of comfort in the cool night. You don’t bother to shoo him away. You simply sit there, under the moonlight, and stare into the dark where Gojo disappeared.
“It’s a fool’s errand,” you say, dropping the rolled-up parchment onto Yaga’s desk with a resounding thud. The Chief of Berk, a man with a beard as formidable as his temperament, looks up from the horn he’s polishing.
“What is?” he asks.
“This,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at the map. “The north coast. It’s impossible to draw from the ground. I’ve only been there twice, and I spent most of the time trying not to fall to my death. The cliffs are sheer drops. The inlets are jagged and hidden. I need to map it from above.”
Yaga stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. You hold his stare, a silent challenge. You’ve never been one to back down from the Chief, a fact that both annoys and impresses him.
He sighs. “Fine. You’re right. You’ll need a rider.” He looks around the hall, his eyes scanning for a likely candidate. Your heart sinks into your stomach when he lands on the very last person you want to see.
“Satoru!” he bellows.
Satoru Gojo, leaning against a support beam, in the middle of conversation with Yaga’s apprentice, gives you a little wave.
“Yeah, boss?” he calls out.
“You’re taking our mapmaker to the north coast,” Yaga says. “She needs to draw it from the air.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Chief,” he says, sauntering over to the desk. “North coast, huh? A little chilly for you, isn’t it?”
You resist the urge to punch him. “I’ll manage. Let’s just get this over with.”
He claps his hands together. “Excellent! My calendar is wide open.”
The next morning is cold and brisk. A light mist hangs over the village, and the air smells of wet stone and woodsmoke. You’re waiting by the flight academy, a satchel slung over your shoulder and your sketchbook clutched in your hands. You’ve been waiting for ten minutes, which is ten minutes longer than you’d like.
Just as you’re about to turn and leave, you hear a loud, familiar whoosh of wind and the deep, throaty rumble of a Night Fury. Sukuna lands right in front of you. Satoru leers at you, seated on his back.
“Ready to fly, gorgeous?” he asks.
“I’m ready to get this done,” you correct.
You climb onto the dragon’s back, settling behind him on the saddle and placing your sketchbook and charcoal pencils carefully in your lap. Sukuna lets out a low purr, a rumble that you can feel vibrating through your body. He nudges his head back, giving your hand a soft, affectionate lick.
“He’s excited,” Satoru says. “He loves when we all go out together.”
“He’s excited about the snacks I brought him,” you say, pulling a piece of dried fish from your satchel and holding it out to Sukuna. He devours it in one gulp.
“You brought snacks?” Satoru asks. “For the dragon, and not for your very handsome and talented pilot?”
“You are not my pilot, and you are not getting any of this fish.”
He kicks his feet against Sukuna’s side, and the dragon launches himself into the air. You grip the saddle, your knuckles turning white. The wind whips at your hair and clothes, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of flight wash over you. It’s a feeling you’ve never gotten used to, and it’s always a little terrifying, a little exhilarating.
Satoru leans back. “You’re good at this. Not screaming, I mean.”
You grit your teeth. “I’m a mapmaker, not a child. I’m used to dangerous situations.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You’re the one who saved my ass, remember?”
The memory of that night, of his blood on your hands, of the raw fear in your gut, flashes through your mind. You shiver, a cold feeling that has nothing to do with the wind.
“I’d rather not,” you say.
He doesn’t respond. Sukuna, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, lets out a low, questioning snort. He banks left, heading toward the northern cliffs.
The gentle, rolling hills of Berk give way to a brutal, unforgiving coastline. The cliffs are dark and jagged, the sea a churning mass of white foam. You pull out your sketchbook and begin to draw.
You work for hours, meticulously sketching every rock formation, every inlet, every hidden cove. You direct Satoru to turn this way and that, and he, for once, doesn’t argue. He lets you work, his body a steady, comforting presence in front of you, ensuring Sukuna’s movements are smooth and controlled.
At one point, you get so focused on a particular series of sea caves that you lean too far over the edge of the saddle, and almost lose your balance. A long, strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against a warm, solid chest. You stiffen, your body rigid with surprise.
“Careful,” Satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t want you falling to your death.”
You push him away, heart pounding. “I had it under control.”
“Sure, you did.”
Sukuna lets out a low, knowing chuff, a sound that makes you want to smack him. You ignore him, focusing back on your drawing, but it’s hard to stop thinking about the feeling of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his body against yours.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a while.
“I’m working.”
He hums. “Right. I just thought, you know, we could talk. Get to know each other. Since we’re going to be hanging out more often, we might as well be friends.”
“We are not going to be friends,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time.
“We are,” Satoru says. “We’re a team. You and me. And Sukuna, of course.” He reaches forward and strokes the Night Fury’s head, and the dragon rumbles with contentment.
“He’s your dragon,” you mutter.
“He likes you, too. More than me, I think,” Satoru says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—something soft and genuine—that makes you look away from your sketch and at him instead. His eyes are fixed on you, a strange mixture of warmth and… something else. You can’t quite place it.
You look away, your heart pounding again. You can’t handle this. You can’t handle this man, this dragon, this strange, dangerous intimacy that has sprung up between you.
You land back in the village as dusk is falling. The air is colder now, and the stars are beginning to peak out. You slide off Sukuna’s back, your legs shaky from the long flight. You feel a hand on your arm, steadying you.
“You did good,” Satoru says.
“So did you,” you say.
He smiles, a real smile, one that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. It’s a smile that you realise you haven’t seen very often. It’s a smile that makes the hollow cavity inside your chest where your heart lies skip a beat.
You turn away, clutching your sketchbook to your chest. “I’ll bring this to Yaga in the morning.”
“Right,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”
You walk away, but you can feel his gaze on your back. You can feel the warmth of his hand still on your arm. You don’t look back.
You make it to your cottage, but you don’t go inside. You sit on the stone step, your sketchbook still in your hands, and stare at the sky. You think about the north coast, about the cliffs and the caves, but also about Satoru. About the way his arm felt around your waist, about the way his smile made you feel, about the way he wasn’t being annoying for once.
You hear a soft thud. Sukuna stands behind you, a small branch in his mouth. He drops it at your feet. A branch from a Night Fury’s nest. He jabs at your hand with his nose, his eyes fixed on yours.
You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to tell you something. He’s trying to tell you that Satoru is not so bad. There’s a place for you in his life, in their life.
You reach down and pick up the branch, then look back at the dragon. You sigh, a long, drawn-out sound.
“You’re a terrible matchmaker, you know that?” you whisper to him.
Sukuna lets out a low purr and nudges you again. You don’t know what to do. You’re a mapmaker, a person of logic and order, and this man and his dragon are nothing but chaos. There’s absolutely no way anything good could ever come out of this.
“Head pats? Again?” You shoot Satoru an unimpressed glare, though the effect is rather diminished by the fact that you’re hanging upside down, trying to fix a hole in your roof. “At least come up with a better excuse.”
“Can’t. The dragon wants what the dragon wants,” Satoru says. “And what the dragon wants, the dragon gets.”
You grunt, shoving a loose thatch of straw back into place. Your ankles are looped around a wooden beam, your torso dangling over the edge of your cottage’s roof. The world is a strange, inverted place from this angle. The grass is a vibrant green sky, the clouds are a white, fluffy ground. Satoru Gojo’s annoyingly perfect face is floating in the air below you. He’s leaning back, his hands in his pockets, watching you with a smile. Sukuna is a little ways off, chewing on a large branch.
“And what the dragon wants is for me to risk breaking my neck just so you can make a terrible joke?” you ask.
“No, no, the dragon wants head pats,” Satoru corrects, shaking his head. “I’m just here to deliver the dragon to the head pats. A simple go-between.”
“You’re a go-between for your own dragon?”
“Look, it’s a complicated relationship,” he says. “He’s a very discerning dragon.”
You roll your eyes, a motion that makes your head throb. You pull yourself up, muscles straining, and clamber onto the roof. You sit on the ridge, straddling the peak, and pull a loose piece of wood from the hole. The wood is rotten, and the smell of mold and wet earth makes you wrinkle your nose. A sudden gust of wind snatches a loose piece of cloth from the edge of the roof, and you watch as it flutters to the ground and lands directly at Satoru’s feet.
He picks it up and says, “Lost something?”
“It’s just a rag,” you say.
He examines it, shaking it out with a flourish. “Looks like a perfectly good rag to me.”
“It’s not,” you say. “It’s old and worn out. Just leave it.”
He doesn’t. He folds it carefully and places it in his pocket, before walking over to where Sukuna is lying, and pulls out a piece of meat from his saddlebag. He tosses it to the dragon.
“So,” Satoru says. “Roof problems?”
“No,” you say, “I just enjoy dangling from high places.”
He laughs, a clear, loud sound that makes your stomach feel weird. “I get it. You’re a thrill-seeker. It’s one of your many charming qualities.”
“I’m not a thrill-seeker,” you say. “I’m a mapmaker. I prefer quiet, predictable things.”
“Still,” he says, “here you are, hanging from a roof, and here I am, your friendly neighbourhood… well, whatever I am.”
You groan. “You’re a pain. That’s what you are.”
“And you’re my favourite pain,” he says. “You’re the only person on the entire Isle of Berk who doesn’t fall all over themselves to talk to me.”
“That’s because I have a working brain.”
He laughs again, and you find yourself staring at him. He’s leaning against Sukuna’s side, his arms crossed over his chest. His silver hair catches the sunlight, and his bright blue eyes are fixed on you. He’s the most infuriating man you’ve ever met, but you can’t deny that he’s also breathtaking.
You tear your gaze away, a flush of heat creeping up your neck. You turn back to your roof, your hands shaking slightly as you try to hammer a loose piece of wood into place. You miss, and the hammer clatters to the ground, landing with a soft thud on the grass.
“Fuck,” you say, eloquently.
Satoru bends to pick up the hammer, turning it over in his hands. “For someone who claims to like quiet, predictable things, you have a funny way of living on the edge.”
You scowl down at him from the roof ridge. “I’m fixing a hole, Satoru. Not fighting a dragon barehanded.”
“Could be both, if you fall on Sukuna.”
Sukuna, hearing his name, glances up, tail flicking idly. He looks like he’d catch you if you fell. Probably. Maybe. If he felt like it.
“Very reassuring,” you mutter. “Give it back.”
“Come get it,” Satoru says, grinning.
You glare at him. He leans back against Sukuna’s side, one long leg crossed over the other. He looks like he could stay here all day, bothering you from ground level while you slowly lose your mind above him. You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The sun’s beating down hard, pressing heat into the back of your neck. Your hands are already splintered from the wood, your hair sticking to your cheeks. You have an entire day’s worth of mapping to do but here you are, arguing with Berk’s most irritating dragon rider over a hammer.
“Fine,” you say. “Keep it. I’ll just tell everyone you bullied me into falling off my own roof.”
“But you didn’t fall,” he says. “Yet.”
You wish you could throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. Like a rock. Or maybe the entire cottage.
Instead, you clamber down from the roof ridge to the small platform just under it, wiping your palms on your trousers. From here, the world tilts alarmingly close. Satoru watches your careful descent with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.
When you reach the edge, you stretch your hand out. “Hammer.”
He taps it against his chin thoughtfully. “What do I get in return?”
“Your continued survival.”
“Tempting.” He tosses it up, easy and careless, then finally lobs it towards you. It arcs through the air, spinning end over end, and you snatch it out of the air just in time, the impact jolting through your wrist.
“Show-off,” you say.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
You don’t dignify that with a response, instead crawling back to the hole and fitting the new piece of wood into place. The hammer thunks steadily as you nail it down, the sound mingling with the wind and the distant crash of waves against cliffs. Satoru hums something under his breath, a lazy, tuneless thing. It carries upward, curling under your skin despite yourself.
You focus very, very hard on the roof.
When the piece finally holds, you sit back, wiping your forehead again. Your arms ache, your knees are bruised, and you can feel bits of straw clinging to your hair. Glorious, really.
“Done?” Satoru asks.
“For now,” you say.
“Good,” he says, pushing off Sukuna’s side. “Because Sukuna’s patience is running out.”
At the mention of his name, the dragon lets out a short, sharp huff, nostrils flaring. The branch he was chewing lies in two neat halves at his feet. His pupils have gone wide, round as coins—his version of puppy eyes.
You narrow yours. “This is emotional blackmail.”
“It’s effective,” Satoru says cheerfully, already strolling over to you. “C’mon, he’s been waiting all day.”
You glance from the dragon’s enormous, hopeful stare to Satoru’s infuriating grin and feel, very distinctly, like you’re being tag-teamed.
“Fine,” you mutter, hopping lightly off the lower edge of the roof. You land in a crouch, knees absorbing the impact, then stand and dust yourself off. “But only because he asked nicely.”
Satoru bows low, one hand over his heart. “As the humble messenger of the dragon, I thank you for your generosity.”
“Shut up,” you say, but there’s no real heat behind it.
Sukuna lowers his massive head as you approach, scales gleaming like wet stone. He makes a low, thrumming sound as your hand comes to rest between his eyes, the tension in his frame melting instantly. It’s absurd, how such a creature—so powerful, so feared—can melt into warmth at something as simple as a touch.
You scratch behind his jaw, feeling the rumble travel through your palm. “You deserve a better rider,” you murmur, just loud enough for Satoru to hear.
Satoru presses a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Absolutely gutted.”
“You’ll live.”
He leans against Sukuna’s shoulder, close enough that you catch the faint scent of wind and leather and something warm underneath. “You always say that like you’re sure.”
“I could be wrong,” you say sweetly.
“Now who’s emotionally blackmailing who?”
You roll your eyes. The wind picks up again, tossing Satoru’s hair into his eyes. He doesn’t move to fix it, just grins at you through the mess like he knows exactly what kind of picture he makes—irritatingly golden in the sunlight, with the dragon at his side and the whole damn world under his heel.
“You really are full of yourself,” you say finally.
He tilts his head. “Takes one to know one. Speaking of which, did I tell you about the trappers that thought they actually had a chance against Sukuna? Even I don’t stand a chance against Sukuna, and that’s saying something.”
“Trappers?” You raise an eyebrow, keeping your hand moving against Sukuna’s scales. “I thought you lot scared them off two weeks ago.”
“We did,” Satoru says. “Or so we thought. But the funny thing about pests—” He leans lazily against Sukuna’s massive shoulder, folding his arms. “—is that they always crawl back when you’re not looking.”
You frown, not at him for once, but at the idea of it. “Where?”
“Southern Coves,” he says. “A little group at first—three, maybe four men. We figured they were amateurs, probably thought they’d make their fortune dragging a few Terrible Terrors back in cages. Easy enough. Send them running, burn a net or two. Job done.”
The way he says it—casual, dismissive—doesn’t sit right with you. It rarely does, when Satoru Gojo talks about problems like they’re inconveniences rather than… well, problems.
“But then?” you prompt.
“But then,” he says, drawing out the words, “we found another group. Bigger. With better equipment. Steel nets, reinforced cages, the whole shebang.”
Your hand stills against Sukuna’s jaw. “Reinforced cages?”
“Mhm.” He tilts his head, watching your reaction like it’s more interesting than the story itself. “Not something you find lying around unless you’ve got coin. Or connections. Or both.”
Sukuna shifts beneath your touch, nudging his head into your palm like he can sense the tension in your shoulders. You scratch harder, both to soothe him and yourself. “That doesn’t sound like a coincidence,” you say.
“It doesn’t sound like much of anything,” Satoru counters flippantly. “Could just be a few desperate men pooling what they’ve got. Could be something else. Either way, we’re keeping an eye on it.”
“And by we you mean…”
“The riders. Me, Suguru, Kento, Haibara—the usual.”
You narrow your eyes. “You mean the same group that considers dive-bombing into cliffs a legitimate training exercise?”
“Worked out fine for me,” Satoru says with a shrug.
“Everything works out fine for you,” you shoot back.
That earns you a flash of his grin—bright, boyish, and infuriating. But it fades, just a little, and he says, quieter, “Doesn’t always.”
It’s the kind of admission that makes your stomach twist, because it’s true. Riders don’t always come back. Dragons don’t always survive. Trappers—real trappers, the kind with coin and steel and a hunger that isn’t easily sated—don’t play fair.
You exhale slowly. “You think they’re after Sukuna.”
“Everyone’s after Sukuna.” He says it like it’s a joke. “Last Night Fury, blah blah blah. People can’t help themselves.”
You glance at Sukuna. His pupils are still round, content beneath your touch, but his tail lashes once, like even he knows the weight of those words. A rare thing: fear dressed up as restlessness.
An unease worms its way beneath your ribs. It feels like the calm before a storm, the air just a shade too still, the sea too quiet. The trappers Satoru described don’t seem like scavengers chasing scraps. They’re organised. Equipped. Waiting for something—or someone. You hate it. You hate that Satoru can stand opposite you, hands tucked in his pockets, as though the world isn’t about to tip over its edge.
“You should be more worried,” you say finally.
“I worry plenty.”
“You don’t act like it.”
“Would it help if I wrung my hands and wept dramatically at your feet?”
“I’d pay good money to see that,” you say automatically. Sukuna nudges you again, harder this time, nearly knocking you off your feet. You steady yourself with a laugh that comes out thinner than you’d like. Satoru watches the two of you, his smile softened into something that almost looks like thought. Then, just as you’re about to ask another question, a shrill whistle splits the air from somewhere down the hill.
“Show time.” Satoru straightens, stretching his arms overhead. “Sounds like they’ve spotted another group near the coastline.”
Your stomach sinks. Already?
Satoru clicks his tongue, turning back to Sukuna. “Up, big guy.”
The Night Fury rises in a smooth, graceful motion, all coiled muscle and gleaming scales. His wings snap open, blotting out the sun for an instant, and you step back instinctively. Satoru sings into the saddle. He doesn’t look at you until Sukuna’s already crouching low, ready to launch.
“Don’t worry too much,” he says. “We’ve got it handled.”
“You don’t know that.”
He grins down at you. “Sure I do. I’m me.”
“Again?” You stare at Yaga the Vast like he’s sprouted another head—which, considering the man’s already broad shoulders and beard thick enough to hide a small family of sparrows, would be quite a sight. “You want me to map out the north coast again?”
“Yes,” Yaga’s voice rumbles, his arms crossed over his chest. The firelight in the great hall casts half his face into shadow, making him look even more immovable than usual. “But this time, you go deeper. Past the cove, beyond the breakers, to the inlets we’ve yet to mark. Unless we map out our neighbouring areas, how will we be able to defend Berk?”
You blink slowly, as if stalling will make the task shrink back into sanity. “Defend Berk from what, exactly? The world’s deadliest flock of puffins?”
“From anyone who thinks Berk is ripe for the taking,” Yaga replies. His thick fingers drum against his arm. “We can’t pretend we’re isolated forever. Already, the trappers sniff at our borders.”
You mask the prickle of unease that shivers down your spine with a scoff. “So your solution is to send me to traipse along the most dangerous stretch of coast known to dragon or man?”
“You won’t be alone. Take that scoundrel of a dragon rider with you.”
You groan, dragging both hands down your face. “Not him.”
“As if there were any other scoundrel I could mean,” Yaga says, almost indulgent.
“Satoru Gojo,” you say, lowering your hands and scowling, “is less of a companion and more of a—what’s the word—parasite. Loud, obnoxious, impossible to get rid of once he latches on.”
“He’s effective,” Yaga says.
“He’s insufferable,” you say.
“Both can be true,” he says. “And if you want Berk defended, if you want us to have some place to safely hide, or if you want your precious maps to mean something, you’ll take him with you. End of discussion.”
You gape at him, outrage coiling hot in your chest. But before you can muster a reply sharp enough to singe even Yaga the Vast’s vast beard, a familiar voice cuts through the hall.
“Did somebody say my name?”
Of course. Speak of the devil and his Night Fury, and both shall appear.
Satoru Gojo strolls in; his hair is a windswept mess of silver, his tunic is half-untied, and there’s a cocky grin already plastered on his face. Sukuna pads in behind him, the great black beast moving silent as shadow, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim hall light.
“Perfect timing,” Yaga says. “You’ll be escorting our mapmaker along the north coast. Deep waters. High cliffs. Dangerous territory. See to it that she comes back alive.”
“Yes, boss,” Satoru replies. His gaze slides to you, and his grin widens. “Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”
Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Believe me, if I had a choice between this and swimming naked through eel-infested waters, I’d be halfway to drowning by now.”
“Romantic. You always know how to make a man feel wanted.”
Sukuna rumbles low in his throat, the kind of sound that could be a laugh if dragons were capable of such a thing. You swear he’s mocking you, too.
Yaga heaves a sigh. “Enough. The pair of you leave at dawn. Supplies will be waiting at the stables. Make sure you chart everything—caves, currents, shoals, nesting grounds. The more detail, the better.”
You open your mouth to argue, to plead, to hurl one last desperate objection into the flames. But Yaga fixes you with the kind of look that ends battles before they begin. You clamp your jaw shut.
“Fine,” you mutter. “At dawn.”
“Looking forward to it,” Satoru says brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. “You, me, the sea, a few deadly cliffs. It’ll be fun.”
You glare at him. “You have the worst definition of fun I’ve ever heard.”
He leans down, so close you catch the faint scent of leather and salt. “That’s because you haven’t tried my kind of fun yet.”
Before you can throttle him, Yaga clears his throat. “Gojo,” he says. “I want your usual post-mission report for this one as well. How Sukuna flies, how he fights—everything. Not a single detail should be omitted.”
“Not just that,” Yaga presses. “Every maneuver. Every burst of speed. How he responds under pressure. The trappers are adapting. If they’ve learned to counter one type of dragon, they’ll learn to counter another. We need to be ready.”
“Of course, boss.”
Satoru says it so confidently that it makes you want to hit him with the nearest tankard. He doesn’t care about reports—he’s probably never written anything down properly in his life—but somehow Yaga keeps trusting him with “observations” and “evaluations.” And somehow those “reports” always end up getting him exactly what he wants: more freedom, more lenience, more time spent to annoy you.
“I’m serious,” Yaga says. His gaze sharpens, sliding briefly to you before returning to Satoru. “I want precision. Not exaggerations, not flourishes. If there are trappers along that coast, I want to know how they move, what they use, where they hide. If Sukuna faces them, I want to know every reaction. Understand?”
It’s subtle, that pause on Sukuna’s name, but it hooks in your gut like a barbed fishing line.
“Your last report,” the chief continued, “was ten pages of what Sukuna ate, and a drawing of your own face in the margins.”
You can’t help it—a bark of laughter escapes you. Satoru grins wider, like he’s proud of the memory.
“Historical accuracy,” he defends breezily. “Someday, bards will want to know I was the handsomest man alive while Sukuna was saving lives.”
Yaga doesn’t look amused. In fact, the firelight catches on the hard planes of his face, casting the deep creases at his brow into shadows that look almost like cracks. “Enough,” he says, but this time there’s a finality to it—like stone slamming into place, sealing a tomb.
You should probably let it go. Keep your head down, accept the assignment, and try not to imagine all the ways you might die tomorrow. But Yaga’s words stick in your ears like thorns. He’s always been thorough, sure, but the way he said it makes something twist uneasily in your gut.
Why does it feel less like he wants a record of Berk’s defenses and more like he wants a catalogue of its weaknesses?
You frown, shoving the thought down before it can root itself. Paranoia. That’s all it is. Spending too much time around Satoru Gojo rots the brain.
“Sir, yes, sir,” Satoru says, snapping a salute. “We’ll chart your cliffs, your caves, your currents, your… cozy little hidey-holes. And if the trappers do come sniffing around, we’ll have a nice little map all drawn up for them, won’t we?”
It’s meant to be a joke. You know it is.
Yaga’s eyes cut to him, sharp and assessing, but then—to your surprise—soften into something close to approval. “Just bring me the report.”
You’re dismissed. Or maybe exiled. Hard to tell with Yaga.
Satoru stretches like a cat as you both step out into the night air, his hair catching silver in the moonlight. Sukuna slips behind him, shadow melting into shadow, only the gleam of his garnet eyes betraying him.
“This is gonna be fun,” Satoru says.
You snort. “You heard him. Reports, details, flight maneuvers—like you’re some glorified scribe. What’s he going to do, publish a book?”
“Who knows? Maybe Yaga just really likes bedtime stories.”
“You’re going to fall if you keep bending over like that.”
The words brush the back of your neck, almost lost to the roar of the wind. Satoru’s voice, of course, because if anyone was going to ruin the thrill of flight over the North Sea cliffs, it was going to be him.
“I’m not bending over,” you snap, leaning forward on Sukuna’s broad back to adjust the rolled parchment strapped at your hip. “I’m securing the maps so they don’t blow away. Some of us actually care about documenting this trip.”
“Mm,” he hums, far too close behind you. “You say that, but it looks a lot like you’re presenting yourself to me.”
You jerk upright so fast you nearly throw yourself off balance. “I will throw you off this dragon.”
Sukuna rumbles beneath you, wings slicing through the wind. The cliffs roll past below—jagged teeth rising from the sea, waves smashing themselves to froth at the base. A treacherous coast, all jagged rocks and narrow inlets, the sort of place even seasoned dragon riders avoided unless they had a death wish. But, you remind yourself, you’re riding with Satoru Gojo. Death wishes are practically stitched into his skin.
“Relax,” he says lazily, shifting so that his chin rests on your shoulder, bold as anything. “If you fall, Sukuna will catch you. Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Eighty percent sure.”
You elbow him hard in the ribs. He laughs. The wind whips against your face, tugging at your hair and lashing past your chin. You should be focusing on the coastline, on the cliff formations and hidden coves Yaga wanted mapped. Instead, you’re stuck with Satoru practically wrapped around you like an overgrown barnacle.
Below, the sea shifts from deep sapphire to frothing white, currents curling against each other in unpredictable swirls. You sketch the outline hastily, balancing parchment on your knee, your fingers stiff from the cold. The smell of salt, the tang of brine—it all presses sharp in your nose, mixing with the faint smoke curling from Sukuna’s nostrils as he exhales.
“You’re making that bay too small,” Satoru says, peering over your shoulder. “It’s at least twice that size.”
Your head snaps towards him. “You’re a dragon rider, not a cartographer. Shut up.”
“I’m just saying,” he says. “If you want this to be accurate, maybe listen to the guy who’s actually looking down at it.”
You jab your charcoal against the parchment with unnecessary force. “I am looking down. You think I’m staring at the clouds?”
“Wouldn’t blame you. They’re very fluffy today.”
You grit your teeth. It’s either throw him off Sukuna’s back or commit to your map and pretend his voice doesn’t grate against your ears.
The coastline curves sharply, forcing Sukuna to bank hard. The sudden tilt knocks your knee against the saddle, the parchment slipping sideways in the wind. You swear under your breath, catching it just before it can flutter away.
“Careful,” Satoru drawls. “Wouldn’t want all your precious squiggles to drown.”
“They’re maps,” you snap, tucking the roll more securely under the leather strap. “Not squiggles.”
Sukuna lurches again, this time with a force that wrenches you off balance completely. One moment you’re clinging to leather straps, the next, you’re weightless—dangling over empty air, your stomach dropping out as the sea roars up to meet you. Your scream is swallowed by the wind.
Cold air slams against your face, your limbs flailing as the ocean surface rushes closer, white spray licking like fangs. You think, absurdly, that this is it. Yaga will get his precious map back water-stained and half-torn, and Satoru will laugh at your funeral pyre.
The sea devours you whole. Salt scorches your mouth, icy shock steals the breath from your lungs, and the water closes like a fist around your ribs. You kick, thrash, but the waves drag you under, tangling your limbs. The North Sea swallows you whole, dragging you down, down, down. Your maps slip free, parchment dissolving into sodden clumps as the current claws them away. Panic claws harder.
Through the blur of bubbles, a shadow streaks above—massive wings cutting the sky. Sukuna. You can just make out the gleam of his scales as he dives, but the current twists you sideways and drags you deeper.
You feel hands.
Hot even through the freezing water, strong fingers hook beneath your arm and haul you against a solid chest. Your head knocks against leather and chainmail. You cling without meaning to, nails biting into Satoru’s sleeve as he kicks upward, legs cutting the water with terrifying strength. The world tilts again, the suffocating weight of the sea giving way to open air as he breaks the surface.
You cough, choking up brine, the cold biting so deep it feels like your bones are splintering. But there’s air—ragged, salty, glorious—and Satoru’s arms are still wrapped around you, keeping you afloat.
“See?” he says, breathless. “Told you one of us would catch you.”
“Shut—” you hack, spitting seawater in his face, “—up.”
With one arm, Satoru signals upward, and Sukuna swoops low, skimming the waves. The dragon’s vast shadow falls over you both, wings slicing the mist. With a smooth, practiced motion, Satoru boosts you toward the saddle. You land gracelessly, half-sprawled, coughing into your sleeve. Sukuna steadies his flight. Moments later, Satoru swings up behind you, water dripping from his hair.
You twist, glaring, salt-stung eyes narrowing. “You dropped me!”
“I saved you,” he says.
“If you’d stop distracting me, I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.”
“Aw, admit it,” he says, tugging you back against him as Sukuna banks into the wind again. “You wanted me to play hero.”
Your jaw locks. You want to scream, punch him, and shove him straight off Sukuna’s back. But the truth sticks bitter at the back of your throat: without him, you’d be a corpse rolling in the tide right now.
Instead, you grit out, “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m too cold to kill you.”
“Sure, gorgeous,” Satoru says, far too cheerfully for someone who just dove into the North Sea like a loon. He pats Sukuna’s neck. “Land over there, big guy.”
Sukuna banks again, wide wings slicing through the mist as he angles toward a rocky shelf jutting from the cliffs. It’s not much—a spit of grass clinging stubbornly to stone, slick with sea spray and battered by wind—but it’s flat enough for a Night Fury to perch. The dragon’s claws scrape against the stone before he settles down.
You peel yourself upright, every muscle trembling from the cold. Water streams from your hair and sleeves, soaking into the saddle leather, dripping in miserable rivulets down your legs. You feel like a half-drowned cat.
Satoru swings off Sukuna and immediately shivers, shaking out his hair. Droplets fly everywhere.
“Ah!” You swipe your face with your sleeve. “Do you mind?”
“Not even a little,” he says.
You clamber down less gracefully, boots squelching against stone. The moment your feet hit solid ground, the wind slices through your wet clothes. Your teeth chatter so hard it feels like they might rattle loose.
“Right,” you say, hugging your arms around yourself. “Let’s make this quick. I need to salvage what I can of the map before—”
“Before your hands freeze off?” Satoru interrupts. He crouches to scratch Sukuna’s chin, even though he’s dripping seawater like a broken barrel. “Sorry, cartographer, but your squiggles can wait. We’re both shaking. That’s a fast track to hypothermia.”
“I’m fine.” Your voice wobbles with a shiver. “We don’t have time to—”
“You’re not fine.” He straightens, eyeing you in that annoyingly perceptive way of his. “Your lips are purple. You’re shivering so hard I can hear your knees clacking. Don’t make me be the sensible one here, sweetheart—it feels unnatural.”
You glare. “If I die of cold, I’ll haunt you.”
“Oh, you already haunt me.” His grin softens the jab. “Now, strip.”
“I— Excuse me?” you splutter.
“Your clothes are soaked,” he says matter-of-factly, already tugging at the laces of his tunic. “Wet fabric sucks the heat right out of you. The best thing we can do is get ‘em off, huddle together, and hope Sukuna doesn’t roast us in our sleep.”
You blink at him, scandalised, even as another violent shiver racks your body. “You’re insane.”
“True. But I’m also right.” He pulls his tunic over his head in one easy motion, tossing the dripping cloth onto the stone. The setting sun’s light catches across his bare skin—broad shoulders, pale scars scattered across his abdomen, lean muscle shifting as he moves.
You pointedly do not stare.
“You’re ogling me,” he says.
“I’m glaring at you.”
“Your glare looks a lot like ogling.”
“Die.”
“Already almost did,” he says lightly, wringing out his sleeves. “Your turn.”
Every inch of you bristles at the command. Still, the damp fabric clinging icily to your ribs argues louder than your pride. You peel off your own tunic with stiff fingers, ignoring his wolf-whistle, and spread it on a rock to dry. The wind hits your bare skin, covered only by the slip you’ve worn inside, cold and merciless, goosebumps rising instantly.
Satoru’s eyes flick toward you, lingering longer than you like. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. The curve of his mouth says enough.
“Don’t you dare say a word,” you warn, hugging your arms over your chest.
“Not one word,” he promises. “Plenty of thoughts, though.”
You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “This is torture.”
“No, this is survival.” Satoru pats Sukuna’s flank, and the dragon obligingly lowers himself, curling his massive body into a crescent. His wings arch inwards, a living shelter against the wind. Heat radiates from his scaled belly.
“See?” Satoru gestures grandly.
You want to argue. You really, truly do. But your legs wobble under you, and the promise of warmth tugs at you. So you crawl into the nook of Sukuna’s body, pressing against his side. Satoru follows, sprawling next to you, then tugging you firmly against him. His skin is startlingly warm, even damp as it is, and his arm slides around your shoulders.
“Move,” you grumble, trying to twist free.
“Nope,” he says, tucking his chin on top of your wet hair. “You’ll freeze.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“So you’ve said. Multiple times.”
You want to snap back, but the heat of him seeps into your skin. Sukuna’s breathing is a thunderous rhythm behind you, the rise and fall of his chest as steady as the tides. Satoru’s warmth presses into your back, his heartbeat steady against your spine.
The shivering ebbs. Your eyelids grow heavy.
You think, just before sleep drags you under, that maybe it isn’t so bad—being held like this, the storm kept at bay by dragon wings and an irritating idiot who refuses to let you drown or freeze. You’d rather die than admit it out loud.
“Oh, my Gods.”
The voice snaps you awake like a slap. Your eyes peel open blearily, gritty from salt and sleep. The first thing you see is scales—Sukuna’s broad, ridged side, still warm beneath your cheek. The second is pale dawn light seeping over the horizon, turning the sea into hammered silver. The third, and the worst by far, is Yaga’s apprentice standing ten paces away, gawking at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.
You jolt upright so fast your skull cracks against Satoru’s chin.
“Ow—fuck!” Satoru lurches back, clutching his jaw. His hair is sticking up in ten different directions, his chest bare, his arm still heavy across your waist. He blinks owlishly, still half-asleep, then follows your line of sight.
“Oh,” he says. “Morning, kid.”
The apprentice—gangly, freckled, barely old enough to grow a proper beard—turns a shade of crimson so bright it could signal passing ships. His dragon, a lumbering Gronckle, looks pointedly in the other direction as though it, too, is practicing modesty. The apprentice’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I—uh—you—Chief Yaga sent me—”
You scramble upright, hugging your damp tunic to your chest as though it might shield you from the apprentice’s wide-eyed horror. “It’s not what it looks like.”
The boy squeaks. “It looks like you and Gojo—”
“It doesn’t,” you snap. Heat crawls up your neck, sharp as the morning chill.
“Actually,” Satoru drawls, still lounging half-naked against Sukuna’s side, “it’s exactly what it looks like.”
You kick him in the shin. He hisses through his teeth but grins anyway. Bastard.
The apprentice makes a strangled sound and stares very hard at the cliffs instead. His ears are scarlet. “Chief Yaga said—he said it was urgent. Two dragons were stolen last night.”
“Stolen?” you ask.
He nods quickly, eyes still fixed anywhere but at you. “By trappers. They slipped past the watch posts by the southern coves. Took a Nadder and a Zippleback. Riders tried to give chase, but they were gone before dawn.”
You freeze, cold in a way seawater could never manage. Images slam unbidden into your head: chains biting into scaled hides, muzzles forced over mouths, wings bound and flailing. Dragons screaming as they’re dragged into cages.
“Shit,” Satoru says, the first hint of sharpness cutting through his lazy tone. He pushes to his feet, water-dark trousers hanging low on his hips. Sukuna rumbles beside him, wings twitching restlessly.
The apprentice swallows, wringing his hands, as his Gronckle hovers above the ground. “The Chief sent me to find you. He said you’re needed immediately—both of you. He was… angry that you weren’t at the watch last night, Gojo.”
You flinch. Angry. Of course he was. You were out here, tangled up in a mess of salt, warmth, and sleep, while dragons were dragged away into darkness. Your stomach knots.
Satoru’s hand brushes yours. “Not your fault,” he murmurs.
You want to believe him. You don’t.
“Which direction?” Satoru asks crisply.
“East,” the apprentice answers. “Towards the mainland, we think. Scouts found broken nets on the tide and claw marks on the rocks, but… there were too many tracks. More than just one ship. It’s—bigger than usual.”
You hug your tunic tighter, your unease curdling into something colder. Too many tracks. Bigger than usual. And Yaga, always conveniently aware of where the trappers struck, always pushing for maps that stretched further, deeper, as though he wanted Berk’s vulnerabilities laid bare on parchment. Something ugly stirs at the back of your mind.
“Great job finding us, kid,” Satoru says. “Go on back, tell Yaga we’re on our way to Berk.”
The apprentice nods and urges his Gronckle away. Silence stretches after his wings vanish into the horizon. The only sound is the crash of waves and Sukuna’s low, restless growl.
You finally tug your tunic over your head, the fabric clammy against your skin. “Two dragons. Gone. While we—” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “While we weren’t there.”
Satoru’s gaze flicks to you. “We’ll find them.”
You want to argue. Want to spill the unease clawing at your ribs—that this isn’t coincidence, that someone is feeding the trappers information, that Yaga’s heavy insistence on maps and watch-posts feels less like defence and more like design. But Satoru swings into the saddle, his hand extended down to you, and all you can do is shove the suspicion somewhere deep down where it won’t choke you.
Later. You’ll think about it later.
The ride back to Berk is wordless. Sukuna cuts through the dawn sky with a speed that makes your bones rattle, the wind lashing your damp hair against your cheeks. The village comes into view—first the crooked rocks of the cliffside, then the smoky thatched rooftops, and finally the wide stone courtyard where riders and dragons gather in knots of uneasy conversation.
Yaga waits at the centre of it all, arms folded across his massive chest. His scowl alone could ward off a sea storm. You’ve seen him angry before, but this—this is something else.
Sukuna’s talons scrape stone. Riders hustle across the square, tightening harnesses, checking saddlebags, shouting clipped reports to one another. Dragons bristle and shift, their restlessness bleeding into their humans. You slide down from Sukuna’s saddle, boots hitting the stones. Satoru follows, rolling his shoulders once.
“Come,” Yaga’s voice booms from the centre. “Where were you?”
“Taking the north coast maps you wanted, remember?” Satoru says. “Thought you’d be proud I was finally listening.”
Yaga’s jaw ticks. “While you wasted time drawing cliffs, two dragons were stolen from right under our noses. A Nadder and a Zippleback. Good, loyal beasts, now likely in chains.”
You open your mouth—an instinctive we didn’t know, we would have been there if—but Yaga’s eyes cut to you, and the words wither in your throat.
“And you,” he says, quieter but no less cutting. “Distracted.”
Your cheeks burn hot as a furnace. You force yourself not to look at Satoru, not to flinch under Yaga’s disappointment.
“Careful, Chief,” Satoru says, stepping forward. “Sounds almost like you’re blaming us instead of the ones who actually stole the dragons.”
Silence. Riders shuffle uneasily at the edge of the square, pretending to busy themselves with tack and gear. Yaga exhales. He gestures with a curt hand, and says, “Enough. We’ve no time for excuses. Gojo, you’ll take Sukuna east. Track the trappers. If they’ve gone towards the mainland, we need to know which paths they’re using. Don’t engage. Don’t be reckless.”
“Reckless?” Satoru echoes. “Chief, that hurts me.”
“It’s meant to.”
Yaga turns to you. You think—hope—he’ll send you with Satoru. You’ve flown the coasts enough times now, you know the currents, the cliffs, the possible landing points. Together, you’d be faster.
“You,” Yaga says instead. “Stay here. The maps you made—finish them. Copy them properly, mark all the coves and hideouts. We’ll need every detail if we’re to tighten our defenses.”
“But—” You start. “With all due respect, I should go too. I was with Satoru when we—”
“No.” Yaga’s eyes harden, the finality in them brooking no argument. “We need accuracy more than we need an extra set of hands in the sky. Your maps will serve Berk better than you will.”
Heat floods your chest: anger, shame, suspicion all jumbled together. The same suspicion that had gnawed at you when the apprentice spoke of too many tracks, bigger than usual. The same suspicion that whispers now: why does he care so much about these maps?
Satoru’s hand brushes yours again, quick, almost hidden. When you glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but his mouth quirks, almost imperceptibly, in reassurance.
“Don’t worry, gorgeous,” he says aloud, stretching his arms. “I’ll bring your lizards back safely. Maybe even some extra, if they’re feeling friendly.”
“Go,” Yaga growls.
Satoru vaults back into Sukuna’s saddle. The Night Fury launches skyward in a storm of wings and air, climbing so fast your stomach flips just from watching. He doesn’t look back, but you feel his absence immediately, like the ground beneath you has shifted.
“Chief,” you try again, forcing the tremor out of your voice, “if there are more ships than usual, if this is bigger than—”
“Finish your maps,” Yaga cuts you off, turning away.
You stand there for a long moment, your fists clenching around nothing, as riders murmur and scatter and dragons snort restlessly at their sides. Something in your gut twists again, sharp and certain. Yaga doesn’t just want you out of the mission. He wants you blind, and you don’t know why.
Satoru Gojo doesn’t arrive back with the rest of the riders and it takes you about four hours to swallow down your pride and admit that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.
At first, you tell yourself he’s late because he’s lazy. Because he got distracted chasing a gull or decided to nap on Sukuna’s back somewhere over the cliffs. That’s his style, isn’t it? Careless, infuriating, utterly impossible to pin down. But when the other riders return—faces set in grim lines, dragons shuffling uneasily on the packed earth—there’s no trace of him.
The knot in your stomach hardens into stone.
The courtyard empties slowly, mutters and wary glances trailing after you as you linger by the dragon pens. You can’t ask them where he is, not when your throat is tight with fear. You can’t ask Yaga either—at least, not openly, when you already suspect he doesn’t want you to know the answer.
Instead, you find the apprentice.
He’s lugging a basket of fish towards the Gronckle pens, shoulders hunched. You stride over and plant yourself in his path.
“Where’s the Chief?” you demand.
The boy nearly drops the basket, mackerel slopping over the edge. “Wh-what?”
“Yaga,” you say. “Where is he?”
He stammers. “He—uh—he’s in the great hall, I think. With some of the elders. I’m not supposed to—”
You move before he can finish. The great hall looms at the centre of Berk. Its roof rises steeply, carved dragon heads snarling from the beams. The heavy double doors are shut, but a warm glow seeps from the cracks—torchlight, flickering against the chill dusk. You shouldn’t be here. Yaga will flay you alive if he catches you sneaking where you don’t belong. But the thought of waiting, sitting idly while Satoru doesn’t come back doesn’t sit right with you.
You slip inside.
The hall stretches wide and long ahead of you, the walls lined with shields and old weapons that gleam in the light. Long tables stretch out across the floor, empty, a few littered with tankards and scraps of parchment. The far end is dominated by Yaga’s chair, carved from mahogany, massive enough to dwarf even him.
It’s empty.
You turn away from the chair—because on the nearest table is your map.
Or rather, it should be there. The stack of parchment you left after your last session of furious sketching is gone, only a faint smear of charcoal dust staining the wood. The straps you’d used to tie them together still sit at the edge of the table, neatly coiled, but the maps themselves have vanished. Your stomach lurches.
The map of the north coast. The one you risked half your life to sketch, nearly drowned for. Every cove, every inlet, every hidden path marked out in careful strokes of charcoal—gone.
Your hand curls tightly around the strap left behind, the leather cutting into your palm. The room spins, your thoughts snarling into one conclusion: if Yaga has the maps, he didn’t take them to protect Berk. And if he doesn’t have them, then someone else does. And Satoru still hasn’t come back.
You hurry out of the hall, past the empty pens, past the wary stares of villagers who pull their cloaks tighter as you barrel through. The sky is already bruising into night, gulls wheeling overhead in harsh cries that grate against your nerves. You don’t think. You just turn—towards the cliffs, the only place that makes sense. The north coast, where your maps pointed. Where Satoru isn’t supposed to be.
The path narrows as you climb. The wind rises, sharp and cold, tugging at your tunic. The sea roars below, white foam smashing itself against black rock. Each gust shoves at your balance, each step rattles your teeth. You know these paths—you’ve sketched them, charted them—but tonight they feel alien, hostile.
Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. Still, you push forward, clutching your side, muttering curses under your breath.
A shadow moves above you, massive fast, cutting across the purpling sky. The figure drops lower, angling towards you. You stumble to a stop, heart hammering, and tilt your head back.
Sukuna.
The Night Fury flies through the dusk, scales glinting dark blue where the light catches. His cry rips through the cliffs—sharp, haunting, enough to send a flock of puffins exploding from their nests. The wind from his wings slams into you, sending you staggering backwards.
He’s alone. The dragon banks sharply, almost skimming the sea, and you see a saddle still strapped tight, leather dark with seawater, reins dangling loose.
He lands on the cliffs just ahead of you, talons tearing furrows in the stone. His wings flare wide before folding in, each movement rippling with tension. He’s restless, furious, his chest heaving and his tail lashing like a whip.
“Sukuna,” you breathe, your voice cracking.
He turns at once, those twin rings of garnet eyes locking onto you. Recognition flares, but it’s not soft. It’s sharp, wild, like he’s on the edge of bolting right back into the sky. His nostrils flare, smoke curling as he huffs out a growl.
Your legs move before your mind catches up. You rush towards him, arms out, words tumbling uselessly from your mouth. “Where is he? Where’s Satoru?”
Sukuna lowers his head, nostrils flaring again as though scenting the wind. His scales are slick with salt, his wings ragged from the flight, his whole body coiled tight with an agitation you’ve never seen in him before. He paces, restless, claws scraping sparks against the stone. The saddle’s empty. Satoru’s gone.
The thought claws at your skull, frantic and ugly, but you push it down, shove it away, refuse to let it root. “Take me to him,” you say. “You hear me? Take me to him!”
Sukuna freezes. His head tilts, eyes narrowing, sharp and assessing. You think he’ll refuse, that he’ll vanish into the sky without you. But he shoves his massive snout against your shoulder, hard enough to nearly knock you flat. His wings flare again. It’s not an invitation. It’s a command.
Your hands fumble with the saddle’s straps as you clamber up, fingers numb, stomach twisting. The moment you’re seated, Sukuna surges forward, leaping into the air and spreading his wings. The world drops away beneath you, cliffs shrinking, sea spreading endless and merciless below. Wind tears at your face, your hair, your clothes. You clutch the straps tightly, the air freezing your cheeks, your heart slamming so hard you can’t tell if it’s fear or relief.
Sukuna doesn’t soar, doesn’t play with the air currents or bank lazily just to terrify you the way Satoru likes to. He cuts through the night like an arrow, wings beating ruthlessly, each downstroke flinging you forward until your stomach lurches. The North Sea yawns before you, and the cliffs crawl past in uneven shadows.
“Where are you taking me?” you shout, though the wind steals most of it away. Sukuna’s neck stiffens, his flight angled low, purposeful.
The further north you go, the rougher the landscape grows. The cliffs rise higher, crueler, sharpened by centuries of waves gnawing at their base. The moon breaks through the clouds in flashes, silvering the rocks. You’ve charted these shores on parchment, every inlet and alcove, but in the dark, they look unfamiliar.
Sukuna dives. The drop rips the breath from your chest and tears your stomach into your throat. You can only cling and pray as he folds his wings tight and plummets. At the last possible instant, he flares his wings wide, landing with a shuddering crash onto a stretch of uneven stone, claws biting through moss and shale.
You scramble down, your boots skidding on slick rock as Sukuna growls. Ahead, the cliffs hollow into a cove, a natural amphitheatre of stone and sea. Torches burn inside, small orange flames that lick against the rock, wrong against the wild dark.
In the centre of it all: Yaga.
The Chief of Berk stands with his arms crossed, broad shoulders squared and cloak snapping in the wind. His great beard glints ruddy in the torchlight. But it isn’t him that makes your heart stutter. It’s what’s at his feet.
Satoru.
He’s on his knees, wrists bound in thick rope, head tilted at an insolent angle that doesn’t quite hide the blood streaking down his temple. Even half-slumped, gagged with a strip of cloth knotted cruelly between his teeth, he radiates infuriating carelessness—eyes narrowed, expression hovering between boredom and mockery.
You make a sound—something strangled, something useless—and stumble forward, only for Sukuna to block you with a sweep of a wing. He growls again.
“Finally,” Yaga says. His voice booms off the rock, heavy, immovable, the kind of voice that fills halls and commands loyalty. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned him.”
“What are you doing?” you manage to ask.
“What I should’ve done the moment that creature set foot on Berk.” His eyes cut to Sukuna. “That dragon is too dangerous to be left in the hands of a fool. Or worse, shared between fools. Give him to me, and I may let Gojo live.”
Satoru makes a muffled noise behind the gag, rolling his eyes so hard you half-expect them to stick. You can almost hear his voice anyway: Don’t listen to the old man, gorgeous. He just wants my dragon ‘cause he doesn’t have one of his own.
Your chest feels too small, your pulse hammering against your ribs. “You—you can’t mean that. Sukuna’s not a weapon. He’s not—”
“He’s a Night Fury,” Yaga says. “Do you have any idea what that means? The power he carries? No village could stand against us if he were ours. No trapper would dare threaten us. Berk would be untouchable.”
“He’s not yours,” you say.
Yaga’s gaze flicks past you. “And yet here he stands, listening to your commands. Think, child. You’ve seen the cliffs, the danger at our borders. Berk is one storm away from ruin. I won’t gamble its survival on the whims of a dragon who answers only to Gojo.”
Satoru gives a muffled, derisive laugh that earns him a kick to the ribs. He tips his head back, gag muffling whatever clever retort he tries to spit out.
“Is that why you funded the trappers to surround your own village, Yaga?” you ask, mustering up all the courage you own.
Yaga stills. His boot rests against Satoru’s ribs, his shadow thrown long against the cove wall. His lips twitch beneath his beard—not surprise, not shame. Annoyance.
“You shouldn’t know that,” he says slowly. “The apprentice talks too much.”
“You set them on us. You set them on him.”
A sound splits the night—metal ringing against stone, boots crunching over gravel. From the shadows at the edges of the cove, men appear. Rough-spun leather, ragged furs, nets rolled thick over their shoulders. Their faces gleam with salt and grease, their eyes hungry. Dragon trappers. You know them by the stink alone: fish oil, blood, old smoke. They slip from the dark like wolves, more than a dozen, their movements practiced, circling.
The torchlight catches iron chains coiled in their fists. Hooks. Bolas. Shackles built for wings, not wrists.
“You’re working with them?” you say.
“I’m using them,” the chief says. “They have the means, the tools that I don’t have.”
You think of the maps gone from the hall, the apprentice’s trembling mouth, the sidelong glances of riders who returned without their strongest, without him. Pieces snap into place with a sickening clarity.
“You sold us out,” you whisper again. “You sold him out.”
“I did what I had to. Berk survives because I make hard choices. You, girl—you make sketches. You play at your little maps, but I—I see storms on the horizon. Dragons beyond counting. Trappers fattening themselves on our weakness. Do you think a village of fishers and smiths can stand against that? No. But with a Night Fury—with that beast, Berk rules the seas.”
Sukuna’s growl reverberates through the rock beneath your feet. His pupils pinprick, his wings hitch upward, every line of his body coiled to strike. You know he understands enough: tone, intent, threat. He does not know, yet, how to forgive.
“Tell me,” Yaga says, low and inexorable, “what’s one boy’s life against the safety of a whole people?”
Satoru chooses that exact moment to lurch upright against his bindings, muffling something sharp and entirely unhelpful through the gag. You catch the roll of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin. One boy? Try national treasure, old man.
You almost laugh.
Chains rattle. The trappers are closing in. Their boots scrape the shale, torches lifting higher, nets poised to fly. The scent of pitch and iron stings your nose. There aren’t raiders in passing—they’re hunters, professional, and they’ve been waiting.
You step forward, planting yourself between them and Sukuna’s flank before you even think it through. “If you think he’ll ever obey you, you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” you bite out. “Sukuna isn’t a weapon. He isn’t yours to wield.”
“He will be.”
The nearest trapper lunges. A net arcs through the air, weighted corners sparking as they whip forward. You throw yourself sideways, but you needn’t have bothered—Sukuna’s blast rips it to cinders mid-flight. The explosion lights the cove for a split-second, dazzling white, searing afterimages into your vision. Rock shatters, smoke plumes, men scream.
The Night Fury roars.
The sound is primal, thunder given flesh. Sukuna surges forward, plasma bursting from his jaws in ragged, relentless blasts. Trappers scatter like startled crabs, some diving for cover, others spinning their chains desperately to keep him back. One man screams as his bolas ignite mid-spin, molten metal splattering his arm.
You drop to Satoru’s side in the chaos. He turns his head sharply, eyes catching yours, blue in the firelight, furious and alive. Your fingers fumble at the knots. The rope is soaked with seawater, swollen tight, cutting into your palms as you fight with it.
“Hold still,” you hiss, though he’s hardly moving.
He snorts through his gag. The knot slips at last. The rope slackens, and Satoru jerks his wrists free with a hiss. He tears the gag from his mouth, coughing once before grinning up at you, that same insufferable smile that somehow hasn’t dulled even after being tied and bloodied.
“Miss me?” he drawls.
You shove his shoulder. “Get up.”
“Oh, I plan to.” Satoru’s gaze flicks past you, to Yaga still looming at the centre of it all.
Sukuna lashes his tail, knocking two trappers flat, and whirlls his head back towards you both, plasma building in his throat again. The trappers rally, more of them pouring from the shadows at the mouth of the cove, their nets glowing with oil to withstand fire, their bolas gleaming with sharpened edges meant for wings. Their shadows jitter grotesquely against the cove walls, wolfish and endless. Sukuna’s blasts have rattled them but not broken them—they circle tighter, nets at the ready.
A horn splits the night.
It’s high and keening, rolling down from the cliffs above: Berk’s call to arms.
Shapes tear through the dark sky. Dragons. Not one, not two—a little less than a dozen, wings beating hard, riders silhouetted against the clouds. Their cries cascade through the air—the iron thrum of Nadder wings, the heavy, beating thunder of a Gronckle, the shriek of a Zippleback.
The riders dive. Bolas meant for Sukuna snap backward, suddenly tangled in fire. A trapper screams when a Deadly Nadder’s spines pin his arm to the cove wall. Yaga’s apprentice clings desperately to his dragon—far too small for this fight, a Gronckle, wings buzzing frantically—but his horn blast keeps sounding, rallying the others.
“Traitors!” Yaga bellows. His face is red with fury, veins bulging in his temple. “Do you side with him over your own chief?”
“Over a traitor, yes!” the apprentice shouts back.
The cove fractures into chaos—dragons wheeling, trappers shouting, nets burning in mid-air. Sukuna tears through them, plasma lighting up the night. You turn towards Satoru, only to freeze.
Yaga’s hand clamps down around your arm, thick and brutal, yanking you off your feet. The world spins; your back slams against his chest, his arm like an iron band around you. He drags you towards the cliff’s edge, gravel skittering into the black maw of sea below.
“Stop!” His roar drowns even the dragon cries. “Or she falls!”
Sukuna halts mid-pounce, talons gouging sparks in the stone. The other riders hover, their dragons’ wings beating the air in slow, heavy pulses. Even the trappers hesitate, chains slack in their hands. The sea crashes below, white foam gnashing against the rocks, a drop so sheer it makes you feel nauseous.
Yaga’s breath rasps against your ear. “The Night Fury, girl. Give him to me or you’re gone.”
You twist, fighting against his grip, nails digging into his arm, but he’s immovable, a wall of muscle and conviction. He jerks you closer to the edge, and the heel of your boot slips on loose gravel. Your weight tilts towards the abyss.
Somehow, impossibly, you make eye contact with Satoru—astride Sukuna. His white hair gleams in the torchlight. Sukuna crouches beneath him, plasma pulsing faintly in his throat, tail still twitching.
Satoru’s lips move.
Eighty percent.
You blink, barely comprehending. “What?” you croak out.
Eighty percent.
Suddenly, you know. He wants you to trust him. He wants you to fall. It’s insane. It’s impossible.
The apprentice screams your name from somewhere above. The riders shout warnings. The trappers lunge forward, seeing their chance. Yaga tightens his grip, preparing to hurl you like discarded cargo into the sea.
You make the choice first.
Your knees buckle, and you let yourself go slack. His grip loosens in shock—just enough. You wrench sideways, twist hard against his hold, and throw yourself forward into the air.
The sea roars up to meet you. Wind tears your scream to shreds. There’s only the black water yawning wide, jagged rocks slick with foam—until Sukuna dives down, his wings folded tightly. He rockets down the cliff face, plasma sparking in his jaws. You glimpse Satoru’s silhouette against the stars, leaning low in the saddle, eyes locked on you.
The air sears past your skin, the spray of the sea already stinging your face. Claws close around you.
Sukuna’s talons scoop you from the air. The force of it nearly rips the breath from your lungs, but the relief, the sheer surge of it, blinds you more than the wind. He angles upward in a steep climb, wings snapping wide, hauling you clear from the rocks and the ravenous waves.
You’re pressed tightly against his chest, his claws curled just enough to cage you without harm, his scales hot with exertion. Above you, astride the saddle, Satoru twists in his seat, grinning down at you.
“See?” he calls. “Told you. Eighty percent.”
You want to kiss him. You also want to scream. Instead, all you manage is a hoarse, furious, “You’re an idiot!”
Your first kiss with Satoru Gojo occurs because of Sukuna.
Not because you wanted it to. Gods, no. You’d rather have wrestled a Gronckle with one arm tied behind your back than admit you were even remotely tempted by the smirk plastered across Satoru’s stupid face. But Sukuna, traitorous beast that he is, decided that enough was enough.
It starts when the Night Fury refuses to let either of you down. You’re sore from the fight, ribs aching where Yaga had grabbed you, salt still drying and sticking to your skin. You’ve been through enough for one night, and all you want is the ground. Just solid ground beneath your feet.
Sukuna, it seems, has other ideas.
He lands not on the village cliffs, not near the dragon pens, but on the highest bluff overlooking Berk. A windswept place where he knows neither of you can escape quickly. He lowers his head, eyes narrowing with that calculating look he always gets when he’s three steps ahead of everyone else.
You try to slide off the saddle. His tail lashes, blocking your path.
“Really?” you snap, shoving at the scaled wall of muscle. “I’ve had enough for today.”
“He just doesn’t want us to leave,” Satoru supplies. “Can you blame him? We make such a great team.”
You whirl on him. “You nearly got yourself killed.”
“Nearly. Keyword.”
Your teeth grind. The wind snaps your hair into your eyes, the sea growls far below, and Satoru is—well, Satoru. All flippant grins and infuriating calm, as if Yaga’s betrayal, the trappers, the near loss of Sukuna, none of it left so much as a scratch on his spirit.
You jab a finger at his chest. “You think this is funny? You were gagged and tied and—”
“—and you swooped in and saved me,” he says. “Admit it, you couldn’t stand to see me suffer.”
“You—” you splutter. “I— That’s not—”
Sukuna rumbles, wings settling around you both like a barricade. His eyes gleam faintly in the dark, twin garnets pinning you where you sit. You realise too late: he’s cornered you.
Satoru tilts his head. “You hear that? He’s saying we should kiss and make up.”
“He is not,” you say flatly.
“He definitely is,” Satoru insists. He leans in just slightly, enough to test the boundaries, enough for your heart to betray you by stumbling over itself. “C’mon. Wouldn’t want to upset him. He’s had a rough day too.”
You glare, but the problem is that Sukuna seems to agree. He nudges the both of you closer with the blunt force of his snout, nearly toppling you into Satoru’s lap. The dragon huffs smoke, satisfied, before curling into the stone and laying his head flat as though to say, Now behave.
You should shove Satoru away. You should storm off, make the climb down the cliffs yourself, risk the dark. Anything but this.
The adrenaline of the fight still thrums through your veins. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since you saw him bound on his knees, blood dripping from his temple, smirking like a madman even then. You remember the feel of the ropes cutting your palms as you freed him, the wild terror that maybe you’d been too late.
Maybe that’s why you don’t shove him away. Maybe that’s why you let him close the distance, why your lips meet his halfway in a kiss that’s less a decision and more a consequence, inevitable as the tide.
It’s clumsy, at first. You’re too angry, he’s too smug. But he softens into it, just a little, and you hate the way the ground seems to tilt under your feet, how the world narrows to salt air and warmth and the reckless promise of him.
When you finally break apart, breathless, Satoru grins like he’s just won a war.
“Knew you liked me,” he says, blue eyes sparkling.
You shove him hard in the shoulder, though your face burns. “That was for Sukuna,” you say.
The dragon rumbles again, smug as any beast can be. Satoru only laughs, tipping his head back, and pulls you in for another kiss.
It’s ecstatic, the feel of Satoru’s tongue lapping at your folds.
His tongue is wet and hot as it laps over the sensitive nerves, and you can feel the way he hums happily as he laps at the juices that drip onto his waiting mouth. You’re sure his face is going to be covered in your slick by the end of this, but it seems like he couldn’t care less, if his moans and groans are any indication. Your fingers tangle in his white strands of hair, gripping hard to keep him where you want him. His arms are wrapped around your legs, keeping them open as he feasts on your cunt. You can see the muscles in his back flexing as he tries to get closer, get deeper, and you can only hold on for dear life, feeling the way he drives you higher and higher towards your orgasm.
Satoru is making a mess of himself, and you know he has a thing for being covered in your slick.
The moment the thought passes through your head, you can’t help the cry that escapes, a full-body shiver wracking through your body. He groans into you, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you feel his tongue move in a way that you know has him spelling his name, over and over again. You tug at his hair, trying to move him, but his arms tighten and he doesn’t budge.
You let out a moan, trying to speak. “Satoru, I—I need you. Inside me. Now.”
He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking harshly. “One more, gorgeous. Give me one more, and then I’m all yours.”
You whine, feeling the heat in your stomach build, and Satoru continues to eat you out. Your back arches off the bed, and you grip his hair tighter. Your thighs start to close around him; he lets go of one of your legs to press two fingers into your heat, pressing right into that spot that has you crying out his name, curling his fingers as his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. Your body shakes, and you cry out his name, feeling the way your cunt tightens and throbs around his fingers.
Satoru groans, moving his face away from your core and watching as the aftershocks of your orgasm make your body tremble. He pumps his fingers slowly, prolonging your pleasure, and you whine at the sensitivity.
He smiles softly, kissing the inside of your thigh, before removing his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and licking the juices that cover them. He lets out a pleased moan, eyes locked onto yours, and moves to kiss you.
His lips are warm, and you taste yourself on his tongue. It only serves to rile you up more when you feel the way his cock throbs where it presses against your thigh. You raise your legs to wrap them around his hips, and you push him lightly. Satoru moves willingly, letting out a moan as he lies on his back. He grips the sheets in anticipation, watching as you straddle his lap. He groans, feeling the way your cunt settles on his thighs. You smile, running a finger down his chest, and he bucks his hips in response.
You let out a gasp when the tip of his cock rubs against your folds. He moans.
Satoru’s hands grip your hips tightly, and his thumb rubs circles on your skin. You can feel the way he trembles under you. Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping lightly; he whines. You position the tip at your entrance, rubbing it against your clit, and moan.
“Stop teasing,” he groans, and you grin.
“Or what?” you taunt, grinding against his length. “Are you going to punish me, Satoru?”
He growls, hips jerking upwards. You gasp, feeling the tip rub against your folds, catching at your slit, and try to lower yourself. But Satoru tightens his hold, not letting you sink further onto his cock. You glare at him.
“I should,” he says, and suddenly his arms are around you, flipping you onto your back.
He settles between your thighs, his arms framing either side of your head. His hair falls into his eyes, and you can feel his cock brushing against your folds. You move your arms to wrap around his shoulders, nails scratching lightly down his back.
Satoru groans, burying his head in your neck, nipping lightly.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, feeling his hips jerk.
The tip of his cock rubs against your clit again. He lets out a breathless laugh.
“I will,” he responds—only to be interrupted by a loud, keening wail from outside your cottage door.
The sound is so piercing, so demanding, that for a moment you think some villager has wandered into mortal peril right outside your door. But no—no, you recognise that guttural, almost petulant cry. You and Satoru both freeze.
“Was that—” you start.
Another wail, louder this time, rattles the hinges of your cottage, followed by the unmistakable scrape of claws against wood.
Satoru drops his forehead against your collarbone. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
The Night Fury wails again, insistent, tail thudding against the doorframe. You bite back a laugh, half-giddy, half-exasperated, and say, “I think someone wants attention.”
Satoru lifts his head, hair mussed and eyes narrowed. “He’s the worst cockblock in history,” he mutters. “Tell him to go hunt some haddock or terrorise the chickens, or—Gods, literally anything else.”
The next sound isn’t just a wail. It’s a low, mournful croon that slides under your ribs and squeezes. Sukuna isn’t just loud—he’s lonely.
You soften, even as Satoru makes a strangled noise of despair above you. “Satoru…”
“No,” he says, rolling off you onto his back. “No, no, don’t you dare give him those eyes. He doesn’t deserve those eyes. I was right there, gorgeous—right there.”
You’re already tugging your tunic back over your shoulders, laughing despite the ache in your belly. “He’ll tear the cottage down if we don’t.”
Satoru throws an arm over his face, groaning into the crook of his elbow. “I hate him. I actually hate him.”
But when you slip to the door and crack it open, Sukuna is there, his massive head lowered to the threshold, those garnet eyes glowing with expectation. He snorts the moment he sees you, bumping his snout against your chest.
“Alright, alright,” you murmur, your hands automatically smoothing over his warm snout. “Head pats. Happy?”
Sukuna rumbles, pressing harder into your palm. Satoru groans again. “Unbelievable. My dragon just stole my girl. I’m doomed.”
You glance over your shoulder to find him sprawled on the bed, hair a disaster, chest heaving, the blankets thrown over the lower half of his body. He’s sulking. You grin.
“Maybe he just knows when to step in,” you tease, scratching gently at Sukuna’s scales.
“Step in? He barged in.”
Sukuna lets out a little huff and nuzzles harder against your hand.
Satoru groans once more, louder this time, dragging the pillow over his face. “I’m moving out.”
a/n: thanks for reading! i have a habit of turning sukuna into animals lol he was also a horse in my old gojo tangled!au
It's your ten year high school reunion and there's just one person you're don't want to see, your first love - Satoru Gojo. He was the football captain, you were the cheerleader, it was that high school love that consumed you, only for it to all fall apart when Satoru broke your heart. Even after all these years, you still resent him for it, you hate him, in fact - so how do you two end up in the backseat of his sports car!?
˚⊹♡ pairings- ex bf! gojo x reader
˚⊹♡warnings- a little angsty, past emotions, high school sweethearts, you were a cheer captain and he was an allstar player, flashbacks, idiots in love, insecurities, teasing, mutual pining, longing, oral ( f receiving) fingering, squirting, riding him in the backseat, love confessions, happy ending <3
this one just randomly popped into my head out of nowhere, comments/rbs always appreciated if you enjoy! Wc- 7.3k
Art creds right here!
Ten years - it's been ten years since you saw him, your first love, your first kiss, the first everything.
High school reunion and truly the two of you look the same, he's a little buffer, his shoulders are broader, perhaps his jaw has sharpened ever so slightly - but it's undeniably him and you. Satoru Gojo - the top football player in the school and you - the pretty cheerleader who was always with him.
On him, near him, on top of him in the front seat of his sports car, smacking your head and giggling as he fucked up into you, stretching you out on his cock. He'd been sweet that first time, even as you all snuck around and parked in the middle of nowhere, even with the cramped confines.
Yet he'd been there - kissing you deep, messy and slow, pumping you up and down that veiny length as you took more and more from him, kissing you with his tongue ring clicking against your teeth. You'd whined out, desperately arching for more, shattering and fluttering your eyes shut.
The memories heat you up as you stand there across from him, trembling with your thighs pressed together, nails pressing into your palms, seeing him catching up with all his friends. He'd gone to university, but you'd gone out of state, and that was when it had all fallen apart.
The pain is there, lingering, eating at you - yet those feelings linger, the first love, the youth you all had where you couldn't get enough of each other, just for it all to end.
When those eerie blue eyes catch you across the room, however, he's not smirking, not laughing and shoving his friends, no he's got them locked on you now. Suguru and Nanami pause, peering over at you, then at each other, as you turn and rush to grab a drink.
You can't even stand to be in the same room with him after ten years.
You run into Shoko and Utahime, they give you a hug and the three of you throw back a shot, laughing a bit as you catch up with them.
“You two together, hmm?” Your lips twitch up in amusement, they look at each other and then kiss. “Stop that, you’re making me jealous!”
“Have you decided to stop being into men?”
“No I wish,” you pout and lean back, letting Shoko grab you another shot. “It’s been nothing but hell.”
“Another shithead?” Utahime asks, frowning a bit.
“Yeah, but it was three years…” You shake your head. “I shouldn’t talk about it, I’ll cry again, and I am not crying with Gojo at this party.”
“Ah, Gojo,” Utahime makes Shoko laugh. “What, I can’t stand him!”
“He’s not that bad, just an idiot,” she grabs her pack of cigarettes and starts smacking them on her palm, raising a dark brow as you look over at him, turning quickly when he catches you staring.
“You still have it bad, all these years, sweets?”
“No! Shoko!” You cover your face and shake your head. “Never again, I haven’t even spoken to him.”
“In ten years?” Shoko asks, surprise clear on her features.
“No, I’ve not even been in the country for five years, but he never reached out to me, and neither did I, aside from when his parents were sick and it was on the news. I did write to him, but he just… hearted it. I’m sure he had a lot going on.”
And that fucking hurt, that you couldn’t even comfort him, that you knew he faced a fuck ton of responsibilities now. Yet all these years Satoru hearted one of your photos, and reacted to the only message you sent – you swear the heart must have been a misclick, too.
It hurts so bad, that you were too stubborn to reach out in the darkest times, that he wouldn’t leave your memories. Sure – it faded, you went and got your master’s degree, you went abroad, now you’re back home, though, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d run into him somewhere. Yet, Satoru had been doing a lot of traveling himself this past year.
You’d know, you stalked his IG.
How pathetic after a decade to still want to know about him, but there was nothing to be done – since the breakup you’ve been even more so thinking of him.
Of how nothing ever felt like him touching you, him inside you, him looking at you the way he did. Yet it’s always overshadowed by the fact that you never heard him say those words, just three words that you craved so badly as a young girl. Even now, the words that spill from your lips never feel the same as that confession.
“He takes care of the company now, I think that’s hard for him.”
“He’s still just a dick,” Utahime says to Shoko, she laughs and shakes her head at her. “Sorry, but he is.”
“You two always hated each other,” you muse, peeking again to see him walking over. “Shit!”
“I’m… gonna smoke,” you gasp and Shoko grabs Utahime. “Outside… bye, baby!”
“You brats!” You hiss as they laugh and rush out, you tense as you smell his goddamn cologne the closer he gets.
Bergamot.
It was so distinctly him – even when he had none of it on, his smell on clean skin just did something – especially with raging hormones as a teenager. You clench your thighs just inhaling him, trying to ignore his very presence, but he’s already standing next to you, murmuring your name.
“Gojo.” He raises a brow, he’s just gotten hotter, his jaw is so cut it’s unfair, his blue eyes peeking at you.
Suddenly you’re nervous, tugging at your dress – you’re not eighteen anymore, your tits don’t sit up quite like they did, your hips widened, you’re just… different. And Satoru looks the same, if not more cut.
You become conscious of everything, almost holding your breath as he takes you in, smiling at you. His girl you’d seen him with was a fucking actress, you’re just a small town girl, nothing glamorous. Surely he wanted-
Why do you care what he wants?
Why is he sending you spiraling just coming near you?
“What do you want?” He sighs at that, the cocky grin off his face, easing back when you push at his chest just a bit, hand pausing before you tug it back, staring down into your drink.
“That’s the greeting I get, sweetheart? After a decade?”
“Should just smack you.”
“I’d probably like it,” you snort and roll your eyes, making his tentative little smile come back, sitting next to you. “Can’t I get a hi?”
“Hi,” you narrow your eyes now. “And bye.”
“God you’re mean,” he leans close, lips brushing against your ear, your heart hammers in your chest. “It’s hot on you.”
“You’re so full of it,” you lean back and sip your drink, narrowing your eyes at him. “As if you don’t have a girlfriend or five.”
“Yeah, no,” you raise a brow. “I was engaged, but that was over as of… let’s see,” he calculates in his head. “A month now.”
“Oh,” you frown, looking down at your own finger, the little change of color where the band once was. “Me too, but like two months.”
“Shit, I’m sorry,” you shrug a bit, seeing his eyes dart to your finger.
“He fucked my former best friend – and she got pregnant.”
“What!?”
“Yeah,” you throw back the rest of your wine, shaking your head. “Go ahead, laugh at it.”
“Why would I fucking do that?” You look at him and feel your heart pound in your chest at his face, at how he looks at you in that moment.
Fuck you missed him, didn’t you?
“You were mean then,” you whisper, and he falters, looking down, hurt clear on his features. “So mean to me at the end.”
“I know that,” it kills him to think of then, how upset he had been that you weren’t going to his university, the sheer upset of you moving, the fear of how desperately in love he was already.
He never even got to tell you.
His parents were pushing him to marry even back then, and it was anyone but you – a pretty middle class girl wasn’t up to ‘their standard’. It had killed him to try to keep up with that, but even so he never wanted to lose you – though he was scared shitless by what he felt for you, by the sheer obsession he had.
Even ten years ago he was searching for you, pictures of you where you’d moved, trying to keep tabs – fuck, last year he saw you with that fiance and almost got sick from it. His fiance was just someone his parents pushed enough, and with him having to take over their place soon, he’d gone along with it.
It’s not like he could ever love anyone after you.
There was nothing like what he felt, countless women underneath him, on top of him, bent over with their asses arched, but nothing came close to the breathless way he held you, how your lips brushed together. He wondered often if it was because you were his first love, you were so many of his firsts, no he wasn’t a virgin, but he didn’t do all the things you two did before you.
Before that it was awkward, fumbling around, he’d usually been so nervous he’d let the girls take the lead, but everything about you made him want to – the way you fell apart when he learned to eat pussy with every flick of his tongue on you. You didn’t know that, of course, he ended up being sort of a prodigy at it rather quickly.
Satoru may have been a jock, but he was also very much a nerd at heart, so he studied it all extensively – porn wasn’t even for jerking his cock, it was to learn how to make you squirt. It was to make his girlfriend feel good.
Satoru was good at making you cum.
Yet he failed in so many other areas of your relationship – royally failed, especially that day you said good bye at the airport, and he was so very fucking hurt by you. It rushes through his head – and is if he is on the same wavelength –you say it softly.
“That day at the airport, I can’t forget that,” you shake your head. “Call me petty, a ten year long grudge holder, I agree.”
“You’re not…” He trails off then, cupping your face in a way he shouldn’t.
How does Satoru remember your scent still? After a decade it’s as vivid as ever, the scent that if he even caught a whiff of it he’d search for you, even now.
That’s what scared him the most – how obsessed he was then.
How hopeless in love he was, and scared of getting hurt – only to hurt you.
*****
Ten years ago
You were trembling, tears streaming down your face – you get it, why Satoru didn’t think long distance could work, some fucking promise to be friends, but staring at him now has you furious. You see him holding back, his own eyes glassy with unshed tears, fists clenched at his sides.
“You’re happy I’m going far away,” you whisper, clutching your luggage as he glares.
“I’m not fucking happy, what?”
“You are,” you laugh then, swiping at your cheeks, hating those trails that revealed just how upset you were. “Why’d you take me here? To make the break up more permanent?”
“I don’t want to…” He didn’t want to lose you, it’s on the tip of his dumb ass eighteen your old brain to say it.
– I don’t want to lose you. –
Yet those words never spill – he just cups your face, thumb brushing a tear away, looking into the face of the girl he’s terrified of. He’s scared to feel it all, to lose you to someone, to be put under all that pressure to marry and cause you more pain. Then he didn’t truly know how to handle it.
“Wanted to feel better by saying goodbye?”
“We were friends for years before this,” he desperately cups your face, leaning low as the rush of people walk past you all, headed toward their flight, and the attendant is making her announcements. “I just want what’s best for you, how would us being across the country ever going to be okay?”
“I’d have made it work,” you had shut your eyes, tugged him close by his letterman’s jacket, the one you used to wear all the time after you both went on dates. He’d wrap it all around your shoulders, enveloping you in that scent, the warmth. Now it’s a cruel joke to have it underneath your fingers.
“I’m your first boyfriend, what if you…” He had swallowed down that bile in his throat at the thought. “What if you regret only being with me, what if you wanted more experience?”
“You think that?” You asked, lost in his eyes, unsure how he thinks you’d ever want a boy but him. “No, I-”
‘Boarding flight 111 now, five minutes to board.’
You curse, turning to leave when he slams his lips down on yours, and for just a moment you’re done for, you’re melting in his arms, hands slipping up his chest as he presses you right against one of the pillars, uncaring of who walked by. You meet his kisses, exhaling and letting his tongue slide in, the familiar barbell dancing on the roof of your mouth.
His hands are firm on your waist, pulling back and looking down at you. “I’m doing this for you.”
You glare then, shoving at him. “For me!? Leaving me?”
“You’re the one leaving!”
“No, I’m going to college, you’re the one who won’t try! I can’t believe I let you kiss me again!” you rush off and he grabs your wrist, you jerk back and glare up at him again. “I’m done. Satoru, just let me go – don’t hurt me more.”
“I don’t want you to-”
“You don’t know what you want,” he lets your wrist go, his own eyes glazing over with emotion, pretty even under the harsh lights of the airport. “You don’t get to tell me what I’ll want in the future, you don’t get to decide that for me, and you sure don’t get to tell me that this is ‘for my own good’. It hurts, and you have to deal with that.”
“Please, just,” you can’t. You can’t fall into his arms, how would you let him go? “Just keep talking to me, keep-”
“It’ll kill me,” you stepped forward and tiptoed then, kissing his lips softly, tasting the salt of both your tears. “It’ll kill me to have to talk to you when I can’t have you.”
“Sweetheart-”
“I love you,” he faltered then, you’d not said it because he hadn’t, but there was no stopping it now. “I’ll miss you, Toru.”
You rushed off before he could say anything, tears hot down your cheeks, Satoru had rushed to catch you, but you were…
Gone.
*****
“I shouldn’t have broken up with you,” you pause, leaning back in shock. “Though now you’re probably glad I did.”
“You… you’re… saying sorry?”
“Is it so surprising?” He rubs the back of his neck, you’re in shock clearly. “Guess so, I wasn’t one to admit I was wrong then.”
“Why do you say you shouldn’t have?” He sips his own drink, eyes shutting for a moment. “You feel bad how it happened?”
No, Satoru knows he’ll never feel that way about anyone – and a decade of loneliness has only made him regret that shit more. He could have three babies with you by now, have given you anything you wanted – he stalks your pages, he knows you work constantly, and he loves that. But another part of him wishes you didn’t have to, that you were taken care of.
You’d probably smack him and call him a misogynist for that shit, and he loves that about you.
He still loves that girl from high school, the woman sitting here with her face just a bit more defined, with her tits so soft and pretty looking, hips he bets would feel so good to grab as he bent her over. Thighs that he has to touch, they just look too smooth with whatever shimmery lotion you put on them.
He gives into the urge, fingertips brushing on your skin, eliciting a shaky little breath from your lips, your eyes catching each other. “Yeah, you could say I feel bad about how I did it. I never said…”
He’s not really gonna apologize is he?
“Shh,” you put a finger to his lips, he smirks a bit. “Don’t make me like you, Toru.”
“Toru, fuck, been forever since I heard that,” he grins all dopey and cute, taking your wrist in his hand, long fingers wrapping it. He presses a little kiss to your fingers, a gesture he used to do forever ago, pausing as it feels too natural.
“I don’t want to like you.” He nods a bit, thumb brushing over your knuckles, eyeing the place where that ring was.
“He was an idiot.”
“Yeah?”
“I’d know, I’m a big fucking idiot,” you laugh a bit, nodding. “Don’t agree with me!? Brat.”
“Well, you are,” you sigh then, he nips your finger hard with his sharp ass teeth, and Shoko and Utahime walk back in, watching you both.
You have the eyes of your entire graduating class on you both.
Satoru and you, the perfect couple – that perky cheerleader and the star player, voted in the yearbook to be the best couple in fact, most popular, the best looking, you name it. You and Satoru won so many they had to give them to other people – and all for what?
To hate looking at your yearbook?
To look at how happy you were?
“Do you ever wonder…” He eases your hand down now, but he doesn’t let it go. “If it was just the first love, the hormones, the high school puppy love?”
“Puppy love…” You’ve never even heard him say that word – love. Though he means it differently, it gets you. “I guess everyone’s first love is kind of epic.”
“Nah, not really,” he sips on his drink, a little droplet clinging to his lips, one of his thighs brushing against yours and you barely hold back a gasp at the contact. “I haven’t found many people that had… what we did.”
“A toxic ass relationship, nasty breakup?”
“That was some of it,” he admits, heart racing like he’s some inexperienced boy and not a grown man – you just make him feel that way.
“Yes I wonder,” you sigh, admitting it finally. “I wonder if it was hyped up in my head, if the nostalgia and the… pain of you breaking up mess with me more. All the what ifs.”
“I hurt you.” It’s a quiet little statement.
“You hurt me, and I hated you,” he looks down where your hand brushes on his thigh, covering it with his huge one. “You were a dick.”
“I know, I just-” you lean forward and kiss him before you can stop yourself, making him tense up, his hand on the small of your back tugging close as he relaxes into it, exhaling against your lips. You pull back with a little dazed look, lips glossy. “What did I do to deserve that?”
“I was trying to see if that’s what it was,” you whisper softly. “Puppy love.”
“Ah,” he tilts your chin up, kissing you again, your earrings fall back, brushing the side of your neck as he tugs you close until your ass is half off that barstool. “We should see, yeah? If it’s just nostalgia.”
“Yeah just for um… closure,” he laughs a bit, and you glare. “Closure and I’m horny and single.”
“I’ll take it,” fuck he’d take any of you. “For true nostalgia we should…”
He’s kissing down the side of your neck, your eyes flutter closed as his mouth leaves a wet trail, his tongue flicking over your racing pulse. You cling so tightly, it’s hard to let go, whining out and arching your hips, thankful there is loud music reverberating all over.
Satoru heard it, though, leaking pre and pulsing from your taste, your scent, the softness of your skin.
Fuck he can’t ever do this and hope to be ‘normal’.
But there was no way he didn’t take one night with you.
“Should what?” You murmur, biting down on your lip when he gently nips behind your ear, your nails cling to his jacket tightly.
“For old times sake, I’d say we go to my car,” you laugh then, shaking your head as he pulls back, kissing your lips again. “Lemme drink your pretty little cunt up again, finger you till you squirt all over my new seats.”
Fuck.
Fuck him, really.
“In your car? Are we in high school?” He looks around and you laugh then, shaking your head. “Fine, but I’m not as flexible, I haven’t tumbled since college.”
“I bet you still are,” he teases. “Used to fold you right in-”
“Now.”
“Now?” You hop down with his help, turning and just walking. “Wait!”
It’s moments and you all are devouring each other, stumbling against the cool brick wall outside as the night air brushes against your skin, you’re shivering as he walks you to his car – by walking, that meant him carrying your ass, cock pressing your needy cunt as your thighs wrap his hips.
The car is nicer than his in high school – a fancy ass Audi – you aren’t one to know anything about cars, but the damn thing looked like it was exactly what Satoru would drive. The expensive leather hits your senses as he slides you in, your mouths are all over each other, needy and desperate.
"Missed this," you almost don’t believe it, that he ever could, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before trailing his mouth down your jaw. "Missed you."
“You don’t…”
“No?” You sigh, shaking your head as Satoru shifts, maneuvering you both until you're lying back across the wide seats, his body covering yours, an even heavier weight than you remembered, pinning you down with his hand on your wrists, his mouth claiming yours in a bruising, possessive kiss.
It's a tight fit even with how surprisingly big the interior is, the cramped space reminding you of every stolen moment you had in his old car, sneaking before curfew, fuck you two would ditch school and go drive in that car, you’d lay your feet in his lap and just let him drive you around with the tops down. The memory of his smile, of his laugh, of his kisses all come together as he captures your very breath.
This isn't the sweet, messy kissing of teenage versions of you and Satoru – this is pent up need, a decade of frustration poured into a single, desperate kiss, his hands all over you, huge palms taking you over. Satoru’s tongue is delving in and out of the hot recesses of your mouth, tongue gliding right along yours, the click of his tongue ring against your teeth shooting every bit of memory back.
God you remember when he pierced it.
You remember him buying that vibrating tongue ring so he could eat your pussy out – and oh, he did it every time he could, no one has made you feel that way since, no one could figure your body out like him. The nostalgia hits as much as the need, the pleasure, your nails digging into the corded muscles of his shoulders over his dress shirt.
“Need more,” you whisper out, pausing then as he looks at you under his lashes. “Just tonight, right?”
He doesn’t say anything – as if he’d take only one night and be fine with that.
"Fuck, I've thought about this so often it’s pathetic," he laughs out without humor, hands slipping up your hips and bunching that little dress up your hips.
“You thought of me?” You ask, and he stares at you then – swollen lips all pretty and glossy in the night, ruining him.
You don’t think he remembers?
You don’t think he regrets it all?
He kisses you softer, nipping a plump lower lip between his sharp teeth, drinking up your little gasp. "Thought about this mouth, this body, the way you used to squirt all over me."
“Satoru…” You shake your head, moaning softly when he tugs your neckline down, hands squishing your pretty tits. “You don’t mean it.”
“No?” You shake your head, eyes rolling back in your skull when his tongue swirls around your nipple ever so slowly, tongue ring flicking that sensitive peak. “You think I forgot you, huh?”
“I know you did, ah!” His fingers find you, sliding your panties aside and swiping up and down in that mess. “Toru…”
“God please,” he’s plunging them inside you, she clamps right down, spasming as he finds that spot he remembers in those tacky walls, watching your face as he presses over and over. “Call me that again.”
“Sh-should call you dickhead,” he laughs breathlessly, curving those fingers again so that your head smacks back, almost hitting the handle in the car door, he kisses your lips as he fucks his fingers into you, the stretch making you ache. “Ngh!”
“Tight as ever, god, how…” he marvels as he plays with your cunt, all pretense gone when he looks down at you, breaking the kiss, breathless from you. “I’ve thought of you an embarrassing amount of times.”
“Don’t say it,” you sniffle just a bit. “I can’t handle it.”
“The truth?”
“I can’t believe you thought of me too…” You trail off, emotional even as you are soaking wet and needy, Satoru keeps kissing down, lower, lower, feeling his breath against your skin makes you jolt. “You didn’t.”
“I did, sweetheart, I missed this so much, the sounds you make… how soaking wet you got,” he’s running his thumb on your clit, gauging your reaction, shoving your thighs even higher. “How pretty you looked when you fell apart f’me.”
“You can’t remember,” he sighs and watches you get closer, getting you so, so close until he knows it’s not enough. He’s shoving you up, damn near folding you in half. “Ah! Toru I can’t bend like that?!”
“No?” he murmurs, big hands gripping your thighs bruisingly, pushing them up and apart, you blink a bit, gasping when he’s licking the trails of slick from your inner thigh, inhaling your cunt and bumping your clit affectionately almost. “God, your scent drives me fucking crazy, why do you have to smell s’good?”
“Do I? I – ah! Satoru, what are you…" He places an open mouthed kiss on your messy, dripping entrance, peeking up at you. “You’re um…”
“I’m starving,” he teases softly, kissing it again, you feel that pleasure shoot up your body until you’re dizzy, weak from it, so exposed to him when he tugs those panties further aside, on one side of those puffy lips. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen.”
“No…”
“Yeah, and I’ve seen alot,” you glare and he chuckles, resting his hands on those knees and flicking his tongue to gather the drops of arousal falling down between your slit. “What, ya jealous?”
“No!?” Yes.
“No?”
“No,” he smirks just a bit and then he folds you in half, those broad shoulders pressing against the backs of your thighs, forcing your knees to your chest, your dress hopelessly shoved up.
“See? Still a cheerleader,” you want to laugh but you’re smushed.
“I so am not, ah!” You're completely exposed to him then, utterly vulnerable in a way that makes you nervous.
“Relax,” he says then, softly, peeking up at you and kissing your inner thigh. “If you want me to stop, just tell me. It was enough I got to kiss you again.”
You falter, that boy you fell in love with – the sweet, nerdy one? The jock who was also an entire nerd? Goofy and yet ultimately serious Satoru Gojo, leaning his head against your inner knee, nuzzling you damn near. You’re weak then, as every feeling you’ve shoved down for over a third of your life comes back full force.
“We can go back in, or just look at the stars,” he eases up, and sees how nervous you are. “You’re so beautiful, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not in high school now,” you whisper, he eases up your body then, brushing your cheek and shaking his head.
“Neither am I, sweetheart.”
“Yet you look even better-”
“You’re even sexier, even prettier than the first time I saw you,” you kiss him again, lost in his every kiss, his every touch, afraid that he’ll just disappear, clinging to him so tightly you don’t know if you can ever let go. “You are.”
“You haven’t seen me all naked…”
“I wanna,” he grins and you giggle, even as he’s kissing up your cheeks. “I wanna see every part of you.”
God you can’t take it – it feels just like that first date all over again. “Yeah?”
“Mhm,” he slides your dress up and off you then, breath catching as he takes in your body – you’ve only gotten sexier, it’s so evident when he just looks down at you, folded in half in his damn car and the prettiest thing he’s seen.
You cover yourself a bit then ease your hands off, breasts rising and falling as Satoru looks at you, his gaze heating you up before his fingers can touch. “You’re seeing all of me.”
“I am,” he grips a tit and squishes it in his hand, that familiar barbell flicking an areola, having your back arch in the cramped confines of the car, still humming softly underneath you. “Is it bad if I say I jerked it to your IG?”
“Satoru!” He’s chuckling now, grinning all big as you smack at him. “We were having a touching moment!?”
“Yeah I know,” he’s back down between your thighs, shoving them high and sighing.
“Did you really?” His lips curve up in amusement, watching your slick pussy drip down.
“You love that, huh?”
“No!?”
Yes.
“How often?” He’s laughing now.
“I’m not tellin’ ya, no way.”
“Hmmph,” he’s too gone then, every bit of this moment the very thing he’s searched for.
He could have had it.
He’ll think of that later, the hot regret of letting you go, of being young and dumb and then too fucking stubborn, for now you’re his, underneath him, looking up in that way that you used to – like he was the very stars in the sky. The ones peppering the sky overhead and shining through that little sky light in his car, illuminating your pretty body for his gaze.
“A lot. Happy?” He whispers, you just bite your lip, not answering, letting his lips graze your entrance once more.
“Satoru!” Your eyes roll back in your skull, pleasure shooting as the tip of that tongue swirls your clit lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world.
"Look at this pretty little cunt," he breathes out softly, feeling your slick coat his tongue, lapping another filthy stripe achingly slow. "Still so fucking perfect.”
“You d-don’t have to…”
“S’perfect,” he whispers, holding back what he truly wants to say.
Mine.
You’re not his, he can’t get possessive and psychotic, even when faced with your winking hole and the soft give of your thighs underneath his fingertips. He buries his face in you, his mouth hot and messy as it drinks up every bit of those juices your pussy is pouring, lavving a broad, flat stripe up your slit and slurping you up, eliciting the prettiest whines for his ears.
“Mmm, that’s it,” he whispers, flicking his tongue on your clit and groaning as he parts those lips. “She’s jumpin’ all around, fuck… look at her.”
You cry out, your fingers tangling in the soft white strands of Satoru’s hair, only for him to place them on your thighs, looking at you in that way only Satoru Gojo can.
“Hold ‘em up f’me,” he’s slurring, mouth just full of that messy cunt, swallowing it as he watches you do just that. “Good girl.”
Fuck him.
Fuck him truly and completely, for what those damn words do to you, how they have you a needy mess for him. He groans at the sight of your manicured nails pressing on the back of your thighs, the vibrations rushing on your pretty pussy, and then his tongue is inside you, fucking your hole as if he’s never forgotten how.
“Toru!” You’re quivering, thighs threatening to close, he breathes , that barbell smacking your spongy spot over and over, with the same intensity he used to use with his cock.
Your first time with him flits through your mind, he’d made sure to lick your pussy for thirty minutes, even then he’d been worried he’d hurt you – even then he’d eased into you, watching your every movement. That Satoru and this one merge – the jock and the cheerleader now gro business people.
But you’re still just the two of you.
He's lavishing every crevice, every bit of your cunt like it’s worship – his tongue, his lips, the sharp edge of those fangs of his scraping against your clit just making you scream out, weak from it. He bites it again, groaning as your juices spill over his mouth, his chin, down his neck.
Satoru wants to drown in you.
"You like that, huh?" he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin glistening embarrassingly with how much you’re gushing. He swirls two fingers down it, raising a thin white brow. "Like me eating this pussy?”
“Yes… ah!” He’s curving his fingers up, rutting his cock along the leather seats, dying to bury it inside you.
“Missed this, didn't you? Missed my tongue on you?"
You can only nod quickly and let out a pathetic little moan, wishing you could play coy or tease – but how can you, when he’s taking you over. One hand pumping fingers into you, his tongue finding your clit again, sucking it into his mouth with a mean little hum, and the cold metal of his tongue ring just flicking.
“Toru! I’m so… I’m…”
He pulls back and sighs.
You’re so beautiful like this.
“Cum for me,” he says softly, curving up one more time, and you shatter for him, peak crashing into you so hard you see stars – ones that aren’t the ones hanging in the sky. No, they’re right behind your eyelids, pussy spasming as moans escape those lips that hold you in that kiss.
Satoru eases back, curving his fingers a few more times, every slide sensitive. “Please…”
“Please what, baby?” He whispers – he hadn’t called you that since the last time you saw him, brushing your hair back and kissing you, your juices spilling into your own mouth with a push of his tongue.
“Need you.”
“I’m here-”
“Need more,” he pauses, blushing a bit and making you giggle. “What, you think I don’t want more?”
“I didn’t know,” he trails off now, sitting up and dragging you on his lap, undoing his zipper as you’re on your knees, head smacking the ceiling, Satoru chuckles and puts his hand right over it, sighing. “You want my cock inside you?”
“You’re such a jerk,” he grins now, running his hands down your waist. “You gonna make me say it?”
“Nah but it’d be fun to hear,” he frees his cock, watching the blush dance across your cheeks when faced with his pearly pink cock, thick and veiny, leaking all that white. You gather some and swirl it on your thumb, sucking it off. “God…”
It’s moments when he’s got you positioned on his cock, slamming you down in one mean stroke, filling you so full you feel him everywhere – in your stomach, so fucking deep your cervix hurts. But fuck you want it, you want more, but he holds you down for a moment, hands brutal on your hips.
“Fuck, don’t move yet,” he barely bites out those words, looking up at you underneath that fringe of lashes, breaths coming in short pants, fogging up all the car windows. “Please, baby. Hold on a sec.”
“Feel good, Toru?” You tease, he glares and bites your shoulder. “Ah! Sharp t-teeth…”
“Jus’ stay here for a minute,” he’s mumbling against your skin, exhaling at the feeling of your pussy wrapping around his cock. “You’re so warm, so tight… god you feel s’good…”
You’re holding there, cunt gripping him so tight he’s gonna bust, and he was not doing that after ten damn years. He has stamina now, he can’t bust inside you in one minute – has it even been a minute!?
“Wanna move, please,” you’re damn near whining, wriggling as he pins you even more firmly. “Toru!”
“You’re bratty still,” he murmurs, lifting you up and slamming you back down, that mess of slick pouring all over. “You want me to cum in three pumps?”
You blush then, realizing that one key thing – he’d never cum inside you, the two of you were careful to make sure it never happened. “I um… inside me?”
“Only if you wanted… god imagine breeding your cunt,” you suck in a breath as his hands press into your hips. “Breedable fucking hips, bet you’d have so many babies for me.”
“Babies!?”
“God yes, bet you’d give me three, hah…” he’s fucking lost it now, fucking up into your cunt, your head smacks his ceiling, your hand up to brace yourself as he begins to move, feet planted on the floor of the car, cock gliding in and out of your mess even faster. “Sorry baby.”
“Sorry? You’re psychotic, j-just once,” he holds you down and runs his thumb on your clit then, watching your eyes flutter closed as you cum again, this time milking him. “Ngh!”
“So beautiful, fuck,” he’s looking right at you with those blue eyes, your arms wrap his neck, letting him lift you up and down him, huge hands just using you, you’re quivering around him, cunt squelching in the backseat of that car, his lips slamming on yours and drinking down your whines.
You hear the faint noises of the party with your ringing ears, his thumb brushing faster, your tits bouncing right in his face. “Breed k-kink tracks for you…”
He chuckles, grinning up at you, painting those pretty patterns until you’re overstimulated, thighs twitching on either side of his hips, the open leather belt pressing on your heated skin. His lips are swollen when his tongue runs across them, as if to catch any lingering juices he can, his brows drawing together as he gets closer, cheeks flushed pink in the dark.
“Should I pump you full? Hmm?” Your answer is to roll your hips, making his own eyes shut, those fluffy lashes sweeping across his cheeks. He’s pinning you down, slipping that thumb in between your lips and letting you suck as his cock twitches. “I used to jerk it to your cheer pictures b-before we w-went out…”
“Toru, you freak,” you’re breathless, struggling to take that stretch, whining out as his veiny length brushes your walls, white pre kissin’ your cute little cervix with every pump. “You did?”
“Yeah,” he’s full of confessions, you guess, but that one has you blushing, even mid fuck, giggling a bit until he slams hard, your head falling back. “You love it.”
“Cum inside,” he moans – you don’t have to tell him twice – cock pumping your hole full, so much your walls are just coated, those puffy ropes flooding you. “Ah!”
You’ve never been so full, his warmth rushing in hot and sticky as you kiss him desperately, needy, shaking as your teeth click together, your mouths messy and dripping saliva. It’s filthy, the sounds of your whines mixing with the squishing and clicking of his cock pumping impossibly more, his moans filling your mouth, tongues dancing along each other as his cock keeps twitching.
“F-fuck…” He’s whimpering in your ear as he holds you tight, burying his face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapping your waist as he bucks his hips up and fucks more cum inside you. “God I love you.”
“Wha-? Huh?” You must be fucked out and hearing shit, you barely blink any sense into yourself, as he pulls back, looking at you and sighing.
“I should have said it then, not let you leave thinking…” He swallows now, cupping your face with one hand, thumb slipping across your cheek reverently. “That I didn’t.”
“You can’t… I didn’t… you…” You’re trembling now as it all hits, breaths mingling as you hardly hold back. “You did then?”
“Of course I fucking loved you, how couldn’t I?” You kiss him then, tears slipping down between your mouths, salty on his tongue as his hand slips up the curve of your spine, the two of your hearts racing in your own ears. “I never stopped.”
“Don’t say that…” You pull back now, hands on his wrists. “That’s impossible, it’s been t-ten years and… you don’t know me now, and…”
“Do you still love me?” He asks, voice breaking, still intimately joined with you, easing you off and eyeing the mess that pours, sighing. “Fuck I shouldn’t ask that.”
“Yes,” he blinks a bit, looking up in shock as you go back to sitting on his lap, cunt pouring him right back down on his cock. “I never stopped loving you, even though I hated you, too. I hated you so much for so long… but I never quit loving you, Satoru.”
“I hated me too, s’okay,” you shake your head. “I did, for being so dumb. For letting you go – pushing you away.”
“We were so young, Toru… so young.”
“There was all that time we could have had this,” he sighs now, nose brushing yours, looking into your eyes with utter devotion. “I can’t let you go again. I can’t let this be once, this? I’ve never felt anything close to you.”
“I know…” you’re kissing again, forgetting about anything else, and soon you’re in Satoru’s pretty penthouse, fucked out after he’d lifted you right up on that glass, so many stories up.
After he’d ate his cum out of you, and you’d lapped your pussy off – after your friends started texting you both, making sure you’re all right since you two had disappeared. After Satoru orders you food, and the two of you are laughing in bed, and you’re in one of his big shirts, does he bring out that jacket, making you pause.
“Toru…”
“This was yours,” he exhales and throws it over your shoulders, tugging the lapels closed and kissing your head. You’re all flushed and pretty, your hair a tangled mess, that mascara long gone, swallowed by that letterman’s jacket. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
“I get to keep it this time?” You tease, but the emotions are rushing still, tummy fluttering as you toy with the snaps, the familiar scent bringing you right back.
Synopsis. Five times Gojo Satoru - the hottest k-pop idol right now - gets exposed for wanting you, his pretty, totally-not-girlfriend best friend. And the one time he gives them headlines to talk about.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, idol!Gojo, k-pop idol au, 5 + 1 things, best-friends-to-Iovers, PINING, dispatch, fandom shenanigans, lie detector tests, variety shows, ISAC, he’s SO down bad, matíng presses, oraI (fem. rec.), spítting, chokíng, p sIapping, Gojo’s tongue píercing, PÚSSYDRÚNK Gojo, manhandIing, semi-public, he’s BIG, tummy buIges, D slipping, running from it, bIindfolds, talking you through it, first times (Gojo’s), creampíes, cúmplay, getting together, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 11.8k
A/N. Guess who’s back from the beach-each and watched Kpop Demon Hunters-
“And here we have the goddess, the myth, the-”
It would take quite the feat to leave Gojo Satoru - self-proclaimed king of idols (debatable), world-class chatterbox (not debatable) - of all people gaping soundlessly at his screen.
For a second. Two. Three- before he’s sputtering at the blur of incoming comments, “O-oi! Don’t you lil’ perverts think you can get away with flirting with my best friend.” Arms crossed, he nods seriously at his fanbase, “Even I don’t get away with flirting with my be-”
“Satoru, they’re about to cut the cameras.”
“A joke. Obviously.” Smooth. Ever-so-smooth, Gojo’s flashing a winning smile at his stern-faced manager behind the tripod.
It was hard enough to convince Yaga into letting you join his livestream, but as a near-veteran in the entertainment industry, Gojo knew how to handle a little slip-up like this. He’s got this- “Because I am definitely not in love with my best friend, and am definitely not held hostage to say this.”
“...”
“A…a joke?”
In mild concern, the two of you can only watch as stoic, composed Yaga lets out what sounded like a strangled sob. Before whispering to another PR manager on-site, “Write a company statement.”
“Oi-” Gojo pipes up, “Why would you need a company statement when I’m perfectly- user Fushidaddy type another pick-up line and I’m blocking you.”
The dark-haired man chokes through almost tears, “Just start writing already.”
You try to smooth things over from your seat right beside your best friend, this was not what you’d anticipated after Gojo had practically begged on his knees asking for you to join him in one of his Bubble lives. Then again, what else could you expect from anything to do with him? “Ah, it’s alright. I don’t mind-”
“I do.”
Snowy brows furrowed, he’s leaning in closer to the camera to take in every traitorous word-
satorusxkitten: okay but guys think ab it!! he’s rlly talented but no actor so it’s okay if he’s ass at pretending to not be a simp!! can u blame him??
“Blocked.”
P1BANG: took a shot every time he stares at her thinking he’s slick now I’m at the hospital (this live started 3 minutes ago)
“Blocked.”
Fushidaddy: Pretty girl, blink twice if you’re being held hostage x.
“Blocked and reported what the-” Gojo frowns glancing over at you from the corner of his eyes, (thinking he’s slick, thank you very much). Before catching the way you lean in dramatically to flutter your eyes- “Don’t you dare blink.”
As you’re bursting into ribbing laughter, so are the sheer amount of comments asking about you- and he can’t help but entertain the sneaking suspicion that his own viewers were here simply because of you.
At least, that’s why he would’ve kept watching.
Fushidaddy2: Put us out of this pining misery or end the live, kid.
“I thought I blocked you.”
“Okay then.” You clap your hands once to gain the room’s attention, slightly worried about the blood vessel about to burst near Yaga’s temple. “Satoru, I think you brought me here to do a Q n’ A, right?”
“Well yes…” Gojo’s grumbling underneath his breath - that was the initial plan, to finally introduce one of the most precious parts of him to the fandom.
He just didn’t account for the possibility that everyone on the livestream would fall in love with you - when that was clearly supposed to be his job! “Alright- ask away, and no funny business. I’m looking at you, user Fushidaddy.”
sugu-rizzed: Are you single?
“How dare you-”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” You’re nudging the towering man right next to you, subtly moving his hand off of that treacherous block button. “Lighten up, Satoru—”
“Yes, ma’am. Correct, ma’am.”
What a sight it was.
Honestly, you’re sure you hear at least several management staff gasp at just how easily you’d shut up their arguable star. Being the center of one of the fastest bands to sky-rocket into the k-pop world hadn’t made it any easier for an agent to pose authority over Gojo Satoru - Yaga was barely hanging on by a thread and he submitted at least a few resignation letters every week.
Once the on-set whispers break out, you’re squirming in your seat. Rattling off yet another question-
ge.akuge: what do you think about the allegations of him wearing wigs?
“Well-”
“Blocked.”
KunaLuvrr: does he wear wigs?
stanjutsu: will he wear wigs?
Fushidaddy3: Y’know I don’t wear wigs, baby, x.
“I-”
“You- blocked.”
haibarabias: Did u know he was yapping about you non-stop on the last live?
You’re blinking in slight surprise, turning to Gojo - who’d now stuffed himself into his oversized designer hoodie until you could only make out the tips of his ears. His bright, burning red ears. “Really?” Turning to the feverishly nodding staff at his silence, “Really?”
One of the fresh-faced interns in charge of lighting tries to hold back a squeal, “Y-yeah! We tried to keep a tally of your name to edit on-screen but it went into…the triple…digits- eep!”
“E-hem.” Gojo cuts the newbie off with a slight glare, snitches. The whole lot. “I was just talking to them about what a boor you are and to be prepared-”
realistic.one: liar, you were giggling and kicking your feet the whole time-
“-which you would have known if you actually watched me.” Finishing off with relish, he’s mockingly glowering down at you. The perfect vision of a neglected best friend - if it wasn’t for the way that he was flushed all the way from his cheeks to the back of his neck, that is.
And then your fingerpads reach out to pat the silky crown of his bangs, soothingly. “I do watch you, Toru. I must have missed that stream, sorry about that.”
He melts. And there’s tens of thousands to watch him.
“Y-yeah?” Gojo’s briefly snapping a scowl at the screen, already knowing that this particular clip of his voice breaking would be making rounds on the internet tomorrow. Crossing his arms with a huff, he acts like he isn’t nuzzling his head even closer for you to caress, “Tch, you make a shitty best friend, my star.”
Somewhere across the room, Yaga puts his head in his hands and sighs.
sugu-rizzed: My star?? Guys is he…
CandyKento: that moment when you highkey ship them but realize bro has no game
sunflowerboy: Gojo-san fighting!!
Fushidaddy7: I could treat you better, girl x.
torutoaster: wonder what her type is from our boys^^
It’s as if the room itself had hiked a few degrees in temperature, and you’re darting your eyes away from Gojo’s burning ones. From the staff that was snickering behind their hands, giving you knowing looks.
Instead, choosing to distract yourself by answering that last question– “Hmm, my ideal type from Six Eyes, huh?”
“Hah- what a silly little question.” Your best friend cocks his head with a smirk, “Why- tell ‘em, my star. Who else has the visuals? The dance moves? The charisma? Of course, it’s-”
“Suguru.” You smile innocently, whilst the flashy idol next to you crumbles. “He’s such a sweetheart.”
returnofP1BANG: five more shots for that wet cat look he gave her
Fushidaddy9: Ouch (lol).
sugu-rizzed: F in the chat
CandyKento: f
sunflowerboy: F
Fushidaddy10: F
ge.akuge: F
“Tch- childish.” Gojo scoffs at the wave of that same letter flooding his comment section, he’s counting about twenty…before typing his own ‘F’ in there.
Immediately reinvigorated, he’s stabbing a determined finger in the air. “But- but I have something that none of y’all and that stinky Suguru doesn’t have-” And it takes every ounce of will, every shred of shamelessness in his body to wrap two strong arms around you and crash you to his broad chest. Emulating all those hours he’s spent watching k-dramas with you, Gojo’s barking out. “-she’s mine!”
Fushidaddy14: Yeah. Your best friend. LMAO.
“Blocked-”
Masamichi Yaga handed in yet another resignation letter that very same night.
Which was likely why the livestream didn’t last too long after that little catastrophe- and it’s about a few hours later once you’d safely made it home with excuses of work the next day, and Gojo was lying wide awake on his phone, that it happens.
It is sent to him, by none other than Geto - the most unthinkable, unspeakable link to a fan-made YouTube video aptly titled ‘100 Gojo Satorus vs. trying not to make a fool of himself in front of his baddie best friend challenge (failed)”
Edited and clipping every single moment he’d completely n’ utterly destroyed his cool idol façade during the brief live. Every (fine, not-so-slick) glance your way, every blush, every voice crack.
Fuck.
In two seconds he’s sending Geto a paragraph of middle finger emojis, and in one he’s slowly downloading the video…for research purposes.
.
.
.
As a celebrity hair stylist, Miwa Kasumi had never felt that she wasn’t paid enough - after all, nearly unlimited contact with her favorite idols and she gets to see her work come to life on stage? What could go wrong?
Well…she’s feeling her weary eyelid twitch just about the twelfth time she hears the same repeated meme audio blaring from Gojo Satoru’s phone.
Headphone-less. On full volume.
All on the set of one of the most important comeback shoots of this year, the much-anticipated music video for their single ‘Blue.’ Penned by none other than the giggling idiot that was her client.
And it was only considering all her years of professionalism that she didn’t whack the phone out of his hands the way she’s been dying to for the past hour. “Gojo-san, you are quite the fan of that video, hm?”
Subtle cues- subtle cues!
But Gojo was never one for subtle cues, as she has the misfortune of learning. And he only blinks up from his padded seat in front of her, “Huh? Oh yes-” In fact, increasing the volume of the dramatically edited fan video - one of those crack compilations she had the guilty pleasure of watching before bed sometimes.
But Gojo didn’t seem to be watching for the laughs, his twinkling sapphire eyes were only locked on one thing on-screen - you.
Sighing at a short clip of you from the livestream a few days ago, grimacing at one of his bragging monologues. Giggling, he zooms in on you- “Isn’t she gorgeous–?”
“O-oh!” Now, introductions and love for artistry might be two of the main perks of working in such close proximity to idols - but who could forget the gossip. Immediately perking up, she’s setting down one of the curlers and working on fluffing up Gojo’s ethereal white hair for the camera. “Girlfriend, Gojo-san?”
“Not at all.” Dreamily, he’s taking a blatant screenshot of the zoomed-in visual of your face. A man in heaven. “Not. At. All.”
Huh? Maybe all celebrities were just eccentric. What was that one saying about never meeting your heroes?
Well, it seems that the universe decided that Miwa hadn’t learned enough of her lesson just yet- which is why she’s startled by the swoosh–! of curtains being drawn back in the dressing room, and the heavy footsteps of none other than Gojo’s bandmates.
Who could mistake them?
Geto Suguru, long inky hair tied back, slow strides almost predatory, is the first to reach the two - one of them shivering in rapt excitement, the other glued to his phone. “Oi- Satoru, they want you for your solo shot.”
Gojo grunts noncommittally, hands gripping his phone. “Hm-”
Irritation gripping the other’s tone, his best friend taps his feet. “Satoru.”
“Mm.”
“Satoru.”
“…”
“You little-”
It’s a damn miracle that the thin glass of Gojo’s phone screen doesn’t crack with how swiftly Geto’s snatching it from the other’s hands. Only to get a glimpse of the screen and have his mouth drop.
“Satoru…”
“…Suguru.”
Pierced brows furrowing, Adam’s apple bobbing with a guffaw at the blatant screenshot of you displayed. Clearly taken from that one compilation video that he had sent the link to a few days ago. Their center gulps. “Satoru, what…the…f-”
“Gojo-san! Gojo-san–!”
The youngest - Haibara’s - sweet, sing-song voice dips through the tense dressing room as he stumbles in - all sunny smiles and the cutest bowl cut. Followed excruciatingly closely by a cameraman recording behind-the-scenes content, “Kento and I are done, so Director Shoko wants you on set now or she said she’ll do some violent things that can’t be said on camera~”
“Of course, of course– you should go, you strange little lecher- I mean, Satoru.” Geto waves the other over, “C’mere Yu, let your elder show you a little something.”
Gojo blanches, “No-”
“Oh? What is it–?”
Gripping onto Geto’s jacket, “No.”
Careful of the rolling camera, he’s mercilessly sidling up to the other and flashing the latest addition to Gojo’s photo album - that soft, slightly blurry screenshot of you. Simply smiling. “Oh.”
“‘Oh’ is right.” Geto’s smizing out such a cat-like grin at the camera- this was sure to have the internet talking. Maybe even screaming. And as the staff with the lens steps closer in curiosity, he’s swiftly covering the screen, “Let’s just say our Satoru is ah- quite the fan of our cute little fans’ creations.”
Haibara titters, “Enough that it’s filling up his phone storage-” Catching Gojo’s groan, ready to jump out of his seat- “Ah, my apologies, Gojo-san~”
Geto nods, “No no, he’s right.”
“He’s not.”
“I am?”
“And remember, kids—” The pierced man calls out, finger hovering over the glaring screen of the phone.
Gojo gasps- “No-” Realizing. Shooting to his feet. “No no no-”
Registering the way his other best friend was giving particular attention to that bright, burning DELETE button. “-always help your friends in need.”
The scream that Gojo Satoru, most polished idol of the 21st century, lets off is devastated.
Enough that the cameraman - watching each interaction like a hawk - jumps, enough that even ruthless Geto Suguru himself feels a semblance of slight regret. Almost turning his thumb over to click on the recycle bin before Gojo can cry himself hoarse- until he’s scrolling just an inch - an inch - along the full camera roll and finding…more…screenshots?
About 75,328 in his album, to be exact. Of you.
He looks at Gojo Satoru - knees cradled in such a pitiful fetal position on the floor, whimpering at the loss of his prized screenshot. And he looks at the 75,328 screenshots. He looks back at Gojo. Then at the screenshots, all 75,328.
Then back at Gojo.
And Geto doesn’t even feel bad about the good kick he’s planting on the other’s back, “Get out.”
If the dressing room was a hellhole made to ruin Gojo’s life - Geto being the devil incarnate, of course - then being on set wasn’t any better.
The long lens of Shoko’s famed camera stares him down like it knew exactly how he was acting minutes prior, and any false façade of coolness would easily break through.
“Ugh…” Shoko’s crinkling her nose in slight distaste at the footage playing on her screen, motioning for the rest of the crew to start putting each prop back in place for a reshoot.
Make-up airy, white bandages haphazardly falling from his eyes, surrounded by sparkling ivory decorations of stars; it was supposed to be something on theme with the song, something romantic, something that didn’t make her want to hack up her coffee in a bad way.
But she could feel her stomach churning already. Leveling a glare at Gojo that’s enough to make the much-taller man flinch- “You- if you can’t do the sparkly idol thing, just try looking at the camera and smiling. It’s all we need for the solo shot today.” Tapping her camera, “Look at the lens like you’d look at a lover.”
Voice octaves higher, “A-a lover?”
His dignity was scarred!
“You got this, Gojo-san! Twentieth try’s the charm–!” Haibara’s voice echoes. “Ah- or was this the thirtieth…somewhere along the line I lost count.”
“Thirty-seventh.” Nanami helpfully supplies.
His reputation as a reliable elder ruined!
“Satoru, good luck! Geto called me- I don’t know why but um, good luck!”
He didn’t call himself the king of idols for nothing!
In a split-second, Gojo perks at the slightly-metallic sound of your voice through the other end of the line. Breath hitched, flashing irises widened- it doesn’t take him even a nanosecond to snap his head towards where Geto was holding his phone up for the sound to project.
Your name flashing on the caller ID, Geto’s smile priggish at the reaction wrenched out of his best friend.
And Gojo can’t help but let the mere sound of your voice make him smile—
“There we go- that’s the shot! That’s the shot.”
The music video is edited and uploaded only a few weeks later, that behind-the-scenes following hastily afterwards.
It was a hit, of course, as every management and billboard had already predicted it would be. But what was unpredictable were the eagle-eyed comments-
SIX EYES - ‘BLUE’ MV
torutoaster: KYAAA THEY REALLY FED US LOOK AT HOW OUR TORU AND SUGU LOOOKKK
ryomichael: not even a satoru bias but…wow…his visuals…the way he looked at the camera made my heart just go…wow
zbstan: stream this song (and esp Gojo’s bridge) for clear skin guys!!
SIX EYES - ‘BLUE’ MV Behind [All]
getosuggs: Geto and Haibara giggling at Gojo’s phone screen…wonder what they were looking at…
torutoaster: wonder why the filming of toru’s solo shot was muted?? strange but as long as we get more content of my bias oh well^^
sugu-rizzed: @torutoaster I think because they were on a call? Oooo imagine if it was Gojo’s best friend from the livestream…
mahitoe: @sugu-rizzed smh delulu shippers
zbstan: @mahitoe STFU look at that caller ID ik they tried to blur it but like there was an anonymous hair stylist on set who said it was so GUYS IT COULD BE-
Fushidaddy17: I would’ve had no problem looking cool for her aha x.
.
.
.
“Takada-chan! Takada-ch-AAAAAAN–!”
Honestly, what a woman to be able to smile politely in the face of a big, beefy high schooler ripping his shirt off from the stands of the stadium. The Idol Star Athletics Championships were always quite rambunctious considering the star-studded players, especially this year.
All lined up in their groups, donning flashy colored tracksuits.
And as the boy starts crying, Geto winces–looking back at their own section of fans invited to attend the annual celebrity sports tournament. Some squealing at the feeling of Geto’s stare, some waving banners hysterically - but thank goodness that none were as bad as-
“MY STAAAAR–!”
Geto takes that back very quickly.
Deadpan, exhausted- the leader of Six Eyes is turning to stare down their infamous center, the exact one who’d been hogging every headline for the past few weeks for his exact antics with you. “Satoru…what are you doing?”
Ignoring him for your figure seated at the very front row–“MY STAR, YOU BETTER CHEER FOR ME.” You pretend not to hear him as he waves frantically, and Geto reaches over to tug Gojo back in line. “Oi- OIII, DON’T LOOK AT NANAMI LOOK AT ME!”
On second thought, he backs away into another group’s line.
You weren’t the only one looking at him now- so were the announcers. Seasoned entertainers who’ve probably never seen a scene in all their years, “Aaaand over in this row we have Six Eyes. Their center - that Gojo boy - seems to be a little preoccupied, no?”
“With the girl? Oh, when is he not? Have you seen the clips from that livestream?”
“Ahh–you know my wife showed me and-” Seemingly catching the eye of whatever higher-up, or maybe the way that Yaga was swooning in his bench as if he was about to faint right then and there. “Ehem- anyways, welcome all to this year’s The Idol Star Athletics Championships–!”
It goes off without a hitch.
Well, as much as it could with Gojo Satoru being in attendance.
Which meant having to wrangle him back by the scruff of his neck every time he meandered off to the shrieking stands to ask you to pet his tired head - “for good luck.”
Which meant having him blow kisses to the stands suspiciously near you as he dribbled expertly during the basketball event, their team tied with yet another idol group.
With only a few seconds on the clock, every eye glued to his sprinting figure - breath stilling just as soon as he does near the netted hoop. Gojo had jumped, and pointed straight at your figure—“This one’s for my star.”
Before he swung.
And…
…missed.
But that was all water under the bridge.
It didn’t matter that it was a failure recorded in 4K on hundreds of cameras, it didn’t matter that you’d been the one laughing the most while watching his precious shot completely miss the hoop and bounce sadly on the floor.
It didn’t matter that his ears were still burning red from embarrassment by the last leg of the tournament - the track-and-field events.
Geto had already won the gold medal in archery, Haibara with silver in football, and even woe-is-me Nanami had snagged a silver in fencing.
And this time, this year’s new addition - one of those borrowed item races you’d play in middle school, those ones where he’d have to run to a box and pick out something silly to bring over the finish line - was about to be his turn.
“Ready…”
Gojo’s steadying into position, making sure his back flexed just right so that you’d be able to see from the stands. And if the way that Nanami sighed was anything to go by then it was working, right?
“Set…”
Azure eyes locked on the small wooden box that loomed a few yards in front of him.
“Go!”
It’s a blur- one moment his expensive designer sneakers touch the ground, and the next he’s one of the first idols to run over to the box. Fighting to stick his hand inside, Gojo’s sure he elbows someone’s dolled-up face to grab the first slip of paper he can.
Tugging it out with a grin, the neat typing stares back at him mockingly—‘Someone you love.’
Fuck.
Why did it have to be this one?
The announcer’s booming baritone breaks through- “What’s this? Six Eyes’ Gojo seems to have stalled? What could that paper say?”
“Run!” Geto’s voice calls over the chaos of countless other artists bee-lining towards their own missions, their own ‘item.’ He’s waving at Gojo impatiently, “Run, you fool-”
“Gojo-san, you got this–!”
In a confused hurry, he’s darting a look down at the staff manning the box - some older, dryly deadpan man who merely takes a peek at his slip of paper and gives a thumbs up. And Gojo could have sworn he smirks.
Well.
“Oh- oh, he’s running.” Both hosts gripping onto the edges of their tables, “The legs on that boy- Gojo Satoru is overtaking his peers easily- ah, we promise we’re not biased.”
Yaga and the rest of his overworked PR team would have to forgive Gojo for this later- but his legs are turning towards your direction in an instant, just as they always have. Running. Sprinting.
“Gojo- Gojo! Is it true you two eloped?”
“An insider source is saying that your best friend was present on-set of Blue- any comment?”
“Are you two dating?”
It’s like he’s running through a tunnel where the only thing he can see is you at the end. Announcers’ voices cotton in his mind- “Oh, we think we know where this is going, ladies and gentlemen.” The only voice his popped ears can hear are yours-
“S-Satoru–!” You’re shrieking, nearly as loud as the throng of fans and cameras surrounding you. Clawing down his beefy upper bicep as your best friend leans his long torso over the barrier of the stands and throws you into an easy princess carry, “Are you crazy-”
“Nah, we’re gonna win, my star.” He has his arms steady, jaw clicking - and you can’t help but feel his strength thrum gently in his arms. Those lucky to be near enough for the entire ordeal would later claim to tabloids that they’d never seen Gojo Satoru this serious.
This…responsible when he’s carefully striding with you in his hold - an easy first place running past the finish line.
Stars in his eyes, mouth turned up into a smile that twitched when he gazed down at your own. Wantingly.
But he only hugged you in thanks, and took your half-joking swats with a smile.
They couldn’t quite blatantly show the cameras what Gojo’s little paper had required him to bring, but you got to keep Gojo’s gold medal after the tournament - it was always meant for you, anyway.
And he gets an earful from Yaga, Geto, Haibara (though that was more grumbling about why those last two weren’t the ones carried like a pretty princess instead), and a few articles speculating your relationship, and a Twitter timeline having a complete meltdown over clips of his race.
A video of those particular few seconds with you in his arms racked up a solid few million views in only a few hours since it was posted- but honestly, one million of those views might just be from him alone.
@torutoaster: THE WAYYYY HE CARRIED HER OMG- GOD I SEE WHAT YOU’VE DONE FOR OTHERS-
@CandyKento: did anyone watch the isacs? no but i am soooo curious what gojo’s item was-
@chorusito replying to @CandyKento: no but to bring his ehem ehem- “best friend” it has to be something scandalous right~
@CandyKento replying to @chorusito: right??
@mahitoe replying to @chorusito: lmfao idols can’t date. you guys cant handle anything it was obvs just a friend or something. delulu.
@sugurusshampoobottle replying to @mahitoe: FIGHT ME.
@satorusxkitten: gojo and geto’s arms are so big!! fuck!!
@sugu-rizzed: That staff-member manning the box saw what the paper said oh what I would pay to know…
@fiendingforsixeyes: AHHHH I BET IT WAS SOMETHING OR SMTH HE LOVED IK U GOJO U LOVERBOY
@Fushidaddy33: She would’ve looked better in my arms tbh…
Gojo reports that last account.
.
.
.
“So, who do you think is the cutest from Six Eyes?”
“Me.”
“And who do you think is the best dancer?”
“Me.”
“The most romantic?”
“Ah…” Regular interviews could be tedious - but an interview with a lie detector strapped to you somehow surpassed even the ninth chamber of hell. And Gojo thinks that anyone would shrink under the beady, unwavering gaze of the hostess interrogating- ah, interviewing him right now.
Not a hair out of place, not a lie she wouldn’t be able to catch.
Damn that management for signing him up for one of those lie detection interviews - part of him already felt that this was punishment for rejecting Yaga’s seventh resignation letter since the chaos of the Idol Star Athletics Championships.
And damn Geto for goading him into going first.
The rest of the group watch leisurely from their comfort of a sofa away from the spotlight - thankfully lie detector-less for now - tittering as their bandmate cowers. Gulping through a slightly-wobbly grin, “Me. I’m the most romantic.”
Nodding as the polygraph examiner gives the thumbs up for truth.
“Not quite humble, but quite honest aren’t you, Mister Gojo?”
Gojo’s cracking his neck in his uncomfortable seat, the sooner he can get this over with, the better. Still strapped with leather buckles, “I think you’ll find that I’m very honest about things I truly feel.”
Geto sputters through faux coughs- “Pfft– Liar.”
Nanami looks away- murmuring just loud enough for the microphone to pick up, “Ehem…fibber.”
And Haibara? Haibara merely snaps his fingers in realization- “Aaaah–! I see, they’re calling you a ‘liar’, Gojo-san, because you aren’t honest about your feelings towards-”
“Ah ah!” He tries to make a motion to shut up, but only ends up rocking the chair from side-to-side. And Gojo already knew he was done for the very second he’s catching the hostess’s eyes gleam at this juicy morsel of information.
“Well, I actually did have…” Trailing off, she’s shuffling through her pack of pre-written questions. Painted nails fingering one at the very back that she seemed to have stowed away for when the interviews took a particular turn, she clears her throat. Saying your name-
“Impressively high heart rate.” The examiner drones out, bushy brows raising at what his screen flashed. Just from hearing your name.
As his self-proclaimed friends cackle - those traitors - the hostess shows off her pearly smile, “Mister Gojo, is it true that she’s your best friend?”
Gojo shifts slightly, “Very true.” Truth.
“And she is very beautiful- correct?”
“Very true.” Truth.
“And smart?”
“Very true-” Truth.
“And you’re in love with her?”
“Very tr-” He gasps, “Wait no-”
To which the older lady cocks her head in genuine confusion, “Despite all the shipping- well, it’s all everyone’s been talking about online these days- you’ve never done anything? You don’t have feelings for her, young man?”
“N…no.”
Geto raises his hand in a split-second, almost as if he was some model student in a classroom. “You’re mistaken, my lady, he doesn’t have feelings for her. He has a lot of feelings for her-”
“Suguru!”
The final nail on Gojo’s coffin might just have been the way the polygraph examiner tries - and fails - to keep a largely neutral face. Instead raising his fist in the air, into a blatant thumbs down, next word tinged in amusement. “Lie.”
Gojo fights against the belts tied to his wrist, monitoring his heartbeat, his deception. “It’s faulty, I tell you- faulty. Did you know that polygraphs are actually only 80% accurate and–”
“So you honestly wouldn’t mind if your best friend showed up with a fresh new boyfriend to introduce to you?”
“-I would rather die.”
It’s silence.
Gojo basking in the shock of what he’d just blurted out, everyone else squinting at the overtly clear thumbs up that the examiner was gesturing. A truth. Trying to see whether it would change shape whether they stared hard enough.
Clearing her throat, their seasoned hostess is the first to speak- “Ah- well, that was certainly, um.” Shuffling her cards, she stares at the rest of Six Eyes in bewilderment and they stare in bewilderment right back.
Muttering, “I wish my husband was more like that- anyways.” She leans in close to Gojo, “So if I showed you…” Waving her hand at a few of the tech specialists in charge of the projector behind him, “-this picture with a particular known tattoo artist?”
It wasn’t even a question.
And a damn good thing it wasn’t, because as soon as the screen behind Gojo lights up with a paparazzi shot - one of you, from years and years ago when you were dating that damn tch- asshole Ryomen Sukuna. All bathed in the light of the city at night, pretty hands in his, smile blinding - oh-so-gorgeous that he feels his heart stop.
Literally.
There’s a slight, sharp beeeeep–! that emanates from the lie detector—
Geto stands, “Satoru, what-”
“Gojo-san, are you okay-”
“I know CPR.” Hell, even Nanami was looking on with some degree of concern, “But I wouldn’t do it on you, no offense.”
As the examiner fiddles with his contraption, the hostess is the one to wonder whether she should call over the medical personnel in the studio. Reaching over her lil’ interrogation table to tap Gojo’s pale hand lightly- “U-uh, Mister Gojo-”
Gojo gasps- “Huh? Oh yeah-”
The steady rhythm of his pulse beeps once more on the monitor, albeit it slightly faster than before after he’s setting his eyes on you. After his poor, pathetic heart had skipped a beat just at the mere sight of you.
“He’s ruining the picture.” Gojo’s nose bridge wrinkles, gaze straying back to your smile the way an anchor follows a ship to see. No matter how far and deep they may go. The examiner signs out ‘truth’ as the other man continues, “Can you crop the buffoon out and give me five printed copies of that photo, please?”
“Eh?”
“Eh?”
“Gojo-san, eh?”
Nanami rubs his aching temples, “This is why I’d never give him CPR.”
That particular episode easily became one of the most watched of the season.
Six Eyes’ Gojo Satoru Takes a Lie Detector Test | Heart-stopping Revelations!
torutoaster: WHAT THE FUCK WHEN THEY SAID HEART-STOPPING THEY MEANT IT FRFR-
eathaibara: the pure aura to have your heartbeat stop then the first thing you do is simp over your girl.
100menvsmpreg: @eathaibara wait so are they actually dating?
fluffykento: @100menvsmpreg worse
jennyk10: @100menvsmpreg I meannn-
ButterSixKpop: Need me a real freak like this.
CandyKento: kento is so real ngl
getosuggs: @CandyKento the only thing we love more than satoru is bullying satoru
fiendingforsixeyes: LMAO GUYS HAVE YOU SEEN THAT PERSON GOIN’ ON RANTS UNDER SUKUNA’S INSTA-
Gojo didn’t read these comments, unfortunately, or see any of the edits they were making of him on tiktok. He was too busy spamming comments of his own on Sukuna’s official instagram.
Very colorfully-worded ones.
.
.
.
“What’s your name?”
“Gojo da strongest.”
“What are you drawing?”
“A star.”
For an eight-year-old, Gojo thinks you had the most pensive expression on your face after that particular answer. Brows scrunched cutely, and your tongue sticking slightly between missing teeth- and it was alright, Gojo wasn’t a stranger to the staring.
He knew how to handle all the cooing from aunties at the marketplace, he was used to all the praises for being the fastest kid in all of primary school.
So surely the great, wise, nine-year-old Gojo Satoru could give a fellow classmate as much time as you needed to muster up the very best compliment-
“It’s kinda ugly.”
“Wha- huh?” How dare you- Gojo’s pouting, snowy brows scrunching until you’re giggling. “My star is not ugly.” Sticking a thumb proudly between his puffed-up chest, “And I should know because I’m going to be a star.”
You’re nodding, seriously. “Mm, that’s good.”
And that makes him falter- just a bit, because true superstars never falter. “Y-you think so?” Okay, maybe they falter a bit. But in Gojo’s defense, no one had ever taken his little daydream so seriously, “You don’t think it’s stupid? That I can’t go up on stage?”
“No, why would it be?” Oh. You’re tapping his smudged crayon drawing, “But that’s still an ugly star.”
Stomping, “Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is…” He looks at you - in all you sparkly humor - then back at his fifteen-pointed star. He looks at you, then back at his brown-colored star for “artistic purposes.” He looks at you, then back at his star with a spotty face on it because it reminded him of Patrick Star. He looks at you and-
“Fine…”
“Let me teach you how to draw an actual star.” You’re stumbling over your words a little, and it offends the great Gojo Satoru that he should be taught by such a child like you, a year younger.
But he does have to admit that you drew pretty nice stars.
Crossing his arms with a pout, “Fine then- teach me how to draw stars-” And the grin breaking your tiny face was too bright, too pretty. Suddenly the classroom is too humid, and he’s scrambling for something - anything - to throw back in your face. “-star.”
“‘Star’, huh?” But you only smile, “I like that.”
Only to have it thrown back in his.
In a way he’s remembering nearly two decades later, your hand in his, your mouth near his earpiece. Quieter than the producers screaming in his ears, but louder than his very own racing heartbeat.
“Take it easy, Satoru.” You’re humming, over the velvety-smooth voice of the MAMA award announcer. The one that was ecstatically saying the name of the very band that Gojo might just have forgotten he was a part of the moment your hands wound ‘round him.
You lift up his dark blindfold, part of his outfit for the day. “Go up, you fool.”
It wasn’t every day that Six Eyes won a MAMA grand prize, and it also wasn’t every day that the best friend he’d begged to be let in as the group’s honorary plus one (also the very same best friend he’d been in love with since he knew what love was) was in his arms like this.
But you’d been in them when after he’d drawn the first star all those years back that you’d deemed ‘acceptable.’ You’d been in them when he decided to take up dancing lessons in middle school, waiting all those hours after dark to walk back home with him. You’d been in them when he entered high school and told you he’d be a trainee slaving the days away in some dingy company basement. You’d been in them even tighter when they debuted.
And you’d been in them the very second their name had been announced as artist of the year.
In front of all those cameras. All those gasping audiences.
And Geto who thumps him heartily on the back, “Get a room later, lovebirds- if Yaga doesn’t kill you that is.”
“Come on, Gojo-san, we have to go up for our award–!”
Nanami flashes you what you swear was a slight smile, “I am happy for you.” Before frowning at a shining-eyed Gojo, “Not quite for you, though.”
“Aww Nanamin, you love me~”
“O-kaaay-” Once the 6’4 mess of limbs had finally set you free, Geto was pushing them all to climb up the stage. In time with the blasting background music of their very own Blue, “Let’s have the aneurysms when we’re on stage.”
But what Gojo had on-stage wasn’t anything to make Yaga wish to retire, or to have Nanami’s pounding migraine throb harder. It was a single, sliding tear - and if the lights glaring down on them were bright enough that no one could tell for sure, then all was well with him.
“To our fans, our family-” Gojo’s starting off into the mic in the middle, deep tone dry and hoarse, metal award cool in his hands. He’s looking at you. “-and my star, this one’s for you.”
It’s all.
And later they’d write articles about the hug, the speech, and what it means that you’re his ‘star’ - but for now, that was for Gojo to know. And for him to step away from the booming mic, letting Geto take his place with much more eloquent words; knowing that in future interviews they’d joke about all the speeches that they had planned.
That Gojo had planned in particular, but nothing came out just right.
Later, he would also wonder why he waited so long - when you were always there in the audience, clapping louder as if it was just for him.
And your best friend mouths—all bedazzled in his dangling earrings, white suit starkly handsome. “Meet me after the show.”
That very same clip is made into a gif that gets replayed about twelve million times before the award show actually ends.
.
.
.
“O-oh fuck-” Your tongue lolls out until it’s hitting midway down your chin, mouth watering with every curly swipe n’ prod of Gojo’s tastebuds.
His nose hits the edge of your treacly cunt and he whines, watchin’ the cute way your pupils roll allll the way to the back. The front of your chest polishing with a few wads of saliva that he can’t lick up right now- no.
Not when his mouth was already so occupied.
All it took was a single step - a single step - inside Gojo’s personal dressing room after the MAMAs, before he’d crashed your lips against his in a way he’d just been dying to do.
Folding you easily over the armrest of the fluffy pink sofa, door locked, sparkly dress hiked up. Gojo hadn’t even bothered to take off your flimsy panties before he’d started making out with your sweet, sweet pussy from behind.
Lavishing his tongue between the crevices of your cunt like he was a man parched- “Fuck, my star.” With your underwear just pushed to the side and his throat vibrating with a guttural groan once he’s feeling your tight, cozy hole clench ‘round his tastebuds.“Fuck- s’all I want-”
“A-are you seriously- ngh–!” And you couldn’t believe anything your hazed mind was telling you right now - not of those familiar lyrics, and not of the smooth, frigid brush of something metallic studding just the end of Gojo’s tongue. “-quoting your song right now?”
“Mmm– can’t help it. Wrote it just for you y’know…” Voice just a bit hitched, just a bit raspy.
There was something in it that made you oh-so-much wetter, and Gojo’s summer blue eyes flash as he’s taking in the sappy slick gluing your shivering thighs together.
“Sh-shit.” Gurgling out the candied taste of you, you were dripping all down his tongue. He’s pulling you close with a hand stuck on your hip, letting your slick splash at the bottom of his throat- and it still wasn’t enough.
“Shit, my star.” His usual lip gloss smeared all over your pussy, Gojo takes the time to lean in and lick it all clean off. Before pursing his lips to once more spit—“Shit-”
He didn’t know what to say.
Your pretty pussy had him speechless, and it’s a damn miracle that he’s not tearing that suit off of his body. Stained all down the front with a snail-trail of your sappy juices-
“Need- this-” Once his heavy fabric strikes the floor, Gojo’s inching even closer in his kneeling position. Thick fingers slide-slide-sliiiiding teasingly between your swollen folds, before tugging on your poor panties. “-off.”
Ripping.
And his little prize is now finding a home somewhere inside his pocket for later, but right now Gojo has to stop himself from fucking salivating as you’re exposed for him.
It takes one kiss before he pants- “Oh my god.”
And another- “O-oh fuck- oh my god.”
Fully shoving his face between your legs and letting you shiver at the feeling of his bejewelled earrings. That sunken in.
Flattened tongue slapping down between your driveling slit, Gojo takes his agonizing time lapping up every inch n’ cranny you have. “My star—” Humming almost drunkenly, his pointed muscle swerves between the insides of your pussylips.
“F-fuuuck–!” Just where you were most sensitive, Gojo lets the stubbed piercing on his tongue slip inside your hole and streeeeetch you out. Slipping out to draw a wet, sickly sweet star– “Since when did you have a- nghh- a tongue piercing, Toru?”
The first answer you’re getting is a sharp swat on your pussy, “Mmm- ever since you dated that fucking bastard with a tongue piercing.” Sukuna. Gojo croons out, more honest than he would’ve usually been. “Never put it in but…I got it because I thought it was your hah- type.”
Another smack!
Another squeezing inch of his pierced tongue trying to fuck into your entrance, he’s impatient. He’s throbbing in his pants with every tiny clench of your gooey insides, “Got buffer, too- cooler.”
“Oh my…god- your tongue, it’s- hck! going in-” Crying out through whines.
“Wrote so many songs for you, my star–” He’s drawling out, and you can feel the scorching breeze of his hot breath. The way that Gojo’s parting his lips even wider to let his tongue glue against your cunt, grinding all the way inside- “Well- heh- not for her, but…”
You’re still hypnotized by the sensual massage of his ridged taste buds rubbin’ across the front of your dripping pussy.
So much so that the lecherous sluuuurp–! drawn out into the claggy air almost shocks you. Your cunt’s letting off the most sexual noises once Gojo’s dragging up a hand to tease your wet clit. “-but I’ll write a song for her as well.”
His metal rings are just sparkling with coats of slick, and your best friend doesn’t waste even a second latching onto your sensitive nub. Dexterous fingers drawing cute circles over and over that have your hips lurching off of the sofa-
“Please- ngh- pleeease-” Your head throws backwards, legs already starting to quake at the utter pressure of having his fingers on your clit. Tongue inside your pussy.
So lengthy that the slimy tip of it mazes between your walls, and Gojo’s purposefully stirrin’ around your insides with the icy edge of his piercing. Chin rubbing all red with friction as he’s leaning in even closer to dig the muscle of his tongue into your sweetest spots, “Yeah- yeah n’ I’ll have her sing-” Another hand this time, another finger - pushin’ deeply inside you. And the syrupy sound is enough to make him close in on the side of the couch and rut- “-lead…h-heh.”
And if you thought being fucked into the cushy surface by Gojo’s tongue was making your head spin, then you’re being driven positively mad by the wild lashes of his fingertips.
Two ringed fingers fighting for space right along with his sticky tongue, Gojo glues the thick crowns of his digits to the top of your g-spot and watches as you shrill. “All the reading paid off, hmm–?”
“Y-you read about this?” You’re blinking through your tears, mouth dangling open once he’s pulling back. All the way to the rotund tips of his fingers- and slamming right down to press on your favorite nerves like a button. “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck- just for- for me?”
“You don’t know what I’d do for you, my star.” And it would sound sweet coming from your usual best friend.
But Gojo right now looked feral - pale eyes half-lidded, hair unruly, light make-up replaced by slimy oodles of your slick. Worn like a badge of honor, he’s gnawing down on your outer pussy, voice turning into something breathy. Octaves higher. “Noooo fucking idea what I’d do.”
Gripping onto the dampening covers of the sofa, you’re bucking animalistically like you don’t know whether you want to pull away or grind back down for more, more, more. Yelping, “T-Toru-!”
“No- no no no- come back.” Gojo panics, beefy arms wrapped enough around your body to haaaul you backwards.
And when that wasn’t far enough, Gojo’s lust-fogged mind tugs off the blindfold still looped ‘round his neck. Tightly restraining one over your thigh and manhandling you deeper onto his face-
“Sh-shiiit, Satoru–”
“Fuck- haven’t had anything so sweet- so addictive, my star.” He’s murmuring into your pussy, knuckles getting sloppier with all the spanks against the front of your cunt. Tongue lurching in n’ out until his jaw was sore and raw with all the movement- but he’s still rummaging his muscle along your insides.
Gojo’s eating you out like a man lacking a proper meal for eons, and you swear you could feel the way his Adam’s apple bob with each heavy gulp of your saccharine slick. “N’ now I don’t think I can- haaaah- live without your sweet pussy on my face, sweetheart.”
The furniture creaks with every bump of his ravenous hips against the sofa, because Gojo didn’t even want to spare a single handle to jerk himself off.
Not when he could target the throbbing nub of your clit, rolling over it until the harsh pleasure makes you squeeeal. “Don’t have to- don’t- ngh-”
“D’you think so?” That overeager thumb latched to your clit does a quick circular motion that renders your mouth drier than the Sahara. Swooping. Pressing down. “Really really th-think I can?”
“Yes- fuck- yes-” Whining, back arching into such a perfect curve. “Just make me cum, Satoru-”
“Yes, ma’am.” Gojo huffs out a cloud of breath, long lashes fluttering. The rapid thump-thump-thumps of his two fingers burrowing into your g-spot hasten, “But only if you mmmm– say my name.”
“Satoru.”
“Louder?”
“Satoru.”
With your wailing tone knocking off each corner of the wall, it’s like he’s rattling off all the unspeakable dreams he’s had of you. “Thennn– spit in my mouth?”
Almost like he’s testing it out- and you’re snapping your head over your shoulder. Not knowing whether to give him a piece of whatever’s left of your mind, or whether you would spit in his mouth.
But you didn’t need to wrack your pretty brain over it any time soon.
Because Gojo’s shaking his bleary head, “Hmm- guess you already have, though- heh.” Partially-closed eyes locked onto your agape cunt every time you’re suckin’ his tongue in- and it’s only then that you realize he’s talking to your pussy.
Letting your pussy spit out wads of juices that slip n’ slide down his throat, that get fucked back in by his relentless mouth.
Your hands grip the couch, “S-stop teasing– please, m’so close.”
“And then finally—” The tender edges of his fingers scrape your sweet spots in that strangely swooping motion that makes your toes curl restlessly. Dragging it oooon with his lilted bass, “-spell this out, my star?”
Your thighs twitch, the semicircles he’s drawin’ on your g-spot taking the formation of an ‘S’. Then an ‘A’-
“Sa-sa-”
“You got it. You got it, sweetheart.”
With the probin’ deepness of his fingers, he’s flicking his fingertips until your vision flashes white. ‘T’, your favorite dragged-out ‘O’ that makes his pierced tongue swoop in tiny circles, too. “Sato-”
You knew where this was going. Faster. Harder.
You knew, and yet, you’re still letting him finish off a soppy ‘R’ and ‘U’ - branded in big capital letters from the gooey, heated insides of your pussy until you’re finishing off, too. “Satoru- Satoru. M’cumming, oh fuck, m’cumming…ngh.”
With a slight, stiled sob, you’re being run over by your high - just in time for Gojo to twist the orbed piercing on his tongue over in a S-A-T-O-R-U as well. Sloppily salivating down the sides of your slit, your thighs trickle with every ounce of sap you’re spraying out.
Whimpering, deep into the cavern of his mouth- “Sh-shit-” Gojo’s hissing in that airy tone of his, feeling hot wetness seeping into his pants the very second you’re cumming - he is, too.
And yet, the only thing he can think about is dragging out your high.
To strike the bruised n’ battered areas of your walls until your thighs are shaking with every peak of your orgasm, mouth slobbering everywhere and anywhere.
From the pearly spatters of slick sheening your legs, to the pulsing top of your clit. Fucking and fucking your quivering entrance until your body feels all raw and sizzling. Every thrust of his fat, velvety tongue makes your pupils whirl stupidly in the whites of your eyes. “Sh-shit- nghhh- shit.”
And it takes him such a long time to let go of you - especially when he’s this drunk on your pussy.
Pulling back with a final push of his piercing on top of your clit, and the loudest squeeelch—!
“H-heheh.” Gojo whispers against your pussy and you mewl, falling onto your elbows over the cushions of the sofa.
Wearily, you look over your shoulder to take a good, solid look at him - only to feel your heart stutter at the utter grin on his face. Dopey. Glittered with slick. It beads down your best friend’s sharp jawline as he speaks, “Replaced my lipgloss- heh.” He cocks his head to the side, sapphire eyes fluttering priggishly. “Did I ever tell you that was my first time? Been savin’ myself for you, my star…”
Your mouth drops open at his words.
Oh.
Oh.
You weren’t making it out of this alive.
Within a few bats of your teary lashes, Gojo has you pushed onto your back on top of the springy cushions. His towering form hovering over you-
Pinkish tongue snagging at the end of one glistening lip, “You should know…I’ve never done this before either.” He shivers, top layers shrugged off into a pile, golden clasps of his pants unbuttoned—pop! pop! pop!
With your stringy panties pulled out of his trousers, n’ the rest pushed down until he’d sexily bare in front of you. You can’t tear your widened eyes away as Gojo wraps your underwear ‘round his thick, bulging cock and jerks.
And fuck- did it make your mouth water.
Oh, fuck.
Because Gojo was just so big - in every sense.
From the width of his towering shoulders, all chiseled with bouncy pecs. To the way he was so ripped with lean muscle that you couldn’t stop imagining how it’d feel to have them pressed down against you.
A feverish blush drifts down the back of his neck, alllll the way down between his pale happy trail. And right up to the fat, pinkened globe of his cock - all heavy and long. So, so long that it had your thighs squeezing in both fear and anticipation.
You breathe, “Y-you’re so…”
Gojo gnaws down on his bottom lip with a moan, “Mm- yeah, tell me, sweetheart.” Vein-covered fist flying up and down his shaft, the rub of your panties was just so delicious that he’s splurging out a thick wad of precum straight down your slit. “Tell me- tell me.”
“So big.” You’re wondering where he even hid something like that.
Making such a mess.
And he’s made a mess before too - cumming in his pants just from eating you out. So your cunt was being soaked with a few wires of his ivory sap.
Being pushed in the very second Gojo slouches over your body and slaps his thick mushroom tip between your pussylips. Rutting his sloppy hips without even realizing-
“You don’t think it’s weird, my star?” Head hunched, white bangs covering his eyesight. The tone in his voice is thick with something primal, “How I was- haaaah-” And so was his cadence, sandwiching between your soppy folds back n’ forth back n’ forth. “-fisting my cock to the thought of my ngh- pretty lil’ best friend for yeeeears?”
Dragging it out.
Just aaaaaching with a particularly sensual slide of his vein-covered shaft down your cunt, “Just aaaaching.” The knobbled top of his length slips against your oversaturated pussy and plugs up your hole. Hitting it with a damp plop! “For one taste- for anything.”
Your hands claw up to the tufts of his soft hair, pulling and it makes his cock twitch. “Want it in. Please, Satoru?”
“A-are you sure I- hah-” And fuck- his eyes gape as he looks down between your cute, shivering legs. Marvelling at the sheer size difference between the plump girth of his cockhead, and your tight hole. “If it’s too much, I can just put the tip- oh, fuck.”
But you were impatient, and you’re wrapping your legs ‘round his toned waist to tug him closer. Deeper. Inside.
To feel the tender underside of his length scrape your walls, each n’ every zig-zagged vein snaking inside your cunt. Gojo was just so big that your vision flashes black and white with just a few inches stuffed-
“I take it back.” He gasps. He heaves - pants so labored that it was like he’d given up on catching his breath. Trying to hold his head up - failing.
“Take- oh, you’re so big- take what back?”
And the only thing Gojo can do is grab both sides of your waist and use the lecherous leverage to pull and pull you further down his rock-hard shaft. Straining out, his thumb cranes over to push inside a gluey wad of cum. “I t-taaake it back. Just the tip- n-never-” Just one singular taste of your sopping wet pussy on his cock and his voice cracks. “-never gonna be just the tip, my star.”
He’s so untouched, biting down furiously on his lower lip.
Biting down furiously on your sodden panties just as soon as he remembers they’re still in his hands, muffling every whimpering wail that threatens to leave his maw.
“Ngh- ngh- what the f-fuck.” Gojo’s ripping from the back of his throat, head falling backwards to bare his attractive throat as he slips deeper in. Fighting against that snug resistance with a few good half-thrusts, not even able to pull out properly. To even move. “It can feel this good?”
And through your half-closed eyes you’re making out the fact that he’s pinching himself with a free hand. “Or m’I just in heaven?”
You feel his big, bulbous tip swab near your g-spot and start to mewl- “Mmm– and what if you are?”
“Don’t even wanna know if s’real.” Strings of saliva stick to Gojo’s lips as he babbles, still lathered in a layer of your pussy juices from before. And his mouth only waters even more when he’s feeling your hot insides clench around him, “Don’t need to know anything else- ngh.”
Every syllable is punctuated by an almost vulgar rut.
You’re screaming as he’s bullying his slimy, pre-glazed tip inside. Letting the rotund crown of his cock pry apart your cute walls, harder. Deeper.
Gojo smears your pussylips further open with one of his thumbs, letting just the top part of his digit fit into your entrance. Just so that he can fit his cock in fully.
“P-please fit.” Muttering underneath his breath, teeth clenching tight on your panties. Looking up at you ferally through his lashes, “Please- please, didn’t wait s-so fucking long for you not to take it, my star. For this pretty pussy to be left unsatisfied.”
Your nails dig into his back, “Fuck- please- oh my god.”
“It has to fit-”
“Will it?”
“Yes- yes, you’re gonna take it alll, my girl.”Fucking you furiously, sloppily. No rhythm or rhyme - or even sanity in each of his jagged strikes aiming for the very bottom of your pussy, “Has to it has to it- fuck! It has to-”
And when it does - when it finally, finally does - Gojo Satoru is left gaping, your underwear now dropping from his mouth and cleanly onto the floor. Speechless.
Shit, if he hadn’t cum just minutes prior then he’d be creaming himself all over again.
Blinking once, twice down wordlessly at the sultry vision of your bloated pussylips kissin’ his pelvis. Bottomed-out until his cock was swallowed all the way up until those tufts of white at his base-
And then it all happens at once.
In a singular split-second, Gojo has your legs thrown over his shoulder, your knees pushed all the way down to your tits. Striking your spongy cervix with a dull thud of his weepy cocktip, before he’s reeling out halfway and doing it all over again.
And again.
And again and again and again-
You’re just shrilling– “Toru- hck!” Feeling your weary throat clog up with so many sobs n’ whines every time his globular head was piercing your cunt, pushin’ all the way into your womb. “Toru Toru Toru-”
“M’on vocal rest after this, y’know?” He blurts, seemingly out-of-the-blue.
That is, until Gojo stares down at you with such a heady grin, leaned down just close enough that his hot respiration wafts the shell of your ear. And his tongue lurches out to lick up the drooling spittle leaking from each side of your mouth, “So you hafta scream twice as loud f’me, my star.”
Slamming the lines of his chiseled hips against yours, Gojo’s shaft was oh-so-veiny enough that you’re feeling your mind melt at the constant massage of your g-spot. “Like that- nghhh please-”
“Like- like this?” And it’s so difficult to remember that this was still Gojo’s first time– especially when he roams a palm over your tummy to feel for a particular bulging outline and press.
Carnally caressing the cylindrical bump that he was pounding into you, branding the fatness of his length right against your girth. “Shit- you really took it all.” He’s in awe at the feeling of his rotund cockhead pokin’ your very womb, “You wanna be fucked like hngh- this, don’t you? Want it hard? Fast?”
He was speaking utter filth, but his cadence was even filthier.
Shivering hand pushing down on your stomach, the other slithering between your sheeny legs to toy with your neglected clit.
“Your legs are shivering, my star- m’in trouble.” He arches his sculpted back to pick up the ruthless pace, throbbing cock stirrin’ within you to bash constantly straight into your g-spot. “S-sooooo much trouble.”
“More- ngh! Satoru, more-” You’re crying out through wobbly lips, “Want it even harder.”
“Fuck-” Hissing underneath his breath, Gojo’s doughy fingertips speedily smack your slope. Making your legs grow all numb, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- then ngh- yeah, open those pretty legs and take this fat fucking cock-”
With a few more strokes he’s holding onto your throat, pinning you down so that Gojo can scratch the rough texture of his happy trail down your clit until you cry. “This fat- haaah- fuckin’- cock-”
You’re so dumbified by the size and sheer pleasure that you can only repeat after him, stupidly. “Fat- ngh- fuckin’...”
A velvety tongue drags over your salty beads of tears, “Atta girl—” Grindin’ the circumference of his thick cock against your g-spot, Gojo’s biting down on your earlobe just to hear the way you sing. “Louder.” The dangly metal of his earrings are frosty against your own clammy face, sensual. “Louder- let them hear, let them know.”
Uncertainly, your eyes drift over to where the door of the dressing room was innocently positioned. Notably closed. Notably locked.
But your moans were reaching a fever point at the rough bludgeons of Gojo’s cock, the way he was swervin’ his hips juuuust right to snag your sweetest spots.
All those years of dancing helped him expertly target long glides down your g-spot. Leaving a trail of wet mucus from that particular bundle of nerves, n’ straight down-down-dooown to your cute cervix. “Let them all see-”
“S-see?” You’re gasping out in disbelief.
With what almost sounds to you like a growl, “Mhm- yeah, fuck!” Gojo spanks his hips hard enough against yours that the impact leaves his v-line reddening, the papping sound echoing within the dressing room. “You think I wouldn’t fuck you in front of every nosy lil’ camera out there?”
You don’t even know what to say - what to do.
The only thing your pathetic body is capable of doing is gyratin’ back down to meet his tempo. Letting your limp legs tighten over his shoulders, “Y-you would?”
“Oh, my sweetheart—” Gojo’s crooning, snowy brows scrunching together. Giving your treacly cunt yet another hard jackhammer, “If this pussy wasn’t mine and mine alone, then that door wouldn’t even be- hah- locked right now.”
And he was drilling into you like he meant it - like he was furious with himself for holding out this long on the heaven of your sweet, sweet pussy.
Wailing, your eyes crossing at the sheer pleasure.
Now that he’d slurped up one sip, he was eager for the next- and before you know it, the blindfold that’d been dangling on your thigh was suddenly coiling ‘round your ankles. “You’re not getting out of this- oh.” Gojo’s beefy biceps flex as he’s tying your legs behind his neck, all for him to pull back on—“Gonna- gonna fill you up so we hafta be- ngh- prepared.”
Your salivatin’ chin hits the front of your chest and you whine, “Please- please make me cum, mm-”
“Yeah? Gonna make you cum- hah-” Gojo’s mouth hangs ajar, blush so rosy. He feels your goopy walls tighten on reflex and that makes his hardened cock twitch, “Then- then m’gonna fuck you through that.”
Strike after strike.
His swollen lips lean down to suckle on one of your fingers - your left hand’s ring finger, to be precise. “Then m’gonna put a ngh- ring on it. Gonna- gonna I swear-”
Push after push.
“Toru—” Your tits jut up as you’re bowing your back off of the drenched sofa, “-not gonna- gonna- fuck!”
You don’t even have the privilege of letting that sentence finish before your orgasm takes you over, thrumming white-hot zaps of pleasure through your veins. Your teeth set on edge at how utterly good it feels to have Gojo’s fattened cock swabbing your tight hole through every peak, “Oh my god- oh my- fuuuuuck, there’s jus’ so much, Toru.”
Toes curled, mouth unfastened.
Pinching your clit until you’re squeeealing- “So- so much.” He’s echoing in a whisper, crushing you tight to him once Gojo’s finishing off, too.
Abs plastered against your front until you memorize each ridge, his pecs smooth n’ plump against your tits. Your best friend just looked so pretty with his pearly whites grit in a snarl, brows knitted as he’s pumping you with cum until you overspilled.
With thick, seedy knots of cum that blanketed your pussy - his pointed cockhead nudges every droplet inside until you can feel your walls stretch with the utter size.
Thighs shaking with your release, his mess sploshing around inside of you. Your vision was still completely hazy- “Fuck- fuck, Satoru.”
And it’s like the sound of his name plummeting from your mouth sends shockwaves down his spine.
Because Gojo’s staring at you - mushroomy tip still leaky, still slidin’ through the sappy puddle he’s formulating at your cervix. For a good few seconds, maybe even minutes until he’s chuckling–“God, they could see right through me. Everyone could.”
More to himself.
Although those next words were entirely for you.
“I love you.” Gojo’s pale lashes flutter, almost shyly, and you’re speechless at the fact that he was still fucking you. In slow, aching grinds that have him fucking his cum deeper n’ deeper inside you. “I’ve always loved you, my star.”
Your heart quivers, and you can’t help but reach a hand out to run through the sweaty valleys of his locks. Smile dazzling - something he could write songs, ballads, sonnets about some day. But for now it only makes his azure eyes wet, “And I love you, my Toru.”
Something weeps out of Gojo that sounds like a husky, drawn-out groan— and you can feel his thick tip twitch inside of you with a few more beaded dollops of seed.
Cumming for the nth time tonight until all his heavy balls could let out was misty white, just from hearing that you loved him back.
And for once it’s silence.
Calm, warm silence— that is, until Gojo’s pulling his ravaged, red cock just far enough that your cunt lets off the soppiest wet sluuuurp!
You’re gasping, still feeling the rush of your high make your head whirl. Thighs clenching around his broad deltoids automatically, “Satoru- wh-what are you-”
“Oh, well…” Long, pale hands reach for the pile of fabric on the floor - your boyfriend’s pants. And Gojo has the sleaziest grin on his face as he’s digging his fingers into the depths of his pockets, promptly pulling out a lengthy line of condom foils. One he’d packed just in case, just for you.
You’re mentally counting about twenty before he’s letting his proud stack drop right down to your front. “You didn’t think we were done, right, my sweetheart?”
Oh, fuck.
Neither of you are making it out of this alive.
.
.
.
“There’s the wall of perfume, my books- especially songwriting books. And these clothes and, yeah, that’s really it for my room…” Gojo kicks away the pile of his Digimon socks on the ground with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Something he was sure the cameraman intruding his dorm room would capture, and yet still edit to make something cute out of it anyway.
Ah- such was the life of an ever-popular idol.
And here he was, up bright and early in the morning to let some variety show stomp all through the Six Eyes’ penthouse as a sort of ‘house tour.’ Well, sure he knew that this was bound to be a hit with the fans that probed into his life, but was it really necessary to not even give the man a heads-up?
Plastering on his most polished smile, he nods politely as the camera records a few more details. The hosts cooing over each little thing - all those fan letters he kept, a pretty crayon drawing of a blue star from years ago, and the-
“Eh?”
“Eh?”
“Eh?” Geto’s poking his head in, grin already plastered just in case there was to be some sort of chaos upheaved in Gojo’s room. And why wouldn’t there be?
Gojo’s following both hosts’ lines of vision, all the way down to his bed, “Eh?” Was it not made properly? Was it an offense to have sheets of his own boyband at this day and his age? Or was- “Oh.”
And then Gojo sees it - that.
The familiar, gauzy fabric of your panties that he’d stolen all those nights ago. Hidden neatly underneath the puff of his pillows - well, almost hidden.
Because obviously it was exceptionally still in the bedroom right now- fuck, even Geto had gone quiet from his station near the door, realizing what it was. Attracting the attention of two very curious other members that were currently fighting to get a glimpse-
One of the hosts clears her throat, “Um- Mister Gojo, is that…” Eyes dazzling at the possibility of a scoop this big - all in their almost-family-friendly home-touring show. “Is it possible there’s a lady in your life the fans and world may want to know about? Is this that very same best friend everyone says you pine over?”
And the other host cackles, “Well, they certainly don’t seem to be your size, boy. And ones so skimpy- oho, kids these days.”
Unabashedly pushing a mic into his face, “Anything to say for yourself?”
“Ah-” Gojo coughs out, jumping once the cameraman immediately swivels his lens towards him for his response. “Aha, well- you see-”
Gojo looks at Geto.
“…”
At Haibara.
“…”
At Nanami.
“…Fucking idiot.”
And finally at the camera itself- “Cut the cameras. Deadass.”
Yaga might have bribed the network to never air that particular episode, and Dispatch might have done their best to leak it, anyway.
Right along with a few grainy paparazzi shots of figures that looked undeniably like you two. Hand-in-hand, suspicious blemishes on both your necks, wandering down the sidewalks of Han River.
And if Yaga was having a tough PR day with just that then it would’ve been too merciful of the universe. Because how could you discount the fact that Gojo Satoru, notorious dodger of paparazzi questions, had proudly held up your joined hands and exclaimed at a few buzzing reporters—“Fuck yeah- my girlfriend now, suckers!”
No resignation letter would ever be enough.
@sunflowerboy: let it be known that I always believed in Gojo-san!!
@eathaibara replying to @sunflowerboy: we bow before you great sunflowerboy (the only one to believe in toru’s loser rizz)
@torutoaster: i luv how #go(jo)outthefriendzone is trending worldwide- LOSER RIZZ ALWAYS WINS
@fiendingforsixeyes: HE DID IT?? MY BOY ACTUALLY DID IT??
@mahitoe: tch whatever
@zbstan replying to @mahitoe: womp womp
@sunflowerboy replying to @mahitoe: LMFAOOOO SUCK IT YOU LOSER HATER FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK-
@eathaibara replying to @sunflowerboy: omg sunflowerboy??
@sunflowerboy replying to @eathaibara: sorry got a little excited^^
@sugu-rizzed: I just know pr is SCRAMBLING rn but not as much as my boy scrambled to get that cookie.
@satorusxkitten: bi panic is wanting both of them!!
@ge.akuge: idk what she sees in him it must be the wigs
@CandyKento: the ‘my star’, isacs, the awards speech, the PANTIES?? gojo satoru it was always meant to be idk what to tell ya. now get married
@Fushidaddy107: I still think she’d be better with me smh.
@officialgojosatoru replying to @Fushidaddy107: Blocked.
A/N. This was SOOO self-indulgent omg- ALSO DADDY TONY’S BAAAACK!!
Synopsis: In the midst of a heatwave your AC “breaks” (and you definitely didn’t mess with it), so now you’re at your neighbor’s place a little too underdressed, and you’re absolutely not trying to seduce him—obviously—it just kind of looks that way!
The city is in the middle of a brutal heatwave, and the air in your apartment sits heavy and thick, like a wet blanket you can’t kick off.
It’s a little after nine at night and the temperature inside still feels close to ninety-five. The cheap fan in the corner just pushes the same hot air around, doing nothing but making the sweat on your skin feel stickier. A drop rolls slowly down the back of your neck, slips between your breasts, and disappears into the waistband of the tiny black boy shorts you’re wearing. Your thin white sports bra is already damp, the fabric clinging to your nipples, which have been tight and sensitive for the last half hour just from thinking about what you’re about to do.
You broke the AC on purpose.
A carefully jammed filter and a casual lie to maintenance about how it suddenly died. No one’s coming to fix it anytime soon. Perfect.
Because right next door lives Gojo Satoru.
Your ridiculously attractive neighbor — tall, lean muscle, messy white hair, and those piercing blue eyes that always seem to see straight through you. He’s always walking around in those low grey sweatpants, usually shirtless when he takes the trash out or checks the mail. The kind of man who makes the air feel hotter just by existing.
Tonight you’re done pretending you don’t want him to ruin you.
You check yourself in the mirror one last time. The sports bra barely holds you in. The boy shorts ride high on your ass, the hem digging softly into the flesh. A light sheen of sweat already makes your skin glow. Good. You want to look like you’re melting for him.
Heart thudding, you step into the hallway. The air is only slightly cooler, but you know the second you walk into his place the contrast is going to hit hard. You raise your hand and knock — three firm taps against the door.
It only takes a few seconds before the door opens.
Satoru stands there in nothing but those grey fucking sweatpants slung low on his hips, the waistband sitting just below the sharp cut of his abs. His white hair is damp, a few strands sticking to his forehead like he just stepped out of the shower. Those bright blue eyes sweep over you slowly, taking in every inch — your flushed face, the way the sports bra clings to your chest, the tiny shorts that leave almost nothing to the imagination.
A rush of icy air rolls out from behind him and hits your overheated skin.
You shiver hard. Your nipples tighten instantly against the thin fabric, peaking so obviously there’s no hiding it. Another bead of sweat slides down your sternum and disappears between your breasts. His gaze follows it without shame.
“Evening,” he says, voice low and easy, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “You look like you’re about to melt.”
You fan yourself with one hand, letting your chest rise and fall a little heavier than necessary.
“My AC completely died,” you tell him, keeping your voice soft and a touch breathy. “It’s unbearable in there. I’m serious. I feel like I’m going to pass out if I stay much longer. Can I just hang out in your cold air for twenty minutes? I’ll owe you big time.”
Satoru leans one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely over his chest. The movement makes the muscles in his shoulders shift. He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks — eyes drifting over the damp sports bra, the curve of your waist, the way the shorts sit high on your thighs.
The silence stretches, thick and charged. You feel it low in your belly.
Finally he steps aside, tilting his head toward the inside of his apartment.
“Come in.”
The moment you cross the threshold the cold air wraps around you like a shock. You can’t stop the full-body shiver that runs through you. Goosebumps rise across your arms, your stomach, the backs of your thighs. Your nipples ache now, stiff and sensitive, pressing visibly against the wet fabric. The sudden drop in temperature after the stifling hallway makes your skin feel electric.
Satoru closes the door behind you with a quiet click.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, casual but with an edge of amusement. “There’s cold water in the fridge. Ice too, if you need it.”
You walk further into the living room, letting your hips sway just enough. The cool air feels incredible on your overheated skin, but it does nothing to ease the heat building between your legs. You can feel his eyes on your ass as you move. You stop near the couch, turn slightly, and stretch your arms overhead, letting the sports bra ride up and expose a glistening strip of your stomach.
A soft sigh escapes you.
“God, that already feels so much better,” you murmur, half to yourself. “I was dying over there.”
Satoru doesn’t sit down. He leans back against the kitchen counter instead, arms still crossed, watching you openly. The front of his sweatpants already shows a noticeable bulge — not fully hard, but definitely interested. The grey fabric clings just enough to outline the thick shape.
You pretend not to notice. Instead you drift closer to the kitchen, stopping a few feet away from him. Another drop of sweat rolls down the side of your neck. You reach up and wipe it away slowly, fingers trailing along your collarbone.
His eyes track every movement.
“You’re still sweating,” he observes, voice quiet but direct. “You sure it’s just the heat?”
You meet his gaze, letting a small smile play on your lips.
“What else would it be?”
Satoru pushes off the counter and takes one step closer. Not enough to touch, but close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off his bare chest despite the blasting AC. The contrast is dizzying — freezing air at your back, his body heat right in front of you.
He reaches past you into the freezer and pulls out a tray of ice cubes. The casual reach brings his arm brushing lightly against the side of your breast for half a second. You inhale sharply.
“Want some ice?” he asks, holding the tray out. His tone is calm, but his eyes have darkened.
Your pulse kicks hard between your legs. You can already feel yourself getting wet, the thin boy shorts starting to stick for reasons that have nothing to do with sweat.
You take the tray from him, letting your fingers linger against his a moment longer than necessary. The cold plastic is a sharp contrast to your hot skin.
“Thank you,” you say softly. You pluck one cube free and bring it to your lips, sucking lightly on the edge while looking up at him. The ice melts fast against your tongue, cold water trickling down your throat.
Satoru’s jaw tightens. His eyes drop to your mouth, then lower.
You trail the melting cube slowly down your neck, letting the icy water run down your chest and soak into the top of your sports bra. The white fabric turns sheer where it gets wet, your hard nipples clearly visible now, dark against the thin material.
A low sound rumbles in his chest — quiet, but you catch it.
“You’re making a mess,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. “Need a towel… or something?”
You tilt your head, letting another drop slide between your breasts.
“Am I?” you ask, all sweet while your clit throbs.
Satoru’s eyes stay fixed on the trail of water. Without a word, he reaches to the side, grabs a clean kitchen towel from the counter, and tosses it to you. You catch it, the fabric still warm
“Clean up before you soak my floor,” he says, tone casual but his voice a little lower than before.
You press the towel to your chest, dabbing slowly at the water, letting the motion drag the damp fabric across your skin. The cold from the melted ice and the warmth of the towel create a confusing contrast that makes your breath hitch.
Satoru watches every second of it.
You set the half-melted cube on the counter and hand the dripping tray back toward him with a small smile.
“Thanks for the ice… and the cold air. I think I’m already feeling a lot better.”
Satoru takes the tray, his fingers brushing yours again. This time his thumb strokes once over your knuckles, slow and deliberate.
“Anytime,” he says, voice low. “Door’s open if you need it.”
He pops the remaining piece of ice into his own mouth and sucks on it while his eyes stay locked on yours. The wet sound is obscene in the quiet apartment.
You should leave now — let the tension simmer so you can come back tomorrow wearing even less.
But your feet don’t move.
And Satoru doesn’t tell you to go.
The cold air keeps blowing. Your skin is still flushed.
You dab at your chest one last time with the towel, then fold it neatly and set it on the counter. The sheer patch on your sports bra is still damp, clinging in a way that makes the fabric almost transparent in places. Satoru’s eyes flick down to it again before returning to your face.
“Want something cold to drink?” he asks, turning toward the fridge without waiting for an answer. He pulls out two bottles of water, the condensation already beading on the plastic. He hands one to you, fingers brushing yours for the third time tonight. This brush lingers a second longer.
“Thanks,” you murmur, twisting the cap off and taking a slow sip. The icy water slides down your throat, a sharp contrast to the heat still simmering under your skin.
Satoru leans back against the counter again, uncapping his own bottle and drinking without taking his eyes off you. The kitchen light casts shadows along the lines of his abs and the sharp cut of his hips where the sweatpants sit low. You let your gaze drift there for a moment, then back up to his face, letting him see that you looked.
The silence stretches, comfortable but heavy. The only sounds are the low hum of the AC and the occasional soft clink of the water bottles.
You shift your weight, letting one hip cock slightly. The boy shorts ride up a little higher on your thighs. Satoru notices. His jaw tightens just a fraction.
After a few more minutes, you set the half-empty bottle on the counter and stretch your arms overhead again, arching your back just enough to pull the damp sports bra tighter across your chest.
“I should probably head back,” you say softly, voice carrying a teasing lilt. “Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
Satoru’s mouth curves into that faint smirk.
“You’re not overstaying,” he replies, easy and low. “But if your place is still a sauna, the offer stands. Come back anytime.”
You take a small step closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body again. You tilt your head up to meet his eyes.
“I might just take you up on that,” you say, letting the words hang between you. Then, softer, with a small smile: “Goodnight.”
You turn and walk toward the door, feeling his gaze on your back the entire way — especially on the curve of your ass in the tiny shorts. At the threshold you pause, glance over your shoulder, and give him one last look, letting your eyes drift down his bare chest once more before you meet his stare.
“Sleep well,” you add, the teasing edge clear in your voice.
You slip out into the hallway before he can respond, the heavy door clicking shut behind you.
The moment you’re back in the stifling heat of your own apartment, the contrast hits hard. Your skin is still tingling from the cold air, from his stares, from the repeated brushes of his fingers. The boy shorts feel even damper now, and not just from sweat.
You lean against your own door for a moment, breathing slow and deep, a satisfied little smile playing on your lips.
Tomorrow night, you’ll give him even more to look at.
The next evening, the heat didn't let up at all.
By 9:15 p.m. your apartment feels even worse than the night before. Sweat already coats your skin as you stand in front of the mirror. This time you’ve chosen something much skimpier: a thin white tank top, soft and slightly oversized, with nothing underneath. The fabric is so delicate it clings to every curve and turns nearly see-through where it touches your damp skin. Your nipples press clearly against it, dark and obvious. Paired with it are even tinier black shorts — the kind that ride high on your hips and barely cover the bottom curve of your ass.
You look like pure temptation.
Satisfied, you step into the hallway and knock on his door — two light taps this time.
He opens it faster than last night.
Satoru stands there in another pair of low sweatpants, no shirt. Those blue eyes rake over you slowly. The rush of icy air hits you the second you step inside. You shiver hard, nipples tightening visibly.
“Back already?” he says, voice low and smooth. “Looks like the heat’s still winning.”
“It’s worse tonight,” you reply softly. “I couldn’t take it anymore. Can I hide in your apartment again?”
He closes the door behind you. “Come in.”
You drop onto the couch, the tiny shorts riding up high on your thighs. Satoru brings the ice tray over and stops right in front of you.
“Figured you might want this again,” he says, voice already lower as he holds the ice tray out to you.
You take it, your fingers brushing his in a slow, deliberate slide. The cold plastic bites against your warm palm. You pluck one large cube free and bring it to the side of your neck, letting the freezing edge glide down slowly. The ice melts instantly on contact, sending cool droplets racing down your throat. Some slip beneath the thin strap of your tank top, others trace lazy paths over your collarbone before disappearing into the neckline.
The white fabric darkens in seconds, turning sheer and clinging obscenely to the soft swell of your breasts. The cold makes your nipples tighten into hard peaks, clearly visible now through the soaked material. More water escapes, rolling in slow, teasing drops between your breasts, down the center of your stomach, and onto your bare thighs, leaving glistening trails that catch the low light.
Satoru watches every single drop with dark, hungry eyes, his gaze following the water like he wants to taste it.
“You’re making a mess,” he says, voice low and rough. “Want me to help?”
“Sure,” you breathe, already aching from the way he’s looking at you. You hold the half-melted cube out to him. “If you don’t mind.”
The moment his fingers close around the cube, his voice drops deeper, rougher.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” he murmurs, stepping fully between your spread knees so his thighs press against the insides of yours.
He trails the ice down your neck and presses it lightly against one nipple through the soaked tank top, rolling it in slow, teasing circles. The freezing pressure makes your breath hitch sharply.
“These nipples are so fucking hard already,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You like the cold on you?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, arching your back just enough to push your breast into the ice. “It feels really good. Keep going.”
He lets out a low, pleased hum and grabs a fresh cube with his other hand. He works both nipples now, rolling the ice in slow, deliberate circles until the entire front of your tank top is drenched and completely see-through. The thin fabric molds to your breasts like a second skin, your dark, stiff nipples straining against it. Meltwater streams down in cool, shiny trails — between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach, pooling in your navel before sliding lower to soak the waistband of your tiny shorts.
“Making such a pretty mess all over my couch,” he says, eyes dark as he watches the water drip down your body. “Let’s get this off so I can see everything.”
His fingers hook under the hem of the soaked tank top. He peels it slowly up your body, the wet fabric dragging teasingly over your sensitive nipples as he lifts it. You raise your arms for him, and he tugs it off completely, tossing the ruined shirt aside.
His gaze drags slowly, hungrily over your bare breasts, taking in the way your nipples glisten with melted ice water.
“Fuck… these look even better bare,” he breathes.
He picks up two fresh cubes and presses them directly to your bare nipples. The sharp, intense cold makes your back arch off the couch with a soft, needy moan.
“God, that’s cold,” you gasp, squirming under the freezing pressure as fresh streams of water cascade down your breasts and stomach.
“Too cold?” he asks, but the slow smirk on his face says he already knows.
“No, don’t stop,” you manage, breath hitching. “It feels intense. In a good way. I like it.”
He chuckles softly, low and warm. “Good. I wasn’t planning on stopping.”
He leans down and replaces one cube with his hot mouth. His tongue drags slowly and deliberately over your nipple, licking up the melted water while the other cube stays pressed firmly to the opposite peak. The sudden switch from freezing ice to scorching heat pulls another soft moan from your lips.
He sucks lightly on your nipple, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud, then switches sides, repeating the slow, torturous contrast while fresh cubes replace the melting ones. One cube trails down the center of your stomach, leaving a cool, slick path that the AC air chills even further. Another slides teasingly along your inner thigh, getting closer and closer to where you’re throbbing but never quite touching it.
You’re breathing heavier now, thighs pressing together as more meltwater drips down your body and soaks into the couch beneath you.
Satoru pulls back just enough to look at you — flushed, wet, trembling under his hands.
“God, you’re such a mess, princess,” he says, voice low and filthy. “And we’re just getting started.”
He slides a fresh cube down the center of your stomach, letting the freezing edge glide slowly over your heated skin. The ice melts almost instantly, leaving a cool, slick trail that the AC air chills even further. When it reaches the dip of your navel, he pauses, letting the cube rest there so the meltwater pools and then overflows, sending icy trails cascading down toward your hips.
The cold water reaches the waistband of your tiny black shorts. Satoru hooks two fingers inside the fabric and tugs them down your legs along with your panties in one smooth, deliberate motion. You lift your hips instinctively to help him, and he pulls the soaked material all the way off, dropping it to the floor with a soft, damp sound. You are completely bare now, spread open on his couch, skin glistening with sweat and melted ice, your pussy already visibly wet and swollen.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, spreading your thighs wider with both hands, thumbs pressing firmly into the soft flesh. “Coming over here in your slutty little outfits. No bra, shorts that barely cover your ass. You wanted me to see how wet you get for me, didn’t you, baby?”
You nod, breath shaky. “Yes, I did.”
He chuckles softly, pleased. “Good girl. Honest tonight.”
He grabs a large, fresh cube and presses it firmly against your swollen clit. The freezing shock rips a sharp gasp from your throat. The intense cold against your hottest spot makes your hips jerk involuntarily. He rubs it in slow, tight circles, watching with dark fascination as the ice melts fast against your heat. Cold water mixes with your slick and drips onto the couch in wet, obscene little sounds.
“Fuck, you’re dripping everywhere,” he says, voice rough with arousal. “This pretty pussy is melting faster than the ice. You’ve been aching for me to touch you like this, haven’t you, princess?”
“I have,” you whimper, hips twitching helplessly. “Fuck, it’s cold.”
He slides the melting cube lower and gently pushes the rounded edge inside you, just barely. The cold intrusion makes your walls clench hard around it. A broken moan spills from your lips, your thighs trembling as the freezing sensation spreads deep inside.
“Too much, princess?” he asks, but he is already slowly pulling the cube out, watching the melted water leak from you.
Before you can answer, he replaces the ice with his hot mouth.
His tongue drags slowly and deliberately through your folds, licking up every drop of melted ice and your arousal. He groans deeply against you, the low vibration shooting straight through your body and making your hips buck against his face.
“Oh my god,” you moan, fingers tightening desperately in his white hair. The heat of his mouth after the freezing ice sends a sharp jolt through you, the contrast making every flick of his tongue feel ten times more intense.
He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking steadily while two thick fingers slide deep inside you, curling against that perfect spot that makes your toes curl and your back arch. At the same time he grabs another cube and rolls it over one of your nipples, then the other, never stopping the relentless rhythm on your clit.
The constant contrast is overwhelming. Freezing ice on your nipples, scorching mouth on your pussy, his fingers stroking deep and steady inside you. Your mind starts to fog over. Everything feels hazy, too intense, too good. Thoughts slip away until all you can focus on is the pleasure and the overwhelming sensations.
“I’m close,” you gasp, thighs shaking violently around his head.
“Come for me, baby,” he murmurs against your clit, voice muffled but commanding. “Let go. I want to feel this pretty pussy come on my tongue.”
You come hard, crying out as pleasure crashes through you. Your walls pulse and flutter around his fingers, hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth. He keeps licking you through every pulse, gentler now, using the melted water to cool your oversensitive clit until the tremors slowly ease and you are left panting, boneless, and dizzy on his couch.
When your breathing finally starts to slow, he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are shiny with your slick and melted ice, eyes dark with satisfaction and hunger.
“Look at you,” he says softly, voice rough. “Already falling apart and I haven’t even fucked you yet. My pretty little neighbor came over dressed like a slut just so I would make her dumb like this.”
You can only whimper in response, head still spinning, unable to form a coherent reply.
He presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then stands, shoving his sweatpants all the way off. His thick, hard cock springs free, flushed dark and leaking at the tip.
He grabs one last cube from the tray, the ice clinking softly against the plastic. He presses it firmly against your still-throbbing clit as he lines himself up at your entrance. The freezing pressure is immediate and intense, making your hips twitch involuntarily toward him.
“You ready for me, princess?” he asks, voice low and rough with barely contained hunger. “Ready for me to fuck you while this pretty pussy is still cold from the ice?”
“Yes,” you whimper, nodding desperately, your hips rolling toward him in a silent plea. “Please. I need you inside me.”
Satoru’s eyes darken with clear satisfaction. He rubs the ice in one final slow circle over your clit, letting the last of it melt against your swollen, sensitive flesh. Then he pushes inside you in one deep, smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt in a single motion. The stretch is overwhelming. His thick cock fills you completely, hot and heavy, pressing against every sensitive wall while the freezing cube stays pressed tight to your clit. The sharp contrast between the burning heat of his cock and the icy pressure on your most sensitive spot makes your back arch sharply off the couch. A loud, broken moan tears from your throat as your body struggles to adjust to the sudden fullness.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, holding perfectly still for a long moment so you can feel every thick inch of him buried inside you. His cock twitches deep in your walls, pulsing against your clenching heat. “So wet and tight, baby. This pussy is sucking me in like it was made for me.”
The ice melts fast against your clit, cold water mixing with your slick and dripping down to where your bodies are joined. The sensation is obscene. Cool droplets run along your folds and pool beneath you on the couch. Satoru starts moving, slow, deep rolls of his hips at first, letting you feel every single inch as he drags almost all the way out and pushes back in. Each thrust makes more melted water splash between you. The wet, filthy sounds of skin meeting skin and ice melting fill the room, loud and unmistakable beneath the steady hum of the AC.
“It’s so much,” you moan, your nails digging hard into his shoulders as your body trembles beneath him. “Fuck, I can’t think.”
Satoru smirks down at you, his hips snapping a little harder, driving deeper with each stroke. “That’s right, princess. Getting all dumb for me already?” He switches the ice to one of your nipples, rolling the fresh cube slowly while his thumb takes its place on your clit, rubbing firm, steady circles that make your toes curl. “You came over here dressed like that just so I would fuck the thoughts out of your pretty head. Look at you now. Can barely speak, can you?”
You whimper, your head falling back against the couch cushions. The constant shift between the freezing ice on your nipples and the scorching heat of his cock stretching you open is too much. Your mind feels fuzzy and slow, every deep thrust pushing you further into that hazy, pleasure-drunk state where thinking becomes impossible.
“Feels so fucking good,” you manage, your voice shaky and breathless. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
“I won’t, baby,” he promises, his voice rough as he leans down to suck on your other nipple. His tongue flicks over the cold, sensitive peak, sending sharp sparks of pleasure through your body. “I’m going to keep fucking you until the only thing you can think about is how full you feel with my cock.”
He picks up the pace, thrusting deeper and harder, the angle perfect so that every stroke drags against that sensitive spot inside you. The slap of skin against skin grows louder, mixing with the wet sounds of melting ice and your soaked pussy. Every time he bottoms out, the head of his cock presses firmly against that perfect spot, making bright sparks burst behind your eyes and your breath catch in your throat.
You’re losing control fast. Words slip away until all you can do is moan and gasp his name between shaky breaths.
“Oh my god, so close”
“Come for me, princess,” he groans against your breast, his thumb rubbing faster and firmer on your clit. “Come all over my cock like the needy little slut you are. Let me feel you fall apart.”
The combination of his filthy words, the relentless deep thrusts, and the last traces of cold on your skin sends you over the edge again. You come hard, crying out as your walls clench and flutter wildly around him. Pleasure crashes through you in heavy, overwhelming waves. Your thighs shake violently, your nails scratching down his back as your body tightens and pulses around his cock, drawing him even deeper.
Satoru groans deeply, his hips stuttering as your pussy squeezes him so tightly. “That’s it. Good girl,” he pants, fucking you through your orgasm with deep, punishing strokes that prolong every wave of pleasure. “Squeezing me so fucking perfect. You are making such a mess, baby. My cum and all that melted ice dripping out of you.”
A few more hard, deliberate thrusts and he buries himself to the hilt, coming hot and thick inside you with a low, guttural groan. You feel every heavy pulse as he fills you, the warmth spreading deep in your belly, mixing with the cold remnants of the melted ice still leaking from your body.
He stays buried inside you for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat, melted ice water, and cum. The AC continues to blow cold air over your overheated skin, making you shiver and clench around his cock with every cool gust.
Satoru finally pulls out slowly, watching with dark eyes as his cum leaks from you. He leans down and kisses you, deep and possessive, his tongue sliding lazily against yours.
“We’re not done, princess,” he murmurs against your lips, voice still rough. “C’mere. Let’s shower.”
Before you can answer, he slides an arm under your knees and another behind your back, lifting you effortlessly. Your body feels heavy and loose from the orgasms, but you wrap your arms around his neck anyway. He carries you through the apartment, your bare skin brushing against his with every step.
He kicks the bathroom door open and sets you on the cool tile floor. Steam starts to rise as he turns the shower on, adjusting the temperature until the water runs warm. He steps in first, then pulls you under the spray with him.
The heat of the water hits your skin like a soothing blanket after all the cold. You tilt your head back, letting it cascade over your face and down your body. Satoru stands behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his hands sliding slowly over your hips.
“You look so fucking good like this,” he says, voice low against your ear. “All flushed and marked up. You’ve been teasing me for days, princess. Showing up like that, knowing exactly what you were doing to me. I think it’s time you got a little punishment, don’t ya think?.”
Before you can respond, he reaches for the detachable shower head and adjusts the setting to a strong, pulsing jet. He brings it between your legs, aiming the powerful stream directly at your sensitive clit.
The sudden, intense pressure makes your knees buckle instantly. You gasp sharply, grabbing onto his shoulders for support as the warm, pulsing water beats relentlessly against your swollen clit. The sensation is overwhelming — too strong, too direct, too good.
“Oh my god,” you moan, hips jerking forward into the stream even as your thighs tremble. “It’s too much.”
Satoru wraps one arm around your waist to hold you steady, his voice low and smug in your ear.
“Too much? This is what you get for teasing me, baby. Walking around in those tiny shorts, showing off this pretty pussy like you wanted me to lose control. Now you’re gonna take your punishment like a good girl.”
He moves the shower head in slow, deliberate circles, sometimes pulling it back to tease you with lighter pulses before pressing it closer again, increasing the intensity. The warm water beats against your clit in rhythmic bursts, making your legs shake and your breath come in short, needy gasps. Every pulse sends sharp sparks of pleasure through your already overstimulated body.
You are quickly losing control, your mind going hazy from the relentless stimulation.
“Feels so intense,” you moan, head falling back against his shoulder. “It’s too much.”
Satoru chuckles darkly, his free hand sliding up to pinch one of your nipples. “You can take it, princess. This is what naughty little sluts get when they dress like they wanna get fucked. Look at you — already shaking and whimpering from the shower head alone. So fucking pretty when you’re falling apart for me.”
The pulsing water never lets up. Your clit throbs under the strong jets, the pleasure building fast and almost painfully. Your thighs quiver, and you have to cling tighter to him to stay upright.
“I’m gonna come,” you gasp, your voice breaking.
“Not yet,” he says, voice firm but teasing as he pulls the shower head back just enough to ease the pressure for a moment. “You don’t get to come until I say so. You’re being punished, remember?”
He edges you like that for what feels like forever — bringing the pulsing stream back to your clit when you start to calm down, then pulling it away again when you get too close. Each time the pressure returns, the pleasure hits harder, making your mind fuzzier and your legs weaker.
“Please,” you beg, voice trembling. “I can’t take it anymore.”
Satoru finally presses the shower head firmly against your clit again, the strong jets beating directly on your swollen nub.
“Come for me, princess,” he growls against your ear. “Come like the needy little slut you are.”
You come hard, crying out as the orgasm crashes through you with brutal force. Your body convulses against him, thighs shaking violently as waves of pleasure rip through you. He keeps the shower head pressed against you through the entire orgasm, drawing it out until you are whimpering and oversensitive, your clit pulsing under the relentless stream.
Only then does he turn the shower head off and hang it back in place with a soft click.
The sudden absence of the pulsing water leaves your clit throbbing and hypersensitive, still pulsing with aftershocks. Your legs feel weak and unsteady, your body trembling from the force of the orgasm he just forced out of you. Satoru does not give you any time to recover. He presses you firmly against the cool tiled wall, the sharp contrast between the warm spray raining down on your back and the cold tiles against your front pulling a soft gasp from your lips.
He lifts one of your legs, hooking it high over his hip and spreading you open completely for him. His cock, now rock hard again and flushed dark at the tip, nudges against your slick entrance. The thick head slides teasingly through your folds, coating itself in your wetness.
“Ready, baby?” he asks, voice rough with raw need. “Ready for me to fuck you after your punishment?”
You nod frantically, still panting, your chest rising and falling quickly. “Yes. Please fuck me.”
Satoru’s eyes flash with dark satisfaction. Without another word he sinks into you in one deep, powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt in a single smooth motion. The stretch is overwhelming. His thick cock fills you completely, pressing against every sensitive wall and bottoming out so deep it steals the breath from your lungs. The warm water continues to rain down on both of you, making every inch of your joined bodies slick and hot.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, forehead resting against yours as he holds perfectly still for a long moment, letting you feel every thick inch buried inside you. His cock twitches deep in your walls, pulsing against your clenching heat. “So wet and tight. This pussy was made for my dick.”
He starts moving, slow and deep at first, the new angle allowing him to hit even deeper than before. Every deliberate thrust drags against that perfect spot inside you, sending bright sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine.The warm water cascades over your joined bodies, running down your breasts, your stomach, and between your legs, making every slide smoother and wetter. The rhythmic sound of skin slapping wetly against skin echoes through the steamy shower, mixing with your soft, needy moans and his low groans.
You cling tightly to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as another wave of pleasure begins building fast and heavy inside you. Your mind is already starting to haze again, the overwhelming fullness, the heat of the water, and the relentless drag of his cock making it difficult to form a single coherent thought.
“It feels so deep,” you moan, your head tipping back against the cool tiles.
Satoru smirks against your neck, his hips snapping harder, driving into you with more force. “That is right, princess. Getting all stupid for me again already?” He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Look at you. Can barely speak, just moaning and taking my cock like you were made for it.”
You whimper, your legs tightening around his waist as he fucks you harder against the wall. The warm water rains down relentlessly, making your skin slick and hypersensitive. Every deep thrust pushes you closer to the edge, your mind growing fuzzier and slower with every stroke until all you can focus on is the pleasure and the feeling of being so perfectly full.
“Feels so good,” you manage, your voice shaky and breathless. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t, baby,” he promises, his voice rough as he grips your thigh tighter, holding you open for him. “I am going to keep fucking you until you cannot walk straight. Until the only thing you can think about is how full you feel with my cock.”
He picks up the pace, thrusting deeper and harder, the slap of skin against skin growing louder and more urgent. Every time he bottoms out, the head of his cock presses firmly against that perfect spot inside you, making bright sparks burst behind your eyes and your breath catch in your throat.
You are losing control fast. Words slip away until all you can do is moan and gasp his name between shaky breaths.
“Satoru. Oh my god.”
He leans in closer, lips brushing your ear as he fucks you harder against the wall.
“Say my name again,” he growls, voice low and rough. “Don’t stop.”
You whimper, the pleasure making your voice break. “Toru— fuck, Toru—”
“Come for me, princess,” he groans, hips slamming into you with deep, punishing strokes. “Come all over my cock like the needy little slut you are. Let me feel you fall apart one more time.”
The combination of his filthy words, the relentless deep thrusts, and the warm water raining down on your sensitive skin sends you over the edge again. You come hard, crying out as your walls clench and flutter wildly around him. Pleasure crashes through you in heavy, overwhelming waves. Your thighs shake violently around his waist, your nails scratching down his back as your body tightens and pulses around his cock.
Satoru groans deeply, his hips stuttering as your pussy squeezes him so tightly. “That is it. Good girl,” he pants, fucking you through your orgasm with deep, punishing strokes that prolong every wave of pleasure. “Squeezing me so fucking perfect. You are making such a mess, baby.”
A few more hard, deliberate thrusts and he buries himself to the hilt, coming hot and thick inside you with a low, guttural moan. You feel every heavy pulse as he fills you, the warmth spreading deep in your belly and mixing with the shower water that runs down your joined bodies.
He holds you there for a long moment, both of you breathing hard under the steady spray. Finally he lowers your leg gently, keeping one strong arm around your waist to steady you as your knees feel weak and shaky.
He kisses you again, slower this time, deep and possessive, his tongue sliding against yours in a lazy, claiming rhythm. When he pulls back, there is a smug little smile on his lips.
“Let me clean you up properly, baby,” he murmurs, reaching for the soap.
He lathers it between his palms and starts with you, running his soapy hands over your shoulders and down your arms with slow, gentle strokes. He lingers for a moment on your breasts, thumbs brushing lightly over your nipples, then moves lower, carefully washing between your legs and rinsing away the mess he left there. The warm water cascades over both of you as you take the soap from him and return the favor, soaping his chest and abs, feeling the way his muscles shift under your palms.
The touch is intimate and unhurried, the steam filling the small space as the water rinses everything clean. When you are both washed, Satoru shuts off the shower, wraps a towel around you first, then dries himself quickly. He scoops you up and carries you back to his bed like you weigh nothing.
You expect him to pull the covers over you and call it a night. Instead, Satoru props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with that signature smirk, damp hair falling into his eyes.
“You know,” he says, voice low and playful, “when you first knocked on my door claiming your AC was broken, I knew you were full of shit.”
You laugh softly, too worn out to pretend otherwise. “Was I that bad at it?”
“Terrible.” His fingers trace a slow line down your side. “Still let you come back, though.”
He leans down and kisses you, slow and teasing.
You bite your lip, hesitating, then mumble, almost shy, “Y’know… it actually is broken now.”
He pulls back a little, caught off guard. “Wait—really?”
You give a small shrug. “Yeah. I broke it. On purpose.”
Satoru lets out a low, warm chuckle. “Fucking crazy.”
nerd!gojo studied really hard for this experiment...
CW: nerdjo is such a shy freak boy, teasing, fingering, squirting, he came too...
help my first jjk/gojo fic im terrified | f!reader
“So. I, um,” he clears his throat nervously, thumb circling your nipple with a feather-light touch. “I’ve been doing some reading.”
You squirm naked against the bedding, hips lifting slightly in reflex. “Really, Toru? Now is the time you want to tell me about what you’re reading?”
His cheeks burn bright pink as he looks down at your naked body. His hands have been roaming your skin for what feel like hours—a slow preparation he’d insisted on for his… ‘experiment.’
A single finger pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, nerves and desire warring in his posture.
“No, I mean like… reading. About… anatomy. Female anatomy.”
“Well you have a diagram waiting to be touched right here,” you pout, voice low and needy.
He lets out a soft huff, pinching your reddened nippled gently. Fully clothed, he’s inventing a delicious kind of torture, especially since he hasn’t once touched your throbbing pussy.
“They say the mind is the biggest erogenous zone. So I just… wanted to make sure your pretty little head was ready. Before I even touched your pussy.”
A soft, frustrated whine escapes your lips as you shift, slick pooling beneath you in a testament to your readiness “I’m ready. Toru… everything is definitely ready.”
Satoru’s eyes flicker down, drinking in the evidence he’s been meticulously ignoring, the blush on his cheeks deepening to a shade of crimson.
He swallows hard. “I-I know. I can see. It’s the physiological response. Increased blood flow, capillary enlargement…” his clinical tone falters, cracking under his lust. “It looks… really pretty.”
“Toru…” you whine.
Hesitantly, his hand skims your side, fingertips grazing your hipbone before hovering just above your inner thigh.
“The anticipation… it’s supposed to make the… the eventual contact… more intense. For you.”
“Please. I’ve had more than enough anticipation.”
“Okay. Okay.” His voice drops to a husky whisper. “Just… just a little more. I read about this technique…”
His fingers begin to trace slow, teasing circles just above your mound, the ghost of a touch driving you insane.
“You’re being so good. So patient. It’s… it’s really hot,” he murmurs, biting his lip.
Your pussy throbs pathetically. “Touch me,” you demand. “Right now.”
“Fuck. Okay.”
His hovering hand finally makes contact, but not as you expect. The back of his knuckles brushes along the core of your wetness, gathering the sticky mess.
“So wet…” he whispers, more to himself than you.
His other hand moves to spread your tights a little wider, and you shiver at the subtle domination, juice leaking freely from your needy, neglected slit.
The pad of his finger presses against your entrance, teasing without penetrating, and you buck reflexivity against the touch.
“Fuck, yeah. You’re so ready,” he purrs, beginning a slow, circular motion around your slick hole.
“Y-Yes I’m fucking ready,” you whimper. “Please, why are you teasing me so much?”
He smirks, thumb rising to rub against your clit softly. “We’re going for a different result this time, remember?”
Finally, his index finger gradually sinks inside, and your body melts, welcoming him without resistant.
You cry out at the sensation, making Satoru’s eyes widen before a wicked grin spreads across his face. He stills his finger, knuckle deep, while his thumb continues its relentless teasing on your clit.
“You’re so tight,” he groans, pressing a sloppy kiss to your collarbone. He withdrawals, then pushes back in slowly, curling his finger to hit that perfect, swollen spot inside you. “Even with just one finger.”
“Baby,” you mewl, thighs threatening to clamp shut—which he doesn’t allow. “Please… more.”
His glasses fog with his ragged breaths as he obliges, sliding a second finger in and scissoring them gently, stretching you wide before returning to his deep curling thrusts.
“Fuck, pretty girl. You’re so responsive.”
Your hands curl into the sheets. “H-Honey… fuck… it feels funny—”
“That’s the pressure building. Don’t clench… relax for me. Let it happen,” he instructs.
Your pussy drips onto his fingers, your whines mingling with pants as you attempt to relax your pulsing inner muscles. “M’trying—! It’s a—hic—lot.”
He leans forward, grunting in your ear as his thumb and fingers orchestrate his exquisite research.
“I know. You’re going to squirt all over my hand, baby. I can feel it.”
You grip his arm, nails scraping into his skin against the stimulation, and he nearly whimpers.
“Oh god… Satoru… mmghh—“
A gush of warm fluid explodes from you, soaking his hand and the sheets. He watches, entranced, as his skilled fingers continue to coax small, tremulous trickles from your oversensitive pussy, your whimpers thrashes only spurring him further.
“Oh my… fuck,” he breathes. “You’re so beautiful… so fucking hot…”
When his fingers slip from your spent pussy with a sloppy, wet sound, he straightens, panting. The front of his pants is bulging and soaked, a dark, blooming patch marking exactly where he came.
your boyfriend satoru is so sensitive- you can make him cum with the slightest touch. and that boosts your ego like nothing else. plus, it keeps him on his toes- bc you can be mean.
-
the commute on the train from tokyo to kyoto wasn’t too long- a little over two hours was manageable.
gojo, the clingy man he was, insisted on you coming with him to meet with the… well you actually don’t really know. you didn’t ask. but assume it has something to do with work- i mean it usually did.
this time was a bit irritating, you won’t lie. he just had to drag you out right in the middle of the season finale of your favorite show. said it was last minute and you had to catch the next train.
thankfully this cart was basically empty, aside from a few men, about college age, in the front and an older woman in the back.
gojo was yapping about some new dessert from some ridiculous restaurant he wants to try in kyoto after the meeting. you barely register, absentmindedly drawing random shapes on his upper thigh while you zone out- thinking about what could have happened at the end of the episode you were so invested in.
in the back of your mind you barely register him shifting- no squirming- in his seat.
“uncomfortable, ‘toru?” it was an innocent question, honest. you thought maybe he was just trying to stretch his muscles, tight from the train ride.
“b..baby…” he breathes out, barely above a whisper, “you gotta stop.. stop doing that-“ his breathe hitches and at first you had no idea what he was even talking about.
then you felt it. nudging at your wrist, hard.
“ohh…” the realization hits and you can’t help but feel a little devious. your hand was farther up than you thought, tracing his upper thigh- much closer to his cock than what was usually acceptable.
“aw i’m sorry, baby. does that feel too good..?” you tilt your head at him, giving him your mock innocence.
“but.. it doesn’t look like your body wants me to stop..?” you muse, your fingers now tracing the top of his pants.
“always so sensitive, ‘toru. such a needy boy.”
a strangled whimper leaves his throat, trying to be quiet as you dip your hand into the hem of his pants. warm palm making contact with his now raging hard on. above the briefs, of course.
“throbbing for me already. i haven’t even done anything yet, sweet boy.” your whispers brush his ear as you notice his dark sunglasses slipping down his nose slightly. his breathing is getting heavy, chest heaving.
“please-“ he accompanies the pleading with a single thrust of his hips, encouraging you further.
you gasp sarcastically. “on a train, satoru? in public? my, how lewd. you’re insatiable.”
your finger nails graze graze his leaking tip, still neatly tucked away in his briefs. it earns another strangled moan from him as he tried desperately to be quiet.
“shhhhh.” you coo at him. “be a good boy and take it for me, yeah? let me play with your cock for a bit in public.”
the vein on his neck start to show from the strain. your finger tips are relentless, tickling and teasing the sensitive frenulum as he oozes precum.
“god- please- don’t stop- i-“ he babbles.
you smile at him, feeling the way the heat radiates from his dick, balls tightening already.
“hm? gonna cum like this? gonna spill your load in your underwear and walk around town like that? like the disgusting slur you are? gonna go to the meeting like that so everyone knows how weak you are for me?” you can’t help the mischievous giggle erupting from you, “big strong gojo satoru.. can’t help but cream his pants for his girlfriends hand and i haven’t even touched it directly.” you chide devilishly, leaning down to kiss his neck. “beg me. beg me to make you bust in your pants. c’mon, baby- use your words~”
“please… god please.. please m-make me cum in my pants f’you. i’ll take it s’good. walk around with cum in my pants for all for you- i’ll be so good.” he babbles, face complete flushed.
“pathetic. and so fuckin cute.”
an immediate reaction. he doubles over, biting his lip to keep from moaning as he empties his balls into his shorts. you keep teasing the tip until it stops throbbing- for good measure, of course. you pat the wet spot, making sure his briefs are nice and ruined. messy.
“s’mean to me, baby.” he pouts up at you over his glasses. you smile and lean down to give him a apologetic kiss.
gojo pushes into you slow and deep, eyes locked between your legs. the second his thick cock sinks in your pussy lets out a soft wet queef around him. he groans low, hips twitching like he cant help it.
he pulls back just enough then slides in again, forcing another puff of air out. the sound is small and embarrassing and it makes his cock throb hard inside you. every thrust traps more air only to push it back out in those quiet little queefs that he cant stop watching.
“fuck… listen to your pussy,” he mutters, voice rough, never looking away. he keeps the angle just right so each stroke makes it happen again and again, the wet sounds mixing with how soaked you are.
he gets off on it so much his pace turns messy, breathing heavy, just chasing every queef until he’s buried deep and cumming with a broken groan, still staring at the way your pussy flutters around him.
☆ you’re having a fever and satoru thinks it’s the best time to cockwarm you . . 18+
satoru lowers you into the warm bath water first, your back against his chest, your head lolling heavy on his shoulder because the fever has you all soft and dizzy. the steam curls around you both and he keeps one arm wrapped around your waist so you dont slip.
he is already hard. has been since he carried you in here. he spreads your thighs gently over his and lines himself up, pressing the thick head of his cock against your entrance. you make a tiny feverish sound when he starts sliding in slow and careful, inch by inch until he is buried deep inside you with no rush to move.
“there we go,” he whispers against your damp hair, voice low and sweet. “just keep me warm, baby. thats all i want right now.”
he doesn’t thrust. he just stays there, thick and full, pulsing softly inside your fever-hot pussy while the bath water laps at your skin. every time you shift or whimper from the heat in your body his cock twitches and he tightens his hold, keeping you pinned flush against him so not even an inch slips out.
his free hand strokes your stomach in lazy circles, thumb brushing just below your belly button where he can feel the slight bulge of himself inside you. he loves how warm you are around him, tighter than usual because of the fever, every little flutter and clench milking him without either of you moving.
“so perfect,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “burning up and still taking me so well. my good girl.”
you feel floaty and hazy, the heat from the water and the heat from his cock mixing until everything blurs. satoru stays perfectly still except for the occasional slow roll of his hips that presses him just a little deeper, never pulling out, never fucking you, just cockwarming you nice and deep while he kisses the fever-sweat from your neck and tells you how warm and soft you feel around him.
he could stay like this for hours, buried inside you, holding you close while the bath cools and your fever slowly breaks against his skin.
𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 ── Genius profiler, Gojo Satoru, is the FBI's resident boy wonder, human Wikipedia and the reigning king of tragic cardigans. He can read a killer's pysche in seconds, but you can't figure him out. A grudge that's half a decade old, a stakeout, and a virgin all collide in the front seat of your car.
𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 ── kisses to all who can recognise the muse for gojo in this fic
The office carries the scent of burnt coffee, and old filings. It's the kind of place that wears its years proudly, with scuffed desks, walls washed pale by fluorescent light, and the constant clatter of keyboards and phones. A new espresso machine hums in the corner, already claimed territory, for half-empty mugs and discarded sugar packets are scattered around it. Like offerings to the temperamental god of caffeine.
You pull your new (itchy) blazer tighter around yourself as you step inside. This is it, the Behavioural Analysis Unit. Your new home, and the result of a decent few years clawing after case files and letters of recommendation.
You've always been told you were a prodigy in the field. Sharp, quick and too intuitive to be stuck doing desk work in the downtown city offices. The BAU was always looking for brains that could pluck patterns out of the noise, to predict a potential criminal's next move before they even made it.
And now? You finally got to prove it.
"Oi, you're the new hire?" A voice barks, sharp enough to slice through the buzzing office noise.
You turn, resisting the urge to ask why he feels the semantic need to ask that question, considering he was the one who stamped the approval on your unit transfer. But you doubt that your new boss is the sort of man you want to cross, on your very first day no less.
Ryomen Sukuna is a lesson in not judging a book by its cover. Wheat-golden skin, lined with streaking dark tattoos over his cheekbones and jaw. A shock of peach and raven-black hair streaked in a rough undercut. He looks as though he should be running a biker gang, not a federal unit, but there's something in his maroon stare. Hard and cutting, that makes you stand a little straighter.
"Don't slow us down," he grunts.
No handshake, no warm welcome. Just a warning, but you can understand why.
Time is of the essence in the Behavioural Analysis Unit, as is the ability to stomach the uncomfortable.
You pad after him, doing your utter best to not scuff the linoleum floors as you dodge strewn cables near the heavy glass doors. The entrance leads to a smaller nook, a quiet room with an oaken, circular table stacked with flimsy files, bulging with stamped papers. Worn chairs are scattered across the circumference, and you do your best to flatten yourself against the wall as others filter in.
Great. Meeting new people, your favourite hobby, right?
Although, that being said, you had studied all of their case files, with the sole benefit of not fumbling your way through first impressions.
You begin to match names to faces, hesitantly lowering yourself into your cold seat, in an attempt to look busy.
Nanami Kento was the first one who entered, and to your chagrin, he gets a brief handshake from Sukuna. Fuck, why didn't you get one? But Nanami's presence seems deliberate and measured, for he's tall, with every inch of him pressed into a well-tailored steel blue suit. His honey-blonde hair is neat, his face solemn yet thoughtful.
He's flanked by two others. The first being a woman with cinnamon-brown hair, twirling a flat lock idly between violet, chipped nails. Nicotine and cheap beer, threaded through with something unexpectedly floral.
Shoko Ieiri.
You know from pouring over her file that she has more years of medical knowledge than anyone else on the team, but right now, she looks like she'd rather be anywhere else.
The man pulling himself into the chair on the other side of Kento is, frankly, a perfect candidate for a haute couture ad. Long, dark hair pulled loosely back, with strands falling around his face in delicate arcs, like the petals of a spider lily, brushing the dark stud that glints in his ear.
Suguru Geto. Built like a bear, broad enough to block the doorway, his strong frame draped in a scuffed indigo racing jacket that looks permanently fused to him. Hie flips through a case file with the kind of casual detachment that comes from too many years doing this job. You've heard he's been here the longest, and from the way the others glance at him, shoving their own files to him, you can tell it's true.
The fourth new face nearly barrels into the table, gaze glued to his phone. He looks up just in time to scowl, as though it's everyone else's fault he wasn't looking where he was going.
Floppy sandy-blonde hair falls over the man's amber eyes, messy enough to look intentional. Dark roots peek through at the top, while moss-green tips dye the ends in a streak of rebellion. That Prada suit is a slim, toned fit and you know it costs more than your car insurance.
You don't need a file to place Naoya Zen'in. One could argue he only scored this job thanks to his father, who sits pretty high on the federal chain, pulling strings. But apparently, he isn't exactly dead weight. For what he lacks in tact and brawn, he makes up for in sheer agility.
That, and his reputation of being an utter jerk.
"I see you people way too much," Geto is grumbling, though his arm is already stretching around Kento to snag a glazed doughnut. He shoves the doughy confectionary into his mouth, smacking his lips shamelessly, as he muffles around sticky crumbs, "How is it we're already being assigned another case? We only just flew back in yesterday."
"The beauty of this is that it's a gift that keeps on giving," Sukuna's voice rumbles like gravel as he drains the last of his mug, "Sick fucks always findin' new ways to hurt each other." He slams the empty mug down the table, tattoos flashing like black cuffs around his wrists. His russet eyes flick up, catching your stare.
You grimace, pretending to admire the lead pencil in your hand, as though you were looking at literally anything else.
Sukuna rolls his eyes, "And lookie here, we've got fresh blood." He jerks a thick finger in your direction, "Department approved a new transfer since Kashimo ditches us for whatever adrenaline-junkie bullshit he does now."
"Probably bungee-jumping into a volcano," Naoya mutters, not bothering to lift his eyes from his phone.
A round of quiet nods and murmurs of ascent follow, resigned as you gather this must track for the famed, impulsive Hajime Kashimo.
"That, and the fucker kept tryin' to take my job," Sukuna growls, but his sharp eyes swing back to you, "So, kid. Tell us where you crawled out of."
You shift, suddenly wishing you'd spent a little more time preparing a decent show-and-tell, "I – uh, spent some time after the academy in Cyber. Worked cases involving data trafficking, predictive algorithms, behavioural mapping and —"
The doors bang open as a ridiculously tall man blows in, alongside a rush of cold air, balancing a pastry bag and an oversized coffee, as though he's walked through a hurricane. His tie is loose, white hair windswept, and his glasses are a little askew.
"Sorry, sorry — I'm late," the man blurts, breezing in like a hurricane with a coffee cup in one hand and a pastry bag in the other. He cuts across the room in long, careless strides, clapping Kento on the shoulder as he passes, "Don't start without me."
"Oh, no, your majesty," Sukuna mutters, voice dripping with snide disdain, "We were all waiting for you to grace us with your presence. What, fifteen minutes late? Wouldn't want our little genius missing the fun."
The man flushes mid-step under Sukuna's glare, shoulders stiff, "Look, man — "
Sukuna raises a thick brow.
"Uh, I mean, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Won't happen again, sir."
"Get your ass in a chair."
Geto presses a hand valiantly to his chest, and it takes all your Herculean effort to not stare at the counter of his sculpted chest beneath his top. But the man is as solemn as a priest, "He won't do it again, boss. Nope. I'll personally buy him an alarm clock."
Shoko snorts into her ocean-blue turtleneck, tugging it tighter around her throat, "He doesn't need you to suck up for him."
"Welcome to the team," Naoya finally drags his amber eyes away from his glaring phone screen, pinning you with an exhausted stare, and once again, that look that blamed all of his displeasure on others, "Not too late to hand in your two weeks' notice."
God. You should have read that case file one more time. Should've done a single ounce more of snooping into your new team. Then, maybe, just maybe, you would have been more prepared.
If you had just bothered to read the last and final page on the current members of the Behavioural Analysis Unit, you would have picked up on this.
Gojo Satoru.
He's sinking into a wheeled chair, flipping through a file and shuffling stacks of crisp paper. Loose navy cardigan over crisp slacks, and a cream button-down, with sleeves rolled to his elbows. White hair a little too long, falling into his glacial blue eyes, hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses that look devastating on him now.
The last time you saw him was, when? High school?
He had been a mess back then, composed of crumpled Lord of the Rings hoodies from Hot Topic and a ramble of babble that everyone attributed to him being, well, an absolute nerd.
Gojo Satoru, the valedictorian. The boy genius with a scraggly bowl cut and round, prescription sunglasses. The guy who could speak a dozen languages, and pass an exam without cracking open his book once. Eidetic memory, and all that.
But he had always been a bit of a social pariah. If he wasn't alone, mumbling over textbooks in the library, he was probably exchanging Pokémon cards with some friend of his, like the bumbling, dark-haired Ijichi.
And now? Well, it's an ironic choice of words considering your line of work, but he looks criminal. Still a nerd, but in that hot way that Pinterest girls swooned over. Tall, broader than you remembered, sharp-jawed and somehow pulling off a cardigan better than you right now.
Your mouth is already open before you can stop yourself, "When the hell did you get so hot?"
Gojo's head lifts quickly, blinking at you like you're an anomaly in a code that he was clueless about. No recognition, no faint spark of memory in those jewel-toned eyes. He adjusts his glasses, pink lips quirking, "I'm sorry, have we met?"
Every cell in your body goes into system shutdown. Somewhere in your periphery, Kento's face flattens, as though he's embarrassed to have spent time in your presence. Across the table, Shoko slips a twenty into Geto's waiting hand. You catch Naoya sliding in a crisp fifty with the same bitter grace as tossing meat to a dog.
You cough, cheeks puffing as you scramble for rapid damage control, "I mean, wow. When the hell did it get so hot in here? I'm sweltering. Are you guys hot? Because I'm hot. Like, wow, summer's already here? Global warning, am I right?"
"It's the middle of winter," Sukuna throws you a look of mild disgust, as though you're contagious with a brand of idiocy he wants to avoid.
"Phewwww." You wipe your brow theatrically, refusing to die in utter shame, "Must be just me then. Because I'm boiling in here."
Naoya leans back, eyes dragging over you with lazy, bored curiosity, lips curling just enough to flash his fangs, "You do know all BAU agents have to pass a psych eval, right? You didn't bribe the assessor?"
Shoko perks up suddenly, leaning forward with the first glimmer of interest in her doe-copper eyes, "Could be medical. Hyperthyroidism, maybe. Or pheochromocytoma. Seen an endocrinologist lately?"
"Uh..." You falter, because Gojo is frowning at you with real concern over his puzzled face, "I'll get it checked out. Thanks."
You hear Sukuna grunt something about 'fuckin' idiots' before he's already sliding individual files towards everyone. His huge hand click the pointer, and the wall-mounted screen flickers to life.
"Remember our mystery case from last year?"
"Flat-top weirdo who set people on fire?" Geto frowns, pushing your file towards you, from where Sukuna tossed them onto the middle of the table. You murmur a quick thanks, careful not to meet Gojo's eyes, the gaze boring into you from across the table, suddenly quite stern.
"The unsub was found not long after. Jogo, wasn't it?" Kento murmurs.
Naoya wags a finger towards the screen, "Then there was that freak with the bio-warfare. Something about flowers and shit?"
"Hanami. Also caught. Do you even pay attention to what we do?"
Naoya just shrugs, golden hair fluttering as he tilts his head with little regard for Kento's disapproving stare.
"Eyes up here," Sukuna warns, his tone like barbed wife. He clicks, and the next slide makes your stomach lurch. You'd braced yourself for crime scenes photos, comes with the job, obviously.
But nothing quite prepares you for the patchwork grotesque on the screen. Stiff sheets of human skin, stitched together with light blue-grey thread in patterns so deliberate it makes your chest crawl.
You swallow hard, throat tight as you hold onto your breakfast. But the others? Entirely unfazed.
"Yeah, that's the telltale M.O, it's poppin' up more and more," Sukuna shoves his hands into the pockets of his charcoal-grey denim.
"Oh man, yeah," Shoko says, leaning back in her hair as though this is a casual conversation about the weather, "That case has been open for months, I thought the unsub had stopped acting, and we had to put the investigation on hold?"
"Nah." Sukuna sums it up eloquently, "This is from two days ago. Something's triggered the killings again." He drops the pointer, tossing it onto the table with a thunk! Your boss jerks his chin towards the far side of the table, "But I'll let boy genius tell you more."
Every head swivels towards Gojo Satoru, except for yours. You keep your eyes firmly trained on the stacks of paper in front of you, the coordinate grid maps of where the unsub had previously struck last year.
Gojo's pushing his glasses up the bridge of his hawkish nose with one long finger. The glow of the projector washes his pale skin in sterile blue, catching on the sharp edge of his jaw. For half a second, the thinnest sliver in time, you could swear he looks at you, watches for your attention.
"Okay, so — " He claps his hands together once, quick and sharp, and you swear the sound reverberates through your bones, "Our unsub. Male, mid-twenties to mid-thirties. We could assume he's highly organised, almost meticulous with what he does, but impulsive to a fault. He does what pleases him, and gambles on what he thinks will give him a thrill."
"Like Kashimo," Shoko mutters, rolling a strand of flat, chestnut hair between her fingers once more.
Geto shakes his head solemly, "True that."
"The victims are skinned postmortem. And we've consistently found that pale blue thread is used to stitch pieces together. The shade of blue is consistent, almost ritualistic. The nylon fibres were analysed in the lab, and our unsub uses the same brand. It's cheap, easy to get at specific convenience stores so we can track his location as a path."
"You gettin' this?" Sukuna peers over at you, startling you out of your mild reverie. You fumble for the nearest Sharpie, already creating crosses over the past locations, wincing at the sound of the marker squeaking across paper.
"And like I said earlier, his stitches really are meticulous. Cross-stitch, blanket stitch, whip stitch. It's like he's experimenting with technique. I doubt it's random."
"Who spends time learning this shit?" Naoya mutters, reclining in his chair, but straightening up once Sukuna levels a shark-like flat look at him.
"Shut up, you wouldn't know a running stitch from a running nose," Gojo scowls, firing back without missing a beat, and he's pacing now. Voice picking up speed, words tumbling like dominos, "Locations? Spread across three prefectures, but always within walking distance of either a fabric store, or get this, cinemas? Something personal, perhaps?"
"Last time, agents found notes he had left behind, a manifesto?" Kento wonders out loud, dark eyes narrowed as he peers at the illuminated screen.
"Yeah, but it was nothing useful," Shoko shrugs, before pointing to Gojo, "Sorry, hang on. I'll get back to you. But there were no fingerprints left, not a speck of DNA to trace. And most of his ramblings made no sense, something about 'Idle Transfiguration' and his motivations, like humans hating and fearing each other."
"Like that's anything new," Sukuna grumbles, "Most people are like that."
"You're an optimist, boss," Geto notes, broad shoulders rippling beneath his jacket, "Anything about victimology?"
Gojo pushes his glasses up once more, glancing at you briefly. You loathe the feeling that pushes against your ribcage, and force your buzzing mind to actually focus on his words, "See, this is an anomaly. For someone so driven and focused on what he considers his craft, his victims seem to be chosen at random. Complexion and – uh, texture seem irrelevant. So, he's not really chasing consistency for his patchwork."
"But you guys caught him on your radar last year? You didn't find patterns?" You ponder, and while you know none would believe your words, you could swear that Gojo flinches at your voice. Ugh.
But the white-haired man gnaws his lower lips, "Yeah, yes. Patterns, yes. He disappeared for weeks, sometimes months, then resurfaced. That's typical cooling off period in disorganised killers, but this is the one part of his behaviour that doesn't seem as impulsive. He seems to hunt deliberately after mass public events. Tragedies, natural accidents, moments where there's a lot of negative public sentiment in the air. Like that's his time to source the right..." Gojo snaps his fingers, suddenly grinning, "Like sourcing the right fabric."
Naoya pulls a face, idly picking at a raw cuticle, "That's disgusting."
"Yeah, don't you love our job?" Gojo pushes his sleeves up, revealing toned forearms, dusted with light hair. He's clicking to the next map overlay, a string of red pins dot the screen, matching the marks you've made on the map in front of you.
"Notice the clusters. Each crime scene radiates outwards from a central hub. That hub? Abandoned textile factory in the south quadrant. It's a line of vast sewer tunnels, and I'd guess that's where our unsub probably feels safest returning to?"
Gojo coughs into his fist, finally lowering himself into his chair, as though he's just remembered that oxygen exists, "So. Yeah, that's – uh. That's what we're dealing with."
"Yeah, I knew all that," Sukuna snickers, slapping his thighs as he stands, "But now — "
"What?!" Gojo's head snaps up, scandalised.
"I knew, 'course I read the profile. You think I don't do my job? Just wanted you to get it out of your system, so maybe you'd get the chattering out of the way and I'd get five blessed minutes of silence at least."
Gojo mutters something under his breath that is absolutely not HR safe, folding his arms sullenly over his cardigan. Geto reaches over to pat his sulking friends shoulder in slow sympathy, "There, there. You'll always be my favourite profiler."
Shoko rolls her eyes skywards, sharing a long suffering look with Kento.
"Anyway," Sukuna grumbles, "We've got enough agents to stake out the predicted strike zone. We'll be in the field, but I want two of you pulled back a little, car surveillance, eyes on any movement in the surrounded abandoned area."
"I'll do it," Geto offers smoothly, putting his palm up. But the reaction is immediate and violent.
"No way."
"Impossible."
"You better not even fuckin' think about it."
"Not after Kenjaku-gate."
You frown, brows furrowing, "I'm sorry. Kenjaku-gate? This was some...incident?
"Don't," Geto warns sharply, stuffing another helping of glazed dougnut into his mouth.
"Please do," Shoko encourages, propping her chin upon her fist with wicked interest.
Naoya leans in, and you're struck by his immense resemblance to a hyena, "Yeah. There was this guy, Kenjaku. His whole M.O was identity fraud, always swapping bodies, new disguises, different lives. Shit got real sticky, he even wore Geto once."
You wonder if you heard that correctly, glancing at Geto, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, "Wore? As in — ?"
"Right," Naoya continues gleefully, "So for a hot minute, everyone thought he was guilty of all these weird crimes. Big mess, and the higher-ups in the government had to get involved. They were foaming at the mouth and all."
"Mhm," Sukuna huffs, leaning back in his chair, and jerking a thumb towards Geto, who was currently scowling daggers at no-one in particular, "He's been cleared now and all, but that bastard caused a lot of problems. Nearly sank the team."
Your eyes flick to Kento, who hasn't said a word, but who looks far more strung. You mouth, something personal?
The golden-haired man hesitates, then gives the barest nod, Don't ask. Something about his twin brother.
You file that away, stunned. You frankly can't picture your new boss having friends, let alone a brother. But before you can prod, Sukuna's sharp eyes cut back to you like a blade.
"Well, how about this then?" His voice is slow, dripping with challenge, "I'll send ya' out there. You and boyband wonder, hmm?"
"Me?" You freeze, sudden heat climbing your neck.
But Gojo, mid-sip of coffee, sputters, "Boyband? Man, what the fuck?" He runs a nervous hand through his hair, pushing it up self-consciously.
"Shiny teeth, tragic wardrobe, zero substance?" Naoya offers with venomous glee.
"I have so much substace," Gojo sinks further into his cardigan, "Like, layers. Onions-level."
"Enough," Sukuna cuts through Gojo's muttering like a blade, voice sharp, and the casual chatter dies instantly. "I'm not your fuckin' babysitter. So, let's focus before I do lose what little patience I have left."
Gojo winces, lips quirking into an awkward grimace, but Sukuna ignores him and taps the case file with a thick finger, "We've got fresh dumpsites with consistent signatures. Stitching patterns, the pale blue thread. Most recent was two days ago, meaning we've got a live unsub working fast. That puts us on the clock."
You feel Gojo's eyes flick to you again, quick and unreadable, and your stomach twists. He still hasn't said anything. Not a flicker of recognition. Not even a hey, long time no see. Just nothing.
It pisses you off more than it should, irritation welling up in your throat.
"Fine," you blurt, before your brain can catch up, "I'll do it. Stakeout. Whatever you need."
There's a faint quirk at the corner of Sukuna's mouth, like he can smell the edge of desperation under your words, that urge to prove yourself. But his eyes are colder, "We'll see about that."
"Kento, Ieiri. You canvas the medical angles. Hospitals, ER admissions, anyone who might've stitched somethin' suspicious together. You'll get the most traction."
"Geto, Zen'in, go after witnesses and locals. Hit the perimeter, dig for chatter. And don't give me excuses about your personal vendettas gettin' in the way."
At this, Geto and Naoya give each other nasty, defeated looks. You briefly wonder the dynamic between them is.
But Sukuna's glaze cuts back to Gojo and you, "Which leaves you two. Surveillance car. Abandoned industrial area on the south side. Keep ya' eyes open, and if you get trigger-happy, I'll have your badges before you can blink."
The team starts gathering files, muttering, scraping chairs against the floor. You catch Geto purposefully knock his elbow into Naoya's ribs, but one by one, they filter out. You're slow to move, waiting till Gojo gives you a hesitant look and pushes the door open.
But you're absolutely aware that Sukuna's gaze is still pinned on you.
"Stay a minute," he orders.
Your spine stiffens, wilting under his maroon eyes. Oh, god. What did you already screw up?
But Sukuna doesn't waste time, "You want to prove yourself? Do it out there, not in here." His arms cross over his vast chest, tattoos shifting with the movement, "This isn't a playground. People die if you fumble, or freeze."
You swallow, throat tight, "Yeah, I know. I mean, understood."
"For the record..." Sukuna pauses, eyes narrowed as he seems to search your face for something, "The only reason you're here is because someone vouched for you. Usually I don't take rookies without field scars."
"Someone vouched?" Your heart stutters, thudding beneath your sternum.
"Yeah," Sukuna's lip curls, like the whole thing is a nuisance, "Gojo. Said you were worth the risk."
Your jaw practically unhinges, in the most unflattering way possible. Gojo? The same Gojo who looked you dead in the eye, and treated you like a stranger, while you babbled on about global warming?
Sukuna seems to read your silent expression, rolling his eyes, "Don't get sentimental. Whatever history you've got with boy-wonder, that's your problem. Out there, I only care if you can keep up." He jerks his chin toward the door, "Now get outta' here before I change my mind."
You nod quickly, fighting the ridiculous urge to kowtow, and grabbing your file before scurrying away with a spinning head.
"...So, you like jazz?" Gojo offers, peering low over his glasses, voice low in the hush of the car. His breath clouds in front of him, puffs in the winter chill.
You throw the white-haired man a sullen look, "Are you quoting the Bee Movie right now?"
Gojo's brows crawl up his face, "What? No." He wiggles in his seat, reaching into the pocket of his corduroy jacket. Producing a battered stack of discs, each one labelled in his crooked scrawl, "I bought jazz. Miles Davis, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald. All the greats."
You must look gobsmacked, because flushed colour creeps across his cheeks. Gojo coughs and fumbles them back into his jacket, like contraband, "Sorry. Didn't know what you liked. If you don't want — "
You wave his stumbled fragments off, eyes darting to the frost-laced window, "No, it's fine." You gesture at the ancient CD slot on the dash, "Yeah, put whatever you want on."
Gojo perks instantly, sliding a CD in, and soon the tinny trumpet of Miles Davis fills the stale air of the car. You fold your arms, not looking at him, jaw clenched against the silence that starts to stretch.
For several minutes, the only sound is jazz, the occasional creak of your gloves as you flex your hands against the chill, and the scrape of Gojo's graphite pencil as he pulls through a crossword puzzle.
"So, first official stakeout. Excited?"
"Thrilled."
Gojo drums his long fingers against the steering wheel, "You know, these stakeouts are a rite of passage. It's the long hours, bitter coffee, and the leg cramps from being stuck in the car." He glances at you, smiling faintly, "Builds character."
"I can't wait," you mutter, eyes flicking over the dim, warm street lights casting long shadows across the pavement.
More silence. A car passes down the far end of the abandoned street, headlights sweeping briefly across the dashboard.
"You think he'll come tonight?" You ask finally, if only to give Gojo something else to do, other than throwing you confused looks.
"The unsub?" His voice sharpens, "Maybe. The dump site pattern isn't perfect, but this location fits his trajectory. High likelihood he'll circle back tonight."
"Guess all we can do is watch, no?"
Gojo hums in agreement, pink lips pressed together, before pulling his battered, cracked phone out of his pocket, "Naoya said he would send through any witness statements, I just hoped he stayed on task enough to remember."
You snort, "Has he always been this insufferable?"
Gojo smiles, and his expression is surprisingly warm, "He wasn't always. We grew up together, actually. Naoya was — " Gojo shrugs, eyes flicking to the windshield, " — pretty cool, back then. Somewhere along the way, he just became a jerk."
The bitter edge of jealousy curls in your chest, faster than you can halt it, "Well, it's nice you remember him."
Gojo's head jerks towards you, as though he's baffled by the sudden venom coating your tongue, "Uh, what?"
You moodily jab the dashboard a little harder than intended, "Seriously? You've been pretending not to know me this whole, like I'm some stranger you've never met, and I know it's not that deep, but it's — " You choke on the words, cheeks suddenly burning, "It's embarrassing. It hasn't been that long since high school, Satoru. Did I do something to you, or what?"
It seems that the air in the car has gone very still. Jazz murmurs faintly from the speakers, a trumpet line winding upward like smoke.
Gojo just blinks at you, stunned, lips parted like a fish out of water. But his expression shifts, sours suddenly. White brows knit together, that plush mouth pulling into a scowl.
"Are you asking me that?" His voice isn't loud, but the irritation in it cuts sharper somehow.
You gape at him, "What? Me? It's not like we were best friends or something, but a 'Hi, hello, how are you?' would have been nice in that team room. You practically ignored me."
"Yeah?" Gojo's laugh is humourless, bitter, "Well, it's better than tearing someone down, isn't it?"
Your heart stutters, confusion blooming, "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Gojo shifts in his seat, huncing in a way that looks wrong on his tall frame, pulling out his phone. You catch sight of the battered case, corners fraying, as though it's the same one he carried back in high school. He's frowning as he scrolls, before flipping the dim, cracked screen towards you.
Huh. A text message, addressed to you.
The date is old, years old, but your name is right there in the contact header. You drag your eyes over the clumsy words.
Hey, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go out sometime? nothing fancy. maybe that new burger place by the train station? i’ll even pay. (don’t laugh at me too hard, ok?) >_<
Your stomach flips, as you take in the following reply. Short, cruel. Mean in a way that only teenagers could manage.
"Wow. That's...wow. That's mean."
Gojo's throat bobs as he swallows, and he opens his mouth, but you sharply cut him off, "But that wasn't me."
"Huh?"
You force yourself to meet his eyes, hidden behind thick frames, startling blue, wide and wounded, "That wasn't me. I never saw this. I never replied to this."
"But —"
"Yeah," you blurt, "I changed numbers. Utahime dropped my phone in a pool, on a senior trip. I ended up just getting a new one, even a new number. Whoever did this just thought they were fucking with you, I mean, it's messed up, 'cause I never would have said that."
You swallow, the weight of the sudden silence pressing on your chest, but Gojo suddenly breaks it, blurting, "So, you think I'm hot now?"
Your head whips towards him, startled, as heat crawls up the back of your neck.
Gojo immediately winces, shoulders caving in as though he's trying to fold his giant frame into the tiny car, "Sorry. Just tryna' think of something to say. I didn't meant to embarrass you earlier. I don't know, I was just —" He waves his hand vaguely in the air.
You shouldn't lose focus, but your eyes linger anyway. His hands are elegant. Long, tapered fingers. Neat nails, calluses just barely catching in the dashboard light. Hands probably steadily enough to wield a scalpel or...
No. Don't go there.
Your breath hitches, and you drag your gaze away, desperately praying he didn't notice the temporary loss of your composure.
"No, it's fine. I mean..." You stumble over the words, trying to find stable foot, "I heard, well, Sukuna said that you vouched for me. Which is nice. I appreciate that."
Gojo's expression softens, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his features, "Yeah, well." He shrugs, defensively, "I asked Sukuna to keep it a secret, but figures he sold me out."
You almost smile, "Doesn't change the fact that you stuck your neck out."
"Guess I did," Gojo scratches at his jaw, over the faintest hint of stubble, glancing away, "Thought you were worth it."
Your heart stutters.
The car feels smaller suddenly. The cold air outside fogs the windows, but inside, it’s warm, too warm, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin. The mournful trumpet fades into a husky croon, and every note seems to hang between you like a dare.
You shift in your seat, knees brushing his by accident. He tenses, just barely, but doesn't move away. And maybe you're imagining it, but his gaze drops, to your mouth, then back to your eyes. Quick. Guilty. Like he hadn't meant to.
But you'd seen it.
The silence between you grows roots, tangling around the both of you. You can still feel the phantom brush of his knee against yours, the way his eyes had flicked to your mouth. It lingers, heavy, like the saxophone whispering from the CD.
Gojo clears his throat, Adam's apple bobbing. Then he clears it again. And then he blurts, "You know, statistically, unresolved tension like this usually results in impulsive decisions that compromise stakeouts."
"…What?"
"I mean," Gojo gestures helpless, corduroy sleeve slipping down his wrist, "It's – it's basic psychology. Two people with history, recent emotional clarification, physical proximity." His voice is speeding up, rambling now, "That kind of cocktail basically rewires your brain chemistry and then, um, then you end up, you know, uh —"
Gojo swallows, blue eyes fixed straight ahead, "Kissing."
You just stare at him.
Gojo winces, palms pressed to his knees like he's bracing for you to laugh in his face. "Not that I'm saying we should, I mean, I am saying that, but not in a creepy way, I just – " He cuts himself off, groaning, pressing a hand under his glasses, "God, I sound insane."
Something in your chest twists. Because under all the words spilling from his mouth, he looks…nervous. Really nervous. The kind of nerves that can't be falsified.
Then, like the world's clumsiest miracle, he drops his hand, and his blue eyes meet yours, wide and shining and sincere. His cheeks are flushed pink, breath puffing in the cold air.
"Please, I would like to kiss you," Gojo says softly, before stiffening, "Only if you want to, uh, doesn't have to be now."
The world tilts, blood roaring in your ears. You're frozen for a second, but before you can second guess yourself, you lean in, heart hammering as you press your lips to his.
At first it's tentative, testing the waters, your mouth brushing his like a question. But then Gojo's warm hand comes up, hesitantly cupping your jaw, and the way he exhales against your mouth, like he's been waiting years for this, answers it for both of you.
The trumpet solo wails on, high and bright.
The kiss should've ended at that. A brush, a sigh, a fragile thing left untouched. But Gojo makes this soft sound in his throat, half whimper, half groan, and suddenly you're tipping forward, hand fisting in his cardigan to drag him closer.
He kisses like he talks; too much, too fast, spilling over himself. His teeth click against yours, and when you gasp, Gojo's tongue darts in shyly, then a little bolder, like he's cataloguing the exact angle, the exact pressure that makes your breath hitch.
"F-fuck," he murmurs against your mouth, voice cracking, "I didn't –I've never actually..."
You pull back a fraction, dazed as you stare the swell of his glossy lips, "You've never…?"
Gojo's ears are pink, his white lashes trembling as his nose brushes yours, "I read about it. But I've – uh, not, you know. This, or anything like this. Not with anyone."
Oh. Suddenly, the fumbling, the eagerness, it all clicks. And your chest squeezes at how earnest Gojo looks, like he's terrified you'll ridicule and mock his inexperience.
"Relax," you whisper, sliding closer, your thigh brushing his., "You're doing jus' fine."
Gojo's groan is strangled, raspy as you press your lips to the juncture of his neck, "The fact that I'm even here, doing this with you is a-amazing, actually."
Then he kisses you harder, messy now, a little greedy. His hand finds your waist, hesitant at first, then tugging you practically into his lap.
Fuck.
You feel it straightaway, the thick, solid press of his cock straining in his slacks. Gojo jolts like he's embarrassed you noticed, but you grind down just a little, chasing after some friction between your legs, and he breaks the kiss with a loud gasp, forehead thudding against yours.
"Jesus Christ —" Gojo's voice is wrecked, wrecked in a way that makes heat curl low in your belly, pool between your thighs, "I'm – fuck, I'm so hard right now, this is, oh my god."
You giggle, breathless, nipping at his berry-pink lip, "Focus, genius. Stakeout, remember?"
And as if on cue —
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The car door rattles violently, as though someone has pounded their first on the window. You both jolt, scrambling, your thighs jostling as you clamber off Gojo's lap.
Sukuna, arms crossed in his windbreaker uniform. Face twisted in a scowl so utterly disgusted and sour that could curdle milk. The type of expression that promises consequences so severe that medieval executioners would tremble in fear.
Your head falls back against the seat with a groan, as you kick the door open, taking in the swarm of federal agents rushing past your stakeout car, most likely to chase after your unsub, "Oh, you've got to be fuckin' kidding me."
Gojo, meanwhile, is fumbling with his seatbelt, sliding his cardigan off to pull his windbreaker on, doing little to cover his very obvious erection, whining under his breath, "I can't go out there like this, holy shit, he's gonna kill me. W-wait, don't leave me, tell Sukuna I've caught the flu and —"
You shove yourself out the car door, shooting Gojo a look, "I'm sure he just saw that. Can only pray he doesn't send us to be hung, drawn and quartered."
Gojo follows, still muttering, still rock-hard, but trying desperately to stand up straight, "He's really gonna' kill us."
"Kento got a lucky shot, didn't he? They're gonna' have, uh, what's his name? Mahito? They're gonna' have him put away for life." Gojo buzzes, as the motel door clicks shut behind you, the muted clamour of the hallway falling away. You toss your duffel bag onto the bed, exhaling hard.
"So," you sigh, pushing off your shoes, groaning at the ache in your ankles, "How much paperwork do you think Sukuna's gonna bury us under? Forty hours? Fifty?"
Gojo groans dramatically, collapsing face-first onto the other bed. His muffled voice filters through the sheets, "I can still hear him yelling in my head. Like a banshee with a nicotine problem. I've never seen him so mad."
You laugh, unzipping your flimsy jacket, tossing it on the cheap sheets, "At least he didn't bench us completely."
"I thought he was gonna' shove my badge down my throat."
Gojo flips over, messy white hair fanned across the pillow, glasses crooked. He stares at you for a long moment, his ears pink, before he says it. Quiet. Too quiet for Gojo.
"…It was still worth it."
You freeze, turning slowly, "What?"
His hand scrubs over his face, as he pulls his glasses straight once more, "Not the badge down my throat part. The stakeout. Car. You. I don't –" he breaks off, sits up abruptly, ocean-blue eyes bright with nerves. "I've never felt anything like that before. And if Sukuna yells me into the ground every day for the rest of my life, it'd still be worth it."
The room goes hushed. Your chest tightens at how serious he looks, this tall, awkward genius who's always been a little too much, suddenly stripped down to something raw.
You cross the room slowly, settling onto the edge of his bed, "Satoru…"
Gojo's throat bobs, and the tips of ears are flushed, "Can I —" He stops, shakes his head, tries again, quieter, "Can I have this? With you. Tonight?"
Your heart lurches. He's never done this before. You can see it in the way his fingers twitch on his knees, in the unpracticed tremor of his voice.
You lean in, brushing your lips against his temple, "Yeah," you whisper, "I really want that."
Gojo's exhale is shaky, relief and hunger all tangled together. When he kisses you this time, it's clumsy but desperate, his hands hovering, not sure where to land until you guide them, pressing them to your waist, your thigh, your chest.
And then it breaks open, heat curling, restraint snapping. Gojo groans into your mouth as you push him back against the pillows, his long body sprawling, his cock already stiff and aching against his plaid slacks.
"F-fuck, I don't, 'cause I've never…" Gojo pants, face flushed, "Just tell me what to do, please, I'll do anything —"
You take in the fine sculpt of his nose, the long lashes framing his eyes, the broad press of his shoulders against the woven fabric, "I can't believe you're a virgin, Satoru."
"Hey! I've been too busy to get laid."
The laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, warm and teasing all at once, "It's a compliment, I don't know if anyone tells you this enough, but you're hot."
Gojo groans, flopping back on the bed like he wants the carpet to swallow him. You rake your nails beneath his shirt, feeling his toned abdomen, lightly dusted with fine hair.
And oh, the noise he makes. Like his soul is trying to claw its way out of his throat.
You lean down, kissing him again. Soft at first, then not at all, because Gojo is hungry, fumbling hands tugging at your hips, and then over your ass, groaning into your mouth like he's been starved of this forever. And maybe he has.
It's clumsy, teeth knocking once, but then Gojo moans. Loud. Like you've just discovered a frequency that short-circuits his neurons. His cock twitches under you, hard already, "S-sorry," he gasps, pulling back, blue eyes blown wide, "I can't, it's so – this is so embarrassing, I'm already —"
"Hard?" you tease, grinding your hips down so his cock presses right against your building heat, "Good. Means you want me."
Gojo whines, white hair tipping back against the pillow, throat flushed pink, "Of course I fucking want you. I've wanted you since — " He breaks off with a strangled groan when you rock against him again, "Shit-shit-shit, don't stop. Please don't stop —"
Gojo's rambling, babbling like he does at case briefings, but instead of statistics, it's just desperate filth, "Y-you're so warm, I can feel you even through my pants, I think I'm gonna die, – wait, am I supposed to – should I —"
You cut him off with another kiss, tugging at his worn belt until it clatters open. Gojo's shaking, half-helping, half-getting in the way because his large hands are trembling too hard. But finally you shove his slacks down enough to free him —
And oh, he's big. Thick, veined, dripping already, precum beading at the fat tip. Virgin, sure, but blessed in ways unfair to humanity.
Gojo gasps when your hand closes around his flushed shaft. Loud. Shocked. His head knocks back against the headboard, glasses sliding askew, "Oh my god, you're – holy shit, I'm gonna cum just from this, don't make f-fun of me —"
"Not making fun," you murmur, stroking him slow, savouring the way his soft, velvety cock kicks in your grip, "I'm impressed."
Gojo groans like you've shot him through the heart, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets, hips jerking up into your hand helplessly, "Impressed —fuck, oh god, I think I l-love you, wait, shit, did I just say that out loud?"
You laugh against Gojo's throat, kissing down the column of his neck as he trembles under you, whining like he’s already on the edge, pearly slick already staining your hand.
"Relax, Satoru," you whisper, lining him up with your own slick entrance, pushing your panties to the side, feeling the thick, hot throb of his fat head near your core, "I'll take care of you."
And when you sink down, slow, tight, inch by inch, his groan could wake the entire floor.
"Oh, fuck, you're – you're t-tight, fuck, you're gonna break me —" His hands are everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding helplessly up your sides, pushing his glasses entirely off, "I-I'm inside, I can feel everything, I'm – oh my god."
You clamp a shaking hand over his running mouth, leaning in close. "Shhhh. Walls are thin, baby."
He nods frantically, eyes wet, muffling little cries into your palm as you bottom out, feeling every hot inch swab your gummy walls. His cock twitches inside you, already dripping, already too close.
And when you start to move, rolling your hips slow, grinding down until he's gasping into your hand, he nearly comes undone on the spot.
You barely get three swivels of your hips before he loses it.
"F-fuckfuckfuck, oh god, no – wait, shit —" Gojo's whole body seizes, hands clawing at your waist, voice cracking into a sob as his cock jerks inside you, thick head prodding dangerously close to that sweet spot, "I'm, oh no, I'm —"
And then Gojo's already climaxing, thick, creamy spurts spilling into you, thighs trembling, glasses long discarded on the thin sheets of the motel bed.
You blink down at him, stunned, feeling a heavy throb in your cunt, clenching around an overstimulated Gojo, "Did you just — "
"Don't say it," Gojo covers his face with both hands, chest heaving, still twitching weak spurts inside you, "Don't say I just came in thirty seconds. I know. I know. I —" His voice breaks into a whimper, muffled behind his palms, "Fuck, I'm so sorry, I didn't, wasn't even, fuck, it's like the data didn't predict this outcome."
You laugh, despite the fading ache between your legs, eager for some friction. Because only Gojo Satoru would be blushing and pulling out scientific metaphors while still buried heavy balls-deep in you.
"Baby," you coo, stroking a hand down his flushed chest, thumbing over a pink nipple, and the action makes him keen, "We're not done. Not even close."
Gojo peeks out from behind his fingers, cerulean eyes wide and wet, "Wh–what do you mean? I already —"
"Yeah," you purr, tightening around him just to watch his jaw drop, to feel that delicious ache purr back to life as your groin tacked across his sticky hips, "And you're still hard."
And Gojo is. His thick cock, flushed angry-red, still twitches inside you, leaking, pulsing like it hasn’t gotten the memo.
He makes a broken noise, "That's not biologically s-supposed to happen. Well, sometimes, it c-can."
"Guess you're pretty special then, aren't you?"
Gojo arches, loud and shameless, like you've just electrocuted him. "It's too much – wait, wait, I — fuck, I can feel everything, you're so wet, so tight, god, I can feel your pretty pussy's heartbeat around me."
You press your lips to the shell of his ear, nipping the sensitive skin. “Then c-come on, fuck me more, Satoru. I know you can do m-more than thirty seconds. Show me what you've got."
Gojo whines, rasping, "I don't, – fuck, I've only read about positions. And everyone knows the Kama Sutra actually wasn't o-originally about s – woah, mmph!"
You shut him up with a kiss, rocking down harder, grinding his cock deeper into your sticky, drooling walls. He moans into your mouth, a desperate mess of teeth and tongue as he chases after your lips, his hips finally jerking up to meet yours.
"There ya' go," you pant, breaking the kiss to bite his jaw, "Just like that. F-fuck me back."
And something finally clicks. Some primal gear in Gojo finally slots into place, and suddenly he's gripping your hips with surprising strength, thrusting up into you with a rhythm that makes your breath catch. Hitting that sweet, roughened spot over and over in a way that makes you squeal.
"Shit, shit," Gojo gasps, white hair plastered to his forehead from sheer exertion, "I'm doing it, right? Like, I'm actually f-fucking you. It's so good, is it good for you? Tell me it's g-good."
"It's a-amazing," you whine, crescent-tipped nails digging into Gojo's shoulders as your own head tips back, "Fuck, 'Toru, you're so d-deep."
He groans like you’ve just told him he solved the world’s hardest equation (knowing him, that's probably the type of shit that gets him off).
"Deep, yeah, I read average vaginal length is l-like three to four inches but your cervix can actually – fuck, fuck, fuck, you're clenching – holyshit — "
You cut him off with another grind, walls fluttering around him until Gojo groans, head tipping back against the pillows once more, flushed and writhing.
"C-can't – can't take it,” he babbles, hips snapping frantically, the sound of skin slapping sticky echoing through the room, "Too good, too hot – fuck, your pussy's gonna kill me, I'm actually gonna die a virgin after all, oh god — "
You laugh breathlessly, tightening your quivering thighs around him, pinning him to the mattress as you ride him through another orgasm. He spills again inside you, creamy and opaque, drooling down your thighs, gasping your name, shaking under you like he's unraveling thread by thread.
And still, still — he's hard.
But Gojo looks wrecked. Vibrant blue eyes dewy, cheeks wet with sweat and tears, lips kiss-bitten and swollen, "Why, why won't it go down," he moans, almost panicked, pulling his cock out to slap at your wet folds, and the stimulation over your throbbing clit makes you squeal.
You cup his face, leaning close, "H-hey, we got plenty of time to practice now, right?"
Gojo breathes out one last shattered plea, voice cracked and raw, abdomen heaving with splattered release, "Teach me again tomorrow?"
The first thing you register is sheer heat. The second is warm weight, Gojo's ridiculously toned body pressed against you. Half on top of you, and half spooled around you as though he's afraid you'll vanish.
The third thing you notice is something hard rutting insistently against your hip. Smearing warm slick over your soft flesh.
"S-sorry, pretty girl," Gojo blurts, voice hoarse, and you don't miss the mild crack at the end, "Didn't meant to wake you, fuck, where are my glasses? I just, uh, well, morning wood is biologically inevitable due to nocturnal penile tumescence cycles but this feels way better than when it just happens randomly in my sleep."
You cut him off with a lazy roll of your hips, grinding back into his cock, just at the right angle so it slips between your thighs, curving upwards deliciously. Gojo yelps, biting the edge of your shoulder.
"Please," he whimpers, eagerness thrumming in his voice, "Round two? I read that recovery time after multiple orgasms is supposed to be, like, hours but I think maybe last night recalibrated me — "
You turn onto your back, grabbing his face and dragging him down into a messy kiss. He's still nervous with it, teeth knocking, lips wet, as though he didn't carve his way through your pussy last night, but he's so adorably desperate it makes your heart ache.
"Satoru," you murmur against his sweet mouth, "Just fuck me.”
His whole body jerks, like you've just flipped every circuit breaker in his brain. Gojo pushes in deep, groaning like he's dying, hips stuttering as your glossy folds envelop his thick shaft once more, that delicious stretch making you quietly keen.
"You're so – oh my god, you're so warm, and s-so wet. It's better than anythin' that I've ever – fuck, you're squeezin' me so good."
You laugh into Gojo's mouth, clenching around him just to hear him scream, "God, you're cute. S-shut up and keep moving."
And he does. Frantic, erratic, messy, his big hands gripping your hips like lifelines, flushed cock driving into you with the enthusiasm of a man who's just discovered heaven is real and he's the only one inside.
When you finally come, with a quiet moan, stars glittering in the peripherals of your vision, heart racing as your pussy's clenching tight around him, Gojo breaks, face buried in your neck, babbling ironically sweet nothings as he spills into you again, cock plugged thick up in your walls.
His blue eyes are bright as he slumps against you, sweaty and trembling, whispering into your skin, "…So, I should have asked you this earlier, but if I asked you to go out with me, like a real date, would you say yes?"
You blink up at him, breathless, taking in the sight of the gorgeous. man hovering above you, earnest and wide eyed, "…Yeah. I would. 'Course I would, Satoru."
Gojo's grin splits his whole face, stupid and boyish and beautiful.
The entire team is staring, and Shoko's cigarette falls from her elegant fingers, "No way." She's staring between you and Gojo, copper eyes narrowed, "So if you two ended up –," she pulls a face, "I can't even say it. But that means he won, fuck me."
Sukuna's grin is all fanged teeth, and he barks out a rough laugh, "Called it."
Naoya scowls, slamming a crumpled fifty onto the table, "Bullshit."
"Pay up," Sukuna orders, already extending one tattooed hand. Geto groans and drops a twenty, shooting you a dirty look that implies you deprived him of his lunch money. Shoko sighs and pulls a fifty from her wallet. Even Kento slides over a neat fifty-dollar bill.
Sukuna collects them all with a grin sharp as broken glass, whistling as he counts the notes, "Easy money. I told you boy-wonder was gonna' crack first."
"Hey," Gojo protests, cheeks blazing, "We – we did not crack, thank you very much."
Naoya sidles past towards the churning printer, snickering "No, you got cracked."
"That's a bit unfair."
"Please," Sukuna cuts him off with a sneer, "I sent ya' on a stakeout for a serial killer, and I caught you cryin' over a boner. You're lucky you got off this easy."
"Heh, got off," Geto murmurs, and with all past rivalries apparently forgotten, he receives a joyous high-five from a gleeful Zen'in.
You groan, dropping into your chair, "Can we not?"
But Sukuna leans back, shuffling his new wad of cash with a victorious hum, stuffing the roll into a suspiciously expensive Italian leather wallet. You privately wonder if your surly boss has a private side-gig in any less illustrious black markets.
"Nah, it's deserved. But still, it's a good welcome to the team. First rule of the unit, everybody fucks up. Second rule, don't fuck during an assignment. And third?" Sukuna whistles, pushing through the doors of his office, "Don't bet against me."
Gojo leans over to whisper in your ear, mortified, "This is the worst day of my life."
But you only smile, pushing a strand of soft, white hair out of his glasses, "Relax. You're still the one taking me out tonight."
The way Gojo's ears go pink? Worth every cent Sukuna just pocketed.
This was pure perfection and when I read this earlier, I could not contain myself from giggling. UGH I LOVED IT, I literally imagined everything so vividly and got the muse reference (how could I not?? My guy fr). 10/10 would read a book of this - love this AU deeply.
your boyfriend's body has changed drastically while he bulks
Satoru has always been big. He stands at a towering 6 feet and 3 inches, and to most of the populations he hovers above. His hands were practically three sizes bigger than yours. Feet and legs are unnecessarily long. His presence was loud and hard to ignore even when he wasn't yapping.
Though he was lean, his muscles have always been defined. As of lately, his body has been changing in ways you couldn't possibly overlook. His lean build slowly became more beefy and thick. Satoru, suddenly out of nowhwere decided he wanted to bulk and get bigger.
Sitting down on your shared bed, kicking your feet, as you watched your boyfriend get dressed from his fresh shower. You felt like some kind of predator with the way you're ogling him. His biceps flexed as he lotioned his toned body. His juicy tits (is what you like to call them) were being massaged as he moisturized his body, and he flinched slightly when he rubbed too hard on his sensitive nipples.
Then, that ass. Ugh. His ass was always a nice squeeze, but now it was by far more than a handful. It was rounded out and plump, you were almost jealous at the sight. You bit your lip when he caught you staring through the mirror. That signature smirk made its way on his face, "What am I, a piece of meat?" His teasing voice reached your ears.
You giggled, "A piece of meat isn't too far off, babe. Could you be oh so nice and give me a triwl?" Batting your eyes at him.
Satoru gasped, placing a hand over his beefy chest, "I am not to be objectified, woman.'' He pretended to be hurt by the request.
"I can't help when my boyfriend is the finest eye candy I've ever seen."
"Oh hell no. There's other eye candy?"
Rolling your eyes at his nonsense, you rose to your knees, "Come to mama." Your hands gestured for him to approach. And like the good boy he is, Satoru instantly walked into your eyes, "Your body has changed so much, baby."
"I hope it's a good change," His cheeks slightly flushed at you staring him down.
Hand coming down to slap his plump booty, causing him to yelp, "Of course it's a good change, can't you see how crazy you're making me?" You littered soft kisses along his sharp jaw, hands crassing his abs.
"I just t-thought you were being a pervert like usual." He stammered out when your greedy hands brushed his pink nipples.
Your kisses traveled lower, reaching his collorbone lightly nibbling, "Mmm, how can I not be perverted with a sexy boyfriend like you?" Your hand coming down to his ass again, grabbing a handful, he jolted in hold. Pulling him closer to you, feeling his hardening cock bobbing against your stomach.
Mouth finally reaching his sensitive nipple, tongue flicking the nub, "Oh fuck baby!" He moaned out, hips bucking against your shirt, searching for any sensation.
Satoru allowed you to toss him onto the bed, hovering above, "I'm gonna make you feel so fucking good, baby," Groaning as his needy pale blue eyes frantically looked over your body.
not proofread :(((((
Calm lil fic fr, but If you likey feel free to request * wink wink*
WANNA CÚM, GIVE MY BROTHER SOME. no-one could fault you for jumping at the first chance to kiss your best friend, the man you had a crush on for years, gojo satoru. but had you been a bit more observant, you might have noticed that it wasn't satoru you were kissing, but his shy, quiet twin-brother.
featuring. frat!gojo x reader x nerd!gojo
content MDNI double penètration, cümmîng on tîts, cowgîrl, tit sücking, anàl, body worshîp, dirty tàlk, thrèesome, màking out, mistaken identity, crèàmpîe, èxhibîtionism, màstürbation
word count 7.2k
note my first fic on here 💙 please interact, like, comment or anything <3 art credit.
The air in the bedroom was still, thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, sweet dust of spilled Oreos. You didn’t notice. All you could taste was mint and heat and the shocking softness of Gojo Satoru's mouth, yielding under yours with a startled, desperate sound.
It wasn't a groan so much as a fracture, a sharp and stifled "Hngh —" that vibrated against your lips before dissolving into a wet, open-mouthed gasp as you licked inside. Your thumb found his lower lip, plush and damp, and pressed down. He shuddered.
"Oh, god," Gojo moaned, his words muffled, breathless. A warm hand hovered, trembling in the air beside your hip, before settling on your waist, fingers digging in through the fabric of your shirt, "You want this? You actually want me?"
You leaned into the delicious touch, rolling your hips forward. The hard line of his erection strained against his pants, a blatant, thrilling pressure against your thigh. You ground down, earning a choked-off whimper that went straight to your core.
"More than anything," you breathed, and it was the truth. You'd wanted Satoru for years. Through countless afternoons in his perpetually messy room, your legs swinging off the edge of his unmade bed while he flexed a bicep, and demanded you acknowledge its growth.
You knew the landscape of his chaos by heart. The Red Bull racing jacket slung over the second-hand couch, the galaxy of LED strips on the ceiling, the expensive whiskey stolen from his father's office, hidden under the bed next to a box of daifuku. You knew the sound of his voice, loud and bright and endlessly boasting.
You knew the flush that painted Gojo's cheeks when he laughed, the predatory glint that twinkled in his blue eyes when he was focused on scoring a goal.
You knew all of that. So you didn't question the clean, woodfire-like scent that wasn't his usual overpriced cologne. You didn't register the absence of a thumping bass from a portable Bluetooth speaker, overpowering the raging party downstairs. You didn't wonder about the lack of a jersey-strewn floor.
Your mind was full of Satoru, the fantasy of him. Finally you had him, lips parted and moaning against you.
His kiss was hungry, but there was a clumsiness to it, a frantic and untutored edge that you assumed your best friend would lack. Teeth clacked against yours, and the hand on your waist slid around the small of your back, pulling you flush against him with a strength that made you gasp.
Gojo took advantage of that, his tongue surging forward to meet yours, not with the practiced and teasing swagger you may have anticipated, but the raw and consuming intensity that felt like being devoured.
You broke for air, panting as you rested your forehead against his feverish skin. Your eyes began to blearily crack, swimming with sensation. It was only then that other details began to bleed through.
The bed behind Gojo's knees was firm, the comforter taut and neatly tucked. Not the familiar and chaotic nest that you were accustomed to. the light was different, a warm and steady glow from a desk lamp, not the pulsating ice-blue sparkle of LEDs. And the sounds were reduced to the quiet hum of a laptop fan, and the ragged symphony of your breathing mingled with his.
Your eyes sharpen in the dim gloom, landing on the Star Wars poster first. The Empire Strikes Back. Centred perfectly on the wall opposite the bed. And then the desk, obsessively ordered with a closed MacBook aligned precisely with a stack of textbooks. Thick volumes, like An Introduction to Quantum Field Theory, The Mathematics of General Relativity.
Behind them, a humble pile of manga, a volume of Shingeki no Kyojin dog-eared open to a tense, detailed art of two brothers, Eren and Zeke Yeager facing off against one another. Your gaze drops, a porcelain plate in a delicate robin's egg blue, upon the desk. On it, a half-open packet of Oreos had spilled a constellation of black crumbs across the surface.
Oh, the glasses. You hadn't felt them during the kiss, hadn't thought about them while his mouth slanted over yours. But you see them now, slightly askew on the bridge of his nose, thick and black-framed lenses that magnified the most startling, familiar shade of blue.
A jewel-blue currently wide with shock, and a hunger so deep it looked like terror.
This wasn't Satoru.
Satoru's nose has always been straight, proud. This one had a slight, scholarly bump on the bridge. Satoru's hair was a wild and artful mess of white, ruffled by his own hand and often stuck beneath a plain, crooked cap. This was cut neater, softer at the temples. Satoru filled any room with his presence, but the Gojo in front of you seemed to absorb the silence around him, to live within it.
Gojo Satoshi.
The quieter of the two twins. The genius. The ghost who inhabited Satoru's loud and glorious shadow. You'd seen him in passing for years, a figure in Uniqlo cable-knit sweaters and pressed chinos, always lugging around a humble stack of books, his voice a low rumble that you'd maybe heard a dozen times total.
Satoru often mentioned him with a soft of affectionate, bewildered pride. My brother's rewriting spacetime in the library. Boring, isn't it?
You had kissed Satoru's 'boring' brother. And he had kissed you back like a man who had been starving for a lifetime. And judging by the low heat pooling in your gut, the slick that you knew seeped through your lace panties, he had incited a fire in you that was anything but dull.
His hand was still on your back, a brand through your shirt. His other had come up, fingers tangling hesitantly in the hair at your nape. He was breathing as if he had run a marathon, his chest heaving against yours. The hard length of his arousal pressed insistently upon you, and it hadn't softened for a second.
If anything, it felt more pronounced. A rigid and righteous truth between yo.
"You're not, oh– " You started, voice a hoarse whisper, "You're not Satoru."
He flinched as if he had been struck. The hungry light in his eyes flickered, dimming into something horrified, wounded and ashamed. His warm grip loosened, beginning to pull away, "I'm sorry. I thought...I thought you knew. I thought you meant to– "
He was going to apologise. He was going to stop.
And something primal in you rebelled. The heat was still there, coiled dormant in your belly. The taste of him, of mint and Oreos and something uniquely, intellectually sharp, was still on your tongue. The evidence of his want was a solid, thrilling weight against you. And the shame in his eyes was somehow hotter than Satoru's confidence had ever been.
Your hand, which had fallen from his soft lips, shot up. You didn't push Satoshi away. You fisted your hand in the soft, expensive wool of his sweater, right over his pounding heart.
"Yeah, I didn't know," you said, the words falling from your mouth in a rush. You watched his face twisted, as though he was already prepared for the condemning fury that would drive you away from him forever, his breath hitched.
"But I don't want you to stop."
The change was instantaneous, the wounded look shattered, replaced by a flush so intense that it stole the air from your lungs. You remembered Satoru's words about his twin brother. The shy one out of the two of us. He's quiet, doesn't really get around much. He never even goes on dates either.
The hand at your back clamped down, yanking you against him with a force that made you yelp. His mouth crashed back onto yours, no hesitation left.
This kiss was different. It was claiming, and it was filthy, pornographic in its force and sound.
A low, guttural sound ripped from his throat, "Mmph, fuck!" as he walked you backwards. The back of your knees hitting the edge of his perfectly made bed. You tumbled onto it, him following you down, his body covering yours, all lean muscle and toned definition unleashed. The neat comforter wrinkled violently beneath you.
He broke the kiss to trail his mouth down your jaw, your neck, his teeth scraping over your pulse point. "You feel it?" he growled against your skin, his voice deeper, rougher than you’d ever heard it. He rocked his hips, grinding that relentless hardness against the seam of your jeans. "Feel what you do to me? I've watched you. For years. In his room. Laughing. God, I've wanted you so bad."
His blatant, blurted confession was a lit match dropped in gasoline. You arched up, meeting his thrust, a broken moan escaping you, "Satoshi– "
Hearing his name on your lips seemed to undo him completely. He reared back, just enough to look down at you, his glasses slightly fogged, his snowy hair disheveled. His hands went to the hem of your shirt, "Off. Now. Please."
It wasn't a request nor a demand. It was a fervent, desperate prayer. The cool air of the room hit your bare skin, raising goosebumps. Satoshi didn't give you a second to feel exposed. His gaze, magnified and blazing behind his glasses, drank you in, not with shyness, but with a voracious, focused intensity that made your breath catch. This wasn't the tentative boy from the hallway. This was a man who knew exactly what he wanted.
"God, you're perfect," he murmured, the words a rough scrape of sound. His hands, which you’d always seen holding pens or turning textbook pages, settled on your ribs. They were warm, slightly calloused, and they spanned your waist with an easy possessiveness before sliding up to cup the soft weight of your breasts.
A shocked and sharp gasp left you as his thumbs brushed over your nipples, already tight and pebbled. He watched your face, cataloging every twitch, every flutter of your eyelids.
"So sensitive, responsive," he noted, a hint of that academic curiosity colouring his tone, now turned utterly carnal and ragged, "Let's see, hmm?"
Satoshi bent his head, white hair falling over his forehead, and his mouth was on your nipple, not tentative, not exploratory, but knowing. His lips closed around one peak, his tongue laving it in a firm, wet circle before he sucked, deep and deliberate.
"Ah! Satoshi!" Your back arched off the bed, a jolt of pure, white-hot pleasure spearing straight to your core. Your hands flew to his hair, tangling in the soft white strands, holding him to you. He groaned against your skin, the vibration making you cry out again.
He switched sides, giving the same devastating attention to your other breast, biting down just enough on the stiffened peak to make you jerk and whimper, "You like that?" he asked, his voice muffled against your flesh, and he didn’t wait for an answer, "You do, huh? I can feel you shaking."
Satoshi released your nipple with a wet pop! and looked up, his lips slick, his glasses slightly askew. The dominance in his expression was staggering, "Spread your legs wider."
It wasn't a question. It was a soft, and firm command. Heat flooded you, a liquid pulse between your thighs. You obeyed, letting your knees fall open, and he immediately settled into the space he demanded, the rough fabric of his pants a maddening friction against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.
The hard ridge of his cock pressed insistently against your clothed cunt, and your rocked up against it, seeking sweet relief.
"Tsk, impatient," Satoshi chided, but his eyes darkened with approval, as he leaned down again, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss as one hand continued to knead and palm your breast, his thumb rubbing relentless circles over your taut nipple. The other hand slid down your stomach, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your jeans, teasing, "So hot for me already. And you thought I'd be shy? That I wouldn't know how to fuck you right, how to fuck you as you deserve?"
"I — I didn't know," you panted, breaking the kiss to gasp for air, "Satoru always said you were– "
"Gonna' talk about my brother when I'm the one sucking your tits?" There's a hint of a smile colouring Satoshi's voice, as he ducks his head back to your chest, sucking a bruise mark just above your glistening areola, "Fuck, baby, you taste incredible. I could this for hours, just feast on you. Would you let me? Would you lie here and let me use my mouth on every inch of you?"
The filthy promise in his words coil tight in your abdomen. You were moaning openly now, little punched-out sounds with every pull of his mouth, every skilled roll of his fingers over your aching, wanting flesh. The world had narrowed to the scent of him, your best friend's younger twin, the quieter of the two. All you could think about was the wet, hot suction of his lips, and the building, desperate throb between your own.
"Hey, have you seen my — what the fuck?"
A familiar voice, loud and brimming with shock that echoed in the sudden, frozen silence.
Satoshi went rigid against you, his mouth stilling on your chest. You felt as though your entire body locked, head snapping towards the door.
Gojo Satoru stood in the doorway, a cheap plastic cup dangling from his long fingers. His blue eyes, so like his brother's and yet so fundamentally different, were wide, taking in the scene. You, shirtless and flushed, sprawled across his twin's bed. Satoshi, nestled between your thighs, his face buried in your chest, his hands roaming over bare skin.
The intimate, humid heat of the room seemed to visibly crash into him. For a long, suspended second, no one moved. No one dared to breathe.
Then Satoshi slowly, deliberately lifted his head. He didn't scramble away, didn't fluster and push his skewed glasses back up the bridge of his nose. His expression was a masterpiece of exasperated annoyance painted over a deep, furious flush. A string of saliva connected his lower lip to your damp skin for a second before breaking.
He sighed, a long-suffering, deeply put-upon sound, "Come on, man. Now? Really?"
His tone was so dry, so utterly Satoshi, like the quiet twin you had often brushed past in the corridors, that it broke the paralysis. You jolted, attempting to sit up, to cover yourself, your own face burning with a mixture of shock and mortification, "Satoru, I — we didn't, it's not– "
But Satoru wasn't looking at you with anger. The initial shock was melting away, replaced by something else entirely. His gaze traveled from your face, down your exposed torso where Satoshi's hand still rested possessively, to the obvious and telling flush crawling up his brother's neck, and back to your wide, teary eyes.
A slow and wicked grin spread across his face, the same smile you had seen plastered over his expression after scoring a winning point, after pocketing a pretty girl's number, after making you laugh so hard your ribs hurt.
"Oh, it's not...what? I'd say it's something," Satoru drawled, stepping fully into the room and kicking the door shut behind him with a soft thud! The lock clicked, and the finality of the sound sent a new and entirely different kind of shiver through you.
Satoru tilted the cup back, catching the last remnants, eyes still following the minute shiver that ran through you, the cool air of the room stiffening your bare nipples. Your best friend set the cup down carefully on the edge of his twin's desk, right beside the plate of Oreo crumbs.
He pulled out the desk chair, straddling it backwards, resting his arms on the backrest. Settling in.
"Don't stop on my account, man," Satoru said, his grin turning sharp, predatory in a way that made your thighs clench around his brother's waist.
Satoshi stared at him for another beat. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the embarrassment warring with defiant and a rare flicker of something competitive. Then, with a quiet huff that was almost a laugh, he looked back down at you. His gaze has changed, for the initial shock was gone, burnt away by a new and daring heat. His brother's presence wasn't a deterrent, it was a catalyst.
"You heard him, baby," Satoshi murmured, his voice dropping back to that intimate, commanding rumble meant only for you. His hand, which had stilled, resumed its slow, kneading motion on your chest, as he lowered his head. White hair brushing your neck as his breath ghosted over your tits, "We have an audience."
Without breaking his suction on your sensitive peak, his hands shifted. One arm hooked under your back, the other beneath your knees, and with a startling and effortless strength that belied the image of the silent nerd you had always been presumptuous about, Satoshi flipped you.
The world spun for a dizzying second, as the Star Wars poster blurred, then resolved. Now you were facing the door, facing the desk. And facing Satoru.
Your back was pressed flush against Satoshi's front, his hard length a searing brand against the curve of your ass. His arms came around you, crossing over your bare stomach, holding you securely in place against him.
"Look at him, baby," Satoshi breathed into your ear, his voice thick with his own arousal and a newfound, exhibitionist boldness. His large hands slid up, covering your tits completely, palming and squeezing the soft flesh. He plucked at your nipples, rolling the stiffened, moistened peaks between his thumbs and forefingers, presenting them like an offering, "See? Look at what we've got here, Satoru. God, they're so perfect, aren't they?"
His tone was a mix of reverence and blatant boasting. He was showing off his discovery, his prize, to the only other person in the world whose opinion might matter.
From his chair, Satoru released a sharp and appreciative exhale. His eyes were locked on his twin's hands moulding over your breasts. You watched, mesmerised and mortified and impossibly turned-on, as Satoru's own hand disappeared into the waistband of his low-slung jeans. You could see the deliberate movement of his forearm, the shift of fabric.
"Fuck, yeah, they are," your best friend agreed, his voice worn down to gravel. He wasn't just watching anymore, no. He was participating, for the rhythmic motion of his fist beneath the denim was unmistakable. "Always knew it. Knew you'd be hiding a killer rack beneath those pretty sweaters, sweetheart. Fuckin' spectacular."
Hearing the crude, familiar praise from Satoru's cocky lips, your best friend, the object of a years long crush, while pinned against his brilliant, dominant twin sent a violent shudder through you. A fresh wave of wetness soaked through your already damp underwear, a slick and hot confession Satoshi would undoubtedly feel against his own clothed hard-on.
"She's dripping," Satoshi murmured, his voice smug against your ear, glasses slipping down his hawkish nose. He kissed the junction of your neck and shoulder, teeth delicately bruising the sensitive skin there, "Can you see how pretty she is? All flushed and desperate?"
"I can, fuck — I can see that," Satoru gritted out. His breathing was becoming uneven, matching the pace of his hidden strokes as his hips began to roll at a grinding pace. "Quit teasing, man. Get to the good part, touch her."
Satoshi snickered, "So impatient. Always rushing." But he obeyed, adjusting his grip. His large hands slid from your breasts, down the quivering plane of your stomach, leaving trails of fire. They hooked into the lace band of your panties.
"Lift your hips, baby," he commanded softly. You did, a helpless puppet to his will. He drew the scrap of fabric down, slowly, torturously, over the plump swell of your mound, past the neat thatch of hair. The cool air hit your exposed folds, making you gasp. He didn't remove them completely, just tugged them down to mid-thigh, leaving you obscenely open.
Then, with a clinical precision that was devastatingly erotic, Satoshi used his thumbs. He parted you, spreading your slick, swollen lips wide, exposing the glistening, winking core of you to the room’s light and to Satoru's hungry stare.
"There," Satoshi murmured, his own breath coming faster, his throat bobbing, "Look at that. So wet. All for us."
From the chair, there was a choked-off groan. Satoru's fist was moving faster now, a frantic rhythm visible through the denim. His other hand gripped the back of the chair, knuckles white. "God, fuck," he panted. "Hurry the fuck up. Make her cum."
Satoshi grunted, a sound of strained patience, scowling at his brother. "I told you. Be patient. She's not going anywhere." But his own control was fraying. You could feel the tremble in the arms wrapped around you, the ragged puff of his breath against your neck.
He kept you spread open for another long, excruciating moment, letting Satoru, and you, see everything. Then, finally, one of his thumbs left its post. It trailed downward, through your drenched folds, gathering slickness, before circling your clit with a firm, knowing pressure.
A broken cry tore from your throat. Your head fell back against Satoshi's shoulder, your eyes squeezing shut as pleasure, sharp and electric, jolted through you.
"Eyes open, baby," Satoshi ordered, his voice rough, "Look at him. Watch him watch you come apart."
Forcing your eyes open was a Herculean effort. Through a haze of lust, you met Satoru's gaze. He was staring, transfixed, at the place where his brother's thumb worked you over. His own hand was a blur now, his hips pumping slightly into his fist. He looked utterly wrecked, a mirror of your own unraveling, white hair mussed as he sunk a fang down on his lower lip, muffling his moans.
"That's it," Satoru urged, his voice a hoarse whisper, "Just like that. Fuck, look at her. C'mon, 'Toshi, give her more."
Satoshi, done waiting, done teasing, finally sank one long, clever digit deep inside you. A perfect invasion, as Satoshi's finger, long and dexterous, the one of a theorist who solved complex equations in his head, slid into your sopping heat with no resistance, burying itself to the knuckle in one smooth, devastating stroke. A wet, obscene squelch filled the quiet room, louder than any moan.
"Fuck," you sobbed, your body bowing against his chest, back arching as your tits pushed out.
Satoshi didn't pause. He began to move, a slow, deep, piston-like rhythm that was ruthlessly efficient. His other thumb continued its relentless circles on your clit, the dual assault short-circuiting all coherent thought. You were reduced to sensation: the scratch of his blue cable-knit sweater against your bare back, the faint, clean scent of laundry detergent and him, the fogged lenses of his glasses as he watched his own hand disappear into you with a focused, academic intensity.
The quiet twin was conducting an experiment, and you were his glorious, messy result.
"So tight, you know I've never done this before," he murmured, his voice a low rasp against your ear, "And so deep. You're taking me so well."
He crooked his finger, searching, and found that spot that made you see stars. You shrieked, your nails digging into the thick thighs bracketing you.
From his chair, Satoru let out a guttural sound. The rhythmic motion of his fist under his jeans had become frantic, desperate. He was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, his gaze fever-bright and fixed on the junction of your bodies, on his brother's wrist moving in and out of your glistening cunt.
"God, you're so wet, I can see it from here," Satoru gasped, his voice strained. He ran a hand through his artfully messy white hair, leaving it standing on end. The thin gold chain around his neck glinted under the desk lamp. The tight white tee stretched across the defined planes of his chest and shoulders, damp with a light sweat, "Fuck, sweetheart. I’m gonna…Can I? Can I come on you?"
The request was raw, filthy, stripped of all your best friend's usual bravado. It was pure, unadulterated need.
You couldn't form words. You just nodded frantically, a desperate, pleading moan ripping from your throat as Satoshi added a second finger, stretching you exquisitely, the wet sounds growing louder, more vulgar.
"She says yes," Satoshi interpreted, his own breath coming in harsh pants. He was losing his clinical composure, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, "Do it. Mark her."
With a ragged shout that was half curse, half prayer, Satoru shoved his jeans down over his hips just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already leaking. His fist flew over his length, his eyes locked on your face, then dropping to your tits, which were jiggling with every one of Satoshi’s deep drives.
"On your tits," Satoru groaned, the words slurred with pleasure. "Gonna' paint those perfect tits, sweetheart. Fuck, fuck —!"
His climax hit him like a train. Satoru's body tensed, a corded muscle sculpture in the lamplight, and with a final, choked cry, thick, hot ropes of cum shot across the space between you. They landed on your stomach, your heaving breasts, striping your skin with pearlescent streaks. One particularly forceful jet hit your nipple, and the sensation, the shocking heat, the sheer taboo of it, made you convulse around Satoshi's fingers, earning a hiss from the other twin.
Satoru slumped back in the chair, breathing like he'd just finished a sprint, a dazed, satiated grin spreading across his face, "Holy shit," he panted, two flushed rounds of colour painted over his handsome features.
Before you could even process the new, sticky warmth on your skin, Satoru was moving again. He surged up from the chair, his jeans still around his thighs, and closed the distance between you in two strides. He didn't hesitate. One hand, still slightly sticky, cupped your cheek. The other braced on the headboard behind you.
Then he kissed you.
It was nothing like Satoshi’s intense, clumsy initial kisses. This was all Satoru. Confident, demanding, flavoured with cheap beer and victory, and a hint of some sweet candy he was always carrying around in his pocket.
His tongue plunged into your mouth, claiming it with the same easy arrogance he claimed everything else. You could taste his sweat, his exhilaration. The thin gold chain brushed cold against your collarbone. Your senses were overwhelmed, Satoshi's fingers fucking you deep, Satoru's tongue in your mouth, the smell of sex and Oreos and cologne in the air.
"Knew you'd be this fucking hot," Satoru mumbled against your lips between searing kisses, "Knew it. God, look at you. Taking my brother's fingers like a champ. Wearing my load."
His words, the possessive feel of both twins on you and in you, tipped you over the edge. The coil in your belly, wound impossibly tight by Satoshi's expert, relentless attention, finally snapped.
A sound tore from you that was neither a scream nor a moan but something primal, something that started in your toes and erupted from your throat. Your back arched violently off Satoshi's chest. Your inner walls clamped down on his buried fingers in a series of frantic, fluttering pulses. And then, with a gushing, uncontrollable rush, you squirted.
Hot liquid soaked Satoshi's hand, his wrist, the bedspread beneath you. It wasn't a trickle; it was a release, a soaking wave of pleasure that left you trembling and boneless. Satoshi groaned, a deep, shattered sound, and pressed his face into your neck, his fingers still working you gently through the aftershocks, milking every last drop.
Satoru broke the kiss, pulling back to watch, his blue eyes wide with awe and a fresh, rekindled hunger, "No fuckin' way," he breathed, a laugh of pure disbelief bubbling out of him. "You are full of surprises, sweetheart."
And for a long, breathless moment, the only sounds were the ragged symphony of your breathing and the wet, soft sound of Satoshi's fingers slowly sliding out of your spent cunt.
Then the spell broke.
"My turn," Satoru announced, his voice still rough but regaining its characteristic swagger. He wiped his hand on his thigh, his gaze fixed on you with a possessive heat that made your oversensitive nerves twitch back to life, "Come on. That's my best friend right there. I think I can handle my girl."
Satoshi's arms tightened around you, a low growl vibrating against your back, a hint of brotherly annoyance colouring his voice, "What? Don't be an idiot. I kissed her first, and I can fuck that pretty pussy way better than you can."
"Bullshit," Satoru shot back, a competitive grin spreading across his face. He took a step closer, his discarded jeans now pooled around his ankles, his cock already half-hard again and glistening, "You can calculate the density of a neutron star and all that shit, bro. I know how to make a woman scream."
"Your empirical evidence is based on wasted sorority girls who can’t tell the difference between enthusiasm and skill."
"Oh, fuck you– "
"That's the general idea, but not for you."
They were glaring at each other over your shoulder, a lifetime of sibling rivalry igniting in the most absurd, heated context imaginable. You, slick and trembling and pinned between them, felt a hysterical laugh bubble in your throat. It came out as a weak, overwhelmed whimper.
The sound snapped their attention back to you. Two pairs of identical, blazing blue eyes locked onto your face.
Satoru's expression softened, just a fraction. He reached out, his thumb, sticky with his own drying release, brushing over your swollen lower lip, "Hey. You okay? You're shaking."
Satoshi nuzzled into your hair, his voice dropping to that intimate rumble, "Tell us what you want. Just say the word and he leaves. Or I'll leave."
The offer hung in the air. You could have either of them. The wild, glorious sun or the deep, consuming moon. The choice was yours.
Your body, however, had already decided. The empty, aching throb between your legs wasn't asking for one. It was screaming for more, so much more.
"Both," you whispered, the word barely audible.
Satoru's eyebrows shot up. Satoshi went very still behind you.
"What was that, sweetheart?" Satoru asked, shaking his soft, white head of hair.
You swallowed, finding your voice. It came out stronger, laced with a need that shocked even you, "Both. I want…I want both of you."
A slow, eager smile spread across Satoru's handsome face, a mirror of the dawning and intense spark in Satoshi's eyes. The previous rivalry melted, replaced by a unified and predatory focus.
"Okay, okay," Satoru breathed, like he'd just been handed the winning play, "Fine. Both it is."
He moved with practiced ease, stepping out of his jeans completely. He sat back on the edge of Satoshi's bed, scooting until his back was against the headboard. The Star Wars poster loomed behind his head like a benediction. He patted his thighs, "Up here. Straddle me. Let me see you sittin' all pretty on me, yeah?"
You clumsily extricated yourself from Satoshi's embrace. His hands lingered on your hips, guiding you as you turned and climbed onto the bed, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of Satoru's hips. The movement smeared the mess of cum and squirt already on your skin. Satoru's gaze dropped, watching the slick shine between your thighs with avid hunger.
He reached out and gave your ass a sharp, stinging slap. The sound cracked in the quiet room. You yelped, more from surprise than pain, and fresh wetness trickled down your inner thigh.
"Look at that," Satoru murmured, his hand smoothing over the reddening print, messily spreading the fluids, "Fucking perfect." Then his eyes lifted to yours, and the bravado flickered, revealing a sliver of genuine concern, "Is this okay, sweetheart? This…all of this? Is this alright?"
The question, so tender amidst the filth, undid you. You nodded frantically, leaning forward to kiss him, tasting yourself and him on his lips, "Yes," you gasped against his mouth, "Yes, I want more. Please."
"Good girl," he growled, his mouth slanting against yours, hard, tongue sliding through your parted lips.
From behind you, there was the distinct, crinkling tear of foil. You glanced over your shoulder. Satoshi stood beside the bed, having retrieved a condom from somewhere, his desk drawer, perhaps. He was rolling it down his length with meticulous care, his glasses perched on his nose, his blue sweater still on, making him look like a debauched professor. His eyes met yours, dark with promise. And still, there was that adorable flush on his cheeks, pink watercolour over cream.
Satoru, meanwhile, fumbled in the pocket of his discarded jeans, which were tangled on the floor. He pulled out not one, but two foil squares, flashing you a triumphant grin, "Always prepared," as he ducked your playful swat. He sheathed himself quickly, his movements impatient.
He gripped your hips, his fingers digging in. "Ready?" he asked, his voice thick. You nodded, bracing your hands on his shoulders. You felt the broad, blunt head of his cock nudge against your soaked entrance.
Satoru didn't make you do the work. With a grunt, he lifted his hips and pulled you down at the same time, sheathing himself inside you in one deep, relentless thrust.
"Fuck!" you cried out, the stretch exquisite, familiar yet new. He filled you completely, the angle different from Satoshi's fingers, claiming you in a way that felt fundamentally Satoru. Immediate, overwhelming, and gloriously intense.
"God, you're tight, and so fuckin' wet," he groaned, his head falling back against the headboard, "So fucking good. Okay, 'Toshi. Your turn. Be gentle with our girl."
You felt Satoshi's weight dip the mattress behind you. His hands, cool and sure, spread your ass cheeks. There was a pause, the press of something much larger and blunter than a finger against your other, untouched hole, slickened by the mixed fluids smeared there.
"Breathe out, baby," Satoshi instructed softly, his voice the calm in the storm, "And relax."
You exhaled, forcing your muscles to unclench. He pushed forward, slow, inexorable, a burning, stretching pressure that stole the air from your lungs. It hurt, a sharp, bright sting, before melting into a deep, impossible fullness as he seated himself fully inside you.
You were split open, impaled on both twins, stuffed so completely you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. A choked, guttural sound was torn from your throat, a noise of pure, overwhelmed sensation.
Satoru's eyes were wide, his mouth agape as he felt Satoshi's intrusion through the thin barrier of your shared walls, "Holy shit," he rasped. "I can feel you. I can feel him."
Satoshi grimaced, "Don't say that shit, man," But he let out a shaky, shattered breath, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. "Move," he gritted out, "Or I will."
Satoru, never one to back down from a challenge, obeyed. He rocked his hips upward, and the world dissolved into a cascade of blinding, contradictory sensation, the drag and fill of Satoru in your pussy, the burning, stretching fullness of Satoshi in your ass. They set a rhythm, hesitant at first, then faster, deeper, finding a syncopated pace that drove you up the bed with every thrust.
Satoru's gold chain swung and slapped against your chest with each drive. Satoshi's sweater scratched your back, his quiet grunts hot in your ear. The bed, Satoshi's perfectly ordered bed, slammed against the wall with a rhythmic, protesting thump-thump-thump! that matched the pounding of your heart.
The rhythm was brutal, perfect, and utterly consuming. Satoru's thrusts were powerful, athletic drives that punched the air from your lungs, while Satoshi's were deeper, slower, more deliberate, each one a calculated invasion that stretched you to a breathtaking limit. You were the fulcrum between them, a trembling bridge of pleasured flesh and sensation.
"Fuck, she's so tight like this, bro," Satoru grunted, his hands vice-like on your hips, guiding your bounces on his cock. Sweat gleamed on his temples, dampening the white hair at his forehead. His gold chain swung wildly, catching the light with every snap of his hips, "Can you feel him? Can you feel me hitting right against him?"
You could. The pressure was immense, a dual fullness that bordered on delicious pain before tipping over into mindless pleasure with every synchronised push. A garbled, affirmative sob was all you could manage, "Yes, yes! Ah - I can feel you both! Don't stop!"
Satoshi groaned behind you, his voice a strained rasp against the shell of your ear, "Yeah, you like when we've got you pinned up like this? Fuckin' nasty girl, been wanting this forever," He shifted his angle slightly, and the head of his cock dragged over a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
"Ohh! Satoshi!"
"There?" The quieter of the brothers murmured, doing it again, a precise, devastating rub, "Good."
"Hey, quit hogging the good spots, bro," Satoru complained, but his grin was feral. He leaned up, capturing your mouth in a sloppy, breath-stealing kiss. You could taste the beer on his tongue, the salt of his sweat. "She's mine too. Aren't you, sweetheart? My best fucking friend." He punctuated the claim with a particularly deep thrust that made you break the kiss with a cry.
"Yours," you gasped, as his cock kissed the sweet spot in your wet, pulsing cunt, the word fracturing. "Both, yours – "
"Damn right," Satoru growled, his composure fraying. His pace became erratic, frantic, "Gonna' fill this cunt for you. Gonna' mark you up inside. 'Toshi, you close?"
Behind you, Satoshi’s breathing was ragged, his usual quiet control shattered. His thrusts lost their mathematical precision, becoming just as hungry, just as desperate. The rough wool of his sweater was soaked through with sweat where your back pressed against him, "Yeah, I'm e-exceedingly close," he managed, his voice thick, "Her body is...incredibly receptive."
"Yeah, no shit, fuckin' nerd," Satoru complained, but there was no real animosity behind the shattered laugh, the sound breathless, "Come on, sweet girl. Come with us. Let go. Soak our cocks real good."
The command, the overwhelming sensation of being claimed and used and cherished by both of them, broke the last dam. Your third orgasm tore through you, silent at first, a full-body seizure, your internal muscles clamping down in violent, fluttering spasms around both invading lengths, before a raw, broken scream was ripped from your throat.
That was all it took.
Satoru shouted, a loud, uninhibited roar, his hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt and held there, pulsing hotly into the condom deep inside you. The feeling of him coming triggered his twin, who let out a choked, guttural sound that was nothing like his usual voice. Satoshi pressed his face into your neck, his body going rigid as he emptied himself with a series of sharp, shallow thrusts.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of three bodies gasping for air, the room hazy with sex and sweat and spent passion. And then, the inevitable collapse.
Satoru's arms gave out first. He slumped back against the headboard, his grip on your hips loosening. Satoshi, with a final, shuddering exhale, carefully pulled out of you. The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cool void where there had been overwhelming heat. You simply folded forward, boneless, sinking into the soft, now thoroughly wrecked sheets of Satoshi’s bed. You were aware of sticky dampness everywhere, the ache of deep, pleasurable and thorough use, and a floating, satiated exhaustion that weighed down your very bones.
The silence stretched, comfortable and heavy. It was broken by Satoshi clearing his throat. He had already disposed of his condom and was pulling his sweater back into some semblance of order, though his hair was a disaster and his glasses were still fogged, slipping down his nose.
"Alright," he said, his voice returning to its normal, dry timbre. He nudged Satoru's leg with his foot. "Out. Go clean yourself up. This is my room."
Satoru, who had been lying with his eyes closed, a blissed-out smile on his face, cracked one eye open. "Wow. Let a guy fuck his girl, and toss him out. Classy."
"You have your own room. With your own mess. This – ," Satoshi gestured vaguely at the climax-striped sheets, the overturned plate of Oreo crumbs now scattered on the floor, the general aura of debauchery, your top still sprawled over the floor, " – is my mess. I'll deal with it. Go."
With a long, dramatic sigh that was entirely performative, Satoru sat up. He dealt with his own condom, then reached for his jeans, hopping on one foot as he tugged them on. He didn't bother with the boxers still somewhere on the floor, ignoring Satoshi's disgusted scowl. "Fine, fine. The walk of shame. This is a new low." He shot you a wink as he fastened his jeans, "Worth it, though."
He leaned over the bed, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead, "You're a legend, sweetheart. Get some rest." Satoru dropped a quick, surprisingly soft kiss on your temple, a flicker of something raw and unguarded loaded with the history of companionship that his brother lacked with you, before straightening up.
With a final smirk at his brother, Satoru sauntered out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
The quiet settled back in, deeper now. You felt the mattress dip as Satoshi lay down beside you. He didn't pull you to him immediately. Instead, he just looked at you, his gaze thoughtful behind his cleaned glasses. Then he leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to the side of your neck, right over a mark you were sure he'd left earlier.
"He'll be back,” Satoshi sighed, his lips moving against your skin, tracing sweet patterns with his tongue, glasses nudging against your shoulder. His arm slid under you, drawing you gently against his side. The cable-knit sweater was scratchy, but his body was warm. "Probably with food. Or more beer. No doubt."
=͟͟͞♡ Part One =͟͟͞♡ Part Two =͟͟͞♡ Part Three =͟͟͞♡ Part four =͟͟͞♡ Part Five =͟͟͞♡ Part Six =͟͟͞♡ Part Seven =͟͟͞♡ Part Eight =͟͟͞♡ Part Nine =͟͟͞♡ Part Ten =͟͟͞♡ Part eleven =͟͟͞♡Part twelve
You are the top Surgical Doctor intern, along with Maki, Yuta and Toge. You all are exhausted from passing the first month, sixteen plus hour days, days you don't even go home, all to get a top spot with the star Surgeon, Dr. Gojo, your resident doctor and boss. Or as you call him, Dr. Hojo. He's takes nothing serious but his surgeries it seems, and has a reputation for being a player, but he has that top spot, so you want to prove your worth! You just have to ignore those stupid butterflies he gives you, and those pretty blue eyes, along with his interest in you, and focus!
=͟͟͞♡ Pairings:-Doctor Gojo x Intern F!Reader
=͟͟͞♡ Contents/warnings- Medical procedures, surgery descriptions, crazy sexual tension, explicit sex, oral, rough sex etc. ER setting. Reader 26, Dr. Gojo 34, small age gap, work sex, overuse of prescription drugs, addiction, lots of complications, lots of humor but also eventual drama and lighy angst. Grey's Anatomy vibes ✨️
Fanart by thatsallitchief on X | OC by @sweethearticism | 1k
⚠️: Fluff, Crack, Suggestive, Exclusive Relationship (FwB / FuBu ?), Mean/Softoshi, Implied Penetration, Ass-smacking, Mentions of the Omegaverse Based on My Ask
Taglist: @1stmagnoila @koriknowsball
Hi! Consider tipping / commissioning me :D I’m trying to raise money for uni & a formal I have coming up !! (My Kofi will probably start accepting tips by Tuesday of this week … I hope, currently sorting it out with PayPal)
Right now, you’re in his room, shades of red clashing on your skin in the dimly lit messy frat bedroom. You’re bored out of your mind while Satoshi seemed completely content scrolling on his phone while cuddling you, his favorite doll.
He asked you to come over four hours ago, and you still haven’t done anything interesting since you entered the door! Because of this, you decided to take matters into your own hands. And by that, you mean, ragebaiting your boyfriend (?) best friend (?), Satoshi Gojo.
You tried a few tricks first: poking his cheeks, biting his neck, tickling his ribs, but nothing works! He pinches your cheeks, bites your neck, and tickles your tummy in response. Satoshi was so mean! What’s worse is, he barely even got off his phone. Why was he so glued to the screen?
Because of this, you tried a new approach.
“Shishi!” You whine, suddenly sitting up to perch yourself right on his abdomen.
His raises an eyebrow, barely looking up from his smartphone. What is he even looking at? How can it be more interesting than you?
“If you were tall and athletic, would you play a sport? If so, what sport would it be?”
He scrolls away on his phone without a care in the world, one hand holding you by the waist to keep you steady. “Babydoll, if you want me to benchpress you so bad just ask.”
You roll your eyes. “As if.”
In retaliation, he wordlessly thrusts his hips up. The action sends a shiver from your clit to your ears, and you give him a glare.
“What?” He feigns innocence.
“You did that on purpose!” You huff.
“Just readjusting my body, y’know.” He smirks. “Gotta keep all six foot three of me comfortable.”
“You’re an ass.”
He only shrugs in return, going back to his phone.
Back to the drawing board for you! A new question makes it way through the ridges of your mind followed by a mischievous grin that takes its place on your lips.
You just decided to bombard him with nonsensical questions. It was surprising, really. You were never like this with any other hookup, just Satoshi. Maybe it was because you’ve know each other for years before lapping at each other’s saliva, no? Anyways, you shake the thought away.
“If we were at a party and I blacked out but I was on my period, would you take my tampon out for me and replace it with a new one?” You ask first. Then you start asking more question before he could even begin to think of how insane you must be to come up with a scenario such as that.
“If you had two dicks would you put it both inside of me at the same time?” You smile. “If your tits were even a centimeter larger than they are right now, do you think I could milk them?”
“How does it feel to be stinky all the time?”
“If you knew how to wipe your own ass—” He was no longer hearing ANY of it. Immediately, he grabs your face with one hand, setting his phone to his side.
“Y’know, pretty, you should really run that mouth elsewhere.”
You pout. “But you didn’t answer my questions!”
He scowls. “Who would answer your silly questions??”
“You should.” You say as you force tears to appear on the corners of your eyes. Of course, Satoshi knew all your tricks already but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t fall for the waterworks.
He sighs. “One, I know you hate wearing tampons so that wouldn’t happen. I’d clean your pussy up and lay a pad for you.”
“With what soap?”
“The gentle clean one.”
You smile then nod. “Next question!”
“Uhh, well, if you want two monster cocks in your pussy, why not, no?” He shrugs. “Or one can be in your ass, and one in your tight ass cunt.”
You pout. “Why do you always have to talk about it so filthily?”
He chuckles, bringing you closer with both his beefy arms. “Sorry, babydoll. You’re just too cute. The aggression I feel is too much!”
“I’m going to bite your dick off.” You spit.
“Oh no! Please don’t!” He laughs. Satoshi was not one to take your threats seriously. He knows underneath all that bark, there’s no bite—especially for him.
“For your next question, I think you’re just asking me to induce your lactation.”
“Could you even do that without getting pregnant?”
“Yeah.” He says like he’s surfed the internet about it before.
You laugh. “You’re a fucking weirdo, ‘Toshi!”
He raises his hands in defeat. “Hey, you asked!”
“And I think you should ask yourself about being stinky all the time! I could practically smell your pheromones, your pussy BEGGING constantly to be pounded by my dick.” He says with full confidence.
You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “This isn’t the fucking omegaverse, dumbass. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re way more geeky than Satoru.”
“Ouch.” He pouts, holding your hand in his to place over his heart. “That hurts baby. You shouldn’t talk to your alpha that way.”
“I’ll talk to you in whichever way I want!”
“At least you’re not denying that between the two of us, I’m the alpha.”
“I detest that too.”
“Why, baby?” He coos then starts running circles with his rough fingers on your thighs. You instinctively, lean towards him.
“I just do.” You reply, subconsciously nuzzling yourself under his chin.
“Are you done ragebaiting me?”
You nod against his chest, defeated, but loving the newfound attention.
He leaves a harsh smack on your ass and a hearty laugh escapes his throat as you yelp, arms wrapping around his neck as you writhe.
You whine against his shoulder. “You’re such a bully, ‘Toshi.”
“Me? A Bully? ‘m not a mirror, babydoll.”
“That’s such a middle school insult, ew.”
“See? I’m not the bully here.”
You huff.
Maybe the real ragebait was the Satoshi inside of us all along.
⊹ ࣪ ˖🕰️୭˚. ᵎᵎ🗝️ spy au where field agent!gojo is in love with the voice in his earpiece — mission supervisor!you.
contents. gojo x fem reader! secret service au or smth • fluff fluff fluff • down bad gojo • mutual pining • minor description of injuries • inspired by my love for spy movies and gojo satoru <33 • art in the header by @linobii_
part 1: for the last 2 years, gojo’s favourite thing has been hearing your voice accompany his every move on his missions. you are his guardian angel of sorts.
part 2: he gets depressed and pouty when he finds out you have been reassigned to supervise someone else’s mission and left him stuck with ijichi.
part 3: gojo gets injured on a mission and you have to be there for him.
satoru’s voice reverberated against your whimpers, possessing a soft lilt to his husky tone. his lips ran its course on your pussy. not even eating you out, just a damn tease.
his lower lip dragged itself, tracing your flushed folds. your wetness smeared on his lips. he pressed the gentlest, firmest kiss on to your throbbing cunt.
your hips lifted, just a little to meet with his mouth again but all he did was let out a chuckle at your desperation. “now, now, let’s be patient, alright?”
“spread your legs a bit more. can you do that for me, baby?” he blew a cold gush of soft air directly on to your clit, making you gasp, complying instinctively with his request.
he straightened himself up, away from your pussy, and tugged his trousers down— unveiling his thick, robust and undeniably hard of a cock, smeared with pre-cum on the pinkish tip.
prominent veins decorated his cock. the entirety of it was bruised a regal shade of purple and blue, purely from restraint, agony of not penetrating the pretty hole.
one hand of his wrapped itself around the base, slowly jerking it up and down sensually, coating his girth with the pre-cum from his. his other hand had adjusted his hair, pushing the wet strands of snow locks back. “look at me, baby. see what you do to me, sweetheart?”
“you’ve got your man so damn fucked, huh. doesn’t happen that often” you could truly see it, his face flushed, crimson injecting itself in to him, as blood was coursing to his head with profuse intensity.
his canine bit in to his lower lip as he slightly lowered himself to you, a spread of his torrid tempered hand lay on your red marked thighs while his knees pressed on to the futon’s softness.
the tip of his cock maliciously kissed your ready hole, only a little, not entering like you had desired for. his hold on his cock tightened as he vehemently guided it up and down your raw pussy.
your juices coated his length as his tip steered through your cunt, drenching on the mess, thrusting between your folds.
one hand of his had pinned your thigh around his waist while the other was too crude, shamelessly spread your pussy lips apart with his thumb and index fingers. “hm, yeah, look at her. so wet for my cock. yeah, makes so much sense, doesn’t it baby?” he raises one of his eyebrows while a smirk graces his wintry face. “so damn wet for me. nothing new though”
he was so egotistical, especially now seeing the condition you were in. cheeks scorched with an impaling desire, mouth parted to whine and moan, cunt wet enough to completely deep throat him.
his cock, still idly dousing itself with your wetness in a cadenced pattern, a rhythm curated by him only. one that had a burning contact of skin on skin but deprived you of pleasure.
and as if he couldn’t get any more cocky— he slowly dragged his meat from your hole to your lonely clitorus bud as he repeatedly slapped it, then, slowly nudged on it. the slit of his tip incessantly nudging around your clit had you moaning his name in stutters. “i know, the dick’s too good huh?”
he was stimulating your pussy so well. consistently dragging the head of his cock between your labia, arrogantly chuckling every time you moaned in dire need. “fuck yeah, want me so bad don’t you? of course you do. why wouldn’t you?”
he had mockingly put it inside but slipped out of quick, a fake pout formed on his face. “shit– oops sorry, can’t put it in, cutie. it’s too big for you. what should we do? hm?” he feigned a sad look while teasing your entrance. how annoying.
“g-god, you’re so full of yourself” you, somehow, muttered through your gritted teeth which had earned a chuckle from him.
“mhm. and now, you are about to be as well”
repost from prev. acc
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