notes: soft headcanons, just thinking about sae as a husband (i’ve been adding to this over time so the nsfw & sfw aren't separated.)
husband!sae who proposed after inviting you out to ‘dinner.’ he’d been planning it for a while, thinking about how to ask you when he came to a conclusion — in one of your favourite expensive restaurants, you deserved nothing but the best after all. but he knew neither of you liked huge, flashy, extravagant public displays, so he kept it ‘simple.’ privately hired the store so it'd be peaceful, had your food served and the ring ready.
husband!sae who bought the ring he had subtly caught you staring at so many times.
husband!sae who knew you’d say yes, but still finds himself astonished when you do, running into his arms with big tears of happiness running down your cheeks.
"yes, yes, yes, oh my god!!" all you could do was repeat the confirmation over and over, eyes sparkling with joy. he put the ring on your finger, the exact ring you'd hoped for.
husband!sae who gnaws at the inner part of his mouth, eyes wide with adoration when he sees you walk down the aisle in your wedding dress — the fluffy poofy lace engulfing you like a beautiful white swan.
husband!sae who grumbles during family pictures at the wedding because rin stands between the two of you with an agitated look.
“can’t believe she agreed to marry you.” rin would groan in his face. “you definitely don’t deserve her.”
sae would tell him, “be quiet.” but he was really grateful that you decided to spend the rest of your life with him.
husband!sae who fucks you raw for the first time on your wedding night and after that he can't fuck you with a condom anymore.
“hah—! you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.” he damn near whimpered, your cunt tensed around him as a thick white ring settled at the base of his dick. “fuck, pretty pussy’s milking me so good.” he fucked all of his loads into you and you took it as his lovely wife.
husband!sae who when he’s not giving you a creampie, pulls out and cums on your gorgeous ass, admiring his work.
husband!sae who smiles to himself when your letters come through the mailbox, directed to ‘mrs. itoshi’
husband!sae who loves buying you gifts and spoiling you rotten when he comes home from abroad, he hadn’t seen you for so long after all. you want money for nails? consider it done. money for new clothes? he’d make sure they were designer. his money was your money.
“you want this one too?”
“well..” you looked at the tag, hesitant. “it’s quite expensive.”
“don’t be stupid, nothing’s too expensive for you.”
husband!sae who has you in the nastiest arch when he comes home to you greeting him in the lingerie he bought — tits in that frilly red push-up, nipples hard underneath, sweet pussy all ready for him.
husband!sae who always wears his ring under his gloves during matches, a good luck charm. it’s become a part of the jewellery he never takes off. his teammates catch him staring at it sometimes, absent minded, in the changing room.
husband!sae who fucks you mean after his team loses.
“sae, ohmygodd—, y-you’re too deep!” you would complain while drooling blissfully into the pillows, pussy fluttering for more of his mean pounds. “be quiet and fucking take it.” he would slap your ass hard and you’d clench around him. “you like that? shit, you’re such a slut.”
husband!sae who’s oh so gentle with aftercare. with light conversation, he'd move you like you're precious, helping you stand, cleaning you up, bath full to the brim with bubbles and bath salts. all you had to do was sit back and let him pamper you.
husband!sae who lets you blow him after a long day.
“yeah, just like that, love.” your freshly manicured nails wrapped around his dick, tongue swirling his tip. “you’re always so good for me.” he would sigh, head resting back as he pushed deep into your mouth.
husband!sae who loves morning sex, the quietness in the air as he softly fucks you, the intimacy of the dawn as he spoons you, back to his chest, cunt creaming around him.
“you’re so pretty like this.” he exhaled, one of your legs hiked as he plunged into your warmth. all you could do was whine contently, thigh trembling in his hold as you drew close. the sun on your skin as it peeked through the curtain. “are you close? come for me.”
husband!sae who likes to cook for you. after being abroad and having to live alone, he’s learnt some recipes.
“try this.” he would hold the spoon to your lips carefully.
“oh, it's good.”
“of course it is.” he’d roll his eyes. “don’t underestimate me.”
husband!sae who protects you from the press.
“do you know what people say about your wife? they say—”
he’ll hit them with a disgusted look before replying. “don’t say a thing if you don't want to embarrass yourself.”
husband!sae who laughs at you for getting sick saying your immune system is weak but tenderly cares for you the entire time.
husband!sae who catches the illness of you and now you have to take care of him.
“thought i had the weak immune system.” you snickered.
“shut up.” he’d rasp out because his nose was blocked.
husband!sae who’s a listener, he loves hearing you talk about anything — how your day was, your favourite songs, what you want him to make for dinner. he just loved hearing your voice.
husband!sae who learns that relationships are about communication, he learns to speak his actual feelings and not push you away.
husband!sae who has an obvious soft spot for you, he’s so cute and vulnerable sometimes.
“hey look, this plush is super cute!” you squeezed it, showing it to him.
“no, it looks ridiculous.” he scoffed.
you would find it ‘mysteriously’ sitting on your vanity the following week.
husband!sae who bought you a digital camera after you asked, and you brought it everywhere with you, capturing all your sweet memories together. he found himself flicking through the camera sometimes, smiling at the photos.
husband!sae who doesn’t feel anything when you argue. that was the type of person he was, unaware of others emotions because he thought what he was saying was necessary to say. yet later, under that monotone face, he unconsciously was feeling frustrated at himself for treating you like that. he was always too blunt and harsh.
you were giving him the silent treatment as well which didn’t help. he’d normally leave you alone because he thought you were ‘overemotional’ but he knew better now.
“i’m sorry.” he uttered. “can we talk about it?” he was so sincere, so sweet.
you’d forgive him, eventually.
husband!sae who’s a dacryphile — seeing the expressions you make for him, so open, so transparent, so sensitive, drove him insane.
“fuck, you look so good.” he’d hold your face with one big palm — overstimulated and sobbing, big welling tears in your shiny eyes, face fucked out, it made him hard all over again.
“crying over my dick, does it feel that good, baby?” he'd taunt you while licking at your tears, salt tingling on his tongue before spreading kisses over your wet cheeks.
“c-can’t anymore, too full!” you’d have to force the words out through sobs, nails clawing at his back desperately.
“yes you can, pretty, i know you can, one more.” it was never just one more.
husband!sae who loves to come home to you peacefully snoring away in his clothes, cuddling up with your warm body.
he was already craving your touch as he walked towards the bedroom door, it was late at night, he knew you’d be asleep.
treading in quietly, his eyes fell on your sleeping figure. curled up in his shirt with your ring snug on your finger, diamond glistening in the moonlight — you looked so precious.
he wasted no time, hopping into the bathroom for a quick shower then snuggling into you, encompassing you with his body, whispering, “i’m home.”
“huh? sae...” you groggily rubbed a hand over his chest.
“i didn’t mean to wake you, go back to sleep.” he’d grab your hand, smoothing a kiss over the ring.
your husband, sae, realises that no one makes him feel this way besides you.
how the blue lock boyfriends react when you don't say 'i love you' back
pairings: itoshi sae, mikage reo, bachira meguru x gn!reader | warnings: established relationship, fluff, lovesick boys
notes: hi this is my proof of life!! had reo's part on my draft and since i really wanted to write something for bllk i did for the others as well - also bachira debut, yay! hope he's not too ooc ♥ also thank you for 3k, love you all!
masterlist
Itoshi Sae
your stoic boyfriend was rarely ever fazed by anything. he was like a blank picture and the perfect representation of someone in control of every one of their emotions. it could get pretty annoying, actually, since you were a cheeky thing by nature and you wished your shenanigans would rattle him at least just once.
they didn’t. but you never stopped trying anyway. after all, how amazing would it be to crack itoshi sae’s calm indifference? you just couldn’t resist pushing his buttons.
“i’m heading to practice now,” sae’s voice takes you from your thoughts. he’s already clad in his practice clothes while you’re curled in your bed reading a book.
“sure. have a good practice.”
step 1: don’t use pet names.
sae arches a brow in that infuriating calmness, but says nothing. he slings his duffle bag over his shoulder and puts his hands on his jacket pockets, looking at you blankly.
“i’ll be back before dinner,” he says.
step 2: don’t make a big deal of his company.
“okay, see ya.”
you hold back a snort as you see the faintest furrow of his brow, gone in an instant. “...okay then. Love you, bye.”
step 3: don’t say ‘i love you’ back.
“bye, sae.”
your boyfriend gets off the bedroom. you hear his footsteps towards the exit. the sound of the door opening. then, more footsteps coming back.
“okay, let’s go out for dinner then,” he sounds a bit frustrated as he pokes his head inside the room, and now you can see the frown on his pretty face. you hum in faux disinterest.
“if you want to,” you dismiss, pretending to focus on your book.
sae scowls. he opens the bedroom door and steps inside again, crossing his arms. “que pasá.” it’s supposed to be a question, though it sounds more like a demand.
you raise your gaze. “hm? what do you mean?”
“don’t play dumb. why are you being weird?”
you hold your laughter and make your best blasé expression. “i’m normal, sae.”
“no, you’re not. you’re not even calling me cariño or mi vida!” he blurts in indignation, and you have to use all your strength not to burst out laughing.
“oh. sorry, corazón.”
“don’t— you can’t say it like it’s an obligation! it has to be because you love me, which you clearly don’t anymore since you didn’t even say it back!”
at his rare outburst, you can’t help yourself anymore, and you break into a fit of very amused giggles that just make him more irritated. “stop laughing. this is serious—”
“mi amor,” you cut him off amongst your laughter. “it’s really not that deep, baby. i was just messing with you.”
sae gives you a betrayed glare that could melt steel, though you know it’s more embarrassed than angry at this point, which just makes you laugh more. he has the cutest, grumpiest pout on his lips, and you can’t help but leave your book aside and crawl on the mattress until you reach him and hold his face between your hands.
“you’re so cute when you care,” you say in fond teasing, leaning to peck his lips. sae grunts like he actively wants to crawl in a hole and die.
“you’re a fucking menace,” it’s all he says in return. but his arms snake around your waist anyways, holding you just a bit tighter than usual. “don’t pull shit like that on me.”
you grin like the cat who got the cream. “awww, why’s that? you got scared, amor?”
he clicks his tongue. “tch. don’t be ridiculous.”
you giggle a little more. sae’s eyes soften a little, just like they always do for you, and he pulls you close until your bodies are flush against each other. you stop laughing when he presses a kiss on your temple.
“te amo, cariño.”
and even though managing to rattle him is peak fun, nothing compares to his tender moments of vulnerability. you can’t help but smile gently and wrap your arms around his shoulders, nuzzling against the skin of his neck.
“también te amo, sae. always.”
Mikage Reo
playing with your boyfriend’s heartstrings was one of your favorite hobbies. you thought it was fun to see mikage reo, heir to the mikage corporation and a hotshot soccer player, whine and pout whenever you pulled some prank on him.
you were certain this time wouldn’t be different, especially considering the prank involved the three sacred words of “i love you” that reo said and nearly demanded every hour of the day to function properly. how would he react if you didn’t say it back?
you were going to find out.
while reo was finishing putting on his expensive watch, ready to go to a meeting, you laid in the couch of your shared apartment while absentmindedly looking for a show to watch on a streaming platform. just waiting for the strike.
soon enough, your boyfriend came out of his closet, ready to go. he diligently walked towards your figure and gave you a kiss on the top of your head.
"i'm heading to the meeting now, dearest," he says in that sweet, excited voice of his. it almost makes you feel bad. almost. "i'll be back before dinner. then we can go out and eat something nice if you want."
you smile at him. "sounds good, handsome. have a good meeting."
he smiles back, as always. "thank you, sweetheart. i love you, see you soon."
there it is. the opportunity.
"sure, baby, see you soon."
he takes five steps towards the door. touches the handle. then freezes and backtracks like he was rewinding a tape.
"see you soon, i love you," he says more vehemently. you have to hold back a snort and keep your face neutral and oblivious.
you pretend to be very focused on choosing a tv show. "yeah, babe, see ya soon."
his eyes widen. his posture wilts. he looks absolutely distressed.
"i love you, dearest!" he yells like a poor impersonation of romeo under juliet's balcony, and it takes all your power not to burst into laughter.
"i know, baby—"
"okay, you know what—" he drops his briefcase and practically jumps on the spot next to you on the couch. "i'm gonna stay right here until i hear you say it back."
"huh?" you play dumb. "what do you mean?"
he takes a deep breath, like he's about to crash. or jump off the penthouse window. "baby. sweetheart. dearest. my love, my life-- don't do this to me. you know i need your 'i love you's' to survive. what happened? are you mad? do you want me to buy you something? is it because i forgot to do the laundry—"
"reo, honey. you're gonna be late to your meeting. isn't it with one of the main investors of mikage corporations?"
"yeah. who cares? what's losing a few millions in investment if my girl is mad at me??? or worse, if she HATES ME!"
you can't take it anymore. you burst out laughing, arching against the couch while holding your belly with how hard you're laughing. reo, on the other hand, just pouts like a kicked puppy.
"is this one of your stupid pranks again?"
"i'm sorry, baby, but that was so—" you cackle again. "so good!"
"you're so mean," he whines, grabbing your waist to steady you and burying his face in your chest. "i can't believe you'd kill me like that. i'm gonna need therapy after this stunt you just pulled."
you hug him against your chest, gently caressing the back of his head. "there, there. sorry, baby. i love you too, so much."
he just 'hmphs' brattily, but you can tell his whole body relaxes after you say those words. it makes something in your chest soften, and you smile, kissing his forehead.
"you should go before you're late for the meeting, dear," you say gently. "i love you."
he reluctantly pulls away, still a bit grumpy, but reo can't help but feel his heart full as he hears those precious words coming from your mouth. every one of your 'i love you's' makes him come undone only to put him back together again; stronger, better and even more in love.
he kisses you one last time before going, and his own "i love you" is spoken against your lips.
Bachira Meguru
your relationship with bachira was always fun. you both had very easygoing personalities and liked to play with each other, hence why you decided to pull this prank on your poor, oblivious boyfriend.
meguru was going out with his friend isagi yoichi, and you were pretty sure they would be playing football even though both were professional players. how those egoist freaks didn’t get tired of running around a ball was beyond you, but you never mentioned anything.
at your shared apartment, you smile when bachira’s arms wrap around your waist while you’re cooking in the kitchen. he was always a clingy little thing, but you loved it.
“i’ll be going now, honey,” he says, pressing a kiss on the curve of your shoulder.
“will you be back before dinner?”
“of course. wouldn’t miss your food for the world, babe.” he grins as if he’s proud of himself. “already smells really good by the way. can’t wait.”
you smile then, and kiss his cheek. “alright baby, have fun.”
“thank you!” he kisses you once more, and then he goes out the front door like an energetic hurricane.
it takes you a beat of silence to realize he didn’t say ‘i love you’.
you scowl. “what the fuck…?”
you immediately grab your phone and call him. bachira takes no time to answer with a cheery “hello?”
“meguru,” you don’t sound happy, because of course you’re not. you were gonna do that as a prank, but if he was doing it for real… “didn’t you forget anything?”
“huh? i don’t think so, love. got my cleats with me, promise i didn’t forget like last time.”
while that was a relief, since last time bachira played barefoot and came home stinking, it wasn’t what you were referring to, which made you more frustrated.
“that’s not it. something else.”
he makes a whiney sound. “hey, i didn’t forget anything this time, i’m sure!”
“bachira meguru! you left without saying you love me!” you finally lose your two cents of patience.
a beat of silence. then, giggles.
“not so funny now, is it, hon’?”
your system crashes. a ‘loading’ symbol appears on your forehead. “what?”
“prankster got pranked, heehee!” he laughs again, and you feel your blood boiling.
“what?! how did you—”
he fake sighs like you’re a naive little apprentice. “i saw you liked a few tiktoks of this prank, baby. knew you’d try to pull it on me. but hey, guess i’m just that good, huh?”
oh, that insufferable, smug bastard—
“no dinner for you tonight, bachira.”
he whines on the other side of the phone line. “what? but babyyy, that’s so not fair! you were the one trying to trick me!”
“yeah, and you beat me to it so now i’m mad!” you answer grumpily. he just laughs again, amused but fond as well.
“aw, m’sorry, sweet thing. next time i’ll let you prank me and play along, yeah? if it will make my girl happy.”
you huff, feeling your traitorous heart skip a beat. god, sometimes you hated how gone you were for that man.
“…fine, i guess,” you reluctantly give in, still a bit grumpy but unable to resist his sweetness. you can almost hear bachira’s smile through the phone.
“perfect. oh, and— i love you, silly!”
you can’t help but smile too — wide, carefree and just stupidly in love.
╰ synopsis: do the blue lock men pull through november like a soldier? or die in cervix?
╰ includes: isagi yoichi ; bachira meguru ; itoshi rin ; itoshi sae ; reo mikage ; nagi seishiro ; shidou ryusei ; michael kaiser ; alexis ness
╰ cw: nsfw mdni ; 11k wc ; not proofread ; f reader ; unprotected piv ; pet play ; praise ; degradation ; facesitting ; pantysniffing ; breeding ; public ; cockwarming and more . . .
╰ note: this was such a challenge LMAO but im glad i finished it within november heh..
─── ISAGI YOICHI brought the idea up, he had heard some of his teammates talking about it in the locker rooms after practice. so he brought it up with you, thinking it would be a nice challenge for the both of you. boy, did he think wrong.
↳ FIRST WEEK :
isagi’s plan for this whole thing? he’s gonna be productive! he will spend more time on football! he will win this challenge and you’ll give him a reward for it! he’s going to flex to rin about this! he’s going to be the better—yeah, you get it.
isagi was going through it. the five stages of dickpression. and you did not make it easy for him, you walked around the house in those stupidly slutty shorts which hugged all your curves just right and how did you expect isagi to not salivate like a rabid dog at that?
everytime you walked past him his puppy dog eyes would follow you like he was trailing after your scent. but it’s just the first week! gosh, man up isagi! you need to push through! — isagi would chant to himself like a mantra, well, it’s working so far..?
“you do this on purpose, right?” isagi whispered against your skin, he was spooning you from behind. his arms wrapped tightly around your waist to keep you from moving and messing up his 5 days of sheer will.
“mm? do what, pretty boy?” you giggled, a sweet sound but it only set isagi’s skin on fire. he snuffed the feeling out but his grip on your waist tightened, his hand moved to slip his fingers underneath the waistband of your shorts.
“wearing this—you know what we’re doing..right?” isagi sucked in rather harshly, struggling to hold the reins of his libido. “yeahh. does it make you wanna’ lose, yoichi?” you cooed teasingly, isagi’s left nut twitched and he went blind in his right leg. you were seriously going to be the end of him.
↳ SECOND WEEK :
isagi is gnawing at the walls. he physically cannot stay in the same room as you without wanting to chew your clothes off. he is buzzing with pent up energy, and it’s worse every single time he comes home from practice because the adrenaline rushes straight south.
and of course, you just HAVE to step your own game up. if the shorts were the death of him, this silky lingerie you wear to bed will drag him to hell on all fours and he would gladly go.
how does he cope? well, showers are more his personal edging sessions now. every night before bed, he rubs himself off under the shower head. fuck, he bites into his arm and tears up trying to hold himself back. he knows nobody would know if he were to just bust a load in the shower drain but he is an honest, sweet (not so much) boy. he can’t just lie!
but he has been doing a good job, so far. yeah! he’s going to make it, right? please tell him he’s going to make it. he’s so close to crying.
it was late into the night but isagi couldn’t sleep no matter what he did. he had switched sides of his pillow almost ten times now and was just tossing and turning around on the bed now. yet nothing worked.
really, how could it work? how could anyone expect him to sleep when you’re sleeping so soundly beside him, so peaceful and pretty. fuck, he almost feels bad for what he is about to do.
he tugs the covers off your soft body gently, his hungry gaze drinking in every inch of your exposed skin through the lingerie you’ve begun wearing to bed. he runs a hand over your bare thighs, feeling goosebumps rise on your sensitive skin and making you squirm.
gosh, you were adorable.
he reached into his sleep shorts with his other hand and fished out his hard, throbbing cock. his engorged tip leaking precum dripping onto the sheets. he stroked it a couple of times before his hand which was on your thigh gripped onto the supple flesh and spread your thighs to slot his aching length between those beautiful thighs.
isagi muffled a groan into his palm, your thighs felt so beautiful wrapped around him. he needed this, he had been pent up for so long.
this doesn’t count as cheating right? not if he doesn’t cum. so he begins thrusting his cock in and out of the tiny gap between your thighs and clothed pussy. the tip of his cock catching onto your clit through the fabric of your panties which sent an involuntary shiver down his body.
shit, he felt like a virgin.
↳ THIRD WEEK :
lol, what third week?
“ah—shit, i missed this—! fuck—i missed you!” isagi grunted in-between thrusts, his chest pressed against your back and his nails dug crescents into the supple skin of your hips as he held you flush to him. his cock drove in and out of you in a bed-breaking pace. his breath came out in hot puffs against your cheek.
“a‐aah! yoichi! slow—” you whined, your eyes rolled back. your boyfriend was so impossibly deep inside of you, it actually made no sense. you felt him raise your leg up to spread you open for him, even more. his cock hit at a new angle now, his tip kissing your swollen g-spot with each single snap of his hips.
“slow? you—fuckin’—want slow?” isagi growled in your ear, his hips now slowing down so he could pound you slower but more fuller. “after teasing me—for so. damn. long? shut up and take it.” isagi huffed, each thrust of him made sure every inch of his cock was buried snug inside of you, and when he pulled out, you could feel the same inches drag against your warm insides.
↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?
well, of course, he lost. like a sore loser. but the loss felt better than the win.
record: 19 days. clap for him.
“soo, same time next november?” you wiggled your eyebrows cheekily at isagi who was giving you the nastiest side eye. he turned over on the bed, his back facing you. “shut up.” he sighed, rolling his eyes. he wasn’t mad at you, he was mad at himself for losing. but gosh did his balls feel lighter.
you just laughed and began spooning isagi from behind, best november ever.
─── BACHIRA MEGURU saw the thing on tiktok, late at night at exactly 4:03 am on november 1st. you were sleeping soundly beside him, he looked over at you and grinned wide and devilishly. the cogs in his mind cranked and something was cooking up in that factory.
↳ FIRST WEEK :
bachira’s plan for this whole thing is to make it unbearable for you. he knows you’re absolutely whipped for him, and would cave if he just whispered a soft little ‘please :(’. so why not use it to his advantage?
he introduced you to the challenge, saying it would be fun! and it would strengthen the bond. tch, he just wanted to fuck with you a little. regardless, you agreed once he pouted all sweetly. how could you say no to that?
the first week was a breeze, bachira was being his usual self save for some heated glances, fleeting touches and whispered promises of filth. hey, you had spent enooouuggh time with bachira to be able to resist him. right?
you were cooking dinner in the kitchen when bachira crewed up behind you and pressed his chest to your back, resting his chin on your head. “heyy cutie. whatcha’ making?” bachira giggled, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head trying to distract you from his hips which were subtly rocking up into you.
“megu’ stop humping me.” you sighed like a disappointed mother, shaking your head. you could feel bachira pout behind you and bury his nose into your hair to inhale the scent of your shampoo. “mm—ugh, i thought you would crack by noooww!” bachira whined, stomping his feet softly.
you picked up the ladle you were using to stir the curry and scooped a tiny bit of the food before holding it up to bachira’s lips. “taste it.” bachira huffed indignantly but still opened his mouth to taste the food. “mm. yum.” he smacked his lips while eating, same way his hips were still smacking yours.
“can you stop dryhumping me now?” you clicked your tongue, bachira tightened his grip on you even more. “no.” he stuck his tongue out. fairs.
↳ SECOND WEEK :
at this point, bachira was confused. he was trying EVERYTHING. he had humped you through your clothes in the morning in bed, he had grinded against you like a stripper with a pole during the afternoons and now he’s quite literally roaming around the house in just his boxers and you still haven’t lost your mind over him? he feels offended. so, SO offended.
he lays beside you wherever you are sat. on the couch? he’s draping himself over the loveseat with am arm on his forehead like he’s a damsel in distress. on the bed? he’s laying beside you on his side, posed all tantalizingly like he’s asking you to paint him like one of your french girls. unfortunately, he just looks awkward flopping around like a fish in just his underwear but A for effort!
bachira was sprawled across your sheets like a starfish, his boxers stretched taut over his legs and his bulge just shy of peeking out. you worked beside him on your laptop, pushing your reading glasses further up your nose you finally decided to spare him just a shard of your attention.
“meguru? can you put on some clothes?” you perked up without even glancing at him. yet that was enough for bachira to resume his embarassing attempt at appearing seductive. “am i bothering youu? heh, come do something about it then.” he purred, arching his back off the bed. your grip on your laptop tightened, your nonchalant facade slowly tearing at the sides. would you really make it through this month?
“no thank you. i’m quite busy.” you quipped back and it hit bachira like a punch square to his face. his teasing smirk broke and he looked baffled, how were you still holding up!
↳ THIRD WEEK :
bachira was getting desperate. at this point he had begun to sleep naked next to you in hopes you would atleast look at him with those beautiful eyes :((!! but you always slept with your back turned to him. you were making this hard for him! it’s supposed to be the other way around!
and it’s not even fair you look so pretty, glowing and pure and bachira is just so pent-up and needy. he’s so close to just getting on all fours and barking for you so you could give him a scrap of your attention.
he’s whining like a damn dog who got denied his favourite treat, which is you. how can you be so mean to him!
“baby—baby—please—” bachira whined, throwing a leg over your waist to grind harder against your butt. he was dry humping you when you both were supposed to be sleeping but he is just so needy. needy for you.
“just give in! i won’t even rub it in your face—fuck—let me have you..” bachira nuzzled into your neck, his cock was rapidly hardening and you could feel it press against the cleft of your ass. his grip on your hips tightened impossibly to hold you flush to him.
“meguru, i have work tommorow. go to bed—” you tried complaining but you couldn’t resist either, the sound of your boyfriend whimpering so wantonly in your ear. the heat emitting from his body, it was all so much. with a grunt you reached back to wrap your hand around his cock. bachira gasped, eyes rolling back at the warmth of your hand engulfing him.
“hngh—yeah, stroke me—fuuckk—” bachira babbled, bucking his hips up to fuck your fist. his precum leaked over your fist, his engorged tip twitching like crazy. as bachira’s lustful frenzy reached a fervor pitch you pulled your hand away, tearing your warmth from him and he whined so pitifully it made your heart ache.
“why—!” bachira whined, curling into you even more. “uh-uh, gotta’ win this, babyboy.” you shushed him with your finger, you smirked so evilly. bachira was quiet, you looked so hot.
↳ FOURTH WEEK :
bachira couldn’t hold it in anymore. but luckily you worked overtime alot this week so bachira couldn’t pounce on you and fuck you seven days till sunday. it was all so unfair!
he was so pent-up he grinded against the pillow you slept on, rubbing his aching length on the plush surface. he was sniffing like an animal, reveling in the scent of you.
on 30th november, at exactly 12:00 am you had came back home after a long tiring day of work fully expecting to greet your boyfriend and maybe reward him for getting through the whole month without sex. you ascended the stairs and opened the door to the bedroom you shared with him and oh, oh.
bachira was humping the pillow—your pillow—like a mad animal, whimpering your name. what a bad boy. and he wasn’t even the least bit ashamed that you caught him.
“dirty, dirty boy.” you clicked your tongue, tugging harshly on the leash you had planted on his neck. bachira panted, totally committing to the act of being a disobedient puppy, your puppy.
“mm—did ‘ya really expect me to not? you just—” bachira sniffed your inner thigh, eyes half-lidded. “smell sooo good and—” bachira buried his face in your crotch, licking over your dampening slit through the fabric of your panties. “taste even better..” bachira groaned low in his throat but he winced when you tugged the leash harder and reeled him away.
“you gotta earn it, baby.” you tutted, your grip firm on the leash. bachira looked up, a shaky smirk playing at his lips. his cock already hardening at how you were bossing him around.
“anyway you want..! i’ll do anything..” bachira panted, moving to hump your ankle. his tip leaving dirty streaks of precum all over your calve. “anything at all..”
↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?
winnerrr!!! and he’s nutting all over the place, he deserves it!
record: 30 full days!!!!
you were completely soaked in bachira’s cum, he really came like a broken faucet, poor baby must’ve been holding back a ton! bachira was half-asleep spooning you naked with a dopey grin on his face. perfectly sated and full of love for you.
“heh—loovee youu..” bachira slurred out sleepily, adding a yawn at the end. he nuzzled into your neck, mouthing at the skin there. you sighed but smiled softly, reaching to gently pet his cheek. “love you too, meguru.”
─── ITOSHI RIN didn’t want to do the challenge at first. he had heard about it in the past, through his teammates but once he heard isagi muttering something about it to hiori. rin settled on doing the challenge, and winning. he was better than that shitty isagi.
↳ FIRST WEEK :
he powered through the first week on absolute determination and sheer will. he barely batted an eye at you and completely plunged himself into football and working out, anything to snuff out that screaming feeling of getting his dick wet.
he tried his best to act normal around you too, and to be honest? he was doing a pretty good job at it! atleast he thought so. little did he know he looked like a wet chihuahua growling at you everytime you came near like it was YOUR fault he took up this challenge.
“stop doing that.” rin growled low in his throat when you walked by him when he was working out in the private gym you guys have in your home—yes, fancy.
“stop doing what?” you batted your lashes down at rin who was in-between a plank session. his abdomen was clenching so deliciously, all of his six or seven packs were stretched taut and damn—he just looked edible enough to eat. sadly, you couldn’t.
rin peered up at you over his shoulder, this angle from the floor gave him view to everything you had under your skirt. and truth be told, you had nothing underneath. just your bare cunny which was absolutely destroying rin’s mental. he had to tear his eyes away, he couldn’t lose. not when bragging rights against dumb yoichi were at stake.
“just—just go.” rin panted, looking ahead of himself. you just shrugged and walked out of the gym, but you felt rin’s gaze devouring every deliberate sway of your hips.
↳ SECOND WEEK :
second week was sliiigghtlyy better. rin had an upcoming match and he trained day and night for it, though it was just a simple friendly match against argentina, anything would work, anything which would get his mind off you.
his teammates noticed too, he was working himself out. it’s not new, of course, but this time they feel like something else is motivating him other than the match at hand. even bachira, who is normally lost in his own different world notices it. aiku says he must be having girlfriend problems, well he is sort of correct!
though it didn’t exactly stop him from opening that secret password protected folder in his gallery, one which stored all the videos he has taken of you during sex. of both of you during sex.
and what would he do while watching them? literally what any normal man with a hot as shit girlfriend would do. jack off, duh.
“hnngh—! shit—so fuckin’ tight..” rin snarled low in his throat, he had one hand wrapped tightly around his length while one was holding his phone. he had a particularly long home video playing on full blast, your moans combined with his echoing in the empty shower stall. rin was standing directly under the stream, but it did nothing to cool his heating body.
rin choked his cock in his fist as he bit down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. fuck, he was trying his best to stay quiet but it was getting so hard. he swiped at the precum beading on his tip, leaking precum didn’t count as losing the challenge right? riiightt??
outside the shower, karasu and otoya had stayed back to shower after everyone was done. they didn’t expect rin to be beating his meat, in public, in the locker rooms.
“how long do you think he’ll last?” karasu poked otoya’s shoulder. “ehh—give it a few days.” otoya shrugged and walked ahead.
↳ THIRD WEEK :
match is over. they’re all on break. but rin is breaking here. home used to be his safe place where he could cuddle with you, maybe watch something or you know just spend some quality time with you. BUT NO.
this stupid no nut november challenge and this stupid isagi for bringing it up and TEMPTING rin to do the challenge like it was a personal blow to his ego. nobody actually tempted him, rin just has some personal feelings towards isagi.
rin is scared to even touch you, scared he would immediately nut in his pants like a virgin. that would be generational aura loss and he wouldn’t hear the end of it from you. so he ignores you like you did something to offend him.
you kinda did piss him off by being so gorgeous and beautiful and sexy and—
“rin, do you want something from the store? i’m gonna get groceries.” you called out from the front door where you were slipping on your uggs to go outside. rin stared at your back from his spot on the couch, his fingers digging into the meat of his thigh.
“rin?” you called out again, turning to look at him once you noticed he wasn’t responding. rin’s eyes were glazed over, running up and over your body like he was undressing you with his smoldering gaze. you waved your hand infront of his face and he finally seemed to snap out of it.
“huh? oh—yeah, just, get whatever. i don’t care.” rin crossed his arms over his chest and looked away. what a fake idgafer, he definitely cared.
↳ FOURTH WEEK :
every day felt like a new hurdle for rin. every time he woke up in the bed he immediately picked up his phone and checked the date. november 27th?? he closed his eyes and felt a singular tear run down his cheek as he pondered about if taking up this challenge was even worth it.
but then, the clock hit 12 on november 30th and it was all free game. rin had his eyes peeled on the clock in the living room while you were in the kitchen washing up after dinner.
rin stalked over towards you with a predator’s grace. the air in the kitchen went cold, you turned around whilst drying your hands off on a towel and were immediately met with rin pinning you against the counter with a growl.
well, shit.
“fuckin’ hell—’ya really fucked me over with this—shit—challenge..” rin panted in your ear, his thrusts pushing you further up the counter until your back hit the tiled walls of the kitchen. your legs wrapped tightly around rin’s waist for leverage and to hold yourself down unless you wanted your soul to ascend to god because damn—rin was not holding back.
“riiinn—slowerrr—hngh!” you whined sweetly but rin didn’t take it. “none of that.” rin growled, slapping your ass and then kneading the reddening flesh with his large palm. “y’re gonna take it like a good girl. so stop whining.” rin demanded with a cold finality in his tone which made all your protests turn to helpless little whines.
rin pulled out until just the head of his cock remained inside of you, he kept fucking you with the tip until you got impatient enough to claw at his back. “rin! ungh—put it backkk!” you huffed, all bratty. and who was rin to deny you when you begged so sweetly? he rammed back into you which knocked all the air out your lungs and all the sense out your brain.
gosh, you loved it when your rinnie got all rough.
↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?
of course he won! did you really think he wouldn’t?
record: he cracked at exactly 12 am! 30 whole days!
rin was massaging your sore thighs as you both cuddled in bed, with his other hand he was on his phone typing something. “rin? who are you texting?” you perked up, trying to peek into his phone. “isagi.” rin shrugged and showed you his screen, he was texting isagi about how he won nnn. isagi replied with how he wasn’t even doing the challenge in the first place, rin read the text and tossed his phone away with a deep, guttural groan.
fuck november.
─── ITOSHI SAE who was equipped for this challenge on a daily. amidst flying out for matches every week or so, november had become practically every month for mister blue balled—you were sure they actually looked blue from how pent-up he was. that said, he was the one making this hard for you.
↳ FIRST WEEK :
he only came home on 4th of november and as soon as you opened the door to him, he brushed past you. he was wearing that cologne you mentioned you really liked in passing yet you never thought he would wear it considering he doesn’t like anything fruity yet here he was completely drowning in scent and smelled exactly like an acai bowl.
you had to press your thighs together to keep from pouncing on your boyfriend when he was still in his outside clothes.
and this man had the audacity to take his clothes off in the living room. all his back muscles flexing, was he doing this on purpose?
“sae.” you called out from the bed, sae was changing into his sleep clothes. “mm?” he perked up, blinking at you. his bangs were down, his hair not gelled for once. he looked absolutely adorable, and adorably yours.
you sucked in a breath and forced yourself to look away, “nothing.” you cuddled into the sheets, trying to hide yourself in them. sae seemed to notice what was going on, he crawled onto the bed, over you. pinning you.
he peered down at you, he looked so gorgeous. he leaned forward until his whole face was shoved in yours, “is it really nothing?” he breathed out, his hot breath was fanning directly over your face. and you swore you could fuck this challenge right there.
but sae broke the contact as soon as it came, he parted with a chaste kiss pressed to your plush lips and he fell over to the side. scooting over to his side of the bed, he pulled the covers over himself and reached to turn off the lights. “good night.” he whispered and closed his eyes shut.
did the blue balled just blue ball you?
↳ SECOND WEEK :
second week was just a normal week. for sae. you were spending every living moment trying to keep from losing your shit and embarrassingly failing to do so. how could you! sae was just strutting around the house like he knew he was making your life a living hell with every breath of his.
he looked well-rested, well-fed and beautiful. you loved when he looked like this, he looked prettier and healthier, much better than how he looked on the pitch. well, he looked hot any way.
and it didn’t make it any better he was being gentle with you, gentler than usual. for example, he held onto your waist and pressed you close whenever you want to stand beside him. in the bed, he spoons you from behind protectively and possesively. and he kisses your neck, your whole body goes weak.
“come closer. why are you avoiding me?” sae grabs your wrist to pull you closer to him. it was movie night and usually you two would be snuggled up all cozy under the sheets but you were avoiding him. sae knew why, but he pretended to be clueless and that only pissed you off more. because how were you going to tell him you wanted him to fuck you silly?
either way, you shifted closer until your thighs touched. you flinched at that, the feel of his larger thigh pressed against your smaller one, you could barely keep your gaze from trailing southwards to the visible bulge in his sweatpants. this wasn’t supposed to turn you on, but c’mon, you were a woman parched of your boyfriend. you would take anything you could get.
sae noticed your gaze and his lips quirked into the littlest smirk, imperceptible but there. sae wordlessly grabbed your wrist and pressed it against his bulge, your fingers twitched and you gasped. “s-sae—!” you tried taking your wrist away but sae held it firmly to his bulge, making you palm him through his sweats.
“it’s all yours, princess. have it.” sae whispered, his grip on your wrist tightened. “you want it? then you take it. as simple as that.” sae laid his other arm around your waist and dragged you onto his lap, he gripped your waist with both hands and rubbed your love handles with his thumbs. “i don’t care about this stupid—november thing. if you won’t have me, i’ll have you.” sae shrugged, his hand traveled up your side to cup your cherubim cheek.
“what will it be?” sae asked, his green eyes boring into yours intensely. and, truthfully, would you be able to resist?
no. and that’s exactly what happened.
sae had you folded up into a mean mating press, his cock drilling itself inside of you over and over again until you were gasping and crying, clawing at his abs for him to slow down. “sae—sae—sae—!!!!” you babbled and cried his name, it was nothing but music to his ears. his hand wrapped around your throat to shut you up, you squirmed around.
“shut—shut up..take it..” sae growled out in-between thrusts. craning his neck forwards to bite into your neck, you whined even louder at that. sae threw your leg over his shoulder and he drove impossibly deep into you, his tip smashing against your g-spot again. and again. and again. until you came gushing over his length, but sae still hadn’t cum yet.
“again. i’m not done.” sae demanded, biting into your thigh.
↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?
yeah, lost. he didn’t wanna do this anyway smh.
record: 10 days. hey!!! his birthday!!!!
“thank you..” sae whispered, it almost missed your ear. he was wiping you down with a warm towel after drilling you into the mattress. “huh—?” you perked up weakly. sae felt a faint blush color his cheek, he glanced away.
“i didn’t want to waste my holiday, we already get such little time together. thanks for letting me—you know.” sae bunched the towel in his fist and tossed it away before crawling over you, pinning you beneath him. you gazed up at him like a lost fawn and he pursed his lips, cupping your cheek and pressing kisses all over your face. “love you.” he muttered against your skin in-between kisses.
“love you too.” you giggled.
─── MIKAGE REO who was the one to bring this challenge up. he knew about this, of course, but he didn’t understand why people did it. willingly practice abstinence? must be a joke. reo indulged, thats what he did. regardless, he still took up the challenge. little did he know, how hard it would be.
↳ FIRST WEEK :
first week barely registered into reo’s brain. you know first week was always the easiest, atleast thats what reo thought. he managed to hold off quite well! some might even think he would win this. even you were surprised because how would this man—who has probably the highest sex drive you’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing—manage to ignore you for a whole month?
except he was doing that, he really was. but was he succeeding? so far, yes.
“hey baby.” reo pulled you in by the waist and planted a sweet kiss to your cheek. you smiled and returned it back. reo had just come back from work and he looked sooo fuckin’ hot in his work clothes.
“gonna go take a shower, you comin’?” reo asked while loosening his tie with one very veiny hand. fuck, fuckk, how much you wanted to bite that hand of his. you had to disagree with him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it so you just solemnly shook your head.
reo pouted but his lips soon curled into a smirk once he realized what you were doing. “oh, november?” reo checked the calendar then faced you again. “suit yourself.” he shrugged, so nonchalantly then began unbuttoning his shirt. you had to tear your eyes away, with much struggle.
were all rich boys this annoying?
↳ SECOND WEEK :
this was not easy. no, fuck this month, fuck this, fuck everything, fuck you—he wishes he could. BUT DANG IT ALL. he is going to shrivel up and die if he doesn’t get to fuck you now, and he means it. now. just the tip then—? or maybe just—MAN. GIVE HIM SOMETHING TO GO OFF OF.
in-between business meetings, interviews, appearances. he barely finds time anymore to be with you, he guesses thats good. but he just misses you sooo much. he’s someone who thrives on constant physical connection so this is really at odds with what he is actually supposed to do this month which is the exact opposite. he’s dying inside, his colleagues aren’t using all of their braincells, the management is in shambles and worst of all—he has, events to appear to. with you. as his spouse.
so he has to bear with seeing you in that sexy little outfit and not rip it off you as soon as you both come home drunk on wine and eachother.
“babeee—yer’ kinda killin’ me here..” reo whispered in your ear, his hand rested firmly on your inner thigh under the table. all around you, important people from all over the globe sat oblivious to what ministrations reo was performing on your thigh.
“reoo..not here—” you were cut off by a small gasp escaping your lips, reo’s fingers had slid your panties to the side and were ghosting over your slick folds. “a-ah—” you barely held in the noises escaping you. your grip on the table tightening, trying your best to seem composed. the last thing you wanted to do was embarass yourself and reo infront of such big businessmen and women.
however reo was not at all fazed by the company, if he wanted to, he could bend you over the table right now and make everyone watch. but he wouldn’t, he wasn’t an animal. not yet..
“what is it, hm?” reo plunged one finger into your sopping entrance, your body tensed up and your hips bucked into his palm instinctively. you tried forming a response but reo slipped in another finger alongside the first. “cat got your tongue?” reo smirked, his fingers fucking into you in a rhythmic pattern.
you tried to be quiet, to be good. but reo was so mean, the people sitting around you seemed to catch on, giving you both weird looks. reo noticed it and he just curled his fingers inside you, pressing them against that spot inside of you which made you see stars.
“don’t think about them, babe. smile for the camera.” reo pointed towards a cameraman approaching for a picture and he flashed that beautiful, charming grin. you gave a shaky smile, barely reaching your eyes.
reo was kind enough to pull out right after and not make you ruin your dress. gosh, you should’ve returned this mikage boy to his parents. especially when he sucked his fingers clean and winked at you like that.
but november was still very much going on. and neither of you had nutted.
↳ THIRD WEEK :
okay. reo should not have played around that night, he did NOT expect you to bite back at him this hard. okay, where should he start from—
FIRST OF ALL. you’ve begun spoiling him, not with material things of course—he has alot of that already—but in love and affection. and he is so starved, especially because of you know what month. he just takes it like a good boy. he feels rotten for hogging all of your attention but when you’re just lavishing it all on him like that how could he say no? indulging is what he does.
SECCOOONNDDD. possibly the most meanest thing you have done, you’ve started to use his card. you know, that black amex card he just slipped into your wallet one morning and blew a teasing kiss at you. but you never spent a single penny from it, WHY!?!?@ do you not like him? do you not want him???!?
you had reassured him, telling him you saw him as more than just a piggy bank and that you would use it one day. that day was today. gosh, reo loved it when you spent his money. it was all yours after all, all of him was yours.
he watches (insert lego batman gif) as you come home with loads of bags with stuff you bought using that very card. definitely spent well over a million yen but why would reo care? he pops a boner everytime you spoil yourself with his cash.
“reo, how does this look?” you turned around infront of a mirror, clad in something silky and skimpy yet it hugged your body so perfectly. accentuating every curve and contour of your beautiful form. reo was salivating like a dog.
“woah..” reo gawked, eyes nearly popping out of his head. you looked like a wet dream—something which he was having quite regularly nowadays. “y-you—look—fuck..” reo stammered, nothing forming in that smart brain of his.
“bad? yeah—i should take it o—” you were interrupted by reo sinking to his knees infront of you, “no! no—nuh uh. you look absolutely gorgeous. beautiful. prettystunningsweetyummydeliciousiloveyouiloveyouiloveyou—” his rambling was interrupted by a sweet giggle from you. oh he was falling all over again.
“reo, get up.” you laughed, but reo did not get up. he buried his face in your stomach, inhaling your scent. his hands wrapping around your waist tightly to keep you still, he nosed against your inner thigh like a puppy, gazing up at you from under his lashes.
“no.” you knew what his intentions were, you couldn’t fail nnn when you had come so far already. he looked absolutely heartbroken and destroyed. how could you! he stood up and dusted himself off, casting you with a look which spoke volumes about the betrayal you had just caused on him. and he returned back to his seat with a flip of his hair.
↳ FOURTH WEEK :
yea reo had been praying for this week to end as soon as it had come. he remembers checking his phone and doing that guy breaking his chains pose. and you awoke beside him and gave him the nastiest side-eye, reo immediately shriveled up in embarrassment.
reo was buzzing on energy the whole week, like he was on something, he definitely was. because all that energy built up to this very moment—
it was night, you were getting ready for bed but you purposefully wore that purple silk robe you knew reo was a goner for. and of course, paired with nothing underneath, you were sure to get your insides rearranged.
the shower abruptly stopped and after hearing a rustling inside of the bathroom—probably reo messing with the towel—the door opened and from the steam stepped out a very drenched and very sexy reo.
with just a towel wrapped around his slender waist and his whole top-half bare, water running down his drenched purple locks, he looked like a vision which immediately got you biting your lip. reo approached you and cupped your cheek, smirking. “it’s time.”— okay, horny mariah carey.
and time it was, because reo had you folded up in missionary, his hand cupping your face and another hand rubbing circles on your clit. “you feel it yeah? how much i—fuckin’—need you.” reo panted in your ear, his thumb swiping at the drool seeping from your lips.
each snap of his hips into you shook the whole bed, his cock a blur of absolute speed as he messed up your insides. the robe you had slipped on earlier lay in tatters on the floor.
but you couldn’t care less, not when your husband fucked you so messy and so good. reo gripped your face harder and forced you to look up at the mirror installed in the ceiling overlooking the bed, “see how dumb you look? gushing all over m’ cock like a little slut.” reo drawled, his hand dropping from your chin to wrap around your throat, choking you softly.
“mmh—! reoo—more—!” you babbled mindlessly, eyes crossed up. “can’t even speak huh? right, all stupid. not a single thought in that brain of yours.” reo chuckled, his hips now slowing down to a languid pace, rolling into you to stir up your already full insides. every roll of his hips made you leak around his cock, so dirty.
“fuckk—keep leakin’ like that and i‘ll go crazy..” reo leaned forward to bury his face in your neck, sucking a dark hickey on your sensitive flesh.
↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?
another winner!! woohoo!!
record: 30 days aayyyeee
“we’re never doing this again. this whole..november thing.” reo muttered against your skin as he spooned you from behind. the early morning rays creeped in through the curtains and got in your eyes, making you squint and groan. “uh-oh.” reo laughed, covering your eyes with his palm, but it covered your whole face.
“little baby can’t handle a little sun?” reo mocked you in a baby-ish voice and you grabbed a pillow to whack him in the face. “shut up!” you pouted and reo only laughed, grabbing your waist and flipping you over so he was on top of you.
he leaned forwards to nuzzle his nose with yours. “don’t pout, you’re making me wanna kiss you.” reo confessed, pressing a kiss to your jaw. you tangled your fingers in his hair and pulled him up to look at you. “then kiss me.” you dared.
and kiss you he did.
─── NAGI SEISHIRO found out about this challenge from reo. he was not doing this bro. he noped out on the first day itself.
↳ FIRST WEEK :
lol shut up what first week he barely made it through the first day
“haah—mm—’s so good..’yer so good..” nagi panted, his large hand tangled in your hair to push your head down on his cock. he heard your throat muscles contract and choke around his length and he bucked his hips up.
“can’t believe i was plannin’ on stayin’ away from this sweet throat all monthh.” nagi leaned back in his gaming chair and you popped his cock out of your mouth. nagi shivered softly, feeling the cold air of his room hit against his sensitive cock. you gasped for air before gathering saliva in your mouth and spitting down on nagi’s tip and spreading it around nagi’s length.
“good thing you didn’t, sei’.” you giggled, taking nagi’s cock back into your mouth and bobbing your head up and down on it. nagi was big in all the right ways and no matter how much you hollowed your mouth out, you never seemed to fit him in completely.
it poked your cheek and made it bulge, your lips were swollen and flushed from sucking on his dick. you dipped your head and deepthroated his big dick, fuck, it was so meaty and veiny. you could feel each of his veins pulse against the inner walls of your throat as you massaged his length with your throat.
nagi tugged you off his cock by your hair and began fishing his cock. he aimed it right at your face, this bastard. “watch.” you stuck your tongue out, a messy mixture of nagi’s precum and your spit dripping from your tongue.
with a few more strokes, nagi nutted all on your face. painting you with his cum, he panted heavily, his broad chest rising and falling with each huff. “i just finished on youu, ooh.”
you picked up some of the cum on your finger and brought it into your mouth, sucking your digit clean. nagi got very—very. turned on by that, his dick twitching back to life even after he just came.
and right after that, he hauled you onto his lap and pushed your panties to the side, exposing your soaked pussy to his ravaging gaze. “shit—you’re so wet just from sucking me off?” nagi commented blankly, you squirmed and a flush quickly coated your cheeks.
“sei’!” you smacked his chest and he grabbed your wrist, bringing your small palm upto his face to press a kiss to it. only to distract you from how he shoved his dick right into your sopping wet cunt, a lewd squelch echoing through the room as he bottomed out in one swift thrust. you gasped, your back arching so beautifully.
“yeah, stay like that babygirl.” nagi kissed your neck, massaging your hip with one hand to ease you despite how absolutely full you felt. with the other hand he unmuted his mic to speak into it.
“right here. sorry, my girlfriend wanted me.” nagi shrugged, from his headphones you could hear the whistles and cheers of his friends. nagi clamped a hand on your mouth, “gotta stay quiet, okay babe?” he then shifted his attention to his game, making you cockwarm him while he played games on call with his friends.
you muffled a whine into his shoulder. this was going to be a really, really long night.
↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?
a loser but he does not gaf. nnn?? nagi nut november 😳
record: 12 hours. he nutted at exactly 2 am on a tuesday night.
you were getting desperate now, you were leaking your juices all over him and some of it even spilled onto his gaming chair. yet nagi had not even moved once, let alone cum. you had been bouncing on his dick for what felt like an eternity, your clit was all swollen and flushed from grinding against his pelvis so much and your thighs were shaking, knees struggling to hold yourself up. your hips were cramping and you could barely hold yourself up.
“seiii’—baby pleaaaaseee—” you whined so needily you were sure his friends on the call could hear, nagi’s gaze flicked from the game to you then back to the screen. he clicked his tongue in faux annoyance.
“you already came twice on me and i haven’t even moved.” nagi remarked blankly, like this was daily news for him. gosh, this boy frustrated you to no end. if it wasn’t for you using him like a living breathing dildo to get yourself off, you would’ve strangled him already. nagi seemed to notice your frustration and with a small sigh he unmuted his mic
“gonna go afk guys. my girlfriend wants me again, can’t say no.” nagi didn’t wait for a response from the other side and took his headphones off, resting them on his neck and grabbing ahold of your hips.
“where was i?” nagi tilted his head and began pounding into you until your eyes rolled back. on his computer screen, his valorant avatar died and his friends were yelling at him for dipping mid match. but he was clearly aiming for something else.
─── SHIDOU RYUSEI didn’t even think about this challenge. he barely even remembered until you brought it up to him one night while he was humping your thigh while scrolling instagram. no but seriously, did you reaaallyy expect this jerkmate grandmaster baiter, gooner supreme, to not nut for a whole month? he’d rather eat glass and like it.
↳ FIRST DAY :
yeah, first day. because he is not lasting more than that.
heck, he barely lasted the first hour.
“haah? ‘ya ain’t serious right?” shidou drawled out. he thought you would’ve taken the hint that he just cannot physically function without busting a load every other day. not doing that for a whole month is practically a death sentence for him, even more-so because you’re his hot, beautiful, perfect girlfriend.
but your serious expression threw him off, you were not joking. “fiinnee. guess i could play along for like—an hour.” shidou yawned, rolling his eyes. but his hand immediately found it’s way to your thigh, squeezing it. “let me just keep it there.” shidou gave you a sidelong glance.
you shook your head, you knew he would tap out soon.
and he did, oh dear. shidou had you folded up in a full nelson. his big toned arms hooked under your knees, your back pressed flush to his chest. his cock thrust in and out of you hard and fast, every thrust made his pelvis connect with your asscheeks and a loud filthy slap echoed through the room.
“fuck—g’na nut all in this bitch. yeah? this pussy keeps sucking me in like ‘ye can’t get enough.” shidou grinned wildly, his hand creeped lower to rub circles on your clit as he grinded against your cunt, trying to stuff himself deeper.
“ryuuuu’—harder!—gimme moreee!” you screamed his name, your words slurring as shidou fucked you into oblivion. “yeah? more? fuckin’ greedy little slut.” shidou cackled, sweat rolling down his abs and neck, resuming his earlier pace. his hands reached to grip your ass, spreading your cheeks to drive himself deeper into you. the crown of his cock kissed your cervix with each thrust making you cry out.
“mmh—ryu’! cummin’—!” your eyes rolled to the back of your skull, toes curling as you gushed over shidou’s cock for the nth time that night. “cream all over my dick—yeah, jus’ like that, what a good gal.” shidou panted, eventually he buried himself to the hilt inside you, balls slapping against your ruined pussy as he emptied yet another load inside of your creamy little cunt.
“one more, ‘kay?”
↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?
what made you think he would win..?
record: 1. singular. hour. this man does not care.
shidou held you close while he was back to scrolling through instagram. you cuddled up into his side, wrapped up in his hoodie which drowned you in it. the sleeves fell way past your hands and thighs and it smelled so undoubtedly like him. that feral scent of his.
shidou laughed at a dumb reel, his thumb rubbing circles on your hips. he didn’t say anything, the silence already spoke volumes. it was comfortable like this, just the two of you and nothing else.
eventually though, shidou cradled the back of his head with his palm and pressed a kiss to your forehead. your eyes fluttered closed, a small giggle escaping you. music to his ears.
“did i go too hard? are ‘ya hungry?” shidou asked, showing the rare softness which was only reserved for you. his eyes were half-lidded, gazing down at you with so much adoration it stole your breath.
you shook your head and buried your face in his chest, wrapping (barely) your arms around his bare upper half and pulling him flush to you. “nuh uh—mmf just wan’ you.” your voice was muffled into his warm skin.
shidou laughed, not his usual devilish cackles but a rare genuine laugh. he pressed another kiss, this time to your cheek and resumed watching his stupid reels.
─── MICHAEL KAISER was another boaster, he knew he was going to win this challenge. how could he not? it’s not like you were thaaatt tempting!
↳ FIRST WEEK:
this was not a challenge. this was not a challenge. this was not a challenge. this was not a challenge. okay maybe it kind of was.
would it hurt you to stop being so sexy and hot and lovely and — for just one second? really, you were doing this on purpose. and kaiser would not fall for it, no he wouldn’t. nuh uh.
“micha’! you’re home!” you hopped up from the couch to go greet kaiser at the front door, kaiser was clad in a warm hoodie and sweatpants. yet he could feel a shiver run down his body as soon as you wrapped your small arms around him.
yet he forced himself to act normal, he could not give up now. unless he wanted to be the laughing stock of the whole bastard münchen team for the coming year.
“liebe, did you miss me?” kaiser wrapped his arms around you too, crushing you against him with more force than necessary. his cold hands trailed all over your body, slipping lower to cup your round ass, squeezing the fat and feeling it spill from between his fingers. you were so perfect.
“mm—sure i did. you’re dirty micha’, go wash up.” you giggled, pulling away and helping kaiser take his hoodie off. kaiser pouted softly but chased after your lips for a kiss, you pulled back and grimaced, “eww, you’ll get me sick.” kaiser rolled his eyes, “germaphobe. just say you don’t want me.”
“drama queen.” you sighed but your words held no real bite, you tugged kaiser’s hoodie off his frame and folded it in your arms. “go shower, for real now.” and kaiser reluctantly obliged like a very bratty toddler. what’s up with his attitude?
↳ SECOND WEEK:
his palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy — mom’s spaghetti.
he cannot do this anymore. he regrets ever boasting about this, he regrets even taking up this damned challenge! he can’t even touch you without wanting to rip your clothes off and bend you over the nearest possible surface that’s how down bad he has become.
and it has been showing during football practice too, his teammates are always keeping a safe distance from him lest he kick the ball in their balls. then it will really be no nut november.
every shot kaiser made seemed to make the net scream every time he landed a goal, and by the end of practice, kaiser was always buzzing with energy now even more-so that he hasn’t nutted in weeks.
“kaiser misses a goal in latest match against brazil. is the german legend slipping up?” you read out the news headline to kaiser who was fuming beside you on the bed. you could literally see his head emitting smoke, almost.
you bit back a giggle and turned to lay on your side, running a hand over kaiser’s chest and making him shudder. “what’s wrong, big guy?” you feigned concern when you actually knew all too well what’s wrong with him. and kaiser hated that, you teasing little minx.
kaiser grabbed onto your hips and lifted you onto his lap, “you know exactly what’s wrong with me.” kaiser deadpanned, he looked some parts mad and some parts desperate. he began grinding you on his lap, feeling your cunt rub against his bulge from the fabric of your panties under your sinfully short skirt.
“getting desperate, are we now, micha?” you teased, leaning forwards and hiking your tiny tee up, allowing your tits to spill free and gods, they filled up kaiser’s face.
“mmhmm..” kaiser’s voice was muffled from in-between your round, perfect boobs. his hands crept higher up your skirt to grab handfuls of your perky ass and grind you harder against him. he was so lost in the sauce he didn’t even notice your juices ruining his sweatpants.
“michaa—! ye’ can’t cum yet, remember?” you rolled off kaiser’s lap and began pulling your clothes back in place. kaiser’s hand went down to palm himself through his damp sweats, gosh his outline was so thick it had you drooling.
“please, prinzessin.” kaiser whispered, loud and clear but you pretended not to hear anyway. just to hurt his already fragile ego even more. “mm? please what?” you smirked, running a hand down kaiser’s chest again.
“please just—let me put the tip in. please! that doesn’t—that doesn’t count as losing, yeah?” kaiser pleaded, desperation lacing every syllable of his speech. and how could you resist him when he was like this?
you shook your head with small laugh and flipped your skirt up, pushing your panties to the side with your finger. “just the tip, ‘kay? no more.” kaiser ogled but then fished his cock out from his pants and he was already so hard. poor boy, must’ve been soooo needy.
he stroked his cock a few times, his tip was drooling pre and looked so flushed and pretty. he pressed it against your sopping wet pussy and slid it up and down your folds, smacking your clit with it making you cry out sweetly.
eventually, kaiser pressed just his huge, flared tip inside of you and immediately a groan which he seemed to have been holding in for ages slipped out of his mouth.
“scheiße—yer’ squeezin’ the life outta’ me, liebe..” kaiser choked out, head thrown back over the pillows, heels digging into the mattress trying to hold back from thrusting up into you. because he knows if he does,
he won’t pull out till he nuts.
↳ THIRD WEEK:
by week three, kaiser has become a problem.
not for you. not for his teammates. not for isagi (okay, maybe for isagi). no, no—kaiser has become a problem for himself.
the man wakes up hard. he goes to bed hard. he breathes too fast and he’s hard. like a beast of erectile dysfunction, at this point he’s convinced his body is staging his downfall.
he’s snappy, irritable, and painfully pretty (just like usual but this time he is suffering). everyone around him knows something is off—they been knew—he’s quieter in the locker room, always sitting with his legs crossed like a victorian lady in the medieval ages trying to hide her ankles except he’s trying to hide his boner.
AND god forbid you so much as bend down to pick something up in front of him. the moment you do, you can literally hear his last two braincells arguing:
“im gonna nut”
“dude sybau we gotta survive this”
“i can’t do this anymore twin”
“get up.” kaiser ordered, but his voice was a little pitched up. you were bent over, cleaning the bookshelf and of course you wore the tightest little booty shorts to just rub it in even more.
he knew you were doing this on purpose, showing yourself around knowing he can’t do anything about it?
you peered over your shoulder to look at him, your hips giving a teasing little sway. “what is it, micha? can’t i clean around a little?” you pouted, batting your dolly lashes up at kaiser.
“you can..but stop—fuckin’ hell.” kaiser ran his inked hand down his face, his eyes zeroed in on your plump ass. how much he wanted to just grab two handfuls of that perfect bouncy fat and feel it slap against his hips everytime he fucked into your creamy little cunt.
you seemed to read his thoughts, with how your lips curled into the tiniest smirk. “what? use your words..” you cooed mockingly, arching your back even more.
kaiser wasn’t having any of it, he simply stood up and walked away. because he knew if he stayed, it would be much, much worse.
↳ FOURTH WEEK:
oh, hallelujah. november is almost coming to an end, kaiser swore he would actually shave his head and retreat retreated a monastery in taiwan to lead the life of a monk if this month wore on any loner.
the morning of 30th november was the longest ever in his life, every passing second was a second closer to salvation and kaiser couldn’t wait.
it had gotten so bad that he skipped practice unless he wanted to pop a boner in the middle of the field. sure his team was confused, kaiser never skipped practice or literally anything to do with football then they looked at the calender and a collective ‘ohhh’ was sounded.
and as soon as the clock hit 12? baby, kaiser was not. holding. back.
“you little fuckin’ tease.” kaiser bounced you on his lap in reverse cowgirl, one hand tightly gripping your hips and his tattooed hand wrapped tightly around your throat. “you made my life a livin’ hell with this—sweet little cunt.” kaiser growled, his hips bucking up to fuck more of his big cock into your drooling pussy.
“mmhh—! micha—please—too much!” you whined loudly, tapping his meaty thigh weakly with two fingers. “too much?” kaiser laughed humorlessly, “yer’ leaking all over m’ cock and you say is too much?” kaiser nipped at your earlobe.
kaiser’s hands slid down to harshly cup your bouncing tits and kneaded the firm mounds in his hands. you threw your head back on his shoulder with a cry. “fuckk yeah—look at these perfect little tits. all fuckin’ mine.” kaiser punctuated his words with a particularly hard thrust into you, his tip kissing that spot inside of you which made you see stars behind your eyelids.
kaiser then grabbed his phone from the bedside table and opened his camera app, he then gripped your chin and forced you to look at yourself, messy and dumb, in the phone. “smile, liebling.” kaiser chirped and winked at the screen while you tried your best to smile with your swollen lips and drool down your chin.
↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?
kaiser never loses, what did you think?
record: 30 full days. barely made it.
“look how fucked out you look here.” kaiser laughed, showing you the selfie of you he took earlier. “micha! stop it—” you giggled and pushed the phone away, kaiser curled an arm around you and hugged you closer to his side. his nose buried in your hair to inhale the sweet scent of your shampoo—something delicate like you. “can’t believe i survived without fuckin’ ‘ya for a month.” kaiser commented with a small chuckle, his words buried into the crown of your head.
“..‘m never doing this again.” kaiser shook his head and spooned you closer to him.
he is definitely doing this again.
─── ALEXIS NESS who saw you mention doing the no nut november challenge once and immediately started sulking like a puppy who got his favourite toy taken away.
he is not going to deprive himself of you for a whole month, what do you think he is? stupid?
↳ FIRST WEEK:
day 1. ness has lost vision in his left leg and has a fracture in his right eye. no seriously, he feels like he’s walking on a pile of glass barefoot—and he would rather do that than actually do this challenge.
but since you pleaded him so sweetly, how could he say no? he tried to keep his act up for atleassstt a couple of days. maybe 6 or 7.
day 3. he caved, like a dumbass. no you can’t even blame him this time! poor baby just couldn’t resist it when you went to the shower and left your panties lying on the floor. he was just cleaning up after you—but fuck, he just couldn’t help himself from pressing the lacy pair to his face and taking a big sniff. gosh, he was drooling like a puppy.
one thing lead to another and he was jerking off with your panties wrapped around his cock. so disgusting. he didn’t even notice when you stepped out of the bathroom in just a skimpy little towel, and caught him right in the act. using your panties to get himself off.
and you wouldn’t let him get away with that, would you?
“you stupid little puppy, just can’t keep your dick in your pants, can’t you?” you cooed, rubbing your dripping cunt on ness’s face. you were sitting on ness’s face, eyes locked onto his where his face was peeking out from between your thighs.
gosh, he was in heaven, he loved when you took charge of him. his tongue licked between your folds, gulping down mouthfuls of your slick. you grinded down against his mouth and up until your clit caught on his nose.
“mmh, you’re gonna nut just from this, huh?” you tilted your head to the side, fingers tangling into ness’s soft magenta locks to hold him in place as you rode his face. ness’s hands gripped your thighs to press you harder against him but you swatted them away.
“no touching. you don’t deserve it.” you clicked your tongue, you lifted yourself up from his face and looked down. ness whined, “m-mommy! please—fuck—sit back down!” he demanded, and you did. ness’s lips immediately latched onto your clit and he began sucking until your pearl was flushed and aching.
ness bucked his hips up, fucking the air. mumbling ‘love you’s and endless praises into your pussy. he was so pussy-drunk he couldn’t even stop himself from cumming untouched. ropes of his cum splattering over his own stomach.
↳ DID HE WIN OR LOSE?
he was destined to lose!!
record: 3 days, atleast he lasted half a week?
“a-ah! mommy—y’re so tight and mm—so good!” ness babbled in your ear as he fucked into you mindlessly, he pressed his forehead against yours, hands cupping your face. “love you—love you so fuckin’ much—and love this tight lil’ pussy..” ness whispered against your lips before capturing them in a wet, messy kiss.
ness fucked vigorously into your sloppy pussy, pressing wet, smacking kisses all over your fucked out face. his thrusts eventually got sloppier and with a few more, he buried himself deep inside of you and shooter his seed right into your warm, waiting womb. he pressed on your belly with a shaky hand.
Synopsis. Five times Gojo Satoru - your self-proclaimed biggest fanboy, your #1 stan, your hottest - makes his delusions of you everyone else’s problem (step on him), and the one time he proves that even the most delusional, dirtiest of fantasies really do come true (still, step on him).
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!idol!reader, fanboy!Gojo, 5 + 1 things, he’s down BAD, stan Twitter, social media, fandoms, headIines, parasociaIism, shenanigans, slight crackfic, YEARNING Gojo, pússydrúnk Gojo, face-sítting, fíngering, he goes feraI, spíttíng, P TALKING, manhandIing, first times (his), matíng presses, he’s your fan with a big D, fitting it, rough s, chokíng, cervíx kíssing, sensitive Gojo, slight switch dynamic, creampíes, mentions of kids, overstím, happy ending, hard launching, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 13.9k
A/N. Babygirls would y’all believe that I was deep in the trenches of stan Twitter for fandoms I’m not even in gathering research for this for weeks…
Gojo Satoru is having the worst day of his entire life.
The worst day out of all the long, arduous, handsome (exceptionally handsome, he’d been voted ‘Most Likely to Grace a Vogue Cover’ three years in a row) eighteen years of his entire life.
For starters, their prank (plastering the hallway with the worst shots from Principal Yaga’s abstract dance lessons: Mean Girls-style) had been caught-in-the-act by none other than Yaga himself.
And Geto had somehow slipped away from Yaga’s rage (it’d been his idea- that bastard…) And he’d just lost his spot as valedictorian to Shoko (she cheated, he just can’t prove it.) And! On his way walking back home from detention, the convenience store was out of his favorite kikufuku mochi.
So all in all, for the worst day of his entire life, Gojo Satoru thinks he was handling it quite well-
He slams his hand down on the counter, “I’m going to kill mysel-”
And that’s the first time he hears it.
Your voice.
Not in front of him. Not behind him. Not even anywhere around him. It was - quite fittingly - emanating from above him, as if the heavens themselves had split open, and the first sign of the pearly gates was the voice of an angel.
You.
Gojo instantly darts his gaze to where the wiry, bespectacled cashier was staring to avoid eye contact with whom he likely thought to be a madman. A rather cheap device, with rather cheap graphics. A box with the most beautiful voice.
The first spark of elation today.
It sung to him, almost like a siren.
“I-it’s the leading contestant—eek!” The cashier says, and cowers in fear once Gojo’s azure gaze snaps to him in a split-second. Unwavering. Intense.
As the young man trembles, Gojo reads the name tag on his uniform: Ijichi. Huh? That name almost sounded familiar, was it perhaps a long lost friend? Some obscure family member? He looks at the man again, maybe not. Or perhaps…
“We go to the same school.” Ijichi sighs, when it becomes obvious that Gojo was furrowing his pale brows at the name tag. “I’m two years below you, but we had extended maths together. I sat next to you?” Again, that knit between the other’s eyebrows only grows deeper. “Also you plastered one of Yaga’s pictures on my backpack today.” He adjusts his glasses, “And my face.”
Recognition floods Gojo’s face, and he snaps his fingers. “Ahhh, I remember you now- yeah, sorry about that.”
“I-it’s alright! It was an accident.” Ijichi pauses. “I think.”
“Heh…” Pointedly, the white-haired of the two doesn’t answer that question. Instead, he’s turning his eyes back to the television above Ijichi, ravenous not to miss a single second.
The cashier follows, more easy-going now without any additional customers or managers there to keep him moving. He could afford to ask, “Ah- her. Do you watch idol competition shows often? I didn’t expect that of you, Gojo-senpai.”
“Excuse me?”
“I-I mean-” Ijichi waves his hands fervently in front of him in explanation, “It’s just- those shows really do target a certain demographic and- I just didn’t quite expect it with your…oh, but it has been g-getting popular these days so I don’t know what I’m saying-”
“I don’t.” Gojo admits, cutting through the other’s blubbering. He crosses his arms in front of him and aims to look as dignified as possible as he admires the lil’ dance you were doing as you sang. “It’s just…”
And he almost felt stupid asking this- hell, he almost felt fucking shy (which is impossible, Gojo Satoru is never shy). But he does so anyways—
Holding his head high. Index pointing straight at the blurry screen. Pixels which would not hide your beauty.
“Who’s that?”
“Th-that?” Ijichi turns his head back towards the television, and his face breaks out into a dopey smile - Gojo doesn’t even know why it irritated him so much. After all, that was exactly how he felt, too.
So why the hell was another smiling at you like this-
That’s when Ijichi says your name.
And any and all annoyances with the other man simply melts. Simply turns the insides of his chest all warm and gooey. Simply leaves him a little weak in the knees (and he was damn glad that his lower half was obscured by the counter).
Gojo repeats your name, like he was tasting it.
“Stage name: Cupid.” Ijichi continues, watching you dance about the screen now, as well. “She’s been a fan favorite since her audition, even though producers did do a bit of dirty editing to try and make her unpopular- fans saw right through it. And now she’s been in the lead for weeks.”
“Talented.” Gojo grits out - one word. Perhaps the only word that wouldn’t make him positively shatter that nonchalant façade of his and embarrass himself in front of fucking Ijichi of all people.
He nods at the vocal break you were continuing on-screen, your gentle lashes fluttering shut as you put your all into a song that seemed to be of your own make. You nail the note. He trembles. “Though I’ve…seen better.” Lies.
“She has come a long way.” Ijichi hums, eyes closing as he savors the music. It was the last few chords, perfectly in harmony. “She’s the fan-favorite to win the contract from executives, expected to debut sometime next year.”
“Ah- another idol then.” His throat remains parched with his own lies, growing dryer by the seconds of your voice. Your dance. Your presence. “Talented, though…” You finish off your final belt, and Gojo can only repeat, stupidly. Nonchalant, nonchalant. C’mon Satoru, you can do this.
Gojo shuffles, “So uh- what’s the show name?”
“Idol Academy.” The black-haired man answers, “New episodes air every week at 9PM.”
Scratching behind his back—nonchalant. “Ah, I’ll let my sister know-” You fool! You don’t even have a sister! And only too late does Gojo realize that Ijichi seems to realize this as well, “I mean- uh, Shoko…who is like a sister to me. I’ll let her know- and maybe I’ll check it out, too- if I have the time. Probably won’t though.” Nonchalant! Nailed it!
Ijichi nods, and he looks away from your finished performance. “Well, if you want to vote for her for the upcoming finals then her number is #143.”
“Ah, we’ll see…probably…won-” Except, for idols, a finished performance isn’t really a finished performance at all. Nonchalant! Nonchalant!
Because then there’s the ending fairy—you with your bright smile directed at the camera, your arms moving behind you as if you were drawing back a bow and arrow. Pop! The arrow embeds…deep into his heart. “I’m going to marry her.”
Gojo pauses after his confession.
Ijichi pauses after his confession.
It seems the world pauses after his confession.
Everyone but you (which made sense you were practically out of this world), who nodded along to the comments that the judges were giving you. As you walk off the screen, Gojo practically leans over the counter to watch your every step- and even your steps past the television frame-
Ijichi reaches up to turn off the television.
So nonchalant.
“Gojo-senpai…” He starts, and this time it’s Gojo that cowers at the way his schoolmate was looking at him.
Before he knows it, there’s the smack! of something being plastered on his face. Flat and glossy. Colors bursting even behind his scrunched-up eyelids.
A…poster.
“Her official poster.” There’s more than just a little amusement in Ijichi’s tone as he watches Gojo rip the paper off of his face and stare down lovingly at your own, right in the middle of it. Smiling a smile that seems to be just for him (nevermind the fact that this had once been Ijichi’s poster). “9PM on Channel 8, #143. Don’t let her down.”
Gojo would vote for you like his life depended on it.
That night, he went home and created a second Twitter account for himself.
@thestrongestfanboy: Voting for Cupid #143 on Idol Academy and u should too or else (҂` ﾛ ´)凸
@Fushidaddy replying to @thestrongestfanboy: already voted, youre late to the club lmao.
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy: Blocked.
Liked by @CupidOfficial.
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.
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@MnetIdolAcademy: ANNOUNCING THE OFFICIAL DEBUT LINE, CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR RISING GLOBAL STARS!
[GLOBAL VOTE FINAL RESULTS]
RANK #1—Cupid
(Read more)
.
.
.
And he did.
From his phone, his laptop, his mother’s phone, his father’s phone- Geto’s phone, Shoko’s phone (where he found a copy of the last test paper’s marking scheme—he knew that little con-woman cheated, he feared for her future patients). Until, ultimately, you did win the competition.
Just as he’d wanted you to.
And Ijichi as well, he supposes. But he is younger (at least, visibly) and more beautiful - therefore Gojo thinks it should count more.
And so you swept every award in the reality competition, and snagged center spot in every headline, concert, and fan account that was ready to feature the freshly-minted popstar.
Almost two years later, by the time that your official debut had come ‘round with a hit single and an album that was climbing the charts, he’d just entered his first year in university. And by then, practically everyone in his life knew by now that he was a sort of…stan. Gojo accepted the title begrudgingly, after Geto and Shoko had walked into his newly-acquired dorm room one day and found every inch of his walls covered in your posters. There was a life-sized cardboard cut-out of you underneath his bed, too, but thankfully they hadn’t found that yet.
Geto threatened to strangle him until he took down the posters of you on his side of the room, at least. They were sharing, after all.
The room was appreciated on stan Twitter, at least. His latest post about it racked up a solid 992.1k views.
@thestrongestfanboy: New room pic!! Can u guess my ultimate bias, bet u can’t^^ \(★ω★)/
Attached was a picture that he’d forgone every single rule and regulation about internet safety to post: from the posters of you dating all the way back to your pre-debut days, to the cardboard cut-out of you, to the plushie of your cupid character, to the American flag with your face on it (why always the American flag for these things, he wasn’t sure), to the rare photocards that he was holding up for the camera. It was a shrine.
The replies…not so much.
@pinkillit: Lemme guess…Cupid? Lol so real, I luv her too!
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @pinkillit: Well I love her more than u so…(￢_￢;)
@pinkillit replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Damn
@gggggnarly: WOAH??
@hearts2hurts: I can’t even send hate, this is impressive ngl.
@utahimeslefttoe: need to do this with my bias
@lovelicky: Parasocialism, who?
@yuuthebaddie: You scare the huzz
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @yuuthebaddie: I don’t need the huzz when I have my queen #thearrowhitme (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)
@Fushidaddy7 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: kinda wish I could hit you rn too #fakefan
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy7: ??? Blocked.
@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: ??
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: Don’t u think it’s kinda problematic to be pushing 40 and arguing with minors online?
@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: youre 19 tf are you talking about?? and also because you claim the arrow hit you, but you don’t even have her rare “First Love, First Kiss” photocard. youre no better than a local lol.
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: U seriously think ur a bigger fan than me? I was there since even before our girl debuted. Lmao.
@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i was there before she even entered the show- and yes. i am.
That particular scathing reply wasn’t over with just that, and Gojo had realized - clicking on the notification, to his slowly-growing horror - that it would be accompanied by a picture, as well. A snapshot to a room that looked much like his own.
From the posters of you dating all the way back to your pre-debut days, a selfie with you at a rookie fanmeet before (dammit) you’d entered the competition, the cardboard cut-outs, the plushies, the flags, the rare photocards. And yes…the ultra-rare ‘First Love, First Kiss’ photocard that he’d last heard went for a comfortable few hundred dollars on the market.
With you costumed like a sweet, sweet cupid.
Sparkling eyes. Angel wings. Holding up the second button from the top of a school uniform - a symbol of confession in Japan - as if you were confessing to someone.
To him.
Gojo’s giggling stupidly and kicking his feet on the bed as he zooms in on the picture, taking in your picture on the photocard- before his phone buzzes with yet another Twitter notification and his heart plummets as he realizes just whose room this is. Fushidaddy8 himself could be seen reflected on the lone mirror in the room: scarred lips smirking, his beefy arms raised in a flex, biceps the size of Gojo’s head—
@pinkillit: He kinda ate you up ngl.
Ignoring that, he responded to the aforementioned perpetrator.
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: Well I’m going to marry her!! Hope that helps!! ╮(︶▽︶)╭
@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: delulu really isn’t the trululu kid
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: That trend’s dead, unc.
Though he did slide into the other man’s direct messages right after that, in the hopes of buying out the exclusive photocard from him.
He was laughed all the way out of his direct messages.
Gojo Satoru did several things next.
He blocked (and reported) @Fushidaddy8.
He subscribed for a gym membership.
He dragged Geto out of their shared dorm room (sleep-deprived and grumbling at the 3:41AM on the clock, bound to miss the important physics exam that day…semantics, heh) as moral support on his trek to the post office. Where, when his best friend shivered at the cold early morning and questioned just what and to whom were they mailing, Gojo had answered-
“Oh, just my second button.” The very same one that he’d kept safely since their graduation from high school a few months ago - because, see, Gojo Satoru wasn’t the type to fall in love.
He wasn’t the type to confess.
Though, he did get confessed to more times that he could count (he was perhaps the second most popular bachelor on campus, right after Geto - but even that was a highly-debated ranking of first and second). He just never found the one.
That is…
Gojo beams, plastering on a few stamps on the cardboard box- much too big for but a single button. In it, he poured his feelings—corny, yes. But true. “I’m going to send it to my girl, Cupid-”
Geto punches him before he can finish.
@thestrongestfanboy: The lion does not concern himself with the pain that comes with #truelove, even if he cried a little ☆⌒(> _ <)
@Fushidaddy9 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: lmao loser.
Just a few months later, another one of your limited edition photocards was released: the “Said Yes!!” photocard that sold out instantly. Just the cutest photo of you receiving a second button in confession, your expression one of pleasant surprise.
No one believed Gojo when they told them that the button was his.
He bought five.
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@BuzzFeed: Mirror Mirror on the Wall, Who’s The Biggest Fanboy of Them All? Cupid’s Fandom Compare Notes on Fanboy Shrines and 35 Other Delulu Stan Happenings This Week.
(Read more on buzzfeed.com)
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Gojo Satoru had bought 67 albums.
67…heh.
Sixty-seven different copies of the very same album—yours.
Sixty-seven different copies of the latest addition in your platinum-reaching, Grammy award-winning discography: the ‘Obsession’ album.
Of course, they’re all yours. Because who else would have such banger songs that he wouldn’t mind replaying over and over again until Geto threatened to smash the damn things? Who else would have exclusive photocards so cute stuffed into the crevices of said albums, that he just had to collect them all? Who else would host a fancall event that he simply had to put a dent in his sizable bank account to win?
It was somewhat of a lottery system, and Gojo’s sure he’d funded his local record store for a few months at least with how much he’d cashed out there.
He’d been up bright n’ early on the day your album hit the stores - camping outside with a few avid others of your fandom (though, proudly, he’d been the first one there). Rushing with the rest to buy up your album, your merch, and with it…a chance to see you.
Every album bought was an entry into the raffle that’d grant them a chance to see you.
Just a few minutes of your time through the screen, and even that was like looking through the pearly gates of heaven in Gojo’s eyes. He’d dreamt about it, he’d manifested it, he’d tweeted about it so many times on his private account that everyone but Haibara had blocked him on.
@thestrongestfanboyPRIV: I’M 22 NOW SO PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LET ME GET WHAT I WANT (ಥ﹏ಥ)
@thestrongestfanboyPRIV: LORD KNOWS IT WOULD BE THE FIRST TIME.
@HiByeRawr replying to @thestrongestfanboyPRIV: I believe in you Gojo-senpai ^.^
@Fushidaddy27 replying to @HiByeRawr: dont
@thestrongestfanboyPRIV replying to @Fushidaddy27: How did u even get here??
And so, the wait had dragged on with a few more accounts blocked.
Until, finally, one day Gojo had been simply scrolling through his emails as he usually did. A few updates from Canvas on his assignment grades. A few A+’s. An email from Geto with nothing but one of those old pictures from Yaga’s abstract dance classes attached. A few more A+’s. An email from the record store saying he won the fancall event. Yet another picture of Yaga-
His heart had damn near stopped.
Actually- Gojo doesn’t think he was even breathing as he hurriedly scrolled back and clicked open the email from the record store. He reads the very first word—
“Congratulations…”
And that’s all he needs to stand up and cheer-
“Shhhh—!” The cryptid-like elderly librarian, Gakuganji, shushes him from just a few tables away. A glare so intense that it makes Gojo sit back down in his seat in an instant, ducking back down to stare at his phone screen.
Heart thundering. Fingers trembling. “Oh my god…” He whispers to himself, knees bouncing underneath the mahogany table as he’s clicking on the link embedded into the email.
It takes him to the official site of your management, where the list of winners had been announced on one page dedicated especially to you. And there - right at the very top - his name.
Gojo Satoru.
Censored, yes. But he could read it well enough - it was only confirmation of what he already knew through the email.
And as Gojo tries to tame his giddy elation inside the library, he forgoes those revision papers of his to instead tap away at his phone. First, he texts his parents. Then he texts his friends. Then he emails Nanamin (also one of his friends, but the man had him blocked everywhere else…)- and just as he caught sight of that winner’s email again, Gojo squeals—
“Out of my library!”
Later, Gojo Satoru was added to the campus library Wall of Shame (and Nuisances).
But he didn’t care.
Not one single bit.
@thestrongestfanboy: About to meet my future wife- how do I look? (￣▽￣*)ゞ
Attached was a selfie of him making your signature bow-and-arrow pose a few days later.
He was well-fitted in his best dress shirt that hugged his toned waist. Cologne practically palpable through the screen. Soft white bangs tamed. Donning a silver chain. False glasses on because he heard in one of your latest interviews that you liked nerds.
Cheeks rosy.
“Bro, isn’t the call for like two minutes?” Geto grumbles from his bed on the other side of the room. Their cramped dorm was already small enough without the other pacing every inch of it in nervousness.
Gojo whips around with a snarl, “No, for your information it’s actually two and a half minutes.”
Geto squints, “Right…” Before he raises his nose into the air and sniffs—“And god- what is that awful fucking smell?”
“You don’t like it?” His best friend asks innocently, “It’s my cologne.”
“There’s no way your cologne smells like that?” The dark-haired man gapes, leaning back in his bed as he covers his nostrils with a palm.
Geto already has his answer by the way that Gojo starts to squirm. “Well…I may have also added in a bit of your cologne, too…”
“…”
“And Nanamin’s.”
“…”
“And Shoko’s-”
“What the fuck, Satoru?” Geto slaps a hand over his forehead, in the way he much seemed to do when it came to an antic that Gojo did without his consultation (he means, c’mon, if they were to be dumb fucks then they should be dumb fucks together).
But this was too far even for him.
And Geto only sighs before he’s reaching for his heavy headphones, placing the cushioned device on top of his head. “After this, we’re taking you out to touch grass, man.” He opens his phone to something and blocks out Gojo’s whining protests with it. “I’m serious.”
“And I’m serious when I say you better not fuck this up for me, Suguru.” Gojo stabs an accusing finger at his best friend, while his other hand reaches for his own phone - the scheduled time for your video call was nearing. “Keep yourself scarce when she calls me.”
“Mhm, whatever you say.”
“Because she’s my future wife-”
“Crazy story, bro.”
With Geto not even close to responsive any longer, Gojo huffs as he looks through his notifications-
@Fushidaddy31: YOURE SO CHOPPED LMFAOOOOOOOO
Nevermind.
Instead, he waits in front of his desk. Phone propped up. Earbuds plugged in. Back straight against his chair. More formal and elegant than he had in any of his other meetings or lectures before.
He turns off his notifications and opens up the app that management had directed him to through emails. Pressing on the screen record button, Gojo’s stomach turns as a staff member performs an ID check before the call.
And then it starts.
Your beautiful, beautiful face pops up on the screen.
Those eyes. That smile. The voice that says, “Hello?”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Gojo’s heart drops to his stomach then takes a high-speed elevator right back up to his throat, he can feel the ba-dump! of it there. And later - years and years later - he’ll be able to cringe at the way that his naturally deep voice broke- “H-he-”
Before your face pauses.
It freezes.
And suddenly the call ends.
wait…Gojo taps on his Wi-Fi…he taps on his data…he taps on anything and everything that might make a difference. And yet, nothing ever does. Gojo immediately throws down his earphones on his desk and stands- so fast that his chair topples over—“Suguru!”
The dark-haired man jolts in his bed, turning over at the shriek with his brows scrunched in confusion. Seeing the state his best friend was in, he raises his phone as a shield. “What?”
“Don’t what me- don’t- you- you—” So enraged that he couldn’t even string together a coherent sentence. Face red. Veins popping on his neck. The only way that Geto manages to even slightly discern what the other man may be talking about is by the way he points at his phone, the shared Wi-Fi router, then his phone.
Geto’s mouth drops, “Ah…” And he catches sight of the orange, blinking right on the router that told the both of them that the day’s data has been finished. He looks at his phone…with the absolutely massive update that had just completed. “In my defense, Love and Deepspace had an update-”
“Suguru, I’m going to kill you.”
Ultimately, no amount of begging or crying to attempting to throttle Geto could reverse the fact that Gojo had won a fancall…and missed it.
All because of his Wi-Fi.
“There there, man.” Geto pats his friend - draped across his bed with his face in his hands - on the back. “At least the new event loaded- it’s an idol event, and I’ll let you play it with Sylus-”
Gojo only sobs louder.
“And then after that, we’ll actually go touch grass. How about that?”
@thestrongestfanboy: Nothing beats a Jet2 holiday to HELL. @DigiGeto ur going to HELL.
@DigiGeto replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Mb
@Fushidaddy32: rare aesthetic: fancall with #her n made her do the coldplay kiss cam trend with me heh
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy32: Blocked.
@Fushidaddy32 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: ??
@CupidOfficial: So glad to be able to talk with my lovely fans during the fancall event today!! Thank you to everyone that attended, and even those that didn’t attend heheh…I see you, and I love you <33
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@Variety: This week’s cover story:
Global Superstar Cupid: On Stardom, Surprises of Fame, and the Undying Support of her Fans (“There was actually this funny story with a fan that froze—”)
(see page 9…)
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Gojo Satoru was on cloud nine.
Gojo Satoru was in heaven.
Gojo Satoru was going to meet his wife.
Everywhere he looked, he could see that beautiful face of yours.
From the floor-to-ceiling posters against the stark white walls, to the stalls upon stalls of merchandise that featured you, to the rows upon rows of people wearing t-shirts with your face on it. Posters. Plushies. Bow-and-arrow lights. Everything that his heart could ever yearn for.
And that included you.
And no- Gojo hadn’t died and gone to heaven (evidenced by the way that no matter how many times he pinched himself, it still bruised). Don’t be silly! He was simply at a place that was rather similar, he imagines.
A fanmeet.
Where the excitement was palpable, and everyone here had arrived with the same goal in mind - to spend just a few precious moments with you in person.
In person!
Geto was the one that’d snagged him the ticket to this event, to make up for the rather tragic incident with the fan call two years ago. And so here he was, at your first-ever fanmeet in Tokyo. Gojo vibrated on the balls of his feet, and with his towering height he could make out just a few more meters until he managed to see you up-close.
He held one of his most prized possessions - your first poster from Idol Academy, the one that Ijichi had gifted him so many years ago - to his chest and sighed. In less than an hour, he’d have it signed. In less than an hour, he’d get to hold your hand.
In less than an hour, he’d get to see you.
There was a part of him that felt like it was tugging towards you already- and Gojo has to bounce himself slightly to find a way to channel the adrenaline.
It’d been quite the arduous journey to get to here, and he didn’t want to make a single mistake now - all the albums he’d bought, all the pictures from your latest fanmeets that he’d fawned over, all the stan Twitter fights.
Honestly, just today he’d gotten into it with some delusional loser online (@urmomstype) that’d been spreading rumors about you being…particularly close with the famed actor you had in your newest music video. Gojo shudders as he thinks back to it:
@urmomstype: A thread of all the PROOFS that #Cupid is dating the hottest k-drama actor right now—
Inside was some amalgamated mess of pictures of ‘shared couples items’ (half the population owned that shit, c’mon, that actor was far from special) and coded messages that apparently littered your social media. By the end of it, the user had been self-assured, a few other misogynistic antis were spouting hate, and Gojo was furious.
He’d typed away so fast that his thumbs were nothing but a blur.
@thestrongestfanboy: U call this proof?? Holy fucking airball lmao (￣ヘ￣)
@thestrongestfanboy: Bozo
@thestrongestfanboy: Ratio + L + my fav is better than ur fav
@thestrongestfanboy: She isn’t dating anyone BOZO!! Even if she was (which she isn’t) it’s none of ur business and ur a loser so go back to doing loser things. I bet ur an anti from that one other agency…凸(`△´＃)
@Fushidaddy89 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: yk for once i agree with you
@urmomstype replying to @Fushidaddy89: Why are two uncs replying to me…arguing with a minor btw.
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @urmomstype: With this gift I summon-
It had lasted a few hours (and that was on the shorter end of the stick). Until, ultimately, Geto and Shoko had pulled his phone away from his face (he was defending your honor!) and reminded him that there were much more important things on the horizon.
Namely, you…
Besides, he was glad to get away from the epic highs and lows of high school football stan Twitter. He was glad not to have to fight with what was likely some middle-aged, parasocial man there over you. He was glad not to get into futile shipping wars that-
“Do you think her actor boyfriend will be here?”
An agitating, grating voice breaks through his thoughts (really, it was the squeaky voice of a child), and Gojo’s immediately whipping his head down, down, down behind him.
It was a buzzcut boy, wearing a t-shirt with your face and a pair of soft feathery wings that was sold as one of your exclusive merchandise—and yet…those angelic appendages still wasn’t enough to hide the mischief in his face.
Gojo stares at him.
And he stares at Gojo.
“You.”
“You.”
As his blonde-haired guardian looks on in slight shock, Gojo stabs an index his way- “User urmomstype?”
“User thestrongestfanboy.” He then points at himself, “But you can call me Todo Aoi.” And before the older man can begin to sputter again, he raises a small palm to silence him (and why was Gojo being silenced by what looked like an eight-year-old?) “I already know who you are, Gojo Satoru. You’re infamous inside the fandom, y’know?”
He gapes, “I am?”
“Mhm.”
Before he starts twirling the curls of white at the base of his neck, Todo stares in bewilderment as the taller man starts squirming. “So like…d’you think that means there’s a chance she’d notice me, too?”
“…”
“…”
“F-forget that-”
“You really think you can pull fine shyt?” Todo squints up at Gojo, and then down at the sheer amount of merchandise he was draped in. “You’re chopped with a negative aura that no amount of aura farming could possibly replenish, brother. Your eyes are built like a 24k labubu. If you were a meal, even Fanum wouldn’t ask for tax. Even I’d win a mid-off against you. I hate to break it to you but she’s much better off with that actor-”
“Don’t think that just because you’re speaking in brainrot terms I don’t understand you- I’m brainrotted, too.” Seething, “And they’re not even dating-”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Definitely not!”
The little boy nods, sagely. “Still got the views for the music video, didn’t I? And what did you do? Whine about how you weren’t married to her yet?”
And to that he doesn’t have much to say, “Well…”
The blonde-haired woman that’d been holding Todo back finally announces her presence, “Hi there- apologies. My name’s Yuki.” She reached out her hand, and they shook - with Gojo dazed by the absolute demolishment of his character. “I’ve warned him about his ah- ragebaiting issue…it’s a work-in-progress.”
“I-I see…” Gojo breathes, looking back at the line - just a little longer and he’d be out of here. Just a little longer and he’d get to see you—“One question, I’m not actually chopped, am I?”
As Todo whispers the definition to Yuki, she shakes her head happily. “Oh, not at all! You’re not exactly my type, but trust that you’re quite the handsome character.”
“Handsome enough to pull my wife?” At her visible confusion, he jerks his head where your figure was seated at a black-clothed table, signing posters and making conversation with your line of fans. Oh- how perfect you were.
“O-oh! Her?” A line of sweat beads at her temple, “Well, why not?”
Gojo - quite maturely - sticks his tongue out at Todo.
But the boy only replies, “You look like you wear wigs.”
Gojo self-consciously runs a hand through his soft white hair, “I-I don’t!” He did take particularly good care of his hair.
“Do you wear wigs?”
“No, I do not-”
“Have you worn wigs?”
“No, I have not-”
“Will you wear wigs?”
“…Maybe?!”
“When will you wear wigs-”
“Please!”
“Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to step out.” A gruff, masculine voice speaks out from beside him- and it didn’t match Todo’s probing voice. Not at all. Gojo turns his surprised head around and finds himself face-to-face with a stony-faced man.
As tall as him. Even beefier. With shades that reflected his own widened blue eyes.
His jaw drops, “Wh-what…”
The security guard gestures to Todo, and then towards the door with the ‘Exit’ sign. “For your disruption, we’re going to have to ask you to step out of the premises.” He cracks his knuckles, “Or you shall be escorted out.”
“No-” Gojo’s gasping, looking around for an answer. “No no no no- disruption? What disruption?”
“Arguments with a child-”
“That lil’ shit deserved it—” Gojo whines out, before realizing that that likely didn’t help his case. “I-I mean-” He’s gesturing to the boy that was clearly not disrupted in any sense of the word, “-look at him! He’s completely fine! In fact, I’m the one emotionally scarred.”
The other two also start to protest this course of action, and the security guard stays silent for a beat, and lets the counterargument sink in…
Before he raises his walkie-talkie up to his mouth, “We’re having some resistance here, I request back-up at the front of the line.”
“No no no-” He was just a meter away - a meter. “No, wait- please no.” And by now, the other fans were starting to point and stare at him now. At the way he was panicking. At the way he was trying to inch himself closer to the signing event. At the way he was so close to you- and yet, so far, with two burly security guards that clapped their hands down on his shoulders and dragged him away by his arms.
All the way to the exit.
As you stared.
“NOOOOOOO—!”
@thestrongestfanboy: I’m gonna be honest, kitten, daddy’s about to kill himself ٩(× ×)۶
@Fushidaddy103 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i saw the video youre trending on tiktok lmaooooo
@urmomstype replying to @thestrongestfanboy: F in the chat
@pinkillit replying to @urmomstype: F
@hearts2hurts replying to @urmomstype: F
@utahimeslefttoe replying to @urmomstype: F
@lovelicky replying to @urmomstype: F
@CupidOfficial: Tokyo, oh Tokyo~
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TRENDING ON TIKTOK:
#Cupidfanmeet
#thatonecrazyguy
#thestrongestfanboy
#Cupiddatingrumors
#Cupidbemywife
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This was it.
This was Gojo’s last chance.
He hadn’t won a fancall since that one time (no matter how many albums he bought, the universe just wasn’t on his side), he’d been barred from your Tokyo fanmeet, he’d been known as that one delusional fanboy in your fandom.
Which was honestly fine. Gojo was fine.
He was completely and utterly fine-
“OHMYGODSUGURUI’MSOCLOSEITHINKICANSEEHERICANSEEHER-” Gojo yelled in Geto’s ear, over the roaring crowd that was most likely saying the same thing he was. He shook the man, and then proceeded to shake his other best friend standing right beside him. “YOUGUYSARETHEBESTANDILOVEYOUANDYOU’LLBETHEBESTMANANDBESTWOMANAND-”
“Not if I kill you right now.” Shoko mutters, punching Gojo right in the stomach so he’d shut up for the first time in the past few hours. She takes a puff of her cigarette, even though the stadium had a strict no smoking policy.
She needed it.
She deserved it.
Though, she supposed that there was no one to blame but herself.
It was obvious the toll that all the failed fancalls and fanmeets had taken on Gojo. And while she couldn’t quite understand the sheer ahem- delusion that came with it, she knew that this was something important to him. And Geto did, too.
Which was why, with the power of social media, the duo had reached out to that ‘urmomstype’ boy and his blonde-haired guardian. Apparently, even after Gojo had been escorted his merry way outside, the two had tried to overturn the decision, explaining that it’d all just been some silly banter and there really wasn’t anything to remove him over. ‘He might be chopped and unc, but he’s still a goat. Sorta.’ The boy had said, whatever that means…
But, alas, the security guard had been stubborn.
And so, the four - Shoko, Geto, Yuki, and Todo (yes, even Todo) - had wanted to make it up to Gojo in a different way. Despite not being able to attend the fanmeet, you still had your upcoming concert in the famous Tokyo Dome.
They’d stayed up all night on the phone trying out every connection they had to somehow get a few extra tickets.
All night.
There had to be something, right?
Until - finally, finally - Yuki managed to get in contact with Gakuganji (yes, their ol’ campus librarian), who managed to get in contact with Yaga (yes, their ol’ high school principal), who managed to get in contact with one of his other friends that knew someone on your staff team. And through a rollercoaster of contacts, they somehow managed to snag a few seats.
Front row.
Gojo had burst into tears the moment he read that pink slip of paper with your name in bold, surrounded by hearts. He’d crushed them all to him, so tight that Shoko wondered whether her bones might break, and whispered. “You guys are definitely invited to my wedding.”
And if her heart melted just a little bit then, well…she didn’t mention it.
Now, however, she’d no sooner be invited to Gojo Satoru’s funeral than his alleged wedding. To their own fortune, Yuki and Todo had been assigned places a few seats down. A weary Geto on the other side of their white-haired friend reaches his hands out towards her. “Cigarette, please.”
Shoko raises a brown brow, “You don’t even smoke?”
“I’m about to start.”
“You guuuuys—” Gojo drags on, as the opening notes of your album start to ring out on the speakers. He shoots his hands out to grab Shoko- and when she ducks, he shoots his hands out to grab Geto- and when he groans, Gojo only sways them in the air. “It’s about to start- she’s about to come on stage- oh my god, oh my god my wife’s about to come on stage-”
“She’ll be your ex-wife if you don’t calm the fuck down.” Geto can’t help but laugh. Shoko looks on in confusion as he moves in synchronization with Gojo to the first few dance moves of your routine. Geto answers her unspoken question, “What? He played it all the time in our dorm, I could recite every lyric and move in my sleep by now.”
“M-me too.” And as your silhouette starts to become projected on the screen behind you, Gojo’s starting to tear up. Large, bulbous tears of emotion.
They were both dancing in unison now.
Crying (Gojo, at least).
Shoko shakes her head with a chuckle of her own. “Idiots.”
And then you saunter your way onto stage and Shoko (as well as everyone in a five-mile radius) feels their eardrums stop working.
@thestrongestfanboy: I wasn’t just another screaming boy…I challenged her stare down…she saw me. She pointed—twice. And if u think I’m done? Let’s see if the wolf can find his prey again…good luck…(^人<)〜☆
Attached was a video taken from the concert - more girlish screaming (Gojo’s) than music, to be quite honest.
@Fushidaddy114 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: cringe
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy114: I don’t see u at the concert. L |ʘ‿ʘ)╯
@Fushidaddy114 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i dont see me trending on tiktok either
Gojo doesn’t even have the time to block and report Fushidaddy’s 114th account, because he’s too busy shoving his phone into his pocket and joining the screams for your encore that night. The one where you pretend to walk off, then dramatically sigh as you prance back down—
“Ah~” You’re voicing into the mic, looking at the sea of flash-lit faces around you. “Again? You lot are reeeeeally ravenous tonight, aren’t you?”
In unison, they roar. They agree.
With a faux huff, you’re placing your hand on your waist. It’s a pose infamous amongst your fandom, and they already knew what was coming up next- “Who’s got you so worked up, huh? Is it…me?” Roaring. Rumbling. Raging. You gasp, flattered. “It’s really me? Oh, now you’re just kidding—”
A furious shake of heads.
“You’re not? Well…” You smile, and it’s the type of smile that makes a flurry of star-stuck cameras go off. Basking in it, you walk oh-so-closely to the edge of the stage, where hands reach out to merely be in your presence. “That’s cute. But I still think I should arrest someone for being so naughty tonight, getting you all worked up.”
Crowds wave, volunteering themselves up to you.
You reach for your glittering belt and pull out the fluffy pink handcuffs that make them squeal, “And how aboooooout…”
Scanning the stadium.
Looking around.
Your eyes pass over the roaring head until—
“Ah! You there.” You’re pointing, your eye catching on a fluffy head of white hair. A face so handsome. So eager. “How about you? Would you like to be my arrestee tonight—?”
His deep voice sounds out, “Y-yes! Yes please-”
And as you near, the crowd grows even more restless. Like a tumultuous sea, the waves crash into each other, creating a rough tide that almost wanted to pull you in-
You blink.
And suddenly that white-haired man has disappeared.
But you’re by the edge of the stage by now, and you could feel the palms reaching for you as you try to discern just where he might be. “I uh-” You pause. Before the crowd surges forwards, and you’re thinking quickly to point out someone else. “Perhaps he isn’t so eager to be thrown in the slammer tonight-” They laugh, “-so how about you? Brown-haired girl? Would you like to be arrested by me~?”
She nods, and you proceed with your lil’ skit to ‘arrest’ her for being much too naughty.
Teasing and twirling, before you stand up and get on with the rest of your concert-
“And now—who’s ready for an encore~?”
You prance away, leaving a trail of glitter and song- and tears. Fuck, Gojo only claws himself up from the ground just as you finished your little arresting routine. The roll of the crowd had knocked him to the ground, and Shoko looks at her sad lil’ best friend.
She raises the handcuffs on her wrists, “Help me get out of these and you can have them, Satoru-”
“No, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Gojo straightens himself up, and Shoko’s shocked to find that he shakes his head in rejection.
“Satoru, are you okay?” Geto asks, warily.
“Yeah-” He sighs. “Yeah, I’m okay.” Something hollow in his breath. Something hollow in his heart, as he watches you slip away.
One.
More.
Time.
It’s alright.
It’s alright.
@thestrongestfanboy: Siri play Chasing Pavements by Adele
@Fushidaddy117 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: cringe
@Fushidaddy117 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: but you good bro??
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy117: No bro
@Fushidaddy117 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i feel you bro
@CupidOfficial: White hair. White stars…
That night, while Gojo had tossed and turned himself into a fitful sleep, his phone buzzed with yet another notification.
One that he had to blink his eyes at to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, one that he had to pinch himself at to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
DIRECT MESSAGES for @thestrongestfanboy.
@CupidOfficial: You’re the white-haired boy from tonight, aren’t you?
@CupidOfficial: Sorry if this is forward of me, I’ve just seen you around quite a bit…on my timeline, at the fanmeet…
@CupidOfficial: I just wanted to ask whether you’d want to model for the cover of my upcoming album?
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@pannchoa: Rumors swirl of Cupid’s upcoming album! Dispatch hints and industry whispers - read the full EXCLUSIVE from her producer right here.
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First thing’s first, you had Gojo Satoru sit on the couch of your penthouse accommodation. Talking through the details of your secretive upcoming album, and how the aesthetic you were going for fit his dazzling looks perfectly.
Second thing’s second, you had him seated on your king-sized bed. Still babbling about your album- at least, he was. Though the both of you knew that it was something else entirely on your minds.
Third thing’s third, he was sprawled out on said mattress. You straddlin’ his handsome face like a perch. His puffy, pinkish lips glued to your cunt—
“Mmpf- mmmm…” Gojo’s groaning over the most lecherous squelches that you’ve heard in your entire life. They’re echoing out like one of your sweetest songs, in sloppy staccato with the rovering movements of his tongue.
Gojo Satoru was eating you out like he was ravenous.
Famished.
Grabbing ahold of each side of your ass cheeks, he’s dragging you back down onto his gaping maw each n’ every time you flinched away with a whine, letting his tongue slash deeply into your drivelling orifice. “Mmm- hck!” Gojo’s so sloshed on your syrupy pussy that he’s finding himself hiccuping, eyes rolling all the way to the back of his head once your sap trickles out with a splash! Straight into the back of his throat, “Ohhhhh, my sweet girl-”
“Now now-” With a shiver, one of your hands slithers down to tug on Gojo’s clammy white locks. Almost as if to pull him away- but that only makes him nudge his lips closer to your hole with a keen. “Make sure you remember to- haaah, breathe, Gojo-”
“Sa-Satoru-” He whispers this out directly against your quivering cunt, and the vibrations make your back arch perfectly. Looking up at you through his pale lashes, fluttering. “Please call me, Satoru…”
Just the tip of his tongue that reels back out to fuck back in-
“-ma’am.”
“O-oh—” You’re moaning out at the way that his thick muscle pierces you - not only was Gojo an avid talker, but he had the tongue to back that up, too. So strong. So lengthy. He’s stirrin’ his tongue around and around in circular motions to graze those ridged tastebuds of his into each tiny nook n’ cranny.
Pulling onto his sweaty bangs and that only seems to make him go even harder- “S’that what you want me to call you?” You’re managing out, looking down at him- and that seems to make him jolt at the sheer intensity. “You want me to call you…”
You teasingly trail off, and Gojo only seems to buck—his hips coming up to make your vast bed creek. Chin spankin’ against the edge of your cunt when he yearns even closer, “Yes? Yes?”
“Oh? Was I supposed to- hck! finish something?” Pretending to not know exactly what he wanted, and it frankly made you even wetter to see the way that the tips of Gojo’s ears burn bright red at being caught.
“You know what I want baby- you know-” Sputtering out scorching hot breaths against your hole, before you know it- Gojo has one of his hands looped ‘round your thigh. The flat of his right thumb rubbin’ up and down your clit, “You kn-know what I want- and this pretty pussy does, too.”
Just the sultry sensation of him toying with your nub makes you gasp and buck. With your head thrown back, he’s taking every forceful bounce.
With such immense pleasure, Gojo’s letting his entire pretty face get ridden. The seeping hot core of your cunt plasters from the tip of his nose, down, down, down to grind your clit on the point of his chin. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Timing your gyrations just right, Gojo purses his lips and he spits- “She’s just so wet, my light.” Creating a slippery puddle that lets him slither his tongue into you even faster, “Soooo fucking wet. Sooo fuh-fucking loud, might even be louder than you on stage- and she’s honest, too.”
You’re raising a brow in challenge, raising his blushing head from between your legs to simply ask. “And just wh-what is ‘she’ honest about?”
There’s another dangling line of saliva spat on top of your pussylips, and the edge of Gojo’s thumb presses each wad inside. You shiver - and so does your core. “She knows she loves me—she knows she wants to call me ‘Satoru’, doesn’t she?”
Oh.
You simply shiver- you don’t even have an answer, and Gojo doesn’t expect you to have one. With sensual movements, the plush part of his lower lip drag-drag-draaaaags down the front of your cunt.
He’s pulling his tongue back, just lightly tapping it on top of your shaky orifice—“Hey…” You’re grumbling out, when his teasing motions are lingering for just too long. You tug on his hair, and that seems to make him groan in ecstacy - the happiness of being used. “Don’t tell me you’re tapping out already?”
“Why? Does she miss me?” Gojo prattles away - not to you, but to your dripping wet cunt. Almost as if to prove his point, just the spit-covered edge of his tastebuds slither close to your hole. And it makes you clench—
Around nothing, because Gojo’s pulling away in an instant.
He never imagined how fun it would be to tease you.
His pretty, swollen lips turning up into a dirty grin. “Ohhh, don’t you worry, my light.” And the crown of his thumb rolls over your clit a few more times, “I already know that she misses the feeling of my tongue fucking ‘er-” And just as you wanted (because he could never leaving you longing for too long) Gojo’s tongue starts moving in, sinking. “Already know she wants to be f-filled up like no other could, already know every word to your songs- every lyric- every syllable. Already know you’re gonna feel my tongue between your legs- and you’re going to call me—”
You breathe, “Yes?”
And he’s almost pleading. “Your good boy?”
“Well…” You twist your fingers harshly into his silken white hair, and it makes Gojo moan. Slightly shoving him where you wanted him the most- “-then shut the fuck up n’ prove it to me, Satoru.”
And that’s all he wanted.
That’s all he needed. For now.
Until you’re calling him your ‘good boy’ exactly like that dark, carnal part of him wanted you to—Gojo’s grunting at the shock of his first name leaving your pretty lips, in that sing-song voice of yours.
A sudden lurch that makes him shove his clammy head between your legs once more. He’s glued to the sheeny inner parts of your thighs, roughly gluing his mouth over your glazed pussylips.
“Oh- oh…” Heavy pants leave your mouth, and your chest heaves each time Gojo’s probin’ not only his prolonged tongue inside you- but also his slender fingers. “You’re really trying to prove it t’me-”
They were just so long. The curvaceous tips of his digits deliciously curving into your tenderest spots- he glides them perfectly along your walls. Fitting the ridges of his middle and ring fingers against your g-spot.
Thoroughly. You could feel the way that Gojo was grinning against your cunt folds as he feels your cute walls clamp down ‘round his touch- “I found that spot, my light. It feels sooooo gooood having my fingers all up in there, hm? Can you feel me right there-”
“Y-yes-” Fuck, he was circlin’ the padded tips of his fingers and that made you fall upon the bed. You clap a hand down on that mahogany headboard of yours and use it to keep yourself moving- “Fuck, it feels so good.”
“Then don’t you think I deserve it…” He’s pouting, plush mouth now pulling back to clamp down your clit, too. And not only was he suckin’ on that nub, he was biting down, too. “M’your number one fan.”
“Mhm—fuh-fuck.” Your head falls back when he’s pressing his lips together and draaaaagging the fleshy top of your clit backwards. Just stretching. Just itching this carnal itch.
When you’re distracted by the white-hot pleasure that bursts behind your lids at the feeling, Gojo’s easily managing to sneak in yet another finger. A third one that pummels your bruising g-spot just as hard. “Can recite your every lyric. Every fanchant.” The hot crevice of his mouth moves rapidly against your core.
Furiously.
He’s drawing out a saucy pattern with his tongue, one that you’re only later realizing are the strokes to spelling out your stage name.
C-U-P-I-D-C-U-P-I-D-C-U-P-I-D.
Gojo’s hot tastebuds salivate right down your front, pressing on your clit until you see sparks behind your eyes. “See- see?” There’s an almost crazed look in Gojo’s peripherals, rolling until they were almost nothing but pure white as you clench down on him roughly - and you start to wonder just what you have released. “See, m’your biggest fan- hck! M’your good boy, and this pretty pussy knows it.” He almost sounds pathetic begging between your legs, drooling, drunken. “And- and that’s not all-”
“Satoru, what do you mean that’s not…” Your sentence slowly dissolves in your throat, and with every push of his slimy tongue, you’re realizing just what he’s talking about.
Because instead of the curving ‘C’ that meant he was spelling out your stage name, Gojo was slashing something out. Long, hard lines that edged you closer towards your bliss—
I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.
“Mmm, you really are my biggest fuh-fan.” You’re somehow managing out, and the only thing you can do right now is grab ahold of Gojo’s hair and let him lavish you with his mouth. “You really love me, Toru?” And you feel him jolt at that cute nickname- “Or do you love my pussy?”
“Both. Both.” Fingers spearheading you so fast at this point that the skin ‘round his mountainous knuckles turns red. Stinging red. Needy red. Just like the strawberry shade of his overworked lips-
Plap! after plap!
And you’re not sure if the sounds are from the way you’re riding his handsome face, or the impact of him banging his fingertips into your deepest insides. “Both both both- fuck, I wanna have you drippin’ down my tongue for forever, my light. Could have you squeezin’ around me like this for ages, mmm, m’fucking obsessed.”
“A reference to my- haaah, to my album?” You question, and you were just so close. You were just so rapidly nudging yourself closer on top of him like this- “But what if you can’t breathe, Toru?”
“I don’t need to-” To which Gojo only grips the side of your ass with his free hand, tugging you down. Jolting you atop him. Manhandling you down further. He scrapes his swabbing fingers even further down your walls, past the spot of your bundle of nerves. “I don’t need to at all. Hah- I don’t need to breathe if I can have you like th-this…”
Your mouth dries of a response, because just then, he’s changing up the pattern of his sizzlin’ tastebuds again.
Long, luscious strokes.
M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O.
Your eyes snap wide open, and you’re gasping at the realization of what exactly he was spelling out. “O-oh…” Chin slathering with a waterfall of your spittle, you’re just holding onto him for dear life at his vulgar kisses. “Satoru, I think m’gonna c-cum—”
And you’ve had voice training before, you’ve been used to keeping your voice steady even in the most pressurized of environments- but just then, your tone cracks as you heave your sultry body forwards and cum.
Hot, glistening waves of bliss.
A heat that takes over your body, from your scalp to your toes.
Again and again.
Slight tears prick behind your eyelids as you let Gojo fuck you through your high with his tongue, “Fuck- fuck, you made me cum-” Somehow pinpointing each peak of your orgasm to stick his fingers in for. Thud, thud, thud. “-and I didn’t even expect it.”
“Mmmm—” And you don’t know who was more gone on the fact that you were cumming like this, you or him. Because Gojo was lappin’ away with his thick tongue, slurping. “Tastes so sweet, my light. S’like sugar on my tongue…”
“Oh, you really are pussydrunk.” You whisper, and let his face move back and forth to elongate your euphoria. “Keep going, Toru—h-hah, keep going.”
“Anything for you, ma’am.”
How he loved the way you soaked yourself just a lil’ wetter at the sound of him saying that particular title. How he loved the way you’d flinch and tremble on top of him when he licked you from the tip of your clit and down to the end of your cunt. How he loved the way your high bated to nothing but mere tingles, and you shivered sensitively when he still kept going.
“My orgasm’s over now, Toru—” You hiccup, your tears starting to spill. “You were such a…good boy.”
And that’s when Gojo jolts, his entire body running with a shockwave that made itself obvious even to you. Curiously, you’re peering behind him- before he’s drawing your attention back to the front with a few more plunging pushes of his tongue. “Mmmm, m’your good boy. Your good boy- your good boy.”
G-O-O-D-B-O-Y.
“Mhm—” And when it became obvious that he wasn’t going to wrench himself away anytime soon, you’re bawling. “Fuck- fuck, Satoru m’so sensitive.”
“M’sorry, my light, I just can’t seem to-” Somehow managing to pant through his thorough pushes, it was honestly a wonder that he could even find the time to breathe at this point- with the way he was glued to your puckered pussy. Mouthing out what felt like the most popular lyrics to your songs at this point- “-can’t even seem to stop. It’s like I’m…almost like I’m-”
You flinch when he spits once more, the wad oozing down your slit.
“-addicted.”
You take a goood, long look at Gojo: puffy eyes, bleary vision, his mouth all puffy and raw around your cunt. Nearly every inch of his face was covered in a sappy layer of your slick, and it dripped down to drench your pillow beneath. Like a puddle.
Your cup your hand down from his hair n’ to his cheek, and Gojo practically melts at the touch. You had the distinct thought that if he were a cat, he’d be purring. “But Toru-” Jutting your bottom lip out for emphasis, “I want to give you the same, you know what I mean? S’that alright.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you could step on me and I’d thank you.” He says, before wrenching off of your swollen pussylips with a wettened plop!
A loud, dramatic mwah!
It makes your heart race, and something in Gojo’s tightened trousers twitch. Eagerly, you’re shuffling yourself off of him and sitting on one end of the bed.
Earlier, Gojo had simply ripped off your skirt and panties off- and his flooded mouth drops further with every item of clothing you’re taking off. Until you were completely exposed, and you’re directing him with a finger to do the very same.
“Yes, ma’am-” There’s absolutely no hesitation before his t-shirt (with, tastefully, your face on it as part of your merchandise) comes off. And you’re absolutely shocked- because Gojo wasn’t the trim, lanky figure that you’d expected him to be.
Instead, he was built.
Well-chiselled pecs that made you ache to touch them, leading down with a deep valley to the muscles of his washboard abs. Almost like a ladder. They were decorated only with a few beauty spots, and a line of sparse white hair that led down, down, down.
Gojo’s beefy biceps flex as he then tugs down on the hemline of his pants and boxers, revealing—oh.
He flushes at the intensity of your stare, “Wh-what?” Almost squirming, he just felt so shy by the way his idol was looking at him like you just wanted to tear him apart. Sensually. “Is something not-”
“You’re just so big, Satoru.” You gasp, your eyes never straying from him.
Naturally, your hand reaches out to grab the ninth of his loooong inches, thick and hot in your hold. Glistening with need. His tight balls clenching. He was so hard that every pulsation was visible even from here.
A few veins decorated his shaft, and he was so reddened at the tip, n’ dripped down a stream of milky precum just at the feeling of your palm on him.
Slowly - ever-so-slowly - you start to lower your head…
“Oh.” Gojo pants out a scalding breath. “And that is…good?”
“It’s perfect.”
Gojo’s watching you through partly-cracked eyelids, feeling so hypnotized by the sight of you below him. He raises himself slightly on his haunches with a hiss, the hot air from your mouth kissin’ his tip—it almost- it almost reminded him of the way you’d lean in so close with your microphone.
Lips so soft.
Tongue so talented.
Just gently pressing—
And that’s when Gojo chokes back a needy cry and cums- straight down the front of your pretty, pretty face. In a split-second, you have your tongue filthily dangling out to catch the wads of seed that he was pouring out.
Splat after splat that ended up emptying on your tastebuds.
He’s bucking to let his shaft glissade just further down your tongue- and the mere plush feeling of him only makes his geysering divot spill out more generously.
“Fuck-” Gojo scrunches his azure eyes, head fighting not to throw back and miss a second of the sinful sight below. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- I can’t believe I’m…this is all your fault, sweetheart, ngh.” And his abs flex as he starts up a lil’ half-rut to fuck himself through his wave of bliss.
“Mmm—” You’re savoring the salted caramel taste of him, something so sweet about him. Amused, you raise a brow. “I barely even put my mouth on you, and you’re cumming already?”
He’s raising his hands to his blushing face, peeking out through his fingers. “Actually…it’s the second time tonight m’cumming, my light.” As you raise your brows in slight surprise, and flick your eyes to the drenched mess of his boxers. “The haaaah—the first time was when you- you called me your ‘good boy’.”
“Oh.”
Cumming just from eating you out? Now that really made your cunt throb with torturous need, and you’re sliding a hand between your legs to feel for the wetness there.
“Well, then-” A beautiful grin graces your face, and it’s enough to make Gojo’s swollen cock twitch. “-guess you have one more to make up t’me if you’re such a, mm, good boy, huh?”
“Y-yes, ma’am.”
Before you know it, you’re being splayed out with your back against the bed. The mattress slightly dips as Gojo hovers his muscular weight above you, and he’s gently pushin’ apart your legs, sweat beading on his forehead as he takes in your dripping wet core.
You swear you catch his mouth watering at the sight- “No need to be nervous, Toru. Have you ever done this before?”
He shakes his head, “No, it- it was actually my first time eating you out, too.” Peering up at you with teary eyes, “Did I do good?”
Did he do good?
If that was his first time, you didn’t know what would happen with his second, his third, his tenth. And you’re snapping yourself forcefully out of that little reverie, “Yes- fuck, yes you did so good. Was such a good boy for me.” He grunts, something ruined in it. “Now I need you to be a good boy f’me again, okay? C’mon- put my legs on your shoulder—yeeeees, just like that.”
His muscles shifted underneath your heels, he was just so hulking.
“Now bend, Toru-”
“Bend?”
“Bend.”
And Gojo wanted to prove himself to you, just like before. He wanted to do his very best for you, you, you and only you - even if that meant…manhandling his one and only idol, just a little.
With a primal lurch, Gojo then has your knees pushed all the way up to your tits. “Like this?” Your body bent completely in half, like a lawn chair. “Like this?” And his hips slotting between your legs- in this mean mating press, Gojo’s furious cock stuffs juuuuuust inside- “Like- like-”
Before he’s slouching his head forwards and pushing—
“Fuck-” Gojo’s canines try to sink into his lower lip, before he’s realizing that that won’t hold back his gruff noises and he’s simply keening. Carnal. Baritone.
A thin line of drool starts to splash from the side of his maw, before his entire body bows inwards to yours. Like he was focusing each n’ every ounce of strength into pryin’ aside your swollen folds and squeeeeezing his round, girthy tip inside. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- fuck!” And then you clench and you can hear the exact moment that the sensation pangs through Gojo’s body, “I think m’gonna cum again- fuck, m’gonna cum again just from this.”
“If you do then I want it allll inside-” You say, looking up into his attractive face - so unintentionally sexy. Gojo was flushing. Rabidly slobbering. His dick aching.
He was so hard that you could feel the prominent outline of each vein, scraping your insides as Gojo tries to push past the slight resistance of your entrance and buck and buck- “Don’t- oh.” He could barely even echo out a coherent thought with your wet pussy wrapped ‘round him like this. “Don’t- fuckin’- talk like that- s’only gonna make it, ngh, worse.”
“But I thought you were my good boy?”
“Fuh-fuck.” Gojo hollows out, with a clouded breath that made it seem as though every ounce of sanity was leaving his body along with it. And at that very second, you feel him spurt out just a single pearly white bead of cum.
It splats! down at the back of your pussy, and makes you shiver at the feeling. Meanwhile, Gojo’s forced to lurch up one of his fists and gnaw down on it to control himself. “Fuck, you don’t know what you’re doing t’me.” The blood vessels at his neck and temples pop as he somehow stops his dribbling cock from flooding your insides any further. “Didn’t know how fuck- fucking mean ya are, my light.”
“What can I say?” You hum, your hamstrings all sore with the intrusion that was being lodged in your lower half. “You were the criminal that got away- ngh, at my concert.”
“Mhm—?” Still rutting. Just animalistic half-ruts.
“And I want you to fuck me filthily, Toru.”
Oh…at this confession of yours, he grows even bigger inside of your tight channel. The girth of Gojo’s cock swells up, and his sheer length pushes apart your walls, molding them to him-
“Oh- oh my…” There was still a light sheen of your slick on Gojo’s face that he hadn’t been able to greedily lap away, and it’s then - mid-sentence - that you choose to lean yourself closer to him and get a taste.
To which Gojo’s hazed blue eyes snap open- and oh, the look in them makes your legs tighten. Makes them fail- he’s snapping them open in a singular fluid motion, uncaring of the way it exhausts your muscles. Uncaring of the snug stretch-stretch-streeeeetch of your cunt once he’s mazing himself inside. “-my light.” Gojo bites out, “I’ll give you anything you need…”
Just then, your ears ring with a sharp clap!
You’re wondering whether it’s your ears.
You’re wondering whether it’s your heartbeat.
You’re left wondering no longer when you register it’s the slamming impact of Gojo’s toned v-line snapping against your lower half. Bottoming out in one motion, he’s deeply probin’ his rotund tip into the back of your treacly pussy.
Bottoming out? Already?
“And that includes fucking you like the slut you want to be fucked as.”
Oh.
Oh.
It seems that perhaps you’ve broken him.
Because then Gojo’s pounding his rough, ravenous hips into you all the way until his white happy trail scrapes your clit, and the end of his shaft reaches for the back of your throat.
“What the fuck…” He stops as he feels the tender end of your pussy - teary eyes widening. And the first thing out of his mouth is, “Is this real?” In utter, feral disbelief. “There’s no way this is…” Before Gojo’s pinching himself.
He bottoms out a few more times, and each time the look in his eyes grows more distant. Jaw dropping further and further with the pure ecstacy of having his painfully-hard erection surrounded by your soft warmth. “Are you- hck! are you holding up, Toru?”
“Holding up? Holding up?” He almost cackles- octaves higher, almost crazed. He turns to you, “Pinch me.”
“What-”
“Pinch me.”
And so you do - right on the strawberry nubs of his nipples, where he was just so sensitive. Only when the painfully lewd sensation confirms it’s real does he start formulating his sloppy cadence, “Fuck! It doesn’t fucking feel r-real. It can feel like this, sweetheart?” He was rutting his hips impatiently into you like he was trying to fuck the answer out of you. Each n’ every loooong, winding vein glissading down your walls. “N-ngh, she feels like heaven ‘round my cock.”
“Oh yeah—?” Purposefully, you clench. “Like that, Satoru?”
He simply shivers, “Y-yes.” You can feel him thumpin’ away at the goopy back of your pussy, with his circular divot creaming out in pre. “She’s sucking up every inch of me- fuck, huggin’ me so tight. Bet she can feel my veins reeeeeal good, can’t she?” A few slurps as he sloppy fucks his way in, which he takes as an answer. “Mhm, she can.”
And you only clench harder-
“Oh.” He whimpers, “Have mercy.”
“I dunno…” You drag out from the back of your throat, and you have to curl your toes to stop the pleasure from overflowing and interrupting your sentences. “You didn’t have mercy when you ate me out earlier, did you?”
Gojo gasps-
“And when you screamed at my concert, and when you disrupted my fanmeet.” You’re quite enjoying watching him fall apart - head hung, hips stuttering as he struggles to hold himself back. You wonder just what might happen if you made this handsome virgin Gojo…break. “So why should I show you- ngh, mercy?”
“Please- oh, what are you—”
Whatever Gojo was going to say is immediately derailed by the casual way you’re hiking up a hand to your stomach. Pressing dooooown just as his throbbing length was sinking in, “Filthier, Toru.”
And that’s when something in your favorite fanboy - in Gojo Satoru - snaps.
That’s when your positions shift.
His sap dribbles down n’ overflows just like the way your steaming tastebuds do, and your teeth clench after every one of his thrusts. Harder. Faster. Just like you’d said, he was thwacking his aching hot cock into you so hard that the curve of his ballsack was swatting your cunt. Slowly, you’re growing more and more hypnotized by his roverin’ dick stuffing every ounce inside you full. “Just like that- hah-” Arms wobbling, you struggle to reach ‘round Gojo’s shoulders. “Oh- just like that-”
“Just like that?” He asks, oh-so-kindly. And you almost feel a glimmer of hope for your poor body when Gojo gently tugs your arms around his shoulders. Letting you grab onto his deltoids-
“But I don’t think s’filthy enough, my light.”
Oh…so you were mistaken.
“Filthier, you said?” He repeats your words from earlier, fully channeling his energy to swabbin’ every point of your cunt. Gojo feels your legs slipping, and he’s reaching a hand behind his neck to pin your ankles together - locking them in place. “Look-” Other hand thumbing between your puffy pussylips, “Look, she wants it harder- faster, too. She’s practically flooding out and begging for it.”
“Oh my god-” Your pillow is drenched in a layer of your spittle by now, and your back arches. “Keep- keep going.”
“Keep going? But I wanna go even filthier, sweetheart.” That familiar pout of his makes an appearance, though there was something much more…sleazy about it this time.
Your nails dig into the plush mountains of his muscles, shifting underneath your touch each time he’s reeling his body back. Back, back, back. Gojo was putting his entire frame to work - not just his hips - each time he’s shovelling his cock into you.
And the extra pressure makes the rounded crown of his shaft embed deep into your cervix, leaving a bruise there that acts as the perfect target for the next slam. And the next. And the next. “Please-” You’re gasping out, sobs bubbling in your throat. “Please please please- please, and how are you gonna be even filthier?”
“Like this.” Just to prove his point, his free hand tilts open your chin and spits straight in your mouth. And without wasting a second longer, Gojo spanks that very hand back down on your hips to keep you from running. “Aaaand—”
Instead, he’s using his strength to pliably jerk you back down. Hissing between your parted lips, “Like this.” He’s bubbling up even more saliva- this time, down your slippery slit. That hand of his on your hip reaches over, and with the forefront curve of his thumb, Gojo’s smearin’ the wad of saliva on top of your pussy. Pressing down on your clit- “Because m’just your pathetic fanboy, my light, listening to- ngh, every word you say. So when you say filthy, m’only gonna go filthier.”
You almost don’t want to dare to ask, “And h-how will you make this…even filthier?”
But you knew he wanted you to.
You knew he was just dying to fuck the words out of you.
Gojo’s plastering a sleazy smirk across his face, and it damn near looks downright blasphemous with the layer of syrup on his features. “I h-have an idea or two…”
He’s not telling you what the idea is, he’s showing it to you - with his fingers twisting on top of your clit to spell out some of the very words he’d spelled out with his tongue earlier.
I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.
Furiously, your body thrashes at the mercy of his clutches. Gojo was holding you down ruthlessly, a mean expression taking over his face when he finds out that he can simply pin you down and make that glistening hole of yours take it.
M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O.
All those zaps of pleasure that you loved so much, that you were moaning so much at. You’re so cockdrunken by this point that spittle sloshes ‘round inside your mouth- and Gojo only leans over to lick off the drivels of it escaping your mouth.
<3
Just in time to crash his lips into your when you cum.
“C-cumming.” You’re gasping out, almost in disbelief at the sheer strength of the orgasm that was flooding your entire body. Bucking back into his thrusts, “So much- it’s- it’s so much, fuck.”
“Yes-” Gojo growls, slightly breathless at the fact that this was you—and you were cumming ‘round his cock, suctioning every tender ridge on his shaft, fully fucking yourself through the complete waves of your high.
Bliss upon euphoria.
If you thought that your orgasm was incredible earlier, then you weren’t ready for this one. It simply takes over every part of you, until it felt like your nerves were fried with the sensation.
He stops pinning you down any longer, letting you bounce your hips back into his to your heart’s content. “That’s right, use me.” Gojo’s fingers are but a blur on your clit, “Use me to ride your high- fuck, use me as much as sh-she wants. Let me feel every inch of you squeezin’ around me-”
“I can’t be the only one.” Despite the pangs of your bliss, you somehow manage to blink away your tears to gaze up at him. With a hand fisted in Gojo’s perspired hair, you’re pulling him in reeeeal close, “Want you to cum insi- oh, fuck.”
You don’t even have to finish your sentence.
You don’t even have to finish your thought.
Because the moment that Gojo realizes what you’re trying to say to him, the bawling divot at the end of his shaft pours out white-hot cum. Heard throwing back. Chiselled body bowing into yours. Voice straining with a call of your name.
It’s just the creamiest texture, it polishes a layer of white on your cervix and along your walls until the syrup froths outside.
Gasping, Gojo brushes his thumb between your folds and plugs up your leaking hole. Overspilling. So many webbed layers were seeping out of you, and he was taking the time to push every ounce of it back inside- “Fuck.” He whispers, thickly. “Fucking hell.”
“S’all inside, Satoru.” You mewl, gliding your hand up and down your front. “I can feel it splashin’ around inside-”
“Don’t say that- don’t- fucking say that-” He just barely chokes out- before one of Gojo’s hands lets go of your ankles to actually squeeze that pretty neck of yours, so perfect in his grip. “Don’t say that or m’gonna…”
“Or what?”
“Or m’gonna cum again-”
“Can feel it alllllll up inside.” You continue, despite the lecherous tightening at your throat. And Gojo has to listen on in pure agony as that voice he loves so much continues on—“Honestly- at this rate, you might just get me- ngh, pregnant, Toru.”
And that does it- he’s splurging out his dewy wet wads all over again. It seeps a layer of white into your glossy insides, making every thrust of his slippery.
With a slight whimper, he doesn’t waste time fucking those droplets of cum inside even if it aches him with sensitivity. The reddened tip of his cock twitches, and Gojo’s balls nuzzle the forefront of your cunt, already sucked dry with nothing more to give-
“You kn-know-” When Gojo speaks, it almost sounds like he’s crying- oh. Something hot and wet drips from his eyes, he actually was crying in overstimulation.
The texture of your cunt leaving him red n’ raw, but even then he’s way too addicted to try and bring himself to stop. Moaning, “-I did say something about you st-stepping on me, my light.”
Your brows raise.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
.
.
.
It’s almost a year later when Gojo posts:
@thestrongestfanboy: Siri play I Just Had Sex by The Lonely Island.
@Fushidaddy1008 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: lmfao as if anyone would bang you
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy1008: Ahhh, my wife would bang me~! ＼(≧▽≦)／ Also blocked (*≧ω≦*)
@Fushidaddy1009 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: wife?? lmfao i thought Cupid was your wife?? youre saying you banged Cupid??
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy1009: Exactly~! Blocked (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
@thestrongestfanboy: I would let her step on me (and HAVEEEEE) <(￣︶￣)>
@thestrongestfanboy: Does anyone have that meme of the guy shooting a basketball from the moon and actually making the basket???
@thestrongestfanboy: I’M IN LOVE.
@DigiGeto replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Bro do you gen need your meds or…
@Shokomedical replying to @DigiGeto: I’ve prescribed all he needs, idk how but it’s gotten worse since that concert last year.
@HiByeRawr replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Happy for you Gojo-senpai ^.^
@thestrongestfanboy: MY BEAUTIFUL WIIIIIIFE~! ٩(♡ε♡)۶
And then came the disaster, perhaps. Because he’d meant to attach a completely innocent picture of you from your last show, he’d meant to post something that would have been inconspicuous with everything else that your fansites were posting.
But this is Gojo - and that’s obviously not what happened.
Attached to that aforementioned tweet was a picture of none other than Gojo Satou and you. Not from a concert. Not from afar. In the flesh, in nothing but a soft blanket covering your most intimate parts, clearly bitten all over and sex-hazed.
You were raising a digital camera up, your smile peaking through its edge as if you were taking a picture of a picture. And Gojo himself was in the corner - bitten, marked, a dopey smile and just as ruined, as sex-rumpled as you were, shirtless.
The first night.
How damning.
In the split-second that the photo had been up, it spread across stan Twitter like wildfire. And all of Gojo’s subsequent tweets had upwards of 1M+ views just because of it.
@thestrongestfanboy: WAIT
@thestrongestfanboy: WAIT DIVA DOWN DIVA DOWN
@thestrongestfanboy: I DIDN’T MEAN TO POST THAT PLEASE FORGET ABOUT IT.
@pinkillit replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Bro actually….did it? The fanboy actually did what every delulu stan hopes to do??
@gggggnarly replying to @thestrongestfanboy: YOU HOOKED UP WITH QUEEN CUPID?!
@hearts2hurts replying to @thestrongestfanboy: I fear I, again, can’t send hate because this is impressive ngl.
@utahimeslefttoe replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i know this is a marketing stunt i just cant prove it (uta give me a chance pls)
@lovelicky replying to @thestrongestfanboy: PARASOCIALISM WORKED??
@yuuthebaddie replying to @thestrongestfanboy: YOU GOT THE HUZZ??
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @yuuthebaddie: I GOT THE HUZZ!! („ಡωಡ„)
@thestrongestfanboy replying to @thestrongestfanboy: WAIT DELETE-
@DigiGeto replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Satoru what the fuck
@Shokomedical replying to @thestrongestfanboy: SATORU WHAT THE FUCK
@HiByeRawr replying to @thestrongestfanboy: I always knew the day would come!! Congratulations, Gojo-senpai ^.^
@urmomstype replying to @thestrongestfanboy: What did I miss?? Do I need to make a new thread??
@Fushidaddy2067 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: thats it siri play chasing pavements.
And that’s when it spreads outside of your fandom, first to the celebrity news outlets, and then everyone else. Soon enough, BuzzFeed, TMZ, Pannchoa were all tripping over themselves to be the first to report and interview on the subject. Personally, you knew that Dispatch was foaming at the mouth to drop the annual bombshell with all the sordid details.
TRENDING ON TWITTER:
#CUPIDPICTURE
#CUPIDDATING
#THESTRONGESTFANBOY
#DELULUISTHETRULULU
#HEGOTTHEHUZZ??
#LFORFUSHIDADDY
@CupidManagement: As a company, we do not interfere in the private lives of our artists and we kindly ask everyone to stop spreading any malicious rumors. We wish all the best to Cupid, and her relationship going forward.
And you?
@CupidOfficial: Ahhh might be as great a time as ever to announce that my new album, Stargirl, will be out on all platforms November 28th!! Here’s the cover art, hope you love it (and a special thank you to the special boy that made it happen) <33
On the cover, a picture of Gojo.
Not as you’d seen him in the bedroom, of course. It’d been exciting work to get to the studio, to don him in the most ethereal flowy whites, to place him in the midst of a blank background and stud his hair with roses, to bathe him in a dreamy light. It was almost hazy. In the picture, his face was turned away but he was staring into the camera- and…perhaps past it.
Right where you’d been, directing him.
With such a loving glimmering in his eyes that it made one almost shy to directly at it.
Your vision had some to life.
It quickly racks up a comfortable million plus views on Twitter, and you quietly shut off your phone as the notifications keep beeping. Instead, snuggling up to Gojo right back in your penthouse, right beside you (not before you give him a lecture on double-checking the pictures he posts, of course.)
synopsis. rayne ames can’t stop staring at you tonight, which is strange, considering the fact that he loathes your guts.
pairing. rayne ames x fem!reader, | wc. 4.1k | genres. haters to lovers, tension, jealousy, rayne's hot and obsessed and reader's in denial | warnings. reader wears lipstick but it's mentioned once at the end, they make out what's new (it's good for my the soul), a bit suggestive
notes. tbh this wasn't supposed to be as long as it is. what a yap fest. blame my hormones and the weeknd. this is ugly and i hate it but it will have to do while i continue working on other fics.
you can’t comprehend why he’s here. the rest of the student body can’t either because the moment he walked through those doors all eyes were on him.
you’re positive that rayne ames had to have some devil whispering in his ear. how else would he be convinced to attend a grand event such as this one? dancing? socializing? it’s not his style, especially when he knows that every guy and girl within a ten foot radius would be jumping at the chance to have his attention.
you’re point is proven right in the next three seconds. you can already spot girls batting their eyelashes at him. you can see them trying to coerce him into a dance. on any other day you’d scoff at their fawning over an asshole like rayne.
however, you can’t seem to bring yourself to say that tonight. rayne’s half blonde, half jet black hair is styled in a wet curtain cut with long loose strands falling in front of his forehead. he wears a black two piece suit with the coat sporting various decorations.
there are two sets of silver chains that are pinned just below each one of his shoulders. each set is comprised of five chains. one directly connects a line between two metallic circles. two chains of varying lengths begin at one button before swooping a short distance down the front of rayne’s coat before linking back to the second circle that hangs lower than its counterpart. the remaining three chains follow the same pattern except they droop down the side of his arm, nearing the peak of the dip at the middle of his upper arm and rising back up to the coat’s shoulder pads that have sleek silver suns on top of them.
under the jacket, the visionary dons a white dress shirt that is tucked into his pants. however, the piece is damn near transparent, and the top buttons remain undone, exposing some of the skin of his torso. to finish the look off, rayne wears one singular necklace with a sword pendant.
you hate it, and you hate whoever styled him because tonight he's a dangerously gorgeous devil that's making your heart pound at an embarrassingly alarming rate. your eyes are glued to him no matter how badly your mind screams at you to look away. yet just as you can't tear your gaze away from him, rayne is equally unable to focus on anyone else that isn't you.
he inhales a deep breath of air before carving a path to your position at the food table. the alarms in your head go off in panic. you can't exactly play off the fact that you were so blatantly ogling him so instead you own up to it, masking your flustered expression with a glare in his direction.
"well if it isn't the devil himself." you taunt when he nears, soaking in the half blonde's formal look one more time. "what made you decide to crawl out of hell tonight?"
"i could ask you the same thing." rayne answers bluntly, and you scowl because he knows that you hate when he turns your snarky comments back on you.
"why'd i even bother?" you roll your eyes with a scoff, directing your attention to bite-size appetizers in front of you.
"let me know when you find the answer to that." the visionary responds, causing a muscle in your cheek to twitch in irritation.
rayne doesn’t move from his spot. in fact, he’s standing so close to you that your arm brushes against the black fabric of his coat and the cold silver chains on the side of his arm.
"can you move?" you snap, annoyed because now your senses are being filled with his scent—an intoxicating mix of cinnamon and cardamom that makes your mind go fuzzy.
"i can't have food?" rayne cockily raises an eyebrow at you before randomly picking up a tomato basil puff off the plate. he chews it thoughtfully, and through the micro expressions of his face, you come to understand that he is pleased with its taste.
you bundle your fists tightly to release some of your nerves. a breath of air enters your lungs to steady yourself. you remind yourself to not get swept up in his games. rayne ames will not ruin your night. all of these affirmations lead you to the decision to leave him by the food table.
however before you can do that, the music slows to an end, and people take it as a sign to scramble for a partner before the next piece starts up again. as for you, you're immediately confronted by a tall blonde boy in your grade. he kindly extends a hand out to you that’s shaking very discreetly. "may i have this dance?"
you mentally grimace because you're still on edge due to rayne, but you don't have the heart to turn the guy down when he so obviously worked up the courage to come up to you. reluctantly, you accept his offer with a meager nod, and as he takes you by the hand, you involuntarily glance back at rayne, who has been staring the entire interaction down like a hawk.
the boy leads you to an open spot on the dance floor and doesn't hesitate to take the lead once a graceful waltz composition begins. you try to pay attention to the guy's little ramblings about duelo as you glide across the floor, but your mind wanders back to rayne.
what would it be like to have his hand on your back or your hand interlocked with his? would it light a blaze upon your skin? why do you even want to find out?
your eyes drift across the expanse of the enormous ballroom, scanning for that half blonde pain in your ass. after several moments of searching, you find rayne standing off to the side, back leaned against one of the pillars. he switched his food out for apple cider in a champagne glass. he stands with max land and other faces you aren't familiar with. whatever conversation they're having, rayne isn't following; his sole focus is on you and only you.
there's something dark lurking beneath his eyes. the intensity of his gaze generates shivers down the line of your spine. you think that the glass in his hands might shatter in his grip.
"are you alright?" your partner questions, and it brings your concentration back onto him. "are you cold?"
you present him a tight grin. "i'm good. you don't have to worry about me."
the boy in front of you accepts your answer without any suspicion and continues leading the dance until the song finally comes to an finishes. yet even when the waltz ends, and you thank your partner for the dance, he sticks by you. that's fine. he’s a nice guy who means no harm, but because you're severely distracted right now, he is the last thing on your mind.
he gently guides you through the room, keeping a hand on the small of your back protectively as you squeeze between the crowd. you force yourself to engage in conversation with the friends he introduces you to. you laugh at the appropriate times and give your two cents into a topic should it be deemed necessary, all in attempt to ignore the burning sensation of eyes drilling into the back of your neck. each time you catch him, rayne doesn't dare to avert his gaze. he’s shameless in that matter. he'll maintain this eye contact with you until you're the first one to tear away with your face a burning mess.
as the night progresses, you're losing the patience to withstand it. the guy in front of you. rayne. thoughts of rayne. your head is swirling in confusion, and you need new air and silence in order to calm yourself.
when you're sure rayne isn't watching, you dismiss yourself from your partner with a pathetic excuse that you need to quickly use the washroom that he buys instantaneously. and when the crowd hides you completely, you sneak off in the total opposite direction of the restroom.
you navigate your way through the venue until you find the exit that leads to gardens in the back. you pay no mind to party raging behind you, only straying yourself further and further from the noise until you're met with silence. it's only then that you're able to feel your heart slowing down it's pace.
you continue wandering until you find a gazebo hidden deep within the gardens. the structure is surrounded by flowers of varying colors and species. its posts are wrapped in vibrantly green vines. there are no seats built into it, but it will have to suffice as a place to rest and cool your head.
you lean back into one of the wooden posts, shutting your eyes as you inhale the scent of cold, wet, grassy air. when the brewing storm in your mind finally calms, all that remains is a certain divine visionary.
never in all of your years of knowing rayne ames would you have ever thought your emotions involving him would end up conflicting like this. you loathe him; you have since the day you met. so you can't seem to fathom what changed tonight. can it really be all because of a mere suit and new styling of his hair? how pathetic.
and his eyes… those damn yellow eyes that follow your every move. how can they ignite a fury of butterflies in your stomach?
and you don't even have the time to figure it out before your ears pick up on the sound of frantic footsteps and rattling chains that encroach closer and closer to you. your eyes fling wide open, and your body instantly freezes at the sight before you.
rayne ames stands in front of the garden gazebo, chest quickly rising and falling as he pants out breaths that turn visible in the cold winter air. his styled hair isn't as kept as it was before. it's lost its volume and his loose strands of hair cling to his skin, most likely due to the thin coat of sweat that you can barely see under the dim moonlight. yet, he still looks so incredibly breathtaking. the half blonde's eyebrows are brought together in a mix of relief and worry, and you don't know what to make of it.
you don't get it anymore. what is he doing? what is his goddamn game? why, just why, is he standing before you?
the reason behind rayne’s appearance at the winter ball is so incredibly petty that he’s ashamed to even admit it out loud. he had overheard a blonde on the duelo team claim that he was going to dance with you that night.
the irritation that arose in the pits of his stomach during that moment could not be described. did that fool really think he stood a chance with you? you were completely out of his league.
the thought of you dancing with another man haunted rayne for days. each time it crossed his mind, he’d get so annoyed that he’d snap the quill he was writing with into two pieces.
it was stupidly impulsive to come to this ridiculous school ball. rayne knew that, but a part of him was desperate to find out what would happen. could the blond fool pull it off, and what were you going to do if he did? he's well-aware that you aren't his lover or his friend, and yet that didn't seem to stop him from being concerned about matters involving you.
it’s truly a puzzle because rayne is so positive of the fact that he hates you, but the moment he walked through the entrance, all certainty of that fact became debatable again.
he stands before you, separated by the crowd of students who are just as shocked as you are. he can tell that you hadn’t expected for this. and with your eyes locked onto each other, you both enter a new dimension—one where everyone else fades away.
in a sea of blurred, barely present faces, you are the only one that was clear, a face so beyond the words of beautiful. rayne feels like he had the air knocked out of his lungs. is his heart speeding up, or is it stopping? he can’t tell anymore. he’s losing his senses. to combat that, he takes a deep breath of air.
rayne doesn’t even see the girls tugging at his arms or the guys trying to start up a conversation. it’s only you, and like an iron attracted to a magnet, his feet pull him to where you are before he has the chance to realize it.
you’re quick with your snarky comments that attempt to drag him, but even then, you're beautiful. it's baffling how hopeless of a fool he is for you. it’s a miracle that rayne has half the mind to retort your jabs, and he is definitely glad that the food table acted as a cover up.
however, the visionary’s mood sours when that damn blond duelo player comes up to you, asking for a dance a whole lot earlier than he anticipated. rayne can’t make out your expression, but he does notice the nod of your head and the way you extend your hand to slide onto his, but not without giving the half blond a glance back.
rayne's gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles go white. as you leave, another girl walks up to rayne, and he flat out ignores her, picking off a champagne glass from a server that happens to walk by him.
trying to cool his head, rayne ames finds max land in a matter of seconds, and he opts to stick by him. he doesn’t engage in any form of conversation with max, despite the multiple times his best friend has been trying to get his attention.
he'll apologize for it later, but every drop of focus that rayne possesses is on you as you move along the floor. the blond is talking your ear off, and the visionary is aware that you aren't fully listening because your eyes keep drifting back to him.
the fact that rayne doesn’t ever tear his eyes off you has you looking away in nervousness. it’s so unlike you. you’re always so confident in your confrontations against him, but it appears to be different tonight. it seems like everything is.
the longer he stares the more rayne hates the hand that is gently wrapped around yours. he hates the smiles that the blond duelo pulls from you simple because he is simply not worthy of them. he hates that even after the stupid waltz is over you're dragged to meet his friends.
the visionary has no right to be feeling like this, especially after all the verbal arguments and harsh words. but each time you look at him tonight with those star-filled eyes, rayne swears that he'll make it up to you for the rest of your lives.
"rayne, the suit is amazing. where'd you get it from? i haven't seen anything like it." one of max's friends asks, which finally drags the half blond's attention away from you.
"ryoh grantz." he replies dryly.
"you got this from the light cane?!"
"that's what i said, didn't i?" the visionary glares, visibly annoyed.
"oh. y-yeah." the guy chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the nape of his neck. it's then when he realizes that any attempt of conversation with rayne ames is futile so he switches the topic.
when the half blond drags his eyes back to you, he nearly loses grip on the champagne glass that he's been holding for a while. "she's gone." rayne mutters to himself, yet somehow over all the noise, max hears him.
max land peers over the crowd, finding the spot where you last stood. the blondie you were with is huddled with his friends, but you are no longer in sight. the brown haired boy hums. "i think your staring scared her off."
rayne narrows his eyes at his friend who only raises his hands in defense. the divine visionary scans the entire room, expecting you to be gathered with a different group of people, but you're not. you're not in here at all. "damn it." he curses with a hiss, ditching max to search for you.
if his best friend protests or calls for rayne, he doesn't hear it. max is the least of his concerns right now.
he leaves the empty glass onto the nearest table and begins a distraught search. he does a lap around the entire room, thinking that it'll make you appear again, but his efforts bear no fruit. he wanders up and down the halls, giving everyone he passes a quick glance, only to find that they're not you.
rayne finds an entrance that leads to the back gardens, and he's praying that you're somewhere there. he doesn't know how long he spends running around. his dress shirt is sticking to his skin, and his hair is falling out of place. the venue for the ball is so far behind him to the point that he can't even hear the music or noisy chatter anymore.
despite the burn in his calves, he pushes deeper into the gardens, jogging until a gazebo catches his eye. it's hard to see in the moonlight, but rayne swears that he sees the shadow of a figure. it's his last hope; he's praying that it's you.
the half blond jogs up to the steps. the chains of his suit rattle as he does so. he realizes then that it is you. relief, worry, and anger hit him all at once, but in your eyes, he can't say the same. there is no malice, only confliction, and rayne decides right then and there.
he's going to open his heart to you.
"what are you doing here, rayne?" you ask, practically defeated.
"what about you?" he snaps back harsher than he ever has before. he takes angry steps up the stairs. "it's fucking freezing, and you decide to come out here alone. do you even realize how far the venue is right now? do you know how much i was-" rayne stops himself mid-sentence, curling his fists by his side.
"no, tell me." you demand, walking closer to him. "what is it? you are always so blunt. what's stopping you now, huh? spit it out."
"i was worried about you." he answers quietly.
your heart swells when you hear it, but you choose to suppress it instead because that can't possibly be right. "worried?! why on earth would you ever be worried about me? you hate me, rayne ames, and i hate you. all we ever do is torment each other. it's exactly why you kept staring at me tonight. i couldn't focus on anything but you. that's what you wanted, right? you wanted me off my guard? well, congratulations asshole. you won. now leave me alone."
"no." the boy in front of you sternly denies.
"no? god, you have some fucking nerve-" you fume.
"i'm not leaving you alone." rayne clenches his jaw, staring deep into your eyes. you force yourself to swallow. "i haven't left you alone since the day we met, and i'm not leaving you alone now."
you scoff, trying to push past rayne, but he blocks your path. "move, rayne."
he ignores you altogether. "you want to know why i'm so worried about you, hm? here's your answer." rayne's voice is low, almost dangerous as he speaks. he steps closer to you, nearly pressing your bodies together. the heat that radiates off him is electrifying.
"you've been stuck in my head for the last week, and it's all because of that blond buffoon on the duelo team." rayne scowls. "i heard him. i knew that he wanted to dance with you, and it pissed me off. i couldn't imagine his hand on your back or his hand on yours without feeling my blood boil, and i hated every second that you were with him tonight. it was torture."
"jealousy?" you breathe out, trying to belittle him as you do so, but you fail miserably when your eyes dart to rayne's lips. "you might as well be obsessed with me."
"maybe i am." rayne's hand reaches up to trail the pearls of your necklace. his hand then moves further up your neck, fingers gently tickling your skin as they pass before resting on the side of your throat. "i might've been obsessed with you the moment your pretty little mouth started talking back to me. hell, i might even be in love with you."
in that moment, you feel your breath hitch. your eyes open wider in disbelief, and that doesn't deter the divine visionary in front of you at all. you try reading him, trying to find any sort of sign that this whole thing is a joke, but deep down you know. you said it yourself moments earlier. rayne's honest and blunt to a fault. he wouldn't say something he doesn't mean.
"the sight of you is enough to bring a man to his knees. you have me wrapped around your finger, (y/n). just say the word, and i'll be yours."
you don't know when rayne's face had gotten so close, but you can feel his breath fanning along yours. you can indulge in that cardamum and cinnamon scent that brings your brain to a high.
"rayne..." you whisper, brushing the loose strands of hair away from his forehead even though they return to the same place they were once before.
and as he admires you with those eyes, eyes that look at you as if you created the world and spun it on its axis, you surrender. you close the gap between the two of you because you're tired.
you're tired of acting like the thought that you want him has never crossed your mind. you're tired of acting like he's isn't stupidly hot whenever he puts you in your place, you're tired of pretending that you've never wanted to slam your lips against his just to shut him up.
rayne said he might've been obsessed with you from the moment you started arguing with him. well, you might've been obsessed with him when you realized that he wasn't going to tolerate any of your attitude. it's probably why you constantly picked fights with him. all the tension and unspoken words and lust came as a result. it was bound to boil over eventually.
you told yourself to not get swept up in him, and yet here you are, completely drowning. you chase each other like you're both starved. the kiss so desperate and powerful that rayne backs you up into one of the gazebo posts. the contact makes you gasp, and rayne uses it as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. you'll have to press him about this later. for a guy who avoids women like the plague, he sure knows how to kiss you to euphoria.
your senses are so overloaded that you grip onto the open fabric of rayne's white dress shirt to keep you up. it effectively pulls him closer, making him groan. you lightly trail your nails down the exposed skin of his chest. you feel the visionary shiver before you, and you know that he's putty in your hands. you continue that path down, feeling the faint outline of his abs through his shirt.
rayne pulls away only to continue burning hot kisses down your neck and onto your collarbone. he nips and sucks on your skin, and you know that it's sure to leave marks, but in the moment, you can't help but whine his name. you let him have his fun until the feeling of missing his lips on yours is overbearing.
you force rayne up by his chin, and he almost looks disappointed. you smirk once you notice the smearing of lipstick on his face and the uneven rhythm of his breathing.
"what a mess you are." you tease, toying with rayne's bottom lip with your thumb.
"do you really have to do this right now?" rayne complains lightheartedly, all while placing kisses onto the inside of your palm, making you giggle.
"always." you wink, and your hands wander back down to his chest. "kiss me?"
rayne cups one half of your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "always." he replies, diving into the addiction that is you once more.
I'm a HUGE fan of your work, I love your Bllk stuff the most, they're all little sillies 🥹
(If you haven't done this already) Could I request Bllk boys having a girlfriend, but nobody believes them? The other guys are so skeptical until they meet her one day and they are in awe of how hot their girlfriend is 😭😭🙏. I see this most with Bachira honestly lol, but anyone you think could fit this would be cool! Oneshot format or anything you feel like doing thank you :))))
(Also happy bday to Bachira today!!! 🐬🐝)
“𝐧𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐇𝐄 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐄𝐑”
a/n: i enjoyed making this one LMAO
you COOKED with this request! also happy belated birthday bachira (i wrote for his b-day already)!!
when isagi first tells the guys he has a girlfriend, nobody believes him. like not even a single soul.
bachira actually pats him on the shoulder like, “it’s okay, bro. we all get lonely.”
nagi squints and goes, “girlfriends are DLC content you have to pay for. no way you bought that.”
he tries to prove it by saying “i can show you pictures!” but then they’re all like “that’s just a pinterest girl, yoichi.”
poor guy nearly rips his hair out trying to convince them. like hello??? he’s not making you up.
the day they finally meet you, you show up at practice to drop off his lunch and suddenly the entire locker room goes silent.
bachira literally gasps so loud it echoes. reo whispers “she’s hotter than every instagram model i’ve ever seen” and kaiser’s just glaring like he lost some competition.
isagi just smugly puts his arm around you like “see? i told you.” the grin on his face could power a small city.
now everyone’s asking HIM how tf he managed to pull someone like you. he eats up the validation shamelessly.
itoshi rin
rin does not talk about his personal life, so when he casually drops “my girlfriend said–” in conversation, the whole room freezes.
otoya is like: “sorry, your WHAT???”
nobody believes him because they think he’s too anti-social and scary to have one. like how did he even ask you out? grunted at you until you said yes?
karasu bets money you’re an imaginary coping mechanism.
the day you come to pick him up, everyone watches in shock as rin walks up to the hottest person alive (aka you) and you actually smile at him. not only that – you kiss his cheek, and he doesn’t combust on the spot.
the team basically short circuits. nagi mutters “unfair. that should be illegal.” shidou screams “NO FUCKING WAY” loud enough to scare birds out of trees.
rin notices all the stares and deadpans, “what are you idiots staring at? never seen a girlfriend before?” before walking off with you like the most smug bastard alive.
he will never let them live it down.
itoshi sae
sae doesn’t even bother telling anyone because he knows they won’t believe him.
eventually, someone overhears him on the phone saying “yeah, i’ll pick you up later” in a softer voice and the gossip begins.
everyone’s like “sae?? having a girlfriend?? impossible. he doesn’t even like people.”
sae shrugs it off, but the boys are so invested they start spreading conspiracies. shidou swears she must be a hologram. reo says maybe it’s just a fan he’s stringing along.
then you appear at one of his games, wearing his jersey, and the camera catches you on the big screen cheering. the internet instantly goes crazy.
backstage, the team sees you waiting for him and you’re drop-dead gorgeous. like movie-star levels.
bachira literally drops his water bottle, nagi whispers “i think my system just crashed,” and luna tries flirting with you until sae stares him down like he’s ready to murder him.
sae just smirks with his arm around you like, “jealous?”
nagi seishiro
nagi, who spends most of his life glued to his phone, randomly says “my girlfriend told me to stop gaming past 3 AM” and everyone thinks he’s trolling.
reo’s the only one who half-believes him, but even he’s skeptical.
bachira straight up laughs in his face like “you?? girlfriend??? bro, you barely get out of bed.”
then one day, you show up to bring him snacks. the room goes dead silent.
you’re insanely attractive, you’re carrying nagi’s favorite limited-edition snacks, and you call him “sei” with the sweetest smile.
everyone’s brains collectively crash.
nagi just lazily wraps an arm around you and goes, “told you i wasn’t lying. she’s real.”
reo is proud, but also like… how did nagi of all people beat him to it???
otoya jokes about stealing you, and nagi instantly perks up, staring daggers like “don’t.”
mikage reo
reo doesn’t shut up about having a girlfriend, so naturally everyone assumes he’s just bluffing.
they think he’s exaggerating or trying to flex, like yeah sure, mr. billionaire, of course you have a supermodel gf.
he goes on and on about how amazing you are, how kind, how pretty, how you light up his whole life–
… and the guys are like “man, he’s reading wattpad again.”
the day they actually meet you, jaws literally hit the floor. you’re beyond stunning, and on top of that, you’re actually so down-to-earth and sweet.
you call him “reo baby” in front of everyone, and he lights up like the sun.
the entire team is gobsmacked. karasu leans over to nagi like, “wtf, how’d he pull this off?” nagi just mutters “money glitch.”
reo just beams, fully basking in their envy.
shidou ryusei
when shidou says he has a girlfriend, literally everyone’s like “shut up.”
they assume he scared some poor girl into hanging out with him once and now he thinks it’s official.
he’s like “nahhh, she’s real and she’s hot as fuck,” and everyone just waves him off.
then the day you show up, you’re drop-dead gorgeous, sweet, and clearly into him. like… what alternate universe did this happen in???
everyone’s brains malfunction. chigiri whispers, “she must not know he’s insane.”
but then you laugh at one of shidou’s feral jokes and kiss him on the cheek, proving you’re not only real, you actually like him.
the team is collectively horrified, but also impressed. igaguri mutters “i need to rethink my life choices.”
shidou just grins like the cat who got the cream, smug as hell.
karasu tabito
karasu claims he has a girlfriend, and everyone immediately assumes it’s one of his dumb jokes.
otoya’s like “bro, you can’t just keep lying for attention.”
he tries showing them screenshots of your texts, but they all accuse him of using a fake number generator app.
“she’s real, ya idiots. just wait.”
when they finally meet you, you’re absurdly hot. like cover-model hot. the room goes silent when you walk in.
you casually hug karasu from behind and call him “babe,” and he smirks at the team like a villain who just won.
otoya screams “NO WAY” and reevaluates his entire existence.
karasu just leans back, hands behind his head, and goes “told ya.” he will hold this over everyone’s heads forever.
kaiser michael
kaiser announces he has a girlfriend like it’s breaking news: “gentlemen, the king has found his queen.”
everyone instantly rolls their eyes. ness is the only one who believes him, because he believes anything kaiser says. everyone else is like, “no way a girl voluntarily dates you.”
he brags about you constantly – your beauty, your brains, how you “chose him over literally anyone else.” nobody buys it. isagi even says “bro, that sounds like a side quest you made up.”
then one day you show up at the stadium, absolutely stunning, effortlessly chic, and looking like you stepped out of a runway catalog.
kaiser smirks so smugly it’s unbearable. he wraps his arm around you and kisses your temple like “told you. the emperor only takes the finest.”
after that, the team is constantly side-eying you like, “are you okay? blink twice if he’s holding you hostage.”
otoya eita
when otoya says he has a girlfriend, the team laughs so hard they nearly choke.
“sure you do, buddy.”
“is she from canada, by chance?”
karasu flat-out says, “there’s no way a girl willingly dates you, you clown.”
otoya keeps insisting you’re real, but everyone knows he’s a flirt and a womanizer, so they assume he’s exaggerating. like, maybe he kissed a girl once and is now calling her his girlfriend.
then you show up. and you’re not only real, you’re hotter than anyone in the room has ever seen.
you kiss otoya hello, call him “baby,” and laugh at one of his dumb flirty lines like you actually find him funny.
jaws hit the floor. nagi mutters “reality just glitched.” yukimiya is personally offended.
otoya? absolutely basking in the chaos. he’s strutting around like he just won the champions league.
aiku oliver
oliver claiming he has a girlfriend is like the boy who cried wolf. everyone knows he flirts with anything that breathes, so when he says “nah, i’ve actually got a serious girlfriend,” they all burst out laughing.
“bro, the only relationship you’re in is with red flags.”
niko actually bets money he’s lying.
when you finally show up at practice, it’s like time stops. you’re jaw-droppingly gorgeous, elegant, and clearly way out of his league.
you casually hug his arm and kiss his cheek, and everyone’s entire worldview shatters.
the locker room is in chaos:
“no fcking way.”
“how?? HOW??”
“she could do so much better.”
oliver just shrugs with the smuggest smile ever, like, “guess i’m just that guy.”
now the others are forever haunted by the knowledge that oliver oliver, resident playboy, actually managed to pull the hottest girl alive.
bachira meguru
bachira randomly blurts out “my girlfriend does that, too” in the middle of practice and everyone stops like… girlfriend?
they all think he’s joking. isagi squints and goes “bro, don’t lie.” rin mutters “no one would date you, freak” (affectionately… kind of).
bachira just smiles all mischievous and is like, “you’ll seeee~”
the guys are convinced he means his soccer ball or one of his monster hallucinations. reo even says “yeah sure, your girlfriend’s name is ‘soccer’ huh?”
then one day, you come to surprise him. you’re absolutely gorgeous, sweet, and so patient with his hyper energy – it’s like you were tailor-made for him.
everyone’s jaws are on the floor. shidou screams “NO WAY THE BUG-EYED GREMLIN PULLED THAT.”
bachira beams, wraps his arms around you, and goes “see? she’s real and she’s mineee!” while grinning like a cat who stole the cream.
he finds everyone’s shock hilarious. like, he’ll bring you around just to watch them short-circuit all over again.
synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ nanami watches you save your baby girl three times with unreal mom reflexes—and realizes nothing turns him on more than you being fiercely protective and unstoppable.
tags/warnings ⋆·˚ ༘ * domestic fluff, light smut at the end, nanami being obsessed with you, you’re a mom with elite reflexes, baby girl oc, you’re a cool mom, did i mention nanami neing obsessed?
tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ this has been in my drafts for sooooo long i finally finished this gahhh
the first time it happens, nanami thinks it’s a fluke.
the kind of lucky, last-second save that happens once in a blue moon—an accident narrowly avoided, a parent’s miracle reflexes kicking in when it matters most. that’s what he tells himself, anyway.
you’re both in the living room, late afternoon sunlight pooling gold across the rug. the windows are open. the breeze carries in the faint sound of birds, neighbors, distant traffic. soft, peaceful.
nanami’s sitting on the floor in his slacks and button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a stack of plush alphabet blocks scattered around him in a mess that your daughter gleefully adds to with each swipe of her tiny hands. every time he builds a tower, she knocks it over with a squeal, then claps like she just cured cancer. he doesn’t mind. in fact, he thinks she’s brilliant for it.
you’re nearby on the couch in joggers and an old t-shirt that used to be his, folding laundry—knee propped under a basket, hands moving smoothly from shirt to towel to sock. your hair’s up, a little messy from your morning walk with the stroller. your skin’s glowing faintly from the shower you took an hour ago, smelling like warm cotton and your usual lotion.
he’s just about to comment on how cute your daughter looks with a onesie snapped crooked over one thigh when he notices her move.
not the usual clumsy crawl or handsy sway— this is a determined kind of wobble. toy clenched in one fist, two teething fingers jammed in her mouth, she toddles forward with dangerous purpose. right toward the sharp edge of the coffee table. head-first. eye-level with the corner.
he sees it too late.
“watch her—” he starts, voice already climbing, panic seizing his chest—
but you’re already up, dropping the towel mid-fold. you move—and nanami’s breath catches.
he’s never seen you move like this before. not outside of a training mat, not since your jujutsu days. it’s not the clumsy lurch of a panicked parent. it’s precision. you barely even rise from the couch—you launch off it, one foot bracing against the cushion for balance, your whole body twisting and reaching over the armrest in a single fluid motion.
your fingers wrap around her wrist just as her body tips too far forward. her little knees buckle, her toes drag, and she’s suddenly airborne—but you’ve already caught her. enough to anchor her, to turn her fall into a small swing backward, and then you scoop her up in one smooth, practiced motion like you’ve done it a thousand times.
there’s a beat of silence.
nanami’s still frozen on the floor. half-risen, heart pounding against his ribs, hand outstretched like he was going to do something—like he could’ve—but now? now, he’s useless.
your daughter blinks, only mildly disturbed by the abrupt change in altitude. she makes a soft noise, not quite a cry, more surprised than scared. you murmur something, soft and silly, a nonsense voice just for her, brushing her cheek with your knuckles. you press a kiss to her forehead and cradle her on your hip like it’s just another tuesday.
nanami stares.
he sees it now, clearer than ever. the former sorcerer in you—the deadly one, the lightning-quick one who moved like death itself when it came to the people you loved. the instincts you never unlearned. the ones that came alive the moment your baby girl was in danger.
you glance down at him.
“what?” you ask, casual, almost amused. “why are you looking at me like that?”
he blinks. his voice comes out hoarse. “nothing.”
you adjust your grip on her, shifting her weight against your side, and go back to folding laundry one-handed and he thinks in the back of his mind that you must be a goddess.
but nanami is still on the floor. and his pants are suddenly too tight. he swallows thickly, loosens his tie, and hopes to god you don’t notice his undeniably flushed face.
. . . the second time happens a week later at the grocery store.
it’s a sunday. overcast but warm. the kind of afternoon where the world feels like it’s holding its breath before rain. the parking lot is half-full, cars humming past, the sun occasionally breaking through the clouds in gold streaks. you’re pushing the cart with one hand, guiding it gently along the painted crosswalk lines while your other hand rests by your hip, absentminded and graceful like always.
nanami’s walking beside you with the list folded neatly in his hand, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes scanning through your scribbled handwriting for dinner ingredients. he’s relaxed, content. he loves doing errands with you like this. he loves seeing you like this—humming under your breath with your little girl in front of you, chewing on a rubber strawberry and kicking her feet.
she’s strapped into the child seat of the shopping cart, cheeks flushed, hair tied up in two tiny pigtails, a plastic butterfly clip perched like a crown at the top of her head. every few feet, the cart jostles and the clip bounces with her. she babbles to herself, pointing at birds and bugs and shapes only she can see.
everything feels safe. until it’s not.
nanami sees the moment in pieces. first: the butterfly clip coming loose, wobbling out of her fine hair with a single bounce. second: it falls—spinning once in the air, catching the light—before landing on the asphalt beside the moving cart. third: her reaction.
she naturally reaches for it, the way only their child would—boldly, without fear, with reckless intent and zero concern for gravity. her body tips forward and nanami’s heart seizes.
for a split second, all he can see is her falling—face-first, head-first, her soft skull hitting pavement, the sharp crack of bone on ground—
your hand snaps out like a striking snake, faster than he can blink. one hand grabs her ankle, the other wraps around her tiny belly in the same second, yanking her back with precision that doesn’t jostle her, doesn’t hurt her, doesn’t even scare her.
she lands squarely back in her seat like she never even left it.
it’s not just instinct. it’s skill. it’s the kind of movement you don’t learn unless you’ve spent years reacting to life-or-death decisions at impossible speeds. it’s not natural—it’s trained. and god, it’s terrifyingly beautiful.
“you okay, baby?” you murmur, calm as anything, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear like she didn’t almost swan dive into concrete. “you dropped your clip, didn’t you? my silly girl.”
your voice is light, sweet. steady in a way that tells nanami you aren’t shaken, not even a little. you reach into your bag, pull out a backup clip (because of course you have one), and re-fasten it in her hair with a little flourish.
she giggles, unharmed and unbothered.
nanami, however, is not.
he’s standing beside you, frozen, breathing shallowly. the list is still in his hand, half-folded, now crumpling between his fingers.
he’s sweating. from the image of what could have happened. from how fast you moved. from how fucking graceful it was. you didn’t flinch. didn’t shout. didn’t even look surprised, you just acted.
you glance over at him, brushing a smudge of dust off your daughter’s chubby knee. “you saw that, right?”
your tone is light. amused, almost. but your brow lifts just slightly, like you’re looking for something in his expression. confirmation, maybe. validation.
“that was, like, some neo-in-the-matrix level shit,” you add with a little grin, as you nudge the cart forward again like the world hasn’t just ended and restarted in nanami’s chest.
he stares at you for a moment.
and then says, hoarsely, “yes. i saw.”
he saw your fingers curl around their daughter like a safety net woven by gods. he saw your arms move with terrifying ease, your eyes calm, your mouth soft with reassurance even as adrenaline must’ve pumped through your veins. he saw the mother in you—the protector, the beast, the soldier.
and now? he’s hard.
he doesn’t say a word as he walks beside you in silence: he’s turned on, painfully so.
he grips the shopping cart handle tighter, helps you put the bags into the trunk and listens to you chatter about wine pairings and ask if he wants chicken or tofu tonight—because he can’t speak. his voice will give him away. so will his hands. because all he wants to do is press you against the back of the car when you unload the groceries. or the kitchen counter when you unpack. or the floor of the laundry room when the baby’s finally asleep.
he wants to get on his knees and thank you, he wants to kiss your hands, your stomach, your throat. he wants to worship the sharpness in you, the strength you keep hidden under baggy shirts and gentle smiles.
because you’re not just sexy when you’re soft and maternal, you’re sexy when you’re lethal. when your body moves before your mind even catches up. when you don’t hesitate.
when you prove—again and again—that no one will ever protect their baby like you do.
and he’s so, so ruined for you.
. . . the third time? he proposes again.
you’re in the kitchen. the sun’s low in the windows, casting honey-colored light across the tile. dinner simmers on the stove—vegetables and chicken soaking in a bubbling curry that nanami’s stirring with practiced hands, scenting the whole room in ginger and garlic and cumin. you’re barefoot, in an oversized shirt and a messy bun, standing on your tiptoes to reach the top cabinet for a jar of rice.
your daughter—your bright, babbling, chubby-cheeked daughter—is strapped into her high chair at the edge of the kitchen island, happily occupying herself with soft banana slices and cereal puffs. she’s got a spoon in one hand and the other is smeared in fruit. her giggles bounce off the walls like music.
nanami doesn’t even catch the exact sequence—just a blur, really. one second, he hears the soft clink of the spoon falling to the floor. the next, he sees your daughter leaning forward to follow it, tiny body wriggling past the tray’s edge.
and the chair rocks, a sickening scrape of plastic on tile. nanami’s heart stops.
“baby—!”
he turns, so fast the spoon in his hand sends curry flying across the counter. a streak of golden sauce lands on his shirt, but he doesn’t even notice it. his eyes are locked on the high chair, on the tilt, on her—her little arms reaching, her center of gravity slipping, tipping—
but he’s too slow because you’re already there.
you lunge across the kitchen with a noise in your throat he’s never heard from you before—raw, protective, almost feral—and your hand slams down on the top edge of the tray just as the chair begins to fall. your other hand wraps around the back like a vice. one clean motion, all power and grace, like a fucking panther, and you plant it back on all four legs before your daughter even realizes she was in danger.
the tray rattles. the chair rocks once, twice, then settles.
there’s silence.
you exhale, breath shuddering out. your hand lingers on the tray. your eyes flick over your daughter’s face—checking, re-checking, making sure she’s fine.
she looks up at you, completely unbothered, and giggles. her spoon is on the floor. she claps her sticky hands, wanting it back.
you huff, brushing hair from your eyes. “okay,” you murmur, half to yourself. “maybe we shouldn’t put her near the counter anymore.”
nanami doesn’t say anything.
he’s still standing by the stove. the curry’s starting to burn, but he doesn’t even smell it. his chest is tight. his heart is pounding in his ears. he’s looking at you like he’s never seen anything more terrifyingly beautiful in his life.
“kento?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder, brows furrowed.
he doesn’t speak, just turns off the stove and moves toward you slowly, quietly, like you’re something sacred. his chest aches.
you see him and go still.
“are you okay?” you ask, voice soft, brushing fruit juice from your daughter’s cheek with a paper towel. “she’s fine. i got her.”
he reaches you. doesn’t say anything yet—just lifts his hand and brushes a strand of hair from your face. then kisses your temple, your cheek. the corner of your jaw. not urgent, just full full of something he can’t say out loud or he’ll start crying right here in the kitchen.
you blink, smiling, confused. “kento. what’re you doing?”
his hand finds the back of your neck and he leans in, voice low and rough, right against your ear.
“you’re incredible.”
your breath catches.
you turn to look at him, and his eyes—god, they’re so full. soft and sharp all at once. you’ve never seen him look at you like that. like he wants to fall to his knees and beg the universe to never take you from him.
he says it again. firmer this time, a little raspier.
“incredible.”
you kiss him—slow, a little surprised—and nanami just melts into it. his hand slides to your waist, gripping tighter than usual, like he needs to anchor himself.
you feel it—his hardness against your hip, his breathing going shallow. you break the kiss and raise your brows, amused.
“oh my god,” you murmur. “is this turning you on?”
he looks at you like you’ve asked if the sky is blue. “you just flew across the kitchen and caught a tipping chair midair with my little girl in it. yes, it’s turning me on.”
you laugh softly. “you’re sick.”
he leans closer again, his mouth brushing your jaw. “no. i’m in love. and my wife is a goddamn superhero.”
you hum, eyes fluttering.
his mouth finds yours again—more urgent now. a thank-you. a worship. his hands press up under your shirt, touch reverent and seeking, like he can’t believe you’re real.
your daughter babbles in her chair. neither of you hear. he kisses your chest. your sternum. rests his forehead between your breasts and exhales like he’s relieved you exist.
his voice breaks a little when he says it, but it comes out anyway,
“marry me.”
you chuckle, tugging on his hair, “kento!”
he presses a kiss over your heart, hiding the smile blooming on hid lips. “i mean it.”
because nothing on this earth makes sense to him anymore unless it has you in it—strong, fast, maternal, feral when it counts. you make safety look like instinct. you make love feel like power. and there is nothing more devastatingly sexy in the world.
—
he takes you to bed that night after your daughter’s asleep, the quiet of the apartment wrapping around you both like a soft blanket. the moonlight filters through the curtains, casting gentle silver patterns across your skin. nanami’s hands are warm and steady as they cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. his eyes, dark and serious, flicker with a mixture of awe and something deeper — worship, reverence.
slow, deep, unhurried. every movement is deliberate, as he trails kisses along your collarbone, down to your sternum, each one softer than the other, as if he’s worshiping the fierce love that moves through you. he’s still thinking about how you didn’t even flinch when danger came for your baby—how your instincts kicked in with perfect, terrifying precision, how your body moved like lightning without hesitation, fueled by nothing but pure, raw love and fierce protectiveness. the memory of it makes his heart race all over again.
you moan softly beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. your thighs circle his waist, grounding him, reminding him that he’s here, with you, safe and wanted. nanami’s lips press into your skin, his breath hot against your chest as he whispers, “you’re so good, so fucking beautiful.”
the words wrap around you like a balm. you whimper, overwhelmed by the way he sees you—not just as his lover but as a mother, a warrior, a woman who’s breathtaking in every way. he smiles, that rare, gentle smile that melts the edges of his usually stoic expression.
when you come every fiber of your being is trembling, shaking beneath him. your fingers clutch at his shoulders, desperate and needy, as if holding on to him will keep you tethered to the moment forever. nanami’s hands move to steady your hips, his voice low and husky as he thinks—
summary. Gojo Satoru’s used to getting everything he wants—until his company hires you, the shy assistant who’s all glitter, gloss and charm. But the more he tries to stay professional, the harder it gets… in more ways than one.
word count. 9.3k (not 10k wow)
content. mdni fem!bimbo! reader, ceo! gojo, gojo crashing out for multiple reasons, down bad simp gojo, heavy tension, teasing, jealousy, pet names, smut, multiple scenes, fingering, oral (m and f rec.), p in v, office sex, desk sex, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare
author's note. inspired by this by my leslover @cairoverse i'm sorry this took so long ml </3
The wine’s expensive, but not because he’s trying to impress her.
He just likes the taste.
The restaurant is sleek, candlelit, with soft jazz humming in the background. It’s the kind of place that whispers luxury, not screams it — understated elegance, a lot like his watch. Or his suit. Or the car he pulled up in.
The girl across from him is… nice. Pretty in that polished, social-media kind of way. Knows which fork to use, laughs at the right moments, has a thousand-watt smile and legs he noticed the second she slid into the booth.
For the first time in a long time, Gojo thinks: maybe.
Maybe this could go somewhere.
She sips her wine, sets the glass down, and leans in just enough for the scent of vanilla to drift his way. Her voice is smooth, easy. “So, what’s it like, running an empire?”
He smiles, a little self-deprecating. “Exhausting.”
She laughs. “Bet it pays well, though.”
A harmless joke, maybe. But something cold flickers at the edge of his ribs.
He hums, brushing it off.
But then she tilts her head, lashes fluttering just so. “I mean… you must be, like, what? Eight figures? Nine?”
There it is.
His smile doesn’t falter, but something in his chest withers.
He takes a slow sip of his wine. Lets the silence stretch for a beat too long.
Eight figures. Nine.
She’s still looking at him, expectant. Playful.
He should be used to this by now. Hell, he is. But it still stings. Every damn time.
“I stopped counting,” he says lightly, setting his glass down.
She laughs again, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “That’s such a rich guy answer.”
And just like that, the candlelight feels too warm, the wine too bitter. The space between them grows miles wide.
Gojo leans back in his seat, fingers drumming lightly on the tablecloth. He already knows there won’t be a second date. No nightcap. No exchanged texts or cheeky goodnights.
And when he finally slips into the backseat of his car an hour later, staring blankly out the tinted window at the blur of city lights, a single thought loops in his head like a broken record:
Maybe this just isn’t in the cards for me.
Not the connection. Not the late-night calls. Not the stupid domestic shit he secretly wants — tangled legs on a couch, coffee in chipped mugs, someone who sees him.
He huffs a soft laugh, more bitter than amused.
Gojo Satoru has everything.
And somehow, he feels like he has nothing.
-
“What did you just say?”
Gojo doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The sheer weight behind the words is enough to make the room still.
Nanami adjusts his glasses, like he hasn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb in the middle of Gojo’s morning.
“The quarterly reports,” he repeats flatly, “were emailed to Zenin Holdings.”
A pause.
“And the Osaka merger documents,” he adds. “Along with internal notes referring to their CEO as—” he consults his tablet, “—‘an off-brand Ken doll.’”
Gojo presses a hand to his temple, like he’s physically holding in the migraine.
“Who?” he grits out.
Nanami doesn’t blink. “The new recruit.”
Another silence stretches.
Then Gojo lowers his hand. “Bring them to my office.”
Nanami nods once, and without another word, leaves the room.
-
You’re not sure why you were summoned.
You clutch your little pastel folder to your chest like it might protect you, knees squeezed together as you sit—perch, really—on the plush chair outside the glass doors of the executive office.
The receptionist gave you a look. You’re not sure what kind of look. It felt kind of judge-y. Or maybe pitying?
Then, the doors open.
“You can go in,” Nanami says, voice flat as ever.
You blink up at him, eyes wide. “Oh! Okay. Um. Am I—” You pause, then smile nervously. “Am I in trouble?”
He doesn’t answer.
That’s fine. Totally fine.
You step into the office with careful little steps, the kind of walk that says please don’t fire me before I finish paying off my student loans.
Inside, the man behind the desk looks up.
White hair. Stupidly pretty face. Cerulean eyes that flick over you like you’re a puzzle that somehow assembled itself upside-down.
He’s not smiling.
You don’t meet his eyes—not for more than a second—just dip your head as you approach his desk.
“I—um. I was told to… to report here?”
Your voice is so quiet he almost misses it.
He leans back in his chair, elbow on the armrest, thumb brushing his jaw. “You’re the new recruit?”
You nod once, too fast. “Y-Yes. I mean, I think so. That’s what Mr. Nanami said, at least. He said—um, he said this is my new position now.”
You step fully into the office, holding a pink folder like it might bite you. You’re wearing a cream sweater that looks two sizes too soft and a plaid skirt that’s about four inches too short for HR standards. Your ID badge is flipped backward. Your heels click awkwardly against the tile.
And he suddenly understands how people end up doing very, very stupid things for women.
You stand there, shifting your weight from one heel to the other, clutching your folder like it’s a lifeline.
“And you are…?”
You whisper your name so faintly he has to repeat it aloud just to be sure.
“Right.” He pauses. “Well, take a seat.”
You hesitate for a second too long before perching on the very edge of the chair across from him—back stiff, eyes focused on the edge of his desk.
Gojo leans back in his chair. He’s quiet for a beat too long.
Then “So,” he says, tone deceptively mild. “Tell me. Why did Zenin Holdings get our quarterly reports?”
You freeze.
“I—I didn’t know they weren’t supposed to?” you offer, blinking up at him.
He blinks back. Slowly.
You chew your lip in thought. “They were in the CC list… and I thought that meant they were part of the, um… quarterly club?”
“The what.”
“The quarterly club?” you repeat, voice smaller now. “Y’know. People who… get quarter stuff.”
You trail off, wilting under the weight of his silence.
Gojo stares at you. Hard. Trying—trying—to remember that you are a human being. With feelings. With softness. With a little clip shaped like a bunny holding back your hair. His eye twitches.
“And the Osaka merger notes?” he asks slowly, enunciating each word like it might hurt.
Your expression brightens slightly, like you've just remembered something important. “Oh! Yeah, I added a couple of personal notes to that file! Like, color commentary. For context.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Color commentary.”
He almost sighs. This is who HR sent? The one who forwarded classified financial statements to a competitor because their logo “looked kind of familiar”?
But then you shift slightly, fidgeting with the hem of your skirt, and he catches a glimpse of that anxious expression. The way you bite the inside of your cheek. Like you're waiting to be yelled at. Like you already know you’ve messed up and can’t even figure out how to explain yourself.
And, god help him, something about that makes his chest ache.
Gojo closes his eyes briefly. He’s going to need to do breathing exercises. Maybe call Shoko and have her prescribe something illegal.
You smile again. It’s like watching sunlight struggle through a stormcloud. “Was that bad?”
He exhales.
He should fire you. Realistically, that’s the correct response. A sane man would do it.
But when he opens his eyes, you're still standing there—wide-eyed, a little nervous, but so terribly, painfully earnest.
And his heart does that stupid little lurch again.
“No,” he mutters finally. “Not bad.”
You brighten instantly. “Oh, yay! I was worried—”
“But,” he cuts in, holding up a hand, “you’re going to be working directly under me from now on.”
Your brows lift. “Really? Oh my gosh, that sounds so fancy!”
“It’s not,” he lies smoothly.
He’s already planning which desk you’ll sit at in his office. Already making a mental note to have HR triple-check your email access. Already dreading what happens when you accidentally reply-all to a company-wide memo.
You give a delighted little bounce, clearly thrilled by the promotion.
Gojo’s not even mad anymore.
He’s confused. He’s concerned. He’s possibly having a stroke.
And he’s completely, utterly fucked.
-
It starts with the printer.
You stand in front of it for ten minutes straight, staring like it personally wronged you. Gojo passes by, slows, then stops entirely when he sees you poking the touchscreen with a single perfectly-manicured finger.
“…Need help?”
You turn, lip caught between your teeth. “I think it’s jammed.”
He crouches down, opens the tray, and immediately pulls out a crumpled sheet that’s very clearly been inserted upside down.
“Oh,” you murmur, eyes wide with awe. “You’re so smart.”
He straightens slowly. “Right.”
Then there’s the time he catches you on your way to send a very important file.
You wave at him, cheerful. “Hi, Mr. Gojo! I’m going to fax that thing you said.”
“Email,” he corrects gently, already bracing himself.
“Oh—right! Email. I meant that.”
(You did not.)
Still, when you do manage to send the right file—to the correct company this time—he gives you an exaggerated look of impressed approval.
“Nice job,” he says. “Look at you.”
You beam. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he says, completely serious. “You’re crushing it.”
He swears your cheeks actually flush. Like you’re the one who just got complimented for launching a satellite into orbit instead of… attaching a PDF.
Another time, he asks you to bring him a hard copy of the quarterly budget report.
You come back ten minutes later with a full-color printout of a Pinterest banana bread recipe.
You fidget when he just blinks down at the paper, eyes wide. “I, um… I might’ve labeled it wrong on my desktop.”
He hands it back. “Looks delicious.”
Despite everything—everything—he just can’t seem to get frustrated with you. Your voice is always soft when you speak to him, full of tentative politeness like you’re worried he might bite (he won’t—unless asked). You apologize earnestly for every tiny mistake, so genuinely mortified each time that he ends up reassuring you.
And when you do get something right—God help him—he reacts like you’ve cured polio.
“That’s perfect,” he tells you one afternoon, glancing at a neatly stapled stack of documents you’ve triple-checked for typos. “You nailed it.”
You blink up at him, mouth parted just a little. “…Really?”
“Mmhm. Proud of you.”
You go quiet. Blush furiously. Practically flee the room.
Gojo grins at the door after it clicks shut behind you.
He’s doomed.
Absolutely doomed.
-
“Do you need to stand there like that?” the exec snaps, arms crossed. “That machine isn’t rocket science.”
You blink, startled. “O-oh… I’m just— I’m trying to find the—um, the collate button?”
“It’s literally right there,” he scoffs, jabbing a finger at the screen. “God, how did you even get hired?”
You flinch like you’ve been struck. Eyes down, voice small. “I—I’m sorry…”
And that’s exactly when Gojo shows up.
You don’t even see him coming. One second the air is stiff with tension, the next it’s cut clean by the sound of his voice—smooth, pleasant, deceptively light:
“Everything okay over here?”
The exec stiffens. “Sir. I was just—”
“I saw,” Gojo says simply, stepping in beside you. He doesn’t even look at the guy—his gaze is already on you, sharp and assessing.
“You alright?”
You nod quickly. “Mhm. Sorry. I was just confused—”
“No need to apologize,” he says, almost too softly. “That’s what training is for.”
Then he finally looks up—at the exec—and there’s something in his eyes that wipes the smug off the latter’s face immediately.
“Unless,” he adds with a tilted smile, “you’re suggesting I made a mistake hiring her?”
Silence.
The exec stammers. “Of course not, sir. I—”
“Good,” Gojo says. “Then don’t talk to her like that again.”
The exec makes a quick, flustered exit. Gojo turns back to you, and his whole demeanor changes—softening.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”
You nod again, a little stunned. “…I didn’t mean to make trouble.”
“You didn’t,” he assures you. “Some people just forget how to be decent.”
And then—because you’re fidgeting and biting your lip and looking far too much like you’re going to cry—he gently takes the stack of papers from your arms.
“C’mere,” he says. “I’ll help you.”
You trail after him, still pink in the cheeks, still utterly confused by the way his hand just barely grazes the small of your back as he guides you to his office.
(You don’t know it yet, but Gojo has already scheduled a little "chat" with HR.)
-
He checks his watch for the third time that morning.
9:47 AM.
You were supposed to be here by 9:00.
Gojo exhales, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair, irritation simmering just beneath his skin. Meetings have been pushed, calls delayed. He’s not even sure why he’s this impatient—he has other assistants, more capable ones at that. But none of them stumble into his office with sleepy eyes and whispered apologies like you do.
And like clockwork, the door swings open with a quiet creak.
You enter in a flurry—breathless, hair slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed with panic. The top two buttons of your blouse are undone, likely forgotten in the rush, and your skirt is just slightly askew. Your chest rises and falls in frantic rhythm, lips parted as you gasp, “I’m so, so sorry I’m late—”
Satoru turns in his chair, ready to scold. Ready to lecture you into next week.
But the words die in his throat.
His gaze drops.
The loose fabric of your blouse shifts with each heavy breath, revealing just enough skin to make his jaw tighten. The delicate slope of your collarbone, the curve of your breasts pressing faintly against the silk. One deep breath away from completely derailing his morning.
You don’t notice the way his posture stiffens. Or the way his grip on the armrest turns white-knuckled.
He stands slowly.
Silent.
You freeze when he starts walking toward you, every step measured. His voice, when it comes, is quieter than you expect. Lower.
“Why are you late?”
You blink up at him, confused by the shift in tone. The air around him feels… heavier somehow. You fidget, your voice soft, guilty. “I—I overslept. My alarm didn’t go off and then the train was late and I didn’t mean to—”
He stops in front of you, towering over you. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—warm, expensive, intoxicating.
You glance up nervously, throat bobbing.
“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper again, lips trembling in the tiniest pout. You’re not even aware of how you sound, how you look. Not aware of the storm building behind his gaze.
And that is the worst part.
Because you don’t know what you’re doing to him.
You never do.
Gojo inhales sharply, jaw clenched. He watches the way your fingers twist in the hem of your cardigan like you’re expecting to be punished.
But instead of snapping, instead of chastising you like he knows he should, he closes his eyes for a second, forcing down the heat licking at his spine.
“...Don’t let it happen again,” he says at last, voice hoarse.
You nod quickly—eager to please, still breathless, completely unaware that he’s already running through several very unprofessional thoughts involving those undone buttons and his desk.
He turns away before he can say something stupid. Or worse—do something worse.
“Go grab your coffee,” he mutters. “You’ll need it.”
Because he sure as hell does.
-
Gojo thinks he’s composed. Polished. Unshakeable. He built an empire from the ground up, commands boardrooms with a single glance, and has executives stuttering when they see his name on a meeting invite. And yet—you.
You waltz into his office in pink heels, with a notepad that’s more doodles than notes and a voice so breathy it makes his vision blur. You don’t even mean to drive him insane, he knows that. That’s the worst part. You’re just sweet. Oblivious. Soft in ways that make his dick ache.
Like today. You’re sitting on the edge of his desk, babbling on the phone about a nail appointment while absentmindedly reapplying your lip gloss—shiny, sticky, strawberry-scented. He watches the wand glide over your bottom lip like it's a slow-motion scene from a movie no one else gets to see. He’s staring. Unblinking. Dying.
And when you leave, heels clicking, skirt swaying, you forget the gloss. He doesn’t even hesitate. Just picks it up and rolls it between his fingers, stares at it. It smells like strawberries. You smell like strawberries. His head hits the back of his chair. He’s so fucked.
It happens again and again. You lean over his desk to show him your “cute calendar” for the month—full of glittery stickers and hearts—and your cleavage is right there. Right. There. He knocks his coffee into his lap and doesn’t even flinch. Just stares at you while it soaks through his slacks, wondering if this is how men go insane.
And then in the elevator. Five minutes. Just the two of you. You don’t even notice the silence thick with tension. You’re talking about your new lip liner. He’s clutching the railing behind him like it’s keeping him tethered to Earth. If you’d looked at him, you’d have seen the vein in his neck pulsing like a warning sign.
But nothing—nothing—compares to the time you shyly step into his office and whisper, “I finished typing the reports, sir.”
He doesn’t breathe for a full ten seconds. Just stares at you like you just moaned it instead of murmured it. Sir. Sir.
He shifts in his seat. Crosses his legs. Forces a smile. “Good,” he manages to say, voice tight.
You beam, oblivious. “Thank you, sir!”
He books a week off.
For “stress.”
-
His voice is calm. Measured. Smooth as silk over the phone speaker as he discusses quarterly projections with someone powerful on the other end. It should be just another meeting—another conversation where he dazzles and dominates, where the board eats out of the palm of his hand.
But you're sitting beside him. So it’s not just another meeting.
You’re perched on the edge of his long leather couch, notepad in hand, eyes wide and glossy with focus—or something like it. You’re wearing that tight little pastel skirt again, the one that always hikes up when you sit, riding dangerously high on your thighs. He’s not looking. He’s not. He can’t.
You chew on the tip of your pen. Take little notes in bubbly handwriting that looks more like diary scribbles than minutes. Your perfume curls around him like sugar—sweet and sticky and heavy.
He swallows thickly and forces his voice to stay even.
“Yes, I saw the numbers from Q1. I’m more concerned about the international—”
Your pen clatters to the ground.
You let out a tiny “Oops!” and bend down to retrieve it.
And he sees it.
The hem of your skirt lifts, slow and innocent. And beneath? A delicate peek of pink lace. Just a flash. Barely anything. But enough. Far too much.
His throat goes dry mid-sentence.
“—international… ah—i-interest projections,” he chokes, dragging a hand down his face like that’ll fix the heat flooding it. On the other end of the call, someone asks a question. He doesn’t hear it.
You sit back up like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just flash your lace panties in front of a man on the verge of damnation.
You turn to him with a soft, clueless smile. “Did you want me to jot that last part down, sir?”
He makes a sound. It's somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.
“…Y-Yeah,” he rasps, gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles go white. “Write it down, sweetheart.”
He ends the call early. Tells them he has a migraine.
And when you leave, swaying your hips and humming under your breath, he sits there in silence. Staring at the door.
He needs a second. Maybe a sedative. Maybe a priest.
-
The next few days are… strange.
You don’t do anything differently. Not really. You still show up on time, still take notes in pink ink and heart your i’s. Still trail after him in those little skirts and heels that click sweetly on the marble floors. But now?
Now you catch him looking.
At first, you thought it was your imagination—just a trick of the lights in his big glass-walled office. But then there was that meeting where you leaned over to grab a file from across the table, and his pen slipped right out of his hand.
The way he stared at it on the floor for a solid five seconds before muttering, “I’ll grab it later,” like it had personally wronged him.
Or how his jaw flexes every time you call him “sir.”
And maybe, maybe you're not as airheaded as everyone thinks. Maybe you notice the way his breath stutters when you get a little too close. The way his fingers twitch when yours brush his as you hand him his coffee. The way he clears his throat, sharp and low, whenever you pout a little at the copier machine and ask, “Sir, can you help me? I think I broke it again…”
He’s unraveling. Quietly, pathetically. And now you know it.
So one afternoon, when it’s just you two in the office, you decide to test a theory. You're by his desk, sorting through a stack of documents, when your pen slips from your fingers. Again.
This time, you don't rush to pick it up. This time, you bend at the waist slowly, keeping your knees straight, skirt riding up with every inch.
You hear it—barely—a sharp inhale through his teeth. The creak of leather as he shifts in his chair.
And when you straighten up, all innocent, pen in hand and a small “Got it!” on your lips, you glance back at him.
His eyes are locked on his screen. His jaw is tense. His ears are red.
“Something wrong, sir?” you ask softly.
His hand flexes on the mouse. “No,” he says, too quickly. “Just… keep working.”
You turn back around, letting a little smile play on your lips as you resume sorting. And behind you, you swear you hear him exhale like he’s been holding his breath for hours.
-
The office is quiet. Still.
It’s late—past nine—and everyone’s gone home. The usual buzz of ringing phones and fast-clicking heels has faded into silence, replaced by the distant hum of the city through the tinted glass.
You zip your purse, your reflection faint in the darkened windows, and start toward the elevators when you pass by his office.
There's a light. A thin sliver glowing beneath the heavy door.
You pause. He usually leaves before you—always gone in a blur of cologne and tailored coats, muttering about dinner meetings or conference calls. But tonight?
You don’t even think to knock. You just twist the handle gently and step inside.
He’s on the couch. Jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened. His head’s tipped back, long legs spread lazily, one arm resting across the back of the couch. But it’s his face that stops you—brows knit, lips parted slightly, tension carved into every sharp line of his expression.
“Sir?” you ask, voice soft.
His eyes snap open instantly.
He blinks once. Twice. Like he’s still anchoring himself to the present. Then he straightens slightly, clearing his throat. “You’re still here?” His voice is rough—raspy, like he hasn’t spoken in a while. Like maybe he’s been sitting there, alone in the dark, trying to exhale something that refuses to leave his chest.
“I was just leaving,” you say, stepping in hesitantly. “I saw the light. Thought something was wrong…”
His gaze drags over you, slow and unreadable. You’re still in your little work outfit—tight pencil skirt, soft pink cardigan buttoned just enough, gloss fading but still catching the light.
Something shifts behind his eyes. Not predatory, not quite. Just tired. Tightly wound. Like he's been holding his breath for days and didn't realize it until now.
You take another step in, voice gentler. “Are you okay?”
He huffs a laugh under his breath, low and humorless. “That’s a loaded question.”
You offer a tiny smile, unsure. “Can I… get you anything? Water?”
He leans back again, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. “I’m alright. Just… stressed.”
You take a small step closer. Your heels click against the floor, the sound delicate and deliberate in the thick silence of his office. “Stressed?” you echo, like it’s a foreign concept. “Is it work stuff?”
He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s always work stuff.”
You hesitate. Then, softly—“I could help you.”
His head tilts just slightly. “Help me?”
“Mhm,” you nod, all sweet sincerity. “Like, if there’s something that’d make you feel better…” You give him a soft little shrug, voice light. “I’m good at taking direction. And I always try my best. Especially for you, sir.”
It cuts to silence.
Except it isn’t really silent—just muffled. Wet sounds echo low between your bodies, broken only by the soft catch of your breath and the rougher gasps he keeps trying—and failing—to hold in.
You’re on your knees in front of him.
The carpet’s rough under your skin, but you barely notice. All your attention is on him—on the way he looks half-wrecked, head tipped up like he’s praying for strength he doesn’t have.
His shirt’s half-open, wrinkled and clinging to his chest. His tie’s slung loose around his neck. His belt is unbuckled, slacks shoved just low enough to free his cock, flushed and heavy against your tongue. You’ve got one hand wrapped gently around the base, just to keep him steady, and the rest of him is disappearing into your mouth—slow and warm and dripping with spit.
He’s so hard it hurts. His thighs are tensed under your palms, twitching every time you suck just a little deeper, every time you swirl your tongue just right. His knuckles have gone white where he’s gripping the edge of the desk behind him, and the only reason he hasn’t fucked into your throat yet is because he’s too stunned to move.
One hand’s in your hair. Not tight—barely there, fingers trembling where they tangle in your strands. Like he’s scared to hold you too hard. Like he doesn’t trust himself not to snap.
Because you look up at him with those pretty, shiny eyes—sweet and obedient, mouth stretched around his cock like it’s nothing, like you were made to take it. Every time your lips slide down, you hum like it makes you happy. Like you’re just trying to make him feel good. Like you really think this is helping.
But it’s not just good. It’s fucking devastating.
“F-fuck,” he chokes out, voice thick and raw, eyes squeezing shut like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His hips twitch and he immediately pulls back, like he’s punishing himself for even thinking about pushing deeper. “You—god, you have no idea what you’re doing to me…”
You pull back with a soft, wet pop. Your lips are swollen and slick, gloss long gone, spit clinging to your chin. And still—you look up at him like you don’t understand why he’s shaking. Why his voice is breaking. Why his jaw’s so tight.
You blink slowly, lashes fluttering. Your voice comes out light. “But… I thought I was helping, sir.”
And that’s it. That’s the moment Gojo knows he’s fucked.
Because you’re too sweet, too soft, too good—kneeling on the floor with your mouth still open like you're waiting for permission to keep going. And he doesn’t want to just ruin you.
He wants to worship you while he does it.
His whole body goes still.
Like that last sentence knocked the breath out of him. Like the sight of you—so sweet, so sincere, kneeling between his spread legs with spit on your lips—is too much.
Gojo’s chest heaves, one hand still barely resting in your hair. The other drapes uselessly over the back of the couch, knuckles twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
He looks down at you. Really looks—at your flushed cheeks, your glassy eyes, the gloss long gone from your lips. You’re still stroking him, slow and gentle, mouth parted just enough like you’re ready to take him again the second he says so.
“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he mutters, voice rough.
You tilt your head, blinking up at him. “I was just trying to make you feel better…”
And that’s what shatters him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, hand tightening slightly in your hair. Not rough. Just… grounded. Like he needs you now—needs the feel of you to keep from falling apart.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” he admits, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “This exact thing. You. On your knees. Pretty little mouth full of me. Acting like you don’t even realize what it’s doing to me.”
When he opens his eyes again, they’re glassy. Wild.
“I think about it all the time, you know? In meetings. At dinner. Late at night in my apartment—fucking my fist wishing it was you.”
Your breath hitches at that. He notices.
And when he strokes your cheek—soft, reverent, thumb brushing over your spit-slick lower lip—you don’t flinch. You just lean into it, eyes wide, mouth still open a little.
“God, baby…” he whispers. “Look at you. You don’t even realize how fucking perfect you are, do you?”
Then, low and commanding, “C’mon. Open up again for me.”
You do. Instantly. No hesitation.
He groans, head falling back against the couch cushion, hips lifting just slightly as you take him back into your mouth—slow, deliberate, deeper this time.
He’s panting now. One hand in your hair, the other gripping the couch so hard the leather creaks under his fingers.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice broken. “Just like that. Let me use your mouth, sweetheart. Let me fuckin’—” He cuts himself off with a ragged gasp when your tongue flicks along the underside of his cock just right.
He tries not to buck his hips.
Tries not to grab your head.
Tries not to lose it completely.
But it’s no use. Not when you look so soft. So obedient. So eager to take everything he gives you.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this isn’t just a one-time thing. Not after this. He’s never letting you go.
You can feel it in the way his thighs tense under your palms. In how his hand tightens just a little too much in your hair, like he’s trying not to pull you down—trying to be good.
But his self-control’s shot to hell.
You hollow your cheeks and ease forward just an inch more. His head snaps back. A long, broken moan spills out of him, and his other hand—still clinging to the edge of the couch—moves to cradle your cheek, palm shaking.
“Wait—baby, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—”
You look up at him. Eyes wide. Unfazed. Lips stretched around him, spit running down your chin. You hum softly—sweet and encouraging, like you want it.
That’s what does it.
Gojo groans deep in his chest, hips twitching once before he locks them still, his hand trembling where it cups your face. He comes hard, spilling onto your tongue, body shuddering like he’s been pulled out of orbit. And you don’t move—don’t flinch—just swallow quietly, blinking up at him like you’ve never done anything so natural in your life.
He’s panting when it’s over. Gasping like he ran a mile, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. His hand slips from your hair and drags gently down the side of your neck, tender and dazed.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re unreal.”
You pull back slowly, mouth slick, lips swollen and pink. There's still a bit of him clinging to your bottom lip—and when you wipe it away with your thumb and suck it off absentmindedly, he makes a soft, wrecked sound in the back of his throat.
“Did I help?” you ask softly, like you’re not already his religion.
And suddenly he’s moving.
In one smooth, needy motion, Gojo leans forward, grabs you under your arms, and pulls you right into his lap. The whole shift is effortless—like you weigh nothing, like you belong there. Your knees settle on either side of his thighs, your hands instinctively resting on his chest.
He’s still breathing hard. Hair messy, tie hanging askew. But his hands are steady now, warm as they cup your hips and hold you close. His head rests against your shoulder for a second, like he just needs to feel you.
“Too well,” he murmurs. “You helped too fucking well.”
One hand lifts to cup the side of your face again. He strokes your cheek with his thumb, gaze softening like he’s trying to memorize everything—your flushed skin, your shiny lips, the way you’re still straddling him like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“You’re so good for me,” he says. Quiet. Honest.
You smile, just barely. “I like being good for you.”
And it clicks for him then. That he’s completely gone. That he’d do anything to keep you like this—sweet, soft, his.
“Let me take care of you now,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You were perfect.”
His mouth brushes your jaw, your cheek, your lips—soft, reverent kisses. Nothing rushed. Just quiet, lingering gratitude, like he’s trying to say everything he doesn’t have words for yet.
He holds you there, warm in his lap, and for once in his life, Gojo Satoru feels like he has nothing else to run to.
-
It starts small.
A glance that lingers too long. The way his eyes flick down to your mouth whenever you talk. The way his voice goes soft—low and fond—when he calls you into his office now.
“Got a minute, sweetheart?”
He always says it like it’s nothing. Like his heart isn’t skipping a beat every time you look up at him with wide eyes.
But then there’s the night he catches you frowning at the copier.
Your arms are crossed, bottom lip caught between your teeth, standing in front of the machine like it just insulted your entire bloodline.
He rounds the corner, sees the blinking error light, and immediately slows his steps.
“Need help?” he asks, lips twitching.
You huff. “It keeps saying ‘paper jam,’ but there’s no paper. I looked!”
Gojo steps in without hesitation, one hand brushing your back as he leans close—so close—to peer into the machine with you.
“Let me help you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice warm.
You freeze a little when he says it like that. Soft. Patient. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to come untangle your messes.
He opens the side panel, reaches in, and—sure enough—pulls out a crumpled little piece of paper stuck way in the back. You blink.
“Oh.”
He grins, glancing down at you. “You’re cute when you try to problem-solve.”
You open your mouth to protest, but before you can say a word, he leans down and kisses you. Soft, slow, sure. Right there in the hallway, lights buzzing faintly overhead.
It doesn’t last long—just a breathless few seconds—but when he pulls back, he’s smiling like you hung the stars.
“See? You do your best,” he says. “And I take care of the rest.”
Another day, another meeting.
You're seated beside him, nervously flipping through a stack of documents. The printouts don’t make much sense—some budget chart you barely understand—but you try to follow along, nodding like you get it.
Gojo notices. Of course he does.
He leans over, voice low near your ear. “That page’s upside down, baby.”
You blink down. Oh. It is.
Your face goes hot instantly. But he just grins, tugs it gently from your hands, and flips it around before setting it neatly back on the table.
Then he grabs your pen and starts jotting little notes in the margins to help. Bullet points. Simplified terms. Asterisks with arrows pointing to key numbers.
You stare at the page.
He nudges your knee under the table, gentle. “I got you.”
Sometimes he kisses you without warning. When you bring him coffee. When you trip over your words in a meeting and look at him like you’re going to cry. When you smile too hard at something stupid and he just can’t help himself.
There’s a moment in the break room—mid-laugh, holding a napkin in your hand—when he walks in, sees you like that, and kisses you so suddenly the coffee cup almost falls from your fingers.
He just pulls you in. Mouth hot and insistent. One hand curling around your waist like he needs you closer.
You gasp against him, wide-eyed, but don’t pull away. You never do.
When he breaks the kiss, he leans his forehead against yours, breathing hard. Eyes glassy.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “Couldn’t help it.”
But he’s not sorry. Not even a little.
And when he walks you out at the end of the night—past the quiet desks, the dark windows—he always makes sure your purse is zipped, your coat is buttoned, your phone’s in your hand.
“You good?” he asks, gentle. “Need me to call you a car?”
“I’m okay,” you say every time, small and sweet.
But he still walks you to the elevator, still touches your back as the doors close, still watches them until the numbers tick down and you're out of sight.
Because Gojo Satoru is in love. So in love.
And it’s getting harder every day to pretend he’s not.
-
You hand him the report in silence, nervous fingers lingering just a second too long on the paper. He takes it, brows lifted—expecting to have to fix something, as usual.
But he doesn’t say a word. Just scans the first page, then the second.
Then stillness.
He looks up, something unreadable in his eyes. “You did this?”
You nod slowly. “I… think I got it right.”
He flips back to the beginning. Reads again. His lips part, and he exhales a quiet laugh—disbelieving.
“Yeah. You did.” A pause. “You got everything right.”
Your breath catches.
He pushes back from his desk, legs spreading slightly in his chair, eyes still locked on you. “C’mere.”
You walk around the desk slowly. His chair rolls back a little, his hands landing on your hips to guide you between his legs. His voice is low, almost amused.
“You’ve been trying to get this right for weeks.”
“I know,” you say quietly, blinking up at him.
“You’ve been trying so hard,” he murmurs, thumb brushing under your chin. “And I’ve been so fucking patient.”
Before you can ask what that means, he pulls you in, kissing you soft and deep, tongue sliding into your mouth with slow intent. It’s not rushed. It’s not demanding. It’s like he’s savoring you.
Then, a whisper against your lips, “Up on the desk, sweetheart.”
You hesitate. His hands lift you easily, setting you on the polished edge, your skirt already sliding up as he nudges your knees apart.
You breathe his name, quiet. He smiles, eyes flicking to your thighs, then back to your face.
“You always try so hard for me,” he murmurs, fingers brushing up your bare leg. “I should’ve done this sooner.”
He leans in and kisses your inner thigh. Just once. Then again, higher this time, warm breath brushing close. You’re already squirming when his fingers hook into your underwear, dragging it down slow.
His hands hold your thighs open, firm but not rough. And when he leans in and finally licks—flat and slow, from bottom to top—you gasp.
He hums against you, like you taste better than he imagined.
“You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your clit as he speaks. “Wearing that little skirt. Acting all innocent.”
His tongue moves again—firmer now, more focused, mouth wet and hot, tongue dragging circles around your clit until your back’s arching off the desk.
One of his hands drifts to your stomach, holding you down gently while he keeps going.
He doesn’t stop. Just sucks your clit slow and deep, then flicks it with the tip of his tongue until your thighs clamp around his shoulders.
“Oh my god—sir—”
He groans at the sound of your voice, fingers digging just slightly into your skin. He licks deeper, messier now, tongue dipping into you before dragging back up, mouth slick with you.
You grip his hair, eyes fluttering. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he groans when you do it—low and hungry, the vibration shooting straight through your core.
“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you.
Every time your hips jerk, he steadies you with a quiet, “Shh, I got you.”
And when you finally come—quiet but shaking, breath punched out of your lungs—he holds you still and keeps licking until your thighs are trembling from the aftershocks.
Only then does he pull back, mouth shiny, pupils blown.
When you finally go still, he stays there a beat longer. Just breathing against your skin. Then he leans up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks at you.
No smirk. No smug comment.
Just “You did good.”
Then a pause, before he adds, softer—
“So good I might keep you here for a while.”
-
The conference room is all glass and polish, afternoon sunlight spilling over the sleek table, casting reflections on every chrome edge. You’re seated near the far end, soft blouse tucked neatly into your skirt, lips glossed, notebook open—trying to look like you understand the graphs being passed around.
You’re perched between two other departments. People you don’t usually work with.
That’s when one of them—a guy from Finance, tall, tan, and way too smug—leans toward you with a charming little grin.
“I don’t think we’ve met yet,” he says low, like this meeting is a cocktail hour. “You new?”
You glance up, a little startled. “Oh—kinda. I’ve been here a couple months…”
He looks you up and down, eyes lingering a second too long. “They must’ve been keeping you hidden.”
You laugh nervously. Just a tiny sound. Then glance across the table.
Gojo’s already watching you.
Expression unreadable. Elbow propped on the armrest, long fingers brushing his lips, like he’s bored but you know better. His other hand is clenched in his lap, the silver of his ring glinting as it curls tighter.
He says nothing.
Just tracks the way that guy keeps leaning closer. The way his shoulder nearly brushes yours. The way you keep tucking your hair behind your ear.
“You work directly under Gojo?” the guy asks, lips quirking.
“Mhm,” you nod, keeping your tone light. “Just admin stuff.”
“Admin,” he echoes with a smirk. “You sure don’t look like admin.”
Gojo’s head tilts, slowly. “Something you’d like to say about my assistant?” His voice is calm. Light.
But something sharp lives underneath it.
The guy laughs, brushing it off. “Just saying, sir. You’ve got an eye for talent.”
A few people chuckle under their breath.
You swallow hard, eyes flicking back to your notes, burning with embarrassment.
Gojo doesn’t laugh.
He just smiles. That small, dangerous kind of smile. “Mm. That I do.”
The meeting moves on—but he doesn’t.
You can feel the weight of his stare for the rest of it. Every time you fidget, every time you speak up with that soft, hesitant voice of yours, his eyes flick to you like he’s trying to memorize the sound.
It’s late afternoon when your desk phone rings.
You jump a little. The office is quiet now—most people wrapping up their day, the halls thinning out.
You pick it up. “H-Hello?”
“Come to my office.”
That’s all he says. No tone. No explanation. Just that low, clipped command—and then the line clicks dead.
Your heart stutters.
You smooth your skirt nervously, touch up your gloss with shaking fingers, then knock on his office door.
No answer.
So you step inside.
The room’s dim, lit only by the golden wash of the setting sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Gojo’s at his desk, sprawled back in his leather chair.
Jacket tossed aside, sleeves rolled. His tie’s hanging loose around his neck, top buttons undone. Hair a little messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times.
He looks you over slowly. Not speaking. Just dragging his gaze down your body and back up again, the tension crawling up your spine with every second of silence.
You shift, swallowing. “You… asked for me, sir?”
A slow smirk touches his lips.
“Mm. I did.”
He doesn’t invite you to sit.
He just watches you stand there—nervous and fidgety, wringing your hands in front of his desk.
“I wanted to ask,” he says lazily, “how that meeting went for you.”
You blink. “It was… okay?”
“‘Okay’,” he echoes, still smirking. “That guy from Finance seemed real interested in you.”
Your stomach flips.
“Oh, um—he was just being friendly—”
Gojo hums. Stands up.
You freeze as he rounds the desk, walking toward you slowly. Unhurried. Like he already knows you won’t run.
“He called you pretty,” he says, voice softer now. “Right in front of me.”
You look down. “I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t flirt back or anything—”
“I know you didn’t, sweetheart,” he murmurs, reaching you at last.
His fingers find your chin, tilting it up gently.
“I saw you. Saw how good you were. All polite and quiet. Just letting him talk like that.”
You nod, lips parted, breath catching.
His thumb strokes along your jaw.
You barely have time to ask what this is about before he crowds in, gently guiding you backward until your hips bump the edge of his desk. He doesn’t push—he never has to. Just waits, hands resting on your waist, thumbs stroking small circles until you sit for him.
The silence stretches as he steps between your legs. He’s still for a moment, eyes drifting down your body—slow and thoughtful, like he’s mentally tracing every place he’s already touched.
“Didn’t like that,” he says quietly.
You blink. “What?”
His hands slide up your thighs. “The way he looked at you.”
You swallow. “I didn’t flirt with him or anything, I swear—”
“I know,” he says simply.
His thumbs reach the edge of your skirt, bunching the fabric higher. The room’s quiet except for the rustle of clothes and the faint hum of the city outside the glass.
“You were good,” he murmurs. “You always are.”
You don’t know what to say. Your heart’s racing. You’re too aware of the warmth of his palms against your skin.
Then he sinks to his knees.
Your breath catches.
“Sir—”
He looks up at you. Calm. Steady. “Just let me, angel.”
You nod.
He leans in, pressing a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. His hands slide further up, coaxing your legs open—thumbs stroking the soft skin of your inner thighs like he’s in no rush. Like he’s savoring it.
You try not to squirm.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmurs.
He hooks his fingers under your panties and drags them down slow. No fanfare. No teasing smirk. Just quiet focus. When he presses his mouth to you, it’s unhurried. He licks into you like he’s tasting you for the first time—soft, deliberate strokes of his tongue that have your breath stuttering.
You grip the edge of the desk. He hums softly when you twitch under him.
“So sensitive,” he murmurs. “How long have you been like this?”
You shake your head, too breathless to answer.
His thumb strokes your thigh while he eats you out like it’s something to be taken seriously—like he’s tuning the rest of the world out just for this. Just for you.
Every now and then, he pauses. Kisses the inside of your thigh. Lets you breathe.
“Say it.”
You blink, dazed. “Say…?”
“You know what I want.”
Your mouth parts. “I’m yours.”
He groans softly, going right back in—tongue slow, fingers digging into your thighs to hold you open.
“Again.”
You moan, hips jerking. “I’m yours, Gojo—fuck—only yours—”
“Yeah,” he mutters against you, voice low and wrecked. “That’s right.”
He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start trembling, thighs shaking around his head. He keeps working you through it—tongue steady, hands warm, mouth dragging out every pulse of it until you're gasping his name, half-crying into the sleeve of your blouse.
When he finally pulls back, his chin is slick and his breath is shallow.
You're already wet—he drags his fingers through it once, slow and deliberate, before circling your clit with maddening patience. You try to keep quiet, but the sounds come anyway—tiny, breathy, embarrassing things.
He slips one finger inside, then another. It’s not rushed—it’s focused. Careful. Testing what you can take.
His free hand wraps around the back of your thigh, pulling you a little closer to the edge. His fingers work you open slowly, curling just right, his thumb brushing up top in quiet, steady strokes.
“You can take it,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
You grip the edge of the desk, gasping when he shifts just slightly and hits something deeper.
“There,” he says, like he’s memorizing it. “Right there, huh?”
You nod quickly, eyes fluttering, hips starting to roll with him.
“Yeah… that’s it. Just like that.” He watches you the whole time—so attentive, so fucking into it—like he’s trying to catch every twitch of your mouth, every time your lashes flutter.
“Go ahead,” he whispers. “I want to feel you.”
You come quiet, but it shakes through you all the same—hips jerking, thighs trembling, mouth falling open around a sound you didn’t mean to make. His fingers don’t stop. He fucks you through it—just enough pressure, just enough praise, dragging it out until you're oversensitive and shaking.
When he finally pulls his hand away, he brings it to his mouth, licking his fingers like it’s nothing.
You blink at him, dazed. “Gojo—”
He stands, reaches out, and drags you up to your feet with zero effort.
“We’re not done yet,” he murmurs, already turning you gently around.
And then he presses you forward over the desk—his hand on your back, firm but not rough, guiding you down. You feel the heat of him behind you, his belt already unfastening.
His belt slides open with a quiet snick, slow and deliberate, like he’s giving you time to brace.
But you don’t. Can’t. You’re still bent over his desk, legs trembling from the second orgasm he pulled out of you like it was nothing.
Behind you, you hear the soft zzzp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he lowers just enough to free himself. You start to shift—maybe to stand, maybe to turn—but his palm finds the small of your back again, holding you down gently.
“Stay,” he murmurs.
You freeze.
“‘M not done with you yet.”
You gasp when you feel the blunt heat of him, hard and already dripping, sliding between your folds. He’s not pushing in—yet—but he’s there, heavy against you, teasing, dragging slow and wet between your folds while he stares down like he’s watching something sacred.
“Still so fucking warm,” he says under his breath. “You gonna let me fuck you now, sweetheart?”
You nod quickly, the word yes catching in your throat.
“Need you to say it,” he breathes, leaning forward, his chest brushing your back. “C’mon. Tell me.”
“I want you to,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Please—”
He groans, low and ragged, and then—finally—he pushes in.
You gasp—he’s big, thick and slow as he sinks in inch by inch. Your hands scramble for purchase on the desk, gripping the edge as he fills you.
He bottoms out with a slow roll of his hips, then stays there. Doesn’t move. Just breathes heavy against your back, like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” he says softly. “So long. Can’t even count how many fucking times I looked at you and wanted this.”
You whimper as he pulls out a little, then thrusts back in—just once, sharp and deep. You jolt against the desk, your cheek pressing to the cool wood.
He sets a pace then—not fast, not rough. Just deep. Controlled. Like every thrust is meant to remind you who you belong to. He fills you so fully, going deeper with every thrust as if trying to rid any thought from your brain that isn’t him.
The rhythm of it—his hips rolling into you, his hand tight on your waist, the obscene sound of skin meeting skin and your own slick soaking every movement—drives you closer and closer until you’re nearly crying with it.
“Satoru—please—” you pant, arching back against him, trying to take more.
“I know, precious. I know,” he murmurs, dragging his hand back to your hip so he can fuck you harder now, a little deeper. “You’re takin’ it so good.”
His thick head kisses your cervix with every relentless snap of his hips and one of his hands reaches down to dip between your thighs, rubbing tight, precise circles onto your clit.
“Mmm—sir,” you whine into the polished mahogany table, fingers digging into the edges of the fine wood. “I’m so—fuck—close!”
“Yeah? You’re gonna come for me, precious?”
Your orgasm builds sharp and fast and you nod, your toes curling, jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut.
“Let go,” he whispers, voice low and frayed. “Wanna feel you come on my cock. Be good for me, yeah?”
You do—god, you do—legs shaking, breath catching, body going tight around him as the orgasm hits, rolling through you in waves.
Gojo swears under his breath, fingers gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release. And then he groans deep and spills into you with a shudder.
He stays there for a moment, slumped over you, both of you catching your breath in the heavy silence of the office. Then, slowly, he pulls out, gentle as ever, hands skimming over your hips to smooth your skirt back down.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice still rough, a rasp of heat and concern wrapped in silk.
You nod, lips parted, lungs trying to catch up. His gaze doesn’t move from your face.
He leans down and presses a kiss to your shoulder then another just beneath your ear. “Breathe, sweetheart,” he coaxes, hands tracing soothing lines down your sides. “You were perfect.”
He shifts, not pulling away from you, but adjusting and cradling you with too much care for a man who had you begging a few minutes ago. He gently flips you over onto your back, strong hands finding your hips and then your thighs, his thumbs kneading slow, soft circles into the sore muscle like he’s memorizing your skin.
A content sigh escapes you, and he smiles, eyes half-lidded and reverent.
“Good girl,” he says lowly, his forehead pressing to yours. “You did so good for me, angel. So fucking good.”
His mouth finds yours, and the kiss he gives you is nothing like the ones before. It’s not rushed, not wild. It’s deep, slow, and indulgent. Like he’s trying to pour all the unspoken things into it.
Your arms loop around his neck, and your fingers find his hair, tugging gently. He groans quietly against your lips, like the sound is meant just for you.
You sigh into his mouth, full, and wrecked in the best way.
He pulls back only slightly, nose brushing yours.
“Remind me to give you another bonus.”
author's note. yeah i got real lazy at the smut. i'm so done with writing smut i quit icl ts pmo gng
summary. Newton said the smaller the distance, the stronger the pull. Gojo Satoru thinks that explains the way he feels when you’re close.
word count. 18.2k (i need help)
content. mdni, fem!reader, college au, nerd! gojo, simp gojo supremacy, fluff, banter, tensionnnn, pet names, he's so down bad it's actually pathetic, teasing, smut, male mast., oral (male + fem rec), cum eating, face sitting, p in v, mating press, slight hair pulling, praise, swearing, light dumbification (just a lil), tit play, overstim, creampie, aftercare, pillow talk
author's note. fashionably late (?) to the trend BUT HERE WE ARE
Gojo Satoru is already arguing with the professor.
The classroom smells like coffee and too-new textbooks, the kind of sterile atmosphere that clings to the first week of university. Half the students aren’t even paying attention yet, still easing into the rhythm of things. But not him.
Gojo stands tall near the front, hands in the pockets of his pressed slacks, sweater vest and button-up perfectly in place, thick-rimmed glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. His snowy hair is perfectly messy, his posture relaxed—almost bored.
“I’m just saying,” he drawls, voice smooth and annoyingly self-assured, “you can’t talk about general relativity without at least addressing gravitational time dilation. Not if you want to keep your credibility.”
There’s a beat of silence. Someone in the back stifles a laugh.
The professor straightens her notes. “We’ll get there, Gojo.”
“Sure,” he says, unbothered, but there’s a glint in his cerulean eyes. “But isn’t it a little irresponsible to feed undergrads simplified versions of reality? We’re not children.”
“You’re barely adults,” the professor mutters under her breath.
And just when it seems like he’s winding up for another volley—another casually devastating critique that’ll make the professor’s eye twitch—the door opens with a quiet creak.
“Sorry I’m late.”
The room stills.
You step inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, sunlight catching in your hair like some perfectly staged movie scene. You aren’t frazzled or apologetic—just calm, composed, like this is your class and everyone else is simply borrowing space in it.
Gojo turns. And forgets how to speak.
He doesn’t recognize you even though he’s memorized everyone’s faces during the orientation. But yours is unfamiliar. Distractingly so. And in that moment, standing half-turned at the front of the classroom, he is completely, totally, undeniably wrecked. His mouth parts slightly. No sound comes out.
The professor clears her throat. “Try to be on time next class.”
You nod easily. “Of course. Won’t happen again.”
Gojo’s eyes follow you as you make your way to an empty seat—his row. The one he claimed early on for optimal note-taking and strategic interruption placement. And of course, because the universe clearly enjoys watching him suffer, you pick the seat right beside his.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t sit. Just watches as you settle in beside him and flip open your notebook like nothing’s happened. Like you didn’t just reset the laws of gravity around his universe.
“Gojo?” the professor prompts from the front.
He startles. “Huh? Oh—yeah. I mean, yes. Sorry.”
Silence stretches as the lecture resumes. Gojo Satoru’s foot bounces beneath the desk. His fingers twitch like they want to scribble something but forgot how pens work.
He chances a glance at you from the corner of his eye. You’re taking notes, completely unfazed. Like you haven’t just walked into his orbit and thrown everything off-axis.
-
It’s quiet in the library. The kind of quiet that almost feels sacred, broken only by the occasional rustle of paper or the soft click of a keyboard. You’re tucked away at a corner table, head down, headphones in, completely immersed in your reading.
Gojo spots you the moment he steps in. He hadn’t meant to come here—physics homework was the last thing on his mind today—but the second he saw you seated, that changed. Suddenly, he’s very interested in gravitational lensing and quantum field theories.
He chooses the table diagonally across from yours. Not directly opposite—that would be too obvious. But just close enough that he can sneak glances without it being weird. Probably.
He flips open a textbook. Doesn’t read a single word. Just peeks at you over the top of the page like a little nerdy menace in disguise. Every time you adjust your hair or furrow your brows or smile faintly at something you read, it’s like he’s been hit in the chest. Repeatedly.
Then you look up.
He freezes. Straightens up. Pretends to be deeply fascinated by a diagram of a particle collider. You blink. Tilt your head a little. Then—you pull your headphones out. “Gojo Satoru, right?”
He almost drops his pen. “Uh—yeah. That’s me.”
“You’ve been staring at page fifteen for like… twenty minutes.”
He blinks. Looks down at his book. Flips it to page thirty-seven. “Right. Yeah. That’s, uh—intentional.”
You smile. “Sure it is.”
He wants to melt into the carpet.
You go back to your notes, sliding your headphones on again like it’s nothing. But that smile doesn’t leave your face. And Gojo’s certain he’ll be thinking about it for the rest of the week.
-
You're sitting under the tree near the physics building, nose buried in your laptop, headphones on, pretending you don’t feel someone staring at you. You do. Of course you do.
You glance up. He’s there.
Gojo, the cocky know-it-all from class. Still in that damned sweater vest, hair all floofy like he just rolled out of a nap and somehow made it fashion. He’s holding a coffee cup with one hand and awkwardly adjusting his glasses with the other, pretending like he just happened to pass by. He absolutely did not.
You blink. He panics.
“Oh. Uh—hey,” he says, and it comes out a little too loud, a little too fast, like his vocal cords staged a mutiny the second your eyes met.
You slide your headphones down. “Hi.”
There’s a long pause. He fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt, eyes flicking everywhere but your face now. “You, uh… You always sit here?”
You raise an eyebrow. “During this exact 30-minute window between classes? Yeah. Kinda my thing.”
“Oh,” he says, and laughs—nervously. “Coolcoolcool. I just—uh. I just thought you looked like someone who enjoys differential equations under tree shade.”
You squint. “You’re making fun of me.”
“What? No! I—I do that too. All the time. Big tree guy. Huge… leaf enjoyer.”
There’s a beat of silence. You bite back a laugh. “You good?”
“I was,” he mumbles, almost to himself, then louder: “Yeah! I’m totally—so good. Amazing, even.”
You give him a look. He clears his throat and tries again. “Listen, I didn’t get your name earlier, and that’s kind of a crime in several countries, probably. So…”
You pause, then finally tell him.
He repeats it under his breath like a prayer. “Pretty.”
You tilt your head at him, teasing. “So… was there a reason you were looking at me in class? Or is staring at people just part of your regular schedule?”
He flinches. Like, visibly. Adjusts his glasses again even though they’re already perfectly in place. “Staring is a strong word.”
“You choked on air.”
He groans, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “Okay—yeah, that… may have happened. But in my defense, I didn’t know I was capable of being that flustered until you walked in.”
Your eyebrows lift. “You were flustered?”
“Fatally,” he replies without missing a beat. “It was the most embarrassing moment of my entire academic career. And I once accidentally called a professor ‘dad’ in front of the entire cohort, so.”
You snort. “No you didn’t.”
“Unfortunately, I did. That man never looked at me the same again.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. There’s something kind of charming about the contrast—how sharp and smug he is in the lecture hall, then how weirdly dorky he gets the second he talks to you.
Gojo notices the smile. He lights up. “That’s a win, right?” he grins. “That counts as a win?”
You roll your eyes. “Barely.”
“Still counts,” he sings, rocking back on his heels. “You like coffee?”
You blink. “That’s random.”
“I just thought—maybe next time I bring one, I could bring you one too. You know. If we’re both going to be professionally loitering under this tree during our thirty-minute window.”
You pretend to think about it. “What kind?”
“Whatever kind makes you smile again.”
You pause. Okay. That was smooth.
You look away, just for a second, to hide the grin threatening to take over your whole face.
“You’re annoying,” you mutter.
He beams. “You’re not the first to say that.”
You part ways not long after, the building just a few steps ahead, and Gojo’s still standing where you left him—hands in his pockets, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, hair gleaming like spun silver in the sunlight.
You steal one last glance as you walk away, and—yep. He’s still watching you.
Still smiling like he knows something you don’t.
And just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you hear his voice call after you: “By the way, if you keep looking at me like that, I will ask for your number next time!”
You don’t turn around. You can’t. Your cheeks are already on fire.
But he laughs, bright and victorious, and you know he saw the way you tripped on the curb a second later. Cocky bastard.
And yet… you’re smiling the whole walk to class.
-
You’re seated a few rows back this time. Thought it might help with the whole not staring directly at Gojo Satoru like he invented astrophysics problem.
It doesn’t.
Not when he’s in his usual seat up front, one leg crossed over the other, sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s here to work. Glasses low on his nose. A pen between his fingers that he keeps spinning—casually, like it’s no big deal he’s also kind of stupidly good at everything.
The professor drones on at the front of the room, explaining quantum field theory, but you’re only half-listening.
Because Gojo raises his hand. Again.
“Actually, that’s not entirely accurate,” he says, voice way too smooth for a know-it-all. “If you factor in the renormalization group flow, the outcome shifts entirely. I can show you if you want.”
She blinks. “I… well. That’s a fair point, Gojo.”
He grins, leans back like he didn’t just out-nerd a tenured physicist, and then—then—he looks at you. Like he knows you’re watching.
And you are. You so are.
Gojo tilts his head slightly, mouth curling into that infuriating little smirk as he mouths: Impressed yet?
You look away instantly.
You are. You’re very impressed. Unfortunately. But you’re not gonna let him know that. Not yet.
So instead, you raise your hand. And when the professor calls on you, you challenge his answer.
Gojo looks like you just proposed.
-
Class ends and students start filing out, a low murmur of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping filling the air. You’re casually packing up your things, pretending not to notice the way someone is lingering by the door.
He should’ve left already. But no—he’s leaning against the wall like it’s a conscious choice, not that he’s waiting for you or anything. Totally not that.
You sling your bag over your shoulder and head out. You don’t even get five steps into the hallway before you hear—
“So…”
You turn.
Gojo’s standing there, hands in his pockets, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath. His glasses are a little crooked. Probably because he’s been running that hand through his hair again. He straightens up when you face him.
“That was… impressive,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like, really impressive.”
You smile. “Thanks. You were good too, by the way.”
He blinks. “Good? I—good? That’s it?”
“Yup.” You start walking. “Try harder next time.”
There’s a pause. And then he jogs up beside you, looking equal parts offended and delighted. “Oh, okay. So that’s how it is?” he teases, grinning. “You’re one of those girls.”
“What girls?”
“The ones who enjoy crushing the academic dreams of sweet, helpless nerds like me.”
You give him a look. “Helpless?”
“Devastatingly,” he says, deadpan.
You snort. “You literally made a PhD cry last week.”
“She recovered.”
“You sent her a fruit basket.”
“See? I care.”
You try to hold back your laughter but fail miserably, and he lights up like you just handed him the Nobel Prize.
You turn the corner toward the next building, Satoru trailing beside you like a very tall, mildly wounded puppy.
He’s oddly quiet—hands still shoved in his pockets, eyes flicking your way every few seconds like he’s waiting for a verdict. It's kind of adorable.
You stop walking. “Come on,” you say, already veering toward the campus café. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”
Satoru blinks. Twice. “L-like… like a date?”
You snort, rolling your eyes. “Woah there. Hold your horses, bud. I’m doing it so maybe you’ll stop moping around.”
He gasps—actually gasps—hands flying to his chest in mock offense. “I am not moping!”
“You literally sighed ten times during that walk.”
“I was brooding. It’s different.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You pouted when I said you were just ‘good’ in class.”
“I’m a sensitive soul!”
“You’re insufferable.”
“But charming,” he says quickly, catching up to walk beside you again, shoulder bumping yours. “Undeniably charming.”
You hum, lips twitching. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
He grins, all pearly teeth and pretty-boy smugness, practically floating now. And just as you're about to step into the café, you hear him mutter something behind you, half to himself—
“I’m so gonna make you fall in love with me.”
You turn slightly. “What was that?”
“Nothing!” he chirps, already holding the door open for you like a gentleman. “Ladies first!”
-
He watches you from the tiny round table by the window, chin propped in his hand, glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. You’re standing at the counter, reading over the menu with a furrow between your brows like you’re solving quantum equations instead of choosing between oat milk or soy.
He could watch you forever. Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe a little creepy—but in that dumb, enamored kind of way where even the way you tap your fingers against the counter makes his heart do this weird flip.
You step up, voice soft but certain when you order. Vanilla latte, extra shot, light foam.
He files it away instantly. Vanilla. Extra shot. Light foam. He’s going to remember that forever. He could write a thesis on it.
Your name is called, and he watches the way your eyes crinkle a little when you thank the barista. When you turn around, drinks in hand, and start walking back toward him, he panics—because suddenly he’s hyper-aware of how dumb he must look just staring.
He quickly looks down at his phone screen, pretending to scroll through something important. It’s literally just his calculator app open from earlier. Nothing’s calculated.
You slide his drink toward him when you sit. He doesn’t even care what it is. You could’ve handed him gasoline and he would’ve sipped it happily.
“Thanks,” he says casually—way too casually for someone whose brain short-circuited the moment you looked at him.
And then you take a sip of yours, and he blurts it out without thinking:
“You’re sweet.”
You blink. “Huh?”
He clears his throat. “The drink, I mean. It’s sweet.”
Smooth. So smooth.
You squint at him suspiciously. He hides behind his cup and takes a sip.
You're mid-sip of your latte when he says it—completely out of nowhere, eyes locked on you like he's trying to memorize your entire existence.
"You're kinda pretty when you’re annoyed, y’know?"
You almost choke. "What?"
He leans forward, resting his chin in his palm, grinning like he just cracked the code to the universe. “Just an observation. Purely academic.”
"You’re impossible," you mutter, eyes darting away—and he sees it, the blush creeping up your neck.
And that’s it. That’s his victory.
He leans back in his chair, smug as hell. “You're blushing.”
"I'm not."
“Oh no, don’t worry. I think it’s cute,” he says, like it’s a fact in a textbook.
You throw a sugar packet at him. He dodges with a laugh.
"You trying to kill me? And here I thought this was a date."
You give him a look. “It’s not a date.”
He shrugs, grabbing your drink and stealing a sip like it is. “Could’ve fooled me.”
You snatch your cup back, but it’s too late—he’s already smacked his lips like a wine critic.
“Are you always this annoying?” you ask, sipping your drink now.
He shrugs. “Only when I like someone.”
You freeze for half a second. And he sees that too.
Your voice is careful, teasing but cautious. “So you like me now?”
He hums, looking away dramatically, as if he’s pondering some great cosmic truth. “I don’t know… Maybe. You’re cute when you’re flustered. And when you’re mean to me. And when you roll your eyes. And—”
“Okay, stop.”
“Nope. You gave me coffee. I’m powered up now. Can’t shut me up.”
You groan, slumping in your seat with the most dramatic expression you can manage.
He grins wide, and that smug sparkle in his eyes softens, just a bit. “But seriously,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like talking to you.”
And that shuts you up for a beat.
You meet his eyes again, and this time, there’s no teasing, no cocky grin—just sincerity, wrapped in dorky charm. “…I like talking to you too,” you admit, soft.
And just like that, he lights up all over again.
-
You both exit the café, coffees in hand, the air warmer than before but still crisp. The sun’s out, and so is Gojo’s smile—until you stop at the sidewalk and glance down at your phone.
“Shit,” you mutter. “I’ve got class right now.”
His face drops instantly. “Wait—already? But I haven’t even finished annoying you yet.”
You laugh, nudging his arm with your elbow. “You’ve done plenty in the last thirty minutes, trust me.”
He exhales dramatically, shoulders sagging as he pouts. “This is tragic. A real loss for humanity.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“But I miss you already,” he says. “Who’s gonna listen to my unfiltered genius now?”
You raise a brow, backing away slowly. “I’m sure you’ll find a new victim. See you, Gojo.”
“Wait—wait, when do I see you again?” he calls after you, half-joking, half-not.
You shoot him a smile over your shoulder. “You’ll live.”
And as you disappear into the crowd, he just stands there for a moment, lips pressed together, watching you go.
“…No I won’t.”
-
You don’t think much of it when Gojo catches up to you outside the lecture hall again. He’s chatty as usual, teasing you about your keychain, dramatically proclaiming how he almost tripped over a squirrel on the way here, all while walking a half-step closer than necessary. Same old Gojo stuff.
You head toward your usual seat, a few rows back from the front—just enough distance to not get called on every two minutes. You’re used to watching him breeze right past, to the very first row, like he’s the poster boy for "overachiever of the year."
So when you slide into your seat and Gojo casually takes the one right next to you, backpack dropping with a thud at his feet, you do a double take.
“What are you doing?” you whisper.
He only shrugs, flashing that annoyingly pretty smile. “Just felt like switching it up today.”
You’re not the only one caught off guard. A few students glance over and someone even nudges their friend like this is newsworthy.
Because Gojo Satoru doesn’t switch it up. He’s the guy who color codes his notes and brings a backup calculator. But now he’s here, sitting so close that his knee bumps yours beneath the table and stays there.
You try to focus when class begins—but it's hard when he's right there beside you, radiating warmth. Every now and then, his fingers graze your thigh beneath the desk—casual, like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.
You don’t look at him. But you know he’s grinning. And just when you're starting to think this can’t get more distracting—
“Before we end today,” the professor says, “I’m assigning a group project. Pairs, selected at random.”
Your stomach sinks. You glance at Gojo, who’s already turned toward the front again, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. Like he knows.
You hear names being rattled off. A list of partnerships. Then—
“And lastly, Gojo Satoru and…” A pause. “You.”
Silence. You blink. Gojo leans back with a loud, satisfied sigh and stretches his arms behind his head.
“Oh no,” you mutter, already dreading what’s coming.
“Oh yes,” he says, grinning so wide it should be illegal.
-
You step out of the lecture hall with Gojo hot on your heels, practically bouncing with excitement. He’s still beaming about the professor’s decision like he just won the lottery.
“This is fate,” he says, catching up to walk beside you. “We’re gonna be the best pair in that class. I mean, you’ve got the brains and the beauty, and I’ve got the everything else.”
You snort. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m dead serious.” He adjusts the strap of his backpack with dramatic flair. “This is the beginning of a legendary academic alliance.”
You roll your eyes, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “So, when do we start this legendary alliance of yours?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Thought you’d never ask. I was thinking… we could cash in that coffee date you promised me. Use the time to plan out our project. Very responsible. Very scholarly.”
You shoot him a look. “It’s not a date.”
“Sure,” he says easily, eyes twinkling. “A purely educational rendezvous at a cozy café where we might happen to sit close enough to accidentally brush knees again.”
You groan. “Fine. But we’re actually working on the project this time.”
“No promises,” he grins.
And you hate how you laugh at that.
-
You’re tucked into the booth of a café, a half-empty cup of coffee sitting forgotten as you scribble into your notebook. Across from you, Gojo’s talking a mile a minute—bouncing between theories, concepts, and potential outlines for your project with the kind of ease that only someone dangerously smart could pull off.
And the worst part? Every word out of his mouth actually makes sense.
You glance up at him, brows lifting slightly. “Okay, that last one? That’s actually… really solid.”
He beams. “Right? I knew you’d see the brilliance.”
You shake your head with a small laugh. “I hate to say it, but I’m impressed.”
Gojo leans forward, resting his chin on his hand with a smug grin. “Careful now. Compliments like that might go to my head.”
You ignore him, scribbling something down beside his last idea. The two of you work like that for a while—you writing, him throwing ideas around and occasionally sipping from his drink. And before you know it, you’ve got the skeleton of a full project mapped out.
He stretches his arms above his head, shirt riding up just enough to be distracting. “Whew. Honestly? I didn’t expect to get this much done.”
You close your notebook, tapping your pen against the table. “We could start putting together the first draft later this week.”
Gojo nods. “Yeah, sure. We could work at my place or someth—”
You cut him off, tone light. “You could come to mine.”
He freezes. Blinks. “Y-your place?”
You smile sweetly. “Mhm.”
He stares at you, cheeks tinged pink behind his glasses. “I—yeah. Yeah, totally. Your place. Great idea. Love that. Very efficient. Extremely platonic and professional.”
You laugh. “You’re cute when you malfunction.”
“I don’t malfunction,” he mumbles.
You don’t believe that for a second.
He’s trying so hard to play it cool, but his brain short-circuited the moment you suggested your place. His legs bounce under the table, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt like it’ll ground him somehow.
You lean back in your seat, arms crossed as you observe him with a smug little smile. “You alright there, genius?”
Satoru clears his throat, adjusting his glasses even though they’re not crooked. “Me? Totally fine. Just recalibrating. You know, like… spatially. Mentally.”
You blink at him. “Uh-huh.”
He runs a hand through his snowy hair, the tips poking out in every direction like even they are flustered. “I just wasn’t expecting that, is all.”
“You weren’t expecting me to suggest we work on the project?”
“No—I mean, yes—but at your place?” He lifts his hands, palms up like he’s holding the concept of your apartment in the air. “Do you even realize what that implies?”
You tilt your head. “That I trust you to not snoop through my things?”
He looks offended. “I would never snoop. I am a gentleman.”
“Okay, gentleman,” you say, standing and grabbing your bag. “Then bring snacks when you come over.”
That shuts him up real quick. He stares up at you, blinking as you sling your bag over your shoulder and give him one last little smirk. “Oh,” you add casually, “and maybe wear those glasses again.”
His jaw drops.
You don’t wait to see his reaction. You just turn and walk off with the smuggest little sway to your step, leaving Gojo sitting there—completely malfunctioning, heart doing gymnastics in his chest.
He presses a hand over it, eyes wide. “Oh god.”
-
[gojo]: hey. hey hey hey
[gojo]: when u said ur place… u meant like. like ur apartment right
[gojo]: like ur home. with walls. and couches. and stuff
[you]: i am aware of what my apartment contains, yes.
[gojo]: just checking 😇
[gojo]: do i need to bring a textbook? or will u be tutoring me using sheer intimidation alone
[you]: i thought i was the one taking notes last time?
[gojo]: yeah but you intimidated me into being smart. that’s powerful
[gojo]: anyway what’s ur address 👀
[you]: [sends location]
[you]: and bring snacks like i said. i’m not letting you in if you show up empty handed
[gojo]: what kind of snacks
[you]: surprise me
[gojo]: …
[gojo]: you have NO idea what you’ve just done
[you]: satoru it’s literally just snacks
[gojo]: and now i’m overthinking EVERYTHING. chips? chocolate? do i bring a charcuterie board???
[gojo]: i need you to know i’m taking this Very Seriously.
[you]: i’m sure you are.
[gojo]: 😤 just u wait. i’ll be the best study buddy you’ve ever had.
[you]: is this your way of flirting or are you always like this
[gojo]: …yes
-
You open the door and there he is—standing on your doorstep. His arms are full: a tote bag slung over his shoulder, a drink carrier in one hand, and a plastic bag filled with snacks in the other.
“You said surprise you,” he announces, stepping in. “So I brought everything. Chips. Cookies. Gummy worms. Protein bars, because balance. And boba. I panicked.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You brought a buffet.”
“I wanted to impress you,” he says, dead serious, slipping his shoes off at the door.
You stifle a laugh and step aside. “Come on in.”
Your place is cozy, warm lighting humming softly. Gojo’s eyes flit around like he’s taking mental notes of every detail—your throw pillows, your bookshelf, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air. You pretend not to notice how he seems ten times quieter than usual.
“Sit,” you say, motioning to the couch.
He plops down next to you, thigh brushing yours, and pulls out his notes. “So. I was thinking we model the phase shift in the magnetic field using—wait—wait, are you actually listening or just staring at my mouth?”
You blink at him. “I was listening. You just talk a lot.”
He leans in, smirking. “But you were also staring.”
You swat his arm. “Focus.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, hiding a very pleased grin.
As you two dive into the project, it’s surprisingly productive. He’s brilliant—he rattles off concepts with such ease that you’re genuinely impressed. You ask questions. He answers. You scribble notes while he paces your living room barefoot, gesturing wildly as he explains advanced equations like they’re children’s bedtime stories. He’s in his element. And kind of hot, too, in a completely nerdy, passionate way.
“You’re really smart,” you say eventually, mid-note-taking.
He freezes. Turns to you slowly. “Say that again.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I said you’re smart—”
“No no,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside you again. “Say it slower. Maybe into my ear this time.”
You laugh, shoving him gently. “God, you’re impossible.”
“And yet you invited me over.” His voice drops just slightly, eyes glittering behind those thick-rimmed glasses. “Kinda makes me think you like having me around.”
Your heart skips. “Maybe I do.”
He stares for a moment—really stares—and then gives you the softest smile. “Then I guess I’m not leaving until we finish the whole project. Top marks, remember?”
“Top marks,” you echo.
When your hands brush reaching for the same pen, you both freeze.
You recover first, pulling your hand back slightly. “You can have it,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual.
Gojo, stubborn as ever, immediately shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. You can have it.”
“No, seriously, take it.”
“I insist.”
“You’re being annoying.”
“You like when I’m annoying,” he says with a cheeky grin.
You roll your eyes and shove the pen towards him. “Just take it before I stab you with it.”
There's a beat of silence where you both just stare at each other—awkward, heated, too aware of how close you’re sitting. You can feel the air shift between you, something lingering and soft.
Gojo clears his throat loudly, leaning back against the couch with exaggerated nonchalance. “Uh—snack break?” he says, voice a little too high-pitched to be smooth.
You bite back a smile, grateful for the out. “Yeah. Snack break.”
He springs up like he’s been given a second life, muttering something under his breath about chips and cookies while you try very hard not to laugh.
Gojo rummages through your cabinets like he lives there, narrating dramatically under his breath. "Let's see... we have some chips, half a granola bar... oh-ho, instant ramen! A true feast fit for a queen."
You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with an amused smile. "You're so dramatic."
He whirls around, holding the ramen packet in one hand like it’s a sacred artifact. "Dramatic? No, no, this is culinary excellence, sweetheart."
You snort, covering your laugh with the back of your hand. "You're about to microwave that."
"Precisely." He winks at you. "Modern problems require modern solutions."
You roll your eyes but grab a cup, filling it with water and handing it to him. Your fingers brush when he takes it, and maybe you’re imagining it, but he seems to pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing yours again on purpose.
"I'll make you the best cup ramen of your life," he declares proudly, tossing it into the microwave and punching in the time.
"Bold of you to assume I have low standards," you tease.
He leans an elbow on the counter, cocking his head at you with a lazy, smug grin. "Again. You invited me over. I'd say your standards are excellent."
Your cheeks flame immediately. "Shut up."
He just laughs, tossing his messy hair out of his eyes, looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the room.
The microwave dings and Gojo gasps. "It's time."
He pulls the ramen out like it’s a precious treasure, dramatically blowing on it before holding it out to you.
"Milady," he says in a terrible fake accent, "your meal."
You’re laughing too hard to even be annoyed. You take the cup from him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
-
You both make your way to the couch after the world's most gourmet snack break (according to Gojo), slumping down with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls endlessly through your streaming options.
"Pick something," you say, poking his thigh with your toe.
"But it's so hard," he whines dramatically. "What if I pick something that doesn't match our vibe?" He flashes you a sly, boyish smile, the kind that makes your heart lurch even when you don't want it to.
You roll your eyes, tossing a throw pillow at him. "Just pick something, drama queen."
He catches the pillow effortlessly, still grinning, and finally settles on some random romcom—probably because he thinks it'll impress you with how emotionally available he is. Not even five minutes in, he does the whole exaggerated stretch and casual arm drop behind you. Textbook.
You give him a look. "Subtle."
He just beams, smug and utterly unbothered. "Thanks. Been practicing."
You shake your head, laughing under your breath, but you don't move away. Instead, you let the warmth of his arm hovering behind you linger there, like a secret.
You both slowly ease into a lazy sort of comfort, shoulders brushing every so often, knees bumping when one of you shifts. He’s fidgety, though—tapping his fingers against the cushion, sneaking glances at you when he thinks you won't notice.
You notice. You just pretend not to.
Time blurs, the movie forgotten as conversation picks up again. Dumb stuff. Stories about professors, weird classmates, Gojo ranting about a physics experiment gone wrong because "the equipment was stupid, not me," and you laughing so hard your stomach hurts. At some point you realize how late it’s gotten.
You glance at your phone. "Shit, it’s almost midnight."
Gojo pouts dramatically. "Nooo, don’t kick me out."
"You have class at eight tomorrow," you remind him, stretching your arms above your head. "Don’t you dare blame me when you fall asleep in class."
He sighs, long and exaggerated, standing up anyway. "Fine. But just so you know, leaving is painful for me. Agony, even."
You snort, pushing yourself off the couch. "You'll live, Satoru."
He lingers by the door, bouncing on his heels like he wants to say something. And then he blurts, all in one breath: "Do you wanna go on a date with me?"
You blink, caught off guard. "A coffee date?"
"No, no!" He waves his hands frantically. "Like—a real date. A good one. A fancy one. With food and everything!"
His voice goes a little desperate toward the end, as if you're seconds from rejecting him.
You cross your arms, fighting back a laugh. "Are you begging, Gojo?"
"Yes," he says instantly, with zero shame.
You tap your chin, pretending to think it over just to mess with him.
He looks genuinely tortured, hands clutched in front of him like he's praying.
Finally, you shrug. "Alright. You can take me out."
The way his whole face lights up could rival the sun. "YES—YES, OH MY GOD—okay, okay, I won’t screw this up, swear on my honor—"
You laugh, pushing him lightly toward the door. "Text me the details, Romeo."
He’s still beaming when he stumbles out, waving giddily.
You shake your head, grinning to yourself as you shut the door behind him.
-
You stand in front of the mirror, arms crossed, glaring at the mountain of clothes on your bed.
It’s ridiculous. It's Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake—the same man who wears sweater vests unironically—so why are you panicking about what to wear?
You pick up a red dress, stare at it, and toss it aside. Too much.
A simple blouse and jeans? Too casual.
You want to look good. Scratch that—you want to make his brain short-circuit when he sees you.
Finally, after what feels like hours of spiraling, you settle on a black off-shoulder dress that hugs your figure flatteringly. It’s something that feels like you—simple but pretty, enough to make your heart skip when you catch your reflection.
Right as you’re fixing the final touches, your phone buzzes.
[gojo 💙]: here <3
[gojo 💙]: try not to fall in love with me too fast ok
You snort under your breath. Too late, you think, heart thudding faster than you’d ever admit.
You grab your bag and head outside, spotting him.
You almost don't recognize him at first.
Gone are the thick-rimmed glasses and the nerdy sweater vest he usually sports in class. Tonight, Gojo Satoru is dressed in a simple white button-up—sleeves rolled up to his forearms—and black dress pants that cling just right to his lean frame. His snowy hair is still messy, like he ran his hands through it a million times, but somehow, it works. He looks effortlessly good. Stupidly good.
And when he spots you, he nearly trips over his own feet.
"Hey," you greet, a little breathless from how unfairly good he looks.
"Hey," he says back, voice cracking halfway through. He coughs, fumbling to form literal words, cheeks flushed. "You, uh—you look—wow."
You laugh softly as he practically skips toward you, offering you his arm with an exaggerated flourish. "Shall we, m'lady?"
You roll your eyes but take his arm anyway, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt.
He leans down to whisper in your ear, cocky and sweet all at once: "Just so you know, I'm totally gonna brag about this to my future grandkids."
You elbow him lightly in the side, and he laughs, the happiest sound you've heard all day.
You laugh softly, letting go of him to get into the car, and he stands there for a second like he’s been shot.
When he finally gets himself together and slides into the driver’s seat, he sneaks a look at you. "You’re—" he starts, then cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t believe his own luck. "Perfect," he finishes under his breath.
You pretend not to hear it, hiding your smile as he pulls out onto the road—one hand casually on the wheel, the other fiddling nervously with his collar.
Neither of you says much at first. The radio hums softly between you.
But every few seconds, you catch him sneaking glances your way, grinning like this is already the best date ever.
-
You recognize the place immediately.
It’s a beautiful rooftop restaurant—one you’d mentioned wanting to try in passing, months ago, when a friend posted about it on social media. You hadn’t even realized he was listening.
The fact that he remembered makes your heart swell.
Satoru pulls into the valet line, hands slightly fidgety on the steering wheel. He throws a quick, nervous glance at you, like he’s scared you won’t like it.
"You, uh, mentioned it once," he says, almost shyly. "Thought it'd be better than, y'know... coffee again."
Your chest tightens in the softest, sweetest way. You open your mouth, ready to tease him, but the look on his face—the earnest hope in his eyes—makes you stop. You just smile instead.
"It’s perfect," you say quietly.
And the way he beams after that? God, you almost have to look away. Too much.
He practically leaps out of the car the second it's parked, sprinting around to your side to open the door for you. Except—he miscalculates the timing and almost slams it into his own shin.
"Ow—shit—" he mutters under his breath, recovering quickly and yanking it open like nothing happened. He straightens up, all suave-like, grinning down at you.
"Milady," he says dramatically, offering you his hand.
You roll your eyes but take it anyway, letting him help you out of the car. His hand is warm—so much bigger than yours—and he doesn’t let go right away. In fact, he keeps holding it as you walk toward the entrance, fingers intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And you don’t pull away. If anything, you squeeze a little tighter.
Inside, the restaurant is even more beautiful than you imagined—glittering fairy lights, soft music, a gentle breeze whispering across the rooftop.
Gojo glances down at you, smiling like you personally hung the stars. "Ready for the best date of your life?" he teases, but there’s a nervous edge to it—like your opinion actually, genuinely matters to him.
You bite your lip to hold back a grin.
"Lead the way, Romeo."
And he does. Hand in hand, heart thundering, wearing the dopiest smile imaginable.
Dinner with Gojo is…effortless.
For once, he isn’t tripping over his words or cracking half a dozen stupid jokes just to fill the silence. He’s confident—naturally confident—in a way that makes your heart stutter. It’s like all the nervous energy he usually carries around you has melted away tonight, leaving behind nothing but the real Satoru.
He leans back in his chair, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled up to his elbows, flashing the veins in his forearms as he lifts his wine glass to his lips.
There’s a lazy smirk playing on his mouth as he listens to you talk, bright blue eyes never straying from your face.
"You’re staring," you tease after a moment, pretending to inspect the menu like you’re not burning under his gaze.
"Yeah," he says simply, not even bothering to deny it. "You’re beautiful. I’m allowed to stare."
You nearly choke on your water.
Recovering quickly, you raise a brow. "Smooth," you deadpan, setting your glass down.
He chuckles lowly, the sound curling around your spine like smoke. "Only because it’s true," he says, and the sheer casualty of it has your cheeks heating up.
And the worst part? You can’t even pretend you’re unaffected—because he sees it. The way your lips twitch, the way your eyes flicker away for just a second.
"So," you say quickly, trying to regain control of the conversation, "when you’re not busy terrorizing professors and making girls swoon, what do you do for fun, Gojo?"
He hums, pretending to think about it, tapping his fork against his lip.
"Hmm...think about you mostly," he says airily.
You whip your napkin at him across the table, and he lets out a bark of laughter, catching it midair like a reflex.
The two of you fall into easy conversation after that—bantering, laughing, throwing subtle (and not-so-subtle) jabs at each other. It feels so natural that you almost forget this is your first real date.
There’s a moment—between courses, when you’re both picking at the remains of dessert—that you catch him just looking at you again. No teasing. No smirk. Just watching. Soft, and a little awed.
You shift slightly, suddenly aware of the intimacy stretching between you. "What?" you murmur.
He blinks, as if waking up. Shakes his head, smiling faintly.
"Nothing," he says, voice a little rough. "You’re just—really fucking gorgeous."
It’s so sincere that you don’t even know what to say back. You just look at him, feeling your chest tighten in that dangerous, dangerous way again.
-
The drive back is quiet—not uncomfortable. Just…full.
Full of things unsaid, full of that warmth that’s been simmering between you both all night.
Gojo parks in front of your place, turning off the engine, but neither of you make a move to get out right away. You just sit there, the hum of the night wrapping around you, the silence speaking louder than words ever could.
He turns in his seat slightly, arm draped over the steering wheel, looking at you with that soft, lopsided smile he reserves only for you now.
"I had a really good time," he says quietly, like it’s a secret meant only for you.
You smile back, feeling something sweet and dangerous unfurl in your chest. "Me too," you murmur, fingers twisting slightly in your lap.
The moment stretches—comfortable, a little electric—and you know you should say goodnight. You should.
So you finally reach for the door handle, pulling it open—And then, without thinking, you turn back.
Leaning in quick, before you can psych yourself out, you press a soft kiss to his cheek.
It’s light, barely a brush, but Gojo freezes like you’ve just electrocuted him.
You don’t wait for his reaction. Your face burning, you practically stumble out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you with a muttered, "Goodnight!"
Through the window, you catch a glimpse of him: Wide-eyed, stunned, a hand lifted dazedly to his cheek like he can't believe what just happened.
And then he laughs—a breathless, giddy sound that you swear you can hear even as you rush up the steps to your door, heart hammering like crazy.
Inside the car, Satoru slumps back against the seat, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. "God," he mutters to himself, still touching the spot where you kissed him, "I’m so fucked."
-
You’re lying in bed when your phone buzzes in your hand. Heart still racing from that impulsive kiss you planted on his cheek, you scramble to pick it up, thumbs fumbling.
[gojo 💙]: next time, you’re not getting away with just a kiss on the cheek.
You nearly drop your phone.
Oh. Oh.
Your stomach flips. Your face burns. And even though you want to play it cool, you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. You bite your lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard before finally typing back:
[you]: is that a threat, satoru?
The reply comes almost instantly, like he was waiting for you:
[gojo 💙]: no baby, that’s a promise.
You stare at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs.
Baby. God, you’re so done for.
And like he hasn’t already made you melt enough tonight, he sends another message:
[gojo 💙]: get some sleep, pretty
You bury your face into your pillow with a squeal, kicking your feet into the mattress. You type back quickly before you lose your nerve:
[you]: goodnight, satoru. try not to miss me too much.
And a few seconds later:
[gojo 💙]: too late.
[you]: careful, satoru. you're sounding real desperate rn.
You barely have time to smirk before he hits you with:
[gojo 💙]: desperate?
[gojo 💙]: for you? always.
And like he knows you’re losing it, he sends one more:
[gojo 💙]: sleep tight, gorgeous.
[gojo 💙]: dream of me.
[gojo 💙]: i'll definitely be dreaming of you. (and if i wake up hard, it's your fault btw)
You scream into your pillow.
Your hands tremble as you type your final text:
[you]: sweet dreams, toru <3
[you]: maybe next time you won’t have to just dream ;)
And the moment you send it, you shut your phone off and toss it across the bed because there’s absolutely no way you’re surviving if he replies. (He does. Five seconds later.)
[gojo 💙]: fucking hell.
-
Satoru’s still staring at your last text. Eyes wide. Mouth parted.
maybe next time you won’t have to just dream
He drops his phone onto the bed with a dull thud, dragging both hands down his face.
"Goddammit," he breathes, tipping his head back against the headboard.
He sits there for a good minute, struggling to breathe normally, heart hammering against his ribs, cock already half-hard just from that one text. (Just from a text. He's so far gone it's not even funny.)
"Pull it together, Gojo," he mutters, raking a hand through his messy hair.
But the moment he squeezes his eyes shut, it’s you he sees—smiling up at him all coy, leaning in close, whispering things in that pretty voice you have, like you knew exactly what kind of mess you were leaving him in.
You did. You knew exactly what you were doing.
He groans, thunking his head back harder against the headboard, biting down a low, frustrated sound as your words loop endlessly in his brain.
You’re driving him insane.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he shoves his sleep shorts down just enough and wraps a hand around his cock, cursing under his breath when he realizes how hard he already is.
It’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong—you haven’t even properly kissed yet. But god, you're just so, so perfect. So effortlessly beautiful.
He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his hand moving slowly, pretending it’s you instead—your hand wrapped around him, your body pressed close, your breath ghosting over his ear as you whisper all the filthy things he can barely even let himself imagine.
"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up into his fist, desperate for more.
He can’t help it.
You’re in his head. You’re under his skin. And he’s not even sure he wants to be saved.
His thighs tense, muscles flexing as he fists himself harder, chasing that high like a man starved. The sound of his breath—harsh and broken—fills the room. Your name nearly falls from his lips like a prayer.
And when he finally comes, it’s with a soft, bitten-off moan, warmth spilling over his knuckles.
His mind blanks for a long, dizzy second—nothing but the feeling of you filling every corner of him.
He collapses back against the pillows, breathless. Staring at the ceiling like he’s just been fucking wrecked. Sweaty. Panting. His hand sticky and his soul halfway out of his body.
He drags a hand down his face again, groaning. "...I'm so fucking screwed," Satoru mutters to himself, glaring uselessly at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible for his downfall.
-
The sunlight’s barely filtering through his blinds when Satoru stirs awake, messy hair flattened against his forehead, phone slipping from his chest with a quiet thunk onto the mattress.
Groaning, he blindly pats around for it, eyes still crusted shut from sleep.
When he finally blinks them open, he sees the last thing he remembers: your text. The text that ruined his entire night.
He slaps a hand over his face and drags it down slowly, mumbling, “I’m going to hell.”
But because he’s an idiot—an idiot in love—he still unlocks his phone, thumbs hovering nervously over the screen.
He needs to text you. Needs to act normal. Needs to pretend he didn’t almost cry last night over how fucking good it felt imagining you touching him.
He taps out a message, agonizing over every word:
[you]: good morning :) hope you slept well!
He stares at it for a second longer, wondering if he sounds too eager, then panics and deletes the smiley. Then retypes it. Then deletes it again.
Then sends it without the emoji because God forbid he looks like he’s about to propose or something.
He tosses his phone down and flops back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers to his sins.
Not even ten seconds pass before his phone buzzes. Heart slamming against his ribs, he fumbles to read it:
[sweetheart 💖]: you too, toru. sweet dreams? ;)
He physically chokes. Coughs. Slaps his own chest like he’s trying to restart his heart.
“Sweet dreams—?” he sputters aloud, horrified, voice cracking. “SWEET—?”
The images from last night flash vividly in his mind: your lips, your breathy giggles, your hands sneaking lower—
He shoves his face into a pillow and screams.
When he finally peeks out, shame swirling in his gut, he types back with trembling hands:
[you]: sweetest dreams ever. totally normal. nothing weird about them at all.
And then he turns his phone face-down. Because he cannot. He cannot see what you’re going to reply.
He’s so down bad it's physically painful.
-
You stare at your phone, biting your lip to hold back a grin.
Totally normal. Nothing weird about them at all.
Sure, Satoru. Sure.
You kick your feet a little under your blanket, giddy, heart thumping like crazy. You know exactly what you’re doing. You know exactly what you’re doing to him.
And you’re not done yet. You let him stew in his own panic for a few minutes—just to watch him suffer—before tapping out a reply:
[you]: sounds like someone’s overcompensating… ;)
You hit send and immediately burst into laughter, flopping back into your pillows. You can practically imagine him screaming into his hands right now, scrambling to figure out what to say without incriminating himself even more.
And because you’re a menace, you follow it up:
[you]: it’s okay, toru. you can dream about me whenever you want <3
There. You’ve officially ruined his whole morning.
You toss your phone aside and stretch, feeling like you just hit a home run. But then your phone buzzes again—multiple times—and you grab it, giggling.
First, from Satoru:
[toru 💙]: you’re evil. pure evil. i’m never sleeping again.
And then another, right after:
[toru 💙]: coffee today? my treat. i need to see your evil little face or i’m going to combust.
You roll over onto your stomach, kicking your legs up behind you, cheeks aching from smiling so hard.
Maybe you are evil. But god, it’s so fun when he’s this easy to tease.
You tap out your reply, heart light:
[you]: only if you promise not to die before you get here.
-
It doesn’t even take ten minutes before there’s a knock at your door. You blink in surprise—you hadn’t even changed yet.
Another knock, this time a little quicker, a little eager.
You pad over and crack the door open—and there he is.
Satoru, all messy hair, rumpled shirt, soft smile. Holding two coffees in his hands.
And looking at you like you hung the moon.
"Hi," he says, almost shyly. "Brought you a coffee."
You blink at him.
He fidgets, rocking on his heels. "I, uh... thought maybe we could, y'know, hang out a little. If you’re not busy."
Your heart melts a little at how hopeful he sounds.
"You’re impossible," you tease, swinging the door wider.
"And you're stuck with me," he chirps, stepping inside like he belongs there.
You take one of the coffees from him, fingers brushing, and he beams like you’ve just given him the greatest honor.
"Thanks," you say, smiling into your cup. "Even though you didn’t have to."
"I wanted to," he says simply, plopping onto your couch with zero hesitation. (And he leaves way too little space for you, thigh already brushing yours.)
You sit down beside him, your shoulders bumping. He hums under his breath, swinging his legs a little like a kid who’s gotten his favorite candy.
For a minute, it’s just the two of you, sipping coffee, the silence warm and comfortable.
And then, out of nowhere, he leans his head dramatically onto your shoulder.
You freeze for a second, heart skipping.
He sighs—loudly—against you. "You’re not gonna kick me out, right?"
You laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "Not if you behave."
"That’s asking for a lot," he grins, tilting his head up to look at you. His smile’s a little mischievous, a little boyish.
You roll your eyes, trying to hide your blush behind your coffee cup.
And because he’s shameless—and he knows he’s winning—he adds, voice low and teasing: "Maybe if you give me another goodbye kiss?"
You almost spill your coffee.
He sees it—the way your fingers fumble, the way your face flushes—and smirks.
"C'mon," he teases, nudging your knee with his. "Wasn't that bad of an idea, was it?"
You narrow your eyes at him, trying—failing—to fight your smile. "You," you say, poking his chest, "are way too full of yourself."
"And yet..." Satoru leans in, slow, eyes locked on yours. His voice drops to a whisper. "...you're not moving away."
Your breath catches. Because he's right—you’re not. If anything, you're leaning in too.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The room feels too quiet, too charged. You can hear his breathing, slow and steady, can feel the heat radiating off of him.
Satoru’s gaze drops to your mouth—and lingers there. "Can I?" he murmurs, so soft you almost don’t catch it.
Your heart thuds loud in your chest. You nod.
That’s all he needs.
Slowly, achingly slowly, he closes the gap, giving you every chance to pull away—but you don’t. You tilt your chin up, meeting him halfway.
When his lips finally brush yours, it’s gentle—barely a kiss, more like a breath, a promise.
You sigh against him, and that tiny sound seems to undo him. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly, just enough to taste you. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin so tenderly it makes your chest ache.
You kiss him back, slow and sweet, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.
It drags out—neither of you in any rush, savoring every second.
He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops. And you kiss him like you’ve been waiting forever for this moment.
When you finally, reluctantly, pull apart, you're both breathless. He presses his forehead against yours, grinning like an idiot. "So..." he whispers, voice a little hoarse. "Can I stay a little longer?"
You pretend to think about it, biting your lip to hide your smile. "Maybe," you tease. "If you behave."
He groans, flopping dramatically onto your couch again, tugging you down with him so you land half-on top of him, laughing.
"Not a chance," he says happily.
You're warm against him, tucked into his side, your head resting on his shoulder like you belonged there. And for a moment, Satoru feels like the luckiest man alive.
Until his brain—traitorous, evil, rotten—reminds him.
Reminds him of how he spent last night fucking his fist like a deranged lunatic, thinking about you. Reminds him that you have no idea just how far gone he already is.
A quiet, horrified voice in his head: I'm a monster.
His throat goes dry.His hands twitch awkwardly where they rest on your waist, unsure if he should even be touching you like this—until you shift, just slightly, peeking up at him with this sleepy little smile.
And just like that, every coherent thought leaves him. All that's left is you.
"You're comfy," you mumble against him, snuggling closer.
Satoru lets out a weak, broken little laugh, hiding his burning face against your hair.
If you only knew. If you only knew what you did to him.
He doesn't know how long he sits there with you tucked into him, drinking in your warmth. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. Hell, he wants to.
But then his phone buzzes.
He barely registers it, ignoring it at first. Until it buzzes again. And again.
He groans, reluctant, fishing it out of his pocket while you shift sleepily against him. The screen flashes: a reminder for his evening tutoring session he totally, utterly forgot about. He slumps.
"Something wrong?" you ask, voice soft, blinking up at him.
"I gotta go," he mutters like he's being forced into exile.
You bite back a smile, stretching lazily. "Duty calls?"
"Yeah." He pouts, actually pouts. "Stupid duty."
You laugh under your breath, and it's so unfair how easily you knock the air out of his lungs without even trying.
He stands reluctantly, dragging his feet like a kid leaving recess early.
"Hey," you call out. "Aren’t you forgetting something?"
He turns around and blinks at you, confusion flickering across his face—but then you smile. Soft. Warm. Something just for him.
You step close, tiptoe a little to reach him. And Satoru swears, swears, his heart stumbles in his chest when you press a gentle kiss to his lips.
It's feather-light. Barely there. Sweet enough to make his knees almost buckle.
And when you pull back, a cheeky glint in your eye, he's just standing there. Frozen. Speechless. The stupidest grin pulling at his mouth.
"See you later, ’Toru," you say lightly, nudging him toward the door.
And all he can manage—voice cracking slightly, heart hammering out of his chest—is a dazed "Y-Yeah. Later."
You shut the door behind him with a little wave, and he stands there for a good ten seconds before he finally remembers how to move.
-
Class feels different today.
You’re hyper-aware of everything.
The way Satoru brushes his knee against yours under the table, all casual-like. The way his pinky keeps nudging yours on the desk until finally, finally, you relent and let your fingers curl around his. The way he keeps sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye—and every time you catch him, he just smiles, like he’s getting away with something.
It’s infuriating. It’s adorable. It’s Satoru.
You pretend to focus on the lecture. Really, you do. But it’s hard when you can feel the warmth of his hand ghosting over your thigh under the table, a barely-there touch that sends your heart skittering against your ribs.
By the time the professor starts wrapping up class, you’re halfway to combusting.
"Don’t forget," she says, tapping the whiteboard, "project updates are due next week."
You scribble the deadline in your notes, but Satoru’s already turning toward you, practically bouncing in his seat.
"Hey," he says, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "How about we work on it at my place today?"
You blink, startled. "Your place?"
He grins, bright and boyish. "Yeah! First time for everything, right?"
The way he says it—light, teasing, almost a little shy—makes something flutter wildly in your chest.
"It’ll be chill," he continues. "We can grab some snacks, order takeout, maybe actually get stuff done this time—"
You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. "Are you actually suggesting a productive study session or trying to lure me into a trap?"
He gasps, hand clutching dramatically at his chest. "Me? Lure you? I’m offended." Then he drops the act, leaning in close, that mischievous spark lighting up his eyes. "But if you happen to end up in my lap or something, y’know... destiny."
You shove him lightly, cheeks warming. "God, you’re insufferable."
"Face it—you love this," he says, nudging your shoulder with his.
You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head. Still...you find yourself smiling.
"Fine," you say, packing up your stuff. "But we’re actually working this time."
He pumps a fist in victory. "Yes! Bring that sexy brain of yours, princess. We’re gonna kill this project."
You throw a crumpled sticky note at him. He catches it midair, flashing a grin that practically glows.
-
You’re home, lounging on your bed, phone in hand.
The texting starts innocent enough.
[you]: what should I bring?
[toru 💙]: just that pretty little self of yours
You roll your eyes, biting back a smile.
[you]: be serious
[toru 💙]: i am. i’m dead serious. maybe a notebook too though lol
You roll your eyes, thumbs hovering over your screen. Before you can type anything else, another message pops up:
[toru 💙]: also… try not to look too pretty
[toru 💙]: kinda hard to focus when you’re around
You blink at the screen, heart skipping a beat. The sudden boldness makes you squirm a little under your covers.
Before you can even react, a third text follows:
[toru 💙]: here’s my address
A pinned location pops up. Followed by—
[toru 💙]: hurry over please
You stare at the messages, warmth blooming in your chest (and spreading lower, if you were honest).
You should probably be nervous. You should definitely be more cautious.
But all you do is grin, toss your phone onto the bed, and start getting ready.
-
You barely knock once before the door swings open.
And there he is.
Black tank top clinging to his chest, basketball shorts slung so low it should be illegal. Lean muscles on full display. Sleep-mussed white hair falling over his forehead.
You actually forget how to breathe. Your brain just... shuts down.
Satoru’s mouth twitches into a knowing smirk. He leans lazily against the doorframe, crossing his arms — muscles flexing, because of course they do — and tips his head at you.
“Well, well," he drawls, amusement dripping from every word. "Didn’t think you’d be that easy to stun."
You blink — once, twice — scrambling to find your voice. "I’m not stunned," you blurt out, way too fast to be convincing.
"Mhm," he hums, that smug little grin widening. "Sure. You just like standing on people's porches looking like you forgot your own name?"
You shove past him with a flustered scoff, cheeks burning. But you can feel his eyes trailing after you, slow and satisfied, as he shuts the door behind you.
"You didn’t tell me the dress code was..." you flounder, gesturing vaguely at his entire existence, "thirst trap casual."
"Aw, you think I’m a thirst trap?" he coos, stepping dangerously close — close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly.
"I think you’re an asshole," you snap — except your voice comes out all breathy, completely ruining the effect.
Satoru chuckles — a low, rich sound that vibrates all the way through you. "You can be honest, y'know. It's just us here." He leans down, dropping his voice into a whisper, "You like what you see."
You make a strangled noise in your throat and whirl around, pretending to inspect the living room like it's the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. "Where’s your project stuff?" you demand, heart thundering against your ribs.
"Wow," he says behind you, tone all fake-hurt. "Use me for my brain and ditch me for my abs. Brutal."
"You have a brain?" you retort, finally finding a shred of composure.
He laughs again — easy, bright — and brushes past you, the barest graze of his arm against yours sending your nerves into a frenzy.
"Come on, nerd," he calls over his shoulder, tossing a wink at you that almost knocks you off your feet. "Project’s not gonna finish itself."
You huff, yanking your notebook out of your bag to try and hide the stupid, giddy smile pulling at your lips.
You’re just barely settled on the couch, notebook balanced on your lap, when Satoru stretches — arms over his head, tank top riding up dangerously — and says, “Actually... we’ll have more space in my room."
You blink at him, heart skipping a beat. "Your room?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow.
He flashes a wide, shit-eating grin. "Yeah. Bigger desk. Better lighting."
You narrow your eyes, pretending to be skeptical. "Oh? Already trying to get me in bed?"
Satoru stops dead in his tracks — but only for half a second. Then he tosses a look over his shoulder, cocky and wicked. "Don’t give me ideas," he says, voice low and playful.
Your cheeks burn so hot you’re surprised you don’t spontaneously combust. But you’re stubborn — so you just huff and follow him anyway, ignoring the smug little chuckle he lets out as he leads you down the hall. And then you step into his room — and freeze.
Because it’s... it’s not what you expect. Sure, it’s a little messy — loose clothes on a chair, half-done laundry — but what really grabs your attention is the shelf. More specifically: the shelf packed with colorful little figures. Posters. Framed prints. All of it instantly recognizable.
"...Is that—" you start, pointing.
"Digimon," Satoru says immediately, like he's bracing himself for judgment.
You stare. You blink. And then — you laugh. Loud, bright, uncontrollable.
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I knew it. I knew you were gonna make fun of me."
You grin at him, unrepentant. "You? Cool, confident, six-foot-whatever Gojo Satoru... secret Digimon stan? Oh, this is gold."
"It’s not secret," he grumbles, crossing his arms like a petulant kid. "Digimon’s fucking awesome. Better than Pokémon. Better story arcs, deeper characters—"
"You sound so defensive," you giggle, stepping closer to inspect a particularly adorable stuffed Agumon perched on his bed.
He steps up beside you, bumping your shoulder lightly with his and picks up the plushie to toss it somewhere else. "You're lucky you're cute," he mutters, mock-threatening, "or I’d kick you out right now."
You bite back a smile, feeling that fluttery, giddy warmth bloom in your chest again. Because for all his teasing, all his cocky bravado — there’s something painfully endearing about how unapologetically himself he is. No hiding. No shame. Just... Satoru.
"You’re such a nerd," you say fondly.
Satoru smirks, eyes glinting mischievously. "Yeah? Still think I’m a thirst trap though?"
You sputter, flustered all over again — and he cackles, so pleased with himself it’s criminal.
God. You are so screwed.
You perch awkwardly on the edge of his bed, notebook in your lap again, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of how huge his bed is, how close he is, how the mattress dips slightly under his weight when he flops down next to you.
"Alright," he says, stretching lazily, flashing a sliver of toned stomach again. "Serious time. Project planning. Let's go."
You nod, throat a little dry. "Serious," you echo, flipping open the notebook. "No distractions."
"None whatsoever," he agrees solemnly.
You start brainstorming, scribbling notes in the margins, muttering ideas under your breath. For a few minutes, everything’s fine. Normal. Until you feel it — the slight brush of his knee against yours. At first, you think it’s an accident. You shift slightly to the side.
But then it happens again. And again.
And then — Satoru leans closer, peering over your shoulder, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand rests casually on the bed behind you, fingers curling ever so slightly around the edge of your shirt.
You pretend to ignore it. Pretend so hard it almost works.
But then he hums low in his throat — a thoughtful, lazy little sound — and lets his hand slide up, fingers brushing lightly against your lower back, and your entire body tenses.
"'Toru..." you murmur, trying for stern, but it comes out way too breathy. You don’t even look at him — you can’t — because you already know what you’ll find: those blue eyes, lazy and half-lidded, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Focus," you manage, tapping the notebook for emphasis.
He leans in, so close his nose almost brushes your temple, and murmurs in a voice so low it makes your stomach flip:
"You make it hard to."
His hand is bold now — fingers tracing slow, idle patterns over the dip of your waist, so gentle it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Your breath stutters in your throat. You feel your heart hammer against your ribs.
You finally — finally — dare a glance at him.
And he’s looking at you like he’s starving.
For you.
The tension is a physical thing now, heavy and thick in the air between you. You swear you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.
"...You're unbelievable," you whisper, the notebook slipping from your fingers.
His smirk deepens, shameless. "You like it."
God help you — you do.
You scramble, trying desperately to recover your sanity, to remember why you’re even here in the first place. The project. The project, dammit.
You slap your palm over the notebook, pushing it toward him. "W-We should really— really focus," you stammer, voice wobbling embarrassingly.
He just grins, slow and easy, that grin that makes you forget your own name.
"I am focused," he says, voice dropping into that low, teasing rasp. "Focused on you."
And before you can react, he shifts — the bed dipping under his weight as he gently crowds into your space.
Your breath catches.
He cages you in with a hand planted firm beside your hip, his other hand curling loosely around your wrist like he’s giving you the option to pull away — like he’s daring you to.
You don’t. You can’t.
You’re frozen, wide-eyed, heart thudding like crazy.
His forehead presses lightly to yours, and you feel the whisper of his breath against your lips.
"You drive me crazy, y'know that?" he murmurs, voice impossibly soft. Every word vibrates through you.
You open your mouth — to say what, you’re not sure — but no sound comes out. You’re too busy trying not to melt.
And then he moves. Sudden but gentle, he presses you down against the mattress, his body hovering above yours, careful not to crush you.
Your hands instinctively fly up to his chest — oh, God his chest — and you feel the steady pound of his heartbeat under your palms.
He’s close now, so close you can see every detail of his face — the slight pink flush on his cheeks, the playful crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide with something between affection and hunger.
"You’re so cute when you're flustered," he teases, and you want to hate him for it, you really do.
But you don’t. You can't.
Instead, you fist your hands in the soft fabric of his shirt and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will your racing pulse back to normal.
He chuckles, low and smug. Then — so lightly you almost think you imagined it — he brushes his nose along the side of your jaw, breathing you in.
"You’re killing me," he whispers.
You whimper — actual, real, humiliating whimper — and he grins.
But he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.
He just stays there, letting the tension thicken, letting you squirm, savoring it.
It’s agony. It’s perfect.
You feel it — the exact moment his lips almost touch yours.
It’s a whisper of a moment, barely-there, the ghost of contact that makes your whole body tense up in anticipation.
He’s so close. So close you can taste the heat radiating off him, the sweet, addictive scent of his cologne, the lazy tilt of his grin as he leans in—
And that’s when you snap out of it.
At the very last second, you slip a hand between your bodies, planting your palm firmly against his chest to stop him.
His eyes fly open, confused, slightly wild.
You smile — sweet, smug — up at him.
"Uh-uh," you say, your voice still a little breathless but steady enough to make him narrow his eyes suspiciously. "Project first."
The sheer betrayal on his face.
"You've gotta be kidding me," he groans, dropping his forehead dramatically onto your shoulder like you just mortally wounded him. "I was so close, baby, c'mon—"
You cackle. Gojo finds it beautiful.
He lifts his head, leveling you with the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen. "You're evil," he accuses.
You just wiggle your eyebrows at him, smirking. "Should've thought about that before trying to seduce me in broad daylight, Gojo."
He collapses beside you with a dramatic huff, flopping back against the bed like his soul has been snatched from his body.
"It’s almost 7. Unbelievable," he mutters. "This is harassment. I should sue."
You reach over, patting his chest twice, condescending and sweet. "There, there."
He turns his head, glaring at you — but the slight twitch of his lips gives him away.
"You owe me later," he says, pointing a finger at you like a solemn oath.
You hum, pretending to think it over, before shooting him a wicked little grin. "We'll see if you're good."
His groan is loud enough to rattle the bed.
You're absolutely thriving.
You’re trying so hard to focus. You really are. Project notes scattered across the bed, laptop open, a half-written paragraph blinking at you like it's taunting your lack of progress.
And then—
"Break time!" Satoru declares, already tugging you off the bed by your wrist before you can even protest.
You stumble after him, laughing breathlessly. "Satoru, we barely got anything done!"
"Exactly why we need a break," he grins, dragging you toward the kitchen like a man on a mission. "You’ll thank me later."
You roll your eyes but let him haul you along, too curious (and maybe a little too charmed) to resist.
He lets go of your hand once you reach the kitchen and dramatically cracks his knuckles, looking far too proud of himself.
"Watch and learn, sweetheart," he says, shooting you a wink. "You're in the presence of greatness."
You snort, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter. "Oh yeah? You gonna burn the house down, master chef?"
He gasps — actually gasps — clutching his chest like you mortally wounded him. "You wound me."
You just laugh, watching as he rummages through the fridge with entirely too much flair, pulling out random ingredients and setting them on the counter.
"You're literally just making instant ramen," you point out dryly, but there's a smile tugging at your lips.
"Gourmet instant ramen," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "With egg. And scallions. And a lil’ bit of love."
He tosses you another wink and you lose it, doubling over in silent laughter.
You lean back against the counter, arms folded, trying — and failing — to look unimpressed as he hums to himself, clattering pots around. He’s in a black tank top and low-hanging shorts, muscles flexing casually with every movement, hair messy from dragging his hands through it.
And it’s... distracting. Way too distracting.
Especially when he starts cracking an egg one-handed like a cocky asshole.
"Show-off," you mutter under your breath.
"Don’t act like you’re not impressed," he sing-songs, peeking at you from under snowy lashes, smug as hell.
You flip him off lazily. He just grins wider.
The kitchen fills with the scent of broth and spices, steam curling in the air. He moves with this effortless, chaotic sort of confidence — a little reckless, a little messy — but somehow everything comes together perfectly.
When he turns to you again, ramen bowl in hand, he looks so goddamn pleased with himself you want to laugh.
"See?" he says, stepping closer. "I'm basically husband material."
You tilt your head, raising a brow. "You make instant noodles and think you deserve a ring?"
"Handmade. Special edition. Enhanced with love." He winks, holding up the bowl like an offering. "You should be honored."
And even though you roll your eyes, you can't help the smile tugging at your lips — can't help the way your stomach flips stupidly as he steps even closer, towering over you with that lazy, confident grin.
-
You set the now-empty bowl down on the counter, nudging him with your elbow. "Since you whipped up such a gourmet meal, I guess the least I can do is the dishes."
Satoru leans back against the counter, grinning so wide it's almost embarrassing. "You spoil me."
You roll your eyes but start gathering up the dishes anyway, rinsing them under the tap. The warm water and simple task are oddly comforting, your movements easy, natural.
And from behind you, you can feel it — his gaze, warm and heavy, drinking you in like he's memorizing this moment.
Before you can even finish rinsing the second bowl, you feel him — long arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back into him, chest pressed against your back.
You huff a soft laugh, not bothering to fight it. "Needy much?"
He just hums, nose nudging into the crook of your neck, his hair tickling your skin. "You smell good," he mumbles, voice low and content.
"Why, thank you," you say, but it’s half a smile.
"I could get used to this," he murmurs, squeezing you a little tighter.
You finish up the dishes like that — his arms around you, his weight solid and comforting at your back, his soft little praises murmured into your ear in between.
"You're pretty," he says at one point, completely unprompted. "So pretty I don't know how I'm supposed to concentrate when you're around."
You duck your head, smiling to yourself, feeling your cheeks burn.
When you finally dry your hands and turn around to face him, he's already looking down at you with stars in his eyes, a little breathless like he can't believe you're real.
You loop your arms around his neck without thinking, tugging him a little closer, and he leans into it easily, lazily, like he's been waiting for this exact moment. "Can I kiss you yet?" he asks, grinning like an idiot, voice all hopeful and teasing.
You laugh, soft and fond, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Sure, loverboy."
And he doesn't waste a second — swooping down to finally, finally claim your lips in a kiss that's sweet and warm and a little clumsy with excitement, like he just can’t hold it in anymore.
The moment your lips meet, it’s like something clicks into place.
At first, it’s a gentle brush of mouths, shy and smiling. He kisses you once, then twice, like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. But then you tilt your head just a little, arms tightening around his neck, and he groans — a low, helpless sound that rumbles against your chest.
And just like that, the kiss deepens.
His hands, which had been resting innocently at your waist, slide down — gripping your hips with a little more urgency, pulling you flush against him. You gasp softly into his mouth, and he takes full advantage, slotting his mouth over yours in a way that leaves your knees just barely holding you up. You feel it when his fingers flex, pressing you closer, when his body shudders lightly against yours.
God, he’s starving for you. You can feel it in the way he kisses — slow but hungry, like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.
When he pulls back for just a breath, his forehead presses to yours, and his voice is ragged, wrecked. "You’re gonna kill me," he whispers, before diving back in, more desperate this time.
You whimper into his mouth without meaning to, clutching at the front of his shirt, feeling the heat of him seeping into your palms.
Satoru groans again, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your shirt, skin to skin.
It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s slow — simmering — like he’s savoring every second, like he wants this moment to stretch on forever.
And it’s only when his teeth gently tug at your bottom lip — when your breathing turns shallow and desperate against each other — that you finally, finally break away.
Both of you stand there for a second, breathing hard, faces flushed.
You feel dizzy. He looks completely wrecked.
You’re both breathless when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, lips tingling.
Satoru’s hands are still on your waist, holding you close like he’s not ready to let go. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours — shallow, like he’s trying to calm himself down.
He gives a short, breathy laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You smile, dazed. “Pretty sure that’s mutual.”
There’s a beat of silence — heavy with everything unsaid — before he leans in again.
Hungrier. Rougher. Like he’s been holding back all night and can’t anymore. His mouth moves over yours with unfiltered need, hands pulling you closer like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
You make a soft noise into his mouth, and it only spurs him on. The way he kisses you — it’s not perfect. It’s messy and fast and desperate, teeth catching on your lower lip, hands gripping tight like he’s scared you’ll slip away.
Your fingers wind into the fabric of his tank top, pulling him even closer until you’re practically wrapped around him.
He breaks the kiss just barely, lips brushing yours as he breathes out, “Tell me if it’s too much.”
You shake your head. “It’s not. I—” You swallow. “I want this. You.”
His expression softens for a split second before that heat comes rushing back. His mouth is back on yours, slower this time but no less intense — like he’s trying to memorize how you taste.
When his hand slips under your shirt and settles on the small of your back, warm and firm, you shiver.
He kisses you like he means it. Like he feels it.
And when you finally pull back again, breathless and flushed, he just smiles — eyes glassy, voice low.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s kissing you again.
No warning, no hesitation — just the searing press of his mouth against yours like he’s starving for it. Like he needs more. And you give in without thinking, letting him pull you closer until there’s not a sliver of space left between your bodies.
His hands are on your waist, fingers tightening like he’s trying to anchor himself. And when your hands slide up his chest, over those broad shoulders, he groans into your mouth — low and wrecked.
It’s dizzying, the way he kisses you. Every time you think he’ll stop, he comes back for more — messier, deeper, rougher. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, slow and hot and reverent.
And then suddenly, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.
His voice is breathless, raw. “Hold on.”
Before you can ask what he means, he lifts you — effortlessly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You let out a startled gasp, arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you through the apartment. Your heart’s hammering so hard you’re sure he can feel it.
He’s grinning now, cocky and breathless all at once. “I warned you I’m husband material.”
“Shut up,” you mutter against his neck, flustered beyond reason.
But there’s no hiding the way your legs tighten around his waist.
He nudges his bedroom door open with his foot, stepping inside, and the second you’re both in, he sets you down gently. And just like that, he’s on you again — kissing you like he’s waited his whole life for this.
His mouth is still on yours when he shifts forward, slowly pressing you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You stumble slightly, gripping his arms for balance—and the second your weight tips back, he goes with you.
The two of you collapse onto the mattress in a tangled mess of limbs and breathless laughter, but he’s quick to recover. Quick to pin you there beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head, his hips snug between your thighs.
He looks down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.
And then that glint returns—dangerous and wicked and so unlike the stammering nerd you met on day one.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes, voice low and rough in your ear.
You shiver.
His lips find the side of your neck again, and this time they don’t linger—they devour. Hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your back arch, that pull quiet, helpless sounds from your throat. His hands wander too, slow at first, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, every line and dip he can find.
You reach for him, needing more—but he grabs your wrists, pins them gently above your head with one hand.
“Nuh-uh,” he smirks. “I’m in charge now.”
You’re just about to sass him when he dips down again, this time trailing kisses down your collarbone. Then lower. He peppers slow, aching kisses across your chest, teasing the hem of your top with his free hand.
And then he sits up, straddling your hips, eyes practically burning.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, and it’s a loaded question.
You nod.
He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I jacked off to the thought of you the other night.”
Your breath catches—your whole body burns.
“After that text you sent,” he goes on, voice like velvet laced with sin. “You have no idea what you did to me. I read it once and couldn’t stop imagining it. You—whispering in my ear like that, all sweet and smug and filthy.”
He moves again, kisses dragging hot and slow down the slope of your neck, and then your chest, until he’s tugging your shirt up and over your head.
“I was in bed,” he murmurs. “One hand on my phone. The other…” He lets the implication hang, but his hand slips down your thigh, then up again, teasing, until your breath comes in sharp gasps.
“I was thinking about you,” he says. “About your voice. About what you’d look like straddling me, telling me what you wanted while I fucked up into you so slow.”
Your hips buck at that—and god, the smirk that pulls at his lips should be illegal.
He starts undressing you slowly, worshipping, like every piece he reveals is a treasure. “I need you,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse, eyes searching yours like he needs you to understand.
The kiss that follows is devastating—open-mouthed and hungry, a collision of breath and teeth and need. You’re clawing at his clothes like they personally offended you, yanking at the hem of his shirt with fumbling fingers and a frustrated groan.
“Off,” you hiss against his lips.
He laughs, breathless, tugging it over his head and tossing it aside, revealing smooth skin and defined muscle, the dip of his waist disappearing into those loose shorts you suddenly despise.
You push at them with impatient hands, and he grins—cocky, flushed, wrecked and loving every second of it. “Desperate, huh?” he teases, voice still husky from the kiss.
“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, dragging your nails down his sides. “You’re not exactly subtle, loverboy.”
He’s all hands again then—roaming your body, trailing heat in their wake as he presses you down into the bed, lips never far from your skin. Every motion is frantic and reverent all at once, like he’s starving but determined to savor every inch of you.
You push at his chest gently, and he lets you, eyebrows raised in surprise as his back hits the mattress.
“Oh?” he breathes, propping himself up on his elbows. “Taking control now?”
“Didn’t you say I killed you the other night?” you murmur, crawling between his legs with a sly smile. “Figured I should finish the job.”
His eyes darken immediately—heat blooming in them so fast it’s dizzying. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
You do—because the second your hands slide up his thighs, he’s already sucking in a breath, already biting back a groan. His abs tense under your touch, his head tipping back as he watches you through lidded eyes, gaze glazed over with anticipation.
“You been thinking about this, ’Toru?” you ask softly, dragging your nails lightly along the waistband of his shorts.
He swallows thickly. “Every night.”
And when you finally tug his waistband down, your breath catches.
He's thick, long and heavy, flushed a pretty pink at the tip, and already straining toward you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever. Your mouth parts without thinking. You don’t even realize you’re staring until he lets out a shaky, nervous laugh. Your hands wrap around him and his hips instinctively buck upwards.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he mutters, voice gravelly.
He’s already gone—chest rising and falling in short, sharp breaths. His hands clutch the sheets when you lean in, letting your tongue flick across the swollen head, tasting him.
“Oh fuck—”
You take your time. You don’t give him all of it, not yet. You swirl your tongue around the tip, teasing the slit until he hisses between clenched teeth. He jolts when you lick a slow stripe along the underside, right at the base where it’s most sensitive, your fingers cradling him, gentle and thorough.
He groans—loud and raw—and you feel his hands fist the sheets tighter.
“You’re killing me,” he pants, head tipping back, voice nearly wrecked.
And still, you don’t rush. You bob your head slowly, steadily, sinking down deeper with each pass until his abs tighten and he moans—loud, desperate. You feel him twitch on your tongue, hear the soft, breathy curse that falls from his lips as you wrap your hand around him and roll your wrist just right. You squeeze his balls and he nearly sobs.
You glance up through your lashes, and the sight of him—head tossed back, jaw clenched, face flushed, his entire body shaking with restraint—is seared into your memory.
You don’t take your eyes off him, not even as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper. He’s so close—you can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his breath stutters, the broken sound he makes when you moan around him.
“Fuck—baby, I’m gonna—”
You don’t stop. You want it. Want to see him fall apart. And he does, with a choked groan that rips out of his chest as he spills into your mouth, hot and thick. His hand flies to your hair, not to pull you away—but to keep you there, his hips giving the slightest jerk as he rides it out. You swallow it all only pulling off when he starts to twitch. And when you finally draw back, lips slick and chin damp, he looks completely undone.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, dazed.
You just smile sweetly and wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb.
He’s still catching his breath when you go to pull back fully, smug and satisfied. “Mm-hm,” he hums, voice rough and curling with mischief. His hand catches your wrist, firm but gentle. “My turn, sweetheart.”
You blink. “Oh?”
Before you can tease him back, he moves—effortlessly. One arm wraps around your waist, the other plants on the bed, and in a single fluid motion he’s pulling you up, flipping you like you weigh nothing and settling you inches away from his face. You squeak—actually squeak—as your knees plant on either side of his head.
“Satoru—”
“Shh.” He grins, that ridiculous confident smirk plastered across his flushed face. “Sit, baby. Be good for me.”
He gives your ass a squeeze, encouraging, eyes gleaming up at you. You hesitate for half a second and he adds, voice dipped low and sinfully sweet,
“You got to have your fun.”
Then he pulls you down.
His mouth is on you immediately—hot and unrelenting. Tongue flicking, lips sealing around your clit as he groans like you taste better than anything he’s ever had. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh, holding you there like he’s starving and you’re the feast. And when your hips twitch, instinctively trying to lift off—he drags you right back down.
“Oh no, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, voice muffled and vibrating through your core, “I said sit.”
You’re braced against the headboard now, knees shaking, thighs clenched tight around his head as you grind down—slow at first, then faster, chasing that high with ragged breath and trembling limbs.
He’s not just letting you. He’s encouraging it.
Big hands grope your ass, fingers digging in, guiding you against his mouth like he wants you to lose it. His tongue moves with practiced precision, sucking and flicking, drawing soft whimpers and broken gasps from your lips as your body arches.
You glance down again and the sight nearly finishes you—his eyes half-lidded and dazed, cheeks flushed, hair a total mess from how many times you’ve tugged on it.
He looks wrecked. But he’s moaning like he’s in heaven. Like this is exactly where he wants to be.
And then he says it—muffled, half-choked, voice thick with lust and absolutely feral. “So fucking sweet.”
You grind harder, hips rolling, and he groans into you.
He doesn’t care if he can’t breathe. Doesn’t care if he’s dizzy. Doesn’t care if you’re seconds from suffocating him. He’s already decided this is how he wants to go out.
Buried between your thighs, mouth full of you, hands holding you down like you’re sacred.
And when you finally break—back arching, eyes fluttering shut, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes through you—he doesn’t stop. Not for a second.
He rides it out with you, tongue still moving, swallowing every sound you make.
When he finally lets go you collapse beside him, completely spent, your body still trembling in the aftermath. Your cheek presses into the pillow, breath catching in your throat as you try to come back to yourself. Satoru shifts next to you, propping himself up on one elbow. He brushes your hair back gently, eyes soft, and asks quietly,
“You okay?”
You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah. Just—holy shit.”
He huffs a small laugh and leans down to kiss your shoulder, warm and unhurried. “Good.”
You feel him watching you for a second longer, like he’s making sure you’re really alright. You stretch out, boneless and warm, assuming this is the part where you both wind down.
But then his hand slides down your back.
You feel him shift behind you, and when you glance over your shoulder, his expression’s changed. Still gentle—but focused. Hungrier.
“You done?” he asks softly, voice right at your ear now.
You blink. “I… thought we were.”
He smiles, and it’s a little crooked, a little smug—but not cocky. Just him.
“Not even close.”
Before you can respond, his hands are on your hips, guiding you forward. You let him, moving onto your knees again, bracing your hands against the headboard as the mattress shifts beneath you. He settles behind you slowly, fingers trailing up your sides. The air changes—more intimate now, more intense.
“You okay like this?” he murmurs.
You nod.
“Good.” He kisses the back of your neck. “Hold on to something.”
He settles behind you again, one hand steady on your hip, the other guiding himself down. You feel the slow drag of him through your folds—warm, thick, and deliberate. You suck in a breath, hips twitching slightly. But he doesn’t press in. Just rocks forward enough to slide himself through you again. And again.
Your fingers curl tighter around the headboard. “…Satoru,” you breathe.
“Mhm?” His voice is low, calm. Way too calm for what he’s doing.
You try to push back into him, but he keeps you where he wants you—just a firm, gentle grip at your hip keeping you still.
He’s quiet for a moment. You glance over your shoulder and catch the look on his face: focused, a little tense, clearly feeling it—but taking his time anyway.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” you mutter.
A breath of a laugh leaves him. “Yeah. Kind of.”
Your forehead drops forward. “’Toru…”
He groans softly—just a little, like he’s trying not to—but doesn’t stop. Just drags himself over you again, slower now. “God, you feel good,” he mutters. “I just… give me a second.”
You shift again, needy and frustrated, and he finally stills behind you, tip resting right where you want him. You both freeze.
“…You okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod, exhaling hard. “Please.”
There’s a beat. And then he leans forward, lips brushing your shoulder, voice quiet and serious against your skin. “Yeah. I got you. Just spread ‘em a bit for me… yeah, that’s it.”
He eases in with that first, deep stroke—slow enough to feel every inch of him push through your walls. The stretch burns just a little, but the heat in your core blooms even hotter. He’s thick, heavy, and you feel every vein drag along your inner walls, textured and pulsing, making your whole body clench around him without thinking.
Behind you, Satoru groans—low and raw, like it’s dragging out of his chest. “God… you feel unreal,” he mutters, breath shaky.
He holds still once he’s fully inside, his hips pressed against the swell of your ass, his hand flexing on your waist like he’s trying not to move too fast. His cock twitches inside you and you gasp at how full you feel—your body stretched and throbbing around him, nerves lighting up from the inside out.
“Okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.
You nod, voice barely there. “Yeah. Just—fuck, Satoru.”
He pulls out slow, almost all the way, and you feel every ridge of him drag against your soaked walls. Then he sinks back in with a soft grunt, and you swear you feel him throb again—your body squeezing around him on instinct.
The pace he sets is slow but deep, grinding into you just right, the friction steady and maddening. Your thighs are trembling already, your hands gripping the headboard like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
Every time he pushes in, his cock presses against that spongy spot deep inside you, and every time he pulls out, it’s this slow, deliberate scrape that leaves you gasping. There’s no space left between you—just wet heat and tension, pressure building with every stroke.
And then—his hand moves. Slides down from your waist, slipping between your legs, fingers finding your clit with no hesitation. The first pass is light, almost teasing.
You jolt. “Satoru—!”
“I got you,” he says quietly, like a promise. His thumb circles you, slow and tight, while his other hand braces your hip steady against him. And all the while, he keeps fucking into you—deeper now, rhythm starting to slip, strokes a little rougher, his breath coming harder against your skin.
“You feel so good around me,” he murmurs, thumb pressing down just a little harder. “So warm. So tight. You keep squeezing me like that, baby—fuck.”
Your whole body is shaking now, moaning helplessly as his fingers keep working your clit, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. Every stroke is slick, deep, devastating. You can hear the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you, the soft slap of skin, his strained breathing—your own whimpers growing louder with every thrust.
The pressure builds sharp and fast, your body locking up as your orgasm crashes toward you—
And Satoru’s still going. Still thumbing your clit, still grinding his cock into you like he can’t get enough.
Your body tightens around him without warning, breath catching as the pleasure crests—sharp, blinding, unstoppable. You cry out, head dropping as your orgasm rips through you, muscles clenching so hard around his cock that it knocks the air out of both of you.
“Oh my—fuck, that’s it—” Satoru groans, stuttering inside you as your walls flutter and squeeze around him.
You’re still shaking, coming down from the high, when he slows—lets you ride it out, then carefully pulls out, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. You barely have time to blink before he’s flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing.
He spreads your thighs open, throws your legs over his shoulders, and lines himself up again with a low, strained breath. His eyes meet yours—still soft, but blown wide, jaw tight with restraint. There’s nothing teasing left in him now.
He doesn’t ask this time. Doesn’t wait. He thrusts back in hard—deep—and keeps going.
No more slow buildup. No more holding back. Just relentless, steady drive—his hips snapping into yours over and over, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.
You gasp, fingers flying to his forearms as he leans over you, caging you in. His pace is brutal now, almost punishing, but it never stops feeling good—the angle perfect, the pressure hitting deep with every stroke.
“Satoru—” you sob, voice cracking.
He groans through gritted teeth, muscles tense, hips moving like he’s possessed. “You’re so—fucking—tight.”
You can barely think. Your legs tremble over his shoulders, body arching with every thrust, your orgasm still making aftershocks ripple through you.
He reaches down between you again, hand slipping to your clit like it’s second nature—his thumb moving in tight, fast circles that make your back arch off the bed. “You gonna give me another one?” he pants, voice rough and shaking. “Come on, sweetheart—I know you can.”
You don’t even answer. You can’t. The pressure’s already building again—too fast, too much, your body barely holding on as he keeps fucking into you like he’s been waiting for this all night.
You feel him twitch inside you, hear his breathing hitch—but he still doesn’t come. He’s chasing you again, driving into you like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.
You don’t know how he keeps going like this. His pace is ruthless, hips pistoning into you like he’s been starving for it—but it’s the focus that kills you. He’s watching every twitch in your body, every gasp, every time your walls flutter around him like he’s memorizing it.
Then he shifts—leans in until your knees are almost pinned to your chest, folding you in half under him. The new angle makes you cry out, his cock hitting impossibly deep, your body arching beneath the weight of him. “You feel that?” he breathes, voice rough and close to a growl now. “So deep inside you, baby. Just like this.”
And then—his mouth is on your chest. You gasp when he takes your nipple between his lips, tongue circling, sucking slow and steady while his hips never stop. The hot pull of his mouth makes your toes curl, especially when his free hand moves to palm your other breast—thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, fingers squeezing just enough to make you whimper.
It’s too much. You’re overstimulated—his cock still driving into you, thumb still tight and unrelenting on your clit, his mouth sucking, teasing, biting gently down before soothing with his tongue.
Pleasure spikes sharp and fast, and it’s not building—it’s crashing. Your entire body locks up as the heat inside you explodes again, white-hot and shattering, a sob wrenching out of your throat. “Fuck—Satoru—!” Your cunt clenches tight around him, waves of pleasure ripping through you, and he feels it. You feel him falter, his rhythm breaking as he groans like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him.
“Shit—fuck—fuck, I’m—,” he doesn’t even finish the sentence before he’s coming too, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a choked moan. You can feel him pulsing deep inside, every twitch of his cock matching the aftershocks still tearing through you.
He holds you tight through it, arms wrapped around your back, forehead pressed to your shoulder as you both shake through the comedown—nothing but breathless curses filling the room.
You don’t even realize your eyes have fluttered shut until you feel him shift, just a gentle repositioning of his weight as he carefully pulls out—slow, like he doesn’t want to hurt you. You wince, breath catching at the sting, and immediately his voice is there, low and warm in your ear. “Hey, you with me?”
You nod faintly, your body boneless, brain melted, heart still pounding. He kisses your shoulder—once, twice—and gently lowers your legs from where they’re still draped over him, massaging your thighs like he knows they’re trembling.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back, yeah? Don’t move.”
You can’t even laugh at that. He gets up anyway, grabbing the closest towel and heading to the bathroom, still totally naked, completely unbothered. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the room—hair a mess, chest flushed, thighs shaking—and you groan, flopping back against the sheets.
By the time he returns, you’re still half out of it, and he just smiles, fond and lazy as he nudges your legs apart again. “Easy,” he whispers, wiping you down gently, taking his time like you’re made of glass now. “You did so good for me, baby. So fucking good.”
You sigh as he finishes, and the second he’s done, he tosses the towel and climbs back into bed with you—pulling you against his chest, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s anchoring himself. You melt into him, cheek pressed against his collarbone and he grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
A pause. Then—“You’re unreal, you know that?” he murmurs. “I mean, I already knew, but—Jesus.”
You roll your eyes, lips twitching. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I made you come so hard you forgot your own name.”
“Sweetheart,” he says solemnly, “Don’t be mean.”
You laugh—tired, soft—and he smiles at the sound.
Then quieter: “You’re incredible.” He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead.
You bury your face in his chest, heart warm and too full. “Stop being sweet,” you mumble.
“Never.” He grins.
You don’t say anything for a while. Just breathe—slow and steady—as his hand runs gently along your back, grounding you. The room’s quiet now, save for the soft hum of the city outside the window, and the faint rustle of sheets as you both settle into the aftermath. He shifts just enough to pull the blanket higher over the two of you, tucking you in without saying a word.
Your eyes are heavy, but you blink them open to look at him. He’s already watching you—messy hair, flushed cheeks, the ghost of a smile on his lips like he can’t quite believe you’re real.
“What?” you murmur, voice rough with sleep.
He shrugs a little, eyes soft. “Nothing. Just… you’re kinda perfect, y’know?”
You snort under your breath, too tired to fight it. “Don’t start.”
He chuckles, nose brushing your hair as he tucks you in closer. “I won’t. Promise.”
There’s a pause, just the two of you breathing in sync, his thumb stroking slow circles into your hip. “Stay here tonight,” he whispers.
“But ’Toru… we have class tomorrow.”
He groans dramatically into your skin. “Let’s bunk.”
You snort. “You say that every time.”
“Because it’s the right answer every time.” He lifts his head enough to look at you, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still heavy-lidded but shamelessly clingy. “C’mon. It’s late. Just stay.”
You hesitate, even though you’re already leaning toward yes. He catches that and nudges his knee between yours, coaxing you closer.
“I’ll set an alarm,” he adds. “You can wear one of my shirts. I’ll even make you coffee in the morning.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “Are you trying to bribe me?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t think I had to.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re already settling in again, your cheek resting over his heartbeat. “Fine,” you murmur. “But if we oversleep, I’m blaming you.”
He hums, content. “That’s fair.”
So you stay like that—comfortable and a little too in love to care about anything. And with Satoru’s arms around you—his breath steady against your skin, his presence anchoring you—you drift off. No words needed. Just safe. Just held.
Perfect.
author's note. whoever started the nerdjo agenda, i owe you my firstborn child
please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.
prologue ⋆ ★ whoever said 'love at first sight' was lying, this is more like loathe at first sight. unfortunately, it seems like you and naoya zenin are stuck in the same boat together.
but at least the two of you can put on a great show.
pairing ⋆ ★ naoya zenin x reader
genre tags & warnings ⋆ ★ afab!reader, arranged marriage, enemies/rivals, first meetings, outdated views on marriage and wives, public consummàtion, éxhibitionism, voyéurism, ooc naoya to a point but he's still a massive jerk, aphrodisiàcs, mild overuse of bloody/fruit symbolism, oràl (f. receiving), reader pushes naoya into a koi pond, gojo cameo (he wants to go home 😱)
word count ⋆ ★ 9k
a/n ⋆ ★ i watched my lady jane 😭 could be a part two to this, or series of husband!naoya but idk...🤷♂️
"Stop fidgeting. You look like you're about to bolt any second," Naoya mutters, his voice low, biting through clenched teeth. Sharp, amber-glazed eyes slide sideways to lock onto you, dark brows pulled together in irritation. He's still got that plastic smile in place for the elders, a façade of civility that's only skin deep.
You meet his gaze with a smile that could cut glass, all sweet and syrupy, the kind of smile a bride's supposed to wear. Serene, demure, perfect. But you know better, and so does Naoya Zenin.
Oh, how I wish I could just walk right out of here, you think, lips curling just a fraction. You can barely keep the sneer from slipping through. "Well, I'm looking for the nearest exit," you murmur, barely above a whisper, voice as sweet as honey, "All I can smell is that stupid cologne of yours, and it's making me sick. Did you seriously bathe in it, or something?"
You can see the flush violently flash over peach-toned skin, first his cheeks, and then the tips of ears. Naoya's fingers twitch, hidden beneath the voluminous green sleeves of his haori, betraying his irritations. You can tell he's just dying to throttle you right about now.
"No wonder your clan sold you off like a broodmare," he hisses, venom dripping from his words, sickly sweet with malice, "I bet they couldn't wait to get rid of you."
You heroically bite back the urge to stab him with something sharp. You know it would have been so easy, to have a blade hidden in the folds of your robes. God, it would feel so good to shove it right between his ribs.
Instead, you take a delicate step forwards, sandals clicking softly on the polished floor. The attendants bustle behind you, their soft paces blending with the thick air that's rich with incense, pine, and the sweet smell of roasted chestnuts.
"How sad that Naobito Zenin had to buy a wife for his youngest son. Desperation really doesn't suit you, Naoya," you keep your tone placid and amiable, "Though, let's be honest, most things don't really look good on you."
You can feel Naoya bristle next to you, the faintest tremour in his posture. It feels nice to have struck a clean crack through his iron-clad composure. Victory tastes so sweet.
Without missing a beat, Naoya slides his hand over yours, the picture of practiced, marital tenderness as the two of you approach the threshold of the feast hall. All eyes are on you now, the guests straightening in anticipation. But the slender pads of his fingers are pinching at the flesh of forearm, sharp enough that they would be leaving an impression.
You wrinkle your nose, fighting the urge to wince. His grip is painful, and even though you want to pull away, you're not giving the moron the satisfaction of hearing you gasp.
"Yes," Naoya murmurs, too charming to be sincere, his voice dripping with false affection, "And how sad that out of all the mouthy, insufferable wenches in the world, I got saddled with you."
"Well, someone's mad," you sigh melodramatically, lowering yourself onto the cushions at the head of the table, folding your legs beneath your copious layers of silk, "Stay mad. And ugly."
Your new husband scoffs, sinking beside you, as his long limbs stretch out with lazy grace before crossing them. He looks far too comfortable for your liking. You wish someone had scattered tack needles under him, just to watch him yelp.
You watch quizzically as Naoya reaches across the low table, drawing a slice of pickled radish from the porcelain bowl. You watch, blinking, curious even as well-manicured nails balance the slide between elegant fingers.
He just flings it at you. The sodden radish hits you square in the forehead, the cold and wet slice dropping into your lap with an unsatisfying plop!
Bitch.
See, you already had been having an awful day. The kind that dragged you through the mud and left you feeling as though you had been drowned in your own perspiration.
Trudging through the gates of the Zenin estate, as the sweltering summer heat drowned you in sticky humidity. The estate was sprawling, its grandeur suffocating — all sharp angles, and lacquered panels of wood. Meticulous gardens designed less for beauty, rather for flexing obscene amounts of wealth.
The Zenins did not lack for wealth, that was for certain. But taste? Subtlety? Humility? Those were luxuries that they couldn't seem to afford. Whoever said money couldn't buy class had clearly been familiar with the big three clans of the jujutsu world.
It wasn't just the heat. It wasn't just the estate. It was all this, from this stupid contract to the commitment, to your life here. Your new home.
The summer heat clung to you, heavy and wet, like a damp cloth draped over your shoulders, sapping any energy you had left.
Eventually, you'd given up entirely on the elegant cushions and carved chairs of your new quarters, opting to morosely plant yourself cross-legged on the cool, polished floor. It wasn't graceful, but at least it was comfortable.
Attendants fluttered around you like busy little bees, arms laden with swathes of silk and intricate jewellery in shades of forest green. They moved in perfect sync, as though their every motion was rehearsed for the new bride. And you, well, you were supposed to sit still, look pretty, and wait for whatever nonsense came next.
But fuck that. Proper propriety be damned. The heat had you feeling too raw, too suffocated. So, you had been stripped away from the layers of heavy silk and ceremonial robes. Left in nothing but a thin, creamy-white cotton yukata. It hung loosely from your frame, clinging to your skin in the oppressive humidity, beads of sweat gathering at the back of your neck.
And just as you had settled into the most brief, fragile sense of peace, the soft groan of a sliding door shattered it all. A servant stepped inside, shoulders stiff as their eyes fell upon you. As though they could sense your sour mood.
"He will see you now," the servant said, eyes lowered, voice tight, "In the gardens."
He. Naoya Zenin. Your soon-to-be husband, for the evening's grand spectacle and festivities.
A pit began to twist uncomfortably in your stomach. You had never even met this man. Hell, you didn't even know what he sounded like, nor what he looked like up close, what kind of man he really was.
Everything about this arrangement had been handled by clan elders, who were more concerned with keeping up appearances than with any personal connection. Their mouths were always full of flowery promises, and backhanded compliments, none of which did anything to ease the sinking feeling that made a home in your gut.
The reviews on Naoya Zenin though? Those were more consistent than the elders' pleasantries.
Arrogant? Check. Irritating? Beyond measure. A man with a superiority complex the size of the country? Absolutely, what a shock. Naoya Zenin was the youngest son of one of the wealthiest clan heads in Japan, so entitlement practically ran through his veins as though it were his birthright.
The one thing everyone seemed to agree on, though? The man was handsome, fine-featured. Of course, they'd say that to placate you, as though a pretty face could somehow excuse all the other bullshit. But you weren't quite in the market for a glorified Adonis as a trophy husband.
With a resigned sigh, you trudged forward. Each step felt heavier than the last, the sound of your sandals echoing on the winding stone path that stretched out before you. You tried to ignore the fatigue that settled in your bones, the faint feeling akin to that of a medieval monk walking towards his doom.
Your first impression of Naoya Zenin? You didn't like his voice.
"Weren't you meant to be here an hour ago?" He's calling, tone smooth and melodic. But there's a languid air about it, and whiny. You don't know nor understand why, but it makes your skin crawl.
You narrow your eyes at the back of his figure, perched lazily on a rock, legs swinging carelessly over the edge. Naoya's broad back is turned to you, gaze fixed on the iridescent koi gliding lazily through the pond beneath him. He hadn't even bothered to look at you yet.
First impressions were everything, so you did your damn best to hold back from snapping, "My apologies. There was a...delay," you bite out, your fingers tugging impatiently to tighten the sash of the thin robe around your waist.
You had half a mind to just turn around and leave, but no, it just wasn't in your lucky cards. Not when your family had practically signed you away to the Zenin clan, forevermore and all that nonsense.
Naoya lets out an exaggerated sigh, all long and drawn-out, as though your presence is enough to inconvenience him. His head tilts lazily, turning just enough to throw a half-lidded, uninterested stare in your direction.
"Well? Don't just stand there. I'm not going to bite."
The restraint it took to not roll your eyes could have won you sainthood. Still, you refrained. Barely. You hoped your expression conveyed what you really wanted to say. I am mentally chasing you around with a big stick and a hornet of wasps, but I'm refraining because I'm polite and I was raised right.
Reluctantly, you step forward, just as the wind picks up while you move. Sweeping the light cotton fabric around your legs in a way that made you wish for anything but these damp robes. You certainly don't miss at how Naoya's golden eyes widen in mild interest, tracing every curve of your figure. Warmth flushing down the back of your neck, and not just from summer's golden glare.
But then, your betrothed scowls, "Too good for the Zenin robes, are you?"
You cross your arms over your torso, the motion defensive. Naoya's gaze suddenly drops again to the pushed swell of your chest, lingering far too long.
"It's hot."
Naoya suddenly shrugs, all primped arrogance in his charcoal-gray and forest-green robes, like some ashen leaf springing obstinately out of cold winter ground. "Whatever. You seem adequate, I suppose," he flicks a hand dismissively, "I don't care for this attitude of yours, but you'll do for everything else."
"I'll do?" Your voice pitches an octave higher, incredulous, "What the hell does that mean?"
Naoya begins counting on long, slender fingers. As though he's sizing you up, checking boxes, "What do you think I mean? Just the usual requirements for a wife. Pleasing to the eye, which you are, I'll admit. But it's much less pleasant when you aren't smiling."
You spot a loose stone skittering on the mossy earth. You could absolutely brain him with that, right here. Right now.
But the man doesn't let up, "And of course, childbearing hips." He's waving a dismissing hand, "Well, clearly, I can see you have those. Tch', don't make that face. And a bit of wit for conversation — I refuse to marry an empty airhead. I mean, can you imagine?" Naoya's laughter is sharp, all glossy red lips over sharp fangs, "Docile, obviously. I think that might need some work, but — hey!"
Before you could think better of it, your hands are on him. Pushing, shoving, your frustration boiling over as your palms meet the flat, toned planes of his chest. The satisfaction of sending him tumbling back, of stupid, pretty golden eyes going wide as he flails, arms caught in the air. Priceless.
And then, with a splash! He disappears into the pond, the koi scattering like flashes of colour. Your betrothed surfaces slowly with a snarl, water dripping from his golden head of hair, plastering it flat. A piece of moss hangs awkwardly to Naoya's template as you stand over him, chest heaving.
"Harebrained! Idiotic! Empty-headed! Shallow, pompous, arrogant!" The words tumble from you, reckless and from the depths of your sudden-found hatred, "Rocks for brains! No wonder no-one wants to marry you, with that stupid, backwards nonsense. And your voice, it's stupid! And, well, there's clearly a lightbulb off in that oversized skull of yours. Don't you ever, ever say things like that to me again!"
For a moment, Naoya says nothing. He's only staring up at you with his mouth pressed into a thin, flat line. You realise in that brief silence, that you betrothed bears an unsettling resemblance to an angry, speckled hyena.
Rather than offer a rebuttal, or heaven forbid, an apology, a sodden arm shoots forward, fast as a viper, clamping around your ankle. And the world tilts.
"Don't you dare! Wait — no!"
He yanks at you hard, and with a sharp yelp, you tumble straight into the water beside him. Cool, refreshing water slaps your face as you sputter, wiping thin algae from your cheek. The koi scatter, unimpressed by human antics.
You're gasping as the chill must surely be soaking through your thin yukata, giving...quite the view to the eyes of others. No wonder Naoya's suddenly smirking, and you can see rosy lips part to deliver some awful, sleazy comment.
"Not a bad sight, don't you — mmph!"
You've scooped as much water as your hands can manage, flinging it straight at his face — watching as Naoya Zenin splutters, pinning you with a glowering stare that could cut through glass.
You were still simmering hours later.
The sun had already shifted, sinking deeper into the afternoon, but the humidity clung to the air like a thick and suffocating blanket. You were scowling at absolutely nothing, letting the maids drape you in layers of deep, emerald silk that shone like fresh leaves after the rain. Edges embroidered with delicate golden vines and flowers that twisted around your limbs.
You barely felt the soft hands of the maids as they pressed cool, rosewater-soaked pads to your cheeks and the crook of your neck. Idly wondering if they had plucked out every last remnant of pond water and scum that clung to your hair.
One of the older woman, with a sharp and matronly face, walked up to you, a platter balanced gently in her hands. At first, you didn't even register what she was offering, too preoccupied with nursing your own misery. But the food looked absolutely perfect, delicate rolls that had been sliced so neatly they could have come from an Imperial painting.
You raised an eyebrow, "Shouldn't I eat after the ceremony?"
The woman gave a knowing glance to the other maids, but then her gaze flicked back to you. Careful. "This will help with your appetite for the latter half of the ceremony," as though she were choosing each word precisely, "It is...custom. Master Zenin would also partake in this tradition. It will make things easier."
Easier, huh? You stare at the plate again, and not that you didn't appreciate it, but if they really wanted to settle you nerves — they could have offered you a rolled blunt. But sure. Why not?
With a little sigh of resignation, you popped one of the sweet rolls into your mouth. The flavour was fresh, like citrus. Something like yuzu, perhaps? There's a hint of honey, and an odd aftertaste that lingers at the back of your throat, a touch bitter. You narrow your eyes, for it is something like ginseng.
You take a second roll, letting the smooth cream slide along your tongue, as you click your teeth. Well, if it would calm you down enough to keep you from throwing Naoya Zenin off the temple stairs, then...sure. You'd eat the whole damn platter if it meant you would be able to fight the urge to punt bricks at him.
And so, this circles you back to the beginning your sordid tale. The rooms buzzing with voices, and clinking porcelain in celebration, but somehow, all you can focus on is the man sitting beside you.
Naoya's practically been ignoring everything on his plate, pushing food aside with passive disinterest. Meanwhile, you've been aching for a good meal, your hand moving to scoop another bite of soft, fragrant rice. The nobles and elders have been weaving their way around, painted with polite and practiced smile — an endless cycle of verdant-draped Zenins, crimson-robed Kamos, and more clans all looking to suck up to Naobito Zenin.
There's another man, swathed in a vibrant, dark blue. You watch as Naoya stiffens as the white-haired man doesn't bow, just shuffles forward. As though his presence is more of a courtesy rather than a display of genuine well-wishes.
"Gojo," your husband is muttering, petulant all of a sudden.
The white-haired man grunts, blindfold wrapped around the upper half of his face, "Zenin." You swear you can feel his eyes on you, and there's something unnerving about the way he moves through the room, as though he can see much and more, without nary a glance.
So, that was Gojo Satoru.
You feel someone tug at your sleeves, and Naoya's golden eyes are still fixed on Gojo's broad back with a sharp, defensive gaze, "Stop looking. It looks stupid as fuck. And he'll still see."
You blink, wrenching your arm away from his cold grasp, "How? He's got that —," you gesture to your eyes, "That thing on."
Naoya scowls, fangs poking underneath curled lips, "Trust me. He can see better than anyone here."
"Is that why you're scared of him, or something?"
Naoya's jaw tightens, and he reaches for a platter of fruit, a pomegranate globe falling into the palm of his hand, "I am not. Tch', watch your words."
"Or what? You'll push me into the koi pond?" You snipe, watching him, fascinated despite yourself. His hands are elegant, precise, even. Tearing into the fruit with a casual brutality that makes something flicker oddly deep in your chest.
The juice, rich and ruby red, drips lazily down his fingers, following the slope of his knuckles. Staining the fine silk of his sleeves in a losing fight. As though the fruit had been desperate to remain whole before Naoya split it.
How strikingly brutal to witness. There's something almost obscene about the mess he makes, how the juice is pooling thinly on the silk. How the sweetness of the fruit is ruined by the way it's overpowered.
You think your new husband is the kind of man who would see a dangerous sort of beauty in the way he wrecks things.
But Naoya has surely noticed your stare. The corner of his rose-teak mouth twitches as he looks up from his conquest, fingers still dripping with thin crimson.
"Something wrong, wife?" He's asking, voice slick with amusement. You faintly wonder why there's a low buzz in your ears.
The question is sharp-toned, but there's something underneath his smooth voice that almost dares you to continue watching. As if he's aware of the effect of proxy brutality. You want to scowl, to look away, to prove that you aren't transfixed by the bleeding mess of an awful man.
"Nothing at all," you reply, and voice is colder than you'd intended — all to mask the faint trace of fascination that lingers in your tone.
Naoya glowers at you, lazily lifting his hand to capture the blood-red streak with the tip of his tongue. The faintest trace of wine marking the curve of his jaw. What an oddly intimate gesture, one that shouldn't be nearly as captivating as it is.
With a casual flick, he's breaking off a piece of the pomegranates flesh. White and succulent, with the little arils clinging to the flesh like jewels.
"Be a good wife, and open your mouth."
You glance down at the fruit in his hand, irritation flickering at the back of your throat. Licking acidic flames in your chest, "I'm not hungry anymore."
Naoya doesn't even bat an eye, his gaze already bored as he leans back, unimpressed by your resistance. Infuriatingly arrogant in his manner, "Don't want people thinkin' there's something wrong with my bride. Go on, open."
With a sharp, deliberate sigh, you part your lips. Heat suddenly coiling tight sinews around your hips. Eyes locked onto his hazy, copper gaze with the slightest flicker of defiance.
Naoya tips the arils into your mouth, and you take the opportunity to nip at his fingers, pointed and sharp. Just enough to make him jerk back in surprise. His eyes narrow, and for a moment, you see conflicted disgust flash across his face.
But the taste, the sweet and tangy burst of juice on your tongue, it catches you entirely off guard. It's blooming across your senses, like the most unexpected pleasure. The tartness of the fruit lingering longer than you'd anticipate. Despite yourself, you almost lean into it.
Naoya's expression tightens as he wipes his hand on the edge of his robes, so irritated. But a flicker of something darker passes across his features. Whether it's annoyance, or loathing, or something else, you cannot tell.
"Better now?" Naoya mutters, voice thick with irritation as though you'd personally dragged him through a field of thorns.
"All thanks to you," you reply, sardonic sugar snapping through your teeth. Wiping the corner of your mouth with a lazy swipe of your thumb, smearing away the fruit's crimson stain.
Naoya's grumbling something under his breath about summoning Ten Shadows to whisk him out of this ridiculous wedding feast. Something far more sharp and acerbic follows, but it's not able to cut through your growing haze.
You're about to respond when his hand — warm, and rough, replaces your own. Thumb pressing against your lower lip with a firm, almost possessive and angry drag. Wiping away the sticky remnants of the juice.
Without thinking, or without fully understanding why, you let your tongue dart forward, brushing the pad of his thumb. A slow, deliberate gaze. Teeth follow, with dull pressure, as you pull the digit just a little further into your mouth.
You can feel the shift almost immediately.
Naoya goes still, the barest hitch of breath betraying him before he yanks his head back like you'd scalded him. But not before you catch the faintest tremour in his grip, or the way his sharp eyes darken. His neck flushes, a telltale searing burst of heat creeping up beneath the golden fall of his hair.
"They give you something before the ceremony?" His tone is off, almost accusing, as he's clearing his throat. Glowering at you, as if you're to blame for the crack in his insurmountable arrogance.
You shrug, fingers brushing the rim of your shallow cup. Letting cool water trickle down your suddenly parched throat, "Yeah. Something 'bout relaxing me. Or making things easier." You frown, a little breathless, wondering why heat coils in your chest, and prickles at the nape of your neck, "It didn't do anything at the time though."
Naoya stares at you for a beat too long, his teeth catching his lower lip. Worrying the plush, pink flesh — dragging a thin, cold hand through flaxen hair, rifling pale green roots.
And then, your new husband's scoffing, "Same here. Not that I need help performing there." His gaze is sweeping over you again, slow and deliberate. His eyes trace the curve of your mouth, the swan-slope of your throat. The heat of his amber eyes make your skin prickle, tugging at something just beneath the surface.
"I think you'll make it easy enough."
Your pulse kicks against your ribs. Eyes snapping to him, ignoring the dull throb low in your groin, and how each breath of air seems so much sweeter and heavier, "Make what easy?"
Naoya's expression wavers, just for a second — enough to give you a glimpse of his own faltering composure. As though he's genuinely fearing that you're that clueless, cocking a dark brow with an edge of incredulity.
"You don't think that platform's there for show, do you?" He's knocking his head back towards the dais behind the two of you. The plush, emerald cushions scattered over velvet drapes that pool at the sides. Ornate and so uncomfortably obvious for all those who have eyes.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
Naoya's metallic eyes glint with triumph, watching the realisation dawn on your features like it's the best entertainment he's had all evening. His lips curling into something that's more of a lion's grin, rather than a smile, "You're not that stupid, are you?"
"I'm not!" You snap, "I just didn't think — I didn't realise, it was going to be...there." You're jabbing a jewel encrusted finger at the platform, not caring which fussy elder sees.
Naoya's grin sharpens, teeth flashing with unrestrained, wolfish amusement. Jerking his chin towards the dias, "Yes. Right there. What'd you think? Some privacy, or maybe, a little mood lighting?
Your scowl hardens like stone, "Well, no. But —"
Your husband sarcastically interrupts you, chopping the air with one hand, "No, no. You're right. Why didn't we think about setting the mood? Lanterns, maybe? Candles, or how about a live string quartet for m'wife just because she said so?"
Your glower deepens, a slow burn crawling beneath your skin. You forgo the water this time, opting instead for the nearest cup of sake. The burn of it sears your throat, a welcome distraction.
"You'd think people would drop this kinda' thing by now," you mutter, swallowing hard as the air seems so much warmer, "It's the 21st century, for god's sake."
Naoya shrugs, the silk of his robes shifting as you can watch a thin drop of perspiration roll into the crook of his neck — you wonder if he's just as affected as you are right now. Wondering who will crack first. "I don't mind watching. Or being watched."
The sake nearly comes back up, "You're obscene."
A soft hum, dark and amused, slips from his throat. Then a finger, his finger, hooks beneath the curve of your jaw. Titling your head towards him with a hardened pressure that feels surprisingly gentle in this hazy state.
"M'wife wants me to take them out instead?" Naoya's voice is a lazy drawl, but there's a dangerous gleam in his amber-shard eyes. Thumb skimming lower, tracing the delicate dip of your collarbone as a shiver prickles down your spine, "Force them all away so I get ya' all to m'self?"
You swallow hard, breath hitching as his hand lingers, "Yeah. Because I'm sure you could take on an entire room of sorcerers. Jus' so we could —"
The corners of Naoya's mouth twitch, his eyes dark with something almost hungry. And jeering, "Just say the word."
Your gaze flickers to the far corner of the room. Gojo Satoru sits there, arms folded across his opulent, oceanic yukata. The head of the Gojo clan looks thoroughly put-out, sandwiched between two elderly women that gossip into his ears. His white hair gleams under the warm lanterns, and you're certain that Six Eyes can catch every word being passed through this room.
"No-one can land a hit on Master Gojo," you murmur, voice slow and syrupy. The heat in your blood feels unnatural, liquid fire curling beneath your skin, pooling low in your belly. Your head is swimming by now, heavy and light all at once.
And there's Naoya's stupid, stupid cologne. Something dark, and wooden. Edged with a sharp spice, clouding your senses and tangling with the sweet, heady ache that builds in your chest. It's all too much, his nail dragging into the tender skin of your neck. Just over your jumping bulse.
The worst part? Your body betraying all rational thoughts, leaning into your husband. To find yourself closer to this man that you do not like. Entitled. Arrogant. The heir to the Zenin clan is fuckin' awful.
"Mhm, perhaps they can all watch then. Stay as I fuck my wife, yeah?" Naoya says, low and quiet. But there's no softness to it, only possession. A claim that crackles at you, sends you hurtling towards no good end.
"You know I don't like you, right?" You breathe, marvelling at how little it would take to close this distance, with nary a care for whose eyes have turned to you now.
A huff of laughter escapes your husband, warm and bitter, "I don't quite like you either." His hands have found the edges of your robes, teasing the silken fabric, and for a moment, Naoya Zenin looks almost thoughtful. Except that priggish smirk never quite leaves his face. His peach-tinged skin flushes darker, and his glassy eyes flicker, "But they wanted a show, right? Wanna' give it to them?"
You don't even wait to consider. Ignoring the protests of the elders, who jump and claim that these things have to be done in all due time, with proper ceremony.
The kiss is fast, furious. Lips crashing into his before the words have fully left his mouth. You taste rich and tangy fruit on his tongue, and it's both maddening, and so sweet, mixing with the sake that's drenched your mouth.
Naoya's faint sound of surprise, the soft grunt as he sinks into the kiss? Hiking a toned arm around your waist to pull you closer as the audience gasps? That's a victory.
You drag your mouth back, letting clingy and cloying strands of slick linger in between your lips. You've been pulled right onto your husband's lap, perched on his emerald, jewel-toned haori. Taking in the sight of Naoya briefly speechless, warm and angrily flushed.
"Not playin' fair," Naoya seethes, "K-know your place, wife."
But you're too far gone now to entertain his bullshit, pawing at the edges of his robes. Swivelling your hips down so you can have some pressure applied where you need it most. Right over there, a thick and solid curve that has the both of you gasping, "M' so, hah, feelin' so faint."
Naoya groans, and curls his fingers over the nape of your neck, forcing you to look down at him from your perched position, "L-listen to me all proper, an' I can fix that."
"Enough!" A sharp voice cuts through the heat between you, splintering like glass shattering on stone. You blink, dazed as dew begins to gather on your lashes, just in time to see a twitching elder standing at the edge of the room, face blotchy red beneath a crown of thinning white hair. He's shaking a bony finger in your direction, pale robes swishing, "Enough of this depravity!"
"There are proper proceedings to this ceremony, to this consummation." His voice is rising, veins straining in his neck as the room is silent, "Not whatever this is!" Waving his hands now, as though his gestures are enough to warrant purification.
You try to muster some level of embarrassment, some shame as the eyes of the room fall on the two of you. But all you feel is a thick ache and thrum of heat still simmering, pulse skipping in your throat. Your lips tingle from where they touched Naoya's, tasting of sake and sugar, and —
Oh. His lips. You glance at your husband, whose mouth is still glossy and swollen from your kiss.
Naoya's barely turned his head towards the outburst. He's already running his hands down your robes, doing his utter best to undo whatever he can. To lave sharp fangs over skin, and leave blooming marks. He's languid, half-lidded, with a wicked spark of amusement dancing in his eyes.
He looks thoroughly unbothered, tongue flicking lazily over his lower lip, "Proper proceedings?" Naoya drawls, the corner of his mouth tilting into a smirk that makes you desperate to catch it, "Isn't a little late for that? Hah, I mean, ya' spiked m'wife and I. How are y'not shocked when she's panting over me like a bitch in heat?"
The elder turns a deeper shade of red, spluttering as he gestures to the raised dais and neatly arranged cushions. You press your lips together to hold back a thin whine. Naoya, having pawed at your ceremonial robes enough, has been sinking teeth over the swell of your breast, making you gasp.
"The platform! The customs and —"
There's a crowd of eyes on you. The elders, the clan heads, the nobles, the sorcerers. All of them, scattered through the room, lingering like ghosts. Some, you think, have left for sanctity. You're not sure when, your mind is still a haze of warmth, and confusion, and lust. Too caught up in the way that Naoya's fingers brush and dig into your waist.
But there are others still here. Stubborn, and not powerful enough to grant themselves leave, and so, they cannot claim the right to exit. You're aware of silent whispers, of the way they lean in and keel over. Faces pinched in curiosity, discomfort, as though you're a prized creature in a zoo that they both hesitate and marvel to look upon.
With no choice but to watch the Zenin heir with his hand on your waist, his new bride of the clan. The future madam that they're now forced to acknowledge.
"N-Naoya," you mumble, tearing your nails into the fine haori. Some desperate hope to expose searing skin to the air, already sweltering in the summer heat, "Can't we jus' -"
Your husbands tuts, pressing a firm finger to your candied lips, "Shh! Gotta' make sure m'silly wife knows how to speak up. So everyone can hear, try again." He sounds almost pained, and you wonder how Naoya Zenin hasn't absolutely lost his mind by now. For you feel as though gauze has been draped over you, casting a veil over your senses.
You hear someone mutter disdainful murmurs, something about a spoiled Zenin brat indulging his good-for-nothin' wife.
You can see the flash of anger, and the promise of blood cross Naoya's face, so you seek to roll your hips against his once more, "Jus' thinkin', y'know," you gasp against his slack jaw, "Why don't we jus' move to the platform? I mean, they wanna see, right?"
Naoya's nodding, sandy hair falling into his eyes, "Hah, yeah. That's right. Wanted a show, and that's what we said we've give, jus' gotta hope you can keep up."
He's sweeping you up, hand tight around your wrist as he pulls you over in a brief stumble, pushing you down over the dais. Over green, plush sheets as he splays you out, "Better like this? Tsk, 'ts for me to decide, not you, wifey. And 'm thinking, I like this view so much more."
You're struck by the sight of Naoya Zenin, and it hits you like a sudden wave. Sharp, and bitter, and so impossible to ignore. It's that feeling again, the way you had stomached the creamy rolls on the platter. The same kind of cloying tang that hits the back of your throat when you swallow too fast. The ginseng, and sweet citrus.
His eyes are still glassy, pupils unfocused, and it's the shimmer of tears clinging to the dark, long lashes framing his eyes that make you pause. Crystalline, fragile. But he's already ahead of you, moving faster than you can think, swatting your hand away with forceful grace, pressing his mouth to the corner of yours.
"You jus' gonna keep lookin' at me?" You murmur, reeling from the searing heat of his mouth. Taking in the sight of mussed golden hair, green roots entirely out of place. The divot of creamy, tanned skin from where his robes have loosened.
Naoya blinks, shaking his head as if he's trying to clear it, "You gotta' tell me where you wan' it first." Lips parting, as if he's suddenly not sure what to say to you, like he's drinking in the sight of you and he can't stop.
He's patting a hand to your chest, cupping the swell in your robes, "I don't know if you wan' me here," and then, he's dragging a hand lower still, hand folded over the thick robes that cover your thighs, "Or, here. Probably got ya' weepin' like a poor, little slut down there."
You scowl back at him, "Watch it, 'm not a slut."
Naoya grins, all wolfish canines, "Wasn't talkin' about ya'. Was talkin' about her." Giving you a loving pat in between your legs, "Thinkin' if I pushed these stupid robes right up, everyone could see you drip right onto my waiting hand."
You gasp, pushing your hands onto his broad chest, groaning as his fingers trail further down. Pulling the silk of your robes up further, so your thigh meets cool air, "Can I request a-anything, then?"
Naoya hums, lips pursing as his brow quirks, mocking even, "Wasn't planning on givin' in to ya' so easily, but just this once. Only 'cause it's our wedding night, don't you think?"
"Wan' your mouth."
You see a flash of something pass over Naoya's face. As though he's warring with himself, some obstinate spirit telling him otherwise, but he shakes his head, almost amused, "Y'know, I should have sent ya' back the minute you pushed me into tha' stupid pool. Shoulda' demanded another one. A wife that isn't so mouthy."
He's chuckling now, splaying your thighs further apart with rough hands, an odd sort of deference painting his fine features, "And now look at what you've got me doin', hey?"
Naoya's tutting at you, shaking his head in faux disappointment when you whine in embarrassment, "This is what you wanted, right? For me to show e-everyone jus' how wet you are. I mean, hah, look at this."
Pinning the thickest part of your silken robes over your abdomen, so your legs were bare, parted so he could slot in-between. Amber eyes almost bewildered as he took in the deep, swollen outline of your glossy cunt underneath flimsy garments, "Sittin' there like this, the entire time?" Naoya whistles low, cold and cutting, "I mean, fuck, ya' can really see everything here."
"Shut u-up," you sputter, hearing your own pulse thrum in your ears, in-between your legs. You barely have a chance to take in syrupy air once more, for Naoya's hand is there, swift and firm, pressing over your mouth. Fingers cool against your skin, it's not harsh. But it's forceful enough to swallow your words, as his eyes light up with that familiar, mocking amusement.
"Careful now, wifey," he's grinning, looking far too pleased, "Ya' don't get to give me orders, 'm gonna be doing you a favour."
Naoya doesn't seem burdened by this, not at all. In fact, if anything, he looks downright pleased, like the sight of your weeping, drizzling cunt before his eyes is a golden opportunity that he intends to savour.
He's got an icy finger sliding over the waistband of your gauzy, flimsy undergarments, toying for a brief second. You can see it in the way his beastly fangs curl into a grin, like he's getting off on the scandal of it all. Of having everyone watch in quiet silence as he suddenly tugs. Hard.
The fabric splits with a squelching hiss, thick and sludgy, as you gasp, feeling the heat throbbing in your pussy swell as the cool air hits where you're most sensitive, "You ass, t-those weren't cheap."
Naoya rolls his eyes, amber disappearing into white, "So?" He's drawling, looking up at you from between your thighs, "What, you think I'm some broke bitch?" He's popping a single, long digit into his mouth. Having swiped a curious hand through your glistening folds, marvelling at the slick, translucent strands that followed him. Tongue flicking over the tip like he's savouring something, "Fuck, you're kinda' sweet. Heh, who woulda' thought?"
You open your mouth to protest, but he doesn't even give you the chance. Not even a mere second to form the words, for his hand is patting your cheek. Leaving something sticky and cool lingering on flushed, warm skin. Your own arousal glimmering in the lantern light, upon your skin, for all to see.
It's as if Naoya's humouring you, and it's almost affectionate. If not for the edge in his voice that makes you tighten your thighs around his shoulders, "Don't worry y'dumb, little head about it. Y'know, shit — almost lost a drop there, you know, you're the future Madam of this clan now, right? Anything you want, you'll get."
And he's giving you a look now — head tilted just so, almost tame. Like a promise wrapped in docility. Almost. If you didn't know of him more, if you weren't already simmering with tampered fury from your first meeting, earlier in the day, you may have been fooled. Might have fallen for the gentle downturn of his lashes, like ink pooling on creamy skin. The slow, deliberate way he puffs a small breath against your glossy cunt. Doing you a favour, indeed.
His grin is all teeth, unapologetically smug, as though he knows what you're thinking. Knows that he's destined to clash with you, to draw proverbial blood and blades whenever it amuses him, but he's got you right where he wants you now. Under him, and splayed wide.
Your waiting cunt pooling sweet juices over his wandering fingers — the sharp tip of Naoya's nose twitching before ducking and brushing through your glistening folds. A satisfied chuckle when you arch your spine, desperate for more friction.
"Not that patient, are ya'?" But you don't think you'd be wrong in assuming that Naoya can't hold out much longer, for the crack in his voice betrays him. That melodic, charming, insolent tone giving way to a deeper rasp, like granite grinding against the earth.
You don't know what comes over you, carding a hand through golden, soft locks of hair. Digging into pale green roots, "Think your audience is gettin' bored?"
Naoya almost, so very almost, purrs at your nails digging into his scalp. Pushing himself into your trembling cunt, letting his tongue paint a thin, long stripe right through your throbbing pussy. Reaching up right to your swollen clit, briefly flicking over it.
And now, Naoya is not a sentimental man. Fuck that, he's never been one for gushing, and roses and nauseating sweetness. But this may very well be the first time that he's ever understood what it means to be pussydrunk.
For he's shooting amber eyes up, to where your expression has twisted, almost blissful and idyllic compared to the frown that's been marring your face all day. He'd hate to say it, but he's almost content as the sweet moans that fall from your plush lips, over and over.
"T-that's good, hah, Naoya, 'm — s-so good," You're cracking an eye open to see your flaxen-haired husband snickering, enjoying how damn sensitive your puffy folds are to his ministrations. Only the mild, quiet shuffle of the elders harkens you to their presence, them bearing witness to the consummation.
"Yeahhh," Naoya drawls, angling one bare thigh so it sits over his shoulder, where his robes have slipped right off, "Good, huh?"
"S-surprisingly."
He pinches at your clit in retaliation, just lightly enough that it sends a jolting sensation through your quivering form, but not enough to bring sheer relief, "Watch your whoreish mouth, wife. Could jus' leave ya' here, high and dry." And Naoya's scowling, but despite himself, still pushing his pulsing tongue to the very apex of your core. The glossy, winking entrance where he meets little resistance from your waiting, gummy walls, "Could jus' leave ya' here, and have you rub one out yourself in front of everyone, so you can get off on your own."
You should be ashamed, flushed and embarrassed at how he's speaking to you. There's brief fantasies running through your mind, of strapping your husband down and taping his mouth so he can stop running it so crudely, but you file the thought away for now, arching your hips further into him. Dragging your sloppy, leaking cunt over his face — something he surprisingly welcomes.
Naoya, who's leaning deep enough in between your thighs for the golden strands of hair framing his forehead have been dampened by your arousal, a darker, sandy shade. Pouty lips covered in sweet, tangy sheen, and sticky from munching at your glossy folds.
"Bet they're all watching you," Naoya grins, with little warning as he slides a slender finger into your cunt, immediately curling it in search of some spot, "Bet they're wishing it was them in m'place. Tastin' you like this."
You can't help the involuntary clench of your walls at his words, and Naoya's eyes widen, lashes blown long enough to kiss his eyelids, "Mhm, you like that. But hey," your husband's pumping determined fingers in and out of your cunt, rummaging and massaging at sticky walls, "You're my wife now. Mine to fuck, they can't have what o-only a Zenin can have."
"Can y-you —" You're writhing now, legs spread even wider and you frankly don't care at this point who can see the light reflect your dripping cunt, "A bit f-faster, hah." Let them see, right?
Isn't that why they had you all dolled up, squirming in your seat during the feast so they could watch you fall so undone? And fuck, Naoya would probably slit the throat of another man who dared breathe what he saw this night, if not for your honour, but for his own ego.
"F-faster? Greedy, tch' and you said you w-weren't a pretty, little, slut!" Each word is punctuated with his fingers falling in a curved arc through the air, smacking down over your drooling pussy. Sending sloshes of slick spattering over his finger tips and the edges of his robes, "That's it. Jus' keep your hips like that."
"Heh, hope the lot of ya' are paying attention because she's p-pretty close right about now."
You don't even know who he's speaking to, or where his words are directed because it's an endless rotation for you now. Circling your hips over Naoya's nose, with him greedily lapping at your cunt, with a satisfied look in your eye that just screams of him planning to hold this over your head for at least six months.
You're practically soaking Naoya's smug, beautiful face, smearing translucent mirror-sheen over his chin, and he's pistoning clever, cruel fingers in and out of your tight heat. Messily toying with your throbbing clit, pulling at and under the hood until you're heaving for gasps of sweet air.
"B-bet you'd feel tighter around my cock, y'know that?" Naoya grunts, lips curling to suck around your clit, "Was plannin' to take ya' right here, but think 'm a bit greedy now, hah. Show's gonna be over soon for these cunts, but 's only jus' beginning for us, wouldn't you say, wife?"
You're certain that he must have left bruises at your hips now, right over your groin as he drags you impossibly close to himself, as though he's determined this public display will leave no question as to whether the heir to the Zenin clan can pleasure his wife to the point where you're practically trembling, and abandoning your loathing of the man, temporarily. Just to squirm as tears hang from the edges of your lashes, gleaming from the stimulation, "Wait, w-wait, 'm gonna, I think 'm gonna —"
There's a satisfied noise from Naoya, almost like one of relief, though you know he would be loathe to admit just how affected he is by your climax.
There's a shooting, fleeting sensation in your abdomen. Tremours of pleasure practically streaming and gushing out of you, as you see little else but stars and streaks across your vision, "S-so good, Naoya, fuck. Fuck! I think 'm still cumming, hah, oh my god."
You're hardly even aware of the gushing slick that sprays across Naoya's face and how briefly stunned he looks, and so utterly pleased with himself as you ride out your high. You certainly don't miss at how he almost doubles over, as if there's an equally tightening sensation in his groin as well, pleasurable just from the sight you spread bare for him.
The look on his face cuts sharp — triumphant, smug in a way that speaks of retribution. As though he's just scored the first point in a game that's only just begun.
Before you can so much blink, dazed from your orgasm as heat continues to throb between your thighs, Naoya's arm tightens around your waist. A quick, practiced motion that pulls you flush against him. He's grinning like a man who's already won, a faint and cooling flush now painting his features in some blissful afterglow.
But then, he kisses you. Rough, messy, sloppy even. His lips are hot and unrelenting against yours, a press of teeth and frustration that's more greedier than anything he's done so far. "There, that's it. Tastin' yourself, aren't you?" Naoya's murmuring, nipping at your lower lip.
His arms shift, and he's scooping you up effortlessly. Tilting your world for the second time that day. You're cradled sideways in a bridal hold, against the broad frame of his chest, as his fingers are splayed possessively over your still bare hips. The bastard doesn't even break a sweat.
"Put me down," You scowl at him, but the recent climax is still painting your breathy vocal cords, lacking the heat you had hoped for.
Naoya's golden eyes glitter with amusement, "Nah. We're jus' getting started, don't you think?"
You instinctively grip his robes for balance, and you can feel your husband's chest rumble with laughter, rich and infuriating, "I'm starting to think this whole hate game is a charade, or a ruse. You actually like this."
"I'm starting to think you want a concussion."
Naoya makes a faux-move to drop you, to have you pile to the floor in jittery limbs and crumpled silks, as you desperately cling to him tighter, "Mouthy woman. Can't stand that. Don't like you at all."
The elders, a cluster of now pale-faced men who look like they've just swallowed their own tongues, gape in stunned silence. Their eyes dart between you, rumbled and flushed — thoroughly compromised with the slick that still runs down your thighs. And the heir of the Zenin clan, whose lips are still moist, glistening faintly.
Your husband's tossing them a lazy, half-lidded gaze over his shoulder, "Well," he says, dragging the word slowly, "Like I said, show's over." His voice drips with mock reverence, "We're going."
"Where?" One of the elders, bold or perhaps just stupid, dares to croak, voice thin and trembling like dry parchment.
Naoya stops, just for a breath. His gaze pins the man, golden eyes cold and dangerously amused. "Where do ya' think?" Words like a blade, dripped in honey, "Our quarters, 'course."
He doesn't wait for a response, doesn't even glance back as he pushes past the screen door with you still cradled against his chest. His momentum sends it rattling against the frame, and the hushed, horrified whispers that follow are clearly music to his ears.
You glance up, your pulse a rapid thrum against your throat as you take in the faces of the nobles you had excused themselves earlier, milling outside. They shuffle uncomfortable, some pretending they have somewhere better to be. Others frozen in a mix of curiosity and thinly veiled disdain.
Gojo Satoru is still there too, leaning against a wooden fixture, his jaw tight, as though he's working through something unpleasant. Glowering and grumbling something about leaving Tokyo for this, about the Zenins having no class as usual, and you get the idea that unlike last time, his blindfolded gaze is sweeping anywhere but you.
You bite back a smile.
"But...but the consummation!" The elder follows through the doors, his voice thick with outrage, "How can we be sure — the ceremony, it requires —"
Naoya doesn't even let him finish. You can feel the smirk against your temple, pressing over the shell of your ear, "I did all this," he's splaying your robes aside, "With jus' my mouth. Think I can do even better with my cock. Don't worry," He drawls, "I'll make very sure it's all handled."
"I'm going home," Gojo Satoru loudly announces, to no-one in particular.
Synopsis. Five times Ryomen Sukuna’s “wingmanning” family is the biggest cóckbIock in existence, and the one time he finally gets what he wants - you, his nephew’s hot preschool teacher.
Pairing. Ryomen Sukuna x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!teacher!reader, 5 + 1 things, Itadori family shenanigans, unckuna, he has the BIGGEST crush on you, making him blush, face-ríding, síxty-nine, Sukuna with tattoos, PÚSSYDRÚNK Sukuna, he goes feraI, p sIapping, p talking, he’s BIG, chokíng, tummy buIges, manhandIing, dúmbifícation, creampíes, through pantíes, cúmplay, slight bréeding, getting together, nosy families, lowkey crackfic, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 12.6k
A/N. HEHE TOLD Y’ALL I’D WRITE IT…
“This is my uncle, he just got out of jail.”
“Hell yeah.” Not the most courteous introduction to Yuji’s wide-eyed lil’ friends - but if Jin had bugged n’ blackmailed him into picking the brat up from preschool today then he was going to make sure it never happens again.
And as Yuji starts swinging from Sukuna’s broad, beefy biceps, he grins at his miniature crowd. “He also has tattoos and likes to drink.”
“Hell yeah- don’t forget about the cars, twerp.” Sukuna’s nodding, breezing past the horrified faces of parents that tugged their children at least seven feet away. Seriously, how long was this teacher going to take? He could see your back hunched by another corner of the classroom, hugging a sniffly student goodbye.
“Oh yeah- and he likes driving fast and slashing tires.”
You straighten, probably hearing every word - not that he cared, Sukuna couldn’t imagine who’d want to be around this all day. “Hell ye- oh.”
Until you turned his way.
And Ryomen Sukuna feels his heart drop- right along with the muscular right arm that was stuck out for Yuji to climb all over like a handlebar. And with it, his nephew.
Who seems quite disgruntled at his sudden meeting with the soft, padded floor of the preschool classroom, standing on his own two feet for the first time since Sukuna had arrived here. He furrows his light brows, “Hey- wha’s the big- oh! Teacher!”
Seems like it runs in the family, Sukuna muses - because all it takes is one glimpse of you starting to head their way before Yuji lights up as brightly as the Sun itself. And to Sukuna, whose nephew was a perpetual Christmas tree, it almost made him wish he wore his usual shades.
At least that would’ve hid the way his crimson eyes sweep up n’ down your figure, languidly. Breath stuttered, mouth partly agape.
Sukuna’s utterly forgetting himself before he’s called out by one of Yuji’s friends- a squeaky, orange-haired girl no older than five. “Ewwww- why are you red?”
“Shut it, bob-cut.”
“So—” Perfect timing, you sidle up to the bustling little group right as Sukuna spits out the tail end of his sentence. A brow of yours raised, bob-cut?
And oh- you’re even more perfect up close. Is it really too late for him to enroll in preschool? He didn’t see any age restrictions around, and he could count till ten, surely. Genuinely considering, he’s gulping at the way your pretty eyes narrow. “Jin’s not here today? Yuji, do you know this man?”
The boy in question bounces with excitement, “Of course! This is Sukuna, my uncle who just got out of jail and drives fast cars.”
“Ah- ahah.” Said Sukuna chuckles gingerly, eyes flitting between his beaming nephew and your blank expression. Finally settling on the kid, “Yuji! What have I told you about uh- the benefits of um- safe driving and caring for our fellow civilians on the road?”
And there was Sukuna’s first mistake - asking a question, because surely that was a sign for Yuji to nod solemnly. “That it’s for lame pussies who- mmpf!”
“Ah…” You blink.
The damage was already done- but Sukuna’s clapping a meaty palm over Yuji’s mouth already. Oh, he was smashing this kid’s iPad when they’re home. A thin line of nervous sweat beads down his temple as he stares up at you, “K-kids these days, right, ma’am?”
Yuji frowns, “But you do call them lame pussies who-”
“Yuji!”
“Right right, miss.” The lively girl from before - Kugisaki, he thinks her name was - latches onto your swaying skirts. “And he also likes to drink.”
“And slash tires.”
“Tuna mayo.”
The crowd mercifully quietens down for a split-second. “…”
Until a grumpy black-haired boy peeks through his bangs at that last line, as if translating. “He says he also sets fires.”
Sukuna never said that - but he doesn’t get a single chance to say so. Too busy staring at the constant knit of your brows, the way your gaze was darting from the children to Sukuna like a tennis match, trying to bite back a smile. “I-is that so?”
“And he has a lotta tattoos.” Yuji pries off his uncle’s muffling palm, back to climbing him like his very own jungle gym. As if to prove his point, he pokes the bulging band of black ink that encircles Sukuna’s bicep. “See?”
And if he was any less devastated about making himself look like an absolute fool in front of his nephew’s pretty preschool teacher, then maybe he’d have noticed that look in your eyes.
Maybe.
Maybe he’d have seen the slight glint in them as you followed Yuji’s pudgy, directing finger - from the wide tattoos at his biceps, to his wrist, to the circles peeking through Sukuna’s off-white undershirt. So tight that it was like the pale color was nearly painted onto him- if Itadori Jin was the sweet, soft single dad that was always early for pick-up, then Sukuna was just rugged.
From the dishevelled state of his twinning rosy hair, to the studded piercing on his left earlobe, to the naturally-honed muscles that made him look hulking.
And it almost seemed like you were…checking him out? But surely that was a figment of Sukuna’s imagination, right? Right?
You’re nodding as Yuji looks to you impatiently for approval, “Why, you’re quite right, Yuji.” The corners of your glossed lips curl upwards as you turn to Sukuna - and he feels electricity pang down his body. “Uncles these days, huh?”
Ah, he was gone for.
It was almost a comical sight, you’re thinking - such a large, towering man well over six feet, speechlessly gawking at you. Leaned forwards, ears red; barely even registering the way his nephew grabs onto the tufts of his coral pink hair like a horse- whispering for the rest of his friends to join in.
Kugisaki makes two treks grabbing onto his sides before she’s looking up and crinkling her nose, “Ew. You’re red again, Mr. Felon.”
“He’s not Mr. Felon, he’s Mr. Tire-slasher.”
Yuji shakes his head, “No, he’s Mr. Mugshot.” Seated upon Sukuna’s broad shoulders, the boy adjusts his body to stick a hand inside his backpack and search. “Would you like to see the mugshot, miss-”
“Okay, time for us to get home.”
Firmly, Sukuna tries to shoo away the army of toddlers trying to climb him as gently as possible - only four glares, now that’s a record. Nephew still on his back, bag now wrestled into his hand and well away from where Yuji could procure any printouts of his (admittedly flattering) mugshot.
He’s feeling his heartbeat pick up just a lil’ as he darts his eyes back to you, “I-it was just probation, by the way. Happened to slash some uh- tires…”
“And also drive fast!” Yuji pipes up happily.
“…That too.” Grouchy face wincing at the amused smile on your face- goddammit he’s never going to be able to show his face here ever again. Sukuna simpers out a wave, making sure to flex his chiseled biceps at you ever-so-slightly - if he couldn’t keep reputation, at least he could make you stare. “See you ‘round, teach.”
“See you around, Mr. Mugshot.”
Fuck.
.
.
.
“I thought I said I’m not doing shit for the brat’s school again.”
Jin patiently gestures for him to hush with the swearing in front of the gaggle of children, humming as he keeps handing out sugar cookies - half-off for dealing with Sukuna’s shoddy customer service. “Well, technically, we’re not in the preschool. We’re in the park.”
His younger brother seethes, flicking the ribbons of his pretty pink apron (Jin’s doing, of course.) “Having a damn bake sale-”
“Shush, Ryo. There are children around.”
“Exactly my point!” Was Sukuna the crazy one? He must be the crazy one. And he’s running a grumpy hand through his unruly pink locks- before remembering that one of those damn kids running around this bake sale had called him cotton-candy head and now he’s both irritated and unable to self-soothe.
It’d been Jin’s idea to drag him to the preschool bake sale, held at the nearby children’s park- something about raising money for a talent show.
Honestly, fuck talent shows. It didn’t even take two minutes surrounded by all the fanfare for him to have half the mind to eat those sweet treats himself and just leave-
“Oh hey, you’re Mr. Mugshot.” A little boy wearing a panda mask, one he’s never even seen before, points up at him and giggles as Sukuna glares. Did that nickname really spread?
He’s bending over their frilly pink stall with a damn good word or two about-
“Oh! Jin, thank you for coming.” Before he’s hearing the sound of the pearly gates of heaven, and an angel to accompany right along with it. You. Who’d silently meandered up to their cookie stand with an expression of both delight and concern. Your gorgeous mouth pursing as you stop to think, “And…Sukuna, right? Thank you, too, the children really appreciate the work you’re putting in.”
You remembered his name. He has to hold back a squeal.
“A-ah, yeah- yeah! Of course, of course.” He’s swiftly leaning over the stall, arms crossed so that you can fully take in the way they streeetch his tight sleeveless turtleneck.
In the faint distance - honestly, it feels like miles away - he’s hearing the panda-mask boy unsubtly whisper something to his father about how ‘Mr. Mugshot has turned red.’
Not! Obviously not- smooth. Ryomen Sukuna is supposed to be smooth, and he’s desperately attacking his features into something that resembles suave nonchalance. “I’m a…real philanthropic type of guy, y’know?” Cocking his head with a smug grin, “So, you come ‘round here often?”
You’re smirking, your giggle sounding like his favorite song. “Well, it is my preschool class.”
Ah, shit. His eyes widen just a fraction, right.
Scoffing, “Tch, uh, yeah. I knew that.”
So many days spent mentally praying that yet another one of Jin’s work meetings went over time again - just so that Sukuna would have an excuse to see your pretty face. And that’s the first thing he says?
Suddenly, he’s too aware of the ogling toddlers, of the snug pink apron that he was currently donning - and the way your eyes seem to stray down to the gaudy bow settled between his pecs.
At this point, it seems even his brother takes pity on him. Adjusting his glasses with a soft chuckle, “It seems Ryo here had the greatest time at pick-up last week, he only had good things to say about you, ma’am.”
You blink in slight surprise, eyes taking in Sukuna’s large, fidgeting figure. “I’m quite flattered.”
Yes! Sukuna’s pleading eyes snap to the interested twinkle in your eyes, and then to the other man- yes, keep going!
“Of course, Yuji did tell me he was upset he didn’t get to show you his printed mugshot of him. It was all that he could-”
Fuck no!
Catching the other’s urgent eyes, Jin sputters- “B-but- but, it was just a little vandalism, of course. Just a little ah…a little driving and- eek!” Cutting himself off promptly as soon as Sukuna steps down on Jin’s foot, syllables stumbling, looking ‘round anywhere for any distraction. “Why don’t you- ah! Why don’t you give our lovely teacher here a cookie, Sukuna. Free of charge.”
You’re waving your hands, oh-so-sweetly, “I could never, please let me pay-”
“Nah, a pretty girl like you? I should give you more, ma.” He could give you a totally different type of cookie but this might just not be the place to say those words out loud- ah, he’s still got it.
Sukuna’s thumbing out the biggest baked treat between a fluffy tissue and handing it over to you- ready to feel the sweet, sweet graze of your fingertips, if he was lucky.
But oh- it seems like the gates of heaven really have just opened up to him, because instead of taking it from his hands, you’re leaning down and taking a bite. Straight from where he held it. Humming as the candied taste floods your mouth, the soft pushness of your lips taps against the edge of his thumb.
And he wonders how they’d feel on his lips, instead.
“Ah, sorry.” You’re taking a peek at him through your lashes and maybe he doesn’t still have it because Sukuna feels his breath hitch. “It just looked so good, and my hands are a little…”
And it’s only then that he’s noticing just how many boxes upon bags of things you’d bought from nearly every stall here. Happy to support your students - oh, you really were an angel.
“Oh, let me.” Ever the gentleman, Jin hastens to move around a few bags so that you’re more comfortable. All while Sukuna can only hold out the cookie and freeze. Slack-jawed.
Completely ridiculous.
He doesn’t move a single millimeter, not even when you’re now able to easily grasp the baked good from him. Expectantly waiting, palm raised - while he only ogles you.
“I uh- let me just-” And it takes Itadori Jin both hands to pry the crumbling cookie from Sukuna’s hands, sighing before wrapping up about two more in apology and handing them over to you. “We do hope you like them, ma’am.”
“Mhm—” Rubbing over the crumbs at the edge of your lower lip with one hand, you look dead-set on Sukuna as you murmur. “It was delicious. My compliments to the chef.”
Sukuna might not have been the chef - baker, whatever you said goes - it was Jin, but he can’t help but feel on top of the world as if he was. Waiting just until you’re out of sight, walking through the sunny Spring park up to the next parent-manned stand, to pump his fist with a low ‘hell yeah!’
“Ryo, you haven’t been this smitten since- well, ever.”
“Daddy, Mr. Mugshot is really weird.”
Sukuna whirls at a few staring parents- “The fuck are you lookin’ at?”
.
.
.
“Remind me why you’re here again?”
“Remind me why you’re here again?”
Arguing with a thirteen-year-old wasn’t very high on Sukuna’s bucket list, and yet, it seemed to happen on a nearly daily basis. He would blame middle school for being the root of Choso’s attitude, but he suspects the new emo look has something to do with it, too.
And maybe the fact that the older man was accompanying one of his weekly visits to Yuji’s preschool playground. Cutting off just the last of Friday’s classes just so that he could walk down the street to see his little brother. Despite seeing him at home every day, but still.
That’s also what Sukuna himself was here for- of course. Why else would he-
“Ah ah- Kugisaki, what have I told you about using the toy construction hammer for things other than construction? We don’t hit, m’kay?”
Sighing, the way that Sukuna’s towering frame leans against the playground’s cherry blossom tree for support draws such disgust from Choso. Dark eyes flickering between his blushing uncle, and you - in the middle of the sand pit, trying to wrangle a class of toddlers. “You’re pathetic.”
“Shut it, scrawny.”
“Why don’t you just talk to her?”
Sukuna’s life flashes before his very eyes, and strangely it’s mainly made up of every moment where he’s embarrassed himself in front of you. Looking away with a huff, “It’s…complicated.”
The other snickers, “Well, it’s about to get a whole lot more complicated because she’s coming up to us right now.”
Oh, fuck.
Now, he might have had the sense to ‘accidentally’ bump into his oldest nephew just as he was on his route to meet Yuji (Sukuna had memorized his schedule, sauntering by this very block for an hour until he’d run into Choso) - but he didn’t have enough wit for this.
Conversations? With both parties and a classroom of preschoolers participating?
He was just about ready to race right out of here and leave Choso to the wolves-
“Cho! You’re here as always.” You’re smiling as you waltz up to them, a neat line of toddlers following you as they would a mother duck. Hitting him with your scent of flowers n’ the sunniest of days, “And I see you’ve brought along a guest with you- how are you, Sukuna?”
“F-fine.” F-fine? With a stutter? Sukuna simply bristles at the smirk his nephew shoots his way, already feeling the tips of his pierced ears start to scald bright hot.
“Bubba!”
Saved by the bell-like shriek of Yuji, enough to make Choso take a few steps over and hug his toddling brother so tight that the former squeals. Checking him over for scratches, dust, stickers- you name it.
You’re catching the raise of Sukuna’s brows and chuckle, “He is always quite the attentive older brother. You should join us more often, I’m sure Yuji would enjoy having his favorite uncle around.”
Mouth dry, “I’m- I’m his only uncle.”
Yet, your grin still stands - a slight knowing curve in them that makes his brain fuzzy, and his lips just a bit too loose. Did he say he liked drinking again? What a fucking lie, you got him more buzzed than a shot of straight vodka pumping through his nerves.
And he’s finding himself reaching over to brush a stray petal of cherry-pink from your crown. Blurting out before he can stop himself, “Hey…so what’s your ty- I mean, are you seeing any-”
“She’s mine!” Cuts off an annoying, grating voice - one that understood what you evidently didn’t, with the few syllables that Sukuna had been able to croak out.
And he’s looking over your shoulder to find himself being stared down (stared up at?) by a boisterous, buzz-cut boy slightly older than Yuji. Protectively standing behind you as he glared daggers, “When I’m old like you, she shall be my bride, Mr. Mugshot.”
Huh.
You’re droning out in your nicest tone, wagging your finger. “Now now, Todo Aoi, what have I told you about not proposing to your teachers?”
“To not.”
“And what are you doing?”
“Proposing.” Stifling a sigh, you realise that it would be yet another chat with Todo’s guardian about the boy’s harmless little puppy crush.
But before you can direct the conversation back towards anything else, he’s stabbing an accusing index up at Sukuna’s looming frame. “Miss teacher here-” Not quite your name, but close enough. “-and my sweet idol Takada-chan are the only ones I shall marry. You can’t have either!”
“Who the hell…” Sukuna furrows his brows- what was this boy talking about? “Listen, kid, I-”
“Pffft–!” He could recognize that burst of muffled laughter anywhere, and at least Choso was having a grand ol’ time- whispering to Yuji, “Don’t you think this is like those late-night dramas dad pretends not to watch?”
No! Sukuna’s internally groaning.
“Oh- oh yeah!” An over-hearing Kugisaki bounces at the mention of dramas, “My mommy watches those. Times like this the two guys will fight over the pretty girl.”
Todo puffs up his chest, “Then fight me, old man- I demand a duel!”
“I’m not even thirty?”
“That’s old.” Choso nods.
“You’re thirteen.”
“I’m five!” Yuji jumps up, and immediately his older brother’s pulling his phone out to snap a few hundred photographs at the cuteness.
Todo stomps, “Fight me, fossil–”
And his young nephew - that traitor - is the next one to shrill with glee at the altercation, clapping his hands once Todo charges forward with a damn war cry to pummel Sukuna’s abs with hits about as fierce as cotton. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
At the slight raise of your brows at the chaos, Sukuna rushes to explain, “Please excuse my nephew’s behaviour, ma’am, I don’t know where he got it from-”
Choso deadpans, “But you’re the one that taught us that the best talk is to talk with your fists because-” The two brothers turn to each other in unison, as if preaching the truth and nothing but the truth. “-we’re no weakass bi-”
“Their father.” Sukuna grits out- okay, maybe that kid’s punches were getting a little more painful. Or maybe it was just the way you were cocking your head at him that made his stomach churn, “Surely.”
“Defend the honor of your woman, geriatric–!”
Seemingly snapping out of the little reverie of taking in whatever the fuck this was, you clap your hands in that teacherly way to demand silence. “Alright alright, break it up. You wouldn’t want me to take down any of your star points, would you, Aoi?” Tugging away the boy from Sukuna, you grimace up at him. “I’m so sorry about all of- well- this.”
“Y’know how they apologize to each other in the dramas?” Kugisaki speaks up, and honestly, this girl really did speak up at the most inopportune times. She glows at all the attention on her, “They kiss.”
And she was a genius.
An absolute genius, bob-cut!
Yuji - ever his lil’ ally - starts pumping his fist with whoots- “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Starting up a slight chant within your group, you turn to him in question.
“I uh…” Sukuna starts, tilting his body down ever-so-slightly, until you could could nearly every thread on his dark hoodie. The way his slashing tattoos framing his jaw ripple as he gulps, “You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, ma- that’s assuming you wanted to do something, and what I meant was-”
It was one second. A singular, heavenly second that your lips graze the right side of Sukuna’s cheek as he rambled - fluttering away right before his skin started to scorch with a blush.
Quite frankly, fuck nonchalance.
“Ewww, he’s red again. What’s wrong with him?”
“Were you this red when you were setting fires, Mr. Mugshot?”
“He looked nothing like this in his mugshot- wanna see?”
“Salmon.”
Ears tinting a shade that matches his hair, voicebox void of any coherent words, Sukuna barely even functions until he’s hearing the sharp ka-chick! of a camera shutter. Whirling his head ‘round to find Choso with his phone pointed at him, catching him in all his flustered glory. “I’ll send it to the family groupchat.” He turns to you. “And to you on the preschool groupchat.”
Imagine Sukuna’s surprise when he finds you nodding, “Mhm, oh, and I should really be getting the kids back now, it’s almost time for the bell.” Making the kids waddle into a neat line once more, you wave. “Thank you for the visit- do come again, it was quite…interesting.”
And they stare - Choso at Yuji, Sukuna at you - as you and your classroom disappear back within the preschool walls. “No phone for you for two weeks.”
“No hot teacher’s number for you forever.”
Only after a second- “Hey- hey kid. Show me that number again? I’ll make it one week.”
.
.
.
Sukuna had almost, mercifully, forgotten about that damn talent show.
The bake sale? Gaping at you for nearly five full minutes straight? Never happened.
And he’d almost convinced himself of that- until the time came for him to be seated right on the very front row of the cozy preschool auditorium. Taking up nearly three chairs as he squeezes himself into the humble seat, arms crossed and scowling.
“You know…” Jin claps as Yuji and Kugisaki fight to clamber onto stage first, with a reluctant Fushiguro in tow. About to showcase whatever it is that they’d been practising with doves and sticks all week. From the corner of his mouth, “When we had the kiddos over, Megs told me something very interesting the other day.”
“Hm.” Sukuna’s grunts noncommittally when Yuji pulls out a comically large fairy wand - ah, a magic show.
“Something about you duelling with a kid for the hand of a certain someone.”
Letting out a strangled groan, his eyes immediately find you - as they always seemed to do. Stuck on the way you were kneeled by the front of the stage, motivating each little performer tonight. “Y-ya don’t say…”
Jin beams, “You know, you should really ask her out, Ryo- oh! Do you need our help? I can tell you this, the Itadori family makes great wingmen.”
“Ya don’t say.”
Tattletale, Sukuna’s grousing. And just as Fushiguro Megumi finds himself being stuffed into a box - to be sawed in half as all good magicians did, apparently - the older man slowly, menacingly pulls out his prized camcorder.
Just in time for Fushiguro to glance over and have his face pale at the blinking, recording lens.
“After all, Megumi did say you were blushing like a- what was it- ‘maiden in love’ that day. How cute.”
“Ya don’t say.” Sukuna zooms in, right on the black-haired boy’s ashen face once the saw raises high in the air to magically cut him in half. And to make things even worse, he starts pointing at his camera, mouthing through a grin, ‘Oh yes.’ At Fushiguro’s slight shake of his head. ‘You are dead.’
But, alas, it was too good to be true.
And instead of having the little snitch be the casualty in one of Yuji’s magic tricks, the talent show goes shockingly smoothly. Hell, Wasuke slept through only about half of it, which was as much of a compliment as one could get.
All because of your efforts, surely - and when the entire thing ends with (surprise, surprise) every little brat getting awarded a winning prize, Sukuna finds himself not half-annoyed that he’d actually sat through all of it.
Well, right up until about when it was time for the exhausted preschoolers to be taken home by their families.
And Yuji comes bounding up to the four with a squealing—“Dadda–! Bubba–! Gramps–! Mr. Mug-”
“Another word out of you and I’m throwing your iPad out the window.” Sukuna grumbles, heart leaping to his throat when he’s spotting your chuckling figure follow up behind his nephew, as if Jin’s elbowing wasn’t a sign enough.
Yuji frowns, “Aw, but I already told everyone here.”
Damn gremlin- but before he can get another word in, you’re already greeting his brother and father with a smile. “It’s so great to see you again, Mr. Itadori- I hope that blood pressure you were telling me about is better now.”
“Ah, ya know- I won’t be dying any time soon.” Wasuke barks out a hoarse noise of laughter, before beadily eyeing Sukuna. “This one, however…”
Your gorgeous face drops in worry, and he doesn’t know whether to whine at his father for letting you make that expression, or giggle because you cared about him. Fuck. “Oh no- everything alright, Sukuna?”
But Wasuke answers for him, “No. Not at all, quite the incurable disease, my dear.”
He watches on in matching confusion with Yuji as Jin lights up beside him, “Ah- ah! Right right, that-” Soothing his face into something pitiful as he turns to you, “That ah- thing that only heh- one person can solve.”
About as subtle as a sledgehammer.
And just as efficient in bagging the woman of one’s dreams.
Because you only furrow your brows in confusion, “I’m…sorry? What?”
Sukuna’s older brother’s smile tightens in desperation, nervously laughing. “You- you know…that thing?” And you tilt your head, eyes darting between the four as if trying to work out the punchline. “The thing like- the heart condition? No- not something serious but like…the butterflies?” Now looking to Sukuna for help - as if the other man wouldn’t just let him rot in the very grave he’d dug for himself.
Then at Choso, who’d been quietly attempting to disappear into the wall plaster. Trying not to laugh as he dotes on Yuji, “The doki-doki.”
Jin snaps his fingers, “Yes! Like the doki-doki? The-”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake- he wants to fu-”
“That’s enough for tonight, pa.” It really does run in the family - because in a split-second, Sukuna has his palm clapped over Itadori Wasuke’s mouth. Smile painfully plastic, “Did you take your meds today, dear father? I don’t believe you took your meds today.”
He plunges his sprightly father into Jin’s arms, “Say, Jin, why don’t you get dad his meds.” Making note of the way that you - still thoroughly confused, and now thoroughly off your shift helping each student get to their guardian - were toyin’ with the cute decorations of your car keys.
Letting his mouth work before his brain could regret anything- “And why don’t I walk you to your car, ma?”
“I- what.” You’re somewhat shocked at being addressed so directly, and at the kindly incline of Sukuna’s head. “Don’t you have a heart condition? I wouldn’t want to exert you, Sukuna.”
Wasuke grunts, “Exert him in another- mmpf-” Hastily shushed by Choso’s palm, more for his sanity’s sake than his uncle’s.
These damn- he narrows a glare down at an unabashedly-eavesdropping Jin and Wasuke. “No. No, don’t worry about it, they were just joking. Ha. Ha.”
Well…it was quite dark outside the building, even with the surrounding streetlights. And your vehicle might just be a little ways away but it never hurt to be extra safe, did it? Especially when his stature was so intimidating anyways?
And so, you nod.
And he walks with you.
More like floats beside you on cloud nine, actually. Sukuna’s sure you two made quite a sight in the corridor, if the way passing parents whispered to each other signalled anything - him, with his ears flared red, unable to even look at you directly as you two were alone. You, as perfect as ever.
“Ah- so-”
“What did you-”
You’re both speaking at the same time once you’re out of the school building, laughing into the nearly-empty night air that forms clouds out of your puffs of laughter. The few minutes of a walk to the parking lot seemed like eternity - and Sukuna would have gladly let it be.
“You speak.” You’re urging.
“No you.”
“You-”
“I refuse.”
“Fine.” Rolling your eyes, you never noticed the way he always seemed to nudge his head ever-so-closely to you whenever you spoke. As if he was hanging onto your every word. “What did you think about the talent show?”
“Brilliant. All because of you, of course- got so much blackmail to use in ten years.” He cackles.
Though, that’s stopped short very soon the nanosecond you’re nudging him playfully. Heat touching heat. And he shivers, “Hit me if this is strange.” Letting the tense air clog his throat, at least, that’s his excuse for it. “But do you remember that thing I meant to ask you that one time at the playground…”
“Yes—?”
“Are you-” Sukuna’s husky baritone cracks and he twists his face into a wince, “D-do you happen to be seeing anyone?”
You blink, and there’s something about the way you look at him that makes him feel like you’re holding back such a smile. How he wished to see it right now. Musing into the silent night air, only thrumming with your footsteps towards the car, “Nope.”
“O-oh.” And if this was any other time, then he’d be embarrassed about how obviously relieved he sounds. How you surely must have picked up on it.
Faking nonchalance, he’s stuffing his hand into the baggy cloth of his ripped jeans, “Cool.” And it was a damn good thing you didn’t have x-ray vision like all the heroes in all those weekend cartoons Yuji watched - because then you’d have seen the way his painted nails dig in so deeply into his palms in pure excitement. Nearly hard enough to draw blood. “Very cool.”
“Very cool.” You’re echoing, now stood by the driver’s seat of your car - just waiting for him to say something. Anything.
Waiting as he opens his mouth- “What’s your ty-”
“Yuji- Yuji noooo- don’t interrupt your uncle’s k-drama moment- oh, dammit.” Itadori Jin, who’d been chasing after an adventure-hungry Yuji, balks at the way you were both so close. Snatching up his struggling toddler, “Forget about me! We- we never here- go back to doing whatever you were doing!”
And somehow, you lurch apart as if you’d just been shocked. Only now realizing just how warm the temperature of his proximity was, fighting to keep your professional façade in front of your spying audience.
“I bid you goodnight, Jin- Yuji.” Gesturing out a wave, you’re getting into your ride so quickly that Sukuna thinks he must’ve been dreaming you up. “And you, Sukuna.”
Nevermind- not a dream.
Definitely not a dream. Because even in his sweetest hallucinations he wouldn’t have been able to make you say his name like that. Almost a purr. Almost batting your lashes.
Almost ripping out his heart from his very chest as you then speed down the road.
“That’s the best ya could’ve done, sonny? Even after I taught you everything to know about wooing a woman?” How very much like Wasuke to manifest from nearly thin air, from somewhere out of the shadows of the building.
“Not that.”
“Especially that.”
The older man only waves off Jin’s bemoaning concern about ‘ruining the moment- they had a doki-doki moment!’ “Choso’s in the car, can’t believe I lost a bet to a middle-schooler. Dammit.”
Sukuna’s eyes widen, “You…bet on me?”
“Whaddaya think, sonny?”
Jin smiles, “Guilty.”
“Gwuilty!”
“No- no, Yuji, not guilty.”
Wasuke paces away, shaking his head. “Thought I raised you better- keh! Thought I’d get grandchildren from you, too. Tch, now I owe a middle-schooler fifty yen, oh, woe is me.”
It takes a second for Sukuna to register the words, “Wait- only fifty yen?”
“Yeah, that’s just about my belief in you, kid.”
.
.
.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
“Oi- oi, Jin. Go get the door.”
“I’m cooking dinner–! Cho, could you get the door?”
“I’m in the middle of homework- ask uncle.”
Sukuna grumbles, why the hell was he the one to always answer that damn door? Honestly, Yuji could buck up and get some experience yelling at sleazy salesmen sometimes. Sprawled out across the TV room couch, he stares at his nephew playing with a toy bow and arrows set on the floor, “Yuji, could you get the-”
“I can hear you, Ryo.”
Dammit- there was a reason why Itadori Jin was the older brother.
And there was also a reason why Ryomen Sukuna had a reputation in this quaint neighborhood for being a boor - not that that was much of a brag. But at least it explained why he was stomping up to the oak front door, damn near ripping it off its hinges with a growl- “We’re not buying any- oh.”
‘Oh’ was right.
Because standing right there on his porch was a damn sight for sore eyes - you.
You, with your mouth parted and your brows slightly raised as you looked from the messy bangs of his locks to the oversized sweater he was wearing. You, who doesn’t even flinch about the fact that he’d just answered the door yelling. You, donned in a pretty lil’ skirt that makes him gulp-
“You okay, Sukuna?”
“No. So how are you doin’ on this fine day, ma? ”
“Oh!” A happy call of your name makes you turn - even though Sukuna just stares, shell-shocked. Jin shoves him bodily out of the way, opening the door wider, “Please- come in, we’ve been expecting you.”
Looking down at the slight stain of something at the hem of his sweatpants, the other man frowns. It’s not like that was news he’d ever forget - so why the hell was he looking like that? “We have?”
“Yes?” Jin’s showing you the way in- only for you to be dragged in by an overeager Yuji anyways. And as the two of you disappear down the halls, he’s turning to his taller brother in genuine confusion. “Did Cho not tell you that we were having Yuji’s teacher over for dinner tonight?”
At Sukuna’s sputtering, Jin wastes no time grasping a nearby broomstick and thumping the wooden end up against the ceiling. “Kamo Choso–!”
And out comes a muffled reply, “I told grandpa to tell him!”
“Haaah? I told Yuji to.”
It sinks in. The fact that you were here, all prettily dolled-up and at their family home - and you’d happened to see him in nothing but a stained, ratty sweatshirt and pants torn down the side of his thigh to show off one tattoo.
Jin grimaces, “Um…we can still wingman our way through this?”
“I’m gonna kill you.”
Murder does not, in fact, come before dinner; as all good manners dictate. And Sukuna decides that revenge can wait after he’s totally, completely, utterly made you swoon.
“S-so-” Only after a quick change into his best tightly-fitted turtleneck and his silver chains did he dare to show his face ‘round you again. Spritzing enough cologne to almost overpower Jin’s omurice, he tries to smize from where he was sitting right opposite you on the kotatsu. “Nice place, huh?”
The shot of extra, extra strong sake that Wasuke slides over is a consolation as much as a ‘you’re not in a restaurant, you fool!’ He finishes the cup in one go.
“You do have a very beautiful home.” You’re nodding over at a proud Jin.
“And the- food- how is the food?” Another cup- what moral support, father.
“Mmm- amazing, I usually never have the time to cook much for myself with the kids n’ all.”
Which Jin takes as the cue for him to butt in on the conversation, helping it flow as smoothly as an enclosing dam would to a river. “You like kids, huh?” Kicking Sukuna underneath the kotatsu, he rattles the plates. “Our Ryo here also…tolerates children.”
“Really?” You’re teasing, “I couldn’t tell.”
“Why I love kids, yeah.” Sukuna tuts as he lifts his hand to pat the crown of Choso’s head- who only swerves out of the way, food finished n’ leaving the room to join his brother playing. Hiccuping, you were so pretty sat in front of him like this- too pretty, that the vision of you was starting to get blurry.
And another cup.
He’s jostled by the tap of Jin’s hand on his arms- “And he’s actually quite sweet in his own way once you get to know him. I’m sure dad agrees-” Ignoring Wasuke’s ‘I don’t’. “-that he’d make such a responsible-”
“U-unless you don’t like kids.” Still stuck on that - still. Sukuna downs it and then shakily pours himself another. “In that case, I don’t like kids either. Yeah, can’t stand them.”
And another.
Jin and Wasuke share a glance between themselves when the hulking man leans over the kotatsu towards you with what sounded suspiciously like a whine. “Would you want kids with me?”
And-
“Sukuna-”
“W-well—time for Ryo to be put to bed, I think.” Jin hastily stands up, struggling to hoist his oversized younger brother from his seat. Failing, evidently, as in that time he’s managing to gulp down another two or three sake cups. “Dad- a little- help?”
Wasuke only shakes his head gravely at you, “You should know he was switched at birth.”
“We’re nearly identical twins–”
“Twins? What-” Sukuna babbles, “Does she want twins?”
Glassy eyes blinking n’ squinting furiously down at you as if trying to figure out whether you were real. Before ultimately giving up, it seems.
Because he’s stumbling a few unsteady steps forwards, pulled by Jin, before dropping to his knees and toppling his head over your lap, just by the gap of the kotatsu edge and your stomach. He’s nuzzling his face right against your tummy, “Mmm— maybe triplets. Would be the cutest fuckin’ things if they looked anything like hck! her.”
You giggle and he gasps- as if the epiphany had just struck him. “Quadruplets?”
Starin’ down at him, at the rosy blush painting his ears, you’re muttering. “You wish.”
“Dammit- even this hck! illusion of her is fine as fuck. Shit. I wonder if her type is…”
Trailing off, he looks to his older brother for assistance- who helpfully supplies, “Sad and drunk?”
Wasuke’s contribution- “Zero game- as the kids say?”
“Dangerous?” You pretend to think, assessing over the mountainous heap of a man. “Actually- only pretends to be but is really a softie inside?”
“Yes! That- wonder if he type is dangerous…pretend dangerous. I’d give her all the kids she’d ever want- all big…n’ glowing…” It was almost like the setting of the sun, and just as quietly that Sukuna’s dipping past the edge of consciousness. “And…mine…if she wants. Oh, only if she wants- I’ve gotta- hck!” He turns up slightly to you, “-gotta woo her first, you see? Gotta date her…marry…but- but most of all…” Words slowing, heartbeat still racing whenever he looked at you. “I…just want to love you, pretty girl.”
And with that, he was out like a flickered light.
With only Wasuke, Jin, and Choso with his camera snooping through the doorway as witnesses for when you’re snaking a hand down to the phone bulging in Sukuna’s pocket. Quickly entering a few coordinates and a date.
And a heart emoji.
.
.
.
“Oh- oh, shit, mama.” Sukuna’s tongue lays over the sheeny insides of your thighs, throat muddled with groans and the cloying taste of your slick gluing to his rovering mouth.
Honestly, fuck whatever tips his family had made him memorize before coming over for his lil’ ‘talk’ at your cozy apartment, as promised. Because the two of you had barely made out two or three words before Sukuna found himself sprawled on his back on your bed.
Your knees framing his face, your clothed cunt right near his mouth.
Right near where he’s dotting your skin with hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your entire body tremble. Whimpering over your shoulder, “D-didn’t think you’d be such a tease, Kuna.”
“Because this isn’t real.” He’s breathing out, as if he’s just so sure of that fact. As if he can glide his ringed index down the dampened slit of your folds and drool- because this feels like a dream n’ he was going to savor every moment. “Fuck, there’s no way this is-”
And just at that very moment, he’s craning his head up further between your pretty, pretty legs. Greedy tastebuds darted out just so he can catch the treacly splat! of your leaking slit.
Dampening his tongue n’ drooling all down the edge of his tattooed chin, “Do you even know how many times I’ve imagined this exact moment?”
“Mmm- no-” You’re wrenching out a heady puff of air- spread on your front in the meanest sixty-nine. You gulp down your parched throat as you’re taking in the wet, bulging outline of Sukuna’s erection through his boxers. “But I can guess.”
He was just so big, aching-
Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t just rock-hard. He was hard enough that he’s sure his round, bawling tip was damn near ready to fall off, twitching oh-so-painfully in his pants as he’s snapping back your soaked panties with a wet thwack!
Just a glimpse of the wet haven you were hiding and he’s groaning throatily, “Guess-” He hisses, close enough that the straight end of his nose slides down your puffy pussylips. Nudging your panties to the side and sniiiiiffing you, “You’ll never be able to guess how badly I want you, pretty girl.”
Never.
Never would you have even been able to register that within mere split-seconds, he’d have one beefy arm looping around your hips to make you sit on top of his mouth.
Slamming the edge of your cunt against his chin, plopping your full weight down until he’s nose-deep between your quivering legs. “Fuck-” Letting the first gush of your saccharine juices flood his throat, lips against lips. “Fuck fuck fuck- what was I even…saying?”
“W-wait–” Your breath hitches, spine arching into such a perfect curvature. You claw onto his meaty thighs in an attempt to regain balance, “You won’t be able to breathe like this, Sukuna-”
“You think I fucking care?”
It’s spat - spat - out right against the swollen nub of your clit. Hazed crimson irises rolling to the veeeery deep, dark depths of his skull at the first long gliiiide of Sukuna’s tongue from top to bottom of your pussy.
Cheeks hollowed the very moment he’s pushin’ himself even closer, “You think I ngh- can care about anything else?” The very moment he’s tugging you back down - with the full force of his upper strength, hard enough that your heated aches with raw, primal bruises. “Be a good girl n’ put that hah- pussy on my face. Fucking- sit-”
“I don’t- fuuuuck—” Fingers twitching, it’s all you can do to fumble with the drawstrings of his wettened boxers.
Thighs shaking at every flicker of his slimy tongue swirlin’ and stirrin’ every inch of your outer pussy. Your head muddles with the realization that Sukuna’s tongue was just so long that he could lap at your glisten hole n’ still have enough length left over to snag on your clit. “You’re not going to be the only hah- one-”
Whimpering, you find your eyes blurring up each time the ridged texture of his tastebuds glissade between your folds. Curlin’ in just past the elastic circle of your entrance-
And you’re gasping - but you don’t know whether it’s because of the lecherous intrusion or because of the way you’re pushing down Sukuna’s snug underwear to free his massive cock.
Reddened, swollen.
He’s bulging all solid and girthy that it makes your hole clench ‘round his flexible tongue. The cutest ruby-red at the top of his shaft, forming a gradient all the way down to his tight, heavy balls. Mentally, you’re counting about nine- fuck, maybe even ten damn inches that hit the end of your chin as he springs up.
And from where you’re straddling him, you can make out what looked like a matching thick, black band of ink around his bulky hilt.
Letting the polished pink crown of his cockhead smear out a generous dollop of pre, you’re teasing your tongue out just enough to taste the salted caramel taste.
“You’re so…” Sinking him past your spit-slicked lips, his swabbing mushroom tip is just so big that your jaw aches just by looking at him. Just by fitting him inside, right until his drivelling slit- “-s-sho big, Sukuna.”
“Fuck- fuck-” He’s spitting into your cunt and you find yourself flinching, hard enough that his pearly white canines nip at your thighs and you cry out.
And he’s only holding you back - not letting you shift your restless hips even a single centimeter as he’s eating you out like a man dying of thirst. Dry tastebuds lavishing himself with wads of slick, Sukuna’s stuffing your tight hole with the entirety of his tongue. “You’re m-making me drool.”
You swear you’re feeling the thin line of his wet spittle stain the front of your cunt, whimpering around his bulbous cockhead. “Made ya stutter, too, Sukuna.”
“Ohhhh- talkin’ smart, are we?” Snickering, he lets off a loud spank against the front of your pussy - one that makes your bones reverberate, and your mind numb. Pushin’ back to ride the circling girth of his tongue, to ride him. “Why don’tcha put that mouth into use elsewhere?”
Elsewhere - his cock was so hot and throbbing between your swollen lips. Just the slightest slip n’ slide makes it feel like he’s pulsing all the way at the back of your throat.
Creamin’ out a spray of syrupy precum that slides down your tongue, “So big- too big.” And yet- it was just so cute how you’re suckling him like your favorite lolly, eyes criss-crossing when you’re trying to take more. He couldn’t even bottom out. “Mmm– dunno if it’ll even all fit.”
“Well…”
The way he’s drawling out in a smoky tone makes you ponder that this won’t be ending well for you. And Sukuna’s dark chuckle hits your cunt in a murky gust, “You’re takin’ it in from here—” Just at that sultry second, he’s crowning the snug circle of your hole with two fingers.
Making you break out with a shrill waiiil as he sinks in the thick, calloused curves of his fingerpads. Letting such thick digits stretch you out fully, make your head spin. “So shut it n’ take this looong fucking cock, ma.”
All that it takes for him to plunge a few more throbbing inches past your maw, oh-so-big that you’re drooling down the sides of your mouth already.
Striking the edge of your throat and making you choke on his sheer size, your nose wrinkles as you’re tickled by the curly tendrils of his pinkish hair. “This enough or you want three, pretty girl-”
“I-”
Letting out such a cloying squelch that spurts from your pussy once he’s teasin’ your entrance, “Not you, mama. She wants three.”
Moaning away wildly after each pump of his fingers- Sukuna doesn’t even have to try to dip into each nook n’ orifice. Slamming to fingers down to each knobbly knuckle with a resounding slam- “See? See?”
So cockdrunk on the feeling of his velvety tongue that you’re only partly registering the way his vocals are higher. Unsteady.
The way you’re clamping your dewy walls in a cute, squelching smooch ‘round his digits makes his voice fucking crack. “J-just take it a bit- fuck- deeper.” Mindless little half-thrusts up into your heated mouth like he can’t even control it- “You can swallow it up like a reeeeal good girl, can’t you?”
“Mmm—” Purposefully letting off your pretty sounds all over his fleshy girth, “Yes- yes yes yes- more.”
“More?”
“More.”
As if he wouldn’t fucking ruin you if he could.
“You want more?”
“Y-yes- oh.”
Only to be gifted with such a rude slap of his doughy palm, “Not you.” And he’s waiting for the soppy squelches leaking out from your cunt, the way you’re talking to him from your swollen lips just to continue.
Squelch after squelch.
Your pleas only spur him to tug at the sweet, softened ring of your cunt, latching his lips over the flexing muscle. “If you say so—” Crooning, you can feel the cold hiss of his metallic rings upon the insides of your thighs. Sukuna’s biceps shifting as he starts to tug them off–
“A-actually-” You’re popping off of the strawberry-pink curve of his cocktip with a plop! a few glittery strings of pre and spit still connecting you lewdly to it. “…Keep them on?”
“Oh. Ohoho- you naughty lil’ thing.” He’s swatting over the slope of your dripping wet pussy n’ giving your clit a good pinch with his ringed fingers. “You like it like this- like- this-?”
He’s spitting out each word into your cunt, thrusting the barrelling tips of his fingerpads to graze just below your pulsating g-spot. “All those mouthy lectures?” In vulgar tandem strokes with the thwack! of his heavy, curvaceous balls slapping your chin. “And you wanna take it like- this- mama? Ohhh, it just makes me wanna…”
Trailing off, Sukuna’s body is just bulky - oh-so-tall that he can bend and reach down to cup your throat with his one free hand.
Digging five of his fingertips into the side of your throat as he’s holding your neck and squeezing- feeling the cylindrical outline of his cock bulging your poor mouth. Up n’ down, up n’ down- he’s feeling for the precise moments his plump cockhead lodges at the back of your throat.
“Who’d have known the cute lil’ teacher would be such a slut f’me. Cat got yer tongue, girl, orrrr—s’it just my dick?” Humming over your clit, he’s adding a fourth finger that swabs at the texture of your gummy walls.
“F-fuck off- ngh-”
“Wha’s that? Try- try and say my name?” Squeezing. Only feeling your ripped, pathetic vibrations. “Can f-feel myself over here.”
With four neatly pushing fingers.
Pulling back with a sluuurp–! Slowly, just so that you whimper that the knobs of his joints, just so that he can thump right on the target of your g-spot and make you cry out in cute bliss. “So s’only fair that I’m over here, pretty girl.”
“Yes- yes yes yes—” Words bubble out and slur out of your maw, in unison with such sloshing spurts of saliva.
You’re drooling everywhere - from both pairs of lips. Your mouth over Sukuna’s hard, vein-covered erection, glazing his puffy lines of veins with sap. And your pussy slide-slide-sliiiiding down the gaping area of his mouth, wide open and eagerly lapping up each sloppy drag of your hips.
Faster.
And now that Sukuna had actually found your most favorite spot, he couldn’t fucking stop.
Not when each whack at that same exact spot makes you splash your sweetened slick all down his throat, not when you were clenching your walls and cryin’ out at the frigid brush of his thick rings.
Again and again, he’s probin’ his crowned fingertips to push against the insides of your pussy, “Don’t think m’gonna last ngh-”
“Yeah-” And that’s not to say his tongue was letting you off easy, either- simply aching with the feverish state of his movements. But it hurt Sukuna more any moment he wasn’t snogging your glossy cunt, n’ so he’s slapping your clit with a wet one-two. Spank after spank to make your hips jerk back and forth, “Whaddaya want? To cum? S’that it?”
Blubbering over the taste of his slick, sensitive slit, “Yes- yes, please- m’so fucking close.”
“Not. You.” Each word ended with two swats on your simmering pussy, you’re webbing his chin all down with syrupy sap.
Moving off from your throat with a final squeeze, a bicep tightening ‘round your hips to squeeze you in place. “Not you- but you, pretty girl.” Slickly gliding back and forth all over your pried-open cunt, all over the quivering rim of your hole. Everywhere and anywhere. “Why don’tcha talk louder?”
And it’s not just you riding his tongue dry - it’s Sukuna bucking animalistically upwards, too. Pressing the ridges of his washboard abs up against your front, you’re just fountaining out so much sappy slick that it’s running down to the large mouth that he had tattooed across his stomach. As if both his ravenous mouths were gulping up each of your slick puddles.
Crooning at the oversaturated squelch that spills out of you- he’s nodding like he’s never heard a sweeter sentence. Nudging his knuckles to bump against your g-spot, “If you say so—”
You don’t get to find out what he’s hearing - but you’re registering the gist soon enough.
Because by then Sukuna has his ringed index swiping your g-spot, coldly massaging that bundle of nerves. Hard. Sloppy. At the very same second he’s settling the fringes of his canines on your perky clit and streeeetching-
“O-oh my god I’m—” Keening out a whimper, your high runs you over like a rollercoaster. And you’re rocking your boneless body to and fro just as much, thumping your thighs into Sukuna’s sharp jawline.
“Yes-” Clenching around his motions so hard that he has to fight to unstick his digits from the sides of your bubblegum walls, still fucking you through your lecherous high. “Oh, hell yeah, been so good for you, mama- why don’tcha reward me? Use me- hck- use me.”
As if you weren’t thrusting your cunt back into his face in a frenzy already, he’s using the arm holding onto your waist to keep you repeatedly moving.
Tired-out. Fingers tugging into each crevice of your velvety walls. Cheeks aching and hollow where he’s putting such force on your throbbing clit to suck- “Ride my- mmmf-” Talking with his mouth full, “Ride my fuckin’ face raw- wanted to taste y’cumming on my tongue for so long.”
With your spine arched, you’re pulling off of the bulged tip of his cock just as he’s spewing out a slimy ribbon of ivory white. Just a single drivel of cum- just from the way you’re cumming.
“God- god fucking dammit.” Sukuna spits, right into your cunt. And he barely even takes his eyes off of your slobbering pussy to snake a free hand down and plug his geysering orifice with his thumb.
Stopping himself promptly from cumming if it isn’t anywhere near your pussy.
But that didn’t mean he was letting you get away.
Oh, no- he’s still pulling you back with inclines of his head like a man addicted. Thoroughly drunk on the heady globs of slick that travelled between your legs, pushing and pushing himself upwards to glue his glossed lips all over your cunt.
You can feel yourself squealing with each lap of his scratchy tongue- the primal overstimulation too much that great droplets of tears take over your eyes.
“O-oh– fuck- m’so sensitive, Sukuna.” You’re arching your back away- “I don’t know if I- oh!” Only to get pulled back down. Toes curling when this only spurs him to dive himself even deeper, flopping out the flexible end of his tongue to try n’ flit past your squeezing hole.
Drawling, “Remember those fuckin’ sugar cookies? You taste- hah- even fucking better.”
Sniffling, your spine zings with a few more zaps of electricity as he’s starting to caress your sweetened g-spot once more.
And the only thing you can do is try and pathetically pry his firmly-planted palm from his lengthy shaft, trying for the life of you to just get another taste-
“Oh. Oh.” Sukuna gasps from behind, pink brows raising. “I see what you’re doing, pretty girl. H-heh…hungry for more, are you?”
He didn’t need any further answer - because the way you’re cutely clenching to glaze his scouring digits tells him more than enough.
And before you know it, you’re finding yourself pulled off of his long, aching cock like some glorified ragdoll. Sukuna was just so large - in every sense of the word - that he could manhandle you with only one arm.
Clinging onto the side of your waist as he’s sitting up, he makes you straddle the twitchy length of his cock. And now that you were seated upon his lap- oh, could you admire him.
Ryomen Sukuna was a fucking masterpiece.
From the bands of tattoos circling his biceps, his wrists, straight down to the plush of his sculptured thighs. “Like what you see?” He tilts his head cockily down at you, slouching sexily back on your wooden headboard to let you take in all of his tensed core.
Glistening pecs all temptingly large, abs ripped.
“M’gonna get those pretty haaah- fucking initials of yours tatted.” He’s tapping the prominent side of his left v-line with a polished finger, “Right here.”
Climbing further upon his lap, you rest your ass cheeks back against his swaying cock, bobbing so hard n’ proud between your sheeny thighs. Pouting, “Only if you fuck me, Kuna— ngh-”
“Kuna? Tch- you see that lil’ tattoo here, mama?” He sounded as if he was shattering, and he’s leaning back so that you can take a goood, long look at the circular tattoo on his base. Nuzzled by the tufts of his pinkish happy trail, and his tender underside - but it was still there.
Like a target. And Sukuna’s thinking the exact same thing, “You’re gonna take it riiiight- till- here-” Lodging the swollen end of his shaft to plug your hole, it’s such a tiiight fit as he starts bullying inside. “Until- hah-” Feeling a hand down your tummy, your womb. “-here.”
He was going to fit himself until your pretty pussy won’t be able to forget him.
And it takes only seconds for you to be clawing onto his tattooed deltoids for dear life, feeling the inner parts of your thighs slip n’ slide down his own with perspiration. You scramble with the stringy, slightly-torn fabric of your panties still on- “Kuna- Su–Kuna, this-”
“Nah, let it stay.” Snickering, he claws onto the top of your scalp. “You have much…heh- bigger ngh- problems ta worry about, pretty girl.”
Bigger - his prolonged shaft was simply ravaging your walls. Plumply ballooned-up enough that his veiny layer rubs your sweetest spots without even meaning to, and you’re just seeing stars with every inch deeper his mazing cock spears through. “Fuck- fuck, it really is big-”
“Mhm– and you’re going- to take- it all.” Times like this he’s wishing he had just about four fucking hands. Because one’s pushing down, down, down on the lolling top of your head, the other’s pushin’ your trembling thighs apart just so you could straddle his meaty hips. “All hah- say my name. Say my name while you take it-”
And he always did love the way you said his name.
The way you’re letting free a few bubbly spurts of saliva as you’re babbling away–”Sukuna- Su-” Throat clogging up with so many sobs of utter bliss, “Kuna—”
“Again with the ‘Kuna’- s’not my name, silly girl.” Even though each sound of that slurring nickname makes him twitch against your deepest insides.
But you can’t even hear him properly, eardrums distantly popped until the only thing you can feel is the thump! of your heartbeat between your legs. And the way that his reddened, slick-glazed tip was thrashing your tight insides, “Kuna- ngh, please, Kuna. Wan’ it a-all hck! Inside.”
The swabbing girth of his cock was so fat that he has you stupid with just his size, biceps bulging as he’s pressurizing down on your head. “God-” And you can only blink pathetically once he’s bringing up his free hand to your blurry line of sight. Hissing, “Bite down-” Lips smirking as you plant a kittenish bite, he fucks up into you once to make your force increase. “Bite down harder and take it.”
He wasn’t wasting any time - he didn’t have the fucking patience.
He barely even had the sanity to tease you and edge you for hours on end like he’d always wanted to. Instead fucking up into you like a damn animal- he’s swatting your cunt with the edge of his throbbing cock. Spitting through clenched teeth, “O-oh, if yer gonna ask for all of it then m’not playin’ around, ma.”
You sink your teeth in and nearly scream into the flesh of his forearm, gnawing down right at his tattoo. “Mmmpf- big- nghh–” Unable to fucking take it, the only thing you can do is arch your hips deeper and let his pummeling rams spike your poor insides.
Hitting the very back of your cervix with a wet thwack! that makes your eyes damn near bulge out of your head.
He…bottomed-out.
“Lemme check now…” Taking a single peek at the way his hilt was all covered up by your bloated folds until he couldn’t see that tattoo anymore. “S’all in.”
And the towering man wasn’t celebrating once he did - he was pumping all his fleshy inches into you like he’d gone feral.
Eyes dazed and hooded, mouth frothing with a line of silver drool - Sukuna grunts after each singular gliiiide of his watery orifice drawing down the bottom of your pussy. Sloppy. “F-fucking hell, never felt like this- what the…”
“Are you okay- oh god nghh–”
“M’fuckin’ more than okay.” Spitting out crassly, Sukuna swerves his hips off of the rickety bedsprings to drag his cock harder down your cunt. And it just felt so delicious to have his swollen veins stir up your walls, “S’just— who let you feel this good?”
Your honeyed cunt has made him way too pussydrunk that now he’s tattling out everything from his melty mind. And you can only whine– “Heh-” One hand grazing his scorched ear, “You’re blushing, Kuna- better not be ngh- tapping out on me.”
“Tapping out?” Punctuated by a hard spank against the door to your womb - exactly where he said he would be - and then a harder one against your mapped-out g-spot. “Me? Me tappin’ out?”
Blinking through the splotchy whites sparking in your vision, “Y-yeah- fuck!”
SPANK!
Oh-so-hard, he’s swatting your pussy with enough stinging force that it makes glittering drops of slick splash across his slamming palm. “You n’ this smartass pussy are gonna see.” He’s gritting through dangerously grinning teeth, “There’s a fuckin’ reason I’m Ryomen fucking Sukuna.”
Because he’s rude - and he fucks even ruder.
Pounding away upwards into you like he doesn’t care if he’s bruising great purple bruises at the bottom of your cervix. The mattress creaks in fervent protest after each gyration of his hips, “P-please-” The only thing you’re mewling out like a broken record, “I-it just feels so…”
Trailing off, your movements are sluggish as your hand starts to slither down between your rutting legs. Yearning to just touch your neglected clit-
SPANK!
“Oi- and who’d ya think you are to touch- hngh- my pretty girl?” He’s grinning, manhandling you in an instant. Before your candied brain can catch up, Sukuna has both your arms pinned behind your back, chin hitting his cushy pecs. “I’ll touch her when I feel like it-”
Such a fucking tease, at the constant timing of his slimy mushroom tip spearing your cunt like a headlight- Sukuna lifts off one of his hands downwards.
Replacing your own with his roughened fingers, he pinches your poor clit—“Sh-shit m’so sensitive there- keep going, Kuna–”
And at this point you weren’t just drooling you were sheening the entirety of his smooth pectorals with a shiny polish. Letting it smear down the side of your cheek as you drunkenly lean on them like pillows, “Chehhh-” He’s spitting out, staring down at the glistening glaze dripping down to his bumpy abs. “Tha’s supposed to stay inside, pretty girl.”
“I-inside?” Dazedly, the only thing you can think of were your rummaging insides, the way that Sukuna was fucking you like he hated you.
But it was the complete opposite. And he’s draggin’ on your clit, giggling to himself like he’s in love as he watches you huff n’ puff. “God you love it like this- c’mon, ngh- teach, milk this fucking cock- why don’t ya?”
“I-I am-”
SPANK!
“Harder, mama, make me feel it.”
With a right spank to emphasize his sentence, he’s jostling his hips upwards so you’re left throwing your head back at the full, stretching impact. Unable to even handle the slightly spring recoil that comes with striking your cervix, he’s bouncing you on his pelvis.
“S’this what you thought about every- hah- time you saw me?” Taking hold of your neck for a brief moment, he’s spitting doooown your throat. “Wantin’ me to fuck this- ngh- pussy raw?”
And the locked restraint on your neck helps bend you into the perfect geometrical curvature to stare up at him as he collapses forwards. Hot breath wafting your features, you whimper- “Y-yes.”
“Not you.”
“Kuna.”
“I’ve been dreamin’ of this for aaages now-” His clammy forehead crinkles as he’s scratching down your clit with the rough texture of his happy trail. Leaving it all stinging n’ raw to make sure the impact is extra sensual as Sukuna rubs over a slooow ‘K’ right on top.
Rutting into your poor cunt so hard that the skin surrounding his v-line was all reddened- and he can’t help but take one look and moan. “M’getting that tattooed.” Watching as his mean, curvaceous cock molded your walls constantly to him. “Oh- trust when I say-”
And then a ‘U’
“Fuh-fuuuuck, please-” It almost feels like you’re begging for your damn life by now, lungs ripping with moans every time he’s thumping up. You ride your hips in a sexy figure-eight and feel the way Sukuna’s thumb trembles on your clit.
A wobbly ‘N’
And you already knew what was headed next- oh, you were already prepared.
But what you weren’t ready for was the completely vicious way that he’s accelerating his papping hips, so fast that the dark tattoo nuzzling your entrance was almost a blur. Thump after thump-
You’re falling over until that symbolic inking of a widely-opened maw on his stomach licks up your core. Body twitching with white hot flashes of something electric running through your veins, “F-fuck- fuck, s’not gonna last-”
“S’that soooo—?” Sukuna asks down at your pussy to confirm, and only after a few ‘uh-huh’’s does he bore into your stupidly heart-shaped eyes. Tongue lolling straight out for him to lap up into his own mouth, “She says you’re close-”
A firm ‘A’
Another SPANK!
“-and I say you’re cumming already.”
“Wh-what…”
He’s ending off with a perfect heart shape rolled over your clit. What’s that spell- he’s asking mentally.
Only for you to mewl wantonly as if you’d just heard. “Kuna- Sukuna- Yes- yes m’cumming m’cumming—”
It’s like you’re enveloped in a tidal wave - you didn’t know where your orgasm started and where it ended. Just that Sukuna’s moans break into something octaves higher as he fucks you through your bliss.
You claw down the expanse of his flexing back with each burst of pre splattering your gooey insides. Toes curled, eyes all teary. “I-it’s so- hck! Feels too good…”
Turning you into absolute mush every time he pumps his thorough inches into you- and the mean fingers on your nub just tug n’ tug.
And it’s only after a few more of your shrilling whines that you’re still feeling the hot entrance of his shaft plummeting through, your walls squeezing ‘round his flared tip. “I want you to cum, too, Sukuna.”
“F-fuck.” He lets out, softly.
Cupping his attractive face, if you thought you were gone then you weren’t ready for the way that Sukuna looked. Cheeks burning hot and red, mouth parted with overspilling drool, brows furrowed into such an expression that it almost makes you feel shy.
Repeating those very same words, you start sloppily swervin’ your hips straight to his. “Cum inside m- ngh, please?”
All this time and his cute lil’ teacher was still minding her p’s and q’s.
So, of course, when you’re asking him that nicely- it’s the least he could do to listen. To let out a final, vulgar stroke that has him spilling over the edge.
In great, piling heaps of ivory cum that puddles at the bottom of your pussy. There’s so much of it that your ears ring with the lecherous sluuurp–! as your cunt walls suck up every last steaming drop.
You can feel it trailing down the insides of your thighs like a waterfall and keen, “Just like that, f-fuck…” Almost like you’re hypnotized, you drag one of his much-larger hands to palm the outside of your tummy. “Can feel it all the way here.”
“O-oh my god…” He’s groaning, eyes drifting off to the back of his head as soon as you’re meeting his tempo. Slamming down to rob his aching balls, milking him all dry - you were overspilling and it still wasn’t enough. “Y’really are a dream.”
And there’s something about the way he’s sluggishly brushing away a stray bead of perspiration from your temple. Something about that lazy, half-lidded look in his eyes, the complete n’ utter reverence in his tone as he asks- “So…s’your type ‘dangerous’, mama?”
Almost…shy.
Oh, it hits you. He’s pussydrunk.
You’d made big, bad Ryomen Sukuna completely and utterly pussydrunk.
To the point where his studded ears flare a deep crimson once you giggle, “Mmm- pretend dangerous, Kuna.” His eyes shine. You think back to that night at the Itadori household, “And I also remember something about quadruplets?”
It’s then that Sukuna whimpers.
Not even pulling out. Not even considering such an impossible feat for even a split-second before he rolls your weakened body over.
Hovering over you now, it’s so easy for his beefy arms to tug your legs over his shoulders. Still shaking. Still suffering from the aftermath of your orgasm as he’s holding them tight and bending down, down, dooooown.
Straight into a mating press.
Oh, your breath catches.
“Before I pound you until you can’t haaah- walk, mama-” Uncharacteristically, Sukuna gulps as he shifts his crimson eyes away from you. “-m’I giving you quadruplets that’ll have my last name?”
Now that was a round-about way to ask someone out- and he knows it, too.
But it only makes you shuffle up onto your elbows on the now-ruined sheets, sticking to you like glue. You place a lingering peck on Sukuna’s wobbly, overstimulated lips, “Mm- I love you, too, Kuna.”
Oh, how he loves you. He almost cums right then and there.
Fuck.
He does.
.
.
.
“You.”
“You.” Yuji narrows his eyes down at the sight of Ryomen Sukuna towering over the busy preschool pick-up. Trying to look over his broad shoulders for any sign of his father, “Huh? But dadda said he was coming to pick me up today?”
Sukuna gingerly scratches the back of his head, “Yeah, well…listen, twerp- I mean, kid. There’s something I need to-”
Only to be cut off by a dramatic gasp—“Oh no- Did dadda go to jail just like you-”
“No,”
“Did he drive fast-”
“No.”
“Did he drink-”
“No-”
“Did he slash tires-”
“Maybe once?”
And fuck- he really didn’t understand tiny children, because explain to him why the pink-haired boy starts bawling in his arms. Pitiful enough to draw the glares of parents wrenching their own children away from the perpetrator, loud enough to draw the sweet concern of you.
Walking from your station saying goodbye to one other student, “Yuji what- oh!” You’re pressing your lips together to contain your smile as you happen to see who was throwing Yuji on his shoulders to soothe him. Bouncing him lightly until he smiled- and you did, too. “I didn’t expect you so early today, Kuna.”
“Yeah, well.” He’s using Yuji’s palms to cover the pinkish ends of his blushing ears, “Decided I wanted to see ya off from work today.”
Now past grief and straight into utter nosiness- “Wait- what do you mean ‘see off’.” He gasps, “Is she going to ja-”
“Brat-”
“What your uncle means to say, Yuji-” Playfully pinching his chubby cheeks, you try to ignore the gawking stares of every other one of your remaining students as you promptly turn to face Sukuna. Giving him a sweet, sweet peck on his. “-is that you’ll be seeing a lot more of me around.”
Another gasp - well, multiple.
One from Itadori Yuji, who gapes, open-mouthed between you and his uncle - as if wondering how he ever managed to bag you, and wait does that mean you’re his auntie now?
About twenty from your crowd of students, right along with a few whispers.
“Hey, isn’t that weird Mr. Mugshot?”
“So that’s why Mr. Mugshot was always red- eugh! In my momma’s dramas they don’t get together, they just die.”
Fushiguro frowns, “I would rather die than watch him like this. Gross.”
“Caviar.”
Walking up from the group, Fushiguro tugs on your skirt. Innocently - but Sukuna could feel the evil intent. He just knew that boy was a villain. “Inumaki asks whether you mind that he sets fires, miss.”
What the fuck is with the fires-
And then finally - three distinct, unfortunately familiar gasps that make Sukuna dread turning around. Struggling against it, even as his nephew tugs on his locks of pink hair with a delighted squeal- “Dadda–! Bubba–! Gramps-”
You smile, watching Choso take flustered pictures of his uncle. “How the hell did you even win her over? All of these are going in the blackmail folder. Maybe your wedding presentation too.”
Sukuna bites back a shy blush- turning it into a scowl, “Maybe…”
“Well, I’ll be.” Wasuke nods his head in approval, “All thanks to the ah- ‘wingmanning’ as the kids say. I’ll be expecting at least three grandchildren in the future, sonny. And when I say ‘future’ I mean in nine months-”
“Dad! It’s too early for that.” Jin, ever-the-voice-of-reason, gives you a breezy handshake. “Congratulations- by the way.” And it’s all soft. It’s all sweet- that is, until you’re trying to pull your hand back and he only tightens his grip. Smile still tightly in place, “I will be the kids’ godfather, by the way.”
Settling an arm around you now, You and Sukuna don’t know whether to laugh or stand in shocked silence as Jin finally sets you free - but you don’t have to make the choice.
Because the annoying, grating voice of Todo Aoi breaks through—“Noooooo– my bride!”
Synopsis. Five times Gojo Satoru - the hottest k-pop idol right now - gets exposed for wanting you, his pretty, totally-not-girlfriend best friend. And the one time he gives them headlines to talk about.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, idol!Gojo, k-pop idol au, 5 + 1 things, best-friends-to-Iovers, PINING, dispatch, fandom shenanigans, lie detector tests, variety shows, ISAC, he’s SO down bad, matíng presses, oraI (fem. rec.), spítting, chokíng, p sIapping, Gojo’s tongue píercing, PÚSSYDRÚNK Gojo, manhandIing, semi-public, he’s BIG, tummy buIges, D slipping, running from it, bIindfolds, talking you through it, first times (Gojo’s), creampíes, cúmplay, getting together, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 11.8k
A/N. Guess who’s back from the beach-each and watched Kpop Demon Hunters-
“And here we have the goddess, the myth, the-”
It would take quite the feat to leave Gojo Satoru - self-proclaimed king of idols (debatable), world-class chatterbox (not debatable) - of all people gaping soundlessly at his screen.
For a second. Two. Three- before he’s sputtering at the blur of incoming comments, “O-oi! Don’t you lil’ perverts think you can get away with flirting with my best friend.” Arms crossed, he nods seriously at his fanbase, “Even I don’t get away with flirting with my be-”
“Satoru, they’re about to cut the cameras.”
“A joke. Obviously.” Smooth. Ever-so-smooth, Gojo’s flashing a winning smile at his stern-faced manager behind the tripod.
It was hard enough to convince Yaga into letting you join his livestream, but as a near-veteran in the entertainment industry, Gojo knew how to handle a little slip-up like this. He’s got this- “Because I am definitely not in love with my best friend, and am definitely not held hostage to say this.”
“...”
“A…a joke?”
In mild concern, the two of you can only watch as stoic, composed Yaga lets out what sounded like a strangled sob. Before whispering to another PR manager on-site, “Write a company statement.”
“Oi-” Gojo pipes up, “Why would you need a company statement when I’m perfectly- user Fushidaddy type another pick-up line and I’m blocking you.”
The dark-haired man chokes through almost tears, “Just start writing already.”
You try to smooth things over from your seat right beside your best friend, this was not what you’d anticipated after Gojo had practically begged on his knees asking for you to join him in one of his Bubble lives. Then again, what else could you expect from anything to do with him? “Ah, it’s alright. I don’t mind-”
“I do.”
Snowy brows furrowed, he’s leaning in closer to the camera to take in every traitorous word-
satorusxkitten: okay but guys think ab it!! he’s rlly talented but no actor so it’s okay if he’s ass at pretending to not be a simp!! can u blame him??
“Blocked.”
P1BANG: took a shot every time he stares at her thinking he’s slick now I’m at the hospital (this live started 3 minutes ago)
“Blocked.”
Fushidaddy: Pretty girl, blink twice if you’re being held hostage x.
“Blocked and reported what the-” Gojo frowns glancing over at you from the corner of his eyes, (thinking he’s slick, thank you very much). Before catching the way you lean in dramatically to flutter your eyes- “Don’t you dare blink.”
As you’re bursting into ribbing laughter, so are the sheer amount of comments asking about you- and he can’t help but entertain the sneaking suspicion that his own viewers were here simply because of you.
At least, that’s why he would’ve kept watching.
Fushidaddy2: Put us out of this pining misery or end the live, kid.
“I thought I blocked you.”
“Okay then.” You clap your hands once to gain the room’s attention, slightly worried about the blood vessel about to burst near Yaga’s temple. “Satoru, I think you brought me here to do a Q n’ A, right?”
“Well yes…” Gojo’s grumbling underneath his breath - that was the initial plan, to finally introduce one of the most precious parts of him to the fandom.
He just didn’t account for the possibility that everyone on the livestream would fall in love with you - when that was clearly supposed to be his job! “Alright- ask away, and no funny business. I’m looking at you, user Fushidaddy.”
sugu-rizzed: Are you single?
“How dare you-”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” You’re nudging the towering man right next to you, subtly moving his hand off of that treacherous block button. “Lighten up, Satoru—”
“Yes, ma’am. Correct, ma’am.”
What a sight it was.
Honestly, you’re sure you hear at least several management staff gasp at just how easily you’d shut up their arguable star. Being the center of one of the fastest bands to sky-rocket into the k-pop world hadn’t made it any easier for an agent to pose authority over Gojo Satoru - Yaga was barely hanging on by a thread and he submitted at least a few resignation letters every week.
Once the on-set whispers break out, you’re squirming in your seat. Rattling off yet another question-
ge.akuge: what do you think about the allegations of him wearing wigs?
“Well-”
“Blocked.”
KunaLuvrr: does he wear wigs?
stanjutsu: will he wear wigs?
Fushidaddy3: Y’know I don’t wear wigs, baby, x.
“I-”
“You- blocked.”
haibarabias: Did u know he was yapping about you non-stop on the last live?
You’re blinking in slight surprise, turning to Gojo - who’d now stuffed himself into his oversized designer hoodie until you could only make out the tips of his ears. His bright, burning red ears. “Really?” Turning to the feverishly nodding staff at his silence, “Really?”
One of the fresh-faced interns in charge of lighting tries to hold back a squeal, “Y-yeah! We tried to keep a tally of your name to edit on-screen but it went into…the triple…digits- eep!”
“E-hem.” Gojo cuts the newbie off with a slight glare, snitches. The whole lot. “I was just talking to them about what a boor you are and to be prepared-”
realistic.one: liar, you were giggling and kicking your feet the whole time-
“-which you would have known if you actually watched me.” Finishing off with relish, he’s mockingly glowering down at you. The perfect vision of a neglected best friend - if it wasn’t for the way that he was flushed all the way from his cheeks to the back of his neck, that is.
And then your fingerpads reach out to pat the silky crown of his bangs, soothingly. “I do watch you, Toru. I must have missed that stream, sorry about that.”
He melts. And there’s tens of thousands to watch him.
“Y-yeah?” Gojo’s briefly snapping a scowl at the screen, already knowing that this particular clip of his voice breaking would be making rounds on the internet tomorrow. Crossing his arms with a huff, he acts like he isn’t nuzzling his head even closer for you to caress, “Tch, you make a shitty best friend, my star.”
Somewhere across the room, Yaga puts his head in his hands and sighs.
sugu-rizzed: My star?? Guys is he…
CandyKento: that moment when you highkey ship them but realize bro has no game
sunflowerboy: Gojo-san fighting!!
Fushidaddy7: I could treat you better, girl x.
torutoaster: wonder what her type is from our boys^^
It’s as if the room itself had hiked a few degrees in temperature, and you’re darting your eyes away from Gojo’s burning ones. From the staff that was snickering behind their hands, giving you knowing looks.
Instead, choosing to distract yourself by answering that last question– “Hmm, my ideal type from Six Eyes, huh?”
“Hah- what a silly little question.” Your best friend cocks his head with a smirk, “Why- tell ‘em, my star. Who else has the visuals? The dance moves? The charisma? Of course, it’s-”
“Suguru.” You smile innocently, whilst the flashy idol next to you crumbles. “He’s such a sweetheart.”
returnofP1BANG: five more shots for that wet cat look he gave her
Fushidaddy9: Ouch (lol).
sugu-rizzed: F in the chat
CandyKento: f
sunflowerboy: F
Fushidaddy10: F
ge.akuge: F
“Tch- childish.” Gojo scoffs at the wave of that same letter flooding his comment section, he’s counting about twenty…before typing his own ‘F’ in there.
Immediately reinvigorated, he’s stabbing a determined finger in the air. “But- but I have something that none of y’all and that stinky Suguru doesn’t have-” And it takes every ounce of will, every shred of shamelessness in his body to wrap two strong arms around you and crash you to his broad chest. Emulating all those hours he’s spent watching k-dramas with you, Gojo’s barking out. “-she’s mine!”
Fushidaddy14: Yeah. Your best friend. LMAO.
“Blocked-”
Masamichi Yaga handed in yet another resignation letter that very same night.
Which was likely why the livestream didn’t last too long after that little catastrophe- and it’s about a few hours later once you’d safely made it home with excuses of work the next day, and Gojo was lying wide awake on his phone, that it happens.
It is sent to him, by none other than Geto - the most unthinkable, unspeakable link to a fan-made YouTube video aptly titled ‘100 Gojo Satorus vs. trying not to make a fool of himself in front of his baddie best friend challenge (failed)”
Edited and clipping every single moment he’d completely n’ utterly destroyed his cool idol façade during the brief live. Every (fine, not-so-slick) glance your way, every blush, every voice crack.
Fuck.
In two seconds he’s sending Geto a paragraph of middle finger emojis, and in one he’s slowly downloading the video…for research purposes.
.
.
.
As a celebrity hair stylist, Miwa Kasumi had never felt that she wasn’t paid enough - after all, nearly unlimited contact with her favorite idols and she gets to see her work come to life on stage? What could go wrong?
Well…she’s feeling her weary eyelid twitch just about the twelfth time she hears the same repeated meme audio blaring from Gojo Satoru’s phone.
Headphone-less. On full volume.
All on the set of one of the most important comeback shoots of this year, the much-anticipated music video for their single ‘Blue.’ Penned by none other than the giggling idiot that was her client.
And it was only considering all her years of professionalism that she didn’t whack the phone out of his hands the way she’s been dying to for the past hour. “Gojo-san, you are quite the fan of that video, hm?”
Subtle cues- subtle cues!
But Gojo was never one for subtle cues, as she has the misfortune of learning. And he only blinks up from his padded seat in front of her, “Huh? Oh yes-” In fact, increasing the volume of the dramatically edited fan video - one of those crack compilations she had the guilty pleasure of watching before bed sometimes.
But Gojo didn’t seem to be watching for the laughs, his twinkling sapphire eyes were only locked on one thing on-screen - you.
Sighing at a short clip of you from the livestream a few days ago, grimacing at one of his bragging monologues. Giggling, he zooms in on you- “Isn’t she gorgeous–?”
“O-oh!” Now, introductions and love for artistry might be two of the main perks of working in such close proximity to idols - but who could forget the gossip. Immediately perking up, she’s setting down one of the curlers and working on fluffing up Gojo’s ethereal white hair for the camera. “Girlfriend, Gojo-san?”
“Not at all.” Dreamily, he’s taking a blatant screenshot of the zoomed-in visual of your face. A man in heaven. “Not. At. All.”
Huh? Maybe all celebrities were just eccentric. What was that one saying about never meeting your heroes?
Well, it seems that the universe decided that Miwa hadn’t learned enough of her lesson just yet- which is why she’s startled by the swoosh–! of curtains being drawn back in the dressing room, and the heavy footsteps of none other than Gojo’s bandmates.
Who could mistake them?
Geto Suguru, long inky hair tied back, slow strides almost predatory, is the first to reach the two - one of them shivering in rapt excitement, the other glued to his phone. “Oi- Satoru, they want you for your solo shot.”
Gojo grunts noncommittally, hands gripping his phone. “Hm-”
Irritation gripping the other’s tone, his best friend taps his feet. “Satoru.”
“Mm.”
“Satoru.”
“…”
“You little-”
It’s a damn miracle that the thin glass of Gojo’s phone screen doesn’t crack with how swiftly Geto’s snatching it from the other’s hands. Only to get a glimpse of the screen and have his mouth drop.
“Satoru…”
“…Suguru.”
Pierced brows furrowing, Adam’s apple bobbing with a guffaw at the blatant screenshot of you displayed. Clearly taken from that one compilation video that he had sent the link to a few days ago. Their center gulps. “Satoru, what…the…f-”
“Gojo-san! Gojo-san–!”
The youngest - Haibara’s - sweet, sing-song voice dips through the tense dressing room as he stumbles in - all sunny smiles and the cutest bowl cut. Followed excruciatingly closely by a cameraman recording behind-the-scenes content, “Kento and I are done, so Director Shoko wants you on set now or she said she’ll do some violent things that can’t be said on camera~”
“Of course, of course– you should go, you strange little lecher- I mean, Satoru.” Geto waves the other over, “C’mere Yu, let your elder show you a little something.”
Gojo blanches, “No-”
“Oh? What is it–?”
Gripping onto Geto’s jacket, “No.”
Careful of the rolling camera, he’s mercilessly sidling up to the other and flashing the latest addition to Gojo’s photo album - that soft, slightly blurry screenshot of you. Simply smiling. “Oh.”
“‘Oh’ is right.” Geto’s smizing out such a cat-like grin at the camera- this was sure to have the internet talking. Maybe even screaming. And as the staff with the lens steps closer in curiosity, he’s swiftly covering the screen, “Let’s just say our Satoru is ah- quite the fan of our cute little fans’ creations.”
Haibara titters, “Enough that it’s filling up his phone storage-” Catching Gojo’s groan, ready to jump out of his seat- “Ah, my apologies, Gojo-san~”
Geto nods, “No no, he’s right.”
“He’s not.”
“I am?”
“And remember, kids—” The pierced man calls out, finger hovering over the glaring screen of the phone.
Gojo gasps- “No-” Realizing. Shooting to his feet. “No no no-”
Registering the way his other best friend was giving particular attention to that bright, burning DELETE button. “-always help your friends in need.”
The scream that Gojo Satoru, most polished idol of the 21st century, lets off is devastated.
Enough that the cameraman - watching each interaction like a hawk - jumps, enough that even ruthless Geto Suguru himself feels a semblance of slight regret. Almost turning his thumb over to click on the recycle bin before Gojo can cry himself hoarse- until he’s scrolling just an inch - an inch - along the full camera roll and finding…more…screenshots?
About 75,328 in his album, to be exact. Of you.
He looks at Gojo Satoru - knees cradled in such a pitiful fetal position on the floor, whimpering at the loss of his prized screenshot. And he looks at the 75,328 screenshots. He looks back at Gojo. Then at the screenshots, all 75,328.
Then back at Gojo.
And Geto doesn’t even feel bad about the good kick he’s planting on the other’s back, “Get out.”
If the dressing room was a hellhole made to ruin Gojo’s life - Geto being the devil incarnate, of course - then being on set wasn’t any better.
The long lens of Shoko’s famed camera stares him down like it knew exactly how he was acting minutes prior, and any false façade of coolness would easily break through.
“Ugh…” Shoko’s crinkling her nose in slight distaste at the footage playing on her screen, motioning for the rest of the crew to start putting each prop back in place for a reshoot.
Make-up airy, white bandages haphazardly falling from his eyes, surrounded by sparkling ivory decorations of stars; it was supposed to be something on theme with the song, something romantic, something that didn’t make her want to hack up her coffee in a bad way.
But she could feel her stomach churning already. Leveling a glare at Gojo that’s enough to make the much-taller man flinch- “You- if you can’t do the sparkly idol thing, just try looking at the camera and smiling. It’s all we need for the solo shot today.” Tapping her camera, “Look at the lens like you’d look at a lover.”
Voice octaves higher, “A-a lover?”
His dignity was scarred!
“You got this, Gojo-san! Twentieth try’s the charm–!” Haibara’s voice echoes. “Ah- or was this the thirtieth…somewhere along the line I lost count.”
“Thirty-seventh.” Nanami helpfully supplies.
His reputation as a reliable elder ruined!
“Satoru, good luck! Geto called me- I don’t know why but um, good luck!”
He didn’t call himself the king of idols for nothing!
In a split-second, Gojo perks at the slightly-metallic sound of your voice through the other end of the line. Breath hitched, flashing irises widened- it doesn’t take him even a nanosecond to snap his head towards where Geto was holding his phone up for the sound to project.
Your name flashing on the caller ID, Geto’s smile priggish at the reaction wrenched out of his best friend.
And Gojo can’t help but let the mere sound of your voice make him smile—
“There we go- that’s the shot! That’s the shot.”
The music video is edited and uploaded only a few weeks later, that behind-the-scenes following hastily afterwards.
It was a hit, of course, as every management and billboard had already predicted it would be. But what was unpredictable were the eagle-eyed comments-
SIX EYES - ‘BLUE’ MV
torutoaster: KYAAA THEY REALLY FED US LOOK AT HOW OUR TORU AND SUGU LOOOKKK
ryomichael: not even a satoru bias but…wow…his visuals…the way he looked at the camera made my heart just go…wow
zbstan: stream this song (and esp Gojo’s bridge) for clear skin guys!!
SIX EYES - ‘BLUE’ MV Behind [All]
getosuggs: Geto and Haibara giggling at Gojo’s phone screen…wonder what they were looking at…
torutoaster: wonder why the filming of toru’s solo shot was muted?? strange but as long as we get more content of my bias oh well^^
sugu-rizzed: @torutoaster I think because they were on a call? Oooo imagine if it was Gojo’s best friend from the livestream…
mahitoe: @sugu-rizzed smh delulu shippers
zbstan: @mahitoe STFU look at that caller ID ik they tried to blur it but like there was an anonymous hair stylist on set who said it was so GUYS IT COULD BE-
Fushidaddy17: I would’ve had no problem looking cool for her aha x.
.
.
.
“Takada-chan! Takada-ch-AAAAAAN–!”
Honestly, what a woman to be able to smile politely in the face of a big, beefy high schooler ripping his shirt off from the stands of the stadium. The Idol Star Athletics Championships were always quite rambunctious considering the star-studded players, especially this year.
All lined up in their groups, donning flashy colored tracksuits.
And as the boy starts crying, Geto winces–looking back at their own section of fans invited to attend the annual celebrity sports tournament. Some squealing at the feeling of Geto’s stare, some waving banners hysterically - but thank goodness that none were as bad as-
“MY STAAAAR–!”
Geto takes that back very quickly.
Deadpan, exhausted- the leader of Six Eyes is turning to stare down their infamous center, the exact one who’d been hogging every headline for the past few weeks for his exact antics with you. “Satoru…what are you doing?”
Ignoring him for your figure seated at the very front row–“MY STAR, YOU BETTER CHEER FOR ME.” You pretend not to hear him as he waves frantically, and Geto reaches over to tug Gojo back in line. “Oi- OIII, DON’T LOOK AT NANAMI LOOK AT ME!”
On second thought, he backs away into another group’s line.
You weren’t the only one looking at him now- so were the announcers. Seasoned entertainers who’ve probably never seen a scene in all their years, “Aaaand over in this row we have Six Eyes. Their center - that Gojo boy - seems to be a little preoccupied, no?”
“With the girl? Oh, when is he not? Have you seen the clips from that livestream?”
“Ahh–you know my wife showed me and-” Seemingly catching the eye of whatever higher-up, or maybe the way that Yaga was swooning in his bench as if he was about to faint right then and there. “Ehem- anyways, welcome all to this year’s The Idol Star Athletics Championships–!”
It goes off without a hitch.
Well, as much as it could with Gojo Satoru being in attendance.
Which meant having to wrangle him back by the scruff of his neck every time he meandered off to the shrieking stands to ask you to pet his tired head - “for good luck.”
Which meant having him blow kisses to the stands suspiciously near you as he dribbled expertly during the basketball event, their team tied with yet another idol group.
With only a few seconds on the clock, every eye glued to his sprinting figure - breath stilling just as soon as he does near the netted hoop. Gojo had jumped, and pointed straight at your figure—“This one’s for my star.”
Before he swung.
And…
…missed.
But that was all water under the bridge.
It didn’t matter that it was a failure recorded in 4K on hundreds of cameras, it didn’t matter that you’d been the one laughing the most while watching his precious shot completely miss the hoop and bounce sadly on the floor.
It didn’t matter that his ears were still burning red from embarrassment by the last leg of the tournament - the track-and-field events.
Geto had already won the gold medal in archery, Haibara with silver in football, and even woe-is-me Nanami had snagged a silver in fencing.
And this time, this year’s new addition - one of those borrowed item races you’d play in middle school, those ones where he’d have to run to a box and pick out something silly to bring over the finish line - was about to be his turn.
“Ready…”
Gojo’s steadying into position, making sure his back flexed just right so that you’d be able to see from the stands. And if the way that Nanami sighed was anything to go by then it was working, right?
“Set…”
Azure eyes locked on the small wooden box that loomed a few yards in front of him.
“Go!”
It’s a blur- one moment his expensive designer sneakers touch the ground, and the next he’s one of the first idols to run over to the box. Fighting to stick his hand inside, Gojo’s sure he elbows someone’s dolled-up face to grab the first slip of paper he can.
Tugging it out with a grin, the neat typing stares back at him mockingly—‘Someone you love.’
Fuck.
Why did it have to be this one?
The announcer’s booming baritone breaks through- “What’s this? Six Eyes’ Gojo seems to have stalled? What could that paper say?”
“Run!” Geto’s voice calls over the chaos of countless other artists bee-lining towards their own missions, their own ‘item.’ He’s waving at Gojo impatiently, “Run, you fool-”
“Gojo-san, you got this–!”
In a confused hurry, he’s darting a look down at the staff manning the box - some older, dryly deadpan man who merely takes a peek at his slip of paper and gives a thumbs up. And Gojo could have sworn he smirks.
Well.
“Oh- oh, he’s running.” Both hosts gripping onto the edges of their tables, “The legs on that boy- Gojo Satoru is overtaking his peers easily- ah, we promise we’re not biased.”
Yaga and the rest of his overworked PR team would have to forgive Gojo for this later- but his legs are turning towards your direction in an instant, just as they always have. Running. Sprinting.
“Gojo- Gojo! Is it true you two eloped?”
“An insider source is saying that your best friend was present on-set of Blue- any comment?”
“Are you two dating?”
It’s like he’s running through a tunnel where the only thing he can see is you at the end. Announcers’ voices cotton in his mind- “Oh, we think we know where this is going, ladies and gentlemen.” The only voice his popped ears can hear are yours-
“S-Satoru–!” You’re shrieking, nearly as loud as the throng of fans and cameras surrounding you. Clawing down his beefy upper bicep as your best friend leans his long torso over the barrier of the stands and throws you into an easy princess carry, “Are you crazy-”
“Nah, we’re gonna win, my star.” He has his arms steady, jaw clicking - and you can’t help but feel his strength thrum gently in his arms. Those lucky to be near enough for the entire ordeal would later claim to tabloids that they’d never seen Gojo Satoru this serious.
This…responsible when he’s carefully striding with you in his hold - an easy first place running past the finish line.
Stars in his eyes, mouth turned up into a smile that twitched when he gazed down at your own. Wantingly.
But he only hugged you in thanks, and took your half-joking swats with a smile.
They couldn’t quite blatantly show the cameras what Gojo’s little paper had required him to bring, but you got to keep Gojo’s gold medal after the tournament - it was always meant for you, anyway.
And he gets an earful from Yaga, Geto, Haibara (though that was more grumbling about why those last two weren’t the ones carried like a pretty princess instead), and a few articles speculating your relationship, and a Twitter timeline having a complete meltdown over clips of his race.
A video of those particular few seconds with you in his arms racked up a solid few million views in only a few hours since it was posted- but honestly, one million of those views might just be from him alone.
@torutoaster: THE WAYYYY HE CARRIED HER OMG- GOD I SEE WHAT YOU’VE DONE FOR OTHERS-
@CandyKento: did anyone watch the isacs? no but i am soooo curious what gojo’s item was-
@chorusito replying to @CandyKento: no but to bring his ehem ehem- “best friend” it has to be something scandalous right~
@CandyKento replying to @chorusito: right??
@mahitoe replying to @chorusito: lmfao idols can’t date. you guys cant handle anything it was obvs just a friend or something. delulu.
@sugurusshampoobottle replying to @mahitoe: FIGHT ME.
@satorusxkitten: gojo and geto’s arms are so big!! fuck!!
@sugu-rizzed: That staff-member manning the box saw what the paper said oh what I would pay to know…
@fiendingforsixeyes: AHHHH I BET IT WAS SOMETHING OR SMTH HE LOVED IK U GOJO U LOVERBOY
@Fushidaddy33: She would’ve looked better in my arms tbh…
Gojo reports that last account.
.
.
.
“So, who do you think is the cutest from Six Eyes?”
“Me.”
“And who do you think is the best dancer?”
“Me.”
“The most romantic?”
“Ah…” Regular interviews could be tedious - but an interview with a lie detector strapped to you somehow surpassed even the ninth chamber of hell. And Gojo thinks that anyone would shrink under the beady, unwavering gaze of the hostess interrogating- ah, interviewing him right now.
Not a hair out of place, not a lie she wouldn’t be able to catch.
Damn that management for signing him up for one of those lie detection interviews - part of him already felt that this was punishment for rejecting Yaga’s seventh resignation letter since the chaos of the Idol Star Athletics Championships.
And damn Geto for goading him into going first.
The rest of the group watch leisurely from their comfort of a sofa away from the spotlight - thankfully lie detector-less for now - tittering as their bandmate cowers. Gulping through a slightly-wobbly grin, “Me. I’m the most romantic.”
Nodding as the polygraph examiner gives the thumbs up for truth.
“Not quite humble, but quite honest aren’t you, Mister Gojo?”
Gojo’s cracking his neck in his uncomfortable seat, the sooner he can get this over with, the better. Still strapped with leather buckles, “I think you’ll find that I’m very honest about things I truly feel.”
Geto sputters through faux coughs- “Pfft– Liar.”
Nanami looks away- murmuring just loud enough for the microphone to pick up, “Ehem…fibber.”
And Haibara? Haibara merely snaps his fingers in realization- “Aaaah–! I see, they’re calling you a ‘liar’, Gojo-san, because you aren’t honest about your feelings towards-”
“Ah ah!” He tries to make a motion to shut up, but only ends up rocking the chair from side-to-side. And Gojo already knew he was done for the very second he’s catching the hostess’s eyes gleam at this juicy morsel of information.
“Well, I actually did have…” Trailing off, she’s shuffling through her pack of pre-written questions. Painted nails fingering one at the very back that she seemed to have stowed away for when the interviews took a particular turn, she clears her throat. Saying your name-
“Impressively high heart rate.” The examiner drones out, bushy brows raising at what his screen flashed. Just from hearing your name.
As his self-proclaimed friends cackle - those traitors - the hostess shows off her pearly smile, “Mister Gojo, is it true that she’s your best friend?”
Gojo shifts slightly, “Very true.” Truth.
“And she is very beautiful- correct?”
“Very true.” Truth.
“And smart?”
“Very true-” Truth.
“And you’re in love with her?”
“Very tr-” He gasps, “Wait no-”
To which the older lady cocks her head in genuine confusion, “Despite all the shipping- well, it’s all everyone’s been talking about online these days- you’ve never done anything? You don’t have feelings for her, young man?”
“N…no.”
Geto raises his hand in a split-second, almost as if he was some model student in a classroom. “You’re mistaken, my lady, he doesn’t have feelings for her. He has a lot of feelings for her-”
“Suguru!”
The final nail on Gojo’s coffin might just have been the way the polygraph examiner tries - and fails - to keep a largely neutral face. Instead raising his fist in the air, into a blatant thumbs down, next word tinged in amusement. “Lie.”
Gojo fights against the belts tied to his wrist, monitoring his heartbeat, his deception. “It’s faulty, I tell you- faulty. Did you know that polygraphs are actually only 80% accurate and–”
“So you honestly wouldn’t mind if your best friend showed up with a fresh new boyfriend to introduce to you?”
“-I would rather die.”
It’s silence.
Gojo basking in the shock of what he’d just blurted out, everyone else squinting at the overtly clear thumbs up that the examiner was gesturing. A truth. Trying to see whether it would change shape whether they stared hard enough.
Clearing her throat, their seasoned hostess is the first to speak- “Ah- well, that was certainly, um.” Shuffling her cards, she stares at the rest of Six Eyes in bewilderment and they stare in bewilderment right back.
Muttering, “I wish my husband was more like that- anyways.” She leans in close to Gojo, “So if I showed you…” Waving her hand at a few of the tech specialists in charge of the projector behind him, “-this picture with a particular known tattoo artist?”
It wasn’t even a question.
And a damn good thing it wasn’t, because as soon as the screen behind Gojo lights up with a paparazzi shot - one of you, from years and years ago when you were dating that damn tch- asshole Ryomen Sukuna. All bathed in the light of the city at night, pretty hands in his, smile blinding - oh-so-gorgeous that he feels his heart stop.
Literally.
There’s a slight, sharp beeeeep–! that emanates from the lie detector—
Geto stands, “Satoru, what-”
“Gojo-san, are you okay-”
“I know CPR.” Hell, even Nanami was looking on with some degree of concern, “But I wouldn’t do it on you, no offense.”
As the examiner fiddles with his contraption, the hostess is the one to wonder whether she should call over the medical personnel in the studio. Reaching over her lil’ interrogation table to tap Gojo’s pale hand lightly- “U-uh, Mister Gojo-”
Gojo gasps- “Huh? Oh yeah-”
The steady rhythm of his pulse beeps once more on the monitor, albeit it slightly faster than before after he’s setting his eyes on you. After his poor, pathetic heart had skipped a beat just at the mere sight of you.
“He’s ruining the picture.” Gojo’s nose bridge wrinkles, gaze straying back to your smile the way an anchor follows a ship to see. No matter how far and deep they may go. The examiner signs out ‘truth’ as the other man continues, “Can you crop the buffoon out and give me five printed copies of that photo, please?”
“Eh?”
“Eh?”
“Gojo-san, eh?”
Nanami rubs his aching temples, “This is why I’d never give him CPR.”
That particular episode easily became one of the most watched of the season.
Six Eyes’ Gojo Satoru Takes a Lie Detector Test | Heart-stopping Revelations!
torutoaster: WHAT THE FUCK WHEN THEY SAID HEART-STOPPING THEY MEANT IT FRFR-
eathaibara: the pure aura to have your heartbeat stop then the first thing you do is simp over your girl.
100menvsmpreg: @eathaibara wait so are they actually dating?
fluffykento: @100menvsmpreg worse
jennyk10: @100menvsmpreg I meannn-
ButterSixKpop: Need me a real freak like this.
CandyKento: kento is so real ngl
getosuggs: @CandyKento the only thing we love more than satoru is bullying satoru
fiendingforsixeyes: LMAO GUYS HAVE YOU SEEN THAT PERSON GOIN’ ON RANTS UNDER SUKUNA’S INSTA-
Gojo didn’t read these comments, unfortunately, or see any of the edits they were making of him on tiktok. He was too busy spamming comments of his own on Sukuna’s official instagram.
Very colorfully-worded ones.
.
.
.
“What’s your name?”
“Gojo da strongest.”
“What are you drawing?”
“A star.”
For an eight-year-old, Gojo thinks you had the most pensive expression on your face after that particular answer. Brows scrunched cutely, and your tongue sticking slightly between missing teeth- and it was alright, Gojo wasn’t a stranger to the staring.
He knew how to handle all the cooing from aunties at the marketplace, he was used to all the praises for being the fastest kid in all of primary school.
So surely the great, wise, nine-year-old Gojo Satoru could give a fellow classmate as much time as you needed to muster up the very best compliment-
“It’s kinda ugly.”
“Wha- huh?” How dare you- Gojo’s pouting, snowy brows scrunching until you’re giggling. “My star is not ugly.” Sticking a thumb proudly between his puffed-up chest, “And I should know because I’m going to be a star.”
You’re nodding, seriously. “Mm, that’s good.”
And that makes him falter- just a bit, because true superstars never falter. “Y-you think so?” Okay, maybe they falter a bit. But in Gojo’s defense, no one had ever taken his little daydream so seriously, “You don’t think it’s stupid? That I can’t go up on stage?”
“No, why would it be?” Oh. You’re tapping his smudged crayon drawing, “But that’s still an ugly star.”
Stomping, “Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is…” He looks at you - in all you sparkly humor - then back at his fifteen-pointed star. He looks at you, then back at his brown-colored star for “artistic purposes.” He looks at you, then back at his star with a spotty face on it because it reminded him of Patrick Star. He looks at you and-
“Fine…”
“Let me teach you how to draw an actual star.” You’re stumbling over your words a little, and it offends the great Gojo Satoru that he should be taught by such a child like you, a year younger.
But he does have to admit that you drew pretty nice stars.
Crossing his arms with a pout, “Fine then- teach me how to draw stars-” And the grin breaking your tiny face was too bright, too pretty. Suddenly the classroom is too humid, and he’s scrambling for something - anything - to throw back in your face. “-star.”
“‘Star’, huh?” But you only smile, “I like that.”
Only to have it thrown back in his.
In a way he’s remembering nearly two decades later, your hand in his, your mouth near his earpiece. Quieter than the producers screaming in his ears, but louder than his very own racing heartbeat.
“Take it easy, Satoru.” You’re humming, over the velvety-smooth voice of the MAMA award announcer. The one that was ecstatically saying the name of the very band that Gojo might just have forgotten he was a part of the moment your hands wound ‘round him.
You lift up his dark blindfold, part of his outfit for the day. “Go up, you fool.”
It wasn’t every day that Six Eyes won a MAMA grand prize, and it also wasn’t every day that the best friend he’d begged to be let in as the group’s honorary plus one (also the very same best friend he’d been in love with since he knew what love was) was in his arms like this.
But you’d been in them when after he’d drawn the first star all those years back that you’d deemed ‘acceptable.’ You’d been in them when he decided to take up dancing lessons in middle school, waiting all those hours after dark to walk back home with him. You’d been in them when he entered high school and told you he’d be a trainee slaving the days away in some dingy company basement. You’d been in them even tighter when they debuted.
And you’d been in them the very second their name had been announced as artist of the year.
In front of all those cameras. All those gasping audiences.
And Geto who thumps him heartily on the back, “Get a room later, lovebirds- if Yaga doesn’t kill you that is.”
“Come on, Gojo-san, we have to go up for our award–!”
Nanami flashes you what you swear was a slight smile, “I am happy for you.” Before frowning at a shining-eyed Gojo, “Not quite for you, though.”
“Aww Nanamin, you love me~”
“O-kaaay-” Once the 6’4 mess of limbs had finally set you free, Geto was pushing them all to climb up the stage. In time with the blasting background music of their very own Blue, “Let’s have the aneurysms when we’re on stage.”
But what Gojo had on-stage wasn’t anything to make Yaga wish to retire, or to have Nanami’s pounding migraine throb harder. It was a single, sliding tear - and if the lights glaring down on them were bright enough that no one could tell for sure, then all was well with him.
“To our fans, our family-” Gojo’s starting off into the mic in the middle, deep tone dry and hoarse, metal award cool in his hands. He’s looking at you. “-and my star, this one’s for you.”
It’s all.
And later they’d write articles about the hug, the speech, and what it means that you’re his ‘star’ - but for now, that was for Gojo to know. And for him to step away from the booming mic, letting Geto take his place with much more eloquent words; knowing that in future interviews they’d joke about all the speeches that they had planned.
That Gojo had planned in particular, but nothing came out just right.
Later, he would also wonder why he waited so long - when you were always there in the audience, clapping louder as if it was just for him.
And your best friend mouths—all bedazzled in his dangling earrings, white suit starkly handsome. “Meet me after the show.”
That very same clip is made into a gif that gets replayed about twelve million times before the award show actually ends.
.
.
.
“O-oh fuck-” Your tongue lolls out until it’s hitting midway down your chin, mouth watering with every curly swipe n’ prod of Gojo’s tastebuds.
His nose hits the edge of your treacly cunt and he whines, watchin’ the cute way your pupils roll allll the way to the back. The front of your chest polishing with a few wads of saliva that he can’t lick up right now- no.
Not when his mouth was already so occupied.
All it took was a single step - a single step - inside Gojo’s personal dressing room after the MAMAs, before he’d crashed your lips against his in a way he’d just been dying to do.
Folding you easily over the armrest of the fluffy pink sofa, door locked, sparkly dress hiked up. Gojo hadn’t even bothered to take off your flimsy panties before he’d started making out with your sweet, sweet pussy from behind.
Lavishing his tongue between the crevices of your cunt like he was a man parched- “Fuck, my star.” With your underwear just pushed to the side and his throat vibrating with a guttural groan once he’s feeling your tight, cozy hole clench ‘round his tastebuds.“Fuck- s’all I want-”
“A-are you seriously- ngh–!” And you couldn’t believe anything your hazed mind was telling you right now - not of those familiar lyrics, and not of the smooth, frigid brush of something metallic studding just the end of Gojo’s tongue. “-quoting your song right now?”
“Mmm– can’t help it. Wrote it just for you y’know…” Voice just a bit hitched, just a bit raspy.
There was something in it that made you oh-so-much wetter, and Gojo’s summer blue eyes flash as he’s taking in the sappy slick gluing your shivering thighs together.
“Sh-shit.” Gurgling out the candied taste of you, you were dripping all down his tongue. He’s pulling you close with a hand stuck on your hip, letting your slick splash at the bottom of his throat- and it still wasn’t enough.
“Shit, my star.” His usual lip gloss smeared all over your pussy, Gojo takes the time to lean in and lick it all clean off. Before pursing his lips to once more spit—“Shit-”
He didn’t know what to say.
Your pretty pussy had him speechless, and it’s a damn miracle that he’s not tearing that suit off of his body. Stained all down the front with a snail-trail of your sappy juices-
“Need- this-” Once his heavy fabric strikes the floor, Gojo’s inching even closer in his kneeling position. Thick fingers slide-slide-sliiiiding teasingly between your swollen folds, before tugging on your poor panties. “-off.”
Ripping.
And his little prize is now finding a home somewhere inside his pocket for later, but right now Gojo has to stop himself from fucking salivating as you’re exposed for him.
It takes one kiss before he pants- “Oh my god.”
And another- “O-oh fuck- oh my god.”
Fully shoving his face between your legs and letting you shiver at the feeling of his bejewelled earrings. That sunken in.
Flattened tongue slapping down between your driveling slit, Gojo takes his agonizing time lapping up every inch n’ cranny you have. “My star—” Humming almost drunkenly, his pointed muscle swerves between the insides of your pussylips.
“F-fuuuck–!” Just where you were most sensitive, Gojo lets the stubbed piercing on his tongue slip inside your hole and streeeeetch you out. Slipping out to draw a wet, sickly sweet star– “Since when did you have a- nghh- a tongue piercing, Toru?”
The first answer you’re getting is a sharp swat on your pussy, “Mmm- ever since you dated that fucking bastard with a tongue piercing.” Sukuna. Gojo croons out, more honest than he would’ve usually been. “Never put it in but…I got it because I thought it was your hah- type.”
Another smack!
Another squeezing inch of his pierced tongue trying to fuck into your entrance, he’s impatient. He’s throbbing in his pants with every tiny clench of your gooey insides, “Got buffer, too- cooler.”
“Oh my…god- your tongue, it’s- hck! going in-” Crying out through whines.
“Wrote so many songs for you, my star–” He’s drawling out, and you can feel the scorching breeze of his hot breath. The way that Gojo’s parting his lips even wider to let his tongue glue against your cunt, grinding all the way inside- “Well- heh- not for her, but…”
You’re still hypnotized by the sensual massage of his ridged taste buds rubbin’ across the front of your dripping pussy.
So much so that the lecherous sluuuurp–! drawn out into the claggy air almost shocks you. Your cunt’s letting off the most sexual noises once Gojo’s dragging up a hand to tease your wet clit. “-but I’ll write a song for her as well.”
His metal rings are just sparkling with coats of slick, and your best friend doesn’t waste even a second latching onto your sensitive nub. Dexterous fingers drawing cute circles over and over that have your hips lurching off of the sofa-
“Please- ngh- pleeease-” Your head throws backwards, legs already starting to quake at the utter pressure of having his fingers on your clit. Tongue inside your pussy.
So lengthy that the slimy tip of it mazes between your walls, and Gojo’s purposefully stirrin’ around your insides with the icy edge of his piercing. Chin rubbing all red with friction as he’s leaning in even closer to dig the muscle of his tongue into your sweetest spots, “Yeah- yeah n’ I’ll have her sing-” Another hand this time, another finger - pushin’ deeply inside you. And the syrupy sound is enough to make him close in on the side of the couch and rut- “-lead…h-heh.”
And if you thought being fucked into the cushy surface by Gojo’s tongue was making your head spin, then you’re being driven positively mad by the wild lashes of his fingertips.
Two ringed fingers fighting for space right along with his sticky tongue, Gojo glues the thick crowns of his digits to the top of your g-spot and watches as you shrill. “All the reading paid off, hmm–?”
“Y-you read about this?” You’re blinking through your tears, mouth dangling open once he’s pulling back. All the way to the rotund tips of his fingers- and slamming right down to press on your favorite nerves like a button. “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck- just for- for me?”
“You don’t know what I’d do for you, my star.” And it would sound sweet coming from your usual best friend.
But Gojo right now looked feral - pale eyes half-lidded, hair unruly, light make-up replaced by slimy oodles of your slick. Worn like a badge of honor, he’s gnawing down on your outer pussy, voice turning into something breathy. Octaves higher. “Noooo fucking idea what I’d do.”
Gripping onto the dampening covers of the sofa, you’re bucking animalistically like you don’t know whether you want to pull away or grind back down for more, more, more. Yelping, “T-Toru-!”
“No- no no no- come back.” Gojo panics, beefy arms wrapped enough around your body to haaaul you backwards.
And when that wasn’t far enough, Gojo’s lust-fogged mind tugs off the blindfold still looped ‘round his neck. Tightly restraining one over your thigh and manhandling you deeper onto his face-
“Sh-shiiit, Satoru–”
“Fuck- haven’t had anything so sweet- so addictive, my star.” He’s murmuring into your pussy, knuckles getting sloppier with all the spanks against the front of your cunt. Tongue lurching in n’ out until his jaw was sore and raw with all the movement- but he’s still rummaging his muscle along your insides.
Gojo’s eating you out like a man lacking a proper meal for eons, and you swear you could feel the way his Adam’s apple bob with each heavy gulp of your saccharine slick. “N’ now I don’t think I can- haaaah- live without your sweet pussy on my face, sweetheart.”
The furniture creaks with every bump of his ravenous hips against the sofa, because Gojo didn’t even want to spare a single handle to jerk himself off.
Not when he could target the throbbing nub of your clit, rolling over it until the harsh pleasure makes you squeeeal. “Don’t have to- don’t- ngh-”
“D’you think so?” That overeager thumb latched to your clit does a quick circular motion that renders your mouth drier than the Sahara. Swooping. Pressing down. “Really really th-think I can?”
“Yes- fuck- yes-” Whining, back arching into such a perfect curve. “Just make me cum, Satoru-”
“Yes, ma’am.” Gojo huffs out a cloud of breath, long lashes fluttering. The rapid thump-thump-thumps of his two fingers burrowing into your g-spot hasten, “But only if you mmmm– say my name.”
“Satoru.”
“Louder?”
“Satoru.”
With your wailing tone knocking off each corner of the wall, it’s like he’s rattling off all the unspeakable dreams he’s had of you. “Thennn– spit in my mouth?”
Almost like he’s testing it out- and you’re snapping your head over your shoulder. Not knowing whether to give him a piece of whatever’s left of your mind, or whether you would spit in his mouth.
But you didn’t need to wrack your pretty brain over it any time soon.
Because Gojo’s shaking his bleary head, “Hmm- guess you already have, though- heh.” Partially-closed eyes locked onto your agape cunt every time you’re suckin’ his tongue in- and it’s only then that you realize he’s talking to your pussy.
Letting your pussy spit out wads of juices that slip n’ slide down his throat, that get fucked back in by his relentless mouth.
Your hands grip the couch, “S-stop teasing– please, m’so close.”
“And then finally—” The tender edges of his fingers scrape your sweet spots in that strangely swooping motion that makes your toes curl restlessly. Dragging it oooon with his lilted bass, “-spell this out, my star?”
Your thighs twitch, the semicircles he’s drawin’ on your g-spot taking the formation of an ‘S’. Then an ‘A’-
“Sa-sa-”
“You got it. You got it, sweetheart.”
With the probin’ deepness of his fingers, he’s flicking his fingertips until your vision flashes white. ‘T’, your favorite dragged-out ‘O’ that makes his pierced tongue swoop in tiny circles, too. “Sato-”
You knew where this was going. Faster. Harder.
You knew, and yet, you’re still letting him finish off a soppy ‘R’ and ‘U’ - branded in big capital letters from the gooey, heated insides of your pussy until you’re finishing off, too. “Satoru- Satoru. M’cumming, oh fuck, m’cumming…ngh.”
With a slight, stiled sob, you’re being run over by your high - just in time for Gojo to twist the orbed piercing on his tongue over in a S-A-T-O-R-U as well. Sloppily salivating down the sides of your slit, your thighs trickle with every ounce of sap you’re spraying out.
Whimpering, deep into the cavern of his mouth- “Sh-shit-” Gojo’s hissing in that airy tone of his, feeling hot wetness seeping into his pants the very second you’re cumming - he is, too.
And yet, the only thing he can think about is dragging out your high.
To strike the bruised n’ battered areas of your walls until your thighs are shaking with every peak of your orgasm, mouth slobbering everywhere and anywhere.
From the pearly spatters of slick sheening your legs, to the pulsing top of your clit. Fucking and fucking your quivering entrance until your body feels all raw and sizzling. Every thrust of his fat, velvety tongue makes your pupils whirl stupidly in the whites of your eyes. “Sh-shit- nghhh- shit.”
And it takes him such a long time to let go of you - especially when he’s this drunk on your pussy.
Pulling back with a final push of his piercing on top of your clit, and the loudest squeeelch—!
“H-heheh.” Gojo whispers against your pussy and you mewl, falling onto your elbows over the cushions of the sofa.
Wearily, you look over your shoulder to take a good, solid look at him - only to feel your heart stutter at the utter grin on his face. Dopey. Glittered with slick. It beads down your best friend’s sharp jawline as he speaks, “Replaced my lipgloss- heh.” He cocks his head to the side, sapphire eyes fluttering priggishly. “Did I ever tell you that was my first time? Been savin’ myself for you, my star…”
Your mouth drops open at his words.
Oh.
Oh.
You weren’t making it out of this alive.
Within a few bats of your teary lashes, Gojo has you pushed onto your back on top of the springy cushions. His towering form hovering over you-
Pinkish tongue snagging at the end of one glistening lip, “You should know…I’ve never done this before either.” He shivers, top layers shrugged off into a pile, golden clasps of his pants unbuttoned—pop! pop! pop!
With your stringy panties pulled out of his trousers, n’ the rest pushed down until he’d sexily bare in front of you. You can’t tear your widened eyes away as Gojo wraps your underwear ‘round his thick, bulging cock and jerks.
And fuck- did it make your mouth water.
Oh, fuck.
Because Gojo was just so big - in every sense.
From the width of his towering shoulders, all chiseled with bouncy pecs. To the way he was so ripped with lean muscle that you couldn’t stop imagining how it’d feel to have them pressed down against you.
A feverish blush drifts down the back of his neck, alllll the way down between his pale happy trail. And right up to the fat, pinkened globe of his cock - all heavy and long. So, so long that it had your thighs squeezing in both fear and anticipation.
You breathe, “Y-you’re so…”
Gojo gnaws down on his bottom lip with a moan, “Mm- yeah, tell me, sweetheart.” Vein-covered fist flying up and down his shaft, the rub of your panties was just so delicious that he’s splurging out a thick wad of precum straight down your slit. “Tell me- tell me.”
“So big.” You’re wondering where he even hid something like that.
Making such a mess.
And he’s made a mess before too - cumming in his pants just from eating you out. So your cunt was being soaked with a few wires of his ivory sap.
Being pushed in the very second Gojo slouches over your body and slaps his thick mushroom tip between your pussylips. Rutting his sloppy hips without even realizing-
“You don’t think it’s weird, my star?” Head hunched, white bangs covering his eyesight. The tone in his voice is thick with something primal, “How I was- haaaah-” And so was his cadence, sandwiching between your soppy folds back n’ forth back n’ forth. “-fisting my cock to the thought of my ngh- pretty lil’ best friend for yeeeears?”
Dragging it out.
Just aaaaaching with a particularly sensual slide of his vein-covered shaft down your cunt, “Just aaaaching.” The knobbled top of his length slips against your oversaturated pussy and plugs up your hole. Hitting it with a damp plop! “For one taste- for anything.”
Your hands claw up to the tufts of his soft hair, pulling and it makes his cock twitch. “Want it in. Please, Satoru?”
“A-are you sure I- hah-” And fuck- his eyes gape as he looks down between your cute, shivering legs. Marvelling at the sheer size difference between the plump girth of his cockhead, and your tight hole. “If it’s too much, I can just put the tip- oh, fuck.”
But you were impatient, and you’re wrapping your legs ‘round his toned waist to tug him closer. Deeper. Inside.
To feel the tender underside of his length scrape your walls, each n’ every zig-zagged vein snaking inside your cunt. Gojo was just so big that your vision flashes black and white with just a few inches stuffed-
“I take it back.” He gasps. He heaves - pants so labored that it was like he’d given up on catching his breath. Trying to hold his head up - failing.
“Take- oh, you’re so big- take what back?”
And the only thing Gojo can do is grab both sides of your waist and use the lecherous leverage to pull and pull you further down his rock-hard shaft. Straining out, his thumb cranes over to push inside a gluey wad of cum. “I t-taaake it back. Just the tip- n-never-” Just one singular taste of your sopping wet pussy on his cock and his voice cracks. “-never gonna be just the tip, my star.”
He’s so untouched, biting down furiously on his lower lip.
Biting down furiously on your sodden panties just as soon as he remembers they’re still in his hands, muffling every whimpering wail that threatens to leave his maw.
“Ngh- ngh- what the f-fuck.” Gojo’s ripping from the back of his throat, head falling backwards to bare his attractive throat as he slips deeper in. Fighting against that snug resistance with a few good half-thrusts, not even able to pull out properly. To even move. “It can feel this good?”
And through your half-closed eyes you’re making out the fact that he’s pinching himself with a free hand. “Or m’I just in heaven?”
You feel his big, bulbous tip swab near your g-spot and start to mewl- “Mmm– and what if you are?”
“Don’t even wanna know if s’real.” Strings of saliva stick to Gojo’s lips as he babbles, still lathered in a layer of your pussy juices from before. And his mouth only waters even more when he’s feeling your hot insides clench around him, “Don’t need to know anything else- ngh.”
Every syllable is punctuated by an almost vulgar rut.
You’re screaming as he’s bullying his slimy, pre-glazed tip inside. Letting the rotund crown of his cock pry apart your cute walls, harder. Deeper.
Gojo smears your pussylips further open with one of his thumbs, letting just the top part of his digit fit into your entrance. Just so that he can fit his cock in fully.
“P-please fit.” Muttering underneath his breath, teeth clenching tight on your panties. Looking up at you ferally through his lashes, “Please- please, didn’t wait s-so fucking long for you not to take it, my star. For this pretty pussy to be left unsatisfied.”
Your nails dig into his back, “Fuck- please- oh my god.”
“It has to fit-”
“Will it?”
“Yes- yes, you’re gonna take it alll, my girl.”Fucking you furiously, sloppily. No rhythm or rhyme - or even sanity in each of his jagged strikes aiming for the very bottom of your pussy, “Has to it has to it- fuck! It has to-”
And when it does - when it finally, finally does - Gojo Satoru is left gaping, your underwear now dropping from his mouth and cleanly onto the floor. Speechless.
Shit, if he hadn’t cum just minutes prior then he’d be creaming himself all over again.
Blinking once, twice down wordlessly at the sultry vision of your bloated pussylips kissin’ his pelvis. Bottomed-out until his cock was swallowed all the way up until those tufts of white at his base-
And then it all happens at once.
In a singular split-second, Gojo has your legs thrown over his shoulder, your knees pushed all the way down to your tits. Striking your spongy cervix with a dull thud of his weepy cocktip, before he’s reeling out halfway and doing it all over again.
And again.
And again and again and again-
You’re just shrilling– “Toru- hck!” Feeling your weary throat clog up with so many sobs n’ whines every time his globular head was piercing your cunt, pushin’ all the way into your womb. “Toru Toru Toru-”
“M’on vocal rest after this, y’know?” He blurts, seemingly out-of-the-blue.
That is, until Gojo stares down at you with such a heady grin, leaned down just close enough that his hot respiration wafts the shell of your ear. And his tongue lurches out to lick up the drooling spittle leaking from each side of your mouth, “So you hafta scream twice as loud f’me, my star.”
Slamming the lines of his chiseled hips against yours, Gojo’s shaft was oh-so-veiny enough that you’re feeling your mind melt at the constant massage of your g-spot. “Like that- nghhh please-”
“Like- like this?” And it’s so difficult to remember that this was still Gojo’s first time– especially when he roams a palm over your tummy to feel for a particular bulging outline and press.
Carnally caressing the cylindrical bump that he was pounding into you, branding the fatness of his length right against your girth. “Shit- you really took it all.” He’s in awe at the feeling of his rotund cockhead pokin’ your very womb, “You wanna be fucked like hngh- this, don’t you? Want it hard? Fast?”
He was speaking utter filth, but his cadence was even filthier.
Shivering hand pushing down on your stomach, the other slithering between your sheeny legs to toy with your neglected clit.
“Your legs are shivering, my star- m’in trouble.” He arches his sculpted back to pick up the ruthless pace, throbbing cock stirrin’ within you to bash constantly straight into your g-spot. “S-sooooo much trouble.”
“More- ngh! Satoru, more-” You’re crying out through wobbly lips, “Want it even harder.”
“Fuck-” Hissing underneath his breath, Gojo’s doughy fingertips speedily smack your slope. Making your legs grow all numb, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- then ngh- yeah, open those pretty legs and take this fat fucking cock-”
With a few more strokes he’s holding onto your throat, pinning you down so that Gojo can scratch the rough texture of his happy trail down your clit until you cry. “This fat- haaah- fuckin’- cock-”
You’re so dumbified by the size and sheer pleasure that you can only repeat after him, stupidly. “Fat- ngh- fuckin’...”
A velvety tongue drags over your salty beads of tears, “Atta girl—” Grindin’ the circumference of his thick cock against your g-spot, Gojo’s biting down on your earlobe just to hear the way you sing. “Louder.” The dangly metal of his earrings are frosty against your own clammy face, sensual. “Louder- let them hear, let them know.”
Uncertainly, your eyes drift over to where the door of the dressing room was innocently positioned. Notably closed. Notably locked.
But your moans were reaching a fever point at the rough bludgeons of Gojo’s cock, the way he was swervin’ his hips juuuust right to snag your sweetest spots.
All those years of dancing helped him expertly target long glides down your g-spot. Leaving a trail of wet mucus from that particular bundle of nerves, n’ straight down-down-dooown to your cute cervix. “Let them all see-”
“S-see?” You’re gasping out in disbelief.
With what almost sounds to you like a growl, “Mhm- yeah, fuck!” Gojo spanks his hips hard enough against yours that the impact leaves his v-line reddening, the papping sound echoing within the dressing room. “You think I wouldn’t fuck you in front of every nosy lil’ camera out there?”
You don’t even know what to say - what to do.
The only thing your pathetic body is capable of doing is gyratin’ back down to meet his tempo. Letting your limp legs tighten over his shoulders, “Y-you would?”
“Oh, my sweetheart—” Gojo’s crooning, snowy brows scrunching together. Giving your treacly cunt yet another hard jackhammer, “If this pussy wasn’t mine and mine alone, then that door wouldn’t even be- hah- locked right now.”
And he was drilling into you like he meant it - like he was furious with himself for holding out this long on the heaven of your sweet, sweet pussy.
Wailing, your eyes crossing at the sheer pleasure.
Now that he’d slurped up one sip, he was eager for the next- and before you know it, the blindfold that’d been dangling on your thigh was suddenly coiling ‘round your ankles. “You’re not getting out of this- oh.” Gojo’s beefy biceps flex as he’s tying your legs behind his neck, all for him to pull back on—“Gonna- gonna fill you up so we hafta be- ngh- prepared.”
Your salivatin’ chin hits the front of your chest and you whine, “Please- please make me cum, mm-”
“Yeah? Gonna make you cum- hah-” Gojo’s mouth hangs ajar, blush so rosy. He feels your goopy walls tighten on reflex and that makes his hardened cock twitch, “Then- then m’gonna fuck you through that.”
Strike after strike.
His swollen lips lean down to suckle on one of your fingers - your left hand’s ring finger, to be precise. “Then m’gonna put a ngh- ring on it. Gonna- gonna I swear-”
Push after push.
“Toru—” Your tits jut up as you’re bowing your back off of the drenched sofa, “-not gonna- gonna- fuck!”
You don’t even have the privilege of letting that sentence finish before your orgasm takes you over, thrumming white-hot zaps of pleasure through your veins. Your teeth set on edge at how utterly good it feels to have Gojo’s fattened cock swabbing your tight hole through every peak, “Oh my god- oh my- fuuuuuck, there’s jus’ so much, Toru.”
Toes curled, mouth unfastened.
Pinching your clit until you’re squeeealing- “So- so much.” He’s echoing in a whisper, crushing you tight to him once Gojo’s finishing off, too.
Abs plastered against your front until you memorize each ridge, his pecs smooth n’ plump against your tits. Your best friend just looked so pretty with his pearly whites grit in a snarl, brows knitted as he’s pumping you with cum until you overspilled.
With thick, seedy knots of cum that blanketed your pussy - his pointed cockhead nudges every droplet inside until you can feel your walls stretch with the utter size.
Thighs shaking with your release, his mess sploshing around inside of you. Your vision was still completely hazy- “Fuck- fuck, Satoru.”
And it’s like the sound of his name plummeting from your mouth sends shockwaves down his spine.
Because Gojo’s staring at you - mushroomy tip still leaky, still slidin’ through the sappy puddle he’s formulating at your cervix. For a good few seconds, maybe even minutes until he’s chuckling–“God, they could see right through me. Everyone could.”
More to himself.
Although those next words were entirely for you.
“I love you.” Gojo’s pale lashes flutter, almost shyly, and you’re speechless at the fact that he was still fucking you. In slow, aching grinds that have him fucking his cum deeper n’ deeper inside you. “I’ve always loved you, my star.”
Your heart quivers, and you can’t help but reach a hand out to run through the sweaty valleys of his locks. Smile dazzling - something he could write songs, ballads, sonnets about some day. But for now it only makes his azure eyes wet, “And I love you, my Toru.”
Something weeps out of Gojo that sounds like a husky, drawn-out groan— and you can feel his thick tip twitch inside of you with a few more beaded dollops of seed.
Cumming for the nth time tonight until all his heavy balls could let out was misty white, just from hearing that you loved him back.
And for once it’s silence.
Calm, warm silence— that is, until Gojo’s pulling his ravaged, red cock just far enough that your cunt lets off the soppiest wet sluuuurp!
You’re gasping, still feeling the rush of your high make your head whirl. Thighs clenching around his broad deltoids automatically, “Satoru- wh-what are you-”
“Oh, well…” Long, pale hands reach for the pile of fabric on the floor - your boyfriend’s pants. And Gojo has the sleaziest grin on his face as he’s digging his fingers into the depths of his pockets, promptly pulling out a lengthy line of condom foils. One he’d packed just in case, just for you.
You’re mentally counting about twenty before he’s letting his proud stack drop right down to your front. “You didn’t think we were done, right, my sweetheart?”
Oh, fuck.
Neither of you are making it out of this alive.
.
.
.
“There’s the wall of perfume, my books- especially songwriting books. And these clothes and, yeah, that’s really it for my room…” Gojo kicks away the pile of his Digimon socks on the ground with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Something he was sure the cameraman intruding his dorm room would capture, and yet still edit to make something cute out of it anyway.
Ah- such was the life of an ever-popular idol.
And here he was, up bright and early in the morning to let some variety show stomp all through the Six Eyes’ penthouse as a sort of ‘house tour.’ Well, sure he knew that this was bound to be a hit with the fans that probed into his life, but was it really necessary to not even give the man a heads-up?
Plastering on his most polished smile, he nods politely as the camera records a few more details. The hosts cooing over each little thing - all those fan letters he kept, a pretty crayon drawing of a blue star from years ago, and the-
“Eh?”
“Eh?”
“Eh?” Geto’s poking his head in, grin already plastered just in case there was to be some sort of chaos upheaved in Gojo’s room. And why wouldn’t there be?
Gojo’s following both hosts’ lines of vision, all the way down to his bed, “Eh?” Was it not made properly? Was it an offense to have sheets of his own boyband at this day and his age? Or was- “Oh.”
And then Gojo sees it - that.
The familiar, gauzy fabric of your panties that he’d stolen all those nights ago. Hidden neatly underneath the puff of his pillows - well, almost hidden.
Because obviously it was exceptionally still in the bedroom right now- fuck, even Geto had gone quiet from his station near the door, realizing what it was. Attracting the attention of two very curious other members that were currently fighting to get a glimpse-
One of the hosts clears her throat, “Um- Mister Gojo, is that…” Eyes dazzling at the possibility of a scoop this big - all in their almost-family-friendly home-touring show. “Is it possible there’s a lady in your life the fans and world may want to know about? Is this that very same best friend everyone says you pine over?”
And the other host cackles, “Well, they certainly don’t seem to be your size, boy. And ones so skimpy- oho, kids these days.”
Unabashedly pushing a mic into his face, “Anything to say for yourself?”
“Ah-” Gojo coughs out, jumping once the cameraman immediately swivels his lens towards him for his response. “Aha, well- you see-”
Gojo looks at Geto.
“…”
At Haibara.
“…”
At Nanami.
“…Fucking idiot.”
And finally at the camera itself- “Cut the cameras. Deadass.”
Yaga might have bribed the network to never air that particular episode, and Dispatch might have done their best to leak it, anyway.
Right along with a few grainy paparazzi shots of figures that looked undeniably like you two. Hand-in-hand, suspicious blemishes on both your necks, wandering down the sidewalks of Han River.
And if Yaga was having a tough PR day with just that then it would’ve been too merciful of the universe. Because how could you discount the fact that Gojo Satoru, notorious dodger of paparazzi questions, had proudly held up your joined hands and exclaimed at a few buzzing reporters—“Fuck yeah- my girlfriend now, suckers!”
No resignation letter would ever be enough.
@sunflowerboy: let it be known that I always believed in Gojo-san!!
@eathaibara replying to @sunflowerboy: we bow before you great sunflowerboy (the only one to believe in toru’s loser rizz)
@torutoaster: i luv how #go(jo)outthefriendzone is trending worldwide- LOSER RIZZ ALWAYS WINS
@fiendingforsixeyes: HE DID IT?? MY BOY ACTUALLY DID IT??
@mahitoe: tch whatever
@zbstan replying to @mahitoe: womp womp
@sunflowerboy replying to @mahitoe: LMFAOOOO SUCK IT YOU LOSER HATER FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK-
@eathaibara replying to @sunflowerboy: omg sunflowerboy??
@sunflowerboy replying to @eathaibara: sorry got a little excited^^
@sugu-rizzed: I just know pr is SCRAMBLING rn but not as much as my boy scrambled to get that cookie.
@satorusxkitten: bi panic is wanting both of them!!
@ge.akuge: idk what she sees in him it must be the wigs
@CandyKento: the ‘my star’, isacs, the awards speech, the PANTIES?? gojo satoru it was always meant to be idk what to tell ya. now get married
@Fushidaddy107: I still think she’d be better with me smh.
@officialgojosatoru replying to @Fushidaddy107: Blocked.
A/N. This was SOOO self-indulgent omg- ALSO DADDY TONY’S BAAAACK!!
yes, I’m alive!! I know I have been offline for a long while now and I’d like to apologize for that :( a lot has been going on in my life the past months and I just didn’t have the time nor the emotional energy to be on tumblr
with that being said, I promise I’ll TRY to be more active and mayyybe try to post something, but no promises
anyways, I miss you all so much!! tell me how you’ve been doing in the comments 💖💖💖✨
