Synopsis: You needed a fake boyfriend to escape an arranged marriage. Your best friend Gojo Satoru volunteered immediately. The problem? He never once acted like it was fake.
CW 18+ MDNI - fake dating, best friends to lovers, mutual pining (he’s been down for years), teasing gojo, slow burn, fluff, reader is a jujutsu sorcerer, eventual smut, happy ending
The clock on your phone read 7:15pm., and the soft blue light cast long shadows across Satoru’s living room. You were lying sideways on his massive sectional couch, the kind that probably cost more than most people’s rent for a year, your legs dangling off the edge while one of his oversized hoodies swallowed your frame. The fabric still carried that faint scent of him — crisp winter air mixed with expensive cologne and something sweeter, like the strawberry mochi he always ate.
Your phone buzzed again. Another message from your mother.
The Nakamura family’s eldest son is a respectable second-grade sorcerer. The elders believe this match will strengthen our clan’s position. We expect you at the estate next week for introductions. No excuses this time.
You let out a long, dramatic groan and pressed the phone to your chest, staring up at the high ceiling with its recessed lighting. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city far below the penthouse windows. Tokyo glittered like scattered jewels through the floor-to-ceiling glass.
Footsteps padded across the hardwood floor. You didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.
A plastic bag rustled, and then something soft and squishy landed gently on your stomach.
“Catch, princess,” Satoru’s voice sang out, light and teasing as always. “You’ve been sulking for twenty whole minutes. That’s a new record even for you.”
You peeked one eye open. He stood there in black sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a loose white t-shirt that did nothing to hide the lean, powerful lines of his shoulders. His white hair was slightly tousled from running his fingers through it, and those brilliant blue eyes — uncovered tonight since it was just the two of you, sparkled with amusement. He dropped into the armchair across from you, long legs stretching out until his bare foot nudged your calf playfully.
“Spill it,” he said, popping a piece of mochi into his mouth. “What did the ancient fossils at your clan do this time? Try to set you up with another guy who probably still believes in the buddy system during missions?”
You sat up slowly, clutching the bag of mochi like a lifeline. The couch dipped under your movement. “Worse. They’ve officially arranged a marriage for me. Some Nakamura guy. Second-grade. Respectable. Boring as plain rice.”
Satoru’s grin stayed perfectly in place, but you knew him too well. There was the tiniest pause in his chewing, a micro-second where his eyes narrowed just a fraction before the playful mask slid back on.
“Arranged marriage? In this day and age?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his chin in both hands like an overly interested schoolgirl. “How very feudal of them. Do they also want you to ride in on a horse-drawn carriage while wearing twelve layers of kimono?”
You threw a decorative pillow at his head. He caught it effortlessly between two fingers, Infinity never even flickering on, and tossed it back lightly so it bounced off your shoulder.
“Not helping, Satoru.”
He tilted his head, white bangs falling over one eye. “Aw, c’mon. You know I live to help my favorite girl. So what’s the plan? Run away to Antarctica? I could probably freeze a nice little ice palace for us. Very romantic.”
You sighed and rubbed your temples. “I panicked when my mom called earlier. I told her I was already seeing someone. Seriously dating. Exclusively. She didn’t believe me, of course.”
The words hung in the air. Satoru’s smile widened slowly, dangerously, until it was that full, heart-stopping Gojo Satoru grin that made curses and sorcerers alike hesitate.
“Oh?” He scooted his chair closer until his knees bracketed yours. “And who is this mysterious boyfriend I haven’t heard about? Must be pretty special if you’re willing to lie to the clan elders.”
You met his gaze, cheeks already warming. “I… was kind of hoping you’d help me find someone. Just for a few months until they back off.”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“I volunteer as tribute.”
“Satoru. No.”
“Yes,” he said immediately, voice dripping with delight. He reached out and poked your cheek repeatedly, like he was testing if you were real. “C’monnnn, it’ll be so much fun! We’ve been best friends for six years. I already know exactly how you like your coffee, which side of the bed you steal, and that you secretly hum that one annoying idol song when you think no one’s listening.”
You swatted his hand away, but he just laughed — that bright, infectious sound that always filled whatever room he was in.
“Strict rules,” you warned, holding up a finger. “This is fake. Three months maximum. Hand-holding and pet names only when people are watching. No kissing on the lips. No overstepping each other’s boundaries. And absolutely, positively, no catching feelings.”
Satoru clutched his chest like you’d stabbed him. “Feelings? From me? The strongest sorcerer alive?” He poked your forehead gently. “You’re the one who’s gonna have to be careful, princess. I’m irresistible. What if you fall head over heels for my charm, my good looks, my incredible sense of humor—”
“Shut up,” you groaned, but you were smiling despite yourself.
“Make me,” he shot back, leaning in so close you could count the flecks of lighter blue in his eyes. “Future fake girlfriend~”
That was the moment everything started. You had no idea that your best friend, the man who had been quietly, hopelessly in love with you since the day you first called his infinity technique “a fancy party trick for show-offs” back in high school, had just been handed the perfect excuse to stop pretending.
The first official test came six days later: dinner at your family estate just outside Kyoto. The traditional Japanese garden was lit with soft lanterns, casting golden reflections on the koi pond. The air smelled of blooming cherry blossoms and the faint incense your mother always burned before important guests arrived.
Satoru arrived exactly on time (a miracle), stepping out of his sleek black car wearing a perfectly tailored black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the lean muscle there. He carried an enormous bouquet of your favorite flowers — pale pink peonies mixed with white lilies — and wore that same easy, confident grin.
Your mother’s eyes widened when she saw him. “Gojo Satoru… We had no idea the ‘someone’ you mentioned was… him.”
“Surprise!” Satoru exclaimed brightly, bowing with exaggerated elegance before straightening up and immediately sliding an arm around your waist. He pulled you flush against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand settled possessively on your hip, thumb brushing slow circles through the fabric of your dress. “Been keeping her all to myself these past few months. Couldn’t let the clans know I’d stolen away their brightest star, now could I?”
You pinched his side hard. He didn’t even flinch — just squeezed your hip in retaliation and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head.
“Behave,” you whispered.
“Never,” he whispered back, breath warm against your hair. “That’s not in my contract, fake girlfriend.”
Dinner was an ordeal of polite questions and hidden landmines. Your father sat at the head of the low table, studying Satoru with careful eyes while servants brought course after course.
“So,” your father began, sipping sake, “what exactly are your intentions with our daughter, Gojo-san?”
Satoru leaned back casually, one arm draped along the back of your seat so his fingers could toy with the ends of your hair. He looked completely relaxed, but you felt the subtle way his knee pressed against yours under the table — steady, reassuring.
“My intentions?” He turned those brilliant eyes on you, and for a second the teasing softened into something warmer, deeper. “I intend to keep her happy. Spoil her absolutely rotten. Make sure she smiles every single day.” He poked your cheek right there at the table. “Even when she’s being all grumpy like right now. Look at her — isn’t she cute when she’s pretending not to like me?”
Your mother actually laughed. You wanted to sink into the floor.
Later, as the evening wound down, Satoru insisted on walking you through the garden “to sell the romance,” as he put it. The lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. Crickets chirped. He kept your hand firmly in his, swinging it like a teenager.
“You’re laying it on way too thick,” you muttered once you were out of earshot.
“Too thick?” He gasped dramatically, stopping under a blooming cherry tree and tugging you closer. “I’m just being the perfect fake boyfriend. Attentive. Handsome. Charming. Everything that Nakamura guy could never be.” He poked your nose. “Admit it. You’re impressed.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet here you are, dating me.” He winked. “Fake or not.”
The drive back to Tokyo took hours, but Satoru kept the conversation flowing effortlessly. He blasted music you both liked, sang horribly off-key on purpose just to make you laugh, and kept reaching over to poke your thigh or ruffle your hair at stoplights.
“You’re gonna have to get used to this, princess,” he said at one point, voice playful but eyes serious on the road. “Three whole months of me being disgustingly in love with you in public. Think you can handle it?”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart did a small, traitorous flip. “I’ve handled you for six years. I’ll survive.”
He just hummed, smiling that secret little smile.
Over the following weeks, the lines started blurring faster than you expected.
He showed up after every mission. One evening you emerged from a particularly nasty curse site — clothes torn, hair disheveled, a shallow cut on your cheek — and there he was, leaning against a streetlamp with two ice cream cones. The sunset painted his hair in soft pinks and golds.
“Rough day?” he asked, holding out your favorite flavor. Before you could answer, he stepped closer and gently brushed dirt from your cheek with his thumb. The touch lingered. His voice dropped, still teasing but softer. “My poor fake girlfriend. Can’t have you looking all messy like this. People might think I’m not taking care of you properly.”
You took the ice cream, cheeks warm. “You don’t have to do all this when no one’s watching, Satoru.”
He tilted his head, licking his own ice cream with exaggerated innocence. “But I want to. What kind of best-friend-fake-boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?” He poked your forehead. “Besides, you’re cute when you’re all flustered. Makes the whole thing more believable.”
He gradually moved things into his penthouse “for authenticity.” When you protested about clothes and toiletries appearing in his bathroom, he just pouted dramatically.
“What if your clan does a surprise visit? Gotta make it look real, right?” He held up one of your favorite hoodies, pressing it to his face. “Plus this looks way better on my couch than yours. Smells like you now. Best air freshener ever.”
Evenings became strangely domestic. He attempted to cook (failed spectacularly at omurice, burning the edges while you laughed until your sides hurt). He retaliated by teleporting behind you without warning, wrapping those long arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.
“Caught you again,” he murmured against your ear, voice low and playful. “My fake girlfriend can’t escape the strongest. Where do you think you’re going?”
You elbowed him lightly. He released you with a laugh but not before pressing a quick, feather-light kiss to your temple. The gesture was becoming dangerously frequent.
Every single time you reminded him of the rules — “This is fake, remember?” — he would tilt his head, flash that bright, infuriating grin, and say in the sweetest voice:
“Hmm? But we’re dating though?”
The next two weeks settled into a rhythm that felt both thrilling and terrifyingly natural. Your clan had bought the relationship completely, your mother even sent a polite text saying how “delighted” she was that you’d chosen someone of Gojo’s caliber. The pressure for the arranged marriage evaporated overnight. Mission accomplished, right?
Except Satoru showed no signs of slowing down.
It was a Thursday evening when he texted you during a solo mission in Shinjuku.
Toru: Finished yet? I’m bored and my favorite fake girlfriend isn’t here to entertain me.
You rolled your eyes at the screen, wiping curse residue from your hands, but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips.
By the time you emerged from the abandoned subway station, hair slightly messy and your jacket dusted with debris, he was already waiting. Leaning against a sleek black motorcycle this time (because of course he’d switched vehicles just to show off), two steaming cups of takeout ramen in his hands and that signature blindfold back in place.
“Princess! You took forever,” he complained loudly as you approached, but his voice was warm. He held out one cup, the rich aroma of miso broth and fresh green onions wafting up. “Here. Extra chashu because I know you’re secretly a glutton. Don’t say I never spoil you.”
You accepted the cup, fingers brushing his deliberately longer than necessary. “You didn’t have to wait. I could’ve just gone home.”
He tilted his head, white hair catching the neon lights from the surrounding buildings. “And miss seeing my girl all tired and cute after kicking curse ass? No way.” He poked your forehead gently with two fingers. “Besides, what kind of boyfriend leaves his girlfriend to eat sad convenience store onigiri alone? Not this one.”
“Fake boyfriend,” you corrected automatically.
Satoru just hummed, that playful grin stretching wide. “Hmm? But we’re dating though?” He swung a leg over the motorcycle and patted the seat behind him. “Hop on. I’m taking you back to my place. No arguments.”
The ride through Tokyo’s glittering streets was exhilarating. The cool night air whipped past as you wrapped your arms around his waist, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt. He drove smoothly but with just enough speed to make your heart race, occasionally reaching back to squeeze your knee or poke your thigh when you stopped at lights.
“You’re holding on pretty tight for someone who claims this is all pretend,” he teased over his shoulder, voice carrying on the wind. “Scared I’ll drop you? Or just enjoying the view?”
“Eyes on the road, Satoru.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he laughed, but you caught him glancing at you in the side mirror more than once.
Back at his penthouse, the space felt even more lived-in with your things scattered around. A pair of your fuzzy socks lay on the coffee table. Your favorite blanket was draped over the couch. He’d even cleared a drawer in the bathroom for your skincare products “just in case.”
You collapsed onto the couch with your ramen, legs tucked under you. Satoru joined you moments later, shedding his jacket and dropping down so close that your thighs pressed together. He stole a piece of chashu from your bowl with his chopsticks, dodging your attempted swat with ease.
“Thief,” you accused.
“Sharing is caring, baby,” he shot back, poking your cheek twice in quick succession. “That’s what couples do. Or are you forgetting the script already?”
You ate in comfortable silence for a while, the city lights twinkling beyond the massive windows. The TV played some mindless rom-com in the background that neither of you was really watching. Satoru kept finding excuses to touch you — brushing imaginary dust from your shoulder, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, resting his arm along the back of the couch so his fingers could trace lazy patterns on your arm.
It felt too real. Dangerously real.
The next day brought the first real test of the jealousy department.
You were at Jujutsu High for a joint training session with a few second-years and some visiting sorcerers from allied clans. Satoru was supposed to be teaching, but he mostly lounged against the wall watching you spar with a tall, dark-haired sorcerer named Haruto from a smaller allied clan in Osaka — someone competent, polite, and clearly impressed by your technique.
“Good form,” Haruto said after you landed a solid hit, offering a genuine smile as he helped you up. His hand lingered on your elbow a second longer than strictly necessary. “You’re even better than the rumors. We should train together more often. Maybe grab coffee after?”
You opened your mouth to respond politely when a familiar presence appeared behind you like a shadow. Long arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you back against a firm chest. Satoru’s chin dropped onto your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear.
“Hi there,” he said cheerfully, but there was an edge beneath the playfulness. “I’m Gojo Satoru. Her boyfriend. And you are…?”
Haruto blinked, clearly recognizing the strongest sorcerer, and took a respectful step back. “Ah— my apologies, Gojo-sama. I didn’t realize—”
Satoru’s grin widened, but his arms tightened around you. He poked your side lightly where Haruto couldn’t see. “Didn’t realize? She’s only the best thing in my life. Hard to miss, right?” He nuzzled closer, voice dropping into that teasing lilt. “Riiight, princess? Tell him how I keep you way too entertained to need coffee with anyone else.”
You elbowed him subtly. “Satoru, behave.”
“Never,” he whispered, then louder “She’s taken. Very happily. Extremely exclusively.” He pressed a quick kiss to your temple, lingering just enough to make a point. “Come on, baby. Let’s go get those limited-edition mochi before they sell out. Wouldn’t want my favorite girl missing out.”
He steered you away with a hand on your lower back, waving cheerfully at the stunned Haruto. Once you were out of earshot, near the training field’s edge under a cluster of trees, you spun on him.
“What was that? That was way more than hand-holding for show.”
Satoru tilted his head innocently, blindfold hiding his eyes but not the mischievous curve of his mouth. “What? I was just being supportive. My fake girlfriend almost got hit on by some no name sorcerer. Couldn’t let that slide.” He poked your nose. “You’re supposed to thank me. I saved you from boring small talk and mediocre coffee.”
“You’re jealous.” you accused, crossing your arms.
“Me? Jealous?” He laughed brightly, stepping closer until you were backed against the tree trunk. The bark was rough through your uniform jacket. “The strongest doesn’t get jealous. I’m just… very dedicated to our little performance.” His voice softened, fingers coming up to brush a leaf from your hair. “Can’t have anyone thinking they can take what’s mine, even if it’s pretend. Right?”
Your heart stuttered at the way he said “mine.” You swallowed hard. “This is fake, remember? Rules.”
“Hmm?” He leaned in, that infuriatingly pretty face inches from yours. You could smell his cologne again — crisp and sweet. “But we’re dating though?”
The moment stretched. His gaze dropped to your lips for half a second. The air felt charged, heavy with something neither of you had named yet. You could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the subtle shift as he swayed just a fraction closer.
Then he pulled back with a dramatic sigh, poking your forehead again. “Kidding! You should see your face right now. So cute when you’re all serious.” He grabbed your hand, swinging it as he started walking. “C’mon. Real mochi time. My treat. Unless you’re too busy thinking about that guy’s coffee invitation?”
“I hate you,” you muttered, but you let him pull you along, fingers intertwined.
“You love me” he sang back without missing a beat.
That evening, back at his place again, the domestic routine continued. Satoru insisted on “couple movie night” to keep up appearances (even though no one from your clan was watching). He’d ordered an absurd amount of snacks: mochi, popcorn, those fancy imported chocolates he knew you liked — and changed into loose gray sweatpants and a black compression shirt that hugged his torso.
You sat cross-legged on the couch in one of his stolen hoodies, trying to focus on the movie. He kept shifting closer until you were practically in his lap. At one point during a quiet scene, he started playing with your hair, twirling strands around his long fingers.
“You’re distracted,” he observed, voice low and amused. “Thinking about Haruto again? Should I be worried my fake girlfriend has a type for polite, respectful guys who offer boring coffee dates?”
“Shut up,” you laughed, swatting his chest. Your hand lingered there, feeling the steady thump of his heart. “You’re the one who went full possessive mode earlier.”
“Possessive? Me?” He gasped theatrically, poking your ribs until you squirmed. “I prefer the term ‘enthusiastically committed.’ Big difference.” His fingers stilled, resting on your waist. “Besides… it’s nice, isn’t it? Having someone look out for you like this. Even if it’s just me being annoying.”
The sincerity under the teasing made your chest tighten. You looked up at him. The movie flickered across his features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the soft fall of his hair. For once, he wasn’t wearing the blindfold, and those six-eyes glowed faintly in the dim light — beautiful and overwhelming.
“Yeah,” you admitted quietly. “It is nice.”
His grin softened into something warmer. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your cheek — all light, teasing touches that left your skin tingling. “See? Told you I’m the best fake boyfriend ever. No one else could pull this off.”
You didn’t correct him this time. The words “this is fake” died on your tongue as he pulled you closer, letting you rest your head against his shoulder. His arm wrapped around you securely, fingers tracing slow circles on your arm while the movie played on.
Later that night, after you’d both grown sleepy, he carried you to the guest room (technically your room now) when you dozed off. You stirred as he tucked you in, the blankets warm and smelling like him.
“Night, princess,” he whispered, brushing hair from your face. “Sweet dreams about your incredibly handsome, not-at-all-jealous fake boyfriend.”
You mumbled something incoherent. He chuckled softly and left the door cracked open, just in case
The weeks following the training incident passed in a hazy blur of domestic normalcy that was becoming harder and harder to label as “fake.” Every morning you woke up in Satoru’s guest room to the smell of slightly burnt toast and his overly cheerful voice calling you out for breakfast. Every evening he found new ridiculous ways to poke fun at you while pulling you closer on the couch. And every time you tried to remind yourself of the rules you’d set — three months, fake, no feelings — the words felt heavier on your tongue.
You were starting to feel conflicted.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Satoru had always been your best friend — the chaotic, untouchable force of nature who made everything lighter with his endless teasing. But lately, when he wrapped his arms around you from behind in the kitchen and whispered “Caught you again, princess” against your neck, your stomach did traitorous flips. When he looked at you with those brilliant blue eyes after removing his blindfold, the playful mask slipping for just a second into something softer, your chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with the rules.
This is dangerous, you thought one afternoon while staring at your reflection in his bathroom mirror. Your skincare products sat neatly beside his, a visual reminder of how intertwined your lives had become. He’s just playing the part. He’s always been dramatic like this. Don’t read into it.
But then he’d poke your cheek and call you “my favorite girl” and the line between pretend and real blurred even more.
You were still wrestling with these thoughts when a summons came from the higher-ups.
A special-grade curse had manifested in an abandoned industrial district on the outskirts of Yokohama. Reports described it as massive, intelligent, and capable of manipulating shadows into lethal weapons. They wanted the strongest available sorcerers on it immediately.
Naturally, they assigned you and Satoru together.
“Perfect!” Satoru exclaimed when he read the mission briefing on his phone, lounging on the couch with his long legs draped over the armrest. “A little date night mission. How romantic. I’ll even let you take the lead, princess, but only because I’m such a generous fake boyfriend.”
You rolled your eyes, adjusting the straps of your uniform. “This is serious, Satoru. Special grade. Focus.”
He sat up in one fluid motion, that signature grin spreading across his face. “I’m always focused when it comes to you.” He crossed the room in two strides and poked your forehead. “Besides, with me there, it’ll be over in five minutes. Then we can get crepes after. My treat.”
Before leaving the penthouse, Satoru grabbed his usual mission bag while you double-checked your own supplies. The drive to Yokohama was filled with his usual banter. He kept reaching over to poke your thigh or flick your ear whenever you tried to review the curse’s reported abilities. “Stop being all serious. You’re cute when you’re focused, but you’re even cuter when you’re annoyed at me.”
Upon arriving at the edge of the sprawling industrial district — a maze of rusted warehouses, overgrown lots, and crumbling concrete — Satoru parked the car in a shadowed alley. The sun was already setting, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples, but the area felt unnaturally dark. Cursed energy hung thick in the air.
“Veil first,” he said, suddenly more focused. He stepped out of the car and you followed. Standing side by side at the perimeter, he raised one hand toward the sky while you channeled your own cursed energy to support the barrier.
“Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness,” Satoru chanted in that effortlessly confident voice. “Purify that which is impure.”
A massive, semi-transparent black dome began to form overhead, expanding rapidly to cover the entire industrial zone. The veil sealed the area off from the outside world — hiding the upcoming battle from civilians, containing any cursed energy leaks, and preventing the special-grade from escaping. The air inside the veil grew heavier, the outside world now muted and distant beyond the dark translucent walls.
You reinforced it with your own technique, adding layers of stability so it wouldn’t crumble under the curse’s influence. “Solid. Should hold even if things get messy.”
Satoru glanced at you with a proud little smirk. “Look at us, working together like a real power couple. My fake girlfriend is so responsible.” He poked your side. “Cute. Now let’s go shred this thing so I can brag about you later.”
The industrial district inside the veil was eerily quiet except for the low hum of cursed energy. Shadows seemed to twist on their own, reacting to the special-grade’s presence.
The lower-grade curses swarmed first, emerging from the shadows like oily smoke. Satoru handled most of them with casual flicks of his fingers, Blue and Red tearing through them in brilliant flashes of cursed energy. But he made sure to leave several for you, calling out teasing commentary the whole time.
“Nice one! That spin-kick was almost as pretty as me,” he laughed after you sliced through three curses with a condensed energy blade. “But you missed one on your left — oop, never mind, you got it. Show-off.”
You worked in perfect sync, years of friendship translating into seamless combat rhythm. He’d create openings with his Infinity and limitless techniques, and you’d strike through them with precision and raw power. The veil above flickered occasionally as cursed energy clashed against it, but it held strong thanks to both of your efforts.
Then the special-grade appeared.
It was enormous. A hulking mass of writhing shadows and jagged limbs, eyes glowing like burning coals across its torso. It roared, and the shadows around it lashed out like whips, cracking concrete and shattering nearby windows. The force made the veil ripple visibly overhead.
“Finally, the main event,” Satoru said cheerfully, cracking his neck. “You want first dibs, princess?”
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you charged.
Adrenaline surged through you as you channeled massive amounts of cursed energy into your palms. The special-grade swung a shadow tendril the size of a car. You dodged with practiced grace, leaping onto a stack of rusted shipping containers for height. With a sharp cry, you unleashed a barrage of energy lances — each one honed to perfection, piercing through the curse’s defenses and exploding on impact.
The curse screamed, shadows flailing wildly. One caught you across the shoulder, tearing fabric and drawing blood, but you didn’t falter. You pushed forward, condensing a massive blade of pure cursed energy above your head. It glowed brilliant violet, humming with power. The veil above strained slightly from the buildup but remained intact.
“Satoru — cover me!” you shouted.
He was already there, Infinity flaring brightly to deflect incoming attacks while keeping the veil stable. “Anything for you, baby~”
With a final, powerful thrust, you brought the blade down. It sliced clean through the special-grade’s core, energy exploding outward in a devastating wave. The curse let out one final, ear-splitting wail before disintegrating into black ichor that sprayed across the area — and across you.
You landed hard on the cracked pavement, breathing heavily, covered head to toe in thick, dark cursed blood. It dripped from your hair, stained your uniform, and clung to your skin in sticky rivulets. The metallic, acrid scent filled the air, but the curse was gone. Completely eradicated. The veil above began to dissolve slowly as Satoru released it now that the threat was eliminated.
Silence fell over the ruined district inside the fading barrier.
You straightened up, wiping blood from your eyes, and turned to find Satoru standing a few meters away, staring at you.
He wasn’t moving. Wasn’t speaking. Wasn’t even grinning.
His six eyes were wide, glowing brighter than you’d ever seen them, fixed entirely on you. The usual playful mask had slipped completely, replaced by something raw and reverent. His chest rose and fell a little faster than normal, white hair disheveled from the fight, but he looked at you like you were the most breathtaking thing he’d ever witnessed.
Like you were the most perfect being to ever exist.
“…Satoru?” you asked, voice slightly hoarse from the battle.
He blinked once, slowly, then walked toward you with deliberate steps. The playful tone returned, but it was softer, threaded with genuine awe.
“Holy shit, princess,” he breathed, stopping just in front of you. He reached out and gently flicked a clump of cursed blood from your shoulder. “That was… insane. You just absolutely shredded a special grade like it was nothing. Look at you — covered in its blood, standing there like a goddamn warrior goddess.”
He poked your cheek, but the touch lingered, his finger tracing along your jaw almost tenderly. “I knew you were strong, but this? This was on another level. You’re incredible. The way you condensed that energy blade… the precision, the power…” His voice dropped, eyes tracing over your blood-stained form with open admiration. “You’re perfect. Absolutely, ridiculously perfect.”
Your heart hammered in your chest. The conflict you’d been feeling all week surged forward, hot and confusing. This wasn’t just teasing. The way he looked at you right now — like you hung the moon and stars — made your stomach twist with warmth and fear at the same time.
“Don’t stare like that,” you muttered, trying to play it off. You wiped more blood from your face, but it only smeared. “It’s just a mission. We shredded it together, like always.”
He tilted his head, that bright grin finally returning, but his eyes stayed soft. “Yeah, but you did most of the shredding. My fake girlfriend is a total badass. I’m feeling a little threatened, honestly.” He poked your forehead twice. “What if you become the strongest instead of me? Then I’ll have to retire and become your house husband. Make you bentos every day. Carry your bags. Tell everyone how my wife could kick their ass.”
You laughed despite the whirlwind in your chest. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re stunning,” he replied without missing a beat. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders, careful even with the blood. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up before you scare the civilians. Can’t have my girl walking around looking like a horror movie extra — even if she looks hot as hell doing it.”
The ride back was quieter than usual. Satoru kept glancing over at you, his usual rapid-fire teasing replaced with occasional soft pokes and comments about how “stupidly cool” you were. Back at his penthouse, he drew you a bath without being asked, adding fancy salts he’d apparently bought “just because.”
As you soaked away the cursed blood, staring at the ceiling, the conflict deepened. Every sweet gesture, every teasing word, every look of awe from him chipped away at the wall you’d built.
This is fake, you reminded yourself again.
But your heart wasn’t listening anymore.
You stepped out of the bath wrapped in one of Satoru’s oversized towels, the soft white fabric clinging to your still-damp skin. The hot water had washed away the last traces of cursed blood, but it couldn’t ease the storm raging inside your chest. Steam curled around you as you padded into the hallway, hair wet and dripping down your back.
The penthouse was quiet except for the low hum of the city far below. You expected to find Satoru on the couch setting up the movie night, but instead he was leaning against the wall just outside the bathroom door, arms crossed, wearing nothing but loose gray sweatpants that hung dangerously low on his hips.
His six eyes were uncovered, glowing faintly as they traced over you — slow, deliberate, and hungry in a way that made your breath catch.
“Took you long enough, princess,” he drawled, that signature teasing grin spreading across his face. But there was a roughness to his voice tonight. “I was starting to think you were gonna hide in there all night. Scared I’d see you looking all soft and fresh out of my bath?”
You clutched the towel tighter. “Satoru… the takeout should be here soon. We were supposed to—”
He pushed off the wall in one smooth motion and closed the distance between you. One long finger reached out and poked your bare shoulder, then trailed slowly down your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
“Takeout can wait,” he murmured. His eyes dropped to where the towel met the swell of your breasts. “You’ve been driving me crazy all day, you know that? Covered in that curse’s blood like some kind of beautiful disaster… looking at me like you owned the whole battlefield.” He leaned in closer, breath warm against your ear. “My perfect, strong, fake girlfriend.”
Your heart hammered. The conflict you’d been drowning in all evening crested like a wave. “Satoru… this is supposed to be fake. We had rules.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, head tilted, that infuriatingly playful smile still in place. But his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “Hmm? But we’re dating though?” He poked your cheek gently, then let his finger slide down to trace your collarbone. “You really think I’ve been pretending this whole time? Six years, princess. Six years of wanting you and finally getting to touch you like this.”
Before you could respond, he cupped your face with both hands and kissed you.
It wasn’t the careful forehead kisses or temple brushes he’d been giving you for weeks. This was deep, hungry, and devastating. His lips were soft but demanding, tongue sweeping into your mouth the moment you gasped. You melted into it instantly, hands fisting in his hair as all the suppressed feelings came rushing out.
He groaned against your mouth — low and wrecked. “Fuck… you taste even better than I imagined.”
The towel slipped slightly as he walked you backward into his bedroom. The backs of your knees hit the edge of his massive bed and you tumbled down together, Satoru catching himself above you on his forearms. He hovered there, white hair falling around his face like a curtain, staring down at you like you were something sacred.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered, voice teasing but raw. “My strong, beautiful girl… thinking you could set rules and I’d actually follow them.” He poked your nose, then kissed it. “Cute. But I’m done pretending.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, savoring every second. His hand slid down your side, tugging the towel open with one smooth motion. Cool air hit your bare skin and you shivered. Satoru pulled back to look at you fully, eyes roaming greedily over every inch.
“Shit,” he breathed, reverent. “Look at you. Absolutely perfect.” He leaned down and pressed open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, then lower, sucking lightly at the curve of your breast. When his tongue flicked over your nipple you arched into him with a soft moan.
He chuckled against your skin, the vibration sending sparks through you. “So sensitive already? I’ve barely started.” He poked your ribs playfully. “Don’t hold back those pretty sounds, princess. I wanna hear how much my fake girlfriend likes this.”
“Satoru—” you gasped as he took your nipple into his mouth, sucking and teasing with his tongue while his hand kneaded the other breast. Your fingers tangled tighter in his hair.
He worked his way down your body with the same teasing thoroughness — kissing your stomach, nipping at your hips, spreading your thighs with gentle but firm hands. When he settled between your legs, he looked up at you with that wicked grin.
“Been dying to taste you,” he admitted, voice husky. He poked the inside of your thigh. “You gonna let me, baby?”
You nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. He didn’t need more encouragement.
Satoru licked a slow, broad stripe up your pussy, groaning at your taste. “So wet already. All for me?” He circled your clit with the tip of his tongue, then sucked it gently into his mouth. The sensation ripped a cry from your throat.
He ate you out like a man starved — messy, enthusiastic, and relentless. Long fingers joined his tongue, sliding into you with ease and curling against that perfect spot inside while he continued lavishing attention on your clit. Every few seconds he’d pull back just enough to tease you with words.
“Look at you falling apart on my tongue,” he murmured, lips shiny. “My badass sorceress… so sweet and needy. You gonna come for your boyfriend?”
The word “boyfriend”, said so possessively, pushed you over the edge. Your thighs clamped around his head as pleasure crashed through you, hips bucking against his face. He didn’t stop, licking you through it until you were trembling and oversensitive.
When he finally pulled back, his chin was wet and his eyes were blazing. He crawled up your body and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Good girl,” he praised against your lips. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
You reached down and palmed him through his sweatpants. He was rock hard, impressively long and thick. Satoru hissed, hips jerking into your touch.
“Eager, huh?” he teased, but his voice was strained. He shoved the sweatpants down, freeing himself. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly. He was velvet steel, already leaking at the tip.
“Princess… if you keep that up I’m not gonna last,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “Want to be inside you. Been dreaming about it for years.”
He reached into the nightstand and grabbed a condom, rolling it on quickly. Then he was back between your thighs, rubbing the head of his cock against your slick folds.
“Tell me you want this,” he said, suddenly serious beneath the teasing. “Tell me you want me, fake rules be damned.”
“I want you,” you whispered, pulling him down for another kiss. “Satoru, please—”
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open with a low, guttural moan. “Fuuck… so tight. So perfect. Taking me so well, baby.”
When he bottomed out, he stilled, buried deep inside you. Both of you were breathing hard. He kissed you softly, then started moving — deep, rolling thrusts that hit every sensitive spot inside you.
The pace quickly grew faster. Satoru fucked you with the same cocky confidence he did everything else, but there was overwhelming tenderness underneath. He kept one hand on your hip, the other braced beside your head. Every few thrusts he’d lean down to kiss you, or poke your cheek, or whisper filthy praises.
“That’s it… take every inch like the strong girl you are,” he panted, snapping his hips harder. “My perfect woman. Gonna make you come again. Want to feel you squeezing me.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back. The angle let him hit deeper, and soon you were moaning his name like a prayer. He reached between you and rubbed tight circles on your clit, pushing you toward the edge again.
“Come on, princess,” he growled, voice teasing but desperate. “Come for me. Let me feel how much you love your boyfriend’s cock.”
The orgasm hit you like a train, harder than the first. You cried out, clenching around him rhythmically. Satoru groaned loudly, thrusts growing erratic as he chased his own release.
“Fuck— baby— I’m gonna—” He buried himself deep and came with a broken moan, hips stuttering as he filled the condom.
For a long moment afterward, the only sounds were your heavy breathing. Satoru collapsed half on top of you, careful not to crush you, face buried in your neck. He pressed soft kisses there, lazy and sweet.
Eventually he pulled out gently and disposed of the condom before crawling back into bed and pulling you against his chest. His fingers traced slow patterns on your bare back.
“So…” he started, voice light again, “still think this is fake?”
You laughed breathlessly, hiding your face in his chest. “You’re impossible.”
He poked your side. “And you’re stuck with me now. Real boyfriend privileges activated.” He kissed the top of your head, voice softening. “I meant every word, you know. I’ve been in love with you for years.”
You looked up at him, heart full. “I think… I’ve been falling for you too. For a while.”
His grin was blinding. “Took you long enough, princess.”
He pulled the covers over both of you and held you close, teasing and sweet as always, but now completely, wonderfully real.
Sukuna’s massive body loomed over hers on the cushioned dais, sweat-slicked and radiating raw power. His thick cock was buried to the hilt inside her, stretching her walls to their limit. Every heavy throb of his length sent sparks of overwhelming sensation through Makima’s core. The wet, filthy sounds of their joining filled the chamber — the obscene squelch of her arousal mixed with his earlier release, the slap of his hips against her ass, and the low, animalistic growls escaping his throat.
He fucked her with brutal, punishing strokes. Two hands pinned her wrists above her head. One massive hand gripped her throat, squeezing just enough to make her vision sparkle at the edges. The fourth hand dug claws into her hip, drawing thin lines of blood that trickled down her pale skin.
Makima’s crimson hair was splayed wildly across the silk cushions. Her breasts bounced with every violent thrust, marked with fresh bites and bruises. Sweat glistened on her body. Her golden eyes remained steady even as breathy, controlled moans slipped from her lips.
“You feel so fucking good,” Sukuna snarled, slamming into her harder, the head of his cock battering against her cervix with every deep stroke. “Too good. Too perfect. What the hell are you?”
He suddenly leaned down, teeth sinking into her shoulder hard enough to draw fresh blood. The metallic scent bloomed between them. His pace became feral — hips snapping with raw, unrestrained power. The wet slap of skin on skin grew louder, messier. Fluids dripped down her thighs and onto the cushions beneath them.
Then something shifted.
Sukuna’s four eyes flashed with sudden, violent paranoia. His hand around her throat tightened brutally — no longer controlled pressure, but a crushing grip that cut off her air completely. His claws dug deeper into her hip, piercing skin. The hands that had been pinning her wrist released it and moved to her chest, pressing sharp claws directly over her heart.
“I should kill you right now,” he growled, voice low and dangerous, still thrusting into her with deep, punishing strokes. His cock continued sliding in and out of her soaked heat, thick and relentless, even as his hand crushed her windpipe. “You’re too calm. Too calculating. No one looks at me like that. No one survives looking at me like that.”
Makima’s vision began to tunnel from lack of oxygen. Her body instinctively struggled against the crushing grip, thighs trembling around his waist, inner walls clenching tightly around his thrusting cock. Pain flared sharply where his claws pierced her skin. Blood welled and trickled down her side.
Yet her golden eyes stayed perfectly calm.
She forced her voice out in a strained, breathy whisper despite the brutal pressure on her throat. “Then… do it… my King. If my existence displeases you… end it. But you will lose the only one who truly understands your power.”
Sukuna’s hips stuttered for a moment, still buried deep inside her. His cock throbbed violently against her walls. The hand over her heart pressed harder, claws pricking the skin above her breast, ready to tear through.
“You think I won’t?” he snarled, face inches from hers. His breath was hot and ragged. He pulled out almost completely, then slammed back in with savage force, making her body jolt. The wet, messy sound of her drenched pussy taking every inch filled the air. “I’ve killed thousands for less. I could rip your heart out right now while I’m still inside you.”
Makima’s face remained composed even as her lungs burned and black spots danced in her vision. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth where she had bitten her lip.
Her voice came out hoarse but steady: “You could. But you won’t. Because you’re bored, my King. And I… alleviate that boredom. I see you. Not as a monster to fear… but as the apex you truly are. Killing me now would be… inefficient.”
Sukuna’s eyes blazed with conflicting fury and dark hunger. His hand tightened further around her throat for several long, terrifying seconds. His claws pressed deeper into her chest, drawing fresh beads of blood. All the while, he kept fucking her — deep, messy, desperate strokes that made her soaked pussy squelch loudly around his thick length. Fluids dripped everywhere. Her thighs were slick. The cushions beneath them were stained.
The pressure on her throat was crushing. Makima’s body convulsed slightly around him, inner walls fluttering and clenching hard from the lack of air and overwhelming sensation.
Then, with a frustrated roar, Sukuna suddenly released her throat.
Air rushed back into her lungs. She gasped sharply, coughing once, but her golden eyes never left his face. Sukuna’s hand moved instead to grip her jaw, forcing her to keep looking at him as he pounded into her with renewed, almost angry intensity.
“Damn you,” he growled, voice rough with frustration and lust. “Damn you for being right.”
He fucked her harder then — brutal, punishing strokes that drove her body into the cushions. The wet, filthy sounds grew louder. His balls slapped heavily against her ass. Sweat poured off his massive body, dripping onto her marked breasts and stomach. He leaned down and bit her neck savagely, then her breast, drawing more blood as he chased his release.
Makima’s moans returned, breathy and raw from her bruised throat, but still controlled. Her hands moved to grip his shoulders, nails digging into tattooed skin.
Sukuna came with a deep, guttural roar that shook the screens. He buried himself to the hilt, thick cock pulsing violently as he flooded her with heavy, hot ropes of cum. It overflowed instantly, squirting out around his shaft with every thrust as he kept grinding deep, prolonging his orgasm. The mess dripped down her ass and soaked the cushions beneath them.
He collapsed partially on top of her, all four arms wrapping around her smaller frame in a possessive, almost desperate hold. His cock remained buried inside her, twitching with aftershocks. Blood from her wounds smeared across both their bodies.
“You’re a curse,” he muttered against her neck, voice hoarse. “My curse.”
Makima lay beneath him, body aching, bleeding, and filled. Her golden eyes stared at the ceiling as she slowly caught her breath. Internally, she cataloged the event:
Murder attempt probability during intimacy: now recorded at 34%. Successfully de-escalated through logical appeal to his boredom. Dependence strengthened. Thread of control tightened.
A microscopic flicker, something dangerously close to satisfaction stirred deep in her core.
She identified it immediately.
And she crushed it without mercy.
i’ll be finishing the rest of the story soon, it’s a bit long but i’m satisfied with the results :) makima art by @rrumirumi_x on twitter
summary: after you break up with your boyfriend, you begin receiving ominous messages from a burner account that seems to know too much.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
NOBODY IS AFRAID of Satoru Gojo until it is too late.
It’s a shame really—they should be, but they aren’t because he appears too harmless to be anything more than a cute campus nerd. As if a sweater vest, a soft voice, and a perfect 4.0 GPA are enough to make someone safe.
Oh, how wrong they are. Pretty boys, just like everything else on this planet, are capable of being rotten.
Unfortunately though, he is the kind of student professors adore because he answers questions that no one dares to. Girls whisper about him in the back of lecture halls, gossiping over the way he sits with one ankle crossed over his knee, long deft fingers curled around a mechanical pencil, captivating blue eyes half-lidded behind thin silver frames like he’s bored by the entire world and still better at it than everyone else.
Double majoring in both computer science and mathematics. Exceptionally gifted with an IQ of 173. A genius according to the Wechsler scale, an academic weapon in every sense. He ruins the curves in all of his classes and corrects tenured professors so gently that they thank him afterward.
People like that about him—the intelligence and arrogance that somehow becomes charming when it comes wrapped in snowy white hair and a sweet smile.
Sure, they also think he’s strange, I mean how could they not? He’s always the smartest person in the room, absurdly quiet at times, far too watchful and observant and hard to read when he goes still and stares at someone a breath too long.
But that’s just Satoru…isn’t it?
Brilliant people like him are allowed to be strange. Boys that are attractive are allowed to be forgiven for things others would be ostracized for or considered creepy. No one ever looks at him and thinks danger.
No.
They see Satoru Gojo and think genius.
Innocent.
Yours.
Well…they used to call him that last one. Right before you ended.
Now? His number, his Instagram, his TikTok, his Twitter, his LinkedIn, his Gmail, and even his school email have been blocked.
You’ve changed your entire routine—altered your route to classes, switched coffee shops, stopped studying on the third floor of the library because that was where he always found you.
Found.
That was the word you utilized back then to define it, before you knew better.
At first, it had felt romantic, the way Gojo always seemed to know where you were. You would look up from your laptop at some hushed corner table and there he’d be, sliding into the chair across from you with an iced latte in one hand and that infuriating little smile already pulling at his mouth.
“Stalking me?” You’d ask as he pushed the latte toward you.
“Poorly,” He’d joke, smirk deepening, “You make it easy.”
And you’d giggle blithely because you were stupid.
Because back then, his odd behavior made you feel wanted.
It felt like devotion when he remembered your exact drink order after hearing it only once. It felt like love when he noticed you were cold before you did, tugging his hoodie over your head wordlessly, fingers grazing your jaw as he fiddled with the drawstrings. It felt like something precious when he recalled every detail you ever gave him, every offhand comment, every tiny confession you dropped without meaning to.
Gojo remembered everything.
The side of the bed you slept on, the exact brand and shade of lipgloss you constantly reapplied on those pretty lips, the way your voice wavered when you were trying not to cry, each building your last class ended in.
He knew all of it.
And you foolishly believed that his attention to the details meant he loved you. But slowly, you understood it. Because soon enough, it began to feel like he was keeping inventory as if you were just another subject for him to master.
Though the worst part is, he never acted like the kind of boyfriend your friends could easily hate. He never raised his voice. Didn’t punch walls or scream outside your apartment or call you names in the middle of a party. Of course he wouldn’t—he was too calculated and careful to make himself look like a bad boyfriend from an outsider’s perspective.
And he wasn’t necessarily “bad” either, more so he was suffocating. If you mentioned studying with someone from class, he’d tilt his head and say, “Hope that someone is a girl.”
Whenever you wore something new, his inquisitive eyes would drag over your figure, just once, slow and meticulous, before asking, “Who are you dressing up for?”
And God forbid the times you’d come home later than usual, because oh, he remembered that too. Your phone would be lighting up the second you turned the doorknob to enter.
toru 🤍
|| you good?
Then, when you didn’t answer quick enough, thirty seconds later he’d send—
toru 🤍
|| don’t ignore me baby.
Before you could even set your stuff down to settle in, he’d message again.
toru 🤍
|| i’m outside.
You’d open your front door and there he’d be. Standing in a black hoodie, luminous hair reflecting light under the streetlamps, hands tucked into the pockets of his joggers like he hadn’t just crossed campus because you took three minutes too long to respond.
Apparently that was normal. Love was supposed to feel like being tracked.
Yet, you couldn’t help but get upset at times, and that’s when he would make it all sound reasonable—as if you’re the crazy one.
“I worry about you, baby…” He’d coo, voice soft enough to make guilt curl under your ribs and the frustration to die, “Is it that a crime?”
No. Of course not. Worrying wasn’t a crime, neither was remembering or showing up or loving someone so intensely that it started to feel like a noose tightening around your neck.
At least, that’s what you convinced yourself of until you simply couldn’t anymore.
You ended it with him because some awful, exhausted part of you knew that if you stayed, Gojo would swallow your whole life and disguise it as care. He would make a home out of your skin and feign hurt when you asked for room to breathe.
And the breakup itself was quiet, almost too quiet. He sat on the edge of your bed with his elbows resting on his knees, glasses pushed up into his hair, staring at the floor like he was solving a coding error so difficult it would require even his full concentration.
You had expected him to display anger, maybe even some begging, or that terrifying calm of his finally cracking into something ugly to prove that you weren’t losing your mind.
Instead, he only peered up at you and murmured, “You don’t mean that.”
Your hands shook when you replied with, “I do.”
And for the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo appeared genuinely confused; this was a glitch in the software he had never encountered. Despite that, he smiled, barely. A small, empty thing that never reached his eyes, “Okay.”
That was it. Okay.
He didn’t cause a scene, shed not a single tear, no doors were slammed. All he did was leave your apartment with the same eerie composure he did everything else, and for one stupid, fleeting second, you almost called him back.
Because that was the thing about Gojo. Even when he scared you, you missed him. And though he smothered you consistently, some depraved sliver of you craved being held down by the weight of his devout attention.
You hated that most. So you blocked him entirely before it could win. His number first, then every account you knew of, then every account you suspected.
For the next two weeks, you rebuilt your life around avoiding him and miraculously, he let you.
He didn’t corner you after classes or wait outside your building. Didn’t send an absurdly large bouquet of flowers in an attempt to say I’m sorry. Didn’t ask your friends about you, at least not in any way that got back to you.
He just…disappeared so cleanly it felt like he had never been in your life at all. The realization should’ve made you feel better, but it didn’t.
Why? You don’t even know.
Maybe you anticipated more fight out of him, more willingness to do whatever necessary to get you back. Something—anything, but nothing?
The silence was unsettling, Satoru Gojo was not the type of guy who let things go. He obsessed, studied, fixated until every last detail had been memorized, picked apart, and tucked away behind those gorgeous cerulean blues for later use.
So no, his absence did not feel like peace. It felt like waiting.
And on a Thursday night, your phone buzzes, hardly pulling a glance from you. It’s late, your laptop is open across your thighs with some half-finished assignment glowing uselessly back, a vanilla scented candle burning low on your desk. Your brain is fried enough after an exhausting day that you assume it’s a friend sending you some stupid TikTok or a class group chat blowing up over an upcoming exam.
It’s neither of the two. It’s Instagram. A message request from an account you didn’t recognize.
@.6iX3y3s
Your brows pinch; there’s no profile picture, no posts, no mutual following, no bio. Just the ominous username and the message attached.
@.6iX3y3s
|| you looked pretty today.
You stare at it for a second. Weird? Sure. But not enough to make your stomach fully drop.
Girls get strange messages all the time. Random horny losers with burner accounts and a shit ton of audacity. Pathetic, easy to ignore.
So that’s exactly what you do. You leave it there unanswered and lock your phone, rolling your eyes before forcing yourself back to your homework.
By the time the next message comes in the following afternoon, you had almost forgotten about it. You’re leaving class when your phone vibrates in your hand—same account.
@.6iX3y3s
|| you ignored me last night.
|| i dare you to ignore this one, love.
|| you’re wearing pink today. how cute.
Your steps falter, it’s the pet name that does it. Or maybe, the way your stomach churns when you look down at the soft knitted sleeves clinging to your arms and realize, with an abhorrent, creeping sort of nausea that yes…
You’re wearing pink.
That doesn’t mean much though, does it? Pink is a lucky guess. People wear pink all the time. Half the campus has probably already seen you in it. Anyone from lecture could’ve; anyone from the hallways, the stairwells, the quad.
Still.
Still, something about the messages feels wrong in a way the one last night hadn’t. Less like some random freak saying dumb shit and more like someone smiling while they watched you read it.
Your gaze lifts from your phone on instinct, eyes skimming over the crowds spilling out of the buildings around you. Students move in loose swarms down the concrete steps, laughing too loudly, shoulders brushing, backpacks bouncing against their spines. Normal. Everything appears painfully normal.
Nobody is staring at you or making it obvious that they are, which only makes it worse. Because whoever sent the messages is here. They have to be. Somewhere in the blur of bodies passing too close, possibly hiding behind a pair of sunglasses or beneath a baseball cap or pretending to be in conversation. Your mouth goes dry and again, you choose to not reply. You shove your phone into your tote bag and start walking, pace a little quicker now, heartbeat annoyingly irregular.
You keep telling yourself it’s nothing, some creep from class. Some fucking loser who noticed your outfit and thought anonymity would make them interesting. Yet, when you return home, your shoulders are drawn tighter than usual. And later that night, they send more DMs.
You’re in the middle of microwaving leftover pad thai, one hip braced against the counter.
@.6iX3y3s
|| still ignoring me?
|| that’s not very nice.
|| i can be patient though.
And before you could even decide what to do with that, another message comes through.
@.6iX3y3s
|| besides…you always were prettier when you got mean.
The microwave beeps and you nearly drop your phone. This one is different—it shows familiarity. Whoever this person is, they must know you. Or at least, know you in a way that allows them to say something like that, right? Or is this all some sick fucking game?
Your thumb hovers over the screen, tempted to type out who the fuck is this?
But you don’t. You won't give them the satisfaction of knowing that you let some anonymous asshole get to you.
Instead, you set your phone face down on the counter and try to eat dinner like your appetite hadn’t just vanished. You make it all of five minutes before flipping it back over and—nope. Nothing new.
That should be relieving, but it does nothing of the sort. Because now, you’re waiting for the next one, anticipating other weird shit, and that more than anything, pisses you off.
But the messages do keep coming after that, of course, not in rapid succession though. No, whoever is behind the burner account is much smarter than that. They let hours pass sometimes; a whole day, once. Just long enough for you to start convincing yourself that maybe they’re bored. Maybe it’s over. Maybe you imagined how wrong it all felt.
And as soon as those thoughts cross your mind that’s when your phone lights up again.
@.6iX3y3s
|| did you know that you bite your lip when you read?
|| such a pretty little habit.
Another afternoon, you get—
@.6iX3y3s
|| you looked tired this morning.
|| poor thing.
One time when you come home a little too late, they send—
@.6iX3y3s
|| you really shouldn’t walk alone at night.
|| it’s dangerous.
|| someone could hurt you.
Is the last message a threat? Fuck. They’re getting worse. Too close and observant to the point where even blocking them feels like it may potentially do more harm than good.
And underneath that…a part of you kept circling back to him.
To Satoru.
You hated yourself for it.
No—you’d think every time the possibility surfaced. No, if it were Gojo, you would know…wouldn’t you?
There would be something smug in it, something sharper. Some arrogant little phrasing that gave him away. These messages were creepy, yes, but they’re hollow too.
They could belong to anybody, that’s what you keep repeating to yourself.
Right up until the night they didn't.
It happened so ordinarily that you almost missed the horror of it. Fresh out of the shower, skin still damp beneath an oversized T-shirt, you stand in the middle of your bedroom lazily rifling through your dresser for underwear. The apartment was unusually quiet save for the hum of the ceiling fan and the faint traffic murmuring outside your window. You’re tired, barely thinking, running on routine.
Your phone vibrates somewhere behind you on the bed and you reach for it absentmindedly, thumb already unlocking the screen before your brain catches up.
@.6iX3y3s
|| mm. you always did look better right out of the shower.
Your entire body freezes, as did the room, like the whole world decided to pause with you. All you can do is glare at the message while your pulse gives one hard, sickening thud against the inside of your throat.
No. No, that doesn’t—your mind rushes to explain it away before the panic could get there first.
That’s another lucky guess. Plenty of people shower at night. Lots of girls throw on a big shirt after. It means nothing.
@.6iX3y3s
|| slick skin. bare legs. and oh, my favorite part…
|| no bra.
A repulsive, slow feeling begins to unfurl within your insides.. Now, the messages were growing vile. Too vile.
Another buzz reverberates. You don’t want to look, but do so anyway.
@.6iX3y3s
|| black lace panties tonight?
|| adorable.
|| you should see the look on your face right now.
And that is the moment your eyes leave the phone and lift to the room, not in confusion anymore; fear has finally taken over. Your gaze cuts violently across the space—window, curtains, mirror, closet door left cracked open, desk, bookshelves, the black screen of your laptop, the dim amber glow of your lamp.
Nothing was out of place, nothing was amiss. Nothing. This makes the dread worsen.
Whoever is behind the burner account isn’t guessing. They aren’t pulling details out of their ass or listing off observations between classes.
No, they’re seeing you. Right now. In your fucking bedroom.
Your heartbeat starts to pound so hard it aches, roaring in your ears as you take one careful step backward, then another. The room looks exactly the same as it always does and still, somehow, someone is in here with you.
A shaky breath hooks in your throat as your eyes drag over the space again, frantically. Until your gaze snags on something small and soft propped in the far corner of your desk…
A teddy bear.
Okay, that’s nothing. Just another useless object in here.
Oh, but then as you keep looking at it, one of its eyes catches the light wrong. Too glossy, unlike plastic or thread, rather—glass. Your stomach plummets so abruptly it feels like missing a stair.
Satoru gave it to you six months ago while you were still together. Summer break, back when everything between you was all sweet and perfect. You had teased him for hovering too much while you read a book, complained that he acted like he needed to keep eyes on you at all times, and he had only smiled—that easy, charming smile, and dropped the plushy into your lap.
“There,” He said, “A replacement.”
You had laughed and called him ridiculous, yet took it home anyway. Why wouldn’t you? It was cute, harmless at the time. But now, you see it clearly. There is nothing harmless about it. If he couldn’t have physical eyes on you at all times, he’ll have a stuffed animal do the job for him.
So he’s the one behind the burner account. Of fucking course it’s him. Deep down, you knew it too.
Your heart hammers within your chest, but you don’t move toward the bear, because if Gojo is watching, then the second you react he’ll know you’ve figured it all out.
And for some reason, that matters.
Satoru thinks he’s clever.
Fine. Let him think that.
Slowly, you take your eyes off the bear and place them back onto what you were doing. The dresser, right. You were about to put on the pair of black lace panties you grabbed before Gojo poisoned the moment.
Act normal. That is the only thought in your head now. Act like you don’t know.
You step into the underwear with deliberate calm, every movement controlled. You toss your wet towel into the hamper, reach for the lotion sitting on your nightstand and rub it over your legs with unhurried strokes, forcing yourself not to glance at the desk in the corner.
After you finish with that, you lock your phone and set it face down like nothing had even happened. As if your privacy hadn’t been violated and the stupid little bear with the red satin ribbon wasn’t staring at your bed with one surveillant eye and your ex-boyfriend wasn’t somewhere on the other end of that feed feeling smug and victorious.
The performance of ignorance starts now.
Because if Satoru thinks that the power still belongs to him, he is mistaken. He’s not the only one with a secret now.
You know about everything. And he doesn’t know that you know.
Ever since that night, you start performing without ever letting it look like a performance. A towel wrapped dangerously low on your chest, sliding a pair of jeans off slower than necessary, bending over on purpose to pick up certain things.
And every time, he takes the bait. Every single time.
@.6iX3y3s
|| there you are.
@.6iX3y3s
|| the prettiest girl.
@.6iX3y3s
|| keep the light on.
@.6iX3y3s
|| i could watch you bend over all day.
The last one almost makes you throw your phone, but instead you smile at it. The shape of the game is glaringly obvious now. He thinks he’s winning and getting away with something, yet all the while he has no idea that every glimpse he gets is one you’ve already decided to hand him.
For as intelligent as he is, Gojo is easier to manipulate than he thinks. That, more than anything, makes you bold. You start crossing the room in only a bra and panties without rushing, sit on your bed after showers with a sheer thong and T-shirt on, pretending to scroll through your phone as the hem creeps past your hips.
His messages, of course, get greedier and entitled.
@.6iX3y3s
|| you’re such a tease.
@.6iX3y3s
|| god, that mouth.
@.6iX3y3s
|| spread your legs like that again.
You stare at the words for a long moment. Then you lock your phone and do exactly as he asks, wanting to see how far he can bend until he breaks, and then, the idea finally comes to you.
If Satoru Gojo wants to watch you, you’ll give him a fucking show.
The next night, after you shower and go through your post-shower routine as usual, you’re propped up in your bed on top of pillows with your legs spread wide, T-shirt riding up all the way. Unlike the other nights, you’re not wearing panties, no, you’re on full display.
And somewhere across campus, Gojo is already watching intently.
The camera feed on his desktop monitor glows against the dark of his room, painting everything in pale blues and soft golds—his laptop screen, the discarded notes spread uselessly across his desk, the half-finished cup of coffee by his elbow. He has work due by midnight; two assignments open, a problem set half solved.
He hasn’t looked at any of it in the last twenty minutes, because there you are. Your thighs are parted obscenely, knees bent, heels digging into the mattress so your pretty pussy glistens right in the center of the frame. His breath catches and stays caught.
He should feel ashamed, but he doesn’t. Or at least, not enough to stop.
Because after everything—the break up, the blocking, the way you cut him out of every part of your life like he was something easy to remove, this is all he has left.
The sight of you; the sick little comfort of knowing that even if you won’t answer him or look at him or let him near you, there is still this one private place where he can watch and remember and pretend that means something.
It has to mean something. That is the lie he has been feeding himself for days now.
All the times you’ve peeled your clothes off slower and slower, when you sat on the edge of your bed with your shirt riding up to reveal whatever panties you’re wearing, every message he’d send and you’d obey.
He tells himself it’s accidental, a gift. Well, he tells himself a lot of things. What he does not let himself say out loud is the ugliest one.
Show me you still think about me.
His jaw tightens as he watches your hand trail down your stomach, languid and lazy, fingers brushing over your lower belly before dipping between your legs.
Two fingers glide through your folds, parting them so the bear’s eye catches the slick shine of your arousal already coating your cunt. You’re soaked; glossy and puffy and dripping. The wet sound of it carries through the feed when you drag those fingers back up to circle your swollen clit.
Gojo’s throat works, cock twitching hard in his sweatpants. There it is again; that awful, hot hope crawling through him like a disease.
Show me you missed me.
It’s humiliating how badly he wants it. The proof that he still lives somewhere inside you. That blocking his number did not erase the shape he left behind and when you’re alone, some part of you still curves instinctively toward him.
He wants his name, if he’s being truthful. He wants it in your mouth and on your breath as you shift your hips, roll them up to meet your own touch, and push two fingers inside with a lewd squelch—tentative at first, then deeper, giving him exactly what he wants to see.
His pulse is hammering now.
Say it.
Say my name.
Show me it’s still me.
Because who else would it be? Who else has known you like he has?
Who else would catalog every minute detail about you with such care?
His breathing turns shallow as your moans get louder, needier; hips snapping to meet every thrust of your fingers. You finally speak, softly, and the name that leaves your mouth is not his.
“Sukuna…”
For one full second, Satoru does not understand what he heard. The room around him goes entirely still and his body does too, fingers slipping from the desk edge.
No.
No, that—
His jaw locks so hard it aches as he stares at the monitor like he can glare the name back into your mouth and replace it with his own, but the damage is already done.
Sukuna.
Not Satoru.
Ryomen fucking Sukuna.
The frat boy, dope dealer. The smug, loud, filthy shit stain on campus Gojo has despised on instinct since the first week of freshman year.
And suddenly, the whole thing curdles. The feed of you fucking yourself; the hot, breathless tension he had been drawing in just seconds ago. All of it sours.
Because the emotions that flood him are immediate, humiliating, and vicious in a way that makes his skin feel too tight.
Sukuna?
That pathetic asshole with the face tats from Greek Row who fucks everything that walks?
His name is the one in your mouth?
That’s who you choose?
Something hot and ugly rises through Gojo so fast it makes him dizzy. Because up until now? He had been arrogant enough to believe this moment was for him. That no matter how you tried to push him away there would still be this one private place where he remained, a place no one else gets to touch…and then you say another man’s name.
Oh, but not just any man—Sukuna, of all men.
The guy he detests most. A choice that feels engineered to piss him off.
Yet, somewhere in the back of Satoru’s racing mind, buried beneath the jealousy and rage and sudden nauseating flare of humiliation, a thought stirs too late.
Why him?
His phone is in his hand before he consciously registers reaching for it, fingers moving faster than his pride can catch up; faster than logic or the cold, careful part of him that should have stopped this exact thing from happening.
@.6iX3y3s
|| don’t.
Once the message is sent, the world comes rushing back in around him. His own breathing, the coffee mug at his elbow that has gone entirely cold, the blue-white light of the monitor, the fact that his pulse is thundering so hard he can feel it in his teeth.
His eyes lock onto the monitor, you’ve stopped moving now. Pulling your fingers out of your clenched walls, you reach for your phone on the nightstand instead and glance down at the Instagram notification.
He watches you unlock your phone, your eyes moving as you read. Then his own phone buzzes and his gaze drops instantly. A new message, from you, of course.
@(y/n)(l/n)
|| don’t what, satoru?
Everything in him goes rigid.
Ah…so you know.
You know it’s him behind the burner account. You know about the bear and the hidden camera inside and that he’s been watching.
Slowly, almost against his will, Gojo lifts his head to look back at the monitor, and there you are.
Already staring straight into the lens—straight at him.
His breath punches out of him in one sharp, silent rush. It was as if you were waiting for him to look up and wanted him to feel the full, awful weight of being caught all at once; every hidden, ugly thing inside him getting dragged into the light.
Suddenly, everything starts to make sense. All those slow, purposeful movements over the last few days, each careful pause, every night he sat here letting himself believe he was the one in control and stealing something from you in secret.
That was because you let him.
No, worse—you orchestrated it.
On the screen, your mouth curves. A mean, small, devastating grin that sends heat rushing violently up the nape of his neck.
A trap. That’s what this was.
He has no right to be angry, he knows that. Yet, despite the blood in the water, Satoru Gojo is still too obsessive and gone to stop himself from what he does next. He stands abruptly, shoving his chair back with such force the wheels protest.
There’s no point in answering your message. This situation calls for more than that.
Instead, he’ll go right to your front door.
And it takes him less than three minutes to get there.
He knocks, three little taps of his knuckles and in his other hand he’s holding his phone, already typing—
@.6iX3y3s
|| open it.
Beyond the door, there's a heartbeat of silence so prolonged it makes his pulse kick harder. Eventually, the lock clicks and it opens. When it does, Satoru forgets every single thing he meant to say.
Because you’re standing right in front of him, still flushed from the orgasm he just watched you ride out on camera, wearing only that oversized T-shirt. The hem skims the top of your bare thighs and he can see the faint shine of your own cum still glistening on the inside of one leg.
Fuck, seeing it in person after watching it through a screen feels way worse than he anticipated.
Your face, though, is the opposite of his. It’s calm, almost bored. Like you didn’t just say another man’s name into the eye of his camera to break him.
“You came fast,” You say flatly, tone utterly conversational. Which somehow makes it crueler.
Gojo’s gaze flicks down once before he can stop it, one sharp, involuntary glance at your naked thighs disappearing beneath the cotton fabric, then jerks back to your face, “You knew.”
You lean one shoulder against the doorframe, blocking the entrance with your body, “You watched.”
He tenses at the words, already aware that he should deny it. He should try to claw back some semblance of control or a lie so clean it can give him room to breathe, but he does none of that.
Being caught this thoroughly means that lying starts to feel even more pathetic than the fact that he’s been watching all this time.
With his voice low, rough, and fraying at the edges, he opts for, “How long?”
Your expression barely shifts, “Long enough.”
He understands what that means. Long enough to turn yourself into a performance and let him think he was the one running the show.
“You should’ve thrown it away,” He seethes.
“You should’ve hidden it better.”
Satoru nearly laughs, but bites it back, grip tightening around his phone, “You played me.”
A tiny tilt of your head when you ask, “Did I?”
He takes one step closer, the space between you feeling too narrow now, “You knew I was watching.”
“I knew someone was.”
“Sukuna?” The name comes out fouler than he means it to, thick with something too ugly to bother disguising.
There’s a slight, satisfied change in your face that tells him he’s exactly where you wanted him. He fucking hates that, “What about him?”
Gojo’s smile is humorless, “You knew what you were doing.”
Your lips curve again, the little wicked one from before, “Yes.”
The honesty of it stings more than the denial would have. You did it on purpose—chose the one person’s name on campus guaranteed to make him snap.
“Move.”
“No.”
His eyes behind those silver frames narrow, you don’t budge from the doorway. The oversized shirt slips just barely on one thigh as you shift your weight and the movement is so small and subconscious that it almost ruins him entirely. Probably because it doesn’t feel subconscious at all. Now, he can’t trust a single thing you do to not be deliberate.
“So you let me come here just to keep me outside?”
“You got yourself here,” You shoot back as he takes another step.
He’s close enough to the point that the toe of his sneaker nearly touches the threshold. He can see the flush still ghosting across your cheeks and feels the charged heat radiating off your body or maybe that’s just him; his own blood is running too hot under his skin after everything he’s witnessed.
“You gonna tell me to go?”
You should. That’s the rational thing to do. Tell him to leave, slam the door in his stupid face, and let him stand there with his ridiculous jealousy and whatever pathetic excuse for love made him hide a camera in a teddy bear to watch you through it like a total fucking creep.
But the problem is…that some horrible part of you likes this.
Not what he did exactly, no, there’s no justifying that, but this—the sight of him outside your door destroyed, caught, and still wanting. The way he came running over the second you pulled the right string. All that genius and polished composure rotting so quickly into something needy and pitiful.
You like how badly he wants you.
You like that he watched.
You like that he couldn’t stay away.
And maybe that makes you just as disgusting as he is.
Your fingers flex once against the edge of the door and Satoru notices. His gaze drags over your face like he’s trying to read the answer before you ever say it, but what he finds only seems to make him hungrier.
Because he knows you too well and he knows that look.
“I asked you something,” He murmurs, voice quieter and roughened.
Your eyes flick down to his mouth without permission, and that mere slip is all it takes. Something dangerous flashes behind his glasses, and God, you hate the way that affects you too. It should repulse you. Hell, it does, but not enough.
Your hand leaves the edge of the door and catches loosely in the front of his hoodie; Gojo freezes, waiting patiently for your next move. The charged silence stretches further and further, you can feel your pulse thrumming practically everywhere, “I’m still angry,” You admit.
He nods once, “I know.”
“This fixes nothing.”
A faint chuckle crawls up his throat, “We’ll see about that.”
His cockiness alone makes you want to shove him back, yet you don’t. Instead, your fingers tighten in the collar of his hoodie and yank. The second Gojo crosses the threshold you slam the door behind with your heel; he doesn’t even get a chance to speak before your mouth is on his—angry, open, biting. The taste of bitter coffee floods your senses, and for one treacherous breath you recall kissing him in the past, remembering how he always tasted like this.
His hands are already slipping under the hem of your oversized shirt, palms hot against the bare skin of your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, “You’re such a fucking creep,” You hiss against his lips, but you’re already walking him backward toward your bed, shoving at his chest.
“I know,” He breathes, low and wrecked, glasses fogging from how hard he’s heaving, but he doesn’t take them off. He just lets you push until the back of his knees hit the mattress and he sits, “But you enjoyed it. Every second.”
You climb into his lap, straddling him, shirt riding all the way up to your hips. The slick heat of your cunt presses right against his sweatpants and you both feel it—how hard he already is, thick and straining under the fabric. You grind down once, teasingly, watching his head tip back and throat bob.
“Say it again,” He demands, fingers digging into your ass, pulling you impossibly closer, “Say his name again while you’re this wet for me, I dare you.”
You laugh, a hint of mischief in it, “Sukun—”
His hand is in your hair before you finish the last syllable, yanking your head back so suddenly your spine arches. The sting makes you moan and the sound breaks something in him. Gojo surges up, mouth latching onto your throat, sucking a mark right under your jaw like he has to prove to everyone that you’re still his.
“Don’t ever say that shit again,” He growls against your skin, teeth scraping. One of his hands leaves your ass to shove between your bodies. Two long fingers drag through your folds, gathering the mess you made earlier, and he pushes them inside you.
You gasp, hips jerking, because he knows exactly how you like it, “Fuck—Satoru—”
“There is it,” His voice is smooth silk, “That’s the only name I want in this pretty mouth.”
He fucks you with his fingers like he’s determined to do it better than you did, thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes. Your thighs tremble around his hips, the obscene sounds of how wet you are fill the air every time he thrusts in, and he watches your face the whole time with intense devotion. Those brilliant blue eyes half-lidded behind fogged glasses, drink in every flutter of your lashes.
You grab the front of his hoodie again and yank it up. He helps, ripping it off one-handed, shirt underneath following a second later revealing pale skin and lean muscles you used to trace when you were still pretending he was harmless. You rake your nails down his chest so deep they leave pink lines and he groans, hips bucking so his clothes cock grinds against your clit.
“Off,” You order, tugging at his sweatpants.
Gojo lifts his hips and you shove them down just far enough for his cock to spring free—long, flushed at the tip, already leaking, and you don’t give him time to think. You wrap your hand around him then sink down in one smooth motion; the stretch burns so good your mouth falls open on a silent cry. He’s big, always has been, but tonight it feels like he’s splitting you open.
His head drops forward, forehead pressed to your collarbone, a broken sound ripping out of him, “Fuck—baby—still so fucking tight for me—”
Not letting him catch his breath, you start riding him hard, rolling your hips and using him exactly how you want. Every time you drop down he bottoms out, the tip kissing that spot that makes your vision spark white. His hands roam everywhere; gripping your ass, sliding up your back under the shirt, tearing it off so he can watch your tits bounce with each thrust.
“Mm, look at you,” He pants, “Taking me so well—like you’ve been empty without it.”
You laugh again, but it comes out shaky, “You wish.”
He snaps his hips suddenly, driving into you so deep you see stars, “Liar.”
You brace your hands on his shoulders as he fucks up into faster and harder, one arm locked around your waist to keep you pinned, “Say it,” He demands, lips brushing your ear, “Say you missed me.”
You bite your lip, refusing, even though your walls twitch around him. He slows to a torturous grind, rolling his hips so the head of his cock drags right against that perfect spot over and over, “Say it, baby…or I stop.”
You hate how quickly you break, “Missed—you, Toru—fuck.”
A wicked grin spreads across his face, “Yeah…I know.”
Then he flips you over, back hitting the mattress and him on top before you can even react. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, folds you in half, and pistons in so deep your back arches clean off the bed. The new angle has you sobbing his name repeatedly like it’s the only word you know, fingers clawing at any part of him that you can reach.
He fucks you like he’s trying to crawl inside your ribcage and live there; deep, punishing strokes that make your full sized bed creak and headboard slam against the wall. You can feel your orgasm building fast, coiling tight and vicious in your lower belly.
“Satoru—gonna—”
“Cum for me, baby,” He coos, thumb finding your clit again, “Let me feel how much you still need me.”
It hits you with such intensity that your vision whites out, walls clamping around him so tight that he groans like he’s in pain, but he doesn’t falter. He rides you through it, chasing his own release, “Mine,” He chants against your neck, voice cracking, “Still fucking mine—”
Gojo buries himself to the hilt and cums with a broken moan, hips stuttering as he spills deep inside you, hot and thick. He keeps grinding you through it as if he wants to push every drop as far in as it’ll go, claiming you from the inside out.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room is both of you panting with sweat-slick bodies tangled together. Satoru lifts his head, glasses completely fogged, white hair a tethered mess, cheeks flushed. He looks both ruined and perfect—yours.
He presses a surprisingly soft kiss to your swollen lips, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
There’s a long pause, until he answers with, “For all of it.”
All of it. The camera, the burner account, the surveillance, showing up here like this.
You don’t answer right away; forgiveness is too pure of a word for whatever this is and one night of wanting doesn’t erase the violation or redeem him. You reach up and remove the fogged glasses off his face, set them aside on the nightstand, and look at him properly.
“You’re still a sick fuck, you know that?”
A smile flickers at the corner of his mouth, “I do.”
Your nails drag lightly down his spine, “But, next time you want to watch me…”
His eyes lift to yours as you trail off and you hold them there deliberately, adding—
Synopsis: Stardust and constellations etched into skin, not something Gojo sees often when looking at someone walk by. It's even rarer for him to become infatuated with the way the stars seem to shimmer just beneath the skin of that same person. Who knew he would use those stars as a guidance home, the same way sailors did back in the day.
Pairing: Gojo Satoru x coworker!reader
Tags/Content Warnings: Fluff fluff fluff, romance, mentions of kidnapping stars, themes of day and night, reader has a cursed technique, first kisses
Word Count: 10.6k
A/N: I think I may have gone a little overboard with the whole "star" theme... I've seen the words star and starlight enough to last me the rest of the year. Also the eyes are inspired by Halsey's song Darling— specifically the lyrics: "I'll kidnap all the stars and I will keep them in your eyes."
Gojo Satoru has seen a lot of strange Cursed techniques in his life; some that pooled like shadows at feet, and others that ran like blood through veins. But he’s never seen cursed energy flow like that before—like stardust. Like constellations dragged down from the heavens and etched into human skin.
You, the new teacher that started here today. Pretty, like the stars he can see swimming just beneath your skin. If the constellations you left in your wake weren’t enough to pique his interest, then the shades would be.
They’re round, slightly oversized, and more importantly, completely unnecessary. It’s January—snow blankets the campus in thick powdery substance. There’s no sun to speak of, just grey skies, heavy with cold.
So why are you wearing sunglasses during times like these?
He watches you walk toward the main building, a slight scowl on your face as you glare at the white ground, shoulders tight. Maybe it’s the cold, or maybe it’s something else completely, but he just knows he’ll keep an eye on you.
Just like your eyes are practically glued to the ground. Everything feels too bright. Snow blankets the ground in white, endless as far as the eye can see—not that you can see much right now, your vision slightly blurry.
It reflects like a mirror, and it’s enough to make you wince. Shoulders pulling even tighter, as your eyes ache even worse than usual. The migraine started before you even left your home, but you ignored it. Just like you always do.
You took too many of them again, you know that. Releasing some would help, you know that as well. But gods, they were so beautiful this morning, or technically last night.
Most stars drift alone; scattered singletons, untethered to any shape or name. But this morning you saw a constellation form. Vulpecula. The constellation itself didn’t mean much, just a minor constellation, a fox, a trickster. But even so… it felt like a message.
Sometimes you wonder if the heavens are angry with you for taking what was never yours to begin with. Touching that which you shouldn’t even be able to touch. For pulling down the stars one by one, storing them in your eyes.
You never take many at once. It certainly doesn’t help that Tokyo itself doesn’t offer much to begin with. The light pollution smothers the sky, making it difficult for stars to be seen. The few that do peek through feel too delicate to touch.
But last night, one dared to appear. You were crouched by a pond, hands skimming the surface, rippling the still water, disrupting it. Just like you do the sky. And there it was reflected in the surface, pale and flickering.
You activated your technique, just enough for you to take it when your fingers skimmed over the reflection of the celestial being. The star blinked out, gone from the sky, gone from its reflection.
If someone were watching, they’d simply blame the clouds, or the pollution, or even their own eyes. No one—ordinary nor sorcerers—would suspect you to be the culprit. No one knows someone is kidnapping the stars.
Now they shimmer behind your irises. A galaxy, barely contained, floating around on earth, rather than where they belong. And you’re paying for it.
Snow shouldn’t feel like knives behind your eyes, little pinpricks that have them water slightly, just enough that if you blink, tears would roll down the apples of your cheeks. But it does.
Adjusting your shades, you tug them higher, trying to get rid of the glare of the snow, but it doesn’t help much. If you were smart, you would have cancelled, told the principal that you couldn’t come to campus like this, but it’s your first day, and you know that would not go over well.
So for now you’re just pretending that the pain isn’t pulsing just behind your brow in a steady, rhythmic pulse that almost acts like a second heartbeat.
You keep walking, feet slightly sinking into the powder, snow crunching under your feet with each step. But you’re walking faster now—or at least trying, with the way the stone underneath the snow is slippery as fuck—toward the principal’s office.
There’s a slight frown between your brows, an almost permanent wrinkle; a downturn to your mouth that’s starting to get colder by the minute. Most people would assume you just hate the cold—and you honestly do—but Gojo watches you pass, and thinks there’s something else behind that expression, something more. Something almost celestial.
The moment you step through the doors of the principal’s office, you note how dark it is inside. It’s lit only by candlelight, the space being illuminate in a soft amber, shadowed at the edges. There’s a small sigh of relief that falls from your lips.
At the far end of the room sits principal Yaga. Broad shoulders, slightly hunched. A strip of fabric in one hand, a needle in the other. He’s working on another doll from the looks of it. Tens of others—newer and old—are laid out around him.
He looks up when you knock. “Ah,” he says, voice like stone, almost unmovable. “The new teacher.”
His gaze lands on you, weighted and measured. Like he’s taking inventory—no doubt clocking the fact that you’re wearing shades, even though you’re inside and it’s almost dark anyway. You just hope he doesn’t see what’s happening behind the glasses.
You resist the urge to shift where you stand, feet moving just slightly in place. Instead, you bow. A full ninety degrees, bent at the waist as your knees lock in place. Straightening up, you tilt your chin, hands folding neatly behind your back.
“That would be me,” you say, voice steady, faintly airy. And it’s almost star-lit. You wonder if he can hear it as well, if he does, he doesn’t say anything about it.
You nudge your shades up the bridge of your nose with your middle and ring finger, having slid down when you bowed for him a few seconds ago. The gesture feels practiced now, ritualistic, but there was a time it wasn’t like that.
The silence stretches a moment longer than is comfortable, and once again you shift on your spot. Then, Yaga speaks again, voice like a stone dropped into a still pond, disrupting the quiet with his words that are heavy enough to leave ripples. “I’ll show you your office.”
He rises, hand braced on his knee. Beside him, you can see one of his dolls hop to life, and without further ado it trails after him without even a word from the man. It’s honestly cute, almost like a duckling following its mother.
It’s then that you remember you’re supposed to follow them both, instead of staring and comparing a doll and your superior to a duckling and its mother. Shaking your head, you quickly follow them.
The hallway itself is beyond sterile—something you wouldn’t think if you were just looking from the outside in. Every building here had the traditional Japanese styling, but apparently the inside was more modern than that. The place is lit by overhead fluorescents. Too bright for your liking.
You flinch slightly as the light hits you, a small twitch in your fingers as you refrain yourself from nudging your shades up your nose again—not that it would help, anyway. Pain blooms behind your brows again, sharp and familiar.
Keeping your face even, you try to breathe slowly through your nose. inhale, hold it for four seconds, exhale slowly, again and again. Luckily—or unluckily, really—you’re used to hiding this part, the part where you’re almost always in pain.
If Yaga saw anything, he doesn’t comment on it, just walks ahead in silence. The dolls felt feet are slapping against the ground as it marches beside his creator.
After what seems like five minutes, he finally stops in front of a door, nearly at the end of the corridor. Fucking great, do you have to walk this long ass hallway every time you need to go to your office? Yaga doesn’t say anything, just clears his throat and opens the door.
Peering inside you note how spacious the space actually is. There’s wooden floorboards, a wide, circular window that floods the space with natural light, but also no curtains. You can feel your eye twitch slightly, and you’re grateful for your sunglasses.
The window itself is beautiful. But beauty, you’ve learned, doesn’t always mean comfort. Especially when one has sensitive eyes such as yourself.
The rest of the room is mostly empty, save for a bookcase and a simple desk in the middle of the room. A new desk chair is definitely needed, by the looks of the old one—it isn’t bad by any means, but it also isn’t made with comfort in mind.
You must have zoned out, because something small thumps gently against your shin. “Oh,” you startle, eyes flicking down the small doll now standing at your feet, peering up at you with those round, unblinking eyes.
Then you look up again, quickly noting that Yaga is watching you. You can feel your cheeks start to warm up, and you suppose he was waiting for your reaction.
Clearing your throat, you peer at the room once more. “The space is beautiful,” you say, a little bashfully, the airiness gone from your voice. Your fingers rise automatically, nudging your shades up again; this time not because of the light, just your nerves telling you to do something.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Yaga says, already turning away from you, possibly to go back to his own office that you prefer in a way that has everything to do with the uncovered window in your own. His footsteps recede down the hall, until you can’t hear them anymore.
Stepping into the room—that what is now considered your office—you look around it while closing the door behind you. The latch clicks softly, and it makes you breathe out for the first time in what seems like an eternity.
Time after that moves quite quickly. You try to make yourself familiar with the space, cleaning and organising things in the way you like it, before you start on your paperwork that you already have, because nothing says welcome to the job quite like a mountain of paperwork, right?
The sky has darkened since, the moonlight shining through your window. You’re sat at your desk, back to the window, as paperwork is spread before you in neat, untouched stacks.
Earlier, you glanced up at the window, looking at the dark sky, noting the few brave stars that had appeared, shimmering faintly. They’re still holding their place in the sky, because you can’t afford to take any more. Not unless you want even more eyestrain.
The office itself remains dark, not having turned on any lights—you had, earlier, just to see what type of lights there were in the office, and you weren’t surprised by the hiss that left your mouth once you did. Of course they would choose bright ass lamps inside an office as well.
Moonlight filters through the round window, casting long, pale strips across the floorboards and your desk. Your skin almost shimmers in the moonlight, just like the pretty stars that are floating in the sky—and inside your eyes.
The papers before you are lit by a soft, shimmering glow. Not from a lamp, but rather your eyes. Clicking your pen. Once. Twice. You begin to write. The glitter in the ink catches the light, soft and subtle. And it’s almost like starlight threaded through dark water.
The paperwork itself isn’t anything special, just transfer documentation, a few orientation forms, a signature here, a note there. It’s easy, almost mind-numbingly easy. It makes you lose track of time quite fast.
The stack dwindles slowly, one page at a time. You’re about to reach for another one when there’s a knock on your door. Soft and hesitant, like whoever’s on the other side isn’t sure if they’re allowed to interrupt the silence that’s blanketed around you.
Blinking, you scramble for your shades. You don’t want people to see you like this on your first day. Pushing them up the bridge of your nose with a haste that almost makes you poke your eye out the first time you try to slide them on.
Then you switch on the desk lamp—which is luckily a soft, orange glow rather than the bright, sterile lamps they oh so love to use in this place—letting it cast a neutral glow over the space. It makes it less strange.
“Come in,” you call out gently, in case they’re already walking away. The door gently creaks open, slow enough that you probably could’ve done everything without the person having seen your eyes even once. Fluorescent light from the hallway spills in, cold and bright.
A tall, slim man steps into view. He hesitates just past the threshold, hands stiff at his side, fingers slightly twitching. They tremble slightly, and you wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the harsh light.
He bows, a full ninety degrees—much like you had earlier today—and stays there for a beat too long before he stands straight again. His fingers curl slightly, as if resisting the urge to wring them together.
“I’m Kiyotaka Ijichi,” he says. His voice is polite, measured, but there’s a tremor beneath the surface that you pretend not to notice. You give your name in return, along with a small nod of your head.
“It’s good to meet you, Ijichi-san.” There’s a small pause that neither of you fills. After what seems like a beat too long, you finally ask: “Can I help you?”
“Ah— I was wondering if you’d already had dinner.”
Your brow lifts, almost unconsciously, but you smooth the expression over quickly. Dinner? Glancing down at your watch, you finally note the time. 8:30 p.m. Oh. You can feel yourself paling slightly. Has it really been that long?
Looking back up at the man that’s still standing nervously in your door opening, you finally reply to him. “No,” you admit, your smile returning, soft as moonlight. “I haven’t.”
Ijichi nods, like he expected as much. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again—almost like he’s too afraid of offending you in any way, and you almost want to tell him it’s okay—before he finally speaks. “The cafeteria should still have some warm food, if you’d like.”
You hesitate slightly, not out of reluctance, but because it’s been hours since you were around anyone else. Solitude was something you basked in—no need to keep up your guard, constantly wondering if people were looking at your eyes, if they are covered enough, if someone can see the faint light emitting from them.
Looking back at Ijichi, you note the way his hands are still trembling slightly, trying not to wring his hands together. So you nod and rise from your chair. “Lead the way?”
Ijichi steps back immediately, opening the door wider for you—something that seems almost automatic for him, as if he does this all the time. His shoes squeak faintly on the polished floor as he turns, already walking a step ahead.
The hallway is quiet, footsteps echoing gently in the long corridor. The lights seem brighter now—not because they are, but because you’ve been sitting in the dark for so long, and it almost makes you hiss out before you swallow it down.
“I, uh… I didn’t mean to intrude,” he finally says, eyes stubbornly trained in front of him, almost as if he’s too nervous to look you into the eye. “I was told you might not know the way to the cafeteria.”
Glancing sideways, you note how stiff he looks. Almost as if he’s waiting for a scolding. “I didn’t realise it was already this late,” you admit, glancing over your shoulder at your office door, thinking about the dark sky. “It’s hard to tell time when the stars keep moving.”
Ijichi doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that, but you don’t mind. It is a weird thing to say to people, you’re fully aware of that. But talking about the stars seems so normal to you now, that you keep forgetting that most people don’t even think of the stars—why should they? They only come out at night, and even then there are only a few that dare to peek out under the night sky.
He opens the door to the cafeteria a moment later, holding it open for you. Bowing slightly, you step inside, and warmth immediately greets you. The faint smell of soup and rice lingers in the air, a few lights still on.
The room is mostly empty, people having cleared out long before, plus there aren’t that many people to begin with, save for two students finishing a late meal.
Clearing his throat, Ijichi nods his head towards the tables. “You can sit anywhere. I’ll check what’s still available.” With that, he heads toward the counter, hoping to get the two of you some food. Your stomach rumbles at the thought.
Pausing for a moment, you take it all in—the grand space, the lights that seem more dim here, the warmth—before moving to a corner table bathed in the softest overhead light
Gojo walks into the cafeteria with one goal in mind: food. Or, more specifically, something sweet. His stash back in the office had disappeared already, and he knows one of the students stole a few—he had like a whole box of mochi left this morning, after all! (He ate it all himself.)
Whistling under his breath, hands behind his head, he opens the doors. The blindfold has been traded for shades, his headache not being unbearable right now, so he wants the cloth away from his skin. There’s faint chatter inside, nothing loud, just low voices talking to each other.
Probably Ijichi and Nanami again.
The door opens with a flourish, and his grin is immediate, pearly whites glinting in the soft lights. The chatter dies immediately—something he’s used to; the slight pauses when he enters the room, the double takes, the eyes—but he barely registers it.
His gaze flicks to Ijichi first. The poor man is already pale, bracing himself for whatever reason. Then his gaze slides over to the next person, and— Oh. Instead of Nanami, it’s you sitting across from Ijichi, a bowl of rise and miso set neatly in front of you.
And there it is again, that cursed energy flow, the one that shimmers in its wake, like stardust caught in motion. Constellations drifting lazily around you—or, inside of you, really—as if a piece of the cosmos has settled into human shape.
Gojo stills, the tune he was whistling dies out. His smile flickers, just slightly, before he slides it back into place. He watches you glance at Ijichi, then at him, then back to Ijichi again. Finally, you offer a small bow from your seat. It’s polite and reserved, nothing grand. Then you return to your meal, as if nothing about this is extraordinary.
Gojo, meanwhile, is already moving, long strides carrying him across the space in no time. He slides into the seat beside Ijichi and slings an arm around the man’s shoulders. Said man immediately stiffens, trembling faintly.
“So,” Gojo drawls, grin crooked and bright. He taps his fingers on Ijichi’s shoulder a few times, but he keeps his gaze onto you. “Who’s this?”
You lift a hand to your shades, nudging them higher—the same shades he saw earlier this day—shielding your eyes just a bit more. A slight nervous tic, maybe. And that’s when he sees it—a soft shimmer from behind the dark lenses.
Gojo blinks one, twice, a third time just to be completely sure. For half a second, he wonders if it’s a trick of the overhead lighting, shining down onto you in a way that warps behind your glasses, but surely that can’t be.
He only half-hears Ijichi sputtering beside him, hurriedly introducing you. Then he apologises, and starts over-explaining things. But Gojo isn’t listening, he’s staring straight at you, because it looks like there’s starlight coming from your eyes.
A thought flickers into the back of his mind, like a star blinking to life in the night sky. Artemis, constellations, old myths. Which he dismisses just as quickly as it formed.
You murmur a polite hello, your voice soft, almost airy—like it carries echoes of the night sky. Gojo nods in response. And for once, Gojo Satoru doesn’t have a single thing to say, his lips not opening once. Even the brightest star knows when to stop talking.
He left shortly after that; didn’t even grab a snack, just… left. Squeezing Ijichi’s shoulder before standing up and walking straight back out of the door he entered from just mere minutes ago.
And now, it’s been weeks. He’s seen you a few times across campus, never close to him; distant and fleeting, like stars in the night sky. A slight bow when your paths do cross, never a full bow that people seem to do whenever they cross with him, no, this one is just polite and measured. Like you don’t care about him—his name, his status—at all.
He also notes the way you always wear your sunglasses. Even during snowstorms, or when the sky is too gray to bother anyone’s sight. And maybe it’s weird that he of all people notices it, or maybe it’s because he’s like that that he notices it.
Sometimes, Gojo wonders if he imagined it—that shimmer, the starlight spilling from your eyes behind those same glasses you constantly wear. Maybe he read your cursed energy wrong. Maybe his Six Eyes caught something that wasn’t really there. But that’s the thing about stars, they tend to disappear the moment you look too hard.
Now, here he is, standing in front of your office. The room beyond the door is dark, and if not for his eyes, he might’ve assumed you weren’t here at all.
He inhales once, then again. His mouth feels oddly dry, and he swallows, just once. He wants to shake out his hands, and if anyone saw him, they would’ve thought he was sick, because this is not the way he normally acts.
He’s not nervous. No, he’s just… starstruck. And, okay, maybe a little nervous as well. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone, though. He would deflect it with a blinding smile and a quick joke that rolls off his tongue.
After standing in front of the door for what feels like ages, he knocks. Just once, a little too sharp. Then he opens the door before you can even answer, and there you are. Sitting in your desk chair. The moonlight outlines the curve of your shoulders, the slope of your jaw.
You’re leaning back with an arm thrown over your eyes, but the moment the door clicks open, your head snaps up and your arm falls away. For a heartbeat, all he sees is starlight; shimmering constellations are suspended in your gaze behind the glasses.
The smile he walked in with falters, his mouth parts slightly at the sight. Words get caught on his tongue, never making it out.
It’s the light from behind your eyes that does it, that shimmer he thought he imagined. He’s still staring—eyes widened behind his own shades, mouth still parted—when you clear your throat.
“Gojo,” you say with a steady voice, but your smile is strained, brittle, like a star blinking in and out of existence. So unlike the confident, unbothered person he normally sees in passing.
He tilts his head slightly, his bangs swooping to the side, some strands falling in front of his shades. There’s a slight, awkward beat where neither of you say anything. And as if he comes to his senses, he steps further into the room.
“You always wear those.” he nods toward your shades that are on the desk, off for once in your life. Or maybe you always have them off whenever you’re in your own space. Your brow lifts slowly, as if he’s stating the obvious—which he is—but you nod anyway, like you’re waiting for him to continue. “Why?”
“Why do you?” you ask, deflecting with the same softness he’s used to. There’s a slight tremble in your voice now, but he pretends not to notice. Normally he would tease people relentlessly, but he knows when is the time to tease, and now is not it.
“My eyes are sensitive,” he says, vaguely motioning towards his face. He doesn’t mention the Six Eyes, doesn’t mention the eye strain or the headaches they give, nor the way light breaks down for him into pieces smaller than atoms.
You nod at him, as if that’s enough of a reason. “Same here. Photophobia.”
He quirks a brow at that, the word sounds foreign to him. There’s a slight pause, before he finally opens his mouth again. “Photophobia?”
“Intolerance to light,” you say, as if you’re reciting something you’ve had to explains hundreds of times before. Then again, he’s not sure if the word is uncommon, or if he just hasn’t hear of it before. Your voice is quieter when you speak up again. “…Isn’t that why you wear yours?”
He shakes his head, feeling his smile curl onto his face again. Intolerance to light is not how he would describe his Six Eyes. Stepping closer, he lets his long strides carry him to your desk, and promptly lets his body drop into the seat across from your, leaning forward—his forearms are resting on the desk between the two of you.
His grin is coy, almost fox-like, and it reminds you of the constellation—Vulpecula—spinning somewhere behind your iris. The same constellation you thought felt like a message.
“Here’s the thing, sweets,” his voice drops an octave, still playful, but more serious underneath now, “There’s no light on right now.”
Your breath catches somewhere in your throat, spine straightening up imperceptibly before your eyes flit towards your desk.
Shit.
You forgot to turn the lamp on when he walked in, eyes wide behind your shades right now. The stars start to spin faster behind your irises, almost as if they can feel your panic, or maybe it’s just your cursed energy that wakes up, wanting to use them—to protect you.
Slowly, your gaze lifts back to him, throat dry. You open and close your mouth a few times, mind scrambling; searching for an out, a reason for the fact that you’re still wearing your shades despite it being pitch black—safe for the moonlight filtering through the window behind you—in here.
And all Gojo can think about is how cute you look like this. Mouth moving, no words coming out from between those shiny lips. Like a star trying to explain how it shines.
“There’s… moonlight,” you offer, weakly. You know it’s weak. He knows it’s weak. But it’s the best thing you could come up with right now. Gojo lifts a brow. Moonlight. Glancing around, he notes how your silhouette is bathed in it, as is the desk where your shadows don’t touch, and the floor. It is there, that much is true, but that’s all there is.
He hums, low and thoughtful. A small rumble goes through his chest while he leans back in your chair, his arms folding behind his head. He’s pretending to consider your words, head tilting slightly yet again. “So you’re saying the moonlight is what makes you wear shades?”
You slowly nod, as if you’re afraid nodding too hard would break the lie into a hundred pieces that would drift to the floor. Technically it isn’t a lie, the moonlight does hurt to look at sometimes, but it’s behind you now, drifting distantly in the sky.
“Right, right…” he drawls, watching you for a second—liking the way you try to keep yourself from squirming in your seat. “So it has nothing to do with the stars in your eyes?”
He can hear your breath catch before you push your shades higher up your nose. The sight makes him grin, a bit too bright—not literally, just metaphorically—and it makes you think of the sun. Night and day, seated across from each other. Unequal orbits, and an unavoidable pull.
Clearing your throat, you can feel the way the tips of your ears are starting to burn. You resist the urge to shift in your seat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gojo.”
His grin doesn’t waver, if anything, it broadens slightly, like he knew you would try to wave off his comment before he even said it. You avoid his gaze after that, looking just over his shoulder at the wall behind him, but you can feel his gaze fixed on you.
“No?” he asks, with a slight tilt in his voice that makes it known he’s amused by the whole ordeal. Tilting his head the other way he continues. “So you’re saying my Six Eyes are lying to me?”
Swallowing, you fold your hands in your lap, fingers wringing together slightly before you force them to still. It reminds you of Ijichi, the way he seemed so nervous to talk to you, fingers twitching at his sides constantly.
“What do you want, Gojo?” you echo, this time your voice no longer has that glow it always has, that starlit tone that amazes him, just tired.
He sits up straighter at that, as if weighing the question seriously. His hands fall from his head onto his lap before he starts tapping them onto his thighs. “Remember the cafeteria?” You nod at that. “I’d seen you earlier that day, when you entered the school for the first time. Your cursed energy looked like starlight—like the whole cosmos wrapped up in human skin.”
Your teeth sink into your cheek hard enough to ground you; there’s a slight metallic taste that enters your mouth, mixing with your saliva before you swallow it down. You brace yourself for the reprimand that comes when people learn what your cursed technique does. For the reminder that stars are not meant to be touched—not meant to be stolen.
But Gojo doesn’t mention that, he just looks at you with a smile on his face while he keeps talking. “In the cafeteria, I thought I saw it again. Behind your glasses this time, that starlight that you leave in your wake. I figured I was going a little crazy.” He pauses, before his tone softens slightly. “But here you are. With actual stars in your eyes.”
Your gaze slides away from his, not wanting to meet his—well, his shades. Fingers start to finally fidget with the ring on your hand as it catches the moonlight just enough to sparkle, just like the stars in the sky. You don’t say anything; don’t know what even to tell him.
Gojo leans forward again, elbows resting on his knees. The light in the room is faint, moonlight and that slight shimmer from behind your shades that spills onto your clothes.
“I want to see,” he says softly, almost as if you’re a skittish animal he isn’t trying to scare off. Still, you tense at the words, the question familiar. He sees, and softly smiles, gesturing at his own shades. “I’ll show you mine first, if that helps.”
That makes you pause slightly. No one ever tried to give you something in return for asking something so vulnerable, it doesn’t even cross peoples minds before asking. You study him for a moment, the shadow low on his nose, his easy grin—the one that reminded you of Vulpecula—gone now; in its place is something quieter, softer.
A beat passes, then another, and another before you finally nod. Just once. A small, almost jerky motion that he would miss if he were to blink. Exhaling, he lifts his shades, shoving them into his hair, strands getting pushed back.
And there they are, his eyes—Six Eyes. They’re brilliant, iridescent, like cut glass held up to starlight. There are too many shades to name, too much depth to even process. It feels like looking into the sky on a sunny day, like staring at something that was never meant to bee seen head-on.
He watches you carefully, waiting to see if you flinch, and there’s something almost vulnerable in his gaze. Your own hand rises, hooking two fingers behind the arm of your shades before you lift them slowly, placing them into your own hair.
There aren’t many times Gojo Satoru’s breath catches, but it does now. Because he sees it again—not cursed energy, nor some illusion, but actual starlight. It spills from your irises like something the sky forgot to keep. Constellations floating just beneath the surface, and while he doesn’t know the names of them, he does know that they’re there.
You blink, lashes fluttering slightly before they open again. The starlight pulses once, then settles again.
Gojo doesn’t speak. For once, he doesn’t have anything clever to say, and it reminds him of the time in the cafeteria. One of the few other times he didn’t know what to say, either.
You wonder if he understands why you hide them now, considering he seems to be doing the same thing to his own eyes. Sure, the two of you have eye strain—sensitivity to light and the world breaking down to atoms—but it’s more than just that.
After a few more seconds of prolonged eye-contact, you break eye contact and gently slide your glasses back onto the bridge of your nose.Gojo follows, slipping his own shades into place.
“I should go,” he finally says, voice lower than before, a bit more breathy, catching into the air between the two of you. You nod, not asking why, not asking him to stay. Just slowly standing up, while he does the same.
He turns toward the door, hands shoving themselves into his pockets as his footsteps echo through the otherwise silent space. Just before he reaches the door, he pauses and looks back at you over his shoulder. “You’ve got galaxies in you. Don’t let anyone make you feel like they don’t belong.”
Winter slips quietly into spring; the snow melts, the Sakura trees begin to bloom again, soft-pink petals cling to the breeze, floating around, just like the memory of something behind your eyes, left unsaid.
Gojo is away, off on a mission. He told you something about visiting a student in Africa just before he left. Leaving with a wink and him telling you not to miss him too much. You merely rolled your eyes at that, shooing him off. He’s been gone for weeks.
You try not to think about that night. The low-lit room, moonlight spilling across his porcelain skin. The way his eyes shimmered like broken glass and reminded you of the time just after sunrise, where the sky is starting to turn blue.
People used to admire your eyes, too. Just the way you admire his. But that was before you started wearing the shades, before the headaches, before taking too many stars at once. It makes you wonder if people look at his eyes the same way, or if they only see the brilliant blue.
The sun is out today, gently beaming down onto Earth. It’s isn’t bright, but it’s enough for your eyes to sting, tears clinging to the sides of your eyes.
You’re wearing your shades—obviously. There are few times you go without them. But this time it’s accompanied by a cap that’s been pulled low, trying to shield your face from the one star you sometimes wish you could take, just so it would stop hurting your eyes.
The light creeps through the cloud in slated rays, enough to set off the beginnings of a migraine. You should be used to it by now, but with each season change, you get annoyed with it time and time again. You hate spring. It’s too bright, too loud, not enough gray, instead it’s blue skies and the gentle sun-rays.
The mission you were out on was simple. It was a mere Grade Two. Annoying, but nothing that you couldn’t handle. Now you’re just trying to get back to your office, coffee in hand, paperwork in your bag.
Closing your eyes for a moment as you walk—just a second you tell yourself, just to breathe—you let the dark encompass you. A soft sigh of relief falls from your lips.
crash
Your coffee hits the ground. You stagger, arms flailing for balance, as you open your eyes again. Once you find your footing, you bend a full ninety degrees, stammering apologies at the person you’ve just run into. “I’m so sorry— I didn't see you there. Are you okay?”
A hand catches you elbow, firm and steady, keeping you from losing your balance once more. “Whoa there, easy,” a familiar voice says, and your blood almost runs cold. Surely it can’t be, out of all the people it has to be him. No, no it’s just a stranger with the same voice.
Still, you blink up. And sure enough, white hair fills your vision. Gojo is grinning down at you, smugness wrapped in morning light, and it reminds you of how he’ll always be day to you. “Well hello there, Starling,” he drawls. “Y’know, if you missed me you could’ve just said so. No need to body check me in public.”
Your cheeks instantly flare, blood rushing to them as you sputter. “That’s not what happened— I didn’t— wait, Starling?”
His grin widens, unbearably smug now. And you have to squint slightly as the sun catches his pearly whites, glinting down at you, almost as if the cosmos is favoring him. “What, you don’t like nicknames?”
“I don’t even know what that one means.”
Gojo tuts, mock-disappointed. Jutting his lip out slightly, he looks at you like a kicked puppy, before his smile returns to his face. “You wound me. It’s cute. And celestial. Very on brand for you.”
You try to cross your arms, but get held back when you feel his fingers still clamped around your elbow. The two of you look at it, before he quickly removes it, and he at least looks bashful about it. “It’s also a type of bird.”
“Yeah, but so is a phoenix. Doesn’t mean you’re not secretly mythical.” he shrugs, as if his words don’t punch you right into the sternum. Heart skipping a beat. Still, you try to glare at him, only to fail at that. Your eyes soften behind your glasses, and you just hope he can’t see it. You mutter, “You’re impossible.”
“I know,” he says brightly, and if words had lumens, you’re sure you would’ve been blinded. “That’s part of my charm.”
There’s a beat of quiet. Your heart is still racing, but no longer from the stumble. It’s something you try not to think about, pretending like your heart doesn’t beat a bit faster whenever he’s around. Gojo looks at you, and something shifts behind his shades.
“You okay?” he asks, voice a little softer now. “You’ve got that whole ‘I’m fine, but also definitely dying on the inside’ thing going on.”
You open your mouth to reply, try to deflect it with a joke—something he had done quite a few times before he left for Africa—but then you just pause. Watch the way he’s looking at you, though you can’t quite see his eyes, you did hear the way his voice softened. Finally you sigh. “Migraine.”
He nods at that, almost as if he understands it. And maybe, in a way, he does. “Sun’s a bitch.”
You huff a laugh at that. “Yeah. Thought I could outrun it.” you had gone on the mission before the sun had come up, after all. But while it was an easy mission, it did take you longer than you’re willing to admit. By the time you got outside, the sun was already blinking down upon earth.
“You can always try,” his tone is almost… fond, but you decide not to linger too much on that. There’s another pause, a longer one this time. You’re not sure what to say, but seems like you don’t have to, because Gojo lifts his hand and taps the rim of your cap gently to make you look at him.
“C’mon,” he says. “I’ll get you another coffee. One with stardust in it, or whatever it is you drink.”
That’s honestly… really sweet. You were the one who ran into him, after all. Still, you follow him. The coffee shop near Jujutsu High is half-empty, early enough that the students aren’t in yet and just late enough for the morning rush to have left.
The lights are soft—luckily—yellowish. The kind that doesn’t buzz too loud or make your headache worse. Mind immediately goes back to the bright, sterile lights at the school, making you scowl slightly.
Gojo sits across from you, his shades pushed up into his hair. He’s already ordered for the both of you. One over-sugared caramel latte (his) and one carefully customized drink he remembers you liking once—surprising you that he even remembered it to begin with.
You’re still wearing your shades and cap. Even inside, you’re trying to disappear into the corner booth, the way sunlight disappears behind heavy clouds. Shoulders folding into themselves, trying to make yourself smaller.
He lets the silence sit for a while; just watches you sip your drink. Your fingers wrap around the cup slowly, as if holding something hot is still safer than holding eye contact. In a way it is. You could probably get lost in his eyes if you were to look now—the sun spilling through the window, casting a nice glow over his face, eyes catching the light that made your breath hitch when he sat down across from you.
Eventually, Gojo leans back in his seat, one leg hooked over the other, his blue eyes trained on yours. You’re even prettier than he remembers, even when you’re trying to fold yourself smaller. Not pretty like polished, not the kind of pretty that wears makeup and flirts easily. You’re quiet pretty. Constellation pretty. The kind of pretty that hurts if you look too long, because it makes you want to name things you don’t understand.
“I didn’t expect to see you today,” he finally says, voice softer now. Less grin, more honesty. He just came back from Africa, and missions immediately found themselves shoved into his hands—higher ups looking at him like he took a vacation rather than another grueling mission.
You hum into your cup, still not glancing at him. “Yeah. You’re usually off somewhere. Busy.”
“I am busy,” he replies, a bit too quick for his liking, and he has to stop himself from wincing at it. Not a good look. “But never too busy for coffee. Or mystery teachers with eyes like dying stars.”
Your brow lifts just slightly over your shades, but you keep quiet. Shit, was that too straight-forward? He lets the quiet stretch again. Outside, petals float against the window, pale pink and white. Pretty.
He shifts forward a little, forearms resting on the table. “When I first saw you,” he murmurs, “I thought my technique was malfunctioning.” It’s something he hadn’t admitted to when he told you he saw you for the first time that night you showed him your eyes.
You tilt your head, but say nothing. Lips wrapping around your cup again, and he quickly does the same, taking a quick sip of his own drink. “I didn’t know what to make of it. Still don’t, really.”
Finally, you set your cup down. You push your shades up a little higher before you clasp your hands together, tilting your head slightly. “Do you want to?”
The question lingers in the space between you two. He doesn’t answer right away, because Gojo has never needed to understand someone to care about them. But this feels different, so different. Like he’s been staring at the sky his whole life and only just realised someone else was up there, watching back.
“Yeah,” he finally says, leaning forward, and his eyes almost seem to glow a little—just like the way light emits from yours, but surely that’s just a trick of the light. “I think I do.”
He sees you take a breath, a deep one. Your eyes shift slightly, drifting past his shoulder, like you’re remembering something only the sky could know—and probably does know; you had told him once, that when you feel sad, you talk to the night sky. To the stars, almost as if asking them to hold a memory for you.
“When I was a kid,” you begin, voice soft—starry. “I always liked watching the night sky. I’d get so excited when a star dared to peek through the Tokyo horizon.” Your voice goes quiet for a moment, almost dreamlike; like it might float upward if he doesn’t anchor it by listening.
“One day, I was sitting near the pond behind my house. The water was still. It reflected the only star that was brave that day.” There’s a small smile now, quiet and distant, but dazzling all the same. Your eyes shimmer just a little brighter now, like the memory wakes up the stars inside them. “I remember thinking: what if I could just… reach for the stars. Not figuratively, literally.”
Gojo holds his breath, not daring to interrupt you even once.
“So I walked to the pond, and dipped my hand into the water. Right over the reflection of that star,” your voice softens even more, airier now. The smile still lingering on your face, like you’re reminiscing your favorite memory. “And when I pulled my hand back out… the star was gone. I thought it had just blinked out. Or slipped behind a cloud. But the next morning, my mom was staring at me like I’d grown wings.”
Your gaze flickers back to him—finally looking him in the eye. Leaning forward slightly, your shades slip down your nose enough to meet his eyes.
Gojo feels the breath leave him. There they are, the stars he’d dreamed about more times than he’ll ever admit to anyone. Your eyes shine, just like they did back then; constellations flickering gently behind your irises.
“Turns out, the star didn’t disappear behind the pollution.” You pause, slight dramatic effect. It seems to work with the way Gojo leans forward slightly, like he’s awaiting for the answer he already knows will come. “I kidnapped it.”
He lets out a low laugh, not loud or mocking like he normally does. No, this one is more wonder and breath, and maybe something that aches a little when he thinks too hard about pretty eyes and childhoods.
“Of course you did,” he says, tilting his head. The smile on his face doesn’t leave this time, just stays there planted on his face like he doesn’t realise how soft he looks like this. “That’s such a you thing to do.”
You lift your cup again, sipping quietly. Outside, the petals have begun to fall in earnest now, sweeping along the window glass like they’re racing to keep up with the memory—and it almost reminds him of a meteor shower.
“We should head back,” you finally murmur after what feels like an eternity. His cup is barely touched, but he doesn’t seem to mind too much. “Paperwork doesn’t write itself.”
He stands first, making you blink up at him at how quickly he slid out of the booth. Offers you his hand, one that makes you stare for a bit too long before you finally take it. You note how warm his palm is when your fingers brush.
The walk back is silent, steps matching pace while the two of you sip from your coffees. And if both your eyes shine a little brighter as you pass through the gate? Well, Gojo doesn’t say a word, just tilts his head toward the sky, and smiles.
Spring slips into summer, gentle as the shimmer in your eyes. You and Gojo have met up several times since the coffee shop. It’s mostly him just barging into your office with a grin on his face, half trying to scare you, half just because he thinks it’s cute how you scramble for your shades before you sigh out when you realise it’s him.
He’s started to leave fresh cups of coffee on your desk every night now. Sometimes the lid has little stars scribbled on it. Other times, entire constellations that are labeled and mapped out completely; as if he’s trying to learn your language.
You laugh easily with him now, bright and easy-going. No longer scrambling for your shades when he knocks—which isn’t often, but still. You also don’t flinch when he leans in just a little too close, just bask in it.
The problem with summer is that you fucking hate it. The sun is too bright, and it stays up far too long. You can’t recall just how many times you’ve actually cussed the thing out—hell, you’ve even shouted at it on occasions because you got so frustrated with the migraines it leaves behind, which wasn’t the smartest thing to do, cause loud noises and a migraine do not mix well together.
You had asked Yaga if he could adjust your schedule. Late nights into early morning, just so you could avoid the sun. A graveyard shift, essentially. He agreed without question, especially after you scowled at the sunrise like it had personally offended you.
It’s at times like these that you’re happy you’re not a teacher, cause loud teenagers plus the sun would absolutely do your head in. The job itself—exorcising curses—luckily doesn’t have a real time-frame. You could technically just work these hours all the time, but most people like to be awake during the day.
You’ve moved your desk to the darkest corner of your office, where the sunlight slants the softest. Luckily the sunlight isn’t there for long when you start working, but of course the sun doesn’t stay down your entire shift, so there’s still overlap. You should really ask for curtains.
But you’re happy, truly happy. This is the first job that has let you work into the night, instead of having to start the day when the sun comes up, during the brightest hours of the day. During the night, you can breathe. You can take your shades off and let your eyes exist freely. During the day, when the sun blazes down on the world, you sleep.
But every time you think of the sun, you think of him. The white-haired menace who still leaves coffee at your door, just before your shift starts. It’s always fresh when you take a sip, just starting to cool.
You see Gojo less now. He trains the first years, and he does that during the day; the time where you’re unconscious, dreaming about god knows what. (Certainly not the white-haired sorcerer you keep missing because of your schedules.)
You don’t meet him for breakfast, because for him it’s already dinnertime—hell, by the time you eat your breakfast, dinner has long since passed. You don’t share lunch breaks anymore, because your orbits never quite overlap.
And you’ll admit, it hurts, just a little. He is day, and you are night, after all. An observation you had made two seasons ago. They have unequal orbits, only this time, literally.
It’s stupid, really. Because without day, there wouldn’t be night. So why does it feel like your day is always just out of reach? It’s been two weeks since you last saw him, and you miss him. Not that you would ever admit as such. You’d rather return every star you’ve ever taken.
He’d be so smug. Call you Starlight again, in that teasing tone that makes your ears burn, but always vehemently deny when he comments on it. You shake your head at the thought. Nope. Not happening.
Still… if you happen to leave a coffee—which is way too sweet by the way, you’re not sure how his teeth haven’t rotted by now—and a fresh box of Kikufuku Mochi on his desk, the exact kind he likes, from the exact store that only sells it in small batches? Well… must’ve been because you were passing by anyway.
Gojo finds it a couple hours later. The coffee is lukewarm now, condensation beading down the sides of the cup, leaving behind a wet ring on the napkin you placed under it—making him smile, because you’d thought even about the small things like that. The mochi box is carefully sealed, tucked just beside the coffee.
He doesn’t do anything at first, just… stares at it. Then he smiles—lips curling up even further—not the bright, showy grin he gives the world. This one is quieter, a little warmer, softer around the edges.
“Oh, Starlight,” he mutters, like a secret, fondness coating every syllable. He misses you, of course he does. The two of you had grown close fast. And maybe, just maybe, there’s something else shimmering just beneath the surface. Something a bit more tender than he’s willing to admit.
A feeling waiting to breach the surface, like a star crossing the horizon. A feeling that wants to reach across the table and tuck your hair behind your ear. A feeling that wants to stay a little longer, even if the night is fading.
Later that night, Gojo is pacing in his office. Well, not really pacing. He just walks from his chair to the bookcase full of books he’s never even read. There was a time he wanted to change all of them with different manga, but then he remembered he wouldn’t have the time to read all of them anyway.
The sun has long since gone down. Midnight creeps closer with every tick of the wall clock, and he knows you’re on shift by now. You’re probably—hopefully—wondering why there was no fresh cup of coffee by your door this time.
He should just do it… right? It’s just a walk. A harmless night stroll. You wouldn’t say no… right? He winces at his own reflection in the window.
Okay, so, maybe most people would say no to him. He’s not exactly known for his low-maintenance presence, or his ability to act normal. He always has to say something, lighten the mood up slightly by saying random things.
But you’re not most people.
You’re his Starlight. The one who smiles at the moon and talks to the stars whenever they dare to peek through the pollution. The one who talks about constellations like they’re close friends. The one who looks at him like he shines back.
That alone is enough to steel him.
Before he can second-guess it, he opens his office door. Long strides carry him across the hallway to yours, and he has half the mind to turn off the lights—just for when the two of you step out. He doesn’t knock this time, just opens the door without a pause before nerves can catch up.
You startle slightly, paper crinkling in your hand where you’re gripping it a bit too tightly. Your eyes meet his, blinking up at him slightly. “Gojo?” you ask, voice soft, airy. Like starlight. The kind of voice that makes the night feel warmer.
He stares at you for a few seconds and just forgets how to breathe. You look… beautiful. Eyes shimmering in the dark, and it seems to brighten the moment your eyes find his. He blinks, then shakes his head like a dog shaking off water, and finally blurts out: “Wanna go outside for a bit?”
You blink once, then again, eyes flicking to the window, as if confirming it really is dark outside already. Your smile comes slow, a bit serene. “Sure. Why not?”
The stroll itself isn’t anything special. Just a quiet loop around the campus paths, stone hard beneath your feet. The lanterns are dimmed, fireflies drifting lazily through the air.
You talk as you walk. About constellations, myths, seasonal stars. You point things out with your hands, painting stories midair. Each motion leaves a little glow in its wake, and it makes him think of Tinkerbell, just slightly—the two of you had watched it some time back, not because either of you actually had the mind to put it on, but because the lounge was empty and the two of you had wanted a bit of background noise as you talked.
Your fingers keep grazing his with each swing of your arm. Gojo isn’t even listening anymore. He wants to hold your hand, just slide his fingers between yours. He’s never really wanted to do that before. The next time your fingers brush, he hesitantly reaches out.
He catches your hand in his, and it makes your freeze for a breath. Just a quiet heartbeat. Then your fingers curl into his like they were meant to be there all along. You keep talking, continuing where you left off.
Gojo lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. He doesn’t say a word about it. Just smiles, walking a little slower, as if trying to make the night last a little longer. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, making small half-circles in them.
The walk back is quiet, the two of you letting the silence stretch this time. Not uncomfortable, just… familiar in a way that can only be when you’re close with someone, not needing to fill it to feel comfortable.
He doesn’t let go of your hand, but doesn’t say anything, either. He just walks beside you, fingers still curled loosely into yours. His thumb brushes across your knuckles again, like he’s trying to remember the shape of them—just in case this is the last time you let him hold your hand.
Still, you don’t pull away from him. The faculty dorm building is just ahead now. A soft glow in the distance, the porch light left on for the night staff. You glance at it, then back at Gojo.
“I’m still on duty, you know,” you murmur, voice light, a bit teasing as you grin up at him. Gojo raises a snowy brow. “Really? I thought starry midnight walks with attractive coworkers were part of the job.”
You huff a small laugh, shaking your head at him. “And here I thought you were the distraction.”
“Oh, I absolutely am,” he says without missing a beat. And you laugh a bit at his self-awareness. He really is. “I come with hazard warning and everything.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth behind the expression. The two of you reach the porch steps. That’s when you hesitate, jut for a second, caught in the gravity of the moment. You should say goodnight, should go back to your office. But instead, your fingers tug his hand lightly. “…Come with me.”
Gojo’s eyes flicker towards yours, lips parting slightly before he nods. He didn’t expect it, but he would go anywhere you’d want him to. “Okay.”
The room is dark when you step inside. You leave the lights off, considering the moonlight is enough for the two of you. Gojo steps inside, trailing slowly behind you. He looks around like he’s memorizing the version of you that only exists here, in this quiet hour.
You’re by the window, fingers rising to your temple. There’s a subtle shift in the air, and he can see the way your technique activates itself. It runs through you like stardust, almost as if floating inside of you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. He watches you pull something from your eye, something that glows.
A star.
It’s small, burning gold, suspended on your fingertip made of light. You bring your other hand to it and let it unravel from between your fingers.
The star splinters apart into hundreds of tiny fragments. They float upward, drifting into the air like shimmering dust motes, like galaxies breaking open. They swirl across the ceiling, leaving behind soft trails of gold. A quiet cosmos blooming above you.
Gojo stares, and once again, he’s absolutely in awe with you—something only you seem to be able to do to him. And when you finally turn towards him, eyes still glowing faintly, just a little softer now, he crosses the room in two long strides, and kisses you in the dark of your bedroom.
Above you, fragments of stars float lazily—casting a soft, golden light across the walls, across his face, illuminating the way his hand trembles slightly where it cups your cheek. The light shimmers, low and warm, just like the glow spilling from your eyes.
Your eyes—god, those eyes—the ones he’s long since learned to follow. The ones that pull him in like gravity, using them to find his way back home. Like the stars sailors once used when the world was too big.
His lips are cold against yours, the night sky biting its way into the two of you. He tastes sweet, like his ridiculous coffee order. The kiss is slow, almost careful, like he’s trying to memorise it.
He holds you like you’re made of glass, as if pressing too hard might crush something fragile—might collapse the constellations, not just in your eyes, but the ones etches into your skin, the ones you can’t see but he can.
You breathe into him, a shaky exhale as you kiss him back. Fingers sliding up, curling into the soft hair at his nape, tugging at it slightly. That’s what undoes him—the way you reach for him like you already know he’ll stay.
He exhales a shaky breath against your lips, and you pull back just slightly, breaths still mingling with each exhale. Your eyes meet his—half-lidded and breathless—as the starlight still dances above you. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
Satoru blinks, his pupils wide, eyes full of awe, like you’ve just cracked the universe open in front of him. Like a wish of his had been pulled down onto earth and presented itself in the form of you. “…Really?”
You smile, that cute, crooked smile you do when you’re a bit shy about the things you’re admitting. Your cheeks are burning, blood rushing through you as your heartbeat pounds into your ears, but you don’t look away.
Instead of answering with words, you lean forward and kiss him again. This time a little slower, a little more certain. You can feel him smile against your lips as his hand tugs you a little closer to him, pulling you in.
This feels like something the stars wrote down a long time ago. Like a place just beneath the sky, where starlight learns how to stay.
❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞
❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. minor injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic attacks. self-loathing. mentions of difficulty eating. legal drama (likely with inaccuracies). medical content. minor descriptions of wounds. mentions of arachnids. withdrawal. pet names. oral (f! receiving). p in v. nipple play. neck kissing. marking. body worship. size difference. praise. aftercare.
❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6'11".
SYNOPSIS: sukuna's looking for someone to handle a delicate piercing, and you're the only piercer he trusts with the job. you both struggle to keep your interactions professional during his numerous appointments- but who's to say what will happen when it's all healed and done?
18+ mdni - WARNINGS: just 10k of porn with plot, unprofessional workplace environment, dick piercings, needles!, oral m!receiving, face fucking, degradation, praise, impact play (face & ass smacking), teasing, humping, riding, standing sex, multiple orgasms, power play, alternating power dynamics— switch kuna and switch reader, pet names, slight edging, pain kink, slight mention of blood, heavy sexual tension, nipple play, choking, creampie, sloppy makeouts, some ass play
A/N: first long one shot that im reposting from my old blog. thank you again for 1k and thank u peps for the title :p
Working in a piercing shop in a big city meant you got a mixed bag of clients. High school kids coming in with their parents for their first nose piercing, college girls getting their bellies pierced together, guys getting their eyebrows done. And you even did the piercings that other professionals sometimes strayed away from due to their… delicate nature.
But whether it was a simple lobe piercing or clitoral hood— you did them all.
The first time you saw Sukuna, he'd come to your shop for an appointment with one of your colleagues to get some tattoos done.
Well, some was an understatement.
He'd come by in the morning every time and wouldn't leave til the shop closed, booking out the entire day. Give or take a year and he looked completely different.
Head to toe, there were thick, onyx bands decorating his chiseled form in a way that was near mesmerizing with each movement, each ripple of his muscles.
It's not like he changed. Even before the ink he was big, burly— certainly larger than any man you'd ever met before. And from the bits and pieces of conversation you'd picked up on, he was rough around the edges.
Always barking out a sharp laugh, voice low and booming. Everything about him commanded attention in such an effortless way, something that most other men wished for.
So no, he didn't really change (apart from his looks) it was actually like he became more himself.
You'd expected that if he ever came back to the shop, it would be for touch ups, maybe to even add more to his collection of designs.
But what you didn't expect, was for him to come back asking for you.
"Where's that girl? The one that does the piercings," his voice rings out through the shop, distinct and gravelly. You know it's him before you even see him.
You poke your head out from the back of the shop, where your room is, your eyes landing on the broad, hulking figure at the end of the hall. Your waiting room isn't small by any means, but it certainly seems that way with him standing in the middle of it.
"You have an appointment?" you question, racking your brain because you can't remember seeing anyone on your calendar at this time— and you'd remember if Sukuna had signed up.
He responds quickly to the sound of your voice, crimson stare finding you immediately. "Nah, not yet," he starts, long legs carrying him towards you with confident strides, "I wanna make one though."
"Oh yeah, of course." You beckon him into your studio, gesturing for him to sit down. And you have to stifle a laugh at the look on his face when he sees the little wooden chairs you have lined up against the wall.
You'd thrifted them a while ago for clients that like to bring a friend or family member with them, but it's a little comedic seeing someone of Sukuna's stature taking a seat in one. For someone so large he was sure moving gingerly, expression suspicious as he carefully dropped his full weight onto the vintage piece.
"Don't worry, it won't break," you assure him, but the wood creaking right after makes you doubt yourself a little.
"You sure 'bout that?" he questions, tone flat but laced with something akin to amusement.
"Well, I guess we'll see," you shrug. "Anyways, you said you wanted to make an appointment?"
He grunts in lieu of a 'yeah'. "Wanna get a piercing done and heard you'd be the best for it."
You hum softly, resting a hip on the side of your counter, your arms crossing in front of you as you look over him. You're curious as to what he's planning to get done. There's plenty of talented piercers in your city, but if he's convinced that you're the one for the job then it must be…
"I wanna pierce my dick." Yep.
He waits, eyes scanning your face for any evidence of shock, maybe a little look of approval to feed his ego. He tries not to care when he gets nothing, just you nodding your head indifferently as you reach for your ipad to pull up an appointment form.
"You know what kind of piercing you want?" you ask, gaze cutting back up to his once you get the form set up.
"Jacob's ladder," he replies smoothly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
That gets a reaction from you.
The slightest ghost of a smile graces your lips and he can feel his chest swelling with pride. He shouldn't really care, he doesn't even know you, but ultimately, he's a confident man who likes to get what he wants. And from the first time he saw you in the shop— tight tank top clinging to your chest, leading away some client who was following you like a lost puppy— he wanted you.
And Sukuna knows he's better than the other losers you pierce, probably just asking you for something basic, something you do every week. He knows from your coworker how often they ask you out, thinking that they have a chance, just for you to politely turn them down and complain about it later. They never had a chance, but Sukuna? He knows he has a chance.
That much was obvious with the way you'd curiously peek in during his appointments, eyes slowly raking over his figure each time, drinking in the sight of him before asking how it was going.
"Good choice?" he asks, standing and crossing over to you as you keep scribbling on the ipad with your stylus.
"They're not too common," you muse, shifting to face him. You ignore the flush creeping up into your cheeks when you see just how close he is now. "But they're a personal favorite so… I'd say yes."
Sukuna's grin widens. "Personal favorite, huh? Favorite to pierce—" his voice drops as he leans down, hovering over you as your lower back presses into the counter, "or to look at?"
Your breath hitches in your throat at the warm feeling of his breath fanning close to your face, and you pray he didn't catch it. But he did. His tongue darts out quickly to wet his lips as his gaze flicks between your eyes and your cleavage.
Recovering quickly, you set the ipad aside, hands coming to rest behind you on the counter. You pretend you don't know what you're doing— pushing your chest out towards him, head craning back slightly to look up at him with that innocent look on your face. You flash him another smile of your own. "Both."
You know it's not professional. But was it so bad to indulge every once in a while? Sukuna was attractive, very much your type, and very much into you.
Your mind flashes through memories of lame dates and unsatisfying hookups, a montage of your depressing sex life as you look over him once more. Every muscle is defined, like they want to show you that they're right where they need to be, his body practically radiating heat. You take in the way his compression shirt sticks to him like a second skin, the way his shorts bunch up ever so slightly around his crotch because his thighs are just that big. Not to mention his voice— the timbre, the way each word rolls so smoothly off his tongue.
Everything about him oozes sex appeal, and you can't help but feel like you'd be crazy not to capitalize on his interest in you.
"Oi, my eyes are up here."
Your head snaps up to see a shit-eating grin on Sukuna's face. That seems to be his signature expression. "Huh?"
"You were starin' at my dick. Not very professional," he tuts.
You roll your eyes, heat pricking just beneath the surface of your skin as you realize that you were just staring at his dick. "Well i'm gonna be piercing it, aren't I? Just checking it out for the job, y'know?"
Sukuna nods slowly. "Right, right," he affirms sarcastically.
"Shut up," you mumble, turning back around so you don't have to see him anymore, worried that your face might betray you even more. "Anyways, it's probably going to be a few sessions—"
You're cut off when a large hand comes to rest beside yours on the counter top. You don't have to see him to know the way he's looming over you again, nearly caging you in.
"Go on," he urges, other hand coming up to scratch his chin as he listens, like he's not being the world's greatest distraction.
"It's easier on the healing process if we just do a few barbells at a time, but there's some wiggle room there with exactly how many you want to do each session," you explain, mentioning that the first appointment can be used as a trial run. He can gauge the pain level and see how many he can handle at a time. After that, you'll determine roughly how many more appointments to schedule.
"So how long's this whole thing gonna take?" he asks gruffly.
"Well… with a couple months between each appointment it could take around a year give or take— but it all depends."
"Alright, think i can do that," he hums, "anything different about the healing process that I should know about?"
You reiterate the basics that he probably already knows, given the jewelry adorning his face already. "… Other than that, it's just no sex for a while."
Sukuna freezes. He didn't think that part through. He'd been so focused on the aftermath— of what it'd be like to have sex once he got it done— that he completely forgot about the whole time during the piercing process.
"How long is a while?" he questions, quieter than his usual self, making you chuckle.
"Well ideally you'd wait until they're all healed," you start, neck craning to see the disappointed look on his face, "but if you're certain that the ones you already have done are healed before your next appointment, obviously I can't stop you. I would still recommend wearing a condom to keep it drier though, and be sure to clean them after."
"Oh, thank god. Okay."
Your eyes narrow. "Don't go sleeping around if they're not ready just because you can't keep it in your pants, Sukuna."
Sukuna shoots you a look of feigned scandalization, free hand coming up to his chest. "Sleep around? Who do you think I am?"
"I think you're someone who likes to sleep around."
That pulls a laugh from him, a low, rumbling sound that makes your stomach flip. "Maybe. But don't worry, I wouldn't wanna mess up your work."
"Better not," you mutter, poking him with the stylus. "Now sign here."
After ironing out a few more details, Sukuna's first appointment was set for a week out. He paid the deposit and made for the door, the bell chiming softly above his head as he left, flashing you a quick wink over his shoulder.
You're behind the counter when Sukuna returns. The glass door sliding open, a wave of heat rolling in with him as he steps out of the summer sun and into the air conditioned waiting room. You glance up from where you were scrolling on your phone, pretending to be busy but more-so just trying to distract yourself from the anticipation of seeing the tattooed man again.
You aren't really one to get nervous before appointments, but you can't help the swirling feeling low in your gut. It has less to do with the thought of actually piercing him, and more to do with the thought of being confined in that small room with him again— this time with his dick out.
Your spine straightens, standing taller as Sukuna strides over to you. Large hands rest on the glass display case between you both, fingers drumming on the top.
"Long time no see," he grins, gaze hungrily trailing over you, just as it does every time he sees you. He lingers on your chest, lips twitching at the sight of your cleavage in the low-cut top you decided to wear today.
All you can do is hope that it's not too obvious the effect he's having on you as you mutter a sarcastic "funny."
"I try," Sukuna shrugs, always cocky. He shifts, coming down to rest on his forearms, the thick limbs stretched out towards you.
Veins litter his tanned skin, running up perpendicular to the nicely healed tattoos, the dark ink a complement to the black painted on his nails. You instinctively shift closer, hips near pressing against the counter, against his fingers that are much too close. They twitch, drifting towards you just enough to brush along the hem of your shirt, soft enough where he could play it off as an accident. But you know better.
You ignore it. You ignore the way that when you don't react, it only spurs him on to tug the fabric lightly between his fingers, playing with it as you ask him about the jewelry he wants. "Silver or gold?"
Sukuna hums like he needs a moment to think about it— like all the metal already planted in his face isn't silver. He just wants an excuse to stay there a moment longer. Until you clear your throat, arms crossing in front of your chest as you look at him expectantly. "Silver's good."
"Finally," you grumble, but it lacks any real bite. "Follow me."
He lets go and you lead him to the back, the heavy weight of his gaze bringing goosebumps to your skin. You don't need to see him to know he's staring right at your ass. It's not like it's his fault, he reasons silently, maybe if you weren't sauntering away, hips swaying side to side with each step, he wouldn't be ogling so hard.
You point to the table as you walk in, not bothering to check if he's watching you— you already know he is, "sit."
"Yes ma'am," he practically purrs as he seats himself on the cushioned top, propping himself up on his arms behind him.
You shoot him a deadpan look, one that you hope hides the fact that his words and the tone of his voice all have your stomach tying in knots. You turn back around to rummage through your drawers and cabinets, pulling out everything you'll need and a singular silver barbell.
"Just one?" Sukuna asks, both skepticism and offense in his tone. Did you really think he wouldn't be able to do more than one piercing in a session? The same man who'd easily sat through multiple tattoo sessions that lasted several hours?
"We'll see how you're feeling afterwards. If you're up for it, I'll just grab some more."
"I'll be up for it."
You sigh— he's stubborn, that's for sure. But if it'll give him peace of mind then whatever. You retreat to grab two more barbells before swiveling back over to him in your little chair. "Happy now?"
He grins, "I sure am, baby."
"Baby? That's new," you muse, pulling on your gloves with a snap.
"You like it?" he teases, shifting in his seat, his legs falling further apart.
"Maybe. I'll answer that after you've pulled your pants down," you shoot back.
Keeping your eyes fixed on what you're doing, you get everything organized on your tray so that each piercing can be as swift as possible. As tempted as you are to let your gaze slide up, trailing over his muscled thighs to the apex of his shorts— you're not giving in that easy.
He wants your attention, that's obvious. And he's already got it actually, but you find that you like toying with him since he seems like he doesn't know that. You like making him work a little harder than he's probably ever had to before, making him think that you're not quite there with him yet.
Sukuna huffs out a laugh, confident and smooth. "Just say the word."
"Whenever you're ready, we can get this over with."
He rolls his eyes, fingers hooking into his waistband as he's muttering to himself, "well don't act too excited."
Only now do you let your gaze drift down to his crotch and— is he hard right now? You don't realize the way you've tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, breath baited in anticipation, but Sukuna does. And the look on your face is enough to have even more blood rushing down between his thighs.
His hips lift up, just enough to slide his shorts and briefs down over his ass. The waistbands catch on the tip of his dick, tugging it along with them as he drags the garments down further. You can see the way the head of his cock slides along the fabric as it fights to return to its upright position, little by little, until it's freed and the full length slaps up against his abdomen.
Your mouth feels dry. Tongue heavy, it sits against the roof of your mouth, feeling like it's filling the entire cavern. You could have guessed he was big. The way he carries himself is a tell-tale sign. He has that kind of confidence that you just know is well-founded, not something used to compensate. But still— "damn."
"You wanna give me that answer now, baby?" Sukuna teases, enjoying your reaction.
"Shut up, Sukuna," you snap, eyes still fixated on the distraction in front of you. He's big, pretty, even. Veins trail up the thick shaft, acting as a guide for your eyes, leading your gaze up to the red tip, all flushed and swollen. Your core feels hot, the initial dryness in your mouth being replaced with a rush of saliva.
"You stare at all your clients' dicks like this?" Sukuna goads, hands coming back behind him so he can recline, putting himself on display for you. He knows that you definitely don't look at all your clients this way, and that you usually are very professional— but nothing about your relationship with him has ever been.
"We might end up needing another appointment or two." You finally tug your gaze away from his cock. His eyes are dark, pupils swallowing the red of his irises as he looks down at you situated between his knees.
"And why's that?"
"Because we're gonna need more barbells than I thought," you explain.
You're convinced you can literally see the man's ego growing at your words and it makes you want to take them back. But you really do still have to be upfront with him, so he knows what to expect throughout this process. "Or if you can handle one more each session then we might not need to drag this out. We'll see."
You grab your marker, mentally preparing yourself for the inevitable— when you'll have to touch his dick. Reaching forward gingerly, you glance up at him once more, silently searching his expression for any hesitation. When you find nothing but a cocky grin, you wrap your fingers delicately around the middle of the shaft to stabilize him and hold his length up straight.
It's warm through the nitrile gloves, heavy in a way as it rests in your grasp. Sukuna shifts lightly, sucking in the smallest breath at the feeling of your fingers wrapped around his most sensitive body part.
As much as he loves flirting with you, Sukuna is trying to keep his thoughts and urges at bay.
A part of Sukuna wants to just say fuck the whole appointment, wants to roll his hips and rut into your fist, tell you to take the gloves off and let him feel you skin to skin. Part of him wishes he could make a move on you now, a real move, instead of just dancing around the obvious tension in the room.
But the stronger part of him knows that he can't.
He's wanted these piercings for a long time now, and he'd regret it more if he never got them done just because he couldn't keep it in his pants for a few measly hours.
So, Sukuna wills himself to think of something, anything, but the feeling of your pretty hand wrapped around his cock.
Still, by the time you finish marking up the piercing spots, he's tense as ever. Jaw tight, his signature smirk is gone as he stares down at you through lidded eyes. You clear your throat, quickly looking away and busying yourself with capping the marker and setting it aside. Then you grab a small hand-held mirror and offer it to him. "Wanna check that they look alright?"
He shrugs, snatching the mirror and holding it out between his legs, the sight of his own cock reflected back to him. Only now, there's little purple dots lining the underside of the shaft— where the barbells will be lined up over the next months.
He gives a rumbling hum of approval, handing the mirror back to you. "Yeah, that's good, baby."
And the only thing you see reflected back in the glass is your piss-poor attempt to control your facial expression when those words reach your ears. There's a burning heat spreading across your cheeks as you pick up the hollow needle and barbell from your tray before turning back to Sukuna.
"Ready?" you check in once more, holding the needle and jewelry up.
He bares his teeth in a quick smile as he nods, "'course I am."
You line up the needle at the base, stabilizing it with your pinky. "Deep breath in," you wait until you hear him inhale, doing the same yourself, "aaand breathe out." You press the needle under the skin when he does, swiftly pushing it through and immediately following with the barbell.
Sukuna hisses through his teeth, fingers digging into the plush table beneath him. Pain sears through him, from the piercing site to the tip of his cock, a sharp sting that fades into a dull throbbing.
You sit back, giving him a moment when you see the furrow in his brow, the way his eyes are shut and his chest is heaving. "You can let me know if you'd like a longer break between them," you offer gently.
His eyelids flutter open, heavy as his gaze slides down to you. There's a faint pink dusting his cheeks, his bottom lip swollen from when you didn't even realize he was biting back a sound he wouldn't dare let out. His expression gives you pause, an unexpected intensity simmering just beneath the surface.Then he shakes his head lightly before jutting his chin out at you and muttering a "jus' keep goin'."
If you thought the tension was bad before, it's near suffocating now. You feel dwarfed in your position sitting before him, right between his thighs, with your face inches from his cock. He's towering above you, body broad overhead as he looks down at you intently. The space between your own legs feels as hot as your cheeks, realization dawning on you that you'd mistaken his expression for discomfort, when what he was feeling was far from it.
Swallowing loudly, you nod. You're wiggling awkwardly in your seat as you position yourself once more, trying to ignore the way you can feel your underwear starting to stick to your skin.
You get through two more before stopping, not wanting to do more than three piercings in one session. Normally you'd stop at two, but since he really had no issues with the pain, you figured it was alright. Not to mention he had the space for them.
While you clean up, Sukuna's still sitting on the table, shorts around his thighs as he admires your handiwork in the mirror again. With him distracted, ogling himself, you can finally take a deep breath and try to quell the aching in your core.
You've had attractive clients before, but there's something about Sukuna. The mutual desire is palpable, and you're going to have to figure out a way to keep yourself in check during the next appointments or he might never get all these piercings done.
"You like them so far?"
Sukuna doesn't even look up, eyes still locked on his own dick, "fuck yeah."
You chuckle, amused at how entranced he is by three new additions to his shaft. "Alright, Sukuna, you can keep staring at your dick when you get home—"
"'m not staring, I'm lookin'," he interrupts, handing the mirror back to you.
"Whatever, just put your pants back on."
"You sure you want me to?" he teases, but his hands still reach for his waistband.
"Trust me, I'm sure," you mumble, thankful for the fact that your voice didn't waver, fearful of giving away how much of an effect Sukuna has on you.
"So mean, baby- ah shit!" he cuts himself off, flinching at the feeling of his briefs pressed snug around his swollen cock. "Shoulda worn boxers," he grumbles as he finally gets situated.
You're ringing him up at the front again, giggling quietly under your breath whenever you catch him wincing and adjusting himself out of the corner of your eye. "Aw, doesn't feel so good now?" you coo, eyes running over over his figure and lingering on the slight bulge that remains in his shorts.
Sukuna grumbles something incoherent, ears tinted pink and eyes averting to look at something very interesting on the wall.
"So you know the basics, keep it clean, keep it dry—" you're running over the aftercare with him as you two walk out to the parking lot together. "And don't fucking touch them. I'm serious," you add sternly, jabbing a finger into his bicep which he swats away weakly.
"Yeah, yeah, I got it woman, y'said that shit twice already."
You raise an eyebrow at his tone, pulling a long sigh from him which you take as an apology— it's probably the best you'll get from the stubborn oaf.
Since the beginning, there had been banter between you and Sukuna, though you can't help but think about how much you feel like your relationship has evolved in such a short period alone with him. The few hours that you've gotten to spend cooped up together in your little studio have you two acting like old friends as you part ways now— bickering back and forth, laughing lightly.
There's a slight discomfort in your chest when you think about how you likely won't see the pink haired man for the next six months.
And you experience that same feeling at the end of each appointment.
Every few months you'll double, triple check that your schedule is clear of all but one client. You'll wear those tank tops that you know Sukuna likes and pretend it was all you had left in your closet as you relish in the way that he can't stop his eyes from drifting downwards. You'll lead him back to your room and have him plop himself back onto your table then pull his pants down.
And each time, you're left speechless for a few moments. Like over the months your understanding of his size was diminished, the concept of him was warped with the passage of time to where it feels as though you're seeing him for the first time again.
And he fucking loves it.
That stupid smirk on his face as he lounges like a king, presenting himself before you, his gaze resting lazily on your face— a misrepresentation of how much of his attention you actually have. Because the truth is, you have all of it.
The truth is that Sukuna is just as affected by you as you are by him. Only, both of you are too stubborn to address the tension outright.
But you can feel it starting to bubble over. Like when the room feels too hot to be in despite the air conditioning being on. You can feel it in the silence that followed the first time you pulled his pants down to find Sukuna not only hard, as he always was, but leaking.
Swollen tip sitting stiff and pretty before you and right on the slit it was there— that pearly, translucent bead of precum.
You can feel it in the way your stomach tightens now when your fingers remain wrapped around his cock just moments longer than they need to be, nerve endings firing with each subtle twitch beneath your finger pads.
You can feel the attraction starting to bubble over when you finish the very last piercing, leaning back to see each silver rung decorating his shaft— each one there because you were the only one Sukuna trusted with the delicate task.
The two of you are quieter than usual when you head back to the front counter to take Sukuna's final payment. The weight of a million things unsaid fills the silence between you, but neither of you feels the need to speak them aloud. Instead, you offer him a free check up appointment six months from now. An appointment you rarely set up in advance with other clients, but one you strongly urge him to make.
You just want to make sure that everything heals properly, that's all!
And he eagerly agrees, ever the dutiful client. He wouldn't want all your hard work to go to waste because of poor piercing maintenance!
So, it's really best that he comes back in six months, say… around 6:00 pm when your coworkers have long gone home. Just to make sure everything's looking good, of course.
And those six months were by far the worst. The lingering implications of what your next appointment entailed hanging over both of your heads, leaving you and Sukuna restless. But the waiting was worth it.
It was worth it for the feeling of your body practically buzzing with anticipation as you open your studio this Friday at 5:30. You poke your head around, searching for your coworkers. There weren't any cars in the parking lot when you arrived, but sometimes they've been known to take public transport and you want to double check.
You're scurrying around the shop when you hear the bell chime. The soft scrape of the metal door against the floor as it's pushed open. The familiar gruff voice.
"Oi— damn, it's cold in here—"
You still in the hallway as your eyes find crimson. Sukuna lets the door shut behind him, his gaze raking over you as it always does. Only it's slower now, like he's deliberately taking his time, re-memorizing each feature, each curve of your figure.
"Long time no see," you break the brief silence.
"Hey, baby," Sukuna rasps. He's not meeting your eyes yet, still trailing up around your hips, your stomach, your chest. You cross your arms, your signature move when you're feeling impatient with him.
Finally, he looks at you.
Sukuna crosses the room with steady strides to where you're waiting. You can feel your heart rate picking up at the closeness, neck craning slightly to look up at him as he stands before you now.
You forgot how tall he is.
Leaning forward, a finger hooks under your chin, tilting your head up further. "Miss me?"
You scoff like he's out of line for even asking that. Like your face isn't burning up at the single touch of his skin against yours. "Not even a little bit," you lie, turning your head to the side.
He brings his hand to his chest, pouting at you as he straightens up. "Well now you're breakin' my heart."
"Something tells me you'll be just fine, Kuna," you reassure him with a pat on the shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the way your little nickname punched every retort straight out of his head. "C'mon."
Sukuna's hesitant when he walks in after you, like he's not sure what to do with himself. This isn't an actual appointment so he doesn't know if he should sit on the table, or a chair, or maybe he should just stand? He's never found himself in a situation where he felt so out of place, especially after having been in this exact location several times before with you.
You can tell he's unsure, the sight bringing a soft smile to your lips. The ever cocky Ryomen Sukuna is suddenly feeling nervous? Who would have thought.
"How's it been feeling?" you ask, partially as a way to give him something to talk about, and partially because, well, you do want to know.
Sukuna shuffles toward the counter next to you, hip resting against it as he hums, "'s been fine. Got used to the healing process after the first appointment so, wasn't too bad."
"You taking care of them like I told you?" you don't really have any doubts, but figure you should ask anyways.
He scoffs, "course I am, been keepin' 'em squeaky clean."
"Good boy," you coo, biting back a laugh at the way he turns beet red, grumbling under his breath about how you're an "insufferable woman." He's never been with someone so forward, or even dominant with him.
Your hands reach forward, grazing along his waist, fingers dipping slightly beneath the hem of his shorts. You grip the fabric as you push him, guiding him until his lower back is pressing into the counter. "I've still gotta check…" you dip your fingers further, tugging down gently til you see the elastic of his briefs, "make sure you're telling the truth."
Sukuna's hands come to grip the counter, knuckles white. You're looking up at him with wide eyes, bullshit innocent look on your face as you sink to your knees, dragging his shorts down with you.
"How you planning on checkin'?" he breathes, so much of his blood rushing south from mere words and touches, his cock feeling like it has a heartbeat of its own.
You bring a hand up between his legs, resting over the tent in his underwear. Humming like you're mulling over your answer, you palm at his bulge making him exhale a shaky breath. "You're a smart guy, I think you know already."
Taking your time, you stretch the fabric away from his hips, finally freeing his stiff cock. You're licking your lips at the way it hangs heavy before your face as you pull his briefs down to his shorts. From where you're perched on your knees, you have a perfect view of the underside of his shaft— still veiny and now glinting, light reflecting off the new silver jewelry adorning it.
"Fuck, you really made the best choice." The compliment comes easy, rolling off your tongue without needing to think about it because just the sight of him has you rubbing your thighs together, heat starting to pool between them.
"You think so?" Sukuna grins, tongue darting out to swipe across his teeth. He brings a hand to your head, patting it twice. "Go on then, baby, show me ya mean it."
You spit into your palm before reaching for the base, his balls twitching when your warm hand finally wraps around it. Sliding up slowly and back down, you smear your spit around the top of his shaft, the tips of your fingers grazing the edge each barbell along the way. Sukuna's hand weighs heavy atop your head, stroking lightly, a form of nonverbal praise when your tongue lolls out to swipe up the underside of his cock.
"Seem healed?" Sukuna grits out through clenched teeth.
Your lips press a chaste kiss to his tip before parting, lowering, and enveloping the head. You hum in response, making him groan from the vibrations paired with the feeling of your tongue flicking against his slit, lapping up his precum. The sound is deep, rumbling in his chest so loud you think it's the cause of the buzzing in your core.
You pull off of him with a soft pop, a string of saliva connecting your mouth to his tip which you break with a swipe of your tongue across your lips. "Feel any pain?" you ask, eyes locked on his as you drag your tongue up one side of his shaft, cool metal balls rolling under the slippery muscle.
Sukuna sucks in a breath, fingers digging slightly into your scalp as he shakes his head. You shift and run your tongue back down the other side of the ladder, the taste of metal lingering even when you pull away. "What about there? Does that hurt?"
"Nah— feels good," he grunts, pressing down, urging you to return your mouth to him.
"Didn't think those were mutually exclusive for you," you respond with a smile. Sukuna huffs out a short laugh at that because you're not wrong. He doesn't need to confirm it either— at least not with his words.
You lap at the barbell closest to the base, flicking at it with your tongue before drawing it between your teeth and tugging gently. He hisses, his cock twitching in your grasp at the slight sting, and the moan that follows is enough confirmation of his little kink.
Pulling on each rung as your tongue climbs back up his ladder, you revel in all the sounds you're able to pull from Sukuna along the way. You note the way his gruff moans turn pitchier, louder with the harder you tug. But you're tired of teasing him, wanting to get a real taste of him when your lips part and wrap around his head once more.
"Keep goin' this time— think you can take all of me?" his voice is deep and strained as you start to sink down onto his length, your hot mouth swallowing him inch by inch. Your tongue stays flat along the bottom, running over the jewelry as you force yourself to take him deeper.
You continue pushing him further into your throat, ignoring the way tears are starting to well in your waterline and your jaw is already aching from having to accommodate not just his length but his girth.
"That's it, almost there baby," Sukuna reassures you when you start to gag. The tip of his cock is nudging against the back of your throat, saliva pooling in your mouth but you're determined to take him all.
You slide back off of him until just the head rests on your tongue before sinking down once more. Repeating the motions over and over, you're bobbing steadily, taking more of Sukuna's cock each time until the salty droplets slip past your lashes and drool starts to trickle out of the corners of your mouth.
Soon, you feel the hair at the base of his cock prickling your nose when you finally manage to stuff his entire length into your tight throat.
"Knew you could do it. Such a good girl, deep throatin' my cock like a slut," Sukuna smirks, the degrading praise reaching your ears like a sweet melody that has your cunt clenching around nothing as slick starts to stain the gusset of your panties. "Now suck," he grunts before snapping his hips and thrusting harshly into your mouth.
A muffled whine vibrates around his length as your eyes stare up at him, all watery and desperate as he uses you. Your hands fly to his thighs, nails digging into the skin and making him grit his teeth, the pain and pleasure taking him higher.
"Mouth feels— fuck— fuckin' amazing," Sukuna groans, fucking your face faster, harder, despite the way your tears are streaming steadily down your cheeks as you gag and sputter around him. He doesn't slow, taking no pity on you because still, each time he looks down past your needy gaze, he can see the way your knees are rubbing together trying to create a friction you're craving. "God, you love being used like this, huh?"
You try to nod, try to moan. But all that you can manage is a pathetic, strangled whimper that gets drowned out by the wet sounds of your mouth slurping around Sukuna's cock when you hollow your cheeks.
He chuckles, low and mean, sharp canines flashing at you. "Come on, baby— shit- why don't ya use your words," Sukuna coos, only grinning wider when your glassy eyes narrow at him. "Aw, c'mon, don' look at me like th—aah fuck-"
A moan is ripped from his lips, interrupting his sentence, when you let your teeth ever so slightly graze along the top of his shaft. His whole body is buzzing, the wet heat of your mouth contrasting with the sharp sting of your teeth. You're successfully able to shut him up, save for a slew of curses which continue falling from his lips.
You bring a hand to cup his balls, rolling and tugging on his scrotum, and it's not long before you can feel his cock pulsing on your tongue. You hear his breathing turn ragged, his voice strained and choppy and prepare for him to cum, salty and warm on your tongue. Only he doesn't.
A large hand wraps around your nape, fingers squeezing painfully tight as Sukuna yanks you off of him in one abrupt movement.
You're coughing and rubbing your lips, drying your cheeks with the back of your hand as Sukuna stares down at you. Now his cock is aching, throbbing from being denied its orgasm but he needs to feel your cunt stretched around him.
Your eyes are glued on one another, the both of you panting haggardly as you sit in silence and catch your breath for just a moment before Sukuna pulls you towards him. He's tugging you hard by the back of your neck until you're collapsing into him. Hands splayed across his chest, your lips meet in a messy kiss.
Normally, he would have taken his time. Kissed you slow and explored what you liked while his mouth moved with yours— but he can't be bothered. You can't be bothered either.
Pure hunger fuels your actions as your teeth clash, tongues swiping at each others lips, twirling around one another. Sukuna sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down and tugging away before letting it snap back in place. He gauges your reaction, smiling wide and cocky against your mouth when your hands grip his shirt and yank him back down to you.
You return the favor, biting hard on his lip, sucking it harshly into your mouth before finally letting go and leaving it red and swollen. You're moaning into each others mouths, what was already a sloppy make out deteriorating further into a slippery mess of saliva and tongue.
Your fingers tighten around the fabric in your grasp as you step backwards, guiding him with you. You're stumbling blind, trying to lead him to your chair even though you're not really sure what way to go. You're too addicted to the feeling of his soft lips and the taste of his groans to break away even for a second, and he can't either.
Sukuna doesn't need to think as he lets you drag him around, just focusing on ravishing you while you figure out what to do with him.
And then you feel the tip of your foot nudging against one of the wheels on your chair, prompting you to spin the two of you around. Only then do you separate from Sukuna with one last kiss before you shove him backwards, making him fall into your chair with a thud.
Sukuna's looking up at you now, eyes wide and pupils blown. His hair is a mess and his lips are bruised and glossy, coated in a mix of your spit and his. You can see the flush on his cheeks get darker, his eyelids heavier as you strip before him.
Your fingers grip the hem of your shirt before pulling it over your head and tossing it off to the side. You do the same with your pants. Sukuna mimics you, taking off his last article of clothing by discarding his shirt next to yours.
You can't hide the way you're even more entranced by him fully naked now. His abdomen is toned, bulky, his shoulders broad. Dark hair sprouts from his chest, a complement to the untrimmed happy trail that leads your eyes back down to his bush which sits around the cock that's now half covered by his hand.
He's stroking himself languidly as your eyes rake over him, a mirror image to the way he's looking at you as you slip your soiled panties down your hips. You can feel the stickiness as the fabric is peeled away, goosebumps peppering your skin when the cool air hits your sex for the first time. Kicking the garment away, you bring your hands behind your back to fiddle with the clasp on your bra before that too is forgotten on the floor.
"Fuck," Sukuna rasps, hand squeezing himself tighter at the sight of you fully naked before him. Every inch, every curve is perfect, his eyes thirstily drinking up all of you as you strut towards him.
He spreads his legs wider, both hands reaching out to settle on your waist the second you're in reach. And now he sees them— your own glinting modifications. A simple belly ring catches his attention first, his thumbs rubbing along your skin, massaging your hips as he looks over you.
"When'd ya get these?" he purrs, fingers sliding up your waist as his hands move to cup your breasts. You let out a sigh as he paws at them, groping lightly and you arch into his touch. "Fuck, they look good— perfect fuckin' tits."
"Got 'em a while a-ah— ago…" Calloused fingertips pinch your nipples, rolling them gently. Your eyes flutter shut as you move to straddle Sukuna, needing to be closer to him, to feel the heat radiating off of his body. His cock is resting against your stomach, settled between your torsos as your legs rest on either side of his.
"Yeah?" Sukuna asks and you wrap your arms around his neck as you nod in reply. "Good." One of his hands comes down hard against your tit, landing across the flesh with a hard smack!
"Fuck! Kuna," you whine, rolling your hips. His shaft is settled between your folds, your arousal smearing around it and your clit catching on each piercing as you grind down on his lap.
His other hand comes down fast, slapping your other tit. Guess he's learned a little something about you too.
Each hit, each pinch that's a little too harsh, has you getting his cock even wetter and humping him even faster. And those sounds— the pretty little moans that fall from your lips— they're even sweeter whenever the rough palm of his hand collides against your supple skin.
"All of you's just perfect, ain't that right?"
The hand still on your ass creeps inward, your body shuddering when you feel a fingertip circling the rim of your asshole. You arch into his touch, whimpering and distracted until—
Smack!
You fall forward to bite down on Sukuna's shoulder to muffle your cry after he lands another hit to your chest, that one much harder than the last two.
"Asked ya a question. 's rude not to answer," he scolds you, hands rubbing soothingly over your breasts, working to ease some of the pain that's prickling under the skin. "Said ain't that right?"
You're nodding fervently, face flushed and beginning to sweat. "Y-you're right," you mumble into his neck, exhaling long and slow when he tugs a nipple piercing between his fingertips again.
"Good girl," he whispers, head leaning against yours as you kiss down the column of his neck once more. "C'mon," he pats the side of his thigh, "needa feel that pussy, you're leakin' all over me."
You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, a little glint in your eyes that he can't quite place. And then you shake your head, bottom lip tugged between your teeth. "Hmm, no."
Sukuna's brows furrow and he tilts his head at you. "The fuck you mean 'no'?"
"So rude," you pout, bringing a hand to his cheek, your thumb stroking it lightly. "Ask nicely and I might."
"Excuse me?" he seethes, eyes narrowing. But you feel the way his cock twitches against your clit, nerves being set alight.
You smack him lightly across his cheek— a warning and a test— your eyes scanning his face for a reaction. The tips of his ears are pink, his chest rising and falling deeply beneath you. "Beg me, Kuna. If you want me to fuck you."
You can see the conflict simmering beneath the surface of a blend of arousal and embarrassment. He's mulling over his words, choosing the right action. The silence is starting to stretch and you're getting impatient so you roll your hips again, pressing hard along his length.
"Please let me fuck you," Sukuna mumbles, avoiding yours gaze.
"You can do better than that," you roll your eyes, hips still moving. You can tell his restraint is slipping and you're close to getting what you want. Just a few more grinds, a few more cascades of your fingers through his hair with a pout on your lips and he's folding.
"Fucking- please, baby. Please fuck me, I need you so badly— wanna feel that pussy wrapped 'round my cock," he rasps, desperation swimming in his irises.
You squeeze his jaw, forcing his lips apart as you gather your saliva and spit directly into his mouth. The glob hits his tongue, warm and mildly salty, a lingering taste of his own pre.
"Good boy," you praise, rewarding him with a couple rough pats on his cheek.
"Shut up," Sukuna grumbles, hands returning to your waist and picking you up. He maneuvers you until you're sitting over his dick, the tip prodding at your dripping entrance. Your hands perch on his chest for stability as you lower your hips down onto him with a loud sigh. "Oh god, you're tight, loosen up f'me."
"'m tryin'," you whine, wiggling your hips. You're trying to get used to the feeling of his jacob's ladder rubbing against your walls, adding even more to the sensation of him stretching you out.
You're so close to taking all of him, almost sitting with your thighs atop his, but he can't wait any longer. Sukuna's hips snap upwards and in one fluid motion he slams your own down onto him, fully sheathing himself inside you. "F-fuck! Kuna, oh my god—"
"Sorry," he grunts— he doesn't mean it— "couldn't wait, needed to feel this cunt cryin' on me— so fucking wet."
Your eyebrows knit together in mock irritation. But the truth is, it feels so fucking good to finally be full of him, to finally feel him buried inside you. Every inch, every ring.
"Just fuckin' sit still," you command, gyrating your hips and rubbing your clit against him. You know he probably wants you to ride him, to lift your hips and smack them back down, fucking yourself onto his cock— but you don't plan on doing that.
You're humping him steadily, each roll of your hips leaving your clit more stimulated, more sensitive. Each roll makes you wetter, soaking his cock as your arousal leaks out onto the base towards his balls.
"Like that?" he whispers, hands finding your ass and kneading the plush fat under his fingers. "Just keep usin' me— make yourself feel good on my cock."
"I-I will," you assure, humping him faster. You can feel your stomach getting tighter, the coil in your gut winding up more with every grind and nudge of your clit against his rough skin. "Doing s'good for me, Kuna."
Your hands paw at his chest, your own fingers pinching at his nipples now. You squeeze them tight, tugging and twisting gently, eliciting a quiet moan from Sukuna. He shifts, his hips coming up slightly off the chair, trying to match your movements as his finger returns to your ass, this time pressing inside. And in an instant your hand comes down across his cheek with a loud crack!
"I told you— shit- to sit still," you snap, both hands now settling around his neck.
Sukuna's eyes are wide from the shock coursing through him, less from the fact that you slapped him and more from the fact that he fucking loved it. He's never been with someone who's done half of the things that you're doing to him, and he would've never expected himself to be so into it. And still, the sharp impact combined with your words and the look on your face— he's entirely ready to submit himself to you. For now.
"I know—" Sukuna starts, words trailing off when your grip tightens around his windpipe.
"But you d-didn't listen."
You're trying to keep your voice steady, but your encroaching orgasm is dangerously close. You're teetering on the edge of your release and fighting to keep it at bay so you can enjoy this moment just a second longer.
Sukuna's face is covered in a sheen of sweat, more than just his cheeks are red now from the lack of oxygen.
You hold on a little more, a little tighter, using his neck to support your body as you chase your high. And then you let go, collapsing into his chest as he breathes deeply once more. He takes the opportunity to pump his finger slowly in and out of your ass, the added pressure making you squirm.
"'m sorry baby," Sukuna chokes out, "cum for me— want you to cum all over my cock, please. You'll do that f'me right?"
His voice is strained, cracked, his throat dry and sore from your hands. But you can still make out the desperation laced within each word and his pleas are too much.
With one last cry you're shaking, your whole body going limp against him as his hands move to your back to hug you into his chest when your orgasm crashes over you.
"There you go… you did so good, baby."
Sukuna's muttering sweet praises into your hair, his hands rubbing gently across your skin as they shift back down to your thighs. You're simmering in a post-orgasm daze, a temporary wave of tiredness coursing through you. The haze makes it so you're not worried, when maybe you should be, about how Sukuna's standing now, still buried deep inside you as he carries your body with him across the room.
You stir when you feel the rough wall pressed up against your back. Your feet are dangling, legs locked in the crooks of Sukuna's arms so your thighs are being pushed into your chest now.
Your eyes find his, being met with a sudden intensity, a sneer on his lips. "Had fun back there?"
Fuck.
You nod meekly.
"Yeah? Had fun smackin' me around and chokin' me out?"
You swallow loudly.
"Say it."
His voice lacks the amusement it usually has, his face set with a flat and unreadable expression. The entire air in the room has shifted and it sets your nerves on fire.
"I d-did, I had fun— aah-Kuna!"
A hand had snaked out from under your leg to rip across your face, the force sending your head snapping to the side. "You like that?" he growls, pinching your cheeks and making you look at him again. "Yeah, you do. This is still fun for you, huh? Pussy's clampin' down around me— dirty girl."
And then he's fucking you down onto him, both hands on your ass as he lifts you up off of his cock before slamming you back down again. The pace that Sukuna sets is nothing short of ruthless, giving you no time to ease back into everything after your first orgasm.
"Sukun-ah! Shit, slow down—" you whine, the abrupt acceleration leaving you overstimulated. You're wiggling your hips, but you're not even sure if you're trying to get away from him or get closer.
It's overwhelming. Each thrust stretching out your gummy walls in a way you haven't felt before, each piercing scraping along the inside of your cunt.
"Nah, fuckin' take it." He slaps you once more, hard and fast before his lips crash down onto yours in a hungry kiss. He's swallowing your whines, moaning into your mouth in response. "This what you wanted? Wanted to piss me off just to get fucked like the slut you are? Could've jus' asked, baby— fuck."
Every part of him is all consuming, the man you had thought you had a hold on suddenly reminding you of exactly how much control you really have.
"God, you know how long I've wanted to see you fall apart on my cock?"
You whimper, shaking your head as tears return to your lash line after a particularly hard thrust.
"Couldn't even jack off n' think about you— y'know how hard that was?"
"mmhm…" you sniffle, head falling back against the wall.
Large, thick fingers splay across your throat, digging into your neck. "No, you don't," he spits, "don't even have your clit pierced. Never had to go months without gettin' off after having a pretty slut handlin' you."
You try to choke out an apology but his grip tightens cutting you off. "Spoiled brat."
Sukuna's voice has a dangerous edge, one that makes your stomach flip and your core burn hot once more. You know he can feel the way your cunt is fluttering around his length, his hips stuttering for just a moment.
And that spurs him on. Every bit of confirmation that you're just as needy, just as depraved as he is leaves him wanting even more from you. His muscles are aching, already pushing himself to his limit and still he finds the energy to move faster. His thrusts feel like a punishment, forcing your cunt to accommodate him each time he splits you open.
He has the energy to make sure that every. single. thrust. has him balls deep, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix.
"O-oh god, oh god, Kuna—" your moans are getting louder, head falling forward now onto his shoulder.
"Gonna fuckin' cum again? Christ, you're greedy," he groans, like he isn't overcome with pride that he's coaxing a second orgasm out of you already.
"S-sorry!" you whine against him, your saliva and tears starting to wet his skin.
"Don' apologize," he grits, both hands back on your ass for leverage as he ruts into you with a carnal desire, "Thank me." He punctuates his command with a merciless smack to one of your cheeks, the pain making you cry out.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" you sob, your climax being ripped from you with an unexpected force. Your teeth sink into his shoulder, the taste of copper starting to trickle into your mouth.
You can hear Sukuna hiss above you, his fingernails digging into your flesh. His pace falters one last time before he slams you back onto him and holds you there, pressing you tight between his body and the wall.
"Fuuuck— you're perfect, baby. My perfect girl."
His cock twitches, pulsing before you feel his seed spurting inside you. Sticky, white ropes of cum paint your poor, abused walls. You're lapping at his shoulder, soft kitten licks to soothe the minor injury you caused as he fills you to the brim.
You don't need to look to know that his release is starting to leak out around his base, a mix of both of your spend seeping onto his balls.
Sukuna's gentle as he handles you now. Cradling you close to his body, the sweat and heat serve as a comfort for you as he sits back down on the chair with you in his lap. He's still plugging you up, just letting you sit there soaking him as his cock starts to soften inside you.
You're pressing kiss after kiss to his neck, collarbones, jaw, cheeks, as he rubs your back and massages your thighs.
"You really are fuckin' perfect," he pants, his exhaustion catching up to him, "I meant that."
"You too, baby," you mumble tiredly, missing the smile that graces his lips at the nickname.
"So… all healed I'm assuming?"
You giggle at that. "You're a fucking idiot."
"And you're mean," he shoots back playfully, "I can't believe I was gonna ask you out after this."
summary: Years passed since you saw Satoru Gojo in your life — your situationship, who slipped away from your life like nothing had happened. Like you were nothing to him. Or, maybe, on the contrary, and you were his everything? What would happen if you suddenly met him at your flower shop?
tags: mdni! situationships, exes to lovers, reconciliation, some angst, some fluff, mutual pining, YEARNING, like A LOT. you fell first, he fell harder and it drove him crazy. panic attacks, floristry, some themes about rediscovering your life passion, the reader is kinda insecure. eventual smut: dry humping, fingering, emotional sex, a little bit of size kink, creampie, oral sex (f receiving).
word count: this part is 12.5k. total: 35k (bear with me here...).
author's note: this is officially the biggest thing i have ever written! and my first time ever writing smut. you've been warned. it should've been one post but tumblr's limits...art by @/boom_sate225. dividers are mine.
you might like listening to the playlist
part 2
This day started as usual.
Your phone alarm rang sharply at 6 a.m., jolting you awake. With a groan, you tapped to hold it and rolled over to have the last minutes of peace and serenity. The bed was warm, the pillow was comfortable, the blanket embraced you in the softest of hugs… Slowly, you drifted to sleep once again.
Only to hastily scramble to get ready an hour later.
"Shit, shit, shit," you cursed under your breath, trying to pull your pants on. A glance at the clock — 7:30; you must've been the fastest person in the world at that moment— totally a record.
Miraculously, you still had time to stop by your favourite bakery, which conveniently hid between the stalls with flowers and newspapers, to grab a coffee and a pastry. The street bustled with people at that hour: one man barked orders into his phone, with another gentleman, probably his assistant, hurriedly trying to keep up with the boss's pace. A pile of files in his arms dangerously leaned toward the ground.
Poor guy.
Your polished shoes clicked on the pavement, each step dripping with determination as you hurried to the bakery. You could’ve smelled its tantalizing scents even from a distance — cinnamon, cardamom, vanilla, and chocolate intertwining in a mouth-watering mix.
"Slept in, huh?" A barista, a tall guy with soft eyes and kind of a weird hairstyle of ponytails, observed you quietly and handed your order: a hot bumble with caramel syrup and a ham-and-cheese croissant. Your stomach growled at the scent of the pastry, and you gave the guy a quick smile. If you remembered it right, his name was Choso.
"Kind of, yeah," you swiped the card and quickly grabbed your order before you would drop dead to the overwhelming delicious scents in the bakery. You almost downed the drink in a few large gulps. "Thanks and bye!"
"Have a nice day, miss!"
You sped up to hop in your bus, the one that left the station at 7:35 sharply and arrived at your work exactly at 7:57.
“Sorry,” you murmured apologetically as you bumped into one lady, who only huffed in irritation, without sparing you a single glance. You fought the urge to grimace at her.
Slowly, you made your way to a lone window seat that wasn’t usually occupied at this hour. Mentally, you had long ago declared it your own and would sigh inwardly if other passengers, obviously, not aware of your claim, sat there.
This time, luck was on your side. You quickly fished a book — something to kill time and occupy your mind, besides the usual routine you were clearly drowning in. Your grip on the book tightened: not the best time to delve into and psychoanalyze your life as you tried to lose yourself in yet another magical fantasy world…
“Oh no, my fair lady,” a mysterious knight’s voice drawled, the voice muffled by a half-opened visor. Isabelle thought her heart almost jumped from her chest right into the knight’s hands. “I am here to rescue you.”
Isabelle could almost hear playfulness sipping in the knight’s tone, and it brought a quick grin on her face. Oh, her future husband would be enthralled when the morning would carry him the news about his precious wife-to-be, who would appear to be missing…”
You scoffed softly and reached for a pencil. Faint scribbles adorned the empty margins of the book, a carefully crafted tapestry of your thoughts and emotions.
“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure, if I were Isabelle, since…”
A sudden honk pulled you back to reality. The bus suddenly jerked forward again, and a string of muttered curses from other passengers wafted to you through the irritated crowd. Someone bumped into you, causing the pencil to fall from your grip.
“Ah, shoot it,” you huffed under your breath and bent over to take it back.
And then, as you looked up, you saw it.
A sudden flash of white hair.
Your insides got cold in an instant. The surrounding world ceased to exist around you for a moment or for a small eternity; you weren’t so sure. The pencil almost snapped in half in your hard grip as a thousand thoughts rushed through your anxious mind.
“What the hell is he doing there? He shouldn’t be there— no, he is not supposed to be there, in your city! You fled there, and he had the entire Tokyo! What if he saw you? Worse, what if he saw and now wants to talk to you? Shit, shit, shit!”
Your eyes nervously darted to the exit — only to see that the white hair was already missing. You blinked. Blinked again. No, not even a sight. You slumped in relief against the seat and closed your eyes.
What was going on with you, really? Is he the only man in the world with hair colour like this? Could’ve been some cosplayer! Yeah, that must be it!
Or not?...
Deep down, you knew the right answer. You could’ve recognized the silvery tone of his strands if you were a thousand miles away from him. You ran your fingers through them countless times, memorized the way they caught the moonlight and looked like spilt silver under your gentle touch.
With a long sigh, you put the book in a bag. The phone caught your eye, and you froze at the sight of the display.
8:17.
Memories engrossed your tired mind to the point you missed three stops.
“This day couldn’t get any worse,” you thought, rushing through the maze of irritated people, totally indifferent to your inner turmoil.
Oh, how wrong was that.
***
Flowers had always brought you peace and serenity.
Ever since you were a kid, your mom’s garden welcomed you with a warm embrace, shielding you from the cold touch of reality. Nothing could hurt you there; a few scratches were a fair price for solitude and tranquillity. Sitting under sakuras, amidst the vivid blossoms of magnolias, peonies, and tulips, quietly observing the nature you were surrounded by, you had learnt to see beauty in every soft petal, dew drop on the branches, foggy morning mist, or sunrays, shyly sipping through the branches.
Or maybe you were just a lone kid with a good heart and rich fantasy, and that gave roots to your need for escapism. Who knows.
You would like to think you still carried that fragile ability to see something precious even in the most mundane things, but you knew nothing would be as breathtaking as it appeared in childhood. Adulthood had long sharpened and hardened you into someone a child you would hardly recognise.
Sometimes you wondered what she would say when you looked at her now?
Your hands were still covered in stitches, calluses bubbled on your fingers, and the dirt seemed to be permanently itched under your nails, but the excitement from your gaze had long given in to exhaustion.
When did a person lose the sparkle that once ignited their entire being? When adulthood falls so hard on your shoulders that you don't even have a chance to take a breath?
You had never thought you would be one of these gloomy people. Especially surrounded by the beauty of nature, as you wished for as a kid. But fate had other plans for you: the florist’s job found you in the middle of rediscovering yourself once again, rather than you finding it, and the rose-coloured naive dreams about designing bouquets, arrangements, and organising events quickly shattered, leaving invisible scars that later would scream of burnt-out.
Surely, amidst the usual routine, you found your own moments of enjoyment. Designing was your main passion, and seeing the fruits of your work, happy smiles and gratitudes from the customers, was worth scars, hurt knees, and sprained wrists. You were glad to bring people warmth and steadiness in the middle of the storm, which some events might look like. Shame the rest of the job was way more demanding, mentally and especially physically.
You were cauterizing stems, which actually was Nobara's work, but Utahime seemed so worked up that morning that you didn't dare to poke a dragon any more and decided to shield your friend from the boss's wrath. When Nobara sauntered inside the room, you gave her a glance, already preparing yourself for an inevitable round of investigation.
"So," she drawled with an all-knowing smile, a mischievous glint flashed in her eyes as she leaned on the table next to you. Still not touching the stems. "How was your date yesterday? Tell me everything!"
Ah. Yes. Your date.
Partially, the reason you were late to work. Not even in the inappropriate sense you sometimes wanted it to be.
Your grip on the pruning shears tightened. You tried to deflect.
"Nothing worth talking—"
"Oh, come on! I've been dying to hear everything! Spill the tea!"
Nobara was really relentless when she was in a mood, so after a couple of seconds, you decided to end your suffering as quickly as possible. Like ripping the band-aid off.
"That was fucking awful."
You could swear Nobara's nose twitched like a hound that scented the blood. The corner of your mouth lifted in amusement.
"I swear, all these date apps, blind dates, so on and so forth are not my type of thing," you murmured and sighed, looking around the room for any clue that could've helped to solve a mystery of human hearts. "No, I am serious!"
You told her everything. How you matched with a guy on a goddamn Tinder, who seemed…adequate at first sight. That you felt like something almost clicked in that unexplainable way, when you just…know.
You really hoped after him and dozens of unfruitful attempts to meet your fate spontaneously, and let Cupid’s arrows pierce you, your dating apps would result in something. However, with every swipe, weird dialogues and unambiguous hints at the end of coffee dates, your confidence that the male loneliness epidemic had been really justified only grew further. Yesterday’s attempt should’ve been the last one before locking yourself in a tower (your apartments), with only a jester (another 2000’s romcom) to keep you company. Sounded like a perfect plan.
“Everything was fine, before that jerk started asking whether I was like these females—”
“Ew,” Nobara grimaced. “Females? That’s a red flag already. Might be one of these podcast guys. They are all beyond saving.”
“I know, right? Should’ve told him to fuck off right that instant. Anyway,” you snipped a poor rose’s stem with more force than necessary and continued. “These females who like to invite poor men to the fanciest restaurants and make them pay!”
Nobara gasped, thoroughly scandalized, handing you a lighter.
“He did not!”
“Oh yes, he did. And that’s not even the worst! Then he asked when I would be ready to quit my job, because his wife and the mother of his children shouldn’t work,” deep-buried irritation from the godforsaken dinner slowly started to bloom in your chest, so you didn’t even notice you were holding the lighter near the stem longer than usual. Luckily, Nobara intervened before you almost set the flowers on fire.
“Hey-hey, gimme that,” she snatched the possible tool of destruction from your hands and quickly put the stem in a vase. You blinked in surprise and slumped on the nearby chair with a long, exhausted sigh.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she flashed you a warm smile and then added, barely audible. “Was my task, anyway. So, you were saying?”
“Yeah, right,” you dragged your hand over your face, “after we left the restaurant, the asshole offered to give me a ride.” You drawled the last word, double entendre clear in your voice, as you stared at Nobara with a telling gaze.
She, of course, understood. Slowly dragged her gaze from the flowers and stared back at you. A murderous glint flashed in her eyes. The lighter only added to her dangerous image.
You sighed once again and murmured, staring at the ceiling. “So, that was it. What’s even worse is that he seemed so nice and gallant and—,” you gestured vaguely before dropping your hand in desperation. The next words felt like shards; tears stole your voice. “I am not cut out for the relationships, clearly. Maybe something is fundamentally wrong with me, I don’t know! All this staff”, you drew a sharp exhale and angrily wiped your nose, “is not for me. I am way better alone”.
Hearing your voice, so uncharacteristically broken, Nobara kneeled in front of you. She squeezed your hands.
“There’s nothing wrong with you. Believe me. All these men are assholes that do not even deserve the strand of your hair!”
“Uhm, Nobara, flowers there—”
“Ah, fuck these flowers,” she waved dismissively. “I’ve got a bigger potential catastrophe on my hands,” you snorted at her words, and a big, bright grin broke on her face. “You are smart, pretty, kind, and just so wonderful! These guys? They can suck my—”
“Nobara!”
“Okay, okay,” Nobara rolled her eyes and leaned in closer, her grin morphing into a conspirational smile. Your eyes narrowed playfully. “Tell you what? We finish here, and I am taking you to that new mall, finally making you buy that slutty dress I’ve been talking about for days, then we crash into my flat, order whatever you want, and re-watch “Love Actually” for the hundredth time! How’s that?”
You couldn’t help but smile genuinely at Nobara’s suggestion. It was impossible to brood with her around.
“That sounds perfect.”
Your thoughts drifted to the morning once again. Something in your guts was telling you that you were right initially. Or maybe it was more of a wishful thinking, because his image would haunt your mind every failed date and every sparkle you misguessed as the beginning of something new. And yesterday was particularly shitty.
You weren’t that obsessed with your ex-situationship. So what if even after all the months you had been apart (though you doubted whether you could truly say that; you never had been together), he was the only person who had lit up your whole world? Pfft. Every girl had a story like this.
At least you hoped so. Stupid Gojo.
Despite all the things that happened between you (and did not), you couldn’t bring yourself to hate Gojo. His stupid white hair, ivory under the sunlight; a stupid grin that broke his face anytime you would say something funny, and that chuckle, Gods, that fucking chuckle of his was your biggest reward and the strongest undoing.
Then you would remember the way he ended both of you, destroying the root before your love could even blossom, and the urge to punch him would multiply drastically.
Just like now.
You were in the middle of preparing the next customer’s order and racked your brains on where to put a couple of black tulips, so they would look presentable enough. Then you struggled with the overall composition, the wrapping paper didn’t work much, you cut your ring finger and —
Stop that.
You took a deep breath. In and out. In and out.
That was it. The effect Satoru Gojo had on you.
“I definitely should get over this guy,” you murmured in the void, not addressing anyone in particular, but Nobara heard it. She turned around sharply, the large heart box with roses dangerously swaying in her hands. Her narrowed eyes seemed to pierce right through your soul, through the pregnant pauses, creeping between the endless conversations about your love life, the sadness you carried in the unsaid words.
She saw the raging storm in your weary eyes, and her glare softened immediately, lips parting to tell you something only Nobara could tell — but in the moment, the doorbell in the main hall rang obnoxiously loudly, and she hurriedly headed upstairs.
Your gaze dropped to the bouquet. The black tulips in the middle caught your attention immediately. A satisfied grin tucked in the corner of your mouth.
The flowers were pretty. Gorgeous. The fragile beauty of nature wrapped in the softest of touches. Nature’s most delicate gift. They didn’t hurt anyone. Not in the way people do, at least.
Nobara’s voice called you suddenly, pulling you back to reality. Your brows furrowed slightly: her voice sounded strangely strained. You headed up as well.
“My mother loves black tulips.”
“Really? Huh. That’s rare. Not everyone even thinks about what flowers they like.”
“Nah, she thinks about everything. And more. Like you.”
“Do you think this ribbon fits well, or should I find the lacy one? I am not quite sure.”
Your gaze flicked to Nobara, and then—
You rooted to your spot. The poor bouquet almost fell from your weakened hands, but that was the last thing that was on your mind.
Not when Gojo Satoru was staring back at you.
His eyes searched for every expression on your face, every bat of the eyelashes, every flicker of colour in your eyes, every twitch of your lips, soaking it up with the intensity that could rival the wanderer's thirst in a desert. Looking, dazing, gawking, drinking in your features. Like he wasn’t sure whether he should grab and kiss you till he got his fill or just admire from afar, like the most exquisite flower under the glass.
He stared. And stared. And stared.
And gods, you stared back.
His hair caught the sunlight, giving him an ethereal look, and you swore to God, the blue of his eyes brightened even more, though now his gaze seemed to carry more weight. You remembered them flashing with the charm and the mischief; it was still there, though you couldn’t help but notice adulthood setting into his features. Your gaze drifted over his frame, clad in a dark blue suit (probably worth your month’s rent), greedily fixing the broadness of his shoulders, the tight pull of the fabric on the chest, the little mole between his collarbones, peeking out from the unbuttoned shirt.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Why was he here?” An anxious thought beat against your ribcage with a deafening thump-thump, suddenly twice its usual size. “He wasn’t supposed to be here! And found me!”
Deep down, you knew. Of course, Gojo could. You moved to another city, not the other hemisphere.
But it was Kyoto. A fucking metropolis!
Gojo was from Kyoto.
You fixed all the details almost unconsciously, committing his features to your memory as if he were about to vanish right this second. Neither of you dared to move; silence wrapped around you like a thick blanket, trapping you in its suffocating confines.
Nobara’s gaze flicked between Gojo and you, but luckily, she didn’t ask anything. Must’ve been obvious.
“You go back. I’ll handle it,” she whispered to you, and the strange spell cast on your room was dispelled. You gave her a quick, unsure grin.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry.”
Nobara opened her mouth to protest, but your pleading look silenced her. With the last suspicious look at Gojo, she disappeared into another room.
You stood behind the register, trying to look as professional as ever. Trembling in your hands and the waver in your voice were a dead giveaway, though. Gojo’s eyes briefly flickered to your frame. His eyes softened almost imperceptibly.
“So, long time no see, Gojo. How’s that been?”
Gojo grimaced slightly but didn’t comment on you using his government name. Instead, he just stepped closer to the register, as if unsure whether he could approach you.
That startled you. Gojo was never about hesitance in any way.
“It’s been…okay,” he answered vaguely, and you couldn’t help but notice his timbre deepened. Tone smoothened, became richer. The Kyoto accent was back. You remembered how he desperately tried to sound more like a Tokyo guy.
Stop.
What on Earth were you thinking?
Focus.
“We’ve decided to reopen the Kyoto branch, and Gramps wanted to make me in charge of it.” You felt his gaze on you, and its intensity sent shivers down your spine. You nervously tried to issue him a receipt, but the terminal seemed to stop working at the most inconvenient moment ever. Heat slowly crept your cheeks.
"... and I've got a lot of things to look through and deal with a bunch of old fossils," Gojo continued, grimacing at the mention of old men who were probably a part of the shareholders' board. You noticed he told about himself rather vaguely, almost indifferently, as his own life couldn't feel less interesting.
You dreaded Gojo's next question. Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask—
"And how have you been?"
A strange kind of desperation laced Gojo's voice. As if he knew he had no right to ask that, but just could not help it. His Adam's apple bobbed with effort, and if you paid more attention, you would've noticed the flex of his fingers.
You forced a strained smile, your heart did a stupid little flip.
"I...am doing alright," you gestured vaguely around the shop as if it could've answered his question. However, Gojo's gaze was glued to you, searching, observing, examining the fatigue that was deeply etched into your features, the light dust of pink on your cheeks, a nervous smile hiding at the corner of your lips, and a small cut on your chin. You were even more beautiful than he remembered. Was it ever possible?
"It's for your mom, right?" you blurted out before even thinking, earning a surprised look from Gojo. Your eyes widened; probably, he thought you were a stalker or just a lunatic for asking that.
Nervously, you explained, fingers fumbling with the ribbon. "I remember you told your mom liked black tulips." Gods, why did you ask that? Is there really a kind of question for your ex-situationship at your first meeting?
Your heart beat anxious staccato against your chest. You prayed the ground would swallow you whole as Gojo remained silent.
Slowly, his initial shock and confusion melted into an undeniable affection, and he smiled, a soft, quiet smile that reached his eyes, crinkling at the corners.
You released a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"Yeah. She still does. That's for her. I...," Gojo's smile faltered a little, "she flew from Tokyo for some business, and I am gonna meet her. I asked my assistant to pick a flower shop close to it. With good reviews, of course,” his gaze quickly swept the surroundings, landing on various arrangements, bouquets and vases. Strange tightness coloured his tone, and you narrowed your eyes in suspicion.
"Ah. I see."
"Yeah."
So, he didn't stalk you. Good to hear.
A loose strand of hair fell over your forehead, and you put it back with an annoyed sigh. Gojo's gaze followed it with a tender ache; you thought you imagined it.
Gojo's lips parted slightly, and then he abruptly closed his mouth again. A little frown formed between his brows.
"Listen, I know it's not the right moment, but I would like —"
You swallowed anxiously, but in that second, his phone rang. Whoever that was, you were beyond grateful for a little respite after everything that had just happened.
Gojo Satoru.
Your something. Your almost everything. Your childhood wish for a friend. Your teenage longing for love. Your yearning to be seen.
Your invisible string draped over months and cities. Forever snapped.
Or?
"Ijichi, I told you already," Gojo's voice came out way too harsher than it was with you; a mask slipping back on his face, "I'm busy with something right now."
Annoyance flushed in his eyes as he listened to a hasty voice on the other side of the phone. He pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation.
"Uh-huh. I got it. Be in five minutes."
The anxious voice, Ijichi's, as you presumed, mumbled something back, but Gojo didn’t pay attention.
Silence wrapped around you once again, unsure and hesitant. You took a deep breath, on the verge of blurting something about maintenance or a sudden supply of birthday cards, or anything, before Gojo's voice cut through the mess that your head was, softer than you ever expected.
"It was nice seeing you."
You rehearsed words suddenly seemed meaningless. A look of surprise crossed your face at his words, and before you could articulate your confusion in somehow coherent words, Gojo already left with a curt nod. The bell jingled obnoxiously loud, and you slowly took a deep breath.
Gojo's cologne was still lingering in the air, enveloping you in his scent.
Lost and confused, you slumped in the nearest chair behind the register, brain short-circuiting on what had just happened. Something you had never dared to think about in your dreams. Gojo was tucked in the deepest corner of your heart; you rarely allowed yourself to truly reminisce about what you were and never became.
And you couldn't shake the feeling he wanted to ask you something before the call.
Or were you just making things up? Wishful thinking?
***
The day when you met Gojo was as clear as ever in your mind. No. When Gojo met you. Really met.
You had seen Satoru Gojo all the time at the campus: his frosty white hair impossible to miss, laugh booming loudly in the university halls, enough for people to turn their heads, all sharp grins and snarky remarks — confidence walked hand in hand with him as he basked in the attention. He moved like a person who had never forced himself to be small. To fit into some box. People orbited around him, inevitably driven closer by his overwhelming presence: planets pulled closer by the gravity of the Sun.
You, on the other hand, were one of the satellites, surfing through the vast expanse of university life.
Naturally, your paths with Gojo didn't cross very often: sure, he was in your periphery all the time, effortlessly catching your attention with his jokes and... everything; you shared a couple of classes and had a bit of awkward exchanges in the library over behavioural theory of management. You weren't even surprised: for all Gojo's lack of discipline in the classes, he really had a sharp mind.
Sometimes he gave you a bright grin in greeting, to which you answered with a short nod, putting on an air of confidence, despite the frantic beat of your heart and the speed at which your palms got sweaty.
So, as it was etched in the laws of the universe, you quietly observed Gojo from afar, not daring to collide with his orbit more than needed. Burning in the Sun's light would bring long-lasting scars.
Oh, how right you were.
This shouldn't have happened. He should've just walked past you like many others on that rainy day, when you were standing right next to your stall, teeth chattering as the coldness embraced you in its harsh hands. Your gaze quickly swept the surroundings — the majority of students had already left their standings. No wonder, with the weather like that, who would've been foolish enough to stay at the volunteer fair?
You were. Though you preferred to think of yourself as responsible and kind.
A deep chuckle pierced through the monotonous cacophony of the rain, and inevitably, your gaze landed on Gojo. He was hanging out at his friend's stall, helping to put things in the boxes. Geto, if you remembered it correctly. Surprisingly, he was also helping one of the city's animal shelters. You tried not to dwell on his charity box, which showed way more promise than yours.
You were so focused on not freezing to death at that point that you didn't notice Gojo walking to your stall. The bag with his volleyball (because of course, Gojo was ridiculously good at everything) uniform hit his leg with every step.
He stood right in front of it, a curious grin tugging at the corner of his lips. He looked ridiculously handsome, even with a silly umbrella.
Gojo kept examining the various brochures about the shelter, pictures of cats and dogs, seeking their homes. His gaze softened imperceptibly.
Meanwhile, your world just tilted off its axis.
"Hi," you gave Gojo a nervous smile.
He looked up immediately and hummed in acknowledgement. "Hi."
An awkward silence fell upon you. Your brain short-circuited as you anxiously tried to scramble for the right words, but they just flew out of your mind right then. Nothing. Blank screen. Error.
Gojo didn't seem to notice your mental struggles, still glued to the stall.
Just when you were about to finally introduce him to the shelter you had been volunteering for, he suddenly reached for the wallet and threw bills in the charity box. A lot, one would say.
You blinked. Blinked again. Maybe you were hallucinating from standing all day in the cold.
"What the hell are you doing?" You blurted out, and deep crimson painted your cheeks in embarrassment.
What the hell were you doing?
Who on Earth would say something like that to a person, willingly donating to your stall?
You hoped he wasn’t very petty.
Instead, his white brows knitted in confusion. He took a step back to examine the box before dragging his gaze, the brightest of blues, to you.
"Donating, I guess?"
"Yeah, no shit," you scoffed. Backing wasn't an option by this time. "That's like...a lot."
A look of realisation crossed Gojo's face, before a cracking bright grin, as if the Sun finally peeked through the heavy clouds. Suddenly, the cold didn't bother you as much as before.
"Ah, it's nothing. Really," he drawled lazily and nodded at the photos again. "Besides, it's only for the good."
He was kind of insane, you thought. But hey, who would've said no to the charity money? Especially if you did less than expected at this fair.
"Then... thank you," you breathed out in relief, but immediately grimaced at how empty and basic it sounded. Quickly, you added. "Really, thank you! It would do a lot for the shelter, and —"
You reached for a simple box, adorned with a colourful ribbon, resting among others, to gift him. Nothing much, but you spent your whole evening preparing them.
"There's a postcard, a cap and a mug!" You shrugged casually, fingers toying with the ribbon, and handed the box to Gojo. "A token of appreciation, if you wish".
He examined the box with a sharp look, and for the moment, you felt really silly. His long fingers curled around the box, brushing briefly against yours — a warm touch, despite the rain, sending sparks of electricity up your arm.
Did Gojo notice that too?
He almost left, and you almost could breathe in relative calm, when something must've popped into his mind, and he abruptly stopped in his tracks.
"Wait...are you this girl from the management class? The one with the old Gakuganji? Sitting on the left side, third row?" His eyes briefly scanned your face. You felt like a butterfly under his piercing gaze. "We talked about Mayo's behaviour theory in the library, remember?"
Remember. Did you remember.
Did you remember him.
The carefully constructed unreachable image of Gojo in your head seemed to have its first cracks. You had never thought he would ask if anyone remembered him. You had never thought he would remember your place at the lecture. The Sun didn’t simply bother to pay attention to the satellites.
Gojo might’ve interpreted your stunned silence in a completely different way.
“I mean, your hair is…different. And the hood,” he gestured vaguely, and you quickly put the lone strand behind your ear.
“Yeah, uhm, that’s…that’s me.”
Gojo didn’t answer this, studying your face with intensity that might’ve pierced through your entire being. As if he were searching for an answer to a particularly tricky question only you could give him.
Or maybe it was just an effect of his eyes — a shade that certainly shouldn’t exist in the world, putting all the world’s blues to shame. He was still stuck around your stall, as if glued. As if he didn’t want to leave.
You didn’t even dare to think about it.
“Why are you alone? Aren’t the stalls supposed to have two volunteers? Suguru told me.”
You sighed, reminiscing about how Nobara almost coughed her lungs out today, but her stubborn ass somehow insisted on coming with you. Eventually, it ended with you locking her up in the dorm room.
“They are. I should’ve been there with my friend. She fell ill.”
A mischievous glint flashed in Gojo’s eyes as he arched his brow. “Really fell?”
“Really, really. Nobara’s not like that.” You scoffed at his implications and crossed your hands on your chest.
Gojo’s face sobered. “Nobara? Kugisaki? The lead cheerleader?”
You nodded.
He nodded back. “Yeah, she’s not.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion. What the hell was going on there? Why did he, Gojo Satoru, out of all people, stay by your lonely stall and ask you weird questions?
Creepy.
Gojo’s gaze flicked to the sky, just as the deafening sound of thunder boomed out of a sudden, then back to your face. The rainy pit-patter against the stall’s shade intensified, pulling you out of the strange daze to hastily pack the stuff back. The framed pictures landed in the box with awkward thuds as you threw them in the box. How you were going to take all of the stuff back to the dorm remained a full mystery.
You picked two of them with a grunt, and the hair fell on your forehead, obscuring the view. The box on the top dangerously slid down, earning a string of curses and a couple of desperate groans from you, when a pair of strong hands suddenly took them from your weakened hands. The rain didn’t help the situation at all.
You almost slipped, losing balance, but quickly stabilized yourself, gripping the same very pair of hands. There was no objection. From the person, obviously.
Gojo’s gaze pinned you to the ground when you looked up. His messy white fringe fell on his forehead (you felt a strange itch in your fingers to brush it away), and some strands, wet from the rain, stuck to his forehead. The soft brightness of his eyes was gone, replaced with something darker and more intense, you weren’t sure you could name it. You just stared back and wondered if the lost people in the oceans saw that exact shade of blue before drowning in their unforgiving waves.
You never saw Gojo that close, obviously. You didn’t know his lashes were so long and soft, fluttering with every breath he took; his nose was crooked just a fraction, and pale freckles dusted his cheeks.
You swallowed, not daring to step back, and just froze like a deer in the headlights.
Maybe that was the way goddesses crafted the invisible strings. A whim, a caprice of fate, looking down at the people and deciding to grant their hearts the greatest wishes, just to weave them forever into the endless canvas of the universe.
Little did you know that it was he who got rooted to the very spot. Froze. Stilled. Whatever. Gojo’s entire universe had just fallen off the axis and flew towards hell. The black hole, one might say. With such clarity that he was, honestly, surprised that no one saw it.
That was the day when he first saw you. Really saw. The lone girl near the animal shelter’s stall, who observed people dismissively walking past her with an understanding and forgiving look. Whose entire face lit up when she talked about the rescued dogs and cats, to the people who would actually come up to the stall. The kind smile that transformed her face into a painting of the finest craft as she gifted the gift boxes. Who stubbornly chose to stay at the fair in the rain and cold. All alone, because her friend got sick. And, naturally, he walked to you, drawn like a moth to the flame.
A shot of electricity shook through Gojo’s body. The ground dropped away from his feet. The biggest fuckass tsunami hit him and filled his lungs with you, you, you.
That was scary. That was dangerous. You were dangerous.
The sudden clap of thunder above pulled you out of this strange haze. You stepped back; Gojo blinked — a storm in his eyes gave way to a warm sea breeze.
“They are heavy. I’ll walk you to the dorm.”
Your cheeks heated up, and you quickly babbled.
“There’s no need, really. I am okay—”
You almost flinched at the particularly deafening sound of the thunder and threw your hands up, answering with a weak grin.
“Seems like I do not have much of a choice.”
Gojo only chuckled.
His shoulder lightly brushed against yours the whole time to the dorm, sending light sparks up your arm even through the hoodie. You noticed how he subconsciously fell into step with you. Gojo gave you his umbrella, with some Digimon on it, and at first, you tried to shield him from the raindrops as well, but Gojo was so tall that your arm quickly hurt.
None of you said anything, besides light humming from Gojo’s side, and it felt strangely…nice. You expected desperately scrapping for words to fill the uncomfortable silence between you, but there was no need. Maybe you still existed in that small babble, where time stopped and held you in its tight embrace.
“So, that’s me,” you nodded at the doors and made a grab for the boxes.
Gojo frowned. “They are heavy. Come on, let’s get inside.”
Nobara certainly would ask you questions about how Gojo ended up in their room. You realized that you didn’t want to share this strange moment of...whatever it was with Gojo, with anyone else yet. Besides, she was still sick.
You forced a smile. “Thank you a lot, but I am fine. Really. And Nobara’s sick, so…”
Gojo blinked in confusion, but seeing you weren’t going to step back, nodded. He handed you the boxes back, which made you almost double over under their weight.
“See you at the lectures,” he waved to you, a charming grin curled up on his lips, and you found yourself smiling back. For a couple of moments, you watched his tall figure retreating, mulling over whether you should ask Gojo what the hell was going on, thank him properly or just say anything. You were so nervous, you could barely hear your own thoughts with the blood roaring in your ears.
Your gaze quickly dropped to the box, the shelter’s logo immediately caught your eye, and the idea popped into your mind so fast your anxious mind had hardly registered it.
“Hey, Gojo!”
He stepped in his tracks and turned right that instant at the sound of your voice. Like he had been subconsciously wishing for it. His eyes seemed so bright, burning you with their electric blue.
God. What had you done? What were you going to do now? Your suggestion seemed so utterly stupid. Maybe Gojo would get tired of your hesitance and walk away?
“Yes?”
Oh, fuck. He was still standing there, head tilted in curiosity. You swallowed. There was no backing down now. Your grip on the boxes tightened.
“Come to the animal shelter this weekend,” you blurted out. His eyes widened slightly, but you continued. “Your donation was the biggest. There’s a prize for it!”
For a long, painful second, you were sure he would come up with some polite excuse to decline it. To your biggest surprise, a big grin broke on his face.
“I’ll be there. See you.”
You watched Gojo walking away, still not quite believing what had just happened.
The days leading up to the weekend were filled with nervous excitement. Even when Gojo came for your number to text you about it, anxiety was still buzzing deep in your bones.
Turned out there was no reason for it.
He actually showed up. That time. And many others.
You met at the shelter countless times — Gojo was more than welcome there. Your awkward, occasional conversations in the library turned into full study sessions, when both of you were glad to just share a bit of space. You learnt each other’s coffee orders by heart, favourite books, movies, shared favourite quotes, and had endless conversations under the starry sky about everything and nothing all at once. He would usually point at the bunch of stars and come up with the most ridiculous constellations and histories about them. You couldn’t remember a single moment when your cheeks didn’t hurt from smiling with him, a warm feeling blossomed in your chest every time his lips curved into a soft, gentle grin, the one you had already learnt was reserved only for you. All your camera film was filled with him, but you never complained.
You had never felt anything like that before; your heart was filled to the top with unspent, unrestrained love, so, naturally, it overflowed and flooded everything.
Maybe that was it. Maybe you loved Gojo so fiercely and desperately that it scared him. You never questioned or tried to define your relationship with him — you both were so happy that you thought that taste of honey would linger on your lips forever, living in the warm, miraculous daze forever. For Gojo, whose entire life was carefully built around expectations — the grades always had to be perfect, his future predetermined, written up to the smallest detail the moment he was born, the weight of his family's prestige settling heavily on his shoulders — being with you was a breath of fresh air. He didn’t have to put on any front: a star student, a team captain, the Gojo heir…he was just Satoru with you. And maybe he got a little bit too used to the fact that you simply took everything he offered to you, without asking for more. Without demanding. Without expecting. And when his heart started to jump every time he saw you, his chest tightened with a loving, tender ache at the sight of your smile and all his thoughts gravitated to you wherever he was, Gojo knew he was gone. Completely.
He didn’t know how to love someone that much. Selflessly, unconditionally, handing his heart on his palm. The painful vulnerability that came with your love stripped him bare, to the bone, exposed the deepest corners of his heart and soul — something he didn’t even dare to look at himself. And that scared him. No amount of hiding his horror of being loved behind the usual mask of a fool could hide it. So he did the best he could for both of you. At least, that was what he thought.
Left you.
He sincerely thought that was him protecting you from the inevitable break-up. He didn’t know how to love. He didn’t know how to be loved.
Turned out Gojo just protected himself.
Slowly, your dates shortened, turning into quick meetings and then vanished completely with his weak excuses. Calls postponed, messages left on delivered. He gradually slipped away from your life, leaving a hole so big you didn’t know whether it was even possible to fill with something, someone else who wasn’t him. He ripped your heart and took it with him.
What was even worse was that despite everything, you couldn’t even bring yourself to hate him. Despite taking away your air with him. You cried yourself to sleep on countless nights, threw yourself into studies, volunteering, working, and everything that could even remotely help you to find closure. You were so lucky to have Nobara by your side — wordlessly, she picked up the shards of your shattered heart and carefully glued them together.
Over time, you grew tired of seeing your own sad, tear-filled gaze in the mirror, the sorrow in the bags under your eyes, hollow cheeks — solitude etched into your soul. You didn’t deserve it. If he weren’t the one, then be it. You couldn’t let a man define all your future.
With strange calmness and melancholy, you blocked him. Moved to another city. Got to work in a flower shop, something that you discussed with Gojo a lot of times. Took up hobbies. Squeezed yourself into bustling, busy Kyoto life as much as you could. Met other people, despite how much you wanted to hide in your shell.
Got over Gojo. At least, you thought you did, safe for times when your mind naturally went to reminisce about him after failed dates; for the fingerprints of him were all over the pages of your life.
Only for everything to return after meeting him today.
***
Saying that Gojo didn’t cross your mind the next days would be a lie.
You wish you were a liar.
Why did he happen to visit your flower shop? Was it really random?
And more importantly: would he visit again?
The one part of you, young, naive and endlessly romantic, built sandcastles and told you that she wanted it to happen. The other, sharpened by adulthood and the cruelty of the world, destroyed them without batting an eye and told you not to be foolish. The second voice sounded suspiciously like Nobara’s.
You were too scared to trust the girl with the dreams way bigger than her, living in a fairytale, where princes would always find their way to princesses, fight all the dragons and have their happily-ever-afters.
You couldn’t afford to think about it. Closing off, guarding your heart like Cerberus wasn’t an option either, so you did what any reasonable, mature grown-up would do: bury yourself in work.
The large shipment of items, flowers and vases among them, had just been delivered to the shop, before one of your most frequent customers’ jubilee, so you were in dire need of all hands available. As a cruel joke of fate, Nobara was on the other side of the city, and Utahime argued with the suppliers, who messed up an important order again; her angry voice cut through the relative serenity and silence in the shop. Honestly, totally understandable.
Your back hurt from standing for God knew how long, a band-aid on your left hand had already asked for mercy, and the strain in your neck screamed for relief. You tried not to pay attention to the tightness in your shoulders; the exhaustion gave you a much-needed escape from your own mind.
The bell chimed in greeting; your head snapped up to greet a client, only to be met with a familiar flash of snowy hair.
Your heart skipped a beat, and light pink dusted your cheeks.
The little girl sheepishly peeked out of the window in her sandcastle.
“Didn’t expect you to see you here, yet so soon,” you mumbled in greeting, hastily wiping your hands off the apron and, unconsciously, clasping them behind your back. For some reason, you didn’t want Gojo to have a look at your scratches. Not when he was dressed to kill. Probably you.
You dragged your gaze from his figure and stood behind the register. The familiar position gave much-needed strength to deal with the headache Gojo Satoru was. Like you were the one in control.
You didn’t quite recognize your voice, all sharp and business-like, when you asked him.
“How can I help you?”
Gojo didn’t answer you straight away. His gaze swept the surroundings — scattered boxes, vases waiting to be filled, a bunch of balloons — until it landed on you. Something tender and endlessly fragile flashed in his eyes, but he quickly masked it.
“I am here to talk to you and your boss, Miss Iori. I’ve been told I have to wait a bit —”
“...and if you are gonna sell me ranunculi instead of peonies once again, when I specifically asked for the fucking peonies,” you both turned your heads towards Utahime’s office, her voice gradually rising in pitch as she spoke. You swallowed. “I am gonna stick them all up in your ass and —”
You quickly exchanged glances with Gojo. His lips curled into a full-blown grin, the amusement dancing on his face, so unrestrained that you forgot what all the fuss about was.
“She’s a little busy now,” you chuckled in return.
“I see,” Gojo finally turned to you, with the same smile he once stole your heart, and leaned on the register, his long fingers lazily drumming against the surface.
“Actually, it’s even better. I want to talk to you first,” Gojo’s voice, soothing around the edges, dipped to that tone you were all familiar with. Deep and sweet, thick as honey, dying on your tongue in dizzying aftertaste.
“You see, we’re going to have an event soon, and among everything we need florists, obviously.” He flashed you a quick smile, but seeing confusion written all over your face, quickly schooled himself. Gojo glanced around the shop once again: the holiday postcards seemed to pique his interest way more than your reaction, then his gaze drifted to Utahime’s office once again, and finally, he dared to look at your face again.
“And?”
“I want you to be the main designer of the event.”
Gojo’s words didn’t catch you completely off guard. Deep down, you wanted that day not to be a strange accident. Longed to see him again. Needed to allow yourself a moment of foolishness.
A beat of silence passed between you, charged with the heaviness of unspoken words and feelings, deep buried inside to a point you doubt whether you both had even happened. Otherwise, why didn’t you ask him straight away to find someone else? Go from your sight and never return?
Why didn’t you have the strength to resist his gravity? Was it even possible? To deny the Sun its power, when the burns still echoed in your heart with raging ache?
Gojo’s eyes were glued to your face, desperately seeking any clue his expression might hand him. His voice dropped to a desperate whisper.
“I am not going to force you into anything. If you don’t want to deal with this,” the sudden wavering crept into his voice; a grimace briefly crossed his face, “dealing with me, I understand that. But I want to ask you not to do it. You’ll have all the creative freedom you want, all the communication will be handled by my assistant, and we won’t even meet, unless you want it. I promise. Just…just don’t reject the offer because of me. Please.”
Your gaze narrowed, steel slipping into it. As much as the sapphires of his eyes urged you to surrender, to capitulate, to yield, your dignity screamed in objection.
“Why are you so adamant about this? Why do you want me to do this?”
His lips curled into a small knowing smile, bitter around the edges. His finger lightly tapped on the bunch of receipts, eyes drifting to the forgotten band-aid on your hand. The tightness in your shoulders didn’t go unnoticed either.
“I think you need it. To feel in your place once again.”
How.
How did he manage to dig into your chest and rip your heart, revealing all the quiet battles you had been fighting? After all those years? Making you seen, even now?
But why did he think he still had a chance to tear you apart? To open apart old scars, the ones you were slowly stitching together?
The sudden anger bloomed bright in your chest, dipping all your words in venom.
“You promised me a lot of things, Gojo. I don’t quite remember you keeping them.”
A sparkle of icy fury flashed in Gojo’s eyes, and his jaw tightened. You didn’t allow yourself to flinch as he stared right into your eyes — the swords clashing in a deadly dance.
You dug your nails into your palm hard enough to leave crescents.
“Come on, say something. Give me a reason to hate you.”
The anger in his eyes slowly melted into an ache until guilt flooded the blue of them. Gojo stepped back with a sigh. His fingertips twitched as if he wanted to reach you, but then stopped halfway.
“I know I had hurt you. And believe me, this is not how I imagined us having a conversation like this,” Gojo’s gaze caressed your features, memorizing them, as if it would be his last chance to see you at all. Miraculously, you hold yourself from giving in to the apology and regret that laced his voice. You weren’t ready to face everything once again. Your heart was still bleeding for him. “If you want to talk about it — “
A subtle shake. “I do not.”
“Okay. Okay. I understand. Then just think about what I said. Please.”
Your gaze dropped. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to look right into his face and say “fuck you”, among many other things you were desperate to cry out. To scream, to push, to take him apart like he once did to you.
But you couldn’t.
You didn’t notice Gojo left the shop until the annoying doorbell chirped right through the haze of your mind.
Exhausted, you dragged your hand over your face and slumped into the nearby chair, deep in thought.
***
Utahime didn’t urge you to anything, and while you were grateful for that, the answer she hoped for was visible in the tight set of her shoulders as she looked through the bills, the tired sigh that would escape her every time she dealt with the suppliers, not to mention the rude customers. The jubilee was the last big event before the usual dry period.
Your inner scales gradually tipped towards Gojo’s offer more and more, with every strain in your neck, headache pounding with deafening force at your temples and endless scratches on your palms.
One evening, with you and Nobara crashing on your couch, you finally felt the scales tipped in Gojo’s favour. As the days blurred into a limitless working routine, where the only light was his words, whispering in the back of your exhausted mind with more and more annoying insistence, you found yourself eventually thinking about his offer more and more.
“So, you gonna text him or what?” Nobara mused, swirling the wine in her glass, sitting with her legs tucked. The Friday evening downed at you with a startling surprise.
You mindlessly twirled a business card that Gojo left for you at the register the day he visited the shop. Strangely, it completely slipped out of your mind. A quick brush of fingers against the plastic — an elegantly written GOJO SATORU caught the light — until it hit the coffee table. Nobara reached for it to examine.
“Whoa, as cocky as ever.”
“Well, he’s the CEO or whoever,” you murmured dismissevely and took a gulp from your own glass. The liquid bloomed bitterly at the tip of your tongue, and you put it away with a sigh.
Even wine didn’t help. You slowly tilted your head back until it hit the back of the couch.
“Okay, let’s look at this from the other side,” Nobara discarded the card somewhere and sat cross-legged. You cracked one eye open, and the sight of her business-like expression almost made a groan slip your lips. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
When Nobara was in a mood, nothing in the world could stop her. You slowly straightened, but her next words made you choke on your own breath.
“It’s not like he’s gonna confess that he was a massive jerk and ask for your hand in marriage.”
You spluttered, heat rising your cheeks. “Nobara!”
The small decorative throw pillow landed on her face with the precision of a sniper. She huffed and rolled her eyes.
“Just saying. Not like that’s ever happening.”
A silence fell upon both of you, while you chewed on your bottom lip, musing over Gojo’s last words, which still lingered in your heart with a dull ache.
Nobara narrowed her eyes and cocked her brow in a silent question. You swallowed and gave in with a sigh.
“He tried to talk to me that day,” you paused, choosing the next words, fully aware of Nobara’s glaring daggers in you. “Just admitted he hurt me, but I wasn’t ready for this whole conversation. Like, at all. You know what I mean, right?”
You slowly dragged your gaze to her, only to meet her softened gaze, full of sympathy. Wordlessly, she opened her arms, and you fell into her embrace. A quiet sniffle escaped you as you buried your face in her hoodie. Still without saying anything, Nobara brushed a lone hair strand behind your ear.
She indeed knew what you meant.
When she held you in her arms, after Gojo ghosted you, brushed off like you never ever happened in his life. When she was by your side without even asking, dragging you back to the world, where Gojo was no longer a part of you. When she helped you to stand on your own once again.
Nobara knew. You knew. Creeping between the cracks of things you never said.
“I don’t know what to do.” Your voice got muffled by the fabric, but your best friend heard you all good. She patted your head with a soft, melancholic smile and murmured.
“I think you do, sweetheart.”
You went still in her arms, before mumbling something affirmative, and pulled back. Your fingers nervously trembled as you typed Gojo’s number.
“I won’t let him get me this time.”
Nobara watched you with a serious face, chin resting in her palm, elbow digging into the plush of the throw pillows. God, she hoped you were right. Not like her, or you would survive another heartbreak by Gojo Satoru. This time, it might come crushing even more.
She moved closer, your thighs brushing against each other’s, as she peeked at your screen. Her eyes briefly scanned the text before giving an approving nod.
You exhaled sharply before anxiously hitting the send button.
The three dots appeared in your chat alarmingly fast. Like Gojo had been chained to his phone, waiting for your text. You slowly exchanged glances with Nobara.
“He’s typing something.”
“Thanks, Sherlock.”
You threw her an annoyed glance. “Shut it.”
Not even a minute had passed since your own message when the phone dinged with a notification from Gojo.
Gojo
22:54
Hi. Honestly, I didn’t expect you to text at all. Of course, my offer is still up and will be. Told you it’s yours. We can meet on Monday to discuss the details, if you’re free.
“Oh, he’s so sweet, it’s disgusting,” Nobara fake gagged and reached for her long forgotten wine. You didn’t dignify it with a response.
You
22:56
yeah, monday works for me. what about 2 p.m.?
Gojo
22:56
Totally fine. See you then.
You watched three dots appearing and disappearing in the chat, and your grip on the phone tightened with each passing second.
Gojo
22:58
Good night.
Your heart did a stupid flip, totally not needed and surely out of place. You shouldn’t have this reaction to Gojo Satoru. Shouldn’t!
With a sigh, you blocked the phone and stared up at the ceiling, mulling over what Monday would bring to you.
***
The clock in the Gojo’s reception barely hit 12 a.m., when his secretary, a tall blonde woman with a polite smile, invited you into his office. Honestly, you regretted not asking to meet you at least at a neutral territory the moment you stepped into the cold, pristine walls of the Six Eyes Corp. The ride in the elevator felt endless, your anxiety rising with each passing second, and the sight of an entire horde of managers and support staff running around didn’t help.
Corporation shmorporation.
Wait. Would you become another cog in this soulless capitalism machine the moment you agree to Gojo’s offer?
You didn’t have time to think through it properly, opening the door to his office.
It was bigger than the reception, but not as enormous as you imagined. The first thing that caught your eye was the panoramic windows, with the entire Kyoto spread before your eyes. The walls were adorned with beautiful paintings: you squinted your eyes to examine them, which probably belonged to the brush of some niche Japanese artist. His workplace was surprisingly neat, especially given the way you remembered Gojo, when you both were…were. The laptop, a bunch of papers to be signed, pens in a holder, and…wait for a damn minute.
A mug. A simple mug just near a stapler. Slightly cracked, the logo rubbed off, but the image of a winking cat was still visible.
Blood pounded in your ears, while you tried to get a grip on your anxious thoughts. You took a tentative step closer to observe it better, but there was no point in it. It really was the same mug you gifted him at that fair. A prize for the biggest donation. His donation. Gojo kept it in his room, and you drank from the mug more times than you could count. He would often joke that it was his favourite trophy.
And he kept it. On his table, in his office, where he ruled the world that this corporation was. Why?
Why? Did he think of you? Did he recall that fair? The shelter?
Ironically, Gojo didn’t notice you. His back was facing you as he talked to someone over the phone, looking at the city beneath his feet. You allowed yourself a moment of shameless gawking at his back in the crisp white of a button-up. His voice was clipped, words short, and exhaustion laced his words. You felt bad for intruding this place for a moment, especially when his shoulders dropped, as he ran fingers through the hair: the clear white of it catching the light in a way that stole your breath. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up, exposing the map of the veins on his forearms, muscles slightly flexing with every move. You swallowed and quickly looked away.
He finally acknowledged you with a slight tilt of his head and dismissed the call with a quick “Not now. Busy,” gesturing for you to take a chair.
You carefully sat, fingers fumbling with the strap of a bag to get your notebook, as Gojo slumped in his chair, which screamed The Big Boss™. He hooked his thumb in the tie with irritation to loosen it, and your gaze briefly flicked there. You smiled sympathetically.
“Rough day?”
“A bit.”
Your grip on the notebook tightened. “We can reschedule, I don’t mind.”
Gojo’s white brows knitted together in confusion, and he immediately straightened up. “No, why would we? I am peachy.”
Your shoulders dropped in a shrug. “Okay.”
“Wanna some coffee or tea? I hope Mei Mei offered you something.”
“Ah, yeah, I’ve just had coffee. Thanks.” Yes. Coffee was a totally plausible excuse for your fidgeting.
“I see.”
Inevitably, you kept sneaking glances at Gojo, pulled closer by the gravity. He twirled the pan between his long, pale fingers, checking something on the laptop, his eyes briefly scanning the screen. Then suddenly he looked up, catching you red-handed just mid-gawking. You briefly dropped your gaze back to the notebook, while his lips curled into a little smug grin. You cleared your throat, the business-like mask slipping on your face.
“So, I’ll need to know what exactly the kind of event it is going to be, a venue, and a budget at first. If you have something specific in mind for the design, I’ll also be glad to hear.”
Gojo’s grin softened as he listened to your questions, head tilted, a dreamy gaze caressing your features. You looked so charming, sitting all serious in his office.
Only when you cocked your brow in an attempt to hurry him did he realize he was shamelessly staring at you all this time. Well done, Gojo. Very professional. He quickly typed something on the laptop just to avoid your gaze.
“It’s gonna be an annual charity event for our foundation. They used to be hosted in the Tokyo branch, but this year the board decided to hold it there, in Kyoto.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you ran a foundation”.
A smile broke on Gojo’s face, and he hummed. “Well, a lot of things changed since —” he abruptly cut them off, probably having realized he sounded kind of insensitive. You hold your breath, “since I became the CEO.”
You breathed out and marked something off in your list.
“I see. That’s…that’s really good. I am glad things are taking on a better turn.”
“Me too.”
Gods, that was so awkward. This really should’ve been a call. Gojo, however, either didn’t notice this strange atmosphere or simply decided to ignore it. He examined you with his bright blue gaze, head tilted to the side. A curious smile played on his lips, and you hated that he was effortlessly charming even now. Always had been. You pressed a pen to your lips. His gaze flicked there, as if hypnotized.
“What about the venue?”
“The hotel next to the main building. We have a partnership with this chain, so it’s kinda a mutual offer. You should’ve seen it on the way here.”
Oh yes, you did. The said building screamed luxury, not the grotesque hyperbolized one, but something way quieter. The kind that clearly told you would’ve been odd there.
Okay, you thought. You would be working there, not catching glimpses of visitors and the staff.
Another mark in the notebook.
“Budget?”
Gojo waved his hand in dismissal. “Unlimited. The floor is yours.”
You arched your brow, humming. You didn’t have a lot of luck in encountering your exes, who wanted you to work for them with an unlimited budget. “What if I asked for, I don’t know, Juliet Roses?”
He hummed in return, fingers drumming against the wood of the table. Then leaned slightly in, amusement lacing his tone as he drawled.
“I don’t understand much about that. But sure, whatever you want.”
You pressed your lips into a thin line, earning a deep chuckle from Gojo. Teasing the guy who had more money than you would ever be able to make wasn’t as funny as you thought.
After this, you discussed the setting, a couple of specific ideas you already had outlined and some technical details. Gojo tried to crack some jokes, but you weren’t as enthusiastic about them as he was, so he quickly put on a business guy mask on. At the end of the meeting, your mind buzzed quietly with all the information, but a familiar feeling of excitement flooded you: hours of brainstorming, crafting, and creating waited for you. A big heartfelt smile broke on your face as you packed your things back into the bag.
Gojo offered to walk you back to the elevator, and you didn’t find any excuse to refuse him. The silence stretched between you, not unnecessarily heavy, but you wouldn’t call it comfortable. Your gaze swept the surroundings, landing on a couple of managers, who were stealing sneaky glances at both of you and whispering something to each other with sharp smirks.
Ugh. Like you were back in the university once again, meeting dumbfounded gazes of students, the moment they eyed you up next to Gojo.
He was humming something to yourself, completely unbothered, leaning on the wall with the air of confidence that suggested he owned this whole world. And he surely did, if the world closed in on this corporation.
You quickly looked over your shoulder. “Didn’t it bother you?”
He stopped humming, eyes briefly flickering to your face. A lopsided grin curled his lips. “What are you talking about?”
Ah, as usual. He didn’t even notice the gaze, the whispers and the gossiping. Again, the sun didn’t bother to pay attention to satellites.
You wordlessly glanced at the girls back and stared at the elevator. Gojo watched you with his head tilted and followed the direction of your gaze. The moment his eyes landed on the gossiping managers, his jaw tightened, and the steel crept into his voice. “Ah. I see.”
Your head snapped towards Gojo, and without much thinking, you grabbed him by the wrist. “I didn’t mean anything, let them be — “
“Hey, Chloe!” His voice boomed across the hall, causing one girl to nearly drop her binder. You could see her swallowing with effort even from this distance. A charming smile tugged on the corner of his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes, as he drawled in a deceptively sweet voice. “I presume you already finished the monthly report, since you have plenty of free time?”
The crimson crept up Chloe’s cheeks as she gripped the binder tighter, babbling. “No, Mr. Gojo, I was merely —”
His smile turned more wolfish as he tilted his head. “Then get your friend outta of here and do something useful.”
Chloe briefly exchanged glances with her friend before quickly making their way to the offices. Gojo watched until their figures disappeared and turned to you with a mischievous smile.
“Nah, it doesn’t.”
You couldn’t help but smile in return. “They are gonna talk even more, you know.”
His shoulders dropped in a lazy shrug, but his gaze fixed you with its usual intensity. You forgot how the sharpness of it used to make your breath bated.
“There’s nothing to talk about. Unless?”
Your heart stammered against your ribs at the innuendo in his tone. Inevitably, you remembered the mug from the shelter on his table, and while you were debating whether to bring it up or keep your mouth shut, the elevator behind finally dinged. A sign, hah?
You hastily stepped forward just to hide from Gojo when his fingers brushed against your wrist.
“Wait — “
“You look beautiful today.”
“I like your blouse, this colour suits you.”
“You curled your hair, right? I love the way they frame your face.”
The blue of his eyes pinned you to the ground as if you were a butterfly. Gojo’s lips parted, but the words never came, and slowly he let your hand go, letting the crowd in the elevator swallow you and take you away from him.
He inhaled slowly and stared at the ceiling.
What was the name of those flowers?
***
The next days passed in a blur as you started planning the event. Honestly, you hadn’t felt such a wave of excitement since…a long time ago. You didn’t blame your flower shop and Utahime, hell, you never could, but turned out when your hands weren’t constantly covered in all sorts of scraps, knees hurt from standing so much and back almost breaking from carrying the vases, you enjoyed your job well more.
Gojo kept his promise and didn’t contact you until it was absolutely necessary. However, you couldn’t hide the way your heart would skip a beat wherever he appeared at the venue or when he sent you a little emoji at the end of his texts. You told yourself not to live in illusions, but it became increasingly harder with his gaze caressing you, when Gojo thought you didn’t pay attention. The strange, tender ache in his eyes made your insides churn with some unspeakable feeling you weren’t ready to name at all, and for the sake of your mentality, you decided you would pretend it was a simple curiosity. The mug on his office table whispered insistently that you were wrong. You stubbornly shoved the thought away.
Gojo didn’t overstep, keeping your relationship on a faint, barely non-existent line of business partners and past acquaintances. Though sometimes he couldn’t help himself and…mishaps indeed happened.
For example, on your first day at the venue, you were greeted by an elegant bouquet of Juliet roses and pink hydrangeas. The florist in you critically examined the bouquet and admitted it was too your liking, but the thought that it was for you didn’t even cross your mind (tell about originality — giving flowers to the florist), when Gojo happened to peek in and noticed the bouquet didn’t move an inch.
“Is something wrong with the flowers? I thought you liked these roses.”
Too engrossed in your files, you didn’t even catch his words, staring mindlessly at the screen of your laptop, until a shadow loomed over the table and you begrudgingly had to look up. You stared at Gojo in confusion.
He nodded at the bouquet. “You didn’t like the flowers?”
Your brows knitted in confusion as you followed the direction of his gaze. “No. The composition is really good. I like the way the hydrangeas frame the roses. Juliet roses! The guy doesn’t play about his date,” you chuckled and added immediately. “Or the lady. Either way, the flowers are nice.”
A beat of silence passed between you, enveloping you in its warm embrace. A light pink dusted Gojo’s cheekbones, and he murmured in pretend nonchalance.
“So you didn’t check the card?”
Now you felt completely dumbfounded and slightly irritated that Gojo kept distracting you from the work at hand. “No, why would I —”
Your gaze briefly flicked to the flowers at one of the tables and back to Gojo, who kept eyeing with his usual intensity, stripping you bare of any defences. Then it hit you.
This bouquet was for you.
“Oh”, you murmured nervously, and forced a quick smile, involuntarily straightening up in a chair. Now you couldn’t wait to read the card. “I-I am sorry, I just thought. You know.” You twirled a pen between your fingers, mulling over the next words. There was a little excitement in telling your ex-situationship that you weren’t used to flowers. Usually, when the guys heard about you being the florist, they joked, “Then you are probably tired of seeing them,” as an excuse.
It stopped amusing you on the third date. On the fifth, you resisted the urge to smack them. On the tenth, you silently prayed they would shut up.
You muttered as politely as you could. “You didn’t have to, Gojo. Thank you.”
A strange melancholy lacing your voice didn’t go past Gojo. His tone hardened. “If you liked them, then I absolutely had to.”
He hated it. He absolutely hated the way your face dropped, sadness crept into your usual bright tone, and the smile became a little too tight around the edges. Despised how you automatically assumed the flowers weren’t for you. Hell, who else were they for?
And the thought of him being the reason you doubted yourself drove him insane to the point of keeping him awake in the night, browsing through your old photos; he couldn’t bring himself to delete. Not only as a memory of what he lost but as evidence of his own cowardice.
He tried to keep you at a distance, letting the contract and the strict confines of the agreement define you. He thought it would be easier this way.
But there was nothing easy about either of you. Never was. And in the end, he gave up. The lines blurred between you so hard that he couldn’t keep pretending anymore.
Synopsis: in which popular girl!reader is done with shitty players and wants to try the newest delicacy: virgin nerds. It’s game on to seduce the physics student, who seems more than ready to abandon his life of celibacy.
But their arrangement only works if they’re both on the same page. What happens when one expects a little more than sex?
Is it game over?
Warnings: eventual smut, plot with porn, fake dating trope, college au, no curses au, mean girl!reader, fem dom!reader, nerd!jo, subby!gojo, virgin!gojo, masochist!gojo, some angst but with a happy ending, very early 2000s romcoms, reader grows a lot (hate towards her will not be tolerated), reader gets humbled quite often here lol, chapter specific warnings will be listed on the chapter, some allusions to toxic/unhealthy relationships and coping, not proofread
Word Count: 41k
Gojo art by @/Leimiruu on X
Chapter ONE - Game start
Chapter TWO - Different levels
Chapter THREE - Boss fight
Chapter FOUR - Perfect victory
Disclaimers:
♤ COMPLETED
♤ Available on AO3.
♤ This is a mix of fluff, smut and angst, so minors/ageless blogs do not interact.
♤ Any comments hating on the reader in this story will be deleted and the user will be blocked. The story plays on the mean girl trope so you will see mean girl behaviour. Just know this is all intentional. If you are sensitive to a flawed female character, do not read. I know what some of you are like. I have played these games before.
♤ This is a college au separate from my EdenU au. Different Gojo and university setting altogether. Any semblance is coincidental.
♤ Every part of this is of my own work. No AI or external inspiration was used. Please do not repost this on Tumblr or on any other platform without credits. I do not give permission for this to be translated. And please do not feed my work into AI.
Every Roman citizen loved gladiatorial fights. Just not you. But when you finally decided to see one in the company of your husband, it turned out that one fighter in particular had set his eye on you. A beast, a brute, a butcher, with strong knees that could bend solely for his lady.
part of the Gods, Heroes, Warriors collection!
pairings: Gladiator!Toji x Noblewoman!Reader
content/warnings: MDNI 18+, Ancient Rome AU, pretty historically accurate, based on the story of Eppia and Sergius, violence, heavy smut, class differences, Roman Empire, creampie, slight breeding (of course), Toji is a slave, happy ending, oral (both receiving), p in v, manhandling, size kink, age gap, Toji is so smug uhhh
WC: 11.3k
a/n: hello dears, it's finally here! This fanfic is based on the story of noblewoman Eppia and gladiator Sergius, so you're welcome to dive deeper into their story, though there's not much there, honestly, since their relationship was satirised by Juvenal. I glued some pieces and wrote this story, but I'm sure some things were different from the original one.
art from as always idk who (please help meeee)
divider form @pixopix
The atmosphere was rather stiff and dull as you sat next to your husband and tried to listen to his tirade on the latest news on the games. Of how excited he was to sponsor the new season and bathe in glory together with the winner, whom he would reward richly. You wished to remind him that he wasn't, in fact, the one fighting, so there was no need for such excitement. Although you've heard of some non-slave daredevils, noblemen and even emperors themselves who, in fact, liked to participate in gladiatoral games just for fun. For the sake of merciless killing and a thrill, with matches always set for their favour. Wounded animals, weakened fighters – they were the easiest targets.
And one time, when your husband got overly excited with an idea of participating in the games himself, you almost burst from happiness. The idea of this weak, pathetic man, finally gone from your life, sent a shiver of excitement down your spine, although his senatorial position indeed bathed you in luxury.
You glanced over your husband's shoulder, nodding towards the servant to bring in the desserts, for you truly couldn't listen to him any longer.
"Would you like to join, my dear?"
Your brows creased as you tried to remember what exactly he was talking about just a minute before.
Ah, yes. Gladiatorial games.
"You know I'm not quite fond of such a brute, husband."
Morning sun caught lazily on the utensils, bathing the whole, long table in dancing strokes. Warm rays kissed the back of your neck as the ravishing garden, together with a marble pool, spread outside the big windows of your mansion.
"All senators bring their wives; you should join us, too. The fights will be quite exciting this year; we have a lot of good gladiators. I paid lavishly for their training, you'll see."
For a man of such a high position, your husband was quite a fool and dull at that. There was no love in your marriage nor happiness, but you felt quite pleased whenever he was leaving you alone and enjoying his time in yearly festivities, which always included his favourite fights.
He invited you everytime – to join all other senators, chat with their wives and watch how men and animals are killing one another. To wonder at the excitement that such fights always woke in everyone, even in other senators' wives, who usually strolled away from any barbarian events.
And although you truly didn't want to put in your two cents' worth, maybe you indeed should check it at least once. Particularly now that your husband was on a good path towards the promotion and buttering him up would be more than beneficial. Maybe he would stop his embarrassing attempts to fill his marital role and satisfy you during nights, especially since you already gave him two children.
"Mother, can we join too?"
Speak of the devil.
"No, you're still too young–"
But your husband seemed to have another perspective, scoffing under his nose and pointing at your son with a dirty knife. His mouth was full, as he stated. "Of course you may, my son. You too, daughter. You should see those men – they may be slaves, but have the power of a hundred lions! Maybe we should buy one, huh?"
Your son was a copy of your husband, with the same devilish smile and slightly arrogant tone, looking up to his father as if he were an emperor himself. Your daughter, on the other hand, was of a kind sort and rather quiet, always keeping to herself, remind you of your younger days.
And as much as you loved your children, they were your tie. Pulling you down to the miserable life you've led, without any tenderness nor joy. It was rich coming from a person of your class, but the truth was that you craved an adventure for your whole life. Yearned for a fiery romance, awaited some excitement, wished to spend your days outside this lavish mansion, not feeling trapped and strangled by all the riches and life as a noble.
Not to mention that your husband always tried to keep you close by his side, either locking you up in the house or never allowing for any travelling.
Truly miserable, suffocating life you've had.
Until that faithful day, when your whole family finally joined the gladiatoral games.
It was the first day out of the planned month, with spectators already glimmering with excitement and wine cups clutched in their hands. The special lounge for senatorial families was right on the podium, offering the greatest view of the arena. Low and prestigious, with marble seats forged for the noble ones, comfortable and hidden enough to protect their smooth skins from the scorching sun. It was another sizzling day, with your flowy robes giving you some comfort under the merciless rays that wished to drill a hole in your head. White tunic tickled your ankles, uncovered shoulders glimmered in sweat, as your golden bracelets and dangling hairpins moved gracefully with your every step.
Other senators were already there, and you nodded toward them politely, as they completly ignored you and indulged in another dull chat with your husband. Their wives sat on marble benches, chittering between one another and taking little sips of wine, which was waiting for everyone together with a few snacks. You wondered how anyone could eat in such a scenario, as your stomach twisted just from the sheer fact of being here.
The amphitheatre was almost full, with stony seats bending under the excitement of all the spectators and the emperor himself already waiting for the first fighters to appear. The raised box glowed in gentle beams, the emperor's gold laurel reflecting the warm rays of sunshine, as he finally raised his hand.
"It's starting," your husband whispered, squeezing your hand as his eyes glimmered with anticipation. "All gladiators will walk in and present themself to the emperor. Then they'll do some rounds around the arena, so everyone will have a chance to see them from up close."
You had no idea why your husband decided to give you instructions, so nothing but a quiet sigh pushed your lips. The air was heavy and dry, with a dust rising from the scorching sand that filled the arena, as the first fighters stepped in through the metal gate.
All of them wore different armour, helmets, and weapons. Each man of a different height and size, some looking wide as mountains, others rather sicklish, and you wondered whether they would drop out first. You did know, however, that gladiators were divided into various types, with each one trained for something else. Some of them heavily armoured, others not. Some carried a short sword and a round shield, others a scimitar. Ones battling only animals, and the others fighting against one another.
You observed them with little to no interest, rather bored, with sweet wine tickling smoothly down your throat. Your husband sitting at the chair's edge, peeking at the row of fighters parading in front of the emperor's podium, before a loud "Hail, Emperor, those who are about to die salute you!" cut through the restless air of the amphitheatre.
Sounded like a death sentence rather than a declaration of a professional fighter, as your husband loved to call them.
You didn't want to belittle them, but the truth was, these men lost their will for glorious fights a long time ago. The moment they were taken away as slaves, stolen from defeated armies and brought back to the foreign lands. Stripped of their dignity, titles, and lives, pushed into brutal entertainment that Romans of all statues loved and cherished.
What was it with such a passion for overwatching the death of others? Why was your husband almost foaming as the fighters started to walk around the arena, getting closer and closer to their sponsors' lounge?
"You see that one?" his fingers showed a masked man with a bronze helmet and face covered by a fishnet. One of his hands carried a big shield, while the other held a sword. "His name is Toji. A beast, truly. I've been sponsoring him for a while, he has never lost a fight."
All fighters moved your way swiftly, their heavy legs raising dusty sand in the air, covering muscular legs up to their knees. He looked massive, indeed like a beast. Towering over other fighters, with sun-kissed skin and nothing but a loose robe hugging his hips. Broad chest glimmered with sweat, and the covered face looked up towards the senator's lounge immediately.
Your husband raised two fingers, already babbling about how he's gonna invite him for a fest tonight. Give a little motivation to win all the other fights, domesticate his own little beast, and bring in more money.
Your eyes scanned the way his muscular legs moved smoothly, arms bulging under the carried weapons, head slightly tilted, as if looking at... you?
Impossible.
A row of men stood in front of senators, another round of applause directed towards their sponsors, as they finally hid back in the amphitheatre's dark tunnels. The first fight would start soon.
"My dear," you mumbled, trying to sound halfhearted. "Who is this man going to fight with?"
Your husband peeked at you with crinkled brows, but also a hint of curiosity, as to why his spoiled wife suddenly took an interest in gladiator fights.
"I'm not sure, probably with the strongest type. He's of a heavily armoured type, thus should compete with a fighter carrying a scimtar and a smaller shield. All of them are quite ferocious, I'm afraid, but Toji never had problems." He looks quite proud, and you hum quietly.
You wanted to ask further, but a sudden melody of a flute sliced through the air, followed by horns and laughter from the spectators, as the first pair walked in. Both looked strikingly different, with one wearing a helmet and a wide, leather belt, bearing a heavy sword in his hand, while the other was armoured in nothing but a metal piece on the left arm, a long spear and a chained fishing net, as if meaning to trap it's oppnent under its trickery hooks.
"Aren't they quite unmatched?" you asked, seeing that one side definitely had a bit of an edge.
Your husband peeked down at your furrowed brows, truly mesmerised by the sudden interest. "Why are you suddenly so curious?"
"You whined that other senators' wives care much more than I," your eyes darted toward the women busied by a chatter, before going back to your husband's quite unhandsome face. "So why the sudden complaint?"
He scoffed, muttering something under his nose, before pointing his finger at the heavily armoured fighter. "You see, he's the secutor. Or pursuer, as you will see based on his attacking style. He indeed has a bit more advantage, but if you look at that man," he moved towards the other one. "You'll see that he, in fact, also has quite a benefit. This fishnet is a deadly weapon if used properly. Quite light, but it can trap you within a second. Secutors usually fight against retiariuses, the most lightly armed ones."
You thought that your husband's favourite gladiator looked quite the same to the pursuer, except for the helmet that rather more distinctive than this one.
"Does it mean that Toji will also fight against such a man?"
"Toji was trained as a murmillo, who usually fights against the thracians. They're both quite fierce and heavily armoured, thus the fight will be much harder."
Your husband's words came and went, sounding rather strange and dull, but somehow piqued your interest as you started awaiting the fight of his precious gladiator. What was it about him that got him so excited? Was he truly that good?
Before you could ask another question, the fight started.
It was brutal and raw, with blood spilt in the first ten minutes. The light fishnet indeed trapped the heavy armoured gladiator in its merciless clasp, before his opponent pushed the sharp spear straight into his ribs, cutting through his flesh, turning the fetal head as it slowly turned red, with screams and wailings coming from the defeated fighter.
When the gladiator went down, shrieks of "He's had it! Kill him! Kill him!" moved like a wave through the arena, with the roundness of the amphitheatre letting them become even more piercing, even fiercer. Both nobles and commoners were running their lungs out till the wounded one finally raised a finger of his left hand.
"What is he doing?" you asked, seeing his opponent suddenly stopping in his tracks. No further blows were made, although you thought that the man would be finished right here and now.
"The crowd decides about his life," your husband explained, and a second later, multiple fingers around you were held up.
Some pointed down.
Some sideways.
A few, fewer than the rest, lifted upward in mercy.
The wounded gladiator lay curled upon the sand like a broken animal, the net still tangled around his legs, crimson soaking the pale grains beneath him. His chest rose in ragged bursts, breath whistling through bloodied teeth.
A pause stretched across the amphitheatre, thick with anticipation. Fifty thousand Romans leaned forward as one body.
Then the signal came.
A downward motion of the hand.
The arena erupted in shouts of excitement, with nothing but "Finish him!", slashing through your ears.
The victorious gladiator didn't hesitate for a second, driving the spear down again, this time clean beneath the collarbone. He pierced him like a butcher, and the dying man trembled as a fish, all limbs sprawled on the dirty sand, helmet long gone, with a few strands of hair stuck to bloodshot eyes.
Servants hurried in immediately, hooks dragging the corpse away, while your eyes were still glued to the bloody trail left after the man.
The crowd was already restless for more.
Your husband leaned back with satisfied ease, clapping slowly along with the other senators.
"Good kill," he murmured.
You didn't say anything, but your throat bobbed, and lips suddenly felt too dry, as another pair walked in.
And another. Another. Another.
Until the surface of the giant arena looked rather like a butcher's shop, with crimson trails and puddles, slowly shifting into a gummy clot.
Your husband cheered and clapped after every fight, and your son followed his steps, laughing as if proudly upon seeing another body getting removed from the arena.
But then your attention had drifted.
The gates beneath the arena floor groaned open again, iron chains rattling like distant thunder. A horn sounded, long and low, calling for the next combatants.
And when he stepped into the light, the entire amphitheatre shifted.
Even before the herald shouted his name.
Toji.
He walked onto the sand like something dragged from the wild places of the earth – a beast, soldier, warrior. A man.
Taller than most fighters by a full head, shoulders broad enough to shame a bull, his body carried the kind of brutal strength no training yard could fully tame.
Sunkissed skin gleamed under the Mediterranean sun, every movement pulling thick ropes of muscles beneath it. You've heard he served in the army before they took him as a slave, which would explain the old scars slashing his back and torso – deep, white lines mapping his skin, carved like in a marble Godly figures.
You've noticed a slight change in his armour, compared to one presented before.
A leather belt bound his waist, single cloth covering the shameful parts, a single iron guard lapping his arm and a greave clasped around his left leg. The rest of him was bare, unapologetically exposed, as if sculpted by Gods themselves.
His weapon rested easily in his hand, a short and thick sword, built for killing at arm’s length.
But it was not the blade that made the crowd go mute.
It was the way he moved.
Slow. Controlled.
Like a predator, with a damp helmet sitting heavily on his thick neck. You wondered what secrets it held beneath. How did his eyes look as he moved his head towards your lounge, a single movement which sent a shiver down your spine.
Around you, whispers spread through the senators' seats like sparks through dry straw.
"That’s him."
"The undefeated one."
"The barbarian."
Your husband looked like a child who had just got a new toy. His whole body moved forward, hands gripping the armrest of the marble seats. A visible shiver of excitement went through his body, and it seemed as if it touched you too. Your heart suddenly felt heavier, as if burdened by the anticipation of seeing what the beastly man in front of you was able to. To see his muscular arms at work, sword piercing through his opponent's chest, before he could take the helmet off and finally, finally, let you see those eyes that felt as if glued to your cunning figure.
Toji rolled his shoulders once, the movement sending a ripple through his massive frame. Sand shifted beneath his bare feet as he stepped toward the centre of the arena.
Across from him, the next opponent emerged – armoured, shielded, disciplined.
A proper Roman fighter.
The horn sounded again.
And for the first time since the games began, the amphitheatre fell almost silent.
Because the fight was fast.
Maybe too fast, with his oponent chargin forwards right after the last melody of the horn fell flat, getting hit by a Toji just a minute later. They exchanged a few parries, blows, dodging and trying to find each other's openings, before Toji finally did it. His sword flashed, and a wet sound followed, with a blade biting deep into the man's thigh, slicing through his flesh and muscles with ruthless efficiency. Blood gushed down the golden grains, soaking the pale arena sand.
His rival was of similar posture, but nevertheless a bit shorter with rather less defined muscles, now collapsing beneath the blazing sun with a strangled cry. His fingers clawed at the dust, trying to drag himself upright, before Toji kicked his chest without a sweat.
For a moment, both of them simply looked at one another. A peaceful second of silence, right as his opponent grabbed a fistful of sand, as if hoping the earth itself would drag Toji down into limbo.
And before he could give him a final blow, strike with this unwavered confidence, gauge stubborn eyes that burned through Toji's skull, the man raised his finger.
Appeal for mercy.
The crowd erupted immediately.
Some shouted for death.
Others laughed, already drunk on violence.
Your husband leaned forward slightly, his lips curling with amusement as the editor of the games waited for the verdict of the arena.
Thousands of hands moved, with an air quickly shifting under the heavy motion, as if the gentle wind itself suddenly changed the pacing, swirling around the bare fingers.
And once again, the signal came.
Downward.
Toji didn't hesitate, plunging the sword clean beneath the ribs, swift and quite merciful compared to the chaos of the fight. The defeated gladiator exhaled sharply, his body stiffening, jolting, a trace of blood spilling from his lips, before he collapsed lifeless against the relentless sand.
A roar exploded through the amphitheatre.
Toji pulled the blade free, wiping it against the fallen man’s tunic before raising it briefly toward the stands in acknowledgment of the crowd.
Blood streaked his forearm, glistening under the Roman sun.
For a fleeting moment, his gaze lifted higher than the arena floor.
Towards the noble seats.
Towards you.
And though the distance was great, something was unsettling in the tilt of his head, a tremble of his chest, as if he pushed out a strangled laugh.
You looked at him for a while, with squinted eyes and a white tunic suddenly feeling a bit too tight around your chest. Droplets of sweat trickling down the velvet skin of your neck, heart fluttering as you looked from above at the man, who suddenly woke in you a sense of rush you haven't felt for a long time.
⟡⟡⟡
Your husband's message was clear – Toji must join the feast. The man blabbered all the way back to the mansion, already hung with lavish decorations and lit by a trail of gentle torches that decorated the walls and corners of your house. The fest was to be held for the nobility and the start of another fruitful games season, which would bathe your husband in glory for sponsoring such a fine gladiator.
Toji's presence was a mere brag, a showcase of your husband's valuable slave who, in fact, was nothing but just a slave. A chained beast that played as your husband wanted, although from what you've heard, he had already earned his freedom.
"Why is he still fighting, then?"
You've asked, preparing yourself for the feast that was supposed to start in a few hours.
Your husband sat at the terrace of your bedroom, the slowly setting sun basking his grey hair in gentle strokes of straw hues, with a velvety wine swirling in a held cup.
"No one's waiting for him. Some of these men have nothing but these fights. Toji gets the roof and the glory for merely doing what he's best at. You think a life of an solider was any better?"
You didn't know, because you've never had a chance to talk to another man. A gladiator or a soldier, at that. You were nobody but a pretty, youthful wife, spending her days on strolls around the garden and chatting with noblewomen, till you wished for nothing else but to slit your throat and finally die in peace.
The mansion you hated so much was your only playground, and you knew its walls as the back of your hand. Every polished nook, every secret room, far from the prying eyes of your servants. With bold dreams to leave it one day and see the world beyond these creamy walls and single trips to the city, with your husband's hand always glued to the curve of your back.
So no, you didn't really have a chance to think about the lives of soldiers.
You glanced at the mirror, smoothing the bluish folds of your dress. It was simple, yet cunning in its grace, brushing softly against your ankles as you moved, the fabric whispering with every careful step. It clung sweetly to the curve of your waist and plush breasts, the low neckline revealing the delicate stretch of collarbones and softness of your skin, glowing faintly beneath the last warm rays of sunshine.
A long band of golden cloth wrapped around your middle, accentuating the dip of your waist before falling in loose folds to your knees, swaying like liquid sunlight with every smooth step of your feet. The contrast of blue waves and golden grain made you appear almost celestial – like a goddess stepping down from a painted myth.
Hair fell gently over the shoulder as the first guests started to appear. Eyes of men glued to the glow of your skin, women blushing gently under the stern smile that turned your lips.
Oh, how gorgeous the senator's wife was, with this sweet touch of perfume that lingered around you, almost as if a lush garden bloomed right under your silky skin.
You walked around the main room, greeting certain nobles – senators, aristocrats, other sponsors, who, similar to your husband, put their money in this year's games.
Dress skimmed your skin as you observed the banquet growing louder, bustier, with more and more people filling the walls of your mansion, already laughing drunkenly and glimmering with excitement for the next fights.
You stood next to your husband, smiling politely, fingers gripping the wine cup, eyes glued to the front doors, as if waiting for a certain guest to come through them.
And when his burly body finally filled the frame of mahogany doors, your chest faltered.
Dark hair clung to his neck, and sharp, emerald eyes scanned the room with quietness. He stood tall and broad, upper body covered by an iron guard, a red cloak flowing down his muscular shoulders. His hips clutched by an aproan skirt, with a deep crimson cloth grazing his knees. Light brown sandals wrapped around his firm calves, as single straps pushed against the muscles.
"Finally, the man of the hour!" your husband clapped and laughed heartily, pulling you towards the gladiator.
He didn't look like a slave at all, as you expected the chains around his wrists and a whole bunch of soldiers to escort him straight to your mansion. No, he looked rather like a general, a man worthy of all the gossip, standing proud and towering over both you and your husband. His scarred lips turned into a mild smirk before head dipped down to greet the senator.
"Thank you, senator, for the invitation. I'm honoured to be a part of your banquet," his voice was deep and steady, as he straightened up and moved his heavy gaze towards you.
A nymph.
A goddess.
A woman, who must've been born of the sea shell itself, the Venus of Heaven, because a single flatter of your eyes, a gleam of the gold necklace posing softly between your breasts, a swoosh of this ocean's dress that hugged your hips tightly, made this man's knees weak.
And his knees, in fact, were anything but weak.
"Great fight, Toji. You truly have nothing on these men," your husband squeezed his shoulder with laughter before he pointed at you. "Please, meet my wife. It was her first time seeing gladiator fights today. It seems like you've enamoured her!"
It was a mere joke, but a thin line of tension that hung between you and this beastly man suddenly shimmered, as his scarred lips lifted in a sly smile, and your cheeks suddenly felt hottish.
"My lady, I hope I did not disappoint you," he whispered, head once again dipping slightly down. He wished to take your silky hand and kiss it softly, but he was still nothing but a mere slave whose touch was too filthy for a woman of your sort.
"I was anything but disappointed. Quite interesting, I must say, although I do rather condemn the whole idea of these fights."
Your honeyed voice made him tremble – head still dropped, eyes glued to the way your plush thighs moved under the flimsy robes of the dress.
"Does it mean you won't come to tomorrow's fight?"
He straightened back up, once again towering like a bear over your figure. He swore that a golden, divine halo seemed to lick your skin, as he's never seen someone beaming with such loveliness.
Your forehead creased, a gentle furrow appearing between your brows, while he waited for the answer anticipated the most.
"Maybe. Do you plan to win it?"
"If my lady wishes to, I will."
Your husband smiled foolishly for this whole time, as if not feeling the thin thread that seemed to form between you and his slave. Electrifying sparks scuffing your fingers, like electromagnets that hoped to connect your skin together with his.
Before you could grace him with another flatter of your doe eyes, another sentors circled him like ducks, quacking and touching the gladiator's hardened muscles.
Your husband showed him off like a trophy, as you moved away deeper inside the house, trying to hide your flushed cheeks and clear tremble of your breath.
The mansion was alive with noise.
Wine flowed freely, laughter echoing beneath painted ceilings where scenes of gods and heroes stretched across the plaster in fading colors. Lamps flickered along the marble walls, casting warm gold over clusters of senators lounging on cushioned couches, their voices rising louder with every emptied cup.
Servants drifted between them like ghosts – refilling goblets, carrying platters heavy with figs, roasted birds, olives glistening in oil.
You slipped away from it all.
Deeper into the villa, where the air cooled, and the sound of laughters softened into distant murmurs. The corridors here were dimmer, lit only by a few oil lamps resting in bronze holders along the walls. Marble beneath your sandals felt pleasantly cold, grounding the restless warmth still fluttering through your chest.
You paused near an open atrium, with moonlight spilling softly through the square opening in the roof and a small fountain murmuring in the centre. You sat near it, catching the little droplets that swirled between your fingers, down the golden bracelets that clanked with every move of your wrist.
And as you sat there alone, deep in thought, with nothing but a warm Mediterranean wind swirling the soft lock of your hair, you felt it.
Again.
This heavy presence, steps against the stone behind you, a slow pacing before it stopped somewhere in the dimmed corridors.
You turned, seeing Toji standing at the far end of the hall.
Even in the low light, his figure seemed enormous, filling the narrow passage like a shadow carved from muscle and bone. His devilishly handsome face was half-lighted by the warm fire of lamps, black hair stuck to his forehead, sharp chin tilting. He leaned against the marble wall, burly arms crossed on the chest.
"You're missing the feast, my lady," he murmured, eyes skimming your figure bathed in the pale glow of moonlight.
"I prefer quieter places," you turned back to the fountain, hearing him coming a bit closer.
"Not a fan of such gathering?"
A quiet scoff pushed through your lips. "Rather not a fan of my husband."
He chuckled, sitting right next to you on the little marble edge of the fountain. Gaze dipping down to the open neckline of your dress, before tracing up till the flutter of your lashes.
"A damsel in distress, aren't you?" his voice held a soft trace of mockery, and you glanced up at him with a wrinkle.
"My fate may not be as horrific as yours, but it doesn't mean I should be thankful for all the riches."
His head tilted, eyes glimmering with amusement, as scarred lips turned upward again. The emerald eyes lingered on you heavily, and you noticed that your breath hitched when his body moved closer. "You think my fate is horrific?"
"Is it not?"
He chuckled, leaning back on his palms, gaze turned towards the fairy moon. "I don't know, is there anything awaiting a man like me? The deal with your foolish husband is the best I can get. I live in single quarters, train young men in an imperial school to prepare them for games. Maybe I'll get hired out one day as a bodyguard of a wealthy politician, who knows."
Your finger traced the smooth droplets dripping from the fountain, eyes trying to not to outline the veiny forearms he leaned on. "What about a lover?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Lover?"
"A wife," you corrected yourself. "Did you have a wife before being taken as a..." the voice caught in your throat, as if defining him as that would be at least inappropriate.
"A slave," he finished, peeking secretly at the single lock of hair that skimmed your cheek and soft skin kissed by a rosy tint. "I didn't have a time. Was drafted into the army in my twenties, taken as a slave entering my thirties."
Oh, so he was older than you. Much older at that, although you shouldn't be surprised, seeing the mature lines of his handsome face and little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. Refined muscles and broad shoulders that seemed to carry centuries of pain, with scars lapping his sun-kissed skin.
"I'm sor–"
That's all you could whisper before a faint sound echoes down the corridor.
Footsteps.
Servants.
Your eyes bulged, mind suddenly clear and overly aware, taking in the closeness between you and the man. His shoulder palm almost grazing your thigh, blush kissing your cheeks in a rather coquetish manner.
And without thinking, you grabbed his arm and pulled him towards one of the chambers used for storing linens and ceremonial fabrics. Toji moved just as quickly, with one hand pushing the door shut behind you, the moment you slipped inside.
Darkness wrapped around the small room, too small for his burly frame, as his body pressed close to yours. The only light came from a thin crack beneath the door, where lamplight from the corridor leaked through.
And suddenly, you realised what was happening.
Dear heavens, what have you done?
Your back was glued to his chest, heavy hand clamped over your lips, as he dipped down, shushing quietly to your ear.
Outside, the servants' voices drifted closer, together with the soft, girly giggles.
"Did you see the gladiator the senator brought? Oh my!" one of them whispered.
Your body stiffened when Toji pressed you harder against the wall, crushing your trembling figure with his heaviness. Iron-clad chest stuck to your back, but you nevertheless felt the warmth that drifted from his body. Sweet, ferocious, manly, licking your skin with flamish tongues, before his other hand landed on your hips, and low shhh once again filled the room.
"He killed that man like a lion," another woman replied with quiet excitement. "Such a brute, but handsome at that! No wonder noblewomen whisper about him."
Toji laughed quietly, but his voice flattened a second later, when your hips brushed against his. Back arched, head tilted, teary eyes squinting slyly, lashes quivering as the curve of your ass touched his front. And a gentle giggle pushed your lips, when you felt something hardening under your plush hips.
"You think someone will buy him?" the first servant asked curiously, as they both crossed the corridor in much slower pace than you wished.
"As a bodyguard?"
"Yes, surely, but a noblewoman could use him to her advantage as well," she sighed. Next words that spilt from her lips shot a tremor through your whole body. "Our lady could surely benefit from some pleasure. Such a sweet dove, but the senator..."
"You mean, they don't bed?" another one asked, while you tried to compose yourself, not to jump from this chamber and shush their mouths.
Toji saw a sudden change in your boldness. Your eyes no longer slyly squinted, but rather filled with a dread and anticipation to hear what else your servants had to say.
And, oh, he was anticipating too, pressing against you even harder, till your blush breasts squished to the marble wall and back arched even more slutily. Long fingers traced the delicate material of your dress, pulling it up up up, till they caught on the bare skin of your hip.
You wriggled, feeling the warmth coiling in your belly and wetness that suddenly trickled down your thighs. The smell of his musky sweat made your head spin, as his fingers slowly, slowly, dipped down to your clothed cunt.
A faint moan drove through your lips, but his heavy hand quickly suppressed it from leaking outside the tight space.
"You need to be silent, my lady. I'm sure you wouldn't wish for your servants to catch you in such an awkward situation?" he chortled, seeing the courteous nod of your head. "Of course you wouldn't," he ducked down, lips slowly tracing the smooth skin of your neck, "You smell fucking amazing, my lady. I'm sure you taste even better," his fingers cupped gently your clothed cunt, already soaked in sticky juices.
"They do bed, but our lady doesn't seem to take the pleasure! If you could only see her face after all these nights, oh my," you heard a faint tsk and could almost imagine her shaking head. "She's the happiest when the senator is away!"
They finally moved to the furthest parts of the villa, faint steps dimmed against the silence that fell upon you two.
No words were spoken, aside from the wet sounds of Toji's lips tracing the trail down your neck. Your breath shuddered, eyes closed, with an arm hooking around his neck. His hard cock pushed against the curve of your ass, fingers tracing the flimsy material of your undergarments, before slipping in slowly, slowly, trailing towards your drenched cunt. A quiet whine tumbled through your lips as pads of his fingers skimmed your pudgy mound, almost dipping long digits in the syrupy heat of your centre.
You wished to scream and cry, feeling the unbearable heat filling your body and the walls of your cunt clamping around nothing with a pulsing pleasure you've never felt before. He didn't even touch you properly, and yet the sheer thought of his hands caressing your body and lips crashing against yours was enough to roll a sharp cry from your throat.
And then–
And then he stopped.
Fingers that almost grazed your pulsing clit suddenly backed out. Muscular chest peeld of your wet back, with single droplets of sweat tracing down your neck. Hand slipped from your plump lips as you quickly turned back, seeing his faintly lit face, twisted in a smirk.
"Why did you–"
"What? What do you want, my lady?" he asked, and your body quickly stiffened.
As if the graveness of the whole situation washed over you only now. Right this second, with his two fingers still wet with your juices and his lips slowly licking them clean.
A low groan escaped his throat as he sucked on the sweetness of your cunt. "You do taste amazing, fucking hell."
"Please..." your voice was faint, doe eyes glued to his face.
"Please, what?" his voice was almost innocent, with a hint of smugness that made a shiver drip down your spine. He wasn't touching you anymore, and yet the heat coming from his body strangled your senses and loosened your tongue.
"Please, touch me," you blurted, thankful that he couldn't see your rosy cheeks. "I want you to touch me."
The space was cramped, but he managed to step closer, looking down at your teary eyes and short breaths from above.
"Are you that touch starved, my lady?"
Oh, you were.
You were so so starved, never reaching an orgasm with your husband, never feeling as desirable as you did during these past few minutes.
But before you could nod and pull him once again by the crimson cloak, he spoke. "Then come tomorrow."
"What?"
His palm cupped your chin gently, thumb pressing slightly on pouted lips, as emerald eyes glanced right into yours. "Come to games, cheer for me. Be my thropy for the won fights."
"You already have thropies and my husband's sponsorship."
He smiled faintly, eyes filled with a strange sense.
Begginess? Longing? Hunger?
"I wish to have nothing but you."
⟡⟡⟡
So you went to see his next game.
And the next one too.
Then the third, the fourth, till every game finished with him slashing the opponent, and you watching him with heated cheeks. With you visiting him secretly after each match, disappearing for those five minutes when your husband was too busy with other senators, and stumbling through the cold walls of Toji's room, kissing, panting, tracing your fingers through his wet scalp.
Five minutes.
Never more.
You never had time for anything else, so every meeting ended up with his leaking cock pushing on your belly, and your long robe sticking to drenched thighs.
You both never had enough.
Never controlled the way your lips moaned each other's names, how sparks flowed through your bodies the second skins touched, how you both always wanted things you couldn't have, as the sheer existence of this romance could make his head roll.
But you couldn't stop this feeling – the thrill, excitement, passion that came from being in his arms, with lips tracing wet trails down your breasts and your muffled moans he obediently swallowed with every kiss.
And one day... you didn't come.
Toji noticed it right away. The moment he stepped onto the sand, walking in through the heavy gate. It had become instinct by then – the first thing he did after the gates opened and the light struck the arena floor. His eyes lifted automatically toward the noble seats, searching the place where the creaminess of your robes usually caught the sun.
It was cold and empty, with only your husband leaning comfortably among the other senators, wine already in hand, clapping with lazy amusement as the fighters took their places below. But the figure that had begun to haunt Toji’s thoughts – the one that always sat just beside him, half-shadowed by silk and gold – was gone.
Then the next game came.
Still no sign of you.
By the third, the absence had begun to gnaw at him like a dull blade under the ribs. His attention wandered in ways it never had before. Strikes came half a second slower, but still heavy. Eyes looking at gushing blood and crimson sand stuck to his feet.
Around him, the amphitheatre screamed its usual hunger for violence, voices echoing like thunder beneath the curved stone.
But Toji barely heard it.
He looked again towards the seats.
Empty.
And then a thought came. A wild one, stupid, of a sort that would earn your mouthful and a gentle jab to his ribs. Yet it was persistent.
If you weren't here, perhaps it meant you couldn't come. Weren't allowed to, maybe?
And if that was true–
Your husband would notice.
Your husband would talk.
Romans loved stories of wounded champions, especially ones that brought heavy money and glory.
So when the next opponent lunged, Toji saw the strike clearly. A heavy downward slash that aimed for his ribs. One that wouldn't be enough to kill nor even cripple, but definitely worthy of gossip.
So when the blade cut across his side, he took a deeper breath and suffered the sudden pain that slashed through his body.
Fucking hell, the things he was ready to do just to see your smile again.
The crowd exploded, as he staggered half a step back, more for the spectacle than the pain, before the predator returned to his eyes. The fight ended seconds later, with his sword sliding beneath the other man’s guard, driving straight through muscle and lung.
The body fell, and the crowd roared again.
Toji stood over the corpse, chest rising slowly, blood running warm along his side.
And his gaze lifted once more to the noble seats.
Your husband was standing now.
Watching.
So now, Toji needed to wait.
And he did.
Patiently.
Days passed slowly inside the stone walls of the quarters. The cut across his ribs had already begun to close, though the tight white bandage wrapped around his torso reminded him with every movement that he had let the blade land there. It pulled slightly whenever he twisted or lifted his arms, a dull sting beneath the cloth.
His eyes kept drifting to the door.
Every sound in the corridor made his head turn – the scrape of sandals, the murmur of guards, the clatter of armour. None of them was yours.
So he waited.
The arena was closed to him for several days while the lanista insisted the wound heal properly. Instead of fighting, Toji spent the mornings training the younger slaves – boys barely old enough to grow beards, clumsy with their wooden swords and terrified of making mistakes.
He barked orders at them, corrected their stances, knocked their weapons from their hands with brutal precision.
But his attention wandered.
More than once he found himself staring past them toward the open doorway, as if expecting your pouty face to suddenly storm through them.
It never did.
By the afternoons the barracks quieted. Most gladiators slept, saving their strength for the next games, while the sun turned the courtyard into a white furnace of light.
That time was the worst. With him having nothing to do but still restless, with sandals kicking up the dusty sand and eyes tracing the path to his quarters.
Toji paced his small chamber like a caged animal, back and forth. From the bed to the door, from the door to the narrow window where the late sunlight spilled golden streaks right on his beddings.
His fingers often brushed the bandage at his ribs, pressing lightly against the wound as if to strain it. Maybe you didn't come, but it was still worth it.
Worth seeing the horror of your husband's face, its pallor, the twitching of his fingers. As if Toji, his precious slave, could really be that easily hurt.
He would surely pass such terrific news to others, and if the gods were kind enough, you would hear them.
Nights were coming one by one, with his faith slowly slipping away, and the heaviness in his chest feeling rather strange. He couldn't think nor eat, and all his anger was vented on those poor slaves, who were already frightened enough to even be here.
But Toji was stubborn and relentless, keeping a quiet certainty that you would come. You did it before. Again and again, slipping through the corridors of the amphitheatre just to steal those few reckless minutes with him.
You would come again.
He knew it.
So when the soft knock finally came one evening, barely louder than a breath against the wood, Toji was already moving before his mind had fully caught up.
He quickly opened the door, words slipping on one breath. "My la–"
But he couldn't finish as you pushed inside. Hand quickly closing the doors, dark cloak covering your lock, before you finally looked up.
And he trembled.
Oh, you were angry.
Furious, with flushed cheeks and staggered breath. Little fist that immediately punched his chest, before your eyes glanced down at the white bandage.
"You did it on purpose!"
He raised an eyebrow, hands moving towards your fuming cheeks, before you slapped them. "He told me! He told me everything. You knew he was going to strike you and still didn't dodge it. How could you?"
"It wasn't on purpose–" he lied, but you didn't let him finish.
Fingers suddenly grazed the bandage as you pushed the wound gently. Still hard enough to see his face twist painfully.
"My lady, are you ma–"
"Yes, I am mad if it's not obvious already. Why did you do it? Why did you let yourself get hurt?"
His eyes traced the rosiness of your cheeks, slightly wrinkled nose, creased eyebrows, as well as a smoke floating above your head – and you still looked divine. A goddess that stepped down from heaven alone, to seethe over this foolish slave, who needed you madly, obsessively, like a starved dog.
"Because I knew you would come," he finally confessed. "I knew it was the only way to let me see you again."
You stiffened, lips falling open. You would come sooner or later, but a sudden change in your husband's attitude, his unexpected rage and him locking you up inside the mansion was just a weekly occurrence that needed to happen. You knew it, your husband knew it, children too.
But Toji didn't.
So he gave up the thing he was doing best and let himself earn another nasty scar.
Just to see you.
Not even touch, but to once again glance at your full face and cherry cheeks, that somehow made his heart stop in its tracks. He would gladly get stabbed hundreds of thousands of times, just to be bestowed one last glimpse at the pout of your lips and this lovely laugh that always spilled through.
So before you could say anything back, his lips suddenly crushed against yours. In a raw, messy and wet kiss, with his scarred hand cupping your cheek and the other one drawing you closer.
Your hands tried to push him away, throat itching to reprimand him again, push and dig into this foolish wound, vent all of your anger and worry you needed to suppress for the past few days.
But you couldn't.
So your body let itself relax and melt in his muscular arms – beefy thighs between yours, one hand curling into your hair, the other lifting you up, till your body was gently pressed against the smooth beddings. You wriggled, moaned. Arms around his neck and fingers playing with black strands that stuck to his damp nape.
He covered you whole, with a broad back and heavy arms, chest pushed against yours, lips going down to your chin, neck, breasts. Licking, sucking, and moaning against your skin as the material of your dress started to stick to your inner thighs.
When you casually lifted up a leg, your knee grazed his wound. Quiet tsk left his lips, and you quickly pushed him away.
"Wait," your voice was fragile, hands falling weak on his chest.
He pulled away with a grimace and eyes quickly studying your flushed face. "Anything's wrong, my lady?"
"Your wound, let's change."
"What do you mean?"
Before he got an answer, you started moving. Hands on his shoulders, using all of your strength to lay this massive man down, till his head touched the pillow and your hips strangled his.
Toji raised an eyebrow, a little smirk turning his lips up.
"You wanna ride me, baby?"
Your heart suddenly fluttered, breath hitched, upon hearing this pet name.
And Toji saw it.
"You like that, my lady? You want me to call you baby?" his big palms fell on your hips, fingers cupping the folds of your dress, lifting the flimsy material up up up. "What else would you like? Hm? Dear? Love?" your body trembled when the dress locked around your upper thighs. "Slut?"
"S-stop," you quickly spat out, moving hips against his.
A low growl fled his lips before he tipped his head, glancing at you with a crafty smile. "You liked that? Wanna ride me like a good fucking slut, hm? Roll your pretty cunt on my cock? Come on, my lady, say what you want."
Your drenched, clothed folds rolled against his hardened shaft, painful pulsation washing over your body till more saps pooled around your clenching hole. So you smoothly slipped out of your dress, strangling his hips bare like a goddess, with heavy breasts and plump hips moving on his covered cock, already melting under the heat coming off your cunt.
Dear fucking, heavens. Toji must have been a saint in his previous life to be bestowed with such a view. With your fallen lips and misty eyes, fingers gripping shyly the cloth around his hips, and velvety skin basking under the pale moonlight creeping through his window.
"I want to suck you off," your voice was small but confident, with fingers already taking his clothes off, sliding the thin cloth with one move. "You're hurt, please let me take care of you."
"Fucking hell, do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" he mumbled, as his cock quickly sprang out, with hottish head sticking to his abdomen and your warm breath curling around it.
Based on all your previous, secret meetings, you knew that Toji was well bestowed. But seeing it now made your stomach turn. It looked absolutely delectable, even delicious, so so pretty, with veins curling around its fat shaft and pulsating head already drenched from precum. Your fingers traced through it, smearing the sticky sap around his shaft, rolling the head between your fingers.
Deep tremble washed through his chest, before you felt strong palms on your head.
"Wait a second, baby, I know you're starving, but wait."
You glanced up with glassy, sweet eyes full of anticipation.
"Fuck, don't look at me like that," he quickly moved up, lifting your body with the sheer strength of his arms.
And before you knew it, your hips were hovering over his face. Back turned, arched, cock right in front of you, with thighs around his head.
"That's more like it," he murmured, trying to pull your hips down.
But the memory of your husband, never being able to lift you up nor manhandle you like Toji did, somehow made you waver. "Wait, um, can we just do it normally?"
You didn't need to see his face to know that a frown formed on his forehead, and he probably lifted an eyebrow. "Normally? My lady, I've been waiting for this over a month, so please lower your pretty cunt down."
Oh, so nasty! Your ears scorched just from hearing the filth dribbling from his lips.
"Toji, you may or may not have noticed, but I birthed two children, and my body is not as light as before," words grumbled from your lips nervously, palms leaning on his abdomen as you tried to turn back. "I'm afraid my weight–"
And then – he scoffed. Laughed shamelessly, with a deep chuckle coming from the depths of his chest and tears almost dancing in the corners of his eyes.
He laughed, with your leaking cunt over his face, blush soaking your neck and soft thighs skimming his cheeks.
"Toji!" Oh, how embarrassed and feverish you felt, with this massive man having the audacity to actually chuckle in such a scenario.
"My lady," he finally grumbled, trying to pull your hips down. "Once I killed a fucking lion who rolled over me. Another time, I needed to dig myself out of the corpses that stumbled on me during the war. I'm almost sure that your cunt won't be the one to get me killed."
But when you finally sank down, with his nose sniffing the sweetness of your cum and tongue lapping your plump folds, he thought that maybe it was a lie.
Fuck, maybe your pussy could get him killed.
Its sweetness and creaminess, the honeyed saps that trickled down his throat and dripped from his chin. Long fingers parted your folds slightly, just to get a better view of your shimmering hole, ready for him to feast.
He was already acting like a madman, drinking, slurping, growling against your fluttering cunt, sending a shiver down your spine and spilling the sweetest moans from your throat.
But when your lips wrapped around his pulsing cock?
Fucking hell, he was ready to cum here and there, feeling your hot tongue and kitty licks on his shaft, with fingers curling around it shyly.
Toji was never easy to tame, and that's how he managed to achieve his freedom and glory. A beast, monster, who could crush a hundred men with a single swoosh of his blade. A fallen general and a brute, who accidentally got himself tangled in the whole gladiatorial thing.
He didn't mind it, for no one was waiting for him at home, and the idea of killing for the glory sounded quite amusing. He was risking his life, as there was no one he wished to live for.
But when you started rolling your hips and gushing even more honeyed cum on his tongue, he thought that, well, maybe he was quite easy to tame. Maybe he wanted to be tamed – trained, walk around your feet like a domesticated lion, feast on you every single morning, drink your syrupy cum as if it was the only ambrosia that could keep him alive.
"Mhmmm T-Toji, so good–" you mumbled, mouth popping off his fat cock, while fingers still worked him up and down, smearing your sweet drool all over it.
Your back arched when his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking it gently with a low, starved hum. "A-ah, T-Toji mmm–"
Your head dipped back down, tongue drenching his shaft, throat stretching up just take him deeper. The pleasure was overwhelming, paralysing, maddening, with his musky smell haunting your senses and muscular arms wrapping around your waist, just to keep you in place. His hips bucked up, head of the cock hitting the back of your throat, pushing tears into your eyes.
You couldn't see his face, and maybe it was for the best, as he never looked more miserable.
Truly, completly pathetic.
With a creased forehead and mouth covered fully by your drenched cunt. Hips moving in desperate need, and hair sticking to his damp forehead, as he slurped on your cunt like a man starved. With faint growls and cries coming from his throat, and an infuriating need to be crushed by your plump thighs and drenched folds.
"My lady, baby, god, you taste so delicious," he muttered, licking your pussy obscenely, with lips sucking on your clit. "Fuck, I'm never going back to that shithole, never fighting again. Come on, move your hips. Yeah, just like that, ride me like a little slut."
"S-stop, Toji!"
Your head fell back, fingers clenched on his cock as unfamiliar warmth started to coil in your belly. Something you've never felt while bedding your husband, never even thought of, but only heard from the filthy gossip of your servants. They had a much more thrilling sex life than their lady!
"Come on, baby, give me that honour and cum for me. Got fucking stabbed, just to see you again. Don't you think I'm worthy of a reward?"
Soft moans spilt from your lips, hips rolling faster, harder, riding his plastered tongue and drenching his chin. Your hole fluttered around nothing, with a desperate need to finally be filled.
"L-Let me cum on you, please, Toji, let me–"
He hissed, gripping your hands and quickly pulling them away from his cock. Your words snapped something inside him and if you continued to moan straight to his trembling shaft, he would burst any second.
And he didn't want it.
At least not in that way – to let his cum fill anything else but your creamy cunt.
"Wanna cum on my cock? Say it, baby. Wanna get stuffed full? Wanna get bred, hm?"
Your head nodded dumbly, eyes closed, as his finger started circling your clit.
"Mhm– yes yes yes."
He chuckled, seeing how your hole was desperately clenching around nothing. Damp, dripping, with little clit trembling sweetly as he rolled it between his fingers.
"Yes what, my lady?"
Oh, he was playing with you! And in such a mean, mean way.
"I want all of it," you mumbled, cheeks already burning with a fever.
"My lady, this slave is quite dull, and I don't know what you mean. Please say it clearly."
You could feel his chuckle on your pulsing cunt and fingers spreading your sticky folds. Tip of the tongue giving you a faint lick, before you pressed your cunt just to feel more.
"Come on, my lady. You can do it, tell me what you want."
He rolled your clit lazily, with a smirk and pride growing in his chest, seeing how difficult it was to spill these few dirty words.
"The things I'm going to do to you will be filthier, my lady."
Oh, dear gods!
"I want you to fill me with you c-cock," you finally spat, words barely pushing through your throat. "I want you to fill me up here," you placed a palm on your belly pouch, pushing its fat slightly. "I want you to breed me and let me carry your child, f-fuck Toji, please stuff me full of your cock and let me finally shut u–"
Before you finished, he moved.
Quickly, brutally, glueing your back to his torso, lifting up your thighs and pushing into a meannnn mating press. He was massive enough to let you sprawl on his body comfortably and keep you nicely folded against his chest. Lips right next to your ear, teeth grazing its lobe, before you finally, for your own desire, felt his hottish cock at your entrance.
"Your wish is my command, my lady."
And he pushed it in.
Dear heavens, the sweet moan that filled his small room almost made him cum on the spot, with your walls sucking his cock in. Fat shaft thrusted slowly, throbbing and pushing through the drenched muscles of your tight cunt.
"So tight, so fucking tight. Baby, you really need to relax," he growled, cock catching on your pinkish walls and giving you another delicious tear.
He was right behind you, folding you like a cloth, with knees against your breasts and head nuzzling your neck. You couldn't push him away, wriggle back, but only clench his veiny forearms and moan in pleasure when he thrusted even deeper. "T-Toji, I can't– mhmmm –so good, f-feels so goo–"
And he truly, really, honestly wanted to go slow, seeing how much his cock already filled you up, with a slight bulge appearing under your velvety tummy, but– oh dear, what a lie.
He didn't want to go slow, didn't want to roll his hips gently, didn't want to seem like a misery of a warrior.
And he truly wanted to breed this pussy.
"I'm sorry, my lady," he murmured, locking you in a tighter embrace. "I'm sorry, but I can't do it anymore."
Your head lulled back, a drop of spit trickling down your chin, when your weeping eyes met his. "W-what? What are you sa–"
And you didn't finish, because he thrusted.
Hard, raw, deep, stretching your hole to the fullest, with his head kissing your cervix and heading straight to your swollen belly. Shaft dragging madly through your walls, honeyed saps letting it slip smoothly, meanly, grazing the deepest corners of your cunt.
He kept you tight in place, with fingers pinching your clit and tongue leaving a wet strip on your neck. "Sorry, fuck, my lady is sucking me in, she's fucking starving."
He mumbled to her, rolling your clit viciously and hissing lowly when you clenched around his shaft.
"So sweet, my lady's so lovely, clamping so nicely like a good little slut, hm?" he chuckled, feeling another squeeze of your walls and fingers scratching his forearms. "Are you that drunk, my lady? Are you that desperate to get yourself fucked on the gladiator's cock? You know it's against the law, right? Me head would roll if anyone would saw you taking my cock in such a whorish manner."
"I-I'm not a w-whore," you tried to mumble, but another cry left your lips when his cock moved even further. Raw, brutal, with hottish shaft dragging through your walls, head now pushing against your womb as Toji's hand landed on your lower belly.
A little bulge formed under his fingers as he pushed it, making your whole body tremble and toes curl in a blinding pleasure that washed through your senses.
"Aren't you, my lady? Because she's sucking me in like the most desperate whore," his voice suddenly faltered when you squeezed tight. Tighter than before, with all muscles clamping down, as if trying to milk him dry. "F-Fuck, so now you know how to use her?"
He pounded like a madman, animal, with a strange mix of ruthlessness and gentleness you've never felt before, when his cock dragged through your walls madly, and fingers caressed your clit dearly. He was ferocious and sweet at the same time, whispering the filthy obscenities into your ear, causing a blush to spread from your chest up to your ears, while squeezing your tits gently.
And when you clamped on him again, with a sweet cry pushing through your lips, he groaned, forcing his girth with a squelch. You were fucked by a true beast, with a womb swelling from the brutal pace and cock hitting that one, gummy spot. This strange position he put you in gave him perfect access to your plump clit and sweet button inside you, already fattened from the vicious hit hit hit.
You were close, oh so close, with your moans spilling from every thrust and walls clenching even tighter, locking him almost fully inside.
"Toji, I'm gonna cum– mhmmm I-I'm gonna cum, please please please let me," well, you did sound like a whore, with lips whining his name and eyes crossed in pleasure. A deep chuckle quivered his chest, and fingers pinched your clit.
Hips latched in place, beefy arms moving your whole body and stuffing it on his fat cock. Nose hidden deep in your neck, teeth diving deep into your skin.
"Cum for me, baby. Come on, my sweet lady, cum on my cock like a good whore," he talked you right through it, voice deep and mean, praising the sweetness of your cunt and devouring all moans falling from your lips. "Want to have my baby, hm? Get stuffed and swollen again? Come on, let me make you a mommy. We're gonna run away and move to Egypt. I will build you a fucking mansion if you'll ask me to."
His words spun in your head, slipping in and off, while your cunt was aching, pulsing, milking him from every drop of his cum.
He put his palm on your chin, turning you towards him to glance at your glossy eyes and creased eyebrows. "You'll do it, right? Gonna run away with me? Leave your husband and let me fuck you every night?"
His words sounded outlandish and wild, but a deep pang in your heart forced your head to nod and lock your lips together. In a sweet, longing kiss, full of aching and yearning, while his cock finally swelled up and filled you deep with creamy cum. Your whole body trembled, clit pulsing under his fingers, as you finally came. A wave of pleasure washed over your body – blinding, delicious, making your toes curl, and squirt all over his hands. You could feel how deep his cum drove, sticking straight to your womb and sealing it with dense strings.
Your name rolled from his lips like a mantra, while he put you in the meanest, the most brutal mating press you've ever felt. Your thighs trembled as he groaned in pleasure, circling the swollen pouch of your belly and whispering how he aches to see you with his baby.
And when your breath calmed down, with his cock slowly softening up and your tummy still flowing with his cum, you heard two words that made your heart stop.
"Marry me."
You turned his way, eyes bulging. "What?"
"Marry me. I was serious about Egypt," his thumb grazed your lower lip and emerald eyes skimmed over you with tenderness. "Let's run away tonight. We can start a new life. It won't be as lavish as this one, but–"
Before heed finished, your lips crashed against his. Fingers running through dark, damp locks, eyes shut, when you kissed him sweetly, dearly, filling with affection that coiled in your belly since the moment you saw him in that arena.
"Please," you whispered, touching your foreheads together. "I can have any life as long as you're in it."
He chuckled with this hint of loveliness and fingers tucking in the single strand of your hair.
And when your bodies untangled before the sunrise, you left. To the land of hope and freedom, with nothing but a few coins in your pockets, a bit of your jewellery and the yearning of his emerald eyes, you would love tenderly till your last breath.
a/n: I didn't include the gossip of the town arc both Eppia and Sergius had before they left for Egypt, but it was getting toooo long.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ want to join permanent taglist? sign up here ꨄ︎
synopsis: in which sukuna decides to be a good co-host and talk to the quiet girl at the party
contains: fem!reader, mentions of alcohol and drugs, tattoos and piercings, little bit of masochism, use of pet names, protected sex (for once), reader is a little shit, fingering, thigh riding, cumming in boxers, a sprinkle of crack, sukuna's ooc,
words: 7.3k (someone teach me how to write drabbles)
note: was supposed to write another caleb fic but this fucker got to me
It's no secret that anything consumed in excess is bad for you.
Sukuna never thought that would apply to parties. Everyone in their early twenties can relate to it feeling like the end all, be all of their lives. That if they don't make the most of it, this freedom will slip through their fingers like sand within an hourglass.
He was the kind of guy who thought he knew it all despite just how young he was. When his dad would tell him that he'd grow tired of the constant night outs, alcohol and weed, he brushed it off, chalking it up to the old man's age muddling his memories.
And yet, now, as he stood by the keg, sounds, voices and smoke intruding his senses, a throb blooming at the back of his skull from all the noise pollution, he hates to admit that his father may have, kind of, sort of been right.
The red cup in his hand is sweating, contents that were once refreshingly cold now room temperature from his neglect, nothing more than a prop to the statue he makes up as he oversees the familiar and unfamiliar faces crowding the frat house.
Freshmen are easy to spot, fidgety, people-pleasers about to commit the same stupid mistakes he watched his peers make in that year in an attempt to fit in and gain the approval of the acquaintances whose opinions won't matter after graduation. Stale beer wafts through the air no matter how much they deep clean this place as if the sticky floors are soaked with it and the only way to get rid of the smell would require for the floorboards to be replaced.
The bass of the music is a second heartbeat in his chest but it pounds in his head, spurring on the migraine forming there. Carefree laughter evolves into angry shouts when shoulders are checked, the clink of bottles set his teeth on edge, some guys are belting to a song and missing the actual lyrics entirely.
The red and green strobe lights paint faces, creating a sea of waving silhouettes but the brightness has him shutting his eyes or squinting to lessen their blaze. Someone stumbles in their drunken stupor and drops their drink, the liquid splashing offensively close to Sukuna's sneakers and they blubber apologies before scurrying off.
Warm and damp, the air clings to his skin, filled with the pungent stench of blunts, perspiration and strong cologne.
Too much. All of it is way too much yet, at the same, time not enough.
Sukuna wants a change of scenery, something to sink his teeth into to bring back the heady rush that usually swirls in his chest at these ragers.
But he can't find the motivation to seek it out.
He's contemplating taking out his phone and dialing his older brother, Jin, to ask if he could come crash over at his place for the night. With how much fun everyone else is having, he doubts he could sleep through it in his bedroom upstairs. Besides, he's begrudgingly missing his nephew, the little squirt always clinging to him and asking to play some ball.
Tapping his pockets to retrieve it, he almost takes it out when something catches his eye.
Correction: someone.
Having done away with the oversized tees and baggy jeans you wear to class as well as your spectacles, you're standing in a corner and chatting, unenthusiastically with a guy who can't take the hint in your slightly turned away body and wandering gaze. It's not a surprise when you're wearing that low-cut top that hugs your waist, your bra making your tits sit pretty and form-fitting flared jeans with heels. The ponytails and buns are gone too, letting your luscious, glossy hair flow down your back and bounce with your nods and laughter.
Amused, he watches as you try and fail to end the conversation, eyes searching for one of the friends you undoubtedly came with who got swallowed in the chaos of it all.
Sukuna forgets about his migraine and sleepover plans as he makes his way over, smoothing his hands over his football shirt as he does.
You spot him first, that pink hair and tall figure unmistakable, head lifting as your eyes light up at the chance to escape. He bites back a chuckle at your eagerness, schooling his features into the permanent scowl he's always sporting.
The guy notices your attention is elsewhere and follows your gaze, brows furrowed then springing up when he sees who's the source of your distraction. Sukuna doesn't have to say a word for him to drop his head and remove himself from the spot beside you, letting him take it easily.
A grateful smile graces your lips. “Thanks, I don't know how many times I had to say that I prefer my own company before he got the gist.”
Sukuna hums at that, eyes narrowing playfully. “Really? Couldn't you just tell him flat out like you always do?”
He knows you're straightforward, confrontational at its finest. Hell, he experienced it first hand when he and Toji were whispering too loudly for it to be considered that at all and cracking jokes behind you in the lecture hall at the start of the year.
You let it go on for a whole ten minutes before turning around once the professor excused himself to the bathroom. Slamming your hand down on the mahogany desk, you startled the two men, glowering at them.
“How about we save the hookup debriefing and locker room gossip for after class, boys?” you asked—no—instructed with a tight smile that had Toji's brows high and Sukuna speechless for a moment.
Toji was the first to apologise, smiling charmingly and apologetic. “Sorry,” he knew your name as he used it then, “we got too excited. We'll continue once class is over.”
Your eyes flickered between the two young men, unnervingly silent until Sukuna gave a conceding nod which satisfied you so you faced forward again and sat back down.
He wouldn't have believed you were capable of such assertiveness had he not experienced it that day. Even after that, you hardly spoke to them, ever attentive to the lessons being taught and quiet unless you had a question.
Lifting a shoulder, you wrinkle your nose in disagreement. “Nah, I didn't wanna cause unnecessary drama.” Heaven knows how easily that would escalate at a time like this when tensions were high.
“I see. Well, I would've kicked him out before he started shit,” he assures you.
Rolling your eyes, you arch a brow at him. “Yeah, right. You'd be happy if the opportunity to fight presented itself.”
The mischievous borderline malicious grin he flashes you in response confirms that statement.
Boredom that had settled in the marrow of your bones seeps out of you with every word you say to him. He's quite the entertaining conversationalist so the nods and smiles you give him aren't forced out of politeness. You don't have the urge to excuse yourself like you did with the guy from earlier and even laugh when he tells you about the time Toji had put on a stray red lacy thong instead of his briefs when getting up for an early morning meeting, heavily hungover.
“Bet it complemented your eyes,” you giggle as his ruby red eyes widen, the whites of them clear as day.
He nudges you with his shoulder, fighting off a humorous smile with the downturn of his lips as he tries to frown.
“You think you're funny, huh?”
Sobering up, the mirth on your face is unwavering. “Hilarious, actually. You walked into that one by telling me the colour.”
He opens his mouth to argue then shrugs because you have a point.
You talk, really talk, for the first time outside of greetings in class or in passing on campus. Slowly, Sukuna starts feeling like he's where he's supposed to be rather than a fish out of water tonight.
Both of you shit on these parties together despite Sukuna co-hosting many of them. You're smart, witty and opinionated as you warm up to him. It's not like the flirty and teasing chats he has with girls on the couch or behind the stairs before he takes them away for the night nor loud and boisterous like the conversations he has with his friends.
Though, with the way you catch his gaze dip then slowly come back to your face, you know he's checking you out. You can't be fussed up about it because you're certainly not complaining about the way his pierced nipples poke through the shirt straining across his chest, arms bulging when he gestures with his hands.
And perhaps it's the late hour that has your tête-à-tête straying into less than private territory when he brings up his tattoos.
Sukuna wears his ink like the art was invented because the creator had him as the muse. The dark bands around his wrists pop out against his tanned skin and the designs on his face add to his intimidating appeal rather than ruin it. He's one of the first people you think actually pulls off face tattoos.
Maybe it's the unnecessarily strong punch you drank earlier to loosen up but you find yourself reaching for his big wrist.
Eyes wide, you look up to see how he took that unsolicited touch but he only smiles gently and holds it out of you to inspect. You're discussing his tattoos after all, he's not a stranger to a bit of show and tell.
Fingers flexing around his wrist, his steady pulse beneath the pad of your thumb, you bring it up to look at the artwork. There's no missed spots, the golden brown skin pitch black, a light dusting of hair on his arm.
Whistling low, your gaze flickers back to him and your heart lurches as you find him watching you rather than his arm, an unreadable look on his face.
Clearing your throat, you end the brief staring contest and speak, “These are blacked out. How long did it take?”
“A couple of sessions.”
“It must've hurt a lot, especially here since the skin is thinner, right?” your thumb rubs circles into his skin as if to confirm your words.
Tucking his lips into his mouth, he bites the inside of his cheek then gives an affirmative nod.
“Yeah, it did. But after frequenting the tattoo shop, you kind of get used to it, you know?”
A little laugh escapes you at that. “You can say that again.”
Surprise flickers in his crimson irises at that as he reluctantly slips his wrist out of your loosening hold, not wanting to make it awkward or make you uncomfortable if he left it there longer than you wanted.
“Huh? You get it? Wait—” His gaze roams over you, half to search for any signs of ink and half to snag a glimpse of your body once more. “Do you mean period cramps? Heard they're a bitch.”
Biting your bottom lip to hold back a smile, you shake your head and breathe out a chuckle when his lips part.
“They do hurt and yeah, that probably contributes to my high pain tolerance but I meant tattoos,” you clarify.
He blinks once then twice then thrice, unable to wrap his head around the concept of you taking a needle to your skin and inking it.
“As in, you've heard from others or you have your own?”
Scoffing, you cast him a dry look. “I have my own. One actually.”
Once again, his eyes drop, flitting up and down, coming back to yours, cheek lifting in a scrunch like he's malfunctioning, pulling a laugh from you.
The man racks his brain for what you could possibly have on your body. Some cute cartoon animal, a piece of patchwork, maybe some positive affirmation or the date your childhood dog died. Whatever it is, it's definitely small or else his observant eyes would've spotted it before.
However, you do cover up a lot. He thought you were just conservative and dressed modestly up until tonight. The idea of you doing it to keep something under wraps never crossed his mind but now it does, insistent and inquisitive and he wants to ask about it but doesn't want to pry.
Taking a step closer, the blasting music and chatter dull as your warmth and feminine scent wash over him, reeling him back in from his racing thoughts.
“Would you like to see it?”
Gulping, Sukuna stares at you like you caught him stealing a cookie from the jar. His stomach churns when you cock your head to the side, eyes taking in his coral pink hair, face-framing tattoos and sharp features like you appreciate what you see before coming back to those red, red eyes, patient.
The lighthearted air between you is now tinged with something else, playful on the surface but an unassuming fool could dip their toes into the seemingly shallow water and get pulled in by the current, flailing as they drown and sink to their untimely end.
Sukuna is all too willing to be that fool now as he agrees, nosiness winning over his common sense.
Glancing over your shoulder, he nods towards the staircase casually. You appear to hesitate, no doubt understanding the implications of going up to a guy's room with him.
But that's not the case here. You just want privacy and that happens to be available in his quarters.
Moving through the crowd, your hands almost brush his one, shoulders grazing but neither of you pull away. Sukuna leads, carving out a path in the cramped hallway so it's clear for you. When you reach the steps, he gestures for you to go first.
The further you go upstairs, down the halls and turning corners, the music dulls. Despite the breed of males that inhabits this place, the air up here smells like laundry detergent and soap with only a hint of old wood and beer.
His room isn't as different as the ones you passed—bed, bay window, desk littered with textbooks and a closet. Though unlike the others, this has its own bathroom. You get a glimpse of his life from the band posters on the wall, sports gear, a few figurines and even picture frames of his family, two of them sharing the signature pink hair of his.
The door shuts behind him as you're doing a little tour of his room from where you're standing in the middle of it, rendering the weekly chaos downstairs into a distant thrum that feels farther away than you actually are. Inside here, everything feels calmer in the dimly-lit, masculine scented, personal sanctuary.
“So,” he starts as he takes a seat on the edge of his bed, watching you with amused expectancy and a dash of skepticism. “I doubt you're the type of girl that would come upstairs with me for the usual reasons. Let's get to it then.”
Finding his impatience entertaining you prolong it as you saunter over to him, standing before him and looking down as his sitting position puts you above him.
“What if I did come here for the usual reasons?” you ask in a scandalous whisper.
He visibly swallows as if your admission threw him off his game. But he admittedly gains it back quickly and offers a crooked smirk.
“Didn't know you saw me that way but if that's what you want, I hope you know how I do these things,” he reminds you, not wanting you to go in blind and risk getting hurt.
Sukuna's reputation to hump and dump is notorious on campus. He's too preoccupied with his academics, athletics and social life to entertain the responsibilities of having a girlfriend. So he indulges in casual sex, putting it all out there to ensure the girls know what they're getting into. He's a one-and-done type of man, never bedding the same girl twice to prevent them from feeling special.
“Oh, I know,” you assure him in a murmur. Arms slinking around his stiffening shoulders, fingers lacing at the back of his neck, you lean in, cleavage distractingly close to his face.
His eyes traitorously fall on them, the swells satisfyingly round and perky, and he's close enough to mar your smooth, supple skin with the sharp indent of his teeth. Running his tongue over his canines as they tingle at the thought, he meets your eyes again, more than willing to take you now and get his mouth of those tits you've been hiding under all those layers of cloth—
But you're laughing and pulling away, highly humored by your little stunt that had fooled him as his face drops into a grouchy frown. Though to you, it looks like he's pouting.
“Sorry, but you made that too easy,” you say through giggles.
You're such a sly minx, he thinks with the shake of his head, half-hard and a little frustrated.
Putting some distance between you, you stand far enough that he has a chance to breathe in air that isn't you and close enough that he can watch as you give him your back and tie up your hair. It looks so soft and silky, he wonders how it'd feel on his hands, would his raking fingers get caught on knots and tangled or would the strands let them seep through like water?
Chastising himself in his mind, he focuses on what you're doing once more.
When you reach behind you, grasping the fabric of your tee at your upper back and crumpling it in your hands, slowly pulling it up, his mind blanks.
You're not wearing a bra, no sign of the straps or clasp on your bare back.
Inch by inch, the coils of a creature on the left side of your back are revealed to him, his eyes working to absorb it all and guess what it could be before you reveal it.
He's glad he didn't bet on it being small because holy fucking shit.
You don't stop lifting your top once you reach your shoulder, turning so you're facing him at a three-quarter angle as you pull the fabric off the left side of your chest, above your heart.
A dragon's piercing gaze finds him almost accusingly, body dipping across your collarbone and over your shoulder, slithering down your back in wispy, inky, immaculate lines and scales. It's smoky as if the majestic creature of myth imbued itself in your skin with the remnants of its firebreathing and you became its vessel.
Its body winds down your back in impossibly intricate, elegant loops, ink sharpening and fading in all the right places to give the illusion that it was a phantom but also physical, the warm lighting of his bedroom casting the perfect glow to it all.
He's drinking it all it like an critique at a museum as it's one of the most unique ones he's ever seen, gaze roving the expanse of your body from your collarbone to your upper back and lower where the reptilian body meanders and ducks beneath the denim of your jeans, cutting off his admiration abruptly.
“It's…” he begins then trails off, not wanting to do injustice to the work of art he's been blessed with by trying to describe it in words that could never entirely capture its beauty.
You don't wait for him to continue anyway, his eyes bulging when your thumb hooks into the waistband of your jeans—and your panties apparently—tugging down, down down.
As if sensing his turmoil, you glance over your shoulder, a gleam in your gaze that's not from his night lamp as you huff an amused breath at the panicked look on his face. His face burns as he knows he probably looks like a prepubescent boy seeing his first pair of boobs in a magazine.
“Relax, big guy. I'm not stripping for you. You wanna see the whole thing, right?” You arch a brow in question.
He nods once. You've already gone this far, might as well show him the entire piece so he doesn't have to let it trouble him at night—which it will regardless.
The globe of your plump ass has heat coiling in his stomach that's got nothing to do with the dragon and everything to do with you.
You pull your bottoms down a fraction more, stopping mid-thigh where he finally sees the tip of the dragon's tail and the action is so visceral that Sukuna feels it like you've tugged at his cock.
“There,” you say, a little breathless. “That's all of it.”
Holding your top to your chest and your jeans low on your thigh so your left side is fully revealed to him, you let him get a good look at the tattoo.
It's odd, really. You don't show this to many people, only best friends and close family like your siblings and cousins. But something, maybe your pride, wanted him to see it too. To show the guy who thinks he's big and bad that you aren't what he assumes you are.
And boy, does that click in Sukuna's brain now as he ogles unabashedly while you occupy yourself with scanning his room, pretending you don't feel the heat of his gaze like a physical touch.
The dragon's alive and moving, he thinks, with the way your breaths make it rise and fall, your twists at the waist to look at him to see if he's done and you could drape a curtain over this masterpiece, probably never planning to let him see it again.
Each time he blinks, he sees the sinuous and unbroken creature behind his eyelids, a white outline against the darkness like the colour inverted. He hopes it's there every time he closes them like this secret of yours imprinted on him.
“Cool, right?” you ask with a knowing smile as if you're all too aware that his admiration is steadily descending into arousal. Or maybe you don't and that's just his perverted mind projecting its dreams.
Still quite stunned, his gaze cuts to yours.
“Mhm,” he hums, not trusting the dryness in his throat to add to his boyish reaction and he knows that the blush up to his hairline is nearly as pink as his hair. “Very fucking cool.”
His gaze is so dark and piercing, the colour of red wine and dizzying you a little like a few glasses of the liquor would. There's no alcohol or drug to blame as he didn't have anything tonight. If he's drunk on anything, it's you.
It's disorienting, being watched so intently by him, but you find your bearings by reminding yourself that everyone you show reacts like this. Just with more awe, less intensity and no lust(?) but that's just who Sukuna is, what makes people want to run to him and run away at the same time.
“Guess you were right, this looks like it hurt a lot too,” he breaks the silence thankfully.
“It did at first, felt raw like I scratched my skin too hard or burned myself when he began shading it but then…it felt warm,” you tell him quietly as you mull over the memories of the sessions it took to get this tattooed.
The needle was a hot, vibrating blade at first, dragging and scraping at your skin over and over again. It made your jaw clench, muscles tense. But then, after a few minutes, the familiarity blunted the sharp edges of the pain, morphing into heat and pressure, the buzz making your focus drift in and out.
And then, in a weird way, it became soothing, vibrations hypnotic in their rhythm, pain softening into a balmy, heady hum that had you putting the headrest of the leather seat to good use as your eyes drifted shut.
“You'd fall asleep during sessions?” Sukuna blurts after you told him. “Damn, your tolerance is up there with mine,” he muses like he's impressed, like he's jotting that down for future reference.
Realization dawns on you that you've been standing here nearly half-naked during this entire discussion. Heat creeps up your face despite this being the result of your boldness.
As you move to make yourself decent again by pulling up your jeans and putting on your top, a heavy, rough hand stops you as it grasps your wrist.
It drops the moment you look at him, strong hand moving to the side of his neck to knead the imaginary stiffness out of it. “Sorry, I shouldn't have.”
“You're good.”
Sukuna's trying to come off as casual and is unsuccessful, chewing on the words he wants to say, the sight oddly endearing as he meets your gaze.
“Can I…can I touch you?” he asks then understands his slip up. “Your tattoo, I mean. Obviously.”
Your face warms as you repeat, “Obviously.”
His hands raise in a placating manner.
“Only if you're comfortable, of course. I'm not gonna be one of those bitter assholes if you decline,” he reassures you.
Chuckling, you shake your head.
“No, it's okay. Really. I just realised that since I'm already showing you something I don't show off easily that I might as well let you touch it.”
Relief relaxes and softens his features, heart stuttering in your chest as he smiles at you. The softness matches the colour of his hair and is fluffy as it probably is.
Sukuna, you come to find out, meant what he said the first time when he wanted to touch you.
That's why your face is buried in his pillow now, the plush cushion bearing the brunt of your moans as he barrels his cock into you with aggressive thrusts. The bed frame swayed so much that you were blabbering in worry about it possibly being on the verge of breaking. If it did, Sukuna would just take you on the floor like an animal and order another bed tomorrow. No biggie.
It's not rough the entire time though, he alternates from slow strokes that threaten to pull you under, deeper ones that let the feverish itch inside you linger for a second when he pulls back, tip squeezed by your pussy so it can't escape like the rest of him has before he's pushing forward and a relieved, wanton moan escapes you accompanied by the gravely groan from him as he melts into your snuggly cunt, gooey walls sucking him in to mold around him as his cock pulses within like it's been tucked away for bed and its breaths are evening out.
Big, callous hands trace down the damp skin of your back, touch reverent, fingers sticking to your skin slightly as they trace drown your ink, following every line all the way down to your thigh where the caresses grow greedy as his palm cups a handful of your ass, jiggling it with an appreciative grunt before landing a stinging slap to it that has you clenching around him a you squeak out a whimper.
The noise tickles his brain so he does it again and again until your skin is growing raw and burning but it doesn't stop you from arching your back until there's a fold at your waist, pushing into his mean palm for more. He's not surprised in the slightest given how you'd grown flustered while reminiscing about getting your tattoo earlier and sheepishly admitting that you liked the pain.
And now you came to the perfect man to feed into all your wants and desires that may seem crazy to others but make him look at you like you're the love of his life.
Sukuna's been chasing that high since that night, no one's made him come as hard, as much or as often as you did that night. He's convinced you had cocaine or an aphrodisiac lining your walls with how you fucked like rabbits that night. He'd been the one to ask for a break more often than you did, panting that it was too much as he slumped against his headboard, hand over his face while you cooed, straddling him and assuring him that he could take it.
Murmurs of encouragement and whispers of praise filled his ear as your lips brushed at the shell while you bounced on his lap, slow at first so he wouldn't feel the nag of overstimulation. He was flabbergasted at how you'd be up and ready for another round in two minutes tops, almost considered recruiting his friends to help take care of your insatiable libido that coated his thighs, used condoms in the trashcan near his bed, some on the floor beside it when his aim that grew sloppy from exhaustion. At least then he could catch a breather and recharge before dealing with you again.
Fuck, he needed to go to the gym more than three times a week now if a quiet, sweet girl like you was tuckering him out like this.
Wait, though. Why was he planning to accommodate you as if that night would happen again?
That's not a part of his strict sex rules—it's a one and done policy after all.
And when he confides in his teammates in the locker room while “gossiping” as you eloquently put it, leaving out your name because he didn't need them flocking to you after seeing the state you left him in, they give him the same answer.
Be short with her. Act nonchalant. Pretend you don't care.
Chicks dig that, they said.
Mind you, none of these guys have stellar track records when it comes to any sort of relationship.
Since they were just confirming what he already believed was the solution, he nodded along and agreed. Why should he fuck you again? He could just act like an asshole everyone thought he was and if that repelled you then you clearly weren't meant to be the person he broke his rule for.
That doesn't explain the ache in his heart when he thinks about you too much, his cock completely forgotten like it didn't affect his feelings at all when it came to you. Showed him that it wasn't just lust leaving him this lost. He brushes girls off and turns them down when they try to get in his pants, suddenly not up for it anymore.
He's outside the house you share with a few other girls, blaring his horn like a maniac, music blasting and rattling your windows, to get your attention when he starts coming over for tutoring as per the favor your professor asked you.
You're not stupid and neither is Sukuna so you knew that this tutoring business had an ulterior motive but you played along to see if he'd come clean.
Obviously, he didn't because he thought he was oh so fucking slick. A genius as he acted clueless when answering the simplest of questions with the dumbest answers that tore away your usual patience and had you insulting his intelligence, telling him football must've concussed him.
He gets this dreamy look when you scold him like it's all he's ever wanted but you assume he's daydreaming about the parties he's going to throw and girls he's going to sleep with.
Sukuna doesn't try to make a move on you during and outside your tutoring sessions, just brings you food, drinks and plays video games with you. So you just treat him as a friend at this point. When you don't attempt to flirt or check him out in those deadly gray sweats and snug white tee combos he wears so he can stretch and show off the deep V disappearing into the waistband of his pants, he starts pulling away.
He couldn't just slut himself out for nothing.
Unfazed as ever, you cut your losses and move on to the next guy. Sukuna sees you hanging out with Satoru and Suguru, two guys in his social circle who are known for threesomes and stomach acid rises up his throat at the thought of you having that kind of fun with them.
Seeing you sit with them on the couch at a party, letting Suguru cup your cheeks, lips parted in a pucker so he can blow a plume of smoke into it, the giggles spilling out of you licked away by his swiping tongue as he kisses you twists the man's stomach. Satoru complains before tugging you onto his lap and smearing that stupid gloss of his on your lips, pushing up his glasses when it disrupts him, has Sukuna crushing the solo cup in his hand, drink splattering on the girl clinging to his arm.
“I don't like dancing around a topic or dropping hints and waiting for someone to catch them. It's cowardly and a waste of time. If you want something, you ask, make it clear and leave no room for doubt,” you had told him at the party where everything changed. “If you can't do that then don't bother at all.”
The man can't see anything that's clearer than him scaling up the side of your house under the cover of night, hoisting himself up on the balcony you'd sat with him on during breaks when you tutored him.
He's incredibly stealthy about it too, having ensured your neighbors were asleep and your housemates retired before becoming a damn burglar.
You're reading on your bed, comfortable in a pair of panties and a sleep shirt, when the curtains stir and it's not from the wind as a shadow darken the floor that was bathed in moonlight.
The scream ready in your throat is silenced as a familiar grip clasps around your neck, mouth coming down on yours, spicy masculine scent washing over you, calming you embarrassingly fast.
Sukuna's sporting an angry red handprint with all five fingers accounted for a few moments later as he has you sprawled out between his thighs, back to his chest as he glances down the line of your body, past your perky breasts that are rising up and down with your choppy breaths, down the softness of your tummy to where his fingers are pumping rhythmically.
The glistening, webby slick on his fingers catches the fairy lights in your room as he works them in and out of you, head resting on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear and stirring the hair there.
“I was an asshole,” he whispers earnestly, keeping it down like you told him to because your housemates are asleep.
Lifting his head to meet your gaze in the reflection of the mirror he has you facing, his eyes search yours. “Forgive me?”
Despite the daze you were in, you didn't dignify that with a response, selfishly wringing him out for your benefit.
True, he didn't do anything seriously damaging and you never expected much from him after that night but you were going to take advantage of this anyway.
Bracketed by his meaty thighs, you could hear the thud of his heartbeat and how his breathing hitches when your pussy flutters around his deft fingers, gurgling from your wetness with each push in.
You'd kept your shirt on out of spite but he had no qualms skating the palm of his free hand under the hem, groping at the fat of your breasts and pinching at your nipples, his cock kicking in his pants against your lower back, wanting the attention you refuse to give it.
“Still mad, pretty girl?” he croons as you drowsily glare at him before your face twists when his fingers stroke deeper, curling and delving.
Whimpers and gasps that were stuck in your throat out of spite are drawn out when he prods at the swelling spongy spot inside you, your legs twitching, hips lifting for more and less of his touch.
“Not too loud now, baby. Can't disturb your housemates, hmm?” For a guy who's allegedly apologetic, he sure is taunting.
His wrist twists so that his fingers are still nestled inside you while he strums your clit, rubbing it and grinding the pad of his thumb against it just right.
Slapping a hand over your mouth, you barely muffle the strangled sound that rips from your throat, brows bowing, eyes glazed with desirous heat from how fucking good he finger-fucked you.
“You're fucking beautiful like this,” he whispers, reiterating his compliment for the umpteenth time like he can't get over it. He must be intoxicated by the pleasure he's giving you.
Seeing you bare faced, hair a mess and dressed haphazardly in the comfort of your bedroom itched the right part of his brain as he was getting a peek into your private life and what it'd look like if he shared that kind of domesticity with you.
A sense of deja vu flashes behind your eyelids as you remember being in a very familiar position that night when he held you up in front of his bathroom mirror so you could witness how his slick cock disappeared into your glistening cunt through blurry eyes, watching his own expression contort into something awestruck as he kept you suspended like it was nothing while fucking into you.
He's got that wistful look in his hooded eyes again, marveling at your form in the mirror, crowded by him, fitting between his legs so perfectly.
Eyelids growing heavier, you hold his gaze in the reflection, half-lidded with your eyelashes fluttering from each heady drip in your stomach, pooling and rising steadily as the early signs that the wave of your orgasm was coming. Arousal flushes your face, baby hairs sticking to your forehead.
When the eye contact becomes too much, you drop your gaze to where he's making you feel so good, wet lips parting on a silent moan. Your back arches off his firm chest, cunt squeezing his fingers so tight that he couldn't move them as you came, tingles spreading from your pussy all the way up to your chest, making you feel lightheaded.
It's then and there that Sukuna decides to coax more out of you, kisses and apologies dotting the side of your neck and face as he does.
Even now as you let him strip off his shirt and jeans, settling against your headboard in just his socks, boxers and tank top, he takes it. When you straddle one of his thighs rather than the bulge of his cock tightening his boxers, he takes it.
Lowering yourself onto his thigh, the muscle flexing under you, Sukuna groans as your slippery folds part, your clit beating against his skin. The glides are so easy with how you're dripping, smearing your slick all over his thigh as his cock throbs painfully, a damp patch growing bigger on the front of his underwear.
Each rock of your hips had it jerking like you were grinding on it instead of his thigh. This wasn't actual sex yet it felt more intense and he was afraid he'd need no stimulation to finish.
Gripping his shoulders, you ground yourself on the broad, bulky expanse of his thigh, cute little hitches disrupting your approving hums when he intentionally flexes it and your clit catches.
The orgasms from earlier left you drenched so you had to shift this way and that so you didn't slide off, squeezing his thigh between yours until you nearly cramped. Fortunately after some frustrated huffs during your trial and error, you found the position that made your stomach constantly flip.
Leaning close, your lips brush his jaw. “You're being so good for me, huh? You must be really sorry.”
“I am,” he grits out because isn't that what he's been saying this whole time?
Having you so close and not being inside you was torture that he would endure until you relented. With a smile against his cheek, you nip at this jaw before pulling back and chasing your pleasure once more.
With your breasts bouncing in his face, he glances up for permission and you nod. Then he's leaning forward, lips closing around your clothed nipple, saliva soaking the fabric as he bites at it, nuzzling his face in the softness of them.
A full body shudder wracks through you as your release bubbles in your lower belly, your hands fisting his tank top as you rasp out a fucked out little, “Ah! Ah! Ah!”
Sukuna lets himself be used like a toy or a pillow to get you off on, moving at a sporadic pace until your hips stutter and you shiver, head dropping into the crook of his neck when you come with pulses against his thigh, cunt desperately milking the air, hot puffs of breath dampening his already dewy skin.
His head hits your cushioned headboard with a thud, his groan long and wrecked as he feels his cock pulse sharply, spurts of cum soiling his boxers. You pull back, hazy eyes narrowed.
“Did you just—?”
“Cum untouched? Yeah,” he finishes for you, literally and figuratively.
A few minutes later, after you give him wet wipes to clean up, you watch as he gets ready to leave, about to put his jeans and t-shirt back on when you grab his arm and stop him.
His maroon eyes find yours, hopeful.
“I'm ready to accept your apology.”
A grin breaks out on his face and he ducks his head, ready to kiss you.
You press your palm to his lips.
“On one condition.”
That condition entails him leaving the house through the front door rather than climbing out your windows.
You don't even let him change before ushering him out.
Sukuna never turns down dares so his head is held high and proud as he stalks down the stairs and through the hallway in just his boxers and tank top—jeans, belt and shirt balled in his arm as he keeps his steps light, not putting any lights on since everyone's asleep.
Luck being on his side is a thought that has him preening until he passes the kitchen and a spoon clatters to the tiled floor.
Jolting, Sukuna turns to see three girls in the kitchen, a ball of clothing shielding his crotch. One sitting on the island, the other at the opened fridge and another standing with a pudding cup in hand, spoon missing.
All of them are gaping at him, eyes wide and blushing, frozen in their spots. Two are in charcoal face masks while the third has what he thinks is hair removal cream on her upper lip.
He lets out a smooth chuckle that sounds a little shaky as he bows his head. “Evening, ladies. Sorry for the intrusion, I'm on my way out.”
To his surprise, they don't scream and call the cops but instead grin and cheer for him like he's a stripper.
Basking in the attention like the cocky bastard he is, he does a spin for them, showing off his muscles before bowing and taking his leave.
You watch him from your balcony as he walks to his truck all suave and smug. When he looks back and smirks, you roll your eyes.
“I'm taking you out tomorrow. Wear something cute,” he calls out as he climbs it and drives off, bass vibrating through the whole neighborhood, his stealth completely forgotten.
When he picks you up the next day for your date and kisses you stupid, biting your bottom lip harshly that you almost think he drew blood before he pulls back and pecks your cheek so tenderly that your heartbeat slows for a second too long, syrupy and sweet, you're taken aback.
“That's for making me the laughing stock of your house yesterday, you brat,” he grumbles playfully as if he didn't bring them all flowers as an apology for his indecency last night.
“Aww, but you looked so sexy like that. Gave them a show and all,” you coo, pinching his cheek.
“Don't test me, woman,” he warns but there's no ill intent behind him as he takes your hand from his face and lightly bites your finger tips.
After that, he courts you properly, asks to be your boyfriend a month later when his team wins a match and parades you around campus like you're his trophy.
No one would believe that this was the same guy who swore off dating for years.
note: wrote this after watching this video so it's probably rushed lmao
♡ spawned from this ask which was inspired by this fic.
｢𝓬𝔀: smut ﾉ MDNI 18+ ﾉ naoya x milf!reader ﾉ canon au ﾉ brief mentions of toji x reader situationship/marriage ﾉ reader has a baby girl with toji (tomie) ﾉ naoya also becomes our baby girl ♡ ﾉ heavy lactation kink ﾉ reader bullies naoya until he breaks ﾉ dommy mommy reader ﾉ naoya tears ﾉ dirty smut ﾉ cowgirl ﾉ fluffy bits ﾉ naoya got lots of mommy issues to heal ﾉ reader is a kamo and has blood manip CT ﾉ there's a bit of plot too sprinkled in too ﾉ tiny mentions of choso and gojo as well ﾉ art: fateshatter ﾉ 𝔀𝓬: 9714｣
Someone will die soon.
Naoya scowls, glaring up at the ceiling in his bedroom.
The slated bamboo above him offers zero consolations to the fact that the universe is, personally and specifically, out to get him.
Fate has decided he should share a wing of the Zenin estate with Toji's latest scandal—a pretty wife and a newborn daughter—the latter of whom has declared war on his sleep schedule.
Flipping onto his stomach, Naoya crushes two pillows over his head to no avail—the piercing wails cut straight through.
Tsk. This entire situation is a special grade clusterfuck.
All thanks to Toji "deflowering" and knocking up the Kamo clan's most precious eldest daughter—yet another scandal he’d dragged back to the Zenin household.
Truthfully, you are equally at fault.
A debutante turned degenerate, you're the furthest thing from pure or lotus-like. Your true nature has stayed hidden from good jujutsu society only through your father's willful blindness—and even now, thoroughly scandalized, you can still do no wrong in his eyes. Nor in Choso's, your annoyingly overprotective half-cursed cousin.
As far as they were concerned, you'd been “corrupted against your will”.
So the blame landed squarely on Toji. And with his less than stellar reputation—to put it generously—no one dared argue otherwise.
Not that it stopped his snark every time he was scolded for it: "That garden had already been ransacked—I merely pitched a tent."
So despite being little more than glorified fuck buddies, both clans scrambled to save face. A shotgun wedding was arranged overnight. Heavens forbid a disgraced black sheep and a thot-daughter spark a war between two of the most powerful families.
The result: you and your squalling little parasite are now Zenin property.
But that alone wouldn't have landed Naoya in this mess.
No—this situation is special.
Seeing as the union only granted you and your daughter entrance to the family—not Toji.
Not that he'd return even if given the chance. He only agreed to marry you for your sake, and your daughter's. Nothing beyond that. So without any real tie to an actual Zenin, you're little more than a ward who took on the name.
Yet Toji thought enough of you not to throw you to the wolves entirely. Before leaving to do gods-know-what as an assassin, Toji asked Naoya personally to watch over you both.
Naoya scoffed at first. Playing babysitter to some woman and her infant? Technically his father Naobito's responsibility—nothing he'd have to bother with until he assumed the role of heir.
Still—Naoya wasn't about to deny a request from Toji, who made it a point never to ask his family for a fucking thing (and who could also destroy them all on a whim.)
Toji-kun said he trusted Naoya alone with the task.
And to Naoya, that acknowledgment was everything.
Fine.
However, that just means seeing to your proper treatment—it didn't mean Naoya signed up to be sleep-deprived.
Fuck—and if even a hint of a dark shadow appeared on his flawless complexion by morning?
There. Will. Be. Bl—
The final straw arrives before Naoya even finishes the thought.
A possessed banshee, 7th ring of hell, kind of screech—that even rivals some curses he's previously exorcised—rings out so loud his right ear pops.
That’s fucking it!
Naoya is out of bed, his room and down the corridor in only four strides.
You had to be awake.
Not even the dead could sleep through this.
So, why the hell hadn’t you handled it already?
How hard is it of all things to get a baby to shut the fuck up?
You’re its mother aren’t you?!
Reaching your quarters, Naoya yanks the shoji door open.
And immediately freezes.
As he expects, you’re wide awake.
Yet nothing could've prepared him for your silk robe to be wide open and resting at your elbows—leaving your breasts completely exposed.
Seated in the midst of tangled blankets and sunken pillows, you shift restlessly to find a position that comforts your baby girl enough to latch while she stubbornly thrashes in your arms.
You give up with a weary sigh, returning to the rocking. Her cries have lessened to frustrated whimpers now that she's moving, but they haven't stopped.
From the doorway, Naoya gives you a measured once-over.
You look like shit. Hair frizzy and damp at your temples, tired eyes, a slight tremor of exhaustion in your hands as you reposition your daughter.
That said, somehow, infuriatingly, you still manage to look appealing.
The moonlight spilling through the slatted window ensures it as it traces your plush curves, highlighting the faint sheen of exertion on your skin catching the light like a glow.
Gaze dropping, Naoya’s jaw ticks at the sight of your swollen, milk-heavy tits—nipples taut and glistening with pearlescent drops, coaxed free by your baby's cries.
A creamy bead falls, dotting your daughter's cheek and you gently wipe it away.
You haven’t noticed Naoya yet, too wrapped up in cooing out the same soft mantras of comfort that have proven useless all night.
Leaning against the doorway now with his arms folded, Naoya narrows his eyes, not used to being ignored. Even if unintentionally. However, his scathing reprimands die on his tongue, something about the scene turning his mouth desert-dry.
Every second drags like an hour, and Naoya with no patience remaining, sharply clears his throat, announcing his presence.
Your head lulls over to him without startling nor making any move to cover yourself. You just give him a drowsy, crooked smile that practically screams finally, someone capable of rational thought and basic impulse control.
"Tch. Pathetic reflexes. A curse would've killed you both by now."
You resist the urge to roll your eyes.
Technically, many would consider Naoya’s very presence to be a curse all of its own.
However, in your defense, your own senses have been greatly off kilter since your pregnancy and childbirth. Not to mention, the sheer exhaustion a newborn brings to a first time mother—you’re too concerned with your daughter, Tomie, to notice anything else.
Of course, you don’t expect Naoya of all people to realize that though.
“See, Tomie?” you whisper preciously to your daughter as you continue rocking her, “You woke up your cousin with all that fuss. Now Nao-chan’s just as grumpypuss as you, my love.”
Nao-chan?!
The nickname lands like a slap and Naoya flinches, no longer reclined on the door.
You weren’t even that much older than him—so what gives you the right to reduce his name to something so…ugh, cutesy?
It makes him sound soft.
Like some harmless stuffy to be cooed at alongside the child in your arms. Nevertheless, a small flush creeps up Naoya’s neck all the same.
Tutting, you shift Tomie upright so she can get a proper look at her cousin, still rooted in the doorway like he's being personally affronted.
She stills at the sight of Naoya, matching his energy.
Appraising him with tiny copies of Toji's stark emerald eyes, Tomie holds that same unsettling scrutiny packaged in a cute face that carries you both unmistakably.
Not to be outdone, Naoya sharpens his gaze, his lips set in a thin line.
You snort under your breath at the scene.
Looks like the infamous Zenin scowl curses another generation—and Naoya, the pompous heir himself, doesn't look remotely inclined to lose a staring contest to someone who can't even burp unassisted.
Growing bored, ultimately Tomie gives first as she blinks, babbling baby talk. A chubby arm wriggling free and batting clumsily toward him, breaking the stalemate.
"Oh?" you simper, eyes flicking from Naoya, who looks smug to have bested an infant, to your daughter.
"Not you being the mature one, my girl."
Your giggles make Naoya bristle, his mouth opens to speak—but you're already talking over him.
“C’mere, she wants a truce.” you beckon sweetly, inviting him in.
Frankly, you’re thrilled something has caught your baby girl’s attention long enough to distract her from crying—even if it is her obnoxious ass cousin.
Naoya, for his part, fully intended to reject the invitation.
To snap at you to—shut that thing the fuck up and put those saddlebag tiddies away while you're at it—to be done with the whole debacle so he could sleep. But his scathing reply dies somewhere between your airy laughter and the light sheen of milk saturating your areolas.
Conceding like he’s being called by some unknown force, Naoya crosses your threshold. He reasons that if a quick greeting would quiet the petite goblin for the night, he could comply just this once for his own sake.
Approaching your futon, Naoya sits beside you, back straight, on his knees. His posture is cautious, as if through mere proximity alone either your baby girl or your milk heavy tits could explode at any moment.
Which brings him to the point that you still haven't moved a muscle towards covering yourself for some fucking reason that eludes him entirely.
However, Naoya isn’t about to let a mere pair of tits shake him. If you don’t care, neither does he. At least that’s what he tells himself as he forces himself to keep his eyes level with yours.
Noaya, steady with all the focused determination expected from the leader of the Hei and Zenin heir—eyes shoot to your tits again the moment you glance at your daughter.
Fuck.
Swallowing heavily, Naoya doesn’t even understand why he’s so enthralled with them. He’s seen plenty of boobs, ones that look way better than yours too. From this close, Naoya can make out the strain of them, skin stretching thin and the small veins showing from underneath. Not the delicate sight of a lady’s chest, no, yours are so obscenely engorged—not to mention leaking—more like fattened cow udders.
So huge, in fact, that they look heavy and feverish.
Or…maybe, that was just him.
The room is getting kinda stuffy.
Shit. Naoya just can't seem to look away from your ginormous mommy milkers. Unable to decide if he's repulsed or utterly entranced. And he's so busy wrestling with that internal crisis that he doesn't stop you from doing something completely fucking unhinged—
—like handing him Tomie.
Realization hitting, for the briefest, teeniest micro-second, Naoya nearly yeets her.
Not even to be an asshole. Just pure reflexes.
Naoya genuinely abhors children. He’s never held anyone’s child and he sure as hell hadn't expected you to dump yours into his arms out of fucking nowhere.
Thankfully—as that very well would have been his ass once Toji found out—Naoya’s a well skilled sorcerer. His own self-preservation instincts reduce the action to a mere undetectable twitch of muscle.
Even so, he looks far more petrified than he realizes and that you do pick up on.
It doesn't register to him how ridiculous he looks until you're practically shaking with suppressed laughter at his statue-like posture.
“She’s not made of glass, you know,” you chuckle at Naoya clearly being so majorly out of his depth. “Just relax, yeah? Rock Tomie a little—she likes you for some reason. You can manage that can’t you?”
Naoya looks at you like you've sprouted two heads.
He doesn’t want to rock a fucking baby—even if it is Toji-kun’s offspring.
Who the fuck do you think he is?
Besides, relaxing wasn't really an option considering how close he'd come to his own death sentence moments ago. But even stranger, he realizes, he hasn't said anything cutting in a minute to remind you of your place, which is frankly weirding him out more than holding the baby is.
However…
You’re simply trusting Naoya to hold her at the moment, easy as that.
He’s the Zenin heir—of course that’s fucking something ‘he can manage.’
To Naoya’s surprise, Tomie has actually settled—tension gone from her tiny body, that very Zenin furrow smoothing from her brow as though to say finally, another Zenin graces her prescenes.
She gurgles up at him, blows a bubble and pats his chest with a proprietary little hand.
Naoya frowns. Why does this feel less like soothing a child and more like being evaluated?
"There—" you yawn unceremoniously, a flicker of life returning to your voice as you treasure the break. "See? She's just bored of mommy. Probably wondering where that deadbeat daddy of hers is."
Your slanderous, yet entirely accurate, remark about Toji is what finally has the venom returning to Naoya’s tongue.
You of all people should consider yourself lucky to be married to him and birth his child.
Eyes flaring, Naoya turns to you and—
Big mistake.
You're in the middle of a stretch. Arms overhead, back bowed, the sheer weight of your tits pulling at your spine until something cracks between your shoulder blades. Milk beads at your nipples from the motion—then scatters. Futon. Blankets. Your lap.
A single drop landing square on Naoya's robe.
He braces for disgust. For his throat to tighten at the sheer audacity of your bodily fluids landing on him.
But the feeling never comes.
Just an overwhelming chemical need to lick the creamy droplet from his sleeve before it soaks in.
“Aha!” you whisper excitedly, attention still on your baby girl in his arms. “My little angel is finally asleep.”
You lean into Naoya, shoulder resting against his, your nipple grazing his arm—and a dribble of milk trails down his sleeve. The drops bleed through the fabric, faint but undeniable.
He doesn't want to notice.
But he does, along with its scent—something like warm mochi and milk buns and pure want to taste it surges so hard this time he bites his cheek.
"Aww, how sweet..." Seemingly oblivious, you dare to poke his cheek, cooing. “Tomi-chan loves her cousin Nao-Nao~!"
Nao-Nao?!
Hairs up on end, Naoya wants to hiss at you.
But your tone is too pure, too genuine.
You’re just… like this.
A gentle aura surrounding you while next to your newborn causes you to mother everything in your surrounding area.
And that makes it all the worse.
Naoya doesn’t need mothering. He never did, not even as a child himself.
Yet those thoughts contrast the awkward and unfamiliar warmth Naoya is so insistently trying to keep out of his chest.
Truly, he’d rather be put out of his misery than suffer it a moment longer.
As a Zenin, Naoya had been trained to treat any affection as weakness—and weakness as a Zenin was the worst sin one could commit.
There’s an unspoken understanding in the clan: No scared cows.
No one member valued more than the strength of the whole.
And now, as a Zenin, you'd be no exception either. Even at the risk of Toji’s or the Kamo clan's displeasure.
The Zenin are well practiced at making consequences look like natural outcomes—be it accidental or personal failures.
Watching you smile so tenderly at your child, Naoya tells himself what he feels isn't guilt.
It's obligation.
Toji left you and Tomie in his care. Therefore it falls to him to set you straight if you both are to survive.
That's all.
"You're Toji-kun's wife and my ward.” Naoya growls—albeit low, careful not to trigger Tomie into another hellish chorus.
“You will henceforth address me, the future head of this clan, as ‘Naoya-sama’."
His words are cutting and to the point.
“And fuckssake, you will cover yourself when in front of men. You are not a Kamo any longer, you’re a Zenin. You will act accordingly or you will be handled.”
You retract immediately, smile dropping, wetting your lips into a pretty little pout that might have worked on a lesser man.
Naoya considers, for a moment, that he almost feels bad for you. Your lack of discip—
Then you dissolve into hushed giggles and he regrets it entirely.
"Oh my gawwwd, you're actually deadass right now, aren't you!?" Hand over your mouth, tears of amusement prick your eyes as you try to keep your voice contained.
“..or you will be handled”, you mimic, trying to sound as pompous as Naoya, although you don’t imagine anyone ever could.
Noaya growls but you pay him no mind through your amusement, so he is almost startled when you suddenly stop and crowd his space once more.
“Handled, huh?”
Naoya keeps his eyes on yours through sheer force of will—refusing to acknowledge your tits swaying in his peripheral.
“And just who is going to handle me…” You challenge, batting your eyes with a sensual pull of your lips, “...you, lil Nao-chan?”
Naoya grits his teeth, his eyes flashing.
Here he was trying to warn you and you’re making a mockery of him?!
If you weren’t Toji’s wife he’d teach you a lesson, he’d—
"Awe, c'mon, Nao-Nao," you purr, caressing his arm which he quickly snatches away. "I thought you'd be the fun one! Ya know…Toji said you were the only half-decent guy in the family."
He stiffens.
"Toji-k-kun…” Naoya clears his throat. “...he said that?"
“Mm-hmm.” You hum. Not missing how Naoya’s golden eyes catch light at his older cousins' praise of him. “Told me you were the only one here Tomie and I could count on.”
The light blush on Naoya’s ears creeps down his neck and just like that Naoya begins rocking Tomie as you initially suggested. Carefully, too—as if in this very moment he's made it his life’s mission to earnestly exceed all of Toji-kun's expectations for him.
Chest puffed and prideful, Naoya insists that, as future clan leader, it's ‘only natural’ Toji-kun would say such a thing about him.
You on the other hand have to perse your lips to keep from bursting into actual hysterics this time.
Why’s that?
Because you just lied through your goddamn teeth.
The only thing Toji told you was that Naoya was an easy mark.
And he is.
Almost painfully so.
The way his ego swells. The way his whole aura brightens just from hearing his cousin's name.
It’s all too adorable, honestly.
Naoya is too easily charmed and you're no stranger to charming all kinds of men. Hell, that's how you got knocked up in the first place.
But this type of emotionally stunted man?
Oh, you could definitely have some fun with him.
With Tomie finally asleep, you feel the familiar pull of mischief tug at you.
“Besides, Naoya-sama~~”
Your voice is all velvety compliance causing Naoya to completely miss the sarcasm underneath. He's also too distracted by your head on his shoulder and your boobs molding into his arm as you reach across him to fix Tomie’s swaddling.
"I think I'm decent enough, no?" Your lips curl deviously. "Seeing as I don't exactly count you as a man."
Naoya’s cursed energy spikes, fury bleeding through his veins—but your Tomie shifts in his arms and Naoya has to choke it back, holding his fury.
You just cock your head, all innocence, like you haven't said something utterly slanderous.
"You shameless fucking slut—" The chill in Naoya voice drops to frostbite temps, “I know you of all peo—”
“Aye!”
The whiplash is instantaneous—Naoya doesn’t finish the sentence before you have two fingers pinching his cheek, twisting with the particular ferocity of a momma bear who's been awake for thirty-six hours and has simply stopped tolerating bullshit.
"Watch your fucking potty mouth around my damn kid, asshole."
Naoya seethes. He wants to tear into you—the thot-daughter of the Kamo clan, standing on absolutely zero moral grounds—he really, genuinely does. But the twist on his cheek tightens and this time he doesn't even need his survival instincts to do the math for him.
Naoya doesn't know your grade but you aren’t a weakling.
Half his cheek isn’t worth it—especially if it woke the little hellhound in the process.
"...Whatever."
Satisfied at him backing down, you release him, smirking at the red blooming across his face.
Naoya resists rubbing it. Instead he huffs, hoisting your Tomie up onto his shoulder and bouncing her there in pointed silence. She'd stirred more from your outburst than anything he'd done all night.
This is all fucking ridiculous.
Naoya thinks and the second she settles once more he thrusts her toward you.
"Here. Take her. You're welcome, by the way—since clearly it takes a real Zenin to do what her own mother couldn't manage all night."
Rolling your eyes, you stop just short of slapping the shit out of Naoya.
The facts remain: that even as a newlywed, your ass might as well be a single mother. Your exhaustion is near biblical and your nerves are near shot and Tomie—the perceptive little thing she is—has likely picked up on every ounce of it, your nerves feeding hers in one miserable feedback loop tonight.
Yet, thanks to Naoya of all people, that loop is finally broken.
Shaking your head, you reach for your daughter—and then your body seizes. The pain hits your chest like a vice, jolting you back hard enough to steal your breath. Your hands fly to cup your breasts on instinct, fingers sinking into the weight of them.
"OH, shiiii—owwww!" You wince.
“What the hell now?” Naoya still holds the baby out to you expectantly, brow arching as you curl into yourself.
"What the hell do you think, Naoya?" You grimace, biting back at him.
Face crunched in pain, eyes shut, you’re careful to take measured sips of air.
“She cried all night and didn't eat. My tits are fucking killing me."
Realizing this meant he’d have to hold your baby girl even longer, Naoya makes an exasperated sound as he brings her fully into his arms again.
“You know this is your archaic ass family’s fault, right?”
You crack an eye open at his diva-like attitude.
“I asked for a pump and the old battleaxe of a caretaker said no. ‘All Zenins are fed from the source’, you mimic in a nasally voice. “Like be so fucking for real—what damn century is this again?!”
Naoya snorts.
You've never had house rules imposed on you—your father let you run the streets without consequence. So really, you're in no position to complain about the Zenin clinging to their traditions, insufferable as they may be, at least they had them.
"You know—Zenin wives are typically chosen for their training and poise. To think that the Kam—" Naoya stops.
Mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-everything—his mouth open, agape like a fish.
Robe now pooled around your hips, you begin working one of your swollen breasts in both hands. Clinical in the way only fatigue makes a person, no couth left in you at this hour. Your thumbs knead carefully, pressing firmly into tender tissue, heel of your palm dragging across a tight knot to stimulate the stagnant flow of your milk glands.
A deep moan slips from your lips in tandem with a hard squirt spraying from your breasts as a reward for your efforts.
Another escapes, then another.
Your oversensitive nipple is drawn taunt with the prickly pain of relief as a thin stream begins to run along the curve of your tits, painting your skin in shiny rivulets all the way to your bellybutton.
Through it all Naoya has not even blinked, nor taken a breath for that matter.
Oblivious to his own staring—and your haughty smile.
"Really now, Nao-chan? You're salty I don't consider you a man—" you muse, hands still diligently working out small drops of milk, "—but how can I? When you’re drooling over my tits like a thirsty newborn."
Shaken, Naoya’s eyes lock on with yours. The flush that had been camping at his neck floods his face all at once, searing his cheeks.
“I...”
You hush him.
Two fingers find your sternum, unhurried—drifting down your chest, down your belly, tracing the streaks of milk all the way down to your navel, gathering in the soft pudge of your mommy tummy.
Fingers thoroughly soaked, you gradually lift them to his lips. You hover them patiently, like you would a treat to a dog.
“Open.”
Not used to taking orders, Naoya hesitates—then parts his lips anyway. Your fingers slide in and the taste hits him, rich and creamy with a faint savory edge he wasn't expecting.
It's good. Dangerously good.
His brain short-circuiting, Naoya doesn't stop even when the taste fades, lapping at your fingers and sucking the remnants from your nails with an eagerness he'll hate himself for later. A low croon threatens to escape his throat—the kind of sound he'd never make consciously—and he forces it down along with the last traces of your milk.
More—he wants more.
One look in Naoya’s eyes tells you that. Dark, hooded, their usual sharp calculation completely gone—replaced by something unguarded and hungry. He's still tonguing your fingers like there might be something left to find. The needy, restless flick of his tongue stroking heat into your core.
"Good," you murmur, retracting your fingers. "Now, go put Tomie down on her futon."
Naoya doesn't move.
But this stillness is different. Every muscle is coiled, feral cursed energy strumming hot through his veins. A wire crossed. His restraint is less like surrender and more like the moment preceding a strike.
"Go on," you simper, "...and I'll let you sample from the source... you know the proper way to feed a Zenin."
Naoya says nothing. His aura speaks for him as he rises smoothly, crosses to the tiny futon, and sets your daughter down.
You simper in approval—he's not half bad at this—but you couldn't tell him that now. Not with the tension this thick.
Returning, Naoya lingers at the edge of your futon. The particular stillness of someone who's already decided how this ends—he’s just letting you go first.
"Well, c'mere—don't go shy on me, Nao-Nao."
You crook a manicured finger at him, giggling.
Poor thing doesn’t realize he’s playing right into your hands.
"I'm not shy."
He's not. But you're Toji's wife, and he's well aware of that. Somehow though, it only makes whatever this is more forbidden.
More worth taking.
"No?" Your voice dips playfully, baiting.
"Just a virgin then?"
Naoya sucks his teeth. He's never met a woman as infuriating as you he decides.
"I'm no virgin, whore."
No real bite to Naoya’s voice this time though, not as he drops to his knees in front of you like a good dog. His own annoyance betrayed only by the whitening of his knuckles in his lap.
"Gotta be mommy issues then," you murmur, closing the remaining distance with a crawl—one last barb delivered right as you sink into his lap, forcing him cross-legged beneath you.
His contained fury is the most endearing thing you've seen all night to be sure.
"Shut u-up," he grits, voice scraping thin.
You rest your arms on his shoulders, holding deliberate space between your bodies. Tilt your head and take stock—he's handsome, you'll give him that. Good bone structure, pretty mouth.
Shame he ever has to open it.
Your fingers drift to the piercings at his earlobe, toying lazily—while your other hand works the short hairs at his nape, featherlight scratches that make him shiver.
Naoya steels himself, an unwelcome and unexplained feeling blooming in his chest as he wills himself to stay focused.
"I'll shut up once you help me." Your hand leaves his ears to find his wrist, guiding it to your body. "Please, Nao-chan. It hurts."
The need etching in your voice worms its way under his skin like a tick and Naoya is finding his ability to keep control greatly diminished from all the blood flowing into his cock.
"Massage from the base," you breathe, giving him instructions to stimulate the milk flow. "Pressure out, not in."
Naoya's palm flattens flush against your breast and whatever plans he had for control slip away on contact.
The heat hits first—it's swollen, much heavier than he expected. Then the give of it, firm but yielding as his fingers curl to sink deeper. Naoya can feel the subtle shift of milk tracking beneath your skin, your breath hitching when he finds the right pressure, your nipple drawing tight against his palm.
"Just like that," you sigh when his rhythm smooths out. "You're a natural."
He adjusts without being told, reading your body's responses, and soon adds his second hand—finding the knot easily, pressing with both thumbs.
Surprise flickers across his face when milk spurts over his knuckles.
He nearly stops breathing.
You don't.
Your shaky exhale of relief punches straight through him and his cock throbs against his robes like a second heartbeat.
Naoya shifts, trying to adjust himself without you noticing.
You do however, gaze dropping, at the motion. He's so much larger than you'd have guessed for a man with such a fragile ego.
"Hmm. Certain parts of you are definitely enjoying this, Nao-chan."
Naoya clicks his tongue but doesn't deny it. He's too fucking hard to deny it.
His hands move again—one on each breast now, thumbs circling, palms compressing—drawing a deep moan past your lips. He watches with something close to reverence as milk wells up with each careful stroke.
The less your chest aches, the lower heat travels, melting into your core. You’re pulsing at the thought of his thumbs sweeping the same circles across your clit.
Breath heavy, biting your lip, you grasp at the robe on his shoulders to brace yourself. A momentary loss of your own control which Naoya is in no position to take advantage of.
Not when his attention is fully captured by a fat, opalescent drop welling on your nipple, shiny even in the dim light.
Eyes wild with need, Naoya’s tongue nearly pokes through the inside of his cheek.
"You wanna taste."
It’s not a question.
"I already said you could—or would you rather lick it up again, like a dog?"
But you’re just as desperate to be drained as he is to drain you. Naoya notices, you can tell. But his jaw is clenched so tight his molars might crack, eyes still glued to your nipples, and you almost tell him to relax before he breaks something and really does require nursing.
Your tits ache too badly to wait on his pride all night.
This time Naoya doesn't flinch when you cup his cheek. You guide him forward with unhurried gentleness—the same patience you show your daughter—and something about that tenderness dissolves whatever protests he had left.
His mouth closes over your nipple and he sucks, greedy and unguarded. Your fingers card into his hair immediately, drawing him in as the first pull sends an achy relief flooding through your breasts.
Naoya moans around you, shameless. Gluttonous. All pompous pretense abandoned.
"There it is," you murmur, smiling as you stroke him affectionately.
Your touch only makes him hungrier though—his tongue flickering, writhing for more even as your milk flows steady now. You jolt when his hands grip your hips without warning.
Naoya braces himself but he's nowhere near steady. Nothing about him is. Breath ragged against your skin, his whole body carries a tremor he probably doesn't realize is visible.
"It's okay, I'm not going anywhere…" you whisper, honeyed coos finally reaching him. "You’re a good boy."
Naoya freezes.
He unlatches with a wet gasp—glossy white ring around his lips, golden-brown eyes blown wide and wild. Something just cracked open in him that he wasn't prepared to feel.
"Don't—"
Croaking on his own spit.
"Don't what? Praise you?" Your hands keep working through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp, lulling him toward a surrender he's still trying to fight. "For doing so well?"
"I'm not a child."
But his voice wavers, unconvincing even to his own ears.
You're teasing him, yes—but there's no cruelty underneath it. No disdain he can pinpoint as an excuse to push you away and escape from whatever this is.
"No?"
Bending forward, your lips ghost against his temple as you whisper:
"You don't want to be my good boy, Naoya?"
His nostrils flare—anger, need, humiliation—all of it written plain across his face.
Like an animal he’s cornered, unsure of his next move.
A moment passes.
Then Naoya’s gaze flicks sharply to your other breast he’s yet to sample.
You raise a brow, but Naoya has just enough pride left to not dignify your question with an answer. Can't anyway—his mouth is already latching onto the next target—the conversation over.
Need won. Clearly.
Naoya feeds more ravenously this time—tongue rolling around your sensitive flesh, teeth scraping in a way you'd smack him for if it didn't feel so fucking good.
He's messy about it too. Milk running down his chin, neck and spilling into his collar.
Fuck—this little shithead can really work his tongue.
Your head lulls, arching into him, melting against his mouth as you let him take his fill.
Your own lust is dampening your thighs now.
Damn. This wasn't the plan.
You'd meant to tease him a bit—let him suck on your fingers, string him along and then duck him. Peel his pride back layer by layer, slowly, to keep yourself amused living amongst such a stuffy clan.
You had no idea how affection-starved Naoya was.
Let alone how much seeing him like this would turn you on.
Your pussy is screaming at you, becoming impossible to ignore. You haven't seen Toji in weeks—relief is overdue in more ways than one.
"N-Naoya…?"
You call him, but he doesn't answer.
His thoughts are in disarray—walls crumbling around something long abandoned inside him.
What this is—what he’s feeling? It’s deeper than anything he's charted. And it has nothing to do with your tits, your supple skin, or the way your milk dissolves on his tongue.
Naoya rarely finds himself lacking.
An upbringing in the Zenin estate hones you for perfection built from very specific arithmetic—cursed technique, tradition and hierarchy. Assembled inside those walls you learn quickly that anything useless you cut out—or someone else cuts it out for you.
But now?
Your gentle words.
You warm embrace.
Your hand moving through his hair like—like he's something worth tending to.
Like his worth was never something he had to earn.
It's driving him mad.
Worse—he doesn't want you to stop.
“Hello? Earth to Nao-chan.” You lit, snapping him out of his daze. “Not you milk drunk already, baby?”
Pouty and petulant, Naoya’s arms snake around your waist to drag you closer until his face is buried between your tits, ignoring you.
Your hand slides between your bodies and finds him—thick and straining through his robes, the rigid shape of his cock unmistakable even through the layers. You lazily trace the outline of his long length with your palm.
Naoya's hips jerk up, gracelessly bucking into your touch.
You won’t let him go soft on you at the moment. Figuratively or literally.
"Aw, Nao-Nao," you coo mischievously. "What would Toji-kun think if he saw you like this?"
That finally gets you a reaction.
Naoya looks up at you scowling—though not to much effect as your nipple stays lodged in his mouth like a binky, spit-slick against his bottom lip.
He doesn't pull off—can't, maybe.
Because as much as he worships his older cousin, the realization is settling in like rot: Toji-kun, for all his monstrous strength—enough to tear apart the entire Zenin legacy—wasn't strong enough to resist you.
Hell, could anyone? Naoya considers the strongest he knows but—pshhh—he’s seen how Gojo is around women, too—he wouldn’t stand a fucking chance against you either.
It makes him feel slightly less pathetic, if only barely.
"He'd not have any room to talk," Naoya growls against your skin as he continues to fuck himself against your palm, grinding his cock against your hand through the fabric in urgent thrusts.
You’re feeding him and unraveling him at the same damn time. Leaving him chasing release and something else he can't articulate.
“Shit—let me fuck you before I completely lose it.”
Naoya’s hands shoot to your ass, fingers digging into your flesh, gripping hard enough to bruise.
You blink, a part of you shocked he's even asking—even if it is half-demanding and half-begging.
"Oh? So now you want to be in charge?"
Your hand withdraws and you let him roll your hips forward against his—it’s more leisurely than the pace Naoya wants though, especially as your robes spread around your thighs and your bare pussy slides against his clothed cock.
You're so soaked, and he can feel your juices flooding through the silk, your wet heat branding him through the fabric.
Naoya grits, caught somewhere between rage and ruin.
God, how he wants to slip his cock inside you—inside your mouth, your tits—and definitely that haughty lil cunt of yours.
See what was so good it even stopped Toji-kun from pulling out.
"You think you're fucking me, Nao-Nao?"
Cradling his head, you swipe at your own cream still lingering at the corner of his lips.
“You still have my milk around your mouth, baby.”
Naoya groans, barely controlled, like he's trying to rut through the layers of fabric.
He doesn't even realize how undignified he looks. The sounds he makes suckling at your tit are sloppy and needy—and you know he'd be mortified if he could hear himself over the squelching of your pussy rubbing against his silk robe.
Tightening your grip in his hair, you wrench his head back, forcing him to release your nipple with a wet pop.
A string of milk stretches from your bud to his lip—then snaps.
Naoya gasps.
Lips trembling, chin sopping, eyes unfocused. Poor thing. He looks completely ruined and you've barely started.
Naoya’s fists the fabric of your robe, already working at the tie. His gasps puff against your throat, mouth grazing up to your chin as he nibbles harder—threatening meaner bites.
"L-Let me fuck y-you."
Naoya is begging now, not even trying to mask his need.
You tilt your head, considering, pondering on it like Naoya wasn’t on his last thread of sanity, driven to insanity by the treacley taste of your creamy milk.
"Mm. No."
"I need—"
Cutting him off, you push Naoya onto the futon in one smooth motion.
"Haven’t you realized I know what you need, Nao-Nao?" Your voice is syrupy as you straddle him, hovering.
"I-I—Fuck—" The word scrapes out of him, guttural, clutching the sheets and throwing his head back onto the futon as his hips buck up into nothing.
You stay perfectly still. Not letting him take a single thing.
"Look at you." You coo, skimming a finger along his milk-stained collar. "Reduced to humping the air? Imagine, a Zenin heir with so little self-composure."
"S-Shut the fuck up, s-slut."
But his insults don’t stop his hips, microthrusts wanting to chase the feeling of your messy pussy sliding over his cock again.
"Why?" You swivel your hips—one deep agonizing grind that lets him feel your cunt clench against his cock through the ruined fabric. He's dripping now too, precum mixing with yours.
"I think you like it when I make you beg. You want to, don't you? So beg me."
Naoya's cheeks burn. He could easily flip you, pin you, and have his way.
He won't though.
Even through your teasing there's a care to your touch he's never let himself experience—and resisting it has his nails biting crescents into his palms, hard enough to bleed.
"I bet you'd cum just like this…"
Your plush lips ghosting his Adam's apple, smirking as he squirms under you.
"...without ever getting inside. Soiling your own robe like a needy, prideful little boy who couldn't simply ask nicely."
The moan that rips from Naoya's throat is feral with need and thick with humiliation. His hips shoving upward, wanton for contact.
You don't give it, suspended just above him, your drooling cunt barely grazing his cock, watching him fall apart with all the patience in the world.
"Naoya, baby" Your hand slides up to cup his cheek, tenderly. "Tell Mommy what you want."
Naoya’s eyes go wide.
Every muscle taut. Cheeks flushed dark.
The Zenin composure he was built from crumbling, reducing him to this.
On the brink, never has Naoya waited this long for something. Never has he been this turned on—and as much as he’s fucking furious about it, he’s also way past giving a fuck.
His eyes rake your body and snag on the trail of milk—smeared on your tits, your belly, all the way to your cunt where it glistens in the dim light.
His mouth waters. Whatever resolve he had left shatters.
"Please..." Naoya whimpers, tears dusting the edges of his eyes, too wound up to realize he's handing you everything. "...fuck me."
You raise a brow, waiting.
Oh, he’s so close.
He knows it too. He knows what you want.
Naoya can see it on your face but there's no coming back from it once he says it. But what choice does he have? He’d die if you sent him away like this.
"Please, fuck me—"Naoya’s voice cracks clean in half, a single tear running down his cheek. "—Mommy."
You push his bangs up fondly, planting a chaste kiss right on his forehead.
"That’s my Good boy."
Naoya watches you with tears burning his eyes, chest heaving, too far gone to resist you any longer.
You tug the ties loose on his robe until the fabric falls away. His cock springs free—angry, leaking and bobbing with every shaky breath he takes.
You have to admit it's pretty. His flushed red, cockhead peeked through its foreskin. You can feel his whole body shiver as you peel it back more.
Your mouth is watering for a taste yourself and god, if Naoya wasn’t such a fucking tool you’d gladly suck him off.
That could come later though—you’d make him earn that too. Subservience looks good on him afterall.
You'd be tempted to deny him longer if you weren't so hard up for it yourself, your gooey walls vibrating at the thought of a cock inside, at long last.
Toji's been gone for weeks and you need a stress release, bad.
You position your cunt just above the swollen head of his cock—close enough for your juices to drip salaciously onto his tip, dribbling down his shaft.
Naoya squirms beneath you, and you drink it in.
"Craving to wet your cock inside Toji-kun's wife, hm?"
He can't answer—not when you sweep his cockhead through your folds, letting him glide through the mess of your wetness and the milk still coating your thighs. You're soaked enough to take him whole right now, no prep needed, and the thought makes your cunt clench around nothing.
Naoya moans, hips snapping up, trying to piston into you—and you shove him back down by the hip, pinning him to the futon.
"Behave."
"I'm—" He swallows, voice wrecked. "I'm trying."
You smile, wiping the sweat off his brow with something close to care in your touch.
"Try harder for Mommy then, yeah, Nao-baby?"
You don't wait for his response.
You sink down, pussy swallowing him whole in one brutal stroke.
The stretch punches the breath out of you—wet as you are, he's still thick enough to make your walls spasm, to make your spine bow as he splits you open. You hate how good his cock feels dragging over every ridge inside you, the fat head kissing your cervix hard enough to make your thighs tremble.
Naoya gasps like you've knocked the wind out of him. You watch his mind go blank.
Hands flexing useless at his sides. Mouth falling open, slack and dumb. Eyes rolling until you can only see the whites, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.
"Y-You're f-fuckin’ tight," he rasps, too loud. "F-Fuck—you're tight, y-you're so—"
Clamping your hand over his mouth, palm pressed to his lips, your nails curl into his cheek. You feel him arch off the futon beneath you, a muffled whine vibrating against your skin.
"Shh." You hush. "You'll wake the baby."
Naoya nods furiously, chest heaving. You smile once he settles.
"Atta boy."
Naoya whines as you start to move—hand still clamped over his mouth, bracing yourself as you ride him. A calculated wind at first, controlling the roll of your hips as you get a feel for him. The way he stretches you. The way a meaty vein throbs against your g-spot as you move.
Shit—Not bad.
Naoya trembles beneath you, hands fisted white-knuckled in the sheets, whole body wracked with the effort of staying still. Of not fucking up into you like a desperate, rutting animal.
"Mmmm," you murmur, rotating your hips in a lazy figure-eights. "Just like that, let it all go. Let me ride you. Let Mommy take care of you."
Naoya’s whimpers bubble under your palm—pathetic, needy. He knows he’s being used. He’s maintained zero control of the situation.
And yet?
He can’t deny a he’s a fucking fiend for it.
Not when your cunt grips him like a fist. Not when he can feel how wet you are— slick saturating his balls, staining the futon beneath you both. Your gooey pussy squeezes him so tight he can barely breathe, silky and warm, milking his cock like she was made to ruin him.
Then you feel it—his balls twitching underneath your ass, drawing up tight. He's close.
Fuck, already?!
“C-Cumming that fast?” you pant out. “ T-That fast? From your cousin’s wife’s tits and cunt? Do I feel that good?”
Naoya is groaning as his eyes squeeze shut, biting his inner cheek and fisting the sheets.
"Nuh-uh." You tsk, stilling completely. "Bad boy. Not allowed."
Naoya's eyes fly open as yours begin to glow—red and ancient, blood-dark lines blooming beneath your lashes. He feels it. Your cursed energy pouring into him, flooding every vein, every capillary, settling hot and heavy in his balls.
The Kamo inherited technique—blood manipulation—seizes complete control.
Instantly, he veins in his balls bulge obscenely, his cock swelling even harder inside you. But he can't cum. You won't let him.
Naoya cries out, breaking into a sweat, pleasure flaring through him to excruciating levels as every one of his nerve endings lights up.
"I may be a Zenin by name," you breathe, leaning in until your tits smush into his chest and your lips brush his ear, "but I'll always be a Kamo by blood."
You bite down on the tender tissue, feeling him shudder beneath you, cock throbbing helplessly inside your cunt.
"Don't worry." You sit up, savoring his broken whine from the loss. "I'll let you cum, Nao-baby. I'm going to milk you dry—just like you milked me—after I get my nut."
You lift up just enough to meet his wild, glassy eyes.
"Nod if you understand."
Naoya nods. He understands perfectly now—understands exactly how you wound up pregnant by Toji. Understands why a man like that couldn't stay away.
He sobs beneath your hold, tears spilling hot over your fingers, breath hitching against your palm. You clench, a methodical squeeze—and his whole body jerks violently, a broken "nnngh—!" muffled against your hand.
You ride him in earnest now. Harder. Faster. Greedy for it. Your tits bounce wild, milk spilling with every slam of your hips—they’re sore but you don't care, chasing your pleasure like nothing else matters. You're soaked, the sound of it obscene—wet squelching filling the room, your arousal and milk splashing filthy with his pre where your bodies meet.
Naoya’s cock hits that gushy, spongy spot inside you over and over and your rhythm starts to falter.
"F-Fuck—"
You're getting sloppy. Losing focus. Your thighs burn from exertion but you can't stop, can't slow down, bouncing on his cock like you'll die yourself if you don't cum on it. Your pussy greedily convulsing around him—shit, you could easily fuck your own self stupid if you aren’t careful.
You learned well enough not to underestimate Zenin dick fucking around with Toji.
Thankfully, however, Naoya is ruined. Flushed crimson from chest to ears beneath you, his tears streaming and his cock so engorged inside you that he looks like it must hurt. His hips spasm with aborted thrusts, toes curling as he is fighting his body's urge to rut even now.
He’s still trying so hard to be a ‘good boy’ for you and that thought alone almost makes you cum.
You consider, through the haze of your own pleasure, appraising his pathetic form beneath you, that you might accidentally give him a brain aneurysm if you keep this up much longer.
“P-Puulease—Mommy” he gasps out when you lift your hand from his lips.
"Wait your turn," you moan, brows furrowing as you try to concentrate.
You're close. So fucking close. You use him like a toy now, hips rolling carnally, chasing the tingling friction. building white-hot at the base of your spine. Your nails dig into his abs as you tilt, angling yourself so his girth scrapes against your g-spot with every bounce.
Quiet sobs tumble over your lips as you tense, fucking yourself on him until—
"O-oh—oh fuckfuckfuck—"
You shatter, orgasm ripping through you, pussy fluttering wild around his length and gushing to coat his balls as you ride it out. Vision edges white, as your thighs quake, your hips rotating in stuttering circles as the waves crash through you.
Chest heaving, when you regain your senses again, Naoya is barely there himself, sanity hanging by a thread with eyes blown—watching you cum so erotically on his cock like a man witnessing something holy.
You bring your face centimeters away from his, your lips ghosting his own as you release your technique.
"Cum."
And he does.
With a broken moan Naoya busts inside you—cock pulsing thick and hot, spurts of cum flooding your cunt white as his hips stutter up helplessly. You let him pull you down, let him clutch you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth as your lips smash together.
You seal your mouth over his, devouring every ragged cry. Your tongue sweeps sweetly against his trembling one as you steady his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his tear-damp cheeks, kissing him quiet.
All the while his cock continues to pump you full—and you’ve kept your promise.
This is the most Naoya’s ever cum in his entire life.
When he comes down enough, Naoya rolls onto his side, taking you with him as he curls into you—face buried in your chest, sucking in breaths, completely undone and still twitching inside you.
A bit overspent yourself, not having activated your ability since Toji got you pregnant in the first place, you don't move yet. You keep him buried inside of you, pulsing with the aftershocks of what he just let himself become.
His arms wind tight around your waist like he's afraid you'll disappear. You cradle the back of his head, stroking softly.
He doesn't speak and you don't rush him. Not eager to test for any remaining snark you failed to fuck out of him.
It feels good just being needed like this, you are a mother afterall.
Eventually the heat between your thighs starts to cool, and you shift—peeling him off slowly, feeling the thick spill of his cum leak out of you. He shudders at the loss, an inaudible sound catching in his throat.
You ease him onto his back, robes rumpled beneath him, face still ruddy. He watches you through heavy-lidded eyes—quiet, stunned, like he doesn't recognize himself.
And then—
A single, involuntary whimper escapes him when his gaze catches on your breasts again.
Still heavy and still leaking—milk beading at your nipples.
You smile.
"Still hungry?"
He turns his face into the pillow, ears burning.
You laugh—not mocking this time. Your voice is warm, almost fond.
"Poor Nao-chan," you murmur, settling beside him as you reach for a baby wipe nearby. "Your first time letting someone take care of you, and now you don't know what to do with yourself."
"I didn't say I wanted—"
You wipe his chest clean of milk, sweat—all of it with a tenderness that makes him forget what he was saying. Naoya’s throat bobs as he goes silent.
Unhurried, you wipe yourself off next. Then once satisfied, looking over to confirm that Tomie is still sleeping peacefully, you secure the discarded blanket over you both, effectively tucking him in, before gathering him in your arms.
"You don't have to say it," you whisper against his hair. "Mommies always know."
Sure, you certainly aren't his mother.
Yet something in your heart still aches for the broken little boy inside Naoya all the same. His cruel upbringing was hardly his fault, although it's been everyone else’s problem since.
Plus, you're fairly certain you just did more for his mommy issues in one night than years of therapy could ever achieve—even if someone managed to drag Naoya there, against his will.
Sigmund Freud couldn't have even accomplished this. Someone should really give you a nobel peace prize.
You hum a low lullaby against his temple as Naoya’s eyes close. He doesn't fight it. Between your soothing song, warmth and the exhaustion your technique left behind, he doesn't have the strength to fight you—nor does he want to.
Naoya’s lips are at your nipple again. He's not sucking this time—just holding you on his tongue, lavishing slow and kitten-soft licks, nursing you like a pacifier.
"You did well, Naoya."
It's the last thing he hears as sleep pulls him under.
⟡
Hours later, Naoya wakes to the sound of your voice.
His eyes squint against the harsh morning light pouring into the room. As they adjust, he makes out your shape—sitting on the edge of the futon, knees tucked beneath you, fully dressed, bouncing Tomie in one arm while you chat on the phone.
A dizziness hits him all at once. Naoya finds himself sluggish, bodily functions recalibrating as the effects of your technique linger.
He feels like he got hit by a goddamn truck.
A truck that happened to also fuck him stupid and then tucked him in after.
Grumpy, the loss of your warmth pulls a low growl from him.
Naoya hauls himself across the futon and plants his head in your lap, nuzzling into you like you owe him now.
You try to ignore him, continuing your conversation, but Naoya is persistent. His nose keeps traveling higher—nudging toward the apex of your thighs and burying his face into your mound. The lingering musk of sex is still strong through your kimono and Naoya's cock stirs, already half-hard at the thought of tasting how well his seed has marinated inside you.
Naoya hums petulantly into your pussy, clearly territorial of whoever has your attention.
You roll your eyes at the display.
Give men an inch and they will always take a mile.
You threw him a crumb of affection and now he's acting starved for it.
Shifting your daughter to one arm and wedging the phone between your shoulder and cheek, you card your fingers through Naoya's hair. It's enough to soothe him—for now. He sighs against your thigh, using your plush lap as a pillow, and drifts back toward sleep.
"Huh? Say that again—" You grit, more irritated now at the man on the other line than the one in your lap. "Ugh, fine. I'll spot you this time, Toji."
Even half asleep, Naoya goes deathly still.
You smirk, feeling him tense in your lap as you continue to speak.
"But that’s only on the condition you visit Tomie this weekend, you oaf. She'll forget your face if you keep this up, ya know."
A pause. Then snort.
"Hm? Oh yeah. Yup, uh-huh.” You smirk amused by whatever Toji's saying on the other line. "Yeah, yeah, Ji. I'll let him know—and jeez, I got it, okay…I'll do the transfer now. GOODBYE."
You hang up with a huff, mildly annoyed—until you glance down and see your daughter happily cooing, her tiny hand patting Naoya's head alongside yours as you reluctantly transfer Toji the money he asked for.
Naoya, mortified, had been holding his breath this entire time—just in case Toji could sense it over the phone—sighs in relief.
"Shit... that was close," he mumbles, wincing as your daughter's pats turn into enthusiastic slaps against his temple.
Toji-kun told him to take care of you, sure.
He's fairly certain this wasn't what he meant.
"Huh? Oh, you mean Toji?" You blink down at Naoya. "I already told him."
Naoya shoots upright like you just announced a curse had just blown up half of Tokyo.
"Relax, Naoya, my god." You wave a hand, dismissing him. "Toji's cool about it. We were never exclusive or anything, ya know."
Naoya exhales, exasperated, and flops onto the futon, on his back, his hand over his face as you rise shuffling elsewhere in the room.
He knows his cousin—this won't be the end of it. Toji will definitely expect something in return.
But Naoya can't think about that now. His head is throbbing, it's early as hell, and he's gotten maybe two good hours of sleep.
He knows he should return to his own sleeping quarters—but this is his wing after all and he honestly can't be arsed to move for anything right now.
"However," you add lightly, when you see Naoya's body bracing for blow, "he did say you have to bankroll a parlay for him every time you fuck his wife."
And there it is.
Naoya doesn't even lift the hand over his face, just grunts.
"Sure."
"Anddddd, he's charging you by the ounce for—and I quote—'sucking up all his tiddy milk like a pansy lil b-i-t-c-h.'"
You spell out the word in lieu of saying it now that Tomie is awake.
Naoya groans, wishing he'd woken up earlier. He's not sure what kind of narrative you fed Toji, but he's too exhausted to argue about it now.
"...Fine." Naoya replies, wincing at your giggles prickling his skull.
Toji's money schemes don't matter much to him anyway—he's rich, he can afford whatever bullshit ‘tiddy milk tax’ this is.
Naoya just needs you to shut up about it now.
Every chuckle out of your mouth drives another rusty nail into his skull.
"Oh, one last thing," you call over your shoulder, smirking as you scoop Tomie's diaper bag and head towards the bathroom to change her.
"Toji says if you get me knocked-up, you’re raising that one too."
You laugh hardly, leaving the room with Tomie happily cooing in your arms.
Whatever.
Naoya sighs, smashing two pillows over his face.
He'd just pull out next time.
Simple. Problem solved.
It's a small price to pay for your soft creamy tits and that sweet, gooey mommy puss—
♡ hope u enjoyed! i hope to see a lot more recruits in the naoya army after this fic lol!
also i loved writing in tomie here. i didn't name toji's and your's baby in the previous one but i really like this name so i decided to use it. shes so sassy shes def gonna give noaya hell. hsjdfbvjshdbfvhsd. read my other naoya fic here
Status updates: Caracal!sukuna p4 (20% done), invisible man!gojo (35%), stepdaddy!nanami (60% done), nerd!geto p2 (45%), 69 choso fic (30%) [y'all remember caracal sukuna won the poll so freddy!sukuna and elevator will have to wait!] stepdaddy!nanami next
𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼? then please 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 or 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠! you can also join my gen. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 or contribute to the 𝐛𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨$𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐝.
❝ satoru gojo broke your heart three years ago by ending your relationship. and then he broke it again and again and again by not being able to let you go – maybe this time you're the one that has had enough❞
wc 3.9k
content angst, satoru pov, hurt no comfort, sad ending, anxiety, sukuna is here, break up talk, fear of death, suguru being a good friend, post-break up, arguments, reader moves on but satoru can’t, for everyone that wanted to see satoru suffer i hope you’re happy, i cried writing this, honestly this is bleak again
a/n this is part 2 to if i didn't love you but can also be read as a oneshot
Was it raining?
Water streaked down Satoru's face, drip dripping down his chin all the way down to the collar of his nice white shirt – making all that effort to have it perfectly pressed futile now that it was soaked with this unrelenting waterfall.
His father's words were already ringing in his ears. A Gojo is always supposed to present as strong, powerful, in control.
Satoru didn't quite feel like any of that right now, though.
When the hell did it start raining?
It was constant, overwhelming, like the sky had suddenly opened up and decided to soak him specifically.
But there were no clouds above, he noticed. Nothing but clear blue skies to completely contrast the storm he felt inside.
So he brought a hand to his face, touching the fresh water that seemed to be coming from his eyes instead.
Huh, he muttered in surprise.
Satoru didn't remember when he started crying.
But now that he had started, he couldn't stop.
So stupid that this would be the thing that did it, he cursed at himself, staring at his phone screen at the undelivered text he had sent you earlier today.
Had you blocked him?
You had never blocked him before.
His foot tapped anxiously against the floor just outside his fancy apartment building – he was just coming back from another business meeting. Same as usual. Sweet talk some CEO, pretend it didn't make him want to die inside, be called incompetent by his dad, repeat.
He fucking hated it.
Truth was, Satoru didn't give a shit about his family business. Could not have cared less about the Gojo clan. But every attempt at evading his fated future had been useless. And he tried his best, his really did.
He had fled from all responsibility as soon as he could, for as long as he could.
Until he couldn't anymore.
Satoru never wanted to leave you. He still held on to that year the two of you spent together like the best year of his life. Probably the only good one he'd ever have.
But it all started that day when his father looked him in the eye with his matching blue ones, and asked if you were the reason Satoru was forsaking his own family – that's when he knew all attempts at escaping were in vain.
Threats didn't need to be direct to carry weight.
He knew well enough what his family was capable of.
And even if it had all been in his head, or even if that conversation had never happened in the first place… would you really have been fine with marrying someone whose family you would never be accepted into? Could never even meet?
Satoru knew he wanted to marry you from the moment his first saw you.
But would you really have been fine with that?
With your children being called bastards?
At best, he'd be completely cut off – not an ideal situation, and if Satoru was honest, he didn't know what he'd do without the money. Still… worst case scenario: his father's threats weren't so veiled anymore.
He didn't want to think about that.
So he chose to leave.
Saying goodbye to you that day was a type of hurt he could have never predicted. Try as he may, he was never able to erase the way you looked at him then. Shocked. In pain. Betrayed.
It was still there in his dreams, when he woke up in the middle of the night searching for you. Missing your weight in his arms, your heat on the side of the bed he didn't sleep on anymore.
He hated those nights.
But any glimpse of you – albeit painful and brief and unconscious – was better than to not see your face at all.
He wanted to see your face so bad.
So Satoru's trembling fingers clicked on your contact picture, hiccuping harder when he realised it was just a grey square now. Not the smile he desperately needed right now.
He thankfully knew he still had pictures of the two of you saved on his computer upstairs, all those little memories he was never able to let go of, but Suguru had convinced him to erase them from his phone a long time ago.
Said it was no use torturing himself like this.
But Satoru just couldn't give it up.
He never wanted to break it off, so he clung on to you like a ghost.
He knew it wasn't healthy.
He knew it wasn't fair.
But he couldn't not.
Not when every drab grey day was spent the same way, doing the same thing, getting yelled at by the same people. Pushing through because it's what he had to do; because, if he was truly honest with himself, he couldn't let go of the privileges that came with his rich family anymore than he couldn't let go of you.
Satoru really hoped you could see it that way. How hard it was for him to make a decision that, in the long run, would be good for you.
After all, how was this a life he could ever want for you?
So he allowed himself to want less. He'd play along with his families games, push you away as far as he could and live up to everyone's goddamn expectations.
But there was a black hole the size of you right in his chest.
Satoru remembered what it was like to have the life he wanted, even if it didn't last.
And year after year he kept you locked in this unstable dance. Messaging you he'd be back in town, fucking you all night and pretending the morning after didn't hurt more than the one before had.
This wasn't a life he wanted for you either.
But why did you say yes every time?
Surely he wasn't the only one at fault here.
He wasn't the only one unwilling to let go.
After all, you could have blocked him.
Well…
You did.
His jaw locked tight as he gritted his teeth, trying to breathe calmly to stop himself from hopping on a plane to you right this second.
So his fingers dialed the only other person he ever wanted to speak to.
"Satoru" his friend answered.
"Do you know where she is?" Satoru said too fast, cutting through all the small talk and going straight to the point.
Suguru sighed on the other end. "I don't"
That gave him pause.
"Well is she alright?" Satoru asked then, anger replaced by worry. What if something had happened? What if you didn't block him at all – but had your number terminated instead?
Satoru leaned against the wall, holding his head with one hand while the other pressed the phone to his ear tight. He hated how his brain was going straight to the worst case scenario.
It used to be a big fear of his – that something would happen while he wasn't there. That fate would deal its most cruel blow, and take you away from him for good. That he wouldn't be there to hold you one last time.
Satoru shook away the images that would sometimes show up in his nightmares, willing himself to stay in the present.
"What makes you think she isn't?" his friend asked, voice kind and patient.
The voice of someone who had supported him through a crisis about you too many times already.
"She–I don't–" Satoru kept cutting himself off, annoyed at how unstable he sounded, and the fact his friend remained on the line only added to the shame. "Her number is weird, I don't know" he huffed out finally.
This time, Suguru was the one that paused.
"Weird how?" he asked.
"Weird, Suguru" Gojo spat, gesturing so wildly people started to notice. All the rich, stable, composed neighbours he never cared to get to know. "Can you check if it's the same for you?"
It took a couple seconds before his friends voice came back again. "It looks fine to me" he said.
Gojo put one hand deep in his pocket, his foot tapping the floor with more and more force by the minute. "Try sending her a text" he told him.
"I'm not sure that's–"
"Suguru" he hissed. "Just send her a fucking text"
The fact his friend was taking so long to respond was just frustrating him even more. He gave him a few seconds to think of whatever excuse and finally send you something, but the anxiety was hard to contain.
"And?" Satoru hissed.
"What exactly are you expecting?" Suguru sighed.
"Did she receive it?"
And then Suguru let out a long exhale, like he finally realised what was making his best friend spiral like this. "Yes" he muttered, almost guilty.
"Fuck" Satoru rasped, dragging a palm over his face. "Does my number look ok to you? Maybe there's a problem with m–"
"Satoru" his friend called softly. "Did she block you?"
Satoru closed his eyes, hanging his head low. All his fears coming true.
"She did" he admitted, voice far too small for the confident man he was.
And the silence stretched, no one quite knowing what to say.
"I'm sorry" his friend murmured.
"Don't be" Satoru tried to wave it off. "Is she seeing someone?"
"I don't know" he answered honestly. "You know I haven't seen her since you left"
Satoru nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.
"Maybe it's better this way" his friend said.
And Satoru pressed the big red button immediately, ending the call without a proper goodbye.
No it fucking wasn't.
Satoru Gojo wanted to scream.
It had been years, he knew, but he never really thought you'd block him.
You couldn't disappear like this. Satoru had no one else but you.
Even with his family desperate for him to get married and further the Gojo clan – he couldn't. He never brought himself to even look at anyone but you. The thought of ever touching someone like he touched you made him sick – and even more so, the thought of you with someone else.
He never really expected you would move on. Maybe that was mean, sure, but a sadistic part of him believed that by staying in your life it would make the possibility of you ever finding someone else grow thinner.
Yeah, it was selfish. But you knew that about him already.
And you loved him in spite of it, right?
Or maybe you loved him because of it. Maybeyou loved that he also couldn't let you go. Thought the knowledge that he'd pathetically crawl back to you eventually absolved you from your own part to play in this – always accepting him back with open arms and open legs.
Every time he messaged you again he braced for another rejection that never came, worried this would be the time you told him to fuck off, told him you had found someone else.
You never did. What the fuck was different now?
Satoru had never been angry with you before, but it now came out in ways he couldn't help. Ugly, vicious ways, as he stopped himself just short of punching a hole through he wall.
He could point fingers all he wanted, swear to himself and everyone else that you were just as much to blame as he was. It didn't really matter.
Because truth is, as much as Satoru had prepared for the day you'd leave for good – he never really expected it.
Should he have told you? Actually let you know how deep his love for you ran, how impossible it felt to let go, and how he had never even touched anyone else?
…And hope you would do what exactly?
Because he wasn't moving back.
And you had no place here.
Expectation and hope were very different things.
Yes, Satoru hoped he'd see you as soon as his plane landed. But never really expected to.
Especially didn't expect to see you walking out of the café the two of you had been to many times, the same one where your reunion occurred three years ago, before you ended up tangled in bed together.
Would everything had been different had he not answered your text that day?
Really, Satoru didn't care. Didn't care about anything right now.
Because there you were again.
Suguru had already talked his ear off about not looking for you, saying something about giving both of you a real chance to move on. When the fuck did his best friend get this reasonable? He hated it.
So obviously, the first thing Satoru did when he saw you was run in your direction, already calling your name.
He hoped you'd welcome him back.
Didn't expect you to look at him like that, though.
He had seen you hurt, had seen you angry.
But Satoru had never seen you disgusted.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" were the words that left your lips when he approached you with that wishful smile, one that was already dropping given your reaction.
Oh. This was not how this was supposed to go.
"I'm in town" he said awkwardly, like it wasn't obvious."I tried to tell you, but guess you didn't get the text"
Satoru didn't mean it to sound this passive aggressive, if anything, there was a little too much earnestness in his tone. And you noticed, of course, because you were the person that knew him best in the whole world. So you closed your eyes, bowing your head as all fight drained from you.
"Satoru…" you sighed out his name.
He loved when you said his name.
Satoru swallowed the urge to rush towards you, hands deep in his pockets as he tried to control his breathing. "Why did you block me?" he finally asked.
You shook your head, still not looking at him. "I can't keep doing this" was all you said.
Why were you acting like you couldn't talk to him?
You always could. You just didn't.
"And you couldn't tell me that?" he scoffed, as if you still owed him that much after everything.
"Tell you?" you repeated, almost growling at him. "After you fucking left me?"
"You know I wanted to stay" he immediately started defending himself. "I can't ignore my family and–"
"I don't mean the first time" you let out an incredulous laugh. "I mean the last"
Satoru squinted, shifting his weight as he tried to understand what you meant. He remembered the last time you spent the night together – remembered struggling to pull away from you in the morning as his father called about some emergency in a different time zone; remembered leaving the room quickly before the yelling coming from the phone woke you up.
He remembered getting dressed with haste but still giving you a kiss on your relaxed forehead, and tucking a thick blanked under your chin before having to rush out the door and get on another plane. To another business meeting. Another decision made for him.
Satoru didn't think much of it then, and had even messaged an apology. This wasn't the first time his work interrupted him from being there in the morning.
Why did you care so much all of a sudden?
"I didn't want to leave then either" he started explaining. "And I apologised–"
"You texted me an apology" you snarled, hurt all over your face. "Did you think that was kind?"
"I don't get it" he crossed his arms. "It's not like it was the first time I had to go"
You looked to the side, biting the inside of your cheek. "That time was different"
Satoru noticed the immediate shift in your voice, taking the opportunity to step forwards. "Why?" he asked, trying his best to not scare you away again.
He saw how your breathing was ragged and the way you had your arms tucked around you, like physically trying to protect your heart. Satoru wanted to understand, all you had to do was tell him and he'd do anything, anything, to push away the hurt and be the one holding you up, he'd–
"Because you said you'd move back" you finally said , voice breaking at the end.
Satoru felt his stomach sink at the reminder – the way you had cried and clung to him that night, begging him to not leave again. He said he'd see what he could do.
You both knew it was a lie.
"Baby–" his words were cut off by your glare.
"All you said was you were sorry. And nothing after that. For months"
The words cut into him like a knife, his palms sweating and pulse racing. Satoru couldn't even find the words, but he didn't have to – because you were happy enough to keep going.
"And I waited, you know" you scoffed at yourself. "And then I started rereading my texts. Not the ones with you – with my friends"
Satoru took a small step back, settling him in place for whatever you were about to say. He hated every second of it, but couldn't deny he deserved to hear it.
You let out a wet laugh, unable to look him in the eye. "Dozens of texts telling everyone you were the one" you continued. "That finally, after years of bullshit from all these other guys I dated, it had all been worth it because it led me to you"
Every second hearing you speak broke his heart a little more.
"I said I understood that now. Now that I was finally happy" your tears started falling, but you didn't brush them away. And then you finally looked at him – with wet red rimmed eyes, ready to land the finishing blow.
"You were gone not even a week later"
Satoru audibly let go of all the breath in his lungs, throat constricting at your words like his own guilt was trying to choke him.
He felt like he was about to be sick.
"I never wanted to–" he tried to speak, but his voice gave up before you even cut in again.
"But you did" you cried. "You keep saying you wanted to stay, but you didn't. Wasn't it your choice?"
"I didn't have a choice" he muttered, small.
"Keep telling yourself that" you taunted him, averting your gaze. "You had a choice. You just didn't choose me"
Satoru was frozen in place. What was he supposed to do? Apologise again? Beg on his knees?
When you turned to leave, his heard beat louder than it ever had.
How could he just watch the love of his life turn away and say nothing?
"Wait" he called, reaching for your hand. "At least let me– let me say goodbye" he cried.
You laughed again, looking up at him with everything from pain to pity to anger.
"We've said goodbye so many times"
His grip tightened on your hand, desperate and terrified.
For months he had thought nothing of that night – thought you accepted it was just something you did, like he accepted it. It was just how it was.
If Satoru knew how badly he was hurting you, he'd get on a plane and apologise a million times.
He didn't know. You had to believe him.
I love you, he wanted to say. There was only ever you.
But something else caught his attention suddenly. A gruff voice that had you snapping your eyes towards it, your heart broken face softening finally.
"Hey" the voice said. "The fuck is going on here?"
It came from some tall, tattooed guy who was crossing the street, walking towards the two of you with murder in his eyes.
Satoru was confused by this menacing stranger – and his first instinct was to take a step in front of you, protecting you from whoever this was.
But to his surprise, you walked around him, rushing to the man and pressing two palms to his chest. "Kuna, it's ok" you said reassuringly, but this Kuna still looked at Satoru with burning hot anger.
"Who the fuck do you think you are" he snarled, putting both hands on your back and pulling you into his chest. "Putting your hands on my girl?"
Satoru felt like he was about to be sick again.
Who the fuck was this?
My girl?
You weren't his. You belonged with him. With Satoru, always, even if it was hard, even if it hurt. Your heart was his, and that was the whole problem.
But right now you had your face buried into someone else's chest, letting him pet your hair and comfort you as you cried desperate tears.
Satoru didn't even know how to process the information. For years he hadn't touched anyone but you, didn't even want to – and only a few months after seeing him last, you were already someone else's?
Is this what he deserved?
"Please don't yell" you sobbed on your new boyfriends chest, making him snap his attention back to you.
"He made you cry?" the man asked, taking your face in his hands far more gently than anyone would expect from someone who looked like that.
Satoru watched someone else wipe your tears away. Watched someone new hold you close and, worst of all, you letting it. You leaning into his warmth like Satoru was the one you needed protecting from.
This wasn't right.
He loved you. This whole time. He loved you so fucking much – didn't you get it? He couldn't let you go. Wouldn't.
"I'm sorry I was late" Satoru heard you murmur as this other man kissed the top of your head, all focus back on you.
"Don't" he responded kindly. "Got me worried sick, and then I find you upset and this asshole with his hands on you–"
"We just ran into each other" you shook your head, clinging on to him. "It's ok"
The man exhaled sharply, cradling your head into his chest again with a hand tangled in your hair, slowly caressing the strands.
His crimson eyes looked up at Satoru. Assessing. Something beginning to turn in his brain, as he looked him up and down like a predator looking for a challenge.
"He the one you told me about?" he asked you, still staring at Satoru, and you nodded your head yes.
Satoru hated this.
What the fuck had you said about him?
Had he become someone you told horror stories about?
He loved you. How did you not get it–
"Let me get you out of here" the man whispered to you, turning your body away in the other direction. Not even letting you take another peek at Satoru, not even letting you say goodbye.
He was completely frozen in place, every hope and expectation replaced by this bitter reality right in front of him.
No one said anything else, but the way the man stared at Satoru said enough. He turned his head around to cast that crimson gaze on him again, not needing words to convey what it meant.
A threat.
Contact her again, and see what happens.
Satoru gulped, watching you be lead away by another man.
Away from him.
Oh, he thought, bringing his fingertips to his wet face.
synopsis . When you get paired with your campus frat’s resident asshole, Sukuna, for a project, the last thing you expect to learn about him is that he’s a damn virgin! Nor did you expect to be the one to change that.
content . afab!reader, virginity loss, oral sex (m!receiving), premature ejac, non-curse college au, dirty talk, pet names, degrading, porn with a lil plot, teasing, taunting, filth, nipple play (m!receiving), pussy slapping, creampie, confessions, cum eating/making him taste himself, piercings, reader’s pretty blunt, somewhat of a size kink, Sukuna’s kinda soft here and there, slightly dom!reader, etc.
word count . 10.5k | author’s note: this is a combined repost from kamitv! i want all my works on one account so if this looks familiar, that’s why. banner art by Rororogi Mogera.
Who would’ve thought?
Of all people, Sukuna, a virgin? It just didn’t make sense.
He was this stand-offish asshole who most people respected out of pure fear. He'd claim not to "do parties" and yet you could always find him at one. He’d always have some chick on his arm or even in his lap so, in what world would anyone with a brain assume he’s actually never been inside a woman before?
And to make his lack of game all the more unbelievable, he’s even rumored to have a big dick—it’s like some well-known campus fact about the guy! Cosigned by his closet frat brothers, too.
So, again, what reason would anyone have to think the guy was a virgin?
Certainly not you, of course. And you don’t expect to be the only person to find out such information either.
The way you find out is probably even more bizarre than the fact itself. You and him had little to no reason to ever interact with each other. You weren’t some shy nerd who holed herself up in her room all day or anything, but you weren’t much of the party type other.
You were stuck somewhere in the middle of all that, vicariously living through some of your friends who had better things going for them.
As such, there was no real reason for you and Sukuna to cross paths. He never even had a reason to acknowledge your existence until the two of you are paired up together for a project in the one class you happen to take together.
——
The background noise is the chatter of your fellow classmates and their own project partners, you find your partner grumbling out a low, “What?” In response to your last statement, having hardly heard a thing you said.
“I said,” You huff, sitting beside the man in question as today marks week two of you being paired up with him for this semester’s project, “We should be meeting up outside of class too. We could get this knocked out in like a day if you just-“
“Oh that,” Sukuna cuts off casually. Seated all slouched back in his seat, his legs sprawled out in that signature manspread of his—he rolls his eyes at your little reminder, “You said somethin’ about that last week.”
You speak through slightly gritted teeth, fighting the headache he’s about to give you from this conversation alone, “All the more reason for you to take it into consideration. The faster we get this done, the less we have to deal with each other.”
As you say that, you glance at him only to find his eyes directly on yours already. He’s got such lazy posture, his head tilted slightly whilst he gazes at you so intently, and his big muscular arms folded across his chest. Even wearing a black hoodie and gray sweats, he still looks as attractive as ever—mean low-lidded crimson eyes locked on yours, tattooed face so beautifully defined, and rosy lips pulled into such an uninterested little frown.
Up until your words hit his ears properly, “The less we have to deal with each other, huh?” Sukuna repeats, narrowing his eyes even further at you, “You barely even know me and yet you want nothing to do with me already.”
“I know enough about you, Sukuna,” You say with a sigh, “And you hardly contribute to this project as is. Which only proves that everything they say about you is probably true.”
He arches a brow, his interest piquing, “And what exactly do people say about me?”
You let off a light scoff, “Don’t act like you don’t know.”
“But I don’t know,” Sukuna tells you honestly, maroon eyes boring into yours.
You stare for a moment as you try to decipher whether or not he’s being honest right now. How does he not know what people say about him? Everyone talks about his brooding personality very openly.
“They say you’re an ass,” You eventually say to the man.
To which his lips twitch into a slight smirk, “And you believe that?”
“Seeing as I’ve asked you to—at the very least—type your name on this document and you haven’t even done that yet,” You scoff, “Yes.”
The two of you mildly glare at one another for a moment before Sukuna leans up in his seat. Breaking eye contact for just a moment to look at his laptop, he swiftly moves to open up that shared document of yours and types his name out with a heavy sigh.
After which, he’s slouching back again and looking at you, “Don’t believe everything people tell you, woman.”
You roll your eyes at him, “What? Are you not fond of rumors? That still doesn’t negate the fact that you’re an assho-“
“When do you want to meet up?” Sukuna grumbles out almost reluctantly, watching the way you pause and swallow thickly as he catches you off-guard.
He’s almost even intrigued by how quickly you bounce back, despite being caught by surprise, “Friday. Are you free?”
“Unfortunately,” He grumps.
You give him a little shrug, “Good. I’ll see you then.”
And that was it. That was how each and every interaction with you and Sukuna went. Bickering back and forth about him not doing shit to help you with something that’ll affect your grade majorly, criticizing you about being too focused and needing to relax every now and then, and even calling you a stuck-up little brat one time—it was safe to say, you and Sukuna didn’t get along too well.
Not that you minded anyway. He wasn’t your first partner to care little about their grade so, you knew how to deal with these kinds of people by now. Typically, you indulge yourself in their craving to ‘relax’ just once and then they promise to start helping. You’ve gone down that path before and it’s worked for you just fine so you assume things will go the same way with Sukuna.
Plus, you guess you can give him a slight pass for his asshole attitude, at least he has a pretty face to look at. Black ink always decorating his awfully smooth skin, deep dark yet beautiful ruby-shaded eyes boring into whatever it is his focus on, and broad shoulders looming over your smaller figure every time he stands in front of you—you can't help but feel both attracted and intimidated by the man.
——
Which is exactly why when you open your apartment door for the scheduled meetup that Friday to crane your head up at him, you’re swallowing thickly to settle your nerves. You’ve never been alone with the man so of course you’re a bit nervous.
Especially with the way he gazes down at you like that’s exactly where you belong: beneath him. His eyes are filled to the brim with intensity and yet he’s only just set them on you. Wearing a noticeable black compression shirt and those signature gray sweats of his, he almost appears as though he’d just come from the gym.
And just as you take in his appearance, he very openly takes in yours—his eyes raking over your body and taking in every single inch of you. After all, just as it was your first time alone with him, it was his first time seeing you dress so comfortably. He doesn’t even try to hide the way he stares at your tits peeking out from the rather thin spaghetti-strap top you were wearing, his eyes soon trailing down slowly to those tauntingly short shorts you had on.
“So,” Sukuna swipes his tongue over his lips and cocks his head to the side, hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes yet to lift from your legs, “Are you gonna stare at me all day or are you gonna let me in?”
You blink out of whatever little daze you were in, having found yourself gazing at his chest far longer than you meant to. It was right in front of your face after all, how could you look anywhere else? And his shirt was so damn tight, the fabric hugging his well-toned body perfectly, so much so that you swore you could make out piercings on his-
Sukuna leans forward suddenly, his face nearing yours to gain your full attention, “If you keep staring at me like that, I’m gonna assume you invited me over for something else-“
“Sorry,” You chirp out as you clear your throat and awkwardly step back a bit to let him in, “You can come in.”
Nodding, Sukuna slips by you and you shut your apartment door behind him. Then, you’re quick to lead him over to your living room where you’d previously been working on your project.
The two of you are hasty to take a seat on your couch, both of you only a few inches apart from one another whilst you lean toward your coffee table and log into your already open laptop. Sukuna’s eyes are all over you as always, studying your side profile, your intent focus on the screen in front of you, and even the way you-
“Did you even bring anything?” You suddenly ask before you glance at the man.
Sukuna quickly meets your gaze, ripping his eyes off of wherever they’d been previously, “Was I supposed to?”
“Sukuna,” You sigh out, “Please tell me you’re joking right now.”
He swallows at the mere sound of his name rolling off your tongue in that scolding tone of yours—he's heard such a tone from you time and time again and yet, for whatever reason, it never seems to annoy him.
“I’m not.” He says plainly.
“How are we supposed to work on this if you-,” You cut yourself off and decide not to even attempt arguing with him. Arguing won’t change the fact that he showed up with nothing. “Just uhm,” You glance elsewhere for a second before an idea comes to mind and you place your laptop down and stand up, “Stay here.”
Sukuna doesn’t say anything. He merely watches as you huff and walk off, swiftly exiting the living room and disappearing down a nearby hall. He swears he finds himself looking at you a bit more than intended. Especially as you walked off, his eyes dropping to your ass and those damn shorts of yours.
Even when you’re out of his sight, he still finds himself staring in the direction of which you went, almost unable to look away for whatever strange reason.
That lasts for a few minutes until he snaps out of it and leans back against the couch, tossing his head back and letting out a long sigh. You soon return to find him with an arm stretched along the back of the couch, his legs spread as usual, and his eyes up on the ceiling.
He doesn’t even notice you’ve returned until he feels something placed in his lap. Looking down, Sukuna finds your laptop kindly set on top of him. To which his brows furrowed in confusion and he looked at you to see you sitting on the floor in between the couch and the coffee table with a paper and pencil in front of you.
“What’s this?” Sukuna scoffs.
You don’t even spare him a glance as you begin writing something down, “How we’ll get things done.” He opens his mouth to say something but then you’re looking back at him with a glare, “I already organized the parts of this project that you have to do so, since it’s on my computer, you can work on that and I’ll work with what I remember.”
You wholeheartedly expected him to find something about this to disagree with you on but, to your surprise, he simply nods and redirects his focus to your laptop immediately.
And then, the two of you work exactly like that for the remainder of that little study session.
——
Sukuna’s not terrible to work with when it’s just you and him. If anything, he’s rather cooperative and a lot smarter than he leads on.
Which is why a solid two hours of productivity flies by surprisingly smoothly with him. If you asked him a question, he answered. Told him to do something, he’d say something snarky, and then do whatever it is you’ve instructed anyway.
It all went so perfectly up until he let out a really heavy sigh, “Alright, I’ve had enough for this.” Sukuna says casually.
He’s been repeating a similar phrase every thirty minutes or so but he usually gets right back to work after getting ignored by you. This time though, you get the feeling he’s serious when he pushes your laptop off of his lap and places it forward on the coffee table.
It’s then that you frown, “Oh c’mon, we were getting so much done,” You comment as you glance back to him.
He shrugs, “I can’t keep looking at that damn screen, it’s giving me a headache.”
“Of course it is,” You utter sarcastically, rolling your eyes whilst you place your pencil down and throw your arms up to stretch, “Fine then, we can take a break.”
Sukuna’s brows lift in surprise. He didn’t expect you to listen to him, “Good.” He hums, “I was getting bored as well.”
You scoff, “Were you?”
“Yeah, can we do something else?” He asks.
Turning around, you rotate the way you’re sitting so that you’re facing him and your back is resting against your coffee table. “Like what?” You muse, meeting his low-lidded gaze.
“Talk,” Sukuna says.
That’s it? He wanted a break to talk to you? Your eyes are narrowing at him before you even realize, “Talk?” You repeat with a scoff, “Seriously?”
He nods, “Mhm.”
“What do you wanna talk about, Sukuna?” As you ask him that, you watch the way his eyes casually slide down to your lips.
Does he mean to be this indiscreet with his looks? Or is he eyeing you down like that on purpose?
The man shrugs, “Anything outside of fuckin’ school.”
You laugh at that, “Okay, I can work with that.”
He tilts his head at you and licks his lips, “Yeah?” Something about your little laugh threw him off.
“Mhm,” You hum as you look down at your hand, fiddling with your nails a bit, “The rumors… are they true?”
Thrown off yet again, Sukuna’s brows pinch together. “Rumors?” He echoes in a genuinely confused tone, “What rumors, woman?”
The sound of your scoff makes him stiffen in his seat. Almost in an instant, the atmosphere had changed suddenly. “C’mon, don’t play dumb,” You tease, lifting your gaze to him again, “The rumors about you.”
He gives you a perplexed look and it’s almost as though you could see the gears in his head turning. “If you know something, say it.” He demands.
You sigh, “Sukuna, do you seriously hear nothing people say about you?”
Sukuna shrugs, “I don’t care enough to remember. So what is it? What rumor?”
You’re just curious. You swear that’s all it was. And, naturally, since he seemed to have warmed up to you—of course you wanted to know if that rumor about his dick was true. You’re both adults and it’s just a silly question. Plus, with the way he’s been looking at you all afternoon, you’re sure he won’t mind answering you with a simple yes or no.
Glancing to the side, your shoulders lift a bit, “It’s uh, rather intimate.” You hush out.
Sukuna narrows his eyes at you, “Intimate?? An intimate rumor about me?”
His emphasis on himself makes your eyes flick back over to him. “Yeah, are you sure you don’t know what they say about you??” You ask again.
“Positive. Now speak, what is it they say?” Sukuna huffs impatiently, even more curious about this little rumor after the mention of it being intimate. After all, he’s never-
“People say you have a big dick,” You utter way too casually.
So nonchalantly that it makes him choke, a choke you don’t mess with the way he clears his throat and sits up a little. “What?” He rasps out.
You bat those stupidly false innocent eyes at him, “I didn’t stutter,” Your tone dips into something different and he catches every bit of it, “People say you have a big dick, is it true?”
Sukuna clears his throat and for the first time, he glances away from you. Then, he opens and closes his mouth, contemplating his next words carefully before they soon fall from his lips, “You wanna find out?”
His offer spurs a shift in your seat from you as you scoot closer to him ever so slightly, “You wanna show me?” You ask boldly, your tone direct, and not even a flicker of hesitation present.
“Do I want to-,” Sukuna pauses, his eyes scanning the entirety of your seated frame as you inch closer to him, “What?” He huffs, swallowing thickly.
You move to stand on your knees and lean forward to the couch, soon propping your chin up on your palm as you look at him, “Show me,” You chuckle, “I asked if you wanted to show me, Sukuna.”
He blinks, “Show you my cock?”
You shrug, “Yeah.”
The air is so thick right now, Sukuna’s not sure how exactly he can play this off without making a fool of himself. He gulps yet again, only to watch as your eyes start to drop down along his body.
“Stop,” He rushes out, “Keep your eyes up here. On mine,” He commands in a low tone, earning your gaze once more.
And then it’s quiet for a moment. He’s staring at you and you’re obediently keeping your eyes up on his. Sukuna hates it but he doesn’t know what to say or do from here. The last thing he wanted was for you to find out his little secret.
It’s like he was waiting for a fucking pin to drop, something to break the silence. Yet, his mind was going blank and words were failing him at the moment. He’s flirted with women before, plenty of times actually, effortlessly even—but for whatever reason, as you sit there with those stupidly pretty eyes staring at him, his mind simply flakes on him.
He’s like that for a minute longer until you move. So subtly too, sliding a hand to his thigh, leaning forward slightly, batting your lashes at him, “Sukuna?” You whisper.
His hips are rolling upward slightly at the sound of his name alone. “W-What?” He stammers, mentally cursing himself a thousand times over.
“If you don’t wanna show me you can jus’ say no,” You hum, smiling a bit, “Y’know that, right?”
He scoffs, “Of course I know that, woman.”
“If you know that then…” Your fingers lightly squeeze his thigh and you tilt your head, “Are you gonna tell me or show me whether or not those rumors are true?”
Something simply clicks inside Sukuna’s head. Rose-tinted lips cracking into a smirk, the man spreads his legs further and slouches back into the couch, “Find out for yourself since you’re so curious.”
Your eyes go wide, “What?”
Sukuna scoffs lightly, moving one of his arms from the back of the couch and placing his hand over his crotch. Of course, your gaze sinks down to his veiny hand, watching as he palms a stupidly large bulge in his sweats.
Your breath hitches a bit, “I-“
You don’t even get the chance to get it out before he’s cutting you off, “C’mere,” Sukuna hums in that low voice of his.
“What?” You whisper.
You and him make eye contact again and he nods his chin toward the space in between his legs. Nothing can really explain why you follow his gesture and quickly find yourself sitting in between his legs, taking a deep breath as you settle your hands on his thighs.
Sliding your touch up and up and up until your fingers graze his hand. The same hand that was resting on top of that aching bulge of his.
Sukuna slowly lifts his hand up and away, relaxing his arm on the back of the couch again as he stares down at you. Cocking his head to the side, “Well? Feel it.” He huffs.
You don’t even hesitate. Trailing your fingers upward carefully until you feel the outline of his cock beneath your fingertips, gulping as you drag your hand up to cup his length in your hand firmly, and smirking at the way his cock twitches furiously beneath your small touch.
Sukuna’s mouth falls open for a second but you’re too engrossed in feeling him to notice. He lets out a shuddered breath as he watches the way you grope his steadily growing erection. His head even tosses back and his fingers dig into the couch for a moment.
“It is big,” You whisper to yourself, your words only making him twitch more within your hand.
“Fuck,” Sukuna grits out lowly, hips unconsciously lifting to press himself further against you.
His curse earns your attention. You quickly glance up to him and see the way he’s got his head tossed back, Adam's apple bobbing with every heavy gulp he takes, and his chest rising and falling rather quickly.
You lift your hand carefully and decide to test something out. Slowly, you lean forward and just barely press your lips against his clothed cock.
Sukuna’s whole body reacts. He gasps louder than he means to and he’s weaving his fingers through your hair faster than he realizes, palming your scalp as he quickly looks down at you. “T-The fuck are you doing? Huh?” He huffs while gripping onto your hair.
You lift your head a bit but he keeps you in place, despite his question to you. “I just…” You’re not exactly sure you can explain yourself.
And by this point, Sukuna doesn’t think he cares enough to hear an excuse from you, “…You what? You wanna see it?”
All you can do is give him a little nod before he moves his free hand to the drawstring of his sweatpants. Then you're quick to help him tug them down until his boxers are revealed to you—a noticeable dampness in the fabric right where his leaking tip is. Was that because of you?
Before you can dawn on your own questions, Sukuna’s moving to tug his cock out. And fuck is he even bigger revealed before your eyes. With an upward curve, such an angry flushed tip, precum dripping from the slit of his fat cockhead, veins decorating his shaft and-
Shit, you were drooling. How’d you get like this again?? Ah, who cares.
“Sukuna,” You breathe out, ripping your eyes away from his cock just to look up at him.
He was almost panting, dark maroon eyes pouring down into yours, face flushed with different shades of red and pink, his lips parted softly—hell, he looked like he was in heat or something.
Gulping before he answers you, Sukuna clears his throat and his voice is already husky, “What?”
You shift against the floor, your hands relaxing against his large thighs, “Can I-“
“Yeah,” He cuts off. Lord knows if you got that question out he was going to lose his damn mind.
You raise a brow and lean forward, keeping your eyes on his while your lips near his tip, “Yeah?”
The last thing you get from him is a nod before you’re parting your lips. And from that moment forward, it all goes downhill. Everything from the way you’re sitting in between his legs to that initial connection of your plush lips against his drooling cock had Sukuna’s mind spinning.
He’s never been sucked off before. Hell, the farthest he’s gone as far as sexual activities are concerned is a little bit of dry humping. But this? Oh hell, this was his first time and he had zero idea how he was going to keep that information away from you.
Especially when he feels your tongue slip from between your lips and swirl around the head of his cock, kittenly lapping up that slim layer of precum sitting so prettily on his tip.
“Oh f-fuuck,” Sukuna groans huskily, the hand on your head gripping tighter.
You pull away from him slightly just to take in his expression and the way he tosses his head back. It was almost cute to you. The last thing you expected was for him to be so damn sensitive, you hardly did anything.
His sensitivity only worsens as you finally start wrapping your lips around his cock, feeling him throb when you sink your mouth down on him. Sukuna’s jaw goes slack and his brows twist up. He tries his best to hold it in but he can’t help but moan at the way you leisurely suck on half of his lengthy cock.
Your saliva wets up the rest of his shaft and you make up for what your mouth hasn’t reached yet with your hand, stroking him lightly whilst you take the rest of his girth in and out of your mouth. Rolling your tongue around him, pulling off just to messily spit and kiss on his blushing tip, and slobbering all over him—Sukuna almost fucking kicked something with how good your mouth felt around him.
He’s used his hand and other shit before but holy fuck, nothing, and he means nothing compares to that damn mouth of yours. The way you look with his cock stuffed right in between those lips he’s been staring at for God knows how long—your lips all slick with spit, eyes rolling back the deeper you take him, and tongue sticking out every time you pull your mouth off of him.
You soon slip your mouth off of him and start jerking him off, focusing your tongue on his tip and slithering the wet muscle in between the slit of his cock, lathering your tongue up with his glistening precum.
The sound of Sukuna groaning makes you look up at him, finding his eyes on yours again. He’s panting, trying his best to look like this wasn’t phasing him but failing in every way with how flushed his face was.
Your tongue sticks out and your hand continues to slide up and down his cock as you tap his tip on your tongue, making his brows twist up.
He bites back a throaty sound, “Hah… damn brat,” Sukuna huffs out as if to… degrade you?
You almost find it cute how clearly inexperienced he is, spitting a fat wad of spit onto his pretty wet tip and then smiling at him, “Sukuna,” You coo, your hand gripping his shaft tighter, “Is this your first time?”
He instantly looks off to the side, the veins in his neck and along his jawline tensing as he grits his teeth. Since he decides to ignore your little question, you take it a step further and slide your hand down his cock, gripping his thick base firmly before taking him into your heavenly warm mouth again.
His expression breaks completely, “Oh shit,” Sukuna moans, his hips bucking up into your mouth as you slide him deeper into your mouth than you did before.
Then his hand is pushing your head down further on instinct and he’s subtly rutting his hips up. You lift your head up despite his constant pushing, soon causing your head to bob up and down whilst you suck him off skillfully.
“Jus’ like that,” Sukuna suddenly groans and you moan around his cock in reaction. To which he keeps giving your mouth mindless little thrusts, “Don’t s-, agh, stop.”
Sucking him deeper and deeper before you move your hand completely, you suck in a deep breath of air through your nose, open up the very back of your throat, and sink all the way down, your lips meeting his pelvis as your eyes roll to the back of your head.
Sukuna kicks something. Probably your coffee table with the way one of his legs extends out so suddenly, a choked-out groan ripped from his throat as your little move was all it took for him to cum. And it’s so much too, hot thick ropes of cum spurting down your throat, his hand holding onto your head for dear life whilst a moan of your name rolls off his tongue.
You’re still sucking too, pulling up only to swallow what he’s gifted you and then stick your tongue out. Laying it flat against his tip, you leisurely lick at him as if to beg for more and now the man’s pushing your head away for the first time.
When you lift your eyes up to him again, you notice he’s got his tattooed arm over his mouth and his lashes are batting softly at you. For such a big man, he was so ridiculously cute right now. Panting, sweating, cursing under his breath as if you couldn’t hear him.
“Yeah,” Sukuna utters suddenly, clearing his throat, “That was… my first… time. I uh-“
“Do you want more?” Is the last thing you asked him before you were sitting back on your heels and he was stumbling to his feet.
You had to guide him through it of course but, Sukuna doesn’t hesitate to stuff your face full of his cock again. You take him so kindly too, obediently sitting there with your hands gripping his thighs for support with every careful thrust of his hips.
He was trying to be gentle with you at first. Partially because he didn’t know what the hell he was doing, and also because he just loved the initial entry into your mouth. Over and over, Sukuna slid his dick in and out of your mouth like he was possessed, addicted to the feeling of you greedily sucking on him.
He was still sensitive from his first orgasm but his cock had yet to go down—twitching inside that sloppy mouth of yours, aching against your tongue, and dripping into the depths of your throat. Sukuna wasn’t much of a talker but he damn sure let out a plethora of grunts and groans.
They were so husk too, coming from deep within his chest, some getting caught in his throat when he felt your tongue flick against a specific vein on the underside of his cock. His fat tip knocked into the back of your throat with a single heavy thrust before his hands were latching onto the sides of your head.
Again, he’s not much of a talker but, something seems to come over him all at once because soon he’s got his gaze locked down on the messy sight of you and he’s huffing out words before he realizes. “Eyes up here, c’mon, hah… look at me,” Sukuna grunts.
Your eyes are completely glossed over as they flutter up to him. A moan vibrates against his skin as you make such intimate eye contact with the man, feeling his hips pick up.
Sukuna nods, “Good girl,” He praises in a low purr, and fuck does that do wonders for you because your legs are squeezing together more than they were before and you’re whining against him. “Fuck, y’like that?” He huffs, earning a sloppy lil’ nod from you.
He then feels you hum, “M-Mhm.” And he’s got chills slipping up his spine in pleasure.
Cracking a lazy, lopsided, and almost fucked-out little smirk, Sukuna scoffs, “Yeah? Fuck, behind all those g-glares ‘nd-, agh, scolding me… this is all you wanted, hm? A throat full of cock?”
His words had you whining again, fluttering your lashes at him as your fingertips dug into his thighs a little. Sukuna eases his hips back slowly, tipping his head to the side as he gently caresses the side of your face with his thumb.
“Messy girl,” He hums deeply, biting his lower lip at the way you’re just drooling for more and more as he pulls himself out of your mouth completely. “Jus’ look at this face,” Sukuna chuckles, “Y’look like a slut cryin’ like that—it’s cute.”
Blinking, you hadn’t even realized you had a tear or two sliding down your face. Your mouth remains open for a second before he moves to rub his tip against your plump lips, smearing your spit and his cum all over the damn place with a little grin on his face.
“‘Kuna…” You whisper, earning a quirk of his brow, “I can’t believe you’re a virg-“
“Don’t finish that sentence,” He grunts, moving a thumb to your chin to widen how open your mouth is for him, “Jus’… keep sittin’ there lookin’ pretty f’me,” Sukuna says.
You roll your eyes at him and all he can do is smile, pushing his hips forward again and easing his cock in between your lips. He slides in slowly until you can feel him pressing right against the back of your throat. To which he keeps himself there for a second, testing that gag reflex of yours and watching your eyes water.
Moving his hand back to the top of your head, he buries his fingers in your hair, “So fuckin’ sexy like this,” Sukuna compliments, feeling you moan in response, “M’gonna cum again, stay j-just like that,” He breathes out heavily, his eyes rolling to the back of his skull before he’s throwing his head back.
And as if to coax his orgasm out, you carefully move a hand to cup his balls, sucking on his cock as best as you can and earning an accidental sound from his throat. The second your palm is felt against him, the moment he feels your tongue slicking against him, Sukuna whines.
Then his thighs are tensing and he’s groaning loudly as if to cover up the sound that just left his lips, filling your throat with his seed and then tugging your mouth off of him with a quick pull of your head. You’re quick to swallow for yet a second time, letting out a needed cough after the fact while he stumbles back just a bit, his calves hitting the couch.
“Whore,” Sukuna growls.
You clear your throat and send a smile his way, “Not my fault you cum easy.”
Sukuna’s slow to sit back down on the couch to catch his breath, “Tell anyone about this and I’ll-“
“Oh,” You suddenly purr, cutting him off as you lift yourself up from the ground. He watches with slightly widened eyes as you move to straddle him, “Don’t tell me you thought we were done?”
He’s at a loss for words all over again, his confidence suddenly getting caught in his throat and flying out the window. Your hands slip to his broad shoulders and you lean forward a little.
Sukuna’s hands shakily find their way to your waist as he stares up at you, “You want more?”
You smirk, tilting your head at the dumbfounded male, “Don’t you?” You ask in a sultry little whisper, making his sensitive cock twitch once more. “At the very least…” Your lips slowly near his and he’s losing his breath, “Taste yourself, Sukuna.”
And then your lips are on his and he’s taking your tongue into his mouth. His grip on your waist tightens before he pulls you flush against him, feeling your crotch press right against his cock that’s steadily twitching back to life.
The two of you share a heated and messy kiss, your hips carefully swaying against him to encourage his returning arousal. You can’t really use curiosity as an excuse anymore, can you?
Well, you can. And you do with the way your hands slide down to his chest, your fingers slipping over his nipples to find exactly what you’d been curious about. You flick your fingers over his piercing there and Sukuna lets out a low hiss, prying his lips from yours and sending you a glare.
Not only did that little move of yours make his cock spring up completely but, you also notice the frown on his face.
Smiling at him, “Sukuna…”
“Don’t.” He huffs.
“You have nipple piercings?” You end up asking anyway in a happy little tone.
He grits his teeth slightly, “…Obviously.”
Chuckling, you press a soft peck against his lips and whisper, “Can I see them?”
“No.” He replies.
“No? Oh c’monnn, they’re just piercings!” You whine as your legs remain sprawled out over Sukuna’s muscular thighs.
Your panty-clad cunt was throbbing over his saliva-slicked semi-hard cock, and yet here Sukuna was still trying his very best to figure out a way out of this situation. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go further with you—he was just nervous.
Not that he’d ever say that out loud though. Admit you’ve made him nervous? Oh please, in what universe?
Sure, you made him cum prematurely but that’s not his fault. No one told you to have such a slutty ass mouth.
Back to the present though, as you gaze down at him with those stupidly pretty eyes of yours, batting your lashes pleadingly whilst you await for the man to change his answer. It was simply unfair of him to have nipple piercings and not show you. It’s the least he could do after the head you just gave him, right?
“No, it’s not the ‘least I can do’,” Sukuna huffs. It’s then that you realize you’d spoken your thoughts aloud but—in a way—you’re actually glad you did so, “You’re not seeing shit, now get off of me.”
The pout that presents itself on your face is practically immediate, “C’mon ‘Kuna, I won’t touch them. I just wanna see,” You coo softly, tilting your head to the side as if to convince him, “Please?”
One simple word and his tip was wet with precum yet again. Sukuna swears he hates you. He hates the way you're looking at him right now, the way you're seated so perfectly on top of him, and the way he forgets how the hell he even got into this position with you in the first place.
Didn't he come over here to finish a project? Not have sex with you.
And yet, he can't find it in himself to say no to you again. That damn word you said, it did something to him. Sukuna's not sure what or why but his mouth is moving on its own, almost instinctively, "You wanna see them?" He sighs.
You're nodding, slipping your hands down to the hem of his shirt, "Yeah. Promise I won't touch."
"Tch. I..." Sukuna grits his teeth and you can see a pretty vein decorating his skin along his sharp jawline as he glances away for a moment, "I want you to beg me again."
Although you're a bit taken back by his request, you're quick to lean forward a bit and bite your lower lip, "Please?"
He ignores the word leaving you lips, his cock springing to life once more despite his attempt at leaving you unanswered. Given his body's reaction to you, all you can do is smirk before you're leaning down slightly and pressing your lips to his jaw.
"Pretty please, Sukuna?" You purr, warm breath hitting his now overly tense skin, "I promise I'll be good. Won't lay a finger on you unless you want me to."
His head slumps back against the couch and he inhales sharply at your soft touch sliding under his shirt, steadily working it up as the black fabric bundles up against your hands.
Then you're at his neck, sucking on his skin, rolling your tongue over him, shifting your hips forward against his cock and he simply groans. "F-Fucking, fine." Sukuna huffs, annoyed out of his ever-loving mind at whatever control it is you seem to have over him.
He hates you. He swears he hates you. Everything about the way your hands quickly tug his shirt up over his head, tossing the fabric elsewhere as you set your greedy eyes on his chest, the way your eyes widen at how flushed his skin is, and the sight of your tongue swiping over your lips as soon as you set your sight on his nipples.
Such pretty contrasting metal decorated his very pretty swollen nipples. So flushed with shades of pink and red, itching to be touched—just one flick and you knew he'd let out the most heavenly sound. The problem was convincing him to let you touch his nipples.
They were so damn tempting though, you swore you were drooling at the sight. God, you just wanted to reach out and-
"No," Sukuna rasps out. Your eyes snap up to his face and your pussy throbs at his expression.
He's beyond embarrassed. His eyes almost look glossed over with how desperate he was for you to stop looking at him. And yet he was so pouty and grumpy too, plump lips pulled into the cutest little frown at how hungry you were looking at him, his breathing unsteady all over again, and his cock felt twitching wildly beneath you.
You smirk, "'No'... what?"
"No, you cannot touch them," He's slow to clarify that, having seen right through those greedy eyes of yours, "You wanted to see and you've seen so-"
"I can make you feel good though," You purr, leaning in close to him all over again. "Jus' let me-"
"No," Sukuna mutters sternly. Then his hands are meeting your hips and his grip alone makes you flinch.
His touch is filled with intent as he slides his hands back to your ass and gives you a nice and firm squeeze, tugging you against him and making you gasp at the way his dick twitches right against your cunt. Your hands go to his shoulders to stop yourself from being pulled flush against him and he gazes dead up into your eyes.
How does one look so needy and yet commanding at the same time? It was like Sukuna told you thousands of words through his gaze alone. Maybe it was his very apparent physical need for you, or maybe it was just how attractive he is when aroused but fuck his look had your body hot all over.
Sukuna lets out a small breath of air before he drops his raspy tone even lower to a whisper, "Fuck me," He utters, feeling the reaction your cunt has to his words and cracking a cocky little smirk, "Fuck me, and you can touch me as much as you wish to."
You gulp thickly. Did you forget how to speak for a moment because all you do is open your mouth and it was like no words were even coming to your brain. His gaze was to intense and starved, large hands playing with the fat of your ass while he lifts his hips up slightly.
Then you gasp again, his thick tip was pressing right against your needy hole through the few layers of clothing that remained and you felt drunk off of your own arousal. Nodding and whispering in return, "O-Okay," Your hands slide around his neck and you lean in until your lips are meeting his again.
And if you were drunk off of your arousal then he was fucking high off of his own—feeling faded out of his mind with the way he leisurely moves to undress your lower half as he kisses you like he's done so a thousand times before, sliding his tongue into your mouth, swallowing up your moans, sucking on your lower lip, and undressing you all in one go.
Hell, for a second you forget the man is a damn virgin.
And as if to combat with that—you feel like a damn virgin once you start sinking your saccharine walls around Sukuna’s thickly curved cock. Gasping against his lips and feeling his fingertips curl into the skin of your waist, his jaw-dropping and lips quivering against yours as he lets out the most guttural groan he’s ever uttered, and both of your eyes fluttering at the connection of his body to yours.
Sukuna’s deeply shaded red eyes are hazy on yours as you sink down on him. His mind is turning to mush and he swears he’s about to pass the fuck out. It could’ve been the way your face looked as your cunt greedily sucked in his cock, or how tight your walls clamped down on him but, either way, Sukuna felt hot all over. Dizzy with lust and faded off of everything that’s you.
Every inch of you, the feel of your squeezing wet pussy enclosing around his aching cock, that breathy squeak of his name leaving your lips, and then your fingers grazing his chest-
Sukuna’s brows twist up and his entire body flinches instinctively. Hips bucking up slightly, large hands urging you further down, and shaky sound escaping his wet blushing lips—he’d officially lost it.
He looked so damn pretty doing so as well, not that you’d ever tell him that (you’ve embarrassed him enough for the time being). Those damn eyes of his were all glossed over, his bottom lip was shaking as a sexy-pitched gasp escaped his throat, and his hands held onto you for dear life whilst he bottomed out.
His fat cockhead kissing your cervix with little to no movement had you panting heavily while you kept your eyes low on his. “‘Kuna,” You feel his cock twitch desperately inside you and you toy with one of his sensitive nipples in between your index and thumb, “Y-You’re so-“
“Shut up,” He groans, and then he’s kissing you—desperately, hungrily-, starved. He knew another word from you would have your cunt stuffed full of his cum within seconds.
And as much as he wanted that, as much as he knew that’d be the end result of all this, he did not want to make yet another fool of himself. Though, the way your fingertips constantly flick over his pierced nipples makes him fucking whine into your mouth, a heavy grunt following after the sound as if to cover it up.
The hands your waist urge your body up, dragging your slicked walls up along his cock before allowing gravity to slam you back down. God the way you moan his name makes his knees feel weak. You were making him, as a whole, feel so utterly weak.
It wasn’t long before you were picking up a steady pace on top of him, your breaths shared with his and his eyes not once leaving yours. Sukuna was such a silent commander, that gaze of his told you everything, testing-, no, daring you to look away from him. He didn’t even know what it was about eye contact but he craved it so desperately.
Your gaze made his cock so stupidly hard, so much so that he just wanted to flip you over on this stupid couch of yours and-
And then he was. Sukuna doesn’t even register he’s repositioned with you until you let out the prettiest little whimper and your eyes roll back as he, almost experimentally, thrusts his heavy cock deep past your plush pussy lips.
What brings him back into the moment is that sound of you and the way you’re choking out his name, “S’kuna, f-fuck,” You almost hate that he’s taken control because you’ve lost your teasing of his chest, “Why’d you-, ngh-,” You’re cut off completely when he drags his hips back so torturously slow before rolling his hips down into you.
Shaking his head thoughtlessly, “Shut up,” Sukuna huffs again as he presses his bulky weight down against you, folding you into the meanest mating press and making you let out a filthy mewl at the sheer stretch of his girthy cock. “Please,” He sounds almost breathless, that plea of his hardly even audible, “Just be quiet f’me.”
Your jaw hangs open and you’re simply gaping up at the man with stupid, cockdrunk eyes. Something about feeling and watching him learn how to please you was probably more pleasurable than the sex itself. Which is saying an awfully lot because even though he didn't know what the hell he was doing, whatever he was doing, he was doing it right.
All you can do is wrap your arms around his neck and tug him closer, moaning his name softly every time his tip nudges into that mushy spot inside you. Sukuna lets out a low hum when he feels your nails claw at his back suddenly.
Then the cocky bastard has the nerve to fucking smile at you. Almost as if he enjoyed the pain of your nails scratching at his back hard enough to leave marks…
Because, of course, then he’s fucking you faster, harder, deeper. So determined to learn what you like, to learn your body inside and out (literally), and to have you mark up his back more than the dark ink that decorates his skin currently.
“Y’feel so fuckin’…” He can hardly even speak as he just grows addicted to pushing his cock in and out and in and out. That sloppy sound of your cunt squelching and wetting up his cock over and over again-, fuck he couldn’t get enough of it. “S-So fuckin’ good,” Sukuna’s voice almost softens as he shifts his lips to your ear, “Oh fuck, wanna…” His words trail off, a deep shade of blush coating his cheeks.
You can’t help but grow that never-ending urge to tease him, moving your lips to his ear, “Wanna what?” There was a slight shake in your voice but that didn’t save him from his cock throbbing at the sound of your voice alone.
“Hahh… wanna-, agh, wanna make you cum,” Sukuna admits begrudgingly. He sounded so ridiculously embarrassed saying that out loud but he was far too pussydrunk to care right now.
Thrusts growing heavier as if he were searching for a specific spot inside you, his eyes softening as he shifts to hover his face over yours once more, and his groans making your stomach churn with butterflies. Hell, you almost do exactly that of what he’s requested based on the sound of desperation in his tone alone.
Sukuna’s usually such a big, mean, sometimes stoic man, and yet here he was, silently requesting your assistance.
He is only a virgin after all.
“Not anymore,” He gruffs, catching you by surprise as you render the fact that those words left your lips. “C’mon, tell me what to do.”
Again, Sukuna swears on his life he hates you. He hates the way you’ve made him so weak, the way your cunt is so deliciously warm inside, the way you moan his name-
Fuck, he hates you.
“‘Kuna,” You whisper as you slide one of your hands from around his neck to slip to his hand and guide him, “My clit. You gotta-“
Your breath is caught in your throat all over again. You were trying to guide him just like he wanted you to but Sukuna was far too quick of a learner, swatting his thick thumb around in search before his ears twitch at the way your voice gets stuck in your throat.
“Here?” He has the nerve to whisper gently, “Rub here, right? Y’like that?” Sukuna asks as he matches his thrusts with the flick of his thumb, drinking in the way your back arches up off of the couch and your eyes roll back.
You’re nodding, “Yes yes-, r-right there ‘Kuna, fuck…”
His eyes rake over your face all over again and then he’s doing that thing where he speaks without thinking, “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”
Of course, those softly uttered words pull you out of your cockdrunken stupor for only a moment, “H-Huh?” You breathe out as your eyes meet his.
“I hate you,” Sukuna lies straight through his teeth, “Hate how pretty you look beneath me,” He’s babbling at this point, picking up his pace and trying to angle his cock into somewhere specific, “How fuckin’—god you’re squeezin’ me s’tight, hahh—h-how you sound moaning my name, taking my cock.” With that last sentence comes a particularly harsh thrust.
Your nails scrape at his back again and he moans in pleasure. Gloss covers your eyes as he finally finds that spot that has you seeing stars, “Sukuna,” You moan sweetly, feeling him hit that very spot over and over and over again.
“Again,” He huffs, leaning down even closer and pressing more of his weight onto you, “Moan my name again, brat.”
“Sukuna,” You’re moaning without the need for his instruction. To hell if the man is a virgin, he knows how to use his cock.
What he doesn’t realize is how big he is in comparison to anyone else you’ve been with. Stretching you open with every thrust, fucking you ridiculously full of all his thick inches, knocking his dripping tip right against your sweet spot, making your legs tingle in numbness, and rolling skillful circles around your clit as if he’d practiced doing so before.
“Fuckin’ perfect,” Sukuna rasps out, his eyes locked dead onto yours as usual.
He was so focused on you, so eager to make you cum. Obviously, he’d never felt anything like this before so he never wants it to end. And perhaps that’s the only reason why he hasn’t emptied himself into you yet.
Every time you’re felt leaving another bright red mark on his back, he lets out a low hiss before flashing a smirk down at you, thrusts growing harder. Then there’s the way you just gape up at him, jaw dangling as you’re so clearly lost in pleasure, and pussy swallowing him in whole each time he fucks himself back into you.
And your little gasps of, “Feels s-so good Kuna, don’t stop.” Have him reeling back on purpose, pretending to mistakenly slip his cock out of you for a moment only to slap his fat cockhead against your needy hole and then push all of himself right back in.
With a smug expression on his face, “Don’t tell me what t’do,” He responds.
“I jus’ did,” You argue back all in one breath.
God, he- , “I hate you,” The words are leaving his lips yet again but he can’t stop driving his dick inside you. You’re so fucking warm, so welcoming for him, so honeyed and sweet inside. Hell, for a second he wonders what you’d taste like on his tongue—despite never even going down on someone before.
“Yeah,” You flash a fucked-out little smile up at him and your walls grip onto him tighter, making his brows twist up, “But you love fuckin’ me.” Your little whisper makes him shudder.
He nearly cums at that, releasing a strangled groan before he just nods almost obediently, “Uhuh.” Sukuna mumbles, his hate for you growing with every passing second.
There you are under him, still teasing him despite the expression of pleasure plastered across your face, “Yeah?”
“M-Mhm,” He grumbles in response.
He can’t help but just agree with you. Of course he adores fucking you. If anything, he doesn’t think he’d prefer it be anyone else. After watching your cute ass all composed every week in class, listening to the way you lecture him for not paying attention as if you actually care about him, watching you grow surprised today at the way he can get things done when he puts in an effort-
Shit, of course he wanted to see you like this—splayed out like a pretty little slut for him, gasping his name, looking him in the eye, and allowing him to fuck you. God, his mind is spinning. He can’t think at all.
So lost in his head, you’re left spasming below him because he’s still thumbing at your clit and his cock is as unforgiving as ever, “Sukuna,” His name rolls off of your tongue beautifully and he’s left in awe above you.
Tilting his head, “What?” Sukuna breathes as he’s pulled from his daze and back to the present.
“Make me cum,” You order so suddenly.
As that third word leaves those lips of yours, Sukuna smirks knowingly and he leans up a little just to angle himself better inside you. He glances down at your cunt, biting his lip at the sight of his cock bulging inside you, watching himself push in and out for a second before his smirk turns into a lazy little smile.
“Already did’,” He scoffs, flicking his eyes back up to you.
Your brows twist up, “Wha-“
“Are you that dumb when cock is inside ya’?” He utters meanly and earns an immediate squeeze of your gummy walls around his veiny shaft, “You came a few minutes ago, brat.”
“I…” Your expression becomes dumbfounded and in an instant, you’re the one left embarrassed.
Which he finds all too cute, “Felt good though.” He comments smugly, looking back down to where you’re connected and tilting his head at the sight.
Fuck, he was so sexy above you. Even on his chest, bright red scratches decorated his skin. When did you do that? His nipples were still as flushed as his face and you wanted so badly to reach out and flick your fingers against them again.
Pouting, “Sukuna-“
“Do it again f’me,” The man cuts off.
You can’t even get a response out before he’s leaning down again, “I-“
This time you’re cut off by him pressing your legs together and against your chest, loving the pretty sight of you folded and bent to his will like this. All he can do is stare down and watch himself fuck you, seeing your swollen lips take in his fat length so fucking beautifully. It’s like you were made for him or something.
Your cunt only molds around his cock, sucking him in whenever he pulls out like you never wanted him to leave you. He could feel every throb of your pussy when he spoke to you, every squeeze of your warmth when he reached deeper than before, and fuck was he enamored by every second of it.
“Please,” He says breathlessly all of a sudden, itching to watch you cum on his cock this time around.
His begging is followed by him moving his hand back down to your pussy, his thumb sliding back in search of your clit. Rubbing those maddening little circles once he finds it, Sukuna focuses most of his attention on your body. Every little jump you make when he swats his thumb to the left, every pitch in your moan when he thrusts inside you at a certain pace—Sukuna soon smiles once he’s got you all figured out.
“Oh fuck,” You whimper, tossing your head back against the couch as your eyes loll to the back of your hand.
With that knowing smile on his face, the couch creaks with his rough thrusts inside you, “Stop makin’ me beg you for shit,” Sukuna grunts before gifting your throbbing pussy with a little smack, “Jus’ give it t’me.”
“Sukuna-, ah,” You’re choking at the sensation and your cunt narrows even more around him.
His toned pelvis smacks against you over and over, heavy balls hitting your ass with each shove of his fat cock inside your warmth, “Fuck,” The man heaves as he feels himself steadily growing addicted.
Why the hell didn’t he have sex with someone sooner?
“M’gonna cum,” You soon whine out to the man.
To which he clashes into you faster, feining for it, “Please, fuckin’ need it,” Sukuna groans before pressing down against you again.
His thrusts grow uneven and jagged, eyes rolling back when he feels you finally cumming around his cock for a second time. You were squeezing him so tight. All he could do was moan at how perfect you were.
“Shiit,” He huffs, his cock twitching wildly inside you before his mind goes completely blank, “I love you-“
Your brows immediately twist up, “Wha-“
And then he’s painting your walls white. Grunting, groaning, moaning-, hell, you name it and the sound was leaving his lips as he fucks his orgasm into you.
Then he’s babbling mindless little praises of, “Love this fuckin’ pussy,” Lost in filling you with his cum and listening to you whimper from overstimulation.
Gifting you with praise after praise about how beautiful you are under him like this, how much he adores his name rolling off your tongue. He can’t even fathom how much cum is spilling into you, velvety thick ropes painting your walls a creamy white to the point where it spills out of you and coats his hefty base with a filthy ring of white.
All while he continued to praise you, going as far as thank you in quiet little whispers. God, he was out of his mind. He wasn’t thinking in the slightest, his mouth was just saying shit.
So much so that he’s barely lucid as his high comes down, doesn’t process a thing he said to you moments ago, and just lays there for a while with his cock resting inside you. All he can do is pant heavily as he rests his body on top of you, not yet pulling out and leaving his softened cock inside you.
You’re completely still beneath him for a while, trying to catch your breath as your legs feel temporarily numb. You couldn’t get those three words he spoke to you out of your head.
His tone was so damn soft and vulnerable, just replaying it in your head made you smile. Before he notices your expression though, you wipe the smirk off of your face and coo his name softly, “Sukuna…?”
“Don’t.” Is all he has to say to you. He was well aware of what he’d said to you.
He didn’t mean it, of course. He was simply… lost in the moment.
“Aww,” You purr, an obvious breathlessness to your tone, “You said you loved me cause I took your virginit-“
Sukuna lets out a mean groan before moving your legs apart so he can meet your eyes again, “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”
You flash a pout to mock him, “Why? ‘Cause I didn’t say it back?”
His face is all different shades of blush but he still looks as mean and grumpy as ever, “No…”
“You sure?” You tease further.
All he can do is roll his eyes at you, “Fuck you.”
And, naturally, you only continue, “I think you did that already…”
Sukuna sighs, “Just.. Don’t tell anyone about this.”
“As long as you promise we’ll do this more often.”
“I-, hah,” He smirks, “What are you, some kinda cockhungry slut?”
“No…” Your eyes drag themselves elsewhere for a moment, “But for you, maybe.”
“Mh.” Sukuna hums deeply, an unavoidable smile spreading across his face, “I think I like that.”
“I think you love it-“
“M’gonna ‘love’ fucking the snarky responses outta’ your mouth in a second if you keep it up,” He says flawlessly.
All you can do is swallow down whatever it is you were going to respond to that with.
To which he smiles, “Uhuh, that’s what I thought.”
geto suguru is everyone’s first crush. having a crush on him is as hopeless as it is inevitable though your friends quickly disagree that the awe-struck, mouth gaping expression is a strictly you thing, and that he isn't as much of a campus celebrity as you believe he is. regardless, you're determined to put your inability to hold a conversation with him in the past. the solution is simple, you seek out his best friend. if geto suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then gojo satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak.
pairing: frat&icehockey!gojo x reader
content: mdni, idiots in love, oblivious reader, baby’s first kiss + virginity taken by same person (satoru ><), suguru as the wingman, a little angst, mostly fluff + crack !! titjob, a little spitting, p in v, degrading, oral, fingering handjob etc etc 37k+
note: happy belated national arabian horse day! this was meant to come out on the 19th but life got in the way... regardless of the day hit up a friend and start beating a dead horse to celebrate!
Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush.
Your friends insist you’re seeing him through some delusional rose-tinted lens and that he is, in fact, not as much of a campus celebrity as you believe him to be. You reject that notion. One look at him from across the room, other party goers be damned, is all it takes to confirm what you already know.
Geto laughs at something one of his friends says, tipping forward slightly as the alcohol softens his movements. You catch the tail ends of his laughter through the thumping bass, the glint of light reflected off his lip piercings when he smiles wide, his hand running through his untied black hair.
It would be as easy as walking up and saying hi to start a conversation. It would be as easy as smiling for him to turn his head and grace you with a smile of his own.
Oh, what you would give to be bathed in his gaze, for that pretty smile to widen at the sight of you. He’d spot you through the crowd, you’d tuck your hair shyly behind your ear and he’d politely excuse himself from his conversation to walk over to introduce himself to this mysterious beauty from across the room.
Shoko makes a noise like she’s strangling herself but when you turn to save her, she’s staring at your face. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”
“What’s wrong? Did I smudge my liner?”
You pull out your phone to check your makeup using the reflection but between the flashing lights and someone’s elbow jutting from your peripheral, you’re only eighty percent sure you don’t look a mess.
Considering you dragged your roommate out to this party last minute, Shoko sips her drink with commendable patience. “Even if you did, that would be the least of your worries. Look, you really don’t have to overthink this. We didn’t just spend all night planning this for you to end up weirding him out with that look in your eye.”
“Shit, that was the rehearsed deer look I was talking about!"
“Rehearsed how?"
You decisively ignore her. “I just want to do this right."
Her eyes soften slightly. She’s always been weak to your woes. “You will. He’ll love you. If you don’t believe in yourself, believe in me. I promise you, I’ve known this guy for years and you’re exactly the type of person he just eats up.”
You think of all your attempts to enter Geto’s world. There's just something mystifying about him, some kind of aura he emits that has you tripping over your tongue and freezing at the worst moments. Your words become stilted, your humour and wit abandoned at every crucial moment, causing you to simultaneously dread talking to him as much as you wished for it.
Shoko turns you to face her, eyes steady in a way yours isn’t. “Are you ready?"
You let out a slow breath and attempt to mimic her determination with a single nod.
“Then go find him.”
When you hesitate to even take a single step forward, Shoko gives you a push and then you’re off, legs moving without another thought. The crowd swallows you, bodies brushing past and jolting your shoulders, knocking you here and there. But none of that matters. Not when your heart is already set. Not when determination is the one thing keeping you upright, guiding you closer and closer to the boy who somehow makes a packed, sweaty houseparty fade into background noise
For too long, you’ve let this intoxicating feeling linger, letting it settle deep in your chest, almost convincing yourself that watching from the sidelines was enough. As if anything short of his eyes on you, perhaps even his lips on yours, could quiet the restless longing twisting in your heart. Limerence is what Shoko diagnoses you with, but the word feels too small for the intensity that surges through you every time his name crosses your mind.
Geto appears like a beacon before you, the crowds having finally parted enough for you to catch a good look. The party music transitions to an angelic choir but admitting that is basically affirming Shoko’s concerns that your infatuation is unhealthy, so you quickly refocus. Your heart clenches, pounds against your ribcage, and you only hope the dim lighting will hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. He’s right there, right within reach. All you have to do is say his name.
All you have to do is make him see you.
You take a step forward, mumble an apology to the girl you bumped shoulders with, take another step towards where he’s laughing with a friend—then veer sharply to the right and slip into the kitchen.
If talking to Geto were really as easy as saying hi, you would have done it months ago.
The kitchen is quieter, the bass reduced to a distant, muffled thump and you can finally breathe as the crowd thins. There’s still chatter though significantly more bearable and your eyes fall onto the small cluster of boys within, standing in the near dark.
Your feet instinctively slow but Shoko’s voice in your head tells you that you’ve done too much to stop now and with a deep breath, you step beyond the threshold.
One by one, the group takes notice of you, their rambunctious laughter quietening into soft chuckles as heads pop up to look. It’s not strange for someone to enter the kitchen at a party so the most you get is a head nod in greeting before they return to their conversation.
You reach for a red cup and then for a jug of some mysterious jungle juice.
Unfortunately, the jug sits behind one of the boys. Even worse, it sits behind who you’re really here at the party looking for.
Leaning lazily against the counter and nursing a red solo cup of something strong no doubt, stands Gojo, Geto’s best friend.
If Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then Gojo Satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak.
You can feel the burn of Gojo’s stare as you get close enough to lift the jug and pour, hands trembling slightly. Before you can help yourself, you steal glances from the side of your eye, landing squarely on his shirt specifically at the crude letting that reads ‘Two Seater’, arrows pointing abashedly toward both his crotch and his face.
You look back up immediately. You don’t want to know.
The punch sloshes into your cup, some of it missing due to your shaky hands and you don’t notice until a sticky trickle runs over your fingers. You hastily stop pouring and lick at the mess.
Before you can figure out how to announce your presence, there’s a rush of footsteps and another frat boy appears. Hikari, you think his name was, stands by the kitchen entrance, hair slightly disheveled from his usual style, loud and demanding as he’s always been.
“Hey!” he calls, scanning the room. “You guys need to come see this."
A chorus of half-drunk “what?” and “see what?” answers him like a herd of seagulls.
“In the living room,” he says. “There's two people on the floor and—” He stops, glancing over his shoulder like the situation might escape him if he looks away for too long. “Just hurry up!"
His vague words cause curiousity to spread faster than wildfire. The group of boys begin funnelling out of the kitchen, cups still in hand, voices rising with excitement.
“What is it?"
“Is it a fight?"
“Please tell me it’s a fight.”
“Did someone break something?”
Hikari doesn’t elaborate, instead turning and leaving the kitchen, confident the herd will follow. One friend, Choso if you remember correctly, looks back at Gojo who remains calmly drinking from his cup, still leaning against the counter beside you.
“Aren’t you coming, Satoru?”
Gojo shrugs, tipping back the last of his drink. “Nah. You go on ahead.”
Choso hesitates like he wants to ask why, then seems to think better of it.
“Suit yourself,” he mutters, already backing toward the door as someone behind him shoves past with a whoop.
Within seconds, the kitchen drains of bodies.
You’re deathly aware of the warm presence beside you. You inhale deeply and turn, ready to get this over and done with only to find him shamelessly looking at you.
For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, his expression unreadable as he looks you over before his face splits into a lazy grin. “Hey.”
“Hi,” you squeak, immediately reprimanding yourself at the awkward sound.
His smile only grows. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you looking for someone? Or maybe you missed the exit? It’s down the hall to your right.”
“That’s rude.” You cross your arms in an attempt to place distance between the two of you and to maintain a confidence you don’t feel. “I attend parties.”
Gojo huffs and you feel slightly offended. He straightens and steps closer, close enough that his cologne hits you—sharp, expensive, and entirely too much. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen you at one of these before.” His head tilts, regarding you. “How do you even know Sukuna?"
For a moment you blank, wondering why he was asking about Sukuna. It hits you then that this party must be his. “Ah. I came with Shoko.”
He hums. “That makes sense. Shoko always did have a habit of collecting strays."
“Excuse me?”
“Not a stray,” he amends lightly at your glare. “More like her lost puppy.”
"Just because you’ve only ever seen me when I’m with Shoko doesn’t mean I’m always with Shoko.”
“I was talking more about how you were holding onto her shirt in the crowds earlier. She didn’t bring a leash for you?"
“Don’t project your weird kinks onto me."
“Do you often spend time thinking about what weird kinks I might be into?” Thankfully, Gojo lets the topic go before you really do decide to throw it all away and walk out. “But alright, let’s say I believe you and you’re just here for the party. Why are you here in the kitchen, then?”
“What else do people come to parties for? I’m here to drink. And stuff.” You trail off, clearing your throat.
“Really?” He eyes your untouched cup. “Because that’s just juice. The good stuff’s over here."
He steps into your personal space to reach over you to grab a bottle from the top of the fridge and you’re face to face with the gross words on his top. He retracts his arm, bottle in hand, but doesn’t step back. “Want me to pour you one?”
You think back to the last time you let yourself drink under the unwise judgement of Shoko, and how you can only recall glimpses of light and the vague memory of a toilet bowl “It’s fine, I’ve already had a lot to drink."
“Right,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t believe you for a second.
You watch as Gojo pours himself another drink, sipping leisurely, pointedly ignoring the way you’re staring.
Gojo isn’t exactly a stranger, but it’s an overestimation to call him your friend. In truth, he’s Shoko's friend—which means she occasionally drags him back to your shared dorm before disappearing to do whatever it is best friends do. You catch glimpses of him in passing, fleeting and inconsequential, never quite crossing into ‘introduce-yourself’ territory. Why would he? He’s the kind of guy who turns heads without trying, long-limbed, effortlessly confident, wearing the grin of someone who’s never been told no in his life.
Where Geto is soft-spoken and warm, guiding you through conversation with patient smiles and gentle ease, Gojo is loud and vibrant and reckless. There's a challenge in his eyes, a knowing smirk on his lips, like the world is perpetually entertaining and he’s always in on the joke.
You, on the other hand, are about as normal as it gets.
When the silence draws into something a little less casual and far more awkward, you clear your throat. “I’m Y/N by the way."
“I know who you are.”
“You do?”
“Shoko’s roommate, right? We’ve seen each other before. She’s mentioned you too.” He offers a hand, eyes holding yours like he knows you’ll pull away with anything less. “I’m Gojo. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
You go to echo his words, that of course you knew he was the Gojo Satoru but hesitate, settling instead for shaking his hand. His grip is warm and solid, carrying none of the jitteriness you feel. Hell, maybe you should have accepted a drink after all. What is this, a job interview? Why are you shaking his hand?
When you let go, you become painfully aware of how damp your palms are and curse yourself silently.
Gojo picks up on the silence and moves to lean against the counter, mimicking your earlier pose such that his arms are crossed over his chest, only emphasising his biceps in his sleeveless top. “So, Y/N. If you didn’t come in here for a drink, why are you here?”
His words cause you to still. This was it. Every moment in your dorm, huddled around the whiteboard usually reserved for studying, now littered with far less academic plans, Shoko chiming in her own thinkpieces occasionally. It all accumulated to this moment.
“I was looking for you actually. I wanted to talk to you.” Your voice is barely a whisper and humiliation slowly sinks in when he doesn’t answer immediately. Perhaps he didn’t hear you considering you’re speaking to your shoes.
When you finally look up, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gojo slowly tracks his eyes up and down your figure. Finally, he straightens, head tilted slightly. “Talk to me? Alone?"
You nod, and his face breaks into a broad grin.
“I wasn’t expecting that. Not that I hate it,” he purrs, voice dropping into something smoother as he steps closer and curls a loose lock of your hair around his finger. “What did you want to talk about, princess?"
Your mind vaguely registers the gesture, feeling the dampness of your palms once again. “I don’t really want to say here."
His fingers still, your hair wrapped around it. “Oh?"
You wonder what that look in his eyes meant. “Could we go upstairs?”
Gojo cocks his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His brows knit slightly, but his eyes gleam with amusement as he releases your hair, the strand falling back into place in a soft wave. “You do know I’m Shoko’s friend, right? And you’re her best friend?”
“Why does that matter?”
“Seriously? You don’t think it’ll be awkward?”
Awkward? You blink, trying to make sense of his words. Perhaps Gojo and Shoko had argued recently. Maybe he didn’t want her catching sight of the two of you together else it put you in an awkward position. He’s more considerate than you expected.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with her,” you say carefully. “Whether you or I are friends with Shoko—it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to talk to you.” You smile in satisfaction, relaxing a little at his kindness.
Gojo suddenly laughs, brushing a hand through his hair as he throws his head back like you’ve said the funniest thing. When he looks back down at you, his eyes are shining. “That’s what I’m saying! But every time I joke about it to Shoko, she goes all crazy on me. Looks like we have a lot in common, huh? I guess that makes us compatible.”
You continue to smile, the corners of your lips wavering a little in uncertainty. You’re not entirely sure what he means by that but considering you’re about to ask him for a favour, you appreciate his good mood.
“Well, alright,” he says at last, taking your hand. “I’d love to hear you out. Lead the way.”
Ignoring the little flip of nerves your stomach does as you hold his hand (perhaps he felt too drunk to climb the stairs alone?), you turn and lead him back into the living room and up the stairs to the quieter rooms of the house. The hand holding serves another purpose, you realise, as you weave through the crowds of people and he would surely have lost you had you not held on tighter, practically dragging him onward.
You feel a tug before your feet can even touch the second floor, like he’s suddenly become immovable. Before you can turn and check on him, you feel the warmth of his chest against your back, his hand slipping from yours to settle at your waist. You’re pulled to a stop, his breath now brushing against your ear, his hair tickling the side of your face. You’re certain he’s leaning over you despite being a step lower, and the faint scent of alcohol and sandalwood fills your senses.
“I didn’t think you’d be so proactive,” he murmurs. You think he might have inhaled, slow and deliberate, but it’s hard to tell over the base vibrating through the floorboards and the frantic pounding of your heart. “What else are you hiding from me, hm?”
He reaches for your hand and turns you slightly so you can watch as he licks your fingers, tasting the sticky residue of your spilt juice. His blue eyes seem to sparkle, mesmerising in a way that makes you freeze. “You taste sweet.”
Your breath hitches and he must have heard because the hand on your waist tightens and pulls you against him, head leaning down to gently nip at your neck. Your stomach does that little flip again, this time accompanied with a hot flush that short-circuits your brain.
“Wait!”
He chuckles softly, lips ghosting over a soft spot that makes your knees tremble a little. “Don’t be nervous. You have me right where you want me.”
You freeze, heart hammering, fingers twitching. When his hand slips just barely beneath the hem of your top, the words tumble out of you in a rush.
“I like Geto!”
For a heartbeat, everything goes still, his hand, his lips, his breath. Gojo pauses, lips pulling back from your sweaty neck. In fact, his entire body jerks back, both feet returning to the step beneath you, hand leaving your waist to turn you to face him. His fingers find your chin to tilt your face down, eyes dark as they hold yours.
“What did you just say?”
You swallow, looking him in the eye. “I like Geto.”
He stares at you wordlessly for a few more moments before he frowns, letting go of you completely and stepping down one more step just for good measure. “What the fuck are you doing here with me then?"
You gesture frantically between yourselves, finding the answer quite simple. “To talk? That’s what I said earlier, didn’t I? I wasn’t—I wasn’t insinuating… I wasn’t trying to—you know?”
“You said you wanted to come with me upstairs.”
“Yeah?”
“Alone.”
“Right.”
His frown only deepens at your easy response. “You know how that sounds, right? To get a guy alone upstairs at a party?”
“It sounds like I wanted to talk to you privately?” You try again at his disbelieving expression. “The music was super loud. I didn’t think you’d be able to hear me downstairs and I had to ask you something important so I didn’t want to risk it.”
He lets out a huff, something short and breathy, lips quirked upwards like he finds something amusing, even as his eyes stay locked on you, unmoving. “You’re kidding me, right?”
You hold out your hands as if to say, ‘What can you do?’.
Gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Figures this was too good to be true.” His hand drops from his eyes to cover his mouth as he continues to stare at you. “Nothing about that situation implied you just wanted to talk. And about Suguru, of all things? Seriously, he’s being a cockblock and he isn’t even here.”
“What was that?”
“Forget it.” He drops his hand. “I’m leaving.”
You quickly hold onto his arm before he can completely turn. “Wait!”
Maybe it’s the desperation in your voice, maybe it’s your iron-clad grip on his bicep but he doesn’t attempt to pull away. Instead, he looks back and wrinkles his nose at you, a strangely childish gesture.
“I’m not in the mood to just talk. Not anymore.”
“Come on, please? There’s no one else I can ask!”
“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”
“If you could just please, out of the kindness of your heart, hear me out I would seriously appreciate it!”
He doesn’t budge.
“I won’t tell anyone I rejected you!”
He frowns. “First of all, you didn’t reject me because it was a misunderstanding. Second of all, are you really in a position to blackmail me right now?”
“I won’t tell Shoko you were the reason her favourite candle knocked over and singed a bit of her rug.”
His frown only deepens. Blackmail, you think, is surprisingly effective. “Hold on, how do you even know that?”
“What do you mean? I was literally right there.”
Gojo lets out a deep, long groan. He wriggles out of your hold, sending you a glare. “You know, you really suck at asking for help.”
“You don’t have to agree to helping me just yet. Just at least give me a chance to explain. We’re already here, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, well, I had other plans when we got up here that didn't involve just talking.”
You remind yourself to be patient. Again, you were the one asking for a favour, he’s the only one that can help you with your dilemma, you need him. Don’t call him a disgusting freak and walk away.
Clapping your hands together, you muster your best pleading look and send it his way. “Please, Gojo.”
You’re not really sure what broke through his defenses. For your own ego, you decide it must be because of your puppy dog eyes because he lets out a sigh and gives a reluctant nod.
“Go to the room to the right of the stairs.”
You bite back the instinct to cheer. Halfway through turning around, you look over your shoulder. “You’re coming too, right?”
“Just get up there before I change my mind.”
Wondering if souring his mood like this would backfire on you, you quickly hop up the remaining steps and head to the mentioned room just in case he really does change his mind. It would be beneficial to appease him before you ask for a crazy favour, after all. Therefore, you don’t even try to eavesdrop as Gojo continues to mumble to himself as he follows behind, worrying that somehow he might hear and turn around.
When you both reach the room, he closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest and expression flat in a way that feels very un-Gojo. You’re suddenly struck by the unfairness of it, of how someone with such a careless, teasing exterior can also appear so unreadable when he wants to.
“Five minutes.”
You clear the irrelevant thoughts from your head. “Excuse me?”
“You have five minutes before I’m going back down.”
You take a deep breath. This is it, no backing out now. “Okay. I need your help.”
He huffs, unamused. “So you’ve said. But with what exactly? Calculus? Because spoiler, I’ve been drinking.”
“With Geto.”
You watch in real time as the connection in his brain is made. He straightens off the door slightly. “Wait. Suguru? You want help with Suguru? What kind of help? Love help? You want love help with Suguru?”
Every word from his mouth is like a bullet to your dignity. Through gritted teeth, you hiss, “Yes. Can you be any louder?”
“I can try,” He says with a hint of humour. The smirk returns to his face and a feeling of foreboding looms over you. “This is what you wanted to get me alone to say?”
“Look, I needed someone who’s close with him and you’re–”
“Close? Please, I’m his best friend. I’m practically his wife.”
“Oh. So that makes us competition?”
He wrinkles his nose and looks you up and down. “You want me to help you get him.”
You nod.
“You want to confess to him.”
“Obviously.”
“Date him?”
“That’s the goal."
“Sleep with him?”
You give him a look so incredulous that he laughs, short and amused. “If you want advice just hit up reddit. If you want him to like you back then an etsy witch has you covered for five dollars. I don’t see why you have to bother me.”
“Because,” you say slowly. “He’s surrounded by people. He doesn’t even know me. I need all of that, the advice, the reciprocation, and I need someone who can get me close enough to him where he can notice me. And I feel like getting an Etsy witch to manipulate his dreams to include me would cost more than five dollars. And I’m broke. And I’m kind of bad with guys.”
“So, what? You want me to introduce you to him?”
“Sure. And maybe tell me what he likes?"
Gojo looks you up and down again. He leans back against the door but this time, there’s something smug and arrogant about his posture, eyes lazy as he takes up as much space as he can. “You’re not even his type.”
“That’s fine, I’m flexible.”
“That’s something you say at a job interview, not when you’re trying to get a boyfriend.”
“Just shows that I have an adaptable personality.”
“He just came out of a 2 year relationship,” he shoots back.
“I accept and embrace his past.”
“He has a habit of leaving his jackets on the arm rest of couches.”
“I have hands, I can put them away.”
“Where’s your self-respect?”
“With him. I’ll get it back after I get with him.”
Gojo huffs. “He doesn’t even know you.”
“That’s why I’m asking you for help.”
“You know, I think I liked you better when you were just a shy little thing stumbling over your words.”
Again, you can only shrug.
When he only frowns, you decide to use your hidden ace. Before he can open his mouth and surely reject you, you beat him to it, voice overlapping his.
“I’ll tutor you!”
His eyes narrow and when he doesn’t say anything else, you push on.
“I know you’re aiming for that sports scholarship to study abroad next year.”
“How do you even know about that?” He catches on quick with a groan. “Shoko.”
You nod. “And I know that you’re looking for someone to tutor you because you need to get good grades to get accepted. If you help me with this, I promise I can definitely bring your grades up. We both benefit!”
Gojo stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head and you think you’ve lost him when his lips twitch. Then, almost traitorously, one corner lifts higher.
“You,” he says slowly, pointing at you like he’s identifying a rare species, “Are trying to bribe me. You’re trying to bribe me because you can’t get game by yourself.”
“It's not a bribe,” you say stiffly. “I'm just saying there’s something in it for the both of us.”
“It’s a bribe,” he repeats, delighted now. “Holy shit, Shoko's roommate is bribing me. How desperate can you get?”
“I’m offering to give you academic support!”
“With strings attached.”
“Yes,” you sigh. "That's usually how deals work.”
He grins, wide and boyish and every bit infuriating as you’ve ever known him. “You think I can't get a tutor without helping you bag my best friend?”
“Well, you haven’t yet.”
“That's because I don't need one.”
“Right. So I should just forget all the times Shoko has ranted to me about how you keep asking her for help?”
“You know, this conversation has really enlightened me on who my real friends are.” His gaze slides back to you, assessing. “And you’re confident you can help me?”
You straighten your shoulders and give a solemn nod. “I’ve fixed worse than you.”
He studies you, eyes tracking your features down to your shoes and you fight the urge to squirm self consciously. He seems to be recalibrating you, seeing you not as Shoko’s tagalong but as an actual person making a very earnest, albeit very ridiculous, request.
Finally, he sighs, long and dramatic.
“Well, at least you have one thing going for you. Suguru eats this kind of stuff up, hardworking, stubborn, a little pathetic—”
“Hey.”
“—in a cute pet way,” he amends smoothly. “Relax.”
You glare at him anyway but the rational part of your brain reminds you that you need this. He grins back, entirely unrepentant.
“Fine,” he continues, raising a finger, “If I do this, we’re doing it my way. That means we need rules.”
You fight the urge to jump up and down in joy. “I was going to suggest that anyway! How about this, we—”
“Rule one,” he says, face settling into something serious. “You can’t fall in love with me.”
Unable to help yourself, you burst out laughing. “Trust me, that’s not going to be an issue. You're definitely not my type.”
At your laugh he smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Rule two, no complaining. Keep that mouth in check, sweets.”
You giggle. “What's wrong, fragile ego?”
He raises an eyebrow and you mumble irritated curses under your breath. “Sorry.”
“Rule three, if Suguru ends up falling head over heels for you, you owe me big.”
“How big?”
His eyes flick down to your mouth again, then back up, smirk slow and dangerous. “I’ll decide later.”
You catch the movement and swallow, feeling none of the humour from earlier. “Okay, deal. Then, rule four, you take your studying seriously. I don't tutor people who don’t care.”
“I think between the two of us, I want to succeed the most so that’s a given. Any more rules, sweets?”
When you shake your head, he nods. “We’ll start tomorrow.”
“Not today? I mean he’s literally right here,” You quickly clarify. “Not a complaint, just a question!”
“I came here to get drunk and have a good time. I’m going to need at least three drinks to get me back there so be a good girl and wait. I’ll text you tomorrow if you really can’t be patient. Unless, you want to back out already?”
You straighten your shoulders, trying to match his confidence. “I’m not backing out! I just want to make sure you’re not going to ditch me. This isn’t really a normal request.”
“Oh, so you know?”
You roll your eyes at him but have the decency to at least look bashful.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats then jerks his chin toward the door. “Go on, sweets. Before I sober up and regain some self-respect.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“A complaint?”
You bite your lip. “A suggestion.”
“Here’s a real suggestion,” he starts, turning around to open the door. Standing in the doorframe, he gives you one last look. “Next time you ask a guy to go upstairs with you at a party, maybe start with the part about not wanting to make out.”
Your face gets hot instantly, mouth opening to splutter, “I didn’t mean anything by it!”
But he doesn’t stay to hear the end of it, rejoining the masses downstairs without another word. He lifts his hand once as a goodbye and then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the room, half mortified, half exhilarated. Unwilling to give him any sense of victory with his last words, you head back downstairs and find Shoko to tell her the results of the first step of your plan.
It’s a struggle pushing through the thick waves of people but you finally find your roommate off to the side, musing herself in a conversation with someone you don’t recognise.
Instinctively, your eyes search for Geto if only to recall what you’re doing this for. Standing beside him, arm swung over his shoulder is Gojo, already sipping from a cup and laughing into the conversation with a natural ease that reminds you of the gap between who you were and who he is. As if sensing your gaze, he looks over and you flinch as if burnt. Something stirs in your gut and you wonder if your little plan to get with Geto has taken a slightly unpredictable turn.
“You okay?” Shoko asks, noticing your fluster.
You nod, looking away quickly. “Of course. All going to plan, you know?”
“Then I guess you’re up to step two.”
“Right,” Your eyes drift back to Gojo and find him looking at you over the rim of his cup. The feeling in your stomach lurches. “Step two.”
Step two begins with Gojo texting you at the ass crack of dawn. You blink the sleep from your eyes, squinting at the bright light of your screen in mild disbelief and annoyance as he tells you to pull up to his 9am lecture. Despite the lingering feeling that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, you understand that this is necessary.
You know for a fact that you have no classes today and therefore no reason to make the trek to university. a whole day,just gone and tasked with the impossible task of putting up with that infuriating player.
No, you reprimand yourself as you text back your agreement. No complaining. Do it for him, do it for Geto. With those words repeating in your head like a mantra, you pull yourself together and out of bed to get to campus.
It would be helpful, after all, to see where his studies were at if you were going to take this tutoring business seriously.
You get a coffee at the station to combat your sleepiness and the chill of a winter morning before hesitating and getting another. With two coffees, one in each hand, you wait outside his lecture room until the doors swing open.
Spotting him wouldn’t be too hard, you muse, considering Gojo is impossible to miss.
And then, you see him.
His unmistakable frame, hair a messy white halo catching the late morning sun, strides into view. He's mid conversation as he steps out, animated, half-grinning, and you find yourself understanding why so many girls lose their minds over him.
“Gojo!” You call out, voice slightly drowned out by the chatter all around.
You’re about to give him a piece of your mind, him having been the reason why you kept to your phone all of last night like a wife anticipating the return of her war husband, when you freeze. Because when Gojo turns, your mind barely registering the amused look he gives you, the person he was talking to comes into view.
Because of course, where there’s Gojo there is Geto, the yin to his yang.
You weren’t ready for both of them.
Noticing your sudden stiffness, Gojo looks beside him and scoffs. Unimpressed, he starts walking over. You panic, attempting to smooth out your clothes and fix up your appearance though your hands are full of coffee so you end up doing an awkward wiggle.
“Look at you,” Gojo starts when he’s close enough. “Loitering outside my class like a fan. Maybe this is more urgent than I thought, not because you like Suguru but because you really need your self-respect back.”
You open your mouth to respond, to clarify, to deny, to just say something, but Geto catches up beside him and suddenly every possible word tangles up in your throat.
“Oh. Hey,” Geto says, recognition flickering across his face. “You’re Y/N, right?”
You blink, knees feeling weak and mind in shambles that he even knew your name let alone match it to your face. “Uh, yeah! That’s me!”
He smiles, soft and easy, all the charm you’ve seen him use on others now directed to you. “I thought so. You’re in one of Shoko’s tutorials, no? I think I remember her mentioning you.”
“I’m her roommate, actually.” You try for a smile and pray it doesn’t give off the extent of your adoration towards him.
“Right, that would be it. I’m Geto.”
You nod mutely, wishing your brain would reboot to say something, anything that doesn’t make you sound like you’ve never spoken to a human before. Geto, he says, like you didn’t already know his name, like he wasn’t one of the most known people on campus. Still, the fact that he so humbly introduced himself only proves his humility and your heart gives a quiver.
This moment was everything you’ve ever fantasied. His eyes on you, giving you that pretty smile you’ve only seen directed at others. You could have stood there and basked in his attention until the end of time if Gojo didn’t suddenly clap Geto’s shoulder and butt in.
“Great, so glad you’re both acquainted,” he says, ignoring your glare and throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side. “But as much as I’d love to keep standing here and soak in this riveting small talk, I think my very dedicated super fan here needs me for something.”
You shoot him a look. “I am not your super fan.”
“No? And is that not my coffee?”
You look down at your hands as if only remembering now what you were holding. Biting back a remark, you thrust out a coffee. “It is.”
He grins, taking it and letting his fingers brush against yours. “Thought so.”
Geto looks between the two of you. “Oh, I see how it is."
Your eyes fling back to him at the same time Gojo exclaims, “What?”
“Woah, did I touch a nerve there or something?” Geto’s smile quickly turns smug. He returns Gojo’s earlier gesture and thumps him hard on the back twice. “I get it. I’ll get out of your hair then. Be gentle with him, Y/N. He’s actually a pretty sensitive guy.”
It takes you a while to process his words so Gojo reacts first.
“Dude, I’m telling you it’s not like that.”
“Sure,” Geto says in a tone that very much suggests he isn’t convinced at all. “Guess I’ll see you around, yeah? Later, Satoru.”
You only realise seconds after he leaves that you hadn’t said goodbye. In fact, after Gojo’s interruption, you hadn’t managed to say anything more to Geto.
“Huh,” Gojo muses, breaking the silence. “You get like that around him?”
You groan and find the lump in your throat gone. “I stood there like an idiot!”
“You did.”
“He probably thinks I’m a freak!”
“Probably.”
“And you!” You look up to glare at him. “You didn’t have to make it sound so weird!”
“So now it’s suddenly my fault?”
“You caught me off guard by calling me your super fan!”
“Right, like that was the weirdest part of the conversation,” he shoots back, lips curled in dry amusement. “That, and not the super sour face you were making at him. Like a grimace.” He mimics your expression and you properly grimace this time, hoping against all odds that that was not the face you had been making at the person you were actually a super fan for.
Deciding you will only lose if you continue to defend yourself, you choose to change the subject. “You should have told me he’d be here.”
“You never asked. Besides, is it my fault if you didn’t prepare for that to happen?”
You sulkingly mumble a yes and he wags his finger at you, tutting disapprovingly.
“No complaining, remember? Come on, let’s go. We have things to talk about.”
You sigh though relent to fall into step beside him, fingers curling around your own coffee as the crowd thins around you. Now that Geto is gone, the world feels marginally more comfortable, less bright, less sharp, but also less mortifying.
You remember your stuttering self a few minutes ago.
Still a little mortifying but now bearable.
Gojo takes a long sip of his coffee, then glances sideways at you over the rim. “For future reference, I don't like coffee.”
You dig your elbow into his side and he winces but doesn’t remove his arm around your shoulder.
“Where are we going? I was thinking we could go to the library and look over your courses. That way I can pinpoint your weakness and where to target first. We only have a few months into graduation so we’re in a bit of a time crunch but I'm positive I can raise your grades from whatever they may be to… what?”
You trail off when you find Gojo looking down at you in disbelief. He shrugs when your eyes meet and shrugs, though the gesture is a little awkward with his arm over your shoulders.
“I just didn’t think you were serious about the whole tutoring thing.”
“I keep to my promises, Gojo,” you pause. “And I hope you will too.”
He reaches over with his free hand to ruffle your hair, ignoring your squeak. “Desperation isn’t a good look on you, sweets. Relax, relax, I'll get you two together. Trust me.”
You grumble but don’t voice your suspicions, instead letting him drag you in a certain direction. You perk up when you don’t immediately recognise your surroundings.
“Where are we going?”
“I get it, you want to check me out. I'm just taking us somewhere where that can happen.”
“Your studies, not you,” you clarify.
“Yeah, and my studies are mine so you’re checking me out.”
You grimace and he chuckles, turning you around a corner. “The library is too quiet so we’re going back to my place.”
You stop abruptly.
“Your place?”
“Yeah.”
“Your place?”
Gojo cocks his head as if listening to something in the distance. “Did you just hear that echo too?”
“Forgetting the fact that we should clearly just go to the library or somewhere on campus at least, I thought you lived in Sig Kap?”
“Right you are. Wow, I'm really starting to see why you’re the perfect choice as a tutor.”
“But you just said we’re going to your place.”
“Nothing gets past you.”
“Your place as in the Sig Kap house.”
“Look at you go.”
You stare at his side profile, waiting for a punchline that won’t come.
“Gojo.”
“Yeah?”
“I am not going to your frat house.”
“What happened to not complaining? That was the first rule and you’re already breaking it, sweets. I'm starting to dread this whole arrangement,” he continues to tease, looking ever so peaceful.
“I'm sorry, I don't know what you think I'm about but I wouldn't willingly walk into a den full of men named things like Chad. Do you even have furniture?”
“I only had a cot for the majority of first year but now I've upgraded to a mattress on the floor.”
“Great. Let's end this here.”
Gojo hooks his finger in your belt hoop before you can walk away. “First of all, we don’t have a Chad. We do have a Kyle though.”
“You're not doing yourself any favours.”
“Second,” he continues on, pulling you back towards him with his finger. “It’s ten in the morning. Half of them are in class and the other half are probably legally dead.”
You stand your ground. “Library.”
“Sig Kap.”
“Library.”
“Sig Kap.”
“Gojo.”
He leans in suddenly, close enough that you can see the faint crease at the corner of his eyes from squinting in the sun.
“You want Suguru, right?”
Your breath catches and despite yourself, you hear him out. “So? How is that relevant?”
“Because,” he says mildly like he’s talking to a little kid. “Sig Kap is where Suguru hangs out. He's my best friend, you know he’s my best friend that’s why you came to me. Why wouldn’t he be over at mine all the time? If you can’t handle coming over now how are you ever going to fuck him?”
“I am not—” you choke, voice pitching before forcefully lowering your voice when you notice people looking at you. “That is not— I haven't even—”
Gojo hums, watching you with a victorious grin. “So you don’t want to sleep with him?”
You make a startled noise and start walking in a random direction, eager to leave him behind. Life, however, is full of disappointments considering he follows, his arm draping over your shoulder once more.
“So where are we going?”
You give in. “Sig Kap.”
“Wrong way, sweets.”
You groan but follow as he steers you in the opposite direction.
Gojo chatters in your ear the entire walk to where the frat houses are situated on campus, about how his least favourite professor is out to get him, about someone in his frat who set off the fire alarm this morning, about the latest philosophical debate holding the frat hostage: whether cereal is a soup or not. It's a steady stream of nonsense, ridiculous but unbroken because at least he wasn’t talking to you so much as at you.
At some point, you stop responding entirely.
Somehow, his mere presence is enough to change your opinion and you actually feel relief when you finally see the house before you. Sig Kap stands broad and sunlit, paint only mildly chipped, windows open to let in the winter air. There's a couple bikes leaning against the porch railing and there’s an abandoned hoodie on the outdoor chairs.
“Oh thank god,” you mumble under your breath when he finally stops talking.
He lets you go to jog up the steps, opening the door to what you’re positive is about to be an overstimulating nightmare.
Warm air hits you first, carrying the scene of coffee and something oily. Sunlight stretches across worn hardboard floors until Gojo closes the door behind you and the hallway dims. A TV murmurs somewhere deeper into the house and there’s a loud conversation happening upstairs.
“You said everyone would be either in class or dead!” you hiss.
“It was an exaggeration,” he says lightly. "Don't worry, everyone’s harmless. But if you’re worried, you can just stick close to me.”
You ignore his cocky grin and shove him to get him walking. Unfortunately, getting to the stairs meant walking past the living room and you know things won’t be as harmless as he says when a voice calls out.
“Yo!”
Gojo pauses and steps back to poke his head into the living room. “Morning.”
You awkwardly step back to let him, pushing you into view too.
Two heads snap toward you at once. One of them is sprawled across the couch, blanket half-tangled around his legs and a bowl of popcorn balances on his stomach. The other is slouched in an armchair, controller in hand, eyes bloodshot and face pale as if he was still hungover. Considering the state of the party last night, you don’t doubt that he might be. Speaking of the party, you recognise the one on the left as Hikari.
“You’re bringing a girl back in broad daylight?” The controller guy says, no tact whatsoever.
Hikari snaps his fingers in recognition. “Hey, you’re the girl at the party.”
“Damn, back for more?”
Hikari shoves controller guy’s head down at the crude comment.
“She's here to save my GPA,” Gojo explains. “So keep it down, yeah?”
“That's what we should be saying to you,” controller guy smirks.
Unfortunately, Gojo smirks back. “You know they can’t help it. I'm just too good.”
He guides you back towards the stairs as the boys in the living room chuckle, and when you finally think of something to say you’re already standing in the middle of his room. By then, there’s another something to take up your mind and computing power.
Despite the relatively large floor plan, Gojo has decided to use none of it. True to his words, there’s a mattress lying on the floor against one wall, blanket a mess and a single pillow sitting flat at the top. A stack of old textbooks make up a bedside table where there’s a cute small lamp. On the other side sits a couch and a giant flat screen in front of it at a distance that would make optometrists frown.
Maybe that’s why Gojo is sometimes seen wearing sunglasses indoors. Maybe they’re prescription.
“This is what you bring girls back to?”
Gojo drops his bag on the floor and flops down onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come sit.”
You eye the seat in disdain.
“What's with the look?”
“Is that even sanitary?”
He snorts. “Worried you’ll get cooties or something? Relax, I rarely bring anyone back. Usually I go to the girls’ place for that kind of stuff. Fucking on a mattress is pretty harsh on the back, you know. You’re the first girl I've brought back in a while. Lucky you, right?”
You grimace but sit down gingerly. “Can you tell me what courses you’re doing?”
“What's the rush? Let's get to know each other better,” he says but he still reaches over to grab his laptop from his bag, opening it on his lap.
You can picture it so clearly, Gojo coming back from a long day of (skipping) classes to do his assignments and homework like this, slumped over his laptop on this surprisingly comfortable couch. The bare mattress on the floor might be a big contributing factor to his back pain, but you have no doubts that this routine wasn’t doing him any favours. “Here,” he places his laptop on your knees and leans back, pulling out his phone from his pocket. “You look.”
Considering his complete disregard of safety is not your issue, you don’t protest and quickly type in the college website. As if sensing this is not the right time, a prompt pops up to log in again.
“Password?” you ask, tilting the screen to him.
He barely looks up from his phone, one arm behind his head, the other typing away. “Sixeyes69 question mark exclamation mark.”
You pause and type it in. It goes through.
“What's the number?” He asks, disinterested.
You look on the screen. “67.”
He chuckles. “Nice.”
“Are you seriously okay with telling me your password like that?”
He shrugs, screenshotting the multi authenticator screen before hitting enter. The website in front of you loads and opens to his details.
“Tt’s not like there’s anything you can do with that. Are you planning to sneak in and do my assignments for me?”
Finding no fault in his words, you accept it and click through the tabs. Your brows quickly knit together as you read the contents.
“Gojo.”
“Mhm?”
“You’re missing three assignments in this class, you have a midterm for another in two weeks and you’re barely passing first year statistics.”
Gojo looks up at the ceiling in deep concentration before looking down with a smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right, why?”
“This is insane! I'm not a miracle worker!”
“Better find a lamp that grants wishes soon because your love life is on the line,” he points out. “That was the deal, you find a way to get me into that scholarship and I get you and my best friend together. It's not my fault you were weirdly confident and didn’t check to see where I was at before proposing that.”
Flabberghasted, you can only open and close your mouth like a fish. “Look, the midterm in two weeks, I can probably help with. The three assignments? You failing statistics?”
“Pretty sure I passed that last quiz. Maybe check again?”
“51 is just barely passing which is basically a fail.”
“Oh no, it seems like you can’t do this after all. Looks like the deal is over. Hey, by the way, since you’re already here, why don't we—” Gojo sits up and leans in, one hand on your thigh above his laptop.
“I demand another favour.”
He freezes. “You can’t just do that.”
“I can,” you square your shoulders and meet his eyes. “I did this statistics class during my first year so I still have my notes. I can easily alter them and give them to you and if you have any questions, we can meet up and I'll go through the questions with you. There's no way you can submit two of the three missed assessments as late but I can help you write the one that was due last week. There will be a mark reduction but I'll make sure it’s as good as can be. And, like I said, studying for the midterm is possible in two weeks.”
Gojo stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. When he finally moves, it’s only to remove his hand from your knee and slump back into his leather couch. “You’re insane.”
You wonder if he’s sulking.
“But,” you continue on. “If I help you with this then I can add to my condition. Besides, I made it too vague earlier and you’ve helped me see that. So thank you.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me.”
You bite your lip. “Go on a practice date with me.”
He blinks at you, giving you that same incredulous look before bursting into a fit of laughter that does wonders for your ego.
“Hey.”
He keeps laughing, one hand resting on his chest.
“Hey!” You hit his arm and he finally cracks an eye open to look at you.
“You’re kidding,” he chuckles, struggling to catch his breath. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t do dates.”
“Don't refer to yourself in third person.” You smack his bicep one more time for good measure and because he’s weirdly solid under your touch. “It won’t actually be a date. I just need to know how dates work. I can't just go from zero to not-zero without practice!”
His laughter trails off though the smile remains on his face. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re at zero?”
You freeze, feeling like you’ve walked into a trap.
“Define zero.”
“Have you kissed anyone?”
You look away. “Define kissed.”
He laughs again, though mercifully shorter. “That's crazy. Next thing you know, you’re going to ask me to teach you how to—”
“Please!” you say quickly. “It won't be anything serious. I just need to know the mechanics, you know, how dates actually work. What you’re supposed to say, how you sit, when you pay, whether eye contact should be continuous or intermittent—”
“Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re actually a lost cause.”
“Well I've never done one before!” You clamp your mouth shut after, mortified at how loud you just got.
Gojo watches you for a long moment, the amusement still there though dimmed now by something closer to curiousity. Maybe even concern if you squint.
Silence stretches between you, warm sunlight pooling across the floor, distant house noise muffled beyond the door. He looks down at his laptop on your lap then back up to your face.
“...okay.”
Your heart stumbles and you inhale sharply. “Okay?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Really?” Relief overwhelms your system and your shoulders relax.
“Gojo Satoru doesn’t go back on his promises.” He straightens and places a hand over his heart, a mock solemn expression on his face. Before you can poke fun of his use of third person again, he continues. “Besides, I need to figure out where you stand. Let's go on a date tomorrow.”
“Eager much?”
He shrugs. “Rip the bandaid off. Besides, I have no other time this week, I have practice all of this week for the upcoming game.”
Though you were ready to disagree, you find yourself nodding. “Okay, tomorrow.”
“It's a date,” he says sweetly before clapping his hands together once loudly. “So, does that mean I'm off the hook for today? Steam is having this massive sale and I have money to spend.”
You snort. “What makes you think you’re free to go?”
“You got what you wanted,” he points out reasonably. “Practice date secured so mission accomplished, right? Seems like a natural stopping point and the Steam store is calling me.”
He reaches lazily toward the laptop. You smack his hand away without hesitation.
“Well hang up because you’re failing statistics and the submission box for that technical report is waiting for you. I'm afraid you’re going to have to reschedule.”
“You're kidding. I dragged you here and gave you nothing to prepare with, there’s no way you'll have anything to tutor me with.”
You stretch out your arms, fingers interlaced, and listen to the satisfying pop of your joints. “Watch me.”
Night has long since settled by the time you return to your dorm. Despite his perennial sulking throughout the entire tutoring session, lips jutted out when he isn’t whining, eyes drifting from the screen when you’re not giving him your full attention, he still offers to walk you back to the opposite side of the campus where the dorm houses are. Guiding him through the writing assignment was somewhat akin to extracting teeth from a little kid, but he’s surprisingly quiet when you’re talking and only chooses to complain when you’ve stopped.
And by the end of it, you’re proud to announce that he has 500 words on a once empty doc that was almost ready for submission.
Hey, you did mention before that you can’t create miracles.
Still, there’s something bright in his eyes when he reads through his own work, mumbling the words under his breath. So then, when you had reached down to pick up your tote bag and call it a day, he’s on his feet almost instantly, laptop snapping shut as he follows.“I’ll walk you,” he says, like it’s not even a suggestion.
The campus at night feels different, all those late nights in the library had taught you that. It’s quieter, softened at the edges and maybe it's placebo, maybe it isn’t, but the air feels fresher and time seems to slow. Streetlamps cast warm pools of light along the pathways, the winter air crisp enough to bite at your cheeks. Your breath fogs slightly as you walk, footsteps echoing in companionable rhythm.
For once, Gojo isn’t talking.
He makes the occasional comment, something about how dead campus feels after dark, how he hates early morning practices, how someone keeps taking his chocolate milk from the fridge, but for some reason you don’t find it so tolerable. Maybe it’s the way he’s saying it, slower and calm, nothing like before.
You steal a glance at him.
His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed, expression softer than you’re used to seeing. Without the performative grin and constant chatter he looks less like the campus celebrity Everyone knows and more like he’s just some guy. Albeit, very attractive but you digress.
“You didn’t have to walk me,” you say into the silence that he hadn’t immediately rushed to fill after his last anecdote.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
He shrugs. “Just felt weird not to. Besides, it’s late out and your dorm is half a century away. I need you alive to fix my grades, remember?”
You give him a faint chuckle and look forward again.
A few more steps pass in silence, broken only by the shuffle of feet.
“Hey,” he says suddenly.
You look up, watching the light scatter over his side profile.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For today.” He kicks at a pebble on the path, watching as it skitters ahead. “For not giving up on me after the first five minutes.”
You huff softly. “I said I'd help. And Y/N never goes back on her promises.”
He looks over at you and you both share a smile before his expression turns thoughtful. “Yeah, but people say stuff all the time.”
You study him. “Do they?”
He hums and doesn’t elaborate.
The dorm building comes into view ahead, lights glowing warmly through the windows. There's still a couple students drifting in and out, bundled in hoodies and coats and wearing slides, soft laughter spilling into the night.
You slow, suddenly aware that the walk is almost over. You turn to him so you can look at each other.
“You know, you’re not as hopeless as you think,” you say quietly. “I think you’ve just never pushed yourself to seriously try.”
He snorts. “Thanks, real inspirational.”
“I’m serious,” you protest but the corners of your lips quirk up.
He looks at you then, properly looks, eyes searching your face with a small frown. When he can’t find whatever he’s looking for, his brows relax.
“You really think I can pass?”
“Yes.”
Something in his shoulders loosens, tension easing away.
“Okay,” he breathes out. “Then, my grades are in your hands, teacher.”
You make a face. “I think I prefer sweets.”
He laughs and you turn to walk up to the entrance. The automatic doors remain stubbornly closed until you step into the sensor’s range, humming softly as they slide open. Warm air spills out, smelling faintly of old carpet and air freshener.
For some reason your feet slow.
“Hey, Y/N.”
You turn, looking at him as he stands just outside the warm lobby light, hands in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold.
“Yeah?”
He hesitates.
“See you tomorrow."
You bite your lip and nod, repeating his words softly. Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn and walk into the building. The doors close with a soft thud, sealing you inside.
Through the glass, you watch him turn and head down the path, white hair catching the glow of the streetlights. And of course, he doesn’t look back.
Your reflection stares back at you instead, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes a little too bright, heart still beating faster than it should.
Tomorrow, apparently, you’re going on a date, practice or not.
For some reason, Geto pops up in your mind and you tighten your hold on your tote bag, making your way up the stairs. The soft curve of his smile earlier this morning, the way he had said your name like it belonged in his mouth, or maybe that was just wistful thinking. But the warmth in his eyes that had nearly short-circuited your brain was most definitely real and you cling to the image.
Right, this is for him.
Your phone buzzes a little after you settle into bed that night, making you jolt. you roll onto your side and reach for your phone, pulling it free from your charger as you read through your notifications.
gojo: i made it back safe in case you were wondering ><
You get comfortable, tucking your doona under your chin as you type back, your phone the only light source in your dark room.
you: trust i wasn’t worried but thanks ig
gojo: who said anything about being worried?
also don’t flake on me tomorrow
i’m taking this mentorship very seriously so u better asw you: i won’t flake ik i’m already asking sm of u
gojo: oh u know do u?
so ure going to pay for our date tmrw?
you: it’s not a date
gojo: sure it isn’t
you: it’s just practice
gojo: i didn’t say it wasn’t
but if you admitted it was a real date i’d pay yk
you: please
like i’d actually want you to pay for my coffee
not a date, not real, don’t need u to pay for my drinks
gojo: ure a hard girl to please
you: if its from someone like you, its gonna be harder than just hard
try impossible
gojo: harder than hard?
you: ?
gojo: something feels wrong about that sentence for some reason
anyway
is the campus close for you or should we meet up in the city
you: the campus works for me
gojo: ure not just saying that to avoid the date allegations are you
you: no way
gojo: sure sweets i believe u
don’t wear anything boring
first impressions matter yk
you: oh my god stop pushing the date allegations
its just practice !!!!
gojo: okay and you can practice dressing up for me
for suguru
like for practice
you: ?
i know what u meant
but sure
as long as u do too theres no way im embarrassing myself by showing up overdressed if u show up in sweats and a hoodie
gojo: wouldn’t dream of it
see u saturday sweets
You stare at the nickname longer than you should.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before moving.
you: goodnight gojo
The reply bubble appears then disappears before appearing again. Nothing comes of it as it disappears one more time and stays gone.
You swipe off the app and place your phone back on your bedside table, ignoring the pleasant buzz running through you.
You show up early like a super fan.
You’ve been sitting at the little corner table situated at the back of your favourite campus cafe for the past ten minutes now, stirring your drink just to look busy. The cafe hums around you with soft chatter, clinking spoons against teacups and ceramic against ceramic, a mellow playlist faintly playing in the background, but your nerves drown most of it out.
You’ve already gone through three mental checklists as you sit there, waiting. Your fingers curl around your empty cup, feeling the beads of water drip down your fingers and you really hope you won’t need to make an awkward break for the bathroom anytime soon considering he should be here about now.
You tell yourself you’re not nervous but you catch yourself glancing at the door every other second, heart jumping each time it swings open.
The bell chimes again and you look up with a start, eyes immediately locking onto Gojo as he saunters in, lifting his sunglasses so they rest on his head. He’s dressed casually, a white and blue jersey over a pair of blue baggy jeans, but his good looks mold the outfit into something appropriate for a date.
Gojo spots you at his first look around and grins, sliding into the seat across.
“Morning,” he greets, a wide smile on his face. His eyes flicker down once at your empty cup. “Did you wait long?”
“No, not at all!” You remember who you’re talking to and relax a little. “Actually, I got here fifteen minutes early. I guess I got a little anxious.”
“Well, you don’t need to be. You look nice,” he says, tone light. His eyes look you over once to make his words comprehensible and then one more time purely for the love of the game. “Trying to impress me?”
You scoff, trying to recover. “You told me to dress nice.”
“C’mon, sweets. Play along. We’re on a date, you know. Your next lines should be something like,” he suddenly tucks his elbow in, body curving to the side slightly, hand half closed and held delicately over his lips and chin. His eyelashes flutter over his cheek as he looks down and to the side, a faux shyness that makes you want to laugh. “‘Thank you, you look good too’.”
You let yourself laugh, shoulders relaxing. “What the fuck?”
“You give it a try. It always works in anime.”
“No way in hell,” you continue, laughing fading into occasional giggles as his gesture replays in your mind. “Besides, this is a practice date. I'll save that technique for the real deal, thank you very much.”
“And for practice, we’re going to pretend this is a real date.” He leans back into his seat, legs stretching out and bracketing yours under the table. His feet bump against yours lightly. “Let's give it another try. Did I make you wait long?”
You stir the straw inside your drink, pretending to be nonchalant, though your fingers twitch slightly against the glass. “Not long… I guess.” You try a mysterious act, hearing that guys like a woman with secrets. At least, that’s what Shoko told you though a small part of you wonders if you should be taking “how to seduce a guy 101” from a lesbian.
“‘I guess’?” he echoes, tilting his head. “That’s the best you can do? You’re supposed to be charming me, remember? At least try to make it look like I'm not coercing you here.”
“I don’t care if I charm you or not,” you say quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m here to learn and you’re here to teach me.”
He laughs, a low, easy sound that makes your chest tighten. “You know, I'm not exactly made of time. Do you know how many girls and guys would kill to be in your position right now?”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes though don’t stop yourself from making your voice dry. “Oh sure, let’s spend this entire date talking about all the competition I have.”
“We would need at least four more dates to cover it all.”
“I didn’t know getting into a relationship with you would be such an investment.” You snort. “If all five of our dates are just going to be you listing my competition, I'd rather stand you up now and save myself the time. And the money.”
“I did offer to pay for your drinks.” He grins at the back and forth, the sides of his shoes bumping into your ankles lightly. “That’s it, you’re getting into it.”
“For practice.”
“Sure, sweets. Practice. Speaking of,” he says, leaning forward just enough that the sunlight catches his hair. “You should call me Satoru. We’re on a date, remember? I can’t tell if you’re on a date with me or my dad if you call me Gojo.”
You grimace. “Calling you by your first name makes it too real.”
“It is real. That’s what you should tell yourself to get into this.” He juts out his lower lip, drawing his eyebrows inward. “Come on, sweets, let me hear you say my name.”
“When you say it like that, it makes me want to throw a drink in your face.”
“Just once, Y/N.”
You huff and roll your eyes. “Satoru.”
“Oh my god, a girl called me by my first name!” he squeals.
You almost stand to get out of here if it means preventing people from associating you with him. He grabs your hand and drags you back down into your seat before you can properly escape, much to your dismay. “Relax, I’m just playing.”
“Are you here to mess around or help me?”
“Well, you need to tell me so I can help you. What do you even know about him?”
“About Geto?”
“Yeah, unless there’s someone else you want to know more about?” He grins, easy and confident.
You ignore his comment. “Well, I know he… likes books. music. He's kind… thoughtful. Plays the guitar. Ah, specifically electric."
“Are you listing off what’s on his dating profile right now?”
“Shut up,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than intended.
“He isn’t actively on any dating app right now, just for your information.”
“And how would you know this? What are you doing on there?”
“I’m not on hinge, unfortunate for the female population, I know. We just tell each other everything,” he says, leaning back, one elbow resting on the armrest of his chair as he studies you from across the table. “I’m helping you, you know? First rule, don’t just parrot his interests. Though maybe I don't have to worry about that since you’re clearly struggling to even remember them.”
“I wasn’t going to parrot him.”
“I know you were,” he interrupts, wagging a finger. “Last time I checked, liking exactly what he likes does not make you compatible. It makes you predictable. And desperate.”
“Okay, harsh.”
“It's all tough love, sweets.”
You fold your arms, slumping back in your seat, letting gravity do half the work of your sulk. “Fine then, oh wise love guru. What should i say instead? Like, let’s say he asks me what I'm into and my mind goes blank like last time. What then?”
“You're asking like it’s that difficult. Just be honest, tell him what you like regardless if it matches his interests. Do you want to be a groupie or be something more than a friend?”
“I want to be someone he likes.”
“So you're going to play the role of Suguru’s perfect girlfriend? And what after that, genius? Are you just going to pretend forever?”
Gojo looks over to the front counter and smiles at some waitresses standing there already looking in his direction. He turns back as they start giggling and playfully arguing over who should come over to take his order.
“Don’t force yourself to perform for him or curate yourself to be digestible. If the two of you are meant to be then he should want you.”
You look away, picking at nothing on your glass. “That's easy for you to say.”
“It's actually incredibly tiring being this emotionally intelligent all the time,” he says, face neutral.
You snort despite yourself and he looks satisfied.
“And what if I tell him and he doesn’t like it?”
Gojo shrugs, slow and deliberate. “Then he’s not for you.”
You frown. “Wow, you’re terrible at pep talks.”
One of the waitresses finally makes it to your table, an eager smile on her face and a determined look in her eyes. Behind her, you catch the rest of the staff shooting encouraging looks. She clutches her notepad a little too tightly, taking in a deep breath before talking. “Hello, are you, um, both ready to order?”
“Yeah,” Gojo says easily, flashing her a smile. “I’ll just grab a hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”
The woman quickly scribbles his order down. “Of course! One hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”
“And whatever she wants,” he adds, nodding toward you.
You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I already ordered earlier. I'm fine for now, thanks.”
The waitress spares you a glance, eyes flickering briefly over you before returning to Gojo like a magnet snapping back into place. “Not a problem. Is there anything else I can get you started with today?”
“We're good, thank you.”
Her face falls. She nods, but lingers a moment too long, clearly hoping for something, another question, a joke, anything to keep the interaction going.
Gojo’s grin grows just a little bit wider as he obliges.
“Busy today?” He asks casually, tone warm and interested.
Her face lights up and she quickly steps forward again. “A little! It's usually busy in the mornings what with the morning rush and all. Honestly, it’s like nonstop until at least 1pm.”
“That’s brutal,” he sympathises, leaning back in his chair, posture loose and open. “At least you’ve got good coffee to survive on.”
She laughs, a bright and breathy sound that makes it clear she’s not just laughing at the coffee comment alone. “Perks of the job, I suppose. Do you come here often?”
Gojo tilts his head as if the question deserved genuine thought and wasn’t just a throwaway pick up line.
“Not as often as I should,” he decides easily. “But I might start if the service is this friendly.”
Her smile widens, pink creeping into her cheeks. “We try our best.”
“I was talking about you, sweetheart.”
You’ve been listening and watching with apt attention, taking mental notes on the right time to smile, when to tilt your head just so, when to tuck your hair behind your ears and when to employ the double tuck, when his last words make you frown.
You clear your throat, eyes fluttering away when both Gojo and waitress look over at you.
“Well,” the waitress starts suddenly, glancing down at her notepad like she needs to remind herself she’s on the clock, "I'll bring your drink out as soon as it’s ready.”
“Looking forward to it,” Gojo replies, though he hasn’t looked away from you yet.
She lingers half a beat longer, then turns and walks away, shoulders a little straighter than before.
“Done staring?” He teases.
“I was not staring. Don't you have the tact to not flirt with someone else when you’re on a date?”
“Oh, so now it’s a date? Only when it’s convenient for you, huh?”
You reach over for a napkin and crumble it up to throw it at him. It barely makes it halfway across the table before it starts fluttering down.
“It’s only manners,” you insist, cheeks warm. “I didn't know what to do when the two of you were talking.”
He snorts. “You could’ve joined the conversation.”
“And said what? "Hello, I'm also present and this jerk’s date for the day?”
“Hey, I like the sound of that,” he muses.
Your next crumpled up napkin doesn’t get any further than its predecessor. You glare at him, something about that conversation rubbing you the wrong way, echoing unpleasantly in your head in a way that makes you want to peel your skin off.
You clear your throat again.
“You're here to teach me like I taught you statistics, right? Even though one is clearly harder than the other.”
“Right. Getting you to date ready is much more difficult.”
You ignore him to save the life of one napkin. “So, how do I do that? Flirt so effortlessly and not make it cringe?”
“You want to use what I just said with the waitress on Suguru?” He actually laughs out loud. “Do not, he’s going to see right through you. You should have met his last ex. The two of them were absolutely disgusting and— oh wait, should I not talk about that?”
“Yeah, let’s not.”
He hums and changes the subject. “Anyway, just let it happen. Be natural. You talk to me just fine.”
“Yeah, but you’re you. frivolous, class clown, never takes anything seriously, probably never commits to anything,” you start listing, counting them on your fingers.
“I feel like the first thing and the last thing mean the same thing. Put one finger down.”
You refuse, still holding up four fingers. “Sleeps on a mattress on the ground.”
“So does half of Sig Kap. But relax, I get it. So you suck at flirting. Shouldn’t you be happy I gave you a live demonstration of how it’s done?”
That gets you frowning again.
“Do you always call everyone something?”
“What does that even mean?”
“You called her sweetheart.”
“I don't know her name. I wasn't about to call her ‘woman’, that sounds very sexist and I'm a feminist at heart. Thoughts on banning periods?”
“She has a name tag.”
“I don’t look at that area on a woman on the first date,” he pledges.
You continue without thinking.“How is anyone supposed to know when you actually mean it when you give everyone similar nicknames?”
He goes quiet, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?”
Before you can elaborate, or maybe divert and make him look away so you can dig yourself out of the hole you just created, the waitress returns with his drink. She leans over him, placing it down carefully.
“Here you go!”
“Thanks,” he says, polite but no longer quite as engaged. In fact, he hasn’t looked away from you, still giving you that same disbelieving look.
You fiddle with your own drink. Maybe you should have ordered something else if it meant spicing up the number of objects you have in your possession to pass awkward silence with.
The waitress lingers a moment before hesitantly leaving when it’s clear there’s no encore performance.
“I just meant it’s confusing for anyone, hypothetically,” you say in a rush, beating him. “Anyway! Flirting techniques, let’s talk about them!”
He watches you for a moment longer before dropping his head and ruffling his hair. You grimace, eyeing how close his head is to his open drink. When he looks back up, whatever conflict on his face has disappeared.
“Fine, okay. Let's talk. First of all, it’s important where the date takes place. There's unspoken etiquette for every typical date location.”
“Like how you go on a coffee date, you shouldn’t flirt with the waitress.”
Gojo cracks a grin. “You’re getting it. Look, Suguru is kind of an artsy guy. He'd probably take you to an art museum or like a jazz bar for your first date.”
You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I told you, he tells me everything. Focus.” He dismisses your look. “He’s kind of an enjoy-the-moment kind of guy. Probably won’t talk too much while you’re both admiring something together and saves all the talking until after when he leads you to some underground totally underrated dinner spot.”
You wince. “Shit. I kind of like making little jokes in the moment.”
He snaps his fingers, face brightening. “Right? Like when you’re watching a movie in the cinemas!”
“Okay, that is a bit tricky. It depends.”
“Don't Genshin theorycraft me.”
“You're lucky I got that reference.”
Gojo shrugs. “Well, Suguru enjoys just existing with his special someone. Don't get me wrong, he definitely talks when you get him started but I think he’s kinda cool for being able to sit in silence with someone.”
You chew the inside of your cheek. “I’m kind of bad with silences. I end up embarrassing myself just to fill them. Do you think it’s fixable? Should I just not talk?”
“Woah, slow down. It’s fine, he has enough social awareness to fill in the gaps if you’re uncomfortable. But i’m just telling you what he likes,” he studies you. “He doesn’t like petnames, by the way.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “That’s fine, it’s not a dealbreaker,” you mumble.
“I'm just saying. He's a real fan of using your first name. When you two get on that basis, of course.”
“Anything else, Geto expert?”
Gojo hums, taking a long sip of his latte, eyes tracking up. “He likes meaningful stuff like art with a story behind it, long conversations about philosophy. Like yeah he still likes doing things just for fun but there’s a difference between like and love.”
You wince. “But love is meant to be silly, meaningless stuff. Like sending pictures of dogs cuddling because it reminded you of us or whether you’d still love each other if you turned into worms. Like taking the longer way back home just to spend more time together. Or, I don't know, building blanket forts as adults.”
Gojo’s mouth twitches.
You stop, suddenly aware you sound like you’ve been storing these thoughts and they’ve suddenly all gotten loose.
“Stuff that doesn’t matter,” you finish weakly.
He rests his chin on his palm. “Like going to the arcade and getting plushies for each other at the claw machines?”
You laugh, shoulders relaxing. “I'd obviously do better. You look like you have no hand eye coordination.”
“Did you forget I literally play ice hockey?”
“Right, your role as the benchwarmer?”
“My ass has never once graced those benches.”
“I don't know, I swear I remember seeing you on the sidelines.”
“You’ve come to watch me play before?” He grins, cheek slightly smushed from his position.
“Because Shoko went.”
He juts his lower lip out. “Harsh.”
There's a few seconds of silence as the conversation replays and you feel a sudden rush of embarrassment. You look up to see if he clocked your earlier slip up but he only tilts his head more into his hand.
“What?”
“Nothing.” You clear your throat and look down at your drink. It's left behind a ring of water around its base. “How are you two best friends when you’re so different?”
“Because he slows me down,” Gojo says like it’s simple. “And I drag him out of his head. But he doesn’t need another person to do that for him so don’t even think of taking my spot.”
You both share a laugh and it lingers a little longer than the joke deserves, warm and easy, until it naturally tapers off into something softer.
“Why do you even like him?” He suddenly asks, voice soft against the murmur of the cafe.
You slowly slide your gaze out the window as if reliving the moment. You can almost feel the rain on your skin, the warmth of a hoodie not your own, and the residual laughter at the back of your throat that makes you smile.
“Last semester when it was pouring rain, he saw me waiting outside a building without an umbrella and we ended up running through the storm. It’s stupid but it was fun and meaningless and definitely what I needed after my finals.”
Your words make him frown, finger tracing a random shape on the wet surface of his glass absentmindedly. “That doesn’t sound like him.”
“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought?” You offer.
“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s my other half.”
“Again, should I be concerned right now?”
“Are you homophobic?”
“No?”
“Then you’re fine.”
“Wait…”
Gojo glances down at his phone and sighs. “It's getting late, sweets. I'd love to stay longer but I promised the boys we’d go do this carwashing event.”
He pauses and looks up.
“Did you want to come?” he quickly adds on, “You don’t have to come alone, you could bring Shoko along or something.”
You wrinkle your nose. “No thanks. You can imagine that she’s not keen on seeing a bunch of shirtless boys.”
He grins. “Suit yourself. I'll walk you out. It's the least I can do on this date.”
You roll your eyes but stand and follow him out anyway, ducking under his arm as he holds the door open for you. Stepping out, you’re almost blinded by the bright sun and you have to cover your eyes to look up, squinting even with the shade provided by your palm.
He moves to stand in front of you. “Well, I'll see you around.”
Next tutoring session,” you remind him, letting your arm drop to your side. "Don't forget to watch the online lectures before then. And remember to do the weekly quizzes this time. And—”
He reaches over to ruffle your hair fiercely, laughing when your words turn into a startled squeak.
“Yes, yes, I got it,”
He lets you go and watches with a toothy grin as you start fixing your hair, glaring up at him and his audacity to smirk. His face quickly softens.
“Sorry I can’t walk you back to your dorms. I'm already running kind of late.”
“Don't worry about it,” you say when you feel like you look presentable enough. “Um, get there safe?”
“I will,” he starts stepping back. “Text me if you need anything.”
“Okay, make sure to—”
“Relax, sweets, I got it,” He says with a chuckle and a wave, before he turns and starts walking off in your opposite direction.
You watch him go for a little longer before heading back to your dorm.You stare up at your ceiling. your ceiling stares back down at you. You've been staring at your popcorn ceiling for so long that you’ve begun to discern shapes and different shades of what you had previously considered to be beige, plain and simple, but was now warping into the image of Gojo.
Something he had done yesterday clung to you even hours after the date. The ease in which he allowed the waitress’ fingers to brush his as he handed her the menus, the way he easily held onto your hand at the party, the lack of concern as he stood close to you on the walk back. You lift up your hands and slowly interlace your fingers. It's comfortable, familiar. until you start wondering one hand as someone else's.
Before you can doubt yourself, you pull yourself up and gather your phone and keys, heading to the door without another thought. On the way through the dorms, you send a quick text.
you: u free? im coming over
You stand outside Gojo’s door and knock. There's a muffled, incoherent reply before the door is pulled open, revealing Gojo. His hair is slightly damp with stubborn strands clinging to his forehead and he’s brushing his teeth. He's not wearing a shirt.
You stare at his chest.
“One second,” he says around the foam in his mouth. He holds the door open a little wider and ushers you in, letting the door fall to a gentle click behind you. “Sit on the couch.”
Wordlessly, you do, watching his bare back as he heads into his bathroom. The sound of water muffles your racing thoughts until he reappears, still shirtless but at least he’s not brushing his teeth anymore.
“Hey,” he says, irritatingly casual. “I saw your text. You didn’t even wait to see if I was free or not. For the record I am but imagine I wasn't. That would have been an awkward situation and between you and her, I would have picked her.”
You blink away your surprise and look up at him. “Her?”
“It’s a Friday night, Y/N. You’re lucky I don't have someone over.”
You frown a little at that and he continues, heading to his kitchenette to open his fridge, pulling out two beers. He hands you one, pushing it towards you once more when you don’t immediately take up his offer.
“So, what are you doing here?”
“Are you going to put on a shirt?”
He blinks before a wide grin splits across his face. “I was wondering what you were looking at so deep in thought. I didn't want to assume again after you made a fool of me at the party but I guess you do have working eyes after all. Do you want me to put on a shirt?”
You blush, finally looking away. “Obviously.”
He chuckles and places his beer down on the coffee table before going on a hunt to find a clean shirt. “But from the way you were eyeing me it really wasn’t that obvious. Besides, you’re telling me to put on a shirt in my own home?”
“It's common sense when you have a guest over.”
His voice carries over from his room. “You’re not really a guest, more like a pest. A guest implies I invited you over, no?”
“But yesterday you said I could come to you for anything.”
“Right. What was I thinking?” Gojo comes back out and flops next to you, the couch dipping under his sudden weight. He takes the beer from your hands and cracks it open before handing it back and doing the same to his. “So, you finally going to tell me what’s up or are you just here to leech off my dwindling beer supply?”
“I don’t even drink,” you mumble, watching as the water beads down your fingers.
“No, but I do have some manners for my guest.”
“You just said…” you trail off, recognising that you’ll only go round and round in circles if you keep up this conversation. you place the beer on the floor and turn to him. “Forget it. I'm here because I need your help.”
“Figures.” He holds the beer to his lips and takes a deep swig. “What can I do for you today?”
You bite your lip before turning to him. “Can I kiss you?”
Gojo chokes, pulling the beer from his lips with a hack, liquid spitting out onto his no longer clean shirt and sweatpants. He finally manages to get his mouthful of beer down, but he only coughs and hits at his chest. Hesitantly, you reach over and pat his back lightly.
He shrugs your touch away, looking at you in disbelief. “What did you just say?”
“I was wondering if you’d let me kiss you?”
“Just because you’re saying it politer now doesn’t take away how crazy you sound.” He stares at you incredulously. “Look, I know we went on a date yesterday but I thought you of all people knew it was a practice date. I'm sorry but I don't feel the same way. Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships.”
You groan, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t suddenly develop a crush on you, Gojo.”
“Satoru,” he corrects you despite his shock.
“Satoru,” you emphasise. “I don’t like you.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Yesterday just got me thinking. You’re so natural with touching and stuff and I realised that I have literally no experience whatsoever. I know Geto isn’t the type of person to care about whether I'm a virgin or not but I care. I care because I know I'll freeze up if we ever get to that part.”
He stares at you. “When i asked you a few days ago about whether or not you wanted to sleep with him, you told me to shut up.”
“That was a few days ago.” You shuffle closer to him on the couch and watch as his eyes drop to your thighs inching closer, then back up, something like fear on his face. “I know this is a big favour but I thought since you’ve kissed so many girls before and they’ve never meant anything that you might be okay with this? I mean you thought we were going to kiss that time at the party. So is this really that crazy to ask?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “It is. because you like Suguru and I'm his best friend.”
“But this is practice.”
“You can’t just echo what I've said in the past.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking off in the distance before coming back to you. “Suguru isn’t the type of person to rush to things like that. You'd be in good hands.”
“I know but this is for me. So I know what to expect.”
His face is contorted in a way you’ve never seen before. You decide to give another push.
“Just think of me as one of your hookups.”
He exhales softly, eyes staring into yours. “Are you sure? Have you even thought this through?”
“Yes, I have,” you lie. “I mean, there aren’t any cons. I'll lose my first kiss, get experience, and it’s all under practice anyway so it won’t mean anything. And you get a hookup for the night. It's a win win!”
His face only seems to pale more at your words. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet? Fuck, that’s a lot of pressure. And I feel like you have the wrong idea about what a hookup entails.”
You shrug. “Kissing? Making out?”
“Sex.”
You pause. “Well, we won’t go that far. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” He exclaims and you quickly deflect because he’s looking more and more shocked.
“We can start with kissing.” You shift closer, your thigh pressing against his. “Come on, it doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, from the encouraging look in your eyes to the determined line of your lips. He huffs, running another hand through his hair at the absurd change to his Friday night plans. Sure, kissing someone wasn’t a big deal for him, not when he’s tasted the lips of many before, but there was something different about taking someone’s first kiss.
Finally, he sighs, long and hard. “Just a kiss.”
You beam, face lighting up. “Of course!”
He hesitates, cursing under his breath something long but incoherent, before gently reaching out to tilt your chin up. “Tell me if you change your mind. Just shove me away, okay?”
You nod enthusiastically. “What do I have to do?”
“Just let me take the lead for now. And if you feel confident enough to kiss back, go for it.” Again, Gojo mumbles something under his breath, the absurdity of the situation still not lost to him. He leans forward as if to seal the deal before pausing, moving his hand up to caress your cheek tenderly.
Your breath hitches, eyes wide as you curse your own touch-starved form.
“You okay?” He asks, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. “Changed your mind?”
You shake your head slightly.
Gojo huffs and you feel the puff of air against your lips.
When his lips finally press against yours, fitting against yours in a way you’ve only ever seen in movies, you feel… nothing. You squeeze your eyes tighter, trying to dig through the sensations and pick out the one that’s meant to set off fireworks and melt your stomach into goo. Instead, it just feels like there’s someone’s lips touching yours.
Sensing your discomfort, Gojo pulls back, eyes fluttering open to meet your unsure ones. His nose scrunches up a little as he studies your expression.
“Hey,” he starts, voice low. “You're hurting my ego.”
You lick your lips, trying to return your lips to their usual sensation. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.”
“What were you expecting?”
“Butterflies?”
He chuckles, hand still caressing your cheek. “You're kissing me without any feeling. It’s not my fault you’re as stiff as a board. Relax. Imagine Suguru or something.”
Now it’s your turn to make a face. "Wouldn't that hurt your ego more?”
“Just relax,” he repeats and you make the conscious effort to focus on the way he’s stroking your face soothingly. “That’s it. Good girl.”
“Don't call me that, I cringed.”
He laughs, leaning in. “Abandon the part of you that cringes not the part of you that is cringe.”
With that, he brushes his lips against your again, letting you feel the slow movement and determine the pace.
It’s not exactly rocket science, this kissing business, and you start to mimic the motion of parting your lips against his. It takes a few tries for him to hum in approval and deepen the kiss, his free hand sliding up to cup your neck and gently pull you closer to him. You let out a soft squeak and quickly pick up from the momentary break in rhythm on your end.
When his tongue slides against the seam of your lips, you blanch and pull back.
“Okay,” he starts. “That really hurt my feelings.”
“What was that?” You cover your mouth with your hands, the slimy sensation replaying in your mind.
“That was my tongue.”
“Why didn’t it feel good?”
He rolls his eyes at your complaint and slides an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re half on his lap. “Because you’re thinking too hard.”
“I was not thinking at all, actually,” you say, scandalised. “I didn't know I was going to be ambushed.”
“Okay, my bad, I should have given you a heads up.” He pauses and announces solemnly, "I'm going to start using my tongue.”
You make a face and he huffs out a laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. Up close like this, you can feel the vibration of it in his chest, the way his grip tightens just a little like he doesn’t want you getting any bright ideas about you escaping.
“You're doing fine,” he says more softly, thumb brushing slow circles at your waist.
You think briefly that this must be the allure to him that has girls fawning for his attention. You're not immune either, and you sub consciously melt under his touch, relaxing again. Once you’ve done it once, given into his temptation, it’s easy to fall back again.
“Fine doesn’t seem like outstanding status,” you mumble, trying to maintain some resistance.
“For your first time, it wasn’t so bad.” His nose nudges yours, playfully and coaxing and you’re in his web again. “C’mere.”
Gojo doesn’t pull you this time. Instead, he just waits, one arm warm and steady around your hips, hand stroking your hair as he waits for you to come to him. It's a sign of consideration that has you feeling jittery and warm, though there’s a lazy smirk on his lips that suggests he has other ulterior motives that makes it as infuriating as it is attractive.
Your gaze flicks to his mouth then back to his eyes. His lashes lower just slightly, watching you watch him, and something in your stomach flips over completely. Probably your common sense.
“Just… slower,” you mumble.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Slower.”
He still doesn’t move first which is deeply unfair, because now you have to be the brave one.
You lean in. It's clumsy at first, more of a gentle bump of noses and a too-soft press of lips than anything smooth or cinematic like he had kissed you earlier. You almost pull back in embarrassment, ready to admit that maybe he was a better kisser than you had given him credit for if it’ll mean this pathetic peck of yours can end and he can make it good again, when his hand tightens on your hip and he takes over.
His mouth settles properly over yours, angle shifting until the awkwardness disappears, until it stops being baby’s first kiss and starts becoming a warm, steady pressure that has your toes curling. Yhe faint brush of his breath against your cheek, the subtle tilt of his head that fits your mouth together and when he nips at your bottom lip, a soft startled sound escapes before you can stop it.
He swallows it down without hesitation.
His hand tightens reflexively and slides down, cupping your ass as he leans back and guides you onto him, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes to keep you there, not that you had any plans of moving. One moment your body is twisted awkwardly to meet him and the next you’re seated full on his lap, his warmth solid beneath you.
His breath fans across your cheek in uneven bursts, warm and damp, and the faint scrape of his teeth lingers as a tingling awareness.
You realise, distantly, that you’re no longer stiff.
Your hands, which had been braced awkwardly against his shoulders, loosen without permission. One slides up into his hair as you lean into him, damp strands cool at the ends, warm near the scalp, and the sensation grounds you in a way nothing else does. His mouth opens at the sensation and when his tongue sweeps along your lower lip again, you don’t pull away. It isn’t slimy or invasive like last time, in fact you welcome it, mimicking his openness and the kiss deepens.
Your breath mingles, movements syncing up and under the guidance of his lips and tongue, you start getting bolder.
You shift closer, just a fraction, your head moving up and face tilting down to angle yourself deeper when a low sound slips out of him.
Your eyes fly open and you pull away. “Was that—”
“Nope,” he says immediately, eyes darker than when you last checked. He's panting beneath your palms, a slightly warm tint to his face as he stares at you.
You swallow. “You just—”
“I didn’t,” he insists, far too quickly.
When he’s so adamant like that, it’s a little hard to say anything more. Besides, while it’s almost fun to poke the bear, the memory of his mouth on yours has you thinking about something else entirely.
You don’t move from his lap and he doesn’t push you off.
“Think you’re getting it?” he asks, watching you with something unreadable lurking in his eyes.
You don’t hesitate. “No.”
You stare at each other, catching a much needed breath.
“Alright,” he says, voice rough. “One more. and then we have to stop.”
You lean in and he lets out a soft sigh like a man doomed before meeting you halfway.
Gojo doesn’t start slow this time, maybe because he knows if he does, he won’t be able to control himself.
His hand slides more firmly to the back of your neck, guiding you towards him with a kind of impatience, mouth finding yours with confidence, your chest tightening at the gesture. Your fingers clutch at his shirt instinctively and he makes a low noise at the back of his throat, deepening the kiss until you slide your fingers up and into his hair.
A low exhale slips through his nose, almost shaky and he tilts his head in response to your faint tugs.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips.
Emboldened, you tilt your head and slide your tongue into his mouth to taste him. He tastes like beer and minty and something addictive that has you repeating the movement over and over. When he reciprocates, your stomach swoops instead of recoiling.
You shift, suddenly desperate to get closer and settle over his bulge.
Wow.
You both jerk away from each other quickly, your hands leaving his hair and his arm retracting from your waist. The break feels violent in its suddenness, like surfacing too fast in deep water.
Cold air rushes between you where there had only been warmth seconds ago. Your lips tingle, oversensitive, parted as you drag in a shaky breath. Gojo’s chest rises and falls sharply, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen before, pupils blow dark. For once, there is no smirk, no teasing glint, just a raw, stunned awareness, like he’s trying to process several things at once and failing at all of them.
You become acutely aware of exactly where you’re sitting.
Heat floods your face and to the tips of your ears. you scramble backward, knees slipping against the couch cushions, putting space between your bodies even as the loss of his warmth makes your skin prickle.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn't trying to—”
“Don’t,” he groans, slumping back, covering his flushed face with his arm. His other hand reaches down to adjust himself though he doesn’t seem to have any ideas of covering himself so you watch unabashedly. “Just don’t say anything for a second.”
You clamp your mouth shut obediently.
The room feels too small, too quiet, every little sound like the rustle of fabric or the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchenette, even your own uneven breathing, suddenly feels magnified.
Eventually, Gojo pulls himself up, fixing dark eyes on your figure.
“I’m sorry.” You rush to say, though you’re not sure what you’re apologising for.
“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. It wasn't because of you, I guess I've just been pent up,” he runs his hand through his hair and you watch as he pauses, something passing over his face before he abruptly pulls his hand away. “Anyway, it’s normal.”
You nod too fast. “Right, yes. Totally fine. Super normal, nothing weird happened.”
“Right,” he says. “Nothing weird.”
Your shoulders sag a little, tension leaking out now that that’s been cleared up. The adrenaline leaves behind a strange floaty sensation and you try, and fail, to push down the sudden desire to continue, to explore even further.
“We’re definitely stopping the practice today,” he says, crushing your dreams.
You nod again, somewhat grateful that a decision has been made for you considering the conflict thoughts warring in your head. “Okay.”
He suddenly ruffles his hair all messy and stands up with an exaggerated groan that makes you jump. “Okay! That's over. You did good by the way. You’re gonna be trouble when you actually start dating someone.”
You frown. “Why?”
“It's a compliment, sweets, learn to recognise them, yeah?” He starts walking over to his kitchenette. “Want an actual drink?”
Your brain is still somewhere back in that last kiss, struggling to catch up. “Sure. Just water, right?”
He snorts. “I’m not a creep.”
When you lean back against the couch and close your eyes to recenter yourself, he steals a glance and lets out a long exhale. He closes his eyes for a moment like he’s deeply exhausted.
When he opens his eyes again and makes his way to you, his signature smirk is back.
If anyone saw how nervous you look about to text Gojo, they might think you had a crush on him. Which is absurd because you clearly have a crush on Geto.
Your thumb hovers over the send button, chewing the inside of your cheeks as you debate whether this is a good idea or not.
It’s been a week since you first asked Gojo for advice and though his methods weren’t orthodox nor was he incredible help, you still had to give him his merits. Talking to him was relaxing in a way, the constant back and forth familiar and even his judgement didn’t seem to come from a bad place. The physical stuff was a whole other story and did not influence your thoughts on how you felt about him whatsoever.
In summary, Gojo has given you determination that you couldn’t have achieved on your own.
Using this newfound confidence, you take a deep breath and finally hit send.
you: hey are you in class today?
Not even a full minute later, his reply buzzes.
gojo: yeah i am
stalking me, super fan?
you: god this is exactly why i hate texting u
gojo: :(
why whats up though
ur class doesn’t finish until 2 right?
you: yeah how did u know that?
u sure ure not my super fan?
gojo: guilty!
i just know dont ask what u cant handle
so u gonna leave me in suspense or are u gonna tell me
you: well you have class with geto right
The inside of your cheeks starts getting a little tender as you continue to gnaw and bite at the flesh, anxiously waiting as Gojo’s typing bubbles appear and disappear.
gojo: yeah i do
you: can i come see you?
gojo: what
you: like ill come to your class but can you leave after so its just me and him
u were talking about creating these situations on saturday right
so like
wouldnt this be perfect?
gojo: god this conversation isn’t good for my heart
you: ?
gojo: our class ends later than urs
you: that’s fine i can wait !!
gojo: nah i dont feel like it
you: ?????
man what the hell you said you’d help me
gojo: and i did
on saturday
what if i want suguru all to myself today?
you: come on please???
gojo: what if i dont want to see u
you: well i wont be bothering u this time
i just need an excuse to see him
i think whatever magic u casted over me on sat worked im feeling like scarily confident
i want to talk to him before the feeling goes away
like i feel like i can really do it this time you know?
please satoru?
gojo: god u have no idea how evil u are
fine
ill get us to go to the library
you: THANK YOU@!!!!!!
gojo: u owe me
you: YES DEFINITELY
gojo: another date this friday then
you: OKAY!!!
wait what
Waiting at the library is agonising. you attempt to complete some smaller tasks for your courses that you’ve left in lieu of thinking about, well, boys. But just like every time before, your thoughts stray and settle on him. His pretty effortless smiles, his soft laughter, that sparkling glint in his eyes when he looks at you and it’s like the world quietens just to listen too. his long fingers, the mole on his earlobe, his white—
When your phone buzzes again an hour later, you jump up from your seat to find the location of the photo Gojo sent.
You slip into the fifth library floor as quietly as possible, scanning the endless rows of students for the familiar top of someone’s head. It doesn't take long for your eyes to settle on him.
Gojo is impossible to miss, slouched low in a study booth, hood up and drooping over his hair and the bottom pulled up to cover his mouth. His arms are crossed over his chest as he stares at his laptop screen.
And of course, Geto sits across from him.
Taking in a deep breath, you slow your pace into something that might pass as a casual stroll as if you had randomly come upon them by chance and stop by their booth.
“Oh, hi Satoru!”
He doesn’t look up. “Hey.”
Then, after a manual moment, you turn to Geto. “Oh my god! Geto? Wow.” Your voice comes out pitched a little too loud. “What a coincidence!”
Geto looks up with a smile. “Hey, Y/N. What are the chances we ran into each other?”
Gojo snorts and you don’t miss how pointed it is. You take the chance to glare at the side of his face but he only sinks into his hoodie with a grumble. You continue to stare, even narrowing your eyes as if it’ll sharpen your gaze and he finally lets out a loud groan, flipping the hood down to ruffle his hair and sit up.
“Oh no,” he announces into the silence, loud enough to draw a few irritated glances, not that he cares. He checks his phone, staring at his empty notification list. “It looks like my best friend accidentally locked himself out of his dorm.”
Geto pauses. “I'm your best friend.”
You purse your lips, watching as Gojo begins to slowly pack up his things. Granted, he only needed to close his laptop and shove it into his tote bag, without a case mind you. He refuses to look up despite your efforts to catch his gaze.
“Sorry man, duty calls. I can’t help that i’m such a good friend.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. When he passes by, his arm brushing against yours despite the empty space all around, he leans down to whisper, “Good luck.”
You don’t have the time to decipher if it’s sincerity or sarcasm that you detect because he leaves, his lingering cologne the only sign that he was ever there.
You turn back to Geto, offering a small, awkward smile, wondering if he’s caught on.
“What was that about?” You laugh.
Geto chuckles softly. “Sorry about him. You know how he can be sometimes.”
He looks up at you patiently.
“Well, an empty spot has opened up. Are you staying to study?”
You fight the urge to celebrate. You happily erase thoughts of Gojo from your mind, leaving the gruelling task of decoding his strange behaviour for another day. Gojo’s seat is still warm when you take it, pulling out your laptop just for the act. There was no way you were wasting this golden opportunity with actually studying, don’t be silly.
“So,” you begin, picking at the corner of your sleeve. “Any plans this weekend?”
“You didn’t hear? Satoru is having a game this weekend. It’s just a preliminary but he’s been hyped for it. I'm sure he’d love it if you rocked up.”
You almost laugh out loud. “No way. He'd hate that.”
Geto’s brows lift, amused. “Why would he hate it?”
“Because,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “We're not really friends. More like we have a symbiotic relationship. If we didn’t have that, I doubt we’d even talk to each other.”
“I don't think so,” Geto smiles at you but instead of giving you the butterflies, it leaves you feeling unsure. “But you should come. Not by yourself, of course, I'm sure Shoko would come along.”
“If she was going to go, she’d just take Utahime.” You shift in your seat, throwing the idea around in your head. “Even if I wanted to, I don't think I know anyone else who’d want to come with.”
“Do you want to go with me?”
Your brain blanks.
“What?”
“I was planning on going anyway,” he says, tone casual and all your senses tunnel-vision on him. “Besides, I've been curious about the girl who’s been taking up so much of Satoru’s time.”
Your answer is obvious.
“I’d love to!”
It comes out a little too fast, a little too bright, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care. Relief, excitement, disbelief, it all tangles together in your chest until the only discernable thing left is a giddy sort of lightness.
Geto’s smile widens, clearly pleased and you beam back. He hands you his phone.
“Can I have your Insta then? So I can text you the details later.”
Your hands shake as you take it, thumbs clumsy as you type in your username, backspacing more times than you’d like to admit. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything, the way he’s close enough to see your screen, the warmth of his hand where it had just been, the ridiculous desire to go through your own profile but through his eyes settling on your mind. Later, you can already imagine stalking your own profile, scrutinising every photo, every caption, trying to imagine what it would look like to be him scrolling through for the first time.
When he takes his phone back, he doesn’t immediately pocket it. Instead, he actually looks, thumb scrolling down, humming.
Oh god, he’s looking right now.
"Where's that quote from your bio from?” He asks, glancing up briefly. “It sounds familiar.”
“Oh, um. It’s from my favourite novel.” Your eyes flutter across his face as you tell him the title, sneaking in a quick description to try to sell it.
“I’ll have to check it out then,” Geto says, putting his phone away. “Do you read often?”
“Not as much as I want to. You know how it is, with school and everything. Not to mention books are crazy expensive nowadays.”
He nods sympathetically. “There's this small bookshop tucked away near the city. It's actually close by the rink where Satoru’s game is. I could show you after his game on Saturday.”
Your breath catches.
“After the game?” You repeat, trying very hard to sound normal and not out-of-breath.
Geto nods, completely at ease.
“If you’re not in a rush to get back after,” he adds, considerate as ever. “It says open pretty late.”
You stare at him for a second, thoughts scrambling over each other.
He’s inviting you out after a game. That meant walking together, talking more, being alone without the buffer of a crowd screaming over a bunch of men slamming into each other and hitting with their sticks.
You realise you’re meant to give an answer and quickly hurry.
“Yeah, that sounds perfect actually!” You say, a touch too fast, then wince and try again, softer. “I mean—yeah. That sounds really nice.”
“Good,” he says simply, smile deepening. “It's a cozy place. You could get lost in there for hours.”
“That sounds dangerous. I already have a book-buying problem."
“Secondhand prices,” he reminds you. “It's much safer.”
You hum. “That's debateable. Lower prices just means I have to buy more.”
You can’t believe your luck. Not only had Geto basically invited you on a date to Gojo’s game, he’s also asked you to go book shopping together afterward. And somehow, you had just finished a perfectly normal conversation with him without embarrassing yourself beyond recovery.
Could things possibly get any better?
“You know,” he starts up again and you lean in. “Satoru’s doing suspiciously good in his classes recently. Any clue why?”
You freeze, temporarily thrown off guard. “He better be. I don't tutor him for nothing.”
“I knew it was you. Why are you tutoring him? If he’s blackmailing you, I can help,” he says with a straight face.
“No, no! Nothing like that!” You rush to explain.
He cracks a smile. “I’m just joking. He's not actually as bad as his reputation makes him out to be. It's all bad rep, you know?”
While you’ve known Gojo through his reputation for as long as you can remember, you’ve never once stopped to consider that might not be everything about him.
“What do you mean?”
“Sig Kap had a frat sweetheart two years ago,” Geto explains, folding his hands loosely on his laptop. “She was nice, really sweet but some of the older guys treated her like shit. When Satoru called some of the boys out for messing with her they weren’t too happy.”
Your brows lift. “So did they kick him out or something?”
“Not that there’s much they could have done considering his family.”
“What about them?”
He glances at you surprised. “You don’t know?”
You shake your head.
“Huh.” His expression softens into something gentler. “Yeah. A lot of people approach him because they want something, connections, favours, you know the deal. He absolutely hates it. Ironically, that influence is also what kept the older guys from pushing back too hard and they couldn’t exactly scare him off so he’s there to stay.”
“And some people still don’t like him?”
“Some still don’t,” Geto confirms. “So they spread all those stupid rumours instead. Probably easier that way since it’s not exactly traceable.”
Your stomach tightens. “What kind of rumours?”
He hesitates, then shrugs. “Stuff about him sleeping around. that he’s messed with every girl on campus, that kind of thing. You don’t have to look so devastated, it doesn’t bother him much. If anything, it gets him more game. But it’s far from the truth. I mean you’re a girl on campus and he hasn’t messed with you.”
Something about the way he says it, calm and matter-of-fact, makes your chest ache.
“He did earn a lot of respect back,” Geto continues, oblivious to your growing distress. “Especially from the younger guys. But some of the older ones never really got over it.”
He falls silent, studying you with that gentle, searching look that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope and the spotlight is shining down on you. Whatever he sees under the lens makes him smile.
“It’s nice,” he says softly. “That you’re so genuine with him. He doesn’t get that very often.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Couldn't he have used a word other than ‘genuine’? Because you aren’t genuine, far from it, and that realisation makes your stomach drop, nausea blooming sharp and sudden and upheaving the contents.
You approached Gojo with a plan just like all those who have approached him with ulterior motives in the past. And you’ve used him for his friendship and his willingness to help, to get closer to the person right in front of you.
You are no better than the people Geto just described. Worse, even.
Heat rushes to your face, then drains away just as quickly, leaving you cold.
You push your chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor.
“Where did Gojo go?” you ask, wincing internally.
Geto blinks up at you, startled by the sudden shift. “Oh, uh.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit. “He said he had to help me—that is, his friend unlock his door. He's probably back in his room now though.”
You nod too quickly, already stuffing your laptop into your bag with fumbling hands, cables tangling as if they’re conspiring against you.
“Are you going after him?” Geto asks gently.
You freeze for a split second.
Are you?Here you are, sitting across from the person you supposedly like, the person you engineered this entire situation to get closer to, and you’re about to abandon the conversation to chase after his best friend. This is your chance, the perfect golden opportunity, and you’re throwing it away. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to completely doubt yourself.
“Yeah,” you say, half a smile hovering on your lips. “I’m so sorry. There’s just something I need to say to him.”
You bite your lip.
“See you at the match though?"
Geto’s surprise melts into an easy grin. "Don't worry about it. Good luck. And Y/N, seriously, take care of him, okay?”
The words prick at your skin with a faint sense of deja vu, but you don’t stop to examine it. Instead, you give Geto one last shaky smile, sling your bag over your shoulder, and hurry toward the exit. Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns everything else.
You knock at what you believe is his door if memory serves correct.
“Go away, I'm jerking it.”
You can’t decide if he’s being serious or just scaring unwanted guests away. Regardless, you clear your throat and talk.
“Sorry for interrupting? Look, it’s me, it’s Y/N. Can I come in?”
No sooner had you said your name, the door flies open, Gojo standing right behind, eyes wide and face flushed.
“Y/N? What are you—I mean, I thought you had that date with Suguru?” He goes to run a hand through his hair but pauses, switching to his other hand.
“Yeah well, clearly I left him to come see you.” You sigh deeply and brush past him into his room. “There’s something I need to say to you and it’s really eating up at me for some reason.”
“No sure, go ahead. Walk right in,” he mumbles but doesn’t try to stop you, instead closing the door gently. “What are you doing here? Because if you’re here to gloat or have a girl talk, Shoko is the one for you.”
You flop onto his couch, staring up at his ceiling. He pauses before following, the couch cushions dipping under his weight as he drops down beside you.
“Gojo, I’m really sorry,” you say, turning to him.
He stares back unamused. “I told you to call me Satoru.”
You blink, momentarily caught off guard before correcting yourself. “Satoru. I'm really sorry.”
“Okay.” His frown lifts and he leans back to look at you. “About what?”
You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly unsure where to even start.
“About everything?” You try weakly.
He raises a brow. “That narrows it down.”
You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Okay, specifically I feel like I've been using you and being annoying and dragging you into my mess. And also I abandoned you in the library which was rude and I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn't and I'm really sorry.”
Gojo blinks at you and you hold your breath for the verdict.
“...that’s it?”
“That’s not ‘it’, that’s a lot,” you argue, pushing yourself up. “You've been helping me this whole time and I'm just barging into your life, asking for unreasonable favors and taking up your time.”
He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, surprise, confusion, maybe even something softer that he quickly buries under a flippant expression.
“That's it?” he repeats, slower this time.
You nod, twisting in your fingers together in your lap, the fight leaving your body as quick as it came. “I mean, it's not nothing. I know I've been a lot. And you didn’t have to help me at all, with any of it, but you did and I…” Your voice falters. “I don't want you to think I was just… using you.”
Silence settles between you, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. The hum of his mini fridge in the corner fills the gaps. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams and laughter echoes faintly before fading.
Gojo exhales through his nose and leans back, head tipping against the couch cushion as he stares up at the ceiling.
“You’re terrible,” he mutters.
He turns his head to look at you properly, blue eyes sharp in a way that makes your chest tighten. Up close like this, without the buffer of banter or crowds or motion, it’s impossible to ignore how intense he can be when he isn’t performing for anyone. You've had the privilege to see this side of him a few times, and the thought that he’s let you in and you’ve only gone and used him fills you with more guilt.
“You didn’t abandon me in the library,” he continues. “I left on my own free will, remember?”
“Yeah but—”
“And you’re not using me,” he adds, voice flattening slightly. “If you were, then you aren’t using me to my full potential.”
You huff a weak laugh. “Thanks?”
“I mean it,” he says, not smiling. “People who use others don’t show up at their door looking like they’re going to throw up from guilt.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “I did not look like that.”
“You did,” he says easily. “Still kind of do.”
You shove his shoulder lightly. He barely moves, solid as ever, but the corner of his mouth lifts and the tension in your chest loosens at the sight.
“So… you’re not mad?” You ask carefully.
He considers that more seriously than you expected. “I was.”
The worry comes back tenfold.
“But not for the reason you think. So stop looking like you’ve aged ten years, sweets, it’s not a good look on you.”
You wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t.
You sigh, unable to keep up with the emotional whiplash and opt to instead throw it all away.
“Okay, well that’s cryptic," you mutter.
He shrugs. “I'm a mysterious guy. It’s all part of the irresistable, untouchable charm.”
“I don’t see how you can be mysterious when you’re so loud.”
“I open up to you and this is what I get?”
“You did not open up.”
He turns his head back toward the ceiling. “And now I'm closing back down.”
You roll your eyes, but the knot in your chest has loosened enough that you can breathe again, you almost miss this back and forth and it seems he does too because he relaxes fully into his couch. Without thinking, you mimic him, shoulder brushing his. This time, neither of you moves away.
The proximity feels different than before. You've been closer to him than this, and you randomly recall being on his lap for some reason unrelated to this specific moment and the charged, quiet atmosphere.
After a moment, he speaks again, softer.
“Did you at least get what you wanted?”
You hesitate, the question knocking you out of orbit. “I think so. I mean he asked me to go to the game with him. and then a bookstore after.”
Gojo goes still beside you.
“My game?” He shakes his head with a scoff. “Figures. Well, good for you.”
You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers, suddenly unsure why that answer feels so unsatisfying.
“Yeah,” you say anyway, forcing brightness into your voice. “It is good.”
He hums noncommittally, eyes still fixed somewhere on the ceiling. For someone who never shuts up, his silence feels louder than anything he could say. You sneak glances at him from the corner of your eye, observing the strong curve of his nose, the harsh bob of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of his chest and his big hands you’ve had the opportunity to feel on your ass.
The quiet stretches, though it is far from quiet inside your head.
Then, before you can stop yourself, you’re already opening your mouth.
“Can I ask you something?”
His gaze slides to you instantly, sharp and attentive as if he was waiting for you to break the silence first. “Not to be that guy but you just did.”
“A real question.” You roll your eyes though his somewhat predictable rage bait helps ease some tension. Still, you hesitate, throat tight. If you say it out loud, it becomes real and no longer a suppressed fantasy. But if you don’t say anything, this feeling in your chest might never go away, tainting every future you might have with Geto.
“How do you know what you’re doing?” You ask.
One white brow lifts. “In what context? I'm good at a lot of things. You're gonna have to narrow it down, sweets.”
You groan softly. “With girls. With… touching. And stuff. Etcetera.”
Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once. You don’t catch the shift in experience because you stare stubbornly at your hands clasp in your lap, heat flooding your face.
“Oh.”
“I just don’t know,” you admit, voice small. “I don't know what I'm doing at all and it’s embarrassing.”
He sits up a little, attention sharpening in a way that makes your skin prickle.
“Y/N.”
You press on before he can interrupt. “I mean, I know theoretically, obviously. That's what bio class is for right? But I know in practice I’ll just freeze. Or overthink or do nothing. And if things ever go further with Geto, I don't want to be useless. You mentioned he’s had exes before, right? But I haven't. And that kind of sucks to think about.”
Then softly. “You're probably the closest thing to experience I have.”
“Useless,” he starts. “Is not the right word I'd use. Suguru would never think that. He’s not a dick.”
You finally look at him. “I don’t want him to regret it. Or think I'm awkward. or that I don't want him.”
He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something he hopes not to find. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
You scoff. “You're not stupid. I mean sure, you almost failed baby’s first statistics but you’re not dumb.”
“No, I guess I'm not, thanks,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But I was kind of hoping maybe I'm still fantasising.”
“You were fantasising before?”
“Let's not go there.”
“It’s a Friday,” you say slowly. "Shouldn't you have a hook up right about now?”
He pouts, looking oddly down. “I wasn't feeling like it.”
“So you had to use your hand.”
“I wasn't jerking off, Y/N.”
Neither of you believe that statement. Here you are, sitting on the couch of campus heartthrob Gojo Satoru, joking around about the lack of a female body against him while you’re upset about being a virgin. Even Gojo, who isn’t admittedly the best at math, shouldn’t struggle with putting two and two together.
“Right, I believe you.” You bite your lip, opening your eyes wider as you plead. “I just hate feeling unprepared. You’ve seen just how bad I freeze. Can’t you help me?”
He chews on his lips aggressively before finally groaning, running a hand down his face. “You have the worst ideas known to man. Fine. I'll help you. But we're stopping if it gets weird.”
“Obviously.”
“Do you even remember how to kiss?”
“Find out for yourself.”
You grab his collar and tug him towards you, smacking your lips against his the second he’s in range. It's not the graceful, fireworks-exploding moment from rom-coms, more like two magnets clashing awkwardly, teeth bumping before you recall the right angle. Gojo chuckles into the kiss, the vibration tickling your mouth, and you pull back just enough to glare at him.
“It hurts that you don’t remember my lessons, sweets,” Gojo purrs, clearly enjoying your fluster.
“Shut up and kiss me properly,” you mutter, snarky even as your cheeks burn.
You dive back in, and this time it clicks, most likely due to his more active participation. Your lips move in sync, his tongue slipping past your teeth. It's surprisingly nice, all heat and shared air, making your stomach flip in a way that’s equal parts nerves and excitement. You didn’t realise how much you were craving this since the last time.
Gojo’s hands stay loose on your waist, respectful but firm, until he deepens the kiss with a low hum. You feel him shift under you, his body reacting before his brain catches up. When you break apart for air, his eyes are darker, pupils blown wide. He adjusts his hips, and there’s no missing the semi-hard bulge straining against his jeans because it nudges insistently against your inner thigh.
You both look down.
“Uh, yeah,” he says, voice a little rough, something like accusation in his eyes as he glares down at Gojo junior. “Guess that means you do remember lesson one after all. Mind if I lose the pants?”
You snort, trying to play it cool despite the heat pooling in your gut. “Not so reluctant now, huh?”
“Game is game.”
He grins, all cock swagger, and pops the buttons off his jeans. They slide down his legs in a heap, leaving him in snug black boxers that do nothing to hide his growing interest. Gojo’s leaner than you’d pegged him for, abs carved from lazy gym sessions, waist dipping in before flaring to solid shoulders. But your eyes zero in lower, where his cock twitches half-hard against the fabric, outlining a decent length that’s got you curiously intrigued rather than intimidated.
When he sits back down, he leans back on his palms and smirks. “You can touch me, you know. I bet it’s better than just looking.”
“Anywhere?”
“I'm practically offering myself up to you on a platter. Yes, Y/N. Everywhere’s fair game.”
You eye him for a little longer. He's not as big as he carried himself around to be.
As if sensing your unspoken realisation, he hurriedly explains, "I'm not completely hard yet.”
You nod, sympathetically. “Right, no I get it.”
“I’m serious, Y/N, stop looking at me like that.”
He grabs your hand and places it on his abs, ignoring your sudden squeak.
“You’re going to have to work to get me there.” He watches as you hesitate, his heartbeat quickening slightly under your touch.
“This seems less like teaching and more like you just wanting someone to get you off.”
“You’re learning.” Despite his teasing tone, he eases you closer to him. “Look, it’s not exactly rocket science and what I tell you probably won’t apply to everyone. But most guys are animals so if you can make them feel good then that’s all that matters. What's meta for most guys though is probably their neck and lower stomach. But you can start anywhere.”
His smirk falters just a tad when you explore, tentatively at first, palms sliding over his ribs and thumbs brushing his nipples until they pebble under your touch. Gojo’s breath hitches, but he keeps it together, murmuring encouragement. “I guess you could try there too. Fuck, this is kind of embarrassing. Can’t you be normal and go at my neck or something?”
“Your neck?” Your fingers slide up to touch him there but he laughs and gently brushes your hand away.
“Okay, don’t strangle me. When I say touch, I don't just mean with your fingers. You can touch your lips too, can’t you?”
You bite your lips and nod, wetting them quickly with your tongue. You lean in closer, your lips finding the pulse point of his neck. It's a quick peck at first, testing, and he just arches a brow, unimpressed.
Fine, challenge accepted.
You brace yourself on his shoulders and lick a slow stripe up the tendon, tasting salt and faint cologne which isn’t the best tasting thing in the world, so you nibble the skin. Gojo hums, head tilting to give you better access, and you dive in, sucking lightly, alternating with kisses that leave faint marks.
It’s heady, this rush of control. His bare chest radiates warmth against your arm, heavy breaths ghosting your ear as he lets you lead.
“Hungry, are you?” Gojo finds his footing against the absurd situation because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s receiving attention from pretty women. If he closes his eyes like so, focusing only on the cute licks against his neck, he can almost ignore the fact that it’s coming from you. “I'd be careful not to leave any marks. Girls get jealous easily, you know?”
You roll your eyes at his very unsexy comment. He's underestimating you, you’re sure he is, and you’re even more determined to prove him wrong.
You kiss down his neck, licking at the column of his neck, and when you find this soft patch of skin, pale under your lips and glimmering with a thin layer of sweat, you do what your instincts roar at you to do and bite him as he’s mid yapping.
“I never really let girls kiss me like this, so be grateful that I—ohfuck!”
Gojo’s reaction is immediate as a downright sinful moan escapes his pretty lips unchecked. His hands tighten in your hips, head dropping forward, panting as he catches his breath from the sudden sharp inhale.
You let go, licking at the mark left behind. “Oh, sorry. You don’t do marks, right?”
“That was…” He trails off, eyes dark as he holds you in his gaze. “Jesus, sweets, where did you even learn that kind of stuff?”
You shrug, letting him hold you back and feeling a little bit like a rabid animal. “It was just something I wanted to do. Was it bad? Did it hurt?”
“No, it was fine. Keep going just… use your hands a bit more too,” he hurries to add on, clearing his throat and loosening his hold on you. “It feels better if you use both your mouth and hands at the same time. Keep going, but don’t forget the rest of me.”
Finding no error in his words, you enthusiastically go back to kissing and sucking on his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. Meanwhile, you slide your hands down his chest, marveling at how smooth he feels despite his muscle.
When you graze your finger tips between the medial line of his abs, you feel him shiver and you detach your lips from his neck to watch his eyes track your every move, hungry and unblinking.
“Atta girl,” he rasps, abs flexing under your palm and he shivers as you slide even further down, hand hovering his stomach. His cock visibly thickens in his boxers as you trace the ridges of his abs.“That’s it. Take your time, sweets. I'm not going anywhere.”
You never considered that Gojo would be so vocal during sex, not that this even counted as sex yet. If anything, that made you even more curious, wondering if he himself knew how much he was talking and how little any of it even meant. In case he didn’t, you didn’t dare talk in case it would break the spell.
Your fingers skim the waistband of his boxers and he sucks in a breath, voice dropping an octave.
“Fuck, yeah. That’s the spot.” The fabric tents fully now, his cock hard and straining, the tip outlined clearly. It's thicker than you expected, pulsing with need, and the sight sends a thrill straight to your core.
Gojo’s eyes flick between your hand and your face, flushed and focused. “See? told you it’d wake up. want to see all of it?”
You nod, eyes trained on his bulge.
He grins, taking your hands to hook your thumbs into the sides of his boxers. He helps you slightly though he lets you do most of the work. Emboldened, you tug the boxers down just enough to free his cock, watching it spring up, thicker now, veins prominent along the shaft, the head flushed and glistening with a bead of precum.
Your first words are, of course, very sexy.
“Oh damn.”
Gojo laughs breathlessly. For my own ego, I'm going to take that as a good thing.”
“It just doesn’t look how I expected it to.”
That makes him frown. He ducks his head to meet your gaze. “Hey. She has feelings too, you know. Don’t imply that she’s ugly, she’ll sag.”
“She?” It's so ridiculous you snort, the nervousness running away to let curiousity fuel your movements once again, fingers curling around his hot, velvety length. He's rock hard under your soft touch, precum slicking your palm as you pump him experimentally. Gojo groans low in his throat, head falling back against the couch.
“Shit, just like—ngh—that,” he grits out, voice wrecked. The sound hits you like a spark, raw and primal, making your thighs clench. “My—my dick has she/her pronouns. It’s 2026 now, get woke.”
Still looking at you, he takes your hand again, wrapping it around his shaft.
“Hold it properly. Feel how hot it is.”
He groans softly as you hold him, guiding your hand up and down in a slow stroke, pressing down where he’s sensitive just the way he likes it. “Squeeze gently and twist your wrist as you move.”
He demonstrates the twist motion, his large hand enveloping yours, precum beading at his tip from both the sight and feel of you.
He lets you go, leaning back on his elbows, enjoying the view of you jacking him off. “You’re a natural, keep going, just like that.”
His breathing becomes heavier, his abdomen tensing. He can’t help but buck slightly into your hand.
Despite his unattractive dirty talk, it doesn’t drive away the power you feel and it doesn’t take away from the sounds, the way his body trembles under your control. It's all so intoxicating, way better than any awkward fumble you’ve imagined with Geto late at night with your hands down your pants.
To shut him up, you squeeze a little tighter and he hisses, pulling you away.
“Slow down,” he pants, catching his breath. He closes his eyes for a moment before locking you in a fierce gaze. “Do you usually shove your finger inside when you’re dry?”
“What?”
“This is why lube exists, woman. God, my poor lady,” He looks up at you, eyes trailing down from your eyes to your lips.
“Please don’t refer to your dick as a lady.”
“I’ve gotten no complaints so far.” Gojo reaches up, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it down slightly. “Have you ever spat on anyone?”
“Excuse me?” You look down at him as if he’s grown another head.
He lets out a strangled groan, hips bucking up under you. “Yeah, keep looking at me like that and spit on my dick. Give her the good old hawk tuah.”
Your grimace only grows and he bites his lip, the corners quirking up. “Please,” he whispers and you’ve lost.
The word hangs between you like a dare, his blue eyes locked on yours, all wide and pleading in a way that clashes hilariously with his usual attitude if the unsure quiver to his lips didn’t wreck you.
Gojo’s cock throbs in your loose grip, the head leaking more precum that drips down the shaft, making your fingers slick without even trying. You hesitate, face heating up at the sheer audacity, but the way his abs tense, the subtle roll of his hips begging for more, chips away at your resistance.
“Fine,” you mutter, rolling your eyes to mask the flutter in your stomach and you must have imagined the way he groans. “But just know I’m judging you the entire time.”
“Even better,” he moans.
You lean over him, one hand steadying on his thick thighs, firm muscle under smooth skin, and purse your lips as you spit on him. It’s awkward as hell, the glop of spit landing off-centre on the underside of his shaft, but you smear it around with your palm.
The glide turns smoother instantly, wet and filthy, your strokes picking up speed as his cock slicks up fully.
Gojo’s reaction is immediate, a deep, rumbling moan spills from his chest, his head knocking back against the couch with a thud, not that he notices. “Fuuuck, yes—that’s it, just like that.”
His hands fist the fabric of the couch on either side of his hips, knuckles white, like he’s fighting not to grab you and take over. But he doesn’t, he lets you work him, hips jerking up in shallow thrusts to meet your rhythm, the tip bumping your palm on every upstroke.
“Keep going, tighter… shit, you’re killing me here.”
The power rush hits you harder now, watching him come undone under your touch. His cock feels massive in your hand, thick and veined, pulsing hotly as you pump from base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit to collect more precum and spread it down. You can feel every ridge, every twitch, and it’s nothing like the vague fantasies you’d spun about Geto. This is real, messy, and way more intense. Your own arousal builds, thighs pressing together as you grind subtly against nothing, the heat between your legs turning insistent.
“Does it… feel good?” You ask, voice breathy and you slow your strokes just to tease, squeezing the base and watching in awe as a fresh bead of precum pearl at the head.
He cracks one eye open, gaze hazy and dark, lips parted in a pant. “Good? Sweets, don’t sell yourself short.”
A grin tugs at his mouth but it falters into a groan when you resume, faster now, the wet schlick of your hand echoing in the room causing you to squirm.
“Don’t stop,” he all but whines. “Gonna cum if you keep this up. Want me to, sweets? Want me to paint your hand or what?”
The crudeness should turn you off, but it doesn’t, it only amps up the thrill, making you bold. You nod, biting your lip as you lean closer, free hand bracing on his chest to feel his heart hammering.
“Yeah, do it. cum for me.”
Gojo’s control snaps like a rubber band. his moans pitch higher, body arching as his cock swells in your grip, veins bulging. “Fuck—fuck, can’t help it, I’m gonna—”
He bucks hard once, twice, and then he’s erupting, thick spurts of cum shooting from the tip to splatter your fingers, his stomach, even a streak across his abs. It's hot, sticky, rope after rope as you milk him through it, not knowing what else to do. You slow your strokes until he’s spent, twitching sensitively in your palm.
He slumps back, chest rising and falling like he ran a marathon, a lazy, disbelieving laugh bubbling out. He runs a hand down his face, groaning softly.
“I am…” He lets out another breathless laugh, head dropping back against the armrest of the couch. “So fucking washed. What the hell was that, sweets?”
You blink, a little dazed yourself. Your hand is still loosely wrapped around him, slick and messy, and only when his eyes flick down do you jolt and snatch your hand back like you’ve been burnt.
“I—I don’t know,” you mumble, gratefully accepting the tissue he hands you, awkwardly deciding to dab at his stomach and abs too, anywhere your eyes can safely land that isn’t his softening cock. “That was… hey, wait a minute. Shouldn’t i be asking you? What the hell was that spitting thing?”
He shrugs, your body moving with the motion as you remain on his lap. “I told you, there’s some things some guys like and some don’t. As a note of reference, maybe don’t spit on Suguru. You’ll kill his ego.”
He has the audacity to smirk at the thought considering the state of him, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, mouth pink and kiss-swollen from all the swearing and groaning.
“You're disgusting,” you accuse weakly, trying not to think about how he’d looked under you a few seconds ago, jaw slack, eyes glazed, like you’d wrung the soul out of him.
“Mmm.” His gaze drags over your face, down the line of your throat, lingering a beat too long at your chest before he drags it back up. “So, how are you feeling after all that?”
“Embarrassed,” you say immediately.
“But kinda turned on, too?” he guesses, just as fast.
Your mouth drops open. “I did not say that.”
“Don’t have to,” he says, maddening. “You’re still sitting on me, you know.”
You freeze. You're still straddling his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs on the couch, hips pressed to his, fingers bunched at his stomach. You'd be so focused on that scrunched up look on his face when he came that you kind of forgot to be mortified about the position.
Now you remember.
“I was busy,” you mutter, shifting like you’re about to climb off.
His hands come up automatically, one at your waist, one braced at your hip, holding you there without quite pulling you back down. “Hey, hey. I didn't say you had to move.”
“But you’re all…” you wave a hand vaguely at his lap, face burning. “Post-nut clarity or whatever. You should be resting or something.”
“That’s hilarious, do you think I’m an old man?” He huffs a laugh. “If my stamina lasted one puny handjob I would never show my face anywhere. Hey, don’t glare at me like that. you know what that does to me. you glaring at me and spitting on my cock while you jerk me off—fuck.”
“Don't say it like that,” you hiss, heat flooding your chest. “You literally told me to.”
“And you did so good,” he croons. “Look at you, all flustered now. You were seconds away from calling me pathetic, you know.”
“How are you turning this on me? You’re the one that liked it,” you shoot back, shoulder tensing.
His fingers flex at your waist, like he’s remembering it. “Yeah. I really, really did.”
The way he says it sends a tiny shiver through you. You feel ridiculously aware of yourself suddenly, of your damp palms on his chest, of the way your thighs are pressed around him, of the restless thrum under your skin you’ve been trying not to notice since he first groaned for you.
You shift again, intending to put some space between you, and hiss as the movement drags you a little too firmly against him, sparking through the ache low in your belly.
You go very still and so does he.
His eyes flicker, dropping for a fraction of a second to the point where your hips meet his. You can feel the change in him, no longer wrecked and loose-limbed, but sharpened like he’s honing in on every tiny flinch.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Feeling something, sweets?”
“Don’t start,” you warn, feeling every urge to catapult yourself off his lap. His hand tightens on your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles, maddeningly casual. “Can you let me go already?”
“But it’s not over yet, are you sure you want to miss the best part? If I said I wanted to make it your turn, would you say no?”
The question hangs between you, heavier than his usual teasing.
“This isn’t… about that.”
“Sure it is,” he whispers, lips curved into a wicked grin. “You wanna learn how to make a guy feel good right? Then you also need to know what you like. If you know what works for you, it’s easier to tell him what works for him.”
Has Gojo always been so reasonable?
“Besides,” he continues when you’re not rushing to sign up to his touch. “I’m being selfless here. You can’t seriously think I'd let you walk out of here without repaying the favour first, right?”
“Way to sound like a douche.” You swat at his chest, a weak attempt to appear levelheaded.
“How else am I supposed to say it?” He laughs softly, catching your wrist but not pushing it away, thumb stroking over your pulse. “I want to touch you. properly. Can I?”
Your stomach swoops.
“Just to know what it feels like?”
“Exactly.” His smile goes crooked at the edges. “Now you’re getting it.”
You stare at him, breathing shallow. Your heart is thudding way too fast. you’re hyperaware of your own body again, of the way your panties stick uncomfortably, of the restless ache that’s only been getting worse, of how easy it would be to fall into his tempting embrace.
“Hey, come back to me,” Gojo murmurs. “We don't have to do anything you don’t want. I promise I'm not a dick. So? What do you want, sweets?”
You look down at where his hands rest, big and warm on your hips, fingers flexing like he’s trying very hard to stay put.
You could say no, you know that. He'd let you hop off, probably make a dumb joke to break the tension, and the both of you can go back to pretending the constant physical touch is driving you up the wall. But you also know your legs are still a little unsteady, and that every time you shift you have to bite back a sound you really don’t want him to hear.
You swallow, hard.
“You have to listen,” you say finally. “If I say stop, you stop. and none of your stupid comments either.”
His expression sobers instantly, hands jumping a little at your hips. “Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”
“I’m telling you, when you say shit like that, everything goes back inside.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you want me quiet. So can I touch you or are you going to keep torturing us both?”
“You deserve the torture,” you grumble, then quieter, “But, yeah. okay.”
He hums. “Not good enough. Say it again?”
You bite back a complaint. “I want you to…touch me.”
It comes out barely more than a whisper, but it hits him like a truck. His eyes darken, lashes lowering as he sucks in a breath. One moment you’re straddling him, the next he’s sat up and turned you around so your back leans against his chest, his breath tickling your neck.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, hands sliding down to your stomach. His fingers play with the hem, nails barely grazing your bare skin. “Can I?”
You shiver, looking down to watch his hands with anticipation. Swallowing, you brace yourself and nod.
“Good girl,” he breathes.
His hand trails under your shirt, fingertips tracing nonsense shapes on your skin. He doesn’t go straight where you know you’re aching for him to go. Instead, he takes his time, mapping out the sensitive spots he finds, where your muscles jump when he squeezes, lowering his hand to where your breath stutters when he drags his knuckles along the inside of your thigh.
“You're wound so tight,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Relax for me, Y/N.”
“Shut up and stop teasing,” you hiss, and then gasp when his hand finally slips higher, brushing over the edge of your waistband.
“Is that a no?” He asks instantly, stilling.
]You want to throttle him. “I’m just… nervous.”
“Of course you are,” he says, voice going stupidly soft in your ear, hands playing with the fabric. “The first time’s always weird. But it doesn’t have to be bad-weird.”
He slowly slips his hand under the band, feeling you go still.
“Hey.” He presses his lips to your hair, mumbling soft words of praise. “You're okay, you’re doing good. Just breathe for me.”
You do, albeit shakily, his fingertips brushing the damp centre of your panties.
“You’re already… Jesus," he says quickly. “I really did a number on you, huh? And without even touching you, too.”
“If you don’t shut up, I'm leaving,” you threaten weakly.
He chuckles, guiding your attention away. Gojo slides your shorts down so you can see exactly where his fingers press against, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks at the sight of his thick fingers prodding against the backdrop of the panties you chose out this morning. If you knew something like this would happen, you would have worn something else.
Gojo thankfully doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he slowly explores, no sudden movements, no overwhelming pressure, just the occasional slide against your clit.
“Okay?” he asks, and you realise you’ve gone silent, holding your breath again.
“Yeah,” you gasp. “Just feel different than—nevermind.”
“Different good?” He prompts, thumb pressing down on your clit and you jolt, an audible inhale escaping you.
You feel his arms tighten around you.
“Oh, there we go,” he mutters, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself. “That got you.”
You don’t dignify that with an answer, not that you have the capacity to because the next moment, he’s moving his fingers with practiced purpose. His thumb circles your swollen clit through the damp fabric, the barrier muffling any sharp pleasure though it helps you wrap your head around the sensation.
When you start lifting your hips to meet his touch, he knows he has you where he wants you.
With his other fingers, he slowly slides your panties to the sides and touches you directly. The effect is immediate, your eyes snap down to watch, body tensing, want like you’ve never known it before shocking you.
The sight of your own arousal makes you wetter and he abandons his touch to touch you directly.
“Look at that,” he coos in your ear, voice breathy with awe and smug satisfaction. “Here you were acting like you wanted to leave when you’re this wet. Thought I wouldn't know, sweets? That I couldn't see you eye my dick all hungry like that?”
He emphasises his words with a harsh pinch of your clit and your head falls back to rest on his shoulders with a filthy moan ripped from your throat, raw and unprocessed.
Gojo takes the chance to kiss your neck.
You should hit him for his words, you really should. But instead, your hand flies up to his forearm, nails digging in when he slides a finger to circle your entrance and the world briefly whites out.
He groans quietly, like your reaction is doing something to him. “That’s—fuck, you’re so cute. Do that again.”
“Don’t tease,” you say again, voice barely there and brain too mushy to think of something original.
And like he knows, Gojo slowly slides a finger into your pussy and the pressure temporarily pushes out all of the pleasure. But then his free hand is playing with your clit and he’s telling you how good you are and how pretty you sound, and it comes back.
He thrusts that finger in and out slowly, letting you adjust to the intrusion and when you’re sighing soft moans and broken demands again, he curls it and doesn’t stop moving. He could easily overpower you, could pin you down and take, take, take, but he doesn’t. Every time you tense like you might pull away, he backs off just enough, murmuring at your ear, though by the time you’re close you haven’t panicked in a while.
He’s the one breathing hard when you start to chase your peak, like he’s the one being touched.
You’re writhing now, his arms having to tighten around you to keep you still as he slides another finger inside.
“That’s it,” he whispers, panting when your thighs clamp around his hand, head tipped back on his shoulders and eyes starting to roll back. “There you go. I've got you. Let go for me, yeah? Doing so good for me, sweets.”
“S-Satoru,” you choke out, the name ripped from somewhere deep.
His whole body jolts behind you and you feel a twitch near your ass.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, like you’ve done something filthy. “Say my name like that again, I swear to god—”
You don’t because suddenly, you’re gone.
His fingers pressed against the spongy spot inside, his thumb circling your clit, and suddenly everything tightens then snaps and you’re tumbling, shaking around the steady anchor of his hand and his arm and his voice in your ear. He doesn’t speed up, letting you ride your orgasm on his hand, mumbling sweet nothings against your sweaty neck.
It’s messy and overwhelming and a little scary for a second, then his palm is flat over your lower stomach, grounding you as waves of sensation roll through your body. His other hand finally gentles and you can breathe again.
When you finally slump back against him boneless, the room feels dimmer. your chest heaves, skin prickling with aftershocks that he guides you through.
He eases his hand away and wipes it on his pants, keeping you steady on his lap.
“Hey,” he says softly, lips brushing your hairline. “You still with me?”
You nod, or at least you try to. “I think so.”
“Yeah?” He presses, smiling against your skin.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath with you. “You did amazing, sweets.”
“You're making me sound like a dog.”
“Well, you were very obedient,” he says lightly, then winces. “Okay, that sounded kinda bad.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re still half-leaning against him. One of his hands comes up, hovering for a second like he isn’t sure if touching you again is allowed, then settles gently at your side.
You catch your breath, stealing a glance. His hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still blown wide but there’s something softer around the edges, so different from his usual cocky composure that it does something strange to your chest.
“You're the worst,” you mumble, just to say something.
“Oh?” his brows lift. “You seemed pretty satisfied with the lesson.”
You keep your mouth shut because there is absolutely no winning that argument.
Silence falls, not heavy nor awkward, but certainly unfamiliar. Without the distraction of movement or adrenaline, your mind starts spinning into the consequences of your actions.
And the fact that you’re still sitting between his thighs.
You stiffen and he notices immediately.
“Uh. Do you… want to—”
“Yes,” you say at the exact same time he says, “We should probably—”
You both stop, voice overlapping as you tell each other to continue then stop again. It’s funny if not awkward and you laugh, startled and breathless.
“Okay,” he says, hands lifting slightly in surrender. “You first.”
“No, you go,” you insist, scrambling upright a little too fast. The room tilts for half a second and you grab his thigh to steady yourself.
His hands hover again, then settle at your waist just in case.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still a little… y’know?”
You straighten and stand away from the couch, legs wobbling in a way you pretend not to notice. The cool air hits your skin and reality comes rushing back in a tidal wave of embarrassment.
Your skirt rests on your thighs but they’re crumpled, and your hair is surely a mess.
Gojo watches, biting his lip hard enough to leave teeth marks. He stands too, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking almost shy as he grabs his discarded shirt and pulls it back on.
For a moment, neither of you know where to look.
You fixate on a crack in the wall and he studies the floor.
“Do you, uh… want me to walk you back?”
The normalcy of the question feels surreal.
“I’m fine with walking,” you say quickly. “The weather’s nice so.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Fresh air. Definitely.”
You grab your bag with fumbling hands, nearly knocking it off the couch in the process. He catches it before it hits the floor, fingers brushing yours again as he hands it over.
Neither of you pull away immediately. Then, you both do at the same time.
“Right,” you say.
“Right,” he echoes.
He opens the door for you, peeking into the hallway first before gesturing.
“You sure you don’t want me to walk you back?”
You almost cry at the visual of a way out. “No, no, I'm fine. It’s not too far anyway.”
Gojo studies your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue or not. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s in on some big secret. He just looks uncertain.
“If you say so,” he mutters, stepping aside.
You slip past him into the hallway, letting out a big sigh of relief when you hear the door close gently behind you with a soft click. Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo follow you out anyway.
Your feet slow. “You don’t have to, I'm really okay.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m just heading in the same direction. That's all. What a coincidence?”
“Uh-huh.”
The staircase is only a few doors down, but the short walk stretches, each step heavy with things unsaid. You can hear voices downstairs, life continuing on, oblivious.
At the top of the stairwell, you stop.
“Are we still going the same way?”
He shakes his head.
“I’ll see you around,” you settle on when the silence stretches.
“See you, Y/N.”
You take one step down, then another. After a third, you glance back.
Gojo is still there, watching. your chest does something uncomfortable as he waits.
“Goodnight, Satoru,” you say softly.
He blinks, like the name catches him off guard every time. Then he smiles, small but warm.
“Night, sweets.”
When you reach the bottom and push out into the night air, it feels shockingly cool against your overheated skin. The campus is quiet, streetlights painting everything gold and shadowed, the distant sound of traffic humming like white noise.
You walk faster than necessary because if you slow down, the thoughts will quickly flood in. And if you start thinking, you might realise that somewhere between asking him for help and leaving his room tonight, something has gone very, very wrong.
You’re not sure why you care so much.
You tell yourself it’s because Geto will be there, because this is a chance to make a real impression, because this is what all of it has been building toward. But as you stand in front of your mirror, turning this way and that, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, adjusting your hair for the third time, checking your reflection from angles no one in real life would ever see, you realise this isn’t normal.
You’ve never put this much thought into a “casual” outing before.
Not the outfit, carefully balanced between cute and effortless, like you didn’t spend forty minutes deciding between two nearly identical tops just for the jersey to cover it anyway. Not the makeup, soft enough to look natural, deliberate enough to feel like armor. Not the way your stomach flips every time you picture stepping into the arena.
You know deep down this isn’t about Geto. That thought alone makes your chest feel tight.
You grab your purse before you can overthink it further and leave.
When you walk into the arena, the roar of the crowd hits you like a physical force, loud and electric, buzzing with anticipation and cheer. It bleeds through the concrete walls, through your bones, and through the floor beneath your shoes.
The game hasn’t officially started yet, you made sure to come before then, but the energy is already at a fever pitch.
Your eyes sweep the rink automatically, searching. And you spot him immediately.
Gojo, in his navy and white jersey, skates across the ice like it belongs to him, like the rink exists solely to accommodate his momentum. It doesn't seem to matter that his helmet obscures most of his face, you’d recognise him anywhere. the easy confidence in the way he moves, the loose, effortless posture, the casual speed that looks like he isn’t even trying—it’s unmistakable.
His hair, damp under his helmet, peeks out in soft white tufts. His cheeks are slightly flushed from exertion, breath fogging faintly in the cold air as he glides past teammates, exchanging easy shoves and taps of sticks. He's the easiest person in the world to look at and the hardest to look away from.
He glances up towards the stands during warm-ups, scanning lazily, and your heart stutters. You freeze, suddenly aware of yourself, of the crowd, of how ridiculous it is to hope he’ll notice you among hundreds of people wearing the same colours.
I mean, all these people? All wearing the team jersey? And you wouldn’t call yourself beautiful, not in the kind of way that makes someone stand out across a packed arena, and certainly not in a way that draws eyes automatically, not—
Gojo turns a little more. and then his eyes meet yours.
The jolt is instantaneous, sharp and electric, like touching a live wire. Your breath catches, lungs forgetting their purpose entirely as a stupid, bright grin spreads across his face.
A strange warmth floods your chest, blooming outward until it feels too big to contain. You bite your lip, trying and failing, to suppress your own giddy smile as you tug lightly at the hem of your jersey, lifting it just enough to show the number at the front and point at it.
06.
If it's even possible, his grin widens. He spins around without hesitation, and easily mind you, skating backward for a few seconds just to show off the back of his own jersey, jabbing a glove thumb at the matching number with pride.
Heat rushes to your face.
It's ridiculous, childish even, but your heart is pounding and the warmth in your chest swells until it’s almost overwhelming.
When warm-ups end, he lifts his stick in your direction in one last, unmistakable acknowledgement before skating toward the bench, where his teammates swarm him instantly. One of them hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him down while another plays bongos on his helmet, elbows digging into his ribs.
From this distance you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you don’t need to. His expression gives everything away, the wide grin and mock protests, and the way he shoves them back half-heartedly while still laughing.
Someone whistles, another bumps his shoulder and one even points toward the stands, toward you. Your stomach flips.
“Y/N?”
You start, tearing your eyes away as if caught doing something incriminating. Geto stands beside you, already holding two drinks, his expression warm and easy.
“Hey,” he says, offering you one. “You made it. I found seats over here, it’s a pretty good view, if I don’t say so myself. We should head over before the game starts.”
You take the cup automatically, fingers brushing his. “Thanks!”
He smiles, guiding you through the rows of people with gentle awareness, making space and steadying you when someone brushes past too close. It's thoughtful and careful and exactly the kind of thing that made you fall for him in the first place.
Once seated, conversation comes easily to him. It’s all polite small talk and soft jokes, quiet observations about the team and season. He fills in the silence like Gojo had predicted, never letting it become uncomfortable. He does all the right things that you could almost tick them off a list. He laughs at your comments like they’re genuinely funny and asks questions that make it clear he’s paying attention.
It should be perfect, it should be everything you’ve ever wanted.
And yet, your eyes drift back to the rink, to the flashes of navy and white.
To the tall figure leaning against the boards, helmet off now, shaking his hair as he listens to a coach, nodding absentmindedly while his gaze flicks upward.
Your pulse jumps when his eyes land on you again. Except this time he doesn’t grin. It might be your imagination but he seemingly looks to Geto beside you, then back, just watching.
You force yourself to look back at Geto, nodding at something he just said, hoping your smile looks natural and not strained.
BUZZWORD
The game starts fast.
Faster than you expected, faster than anything you’ve watched on TV, faster than seems physically possible for men balancing on thin blades over frozen water. The pluck drops and suddenly the rink explodes with motion, bodies colliding, sticks clashing, skates carving violent crescents into the ice.
You lost track of the puck almost immediately.
Geto leans closer, voice raised just enough to carry over the roar of the crowd. “Watch Satoru, he plays center so he’ll usually be in there.”
Your eyes find him easily.
He moves differently from everyone else, you see, loose, flashier, or maybe that’s just you. No, you reject that notion as he accelerates in bursts, gliding between players with impossible precision, stick tapping the ice impatiently when he doesn’t have the puck.
Every time he skates past your side of the rink, your chest tightens and your throat hurts a little more as you try to cheer louder.
The first goal goes to the other team.
Your side of the arena groans as one, a wave of disappointment that rattles through the stands. You feel it too, a sinking drop in your stomach, though you don’t fully understand the play that led to it.
Gojo slams his stick once against the ice in frustration, then shoves off hard, jaw set.
Geto doesn’t seem worried. “They’ll bounce back. Satoru is the best they have, after all.”
Just like he predicted, they do. Midway through the second period, one of Gojo’s teammates manages to slip the puck past the goalie, and the building detonates. People surge to their feet to cheer and you find yourself in that crowd, cheering without thinking, adrenaline crackling through your veins like you personally contributed.
On the ice, Gojo grabs the scorer by the shoulders and shakes him, helmet bumping into helmet, grin blinding even through the cage.
It’s a tie game until it’s not. Another goal to the opposing side which Gojo’s team equalising moments after. Again and again, a tense back and forth that even has Geto inhaling sharply at moments.
By the third period, your nails are dug into the flimsy paper cup in your hand, ice long melted into a yucky watered down version of whatever was in the drink. You barely notice when Geto takes it from you and sets it aside so you don’t crush it completely.
The scoreboard reads 3-3 and the clock tells you there’s two minutes left.
The noise is deafening now, frantic and desperate, every movement on the ice met with gasps or shouts.
Gojo has long since lost the playful edge from earlier. He circles near centre ice, knees bent, weight forward, eyes tracking the puck like it’s the only thing that exists in the world. A defender tries to box him out and he shrugs him off with a brutal shoulder check that makes the crowd howl.
The puck slides loose along the boards, ricocheting off a tangle of skates and sticks like it has a mind of its own. Someone on Gojo’s team snatches it first and fires it forward, a risky pass that slides clean across open ice, and towards him.
Gojo receives it in stride, blade cushioning the impact with effortless control. He doesn’t even glance down. his head is already up, scanning his way forward. A defender lunges for him and he slips past with a sharp pivot, hips twisting, edges biting deep into the ice.
You’re on your feet before you realise you’ve moved.
“Go—!” you scream and like a domino effect, people around you start to cheer.
Gojo fakes a left. The goalie commits.
He snaps right, dragging the puck across his body in one powerful motion, forcing the goalie to witness the outplay. And then he flicks his wrist and a sharp crack echoes across the rink.
The puck lifts, a black blur slicing through air, threading the narrowest gap between glove and shoulder, and slams into the back of the net.
For half a heartbeat, there is silence. Then the buzzer screams and the crowd erupts.
Sound crashes over you in a tidal wave, screaming, stomping, clapping, the metallic rattle of the stands shaking under hundreds of pounding feet. You’re shouting too, throat tearing with it, hands flying to your mouth before dropping again because you need them free to clap and wave, anything to release all this energy exploding out of you.
Down on the ice, Gojo throws his head back and roars, pure exhilaration bursting out of him. His teammates collide with him seconds later, swarming him in a pile of navy and white, shoving his helmet and grabbing his shoulders, almost knocking him over in their celebration.
He's laughing.
Even through the cage, from the distance, you can see it, the wild brightness in his eyes and the way his chest heaves with adrenaline.
They won.
They actually won.
You’re bouncing on your toes without realising, hands clasped in front of your mouth.
Gojo breaks free from the pile just enough to turn and look up into the stands. It's easier finding you this time around when he knows where to look.
His whole face lights up, grin splitting wide and unrestrained, so bright it feels like it could blind you, he lifts his stick and points it straight at you then thumps it once against the ice in a triumphant salute.
Your stomach swoops violently.
You laugh, breathless and giddy, lifting both hands to wave back like an idiot. Your body is already leaning forward, feet shifting as instinct screams for you to move. To go down there, to be closer, to meet him at the glass while he’s still glowing with victory looking as beautiful as you’ve ever seen him, so alive that it radiates off him in waves.
You want to throw your arms around his neck.
You want to tell him that was incredible.
You want—
“Y/N?”
Geto’s voice cuts gently through the chaos, close to your ear.
You blink, tearing your gaze away from the ice to find him watching you with a small, amused smile.
“That was intense,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I forgot how crazy these games get at the end. Makes you glad you came, right?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, though it comes out shaky and raw from all the cheering. “Yeah it was. Definitely.”
Your eyes flick down despite yourself and find Gojo still looking up, smile dimmed.
Geto gestures toward the aisle. “If we leave now, we can beat the post-game crowd. The bookstore’s only a short walk away anyway. We can find Satoru after he comes out.”
The words land heavy in your chest. How could you forget? There was a plan in action, the reason why you came, the person you’re supposed to be focusing on.
“Right,” you say, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears.
On the ice, Gojo’s teammates are tugging him toward the bench, shouting in his ear and shoving him here and there. He goes easily enough, though not without one last glance at you. He tilts his chin, a silent question in your eyes, clear despite the distance.
Are you going?
Your fingers curl into fists at your side.
“Ready?” Geto asks softly.
You swallow. “... yeah.”
But as you turn to follow him up the aisle, the roar of the arena swelling behind you, you can’t shake that you’ve made the wrong decision. You feel it, that strange, electric thread stretching thinner and thinner behind you as the tunnel swallows Gojo whole.
BUZZWORD
It should be fun.
Geto is easy to talk to, he’s polite, thoughtful and gentle, and all the right things. You trail behind him between the shelves as he talks about a book he likes, or some theory he discovered that explains so much and makes so much sense.
You try, you really do. You nod your head and attempt to store that information away.
But everything just doesn’t feel right. It's hard to store that information away when your head is full of that look Gojo had given you, the way his white hair had stuck out from under his helmet, damp from the effort and glory of winning, eyes sparkling under the stadium lights, the way he had lifted his stick to point at you.
Geto is kind. But your tastes don’t match. Your jokes land in different places. He's nice, and you do enjoy his conversation. But not in the same way you had enjoyed Gojo’s company that day in the cafe.
You don’t feel nervous. You don’t feel excited. Honestly, you just feel like pretending.
And as if the universe is screaming at you about something just beyond your grasp, when you reach for the same book, your fingers don’t brush. And you don’t want them to.
Geto’s phone buzzes when he’s in the middle of explaining some theories from this guy called Slavoj Zizek? He winces at whatever he reads.
“Sorry,” he starts, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I need to head out. But hey, here–” He pulls a paperback off the shelf and hands it to you. “This is the one I was talking about. I think you’ll like it.”
you accept it automatically. “Thanks,” you say, and then he’s waving and gone the next moment, door swinging behind him.
For a while, you wander the bookstore in an attempt to rationalise the complex emotions warring inside you. Geto is your crush. You know this. And yet, it all feels so superficial. Gojo had been right, there was nothing personal about the things you liked about him to explain the crush.
You stand in the quiet of the aisle, holding a book you frankly don’t care about, surrounded by a silence that feels like the wrong choice made tangible long after the last customer walks out. Heavy rain falls outside, pelting against the roof of the store, a steady white noise that backgrounds your thoughts.
When the bookstore begins to close, you’re ushered outside. You swear as you’re suddenly caught in the harsh weather and through the heavy sheets of rain, there looks to be no other store open. Hastily, you run out in the rain to find some place where you can get cover over your head. Finally, you see a small awning from a closed shop.
You run under the awning, hugging your arms to your chest as you wait out the storm, feeling stupidly alone and stupidly unsure why you’re this upset. This is what you wanted right? But the part of your heart that has always known the truth traitorously voices the thoughts you’ve been pushing down all this time.
Gojo.
Through the sheets of heavy rain, someone is running towards you. Tall, white hair, still in his jersey, his hair now damp (read: soaked) with rain water rather than sweat.
He skids under the awning, breathless, terribly drenched, an unopened umbrella in one hand.
“What the hell,” he says immediately, voice sharp with concern and frustration. “Are you trying to get pneumonia? Why didn’t you go home? Didn’t you check the weather? It clearly said it was going to rain today!”
You blink, gaping at his sudden presence. “What are you, no, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”
He snorts. “Yeah, I was. Until Suguru texted. Said he left you at the bookstore and for me to pick you up. Seriously, you didn’t even bring an umbrella?”
The situation finally catches up to you and you frantically gesture to his own umbrella. “How can you lecture me when you just ran out all the way here without opening your umbrella? it’s literally in your hands, all you had to do was open it!”
“Like i had the time to! My legs are literally burning from the game and you made me run all this way out to save you!”
“I never asked you to!”
“Well, I had to!” He steps closer, finally freeing himself from the rain completely. His presence fills up the cramped space under the awning and you catch a whiff of cedar and sweat. “I couldn’t just let you die out here in the cold!”
Speechless, you open and close your mouth like an idiot. Finally, you manage to ask, “How did you even know I was out here?”
“Weren’t you listening? I told you Suguru told me he ditched you!”
At Geto’s name, your face falls. Ah, right. your little moral dilemma about Geto.
Gojo also calms down a little, his chest heaving a little slower as he uses the silence to catch his breath. his eyes scan your expression, picking up on the way you bite your lip, eyes looking away.
“Hey,” he says, voice soft though still strained. “You okay?”
Your throat tightens. “I guess? I don't know. Look, sorry. I appreciate you coming.”
“Don't give me that. Just don’t. You’ve told me every embarrassing thing about yourself when you outed that you, you know, like Suguru. Don’t hide something from me now. Are you upset that he left?” His hand comes out to wipe water off your cheek. “Don't cry.”
You scrunch up your face in mild disgust. “I’m not? That's literally just rain water.”
“Oh. So you're okay?”
You inhale and let it out slowly. Were you okay? You shouldn’t be, not if Geto was your crush and he just ditched you. And yet, under Satoru’s shadow as he stands in front of you, blocking the rain, brows furrowed and lips pressed tight as he looks you over in concern, you find yourself feeling okay. More than okay.
“Why do you even like him?” He asks, quietly, a question that would have easily been lost to the rain if you weren’t hanging off his every word.
“I told you,” you start, just as quiet. “He saved me that one time.”
“Yeah?” He opens the umbrella with one hand, and holds your hand in the other, gently guiding you out from under the awning. Rain hits heavy against the fabric and he holds you close to keep you out from the storm, your chest grazing his. “He saved you that day in the rain, did he?”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
“Just like this?”
Mutely, you nod. In his arms, you barely notice the slight chill.
Gojo searches your eyes for something. He exhales, long and uneven, like he’s been holding this in for longer than he’s willing to admit. And yet, he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t tear his gaze away from yours, just keeps holding the umbrella over your head, tilted ever so slightly in your direction such that you’re completely covered.
“That day,” he says, quiet but steady, “When you got caught in the rain after that stupid orientation thing? Suguru wasn’t on campus. He went back home for a month before the semester started and didn’t come back until the second week. I was the one that found you.”
Your breath falters. “What? But he… he gave me his hoodie. His name was on the tag.”
“Yeah,” Satoru laughs, a single disbelieving puff. “I was wearing his hoodie. He wasn’t at the dorms so I stole some of his clothes to wear. It’s whatever, he steals some of mine sometimes. The point is, I was the one that helped you.”
For a moment, you stop breathing entirely. The rain pours around the two of you, a curtain of noise, but it’s silent under the umbrella.
You’ve never seen Gojo so nervous. Definitely not before the big game earlier, not on any of the practice dates, never when he talks to a group of people. Between the two of you, nervousness came more naturally to you. And yet, standing before you vulnerable, wet lashes stuck together, cheeks flushed from running and is that a faint bruise forming on his jaw? He looks nervous and it’s a sight that sends warmth all over your face.
His eyes are unbearably soft as he waits for your verdict.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice sounds too small.
“Because you thought it was Suguru. Because you liked him. And back then, I didn't realise that I wanted you to know it was me.”
Your heart thuds, something a little more daring saying the next few words for you. “And now?”
This moment was perfect. The two of you had been slowly closing that small gap of distance, eyes seeing nothing but each other and suddenly all those rom coms and kdramas come to mind. All those scenes of first kisses (forgetting the practices because those didn’t include real romance), all those late night conversations with Shoko about what it’s like, they all come and leave your brain.
But instead of leaning in and sealing the deal, Gojo’s entire body suddenly stiffens. His arm around you loosens, placing more distance between the two of you.
What the hell?
His gaze drops a little further before coming back up with a discipline that can only come from reciting the digimon opening theme over and over in his head. “Now I'm trying really, really hard not to stare at you.”
Curious, you look down to your soaked shirt where the fabric clings painfully close, embarrassingly sheer. It only serves to emphasise the lines of your bra and though you can’t really see anything, Gojo’s face is flushed pink not just from exertion, and his jaw is tight.
“Satoru—”
“My place,” he blurts. “We should, uh, get you warmed up. Your shirt is literally see-through and if I have to keep pretending I don't notice, I'm going to walk myself right into traffic.”
“That is so dramatic.” The beginnings of a smile cause the corner of your lips to quiver upwards at his flustered state.
“i’m dramatic,” he insists, voice strained, still not looking. “Now come on. I still don’t want you catching pneumonia out here and Sig Kap is literally right near the gate. We can keep talking there when you don’t look like a puppy left out in the rain.”
“Says you.” You eye his white hair plastered to his forehead and smile, reaching up to move a few clinging strands from his eyes. “But okay. I’d like that a lot.”
Unfortunately, the gesture makes him look back down at you, inevitably making him catch an eyeful of your chest. He closes his eyes. “Let's just go before I give you this umbrella and walk onto the road.”
You laugh a little. “Geez, you really are dramatic.”
He walks you to Sig Kap, refusing to stand fully under the umbrella. When you try to grab his arm and pull him under, he only launches into a talk about being a feminist and how chivalry isn’t dead and how much he hates periods and loves matcha. You laugh and he smiles down at you before looking away. Seriously, he needs to get over that.
At the door outside the house, Gojo stops you.
“Here.” he hands you the umbrella, fingers brushing yours, before reaching down to take his jersey off. You instinctively blush and look away, but considering your state of undress it would only be fair if you stole a glance. So you peek at him from the corner of your eyes.
You only manage to look just below his abs when something warm and slightly damp flops over your head.
“Hey!”
He takes the umbrella back from you, standing in front of you and covering your back with the umbrella.. “Put that on before we head inside. Take your wet jersey off, hurry.”
Feeling warm despite the rain, you hastily pull off your soaked top, making sure he’s looking politely away, and throw his jersey on. It’s still damp but not as drenched as your own. Looking down, it falls past your skirt and just above your knees.
“You’re going to walk in shirtless?”
“Better than you walking in looking like that.” He doesn’t give you a moment to think about his words. “Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.”
He leads you to the now familiar front door and when it opens before Gojo can even touch the doorknob, you understand the reasoning of his actions.
“Dude!” Hikari cheers, wrapping an arm round Gojo’s shoulders and eagerly pulling him in despite his grunt of protest. “Congrats on the win, man!”
Hikari quickly notices your presence.
“Oh. So you’re already celebrating, huh?”
Gojo brushes past him, his hand holding tours to guide a path through the sweaty frat boys. “Shut it, Hikari. Is Sukuna in?”
“Nah. The whole floor’s gone.” Hikari answers, raising his voice as Gojo quickly places distance between him and you.
When the door of his room closes behind you both, he turns and pulls you in, his hand falling down on your hips, pulling you close. You both look like wet dogs but you couldn’t care less.
“Sorry about them,” he mumbles against your hair.
“It’s fine,” you pause. “Who's Sukuna?”
“The guy in the room next to mine.”
“Oh.”
He hesitates, searching your eyes in the dark of his room. The storm rages on beyond his window, rain entering through a slightly ajar window, but neither of you make the responsible move to close it. Instead, you find yourself pressing up against him, hoping for more.
“Sweets,” he says, his voice low. “Please don’t tell me this is still practice.”
“It’s not.”
He takes a deep breath in. “You piss me off. You’re annoying, and insistent, and you always get what you want.”
You frown a little. “Hold on, I thought this was going a different way.”
He shushes you by placing a finger against your lips. “You never listen to me and you never act how I think you will. You’re definitely not normal and your thoughts are all weird and messed up. But you’re always in my head and you have the prettiest smile and the softest voice and when you tell me to shut up I want to drop to my knees and lick your feet.”
“Okay, it’s definitely getting weird now.”
“I think I’m seriously doomed,” he whispers despite your protests. “Because I bought that coffee you gave me months ago and I still drank it even though I hated how it tasted. And I haven’t been able to get it up without thinking about you and those pretty lips.”
“Now I see why you don’t do relationships.”
Gojo chuckles, eyes unbearingly soft. “I think I’m in love with you, Y/N. You’re all I can think about.”
You let out a slow exhale.
This was not how you imagined any of this. That day when you sat down with Shoko to plan a devious scheme to get with Geto, you naturally assumed it would end with him by your side, or with a crippling inability to reassimilate with society.
Never in a million years did you think you’d be here, in Gojo’s enormous room inside a frat house, him hanging off your every word.
But thinking on it now, there’s nothing you want to change in your plan.
“I think I’m in love with you too,” you say just as quietly, a smile playing on your lips.
“Really?” If he had dog ears, they would have surely perked up. “Because I was lying, I definitely don’t just think that.”
“Woah, let’s calm down a little.”
He chuckles, breath misting your face.
His thumbs rub circles and you shiver at the faint sensation.
“Cold?”
You bite the lip and nod. Now that you’ve confessed, the forbidden desire building up in your core no longer feels like something you need to hide. Instead, you embrace it, and you let Gojo see the change in your eyes.
He nods back, looking down at his jersey on you.
“You should probably take this off or you’ll get sick.”
You grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it over your head, leaving you in just your bra. You mentally fist bump your past self for overthinking your attire earlier that morning and throwing on a matching set.
His pupils dilate as he looks at you, eyes lingering on the delicate lace.
“Am I moving too fast?” He whispers, breath misting your ear as he leans in.
You rapidly shake your head, heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with tension, the rain pattering against the window like a distant drumbeat.
He sighs, a low, relieved sound that vibrates through his chest. “Good. C’mere.”
He backs you up against the door, the wood cool against your bare back. His hands slide up your sides as he traps you. The guise of getting you out of wet clothes feels like a thin excuse now, but you don’t mind, your own hands already tugging at his waistband, eager to feel more of him.
Gojo’s lips crash into yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim your mouth. You kiss back just as fiercely, fingers digging into his shoulders as you push against him, guiding him backward step by step. He stumbles slightly, surprised by your assertiveness, but a smirk tugs at his lips against yours.
He falls onto the couch with a soft thud, pulling you down on top of him. You straddle his lap, only because it’s the only position you’ve had experience with thus far, and the friction of his hardening cock against your core sends sparks through your body. Your mouths meet again in a heated makeout, tongues tangling, breaths mingling in short, desperate gasps.
His hands roam your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. You arch into him, pressing your bare breasts against his chest, nipples hardening from the contact.
“Fuck, you’re so hot like this,” he growls, nipping at your lower lip. “Where were you hiding all of this, hm?”
You shiver, fingers digging into his shirt. “You like it when I tell you what to do, don’t you? Big bad frat boy, already so hard because a girl’s got you pinned.”
He groans, hands gripping your ass to grind you against him. “Keep talking like that, and I'll show you who’s really in control.”
But you don’t stop. Instead, you push him back further into the cushions and trail your lips down his jaw, his neck, biting lightly to mark him. He lets you, for now, his breath hitching.
His eyes look down your body, hands feeling the softness of your skin before resting at the waistband of your cute, little skirt. He smirks and before you know it, you’re torn from his neck because he flips you onto your back in one swift move, pinning your wrists above your head.
“My turn,” he purrs, voice rough.
You try to wriggle free. “What are you doing?”
“You've always had a thing against my tongue, haven’t you?”
“That was weeks ago, I don't—wait a minute!” Your hands find his head, trying to push him back up but he refuses, settling properly between your legs and lowering.
“Relax.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, eyes on yours. “I'll make you feel good. I always do, don't I?”
You hesitate, your arms losing their strength as the tension eases from your body. He watches you carefully, his gaze soft yet intense, making sure you’re okay before he moves. With a gentle nod from you, he lifts the edge of your skirt and flips it up onto your stomach, groaning low at the sight of the damp spot on your panties.
“So cute,” he hums, his free hand sliding between your legs to rub at the numb poking out through the fabric. “This little clit’s begging for attention.”
You let out a startled gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sudden touch. It’s all still so new, the sparks of pleasure shooting through you like electricity.
“You want my mouth on this pretty pussy, don’t you?” He murmurs, lowering to mouth against your panties.
His warm breath seeps through the thin material, and the flat of his tongue presses against you, exploring with teasing pressure that’s not quite enough to satisfy the ache building inside.
You jolt again, the sensation overwhelming, back bowing slightly as if to instinctively pull away. He doesn’t let you go far, his hand on your thigh tightening to pull you back against his mouth.
“I know, I know,” he coos against you. “It's too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, looking down and feeling a fresh surge of heat when you meet eyes with him.
“That’s it, just feel it,” he encourages, his thumb stroking your thigh in slow circles.
Finally, he draws your panties to the side and doesn’t waste another second.
Gojo’s mouth descends on your pussy, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit.
You gasp sharply, hips bucking up as he sucks the sensitive nub between his lips, rolling it gently. His hands hold your thighs apart, fingers digging into your skin to keep you open for him. He eats you out like he’s starved, tongue delving inside you, tasting your wetness then circling back to your clit with firm, insistent strokes.
“Oh god,” you choke out, the words tumbling from your lips in a breathless rush. “Fuck, it’s too—fuck it’s so good!”
With your hands free, you curl your fingers in his soft white hair, guiding him exactly where the pleasure feels strongest. It's your first time feeling anything like this, and the intensity builds fast, a coiling heat that’s overwhelming but addictive.
He hums against you, the vibrations making you whine as his tongue thrusts in and out, mimicking what’s to come, stretching you open with wet, probing motions.
“Mmm, taste so fucking sweet,” he growls between licks, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your folds. “You’re clenching so hard already—gonna finger fuck you open so you can take my cock later.”
He adds a finger, sliding it inside your slick heat slowly, curling it to brush against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That's it baby, feel how wet you are for me? so tight around my finger, imagine how you’ll squeeze my dick when I'm buried deep.”
You nod frantically, the haze of pleasure making it hard to form words.
He senses your building release, slipping a second finger inside to stretch you further, scissoring them gently to prepare you while his mouth latches back on your clit, sucking harder. “Come on, cum for me—wanna taste you so fucking bad, sweets. I want to feel you shake.”
The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over your body without warning. you cry out, back arching off the surface beneath you as your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with release. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you through it, drawing out every shudder until you’re boneless and gasping for air, his tongue coaxing every last tremor from your oversensitive folds.
Gojo pulls back slowly, a string of saliva still connecting to you until he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he crawls up your body.
“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he murmurs, leaning in for a deep kiss and letting you taste yourself on his lips.
You kiss back weakly making him chuckle, and he pulls back with a wet chu.
“You okay?”
You nod weakly. One moment you’re catching your breath on the couch, the next he’s lifting you over his shoulder and laying you down on his bed.
You yelp, feeling gravity turn on its head until you’re safely on his mattress.
Watching as he eagerly strips, you say, “You got a bedframe.”
He grins widely, shimmying down his boxers to join his sweatpants on the floor. “Yeah, I did. Do you like it?”
You huff. “Yeah. About time, Satoru.”
Gojo’s smile is oddly bright as he gets on the bed and hovers over you. He shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, his blue eyes darkening as they fixate on your chest. Without a word, he moves down, his mouth hovering just above your skin before he presses his face into the soft valley of your tits, inhaling deeply as if savouring your scent.
“God, I love these things.” he groans, voice muffled, his lips brushing the sensitive underside. “So goddamn perfect. Feel how hard you make me just staring at them?”
You squirm, indeed feeling his cock throb against your leg. “You’re such an animal.”
“I can't help it. Been thinking about these ever since last time.” He peeks up at you though he’s still hesitant to part with them completely. “Can i fuck them?”
Your nod is all the consent he craves. He straddles your waist carefully and guides his thick length to rest in the plush channel you’ve created by pressing your breasts together. The first slide is torturously slow, the velvety skin enveloping him as he rocks forward, the tip emerging shiny with precum near your collarbone.
“Shit, yes,” he hisses, hips snapping in a shallow rhythm. “So soft, so fucking warm around me. Look at that, sweets. Your tits are hugging my dick like they were made for it.”
His voice drops lower, rough with building pleasure, each word punctuated by the slick glide of skin on skin.
You watch him, mesmerised by the concentration etching his features, brow furrowed, lips parted as he pants. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his temples as his abs flex with every controlled push. The friction builds between your tits, his precum smearing across your skin, making the slide even smoother and more obscene.
He glances down to watch his cock disappear and poke out from your cleavage. “Open your mouth for me, baby.”
“Sweets,” you remind him.
He lets out a stifled groan, hips jerking forward. “Sweets, please. Let me see your pretty tongue. Want it on my tip when i come through so fucking bad.”
The nickname sends a thrill through you, and you part your lips obediently, flattening your tongue in invitation. He groans at the sight, hips stuttering as he angles higher, the flushed head of his cock brushing your waiting mouth on the next thrust.
“Fuck, just like that,” he rasps. “Your tongue feels so good lapping at me like that. Swirl it around, taste how much I want you. God, sweets, you’re killing me.”
You do, tracing the sensitive underside when he pushes forward, the salty tang of him flooding your senses. His reaction is immediate, a deep, guttural moan escapes him, his rhythm faltering as he jerks deeper, chasing the wet heat of your mouth.
“Can't get enough,” he growls, drawing back only to thrust again, his tip kissing your tongue with deliberate precision and drawing back a sticky string of his precum and your saliva. “Gonna fuck your mouth next, stuff it full of my cock until you’re choking on it. You'd take it so well, wouldn’t you? Suck me down like the greedy little thing you are.”
Saliva pools on your tongue and drips down to mix with the mess on your chest. He watches it all with hooded eyes, rutting faster now, the slap of his hips against your breasts echoing softly in the room.
“Fuck, sweets—gonna cum,” he warns through gritted teeth, his forehead creasing in that pretty, desperate way. “Can’t hold back with you squeezing me like this. Shit, i’m gonna paint you, mark every inch of these pretty tits.”
He lurches forward suddenly, back bowing as he towers over you, one hand bracing beside your head while the other strokes his base to control his release. The first hot spurt lands across your neck, thick and warm, followed by another that arches toward your open mouth. He aims with a focused groan, pressing down on the head to guide it, ropes of cum landing on your tongue, filling your senses with his taste.
“Take it, that’s a good girl,” he pants, voice breaking on a final, shuddering thrust. “Look at you, covered in me. So fucking hot, dripping with my cum on your face and tits.”
His body quakes through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving yours, drinking in your reaction as he milks every drop onto you.
When he’s spent, he collapses forward slightly, catching himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you and leans down.
Your lips meet his in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongues tangling slow and sweet at first, then hungrier as you melt into it. The taste of him, salty from earlier, mixed with the faint tang of your own arousal, ignites you, and you tug him down, hands roaming his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under sweat damp skin. A soft moan escapes you, and he swallows it, his grip tightening just a fraction.
He pulls back and pants against your lips, half laughing.
“Sorry, I should have warned you. Kind of not the most virgin friendly thing to do, huh?” He sits up and reaches for some tissue to clean you. “Should of saved this for inside you, sweets.”
You clench, squeezing your thighs together. “I’ve never…”
His eyes soften, wiping the last of his cum. “I know, sweets. We can wait if you need to, there’s no rush.”
But curiousity and want is a dangerous cocktail and you find yourself shaking your head. “I want to.”
Gojo lets out a shuddering breath and nods, sliding off your chest, his cock glistening and heavy against his thigh. “Let me get you warmed up again.”
He doesn't find much difficulty with that because one hand against your slit and his eyebrows are rising, feeling your wetness despite the lack of attention.
You blush, feeling caught. “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s embarrassing.”
“What’s got you so wet, hm?”
You squirm, feeling the lingering pleasure flare up. “It’s not my fault you’re so vocal.”
“Dirty girl. You like hearing how good you make me feel?” His thumb smears your entrance, picking up and spreading the fresh arousal that gathers there and it’s as good as any verbal answer. “Feel that? So worked up with nowhere to go.”
His fingers part you gently, circling your entrance with feather-light strokes that make you gasp.
“Let me warm you up again, sweets. You’re so swollen here, feels like you’ve been waiting for more. Gonna make sure you’re nice and ready for me.”
He plays with the mess between your legs, his own expression a mix of hunger and restraint, breaths coming in measured pulls as he fights the urge to rush. One finger dips inside you shallowly, then two, curling just right to brush that spot that sends sparks up your spine.
The stretch is easier now, your body remembering the pleasure, and he coos softly at your soft whimper, thumb finding your clit to rub in slow, firm circles.
“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans quietly, voice rough around the edges. “So warm and wet, it’s killing me not to slide in right now. But we’re taking our time, yeah? Making this perfect for you.”
Your hips rock instinctively into his hand, the coil of heat tightening low in your belly, and he grins, leaning in to pepper kisses along your jaw.
“Look at you, getting into it. My sweet girl, so responsive.”
You whine, the pleasure having reached a plateau and when you buck up for more, he withdraws his hand. The loss makes you whine but he hushes you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, reaching over to the nightstand and searching through his messy drawers for a condom.
The foil crinkles under his fingers as he tears it open and positions himself at your entrance. You're still slick, he’s made sure of that, but the anticipation makes you clench, nerves building up. He notices your sharp inhale and lets his tip nudge your slick folds, parting them teasingly though he pauses there to let you feel the pressure without pushing in.
“Hey, eyes on me, sweets,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the way his chest heaves, his cock twitching against you. “You still okay? Tell me if it’s too much, I’ll stop, I promise. But fuck, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be inside you.”
“I’m okay,” you whisper breathlessly, fingers curling into the sheets below. “Just… go slow?”
He notices and slides a hand down to interlace your fingers, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss to your palm. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
The stretch is immediate, a slow burn as he guides himself in, sinking bit by bit. His cock is much thicker than his fingers but the warmth of him, the way he watches every flicker of your expression with that twitch in his jaw, makes it bearable.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he rasps, eyes shutting briefly. “Gripping me so good already. Easy, sweets, just relax into it.”
His voice cracks a little on the end, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds himself still once he’s halfway in.
It aches, but the fullness is intoxicating, waves of pleasure chasing the discomfort as your body yields. You gasp, squeezing his hand and he coos softly, stroking you with his thumb.
“Can I keep going?”
You nod and even before your next breath, he’s already sliding in and bottoming out with a shared gasp, hips flushed against yours. His forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the humid air.
"How's that feel? Too much?” He asks softly.
“Full… so full,” you whimper, rocking experimentally and he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up just a fraction before he catches himself.
“Fuck, want me to move, sweets?” He shifts beneath you, guiding your hips in a gentle circle to grind against you, his praises making the movement slick.
“Please,” you gasp out as the fullness sparks pleasure deep inside and he rewards your honest words with a slow roll of his hips.
“Good girl,” he praises, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he starts to move, shallow thrusts that build a steady friction. Each slide in and out drags against your inner walls, drawing out filthy whimpers and sighs as he hits that sweet spot with precision born of his experience.
Soon, your toes are curling and your back bows off his mattress, desperate to meet his thrusts.
“Listen to those sounds you’re making,” he coos, emphasising his words with a deep thrust. “You’re taking me so well, sweets. Makes me want to stay buried in your forever.”
The pace gradually quickens, his control fraying at the edges as your moans encourage him. He shifts the angle, one leg hooking over his shoulder to deepen the penetration, and the new position has you crying out, pleasure coiling tight in your core.
Sweat beads on his skin, dropping onto your chest and he leans down to capture a nipple between his lips, sucking gently as he thrusts harder, the wet slap of skin echoing softly.
“That’s it, let go for me,” he urges against your tits, teeth grazing the peak before soothing it with his tongue. “I can feel you squeezing, you close for me already? Come on, sweets, chase it.”
His words weave through the haze, dirty and devoted, spurring you higher as his freehand slips between you to circle your clit in time with his hips. The dual sensations overwhelm, building to a peak that has you trembling beneath him.
When it hits, it’s blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls clenching rhythmically around him and pulling him deeper. He groans your name like a prayer, thrusts stuttering as rides it out with you, prolonging the bliss with expert rolls of his hips.
Only when you slump, sweaty and panting, does he let himself follow, a filthy groan escaping his lips as he buries himself deep one last time and spills into the condom, body shuddering as he struggles to hover over you.
He doesn’t pull away immediately, instead pressing his hips closer to ensure you’ve gotten everything before collapsing half on top of you, peppering lazy kisses along your neck.
“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “My perfect girl, did so good for us.”
You whimper against the ticklish sensation. “You're too heavy.”
He chuckles and rolls off you, slowly pulling out to pull the condom off and discard it. you watch him with sleepy eyes, eagerly nuzzling into his arms when he settles back beside you.
“Need anything? Water? Cuddles?”
You hum, feeling the satisfaction morph into a drowsiness that has you melting into his arms, only feeling his warmth.
“You?”
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m so glad I stole you away. You’re so fucking perfect for me.”
You lean into his side, feeling a sense of indescribable completeness that fills you with certainty.
Geto Suguru may have been everyone’s first love but Gojo Satoru is the one you choose.
And judging by the way his arm tightens around you, the way his grin softens when he looks down at you, he knows it too.
Geto Suguru is everyone’s first love.
Even to this day, your friends will roll their eyes and insist that can’t possibly be true. But from experience, that was exactly who he was, someone to admire from afar like a painting behind glass. Beautiful and alluring, and just out of reach.
You see him now up, sitting on the couches at the house party driving the murmur of conversation with ease, a red cup used to gesture. Laughter ripples outward in waves, people leaning closer, drawn in.
You smile out of solidarity, resting against the wall with content misplaced at a busy place like this.
“Did you wait long?”
You turn your head to find your boyfriend weaving through bodies with the casual confidence of someone who assumes space will make itself around him. Two drinks in hand, hair messy under his cat, grin already forming because he’s caught you staring.
You push off the wall, reaching automatically for whichever cup is closer but he pulls back to sniff both before handing you the opposite one.
You take it gratefully and when you take a sip, you realise it’s your favourite juice.
“Wait time longer than the lines at Universal,” you tease.
He grins, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Next time I'll get us the priority pass. Not that it looked like you minded the wait. Don’t think I didn't see you eyeing Suguru like that. Do I have competition again?”
You shove him playfully. “Please, like I'm the one who’s been draping themselves over him for the past hour.”
Across the room, Geto laughs again, someone hanging off his shoulder while he tries to keep the liquid in his cup from spilling. He catches your eye briefly and lifts his cup in greeting. You return it with a smile.
Next to you, Gojo sighs dramatically.
“Wow,” he says flatly. “Right in front of me too. Why can’t I see any remorse in your eyes?”
“Because there isn’t any there,” you snort. “You're the one who told him to come tonight.”
“Where there’s Satoru, there’s Suguru.”
“I learnt that the hard way.”
He hums, arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against his side. His thumb starts tracing lazy circles just above your hip, absentminded and affectionate, a touch so familiar you barely notice as you lean into him in return.
“Still,” he murmurs, quieter now, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to keep looking at him like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking about what you could have had.”
You tilt your head to look up at him. His expression isn’t jealous, not completely, just searching, softer than the bravado he usually wears.
“I'm not,” you promise gently. “It was always superficial. You know that better than anyone. I guess now, looking at him is like looking at a relic of a different version of me.”
He hums. “He would have liked that sentence.”
You roll your eyes, ever so familiar with his dramatics. “You have nothing to worry about, baby. I promise.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You reach up and adjust the brim of his cap slightly, smoothing down a piece of hair that refuses to stay put. “Besides, I think I traded up.”
“Keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me,” he grins, voice lowering.
You smack his chest but your other hand lingers in his hair, fingers slipping into the soft hair at his nape. "Don't get cocky.”
Too late. He's already smiling wide, not the loud, flashy grin everyone else gets, but something softer and almost boyish reserved just for you.
Gojo leans down and finds your lips. The kiss is slow and unhurried, deeper than something meant for a crowded room but not quite indecent, like he’s forgotten where you are or just doesn’t care.
He pulls back just enough to talk. “Hey, I have an idea that’ll solve this three way jealousy.”
“What?"
“Why don’t we just have a threesome?”
a/n: i had to repost this because i realised i could fit everything into one post but holy hell reformating everything made me wanna die so please smash that like button hit subscribe and don't forget to turn on that notification bell ++ shoutout to flatline and happy pokemon day to those who celebrate
