No Regrets

進撃の巨人

[gojoandtojisleftnut]

call me M │twenty one │she/her

⠀⠀⠀‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ requests are open ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

second chances series • fallen angel series

please read main masterlist

© all rights reserved. Please don't translate, repost or plagiarize.

[j3t-blue]

zuko (in the early days of his reign) is to the fire nation what zohran mamdani is to new york

i will not be taking questions at this time

[zaerilyn]

requested by thankgodmyphoneswaterproof ᰔ

5 TIMES ZUKO BURNED THE PALACE + 1 TIME THE MAID FINALLY UNDERSTOOD WHY

art cr @ oouyox on X

18+ MDNI, smut, adult!zuko, fire lord!zuko, established relationship, newlywed, dom!zuko, jealous!zuko, fire lady!reader, water/icebender!reader, cockwarming, oral sex, edging, creampie, semi-public sex, dry hump, etc ... DEAR DIARY, it’s my sixth day as a palace maid & apparently fire lord zuko burns things down whenever he’s alone with his wife. i asked the head maid about it, but she said i’m still too innocent to understand ...? is it because the fire lord is abusive ?! i just hope the kind fire lady is okay :<

O1 | HOPELESSLY DEVOTED TO YOU

The palace staff had quickly learned to read the architectural warning signs. At first, the occasional flicker of the wall sconces was easy to dismiss as a normal side effect of living inside the Fire Nation royal estate, where ceremonial flames burned at nearly every corner and the Caldera heat had a personality of its own. A candle trembling during a tense council meeting was not unusual. A brazier roaring too brightly after the Fire Lord received bad news was simply part of palace life. Firebenders were emotional people, after all, and the palace had housed generations of them.

But then the Fire Lord got married, and suddenly the entire palace became one prolonged fire hazard.

Whenever Zuko was struck by a particularly intense wave of desire for his wife, his inner fire reacted with embarrassing honesty. The decorative flames burning in the iron wall sconces would surge upward, roaring to life in blinding, unnatural pillars of gold. Lanterns trembled on their hooks, curtains smoked at the edges, and the very air in certain corridors grew so thick and hot that walking through them felt like stepping into the throat of a dragon. It became common knowledge among the staff that if a hallway suddenly felt like a furnace and the torches were licking the ceiling, you simply turned around and walked the other way.

No one said anything directly, of course. This was the Fire Lord and Fire Lady, newlyweds and apparently determined to test the structural endurance of every room, corridor, garden, balcony, kitchen, archive, and unfortunately, the royal study. The guards developed a silent rotation around the affected areas. The maids began carrying water basins with the same exhausted professionalism soldiers carried spears. The council, with great suffering and even greater self-preservation, pretended not to notice whenever their notoriously strict, punctual ruler arrived at official meetings with his collar pulled suspiciously high and his hair slightly more ruined than court protocol allowed.

You, naturally, found the entire situation hilarious. Zuko didn’t.

“You’re ruining my reputation,” he muttered one morning over breakfast, glaring into his tea as if the jasmine leaves had personally betrayed him. His hair was still half-loose from sleep, his robe lazily tied at the waist, and the faint reddish mark just beneath his jaw was doing an absolutely terrible job of staying hidden under his collar.

You lifted your teacup with both hands, blinking at him over the rim with exaggerated innocence. “My love, your reputation survived banishment, piracy, treason, and that one unfortunate ponytail era. I think it can survive people knowing you like your wife.”

His golden eyes narrowed. “I do not merely like my wife.”

“Oh?”

His gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes with the grim seriousness of a man discussing military strategy. “I am devoted to my wife.”

Your heart did something terribly inconvenient inside your chest. Then Zuko, apparently deciding that ruining you emotionally before breakfast was perfectly acceptable royal behavior, added in a lower voice, “Obsessed, even.”

The candle between you burst into a sudden, dramatic flame.

Both of you looked at it.

From the doorway, the head maid closed her eyes and took a very slow breath. “Not again,” she whispered.

O2 | SEVEN MINUTES OF HEAVEN

The first major casualty of your absolute lack of restraint was the royal study. It had started as a minor disagreement over a passing comment made by a visiting Earth Kingdom dignitary, which really should not have escalated as quickly as it did. The dignitary had been harmless enough, charming in that polished diplomatic way, with smooth compliments and practiced laughter that clearly meant nothing beyond courtly manners. You had barely paid him any mind. Zuko, unfortunately, had paid him too much mind.

By the time the heavy doors of the royal study closed behind you both, the Fire Lord’s fiercely protective instincts were already simmering dangerously beneath his skin. The room smelled of cedar, parchment, ink, and the sharp metallic bite of ozone, a scent you had come to associate with your husband trying very hard not to set something on fire. He stood near the shelves with a scroll clenched in one hand, his jaw tight enough to cut glass, while you leaned against the edge of his massive oak map table and crossed your arms.

“You are being ridiculous, Zuko,” you said. The table behind you was covered in carefully arranged naval documents, trade routes, council reports, and one very important scroll that had taken three ministers nearly a week to prepare. “He complimented my diplomacy. That is literally his job.”

Zuko’s eyes flashed. “He complimented more than your diplomacy.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was honestly impressive you didn’t see the back of your own skull. “You know I only have eyes for you. Besides, you are one to talk. Honestly, with your history, I’m surprised you didn’t accidentally marry half the Earth Kingdom before I got here. Total womanizer.”

Zuko went completely still.

The scroll in his hand lowered slowly, and you realized a fraction too late that you had touched something far more tender than simple jealousy. Over the past decade, Zuko had mellowed into a composed ruler, a man capable of silencing entire council chambers with nothing but a look. But there were still old wounds beneath all that control, places where rejection and loneliness had carved themselves too deeply into him. Your teasing had landed somewhere dangerously close to one of them.

“A womanizer?” Zuko repeated quietly.

His voice was calm, and that was what made it worse. It had dropped into that dark, gravelly register meant only for you, the one that made the back of your neck prickle and your spine instinctively straighten. He placed the scroll down on the desk with careful precision, then moved around the table with slow, heavy steps until he was standing directly in front of you, crowding you back against the polished wood.

“My wife,” he said, his golden eyes burning with raw, defensive intensity, “I haven’t looked at, let alone wanted, another woman in years. I was abstinent before you invaded my palace, pointed a blade at my throat, and drove me completely insane.”

Your breath caught. The firelights in the study flickered at the edges of your vision, but you could barely focus on them with the way he was looking at you, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between your bodies.

“That was…” You swallowed, suddenly finding it very difficult to hold onto your smug little smile. “That was a very dramatic answer.”

Zuko only huffed, low and humorless, his mouth twitching like he could not decide whether he wanted to argue with you or ruin you against the nearest available surface.

“Anyway, you have a council meeting in exactly—”

“They can wait.”

“They really cannot.”

“They can,” he said, and there was something almost dangerous in how certain he sounded. His hands found your waist, scorching through the layers of crimson silk as he pushed closer, forcing the edge of the map table to press harder against the back of your thighs. The carefully organized naval reports crinkled beneath your palms when you braced yourself, and Zuko’s eyes dropped to the movement before lifting back to your face, dark and possessive and entirely too pleased with the way your composure had started to slip.

You opened your mouth to respond, but whatever clever retort you had prepared vanished the moment his lips brushed the side of your neck. Zuko had always loved you with a terrifying kind of intensity, and when his emotions caught fire, he had a habit of kissing like he was trying to prove something to both of you at once. Still, there was nothing uncertain in the way your fingers curled into his collar, nothing hesitant in the way you pulled him closer, dragging him down until his mouth finally crashed against yours.

The kiss wasn’t elegant. It was teeth and heat and months of carefully leashed obsession finally snapping under the weight of one careless accusation.

Zuko kissed you like he was still trying to prove a point, like every word you had thrown at him had struck somewhere too close to an old wound and he had decided the only acceptable response was to make you forget you had ever doubted him. One large, calloused hand slid up your spine, fingers spreading firmly between your shoulder blades while the other gripped your hip hard enough to make the silk wrinkle beneath his palm. You answered by biting his lower lip, and the low, broken sound that tore from his throat went straight through you.

“My lord,” you gasped against his mouth, freezing fingers twisting into the front of his robes. “You’re gonna be late—”

“Don’t care,” he panted, voice wrecked and rough. He shoved your skirts up with impatient hands and lifted you onto the map table in one motion. Scrolls scattered. An inkwell tipped over, spilling black across weeks of careful work, but neither of you noticed.

You barely had time to brace yourself before he pushed your legs apart. He freed himself with jerky movements, and the thick, scorching heat of his cock dragged against your inner thigh. You shivered at the contrast.

“Zuko—s-slow down—” The word broke into a sharp moan as he pushed inside you in one deep thrust, stretching you open around burning heat. The clash of temperatures dragged ragged groans from both of you.

He moved with none of his usual restraint after that, the table creaking beneath you as ruined scrolls slipped uselessly to the floor. Your freezing hands clutched at his shoulders, frost blooming beneath your fingertips before melting almost instantly against the fevered heat of his skin.

“You’re unbearable when you’re—ah!—jealous,” you managed between breaths, the words shaky and broken.

Zuko let out a breathless, almost pained laugh against your neck, hips never slowing. “And yet you keep giving me reasons.”

He shifted just enough to find the angle that made the whole room blur at the edges.

“Zuko—right t-there,” you gasped, head falling back as your legs tightened around his waist. The firelights in the study answered before he could, flickering wildly as his control slipped. Flames stretched higher in the sconces, throwing restless gold across the walls, while a nearby candle flared too bright and caught the corner of a discarded scroll.

Neither of you stopped.

Zuko moved with terrifying concentration, one hand planted against the table, the other gripping your thigh as if he needed something solid to hold onto. The room filled with heat, paper crumpled beneath you, and somewhere behind him, another small flame caught at the edge of an old tapestry.

“Zuko—ah, I’m g-gonna—” Your words dissolved into a broken moan as you came first, sudden and shattering. Your walls clenched tight around his burning length.

The cold rush dragged him over the edge right after. He buried himself deep with a choked groan, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you. His inner fire roared so fiercely that two of the wall sconces burst into tall, uncontrolled flames for several seconds before slowly settling.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the soft crackle of the small fires still licking at the edges of the room.

Zuko stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. His breath was hot and uneven against your neck. You carded freezing fingers through his messy hair and pressed a soft kiss to his scarred cheek.

“…You’re definitely late now,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

When Fire Lord Zuko finally strode into the grand hall—hair slightly mussed, ceremonial robes hastily straightened, and a very obvious trail of fresh dark marks blooming along the side of his neck—the temperature in the palace had spiked noticeably. The decorative fire sconces outside the royal study were still flaring brighter than usual.

Avatar Aang took one look at him, then at the faint sheen of lingering frost melting on Zuko’s collar, and choked violently on his tea.

The rest of the council suddenly found the table extremely interesting.

Zuko, however, simply took his seat with that terrifyingly composed Fire Lord mask firmly back in place. Though the faint, smug curve at the corner of his mouth gave him away completely.

He was exactly seven minutes late.

And he didn’t look sorry at all.

O3 | “SIR, I’M NOT PAID ENOUGH FOR THIS.”

The outdoor training courtyard was not safe from your antics either. The afternoon sun was blistering, turning the stone tiles warm beneath your bare feet, but the heat rolling off Zuko’s skin was even hotter. He moved across the courtyard with lethal precision, dual dao swords flashing in sharp silver arcs as he pressed forward. You met him strike for strike, your waterbending weaving through his aggression like a river cutting through stone. He had trained under masters, survived wars, fought prodigies and assassins and spirits, but you had learned his body in motion with a familiarity that made every sparring match feel less like combat and more like a private language.

He swung low. You stepped over the blade. He pivoted, and you caught the shift in his weight before he completed the motion, twisting your wrist and drawing moisture from the air until it hardened into a wicked, glittering blade of ice. With a sharp sweep of your ankle and a perfectly timed pull of water beneath his heel, you sent him off balance. Zuko hit the ground with a rough grunt, and before he could recover, you vaulted forward, straddling his waist and pressing the freezing tip of your ice dagger directly against the erratic pulse beating at his neck.

“Dead,” you panted, victorious and breathless, a smirk curling at your lips.

Zuko didn’t look at the blade. He looked at you.

His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his chest rising and falling beneath the open collar of his training robe. His golden eyes dragged slowly from your triumphant expression to the way your thighs pinned him in place, and the sudden clash of your freezing temperature against his scorching skin visibly wrecked whatever remained of his concentration. A soft cloud of steam curled where your bare legs pressed against him. His hands flexed once at his sides, then slid up to grip your thighs with desperate, reverent heat.

He had simply stopped trying.

“You’re distracted,” you accused, breathless and smug.

Zuko’s gaze flicked back to yours, dark and unashamed. “Well, you’re sitting on top of me.”

“That is a terrible excuse.”

“It’s a very convincing one.”

You laughed, delighted, but the sound barely had time to leave your mouth before his hand moved to the back of your neck and pulled you down into a kiss. The ice dagger dissolved instantly, melting into a harmless stream of water that ran over his collarbone and disappeared into the fabric of his robe. You meant to tease him for surrendering so easily, but then his hips shifted beneath you, and the thought scattered completely. Through the thin layers of training clothes, you felt the unmistakable hard line of him pressed against you, hot and insistent, betraying exactly why his focus had slipped in the first place.

Your breath caught against his mouth.

His grip on your thighs tightened, and when you moved by accident—just a slight shift of your weight over his lap—his reaction was immediate. A rough, strained sound broke low in his throat, his head tipping back against the ground for half a second before his golden eyes snapped back to yours, darker than before. The victory in your expression slowly turned into something far more dangerous.

“Oh,” you breathed, unable to stop the smile spreading across your lips. “So that’s why you lost.”

You shifted again, deliberately this time, just enough to make the heat between you drag in a way that stole the air from both of your lungs. Zuko’s hand slid up to your waist, holding you in place, but he did not push you away. If anything, he pulled you closer, guiding the slow, heated movement until the line between sparring and something far less appropriate blurred completely.

Around you, the courtyard seemed to inhale. The lanterns along the wall flared, the training posts began to smoke, and a nearby guard, who had unfortunately chosen that exact moment to enter through the side gate, stopped mid-step, stared at the scene, and very slowly turned around.

He did not get paid enough for this.

Two more guards followed him without a word.

By the time the flames around the courtyard settled, three practice posts had been scorched, one stone pillar had cracked from thermal shock, and Zuko had somehow managed to look both smug and completely ruined at the same time. You brushed ash off his shoulder later, trying very hard not to laugh, while he stood there with his hair destroyed, his robe uneven, and the kind of expression that made it very clear he had absolutely no regrets.

“This is why the staff avoids us,” you told him.

Zuko leaned down until his mouth brushed your ear. “Good.”

O4 | STEP ONE: CALL HIM ZUZU!

But the most chaotic incident happened in the supposed privacy of your royal bedchamber, fueled by three generous glasses of imported plum wine and your unfortunate discovery of Zuko’s old travel chest.

You were delightfully, shamelessly drunk, rummaging through the old belongings he had kept tucked away at the back of the chamber while he watched you from the bed with the wary patience of a man who knew his wife well enough to expect disaster. There were old cloaks, worn maps, a few dull blades wrapped in cloth, and several items from the years he clearly did not enjoy discussing unless he was already half-asleep and emotionally ambushed by your cold hands on his chest.

Then you found the mask.

The infamous wooden Blue Spirit mask stared up at you from beneath a folded travel cloak, its painted grin just as dramatic as the stories had promised. Your eyes widened. Your mouth fell open. Zuko, immediately sensing danger, sat up.

“No,” he said.

You slowly lifted the mask.

“No.”

“Zuko.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Zuzu.”

His expression tightened. “Don’t Zuzu me.”

You turned toward him with the biggest, most delighted smile he had ever seen, clutching the mask like a sacred treasure. “Katara told me about this.”

Zuko closed his eyes.

Of course Katara had told you. Katara had a gift, and it was not just waterbending, healing, or her terrifying ability to mother people into becoming better versions of themselves. No, Katara had the supernatural ability to make traumatized boys confess their entire life stories to her. Jet, Aang, Sokka, Zuko; somehow all of them had, at one point or another, looked into her kind blue eyes and decided, yes, this girl absolutely needed to hear the worst thing that had ever happened to them.

And now, thanks to her, you knew about the Blue Spirit, which meant Zuko was doomed.

It started as a joke, as most of your terrible ideas did. You had dragged the mask out of his travel chest with far too much excitement, demanded he put it on, and somehow managed to bully the Fire Lord of the Fire Nation into indulging you with nothing but sparkling eyes and a smile he had never learned how to refuse. The bargain had been simple, if deeply unfair: he would wear the mask, and in return you would sit sweetly in his lap—taking him fully inside you and staying there without moving.

Which, technically, you were doing.

The plum wine had left you warm and loose above him, your arms looped lazily around his neck while Zuko sat against the pillows with the last of his dignity barely hanging on by a thread. He was buried deep inside you, thick and throbbing while your walls wrapped snugly around his cock. He tried very hard to act like this was not the most unreasonable form of torture you had ever invented.

The mask stared back at you with its sharp painted grin, pale tusks, hollow eyes, and all the dramatic menace of a nightmare that had learned theater. It should not have been funny. It definitely should not have been romantic. But you, warmed by plum wine and your own terrible sense of humor, looked at him like this was the most delightful thing you had ever seen.

Zuko, unfortunately, had no idea what to do with that.

He had been perfectly willing to toss the mask aside the second you dragged it out of his travel chest, but you had whined so dramatically when he reached for it that he froze mid-motion, one hand hovering beside the painted blue grin.

“Nooo,” you complained, clutching at his wrist with both hands. “Keep the mask on.”

Zuko went still beneath you.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m extremely serious.”

“The mask is crooked.”

“That makes it better.”

“It does not.”

“It does,” you insisted, squinting at him with the solemn concentration of someone trying very hard to appear artistic while very drunk. The Blue Spirit’s painted grin stared back at you, all sharp teeth and dramatic menace, while the actual Fire Lord behind it sat painfully still beneath your attention. “You look very mysterious.”

“I look ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously hot,” you said, then reached up with both hands to adjust the strap.

Unfortunately, your coordination had been murdered by plum wine. Instead of fixing it, you somehow made the mask tilt even farther to one side, turning the fearsome Blue Spirit into something lopsided, sulky, and deeply offended. You stared at him for one long, silent second.

Then you giggled.

It was such a small thing. A drunken little request, harmless and silly, made with your eyes bright from wine and your smile too soft to be cruel. Still, insecurity struck him faster than reason could. For one brief, awful second, his mind went somewhere old and ugly, back to every stare that had lingered too long on his scar, every flinch hidden behind polite manners, every person who had looked at the burned side of his face before they looked at him.

His voice came out quieter than he intended. “What, is the mask better?”

You blinked.

Then your expression changed so quickly it almost hurt to watch. The teasing vanished, replaced by something fiercely offended, as if the thought itself had personally insulted you. “No, silly,” you said, already reaching for the edge of the mask. “I just wanna tease you.”

Before he could answer, you pulled it off his face and yeeted it over your shoulder with absolutely no grace. Weee. The mask sailed through the air in a tragic little arc before landing harmlessly somewhere among the cushions.

Zuko stared after it, then he stared back at you.

Without the mask, his face was fully visible in the dim amber light of the bedchamber: the strong line of his jaw, the softness of his mouth, the old scar that had shaped him without ever making him any less beautiful, and the golden eyes that had once burned with anger but now looked at you with something so painfully devoted it made your chest ache. You cupped his face with both hands, your thumbs brushing over his cheeks with tenderness.

“Nothing beats your pretty face, Zuzu.”

Zuko went completely still.

There it was again, that impossible thing you did to him. You could tease him until his ears went red, bully him into wearing an old vigilante mask, laugh at his suffering like it was your favorite hobby, and then suddenly say something so gentle that it cut through every defense he had ever built. You were smiling at him like his face, scar and all, was not something to tolerate or look past, but something precious. Something beloved.

And because the spirits were apparently cruel, you said it while sitting so close, while your body was wrapped around his, while he was already buried deep inside you and trying very hard to pretend he was not losing every last scrap of composure he had left.

It made him want to come right there and then.

“Stop,” he rasped.

You tilted your head, still smiling. “Huh? Why?”

His hands tightened at your hips, not enough to hurt, only enough to keep you still. His jaw worked once, the muscle in his cheek jumping as he tried to gather whatever dignity had not already been ruined by you. “Just…” His voice came out strained, almost embarrassed. “Don’t move, unless you want to get pregnant.”

For one second, your wine-softened mind processed the warning.

Then your smile turned wicked.

“You do know I can just bend your—” You paused, waving one hand vaguely between you with far too much confidence for someone explaining absolutely nothing. “Your fluids, right?”

The gesture made no scientific sense whatsoever, but you delivered it with the calm certainty of a woman who had never once allowed anatomy, physics, or basic decency to stop her.

You leaned closer, lips hovering near his, mischief bright in your wine-soft eyes. “Besides, it’s not like that hasn’t happened before.”

Zuko’s eyes shut for half a second.

“That is not the problem.”

“Then what is the problem, my lord?” you asked sweetly, pressing slow, teasing kisses along the side of his neck, up the sharp line of his jaw, and finally near the corner of his mouth.

His breath left him unevenly, almost a laugh and almost a groan. He looked humiliated by his own body, but too far gone to pretend he was not completely ruined by you. “The problem,” he said, voice tight with restraint, “is that we have barely done anything.”

Your expression brightened with realization.

“Oh,” you whispered, delighted. “So this is about your pride.”

“Don’t sound so pleased.”

“I’m very pleased.”

“Y/N.”

You shifted just enough to make his grip tighten again, just enough to pull a rough, broken sound from low in his throat. His teeth caught against his lower lip, his head tipping back against the pillows as if sheer stubbornness alone could hold him together. It was adorable, actually. Devastating, but adorable.

The more he thought about it, the worse it became. The warmth of you around him, your legs wrapped lazily around his waist, your hands still cradling his face like he was something worth loving carefully. Every soft movement, every breathless little laugh, every fond look you gave him pushed him closer to the edge he was desperately pretending he had not already reached.

So naturally, you moved again.

Ever so slowly. Teasingly. Just enough to shred whatever pride he had left.

The lantern beside the bed flared so brightly the room flashed gold.

Zuko’s composure broke all at once. His hands clamped around your hips, his whole body going tense beneath you as a low, wrecked groan tore from his throat and disappeared into the curve of your neck.

“Fuck, Y/N— I’m—” His voice broke into a wrecked groan. His hips jerked up once, twice, then he came hard.

You felt the first thick spurt of his cum shoot deep inside you, hot and sudden. His member pulsed strongly, again and again, flooding your walls with rope after rope of warm release. It was so much that it quickly spilled out around where you two were joined, slick and messy, dripping down his shaft and over your thighs every time he twitched.

Zuko shuddered beneath you, mouth open in a silent moan as another powerful spurt filled you. His whole body tensed, muscles straining, while the sconces around the room surged with bright blue-white flames that lit up the entire bedchamber for several long seconds. One of the hanging lanterns flared so intensely the flame nearly touched the canopy before settling.

When it finally slowed, Zuko was breathing hard, chest heaving, looking thoroughly ruined and a little mortified. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his skin, and his golden eyes were glassy with pleasure and embarrassment.

Then you looked down at him, unbearably pleased with yourself.

Zuko dragged one heavy hand down his face as if asking the spirits why they had made him fall in love with the most infuriating woman alive.

“Haa…” he breathed, glaring at you with absolutely no real anger. “You just love to test my patience, don’t you, my queen?”

A sweet, bright giggle escaped you, echoing through the quiet chamber. You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his scarred collarbone, feeling his pulse jump beneath your lips.

“Oh, absolutely.”

His laugh was low and wrecked, his hands sliding carefully back to your waist.

And the night, of course, was only beginning.

O5 | THE FIRE LORD IS A SUCKER FOR HIS WIFE

Tucked deep behind the private wing of the palace, the moon garden was quieter than the formal courtyards and far more intimate than the public terraces. Zuko had commissioned it shortly after your wedding, though he had tried to be painfully casual about the entire thing, as if personally designing a secluded garden filled with your favorite flowers, a koi pond cold enough for your waterbending, and shaded stone paths made specifically for evening walks with you was not the most obvious confession of devotion in the world. It had a narrow pond lined with black volcanic stones, clusters of red fire lilies blooming beside pale moonflowers, and a curved stone bench beneath a low maple tree whose leaves looked almost black under the night sky. The servants rarely entered unless summoned, the guards only passed the outer gate during patrol, and the entire place was usually reserved for those rare moments when the Fire Lord wanted silence with the only person he could never bear to be away from for long.

Naturally, that peace didn’t last.

You found Zuko on the stone bench long after midnight. Stripped down to only his outer robe hanging loosely from one shoulder, he stubbornly braved the biting cold as if the freezing night temperature meant nothing. His long hair had slipped free from its tie, dark strands falling over his face and sticking to the damp line of his neck. The moonlight caught the hard planes of his bare chest and abdomen, tracing silver along old scars, tense muscle, and the familiar golden warmth of his skin. One arm was draped lazily over the back of the bench, but the pose was too deliberate, too careless in the way only Zuko could be when he was trying to pretend something didn’t hurt.

Then you saw the blood.

A dark smear stained the exposed skin of his upper thigh, where a shallow but ugly cut had torn. It was not fatal, not even close, but it was bleeding enough to make your stomach twist and your irritation rise immediately behind it. Zuko, of course, looked more annoyed at being discovered than concerned about the wound itself, because apparently becoming Fire Lord, surviving assassination attempts, getting married, and promising to stop carrying the entire world on his shoulders had done absolutely nothing to cure him of his lifelong allergy to asking for help.

“You’re bleeding,” you said.

Zuko glanced down at his thigh as if the wound had personally inconvenienced him. “It’s just a scratch.”

“It’s leaking.”

“That is usually what blood does.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

The lantern beside the koi pond flickered once, as if even the flame knew he had said the wrong thing.

With a long, suffering breath, you crossed the garden, gathered your skirts in one hand, and crouched down between his parted knees before he could argue again. Zuko’s expression shifted immediately, the sharp edge of his stubbornness catching on surprise. You ignored it, drawing water from the koi pond with a smooth curl of your wrist until it rose in a clear ribbon and wrapped itself around your fingers. The moment your glowing palms settled near his thigh, the moon garden filled with soft blue light.

“You should have called me,” you murmured, keeping your eyes on the wound as the healing water spread gently over torn skin.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You woke three guards, two ministers, and probably half the turtle-ducks by bleeding through the royal hallway, but yes, thank you for sparing me.”

His mouth twitched. “The turtle-ducks are strong. They will recover.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You married me.”

“Still questioning that.”

His quiet laugh was low and tired, but it warmed the space between you more intimately than any flame. You pressed your thumb near the edge of the wound to guide the healing water deeper, and Zuko’s breath caught despite his best effort to hide it. The muscle beneath your hand jumped. His fingers curled against the stone bench, long and tense, while the lantern above his shoulder flared a little too brightly.

You looked up.

He looked away with the stiff, guilty dignity of a man who knew exactly what his own fire had just confessed.

“Zuko.” you warned him.

“I know.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“I said I know.”

“You’re injured.”

His jaw flexed. “It is not related.”

“You’re sitting here half-dressed, bleeding on a garden bench, and somehow still finding a way to be embarrassed because your wife is touching your thigh.”

The faint color climbing his neck betrayed him completely, but he still had the nerve to look offended. “You’re kneeling between my legs and scolding me. I’m reacting with impressive restraint.”

The words landed between you with enough heat to make the glowing water tremble around your fingers.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The wound was nearly closed now, the angry red line fading beneath the blue light of your bending until only smooth, warm skin remained beneath your palm. You should have stood, smacked his shoulder for being reckless, and dragged him back inside before the night patrol circled past the outer gate again. The moon garden was private, yes, but not unguarded; there were still soldiers beyond the walls, servants in the nearby corridors, and a very official expectation that a secluded garden built for quiet walks would not be used for anything else.

Or so everyone kept insisting.

Instead, your hand lingered against his thigh for one second too long, and Zuko’s golden eyes darkened beneath the loose fall of his hair.

The look he gave you made the koi pond steam.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said.

You blinked up at him with exaggerated innocence, though your hand was still resting a little too comfortably against his newly healed thigh. “I’m healing you.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m just naturally joyful person.”

“Joyful person, huh? No wonder you threatened to freeze a councilman’s tongue this morning.”

Your expression didn’t change. “He interrupted my breakfast.”

“That doesn’t support your argument.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it, soft and bright in the quiet garden, and just like that, whatever remained of Zuko’s restraint seemed to fold in on itself. His expression changed, irritation melting into something far more dangerous and far more tender. He looked at you the way he always did right before the palace lost another curtain, like your laughter was the only sound in the world that mattered and his fire had no idea what to do with the feeling.

His hand lifted from the bench and touched your chin, tilting your face up with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

“The wound is healed,” he murmured.

You glanced down. It was. Completely.

“So it is,” you whispered.

“You’re still kneeling.”

“Well, duh, you’re holding my face.”

His thumb brushed once along your chin, then higher, grazing your lower lip with the kind of careful heat that made the entire garden feel suddenly too quiet.

The moon garden went very still around you. The koi pond steamed faintly at the edges. The fire lilies glowed red beneath the lantern light, and the night air warmed until the scent of maple leaves, water, and Zuko’s familiar cedar heat wrapped around you like a warning.

You forgot whatever clever thing you were about to say.

Instead, your gaze dropped, which Zuko noticed almost immediately.

His thumb stilled against your mouth. “Y/N.”

There was warning in his voice, but not nearly enough conviction behind it. Not when he was still half-dressed on the stone bench, hair loose around his flushed face, newly healed thigh still warm beneath your hand, and looking at you like he had already lost the argument before it began.

You tilted your head with exaggerated innocence. “What?”

“You know what.”

You pressed a slow kiss to the inside of his newly healed thigh, right where blood had stained his skin only moments ago, and Zuko’s breath fractured so sharply it nearly ruined his attempt at dignity. His fingers curled against the stone bench before slipping into your hair. His touch was impossibly gentle, as though holding on to you was the only way to keep himself from falling apart.

“I’m very thorough.”

His eyes narrowed. “That is not what thorough means.”

“It is when I’m the healer.”

You looked up at him.

Moonlight painted silver across his bare chest, the hard lines of his abdomen, the old scars scattered across his skin, and the faint sheen of sweat gathering at his throat. His long hair hung loose and messy, a few strands clinging to the sharp line of his jaw. He looked like a man who had survived wars, assassination attempts, exile, palace politics, and half the world trying to break him.

And somehow, this was what undid him.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he breathed, voice rough and helpless.

Your smile softened for half a second. “Wrong,” you murmured playfully, kissing him again, slower this time. “I’m going to make you feel better.”

Zuko’s laugh came out low and wrecked, barely more than a breath.

Whatever answer he meant to give disappeared when you tugged the rest of his robe aside and freed him. He was already achingly hard, flushed dark and leaking at the tip. You dragged your tongue slowly from base to head, savoring the way his thigh muscle jumped under your free hand.

Zuko let out a shaky exhale, head tipping back against the bench. “Hah—Y/N,”

You answered by taking him into your mouth, slow and wet, sinking down until he bumped the back of your throat. A low, broken sound escaped him—something between a groan and a sigh, like the tension he’d been carrying all night was finally cracking.

You worked him with lazy, deliberate strokes of your mouth, one hand stroking what you couldn’t take while the other rested possessively on his uninjured thigh. Every time you hollowed your cheeks or swirled your tongue, his hips twitched, fighting the urge to thrust.

The muscles in his abdomen flexed visibly with every stroke of your tongue as his breathing grew more uneven. You could feel him throbbing, getting impossibly harder against your tongue.

When you looked up, his golden eyes were fixed on you—dark, overwhelmed, and completely unguarded. The sight made something warm bloom in your chest.

It only made you greedier. So you slowed down, cruelly deliberate now, learning the exact rhythm that made his breath catch and then denying him the moment he got too close. Every time you felt his thighs tense and his member start to throb harder against your tongue, you eased off, licking lazily along the underside or sucking softly on just the head until his hips twitched with frustration.

His fingers tightened in your hair, not forcing you, but clearly fighting the urge to. “Y/N…” His voice was hoarse, almost pleading. “Don’t—ah—don’t tease me like this.”

You pulled off with a wet pop, lips glistening, and looked up at him with a wicked little smile. “But you look so pretty when you’re desperate.”

Zuko’s eyes shut, his jaw clenching as if the words had struck somewhere embarrassingly deep.

You sank back down immediately, taking him to the back of your throat in one smooth motion. Zuko groaned, head falling back against the bench as his hips jerked. You could feel him getting dangerously close again—thick and pulsing on your tongue—so you pulled back once more, stroking him slowly with your hand.

He let out a wrecked sound, half curse, half whimper. “You’re cruel… but—fuck, hah—you’re so beautiful.”

You hummed around him in response, the vibration pulling another quiet curse from his lips. You took him deeper, faster, letting the wet sounds mix with his ragged breathing and the gentle ripple of water. One of your freezing fingers traced the sensitive skin just beneath his cock, the sharp temperature contrast making his whole body jerk.

The second time you pulled him back from the edge, he lost whatever pride had been keeping him silent.

“Please,” he rasped.

For once, he looked less like a ruler and more like a man entirely at his wife’s mercy.

You looked up at him with a wicked, affectionate smile, still stroking him fast and tight. “Cum for me, Zuzu.”

For a heartbeat, he tried not to.

You saw it in the sharp clench of his jaw, the way his fingers tightened in your hair without pulling, the way his breath caught and broke like he could still argue his way out of surrendering. Then his restraint snapped quietly, then all at once.

The Fire Lord came with a choked, broken groan, his hips jerking up uncontrollably as the first thick, hot spurt flooded your mouth. You moaned around his pulsing cock, swallowing greedily, but there was too much—thick ropes of cum kept shooting across your tongue, so much that it overflowed almost immediately. It spilled from the corners of your stretched lips, dripping messily down his throbbing shaft and over your fingers as you kept stroking him through it. The sheer amount of it made your thighs press together, heat pooling low in your belly at how desperately his body was giving in to you.

He shuddered hard beneath you, muscles taut and trembling, his long hair sticking to his sweat-damp neck and chest. His golden eyes were half-lidded, glazed with raw pleasure as he watched you take every drop like you were starving for him.

The koi pond steamed violently. A nearby fire lily bush glowed red-hot before slowly dimming.

When it finally subsided, Zuko was slumped against the bench with his chest heaving, your husband looked beautifully ruined. You pulled off slowly, licking your lips clean with a small, satisfied smile. A thin string of cum still connected your bottom lip to him before it broke.

“Good boy,” you teased softly.

Zuko stared down at you for a long moment, something raw and helpless in his expression.

“…You’re impossible,” he finally whispered, voice hoarse and wondering, as if he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You pressed one last soft kiss to his thigh and smiled.

“Isn’t this exactly what you wanted, my lord?”

His smirk deepened at your question.

Clearly, you had not realized how much danger that pretty little mouth of yours had put you in.

Zuko was still flushed, still catching his breath, still looking far too ruined for a man who had any right to recover so quickly. But his hands were steady when they reached for you, sliding beneath your arms and pulling you up into his lap before you could even think to escape.

You landed against him with a soft gasp, your skirts spilling messily over his thighs. The warmth of him pressed through the fabric, unmistakable and already returning, and suddenly your teasing smile did not feel quite as victorious as it had a moment ago.

“My wife always knows best, doesn’t she?” he murmured, his voice low against your mouth.

O6 | UPDATE: THE FIRE LADY IS FINE

By the end of the first month, the palace had adapted with the grim efficiency of a nation recovering from war. The maids carried water buckets as part of their standard duties, the guards learned which corridors to avoid based on heat patterns alone, and the council stopped scheduling meetings too close to breakfast, lunch, dinner, sparring sessions, diplomatic arguments, late-night kitchen raids, library research, moon garden strolls, or any moment where the Fire Lady happened to smile at her husband for longer than three seconds. The palace seamstresses quietly reinforced your gowns, the head chef hid the good towels, and the royal archivist posted a handwritten warning outside the study that simply read: NO OPEN FLAMES NEAR NAVAL DOCUMENTS, which everyone understood was not actually about candles.

Zuko pretended to be offended by all of this, but you knew better. For all his muttering about dignity and decorum, the Fire Lord was utterly hopeless. He had spent years learning how to contain himself, how to swallow rage, how to make his fire precise enough to serve a nation instead of destroy it. Yet somehow, all it took was your hand on his sleeve, your mouth near his ear, your laughter pressed against his throat, or apparently the simple act of healing a wound on his thigh, and the most powerful firebender in the world became a walking architectural threat.

The newest maid finally understood after one night, when she heard your bright, breathless laughter from behind the royal chamber doors, followed by Zuko’s low voice murmuring something far too soft to be anger. The sconces outside the hallway flared blue-white, the temperature spiked, and suddenly every vague warning from the senior maids made horrifying, embarrassing sense.

By dinner, her diary had only one update:

DEAR DIARY,

thankfully, the fire lady is fine.

the furniture, however, is not.

After that, she stopped asking questions and started carrying a water bucket like everyone else.

These days, the palace staff had been working very hard. If they were lucky, you had already set the fire down with your bending before anyone arrived. If they were not, they had to manually put out the flames before replacing another curtain, cushion, napkin, table runner, practice post, garden lantern, or emotionally unfortunate bread basket. Still, no matter how violently the sconces flared or how many unfortunate pieces of furniture fell victim to the Fire Lord’s complete lack of restraint around his wife, the flames never once touched you.

Even when his control slipped because of you, even when desire made the air shimmer and the palace lights burn brighter than they had any right to, Zuko’s fire always curved away from your skin. It burned around you, sparked above you, and curled through the air like devotion given shape, but it never hurt you. It would never hurt you. His fire had been raised in anger, sharpened by war, and forced for years to survive on pain, but with you, it had learned something gentler, something warmer, something sacred.

With you, his fire had learned love.

And love, no matter how brightly it burned, would always know how to keep you safe.

this is part of the sublimation ( my zuko fic ) universe! read more chapters

this oneshot took me like ~8 hours btw. i need everyone to clap because what the hell </3

anw i alr finished the atla la s2 n it was so good !! altho they skipped n reordered some parts, but it’s prolly bc of the budget... welp, i can’t wait for the movie to come out.

[gojoandtojisleftnut]

LUNCH - FIRELORD!ZUKO x FEM!READER

tw: nsfw! 18+. established relationship, pet names, pregnant reader, cunninlingus, fingering.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The heavy silence of noon has completely blanketed the imperial palace. The entire court, the guards, and the servants are fast asleep, retreating from the oppressive summer heat that makes the stone walls sweat.

But inside your veins, the heat isn't coming from the sun. Between your raging pregnancy hormones and the sweltering air, you have reached an absolute breaking point.

You move through the deserted corridors like a ghost, completely driven by instinct. You are wearing nothing but your thinnest silk wrap dress. The fabric clings ruthlessly onto your skin, perfectly molding around the heavy swell of your breasts, which have grown significantly over the last month. Beneath them, your bump pushes forward—a perfect, and undeniable dome that sways heavily with every step you take.

You push open the heavy cedar doors to his private sanctuary. Zuko is sitting behind his massive desk, royal mantle discarded and replaced with a sleeveless robe, his towering frame hunched over stacks of state documents. His broad shoulders are glistening with a light sheen of sweat. When the door clicks, he looks up, his gravelly voice softening instantly.

“My love, you should be resting, what are you-”

You don't let him finish. You walk straight up to the edge of the gold and mahogany desk, sweeping a pile of parchment to the floor with one swift motion. With absolute, unyielding intent, you hoist your frame up, hopping onto the smooth wood right in front of his face.

You tilt your head slightly to the side and lean back steading yourself on your hands. Your eyes half-lidded and clouded with raw, dark desire, as you slowly push your legs wide apart.

Because you aren't wearing anything underneath, the thin silk dress parts completely. Your pretty, flushed pussy is fully exposed, glistening, and dripping from the intense ache consuming your body. A single, thick drip of your slick slowly slides down from your swollen lips, tracking a hot, wet path straight toward your ass.

Zuko freezes entirely. His gold eye dilates until it is completely black, his jaw dropping slack in pure, unadulterated shock. A deep, burning crimson flush rushes straight up his neck, coloring his scar an even more dangerous, bruised purple. The natural, intense cinnamon-and-smoke heat radiating from his skin violently spikes, the air in the office instantly shimmering like a furnace.He stares at the wet, glistening sight of your submission, his chest heaving as his primitive instincts completely obliterate his royal decorum. His big hands slightly twitching, instinctively reaching for you.

“Eat”

A single word is all it needs to make the fire lord completely fold.

A low and utterly ruined growl tears from the deep recesses of his chest. His hands shoot forward with a visceral, white-knuckled desperation. His massive palms clamp ruthlessly around your inner thighs, his calloused fingers digging firmly into your soft skin to pin your legs wide open against the mahogany wood.

He drops his head between your legs without a second thought, his sharp jawline contouring against your inner thighs as his mouth crashes directly onto your wet, pulsing center. He makes out with your pussy as if he is trying to consume your entire soul. His hot tongue licks upward in long, deep, and heavy strokes, completely lapping up your juices like a man dying of thirst. He sucks your sensitive clit into his mouth, his lips creating a possessive vacuum that makes you let out a loud, echoing moan of pure pleasure into the empty room.

Your fingers fly to his dark hair, gripping his long locks tightly to pull him deeper into you as your body trembles with the sudden, violent rush of adrenaline.

As he devours you, his right hand slides down from your thigh. Slowly, deliberately, he presses a single, long, finger directly into your tight, soaking wet entrance.

You let out a ragged, whimpering gasp as he slides all the way in, stretching you open. Keeping his mouth locked onto your clit, his tongue working frantically, he begins to pump his finger slowly, deeply, inside you. The agonizingly slow friction of his calloused skin bottoming out inside your walls, combined with the wet, sloppy suction of his mouth, sends waves of blinding, electric heat straight to your core.

“God, you’re so wet for me baby.. dripping on my tongue”

He doesn't stop. He speeds up his tongue, his single finger continuing its deep, slow, and ruthless rhythm inside you, thoroughly determined to drown his queen in her own pleasure. A minute later you’re cumming all over his tongue, and he doesn’t leave a single drop of your juices go to waste.

He gives your pussy one final kiss before he hovers over you. One hand on your tummy and the other caressing your cheek as you lean into it, trying to catch your breath.

“Come on my love, lets take you to bed”

[pearlfoam]

when he kisses your puffy pussy so sweetly and says a little breathlessly “my poor baby” as if he wasn’t the one absolutely pounding you into the next week

[ruya4four]

occupied matters ⚡︎ zuko x reader

content warningsﾉtags: NSFWﾉ18+ (MDNI), explicit smut, fem!reader, firelord!zuko, angry sex, hair pulling, size difference, biting, overstimulation, p in v, arguing, derogatory pet names, risk of discovery, not proofread, lowercase intended

author's note: based on this request!! they have me in atla jail. send help. (i don't wanna be saved unless it's zuko doing the saving.)

"you are impossible, zuko. genuinely, utterly impossible. did you think i was just going to sit there like a gilded doll while pakku insulted our lineage? i was helping you!" 

your voice is a burst of fire, amplifying the heavy air of the imperial bedchamber. the room smells of burnt agarwood, expensive charcoal, and the metallic tang of unshed rage. you're pinned against the cold stone of the wall, the tapestries rustling behind your head as he drives into you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. his skin is fever-hot, a living furnace pressing against your cooler flesh, and the contrast is a shock that travels straight to your marrow.

he doesn't answer with words at first, only a guttural sound in his throat that isn't quite a snarl and isn't quite a plea. his face is a mask of tension, that familiar scar—rough and textured like dried parchment—twisting as he grits his teeth. his eyes are amber fire, narrowed and tracking the way your lips curl in defiance. he’s beautiful even when he’s being a stubborn, spoiled brat, his long dark hair falling out of its topknot in messy, silken strands that brush against your collarbone.

you wrap your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him in even as you glare. your heels dig into the small of his back, feeling the ripple of lean muscle beneath his silk robes. "don't you dare shut me out now. look at me. you know i was right about the trade routes. you know it, and you're just too proud to admit your wife has a better head for diplomacy than your entire council of ancient, dusty men."

"it's about... protocol," he pants, the word breaking in the middle as you shift your hips, catching him just right. he mouths the words against the curve of your jaw, his breath smelling of cinnamon and smoke. "you can't just... ungh... you can't just speak over the firelord in front of a foreign delegation. it makes us look fractured. it makes me look weak."

you let out a harsh, mocking laugh, the sound echoing off the high ceilings where the shadows of flickering candles dance like spirits. reach up, you fist your hands into his hair, tugging downward with a sharp, uncompromising jerk. his head snaps back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat, and a broken, high-pitched moan spills from his lips—a sound so fragile it almost makes you want to soften. but you don't. you squeeze him, your walls clenching around his thick, veiny length, feeling the way he pulses inside you, a frantic heartbeat in a place that shouldn't have one.

"weak? you think i make you look weak?" you tease, your voice dropping to a low murmur.. "you’re the one currently trembling because i pulled your hair, zuko. you’re the one who can’t even finish a sentence because you’re so desperate to stay inside me. is this what a powerful firelord looks like? panting like a stray in the dirt because his wife talked back to him?"

he nips at your neck, a sharp, stinging bite that will definitely leave a mark—a dark purple bruise for the maids to whisper about tomorrow. his teeth are blunt and hot, scraping over your skin until you shiver. "shut up," he hisses, his voice cracking. "just... shut your mouth."

"make me," you challenge, and the air between you literally ignites.

zuko inhales sharply, and you see the orange glow behind his teeth, the heat radiating off him in a sudden, violent wave that makes the sweat on your skin evaporate instantly. he doesn't let go of you; instead, he shifts his grip, his large hands hooking under your thighs to hold you steady as he lunges away from the wall,, carrying your weight with a desperate, clumsy grace. he stumbles into a low table, sending a ceramic basin of water crashing to the floor—the scent of wet stone and copper rising up to join the scent of smokel—before he slams you down onto the sprawling silk mattress of his bed.

the impact jars you, but he’s already hovering over you, his knees pinning your arms down, his chest heaving. this position allows him to sink deeper, bottoming out against your cervix with a blunt force that draws a loud, unbidden moan from your throat.  you try to keep scolding him, try to find the words to tell him he’s a fool, but the way he’s filling you makes your brain feel like it’s melting into honey.

"you... you're still... a stubborn... idiot," you choke out, even as your back arches off the sheets.

he leans down, his hand sliding from your shoulder to your neck, his thumb pressing against your windpipe just enough to make you gasp. his other hand finds your tit, squeezing the soft tissue with a proprietary heat that feels like it’s branding you. he kisses you then—not a sweet kiss, but a frantic, unforgiving hunger, tasting of fury. his cock is thick, the head of it rubbing against your sensitive walls with every frantic, shallow thrust, the texture smooth but the pressure immense.

outside the heavy oak doors, the muffled sound of the palace at night continues—the distant clank of a guard’s spear, the soft chirping of turtleducks in the gardens—but inside the circle of his arms, the world is reduced to the friction of your intoxicating skin.

"my lord?" a voice calls out from the hallway, shrill and intrusive. it’s high sage ukano, his tone brimming with that self-importance zuko usually hates. 

"my lord, i apologize for the late hour, but we have received an urgent scroll from the earth kingdom regarding the borders. we must discuss the response before the morning bells."

zuko freezes, his body still buried deep inside yours, his heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. he breaks the kiss, looking down at you with wide, dark eyes. you start to open your mouth, a smirk forming—ready to call out, ready to ruin his dignity—but his hand is there in an instant, slapping over your lips. his palm is dry and smells of old scrolls and fire, muffling your indignant yelp.

he doesn't pull out. instead, he stays perfectly still, his cock twitching inside you, the sensation so intense it makes your toes curl into the silk. he looks toward the door, his expression shifting from frantic lover to arrogant monarch in a heartbeat, though the flush on his cheeks betrays him.

"not now, ukano," zuko calls out, his voice surprisingly steady, though there’s a smug, sharp edge to it that makes your blood simmer. he looks back down at you, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face as he begins to move again, slow and agonizingly deep, watching your eyes blow out as you struggle against his hand.

 "the firelord is currently... occupied with matters of state. leave the scroll with the guard. i will deal with you in the morning."

he doesn't look away from you as the advisor’s footsteps fade. he just keeps moving, his eyes burning with a gold that’s finally, finally steady. 

"don't you have something else to say?" he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "i'm listening."

whoever that 1st zuko anon was... look what you started.

oomf wanted to be tagged @mitsuriloveee

[dragondruk]

he looks like he watches too many sad edits of himself

credits to kulakovskaya_ on X

[chichireadss]

The Fire Nation Needs An Heir!

firelord zuko x reader , this was requested by anon!

The war room felt hot and stuffy even with the windows open to the caldera outside. You sat in your designated seat near the center of the table, trying not to fidget as the advisors droned on and on about matters of state. Across from you, Fire Lord Zuko maintained his carefully neutral expression, though you'd been married to him long enough to recognize the subtle tension in his jaw that meant he was growing impatient.

"Fire Lord Zuko," Advisor Chen said, his weathered hands folded on the table before him. "We must address the matter of succession. You've been the Fire Lord for three years now, and the nation grows... anxious."

You felt your spine straighten involuntarily. Here it comes.

"Anxious," Zuko repeated flatly, his golden eyes not moving from Chen's face.

"Concerned," another advisor, a stern man named Kaida, corrected. His gaze flickered to you briefly before returning to Zuko. "The solstice approaches. It would be... a good sign if you were to announce an heir on the way by then. The people need assurance of continuity."

Heat crept up your neck that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. You kept your expression carefully composed, hands folded in your lap, even as your heart rate picked up.

Zuko's jaw tightened. "The solstice is six weeks away."

"Precisely why we must discuss this now," Chen pressed forward, his tone growing more insistent. You noticed he was careful not to look directly at you, as though your presence in the room was incidental to this conversation about your own body, your own future. "Your marriage was celebrated by the entire nation. The people adore your wife." Now he did glance at you. "But they're waiting for the next step. For confirmation that the royal line will continue."

"The Fire Nation has been through too much upheaval," Kaida added, and you could feel the weight of his words settling over the room like a heavy blanket. "First your father's fall, then the war's end, the restructuring of our government. The people need stability. They need to know their Fire Lord's legacy is secure."

You watched Zuko's fingers drum once against the armrest of his chair—the only outward sign of his irritation. You'd learned to read these small tells, the tiny cracks in his Fire Lord facade. "I'm aware of my responsibilities to the nation."

"Then you understand the urgency," Chen said. "Before the solstice, Fire Lord. The symbolism alone would—"

"I said I understand." Zuko's voice carried the edge of authority that ended debates. His golden eyes swept across the council table, meeting each advisor's gaze in turn. When they landed on you, just for a moment, you saw something flicker there—something that made your breath catch. "The Fire Nation will have it’s heir. You have my word."

The advisors exchanged glances, relief visible on their faces.

"We knew we could count on your dedication to duty, Fire Lord," Kaida said with a slight bow of his head.

Zuko stood, and the council rose with him. You followed suit, grateful for the excuse to move, to do something with the nervous energy suddenly thrumming through your veins. "If that's all, I have other matters to attend to."

"Of course, Fire Lord. We trust you'll... prioritize this matter appropriately."

"Oh, I intend to."

There was something in the way he said it—a slight curve to his mouth, a glint in his eye—that made you very aware of your own heartbeat. The advisors seemed satisfied enough with his response, bowing as he strode from the war room. You followed at what you hoped was an appropriate distance, very conscious of the eyes tracking your exit.

The moment the heavy doors closed behind you both, you let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. The corridor was mercifully empty, and you could finally drop some of the formal composure required in the council chamber.

"Well," you said, your voice light. "That was—"

"I need to handle some correspondence," Zuko said, already moving away down the corridor. But not before you caught the look in his eyes. "I'll see you later."

Later. Huh..

You watched him go, then shook your head and made your way toward the residential wing. The afternoon sun was streaming through the palace windows, making the polished floors gleam. After that tense council meeting, all you wanted was a long, relaxing bath to wash away the stress and the weight of expectation that seemed to cling to your skin.

The royal bathing chambers were your sanctuary—a place of peace and solitude where you could let down your guard. You'd already dismissed your ladies in waiting for the afternoon, wanting privacy. Your hair was loosened from its formal style, and you'd changed into a simple robe, the silk one you favored for bathing. The jasmine oil you'd requested should already be waiting by the pools.

You were so focused on the promise of hot water and solitude that you almost didn't hear the footsteps behind you.

"Heading somewhere?"

Zuko's voice carried down the hallway, and you froze. You turned slowly, finding him approaching with measured, deliberate steps. He'd changed from his formal Fire Lord regalia into simpler clothing—still fine, still unmistakably royal, but more... accessible. His hair was loose around his shoulders, and there was something in his expression that made your pulse quicken.

"The baths," you said, your voice steady. "I thought I'd take advantage of the afternoon."

"Funny." He closed the distance between you two. you found yourself tracking his approach like prey watching a predator. Not that you felt particularly prey-like. "I was just thinking about you."

Your eyebrow arched. "Were you?" You tilted your head, a small smile playing at your lips despite yourself.

"Yeah, I was.." He stopped just in front of you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of fire and smoke that always clung to him,

"I guess the meeting went fine, don’t you agree?.."

"Mhm.” You reply back

"You know.. they want results before the solstice." His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face, and you felt the warmth of his fingers against your cheek. The gesture was tender, but there was heat in his gaze that was anything but. "They were very insistent about it. Apparently, it's a matter of national importance."

"Yeah I get it..," your tone is deliberately dry. You looked up at him, letting him see that you knew exactly what he was doing. "How convenient for you."

The corner of his mouth quirked up in that way that always made your stomach flip. "I'm just trying to serve my nation. Surely you understand the weight of duty?"

"Mm. Duty." You looked him up and down slowly, taking in the loose hair, the casual clothing, the way he was standing just a little too close to be proper. You could see right through his serious expression to the intent beneath. "And this duty requires you to interrupt my bath?"

"Actually," Zuko said, his voice dropping lower as he stepped even closer, and you found yourself backing up slightly toward the bathing chamber doors, "I think it requires me to join you. For the good of the nation, of course."

Your back hit the door, and you felt the solid wood against your spine. He was close now, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Of course," you managed, your voice not quite as steady as before. Your eyes sparkled with mischief even as your body responded to his proximity, swaying slightly toward him despite yourself. "The nation's welfare is at stake."

"Exactly." His hand settled on your waist, possessive and warm through the thin fabric of your robe. You could feel each of his fingers like brands against your skin. "Six weeks until the solstice. That's not much time. I'll need to be... thorough. Dedicated."

Your breath hitched. "How very responsible of you, Fire Lord."

"I take my duties very seriously." He leaned in, and you felt his lips brush against your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "Every. Single. One."

You shivered, unable to help yourself, and you knew he felt it. Knew he was cataloging every response, every reaction. The victory was written on the curve of his smile.

"The advisors are counting on me," he continued, his hand sliding lower on your hip, and you felt your body respond, heat pooling low in your belly. "The nation is counting on me. I can't afford to waste any opportunities. So when I see my beautiful wife heading to the baths..." He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and you could see the hunger there, barely restrained. "Well. What kind of Fire Lord would I be if I didn't seize the moment?"

You tried to maintain some semblance of composure, even as your heart raced. "A responsible one who lets his wife bathe in peace?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

You laughed, the sound warm and genuine, even as you shook your head at him. "You're impossible."

"I'm dutiful," he corrected, and you felt his hand on the small of your back, guiding you. You were moving backward now, your hand reaching behind you to find the door handle. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" But you were moving with him, not resisting. You could feel the flush creeping across your cheeks, the way your body was already responding to his proximity, his touch, the promise in his words. Your own desire was evident, and you knew he could see it.

"Absolutely." You found the handle, pushed it open, and felt the wave of warm, humid air wash over you from the bathing chambers beyond. Steam was already rising from the heated pools within, and the scent of jasmine filled the air. "And I intend to prove it to you. Repeatedly. For the next six weeks."

You stepped backward into the room, and he followed, his eyes never leaving yours. The bathing chamber was beautiful—all polished marble and gleaming tile, with the large pool set into the floor, steam rising from its surface in lazy curls. Candles were already lit around the perimeter, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. The jasmine oil sat waiting on a small table, along with soft towels and other bathing supplies.

It should have been peaceful. Relaxing.

Instead, the air was filled with anticipation.

"All in service to the nation, I'm sure," you said, your voice softer now in the intimate space.

"Of course." Zuko's smile was sharp and promising as he backed you further into the room, letting the door close behind him with a soft click. The sound felt final, sealing you both in this warm, steamy sanctuary. "What other reason could there possibly be?"

You both knew the answer to that. The air between you was thick with it—with want, with need, with the game you were both playing. His excuse was paper-thin, transparent as glass, and you could see right through it to the desire underneath.

But that was part of what made it exciting, wasn't it? The way he could look at you with those golden eyes and talk about duty and nation and responsibility, when you both knew he just wanted you. Wanted to touch you, to have you, to make you his over and over again.

And the truth—the truth you weren't saying aloud—was that you wanted it too. Wanted him to chase you, to find you, to use whatever excuse he needed to justify the hunger you could see burning in his gaze.

Six weeks until the solstice.

You had a feeling you weren't going to get many peaceful baths between now and then.

Instead, Zuko's hands found the tie of your robe, and you felt the silk give way under his fingers. The fabric parted, sliding off your shoulders to pool at your feet, leaving you bare before him in the candlelit warmth of the bathing chamber. Steam curled around your exposed skin, and you watched his eyes darken as they traced over every curve, every line of your body.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with want. His hands settled on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the hard evidence of his desire pressing against your stomach through his clothes. "The nation is very lucky."

You huffed out a laugh even as your body responded to his touch, arching into him. "The nation. Right."

"Mm." His mouth found your neck, lips and teeth working against the sensitive skin there, and you felt your knees weaken. "I have a responsibility. The advisors were very clear about that."

"So clear," you managed, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders for balance as he walked you backward toward the edge of the pool. The heated water lapped at the marble edge, steam rising in thick clouds around you both.

"Six weeks," he said against your skin, his hands sliding lower to cup your ass, lifting you slightly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, gasping at the friction. "That's not much time. I'll need to be thorough. Make sure it takes."

Your back hit the smooth marble wall beside the pool, and you felt the cool stone against your heated skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his body pressed against yours. "How very dedicated of you, Fire Lord."

"You have no idea." His mouth claimed yours then, hungry and demanding, and you opened for him, tasting smoke and spice and want. His tongue swept into your mouth as his hands worked at his own clothing, and you felt the shift as fabric gave way, felt the heat of his bare skin finally against yours.

He broke the kiss only long enough to position himself, and you felt the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You were already wet—had been since he'd cornered you in the hallway, if you were being honest with yourself—and when he pushed inside in one smooth thrust, you both groaned at the sensation.

"Fuck," Zuko breathed against your ear, his hips flush against yours, buried to the hilt inside you. "So perfect. Like you were made for this. Made to take me, to carry my heir."

You couldn't form words, could only hold onto him as he started to move, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in, Each thrust pressed you harder against the marble wall, the cool stone a sharp contrast to the heat building between your bodies.

"The nation needs this," he said, his voice strained with pleasure and control. "I need you full of me. Need to know the royal line continues." His pace increased, and you felt yourself climbing higher with each stroke, each drag of his cock against your inner walls. "I'm going to fill you up. Going to pump you so full of my cum that it has no choice but to take."

"Zuko—" His name came out as a moan, your head falling back against the marble as pleasure sparked through your nerves.

"That's it," he encouraged, one hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with practiced precision. "Cum on my cock. Show me how much you want this. Want me to breed you."

The combination of his words, his touch, the relentless pace of his hips was too much. Your orgasm crashed over you, and you cried out, your inner walls clenching around him as waves of pleasure rolled through your body. You felt him groan, felt his rhythm falter for just a moment before he was driving into you harder, chasing his own release.

"Gonna fill you," he panted, his grip on your hips almost bruising. "Gonna give you exactly what the nation needs. What we both need."

You felt him swell inside you, felt the moment he lost control, and then the hot rush of his release flooding your body. He held himself deep, grinding against you as he came, making sure every drop stayed inside you. The sensation made you shudder, a smaller aftershock of pleasure rippling through you.

For a moment, you both stayed like that, breathing hard, bodies pressed together in the steamy warmth of the bathing chamber. You could feel his cum inside you, hot and thick, could feel it starting to leak out around where you were still joined.

Then Zuko shifted, and you felt him harden again inside you, still sensitive from your orgasm. Your eyes widened.

"The advisors said I needed to be thorough," he said, that sharp smile returning to his face. His hips rolled, a slow, deliberate grind that made you gasp. "One time isn't thorough. One time isn't enough to ensure the nation gets its heir."

"Zuko—" But whatever protest you might have made died as he started moving again, slower this time but no less intense. Each thrust pushed his previous release deeper inside you, the obscene wet sounds of your coupling echoing off the marble walls.

"Mmm.. gonna fuck you until you can't walk," he promised, his mouth finding that spot on your neck that made you whimper. "Until you're so full of my cum that you can feel it for days. Until there's no doubt that you're carrying my child."

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, holding on as he built the pace again. The marble was hard against your back, his body hot and demanding against your front, and you were caught between them, caught in the pleasure he was wringing from your oversensitive body.

"For the nation," you managed to gasp out, and you felt him smile against your skin.

"For the nation," he agreed, but his next thrust was particularly deep, particularly possessive, and you both knew the truth. This wasn't about duty or advisors or the solstice deadline. This was about the way he looked at you like he wanted to devour you, the way your body responded to his touch like it was made for it.

"You're going to look so beautiful," Zuko said, his pace increasing again, driving into you with renewed purpose. "Swollen with my child. Everyone will know. Will see that you're mine, that I've claimed you, bred you."

The possessiveness in his voice sent another spike of arousal through you, and you felt yourself climbing toward another peak. "Yes," you breathed, "Yours."

"Mine," he confirmed, and his hand found your clit again, working the sensitive flesh in time with his thrusts. "My wife. My Fire Lady. The mother of my heir. Mine to fill, mine to breed, mine to fuck whenever I want."

"Whenever you want," you echoed, and you could hear the desperation in your own voice, could feel how close you were to the edge again.

"Starting now," he growled. "Starting with right now, and then again tonight, and tomorrow morning, and every single time I see you for the next six weeks. I'm going to keep you full of my cum, keep you dripping with it, until your body has no choice but to give me what I want."

His words, crude and possessive and so fucking hot, pushed you over the edge. You came again, harder this time, your whole body shaking with the intensity of it. You felt Zuko follow you moments later, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep and came inside you again, adding to the mess already there.

This time when he finished, he didn't pull out. Instead, he carefully turned, stepping down into the heated pool with you still wrapped around him, still impaled on his cock. The warm water rose around you both, and you gasped at the sensation, at the way it made everything feel more intense, more intimate.

"Can't let it leak out," Zuko said, settling onto the submerged bench with you in his lap, keeping himself buried inside you. "Need to make sure it all stays where it belongs. Where it can do its job."

You could feel his cum inside you, hot and thick, kept in place by his cock still filling you. The water lapped around your joined bodies, and you knew you should protest, should point out that this was excessive, that you'd both already—

But then his hands were on your hips, guiding you to rock against him, and you felt him start to harden again inside you.

"For the good of the nation," Zuko said, his eyes dark with renewed hunger as he watched you move on his lap.

"For the good of the nation," you agreed breathlessly, and let him pull you into another kiss as he continued.

[totallynotashieldagent]

this drabble is inspired by this gorgeous artwork by @dragondruk

"My love..." Zuko whispered softly, your rouge was covering his skin in patches.

You laughed sweetly, shushing him and pressing another kiss to his jaw, making him shiver. He tried his best to chase your mouth but you weren't giving him the privilege. It seemed that you were going to kiss him everywhere except where he desired it the most.

"Please, my love. Just one." He begged again, his throat exposed as you pulled his head back by his hair, making him whine.

"Not yet." You simply said and placed another kiss on his skin. This time, right on his Adam's apple.

His eyes scrunched close as a warm breath escaped him. He swallowed hard, his hands pawing at your waist.

"For someone so powerful-" You purred, kissing him on his chest, a perfect ring of red lipstain on his left nipple, "You're awfully well-behaved." You applied rouge again then kissed down his abs.

You could feel the muscles flexing against your lips, making you giddy.

"Only- ah- Only for you, my love-" He whined, his fingers tightening and loosening on your hips. Kneading the flesh under the robe you wore. The only piece of cloth that was hiding your body from him. Whereas he sat bare, shivering even in the heat of the bedchambers.

His eyes rolled back and he took a breath to try and steady himself. It didn't do much. He looked at you as if you were the very essence of his being.

"Please-" Zuko begged again, weakly trying for you to lay on him. To give him something. Anything.

You paused for a moment. He looked so beautiful like this. Flushed, covered in your marks, his chest rising and falling quickly.

"You're asking so nicely, My Lord-" You cooed at him.

The title made him laugh breathlessly. "Don't do that. Don't say it like that." He tried to scold you.

"Like what?" You pressed gentle kisses on his thighs.

"Like you're not my wife." He looked at you with hooded eyes.

You climbed up again, kissing the scar on his chest, then the corner of the scar on his face. He melted at that.

"Why am I being tormented tonight? Hm?" He asked sweetly, one hand coming to cup your face. You simply turned and kissed his wrist.

"Maybe because I like you this way." You hummed, kissing up his arm and making him turn over so you could kiss his back. He groaned but obliged.

"You are a cruel cruel woman." He sighed and looked at you over his shoulder. "Come on, my love. Just one."

You laughed and pulled away, shaking your head. "There's never just one with you-"

"I'll behave!" He offered, getting on his knees, ready to pounce you.

"I highly doubt that-" You pause, eyes dancing with mischief. "My Lor-"

The word was barely out of your mouth and he moved quick. A showcase of his prowess. You screamed a laugh as he tackled you, arms wrapping around you so skillfully that by the time you fell into the bed, your robe was undone and open.

You squealed and tried to push him away but it was all for nought.

"Finally-" He chuckled, "My vixen of a wife-" He smiled, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, his knees on either side of your hips, and his other hand, caressing your cheek. "What am I to do with you, hm?"

"I swear I'm innocent." You pouted with a giggle.

"Well- That's for the Fire Lord to decide-" He grinned and dipped his head, finally kissing you after hours of your torture.

.

.

.

Drabble Masterlist

[sunshineh26]

Te quiero mucho hombres que ruegan, what a sight to look at

[gojoandtojisleftnut]

My man

[singse]

"Do you think she likes being with me?" Zuko asks Iroh one warm evening, both of them sheltered under the tall tree's green leaves. They cast patterns across the grass and the small table their tray of tea sits. "Do you think that...she minds all of this?"

"Why the sudden question?" Iroh asks in return, settling down his cup. "Did something happen between you two? It's normal, you know. To have the occasional argument."

Zuko shakes his head. "No, nothing happened." His face softens, the corners of his mouth lifting up slightly. "Everything's been so great, it all feels like a fantasy sometimes. I just..." He trails off for a moment, hesitant. "Before we met, she was so free and spontaneous. She traveled around without a second thought because no obligations held her down. It remained the same when our relationship started until we got married and..."

"Became the Fire Lady," Iroh finishes, understanding. "You fear that she may be resentful towards you."

The words make Zuko flinch inwardly, his hands curling into fists in his lap.

"I sometimes wonder if I wasn't the Fire Lord," he confesses quietly. "If I refused to take the throne and chose to roam the world with her. If I had been born a regular person who was able to indulge in my whims and then met her." He stares at the deep reds of his robes that lay messily over his knees and finds he despises the colour. "I just...want her to be happy and I fear I'm not making her that."

Iroh doesn't reply at first, his face showcasing deep thought as he looks up at the vibrant leaves. Then he looks back at his nephew and smiles.

"You love her so much that if she asked to be free of you, you'd let her go without a second thought."

Zuko stares at him, wide-eyed and mouth slightly agape.

"How did you—?"

"I'm your uncle, Zuko," Iroh reminds him. "We've also spent over the last decade in each other's pockets. I can read you and you can probably read me."

"Probably?"

"I'm also wiser than you," Iroh teases. "And my poker face is far better than yours."

Zuko scoffs but he's amused, Iroh can tell.

"I know her too, Zuko," Iroh continues. "I know that she would not stay if she were not comfortable or happy. Do you know why?"

Zuko shakes his head.

"Because you've nutured your relationship into something beautiful and trusting. You have not trapped her in a cage like your father did your mother. You let her speak her mind and feel her feelings. You value her opinions and take them to heart, using them in your decisions everyday. You show her that she is the most important person in your life in every little thing that you do. I don't know about you but I think that's a relationship worth staying for."

A moment of silence follows allowing Iroh's words to sink in heavily. Zuko swallows thickly, blinking his eyes suspiciously fast as he clear his throat.

"Y–you really think that—?" He starts slowly but is interrupted by your arrival. You're running into the gardens, robes hitched up so the hem doesn't trip you. You collide into Zuko's back, laughing when you almost topple both of you over.

"Zuko!" You exclaim happily, clinging to him and Iroh watches, fond, as his nephew immediately adjusts himself to hold you in his lap. His arms are firm around your waist and his expression, despite shocked, melts into pure affection.

"My Lady," he says smoothly, playful enough that it has you giggling. "What has you running around this evening? Did something happen?"

You shake your head, grinning. "Nope. I just thought about how I haven't seen you since morning and I missed you." You place a soft kiss against his cheek, rendering him speechless, before turning to Iroh.

"You owe me a rematch in Pai Sho," you declare, eyes glimmering and Iroh laughs, belly deep.

"Bring it out now and we'll see if you've learned enough to almost beat me."

"I'll go get the board." You place another kiss on Zuko's cheek, closer to his lips this time, before running out to grab the board.

"Still think she minds all of this? Still think she resents you?" Iroh asks but he already knows the answer.

The deeply in love smile Zuko gives in your direction is the biggest answer he can get.

He's relieved.

Iroh's done his duty as an uncle once again.

[thisiscareless]

only bought this dress so you could take it off.

adult zuko x reader | contains smut | minors dni.

Summary: in which a very inconvenient royal gathering, one persuasive Katara, and a suspicious blue drink lead you to realize you and the fire lord are definitely not just friends anymore.

Content: adult!zuko x reader, smut, friends to lovers, alcohol use, mutual pining, humor, tension, a bath scene, lowkey ‘dress’ by taylor swift inspo but i got carried away.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

You hadn’t expected to be invited.

The Fire Lord had begun (reluctantly, and under considerable pressure) his search for a Fire Lady. Or, as the council so bluntly put it, the future bearer of his heirs. Despite his many objections, delays, and carefully constructed excuses, the royal council had finally insisted on a solution: a formal gathering. A carefully curated event where daughters of noble families and valued allies of the Fire Nation would be presented, each given the opportunity to earn his favor.

You knew better than anyone that it was, in every possible way, not Zuko’s style.

Your visits to the palace had become frequent enough that the guards barely questioned your presence anymore, and among your friends, you were the only one who never seemed eager to leave. You had seen him in moments the council never would: tired, frustrated, quietly resistant to everything they were trying to force onto him.

Which was exactly why the invitation in your hands felt so… wrong.

Katara had been beside you when it arrived, and her reaction had been immediate. A delighted gasp, followed by barely contained excitement over what she insisted on calling your long-standing crush on Zuko.

A perfectly reasonable- and, you would argue, entirely manageable- crush. Because more than anything, he was your friend.

“Maybe it’s a mistake,” you said quickly, already trying to dismiss it. “My family isn’t noble. We live on the outskirts of the capital. I shouldn’t even be on this list.”

“Or,” Katara countered, eyes lighting up, “he did it on purpose. Maybe he realized he likes you, and this is his way of making it official!”

You huffed softly. “If that were true, he could have just asked me to come. Not… include me with everyone else.”

There was a flicker of something in your voice closer to disappointment than you cared to admit, and Katara didn’t miss it.

She crossed the room in an instant, already digging through your wardrobe before pulling out a garment you hadn’t touched since Ba Sing Se. “Either way, you’re wearing this,” she declared, holding it up with a grin. “You looked beautiful when you tried it on. He’s going to lose his mind! Honestly, I wish I could be there to see it.”

You hesitated, your arms crossing as your gaze settled on the dress you had been saving for an occasion that had never come.

“I’m not wearing that,” you said after a moment. “In fact, I’m not going at all.”

Katara raised an eyebrow.

“I’m just a good friend,” you added.

She studied you for a second, then softened slightly. “He knows I’ll be traveling with Toph to visit Aang,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe he just… wants someone he trusts there.”

You raised your eyebrows.

She stepped closer, gently pressing the dress into your hands. “A good friend wouldn’t let him face that alone, would she?”

You exhaled slowly.

She was persuasive. Annoying, but persuasive.

And, unfortunately, right. Not just about the quality of friend you were.

About the dress, too.

The fabric was a deep, smoldering red, layered with sheer silk that shifted like flame when it moved. Gold threading traced delicate patterns along the bodice (subtle, but unmistakably Fire Nation in design) while the neckline dipped just enough to feel daring without crossing into impropriety. The sleeves were light, almost weightless, leaving your arms free, and the skirt fell in soft, flowing panels that caught the light with every step.

You didn’t belong to the court, but you certainly didn’t fade into it either.

Heads turned as you stepped further into the room, the hum of conversation continuing around you, and standing there, surrounded by a sea of people, you realized… maybe Zuko wasn’t the only one who was going to faint.

He stood across the room, mid-conversation with an attendant, a glass held loosely in his hand.

And spirits, he had never looked like that before.

Zuko was dressed in full Fire Lord regalia, layers of deep crimson and black falling sharply along his frame, embroidered with gold that caught the light like flickering fire. The high collar framed his face, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw, while the structure of the robes did nothing to hide the strength beneath them- broad shoulders, a straight posture that spoke of both discipline and quiet power. His hair was pulled back neatly, though a few strands had come loose, softening him in a way that made him look less like a ruler and more like him.

Like the boy you knew before he’d redeemed himself, and now the man you couldn’t stop thinking about.

His gaze found you in an instant.

Without thinking, you lifted your hand in a small wave, instinctive and almost private (except it wasn’t). You noticed the women gathered nearby begin to murmur among themselves, one of them smiling as if that look had been meant for her.

If only she knew.

You tried to weave your way through the crowd, intent on reaching him, when the hem of your dress was suddenly tugged back by someone stepping on it.

“Excuse me, I need to speak with the Fire- oh.” The woman turned, recognition lighting her face. “It’s you. Aren’t you… a friend of his?”

“I…” Your eyes flickered past her, catching sight of Zuko already being drawn into yet another conversation, this time with a different woman. “…am. Yes.”

“I thought this event was reserved for nobility,” she continued, her gaze traveling over you with thinly veiled judgment. “Shouldn’t you be off fighting alongside the Avatar or something, instead of trying to fit into places like this?”

Before you could answer, a hand- one you would recognize anywhere- rested lightly on your shoulder.

“Lady Renmei,” Zuko said smoothly, stepping into place beside you. “I wasn’t aware your invitation had been approved.”

She immediately bowed. “It was, Fire Lord, and it is an honor to—”

“In fact,” he cut in gently, though his tone left no room for argument, “I believe it has just been revoked.”

He smiled politely in response to her shocked expression.

“This gathering is not intended for those who lack basic courtesy. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

You had to press your lips together to keep from laughing as an attendant swiftly escorted her away.

The moment she disappeared from view, you turned back to him, your amusement impossible to conceal. You lifted your hand, and he met it with a quick, faintly smug tap. Small enough to go unnoticed by anyone else.

“So this is why the Fire Lord can’t find a Fire Lady,” you murmured. “You charm them straight out the door.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “If that were true, I might actually be grateful for all of this. I could dismiss them quicker.”

He shifted beside you, his gaze moving briefly over the crowd. “This whole process is exhausting.”

“Have you, though?” you asked, glancing up at him. “Found someone?”

He rolled his eyes- completely undisguised, and very much not befitting a Fire Lord. “Not even close. I never intended to. But they insisted, and I was obligated to at least try, remember?”

“They’re going to be disappointed,” you said lightly. “Good luck with that.”

“Perhaps not,” he replied, quieter now.

You didn’t quite understand what he meant. He had stepped closer without you noticing, the warmth of him unmistakable now, radiating through the space between you.

“I’m glad you came,” he added. “I thought you might leave with Katara and Toph.”

So Katara had been right.

Again.

You took the untouched glass he offered, still warm from his hand. The brief contact sent a quiet spark through you, one you tried very hard to ignore.

“I just thought you might need some support,” you said. “And I am a good friend, aren’t I?”

Zuko stilled.

For a moment, he didn’t respond, as if weighing your words more carefully than they deserved. “I—“

“Fire Lord Zuko,” a nobleman interrupted, stepping forward. “Allow me to present my daughter….”

“Of course,” Zuko replied, the politeness returning instantly, though you could hear the effort behind it.

Before he turned away, he glanced back at you briefly. You dipped into a small, proper bow.

“Duty calls, Fire Lord.”

He nodded before turning away, though you could have sworn there had been something else in his eyes, almost like disappointment.

You drifted toward a quieter side of the hall, where a long table had been arranged with Fire Nation desserts- glazed fruits, delicate pastries, and warm, spiced sweets you had grown far too fond of over the years. Beside them, trays of drinks shimmered under the light.

You paused there, looking over them, unsure.

“You do not seem very happy.”

Uncle Iroh’s voice was unmistakable, even in a room this full as it carried warmth all its own.

You turned instantly, a smile breaking through as you stepped forward to embrace him. He laughed softly, returning it.

“What troubles you, my dear?” he asked, studying you with that same knowing gentleness. “Are you not enjoying the gathering?”

You let out a quiet huff, your shoulders dropping just slightly. “I would… if I could spend it the way I want. With who I want,” you admitted.

His smile deepened, thoughtful rather than amused.

You had known him long enough to trust that look,, ever since those quiet afternoons in his tea shop in Ba Sing Se, where advice had come as easily as the tea itself.

“Don’t you have a tea for this?” you added.

“Oh, my dear,” he said, folding his hands behind his back, “tea can calm the heart, but it cannot decide for it. When your path feels uncertain, it is often because you are standing at the edge of a choice you already know you must make.”

You stilled slightly at that. After a moment, he picked up a glass from the table, filled with a soft, blue liquid and offering it to you.

“But in your case,” he added with a small, knowing smile, “tea may not be enough.”

You took the glass, and the evening seemed to blur pleasantly after that.

Time slipped through your fingers. You danced with Uncle Iroh, spoke with him longer than you meant to, and drank just a little more than you probably should have. The music softened, the laughter grew warmer, and for once, your thoughts stopped circling back to him.

At least… not as often.

“Don’t worry, Uncle Iroh, I shall return with more!” you promised, already stepping away. He laughed, clearly delighted by your company.

You were scanning the room for another tray of that same blue drink when your footing faltered, and before you could fall, a pair of strong hands caught you.

“Whoops!” you laughed, looking up. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your Fire Lordness—spirits! How are you? I haven’t seen you in a while.” Your hands slid to his arms without hesitation. “You look amazing, did you know that?”

Heat rushed to his face almost instantly.

Zuko steadied you carefully, his grip firm but controlled, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what you might do next. He glanced toward a nearby attendant. “Clear the area, tell everyone to leave,” he said quietly. “I’ll handle this.”

“Yes, Fire Lord,” the attendant replied, already moving. “Good luck with your friend.”

“Handle what?” you asked, slipping your arm through his as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Who’s your friend? Have you already chosen someone?”

“You are my friend,” he said, a little more quickly than intended, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked you over. “And what, exactly, did my uncle give you?”

You followed his gaze across the room, spotting Iroh near the drinks, happily waving in your direction.

“A great piece of advice, of course,” you said, as if that explained everything. “You should try it- you look like you need it. Oh! There it is!”

You reached for another tray, grabbing it entirely from a passing attendant before Zuko could stop you.

“You’ve had more of those?” he asked, incredulous now, guiding you gently, but firmly, away from the crowd.

“Yes,” you said brightly. “It’s better than tea.”

“That’s… not reassuring.”

He led you through the edge of the hall, away from the music and the watching eyes, into a quieter corridor lined with warm lantern light. Guards straightened at his approach, but he dismissed them with a brief gesture before opening a set of doors and guiding you inside.

You stepped in—

and stilled.

You weren’t in the gathering anymore. You were in Zuko’s chambers.

The space was quieter, warmer than the rest of the palace, lit by low, steady firelight that flickered softly along the walls. Rich fabrics in deep reds and golds framed the room, but there was something more personal beneath it- less ceremonial and more lived-in. A low table rested near the center, scattered with scrolls and maps, some half-unrolled as if he had left them mid-thought. His armor stood carefully arranged near one wall, not displayed, but ready. And just beyond it, his bed… simple in structure, but softened by layered blankets and dark silk.

You turned slowly, taking it all in, your gaze lingering just a moment too long on the details that felt so familiar, so Zuko.

The quiet click of the door pulled you back. You turned, still holding the tray, and found him watching you. There was something uncertain in his expression, almost disbelieving but warmer than anything he had allowed himself to show in the hall.

“So this is where you rest…” you said, stepping further into the room, your fingers brushing lightly along the edge of a table as you passed. “Very appropriate.”

A small smile found its way onto his lips, and he ran a hand through his hair in an uncharacteristically shy gesture that didn’t quite belong to the Fire Lord.

“I wasn’t sure where else to take you so I could—” he paused, searching for the right words, “—make sure you were alright. Forgive me if this is… improper.”

“Does your chamber have a bath?” you asked suddenly, interrupting him as you turned back, your tone light but earnest. “I really need one. May I?”

He blinked, caught off guard, then nodded, still a little speechless as he gestured toward a door tucked into the corner of the room.

You smiled, placing the tray into his hands before lifting one of the glasses and finishing it in a single motion. “Don’t get rid of these,” you added, already moving. “I love them. You should try one- here!”

You pressed another glass into his hand, ignoring the way he eyed it with suspicion.

“Oh, come on, don’t be boring, flameo hotman,” you teased, stepping backward toward the door. “I expect that glass to be empty when I come out.”

The bathing chamber was warm the moment you entered, the air thick with rising steam and the faint scent of heated stone. Fire Nation design carried through here as well- dark red tiles, polished to a soft sheen, lined the floor and walls, while narrow vents along the edges released controlled heat, keeping the space comfortably hot.

At the center sat a large sunken bath, carved from smooth stone, wide enough to fit several people at once. Thin streams of heated water flowed continuously into it from sculpted spouts, the surface rippling gently under the glow of low lanternlight.

The warmth settled into your skin almost instantly. You exhaled, already beginning to undo your dress, fingers working quickly at the fastenings hidden along the side. The fabric clung stubbornly, resisting your efforts far more than it had any right to.

You tried again.

And again.

A quiet huff escaped you.

‘Please don’t do it. Please don’t do it’, a voice in your mind insisted.

You hesitated for only a second.

“Zuko!” you called, the sound echoing softly against the stone. “Could you—” you paused, then committed, “—come help me, please?”

You weren’t entirely sure he had heard you, so you considered calling again. You weren’t drunk, you knew that, but you were certainly something. Enough to say things you normally wouldn’t, and to let thoughts slip past the careful filter you always kept in place around him.

“What can I help you with?”

His voice came from the doorway.

You turned slightly.

Firebenders… if only the heat affected him the way it affected you. You would have given anything to see those layers gone from him, just once.

“My dress,” you said, turning your body so he could see the fastening along your side. “I need you to undo it. The blue drink isn’t exactly helping.”

A faint pout tugged at your lips.

Color rose to his cheeks almost instantly.

“I—yes—of course,” Zuko stammered, clearing his throat as he stepped fully inside and closed the door behind him.

He approached carefully like each step required more thought than it should have. His hands hovered for a brief moment before finally settling at the fastening of your dress.

Warmth creeped through your body. Not from the room, from him.

His fingers worked slowly, deliberately, undoing each tie with care, though the occasional brush of his knuckles against your skin sent a quiet shiver down your spine. He was focused- too focused on the task, as if looking anywhere else would be a mistake.

Once the dress loosened enough to slip from your shoulders, he stepped back immediately, turning away from you altogether.

“What are you—?” you began, then stopped, understanding settling in. “Oh. Thank you for your help. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

The words lingered in the air longer than you intended. He didn’t move.

“I think I should,” he said after a moment, still facing away. “You’re not exactly steady, and I’d rather not have you slipping into my bath unattended.”

You smiled to yourself, the fabric already on the floor, and stepped into the water.

The heat wrapped around you instantly, sinking into your skin, easing tension you hadn’t realized you carried- but it wasn’t the same. Not like his touch.

Not like the warmth of his hands, careful and grounding, lingering far longer in your mind than it had on your skin.

You exhaled softly, settling into it.

“You can turn around now.”

He did, slowly, as if giving himself time to prepare, and when his gaze finally found you in the water, it faltered for just a fraction of a second. His eyes widened, not enough to be obvious, but enough for you to notice.

You held back a smile.

“I might already know your answer,” you said lightly, tilting your head just enough, “but could you bring me the tray with the drinks?”

He crossed his arms, something amused flickering across his face. “It’s gone.”

“What?” you asked, sharper than you meant to be. “Why?”

“I…” He hesitated, then exhaled. “I drank the rest.”

You blinked.

“You… did?” A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Well. That’s unexpected.”

“I apologize,” he added quickly, though there was a faint hint of ease in his voice now, his hands moving behind his back. “But now that you’ve discovered them, I’ll make sure they’re prepared whenever you visit.”

“They are very good,” he admitted, almost as an afterthought.

“I know,” you said, your laughter softening. “But they help you relax. I’m sure you noticed. Maybe you should—”

You stopped yourself, your hand quickly covering your mouth.

He let out a quiet laugh.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, sinking just a little deeper into the water, as if it might hide you. You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself before peeking at him again. “We’re friends, right?”

He nodded, a small, knowing smile resting on his lips.

“Would it be strange,” you continued, your voice softer now, “if you joined me? It might help. The water is… very nice. And you deserve to rest.”

“We’re friends,” he said after a beat. “We’ve been in the sea together before. I suppose this isn’t much different.”

Before you could fully process his answer, his hands lifted to the fastenings of his robes- only for him to pause.

“I turned around…” he reminded you.

You did so immediately, your back to him, suddenly far more aware than you had been moments ago. You kept your gaze fixed ahead, willing yourself not to turn, not to think too much about the quiet movements behind you such as the soft shift of fabric, the faint sound of layers being set aside.

You didn’t move. Not until you heard the water behind you, a soft ripple followed by a light tap against your shoulder.

When you finally turned, your breath caught.

His silhouette had changed. The weight of his formal attire was gone, leaving only the quiet strength of him beneath the water, the surface breaking just at his chest. His hair, no longer bound, fell freely around his face and shoulders, dark strands softened by the steam.

This time, you felt your cheeks warm.

“Well…” you said, letting out a small laugh, “I suppose the bath works better than the drinks.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I’m still not convinced those drinks should be allowed in the palace.”

“They should,” you countered, shifting slightly in the water, the movement sending gentle ripples toward him. “They make people honest.”

“That explains a lot,” Zuko replied, glancing at you with quiet amusement.

You smiled, relaxing a little more. “And they’re calming! You needed it. You looked like you were being sentenced, not hosting a gathering.”

“That’s not far from the truth,” he admitted, settling back against the warm stone ledge of the bath. “I think I spoke to at least ten people about alliances I don’t want and futures I’m not planning.”

“And the ladies?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Any of them win you over?”

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Not even close.”

“Wow,” you said lightly. “They’re going to be devastated.”

“I think they’ll recover,” he replied dryly. Then, after a beat, his tone softened just slightly. “You weren’t supposed to be part of that, you know.”

You stilled a little. “Then why am I?”

He hesitated.

“My uncle insisted,” he said. “He said I should invite people I actually trust.” His gaze flickered back to you. “People I would rather see there.”

The words hit your chest in an exquisite way.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he added.

You looked down at the water briefly, your fingers trailing through it. “I almost didn’t.”

That caught his attention.

“Why?”

You shrugged slightly, though it wasn’t as effortless as you wanted it to be. “Because I didn’t want to be… part of a list.”

“You’re not,” he said, a little too quickly.

You looked up at him again, studying him more carefully now. “Then what am I, Zuko? Just a friend?”

He didn’t answer right away.

The water between you stilled.

“Someone I wanted here,” he said finally. “A very important guest.”

You huffed softly, trying to pull the moment back into something lighter. “Well, next time you could just say that. Save me the competition.”

“There wouldn’t be any,” he replied, almost absentmindedly.

You blinked.

“…Zuko.”

He seemed to realize what he’d said a second too late, his gaze shifting, a hint of color rising to his face again.

“I didn’t mean—” he started.

“You did,” you interrupted.

You shifted in the water.

“For someone who didn’t want this whole thing,” you murmured, “you’re not doing a very good job of hiding your preferences.”

His eyes met yours again.

“I wasn’t trying to,” he said.

The words struck you more directly than you expected, like a lightning, leaving no room to laugh them off.

“Zuko, I—”

“Don’t do that again,” he said suddenly.

You stilled, confusion flickering across your face as you found yourself drifting closer without quite realizing it.

“Do… what?” you asked, a note of uncertainty slipping into your voice. For a brief second, doubt crept in… had you misread everything? Had you gone too far?

“Say my name like that,” he interrupted your thoughts, his voice lower now. He stepped closer as well, closing what little distance remained between you. “And before you ask, I mean when you say it like that. Breathless…”

He stopped himself, jaw tightening slightly, as if he had already said more than he meant to.

“It makes me want to—”

He cut himself off.

Your gaze didn’t leave his.

“It makes you want to what?” you asked, softly. “What, Zuko?”

The space between you disappeared in a single movement, his restraint finally giving way as he kissed you firmly. It wasn’t hesitant, but it wasn’t careless either; there was intention in it, in the way he held you and the way he didn’t pull away.

Your hands found his hair almost immediately, still damp, fingers threading through it. The contact seemed to undo something in him, his composure slipping as his hands moved to your sides, finally allowing himself to touch you, to feel the closeness he had been so careful to avoid.

You were already close, but it wasn’t enough.

His grip tightened as he drew you closer, guiding you with him as he lowered himself against the edge of the bath, bringing you with him until you were settled over him, the water shifting around you both.

“Zuko…” you breathed, breaking the kiss.

“Exactly like that,” he murmured, his forehead resting briefly against yours. “You’re not very good at following requests, are you?”

A soft laugh escaped you, light but unsteady, as you leaned in, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek, just at the edge of his scar. He stilled for a moment, caught off guard by the gentleness of it before your hand came up to his face in a quiet reminder that it was only you. He relaxed.

“I am,” you said quietly. “Even more now, I promise. The blue drink made me more… agreeable.”

“Then,” he replied, his voice lower now, steady but no longer distant, “may I request something of you?”

You simply nodded.

“Would you let me touch you?” he asked.

Given the way you were seated over him, the question felt almost rhetorical.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please.”

A small smile curved on his lips as his hand moved between you. “You sound delightful,” he murmured. “That’s a word I’ve never heard from your mouth before…”

You didn’t get the chance to respond.

A sharp gasp escaped you as his fingers found your clit, circling with intention, drawing an immediate reaction from you. Your body sank further onto him, your hands rising instinctively to cradle his face as he leaned back against the edge of the bath.

“Isn’t this trick effective?” he asked, his voice edged with curiosity as his movements grew more precise. His other hand steadied your waist, keeping you from shifting too far. “I don’t hear you talking anymore…”

A breathy laugh slipped from you as you leaned into the crook of his neck. “You are… you—” you tried, your words breaking as his rhythm adjusted, firmer now, exactly where you needed him.

Until he stopped.

You barely had time to react before his lips brushed your shoulder, grounding you again, and then he rose from the water, lifting you with him effortlessly.

“You move your waist too much,” he said, almost thoughtful, as he carried you out of the bath without pause. “I think we should move somewhere more… stable.”

“I’m being carried, so I trust you,” you replied with a small laugh. “Though I’m starting to think this was your plan all along.”

The lightness in your tone didn’t last long.

He set you down gently on the bed, and for the first time, you really looked at him.

Water still traced down his skin, every line of his body defined beneath the dim light- the strength in his shoulders, the firmness of his chest, the way his abdomen tightened with every small movement. There was something almost unfair about it.

“I could really get used to this,” he said, moving over you.

He had barely settled into place when you shifted, pushing him onto his back instead. Now he lay against the mattress, and you were above him, your body still damp, the last drops of water slipping between you.

“Me too,” you answered.

Your hands moved over him starting at his chest, sliding lower, until they reached him. Already hard. You stroked him once, then again, slow enough to feel the effect it had on him as his breath caught.

“You were right,” you murmured. “This trick is… very effective.”

His hands found your waist, gripping just firmly enough.

It was all the invitation you needed.

You leaned down, pressing your lips to his again as your hand continued its slow rhythm, your body shifting closer until you aligned yourself over him. You paused just for a second, before easing down, taking him in gradually.

Both of you let out a low moan at the same time.

You adjusted, your hands moving briefly to push your hair back before settling into a rhythm- slow at first, but with an urgency beneath it that refused to be ignored. The lingering warmth from the drink was nothing compared to the feeling of him inside you, the steady pulse of him making your body respond around him.

The pace didn’t stay slow for long.

The soft sounds of movement filled the room as your rhythm quickened, the contact between you becoming more insistent, less controlled.

“You feel… so good,” he said, his voice strained now, his hands tightening as he shifted, lifting you slightly just to change the angle, his movements growing harder and faster.

“Don’t stop, Zuko… please,” you breathed. “I’m close.”

“How could I even dare?” he answered, his voice strained with his own effort.

The heat of him only seemed to intensify, his skin burning warmer beneath your hands, his grip tightening as he moved with you; matching your pace, guiding it, until it was impossible to tell who was leading anymore.

“You’re so… beautiful,” he murmured against your ear, his voice breaking slightly as his rhythm continued, the sounds of your bodies meeting filling the space between his words. “You always have been…”

His voice, his words, the feeling of him still buried inside you- it all came together at once, sending you over the edge. Your body trembled, your legs tightening as your release hit you.

He held you through it, steadying you, grounding you, before easing you down onto the bed beside him- never leaving you, never breaking the connection between you.

His movements grew uneven, less controlled, until he followed you, his breath catching as he finally stilled.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Only your chests did in attempt to catch your breath.

His hand remained at your side, absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against your skin, as if grounding himself in the fact that you were still there.

You shifted slightly, just enough to look at him.

He was already looking at you.

You leaned in first.

His hand came up to your face almost instinctively, holding you there with gentleness.

When you pulled back, it wasn’t far.

“We’re… very bad at being just friends,” you murmured, touched with the faintest hint of a laugh.

A breath of a smile crossed his lips.

“I think we’ve been bad at that for a while.”

You huffed lightly, letting your forehead rest against his for a moment. “Katara is never going to let me hear the end of this.”

That earned you a quiet laugh from him.

“She already didn’t,” Zuko admitted.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “What does that mean?”

“She may have said something,” he replied, almost too casually. “About you not just being there for… support.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, though a smile betrayed you. “I knew she was involved somehow. She was very insisting about that dress.”

“I’m glad she was,” he said. “You looked flawless.”

Your fingers drifted lazily over his chest, tracing patterns without much thought. “I don’t regret listening to her. Nor do I do the dress, the drinks, the very questionable decisions—”

“The drinks were definitely a factor,” he added.

You laughed softly. “They were excellent, by the way.”

“I noticed. And I’m glad you don’t regret it.”

You shifted closer again, your head finding a more comfortable place against him, your voice lowering as the weight of the night finally began to settle in.

His arm moved around you without hesitation.

Your eyes began to grow heavier, your body finally giving in to the exhaustion you had been ignoring all evening.

“Don’t let them pick someone else,” you murmured, already half-asleep, your words softened by sleep.

A quiet breath of a laugh left him.

“I’d like to see them try,” he said quietly, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin as the night finally stilled around you.

Part 2.

𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

Note: i spent so much time on this. it wasn’t supposed to be this long but I hope you enjoyed! Xx

[crushmeeren]

☽ ⋆ ⋅ it’s not zuko’s fault his wife can’t keep her hands off him.

☼ cw ; fem! reader, fire lord zuko, being late to a meeting because you can’t stop riding zuko, mentions of all the babies you guys have, sokka being sokka. the gaang’s all here (after the sex).

☽ ⋆ ⋅ m.list

“Come on Zuko— one more time? Please?” You’re panting, naked, hands braced on Zuko’s sweaty chest as you grind back and forth in his lap.

His breath hitches from the sheets, squeezing your hips. “Seriously? I’m already late. How does it— fuck. Stop that!” Zuko frowns and pinches your ass when you tighten around his cock on purpose.

“How does it look if the Fire Lord can’t stop fucking his wife long enough to attend a simple meeting with the Avatar?” He continues.

Zuko is still half hard inside your pussy, cum trailing down his shaft— filling out thick and hot by the second.

“Then why are you getting hard again?” You tease, dipping down to suck on his throat.

“That— that’s unfair,” he moans. You draw back to look at his face, and his cheeks are flushed such a similar color to his scar it almost blends together entirely.

“And if you really thought this meeting with Aang was important you wouldn’t still be in bed with me.” You place your palm over Zuko’s mouth, grinning at the way his eyes go wide and his cock twitches.

“Now shut up and let me ride my husband one more time.”

When you walk into the fire temple chambers where the meeting is taking place, the entire group is there.

Aang and Katara share a look, laughing at the picture you and Zuko make. Hair mussed and clothes ruffled, a hickey high on Zuko’s throat.

Sokka looks thoroughly annoyed and throws his hands up in exasperation.

“Seriously dude?!” He shouts, jumping from his chair and jabbing a finger at the poorly hidden hickey. “This is why the fire temple is crawling with your offspring!”

Toph snickers, and Zuko doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

forgive me i wrote this in thirty minutes immediately after i watched the movie.

[sadisticslut666]

It’s sundress no panties weather in the FireNation

You love springtime because that means long walks, gardening, foraging and your favorite… teasing Zuko with no panties under your sundress.

The first truly warm day after a long, gray winter hit the Fire Nation countryside like a blessing from Agni himself. Golden sunlight poured over the rolling hills surrounding your private estate.

Zuko was already in the garden when you found him, sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening on the scarred side of his face as he helped turn soil for the new herb beds you’d insisted on planting. His dark hair was tied back, a few strands sticking to his neck from the heat.

You stepped out onto the stone path wearing a light, breezy sundress the color of ripe peaches that flowed just below your ass. No bra and definitely no panties.

“Need some help, my lord?” you called sweetly, putting an extra pep in your step making your tits almost bounce out the dress.

Zuko straightened, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. His golden eyes flicked to you, softening instantly at the sight of you in the sunlight. “You shouldn’t be out here in this heat without a hat,” he grumbled, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “You’ll burn.”

“I like the heat,” you replied, stepping closer until you were just within arm’s reach. You bent slightly to examine the soil he’d turned, letting the hem of your dress ride up the backs of your thighs. The breeze kissed your exposed pussy, as you stretched even farther exposing the soft curve of your ass with the bare, already slick folds between your thighs catching his attention as you continued, “Besides… I thought you might want company.”

Before you could straighten up, Zuko’s hands were on you. His calloused palms landed firmly on your bare ass, “No panties,” he muttered, “You really walked out here like this, knowing exactly what it would do to me.”

“Mmm. Guilty.” You arched back into him, “It’s warm. I wanted to feel the breeze… and you.”

One hand stayed gripping your right cheek while the other slid lower. Without warning, two thick fingers dragged through your slick folds from behind, parting them and immediately pushing the tip of his middle finger into your dripping cunt. “Oh!” you yelped in surprise, eyes widening.

“Should’ve known you’d pull this the first warm day,” he groaned, his fingers playing with your slick. You couldn’t help pushing back against his hand, your hips rolling instinctively as his finger sank deeper. He pumped it slowly at first, then faster, the wet sounds of your arousal barely masked by the breeze rustling the leaves. His thumb brushed teasingly over your clit as a needy whine slipped from your lips as you rocked back onto his finger.

The sundress had ridden up completely now, bunched around your waist, leaving your ass and pussy fully exposed to the open garden air while Zuko played with you. Then, just as suddenly as he’d started, he pulled his finger free. You stood up straight with a frustrated whimper, turning to face him. “Hey—why’d you stop?”

Zuko brought his glistening finger to his mouth, locking eyes with you as he sucked it clean. He smirked, “We’re outside, princess. You really want the groundskeepers to see us like that?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes even as your cheeks burned and your thighs pressed together, trying to ease the ache he’d left behind. “As if the servants and everyone else at the palace aren’t already gossiping about our sex life. Half of them probably place bets on how loud I’ll be each night.”

His hand slipped back under your dress, palming your ass again, “If you’re that impatient… we can go inside. Or I can bend you over right here and make sure you stay quiet. Whatever you want, my princess.”

You bit your lip, “Right here,” you whispered, “Bend me over. I don’t want to wait.”

Your ass lifted naturally, fully exposed as he shoved the peach-colored dress up to bunch around your waist. He kicked your feet wider apart with his boot, one hand staying heavy on the small of your back to keep you pinned as you heard the rustle of fabric as he shoved his loose garden pants down just enough to free his cock.

“Quiet,” he reminded you, even as the head of his cock nudged insistently against your soaked pussy. “Or I’ll have to cover that pretty mouth.”

You barely had time to nod before he thrusted in, cock slipping through your wet slick. Zuko’s hand immediately clamped over your mouth, his scarred cheek brushing yours as he leaned over you. “I said quiet,” he hissed, though you could hear the smirk in his tone.

You whimpered against his palm, pushing back to meet him, desperate for more. His hips snapped forward again, setting a ruthless pace that had the wooden garden bed creaking beneath you.

The angle was perfect—his thick cock fucking strokes that rocked you forward with every thrust, your bare breasts bouncing beneath the thin dress, nipples dragging against the fabric. “Hnngh—ah—h-harder, Zuko, p-please,” you whimpered, pushing back to meet every powerful stroke. “Fill me, Zuko… please—”

He angled his hips just right, grinding deep on every thrust until your legs started to shake. “Is my princess gonna come for me?”

Princess, fuck that made you cum everytime. You moaned loudly, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his cock as he groaned, “So tight,” He buried himself as deep as he could go and came inside you. “You know how much I look forward to this every time spring comes around? I love you so much, my empress.” He expressed his love as hot, thick pulses of cum filled your cunt until it started to leak out around his shaft with every shallow thrust.

He stayed pressed against you for a long moment, both of you panting under the bright spring sun. Before he tugged the sundress back down over your hips, though the fabric was now wrinkled and slightly damp. Turning you in his arms, he cupped your flushed face and kissed you.

Oh you couldn’t wait for the rest of the season.

a/n: no bc seriously its sundress no panties weather FINALLYYYYYY

[msdaizydoll]

I give it..... (Part 2)

part 1

You're 8 months pregnant and somehow your sexual drive is higher. The maids and guards wonder why (this was a requested story!!)

Sorry for any grammatical errors!!

WC: 1.4k

-----------------

You were 8 months pregnant, waddling across the palace wearing Zuko’s robe. It had taken you a week before you and Zuko announced you were pregnant. The palace rejoiced, not only because an heir was arriving but they didn’t get to hear you moan. 

The palace was quiet, the maids got to sleep peacefully and the guards got to guard without struggling to leave. The only thing they got to see of you and Zuko was Zuko carrying you everywhere and him feeding you. 

Yuki had gone to her hometown to visit her family leaving Hana in charge, so she had two duties to complete, be the head maid and your personal maid at the same time. But the difference between Hana and Yuki is that unlike Yuki, Hana would encourage the talk about you and Zuko’s relationship between the maids, sometimes telling the maids what she witnesses when she becomes your personal maid. 

------------------

The maids were all bundled up in the kitchen preparing for the meeting with Zuko and a general that was happening that evening when Hana walked in

“The lady is sleeping, so please be quiet when transporting the food into the room” Hana said and the maids nod carrying the trays with gentleness

“Do you think the lord is more…snappy?”

“Snappy?”

“Ever since the healer told them they couldn’t have sex until a certain period, the lord has been more snappy towards the generals”

“There’s no way…right…?”

“The lord being snappy because he can’t have sex with the lady…I never thought I would see the day” Hana said, shaking her head.

------------------

That was a week ago and today Zuko had sent for the healer to make sure if you were in perfect shape, and also to confirm if you were able to continue your activities in the bedroom.

Zuko got the pass and got to work immediately, so when a new maid, Sora passed the chambers hearing you moan really loud and a  voice saying “You taste so sweet” she had to rush back to the kitchen with a face the other didn’t want to see

Hana looked up and stared at Sora “Are they?”

Sora nods and everyone sighs

“Oh no….oh no no no no no”

“That healer should have closed his mouth!”

“ Everyone get ready to hear noises for a very long time”

The new guard,Chen,who Zuko hired for you because you being pregnant ramped up the assisantion attempts and Zuko would rather die than watch you bleed and lose the baby, entered the kitchen, massaging his shoulder

“East wing is fine…why is everyone so…upset?” Chen asked 

“They’re at it again….”

“I…don’t understand” Chen said 

“Before the lady got pregnant…they used to have sex….sometimes 3 times a day, they fucked like rabbits…it’s a miracle they dint have 4 kids!”

“I don’t find any issues…it seems the lord loves the lady a lot, plus they're in their second year of marriage and most couples act like that”

“Until you’re trying to sleep and get ready for the next day and you suddenly hear the lady moaning like…like…an animal,then you would understand why we’re so upset”

“Don’t refer the lady to an animal” Hana said standing up and grabbing a basket of clean robes “You’re lucky Yuki isn’t here…she would fire you immediately”Hana finished looking at the maid who spoke before her

“I’m sorry but Ms. Hana you understand me right!”

“I do…but let’s just-”

Hana stops as she heard a very loud gasp followed by a loud “Zuko” moan which makes everyone groan, temporarily closing their ears

Chen’s ears turn pink as cough “That’s what you guys mean…”

“The lady is 8 months pregnant, waddling around the palace and yet still has time to have sex… can you even imagine it”

“Yes, they're obviously  catching up…You really think the lord and the lady who almost have sex everyday can’t live without it for 7 months? They’re going to catch up before the baby comes…”

“Okay everyone let’s get ready…and hope…for the best”

-----------------

In the next couple of weeks, because the maids and guards counted, you and Zuko had sex twice the amount before you got pregnant. You could be sitting wooden tub letting your maids pour water over you and Zuko would come in removing his shirt and carrying you from the tub leaving the maids confused as they left the room quickly

You always  “tried” to stop him but it always ended in your moans echoing for 4 hours. The maid were tired, sick and tired

“I told you they would be catching up!”

“What happened this time?” Yuki back from her journey looked up

“How does one get horny by watching their pregnant wife eat peaches! How?!”

“I’m not getting you”

“I had given the lady some peaches because she was craving it and here comes the lord staring at her like a wild animal, watching her munch and the lady responds with a giggle licking her fingers in a sexual way and now they’re having sex!”

“But don’t pregnant women have less energy?” Sora asked

“You would think? But no, the lady just loves him so much she’s ready to give in…”

“I bet if the lady seduces him during a meeting, he would cancel it and fuck her” “Maybe it’s happened before and they traumatized the guards instead of us…” Sora shrugs as Yuki sighed

“I hopefully it helps with the labor”

------------------

It didn’t help with the labor. You were screaming your guts out, as Hana wiped sweat off your forehead and directed the other maids to gather more warm water in a pail. Yuki was helping the healer with any necessary items him and his student needed “My lady we’re almost there! Please hang in there!” Hana says “The lord is on his way!”

You were trying, you were really trying but the pain was so bad that you couldn’t help but mutter “Hana if I see Zuko I’m going to kill him”

“My lady!” “I’m going to kill him…” you said breathing heavily gripping the sheets

Hana wiped your forehead as the chambers door barged opened 

“Y/N…I’m so sorry I came late-”

“Zuko come near me and I swear I’ll kill you!” You yell

Zuko sighed, still walking towards you and grabbing your knuckles and kissing it “How far is she Hana?”

“The healer said a few more hours” Hana replied, taking a pail from the maid “She’s  really in pain my lord…she lost consciousness for some time… we had to change the sheets too because she accidentally set it on fire while gripping on it”

Zuko knelt down beside you pecking your sweaty forehead  multiple times before looking at you “I’m sorry…I’m sorry I’m here now”

“Zuko we’re not having sex after this baby comes out”

“I know”

“You’re sleeping in another room”

“I know, I know” Zuko said grabbing the towel from Hana 

“Zuko if you give me that look, I’m cutting your dick off”

“Yes you can love…come on breathe for me”

You yells squeezing his hand to the point where the maids could hear a crack

“Zuko we’re not having sex for a year” You said glaring at him

“I agree…anything for you love”

It took you hours, a couple of burned towels and 17 maids in the room, Yuki, Sora and Hana counted for you to finally deliver your son.

“Hi…hi” you breathed out looking at him in awe as Zuko rubbed your back “Isn’t he so cute?” You asked looking up at Zuko who was crying

“So cute…the cutest” Zuko replied pecking your forehead  

You let your son wrap his little fingers around your finger when you looked at Zuko

“I’m not doing this again”

“I know”

“You know what that means right”

“Yes I do” Zuko said kissing your knuckles

But Hana, Yuki and Sora who were standing by the wall look at each other as the other maids giggle and wiggled their eyebrows knowing that what you were saying were just lies.

“I give them 3 months” Sora murmurs 

“2…the lady will not keep her hands off him when she sees him in his fatherly body” Hana said 

“A baby, and a husband who spars and looks like a snack…I give them 2 months too…” Yuki said with a smile

Maybe it would take some weeks before the palace hears your moans again, who knows?

--------

thank you for requesting to whoever who did <33

Aang

[limitless-satoru]

Just one more thing

“Satoru seriously?” You groaned.

He had been home for less than an hour and had already made you walk up and down the stairs four different times. Granted, he came home with a nasty headache from overusing his technique and you wanted to be helpful, but he was being ridiculous.

“Baby, I really need that plushie you got me. It’ll make me feel better.” He whined, wrapped in two different blankets on the couch.

“Why didn’t you ask me for it when I walked up there before?” You sighed.

“I didn’t think about it. Pleaasseeee.” He pouted.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “Fine.”

Making your way back up the stairs, you grabbed the bunny plushie you had picked up for him at the store— simply because it had the same color eyes as him, and looked around the room for anything else that you thought he could ask for because you didn’t want to come back up here, before making your way back down.

You quickly went down the stairs, Satoru smiling at you, his blindfold now sitting perched on his forehead, pushing his hair back.

“Doesn’t that help with your headache?” You handed him the plushie.

“Yeah, but I wanna see better.”

“See what better?” You questioned.

“Nothing, baby.” He grabbed your hand, kissing your knuckles, “Don’t be mad.”

“Satoru.” You warned.

“My water bottle is in our bathroom upstairs.” He looked up at you through his lashes.

You huffed, “I’ll get you a different bottle from the kitchen.”

“Noo, baby,” He gripped your hand tighter, shaking your arm, “I need that one specifically.”

You rolled your eyes, “This better be the last thing.” You glared at him.

“Cross my heart.” He made an x motion over his heart, peering up at you with undeniable love in his eyes.

“Okay.” You ran up the stairs, finding his purple water bottle in the bathroom—which was completely empty by the way—and made your way back down.

“I love you.” Satoru smirked, holding out his hands.

“Hold on,” You made your way to the kitchen, filling the bottle with water, and setting it down on the table in front of him, “Anything else your highness?” You curtsied, giggling.

“Nope, just my girl.” He held out his arms and you sighed, gladly falling into them and lying down in his chest. You wrapped your arms around his torso, nuzzling your face into him.

“This is perfect.” He kissed the top of your head.

“How’s your head?” You asked.

“Much better,” He snickered, “Ya know, your boobs bounce a lot when you walk down the stairs.”

You clenched your jaw for a moment, taking a deep breath and lifting your head, “Satoru Gojo, did you make me walk up and down those stairs a stupid number of times just so you would watch my boobs jiggle?”

“For medicine, for my head.” He tapped his pointer finger against the side of his temple.

“Watching my boobs bounce was medicine for your head?” You squinted at him.

“Mhmm,” He nodded, “These are the best medicine for anything really.” He gripped your breast in one of his hands, squeezing lightly.

You rolled your eyes, “You’re ridiculous.” You laid your head back down on his chest.

“And you love me anyway.” He nuzzled into the top of your head, breathing in your scent.

And he was completely right. You would’ve gone up those stairs ten more times if he asked you to.

I was walking down the stairs and was like damn these things got their own gravity and then i thought how much Satoru would love to watch me and my big ole boobies walk down the stairs.

*Please do not repost, copy, or use any of my works to feed your AI*

[naomiiocha]

Gojo commission I did recently, had to put pants on him for this post booo 👎

[sirenleche]

★ 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 - 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐠.

part two of make you mine

wc: ~26k | cw: fratjo! heavy smut, kinda angsty, lots of filth, possessive/obsessive tendencies, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation, jealousy, unprotected sex, rough sex, light spanking, cum swallowing, oral sex (f), multiple creampies, huge breeding kink, degradation/praise, accidental? pregnancy, use of alcohol, implied drunk driving, drug use, frat culture, gojo’s still lowk evil, violence/blood, talks of abortion, explicit language, use of pet names (baby, princess), dark romance vibes, reader’s dad is basically tom brady lmao

summary: satoru gojo wanted to make you his. he just didn’t think about what would happen after.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

GOJO DIDN’T EXPECT the crash to feel like this.

It’s been two days since you found out you were pregnant; forty-eight hours of pure panic and swallowing fears that kept rising. Now, you’re curled into his chest, exhausted beyond anything he’s ever seen, lashes still clumped with dried tears, and Gojo can’t look away.

Because he wanted this.

He wanted to stay inside you, fill you up until you were dripping with him, hear you fall apart on his cock and know that it was he who claimed you before anyone else could. That desire had been simple when it lived in the heat of your bodies and lust, but wanting you like that is different from facing what it means now.

Lying here, feeling your breath stutter against him every few minutes like even your own dreams refuse to let you rest, he finally understands the weight of what he did.

You haven’t stopped crying since the moment you found out. He’s watched you crumble over and over, and every time you broke, something inside him did too. Unable to see past his own recklessness and selfishness, he’s now the reason behind your red eyes, tremors, nausea, and all-consuming dread.

And Gojo tried to reassure you, he really did. He tried to hold your face in his hands, tell you things were going to be okay, convince you that you were safe with him. However, with your tense body pressed against his and the reality of fatherhood lodged in his ribs like a knife, he doesn’t even believe himself. Fuck, he doesn’t even know what safety looks like.

He’s never kept anything steady in his life, he’s never had to. At heart, he’s the frat boy who drinks too much, fucks too much, parties too much; who has cocaine hidden in drawers that he keeps swearing he’ll “clean out tomorrow” along with the adderall he “only takes during exam weeks” and would rather die than let you discover how much of a disaster he actually is.

He jokes about responsibility to hide the fact that he’s never held any, because why would he? He grew up in a wealthy, aristocratic family in Japan that owns a multi-billion dollar tech company in which he’s promised to once he graduates. The only thing he figured he’d be responsible for is how the fuck he’ll be spending all that money once he has it.

But now? Now, he’s got plenty of responsibility. Because he has you and you’re pregnant. With his baby. The truth of that still stuns him every time it enters his consciousness.

He’s going to be a dad. A fucking dad.

Him. Satoru Gojo. Of all people.

The thought drags needles down his spine. It’s not that he doesn’t want it, but he wants it too much without being anywhere near ready.

He tightens his arm around your waist instinctively, protective, helpless, scared—though he’ll never say it out loud. Despite not being prepared or remotely the man you need, he wants to try.

He peers down at your sleeping face—tear-damp, swollen, still somehow scrunched with tension, and something in his chest twists so painfully he has to close his eyes.

He should apologize, he knows he should. Any decent person would for ruining a girl, but he can’t bring himself to say the words. Because for him, saying “I’m sorry” would mean admitting something darker and far more unforgivable.

It would mean confessing that he wanted this. That some evil, primal part of him liked the idea of giving you something permanent. Admitting that would make him a monster, exposing the dark fantasies he never meant for you to see, so he stays quiet.

And the most humiliating part? Even now with the guilt clawing through him, fear constricting his lungs, and future looming too fast—he still doesn’t regret any of what he’s done. He only regrets that he wasn’t someone safer to fall into when your world collapsed, but someone safer would’ve never done something like this to you in the first place.

So, he does what he can for now. He holds you closer, terrified he won’t be enough to make any of this okay, but will do his best anyway.

And the second you stir awake the next morning, Gojo does too as if he’s been listening for you all night.

His hand, already curled around your waist, tightens almost imperceptibly, “Morning,” He murmurs, voice still thick with sleep but…gentle. Way too gentle for him, “You okay? You need anything?”

It’s the tone, the careful one he’s never once used up until three days ago that makes your eyes sting. You blink slowly, the world blurry, your cheek still pressed to the stretch of his firm chest. His skin carries the faint scent of the Armani cologne he always overuses, but there’s something heavier underneath it now. Worry, sleeplessness, him compensating for the calm he doesn’t actually have.

You lift your head just enough to see him and he’s already looking at you; not with that lazy, smug grin he usually wears in the mornings. He’s watching you like you might cry again, bracing to hold you through it if you do.

“How’re you feeling?” He whispers, brushing your face with the softest sweep of his fingers.

Normally, he’d follow up a question like that with something stupid like “Besides beautiful, obviously” or “If your answer doesn’t include sucking me off, it’s wrong”.

But today, there is none of that, “I…don’t know.”

He nods once, “That’s okay…You don’t have to know yet.”

You breathe out shakily, his thumb strokes slow circles into your hip—an awkward attempt at comfort, like care is something he’s forcing himself to learn for your sake.

Then your phone buzzes; you freeze and Gojo does too, but only for a second before his hand smooths over your back in silent reassurance.

Your heart is racing when you reach for it, the screen lights up with the name you’ve been dreading for three days now.

dad: Hi sweetheart! Just landed in LA. Let’s get breakfast just like old times. I’ll pick you up in 45 minutes.

Old times. Right. Back when the worst thing you ever did was lie about getting a C on a quiz.

Fuck, you already feel sick.

Gojo senses it immediately. His hand slides up into your hair, palm warm against the back of your head, fingers threading gently like he can soothe the rising panic, “Come here,” He murmurs, pulling you back into his chest. His voice is still unnaturally delicate, but beneath it lay a tremor he’s trying to bury deep, “It’s okay…Just breathe.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt, clinging to him because you don’t know what else to hold onto, “I might tell him,” You whisper, “I don’t think I can lie to him. Not about…any of this.”

Gojo’s whole body stills for a heartbeat, then he nods against your temple, “Okay. If that’s what you need to do…then you tell him.”

You pull back just enough to see his face, he looks strange like this. Soft around the eyes, jaw relaxed, mouth not curved into a smirk; just Satoru Gojo stripped bare, “You’re not upset?”

He shakes his head, thumb grazing your cheek, “This isn’t about me,” He says simply, “It’s your dad. You love him and you’re scared. I get it.”

A tiny, broken sound slithers from your throat, his expression shifts instantly—tenderness sharpening into a protectiveness that feels like fire in your veins.

“Hey,” He whispers, forehead leaning toward yours, “I’m right here. Whatever happens, I’m here.”

“But he doesn’t know you.”

A soft exhale escapes him, almost a laugh but not quite, “He will,” He murmurs, “When you’re ready. And I’ll come in however you need me to.”

“And if he hates you?”

Gojo lifts your chin with two fingers, his voice dropping stubbornly certain, “He might. But I’m not going anywhere, princess.”

And for the first time since the pregnancy tests, the panic that had wrapped itself around your neck like a noose, finally loosens just enough for you to stay alive.

You lay tucked against Gojo for a few more minutes, letting his words settle, letting yourself believe him, but then your phone buzzes again. Another text from your dad, a reminder that reality is still moving whether you want it to or not.

You pull away slowly, wiping under your eyes with the back of your hand, “I should…get ready.”

Gojo nods, but something in his expression flickers, something that says he wishes he could stop time or crawl inside your ribs to hold your heart steady for you. He sits up when you do, raking a hand through his white hair as if trying to gather whatever version of himself you need him to be.

He watches you get dressed, quiet and entirely too still. When your hands shake trying to clasp his chain to put it back on, he’s suddenly behind you.

“Here,” He fastens it before you can protest, “I got it.”

The gesture shouldn’t make your throat tighten, but it does. Everything does since that day.

When you slip into your shoes, he’s already at the door, leaning against the frame with his hands tucked in the pockets of his grey sweatpants, pretending like he isn’t clocking every change in your breathing.

“Text me when you get there,” He says, “And when you’re leaving. And if he says anything that freaks you out. And if you need me to come get you. And—”

“Satoru.”

He stops rambling as you step toward him; his hand comes up instinctively to cup the back of your neck, fingers sweeping the hinge of your jaw while his gaze trails over the silver chain sitting on your collarbone.

“You’ll be okay,” He mutters, even though neither of you truly believe it, “I’ll be right here when you get back.”

You nod, though your stomach is a fist of nerves; he presses a delicate kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger like he’s afraid that if he pulls away, you’ll fall apart.

And miraculously, you manage to walk out. Gojo stays in the doorway until the stairwell swallows you, his eyes fixed on your back like he wishes you wouldn’t leave but knows you must.

Outside the dorms, your dad’s rented SUV is parked at the curb, hazard lights blinking, and he jumps out the second he sees you, “There she is!” He hugs you so tightly you squeak, “(Y/N), you look great! Little tired, maybe. Eating okay? Sleeping? Studying too hard? Not hard enough?”

“Hi, Dad,” You choke out, half-laughing because he hasn’t changed at all.

He opens the passenger door for you and once you’re buckled in he pulls out of the parking lot with the confidence of a man who thinks his daughter is completely fine. You stare out the window the entire ride, breakfast sitting like a brick in your stomach before you’ve even ordered it.

Your dad glances at you once, twice, three times, “You’re quiet.”

You shift uncomfortably, hands balled tight in your lap, “Just tired.”

He gives you a look, the one he gives when he doesn’t buy what you’ve said, but he doesn’t press, “Hm,” He hums, “Alright.”

When you get to the breakfast place, you text Gojo like he asked, a simple here. He responds back instantly.

satoru: ok good

satoru: lmk how it goes and if you need me

satoru: try not to stress

Not stress? Yeah, sure. Like that’s fucking possible with your father sitting directly across from you with no idea at all that his precious daughter is knocked up by his literal worst nightmare.

The menus come and go, pancakes arrive along with eggs and fried ham, the smell of it just adds onto your queasiness—pregnancy and anxiety entangled into one for the most diabolical stomach ache.

Your dad chatters easily about the flight, the hotel, the USC tailgate tomorrow, the studio setup for College GameDay, how the other campuses were, how your mother’s holding up with empty nest syndrome. You nod along, but you’re too distracted on fighting back the urge to vomit.

He pauses mid-sentence, “Sweetheart, you’ve hardly touched your food.”

And since you can’t say, sorry Dad, I can’t eat because I’m a nervous, nauseous, pregnant, hormonal mess and might throw up all over the place, you opt for the line, “I’m just…not that hungry.”

Your dad studies you for a moment, really looks at you, and his expression softens into concern. Shit, he didn’t believe the lie.

“You okay?” He asks quietly, “You seem…off.”

Freezing, your fork slips in your hand as your stomach rolls, and when you finally force yourself to look him in the eye—you almost lose it entirely.

Because all you feel is guilt. Overwhelming, crushing guilt. He spent eighteen years doing everything in his power to protect you and you threw it away for what? Rebellion? Sex? A boy you hardly know?

Or was it worse? Was every reckless choice, every late night, every fuck, every collapse into and onto Gojo nothing more than a slow-motion implosion you tried to mask as freedom?

Your chest caves in at the thought.

You want to tell him. God, you want to tell him.

Dad, I’m pregnant.

I need you.

I can’t do this on my own.

I’m sorry for throwing my youth away.

Please don’t hate me.

The words burn up your throat, begging to be said, but your tongue betrays you. The truth cowers behind your teeth, too real to set free, and your dad watches you with careful, growing worry; his brow folding in that exact way that always meant talk to me, sweetheart.

But instead of doing that and giving him the truth he deserves, you choke on your own fear. The pressure becomes unbearable, the silence stretching long.

“Dad I…” Fuck, just say it, “I’m…”

Your dad leans forward, eyes soft, “You’re…what, sweetheart?”

Your pulse spikes so sharply it causes you to blurt the wrong thing, “I’m…I’m dating someone!”

Your dad blinks; you want to curl into a ball and die or projectile vomit, either one works.

“Yeah…” You push on, breathless, as if momentum alone can save you, “…I—I have a boyfriend.”

Goddamnit, it even sounds fake. Though it’s not, really. Gojo is…something like your boyfriend. A two-month situationship turned baby daddy has to count for something, right? “Boyfriend” feels cleaner than the guy who fucks me and takes me out on dates occasionally.

Your dad stares at you, blindsided, “A boyfriend,” He echoes slowly, like he needs time to process this, “You’re…dating someone.”

Heat floods your face, shame burns under your skin, “Yes. I—yeah.”

“Oh,” He sits back, “Okay. Wow. Uh…that’s good, sweetheart. That’s…really good.”

It isn’t good at all, actually. It’s a fucking mess.

He regains his voice before you do, “I figured you would eventually, I just…didn’t think it would be so soon. I mean, it’s not even November yet.”

You force a thin, brittle smile, “Yeah.”

He picks up his mug of coffee, eyes staying on you over the rim. You can feel the questions building in him, stacking like bricks, “What’s he like? He’s—he’s a good guy, right? Nice? Respectful?”

“He’s…great,” You manage weakly. Mhm, he’s the greatest. At rearranging my guts, maybe.

Your dad nods once, stiffly. Then again, slower, then again, like he’s trying to keep from passing out, “…He’s not an athlete, right?”

“No,” You answer instantly.

“Good,” Your dad breathes, setting his coffee down like it weighs forty pounds, “Because sweetheart—I was a D1 quarterback at Georgia.”

You roll your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. Here we fucking go.

“You know what that means?” He asks gravely.

“Yes, Dad,” You sigh, “I know what it means. You were the best player to ever touch the field, Heisman Trophy winner, everyone else was a problem. You’ve told me the story a million times.”

He waves a dismissive hand, “Yeah, yeah, all that’s true, but that’s not what I meant,” Leaning in slightly, he lowers his voice, “It means I’ve seen things. Terrible things. Things a young woman should never be exposed to.”

You brace yourself, “Our star running back,” He says, voice grim, “Had a girlfriend he claimed to ‘love more than life’ and I watched him make out with two different girls in the same hour at a—”

“No. Nope. Stop,” You interrupt so fast he startles, “He’s not an athlete. He’s not. We’re not doing this.”

“…He’s really not?”

“No,” You repeat firmly, before he can list anything else that may accidentally describe Gojo’s personality.

Your dad exhales, relieved, but then his eyes narrow; a new thought forming, “…He’s not in a fraternity, either…right?”

Your whole body seizes, “Dad—”

“Because those degenerates are worse.”

You take a sip of your orange juice as if it may soften the blow, “They’re athletes with no supervision,” He stresses, stabbing his fork into his eggs so violently the plate slides, “Horny. Lawless. Running on alcohol and hazing and peer pressure.”

You cover your face, he squints at you with suspicion brewing, “Sweetheart…Tell me he’s not in a fraternity.”

“He’s…not an athlete,” You repeat uselessly.

His expression goes blank, “Oh my God. He is in a fraternity. Didn’t I tell you to stay away from them?”

You sink lower in your seat, “Dad, please—”

“No, no, don’t ‘please’ me,” He says, jabbing a finger in your direction, “I gave you one rule before I left you—one. Stay away from the frat boys. Do you remember that?”

“Vaguely.”

“Vaguely?” He sputters, “Let me guess. He’s majoring in finance too?”

You don’t answer, which is of course, an answer, “Oh, fantastic,” He mutters, “He’s already living up to the stereotypes.”

You wince, your dad’s gaze flicks from your face to the unfamiliar silver resting on your collarbone, “And is that…his chain on your neck?”

Your stomach flips, “N-No, I—It’s mine.”

He glares at you and blinks once, unconvinced, “So…it’s his.”

“Dad—”

“Yeah, no,” He cuts in, shaking his head, “I already don’t like this kid. I’m gonna have to meet him.”

Your mouth falls open, the nausea hitting you again, “What? Why? When—”

“Dinner,” He says, reaching for his phone, “Tonight. Works best for me.”

“T-Tonight?”

“Yes,” He confirms, taking a bite of his pancakes that have since gone cold, “I want to look this boy in the eye and see what kind of trouble you’ve dragged into this family.”

Oh, you’ve dragged in a whole lot of trouble.

A faux grin works its way onto your face, “Alright, sure…I bet he’ll be excited to meet you.”

Your dad nods, satisfied, whereas you feel like you’re dying. Your fingers slide under the table, unlocking your phone with a shaky thumb; you type fast.

we need to talk when i get back

Gojo replies immediately, like he’s been waiting.

satoru: did you tell him ??

no

i couldn’t

This time he pauses, a sign that you know he’s thinking.

satoru: yeah i figured

satoru: just breathe

satoru: i’ll be here

Your throat swells at how stupidly steady he sounds.

okay

satoru: now eat your breakfast

satoru: you’re gonna pass out

Something flutters in your stomach—dread, relief, both and despite everything, your lips twitch. Just a little.

Your dad pays the bill, claps you lightly on the back, and walks you to the car like everything is normal and you’re still the daughter he left here in August, except now you have a frat boy boyfriend.

He pulls up to the dorm curb, shifts into park, and gives you a grin that makes your stomach pitch, “Okay, princess,” He says, leaning over to kiss your temple, “Reservations are made for seven. I’m…looking forward to meeting this kid.”

You almost faint as he squeezes your shoulder, oblivious, “Get some rest. And try eating something before then, sweetheart. You look a bit…tired.”

Right. Tired. Not pregnant. You absolutely don’t look that.

You step out on wobbly legs, wave goodbye, and watch the SUV pull off with your pulse hammering so hard you feel it in your teeth. The second it turns the corner, your breath collapses in on itself and your hands have gone numb.

Your knees threaten to give all the way up to the fourth floor to your dorm and by the time you twist the knob, your vision is fuzzy at the edges.

Gojo is exactly where you left him, still in grey sweatpants and a worn white tee, looking like he hasn’t moved in hours even though he’s clearly been listening for your footsteps the whole time.

His head lifts in an instant, “Hey,” He coos, searching your face, “What happened? You—”

“Seven.”

He blinks, “Huh?”

“Seven. Tonight. He—” Your voice cracks, “He made reservations. For us. He wants to meet you at seven.”

Gojo stills, processing your words, then his mouth curves; unbearably self-assured, “Oh,” He murmurs, pushing off the bed and standing tall, “That’s all?”

“Satoru, what do you mean all—this is—this is a disaster. My dad thinks you’re—he’s literally expecting—”

“—a boyfriend,” Gojo finishes smoothly, stepping closer until your back hits the door you just walked through, “And that’s what I am now, right?”

Your jaw drops, you guess Satoru Gojo is officially your boyfriend?

He cups your cheek like you might shatter, thumb wiping a tear you didn’t realize had fallen, “Princess…why are you shaking?”

“Because this is bad,” You whisper, “He already hates you and he hasn’t even met you and he thinks you’re…you’re just…”

“A frat boy?” Gojo supplies, raising a brow, “Accurate.”

“Satoru!”

“What?” He laughs under his breath, “Your dad’s not wrong. I am in a frat and I am definitely fucking his daughter.”

You shove his chest, mortified, “Stop joking—this is serious—”

“I am serious,” He says, catching your wrist gently, “Baby, look at me.”

Your eyes meet his and the smirk fades to reveal the truth beneath it. He’s scared too, though he’s burying it for you and your sake, “He wants dinner?” He asks calmly, “Good. I’ll show up. I’ll be polite. I won’t say anything insane. I’ll even wear my expensive shit.”

Your breath hitches, caught somewhere between panic and disbelief, “You’re acting like this is nothing.”

His eyes soften, “It’s not nothing. It’s important. You’re important. So I’m gonna handle it.”

“You don’t…need to be so relaxed for me.”

“Yeah, I do,” He slides his hand to your waist, steadying you, “If I freak out, you’ll freak out. And I can’t have you melting into a puddle before dinner. Not for something stupid like meeting my future father-in-law.”

The oxygen leaves your lungs, “What makes you think he’ll be your future father-in-law?”

“Because…” He presses a kiss into your hairline, “…You’re mine. The both of you.”

Your stomach drops straight through the floor, because he said it so casually. So confidently, like it wasn’t the single most earth-shattering sentence you’ve ever heard, “You…you can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?” He mutters, brushing his nose against your temple, “I mean it.”

Your breath snags uselessly in your throat, “Satoru, you don’t—you don’t get to just claim things like—like that.”

“Princess…I claimed you the second you let me stay inside,” He leans down, lips grazing your jaw, “And you didn’t pull away then.”

“That’s—” You choke, “That’s not the same.”

“It is to me.”

Your pulse is thrumming wildly, your sense of self-preservation obliterated, because suddenly you’re seeing it clearly.

Gojo wants this—he wants you.

You, the tiny secret growing inside you, and the whole impossible future, “Hey,” He murmurs, dragging his thumb along your lower lip, “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“You didn’t,” You lie.

“Princess, your pulse is trying to escape through your neck.”

You want to shove him again, tell him to shut up, tell him he’s not allowed to talk about future father-in-laws or claiming, but when he looks at you like this…like he’s ridiculously sure of you? You can’t say any of it.

Instead, your voice comes out small, “What if tonight goes wrong?”

“It won’t,” Gojo assures, lifting your chin with two fingers, “Your dad’s a smart guy. He’ll know exactly what he sees.”

“And what’s that?”

“A man who’d do anything for you.”

Your throat swells shut, he kisses your forehead again, lingering and reverent in a way he shouldn’t be capable of, “Let me worry about tonight. You just try to eat something so you don’t pass out and your dad doesn’t think I starve you.”

You huff out a tiny laugh and Gojo’s grin appears, bright, unfair in its radiance, “There she is,” His knuckles sweep down your cheek, “My girl.”

Your heart doesn’t stop pounding after that.

It doesn’t stop when Gojo finally leaves to get ready, giving you one last glance over his shoulder. It doesn’t stop when there’s a soft knock on your door hours later and you open it to see him—God.

He’s in a crisp white button-up that hugs his muscles, sleeves rolled neatly to his toned forearms, a black Rolex glinting at his wrist. His slacks are tailored, expensive and sharp; white hair styled, but not too much, leaving it soft at the ends, and he smells like that signature Armani cologne he always wears.

For once, Gojo looks less like a typical frat boy and more like something dangerously close to a man.

Your heart doesn’t stop pounding when he tilts his head at you, blue eyes skating down your mini dress with slow appreciation before murmuring, “Beautiful”.

It continues even when he opens the passenger door of his Porsche, hand hovering at your lower back; it keeps pounding as he drives, Los Angeles blurring past your window, sun dipping behind the skyline, the route shifting toward Beverly Hills and a dinner reservation that feels like an execution.

You can barely breathe when he pulls into valet, bluish-white headlights washing over marble, glass, gold accents, and still, your heart hasn’t stopped pounding.

Even after he circles the car to open your door, offering his hand for you to take because your legs are trembling too hard, lips brushing your ear to say, “I’m right with you, princess.”

Then he straightens, pastes on a calm he absolutely doesn’t feel, and nudges you gently toward the entrance right where your father is waiting, and your heart feels about ready to burst.

Your father’s face brightens the second he sees you—wide grin, arms already opening like he plans to crush you into his chest again, but then his attention flicks, just slightly, over your shoulder, and he stops walking like his brain needs a full minute to process what’s approaching him.

Because Gojo steps into the light behind you, tall, immaculate, terrifyingly put together, and your dad’s gaze darts through a rapid-fire checklist.

The Porsche 911 GT3 he passed over to valet, the tailored shirt hugging Gojo’s broad shoulders, rolled sleeves exposing forearms built like he could bench the same as him in his prime, Rolex gleaming with old money arrogance, the fact that he’s easily 6’3, maybe more, towering like a tight end.

Your dad blinks twice. This is not the frat boy he envisioned. This isn’t a Chad, or a Brad, or God forbid, a Thad; the man standing in front of him is someone else entirely.

Gojo steps forward before you can get a word out, hand briefly grazing the small of your back to show you he’s still here, before dropping it and adopting the exact posture of polite charm you didn’t know he possessed.

He bows, a clean, subtle dip of the head and shoulders in traditional Japanese fashion, respectful and disarming—so disarming your dad fully freezes.

“Good evening, sir,” Gojo says, voice lower, smoother, softened in a way he reserves exclusively for you, “I’m Satoru Gojo. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Your dad stares at him blankly, “Sa…toru?”

“Satoru,” Gojo repeats gently, “But Gojo is fine, sir,” Then, effortlessly, he switches to the American custom; extending his hand for a shake and somehow, Gojo nails the grip. Firm, confident, but not overcompensating.

Your dad takes it, but his eyes travel again—wrist, Rolex, shoulders, height, jawline, what the fuck…?

Finally he huffs out a tiny, bewildered exhale, “Well,” He says, trying and failing, to mask the surprise in his tone, “I, uh…I wasn’t expecting a Satoru.”

Gojo smiles, proper but serrated with mischief, “Understandable.”

Your dad clears his throat like it’ll help reset his brain, “I thought you’d be more of a…Chad.”

His grin sharpens, “No, thankfully not a Chad.”

Your dad glances at you, then back at Gojo, clearly reigning in the immediate relief that this foreign, polished, and frighteningly handsome man is not the alcoholic frat fuck stereotype he braced himself for.

“Well,” He says, stepping back, regaining authority with the stiffness of a man who refuses to be impressed, “Nice to meet you, son.”

Gojo nods, “Likewise, sir.”

Your dad’s gaze shifts to the Porsche parked outside once more, then to the watch, his eyes twitch just barely. You already know that he’s silently praying, please don’t let this kid be an asshole.

“Alright,” He chimes, clearing his throat again, “Our table’s ready. Follow me.”

You fall into step behind him, but Gojo stays close; arm brushing yours, warmth radiating off him. You don’t miss the way your dad clocks the closeness or the way Gojo subtly straightens trying to project composure.

The restaurant is all dim lighting and hushed conversations, you feel the weight of your heartbeat in your throat with every step. By the time you reach the table, your dad finally breaks the silence, “So, Satoru,” He says, “Tell me about yourself. Where you’re from. What you do. All that.”

Gojo slides your chair out for you, not performative, just instinctive, and your dad of course notices. Only after you’re settled does Gojo sit, folding his long frame into the chair with an ease that shouldn’t be possible.

He meets your father’s gaze without flinching, “I’m a junior, twenty years old, from Tokyo originally,” He answers, tone even; nothing like the guy who fucks you stupid and talks you through panic attacks, “Came to USC for a change of pace. Wanted to see more of the world while I’m young.”

You nearly choke, because that is not why he came here. Your dad just nods slowly, “Japan, huh? That’s…far.”

But you already know what your father’s thinking. Oh, he’s Japanese? This must mean he’s polite, well-mannered, and disciplined—He could not be any more incorrect.

“Yes, sir,” Gojo replies easily, “But I like it here. California’s been good to me.”

Your dad’s gaze fixes on the Rolex again, then his shirt and posture, the way he carries himself as if he had been raised in wealth, “And your family?” He asks carefully, because that’s the real question for him. What is this boy’s foundation?

Gojo doesn’t blink, “They run a tech company back home.”

“A…big one?”

Gojo gives a small, humble shrug that is absolutely not humble, “It does well.”

You almost kick him under the table for the understatement. Multi-billion dollar empire does “well”?

Your dad’s brows lift, unimpressed but intrigued, “And you…plan to take it over someday?”

“That’s the idea,” Gojo says, folding his hands neatly in his lap, “So I’m studying finance to be prepared when the time comes.”

Your dad hums low, finally Gojo said something he respects, “Well,” He leans back slightly, “That’s admirable. Not a lot of young men think that far ahead.”

Gojo smiles, small and controlled, “I try to.”

Then your dad narrows his eyes, skeptical again, “And the fraternity?”

Your blood runs cold, but Gojo doesn’t shy away, “Honestly, sir? I didn’t know anyone when I moved here. Joining seemed like the fastest way to make friends. A community.”

A blatant fucking lie. Sigma Chi is many things, but calling it a “community” is generous. Your dad is still evaluating the validity of that statement, “Frats can be trouble. A lot of guys lose themselves there.”

Gojo lets out a quiet breath, somewhat a laugh, “College is…loud,” He admits, “But I don’t…lose myself.”

Your heart stutters at the honesty buried in his words and your dad analyzes him again, closely, seeing the steadiness beneath the polished exterior.

“And what do you do for fun?” He asks casually, though his tone is anything but, “Besides…fraternity bonding?”

Gojo leans into his seat, effortlessly composed, “Watching sports, studying, lifting…” His eyes flick to you, so quick your dad doesn’t catch it, but you do, “…cardio.”

You kick Gojo in the shin instantly, “Oh, please,” You say, giving your dad a dazzling smile, “His cardio? It’s awful.”

Gojo scowls as your dad laughs, entirely oblivious, “Is that right?”

“Embarrassing,” You continue, “He taps out fast.”

Gojo turns his head toward you with the calm, collected expression of a man mentally ruining you in every which way; your dad looks down at his menu—big mistake, because Gojo leans in, voice a thread of velvet, “Princess,” He murmurs, heat slipping between the syllables, “If my cardio was bad…”

His hand grazes your thigh under the table, “…you wouldn’t be sitting here with my kid inside you.”

Your breath shatters, Gojo smiles lethally, “But sure,” He whispers, lips fanning your ear, “Tell your dad I can’t last. Tell him whatever you want,” His fingers press once into your thigh, unmistakably possessive, “I’ll fuck the truth back into you later.”

Your fork slips from your hand onto the tablecloth and you silently pray your dad didn’t hear a single thing that was said, “You okay, sweetheart?” He asks.

“Fine!” You choke, “Totally—totally great.”

Gojo sits back, expression pristine, the devilish glint in his eyes the only evidence of the filth he whispered. Your dad chuckles, shaking his head in fatherly amusement, “Glad you two have a sense of humor, at least.”

You stare straight ahead, trying not to combust. Gojo taps your knee under the table slowly, promising hell later, and when you dare sneak a glance at him, he mouths, “Keep going”.

Your dad finishes laughing, wipes his mouth with his napkin while the dinner finally starts to feel normal again. However, normal never lasts with your father, “So…how did you two meet?”

You and Gojo both go rigid, your dad just smiles, relaxed and completely unaware. Gojo recovers first because he has to; he sits back, eyelids lowered in that deceptively calm way that means he’s about to lie so beautifully you might actually believe him.

“We met at a party.”

Your head whips toward him so violently your vision blurs, “A party?” You echo, far too loudly and because you’re a nervous, hormonal idiot, you blurt, “No—we met at the library!”

Your dad looks between the two of you, deeply confused. Gojo clears his throat delicately, “Um—right. Yes. That’s what I meant.”

Your dad glares hard, “So…which one is it?”

You and Gojo speak at the same time.

“The library.”

“A party.”

Your dad closes his eyes like he’s begging the gods above for the strength. Gojo tries again, sitting neatly upright as if he didn’t just mutter I fucked a baby into you ten minutes ago.

“What she means, sir,” He says with terrifying confidence, “Is that it was a…party at the library.”

“A what now?”

“A party,” Gojo repeats calmly, “At the library.”

The look on your dad’s face already tells you that he knows it’s bullshit, but Gojo presses on anyway because he’s shameless, “USC implemented it on Thursday nights—a new studying…initiative.”

You want to die on the spot as your dad stares at you, then at Gojo, then at you again, “Sweetheart,” He says flatly, “You met this boy at a frat party, didn’t you?”

You sigh, “Yes.”

Your dad exhales through his nose, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “Of course you did.”

Gojo, for the first time all evening, appears slightly sheepish, “That’s on me, sir,” He takes the blame, “I was trying to make a better first impression.

“Well, son, lying isn’t usually the way to do that.”

Gojo inclines his head, respectful and maddeningly attractive, “I understand, sir…won’t happen again.”

Your dad nods once, satisfied by the correction, but then his gaze shifts from your flustered face to Gojo’s relaxed posture to your knees touching under the table, and something in his jaw tightens, “So what exactly happened,” Voice spuriously mild, “At this…party?”

And because Gojo can’t give him the honest answer, well, sir we fucked and I came in her, he says, “I saw your daughter, and I knew I needed to introduce myself.”

Partial truth. He did do this.

“Just like that?”

Gojo’s gaze snaps to you, “Just like that.”

“Hm,” He says finally, leaning back in his chair, “Alright then.”

But his suspicion is awake now, fully. Watching you both and lingering.

After that, the conversation blends into a blur—small talk about USC, football, baseball, and you manage to hear Gojo mention naturally being a Shohei Ohtani fan, but you’re too busy trying not to throw up to register most of it.

Gojo handles himself with unnerving suave, speaking with measured charisma, even cracking a joke that makes your dad actually laugh, though it’s tight and guarded. But then…the food arrives.

Your dad’s plate hits the table, a seared ribeye, buttery and bloody; the second the smell reaches you, your stomach lurches so harshly your eyes water. The scent thickens, clinging to the back of your throat and you choke on nothing, hand flying to your mouth.

“Sweetheart?”

“I—excuse me—sorry, just…” You barely get the words out before scraping back your chair and stumbling toward the bathroom. You don’t see Gojo bolt upright, but your dad does.

Gojo freezes halfway out of his seat, jaw clenching like he’s about to chase after you right then and there—only remembering at the last second that he can’t sprint after you like a panicked, guilty idiot in front of your father.

He forces himself still, barely, and your dad observes him quietly before saying, “She gets queasy when she’s anxious.”

Gojo swallows once, “I know.”

Your dad folds his napkin carefully, gaze never leaving Gojo’s face, “And she’s been anxious all day.”

Gojo forces a steady breath, “Yes, sir.”

Silence settles like dust as your dad sits back, voice low and firm with no room for misunderstanding, “Listen, Satoru—I’ve spent the past eighteen years keeping her safe,” He explains, “And now I’m trusting you to do the same.”

Gojo’s spine straightens and for once, he doesn’t lie, “I will. I care about her…A lot.”

Your dad studies him, searching for cracks, but Gojo doesn’t cower. So, instead he nods, “Good.”

But Gojo’s heart is beating so hard he thinks it might bruise his ribs, because he knows exactly what your father doesn’t.

I’m the exact kind of guy she needed to be protected from, but I don’t care anyway. She’s mine, whether I deserve her or not.

You return to the table a few minutes later, palms damp, pulse still ricocheting from the bathroom mirror. You expect the atmosphere to be thick, your dad to look worried, Gojo to appear guilty, but instead Gojo is sitting exactly where you left him, so relaxed you wonder if you imagined the panic in his eyes when you fled.

Your dad peers up first, “Feeling better, sweetheart?”

You nod rapidly, “Yeah—yeah, sorry. Just needed some air.”

He smiles, soft and fatherly, trying not to push, “Okay. C’mon, your food’s getting cold.”

You sit, heart still uneven, and Gojo’s knee taps yours once beneath the table—tender, checking on you, reassuring, grounding. You don’t look at him, but feel his warmth like static under your skin.

Dinner drifts after that, surprisingly normal. The conversation glides back to sports, classes, life in Japan, stupid LA traffic. Your dad loosens, laughing twice; Gojo doesn’t slip again, infuriatingly perfect at pretending he’s not everything your father fears and hasn’t gotten his only daughter pregnant.

By the time dessert menus are declined and the check comes, your dad doesn’t seem convinced yet, but is no longer braced for disaster. Something about Gojo’s poise, his politeness, his ridiculously hidden aristocratic manners, all pile together into a version your dad can tolerate.

Outside the restaurant, in the glow of Beverly Hills streetlights, your dad pulls you in for another hug, squeezing a little tighter this time, “Hopefully I’ll see you two at the game tomorrow, but no promises. I’ll be working.”

“Yeah,” You answer, breathless,” Hopefully.”

He looks between you and Gojo, accepting only what he chooses to, “And hey,” He adds, voice dipping into familiar dad-warning territory, “Be careful tomorrow night. Halloween on a college campus gets crazy. I know you’ll probably be going to some parties or whatever—just be safe.”

Halloween. Right.

You and Gojo had both completely forgotten about it ever since the whole pregnancy revelation. Which is a first for Gojo considering he typically lives for Halloweekend, having picked out your costumes two weeks ago out of anticipation.

Gojo nods respectfully, “Yes, sir. We will.”

Your dad gives him a curt nod back, then looks at you one last time, softening, “Love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you too.”

He watches until you and Gojo cross the valet lane, noticing the way Gojo places a careful hand on the small of your back and how you lean into it without thinking. Then he gets into his SUV, pulling away with a frown you don’t see.

Only when the headlights disappear does Gojo finally exhale, “Well,” He murmurs, opening the passenger door for you, “That wasn’t the worst thing to ever happen.”

You slide into the Porsche, the red leather cool against your thighs, “I think I blacked out for half of it.”

“Yeah,” He says, shutting your door gently before circling to the driver’s side, “Same.”

He gets in, starts the engine, and the bassy purr of the GT3 fills the air; shifting into drive, his hand rests on your bare knee, thumb stroking once, slowly, intentionally. Your breath snags, because you know that touch. It’s prelude to something.

Headlights wash over his profile—sharp jaw, rolled sleeves, forearms flexing as he grips the wheel. His eyes flick to you, hunger slicing through the blue.

“Princess.”

“Yeah?”

“You kicked me under the table.”

You look out the window, “Because you were being gross.”

He huffs a laugh, “And you said my cardio is bad.”

“Satoru, don’t start,” But he already has.

His fingers slide higher on your thigh, stopping just short of where you’re already throbbing, “Baby…I didn’t forget what I said to you in there.”

Your lungs tighten, “Satoru—”

“And I didn’t forget what I promised I’d do.”

You squeeze your thighs together involuntarily and he notices, his smirk curving slow and knowing, “You tried to embarrass me in front of your dad,” He explains, turning onto the street leading toward Greek Row, hand still possessive on your thigh, “Told him I can’t last.”

“I—I didn’t think—”

“Mm,” His thumb brushes the hem of your dress, “You’re gonna think about it now.”

The heat between your legs surges, because this is the version of him you recognize. The one who takes, teases, ruins, devours, and after three days of fear and grief and sleepless nights—you fucking want him.

He pulls into the Sigma Chi driveway; the house is quiet, most of the brothers out for Halloween weekend, wind rustling the flags out front. He kills the engine and doesn’t move or look at you, just breathes once, like he’s holding himself back with every tendon of his body.

“Satoru?”

“Get out,” He says, voice thick with intent.

Your knees barely hold you as you walk toward the house with Gojo right behind, body radiating heat like he’s burning alive. He follows you up the porch and the second the door closes he’s steering you fast through the dark house, up the stairs.

He doesn’t say a word as his grip stays firm around your wrist, urgent enough that your pulse won’t steady, and when he gets you inside his room, he barely manages to shut the door before he’s on you. His mouth crashes against yours with a starvation sharpened by fear, guilt, desire, and the unbearable tension of sitting across your father pretending he hasn’t put a baby inside you.

Your back smacks the wall with a soft thud, a gasp breaking into his mouth. His hands are already on your body, one gripping your hip, the other sliding up the back of your thigh like he’s been craving this.

“All night,” He mumbles against your lips, “All night I’ve had to fucking behave.”

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, dragging him closer, and he groans; a low, feral sound like you’ve cracked him open, “Then don’t.”

That snaps every ounce of his restraint. Gojo spins you around so quickly your palms slap his desk, dress shoved up over your hips in the same motion. Your panties get yanked to the side and he bends you over it like he’s been picturing you like this for hours.

“Yeah?” He murmurs in your ear, ass pulled flush against the pitched tent in his slacks, “You want that, baby?”

You nod frantically as the metallic clink of his belt buckle fills the room, followed by the slow drag of leather sliding free. He takes his time as he folds the designer belt in half, letting the looped end trail lightly down your spine before bringing it down in one sharp smack across your ass. It isn’t hard enough to hurt, only a slight sting that has you gasping and arching.

“That,” He trills wickedly, “Is for what you said earlier,” He tosses the belt beside your hand on the desk and pulls his pants down, freeing his cock that’s hot and heavy as a result of going days with no release.

He rubs himself through your slick once, twice, coating the tip while you’re already a whimpering mess, “And this…Is what I’ve been dying to give you since then.”

The way he says it makes your body jolt, he laughs, dark and delighted; “Mm, I know, baby—you’re dying for it too. And to think, just an hour ago you were sitting across from your dad smiling like the sweetest little princess in the world.”

He notches his cock at your entrance, rubbing the head through your folds one more time, agonizingly slow, “Spent the whole night lying to him and now look at you—bent over my desk, begging for this dick. Isn’t that right?”

You try to answer, but he thrusts inside you so hard it knocks the air out of your lungs; a cry tears out of you instead and his hand flies over your mouth, “Shh,” He breathes against your shoulder, “You wanna get fucked full of cum, you take it quiet.”

The desk groans beneath you when he starts moving; fast, rough, unrelenting. There’s no more teasing. It’s all the pressure from that dinner—the lies, the fear, your father sitting a foot away from him, the sight of you in that dress with his chain on and his baby in you, finally detonating.

He keeps one hand over your mouth and the other locked on your hip, forcing you back to meet every brutal thrust, “Sat there looking so fuckin’ innocent,” He mutters, voice serrated at the edges, “Meanwhile you’ve got this greedy little pussy squeezing around me like it wants more.”

Your cunt clenches so tight he chokes on a groan, “That’s it,” He pants, “Fuck—take this cock.”

The lamp on his desk rattles, finance worksheets slide off the wood one by one. Your muffled noises keep breaking against his palm no matter how hard he tries to keep you silent, “Maybe you like this,” He sneers, “Maybe you want my brothers hearing how good I fuck you.”

You helplessly shake your head, but your body betrays you; pushing back, clenching around him, trembling as the pleasure starts to build way too fast. He laughs when he feels it, “That’s what I thought,” His hand tightens over your mouth, “Those pretty moans are mine. You’re mine. You hear me?”

You sob into his palm and that only makes him rougher and when you cum your body jerks, broken cries swallowed by his hand. The second your pussy starts throbbing around him, Gojo loses whatever was left of his mind.

“Fuck—” He buries himself further, “There it is. There it fuckin’ is—” He cums hard with a grunt punched out of him, grinding against you through every pulse like he’s trying stuff every drop as deep as he can.

Gojo stays still for a moment, breathing labored against your nape, then slowly pulls out to look at the mess he made, “God…” He whispers, all filthy reverence. Two of his fingers drag through the warm, white globs, smearing it up your folds and shoving it back inside you where it belongs, “Filled you s’much, princess—gonna give you more.”

Curling his fingers in your cunt for one last pump, he hesitantly removes them, and you whine at the sudden emptiness. Thick strands of cum cling to his fingers that glisten in the low light; Gojo towers behind you when his voice drops into something low and commanding, “Stand up.”

You push off the desk on weak arms; he spins you around to face him and lifts his hand, bringing it toward your mouth, “Open.”

Your lips open on instinct, tongue licking the pads of his fingers and he shoves them inside. The taste hits you immediately, salty and bitter, but unequivocally him. Your cheeks hollow as you suck them; his eyes flutter shut for a second, “Yeah…clean me, princess.”

He watches you the entire time—how your tongue works, the way you swallow everything. His free hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth where a little bit escapes. He hums, satisfied, “Good girl,” He praises, pulling his fingers out with a wet pop, “Now, c’mere…I’ll fuck you right this time.”

You let him lift you; your legs wrap around his waist, dress still bunched, panties hanging off one ankle only to hit the floor. Gojo lays you down on his bed gently, climbs over you, and doesn’t waste a second—sinking his cock back inside you in one deep, dragging stroke that makes both of you shudder.

“Mine,” He whispers against your throat, mouth lingering at the chain around your neck.

His rhythm is slower now, hips rolling in sensual circles that make your eyes roll back. His hands roam, one gripping your thigh to hitch it higher, the other sliding down to sprawl flat over your lower belly, thinking about how good it fucking feels that you’re carrying a piece of him.

You feel it the second he touches you there, the way his breathing catches, his whole body changing, “Satoru…”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks at you with mussed white hair, and eyes too blue and ruined, thrusting deeper. Every one feels more possessive, like he’s claiming you all over again now that the dinner tension has evaporated. When he finishes a second time, it’s quieter—a wrecked groan into the crook of your neck, hips slowing but never stopping, filling you while his fingers flex against your belly.

He stays there after, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your jaw like he doesn’t know how to pull himself apart from you.

Eventually he does, only to drag you closer and do it all over again. He fucks you over and over, not rushed or angry, just deep, obsessive, and insatiable. Every time he feels his cum leaking out of you, he gets that same dark expression and pushes it back in as if he can’t stand the thought of anything being lost.

At some point, you stop being able to count how many rounds he’s gone. He stops only when you're falling asleep on his dick, utterly spent from the multiple climaxes, overstimulation, and being filled to the brim. When the exhaustion finally wins, your head is tucked under his chin and he stays buried inside your snug cunt until he goes soft.

As you drift off, his hand subconsciously slides down your body and rests back onto where it was before—your lower belly. He stays awake a little longer, long enough for reality to settle back over him.

His baby is there. His.

The truth of that should terrify him more than it does—hell, it does, but beneath the fear sits that same ugly, impossible thread of satisfaction.

He pulls you in closer, pressing a lazy kiss onto your temple, “Goodnight, princess.”

Then his eyes close too, palm still spread over the place where his future is growing, calmer than he has any right to be.

And the next morning, when you wake, it isn’t to peace and quiet. It’s to bass and Fisher being played at full fucking volume.

The music vibrates faintly through the floorboards beneath Gojo’s bed, followed by a burst of male laughter loud enough to make your face scrunch before your eyes even open. Then you hear the sound of people shouting, the back door slamming, and sneakers thudding up and down the hallway.

Your body feels like it’s been pulverized. There’s soreness tucked into every inch of you—your thighs ache when you think about moving, your hips feel bruised from the inside out, and your lower stomach twists with that now-familiar, unpleasant nausea that seems to greet you before the rest of the world does.

You try to burrow deeper into the pillows when he calls for you, “Baby.”

His voice is amused; you make a tiny, miserable noise into the sheets and keep your eyes shut, “Princess,” Gojo tries again, closer this time, and there’s something off about his tone, “C’mon. Wake up.”

You blink your eyes open slowly, and there he is. Already dressed in a USC shirt and snapback, face flushed pink, and holding a red solo cup in one hand. Underneath the hat, his hair is slightly messy, his mouth is partially swollen, and his blue eyes are far too sharp for someone who hasn’t been awake in a normal, sober way.

He smells like Armani cologne and cheap Keystone beer, which means that not only was he awake, but he’s been downstairs with the brothers drinking. Of course he has.

You stare at him in disbelief, voice frayed, “Have you been up long?”

He gives you a half-shrug like the answer doesn’t matter, “Long enough.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

He grins, and it’s that lazy, impossible grin you know too well and like too much, “It’s game day.”

You squint at him, “It is nine-something in the morning.”

“And?” He lifts his cup to take a sip, “School spirit.”

“Alcoholism,” You correct.

He laughs at that as he sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress sinks beneath his weight and you immediately feel it everywhere; Gojo catches the grimace that crosses your face and his grin widens.

“Oof, baby,” He says, looking way too pleased with himself, “I really did a number on you last night, huh?”

You look at him, deadpan, “You did.”

“Hm,” He hums almost thoughtfully, “Shouldn’t have insulted my cardio.”

“Toru.”

“What?” He leans down and presses a quick kiss to your temple, ignoring what he said, “Baby, get up. Everybody’s outside.”

You frown, “Outside?”

“In the backyard,” He jerks his head vaguely toward the door, “Tailgate’s literally happening right now. You don’t even have to go anywhere yet. Just come downstairs.”

The bass thumps again, shaking the walls as if to prove his point. You let your head fall back against the pillow dramatically, “I’m tired.”

“No shit,” He brushes a hand over your bare thigh poking out from the comforter, “You slept like I killed you.”

“You basically did.”

“Yeah,” He says without a hint of shame, “I know.”

For one stupid second, you almost smile, but then you try to sit up and your body instantly punishes you for it. Your stomach turns and the room tilts, “You okay?”

“I…don’t feel that good.”

That gets his full attention. The frat house noise continues to rage outside, but it suddenly feels farther away. His eyes trace over your face carefully now, “Like sore? Or like weird?”

You hesitate because the answer is annoyingly both, “Sore,” You admit, “And tired. And my stomach feels…” You don’t finish the sentence, pressing a palm there, “Off.”

Gojo’s gaze drops to your hand and there’s a flicker in his expression—something protective and tense and very scared hidden under the drunkenness, but the sound of someone screaming his name downstairs snaps the moment in half.

“Gojo! Where the fuck you at?”

A whole chorus of brothers begin chanting right after that—idiotic, loud, feral. Gojo closes his eyes briefly like he hates them, then looks back at you, “You want me to stay?”

The question surprises you so much that you eventually meet his eyes, because he means it. You can tell he does. He’s already been downstairs, already started drinking, already in the middle of all this, and still, he’d stay with you.

You hate that it makes your throat tighten, “No,” You say softly, “It’s okay.”

He’s not even the slightest bit convinced. You force yourself upright a little more, blanket clutched to your chest, “Go have fun.”

His mouth flattens, “Baby.”

“No, seriously. I’m fine.”

That’s not even remotely true, but if he stays up here hovering over you all morning, you’ll feel even more pathetic and fragile, and you already feel like some strange, broken version of yourself as it is.

Gojo studies your face for a long minute, but because he is still Satoru Gojo, he flops sideways across the bed and drops his head into your lap.

“But baby,” He complains into the sheets, voice muffled, “I don’t wanna be alone.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, “There are like forty frat brothers downstairs.”

“Yeah,” He says, lifting his head just enough to look up at you with bright, glassy eyes, “But none of those dumbasses are you.”

You shake your head, but your hand lifts to his jawline on instinct. He goes quiet under the touch before leaning into it like he’s been waiting for it, “C’mon,” He murmurs softly, “Just come outside with me for a little bit…Please?”

The pleading almost gets you, but you hesitate. Outside, the backyard is alive. You can hear it, the music, yelling, that uniquely college football weekend chaos you moved across the country for in the first place.

Despite how awful you feel some stupid part of you still wants to be eighteen and normal. Fun and hot and outside with your hot frat boy boyfriend while USC loses its mind over a noon kickoff on Halloween.

Maybe the fresh air will help, Blair will probably be there, and if you stay in this bed all morning you will absolutely think too much, “Fine,” His whole face lights up, “But—if I feel worse, I’m coming back upstairs.”

“Done.”

“And I’m not drinking.”

“Obviously,” He sits up straight again, reaching for his cup, “You’re drinking water and pretending whatever I give you later is alcohol.”

Your mouth twitches despite yourself, he points the red solo cup at you, “Don’t give me that look. I’m being responsible.”

“You’re drunk before ten.”

“It’s tradition.”

“It’s a problem.”

He smiles, “Yet you still like me.”

You groan and let yourself flop against the pillows for one more second, “I need like…ten minutes though.”

Gojo’s eyes trail over you and the small marks he left all over your skin last night, “Wear something cute.”

Your jaw drops, “Satoru.”

“What?” He shrugs, “It’s a tailgate.”

“It’s your backyard.”

“Exactly,” He backs toward the door, grin returning full force, “Ten minutes, princess. Or I’m coming back up here and dressing you myself,” Then he disappears back into the chaos downstairs before you can throw a pillow at his head.

You sit there in the wreckage of his bed for another moment, listening to the house pulse around you. The frat boys, the house music, the ache in your body, the nausea still curling in your stomach.

God, you’re really fucking pregnant. The word moves through your head again, heavier than it was before. You press a hand to your belly without thinking, then you drag in a breath, throw the blankets back, and force yourself out of bed because apparently you’re getting dressed to go stand in your boyfriend’s backyard while he day drinks himself into oblivion before morning’s over.

You get dressed as quickly as your body allows, throw on a pair of shorts and one of Gojo’s oversized USC shirts, and that’s about as best you can do before the bass starts making your skull throb.

By the time you make it downstairs, the first floor of Sig Chi is hectic in the most obnoxious way possible—music blasting through speakers, brothers shouting over one another in the kitchen, the back door slamming every few seconds, red cups and beer cans everywhere like the tailgate’s been going for hours. Honestly, it probably has.

The second you step out onto the back patio, warmth and noise hit you at once. The backyard is packed. A folding table is set up for pong, USC flags are hanging off the fences, and at least three brothers are drunk enough to the point where they won’t make it to the actual game at twelve.

“Bitch.”

You turn around and are met with Blair, “Morning.”

She makes a face as she hurries toward you, her eyes drag over you once and her mouth falls open, “Why do you look,” She says slowly, “Like you got railed?”

Your eyes cut to Gojo who's standing a few feet away with his drink in hand and a smirk of filthy pride, “She always looks like that.”

Blair gags, “You are both so deeply disturbing,” Then she leans closer, voice dropping just enough, “Are you okay?”

The softness of the question makes something in your chest loosen a little. You nod, even though it’s only half true, “I’m alive.”

She gives you a look that says she knows exactly what that means, but mercifully lets it go, “Good. Because if you pass out before noon, I’m not carrying you.”

“Love you too.”

One of the brothers barrels up to Gojo, a few drinks deep, clapping him on the shoulder, “Gojo! Bro—finally got Sleeping Beauty out here?”

Gojo shoves him off immediately, “Watch your hands.”

The brother blinks, then notices your face and grins, “Damn, (Y/N), you look—”

“Don’t,” Gojo cuts in flatly.

You turn your head toward him, “Seriously?”

He takes a sip from his cup, jaw tight, “What?”

You chuckle once, incredulously, “You dragged me out here and now nobody’s allowed to look at me?”

“Looking’s fine,” He says, “They just don’t know how to without pissing me off.”

The explanation is so absurd you actually laugh, but unfortunately that seems to do something to him. He reaches for you, hand sliding around your waist in that casual possessive way of his that never feels casual, and pulls you closer into his side, “Stay near me.”

“Why?”

His fingers flex once around your hip, “Because you looked like you got fucked dumb in my bed,” He murmurs, “And I don’t feel like dealing with the consequences of that yet.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks so fast it almost makes you dizzy. You elbow him playfully in the ribs but he only laughs and keeps you tucked against him while the backyard keeps buzzing. And throughout the bass, the screaming, and the annoyingly bright California sun, your stomach rolls again to remind you that nothing about your life is normal anymore.

The next hour passes in a blur; more drinks appear in Gojo’s hand than you can keep track of, brothers cycle in and out of conversations around him, slapping his back, yelling in his face, dragging him into games of beer pong, and despite getting drunker he keeps finding his way back to you like it’s instinct.

A hand on your waist, fingers brushing your wrist, his body slotting in beside yours whenever the crowd gets too tight; he comes up behind you once to whisper in your ear that, “I should’ve fucked you one more time before bringing you out here.”

You slap his arm weakly, he only chuckles and kisses the side of your head before some brother calls his name and drags him three feet away again.

By the time the tailgate starts thinning and people begin leaving for the stadium, kickoff is close enough that the whole backyard feels sharper, “Finally,” One of the brothers groans, crushing his empty beer can, “I thought we were never gonna get there.”

“You’ve been talking about the game for three hours,” Blair notes dryly, “Relax.”

Gojo snorts from beside you, snapback sitting a little crooked on his head now, cheeks even more flushed. His palm slides low across your back as the group starts filtering toward the gate, “You good?”

You almost say yes automatically, “Kind of.”

His eyes narrow just slightly, “Kind of isn’t an answer, baby.”

“I’m okay,” You assure, “Just tired.”

Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. Gojo just nods like he doesn't believe you, keeping his hand on your back when the crowd starts moving; and when the stadium rises into view, massive and gleaming under the west coast sunlight, your stomach rolls once more, but this time? It doesn’t stop right away.

And when the three of you make it inside the stadium, it only gets worse.

The noise hits you first, thousands of people packed shoulder to shoulder screaming fight songs and wearing red and gold. The entire place is vibrating with that distinct college football electricity you used to think looked so glamorous from the outside. Now it just makes you sick.

Gojo, on the other hand, looks right at home.

He’s looser now than he was in the backyard, cheeks pink from hours of drinking, sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt, one hand curled around his beer while his other keeps clinging to your waist every few minutes like he physically cannot stop touching you.

“You good?” He asks again.

You nod because that’s what you’ve been doing all day, “Mhm.”

Before he can push any further the whole student section erupts as USC runs out onto the field. The frat brothers around you lose their minds, jumping out of their seats so urgently it shakes the row. Gojo’s mouth curves into a grin, bright and reckless and boyish in a way that almost makes you forget everything.

Almost. Because somewhere in all of this bullshit, your dad is here too.

Here—somewhere above the field in a blazer and headset, smiling for cameras, existing in the same vicinity as the secret rearranging your life; commentating like nothing is wrong while you sit in the stadium trying not to throw up with his grandchild inside you.

The thought lands ugly, and you try to ignore it, but it gets harder with every passing minute. The sun feels hotter in the stands, the sounds are sharper, the smell of beer and sweat and fried foods hangs thick in the air. The metal bench is unforgiving on your already sore body and your stomach has gone from uneasy to totally fucked.

And by the middle of the first quarter, you’re no longer watching the game; you’re enduring it. Gojo notices before anyone else, “Baby,” He leans closer, “Talk to me.”

“I’m…trying.”

“Trying what?”

“Not to throw up.”

Blair’s head snaps around from your other side in an instant, “Oh.”

Gojo is already setting his beer can under the seat, “Okay, we’re leaving.”

“No—”

“Yes,” His hand slides to the back of your neck, cool and steady, “I’m taking you back.”

“I don’t want to ruin—”

“Baby, I do not give a fuck about this game right now.”

The words come out firm enough that even Blair lifts her brows. You look at him, you can tell he means it; there’s nothing but concern written all over his face, drunken concern, but concern nonetheless.

Still, guilt rises within you anyway. Because he’s been excited for this and drinking since morning and hanging with his brothers, living the exact college life you came here to taste too. Dragging him out right after the game barely started feels like one more thing your body is taking from both of you.

“I can go with Blair.”

His expression hardens, “No.”

Blair blinks, “Damn, okay. Fuck me, I guess?”

You let out the faintest laugh, “Satoru.”

“No,” He repeats, jaw tight, “You feel sick. I’m coming with you.”

Blair leans forward, “Okay, hold on. Before everybody starts acting insane—”

“I’m not acting insane,” Gojo assures.

She stares at him blankly, “You sure about that?”

He ignores her and looks back at you, thumb brushing the side of your neck once, “You want me to take you back?”

The question comes out quietly, softly, more sincere. You know he’ll do it with zero hesitation, no resentment toward you, he’ll leave and not look back, and maybe that’s exactly why you shake your head, “No. I want you to stay.”

His face drops, frustration tangled with something helpless, “Baby—”

“I’m serious,” You force yourself to hold his gaze, “You stay. Blair can take me.”

“She can barely take care of herself,” He grumbles.

“I’m right here, dickhead.”

The crowd around you erupts again over some wild play that just happened on the field and none of you even glance down. Your whole little world has narrowed to this row of bleachers, Gojo’s hand on your neck, Blair waiting, and your stomach turning harder with every second.

Blair sighs and stands first, “Fuck this. Decision made—I’m taking her.”

Gojo still looks like he hates every part of that sentence, you touch his wrist gently, “Please.”

That’s what finally gets him. His bright eyes close like he’s actively swallowing whatever protest was about to come out and when they open again, they’re still brilliantly stubborn and worried, “Text me when you get back,” You nod, “And if you throw up—”

“Satoru.”

“I’m deadass.”

“I know.”

He stares at you before leaning down and pressing a kiss on your forehead, protective in a way that makes your chest ache, “I mean it,” He murmurs against your skin, “Text me.”

“I will,” You say as Blair hooks her arm through yours and helps you stand. The movement makes your stomach pitch again, and Gojo’s entire body tenses as if he’s about to change his mind and leave with you anyway.

But, you squeeze his hand once before letting go and somehow, that’s enough to keep him in his seat. Barely.

He watches you and Blair carefully make your way up the stadium steps, his frat brothers obnoxiously yell around him, the game still playing below, but none of it touches him now. When you glance back once from halfway up the section, he’s still looking right at you.

Blair catches you turning and mutters, “Jesus. He is down horrendously bad for you.”

A tiny laugh escapes you, strained, “Shut up.”

But it’s true. She knows it, you know it, he knows it, everyone knows it.

And with one hand gripping the railing and the other looped through Blair’s arm, you let her guide you out of the stadium while the noise of the game swells behind you and your boyfriend stays seated only because you asked him to.

You don’t realize how drained you are until the dorms finally come into view, and the moment you step inside your room, it all catches up to you at once.

The silence feels foreign after the stadium, your body sags with it immediately. You shut the door and narrowly make it to the edge of your bed before sitting down too hard, exhaling shakily through your nose like your bones gave out.

Blair drops her purse by her desk and gives you a once-over, and because she’s Blair and has known you too long to be fooled by anything, her whole face softens, “Oh, babe.”

“Don’t…say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m…” You break off, throat tightening, “Like I’m something you need to feel sorry for.”

Blair’s expression switches, “I don’t feel sorry for you.”

You look up at her, she walks over and sits beside you on the bed, “I feel bad that you’re having a rough day,” She corrects, “That’s not the same thing.”

You giggle, but it’s thin and tired, “Feels the same.”

She nudges your knee gently with hers, “It’s not,” And the silence settles again. Somewhere, faint and far off, you can still hear the dull roar of the stadium. It makes your chest hurt for reasons that have nothing to do with football. Blair leans back and looks at the ceiling, “You scared the fuck out of him, by the way.”

You let out the smallest huff of air, “I know.”

“No, like…really,” She turns her head to you, “He…genuinely might be obsessed with you.”

Something warm and painful twists beneath your ribs at that, Blair studies you, then says quieter, “You should probably lie down.”

You nod, but don’t move. That’s how she knows something bigger is sitting in the room, “What is it?”

You keep staring at your hands, because now that the noise is gone, the real question sits with you, waiting to be answered, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Blair doesn’t respond yet, she lets the words sit between you, lets you hear them after they’ve been spoken into existence. Then she reaches over and takes one of your hands in hers, “You don’t have to know today.”

Your eyes sting without warning, “I feel like I do.”

“Why?”

“Because everything keeps moving,” You whisper, “My dad is here. Gojo’s acting…like whatever the fuck. Everyone’s still going to games and getting drunk and dressing up for Halloween and I’m just—” Your throat closes around the rest of it, “I’m just stuck.”

Blair squeezes your hand, “You’re not stuck.”

“I’m pregnant.”

The word lands like a slap, even now. Even after the multiple tests and the crying and the panic. Your free hand drifts to your stomach before you can stop it, her eyes follow the movement. Then very carefully, she asks, “Do you want to keep it?”

There it is. The question you’ve been circling around for days without touching head-on. You open your mouth, then close it again, because the answer should be simple, shouldn’t it?

You’re eighteen, in your first semester of college, across the country from home, pregnant by a frat boy you’ve only known for a matter of months and who only recently started treating you like you matter. So, the answer should be obvious. Of course you’re not fucking keeping this baby.

But yet, you still find yourself torn, “I don’t know,” Blair nods and your tears prick hotter now, “I keep thinking I should know.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I do,” Your voice cracks, “I feel like if I don’t decide right now, I’m already deciding.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Then how?”

Her grip on your hand tightens, “You need to stop trying to answer with what sounds smartest or least messy or least disappointing and answer with what’s actually happening in your chest.”

You look away, because that’s the problem. What’s happening in your chest is not logical. It’s emotional and humiliating and tangled up in things you don’t even want to say aloud.

“I’m scared,” You admit, “I’m scared of ruining my life and my dad hating me.”

“He won’t,” You shoot her a look and she winces, “Okay—he’ll freak out, aggressively, but he won’t hate you.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself, then the tears finally slip loose, “And I’m scared—that if I don’t keep it…something in me will never be okay after.”

Blair goes entirely still as you squeeze your eyes shut. There. It’s out now. The ugliest part about all of this. The one that makes you feel the most insane.

Because you know how ridiculous it sounds. You know how young you are and how little sense it makes to feel attached to something that started as panic and recklessness, but the fear is real anyway.

The thought of terminating the pregnancy doesn't just scare you because of what it means, it scares you because some part of you already feels like someone is there; tiny, fragile, impossible, but yours and his.

Blair shifts closer, pulling you into her arms, and you let her, “I know,” You choke out, “I know how stupid it sounds.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid at all,” She rubs a slow hand up and down your back, “It also doesn’t mean you’ve made your decision, but it does mean this isn’t just fear for you anymore.”

Your breath catches—she’s right. That’s the part you’ve been trying not to name. The terrifying subtle difference between I’m pregnant and there’s a baby; between anxiety and attachment, between disaster and something that, definitely shouldn’t, feel like it belongs to you.

You pull back to wipe at your face, “I think Gojo wants me to keep it.”

“Yeah,” She says dryly, “No fucking shit.”

You stifle a laugh, “Like…” You sniff, peering down at your lap, “He hasn’t said it and I don’t think he would. But I know he’d want me to.”

“And what do you want? Not him. You.”

“I think…” You pause, unable to fathom that you’re really about to say this, “I’m leaning toward keeping it.”

Blair only nods, slow and serious, “Okay.”

That’s all. No, are you sure? No, oh my God. No, what the fuck are you actually doing? Just, okay.

Your lips tremble, “That’s it?”

Blair shrugs one shoulder, “You can still be scared and hate the timing and think this is the most crazy thing that’s ever happened to you, but none of that cancels out the part where you already care.”

Hearing that wrecks you more than anything else has all day. You let out one shaky breath and lean back against the wall behind your bed, eyes stinging all over again. Outside, life keeps going—the game, the campus, Halloween, your father, Gojo somewhere in the crowd probably worried out of his mind, checking his phone, waiting for your text.

He does really try to watch; he dropped back into the bleachers after you left, but it’s like someone reached into his chest and yanked him a few inches out of place because nothing sits right now. Not even the beer helps, because every five fucking seconds he’s checking his phone.

One of the Sig Chi boys yells something about the refs being blind and Gojo joins in a beat too late because he’s staring at your contact photo instead of the field.

“Bro,” Ryan finally laughs, leaning over from two seats down, “You good?”

Gojo takes a long sip from his Coors Light and lies without blinking, “Fine.”

He is not fine in the slightest. You’re back at the dorm with Blair, feeling like shit, and he’s stuck here pretending to care about a game while every part of him is halfway across campus with you. It’s irritating; embarrassing, honestly. He should be drunk enough by now to not care this much. Instead, he cares more.

When your text finally comes through—

back at dorm

laying down

i’m okay

—his whole body loosens so fast it almost pisses him off.

He replies instantly.

ok good

actually rest

and tell me if you throw up fr

my poor baby

He stares at the screen for a second longer before shoving his phone back in his pocket and trying, once again, to be present. It lasts maybe ten minutes.

By the time the game ends, he’s drunker than he was when you left and somehow in a worse mood. His brothers are all shouting over one another on the walk back to Sig Chi and Gojo falls into stride with them, but his head won’t shut the fuck up.

About you. The way you looked in the stands, the way you touch your stomach without thinking lately, the conversation you and Blair are probably having right now that he isn’t in the room for. He thinks about whether you’re crying or laying in his hoodie in that teeny dorm bed trying to decide what the rest of your life is going to be.

He hates not knowing, but he hates even more that there’s no fix for it.

They arrive at Sig Chi faster than he hoped, the whole house already shifting gears from football Saturday to Halloweekend; Gojo is buzzing in that ugly, uneven way that comes from too much alcohol and not enough internal silence.

He heads straight upstairs to his room with two brothers behind him, post-game rally in motion.

“Bar at ten!” Somebody shouts.

“Yo, Gojo. You dressing up or what?”

He snorts, “Fuckin’ obviously.”

His room still smells like last night, like you—like sweat, sex, his cologne, and all the fucked up possessive satisfaction he’s been desperately trying to ignore for days now.

One of the guys tosses him a beer from the mini fridge and Gojo catches it one-handed. Cracking it open, he drinks half of it in one go. It doesn’t help.

Nothing’s helping, actually. Not the alcohol or the noise downstairs or the USC win or the thought of Halloween, and that’s when he realizes what the problem is.

He’s fading, physically now. A result of too much beer, sun, and stadium. If he wants to make it through the bar tonight, and he does, because some stupid part of him is already clinging to the idea that this is one of the last Halloweens he gets to do like this—he has to fucking rally.

His jaw tightens and for a moment, he just stands there with the Coors Light in his hand and stares at the ajar drawer of his desk.

Fuck, he shouldn’t. He knows that. Not when everything feels like he’s suddenly one bad choice away from confirming exactly what kind of shitty man he is.

But the problem is, Halloween weekend has always come with its own rules, and Gojo has spent too many years learning how to sharpen himself back to life whenever his body starts lagging behind what the night demands.

He opens the drawer anyway. The orange bottle clicks softly in his hand. Adderall.

“Gojo,” Ryan calls from across the room, “You crashing?”

He scoffs, “Please,” And taps one out into his palm, staring at it for too long.

This is just to rally, he tells himself. One won’t hurt. Then he throws it back dry, chases it with beer, and slams the can down on the desk harder than necessary.

“There he is,” Ryan laughs.

Gojo smirks automatically, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Because as the pill starts its slow, familiar path through his bloodstream, there’s a small vicious thought already coiling low in his chest.

Next year, everything will be different. And for reasons he doesn’t feel like examining too closely, that thought makes him drink even faster, far more recklessly.

And a few blocks away, you’re waking up from your nap at the same time Gojo is getting belligerently drunk and high.

Blair’s voice drifts over from across the room, makeup is scattered over every single surface, your costume is hanging from the closet door.

Fuck. It’s Halloween. You forgot while in the midst of your mental breakdown.

Blair glances over the second she hears you shift, “There’s my girl!”

You groan and roll onto your back, “How long was I out?”

“Like two hours.”

Your eyes widen, “Blair. I thought I told you thirty minutes max?”

“Bitch, you looked dead. So, I let you live by sleeping more.”

You drag a hand over your face, then sit up slowly. You’re still sore and tired and pregnant of course, but now you’re also expected to put on a Playboy Bunny costume and function in public.

“How do you feel?”

“Decent enough.”

“That’s the spirit!” She’s already half-done with her own costume—and because she calls herself a ‘maneater’, she had to be Jennifer Check. There’s fake blood on her lip, skimpy purple cheerleader fit on. Predictably, she looks incredible.

Your eyes then drift to your own costume hanging there. The black bodysuit, the cuffs, the ears, the collar. A weird feeling moves through your bones.

Because part of you wants to laugh at how absurd it all is, yet another part of you wants to cry because your life is cracking open in the most unserious outfit in the world, and third, a more dangerous part of you still wants to look hot.

It’s your first Halloween as a college student. You want Gojo to see you and lose his fucking mind, and you also want one night where you can step back into your own skin and feel like the hottest girl in the room instead of the saddest.

Blair follows your gaze and smiles, “You still wanna wear it?”

You look at her, “Fuck it…Yeah.”

She squeals loudly, excited that for at least right now, she’s got her friend back. You’re up on your feet before you know it and she’s zipping you into your costume and helping you with your makeup while the room slowly returns to a girl space rather than a crisis room.

Blair fastens the cuffs on your wrists, your makeup is prettier than usual and a little heavier around the eyes. The satin bunny ears sit perfectly on top of your head whereas the collar clasps your throat in place of the silver chain. That’s what catches your attention in the mirror—your throat, bare.

Blair notices the exact second you do, “What?”

You touch the collar lightly, “Nothing.”

But it isn’t nothing. Gojo’s chain is missing and something about that bothers you more than it should.

And in a room that still miraculously smells like you, Gojo ties the red velvet robe of his stupid Hugh Hefner costume and downs the last of another beer with a grin too sharp to be harmless.

Somewhere in the space between you both—Gojo turning himself into the king of Sig Chi again and you turning yourself into every filthy college boy’s dream, Halloween waits with its mouth wide open.

The walk back to Sig Chi feels different at night, it always does, but because it's Halloween it’s turned into something dirtier. Music comes from every frat house that’s throwing, bass vibrates the pavement, girls in slutty costumes weave through crowds of frat boys already obliterated.

Beside you, Blair looks insane in the best way possible, and she glances over at you for what feels like the tenth time in two minutes and grins, “Yeah,” She says, eyes dragging over you, “No. You look fucking unreal.”

You roll your eyes, but it lacks heat, “You’ve said that six times.”

“And I’ll say it twelve more.”

Your bunny ears shift slightly in the breeze, white round tail bouncing faintly every time you walk, collar snug around your neck; it’s ridiculous and obscene and the exact kind of costume that would send your father into cardiac arrest if he saw you. Yet, standing here in it now, you feel a little more like yourself again.

Blair loops her arm through yours as the Sig Chi house comes into view, heaving with life, “Prepare yourself.”

“For what?”

“For your boyfriend to go fucking bonkers.”

You laugh under your breath, “He’s seen the costume.”

“Seeing it in theory and seeing it on your body are not the same thing, babe.” Fair point.

The front lawn is mayhem. Brothers spill down the porch steps, the music inside is so loud it rattles the windows, somebody dressed as a priest is making out with a fairy. Yeah, you ignore that and barely make it through the front door before the house consumes you. Heat, perfume, sweat, vodka, people in costumes, and then, he sees you.

You don’t notice at first, Blair does, “There’s your man.”

You turn and Gojo is across the room near the kitchen island, half-surrounded by brothers and girls and red solo cups and all the filthy excess of Halloween at Sig Chi. For one split second he goes completely still.

The Hugh Hefner costume on him is criminal. Burgundy robe hanging open over a bare, toned chest. Black pants slung low on his hips and wearing slippers, of all things. His white hair is messy under the little cap, cheeks flushed from almost twelve hours of straight drinking, blue eyes blown brighter than they should be.

And the moment those eyes land on you, every person around him may as well disappear. His mouth parts as his gaze trails over you once, every inch of you getting cataloged, then his jaw clenches.

One of the brothers says something to him, but he doesn’t even react. Then, he moves, slowly. Purposeful. Predatory in that lazy, intoxicated way only Satoru Gojo can pull off. Like he already knows there’s nowhere on earth you’re going that won’t end with him in front of you.

The crowd parts for him without meaning to and when he reaches you, your pulse is beating in your ears to the point you can’t hear the music anymore. He stops too close, you can smell the alcohol on him and the Armani cologne underneath it.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Hi.”

His eyes flick to yours, “No—No, that’s actually fucked up.”

You fight a smile, “What is?”

He gestures vaguely at your body, “This.”

That makes you laugh, tiny and breathless; the sound seems to hit him somewhere deep because his whole expression darkens another shade, “Baby.” He says, dropping his voice lower, “What the fuck.”

“You picked it.”

“Yeah. As a concept.”

Blair turns away and starts giggling into her hand. Gojo ignores her completely and that’s when his attention catches onto your throat—on the white collar around it and the fact that there’s no silver chain there; no visible mark of him except the faded hickey on your collarbone from the night prior.

His eyes narrow as one of his hands comes up, thumb passing lightly over it, “You wore this instead?”

Your breath catches slightly, “It’s part of the costume.”

“Mm,” That one sound alone is loaded enough to make your thighs press together. His fingers trace down the side of your throat, then drop. The movement is small, but you feel the tension under it. He leans closer, mouth fanning your ear, “Can’t have you walking around looking like this with nothing on your neck.”

Your stomach flips violently and Blair, who is close enough to hear the tone if not the words, gasps, “Okay. I’m gonna go somewhere else,” And disappears into the flood of people before you can stop her.

Then it’s just you and him, or at least, it feels like it despite half the campus being here. Gojo steps in closer, hands finding your waist, fingers spreading wide and firm over the curve of it. His gaze drags again, slower now, greedier, “You’re really gonna walk around like this all night?”

“That was the plan.”

He huffs a chuckle that has no humor in it, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His jaw flexes, “That’s adorable.”

Your heart stutters, “Why are you talking to me like that?”

“Because,” He says, eyes finally lifting back to yours, “I’ve been drunk since breakfast and I’m trying very hard not to put you over my shoulder in front of everyone and fuck you now instead of later.”

Heat floods your face, he notices, “That’s what I thought,” He murmurs, sounding almost satisfied; then he glances around once, quick and sharp, checking who’s watching, who’s looking, who’s too close. When he looks back at you, something in him has gone quieter, meaner, “C’mere.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer. His hands just tighten on your waist and he guides you through the house, through the bodies, past the kitchen and down the hallway, his pace deceptively calm even though every line of his body feels strung too tight. You stumble a bit trying to keep up in your thigh high boots, “Satoru.”

“Mm?”

“Where are we going?”

He glances back once, “Gonna fix your costume.”

Your pulse jumps so harshly that you almost trip again and with every step further into the hallway, Gojo’s grip on your waist seems to say the same thing over and over without him needing to speak it out loud. Mine, mine, mine.

You can feel the alcohol on him more clearly back here, his palm spreads impossibly wider as if he’s reminding himself that you’re really here wearing that fucking costume in his house while every drunk guy on Greek Row breathes the same air as you, “Toru…you’re being weird.”

He fully laughs at that, “Baby, if this is me being weird, you should be grateful.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It shouldn’t.”

His fingers flex once and keep steering you forward until he’s got you backed into the little shadowy pocket near the stairs. Far enough that nobody’s paying attention, but close enough to his room that you know exactly where this is heading. The wall kisses your back and Gojo plants one hand beside your head, looking at you again.

His tongue drags slow across his lower lip, “Turn around.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

You should probably argue, but you turn like he said. Behind you, Gojo goes silent in that dangerous way of his. You hear his breath first, then the rustle of velvet, then his hand slides over the back of your neck. He shifts the collar slightly to expose your throat. You shiver and a soft sound leaves him; almost a hum, almost approval.

“Yeah,” He murmurs, mouth ghosting your skin, “There it is.”

He leans in, nose brushing your ear first, breathing you in like he’s been waiting all day to get you somewhere alone. His other hand lands low on your hip, anchoring you in place, “I don’t like it.”

Your voice comes out smaller than you hoped, “Don’t like what?”

“That there’s nothing here,” His thumb glides over your neck, “No chain. No mark. Just this cute little collar and every drunk fuck in my house staring.”

Warmth pools low in your belly, you glance over your shoulder, “You’re drunk.”

He smiles against your skin, “Very,” Then his mouth is on you. He starts with a kiss just below your ear—open-mouthed, lingering, nothing lewd yet. Just a touch to make your knees threaten to go traitor beneath you.

You exhale shakily, “Satoru—”

“Shh,” He hushes, planting another kiss lower. His lips lag down the side of your throat with obscene patience and you understand immediately that he’s kissing you because he’s trying to decide exactly where he wants the damage to bloom.

Hidden in the dark, Gojo sucks a slow mark into your neck like nothing else exists. You gasp and his hand tightens on your hip, “Don’t move.”

That only makes your thighs press together harder, a quiet laugh brushes hot against your skin before his teeth graze the place he just kissed, sending a sharp little spark through you, “Oh my God.”

He kisses the same spot again, then pulls back to admire his own work; the hickey peeks just above the collar—impossible to miss, “Much better. Now everyone will know.”

“You really dragged me into a hallway to brand me.”

His mouth curves, “And?” That stupid answer makes your blood run hot, “C’mon. Before I stop behaving.”

You turn fully, eyes squinted, “You are not behaving.”

“Ohh, princess,” He grins, “Trust me. I am.”

He guides you back toward the party with his hand planted low on your back and the second you step into the light again, Blair peeps the mark on your throat, “Okay. So he’s fucking crazy.”

Gojo reaches for somebody’s drink off the kitchen counter and takes a casual sip like he did nothing out of the ordinary, “Thank you.”

Blair points at him, “That was not a compliment.”

“Still counts,” Your face burns while Gojo looks entirely too pleased with himself, and you shamefully don’t hate any of it.

You don’t hate the hickey warming your throat or the way he keeps staring at it like it’s a work of art or the fact that he’s been drunk since sunrise and is somehow getting prettier instead of the opposite. Some reckless, humiliating side of you like this version of him too. The possessive one, the one who looks at you like he’d kill whatever guy gets too comfortable.

Maybe Gojo can tell, because when his eyes flick back to your face and catch whatever’s there, his grin sharpens, “C’mon,” He says, voice rough with amusement, “We’re leaving.”

“For the bar?” Blair asks.

Gojo glances toward the kitchen where a handful of brothers are already yelling over each other, grabbing wallets and fake IDs, “Yeah.”

One of them stumbles past in a toga and points at Gojo with a Casamigos bottle, “Uber’s outside, bro.”

And the walk out of Sig Chi is chaos from the first step. Gojo keeps one hand on you the entire way down the porch, firm at your lower back, guiding and possessive.

By the time your group reaches the college bar, the line outside is long as hell; Gojo takes one look at it and scoffs, “Oh, absolutely the fuck not,” Then walks straight past it.

A couple people shout, “What the fuck?”, but Gojo doesn’t even break stride. He reaches the bouncer, says something too low for any of you to hear, and slips a folded hundred dollar bill into the man’s hand with the same ease he does everything else.

The bouncer gestures you guys in, “Go ahead.”

Gojo pats him on the back, “Thanks, boss.”

Your mouth just falls open as Blair leans in at your shoulder, “That was so hot, unfortunately.”

Inside the bar, it’s worse. It’s hotter, louder, darker. The whole place is packed wall to wall with USC kids in Halloween costumes and the manic energy that only exists on holiday weekends. Lights flash over moving bodies, bass rattles your bones, drinks slosh over hands and sticky tabletops.

For the first few minutes, it’s actually fun. Gojo keeps you tucked close as he steers the three of you through the crowd, carving out space like he owns this place too. At the bar, he orders without asking—something alcoholic for himself, something virgin for you.

“Just a club soda,” He tells the bartender, then presses it into your hand, “Hold it like it’s vodka.”

You giggle lightly, “Why are you so committed to this?”

“Because everyone in here is fucking dumb,” He says simply, his gaze slides down your figure again, “And because I don’t need them knowing anything about you except that you’re with me.”

Heat licks low through your stomach and his mouth curves, “Mm, yeah. That one got you.”

Then, out of thin air, one of his brothers appears behind him and jerks his chin toward the back hallway, “Yo, Gojo.”

Gojo’s gaze flicks to him, then back to you. His hand drags once over your hip, absentmindedly, “Toru?”

“S’nothing, baby,” He says when you eye him, “Stay here. Close to Blair.”

That’s not a real answer and you both know it, but it doesn’t stop him from leaving with the guys. Blair watches him vanish into the pack of people, then glances at you, “He’s gonna come back worse, by the way.”

You take a sip of your club soda, “Probably.”

And back near the dark stretch of hallway by the bathrooms, Gojo stands with the others and rubs a hand over his mouth, “Fuck…”

The adderall he popped after the game was one thing, but cocaine is another.

He told himself he’d never do that around you. That shit belonged to an older version of him, the version that showed up with the boys in bar bathrooms and frat-house bedrooms when nobody expected anything decent from him. But then again, it is Halloween. And he’s tired.

Tired of trying to be careful and thinking too hard and feeling every fucking little thing at once. He’s spent days saying the right shit, keeping himself contained for you, your dad, and the future already nipping at his heels. So maybe he deserves one night—this night, to stop acting like a father to a baby who isn’t even here yet. One night, to feel like himself again. Doesn’t he?

The answer comes quicker than it should. Ryan offers the key topped with white powder and Gojo stares at it for half a second too long, jaw tight, then takes it; lifting it to his nose like muscle memory.

Because it is, and that’s the saddest part. The burn hits sharp and immediate, harsh enough to sting behind his eyes. After Gojo straightens, the room already feels cleaner around the edges yet dirtier underneath.

When he pushes back into the crowd, he finds you instantly. You’re laughing at something Blair said, hand around your soda disguised as liquor, hickey peeking above the white collar, black satin clinging to every inch of you like it was purposely designed to ruin him. Something in his soul hooks mean.

Blair spots him first, “Oh no.”

You turn, “What?”

Gojo winds up in front of you like he materialized. He’s faster now, brighter, his hands are on your waist before you can blink, mouth crashing onto yours in a sloppy kiss that tastes like vodka and something sweeter and chemical beneath it. When he pulls back, his pupils are huge, his smirk crooked, “Miss me?”

“You were gone for like ten minutes.”

He pouts, “Longest ten minutes of my life.”

Before you can even chuckle at that, his mouth is on your earlobe and the words start flowing frantically, roughly, almost tripping over themselves.

“I was standing back there thinking about fucking you in this little outfit,” Your knees weaken and he keeps talking like he can’t stop, “You look so fucking hot. Like so fucking hot. These ears, this collar, that stupid little tail—” His hand drops just enough to tap the curve of your ass where it bounces, then slides back up, “You’re wearing this shit and expecting me to be normal?”

“You’re so gone.”

“And you’re so fucking sexy,” His hands move when he speaks now—restless, possessive. One dragging up your spine, the other planted on your waist. He kisses your neck again, sloppy and totally lewd, “Been trying not to drag you to the bathroom, y’know that?”

Your thighs tense immediately, “Yeah,” He teases softly, feeling it, “That one got you too.”

Blair looks between the two of you and mutters, “I need everyone here to die.”

Gojo smirks, tipping your chin up with two fingers and staring down at you like he needs the image of you like this burnt into his brain, “So do I. Need them all to die. Because they keep fuckin’ looking at you.”

You know it’s a joke, but the way he says it almost sounds like he means it. Then, of course, some idiot in a football jersey who doesn’t know any better appears at your side with a drink in hand and a smile that shows he’s already too confident.

“Hey,” He says to you, disregarding Gojo, “You want—”

The cup never makes it to you because Gojo smacks it straight out of his hand. The plastic hits the floor and liquor splashes over everyone’s shoes. The guy recoils, stunned, “What the fuck, bro?”

Gojo steps forward before you can blink, grin flashing quick and frightening, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The guy glances at you, then at him, then at the drink on the floor, “I was just being nice.”

“Yeah, okay. Try that shit again,” Gojo threatens, voice almost pleasant, “See what happens.”

The guy mumbles something and leaves fast enough to prove he isn’t half as brave as he thought he was. You turn back to Gojo, “That was a little psychotic.”

He looks at you instantly, all that jagged energy smoothing into something playful, “Nah—you want another soda?”

Blair snorts and Gojo vanishes for less than a minute and comes back with another club soda with lime for you and another drink for himself. He presses yours into your hand, “Don’t take drinks from anyone who isn’t me.”

“Okay, psycho.”

He leans in, lips ghosting your ear, “Call me a psycho all you want, princess,” His voice is low and too wired now, “I’m still the one splitting you open later.”

Your entire body lights up, but across the bar laughter cracks too loud from the back near a cluster of TKE boys, and Gojo’s head turns. You follow his line of sight, and that’s when you see him.

Kyle is already a few drinks past coherent, standing with a couple of his brothers like the whole bar belongs to them, but the second his eyes land on you in that costume? His mouth curves with the kind of drunk confidence only mediocre men seem able to summon.

He has the audacity to say your name loud enough for the people around him to hear, for you, and definitely for Gojo. Kyle laughs, shaking his head like he’s remembering something hilarious, “Man, three weeks ago I had my hands all over (Y/N)’s tits. They’re no fuckin’ joke bro.”

Your blood runs cold as one of the TKE boy barks out a laugh and Kyle keeps going, “Almost fucked her too,” He adds, ego swelling with every word, “Would’ve—if it weren’t for Gojo being a little bitch.”

The table around them erupts and Gojo goes terrifyingly still. Humiliation burns under your skin, hot and vicious, not because Kyle’s telling the truth but rather he’s saying your name like it belongs in his mouth. Like you’re a story he gets to tell and your body is a punchline he can pass around between frat boys.

But next to you, Gojo smiles; that’s the worst part. He hands Blair his drink without looking at her and takes two steps forward. You grab his wrist instantly, “Satoru—”

He doesn’t even acknowledge you; his voice, when it comes, is calm enough to make your blood run colder, “Damn,” He drawls, stopping outside the threshold to be heard without shouting, “You’re still talking about touching my girl’s tits from three weeks ago?” Kyle’s smirk falters slightly. Gojo tilts his head, the grin is still there, but brighter, “That the closest you’ve gotten to pussy all semester?”

A few people around them wince and go ohhh before they can stop themselves, Kyle’s face hardens immediately, “Watch your fuckin’ mouth.”

Gojo laughs brazenly, “Why? Honestly, bro I was joking that day when I called you TKE guys cucks, but I genuinely don’t think that shit’s a joke anymore.”

That line lands hard. The brothers around Kyle go tight all at once, one of them mutters, “Yo,” Another straightens. Blair, beside you, says, “Okay, this is about to get really bad.”

Kyle pushes off the wall and steps forward, drunk enough to be sloppy but not nearly drunk enough to miss how badly he and his frat got humiliated, “You have a lot to say for a guy who loses his fucking mind every time someone looks at her.”

Gojo shrugs once, “And?”

The answer is so easy, so unbothered, that it makes the whole thing worse. Kyle scoffs, shaking his head, “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” Gojo says, “Least I ain’t bragging about almost getting pussy, though.”

Your pulse is hammering now. The crowd around the two guys is shifting, sensing blood in the water, and Kyle points at you then—Gojo’s entire expression changes, “Don’t.”

Kyle either doesn’t hear the warning or is too drunk to care, “I’m just saying, bro,” He goes on, laughing to his boys again, “I had her in my bed. If you didn’t start tweaking out like an insecure obsessive freak, I would’ve—”

He doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because Gojo punches him. It happens so fast it barely looks real at first. One second Kyle’s talking, the next Gojo’s fist connects with his face hard enough to snap his head sideways and send him stumbling into one of the tables. Drinks go flying, somebody screams, a brother yells, “Oh shit!”

And then the whole bar detonates. Kyle swings back on instinct, wild and already bleeding from his nose, but Gojo dodges it easily, too easily, and shoves him so hard that they both slam into the crowd.

A girl in angel wings shrieks when someone crashes into her; two TKE boys lunge forward at once and so do three Sig Chi brothers from somewhere behind you like they’d been waiting their entire fraternity careers for a moment like this.

Bodies surge, someone gets thrown into a high-top, chairs scrape along the floor and music keeps blaring over all of it like the DJ either hasn’t noticed or absolutely has and doesn’t give a fuck. The room fills with shouting that it blurs together, but that doesn’t stop you from trying anyway, “Satoru!”

Blair grabs your arm, “Fuck no! Absolutely fucking not!”

You yank against her grip, wanting to find him through the mess of bodies before shit gets worse, “I need to—”

“You need to stay the fuck out of that!”

She’s right. You know she’s right, but your heart is still trying to beat out of your chest. Across the room, Gojo has Kyle by the collar of his shirt now, driving him backward into the wall rough enough to rattle whatever bullshit posters are hanging there. Kyle gets one hand on Gojo’s shoulder and shoves him off, but Gojo is already coming back with that same wicked, radiant expression—drunk and high and entirely gone.

Despite it all, he looks hot. Scarily hot. That is probably the most disturbing thought you’ve had in your life. His robe is half-open, disheveled white hair, mouth curled into something ecstatic; he looks like the exact kind of rich frat boy every parent warns their daughter about—the exact kind of guy your father warned you about. Kyle throws another punch, Gojo takes it glancingly to the jaw and laughs.

“Oh, he’s deadass batshit,” Blair says, horrified and almost impressed.

One of the TKE guys tries to jump in on Gojo, but immediately gets body-checked by Ryan who appears out of nowhere, and Kyle swings again, this time Gojo catches his wrist. And because he hasn't caused enough damage yet, Gojo leans in so close that only the people right on top of them can hear, and says something in Kyle’s face that makes him turn red with a whole new kind of rage.

Then he punches Kyle in the stomach, he folds, and you can’t tell what’s happening anymore after that because the whole bar has shifted into that mob-like state where nobody knows why they’re swinging, only that everybody else is swinging so that means you have to.

But then you hear it, “Cops!”

Everything changes in an instant. People start scattering in waves, some toward the bathrooms riddled with coke and vomit, some toward the back exit, some stupid enough to freeze in place and pretend they weren’t involved. Blair’s hold on you tightens until it hurts, “We’re getting the fuck outta here.”

“But, Satoru—” As if the universe is sick of hearing his name from your tongue, he appears through the bodies a second later. His lower lip is split, there’s blood at the corner of his mouth, and the velvet robe is hanging off his shoulder. He spots you and comes straight over.

The second he reaches you, his hand is on your waist, “You okay?” You just stare at him and he frowns like your silence is the real problem here, “Princess.”

“You’re bleeding,” You blurt.

He ignores that as if it’s not worth noticing and says, “We need to go,” He tightens his grip on your waist, catches Blair’s forearm with his free hand, and starts moving urgently. He shoves through the crowd like a man parting water, all long limbs and brute intention, keeping you tucked close that you nearly trip twice trying to keep up in your boots. Blair curses the whole time behind you and the music is somehow still pounding.

You glance back and see one last flash of Kyle being held upright by two of his boys, blood dribbling down his mouth, screaming something after Gojo you can’t hear over the noise. Gojo doesn’t bother turning around, he just pushes the back door open and drags you both out into the alley behind the bar.

The cooler air hits like a slap, the alleyway packed with other escapees—girls fixing their costumes and guys laughing too hard with adrenaline still chewing through them; a minute later, the first siren cuts through the block. Blair whips around, “Oh shit.”

Gojo keeps moving; there’s a black SUV idling half a block down, hazards blinking, “Is that—” You start.

“Our Uber.”

Blair glares at him as the three of you half-run toward it, “Did you seriously order it before we even got out?”

“I ordered it when someone yelled cops.”

“You’re actually a psychopath.”

“Yep,” No shame, not even a little. The driver looks wildly alarmed when he sees the state of Gojo—robe open, lip bleeding, cheek swelling, but the second Gojo slides a folded bill through the open passenger window, the man’s expression changes to immediate acceptance, “Get in.”

Blair climbs in first, you start to follow, but Gojo catches your arm and turns your face toward his, “You’re good, right? Nobody hurt you?”

You stare at him. The look in his eyes is still electric, still riding the high of everything he just did, and worst of all? He looks happy, alive in a way that makes your heart flutter, “You started a frat war.”

“He talked about your tits. He’s lucky I didn’t kill him,” He says it with a grin, like that explains everything, and maybe it does.

The ride back to Sig Chi barely registers for any of you, and when the Uber pulls up, the house is still shaking with music, Halloween nowhere near finished, people scattered across the lawn and porch.

Blair steps out first, muttering something about Gojo needing a psychiatric evaluation, but Gojo doesn’t hear any of it because the moment your boots hit the pavement, his hand is on you again—desperate, bruising your waist, the other catching your wrist when the staircase gets too swarmed.

He shoves past his brothers crowding the doorway, ignoring every “What the fuck happened?” and “Yo, did you beat his ass?” with a clipped “Not right now”. He drags you upstairs like the only thing wired in his body is the need to get you alone.

“Satoru—” His bedroom door shuts behind you and he just stares. The collar of your Playboy costume, the fresh hickey blooming on your throat, you. Then something in him snaps.

He crosses the room in two strides and kisses you with a haste that steals the breath from your lungs—teeth clashing, split lip reopening, the metallic taste of blood flooding your tongue as he licks into your mouth as if he’s trying to crawl inside you.

His hands are everywhere at once, one hand fisting the back of your bodysuit; the other is in between your thighs, shoving it to the side, and plunging two long fingers into your soaked cunt without warning.

He curls them viciously, and you can feel how hard he is through his black pants. Suddenly, a short, wrecked laugh tears out of him; his forehead dips to yours for a split second, grip tightening at your waist, “He doesn’t get to call me that and be right.”

Kyle’s voice echoes in his head, “obsessive insecure freak”, words Gojo would’ve disregarded from anybody else, except some ugly little part of him has already thought the same thing—fuck, honestly he is right. Gojo knows he’s a freak for wanting you as badly as he does, for finishing in you knowing it was wrong, for feeling good now that something of his is growing inside you.

“He’s not right,” You whisper.

Gojo chuckles under his breath, but it’s humorless, “You don’t know that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” You say, thumb grazing the corner of his bloody mouth, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

His eyes slam shut for a heartbeat and when they reopen, whatever ounce of control he had left has dissipated, “Yeah…you are,” He kisses you again and after that it goes feral.

He shoves you onto his bed, robe hanging open, pants pulled low enough for his cock to spring free—thick, flushed, veins pulsing, already leaking.

There’s no teasing. He hooks one of your legs over his hip, lines himself up, and drives into you in one brutal thrust, bottoming out so deep your back arches off the mattress and a broken cry slips from your throat. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, he just starts fucking you hard and fast, hips snapping with punishing force, the wet slap of skin drowning out the muffled bass from downstairs.

Blood from his split lip drips onto your tits as he bends to bite your neck. One of his hands locks around your throat while the other slides down to splay wide and utterly possessive over the tiny secret swell of your belly, pressing like he can feel the life he deliberately put there.

“You still want me?” He pants against your ear, voice humiliatingly raw. “Even like this? Tell me.”

You answer by pulling him back down, nails raking along his back, “I—want you.”

That reassurance hits him like gasoline, like being chosen in this state is the exact worst thing that could happen to a guy like Satoru Gojo. His rhythm turns vicious, folding you harder, pounding deeper, cock dragging over that spot inside you with every stroke until your vision whites out.

“You’re mine. Still mine,” He snarls, fragments of words scraping out between thrusts, “He doesn’t get to say your fuckin’ name—doesn’t know shit about us.”

You cum with a shattered moan, cunt clamping around him so taut his hips stutter; he follows with a guttural sound, burying himself to the hilt and jerking through every pulse like he can’t stop claiming you even after he’s empty.

Downstairs, Halloween keeps raging; up here, the room has gone strange and silent. He stays buried deep, bright blue eyes blown, palm warm and heavy on your stomach—tracing slow circles like the touch alone can quiet the perturbed thing still howling in his chest and that’s the part that stays with you.

Not the fight, not the rougher than usual sex, just the fact he looks calmer with his hand resting there, like all this did was soothe something in him for a little while.

Which may be the scariest thing of all.

Because after Halloween? Gojo doesn’t settle down like he told himself he would or how you thought he would. No, he keeps going.

You don’t know if it’s Kyle’s words still haunting him, or the pressure of fatherhood starting to cave in his chest, or the awful possibility that he was never ready to let this frat boy lifestyle go in the first place. Or hell, maybe it’s all three.

But all you do know is that you start measuring the nights by what he smells like when he gets to you. Beer and Armani cologne, vodka and cigarette smoke. A little bit of weed, sometimes. That sharp, chemical wrongness in his eyes that tells you it’s more than just that.

He still picks you up from class in his Porsche; keeps ginger ale in the passenger seat, notices when your stomach starts to turn, rests his hand low on your back when he walks you through a crowd and opens every door like he’s got manners bred into his bones and not fucking coke in his desk drawer back at Sigma Chi.

That’s what makes it so hard to call him what he’s becoming. Because Gojo is sweet and attentive, but he’s also getting worse.

One night he shows up flushed from the cold and three drinks deep, Dodgers hat low over his white hair, and kisses you before you can even ask where he came from. He laughs into your mouth when you stumble backward, catching your thigh with one big hand, and drags you onto his lap like he’s been picturing it the whole drive over.

“Hi to you too,” You murmur breathlessly.

“Mm,” He hums against your lips, already tugging your shorts off, “Missed you more.”

That night he fucks you fast, like something in him is burning too hot and your body is the only place that can cool it. His mouth stays on your neck the whole time, swallowing every sound you make, and when you whimper too loud at the first hard thrust, he groans, “Shit—there it is,” As if he’s been waiting hours to hear that exact sound.

His one palm spreads low over your stomach, fingers flexing there every time he drives in deep, “Needed this pretty pussy so bad,” He pants into your throat, “Fuck—been thinkin’ ‘bout you all night.”

And when he finishes inside you like always, it’s with his forehead against your shoulder and his body pressed so firm into yours it feels like he’s trying to shove himself under your skin.

The next morning, he shows up outside your class with a toasted bagel and a bottle of water already open, “You eat breakfast?”

You squint at him, “Did you?”

He passes over half of the bagel, “That’s not what I asked, princess.”

Two nights later, he texts you at 1:17 A.M.

satoru: open your door

You do as he says; he’s in a white hoodie with pupils the size of saucers and a jaw working way too much for the time of night. He’s far too awake, too restless. His hands don’t stop moving, they grab at your waist, the hem of your USC shirt, your throat, your hair, almost as if touching you is the only thing in the universe keeping him tethered. He gets you on the bed in under thirty seconds and the sex is rough enough to rattle the frame against the wall.

His hand closes around your cheeks halfway through, “Look at me, baby,” He says, voice shredded and low, “No—look at me.”

When you do, he kisses you once, filthy and open-mouthed, then drags your bottom lip between his teeth and thrusts so forcefully you whine, “That’s it,” He mutters, tone almost mean, “Let me see it. Let me watch you take my cock.”

He’s absolutely feral that night. Mouth on your throat, tits, jaw; one hand on your face, the other pinning your thigh open like he needs to see every twitch of his cock entering your cunt and hear every broken little sound you make just to convince himself he’s still here.

After he cums inside you with a ragged groan, he rolls onto his back and drags you on top of him like he can’t even bear the thought of being separated. You lie there listening to his heart hammer under you and know, with a sinking twist in your ribs, that he is high out of his mind.

The next day he texts you from class to ask how you’re feeling, and by the first weekend in November, it’s become a pattern. He goes out or hangs with the boys, gets drunk, gets higher than he means to, and shows up at your door, your window, or the curb outside your dorm.

And every time he comes back to you, the sex is different. Sometimes it’s all teeth and hands and him steering you into dark hallways or empty bathrooms like he can’t wait until you’re somewhere soft.

Other times, it’s in the driver seat of his Porsche, your knees digging into red leather, his chain cold against your collarbone while he mouths at the spot below your ear and keeps hauling your hips down harder onto his cock like he can’t get you close enough.

He’ll breathe, “Fuck, baby, just like that,” In this ruined little voice that makes it sound like he’s the one being destroyed, not you.

Sometimes, it’s in his bed, face-down in the pillows while he grips the back of your neck and pins your body beneath his, hips snapping harsh and unforgiving while he mumbles filthy things into the shell of your ear, “That’s my girl”, “Mine”, “Look at how fuckin’ good you take it”, all half-praise and half-possession.

And once, he pushes too far. Not in some horrible, monstrous way or bad enough to tell him to stop, but it’s enough that your body finally gives up trying to keep pace with whatever is eating him alive. He’s too rough that night, too high and drunk, the room is dark and his breathing has gone shallow. His grip is tight and his voice is sharp around the edges.

“Take it,” He growls, wrecked, gone, “C’mon, baby—fuck, there you go.”

You’re trying. God, you are, but then something catches in your throat and the tears come before you can stop them. A humiliating kind of sob that slips out because you’re overwhelmed and your heart is too full and everything has been too much for too many days.

Gojo sees it as soon as it starts and stops. His hand loosens, he pulls out of you, sitting on the back of his heels to assess the damage, and the roughness drops off his face so fast it’s jarring, “Hey.”

You turn your head away, embarrassed, “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” His voice is different now, quiet, soft. He brushes your damp cheek with shaky fingers, looking at you like he hates that he caused this, “Baby…Did I hurt you?”

You don’t answer right away, which is an answer on its own. His eyes close for one second like he’s trying not to swear at himself, then he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, another to your jaw, slower and careful now, “I’m so sorry.”

And before you can say anything, he shifts lower, “Satoru—”

“Let me take care of you,” His hands slide over your thighs, guiding them back open. He kisses the inside of one knee, then the other, then the plush skin higher up with a reverence that makes your throat swell all over again.

There’s nothing frantic about him now. He moves as if trying to soothe the ache out of you by eating your pussy so good you can’t feel anything else, “That’s it,” He murmurs against your clit, “I’ve got you.”

He takes his time, more time than he has in days, more patience than you thought he still had in him, and when your fingers finally knot in his hair and your body softens instead of bracing, he lets out this low, ruined sound like relief itself. After you orgasm more times than you can count and he comes back up for air, he kisses your knee again, your stomach, then your mouth.

“Better?” You nod, still trying to find your breath and he kisses you once more—this one lingers, “Good.”

That’s what confuses you about him so much. Boys who don’t care don’t stop the moment they spot tears. Boys who don’t care don’t drop to their knees and try to worship you like that’s the closest thing they know to an apology.

One Sunday, he lets himself into your dorm and finds you curled under a blanket, exhausted and trying to pretend nausea hasn’t hollowed you out all day. He kneels in front of you without saying a word, “You eat anything?”

“A little.”

“What’s a little?”

You shrug and his mouth twitches. It’s not a smile, more so tired affection, “Okay,” He mutters, “That’s annoying. We’re getting you soup.”

You laugh weakly, “You say that like I’m five.”

“No,” He says, standing and tugging you gently up with him, “If you were five, you’d probably listen to me.”

Later, after he gets some food in you and rubs your back while you complain the whole time, he kisses you like he’s trying not to scare you with how much he wants you. He undresses you like he has all the time in the world; kisses your stomach, the inside of your wrist, the little crease where your thigh meets your hip. When he pushes inside you, it’s only inch by inch, eyes fixed on your face as he bottoms out.

“You okay?”

You nod and he exhales like he’d been holding that breath for longer than he meant to. Those nights, he doesn’t touch you like he’s starving. He makes love to you like he’s sorry. Every movement slow and deep, mouth fanning yours, one hand laced through your fingers while the other is on your lower stomach, staying there while he catches his breath like that’s where all his prayers go now.

On those nights, when he tucks you into his chest afterward and kisses your forehead and reaches blindly for the blanket to pull it higher around you before you can even shiver, he feels sweeter than anyone should. And that is exactly the problem.

Because the very next Friday, he’s back at the bar. Another afterparty, another sea of girls in tiny dresses and frat boys yelling. Gojo disappears with the brothers for “an hour” and comes back closer to two smelling like tequila and sharpened by lines of coke.

He sees some business major from one of your classes wave at you outside Sig Chi and he goes dead-eyed for the rest of the walk upstairs. He doesn’t say anything either.

Then your back hits his bedroom door as soon as it closes, his knee splits your thighs open, one hand tangles in your hair while the other grips your waist hard enough to bruise.

“Who the fuck was that?” He asks, in a tone that’s somehow worse than yelling.

You tell him and he just stares at you blankly. Then he kisses you roughly and spends the next twenty minutes proving a point your body understands before your brain does. His hand is on your throat, his mouth at your neck, his teeth bite into your shoulder. The edge of the door digs into your back as he fucks you like he wishes every guy who’s ever looked at you would just die.

“Wanna smile at him now?” He snarls against your pulse, accented by a thrust, “Wanna wave back now?” He thrusts again, harder, and you yelp, “Yeah—didn’t fuckin’ think so.”

Later, when he’s filled you to the brim, he uses a knuckle to wipe under your eyes so carefully it makes your chest ache, “Baby…Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“...Like I’m crazy,” He smiles when he says it, but something in your stomach turns cold.

A different night, he takes you to dinner. Just like he used to before your life imploded. It’s a quiet little Thai place thirty minutes away from campus. Gojo’s wearing black slacks and a cream sweater, looking so unfairly good it pisses you off. He watches you eat like it’s his favorite sight on earth, slides your water close when you stop paying attention to it.

“You gonna keep staring or are you gonna actually eat?”

He smiles over the rim of his glass, “Can’t I do both?”

For two whole hours, he is perfect. Soft spoken, attentive, present. When he drops you off at your dorm, he kisses you so slow it sends a shiver down your spine and says, “Text me if your stomach starts hurting again.”

At 1:43 A.M., your phone lights up.

satoru: come outside

Shocker. He’s parked under the dorm lights, one elbow hanging out of the Porsche window, sunglasses on at night like a complete asshole. He looks beautiful and slightly ruined. You know before you even open the door that he’s been drinking again.

“Are you serious?” You ask when you slide in, “You went out after dinner?”

He glances over, lazy and unashamed, “Only for a little.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” He says softly, thumb grazing your bottom lip, “Still came back to you, though.”

That’s the line that does it. That’s the line that always does it. And you end up in his lap, sweatpants ripped off, his mouth hot on your throat while the tinted windows fog and his Rolex digs cold into your skin. He fucks you slow at first, then harder when you moan his name in that way that destroys him. One of his hands claws at your hip and the other remains locked around the back of your neck as if he can’t stand the idea of you leaning away from him.

“Say it again,” He mutters, “Fuck, baby—say my name like that again.”

When you do, his grip on your hip tightens. By the time he’s finished, there’s a red mark on your thigh from where his watch kept catching every time he drove you down harder.

Afterward, he doesn’t drive. He just holds you in his lap, cum dripping out of you, cheek pressed to your shoulder, “I hate when you’re not with me,” He murmurs eventually.

You don’t know what to do with that, so you say nothing, and he kisses your forehead like he regrets letting it out.

And then…there’s the really bad nights—not because he’s rough, but because he isn’t. He comes to you sober, exhausted, shadowed under the eyes. He’ll stand in the doorway of your dorm or his bedroom or wherever the hell you are and just look at you like you’re something holy he’s ruined and is trying desperately not to ruin worse.

He doesn’t say much on those nights. Just, “C’mere”, and when you do, his whole body morphs around you. He’ll climb into bed behind you fully dressed and tuck his face into the back of your neck, rubbing delicate circles over your stomach with the heel of his palm and breathe like that alone calms him down.

Those are the nights that make you believe him. Make you believe the soft voice and the checking in and the forehead kisses and the waters in the car and the way he hovers now when you look even remotely sick—the way he still comes every time you call and even when you don’t.

But then the next weekend rolls around and he’s done-up by midnight, bar-hopping with the boys, throwing ragers at Sig Chi, blowing through drinks and lines like he’s trying to empty himself out one substance at a time. By mid-November, you stop predicting what version of Satoru Gojo will show up.

The frat boy with pink cheeks and whiskey on his breath. The high one with blown pupils and fingers that won’t stop fidgeting. The jealous one who yanks you into empty rooms and fucks you like every guy who’s looked at you owes him something. Or the quiet one who acts like being close to you is the only thing that heals him.

Only thing you’re sure of is that he always comes back, and every time he does, he looks a little more beautiful, a little more destroyed, and a whole lot harder to trust.

And maybe that’s why, when he tells you at 11:03 on a Thursday night that he’s just stepping out for Ryan’s twenty-first birthday and will only be gone an hour, you try not to make it into anything bigger than that.

He’s half-dressed in front of his bedroom mirror when he says it, one hand fixing the collar of his black shirt, the other already reaching for his watch off the dresser. You’re in his bed in one of his old USC tees, legs tucked under the blanket, trying to ignore the way your stomach’s been off since dinner.

“An hour?” You repeat.

Gojo glances over at you and grins, easy and radiant and too beautiful to be as stressful as he is, “Maybe ninety minutes.”

“Satoru.”

“What?” He chuckles softly, walking back over to the bed, “It’s Ryan’s twenty-first, baby. I gotta show face.”

“You always ‘show face’ for like four hours.”

He drops onto the mattress just long enough to crowd over you, one hand braced by your head, the other smoothing a strand of hair. His mouth brushes yours once, twice; gentle and distracting, “Not tonight,” He murmurs, “Promise.”

You look at him—at the other silver chain at his throat, the lips that have lied to you before without meaning to call it that. At the version of him that still somehow looks soft when he’s asking for trust he hasn’t fully earned, “An hour.”

He nods, presses one last kiss to your forehead, then lower, at your mouth, “I’ll be back before 12:30.”

You want to believe him, so you do the stupid thing and let yourself, “Okay.”

“Okay,” He echoes, knuckle dragging once over your jaw, “And text me if you feel sick, yeah?”

You almost laugh at the hypocrisy of him saying that while fixing his shirt to go get hammered and high at a birthday bar crawl, but you’re too tired for a fight and too used to this by now, so you just nod. He gives you that look then, the one that always makes your ribs ache; too fond, too soft, too much like the version of Gojo you keep hoping will win.

“Get some sleep while I’m gone, princess.”

Then he’s grabbing his keys and leaves at 11:11. At 11:47, you’re still awake. At 12:18, you check your phone—nothing. At 12:43, you tell yourself not to be annoying. It’s Ryan’s birthday, he’s with the boys, it hasn’t even been two hours. You don’t want to be the girl who starts acting like a nagging girlfriend because her frat boy boyfriend went out for a few drinks.

At 1:06, you roll onto your side and stare at the wall. Then, at 1:32, you text him.

where are you?

He doesn’t respond. At 1:57, your stomach twists hard enough to make you sit up. You pad to the bathroom, splash water on your face, look at yourself in the mirror too long. You look exhausted, younger than you feel, more pregnant than you should even though that part is probably just in your head. Then, at 2:14, you’re hunched over the toilet, heaving into it, nauseous as ever.

You manage to make it back to his bedroom and clamber into bed, but sleep doesn’t come. Every car that passes outside makes your head lift hopefully before sinking again and at 2:38, you call him—it goes straight to voicemail.

Now the nausea returns, but it’s not just the pregnancy this time. It’s anger, humiliation, sadness, and that hot, awful feeling of knowing exactly what he’s probably doing; shots, bumps, frat boys yelling over each other in some ratchet bathroom while you sit here in his shirt waiting like a fucking idiot.

At 2:51, he still isn’t home. By 3:07, the handle of his bedroom door finally turns, and the moment you hear it something in you stills. Because now, he’s here, and you get to see which version of Satoru Gojo came back this time.

Unfortunately, it’s one of the worst ones.

The door swings open too hard and bounces off the wall with a loud crack. Gojo stumbles in after it, shoulder clipping the frame, one hand barely catching himself on the dresser before his hip knocks into the corner of it hard enough to send a half-empty water bottle and a pair of sunglasses clattering to the floor. He laughs, some dazed, breathless little huff like almost eating shit is hilarious.

The smell hits you before the sight fully does. Tequila, sweat, smoke, Armani, and underneath all of it, that sharp, acrid wrongness that makes your stomach roll all over again. He’s fucked up; belligerently drunk in a way that’s not cute, where he’s not overly affectionate and pink-cheeked. No, he’s totally gone.

Pupils swallow his blue irises, black shirt wrinkled, chain crooked at his throat, white hair a complete mess like he’s been dragging his hands through it for hours. For one awful second, he doesn’t even clock that you’re awake. But then his gaze lands on you sitting upright in bed—his worn USC tee slipping off one shoulder, blanket bunched around your waist, face hot and blotchy and damp from being sick and crying; the lazy smirk on his mouth slips.

“Hey,” He says, voice loud and way too loud for the quiet room “You’re awake.”

You just stare at him as he bends to kick one shoe off, nearly loses balance again, catching himself with a palm against the wall and blinks like the room tilted on him, “Baby?” He says softer, finally looking at you properly now, “Why’re you still up?”

A laugh escapes you, but there’s nothing funny in it. It’s thin, wet, more hurt than humor because of course that’s the first thing he asks. He doesn’t say I’m sorry or shit, I’m late or I said an hour and it’s three in the fucking morning. No, he asks that, “Wow.”

He pushes off the wall and takes a few uneven steps toward the bed, “Baby—”

“Don’t,” The word cracks harder than you mean it to and he stops entirely.

You press a hand to your stomach because it’s twisting again, mean and sour, his eyes drop there automatically. That old reflex and old softness, that part of him that still sees you and the baby before anything else. It only makes you angrier, “You said an hour,” His face twinges, only slightly, “You said an hour, Satoru.”

He runs a rough hand through his hair, “Ryan turned twenty-one. It got—”

“No,” You shake your head, “No, don’t fucking do that. Don’t stand there and say that like it explains anything.”

He exhales sharply, already defensive because the guilt in him never gets the chance to shine through; pride always gets there first, “I’m just telling you what happened.”

“At eleven o’clock,” You snap, voice climbing, “You kissed me and told me one hour.”

“S’what do you want me to say?” He bites back, “I’m here now.”

There it is. The exact wrong thing. The wrong thing a man says when he’s too drunk and high and ashamed to understand that arriving eventually is not the same as being there when it mattered. Your eyes sting so fast it pisses you off, “You’re unbelievable.”

“(Y/N), I said I’m here.”

“And I’m telling you that doesn’t fix it!” Your voice breaks on the last word and now you hate yourself too. You hate that you’re crying in front of him, hate that the whole night you promised yourself you wouldn't be this girl—waiting up, getting sick and emotional over a frat boy who was doing God knows what with his idiot fucking brothers.

Gojo scrubs both hands down his face, “Okay. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Late?” You laugh again, “That’s what you think this is?”

He’s getting irritated now, you can tell. But not because he doesn’t care, no that would almost be easier, rather he’s too fucked up to sit in his own shame without lashing out, “What do you want from me right now?”

The question lands so wrong you just glare at him, “What do I want?”

“Yeah,” He says, stepping closer, “What do you want me to do? I’m home. I’m here. You want me to get in bed? Hold you? Tell me what the fuck you want.”

That last sentence comes out harsher than he means it to and you flinch; the second he sees it, his whole body freezes. For one breath, the real him shows up—horrified, immediate, sobered by the fact that he made you look at him like that. But it’s too late, because now your face is crumpling and the tears are back; your stomach hurts and you are just so, so tired of this.

“I wanted you to come back when you said you would,” You keep going, “I wanted you to answer your phone. I wanted to not sit here throwing up and wondering if you were alive while I was here by myself.”

Gojo’s mouth opens, then shuts, “It was one night.”

“No,” You reply, wiping angrily at your face, “That’s exactly the problem. It’s not one night,” Your tears burn hotter now, “It’s been almost two weeks of this shit, Satoru. One day you’re soft and sweet and perfect, making me feel insane for doubting you.

Your hand presses harder on your stomach, “And then the weekend comes and you’re drunk, high, you fuck me like it solves things, and I never know which version of you I’m getting,” His lips part, but you don’t let him speak, “You keep doing this. Keep acting like if you come back and hold me enough after, I’m supposed to forget the rest of it.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what are you doing?” You fire back, “Because it’s like you care about me one day and the next you’re trying to black out to not feel any of this.”

God, those good nights where he does everything right makes nights like this worse. They made you believe that beneath all this frat boy bullshit and all the liquor and cocaine, there is still somebody who understands what this is doing to you. And maybe that’s the cruelest part of all—that you’re starting to realize maybe he doesn’t. Or maybe he does, and some sick part of him just didn’t care enough tonight.

Then, the ugliest thought makes its way up your throat, “Did you get me pregnant because it turned you on, Satoru?” Gojo goes completely still, “Did you?” You demand, “Was it just hot to you? Knocking me up, getting to walk around knowing I’m the one carrying your baby while you still get to do whatever the fuck you want?”

He laughs once, ugly, humorless, straight up frightening, “You want honesty right now?”

“Yes.”

His eyes lock onto yours, “Yeah,” He answers, “It was hot,” The admission hits like a slap, he can’t stop either, “Yeah, it was hot,” Repeating himself, crueler because cruelty is easier than panic, “Wanted to fill you up. Wanted to know no one else was ever gonna have you the way I do.”

Fresh tears dribble down your cheeks and he sees them, but keeps talking, “And don’t act like you didn’t want it too. You fucking begged for it. You wrapped your legs around me. You told me not to pull out. You told me to make you mine.”

Your mouth falls open, “That is so fucking low.”

And he knows that, you can see it in the way his jaw tightens right after, the flicker of something ugly and regretful behind his blown eyes. But the damage is already done, “You know what’s fucked up?” You ask, “Yeah, I wanted you—I wanted all of it. I wanted you so bad I let myself be ruined by you.”

“(Y/N)—”

You cut him off, “I wanted you—but wanting you is not the same thing as asking for this,” His nostrils flare, “You got to get off on it. You got to make it hot. And now I’m the one stuck in the part after.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what? Like this is actually happening to me?” He takes a breath like he’s about to say something, but you beat him to it, “It’s not that I can’t do this. I just can’t do this with the man standing in front of me.”

The panic hits him the moment the words leave your tongue, “You think that’s what this is?” He seethes, stepping toward you too fast, “You think you get to throw that shit at me just because you’re pissed?”

You flinch again and for a heartbeat, the look on his face says he hates himself for that too, but he’s too far gone now to pull anything back, “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to be honest,” You admit, crying harder, “Maybe I should just go to Planned Parenthood and fix this.”

Something in his expression fractures at the sound of that. Because never, not once, had he imagined a world where you would willingly get rid of the one thing keeping you bound to him. His voice comes out shredded when he finally finds it, “You don’t get to fucking do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say you’ll get rid of my baby like it’s some fucking line to win an argument.”

You recoil in disgust, “Your—” You choke out, stunned and furious, “Oh my God. Your baby? That’s all you heard? Not the shit about my body or my life or me not being able to do this with you like this. Just—your fucking baby?”

“Don’t.”

“No, fuck you,” You snap, getting off the bed to grab a hoodie from his desk chair and yanking it on wrong, “Fuck you,” You echo, louder now, “You wanna know what’s actually sick? I was leaning toward keeping it…I was. And then you came home like this. You said all that bullshit and now all I can think is maybe I’d be keeping it if it wasn’t yours.”

That one guts him. Gojo’s body goes rigid like every muscle locks at once. His pupils blow even wider, chest snatching on one sharp inhale like the room has suddenly become too small to hold him. For a second he just stares at you, not blinking, not breathing right, like his mind physically cannot process the shape of what you just said.

You? A baby that isn’t his? You’d carry another man’s baby? He’d rather fucking die. Or kill someone.

His eyes flash with rage, hurt, something so possessive it borders on deranged, “Don’t fucking say that shit. Don’t even put that shit in my head.”

“Why?” You hiss, “Hurts?”

He takes a step toward you, hands twitching at his side, “You’re not fucking leaving me.”

You stop moving, only because you truly can't believe he said it. You turn slowly, phone clenched in your hand, and when you look at him your face twists, “Again, you make this shit about you.”

His chest is rising too hard, too quick, “You’re not walking back at three in the morning fucking pregnant. Not by yourself.”

“Oh, now that matters?” His jaw flexes, “That didn’t matter to you before though, did it?”

He winces, “Baby—that’s not—”

“No,” You interrupt, “You don’t get to disappear for hours and come back drunk and high off your ass and suddenly act like you’re worried about me being pregnant,” You reach for the doorknob, “If I go to Planned Parenthood, it’s because you finally made me realize what my life looks like with you in it.”

Your words devastate him now, “Don’t come after me,” You look back one last time, and this time, there is nothing soft in your face at all, “You wanna do whatever the fuck you want? Fine.”

You open the door and step one foot out.

“I’m gonna do the same.”

tags: @hdudz @litchi-liz-berry @anothergojostan @dawgd4wg @sin-tax-errotic @anonymous123sm @flwr0r4 @hauntedbyink @sabbrriiinnaa @kazukuro @cvpidcvlture @mxtenten @kimorauo @yanagisprettygf @jungkookswifeeeeeee @chickennn-soupp @valberryboos @seonaw @luvleyliaxx @kitty-yaps @the-fandom-menace-1221 @heartyhe4rt @abigaiili @existingishardd @cupidslie @d1onysusdevotee227 @satorugojolover0784 @dvarlinggg @secretsofchance