🏁 pit stop ! 𖦹 you think that katsuki bakugou cares too much. he obsesses over the little things. whether or not you've eaten, whether or not you're seeing someone else, whether or not you even like him. you can't understand why he cares so much about someone like you. after all, he isn't even your boyfriend. (6.2K)
🏁 safety car ! ⋆ not safe for work ⋆ suggestive & angst ⋆ eighteen plus only. pro hero au, characters are depicted as adults. friends with benefits, brief smut scenes, daddy kink mention, situationships, insecurity, simp katsuki, avoidant attachment styles, reader and katsuki are bad at feelings, unhappy ending, open ending. pro hero katsuki bakugou, toxic avoidant & fem reader.
🏁 team radio ! ⋆ happy birthday to me!! sharing another fic for my bday bc it is my gift to you!! for all the memories n the love n awl!! this year its blasty boy, based on this post i made ages ago. been workin on this for a while and it felt so good to explore katsuki in this way!! there may be a part two lol. thank you so much as always! hope you all enjoy and click for more.
bakugou has always been good at sensing oncoming danger. no, he didn’t have a quirk for it and no, he didn’t have to train at it. he’s always just had a penchant for knowing when peril was prowling along the horizon, he thought quick on his feet and under pressure, his instincts were killer. there’s a reason why he’s the best at what he does. saving people, stopping threats.
but then, there’s you.
they’d call you a hero level threat if they knew you, a little more then personally. an enigma that sucks the good-hearted nature out of someone and turns them into something hollow. a villain by matters of the heart rather than that of society — although a string of failed relationships and an obvious lack of commitment would argue otherwise. katsuki never sees it coming, the fatal blow you land on him, the one that shatters his very vision of how love works.
he doesn’t expect to meet you through a friend of a friend and hit it off straight away, his walls crumbling down as if they were made from nothing but sand. a somber stooge to thrashing imperial shaded waves and saltine sea water. he doesn’t anticipate falling fast, hard enough to scrape his knees on shingly tarmac. abrasive on the palms of his hands. all this, even though dynamight has never tripped or lost his cool before.
you’re disarmingly funny, smart-mouthed when it counts but you’re dedicated to your craft and fiercely loyal to the people you care about. by all means, you’re the girl of his dreams, there’s not a day that goes by where you’re not the first thing on his mind after a gruelling patrol and meetings with the hero commission.
katsuki seeks you out like a blossom winding up to find the sun, desperate to spend free time with you — dates that aren’t really dates in places hidden away from prying public eyes. late nights that lead to your legs tangled at the short end of his couch, your cheek smooshed into his chest and a hand low the small of your back. heaviness there that doesn’t seem burdensome, natural.
the two of you are too far into the comfort zone after such a short time, he doesn’t even pick up on the blaring warning signs. the dating app notifications that still pop up on your phone, the way your head dips when he leans in a little too close to kiss you.
he doesn’t see it clearly enough, the dangerous thorns that wrap around you like the stems of a blood red rose. his friends know better, you’re the type of girl who drank the blood of her enemies and ate the bones of her past lovers, stripping them bare like a carcass lost in the wastelands. they know the map of bakugou’s being well, the subtle craving for attachment and endearment that lies behind walls of flesh, muscle and a hardened exterior made up of a bit of trauma with a dash of near death. for all his gruffness and grandeur, there is a human within katsuki bakugou. one who carnally craves the simple promise of forever with someone else.
those friends who pledge a lifetime by katsuki’s side aren’t enough to satisfy his appetite and yearning inner-ego, they know that, but still — they look out for him.
“oh, relationships? i don’t do those.” you’d laughed, then, waving a hand dismissively when mina corners you on the way into the dynamight agency. a favour. a good friend willing to ask what the other can’t.
her shoulders had risen in anxiety, treading carefully as the pink haired pro prodded and pried. “then what about katsuki?”
“what about him?” you quipped, tone clipped, unwilling to fall open to her investigation. katsuki’s friends weren’t yours by any means — you were new, fresh meat in their eyes that had somehow withstood of concerned childhood classmates. “we’re not dating. just messing around?”
mina’s expression soured then. “does he know that?”
“he should. he’s a grown man, i’m sure he knows what kind of relationship he can handle.”
“a situationship.”
“a friendship that comes with added benefits.” he recalls you supplying. quick to the punch and cold like ice.
katsuki stays long enough to hear mina give you the low down. katsuki bakugou doesn’t do casual, he doesn’t mess around — his heart only goes out to some and when it’s yours, you’re supposed to take care of it. mina gives you the chance to walk away, leave him be and you fail to take it. with that minacious sense of esurience you possess.
the first time you sleep together happens after your first fight. he wants something you can’t give him, permanence, the sturdiness that reminds one of an oak tree that’s grown proud and tall over time. katsuki wants something that lasts and his heart is set on you — someone who disappears into the rolling smoke and only exists for a split second, a momentary fraction of time like when the sun and moon meet for an eclipse. you’re evanescent, almost imaginary, fleeting like a nomad who never stays for too long.
he can’t have you. not in the way that he needs to feel stabilised.
everything blows up, when you tell him that. sitting on the other side of the bed, wearing his clothes, comfortable in his penthouse where your shoes ( an impressive collection of sneakers to high heels ) are lined up by the door and you’ve got a favourite mug on the top shelf of his kitchen cabinets where only he can reach. there’s a piece of you everywhere in bakugou’s home but not a single piece you can part with long enough for him to call you his own. the fight is full of rage and pent up frustration and a hurt that’s nearly incurable — katsuki should have made you leave right then and there, emotions rising like hot air above cool. with tears building behind his red eyes that burn brightly with fury, but he can’t because you’re so intertwined with his life, it’d be like having a lung missing if you’d gone.
it’s not love, it shouldn’t be — but his heart feels anchored to you even if it’s holding you back. you let him say it, that he loves you so much it could kill him in his youthful age. he loves you while pushing into you deep, chest rising and falling in tune with yours, much like a habit you’ve picked up from one another. he loves you with your legs hiked high on his shoulders, at the weight of his shaft pressed up against your sensitive walls with his teeth and tongue marking you like you belong to him. the sex that night had felt like a confession, a love letter written in hickies and scratch marks — penned and signed into your body by rough-padded fingertips that find your clit between rolling waves of trusts, hips that hit yours like the turning tide hits the shore.
in the moment, you reciprocated. sung his praises kike they were the lyrics to your favourite song, coated in wistfulness. howled his name, katsuki, at the moon whilst the stars bore witness to the union of your souls and your bodies. struck claw marks between the muscles in his back, leaving him with a scar. a heavily ironic reminder of your presence in his life — even if you left him physically, you’d still be there in the root of his heart and in every breath he’d take from then on. he couldn’t get rid of you, not that he wanted to, not even if he tried. in every sense of the word — mind, body and soul, katsuki had decided he belonged to you. willed you to understand through every stroke of his cock into you, every gentle kiss that deepened to share hungry moans, every caress over your battle wounds and fatal flaws… that he was yours, however you wanted. whatever that looked like. he would take it.
in the morning, you were different — colder, sharper, as if the sinful hells from which your desire had risen from, had now frozen over. like the heat and passion you’d shared were nothing but a mutually beneficial exchange. pleasure for pleasure, not to be mistaken for beating hearts coming together as one. in the morning, you’d tossed katsuki aside, smiling sweet, your lips pressed against his cheek, your clothes from the night before wrinkled against your love-bruised frame. “thank you,” he remembers you saying. “same time next week?”
it’s a joke that lands as a sucker punch. worse than any hit he’s ever taken on the field.
despite that, bakugou had never wanted you more. something he couldn’t keep. a hurricane in a glass jar that he couldn’t contain. free as a bird that could fly away at a moment's notice — too dazed with desire and devotion to see the cruel limbo you were leaving him in. even then he’d have called you the girl of his dreams, perfect in every way except for your knack for avoidance. he should have walked away then.
he should walk away now. as his tired, blood red eyes look to you with a rose tinted lens. watching you sleep soundly amongst sheets you’d complain cost more than a month’s rent and won’t let katsuki buy for your own apartment. still thinking that you’re perfect for him, that you fit right into his world where you’ve made him so intrinsically part of your own. thriving in this weird symbiotic relationship where you get your needs taken care of and he gets a taste of what it’s like to be longed for. as more than a hero. as less than dynamight. just katsuki. you’d taken a sledgehammer to the pro hero’s concrete shell and sent his shield packing, now he’s no longer to build up his walls without fear of shutting you out.
friends with benefits, lovers but not quite — bakugou doesn’t care as long as he’s with you. he’d pick fights for you until he turned black and blue, rescue you from the competition because he knows it means having his way with you afterwards, let you call him your boyfriend high on life and liquor just to piss another man off. now you’re in his shirt, the warm charm of the sun spilling through his curtains to illuminate the soft slopes of your thighs and highlight every perfect imperfection on your skin. the scars you try to hide, the tiger stripes you sometimes let him love.
you look softest when you’re asleep, like you wouldn’t dare destroy someone’s self worth and ability to love. you don’t look dangerous.
he still doesn’t believe that you are.
“suki,” stretching high and wide like a little harmless — maybe even blameless — kitten lounging under the blessing of the afternoon sun. your voice calls to him — wafting through the aerosols that catch light under golden rays. they act as a smog, a performance of smoke and mirrors that hides your true intentions from the blonde. even if he were to wave his hand through the smoggy disguise, katsuki still wouldn’t be able to see your desires clearly. “my head hurts.”
“yeah?” bakugou’s bare chest rises and falls with somewhat of a brusque titter, the sound curling inward like a wisp of smoke caught within his lungs — cemented into their small branches of bronchi. it’s soft, barely noticeable, if you weren’t listening. almost as if he’s been trying to keep it a secret from you. as though his fondness were to scare you away. “want me to kiss it better?”
“mhm…” more of you emerges from cotton hills and stiff peaks of linens — a hand rubbing through the crust corned at your eyes and lips. “god it kills, what even happened last night?”
even then, despite the sleep caked into your skin and the lines carved out by creases in the sheets struck against your cheeks, disregarding the bitterness to your morning breath and the drool staining the fabric of his your sleep shirt — you’re still the most beautiful person in the world to katsuki bakugou. with all your flaws and icks and green flags he can’t help the uptick in his pulse and the pull of gravity that lures him into smiling almost school-girlishly at the sight of you rubbing the ache from your forehead, lost in the waves of his bed spread.
you’re perfect even if you don’t know it — some kind of lawless and flawless being that could do no wrong in the jewelled eyes of the beholder.
“party. didn’t invite me so i don’t know what you had.”
“it was a party, am i not supposed to drink?” a cheshire grin blooms amongst your features and compliments the mirthy spark to your sleepy stare as you reply bluntly. if there was any inclination as to how deeply katsuki feels for you, it would be the way his focus flits away from your eye contact and the manner in which rich red blood pools underneath the surface of his cheeks. a blush that catches sunlight and spreads like a flame over oil slick, creeping down to the back of katsuki’s neck.
he rubs at it — akin to how one would smooth over a scab they’re not trying to pick in fear of making it bleed — as he speaks. intent and careful. “responsibly, sure,” he’s already reaching to pull the covers back and welcome you to the land of the living. you hide, pouting like you’ve been scolded. “you were so shitfaced last night, ‘m surprised you even managed to call me to come pick you up.”
you don’t like that. the tenderness that sits between curse words and stretching through the comfortable atmosphere of the late morning. to you, katsuki is scary in the kind of way that reminds you of the buzz you feel after watching a horror movie — electric and alive, all fried nerve endings and an impending sense of doom tickling your chest. maybe it’s because he’s so handsome. in the way that causes trouble with the old ladies on floor thirty four of the apartment building or gets the girls tripping over their kitten heels at the agency. maybe it’s because he leans into this natural duty to protect or nurse strays like you back to health.
genuine fear easily takes residence in your being when bakugou cares for you in the ways you feel you don’t deserve. it’s small, fleeting — almost like the subtle beat of a butterfly's wings or the tickle of your own hair at the nape of your neck.
katsuki isn’t someone to be afraid of. he’s not some kind of predator lurking in the dark waiting to turn you into a chunk of meat. his affections lap at you in the same way ocean blue does at a sandy shoreline, in soft waves with bubbling white at the owl waiting to be absorbed into porous substrate. he waits, oh, he waits for you to accept all of him as though he were always meant to be yours.
that’s what frightens you, his gentle dedication. his tired eyes that crystallise when you walk into a room. his heart tattooed in fading ink on his sleeve, waiting for you to take a knife and pierce it with all that you’ve got.
the thought of accepting his love and returning it had your stomach turning. not because you resent the idea, but because you find yourself warming to it like a steel kettle on a hot stove or a freshly potted sapling winding towards the light in order to grow. it’s as frightening coming face to face with an animal that sees you as nothing more than prey. like a hare standing against a wolf where the odds are hardly in its favour.
“it’s too early on in the day for you to parent me katsuki and you sound like my dad,” you bite like a snake that has venom poised behind its teeth, regarding the blonde with devious merriment. “bet you like that though, gets you all riled up telling me what to do. acting like my dad. do you want to be? my daddy, katsuki?”
your banter is usually like this, the kind where the dialect crawls underneath his skin through an open wound and spreads uncomfortably in the form of a viral infection. it sticks meagerly to katsuki’s ego in a similar fashion to a postage stamp placed down wrong — where you can’t pick it up by the corner and peel it back, unable to reposition it correctly. in the moment, you’re funny — light on your feet and quick with quips that come easy and aren’t supposed to mean anything aside from serving the purpose of laughter. except, when the coals cool and the time passes you leave a sting that creeps up on the victim, dead before they even know it. straight faced by the time the day is over.
“don’t be like that.” he leans over you, wafting notes of clean pine and smoked applewood, sparking your senses awake, and pushes the side of your head playfully. his touch slides down, careful as it goes, before bakugou cups your cheeks and squishes them twice.“bein’ fuckin’ mean.”
“sorry daddy.” you grin the same as before. with the air of someone who knows exactly who they are and what they’re doing. you’re a woman who’s made a vexatious habit out of reading people — katsuki is one of them — scouring their worn, aging pages for something that makes them tick.
by now he’s caught on the game that you play, toying with the knotted mess of his feelings like a feline with her bawl of carmine coloured yarn. the iniquitous version of the red string of fate. he returns to his seat at the edge of the bed, turning away before you catch the fall in his face. as though the manner in which icarus flew too close to the sun — only to be scorned — could be captured in his expression, like an artist who carves his wages through stone.
“oh shut up,” bakugou pushes again, no weight behind his hand. controlled because he’s not a man with a temper. the kind you run to when he spends a weekend out of town. “‘m not fuckin’ you ‘n i gotta go to work.”
“that’s never stopped you before.” you purr, never quite having learned how to be subtle.
hero galas and award-show after parties run rampant through katsuki’s mind — the memories without picture frames because you never stay long enough to keep. alcohol bleeds into the ink, leaving them splotchy where he’d remember the happenings if he were sober. lipstip smudge kiss that taste of plasticky makeup and the bitter pop of champagne
undeterred by your little mind games and the puzzles you make of the pro hero’s patience — he glances over at you, just for a moment. registers the presence of you helpless in his bed and then suppresses a fond smile, poking his tongue into his cheek. “you’re hungover, that’ll stop me. told you, i care about you.”
there’s a twang to katsuki’s voice that has always warmed you sweetly. much like honey and buttermilk simmering on a stove. years of drawling and pulling along the vowels braided between their intimidating consonant peers. unhurried and rough around the edges. the way he softly answers you despite the wrath and envy that hides behind the snakelike bite of your words when you speak — he tries not to be loud, in fear his speech may be taken as a curse. the last thing katsuki wants is to scare you away, especially when you make a habit of escaping from his hold like a bird from a net or a gazelle from a hunter.
you turn silent – in a manner similar to the creep of the quiet night that sneaks up on her friend, the day – shifting upright and bringing the duvet with you. “don’t need you to,” your fingers curl in the blankets until crescent moons form in your palms through the thinness. you don’t snap, that is what terrifies katsuki more. “and that doesn’t mean you have to baby me.” it’s a childish retort that you add on, one that lands in the pocket of silence beginning to brew at the center of the room. sour like the punch of a lemon when you sip on something citrus. “i’m an adult, we can fuck if i wanna.”
“but i don’t,” he feels far away when he responds, carefully unveiling his truth to you at a safe distance, to avoid the splinters of your shattering morning. “even if you’re nicer to me when you’re fucked up.”
a rare joke from him turns you into the cheshire cat.
“you think i’m mean sober. so you prefer me subdued.” you ask, a taunting tone intertwined with the cadence of a person who seeks only to get a rise out of their victim. you pass his
the blonde whips round to face you, not to yell or to “listen. you were drinkin’, i wasn’t there to look out for you and there could have been anythin’ in your system. i was worried about you.” something churns in his stomach and ties his intensities together in some kind of fatal knot guided by a sick sense of anxiety. it’s the same kind of feeling you. katsuki sighs, shoulders falling as though the strings that master them have been released. “i don’t wanna argue.”
“me either,” you quip, sensing the defeat. “my head really hurts, kats.”
he softens as you drop the topic. a change in tactics to keep him on his toes, interested in playing the game of chess you’ve laid out for the two of you. his pieces have been stolen, barely anything left on the board since you so eagerly take and take from him. “i know baby,” katsuki supplies in that sugary simple syrup manner that would have any girl twist her ankle in order to get a chance with him. “just, lemme get you some orange juice for your hangover, kay?”
“with bits in it? bleck. you know i don’t like orange juice.” he does. of course katsuki bakugou knows that you hate orange juice with the little floating pieces of fruit flesh and that you prefer the kind of squash you dilate with running water over anything else. he knows that you hate to eat breakfast in the morning because you’re never too hungry, but if he were to cook something up you’d eat it with the same appetite as a grown man. katsuki knows you like the sun burning up high, would know the familiar company of a summer’s day and a clear blue sky — in a way that’s complimentary, two souls tangled by a fine rouge thread, knotted with no loose ends.
except he finds you tugging at them as though you’re a bird caught in a net — fighting ferociously until you’re too fatigued to taste it. freedom. as though you’re frightened of the calm katsuki could offer you. he dwells on the thought, standing too still amongst a hurricane — biting fear cool against his skin because he’s not entirely sure what he’ll do when he loses your presence beside him simply because you’re not ready for something greater.
his eyes drag away from you, polarised to the wall like a magnet that attracts. “well it’s either that or tomato juice, pick your poison,” katsuki supplies, listening for your tantrum amongst cotton sheets. you settle on the bright, more-fruity counterpart ( because you’ve argued about this before at 3AM whilst he’s been in indonesia for a mission and you've been stuck here — using your spare key to get into his apartment when you’d missed him. tomato, despite its many seeds, isn’t a fruit in your eyes ) and the blonde hauls himself up from the edge of the bed to find his juicer in the kitchen. “that’s what i thought, brat.”
katsuki never leaves you without saying goodbye. a text after patrol to let you know that he’s safe, a kiss on the forehead when he moves from one room to the next, a perfectly wrapped morsel of his soul packed up into a brief, flickering moment all for you. something to keep when the regular rhythm of your body starts to fall out of tune without him, no matter how long or short the time spent apart is — katsuki always gives you something.
but this morning he leaves the bedroom with his lips pressed into a thin line and the hard set expression of a man who’s worked so much for too little in return — breaking a sweat to undo crossed wires as though there’s a time bomb ticking relentlessly between you that requires a special agent’s touch to figure you out. katsuki isn’t a spy, he isn’t a mind reader and yes, he’s super-human… but in his line of work there are just some people you can never seem to save. maybe you’re one of them and maybe that’s why he feels as though he might need to give up.
you draw your knees to your chest underneath the sheets in order to add pressure to the panic building within — he doesn’t shut you out in the manner that you do with him. katsuki always comes back to pull you out of your own mess as though you’re a wounded animal in need of tending. he’s good like that. he cares about you like that.
you’re a blender, an emotional one at that, you come with razor sharp, silvering blades that constantly whir like a looming threat. get too close and you’ll lose a piece of yourself, bleed out on cold concrete like a saviour who tried entirely too hard to save someone who didn’t want it. what seems right to him, when it comes to you, is a means to his own demise and death – in this tale, katsuki is a wolf licking crimson blood from a blade poised to kill him, worsening his own wounds inflicted by his own desire for you.
a mere twenty paces away, you listen to him clatter about in the kitchen – juicing fresh fruit for you. from scratch. just to help you feel better. It's a luxury you know that you don’t deserve, a tragedy that you know he’ll play line by line if it means being with you. for a while, you thought yourself invincible, taking advantage of the weakness of men who have hurt you before. yet, katsuki is kind, he warms you, treats you as though you’re flawless to the point where you feel as though you are a physical lie. an apple dealt to adam instead of eve, rotted on the inside and ripe on the out.
bakugou waltzes back into the bedroom not even ten minutes later, freshly squeezed orange juice and two pills in hand to ease away the pain you know doesn’t compare to what lives between each intercostal space protecting his heart and lungs. he says nothing. you say nothing. the room feels like a trap, latent hostility building between the four walls as if it had cemented them together itself.
you inhale, like you’re taking a drag of a cigarette. you don’t want the smoke to clear – you’ll see the heartache in his eyes clearer then.
“are we okay?” you ask with the uneasy focus of someone who feels like her world is out to get her – drown her in the emotional turmoil she’s built. a swig of orange juice and bitter paracetamol clings to the insides of your teeth, causing a similar discomfort to that in the atmosphere. “i feel like… things have been really weird. with you. with me.”
“no ‘m not. you’re being weird.” he delivers the line with a sharp intensity you’re completely unfamiliar with – like he’s taken on the same skillset, the same precise aim of an adroit sniper, and gone straight for your heart – forcing himself to speak over the blockage in his throat that keeps him from spilling emotions like an oil slick on clean water.
a wound to the body can easily heal, but one to the heart that keeps pumping, can last a lifetime. you don’t scream out in agony, a wounded soldier on a battlefield – no – you quickly build a defensive shield and strike a strategic attack, because your ego broils brightly underneath the surface of your skin and never settles enough to let your temper just be.
this time round, you scoff in braggart disbelief. as if you hadn’t expected this, the rain on your make believe parade. “woah okay, childish.”
observant as ever, katsuki does not miss the way you roll your eyes over the glass – the spread of your lips seeping into your cheeks as they take the form of a grim lour. something akin to kindling, a match-stick ready to set light to a bomb. this morning you’d promised not to argue, and yet, one catches in the wind that changes course. imminent and ready to detonate this faux relationship you’ve built.
“oh, like you’re not.” the blonde snaps back, sarcasm snaked between syllables.
“alright then, what’s that supposed to mean, katsuki?”
“you just — ‘m just…” bakugou grapples for a sensible sentence, something to explain away the clouds in his mind that came with you. he hates to admit it, how you unhappiness came into his world soon after you did, bringing with you bouquets of bewilderment and nights where too many things were left unsaid. “it’s okay for you to tease me and not the other way around?”
it’s unclear why that sets you off, perhaps its how accusatory bakugou sounds. when he says it like that – calls you out on how hypocritical you can be, your temper flares like a streak of red in the dead of night. a cry for help to anyone watching, to katsuki not to give up on you before you’ve properly started.
“you’re not kidding around though, it’s not funny,” spitting venomously, you let your response rain down on him like acid rain, searing through the thick and guarded armor he thought he had built strong all these years. “you keep calling me mean when that’s how i’ve always been, firey just how you like it. you treat me like i’m made of glass, like you’ve gone soft and keep looking at me like i’m gonna burst into flames!” it keeps going, this gruesome splurge of awful words used to cut at him, and you can’t stop it because you see it working. the manner in which this big, mountainous and explosive man, shrinks away from you as though it burns to be near. “like me, being here is setting you off. almost as though you don’t want me here. and if you don’t, that’s fine, i’ll go. but in the future don’t bring me over if you’re gonna act all avoidant and shit.”
katsuki sits up now, alert, as if his burns have been doused with cold water. his carmine eyes, devoid of the same cruelty you treat him with, are electrified with everything he doesn’t say. loaded with all the ways you’ve hurt him. tears that refuse to fall. “what? was i supposed to leave you there drunk with that fuckin’ asshole? the one you keep fucking when ‘m not around to give you the attention you crave.” the blonde throws a thumb your way, inculpatory. “you don’t get to do that, call me like ‘m some shitty lapdog. then c-call me that fuckin’ name and then act like it’s weird that i want to take care of you.”
“call you, what, katsuki?”
“course you don’t remember,” bakugou grumbles incredulously, standing from the bed in the same manner someone would flee from the scene of a crime. like he needs to get away from it all. from you. from the jail cell that is your fucked up relationship. “‘m not saying shit. got patrol so ‘m headin’ out.”
the blonde excuses himself weakly and reaches for his hero costume as a shield.
because maybe, right now, he needs to be dynamight instead of katsuki. he needs to be a hero to save himself.
“katsuki,” you growl to make him stay. “call you, what? say it. it’s on the tip of your tongue.”
the look he gives you is wounded and pleading. the kind only a dying animal could give whilst begging to be put out of its misery — whatever katsuki says now will be blood on your hands, his organs violently spilling into your grip since you’re the only person in his life with enough strength to rip his heart out from behind the doors to his psyche. “your boyfriend. you called me your boyfriend last night and i picked you up and i liked it.” katsuki admits from across the room, at a safe distance from you because confessing feelings to you is akin to stepping on a land mine.
he’s been fighting an internal war since figuring out that he feels for you outside of fucking, wishing like a wistful child on every lucky star that perhaps, you would be able to wave your white flag and admit the same. beyond your own facade, you could maybe trade your heart for his like you would for a trading card. if you’d wanted him the way he wanted you, you’d push your pride away just enough to let yourself believe you could love someone outside of yourself.
“i liked that you sat in my backseat, on the verge of throwing up and called me your boyfriend…” he supplies in the same way a child would when they make an attempt to be part of adult conversation — rushed in the sense that syllables land awkwardly and vowels tack themselves to the underneath of his tongue it moves around in his mouth, like there’s too much to say to you and not enough time for telling you. “i feel sick just sayin’ i liked that you let me hold your hair back when you did eventually puke your fuckin’ guts out, ‘nd let me shower you ‘nd change your clothes. let me hold you without making it weird, like we’re not supposed to do that shit just because all we do is have sex!”
with every inch he gives, you take, and the consequences nearly choke katsuki bakugou slowly to an unfair death. “i know you won’t ever let me do it again, now that you’re sober, ‘cause that’s not what you want and it’s not what we agreed to. you don’t like lookin’ like you need someone.”
“but i liked it,” bakugou rasps, vocal chords strained like an out of tune guitar — the notes wail into the tense, thickened air. “even if it was only for one fuckin’ night. when you were mine, for just one night. i liked being your boyfriend.”
he liked being wrapped around your finger, even if it were a noose.
“but you’re not,” the words of your retort are entirely too harsh and brittle, and they slip out like fine sand through fingertips before you have a chance to stop them. “you’re not my boyfriend.”
“exactly.”
“so what do we do?”
for the first time that morning. you sound scared — reality dawning on you as though you’ve woken up to nothing after dreaming about everything you could have ever wanted.
“dunno, do whatever you want,” he’s so tired of going back and forth. if he knew from the very day your eyes first met – in a similar fashion to two worlds colliding, colours mixing, flowers blooming – that this is what you’d wanted, he would have stayed far away. “you can stay. you know where your things are ‘nd i left you breakfast. in the fridge. bottom shelf where you can reach it.”
“katsuki, i–”
he shakes his head, the weight of him in your mind and head and in this very room lifting – as though he were never there. you seal your lips. your true feelings are a sullen, oppressive secret behind your teeth.
katsuki bakugou is stubborn. he always has been. to a fault. “i really gotta go, kay?”
you sink into the sheets, “okay… i’ll call you?”
the pit in the stomach tells you he’ll wait for your call, you know he will. he’s always been self destructive like that. you’re like a ticking time bomb in the centre of his bed, where he’s supposed to feel safest — just waiting to explode and send shards of shrapnel shaped like daggers directly into his scarred heart and he’s got no sense of danger. no telling of when you’re going to go off and decimate him.
“be safe.” you add.
“i will be. i–” katsuki looks back, his tongue pushed to form the shape of love that he quickly abandons as if the weight isn’t crushing his heart in his chest. “… just don’t go anywhere? we’ll talk about this later.”
you nod silently as he leaves. afraid.
you never do talk.
you never do stay.
because he’s certainly not your boyfriend and you’re not his girlfriend either.
there’s no obligation in that anyway.
end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!
synopsis: your ex boyfriend hates when you go to his friend’s hangouts. he still loves you though.
tags: minors dni, 18+, angsty, fluffy, smutty, making out, fingering (f). mentions of: jealousy, cheating (nobody does this) and insecurity.
notes: i rarely write insecure yns!!!!! usually i make bkg the insecure one LOL but branching out this new year. my true yn is neverrrrrr insecure though just so we are clear lol
when people say don’t date within your friendship group, don’t. when you break up, annoyances over too much pda and escaping the group to make out now become awkward encounters in group gatherings, having a conversation pretending the other isn’t there and parties trying to sneak a look at the other. every time you look at bakugou, he notices. every single time.
it didn’t mean to end badly with bakugou katsuki. you promise, a cross over your heart, that you didn’t want it to be an explosive ending because you knew you still had to see him regularly. you didn't only have the same friends but you lived in the same area, you had the same job. there’s equal chances that you’d see him on your weekly food run or in a meeting in your agency. though with this inevitability of seeing the pro hero again, it luckily means your friends work together so you don’t have to.
including tonight, when you were told bakugou wasn’t coming to midoriya’s monthly friend gathering because he’d be coming back late from his mission abroad. finally, it would be your turn to hang with your friends without the elephant shaped explosion hero in the room.
you let yourself through the open door, smile plastered on and pulling off your jacket, “sorry i’m late! there was traffic on the road coming over—,”
the room falls silent. so quiet you could hear a pin drop. three pairs of eyes bounce like a ping pong match between you and your ex boyfriend, the one who wasn’t supposed to be here tonight. you feel like a divorced parent, screaming that it’s your turn with the kids tonight.
looking at bakugou now, it always stings. it’s so vivid, the memory of how he’d look at you when you dated, that now it just feels like a hallucination that never happened. he looks disgusted, lip curled, eyebrows scrunched down and his eyes hooded as if he hates the fact you’re here. you think he just might. it doesn’t help when he pushes out of his seat with a loud scrape that makes your skin flare up with goosebumps. he storms out of the living room with his jaw clenched, off down midoriya's hallway.
your shoulders drop, exhausted. you just wanted an evening with your friends.
before you can apologise and sneak out, uraraka pipes up, donning a sweet pink sweater, hands intertwined under the table with midoriya's. her hazel eyes are so big and sympathetic that you’re embarrassed you caused this much commotion, “so sorry yn! we were texting you but i think because you were driving all the messages were going to silent.”
you pull out your phone. multiple texts from uraraka that bakugou’s flight was pushed back and he’s coming tonight. midoriya tried to call and then texted, Just a heads up, Kacchan will be here tonight. even todoroki, who only ever replies to you with one word, gave you two, Bakugou’s coming.
irritation blooms inside of you, prickling all over and you feel as if you’re about to bite. ochako is mumbling something to midoriya, who gives you another painfully sympathetic look and todoroki who is used to awkward dinners, focuses down on his phone, pretending he’s not there.
“sorry but it’s enough. i cant be doing this with him anymore, it’s unfair on you guys.”
you pull your shoes off, leaving them by the matching bigger ones at midoriya’s front door and plopping your bag down on his sofa.
“i’m going to talk to him and we’ll sort this out.”
todoroki looks up at you, a small smile on his face, “good luck.”
you already know where bakugou would be. everything you know about the man within three years of dating didn’t go down the drain. you pass the gym, midoriya’s bedroom, his bathroom, to his guest bedroom. yours and bakugou’s unofficial bedroom that you’d use every time you stayed over.
you only knock once before pushing the door open, finding the pro hero laying back on the bed, on top of the covers, facing the ceiling.
he’s always been the most beautiful man to you. you don’t think anyone else will ever be able to top him for the rest of your life. everybody always sees him mid fight, mid arguing, mid shouting. but bakugou katsuki, completely calm, is stunning.
gorgeous fluttering eyelashes that are long and straight. a jaw so sharp and a neck so thick, you remember kissing there first whenever you sat on his lap. his eyes… they span all shades of red depending on his emotions. your favourite was when they were a glowing ruby, full of love and appreciation for you.
but now he sits up, facing away and caught off guard by your presence. he was definitely expecting deku to walk in here, begging him to act right and to be nice to you. though once bakugou lays his eyes on you, a quick glance, his eyes become stone cold. washed over like a ship on stormy seas. he’s in a cream woollen zip up and you feel a burn right where your heart sits when you don’t recognise it.
bakugou leans forward, dropping his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. his sigh is dramatic and obnoxious and as much as you hate to see the disgust in his eyes when he looks at you now, you need to talk to him for the sake of your friends.
“we’ve got to talk.” you whisper. it’s like you’ve been demoted to a stranger, unsure how he’ll react.
“i don’t think we do, yn. i don’t have anythin’ to say to you.”
you’ve not spoken to him in weeks, perhaps when you asked him to pass the potatoes at kaminari’s dinner and before that was when you officially broke up. you’ve seen him a few times in agency offices, when you’ve had to drop things off. those times always ended with a melancholy look from him, before he stalks off out of your sight. since then you’ve successfully avoided each other.
bakugou still faces away from you. you can only see his side profile, his back. it reminds you of when you’d lie in this very bed, lightly scratching his back to tempt him to lay with you again. he’d always end up giving in.
“for our friends. we’ve made it so… awkward for them.” you’re looking at your hands because everything in this room is a memory.
“they’re my friends. they were my fuckin’ friends first.” he spits and that causes you to snap, rolling your eyes and turning your fingers into fists.
“how old are you?”
that causes bakugou to look at you. your body heats under his gaze. his eyes start at your socked feet, not bothering to put on slippers in your rush to talk to the man. your sheer black tights and mini skirt. then your winter jumper on top, red with a large white star in the centre. he’s silent as he stares at your face, your pouted lips, pretty eyes. your cheeks and forehead that he’d always kiss first.
“the fuck?”
“you’re acting like a child. you met them first at school and i met them when i started the programmes with ochako! they’re our friends. i didn’t even meet them through you!” you blurt, throwing your hands up in the air.
bakugou bolts up and the motion surprises you but you stand your ground refusing to move.
“i’m acting like a child? it’s you and them with all these fuckin’ texts. nobody tells me when you’re going to be here, nobody texts me in advance that yn is on her way. you’re always just here and everyone’s always so fuckin’ happy to see you.”
he’s massive, he’s always been large, able to loom over you and intimidate. at least he’s trying to intimidate you, make you leave and back down. you see his gold canine when he grinds down on his jaw, the scars on his hands tightening as he crosses his arms across his chest. it doesn’t work on you. you’re seen this man in every position possible. crying in your arms when he couldn’t save a little girl in a fire and begging you not to leave him. in hospital, weak with fresh stitches across his chest and in your bedroom, overstimulated for a release.
so you step in closer to him, head up so he can’t break eye contact with you, “because you act like this. running off to have a tantrum whenever i appear. we can be civil, i always wanted us to be civil, katsuki.”
he laughs, lacking all humour with a grin that looks villainous. “you think we can be civil? to go from loving you, to fuckin’ civil?”
you sharply inhale. there should have been a contract he signed that you can’t talk about how much he loved you and you to him.
“do you not think about how painful it is to be around you? listenin’ to how good your life is going without me in it? up on the charts, another sponsor. i get it if i have to see you in agencies, but at deku’s? in this f-fuckin’ room?”
bakugou’s trying not to shout, he knows how you shut down when anyone raises their voice at you. but not shouting means now his voice is trembling, a scratched whisper like his voice box is infected with sickness.
you’re speechless for a moment and he takes a chance to stand up straighter, a deep breath to reorder his organs. “so fuckin’ forgive me if i have to take a moment before dealing with you, unexpectedly, for a whole evening.”
“i didn’t want us to be like this.” you shake your head, chewing down on your cheek. it’s you who looks away because bakugou looking like he’s about to cry will set you off. you can see his waterline brewing with tears, even when he turns to wipe them away.
“you did a fucked job at makin’ us any different.”
you’re like an untrained puppy, jumping from emotion to emotion with every word he says. you clutch the end of your skirt so you don’t press your fingernails into your palms.
“don’t act like you wouldn’t have done the same in my position! our jobs always come first if we like it or not!” you blurt, “i couldn’t handle comparing myself to you all the time, about how the media would say i’m weak and an embarrassment for you. you would have done the exact same to me!”
he’s going to pull his hair out by the root, you never see his point of view. he wishes he could just insert his brain into yours for a moment, see yourself how he sees you and nothing else matters. “i never gave a fuck about the media. you shouldn’t have given a fuck either.”
you scoff, “it’s easy for you to say when you weren’t being bombarded with it.”
you walk over to look out the window, anything away from the man who makes you crumble. it’s feels as if all your senses are going off, serotonin being released in the air just from being in his presence.
“and my life hasn’t been better without you. i’ve just been working so much and i wanted my one break with my friends. not to be arguing with you.” you watch the snow fall outside, a tree branch snapping from holding too much.
“i can make a statement. tell them all to back off, that there’s no need to compare us. to even talk about us.”
you didn’t expect him to be so close to you, the heat of his breath trickling down your neck. his voice is deep and gravelly, every word scraping his throat.
you smile, defeated, “we both know they’d ignore it. i saw a comment that i was just a waiting room until you leave me and become number one. i was overthinking every time i’d see you talk to another woman.”
you yelp when his calloused fingers land on your bicep, spinning you around so your back is pressed against the window.
the need is tangible in his eyes, molten lava pupils forcing you into his atmosphere. his hand stays on your bicep and his other twitches to land on your cheek, your waist, though it lays limply by his side.
“was i not good to you? did you think i would have actually gone through with cheatin’ on you? did i not show you how much i love you?”
you can’t handle all the emotion, the crack in his voice, how he gives in and tangles his fingers with yours. you turn away from him, clamping your eyes shut so you don’t cry.
“it wasn’t about that—,”
he doesn’t give you time, fingertips on your chin to face him again, “answer me. did i show you how much i love you? i treated you right, always looked after you. i took you on dates, bought you gifts. i always made you breakfast and picked you up when i was half asleep and i listened to everything you’d ever say.”
you’re nodding before he can finish his sentence, wiping away the tear trickling down your cheek. “you did. you were so good to me.”
bakugou feels desperate, shaking the bars to his enclosure to get you to understand. “so why the fuck would i cheat on you? you’ve all i’ve ever wanted, all i need—,”
“i know, katsuki, i know but i couldn’t control it! i was always reading that i’m incomparable to you, an article on how another hero would match you perfectly, seeing your new sidekicks and i couldn’t do it.” you sniff and both paw-like palms rest on your cheeks to wipe away your tears.
it’s a reflex, it’s the only way he can excuse why he kisses you. whenever you’d cry around him, be it over stress or a bad day at work, bakugou would always lay his lips over yours in a little peck. it was the only way to snap you out of your carousel of revolving thoughts.
his lips are sweet on your salty ones and he’s about to apologise for even touching you like that, how inappropriate but you sneak your arms around his neck and lock his head to yours. it’s a peck that becomes open mouthed, his head tilting as he pushes you up against the window. he swallows your gasp, his hand sneaking up your jumper to feel your warm waist at the same time you bite down on his lower lip.
“i’ve missed you so much.” he mumbles against your lips and you’re yet to say the same, you’re yet to even say you still love him. bakugou doesn’t know how to get it out of you without begging.
you pull him back in, hands clutching at his hair. everything is grabby and needy, soft fabric of his jumper in your palms and your pulsing tongue swiping against his. it all makes you wetter, wetter than you’ve been in months.
bakugou presses his crotch in your stomach and your shaky exhale becomes a whimper. “tell me you missed me, baby.”
you don’t even need to think, the words tumble past you, your inner dialogue escaping, “i’ve missed you so much, so much katsuki.”
that’s enough for bakugou to pick you up and throw you onto the bed. your bed. his bed. forearms by your head and he’s kissing trails across your jawline, down your neck. your legs magnetise around his waist, biting back groans every time he grinds between your open legs.
“needed to hear that. i’ve been dying, being apart from you,” and he wants to whip off your jumper to kiss down your shoulder and chest. everything feels insufficient, if he doesn’t touch you now, when will you ever let him again? his chest is heavy and heaving and it’s your hands grabbing at his jumper for him to take it off.
he does so without much thought and bakugou feels alight, a raging ball of fire as your eyes gaze down his body. your lips are bitten sore, eyes swollen red and he doesn’t think you could be any prettier than you are at this moment. your hands brush down his chest, thumbs over his nipples, each finger tip across his abdomen. bakugou’s breathing is unpredictable, shaky. his cock is sitting painfully in his jeans and all he’s done is kiss you.
“you’re so beautiful. i always told you that, didn’t i?” you mumble in a trance and bakugou slowly nods.
“yeah, you did. nothin’ compared to you though, prettiest girl i’ve ever seen. i will ever see.”
he shuffles your thick jumper off, leaving you in a delicate lilac lace bra and your mini skirt. “fuck,” it feels like forever since he’s last had you like this, needy and panting in his arms, “and you took all this away from me?” then he laughs, “i didn’t even do shit.”
his gaze is so soft, so loving, it makes you weightless. you hold his cheek, unable to contain it all without feeling like you made a grave mistake.
“katsuki,” you whisper, dragging him down by his nape for another kiss. you’re biting away your moans, tugging tufts of his hair without realising. he starts to grind down on you again and your tights are so thin against his jeans that everything feels delectable. “we can’t have sex.”
“why?” bakugou pulls off you, eyes wide and alert. he’s preparing for his heart to break again, you’ve been with someone else since you’ve been apart, you’re dating someone new, you’re—
instead, you give him a smile that renders his brain useless, pure mush and fog. “because all our friends are a few rooms over wondering why we aren’t screaming our heads off at each other.”
bakugou blinks, then blinks some more to clear his vision from his one track mind to make you come or to kill a man that doesn’t exist.
there’s still so much to say between you both, he needs you to be his again, he needs to fix this problem in with your relationship, he needs you back in his fucking arms.
“i swear i don’t fuckin’ care.” and you can tell from the way he holds you closer against his chest, rocking his hips into yours, “there’s not one part of me that cares right now.”
you take it upon yourself to tighten your legs around bakugou’s hips and roll him onto his back so you’re on top, sitting on his chest.
it’s arousing how he grins, slow and seductive like this sneaking around is just foreplay, a little bit of fun.
“and i’m sorry baby, but we still need to talk about everything,” you breathe.
“baby? i still gotta chance?”
“i didn’t—,” you sigh, palms pressed flat against his chest. you adore bakugou with his cheeks flushed, eyes hooded sleepily and his hands locked on your hips, “i need to work through things.”
he intertwines his fingers with yours, “together, we can work through them together.” he doesn’t let you look away from him, “can’t let you get away again. i can’t.”
“don’t make me cry again,” you lightly scratch his chest and bakugou thinks he’s discreet when he shifts you onto his cock.
but you inhale immediately, gnawing down on your bottom lip to fight a moan, “katsuki,” you warn.
“not gonna make you cry. fuckin’ hate when you do.” he thrusts his hips upwards, grinding your hips over him like you’re clay to be moulded.
“no, i mean it about us not having sex,” you whine, flicking your hips in rhythm with him. bakugou’s dying to kick his jeans off, feel you wet and warm around him. “we need to go back in there and act like we hate each other.”
“don’t hate you. it’s the fuckin’ opposite.” all the blood in bakugou’s races to his crotch, head light with nothing inside. moans are tumbling from him, eyes on your breasts spilling out of your pretty bra.
he nods his head to it, “when’d you buy that? when we broke up?”
his hand sneaks under your skirt, the pads of his pointer and middle finger rubbing circles into your clit.
you’re overwhelmed, hard to focus on what you shouldn’t do, what you want to do and what you shouldn't say. you don’t stop roaming his chest, rutting your hips against his hand.
you shake your head, breathless, “no. when we were together.”
“hah?” he grunts, studying you like you’re an equation to work out. he keeps rubbing you over your thin layers, electric that you want him just as much, “why’d i never get to see it?”
you’re pressing your hips down, pleasure spreading through you like melting butter. you’re all hot, flushed, hair a mess. “i don’t want to tell you.”
that makes bakugou perk up, resting up on a forearm, “nah, tell me. tell me or you’re not comin’.”
“no, it’s so embarrassing,” you slur, kissing the corner of his lips then his bottom one. it’s like you’ve never been apart, everything about him is so familiar.
sitting up fully now with you straddling his lap, bakugou sneaks his hand past your tights and underwear. his rough fingers swipe down to your centre, collecting your wetness to rub over your sensitive bud. you can barely keep your head up.
“oh fuck,” you mewl, lips against his ear, “it always feels so much better when you do it.”
“i know, baby,” he coos, other hand on your ass, “tell me why i’ve never seen this bra.”
you’re close to tears for a whole other reason now, clutching onto him like a lifeline.
“i-i was so insecure by the end. thinking about you and other women. thought you wouldn’t like me like this,” you whimper.
it’s anger that strikes bakugou first, anger at himself, for you feeling like this and him not having a clue until you couldn’t handle it all. no matter what he thinks, he wasn’t a good boyfriend, he should have known this, noticed the changes.
“so stupid. have never looked at anyone else since i met you. whenever i touch myself i think of you. it’s a fuckin’ privilege seein’ you like this, yn,” no pet name because he needs you to know he means you. “you’re the first thing i’ve ever wanted and couldn’t have. ripped from my fuckin’ hands.”
“i’m sorry,” you whisper, so close to falling apart over his fingers. you just need one thing to set you off. your body moves hypnotically over him and bakugou’s in a trance. your breasts heave in his face and he litters kisses over them.
“don’t apologise to me. i’m gonna fix this all,” he breathes, lips wet with his own spit, “gonna come for me, sweetness? wanna see you.”
you take his jaw in your palm, bringing him to your face in an open mouthed kiss. as soon as his tongue touches yours, you’re falling apart, hips jutting faster, face going limp. there’s white behind your eyelids, squeezing them shut because the pleasure is more than you can handle.
“all for me. let me have it. my pretty girl, aren’t you?” he grunts, laying kiss upon kiss on your lips. “you’re not leavin’ me after this are you?”
“fuck,” you try to whisper so your friends don’t hear, but it’s spilling out of you, “no, never. i love you so much, katsuki. so much.”
finally, finally he gets to hear it from you. “i love you too. you drive me insane.”
once you’re wiped out, bakugou pulls his fingers from your quivering hole and quickly inserts them into his mouth.
you laugh sleepily, hitting his shoulder, “you’re so crazy.”
he shrugs, locking you in his arm against his chest. once he's sure he's sucked every bit of your essence, he smirks, “i would eat you out but they’re gonna hear you screamin’. you wouldn’t want that.”
he’s missed you desperately. especially like this, tender in his arms looking at him like he’s your world. he’s sure he’s got the same look in his eyes.
another giggle flows from you.
“can i be yours again? you takin’ me back?” he asks softly, preparing to flinch from your rejection. he could barely take it the first time, but now?
“i’m not saying no—,”
bakugou rests his head on your shoulder in failure, hands gripping your waist. “fuck.”
“no, listen to me,” he lifts his head slowly, the pout unmissable, “i love you, i want to be with you forever. i just need to work on ignoring the comments and getting so jealous. or else this will just happen again.”
“can’t have this happenin’ again,” he mumbles, completely lovedrunk, trying to read everything unsaid in your eyes.
you shake your head, holding him in your hands, “just give me some time, please. i know i sorta sprung it on you before.”
he understands what you’re saying, he gets it. doesn’t mean it still doesn’t sting. he kisses both your palms, holding your wrists. you feel soppy like a ball of emotions and bakugou doesn’t look any different.
“okay. tell me what i needa do too. you and i against the world, baby.”
that makes you smile, pressing a kiss to his lips, “you and i, baby.”
after spending another fifteen minutes looking like you didn’t just come on his fingers, you and bakugou walk back into midoriya’s living room a metre apart.
uraraka has a shaky smile on, looking like prey in an ocean of sharks. izuku has a single eyebrow raised in suspicion and todoroki, well he’s completely neutral.
“you guys back together now?” the bi-haired pro hero asks.
“you were gone for a while,” your best friend offers, tilting her head for an answer.
a slow smile creeps on midoriya’s face, particularly focusing on his best friend beside you. how bakugou twitches, the permanent blush on his face and how his cream woollen jumper is zipped not quite all the way up, showing a little too much chest.
though he doesn’t say a word, he knows exactly what’s gone down.
you're first to shake your head, sitting next to midoriya whilst bakugou sits across from you on the sofa next to todoroki. you stare at your ex-boyfriend when you reply to your friends, pulling the sleeve of your jumper.
“no, we were just talking. had lots to say.”
bakugou bites his smirk, pulling on his best poker face as he spreads his legs apart and slouches on the sofa.
“mind your business,” is all he says, looking at your thighs so you cross them over in a panic.
todoroki laughs, “sure, like the tension in this room hasn’t changed.”
bakugou shoves his friend, “shut the fuck up.”
uraraka locks eyes with you on her arm chair, mouthing, “you okay?”
you nod, eyes practically twinkling. mouthing back, “i’m good.”
after the snappy back and forth between bakugou and todoroki, ruby eyes are back on yours with sappy adoration, knee bouncing and scratching the back of his head.
“see, you could barely talk about yn before and now you can’t take your eyes off her.”
“leave him, shouto!” midoriya blurts at the same time bakugou grunts, “get off my fuckin’ ass.”
todoroki deems his suspicions confirmed when bakugou climbs into your car at the end of the night.
likes don’t do anything on tumblr! but reblogs, comments and asks mean the world! i delete comments asking for the next part. thanks xox
Synopsis. On campus? Choso Kamo’s the sweet, shy nerd you share film class with - the one who can barely meet your eyes without blushing. Online? Choso Kamo is really @cursed(your)wombz—the #1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends with 820k followers to see his…nine inches. And he might just be looking for a partner.
Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, streamer!Choso, (sort of) B́J Alex AU, cámboy!Choso, college AU, he’s a nerd, film nerd!Choso, secret identities, masks, píercings (ears, tóngue, D), tattoos, chat, streaming, you’re a fan, identity reveal, exhíbitíonism, oraI (fem rec.), again PlERCINGS, tongue f, spítting, p sIapping, p talking, letting the viewers choose, fíngering with rings, overstím, dúmbifícation, Jacob’s Ladder, rough s, fiIthy s, he’s sIightly mean, tummy buIges, making it fit, pressing down, talking you through it, cIit pinching, pússydrúnk Choso, matíng presses, chokíng, manhandIing, mocking, sIight níppIe stim, creampíes, chat Iove you, cúmpIay, getting together, Phantom of the Opera references, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 14.9k
A/N. Hehehehehe-
Sunday was the night you’d found him; sprawled out on your bed and thumbing through the Internet. Some glitzy pop song you couldn’t name blasted from your speakers, and the room was saturated in the tingly excitement of having speedy Wi-Fi, no assignments, and the night to yourself. LED lights pink.
You’re checking some of your messages - doling out a few hearts, a few reposts - when that bell-shaped button bursts in blue. A new notification.
@cursed(your)wombz liked your repost.
It was on a photograph of the Sun—big and yellow, seemingly melting over a grey horizon.
Which was perfectly ordinary- this was the Internet, after all. And though your list of followers was modest, of course you’d interact with a stranger here and there.
The problem was in the way the notification disappeared as soon as it came.
An…accident maybe? This person had liked and unliked your repost. And without a second thought, you’re typing their username into the search bar.
And clicking on their profile.
@cursed(your)wombz huh?
He had a pitch-black profile picture and a layout with nothing of note, a banner as equally colorless and unnotable, and a simple bio stating:
I know what you want…
- C.
And beneath that was a link.
It stood out stark against the black background. You don’t click on it, of course- for fear of being something malicious, you’re avoiding it like you’d avoid a minefield.
You’ve already heard one too many horror stories on here about such things. One click and you’d find your address posted somewhere. Instead, your eyes drop to the number of followers he had…and your eyebrows are immediately shooting up.
0 Following.
581k Followers.
Now that makes you blink.
Okay- alright, maybe it wasn’t the most astounding number you’ve ever seen throughout your expansive time on the Internet - but it was still niche celebrity-status. Especially on this app. Especially to be stalking an account like yours…where all you did was repost the stray picture of a pretty landscape or yell into the aether about your missing assignments for your friends to comment on.
Now that was a little strange.
And so you’re scrolling down.
And you never quite know what you’re in for whenever you enter the realm of a person’s account—fanfiction with tags you never knew existed, one part of an argument on social media that really shouldn’t exist, mpreg.
Which was all fine and dandy to be quite honest- you just never expect to be met with the most beautiful man you’ve ever laid eyes on.
The first picture you’re seeing- pinned.
Posted just an hour ago. It’s a mirror selfie taken at a low angle; of a man with his body angled towards the lens and his phone covering his face. In nothing but a towel. With nothing but his chiselled body. His beefy arms flexed as he takes the picture, biceps rippled with a few veins—though still lean and almost smooth to the touch. Pierced nipples. Defined abs. Your eyes linger on the sparse dusting of dark hair leading below, below, below his fluffy white towel…
The picture cuts off just a few inches past his navel. You know because you’re enlarging it.
The photo is almost vampiric in nature.
Somehow.
Dimly-lit. Beautiful—he clearly knew his angles and lighting. It’s slightly blurry and you can’t make out much of the man’s features - nothing more than the slender length of his fingers, silver rings, and the outline of his dark (perhaps brown?) hair. Touching his shoulders. From just above the hem of his towel, the amorphous blur of a tattoo snakes down his left v-line - and no matter how much you’re zooming in, you can’t quite figure out what it is.
Something twists at the pit of your stomach as you’re latching your eyes onto the very obvious bulge he was sporting through the towel - very.
The flash created a shadow of his lengthy cock—oh. Hanging between thick thighs, heavy and needy. And it also illuminated the slight dampness clinging onto his body; perhaps he’d just gotten out of the shower, or was about to take on after a workout.
Whichever scenario it was, both made your thighs clench- fuck.
Fingers slightly shaky, you’re exiting out of the picture and scrolling down for more.
The next post is a video seemingly taken from the very same instance: it was from the point of view of the beautiful man. Facing downwards, as he zoomed the camera in on his bulge and ran one vein-covered, ringed hand down his abs- down his pelvis- down to that throbbing erection and squeezed himself through his towel.
And then through your speakers echoes out the most pornographic moan.
Thank goodness your dorm had thick walls.
And that’s when you decide that you’ve seen enough.
Not enough as in enough enough to block this strange man and move on with your life- of course, not. As quickly as your fingers would possibly let you, you’re exiting out of the video and scrolling up to a bio that seemed to have more to hide than the first time you read through it.
The link stands mockingly stark - almost winking at you - against the dark background. You think you know what it is.
And you click on it.
Suddenly, your laptop screen’s flooding with a gaudy pink color. A loading circle swivels in the middle of it for a few seconds, before you’re met with a logo in swooping, slanted black script: C4mBoyfriends. Better than that boy in your dms.
Rapidly, you’re opening up a new tab and typing in the name.
“C4mBoyfriends is an adult streaming platform that hosts webcam performers that choose to label themselves as male. Here they can stream live video, post photographs, and interact on forums with a wide array of paying viewers—for a range of content catering to specific niches or sexual roleplays. C4mBoyfriends, since its recent launch, has shot up in the industry as one of the most-visited adult sites and the safest for its performers. All cuts go to the performers themselves and the site runs on separate donations from its audience.”
Ah- you’d guessed right.
Excitement burbles at the pit of your stomach for a few seconds. You’re clicking back onto the tab with the pink logo, and finding that it’d stopped loading.
It was in the layout of a streaming device, with static images of ongoing streams on one side of the platform, and different pages listed out on top. But what took up the majority of your screen was the vision of the very same man from before- from the mirror selfie, from the video.
This time, it was a stream.
@cursed(your)wombz is streaming—#1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends [101 week streak]. [Only solo]. Your internet boyfriend <3
0 Subscribed.
820k Subscribers.
455k Currently watching.
This time, he had his towel lifted up and his hands fisted around his fat cock.
Perfectly angled.
Your jaw drops. He was about eight- maybe more inches, though you weren’t in the state to count. Way too entranced by the way his veiny, ring-decorated hands were wrapped around his cock. Large. He was just so loooong and standing tall between wide-spread legs, shiverin’ every time he’s gliding his hand up and down. Up and down.
Again and again.
Getting faster by the second before he arches-
The edge of his thumb’s reaching for his ruby-red crown—then smearing the glistening liquid that just kept on foaming from the top. He lathers it upon his palm and drags it down his hot erection, making every inch gleam underneath the off-camera lighting.
You’re clicking on a button to increase your volume.
And just in time, too, because then he snakes his left hand down and squeezes his heavy balls- letting out a botched groan that leaves your shorts oh-so-wet.
Deep and guttural; there’s a slight quiver in them as he whispers. “F-fuck.” Just so full and sensitive—the man’s head tips backwards and his hips buck off the cushioned chair. Sluttily. As though he was fucking something invisible. It’s creaking ever-so-slightly as he settles back down, composing himself just a little bit before he starts cumming.
Pearly white droplets of cum.
Beading from the very top of his shaft - where he was the most pink n’ angry - shaking as he empties out. Globs of it start to glide down his length, and a few more collect where his silver Prince Albert’s piercing was positioned right beneath his mushroomy tip.
You’re just letting your eyes linger upon that little heap of satiny sap, when the man thumbs upwards and smears that, too. Such a mess.
And you think that might be all- but then he’s reaching his non-dominant hand upwards and pressing down on his frothing cockhead. Stopping himself from cumming - and as he leans to the side, you swear you’re glimpsing the twinkle of even more piercings on the upper side of his shaft. Was that…a Jacob’s ladder?
You’re rendered so damn speechless that you almost don’t register him speaking- “Awwww, did my pretty sluts wanna watch me cum?”
A shiver runs down your spine at the hitched tone of his voice- drunk on lust. He’s slightly slurring. So alluring, you almost catch yourself nodding.
“Well, too bad.” The man meanly snickers, before he’s suddenly reaching out with his non-dominant hand and angling it higher. The screen shifts to display that very same mouth-watering body from the picture—though, this time with the addition of a black-and-white mask that covered his features from forehead to his sharp jawline.
The only opening in it was a concave cutout for his mouth - almost reminiscent of a Phantom of the Opera mask. In the background was a clearly expensive bedroom of a clearly expensive home - far different from your single dorm - an artwork that you couldn’t name on the wall behind him. Something like a photograph or a portrait. Something about it was so precise- so cinematic. Like watching a movie scene. He continues, “Because you know why? You don’t deserve it.”
There’s a flurry of comments on one side of the screen, so fast that you wonder how he reads it.
“Didn’t I tell you to spam me with your nastiest stories in the chat?” He asks, and from beneath his mask you catch the outline of dark eyes shifting down those hurried words. Those needy comments. “None of you are nasty enough, so none of you get to see me cum…”
You’re tearing your eyes off of him to peruse what they were saying.
@girrrrrrrrrrth: nuuuuuu please, curse! i’ll get on my knees!!
@vampzo333: me too ME TOO
@likezmenpregnant: My story about the body pillow wasn’t nasty enough? TT
@CCpervnextdoor: AWWWW I’m begging~
@Curse’swifey: I’LL PAY YOU EXTRA PLEASEEEEEEE
@Curse’swifey donated 500 cherries.
“Tch- what a desperate bunch. Just fucking look at yourselves…” And though his words weren’t in the least bit nice, you couldn’t deny just how badly he made your cunt twinge.
Curse…that’s what his name was, huh?
You’re squeezing your thighs together- your sleep shorts were definitely soaked.
Curse rolls out the kinks in his neck just a little, and stares down at the camera with a crooked grin. “But that’s not gonna be enough. I said to be nasty- so be nasty.” The active chat becomes nothing but a blur once more: pleas, donations, stories half-typed in their urgency. “And in return I’ll moan whatever name you want me to moan when I cum.”
Before you know it, you’re opening up the sign-up page in a new tab.
Keeping Curse’s livestream playing in the background as you zip through your details. You’re picking out a username for yourself: Ietsmakeamovie and hastily going back to the ongoing stream with your newfound handle. Was it too obvious to make it the same username as your other account? The one that he had stalked?
Fuck- you’re too wound up to think of something else at this point. You decide that you’ll change it later…
Luckily, Curse’s stream didn’t have a paying threshold before you could comment. And you’re jittery with excitement as you pull the laptop closer to yourself and start typing out something—hitting send before you could overthink it.
@Ietsmakeamovie: Seeing you is the first time I’ve gotten this wet.
Curse’s eyes drift down the chat, and he seems to latch onto something. Eyes widening just a fraction.
“The first time?”
Fuck.
You’re feeling a jolt at the way he addresses you - never expecting him to pick out that comment amongst tens of thousands of others that were uttering even filthier things. Curse leans in and speaks with his deep tone, “Those other boys didn’t know how to treat a perfect pussy like yours, huh? This is why they call me the Internet boyfriend, baby.”
@Ietsmakeamovie: Yeah.
@Ietsmakeamovie: Fuck, you’re so hot.
@Ietsmakeamovie: I don’t even wanna look away to touch myself.
You feel embarrassed typing it all out - but you console yourself with the notion that no one here knows who you are. And you don’t know anyone here, either.
Curse leans back and starts pumping his cock even harder—taking his left hand off the drivelling top. His milky-white precum is frenzied n’ sticks to his hand like glue, and the chat grows more and more excited as Curse’s actions do the same.
“That’s alright, baby, you don’t have to finger yourself.” He chuckles, eyes locked on the comments. “I’d be doing that for you if I was there.”
@Ietsmakeamovie: Wish you were. You’d reach so much deeper.
@Ietsmakeamovie donated 1000 cherries.
“Fuh-fuck—” He hisses, head throwing back in his chair. You take the time to admire the lines of his prominent Adam’s apple - the way it bobs every time he’s taking a shaky swallow. “No need to donate or anything, baby, just keep- ngh, talking t’me like this and that’s enough…”
@0003h0lesforCurse: holy shit. i’ve never seen him like this.
@CCpervnextdoor: Needy Curse I like it~
@bewbsRlife: KEEP GOING OP KEEP GOING!!
You giggle to yourself.
@Ietsmakeamovie: Enough to make you cum, Curse?
“Greedy, greedy girl…” Through the slightest gaps in his mask you’re catching the way his nose crinkles in amusement. A wolfish smile. “S’that what you all want?”
The chat explodes in agreement.
He cocks his head, “Movie?”
Was that your new nickname now? Hastily, you reply-
@Ietsmakeamovie: Mhm.
“Well then…” He grins, toned body arching off the chair. “Get ready for a show—” Darkened gaze narrowing at the comments, “And you better not take your eyes off of me for a single second- hump your damn pillows if you have to. I don’t care.”
Quickly grabbing your own puffy pillow, you’re stuffing it between your legs.
Right as Curse lets his head loll backwards- and his cum drizzles out of his cock. He’s been edging the poor viewers and overstimulatin’ himself for so fucking long now—all it takes is a few pumps to let the cascade of white coat his hands and his rings. Just the slightest bit of silver peaking through.
Hard and fast.
The man’s cockhead flushes even redder as he drags his high out deliciously. Every burst of dopamine. Every heaving pant. Every pretty moan escaping him.
It seems to be ramming into him in waves- gooey ribbons of seed coat his digits. Getting smeared like a gloss across eeeeevery single inch, ridge, and vein—and since Curse’s pace was something furious, a few globs of cum splatter across the towel and onto his thighs. A mess that he’s seeming to love.
Because in the next few seconds, he’s wrung out just the final bits of pleasure in him- and is raising his cum-coated fingers up to his mouth and sucking. Staring straight into the camera lens as he does so.
You’re watching slack-jawed as those long, lacquered digits disappear between his lips. Finishin’ them off squeaky clean and letting his head tip to the side.
He mouths, “Movie—”
Part of your username.
Though you hadn’t asked for him to moan your name, as he’d promised to do to one of the viewers had they been nasty enough. And this special treatment…
Maybe he did it to every new viewer. Maybe he just liked how much you complimented him- though everyone else did, too. Either way, it’s perhaps what sets off the bursts of electricity between your legs—and soon enough you’re hurtling into a high you hadn’t even realized had been building up and up and up.
Your lashes flutter shut as the orgasm overtakes you.
Hips ruttin’ away into the plushness of your pillow- you wonder just how much better riding him would be…
And that’s setting off a whole new layer of dopamine at your core, your cunt quiverin’ as white-hot pleasure makes your heartbeat throb in your ears. Chest pounding. Breaths heavy.
By the time you’ve finished pushing through your high, you’re coming to find that Curse had somewhat cleaned himself up with the towel and was bantering back n’ forth with the chat. He rests his head on one hand and sweeps his eyes down the usernames, “What happened to dear Movie, huh?” Curse pretends to pout. “The first stream wasn’t too much for her, right?”
@girrrrrrrrrrth: kekekeke you’re too freaky, curse!!
@CCpervnextdoor: So dirty~
@daddytoeknee: Must thank Movie for the show though…
Urgently, you’re gathering yourself and tapping a few buttons on-screen.
@Ietsmakeamovie subscribed to @cursed(your)wombz.
@Ietsmakeamovie donated 2500 cherries.
@Ietsmakeamovie: It’d never be too much.
“Ahhh, there you are.” Such a beautiful smile smears across his face, and Curse’s leaning in to take a closer look at the comments. “And thank you for subscribing, same time tomorrow?”
You’re unsure whether that was directed at you or everyone viewing- but you’re chiming in agreement alongside the rest of the comments. And Curse reads through them, lingering for just a little while longer before he grins.
“Heh- bye, sluts.”
And he covers the camera, the stream cuts off.
Yet your heart still thunders.
Ignoring the time at the bottom of your laptop screen, you’re then clicking on his profile and scrolling through what other videos he had…
.
.
.
It was your fault that you kept dozing off.
Honestly.
You should have known better- and you know that you should’ve known better…but you couldn’t help yourself. After Curse’s initial stream, you spent some time browsing through the numerous photographs and short clips that he’d posted; there were even some saved streams that were each dirtier than the last—each with his attractive mask and his even more attractive voice, his sensual cock getting pumped over and over for the audiences.
And so you’d left a few comments, a few hearts.
Throughout all of them, you made the peculiar discovery that they were all more high-quality than the last. The standard of being the #1 on the site, you guess. But the lighting and angles were all just so perfect…
You’d watched them for just a little while- at least, what you’d thought was a little while. Because by the time you’re realizing that your laptop battery was dying, and your eyes were tired, you’re turning your head in the direction of the dorm windows and- fuck.
Why was the Sun coming up?
And so you’d rushed to get at least half an hour of sleep before you had to get up for your 8AM lecture.
Professor Yaga taught Film 101 as though he was trying to scare everyone off it. Rigorous coursework and never-altered deadlines. Though you yourself wouldn’t consider him an unreasonable man, it was impertinent to be punctual and alert in his classes - and right now, you were feeling neither of those.
By the grace of the universe, you’re somehow managing to stumble into class just two minutes after it starts. It’s not enough to rouse Yaga’s anger - and either way, you had made a name for yourself as one of his most avid students - though it does get you a sternly raised brow as you apologize and take the nearest open seat.
Just-so-happening to be in the very last row.
At the very forgotten corner.
Right beside who you knew to be Yaga’s actually most avid student—Choso Kamo.
Had it been a race between the two of you - perhaps between the entire department - Choso would have finished five times before anyone’s even stepping past the finish line. You would’ve gotten second. And that wasn’t to diminish your abilities in any way - you’d long since proven yourself to be one of the best students this course had even seen - it’s just…Choso was a film nerd through and through.
If there was anyone that could live up to such a title, then it was him.
Choso lived, slept, and breathed film and television. He could name any television show around the world with just a single frame, and most he could recite line-for-line. Oh, that? He learned Korean just to immerse himself in that scene in Parasite. That scene? It was from the 1957 Sri Lankan film Amba Yahaluwo, by the way did you know that Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was filmed there, too?
Knitted vest. Hair in two messy space buns.
Clunky glasses rested atop his nosebridge, and dark bangs covering most of his vision, you’d often see him tottering around campus with a column of books that was damn-near taller than him. And despite his towering demeanour - from your mental counting, Choso was around 6’2 or more - around most of the student body, he was the type that couldn’t meet your eyes no matter how many classes you shared with him.
Even now, as you seated right next to him and smiled- Choso softly yelps and turns away from.
You don’t take it personally, of course, as he was simply the shy type. And by the flush that rises to his high cheekbones, you know he - at the very least - doesn’t dislike you.
Situating yourself, you’re opening your bag and pulling out your laptop. Opening it- fuck.
The briefest flash of one of Curses’s previous streams—where he had his cock in his hands and his face contorted mid-ecstasy flashes across your screen. And you can’t slam your laptop shut fast enough- cracking it just the slightest bit to exit out of the numerous tabs, fingers nothing but a blur. Thank fuck your volume hadn’t been set on high.
Head ducked, you’re looking out from the corner of your eye to check whether Choso had seen anything.
But if he did, he shows no indication.
Only keeping his back ramrod straight- his gaze ahead- his flush fiery as he listens to whatever Yaga was saying.
And so you think you’re in the clear…for now…
Opening your laptop up once more, you’re logging onto your lecture platforms and attempting to forget about last night. Which was difficult when that smile upon Curse’s face, just beneath his mask - was the only thing running through your mind.
And before you know it, you’d been staring blankly at your screen for a few seconds—before Choso inches in just a centimeter closer. Unwilling to let himself take up even more space. He keeps his eyes trained ahead and his voice - fuck, you’d never heard his voice before but it was just so deep and measured, something you wouldn’t have expected out of him - low.
Whispering to you, “H-he’s on Chapter 18 of Stone Butch Blues, we’re about to write a screenplay for the zoo scene.”
“Ah…” You don’t know whether you’re more surprised at the timbre of his voice or the way he managed a proper sentence out to you. All your previous attempts at conversation throughout the semester had been futile—and you’d long resigned yourself to the idea that he was too nervous to ever talk to you. “Th-thank you.”
He doesn’t answer but nods in shy acknowledgement.
And as you’re opening up your file, you bask in the realization that Choso Kamo was actually hot underneath those glasses. If only you could see his features further…
Maybe you’re being a little delirious. Your eyes feel heavy.
Heavy.
Heavier.
Tap-tap-tap.
A shake.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
A warm hand on your shoulder, by the time you’re opening your eyes- you’re looking up into even warmer, molten chocolate-colored ones. They were framed by fawny eyelashes and thick glasses that made his shy gaze seem ever-so-slightly amplified.
You think you’re stunned for a few seconds before Choso speaks, “U-um…class is over.”
“Oh.” That makes you dart your head up and look around, noticing that most of the students had filtered in or were in the process of already doing so. “Oh, shit-”
You’d seriously slept through all that?
And Yaga had left you alive?!
No, you weren’t going to question this act of mercy—thank goodness for the last row, because he likely hadn’t been able to see you. Shooting upright, you’re grabbing all your things and hoping you hadn’t snored next to the sweet boy - “Thank you so much for waking me.” You’re turning towards him and saying, earnestness seeping into your tone. “Knowing me, I would’ve slept right through till next class. Might actually have been more convenient.”
He startles into a laugh then raises a hand up to his mouth and quietens himself down, “It’s alright.” You’re staring closely at the little bells of laughter, and he turns his eyes downwards. Bashfully admitting, “Happens to me too, whenever I stay up um- studying. Long night?”
You sigh, “You could say that…” Not a long night studying, but…
And as the conversation quietens down and Choso worries down on his bottom lip, you’re hiking your backpack up on your shoulders and saying. “Well, I guess I should be going then. Catch up on the recordings of the lecture and everything-” Turning, “See you ‘round—and thanks again.”
You make all of five steps before Choso finally gathers up the courage to call out-
“Wait—!”
Confused, you’re facing him once more. “Yes?”
And his hand was out, his fingers were slightly trembling. He was mouthing out the words as though still debating whether to speak them into existence - whether he was capable of. “I…we-” Eventually mustering up the courage once you give a reassuring nod, “When will we meet up?”
That makes you pause.
Was he…
“F-for the assignment.” Choso clarifies, a flush rising to his cheeks as he likely realizes he should’ve led with that. “Professor Yaga’s mid-semester project he always does…”
Ah—you’re clapping a palm on your forehead. How could you have forgotten? Yaga had announced at the start of the semester that about halfway through, the class would be paired up or put into groups to work on a collaborative project that contributed to about 50% of your grade. This semester, it was to write a full-length movie screenplay for a book or musical of your choice. And you’d been excited for it, in fact, but after the…activities of last night it’d completely slipped your mind that he’d be delving more into it this lecture.
And the poor boy stumbles through his explanation, “H-he let everyone choose their partners, and I wanted to wake you up but…you just looked so peaceful.” He fidgets with his fingers and flushes, “I th-thought one of your friends would come up here and choose you but-”
Probing him gently, “But?”
“B-but I’m afraid you ended up paired with me.” Choso just looks so genuinely apologetic- “I’m sorry- no one picked me either. I should’ve woken you up, but we can go talk with Professor Yaga about changing partners if you’d like-”
“Hey—wait.” You’re cutting off his spiel, something in your chest aching at the utterly devastated furrow between his brows. You take a step closer to him, “I would love to do the project with you, Choso. No need to talk to Yaga about anything.”
He looks up at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. “B-but your friends…”
“I don’t really have close friends in this class, anyway.” You smile, “I’d much rather do it with you.”
“Really—?” Breathed. As if he couldn’t believe it.
And it’s after some time - and a deep inhale - that he speaks again. Finally sinking in that someone would choose him of all people—that you would, that he speaks again. “And um- would you like to work on the script at my place?” Before you can answer, his breath hitches and his head shoots up. “N-not that I’m pressuring you into…it’s nothing weird, I promise! We can meet anywhere else you like- the library, your place- wait, no that’s weird, too…”
“Choso- Choso.” You giggle. And if this was anyone else then you would’ve assumed that they were putting the moves on you. “I’m okay with your place.”
.
.
.
The apartment was a fair distance away from the campus dorms.
Which made sense, you suppose, given the fact that less than half the people there would be able to afford the rent on such a place—especially after tuition. The highrise dove into the clouds, its vermicular body scaled in glistening windows and gold-accented furnishings within. You got the distinct feeling of being swallowed whole as you entered through the widely-gaped entrance, with several doormen and security that eyed you up and down, bowed at Choso.
You thanked them and made your way - slightly speechless - through the hallways.
This was everything you could ever dream of, and you’re sure you spot the odd actor or two down in the lobby. As you’re getting into an elevator the size of your entire dorm room, Choso punches in one of the highest floor numbers and turns to you-
Throughout the bus ride here, you’d been the one chattering away. And so it surprises you once he finally speaks, “I-I’m sorry…my place is a bit of a mess.”
“Can’t be as bad as mine. I won’t judge.” Who cares about a mess when he lives in a place like this? You couldn’t wait to go inside…
He pushes his chunky glasses upwards and gives you a shy smile, “Thank you.” Looking down at his polished shoes, “You’re so sweet.”
“Thank you.”
And you rise upwards in silence.
Soon enough, you’re finding yourself being led up to his massive apartment. He’s punching in the numbers of the code and setting his backpack down—telling you to make yourself comfortable. And you shuffle inside awkwardly; past the lavish furnishings and the alien-shaped lamps that all rich places seemed to boast.
He leads you in the direction of the master bedroom - where Choso said that his film collection was vast and likely to reveal techniques that the two of you would be able to incorporate into your own script.
“I even have a copy of Momijigari- it’s one of my most prized possessions.” He shoots you such a charming smile, eyes twinkling behind his glasses, over his shoulder. Heading inside.
And you can’t help but follow.
A single step inside his not-so-humble abode and you’re feeling a sudden sense of déjà vu wash over you, rendering you unsteady on your feet. Not quite sure why, you’re sweeping your eyes around the space: the high-quality camera equipment in one corner (not unusual to see for a film student), the chic furnishings, and then over to the empty wall space above the king-sized bed, something in you remained dissatisfied as they find nothing there but white plaster.
Choso notices that you’ve stalled behind and looks over at you curiously—he was taking a seat on the carpet, laptop opened up on top of the coffee table. “Something wrong? I’m sorry, I know it’s really messy but-”
“No, you’re good.” You shake your head, “It’s actually not messy enough.”
He smiles.
That night, you went home and wondered why Choso’s smile looked so familiar.
.
.
.
The musical that you’d chosen for your ‘adaptation’ was The Phantom of the Opera, suggested by you, of course.
And if there had been any connection to the masked man you’d been watching the night prior, then you were just glad that Choso had no idea.
It was far easier, given the fact that it’d already been adapted from the initial novel—though that only meant that Yaga would be critiquing yours even harder.
So you had to strive to be more cinematic, than the others in your class, stronger in ways than the ones before you - and though you doubt you’d ever match up to Schumacher’s visuals, there was little doubt as to whether you’d be the best amongst the students. This was a screenplay made to impress, and in the week since you’d pored over it—and Choso Kamo’s mahogany coffee table typing away at it, you only grew more determined in the fact. And throughout the week, you’ve been flitting in and out of that very apartment of his.
Choso had been a lovely partner for the project - the best you could’ve ever asked for - and you’re coming to find that he was actually far more funny than anyone ever gave him credit for. Far more open. Far more active when it came to something he was passionate about.
And of course, you knew that he’d be sweet.
Despite his initial insistence that he could do the project himself, you’d taken up half the work. And you’d joined him in browsing through his massive catalogue of movies, in searching up screenplays to read, and in annotating them for techniques when starting to write yours.
You’ve come to make friends with one of the doormen by now.
Just today you’d watched the 2004 Phantom of the Opera adaptation. And after a few hours of occupying his space and getting to know the nerdy boy a little better, you’d go straight back home to…Curse.
Whenever Choso made you feel tingly with his sweetness, Curse would amplify that heat to right between your legs.
It’s been a week of getting to know Choso Kamo, and a week of having Curse splashed across your laptop screen—cock furiously hard n’ his moans echoing. He’d smile and utter your username whilst wearing his iconic mask and it’d be a high strong enough to follow into the day after. And often Choso would ask you what you’re so happy about.
Today, in particular, Curse had just finished one of his streams - cumming aaaaaall over the desk this time - when he’d settled himself back down and started chatting with the comments. Responding to one or two of yours.
You’re just about to joke about why he was sticking so long after his orgasm when he speaks once more-
Voice somewhat serious, “Alright, now…settle down, settle down.” Curse waves his hand airily at the camera, throwing a middle finger up when the chat only gets more frenzied. “Tch- what brats you all are, would you wanna roleplay that someday?”
@vampzo333: YES PLEASE.
@likezmenpregnant: How about you be the brat…?
@Ietsmakeamovie: I would like that.
@sixeyesorsixh0les: ^^
@0003h0lesforCurse: ^
“Fine fine…” Underneath the mask, he rolls his eyes fondly. “But I really do have something to announce-”
@likezmenpregnant: You’re pregnant.
@Ietsmakeamovie: I’m the father-
@Curse’swifey: NO MEEEEEEEEEEE!!
“I’m thinking of getting a partner for these streams.” He finally admits, rubbing his chin as though still in thought. And your heart stops-
@bipplruletheworld: so down.
@Cursenoticeme44: Omg yeeeeeeeeees!!
@daddytoeknee: YESYESYES.
The chat practically explodes, and you’re unsure what to feel about it—after all, you don’t know Curse and it’d be strange to feel a little possessive over his solo streams, however, you did have your preferences. But then again, you can’t help but imagine just how much hotter it would be to have two people- perhaps to see him make expressions he never has before…
Ultimately, you’re quiet as Curse leans in and scans the chat. His brows furrow just a little as he sweeps through the blurring usernames, “I dunno…I’m still thinking about it- I haven’t even asked this person, to be honest. I just wanted to know what you guys thought.” Nodding his head along or huffing out laughter at some of the comments, “Movie?”
You jolt—at being called out.
He wanted your opinion specifically? You suppose you did contribute to about half his comment section most streams.
But you stall as your fingers reach for the keyboard.
Biting down on your lip and contemplating for a little while. Though he waits as patiently as ever-
@Ietsmakeamovie: I don’t mind!!
Something seems to wash over him as he reads your comment, nodding. “I see.”
He moves onto something else and his expression was indiscernible.
You’re flickering your eyes to the artwork behind him, the small corner of it peaking into the frame, and it suddenly hits you that it’s the theatrical poster of The Phantom of the Opera (2004).
.
.
.
It can’t be.
It can’t be.
It can’t be.
There’s something your brain was telling you that you’re absolutely refusing to believe—after all, how many people in the world loved The Phantom of the Opera? Hell, how many people in the world have watched The Phantom of the Opera?
That didn’t mean that everyone you came across had a secret identity as one of the hottest streamers on C4mBoyfriends.
You were being paranoid, you told yourself. You were being utterly silly- and the next time you’re going over to Choso’s apartment was the very next day. Which wasn’t entirely ideal, given how much you’d tossed and turned after Curse’s last stream conjuring up all the possibilities…but Yaga wouldn’t accept a request for an extension even if you were set on fire in front of him. And so you went.
The pit of your stomach twists as Choso swings the lavish wooden door open and gives you a beaming smile. So innocent. So sweet.
He shakily pushes his glasses up as he welcomes you in. “Come in—s-sorry if I took a while to get to the door, I’ve been doing some decorating recently.”
His nervous smile is what makes you find your voice. And you’re dubiously looking around the luxurious apartment, “You need to do some decorating?”
“Believe it or not, yes.” Choso huffs. “Would you like something to drink? Or maybe to eat? I checked out that bakery you recommended last time and you’re right- they have the best Danish pastries.”
“Actually, Choso…” You’re shaking your head, shooting him a grateful smile. “I’m good. I’d think I’d prefer to start right away, if that’s alright? I really wanna get to Act 2 today.”
“O-oh, of course—!”
And he’s sweetly guiding you inside, whilst you attempt not to look like you’re taking two steps at a time. Back to that familiar room. Back to that familiar desk. Back to that (somewhat) familiar bed which most certainly did not have an artwork from The Phantom of the Opera on it—
You open the door and the first thing you’re seeing is the familiar plane of that white mask. The Phantom.
Choso follows behind you and catches you staring at the poster. Gravelly tone echoing from behind, “I told you I did some decorating.”
And you jump-
Swivelling around to find him bearing you a sheepish smile, “Sorry if I startled you.” He pushes those chunky glasses up, “Tea?”
“S-sure…” You breathe, if anything for a thing to occupy your mouth with. Wait- not like that—!
And as Choso disappears down the hall, you’re taking a seat on the bed you’ve sat on countless, countless times before without a single care in the world. Now you’re sinking into the very - the very - edge as though it’d swallow you whole.
Body just resting on the plush comforter before-
“Hey, so I also have coffee if you would prefer?” Comes Choso’s sudden voice.
And you’re startling once more- “Just tea is fine, thanks.” Barely managing to get that through your lips, you’re watching as he disappears…as the sound of his footsteps echo…
Before darting off the bed and now heading towards the camera equipment you’d noticed in the corner the first time you’d been here. What you’d assumed to be part of another one of his classes or personal projects. Now, you’re leaning in and wondering with just which camera he showed his pretty cock off to millions, at just what height of his tripod he made your cunt so heated.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck this was real.
Now, you’re noticing things in the room that you’d never noticed before. Like the ring light kept underneath his bed, and the dresser in the corner with numerous rings- those weren’t costume props or anything. They were pure silver.
Heavy.
Heavy, like the pit in your stomach—excited and swirling. Just trembling at the tips of your fingers - ever-so-slightly - you’re reaching out as though to touch it, as though to feel the alternate version of Choso that you knew longer than you knew Choso-
“Ah, so you’ve realized.”
And then his voice permeates the room.
The room that suddenly seems smaller, the room that suddenly seems to rise ten degrees in temperature - though goosebumps skitter across your skin. And almost as though in a horror movie, you’re turning in slow motion to face the bespectacled man who was now holding up a tray of steaming hot tea.
He walks over soundlessly and sets it on the coffee table with a slight click! And besides that, Choso walks over to the dressing table and puts his silver rings on.
One by one.
His eyes hold court with yours through the mirror, “How long?” Voice a deep timbre.
You’re taking a step closer without even realizing, “Um…just last night. Just now- actually.”
He chuckles and you realize he’s asking how long you’ve known about Curse.
“I-I found you by chance. About a week ago, actually…” And then you say what’s been on your mind ever since you had, “Ever since you liked and unliked my repost.”
“Ah, a rookie mistake.” Choso comments. “I should have known better than to stalk using my public account.” And with all rings now put on and glinting in the lighting of his bedroom, Choso shuffles through his jewellery tray to pluck his earrings in and one eyebrow piercing. And then…one lip piercing—a lip ring that twinkles mischievously as he smiles.
He rises and you think you’ve never quite appreciated his built frame.
His deep eyes as they’re locking in on you. Echoing out, “Though…you really can’t say much- can you, Movie?”
And though you knew that he knew- you can’t stop the zaps of electricity running through your body.
Sputtering out, “Yeah-” Your fists clench and you’re looking up at the object of both your fantasies and your secret interest these past few days - melded into one. “Yeah, I really can’t. Choso you’re so…”
“Different?” He fixes his glasses, “Though I really am shy, I can’t deny that- especially around you. But it helps to be a little more antisocial when I’m around idiots.”
He leans in closer- so close that his scorchin’ hot breath wafts across your features. You have no idea how you’d diminished such a distance so soon…
“And if my memory serves me right-” Choso taps on the edge of his chin, in mocking thought. “-I seem to remember that Movie agreed to have a partner on my stream.” You shiver. And he looks at you adoringly, “So how about it? Wanna make a movie, baby?”
You step a little closer.
“Only if I get to match wardrobes.”
He chuckles and picks you up to spin you around-
And then it’s getting to work. And then it’s shuffling through his closet to find a mask that matches his own.
He stretches on the rubber a bit and brings it to you—“I bought this one when I first started, but it ended up being too tight- I think it’d be just the one for you.”
It was. It fit perfectly.
And then he paces around the room and starts to set up- before Choso’s gaze catches you hovering around the bed, and then he’s clicking his tongue and forgoing the tripods altogether. With just the professional lights and the high-quality camera, Choso places the camera on top of the coffee table. Facing the foot of the bed - everything and anything could be seen.
Just with a few clicks he’s started the stream.
And with just a little nudge he’s urging you to sit next to him.
“Hello, my little sluts—” Choso- or should you say Curse croons towards the camera. On one of his monitors you can see him being projected there - waving, in his knitted vest that clashed with his mask. You stand off awkwardly out of sight from the camera. He smiles. “As you can see, things are a little different today…”
@girrrrrrrrrrth: uuuuuu change of angle!! change of angle!!
@bewbsRlife: ARE WE GETTING A SURPRISEEEEEEE??
@likezmenpregnant: Pls be pregnant, Curse <3
“No- no, I’m not pregnant.” He laughs, “But I have been thinking about what we talked about last night.”
@bipplruletheworld: omg this can’t be…
“And guess what? I did what you guys told me about- and I talked to her.”
@bipplruletheworld: yessssssss
@yoyoyoureinmypuss: I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE^^
@bewbsRlife: WOOOOOO-
@daddytoeknee: Omg where’s Movie, Ik she’d love this- heh. Imagine this WAS Movie though…
“So, my little sluts…” Choso announces, “I’d like to introduce you all to my new partner—” And he’s reaching out and clasping your wrist, looking up to check for reassurance before continuing. Miming whispering to the camera, “And this is her first time on stream, so be nice…”
You’re sheepishly walking into their view.
Slightly bowing your intrusion into the stream, “Th-thanks for having me?”
“Isn’t she cuuuuute?” He asks the commenters, and there’s a flurry of agreements. You’re even spotting a few questions about your name n’ interests, even kinks, amongst those - all of which Choso waves off with a laugh. “Now now—we can have the Q&A later. For now, let’s get to the fun part…”
@Curse’swifey: FUCK THAT’S MY FAV PART-
@2coolforcond0ms(i’mavirgin): Movie you’re missing out on a historic moment uwu
And the fun part consisted of clamoring onto the bed as fast as lightning. Letting the mattress dip n’ creak its protests out as Choso sits on it with his back turned to the camera, then lovingly pats his manspread thighs as a signal for you to climb on. Meaty muscles. Thick enough for you to want to sink your teeth into- how could you never have noticed?
Perhaps because this was the polar opposite of how he acted when he was on campus - always keeping to himself, never taking up too much space. Now he was practically vacuuming it all up so you had nowhere else to sit.
And you were more than happy to climb onto Choso Kamo’s lap.
Sitting your ass down on his readily-awaiting seat. From under your skirt you feel something hot—and throbbing between his legs. Cylindrically shaped and curved to the left.
Just the slightest movement makes his rock-hard erection twitch underneath- and you’re whimpering at the lewd sensation. At the way he drips out a hefty dollop of precum that seeps through his trousers and sticks to the front of your panties, making you gasp—“Ch-Cho-”
“Shhhh.” Choso wraps a hand ‘round your throat and cuts you off.
And before you know it, he’s bouncing his knees to get you to slide your drippin’ pussy up and down his bulge. Up and down. Turning towards the camera, “Ya hear that?” Up and down. “My girl’s so needy- she’s already begging for it. But I dunno if she deserves it, huh?”
@bewbsRlife: I MEANNNN
@theh0rniestsoldier: i’m feeling mean today…
@daddytoeknee: Give her your mouth!!
“Mouth? I love that idea.” Choso titters.
And then he’s giving a teasing slap on the side of your ass cheeks—smack!
“Please-”
“Sit on my face now, baby.” He purrs, eyes flickerin’ with pure need underneath his mask. Then leaning in to whisper in a loooow tone for only you to hear. “You know Choso, but let’s see if you can handle Curse.”
Then he leans back on the bed - his head pointing in the direction of the camera.
And you’re shuffling up Choso’s toned, brick-hard body—straddling your knees upon either side of his head, veerin’ your hips right atop that pretty face. You’re sitting - right in front of the camera. Though nothing was revealed…yet.
And Choso’s digging his tongue up to you instantly- he isn’t even making it past the fabric of your panties. But that doesn’t stop him from lettin’ his tastebuds take a looooong, luxurious lick of your swollen pussy.
Right down your sopping wet slit.
Suddenly, the room echoes with one of his pornographic moans- the very same ones you’d listened to night after night through your laptop speakers. Now they’re even louder, and somehow even sexier, sending electricity shooting straight up, up, up from your core.
And even more treacherous was the way you’re feeling something cold…and metallic at the very middle of Choso’s tongue. Rock-hard. It takes whatever’s left of your rationality to realize that it’s a silvery tongue piercing smack-dab where his tastebuds kissed your pussy. Scraping alongside where you were most sensitive.
Instantly; your head tips back and saliva starts bubbling at the sides of your lips. “Fuh-fuck…” And before you know it—you’re starting to drag your throbbing pussy up n’ down his features.
Short, barely-there jerks of your shy, shy hips.
And Choso chuckles huskily to himself at the cute way you were yearnin’ for his mouth. But what you didn’t expect was for him to reach one ringed hand up and squeeze the left side of your hips.
Your only warning.
Before he’s suddenly tightening his hold on you and reaching one more hand up- snaking it beneath your skirt like some pervert. Choso edges towards your throbbing cunt and places one good slap—
It’s the resounding smack! of skin-on-skin that makes you halt more than anything.
Jaw-dropped. Thighs quivering. The white-hot pleasure runs through your spine and leaves you barely hearing his roughened words, a tone lower than you knew his voice to be- as though drunk on the delicious taste of your pussy already. “Greedy, greedy girl…” Choso tuts, “Don’t tell me you’re trying to enjoy yourself without letting our dear audience in on the fun?”
Oh, shit.
You’re letting your head snap to where the camera was positioned and blinking its one gluttonous eye. Comments flooding the screen of the monitor so fast that you couldn’t read them-
You’d completely forgotten about the stream for a second.
“I—oh, I um.”
Yet another harsh smack! “Forgot, huh?” Amusement seeps into Choso’s words, as though he’d already guessed the situation.
You admit, “M-maybe…”
“I’m afraid I can’t blame you, baby.” Smack! “Curse’s mouth is too good, huh?” He yammers on and on, his tongue nudging deeper, his rippling tastebuds skidding into every ridge- as if trying to fuck you through your damn panties. “This pussy’s too good–she’s purring f’me already. Hear her?”
And you’re not sure why- but you’re nodding to whatever he says. “Y-yes—fuck.”
“Mhm. So why don’t we let our lovely audience hear, too, huh?” You’re barely given the time to register his suggestion, before Choso husks out a command. “Lift your skirt up, baby.”
Your thighs squeeze around his head at the notion-
And your fingertips touch the short hemline of your skirt.
@Cursenoticeme44: Holy shit.
@theh0rniestsoldier: i’ve been waiting for thisssssssssss-
@daddytoeknee: WOW.
@girrrrrrrrrrth: bby’s so needy!!
@R€4leater: munch Curse #canon
The chat explodes as you let them bear witness to Choso’s face stuffed between your pretty legs- he’s redly-flushed and ravenous. They could see the slightest glimpse of his nose n’ the way he’s driving it between your sodden pussylips, diving and diving, they could see the glossy layers coating your cunt—and the way Choso’s pink lips come up to suck on it.
Those handsome cheeks of his hollow out, as he’s makin’ out with your pussy through your panties.
Like a man starved.
Long canines slightly nippin’ at your folds- almost wolfish in mannerisms.
“Oh p-please…” You’re quivering atop him. You don’t even know what you’re begging for—just that it feels so good to have him veering his tongue hungrily against your cunt like this. And you wanted more.
More, more, and more.
Choso’s holding onto your restless hips with a clammy hand- he’s stuck to you almost like adhesive. And he guides your hips - he fucking slows them down - whilst you continue moanin’ and shaking atop his raw mouth. Glistening wet tongue extending even more than its usual length to slide-slide-sliiiiide your panties to the side-
And you’re gasping at the sudden whiff of cold bedroom air against your naked pussy. “Ch-” A spank. “I mean- fuck, Curse?”
“Mhm, m’here, baby.” He drawls out. Slightly slurring with all the extra globs of your pussy juices - pooling straight into your mouth, n’ Choso reaches up and smooches your soft swollen folds to smear it all around. Like some gloss. “M’here aaaaaand- so are 820k sluts that wanna watch you break.”
“B-break?” You’re gaping, “I thought you were just gonna- ngh, eat me out…?”
“Baby, Curse never ‘just’ does anything.” And you’re shocked to find him sliding his tongue out, tipping his head back to refer to the camera on the coffee table. “Isn’t that right, fuckin’ pervs?”
@daddytoeknee: Hell yeah.
@0003h0lesforCurse: duhhhhhhhhh
@yoyoyoureinmypuss: YOU’RE THE BEST CURSE
@Fishygurodad: Fuck, her pussy’s divine.
“Heh…” Choso smiles into your cunt, “And so whaddaya say? How many slaps before I stick my tongue in her?”
@vampzo333: 3
@bbynohuuuuzz: 14
@Ilikepr1menumbers: 29
“Since m’feeling nice- read your favorite one out, baby.” He murmurs.
To which you’re unable to do anything but- you tilt your upper half just the slightest bit closer to the monitor and pick out the first one you can read through the blur of words and numbers:
@Fishygurodad: Until she cries.
Oh.
Your blood runs cold.
Your cunt grows heated.
And before you can either rectify your recitation or beg for mercy—Choso doesn’t hesitate before fixing the rings on his fingers to be slightly higher than before. Making sure they’re in line of him planting one- two- three good, loud spanks on your sobbin’ cunt. “O-oh my god- fuck, mmm, oh my god.”
Until the skin of his fingertips seems to redden, and your pussylips feel raw - “How about that?” He asks- not from you, but from the viewers.
@daddytoeknee: I don’t see her crying yet…also idkkkkk I’m getting Movie vibes.
@girrrrrrrrrrth: movie would’ve loved this-
And then it’s one after the other. Again and again, Choso’s emblazoning the rude outlines of his rings against yours - until you’ve fucking memorized the ridges n’ patterns of the one ring on his middle finger with the carving of an octopus.
Tentacles flared out.
“Shit, not that damn ring again.”
And as he’s doing so he can’t help himself- fuck, he can’t heeeeelp himself. His canines dig into the sticky fabric of your underwear like a damn dog - and throughout the duration of what his hands were doing, you’re hearing the sharp riiiiip of fabric tearing—!
Soon enough, your panties are tattered and ruined in Choso’s maw- just from his mouth. He spits it out and continues swerving his thickened tips inwards to give a loving pinch on your clit—and you can’t help but burst into peals of shrill, needy cries. Both pain and pleasure mixing as he doles out a final swat-
Before Choso swipes your pussylips apart and spits- the glutinous glob of his saliva landing directly on your hole. He doesn’t give it the time to seep back out—instead, he’s surging up and shoving his face between your legs.
This time, without the barrier of your panties in the way.
@CCpervnextdoor: HE FUCKING RIPPED IT OFF WITH HIS MOUTH??
@bewbsRlife: HOLY SHIT CURSE-
@Fishygurodad: Shiiiiit, I’d do the same ngl.
And then Choso’s shoving his tongue inside and slurpin’ all around your wet hole like a damn animal…
In and out.
In and out.
Probin’ into slippery sweet spots.
Chin hitting the back of your slit. Plastic mask rubbing against your clit.
Choso’s pierced tongue was going absolutely fucking wild inside of you. He wastes no time before gripping either side of your cute hips and slammin’ your pussy down onto his mouth- hard and fast. The perverted nerd is slashing his tongue inwards, smearin’ apart your glue-covered folds. As deep as he could go. He doesn’t care if it hurts, he just needs to make sure that loooong slick muscle of his tastebuds were scrapin’ every inch of your walls.
With the curved tip of it, he flexes it against a sweet bundle of nerves. Making you buck with a pitchy moan of his name—“Ch-Cuuuurse—!” And the sensation was made even more delicious with the way his orb tongue piercing presses in contrast against your hot cunt. “It feels so good, Curse.”
“I already know.” Choso pipes up- cocky in all the ways you never knew he could be. “I already know- but what about those fuckers watching, huh?”
“W-well…” Spit drivels down your chin, and you’re struggling to keep your eyes focused to read the urgent chat.
@bipplruletheworld: they’re so HOT!!
@NERDSAREMYBABYGIRLZ: OHHHH WHAT A MUNCH
@daddytoeknee: Me next <3
And it was clear that they were seeing the effect he had on you- how could they not?
Your eyes were dazed and teary, your thighs were shaking like leaves in the wind, Choso was making your body twitch—just from the way he’s reeling his entire tongue out. And breathing out steadily and slowly against your twitchin’ pussylips, freezing cold air that leaves you even wetter on top of him.
He’s unfastening his mouth - leaving it wiiiiide open for all the satiny ribbons of your slick to enter his gullet. And once you’re done- that isn’t enough riling you up.
Choso leaves a good slap on your folds and asks, “So…what about it?” Muffled through his mouthfuls.
“They agree- they agree—” You’re keening out. Star-struck, seeing pleasure burst behind your shuttered eyelids at the sudden stinging. “Fuck- you’re the hck! best I’ve ever had, Curse.”
“I agree.” He hums. And as if this entire ordeal wasn’t sinful enough, Choso’s swashing around the silky-smooth sap he’d collected from your leaking pussy. Letting the flavor seep into his tastebuds, before he’s then spitting again on your pussy. A semi-opaque layer of lewdness that coats your inner thighs in a sheen that catches the lighting.
Perfect on camera.
You’re squeezing your wettened thighs together and creating an audible squelch!
“Awwww, look- this pussy agrees, too.”
The gooey addition startles you- and you rut.
Only straight down onto his awaiting fingers.
@girrrrrrrrrrth: oh, shit is he…
@legsopenforcurses: With the rings on, too!!
@likezmenpregnant: My show is onnnnn
It’s such a fucking mess for him to navigate- even with his own fingers. Soon enough, you’re arching your back as you feel him intrude a single ringed digit between those utterly swollen pussylips of yours—almost difficult to find your snug hole between them. You’re damn lucky that Choso’s fingers were slender as well as incredibly lengthy.
Because he’s circlin’ your tight orifice a few times - only a few times - before inserting the sections of his finger. Quirking just right and hitting the exact bundle of your nerves.
That infamous g-spot that made you yelp once he starts and keeps on hitting.
And his rings- oh, fuck, his rings.
Just so chunky and textured. They were the perfect designs to press up against your walls and massage them stupid- every drag meant that you’re feeling them dig into ridges n’ crevices you hadn’t even known existed.
Hitting and hitting. Curling his dexterous finger and scraping- “Fuuuuck, oh my god.” The doughy tip of his finger soon becomes damn-near molded to the area where it was, and your eyes flicker to the back of your head as you continue anglin’ your hips so he could hit it perfectly. “Right there, Curse- r-right there.”
“I know.” Choso rolls his eyes - at least what seems like it underneath his mask. “That’s why I’m hitting it. Honestly…is my girl dickmatized?” He utters as he sucks on your clit—ultimately erupting a sobbing slurp! that makes him nod. “Mhm, I think my girl’s dickmatized.”
Tipping his head back before you can refute his claims. He then addresses the audience-
“Whaddaya think, my little pervs? Dickmatized already…maybe I should go easy on her, huh?”
@olderandR4w: nooooooooooo
@yoyoyoureinmypuss: NEVER.
@Fishygurodad: Go even harder.
“Tough crowd.” And with that said, Choso’s stuffin’ in just a few more fingers. Each with their own numerous rings and sopping wet sounds accompanying them—slurp!
One.
Two.
You’re counting about three of his prolonged digits pushin’ your tight walls to their limits, rubbing your sweet spots raw with his constant bashing rhythm, before lustful fogginess coils around your brain. And it’s around here that Choso catches onto the glazed look in your eyes and chuckles—
“Ohhhh, you really are dickmatized.” He hums to himself, though you’re sure the professional mic picks it up either way. “And so soon, too. Probably hasn’t had a good finger-”
A fourth being added so that he can scissor apart your velvety channel whilst still multi-tasking with his other fingers to ram into your g-spot.
“-or even a good mouth on ‘er…” To emphasize his point, he presses a dramatically loud kiss upon your clit. One that’s making you bounce n’ bounce your hips atop his clammy face, and grind your throbbing nub down on his pointed nose. The addition of his mask just makes that cool touch even more lecherous. “My poor girl.” Choso still mutters out despite the way he’s gluing your cunt to his mouth. He pulls away from your clit with a loud pop! “What do you think, my slutty audience?”
At the slurring question you’re letting your head down to watch him. “Ch…Curse, what’ve you got on your mind-”
“M’just asking what else you deserve, baby.” He coos. And questions them once more, “How about a little quiz? Which parts of Curse are going to make my poor, poor girl feel the best? A). My fingers. B). My mouth. Or…”
And he pretends to listen to your noisy wet pussy once more.
“Or C…” You could practically feel the grin plastering against your needy pussy. The way his eyes narrow in sinful amusement beneath his mask- you didn’t have to see his full face to know that Choso was enjoying this perhaps way more than he should. “—all of the above.”
And it was futile to think that they would answer anything else.
C floods your vision.
You’re letting your mouth droop, and your gaze meet Choso’s own between your legs- but you’re finding that you don’t have to say a thing for him to already know the answer.
And as expected, he gives a final roll of his tongue atop your clit - before munchin’ on your aching cunt once more. This time, he’s tunneling his fingers deep into your cavern whilst still licking inside with his prolonged tongue—when stretched out, Choso’s tongue could reach almost as deep as his fingers could.
Your cunt was being stretched-out to lengths you never thought about before.
Not only were Choso’s fingers thicker than yours, but his tongue was something ravenous- no matter how much you’re flinching in sensitivity, he isn’t slowing down. “Mmm-” He groans, barely breathing through even his flared nostrils. You’re hit with the distinct feeling that he thinks he doesn’t even have to breathe as long as he had you on him like this - “Mmm, hold still.”
Taking advantage of the fact to lavish your sensitive inches with kiss upon kiss. To grind his nose down purposefully on your clit. To glide his metallic piercing across those hidden spots. To bash your poor g-spot in again and agaaaain with his fingers before his tongue’s coming to the rescue to soothe the slightly raw sting-
So it’s not long before you’re throwing your head back and cumming.
Perhaps the strongest you’ve ever felt when you’re in the throes of your high.
You barter your hips forwards and keep up a steady pace - one that’s making Choso hit the exact spots you wanted him to during the peaks of your high. The utmost peaks. “Shit—shit, just like that.” Breathless. “K-keep going, baby, it feels so good.”
And he doesn’t even answer - too caught up in fucking you through your orgasm.
In the way you shudder above him. In the way you’re only getting even sweeter by the second-
Bodyheat raising a few degrees in temperature; your heart sings and the bed creaks with how much you’re jostling from above. This was even better than touching yourself to videos of him, there were so many thrills of bliss that he’s wringing out of you- like he’d wring out of himself during his solo videos.
With both his fingers and his tongue, slurpin’ and sliding. Those doe-like eyes of his are edging straight to the back of his skull as he feels your drenched walls cleeeeench around his pierced tongue, as though it’s the best thing he’s ever fucking felt. And you’re acting on impulse - you really are - because the coffee table was positioned right beside the foot of the bed.
And all you had to do was reach your arm out to grab the simple camera there. Turning it into your point of view as Choso’s sweaty brown bangs stick to his forehead, as sweat trickles down his temple, as he lets out soft yet unyielding moans whenever you’re squeezing your thighs around his head.
@cockycockowner: no homo but that’s the most beautiful man i’ve ever seen.
@theh0rniestsoldier: woah he’s PUSSYDRUNK
@Fishygurodad: Show me his POV.
@daddytoeknee: Don’t you know that she’s his girl now smh?^^
@daddytoeknee: Movie-core- wya ml??
Choso cocks his head and keeps making out with your pussy in all the ways that make your toes curl—pleasure elongating from your orgasm and spreading into every part of you. Your vessels, your cells, your atoms.
They’re all buzzing with pleasure and still aching for more once Choso finally pulls away with a loud pop! of his lips releasing.
When they do, you’re sneaking a look down at him and noticing just how red n’ swollen they were. Even the skin around his jaw was flushed with the constant ramming contact. And the viewers are just gobbling it up - subscribing bells keep dinging here and there, and everywhere.
Just a single look at his stats on-screen reveal that Choso’s climbed up to 870k just since you’d started this stream.
And it’s after a little while - after he’s had his fill - that the dark-haired man finally taps at the side of your thigh to gesture for you to get up. Though, even then, he’s tightening his grip on your body—going against his own fucking instruction to press a final few open-mouthed kisses before he’s done.
He chases after your pussy with his maw for a little- before he’s finally sitting up.
And it’s only then that he seems to notice the camera in your hand, blinking his glazed eyes a few times to make sure he isn’t dreaming things up. Once it finally registers, the most attractive grin spreads across his face. “You changed POVs?”
“Had to.” You admit, “I wanted them to see how pretty you are…”
“Guess you finally learned about sharing, hm? Greedy girl.” He chuckles darkly to himself. And then he starts looming closer, “But you realize that the show’s not done yet, right?”
You gulp.
@Fishygurodad: Fuck her already, damn!! I’m only here for her.
@2coolforcond0ms(i’mavirgin): Hate to admit it, but he’s lowk right. I think I’ve discovered I’m bi…
@vampzo333: ^^
@girrrrrrrrrrth: ^^
“So impatient.” He looks at the monitor, reading the chat and tuts. “Honestly- so ungrateful. I should end the stream right here and fuck her on my own terms.”
There’s a frenzied flurry of comments- all of which you were sure were begging for Choso not to stop and bashing that one commenter for attempting to start a revolution. To which you’re only giggling and handing over the camera to him.
Choso - as the expert - then positions it somewhere by the edge of the fluffy pillows: where they’d be able to see the expanse of both your bodies and where you’d soon be connected…
And then you’re shedding your clothes in a hurry- making it to your smart blouse before he’s reaching a hand up and tearing through it. The buttons hit the floor, and at your noise of displeasure Choso merely lets out a half-delirious giggle.
He leans in and whispers, “I-I have a Phantom of the Opera t-shirt I’d love for you to wear.”
The change in demeanour gives you utter whiplash, and you can’t help but stare at him open-mouthed.
“What?” Choso asks, next moving on to shrugging off his own fabrics. They’re landing on a heap beside the bed, and your lips slightly part at the display of his red-hot erection—it’s just as large and sensual as all those streams had proven him to be. Polished strawberry top. Slender veins along the middle.
A happy trail of dark brown - nearly black - glistened with the splattered remnant of his precum. Just like the gleaming mess across his chin, mouth, and cheekbones that Choso wore like a medal.
He was slightly longer than even on camera- and even prettier up-close. Way up close- he shuffles his body up yours n’ fucks your tits a few times to dollop out glistening translucent precum across yours tits.
“Lighting’s not the best here.” Choso explains- or at least attempts to pin an explanation onto that. Onto something he’s clearly been wanting to do for so long. “Had to highlight ‘em, baby.”
You scoff, “It’s just…” Throwing a cautious glance at the camera, you lower your voice. “You’re so different from how you are in real life.”
“Oh? And how did you expect me to be, huh?” He positions himself between your legs - wrapping both of them around his waist. Before then thinking better of it and throwing them even more lewdly around his neck instead—his plush priggish tip kisses your entrance. “Did you expect me to be like…”
He trails off.
He doesn’t need to complete the rest of his sentence- and you don’t think you’d have heard him even if he tried.
Because in that very moment, Choso’s jerking his pale hips back a mere few inches—then plopping his globular tip between your pussylips and push-push-puuuuuushing. Fucking past the initial restraint of your first ring of muscle, he’s funneling in some thick inches that make your heels bang against the muscles of his back.
And he doesn’t even seem to notice.
He doesn’t even seem to breathe as he’s letting his cock swerve inside. Get suctioned inside. Get his Prince Albert’s piercing crept down your sensitive innards. Get gobbled up between your greedy legs-
You clench ‘round him and Choso throws his head back with a low, broken moan.
“Oh p-please—” He’s babbling out through unsteady pink lips, a lazy line of dribble starting up from one corner of his mouth. Those long lashes of his flutter as he’s reaching one bulky hand up to grip the headboard, and placing his right one on your hips- keeping you steady.
Fingers trembling. Muscles rippling.
@likezmenpregnant: Woah…make him do that again…
@sixeyesorsixh0les: SUBBY CURSE HELLO??
@whimperwhiteboywhimper: oh I am SO here for this
@Fishygurodad: Whatever…
Your eyes bulge once his throat cracks with what sounds like a whimper—“Please it feels so good.” And though you couldn’t quite make it out, even the chat seemed stunned as Choso punctures out a broken stutter of his hips. Delving a few inches into your goopy insides- though not enough to bottom out completely, as you’re still too wound-up for him to fit completely. And you’re able to pinpoint exactly where he’s using the orbed metal of his first piering. With more to come…“Ngh- oh.” Broken noises emanating into your eardrums and the mic. “It f-feels shooooo good, baby.”
Choso’s head drops into the crook of your neck, and there - and there - you’re feeling his cheeky grin.
And suddenly you’re understanding.
Oh—he was toying with you.
And he was doing it in a way that’d completely fooled you- and perhaps all of his viewers, too.
But before you’re able to open your mouth to bite back something at him, Choso staggers his hips back and gives you a vicious jackhammer with his cock, “O-ohhhhh, my god—” Your toes curl atop his shoulders, slippery with sweat. He hadn’t even rammed all the way inside yet, and yet the slightly left-leaning angle of his shaft was driving you wild.
Big and thick.
Running the slick globe of his tip down your walls, Choso probes a direct hit to that spot you loved so much. And he knew you loved it so much—he’d mapped out your entire pussy earlier, of course.
And yet, he’s still gasping as though the pearls gates of heaven had descended right here and there. He’s letting his sweet caramel eyes widen convincingly as he peers down at you, “I-is that…the spot, baby?”
@Curse’swifey: HE sounds SO NGH.
@daddytoeknee: Daddy likey…
@daddytoeknee: Also Movie would’ve really LOVED this, huh?
You hiss, “Curse, you should already know-”
“But how could I know—?” He exclaims. “This is my first time, after all…” Then Choso’s plastering his clammy tattooed hips - with a snake on the side - to yours, as though the two were connected by the force of the world’s strongest magnets: pulling and pushing, pulling and pushing. Every single battering ram of his mazing cocktip ends up lodged against your sweetly bruised g-spot, marking his circumference out with the sheer pace at which he was hitting it.
“Shit—” Your nails clench on the sheets, and feeling jealous- Choso guides them to fist his hair instead. “Shit, right there. It f-feels so good-”
“There?” The once-nerdy man breathes out in awe. Disbelief every single time - or at least the mocking imitation of one. Swipin’ a line of precum down your nervy spot once more, “Th-there, baby—?”
Something breathy- octaves higher in his tone. “Yes- yes there-”
“There-” Choked up and ruined. Husky grunts hatching in the back of his throat. There was something there in his words that you couldn’t quite pinpoint—a sort of undertone of primal need, primal amusement as he ruined your pussy with his speedily pap-papping hips, but acted as though he had no idea what he was doing. Every single syllable uttered was met with a thorough whack of his curved cockhead against your particular spot- “There there there there- there-”
“Fuh-fuuuck-”
“So this g-spot’s really m-mine now, baby?” Choso asks.
You whine, back arching off the mattress. “Yes-”
“Does she really have my mark on it now?”
“Yes…?” Eyes shooting open as you’re half-registering his question in your hazed brain. He bores his dark eyes down at you intensely. And as though to emphasize his point, you’re feeling his perfectly round tip squeezing into your throat by the next few thrusts. Deeper and deeper.
His Jacob’s Ladder starting to ease its frigid way past your entrance and glide across the roof of your cunt. It was a sensation like nothing you’ve ever felt before.
Choso probes even more, “I-is she really shaped to the shape of my cock now?”
“Cho—ngh.” Quickly shutting your cockdrunken self up. Quickly reaching a ringed hand up to squeeze your throat- before he’s languidly snaking his way up to squeezing your pretty cheeks together.
Smushing your face in a way that was almost disrespectful- though, not that you were in any state of mind to call him out on it. And there’s a mean inkling in Choso’s tone as he coos, “Awww, b-baby, why aren’t you answering me?” Another rude slap! of his hips make your own sear in flames- that damn strength of his. Those damn piercings of his. “Is your poor, poor Curse not good enough?”
Before you can answer, he’s looking at the blinking camera.
“My babies, my girl doesn’t love my cock anymore…”
“I do—I do-”
Squeezing his doughy-soft restraints - those contrastingly mean fingers of his - around your cheeks. He’s managing to smush your mouth shut and make you echo out the most pathetically pleading whines—as he fucks you. Determined and targeted.
The glossy rotund edge of his tip presses against your g-spot a few more times before you’re managing to make yourself take a peek at the comments on the monitor.
Almost too far away- almost too blurry with the tears in your eyes.
@Curse’snewestharem: Awwwww poor bby </33
@CCpervnextdoor: I would LOVE your cock, Curse!!
@girrrrrrrrrrth: is it just me or is he teasing us?
@Fishygurodad: ^^Yeah, he’s totally a fraud.
@Curseswombmommy: ^^girl shut up
“Th-they really think you’re oh-so-innocent…” You’re whispering up at him. Overstimulated tears in your eyes.
Breath hitching every time he’s surging his tattooed hips forwards and hitting that one spot particularly hard. Though there was never such a thing as too hard…
And Choso’s shooting you a secret smile - one just between the two of you - before morphing his expression into that of picture-perfect innocence. Roleplaying the demeanor of his nerdy self on campus, mixed with the utterly sultry—sexual way he was draaaaagging his lengthy cock in and out of your cunt.
Eventually, Choso’s emptying his inches out n’ bruising the bottom of your pussy. All of his nine - you seriously felt nine throbbing inches - inches shaping out the in-betweens of your legs. All of the beaded barbells of his Jacob’s Ladder massaging inside- the slitherin’ feeling of them making themselves at home. Zig-zagging and slithering.
He feels the sponginess of your cervix and presses a hand down on your abdomen just to make sure, before changing that excitement into one of almost-genuine bafflement- “I-I really bottomed out?” Choso’s pinkish bottom lip juts out and quivers dramatically.
“Of course, you did.” You’re ready to scoff-
But whatever sarcastic sound was in the back of your throat gets quickly dissolved at the sight of Choso with genuine tears in his eyes. Glistening. “But I never- ngh, never thought I’d be able to.” He puts some more merciless pressure on your stomach that makes you buck—
And the only thing you can do is let your head tip back into the pillows.
The only thing you can do is let out a few mottled moans as he rubs over the small tummy bulge he was fucking into you. Pushing his palm down so that he could feel it.
Whispering out, “I-I never thought this pussy would claim my cock as- ngh, hers, hm?” And for the moment there, you’re completely sure that he isn’t talking to you. Rather, your pussy that was sobbing out squelches after every one of his jackhemmerin’ thrusts. “And it’s not too big, right?”
“N-never—”
“Because m’just a nerd with a- hngh, biiiiiig fuckin’ cock.” How pitiful, right? He’s letting his long, dark lashes flutter as Choso avoids meeting your eyes—as though in shyness. He drills his hips even deeper - one unforgettable strike after the other following every word he spoke. “Just a big- fat- fucking- cock-”
“Please—!” Eventually, your arms reach upwards and you’re grabbing ahold of whatever part of him it is you could reach first. Which just-so-happened to be his bulky deltoids.
Choso’s brows genuinely seem to furrow at the lewdness of you digging your nails into his muscles, leaving your marks for everyone and anyone to see even after this stream has ended. And so he continues in his faux-innocent tone, “Oh? Did that feel good, baby?”
Purposefully slidin’ his cock across your g-spot so that you’d have to cry out. “Y-yeeees—”
“I didn’t even know, baby.” His mouth hangs open, and the most lustrous squelches! echo between your two connected bodies. Your cunt n’ his precum were making such messes…“I had no idea…”
His Jacob’s Ladder leaves your channel feeling raw n’ overstimulated- you feel raw and overstimulated.
And you’re laid-out on the bed dazed and feeling so fucking good as Choso’s picking his pace up even more, you notice for a split-second that his hands have moved. No longer was he holding onto your cheeks n’ watching you squirm—now, the nerdy man hooks both hands around your sweaty thighs and pins them close to his body.
Holding them in place as he leans down, down, dooooooown until the caps of your knees hit your tits.
You’re keening at the stretch, and a searing burn spreads from between your pussy and along your hamstrings. How did he even hide such strength underneath those soft knitted vest? Such a body?
Before you know it, you’re being pressed into your first-ever mating press.
And Choso gapes as though he was just as bewildered as you, “O-oh…did I do that?” He’s fucking asking you—however, when your stunned expression bears no answer, he turns and asks the same question from the camera. The bursts of replies obviously agree n’ tease him. And he’s shaking his head ever-so-slightly, “Did I really bend you in- heh-” A slight chuckle escapes him. “—half, baby?”
And what else can you do but nod and nod and nod—?
“I think this is called a…breeding press?” He cocks his head ever-so-slightly, before shaking his head. “No wait- a mating press.”
“A m-mating press.” You’re repeating lamely.
“I c-can’t believe I’ve folded you into a mating press, baby.” Choso nearly snarls at himself, his hips accelerating until that rouge-tipped cock of his was almost nothing but a blur. “Can’t believe—s’like my body is moving before my mind, ngh. My fat cock’s not hittin’ you too deep, right, my girl?”
“Not in the l-least…”
And he really was long enough to make each and every probe feel as though it was slam-slam-slamming into your throat- the capped crown of his shaft was entering crevices n’ crannies you hadn’t even known you possessed. All marked out precisely by the silvery orb of his Prince Albert’s.
Just then, after your answer, Choso reaches his left hand up to wrap ‘round your throat - and then hauls you back down to meet his slapping hips.
A thrust even harder than the ones before it.
Your breath gets snatched out of your lungs, dissipating into the heady air filled with the contact-riddled sounds of sex. Hard and fast. Only getting harder the longer you have your ankles looped ‘round his neck—“Not too hard, is it, baby?” Chosos asks you once more.
And you don’t have anything to spit out besides, “Oh f-fuck off.”
He gasps dramatically-
Well, not exactly dramatically. But in a way you knew was fake, and in a way that sends the chat exploding into comments.
The nerd pouts cutely, “Well, that’s not very nice…”
You’re rolling your eyes—right before Choso’s genuinely sending them rolling with his two fingers clamped around your clit. Using the silvery edges of his rings, he runs a few massages that end up with you sobbing and blabbering out your pleasure.
@Curse’swifey: FUCKKKKKKKKKK they’re both so hot. THEY’RE BOTH SO RUINED.
@peepeesarebetterfictional: they both look like they’re gonna cum soon hehe
@bewbsRlife: CUM CUM CUM CUM CUM
Biting back. “I would argue th-that that’s not very nice, either.”
“But m’just trying to make my gorgeous girl cum…” And from where he’d been looming his pretty face above yours, Choso then lets his head droop down between your tits. During his ravenous pace, he’s roverin’ his mouth all over to kiss and suck at your tits, your nipples.
His cold lip ring drags across your left areola- and he catches onto the way you’re shivering. Before Choso then grabs your nipple between his lips n’ hollows his cheeks out sucking—“Promise m’just trying to make you feel- hah, good.” He mutters, slightly muffled. “Promise I just wanna fuck my cock raw if it means making my lifelong crush feel good…”
“Cho- Curse, are you…?” Your eyes widen.
And his own flap droopily a few times, “Hmmm?”
And that proved it.
That proved it.
Because Choso Kamo could be pretending to be a stuttering, panting, blushing mess on your heavenly cunt all he wanted- he could pretend to be pussydrunk out of his mind. But at the end of the day, it was impossible to hide when pretend turned into something…more.
When the cocksure streamer that’d been driving you wild all this time morphs into the contentedly pussy-whipped nerd you expected him to be deep down inside.
His eyes genuinely glazed and blinking longingly.
His hair drenched in sweat.
His skin flushed with need- and only flushing even more fiercely the longer he kept his eyes on you.
Without much ado, you’re throwing your hands around his neck and tuggin’ him as far as he could crane his neck when his entire body feels like collapsing onto you and into your maddening pussy.
Choso pistons his hips slightly upwards to hear the slurp of his Jacob’s Ladder sliding across your walls, and he grooooans—
“Curse, baby…” You hum.
“Mhmmmm?” He replies with half-lidded eyes. Barely focused.
This was the big, bad #1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends? As though sensing your thoughts, Choso’s fingers grow a little more frenzied on your clit. “I need you to cum inside, okay?”
He jolts at the idea- that sinful, sinful idea. Before chuckling, “Never had any other plan, baby.” And then he turns to the camera, “What do you think, fuckers? Think my girl deserves to cum?”
@Fishygurodad: Yes.
@Curse’swifey: YES.
@likezmenpregnant: Yesssss~
@girrrrrrrrrrth: yesyesyes.
@daddytoeknee: Hell yeah-
He’s holding out a little longer to make sure there wasn’t a single ‘no’ in there - and had there been one, you’re sure that Choso would have stopped and edged your incoming orgasm until it was a wave of complete agreement.
Luckily for you, they liked you.
And all he does now is press down harder on your g-spot from inside, lingering, and massage a pretty heart on your clit once more, lingering—before a final, thorough stroke is all it takes for you to hurtle into your second high of the night.
For you to arch your body into his chest, and shutter your eyes. “Ch-Cho…”
Barely a whisper. He’s crashing his mouth into yours to make sure that secret between you two isn’t revealed. And you’re moaning deeply into Choso’s mouth as you cum—“Feels so- oh. It feels so…”
“Mhmmmm.”
Unable to even find the words.
The only thing you can do is riiiiiide out the massive wave of your high. It’s torrential; pure bliss floods your system from head-to-toe, and no matter how much you’re squirming your overstimulated hips, Choso only succeeds in batterin’ away his pierced cock into eeeevery single hidden sweet spot inside of you. The ones that prolonged your bliss and left spikes of euphoria leading up to your brain.
Your cunt clenched so tightly around his cock- almost as though you didn’t want him to even pull out. And Choso’s sweaty head drops once more into the crook of your neck as he cums with a shudder.
The knot between his brows deepening, the bedsheet around his knees bunching up as he surges his body upwards. Almost animalistically.
Choso bottoms out his furious, twitching cock and keeps it there- “Oh, fuck…” It didn’t sound like he was acting once his bawling red divot starts splatterin’ out more milky white wads. Deeep in the back of your pussy, right where your womb was, Choso puddles out his ecstasy in long ribbons. “Oh fuck fuck fuck—fuck. Always knew it’d feel this good.”
Wave upon wave.
Toes curling. Eyes scrunching shut.
If you thought his moans were sensual before, then you weren’t prepared for the ones your pussy was able to drag out of him - ragged and hollow utterances of your name. Over and over like a broken record, like a mantra.
He’s fucking into you to milk them out of his hefty balls- then fucking you again just to pump those webbed wads right back in. From the top of his rotund tip and dooooooown to the tufts of hairs at his base. All nine inches of him being used to stuff you till the brim—
You’re sure your insides look like an utter fuckin’ mess by the time he’s slowing his tattooed hips down ever-so-slightly—still shaking from the aftermath of his orgasm. This was far stronger than anything he’s ever experienced before.
Drunkenly, you’re blinking your eyes up at him. “Always?”
He smiles, “Ever since our first lesson of Film 101.” Admitting, he lovingly wipes off a bit of his cum you were foaming between your pussylips. “You referenced Pride and Prejudice when talking about the best lines of dialogue of all time, and I-I’d been a goner since then.”
“Corny…” You snort. Though you can’t help the flutter of your heart.
“So um- coffee after this?”
“It better be dinner.”
He laughs in agreement. “Also I bought a vibrating piercing the other day and have been dying to try it…”
Your eyes widen.
And once you’re helping him pull out- Choso reaches for the camera and gets a good shot of the cum leaking between your legs. Before you’re both waving at it, “Thank you for joining us, today—this was the most fun I’ve had on stream yet- heh.”
You’re shooting the camera a pretty smile, too.
And Choso kisses the corner of your cheeks, “Until next time. This has been Curse and Movie.”
@girrrrrrrrrrth: holy fuck??
@Curse’swifey: WAIT WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT NO WAY-
@bewbsRlife: HOLD ON-
@CCpervnextdoor: SAY SIKE RN?
@bipplruletheworld: oh my god that’s amazing.
@likezmenpregnant: Oh, a love story for the ages~
@yoyoyoureinmypuss: YOU TWO LOOKING FOR A THIRD??
@Fishygurodad: Damn.
@Fishygurodad: Hmu when he messes up.
@daddytoeknee: Stfu he won’t.
@daddytoeknee: Also I totally called it <3
A/N. I did NOT plan to have me inserted and beefing with Toji Fushiguro but here we are-
synopsis: your new neighborhood is good so far. the folks are friendly and the big, scary guy next door is hot. but what happens when the noise coming from his apartment becomes too much and—is that a baby you hear?
contains: fluff, little bit of crack, neighbors to enemies to friends to lovers, angst if you squint, domestic moments, slice-of-life, uncle sukuna, nephew yuji, dinosaurs, unlikely co-parents(?), nonsexual nudity, jealousy, slowburn(?), making out, eventual smut (dry humping), sukuna yearning, mentions of clubbing and alcohol as well as drug and gambling addiction.
words: 24.2k (complete)
part one
part two
part three
extra:
one two
drabbles:
#1 #2 #3 #4 #5
note: this started off as just a random one-shot but these two grew on me so now it's a series! i may write extras or drabbles for them whenever i get the itch.
Synopsis: abandoned at the foot of a mountain in hopes of winning the favour of Sukuna Ryomen, you have to navigate life as his bride, constantly fearing death, torture, and being eaten out— up. being eaten up. definitely up.
right?
Warnings: porn with plot, dark romance, forced marriage, true form!sukuna - 2 peepees!, cunnilingus (he's a certified munch), use of curse mouth, blood play, masochist!sukuna, pussyjob, thigh job, death/violence/body parts, primal play, dubcon, double penetration, upside down 69, hair pulling, brief spanking, pussy slapping, biting, outdoor sex, bondage, shadow tentacles?, period sex, multiple orgasms, honestly not as dark as it sounds — this is quite romantic I promise, angst, fluff (soft!kuna), not quite curse au in the canon sense, f!reader, not proofread
Word Count: 16.9k
A forced marriage with Sukuna, the king of curses, sounds like hell.
And it is.
The village chief wanted to receive the newly arrived Curse King’s mercy and be spared from his tyranny. That apparently meant offering you, his only daughter, up for marriage. You were dropped off at the foot of the mountain, bound and gagged, unable to scream for help, not that any would arrive.
Not even your best friend, Suguru, had met your eyes.
Everyone had abandoned you.
A servant, dignified and aloof, came. They, with their white hair stained with crimson, took one look at you before making a silent decision.
Carried by goblin-looking creatures inside the mountain, which parted as though unhinging its jaw, you could do nothing but accept that you were going to be eaten up by the very monsters that children were warned about.
Navigating the carved out hallways of the mountain, they threw you in the throne room. Jagged stone walls surrounded you. Glowing red rocks were embedded in the rocks and lit torches illuminated the grand space. You were laying on the rolled out red carpet, staring up at a giant of a being.
There he was.
Sukuna Ryomen.
He was resting his head on one of his four arms, legs crossed, with all four eyes gazing down at you. He looked bored.
“What is this?” he drawled.
The same servant you first met stepped up, head bowed humbly. They said, “Entertainment, my Lord.”
“Entertainment?” the king repeated, tasting the word. “Not a snack? Interesting. How, pray tell, will this woman entertain me, if not with the taste of her flesh, Uraume?”
It was an absurd situation — they were discussing you as if you weren’t there, as if you didn’t have ears, as if you were a pet the servant had picked up as a gift. Although, it was at least a small blessing that you hadn’t been killed on the spot, you supposed. The thought, however, didn’t permit much relief when unimaginable torture could have awaited you.
‘Uraume’ answered, “The humans intended for her to be your wife, my Lord. Perhaps you could humour them with brief belief that they have been spared from their inevitable fate.”
At that, Sukuna hummed.
His eyes met your own then. They inspected you through your very soul. You felt their branding touch rifling through your essence. Something passed in them, something to which you could not put words.
Finally, he waved a lazy hand, and said, “Very well.”
The servants rushed to take you away, afraid to waste a single second.
You’ve been living in a room somewhere in the heart of the mountain since.
It’s been about a week.
Meals on a tray are served to you three times a day. Porridge, fruits, bread, the sorts. You do your best not to eat much; they might have poisoned it.
Every day, every hour, is spent anticipating the wooden doors being kicked down, waiting for the Curse King to forgo delaying your fate and slicing your head off your shoulders with one, clean cut. So far, nothing yet.
In fact, you have not seen another soul since.
The first night, you couldn’t sleep, afraid that he would take the villagers up on the offer to make you his real bride, by plunging his cock into you and stealing your maidenhead. It didn’t, and hasn’t, happened. But ‘yet’ looms over you perpetually.
Your one consolation is that sleep comes to you easily now.
It’s all you can do — the room is barren of books, of people, of art. Only a bed, a table, and a chamber pot with a bucket of water decorate it. There are no windows with which you can view the outside world, can tell what time of day it is, can escape through, or jump off. Only your body’s natural instincts inform you when morning and time to slumber has arrived.
Though…
With the days blurring, and perpetual and dim light of the glowing rocks remaining unchanged, it’s beginning to grow more and more difficult to tell left from right.
The doors are unlocked.
That was the first thing you tested when you were placed here.
Of course you’ve considered walking out of the room, if only to have a change of scenery. You’ve also considered escaping. But your thoughts would always end up at ‘escaping to where?’
You’ve been abandoned by your village, by your family. They would not accept you. They would see your return as a sign that the Curse King had rejected their sacrifice and would be coming to collect the debt. In other words, you’d be seen as a bad omen.
It was your destiny to die, whether by the hands of your family or by the hands of the beast they were afraid of.
So if death is a certainty, why would you fear it?
That’s the final thought that pushes you out of bed and to the door. Your hand hesitated for a second. Then it was sure. You opened it, body tense.
No one’s outside. No guard, no goblins, no king.
You pad out, feet bare and wearing only a nightgown. How deep inside the mountain are you, you wonder. There’s a draught blowing past, but no sound of the forest to fill the space. No voices. No footsteps. No life.
“Where is everyone?” you mutter, padding forward.
Who can say how long you wander through the tunnels?
It feels like it’s been hours, though with the way time seems to pass differently, it could also have only been mere minutes.
Eventually, you spot light coming from a hollow in the walls. Carefully and with bated breath, you peer inside.
Steam wafts over your face.
It’s warm — startlingly so against the chill that seems to cling to every corridor of the mountain. You hesitate again, also only a moment before stepping inside.
The ceiling arches high above, rough stone glistening with condensation, droplets forming and falling in slow, steady rhythms that echo softly in the space. The air is thick, humid, curling around your skin. It tickles.
At the centre of the chamber lies a pool.
It’s set into a wide, uneven basin in the ground. The water glows faintly from beneath, lit by the same red-veined stones embedded along the walls, but here their light is softened, diffused through the steam until it casts everything in a hazy, molten glow.
The surface of the water ripples lazily, disturbed by unseen currents, by the quiet bubbling from somewhere deep below. Heat rises from it in waves, beckoning, almost inviting.
Who knew something like this existed inside a mountain?
Carefully, you approach the edge of the pool, crouching slightly as you extend a hand. Your fingers hover for a second before dipping into the water.
Hot.
But not scalding.
“A bath,” you mumble, smiling.
Here, of all places.
The servants had given you a bed to sleep on, a table to eat at, and a pot to do your business in that seemed to be cleaned out magically without you ever seeing anyone. What they hadn’t granted, however, is the luxury of a bath. Only a bucket to and a rag to clean yourself with.
You glance back toward the tunnel, as if half-expecting someone, something, to be watching. But there’s nothing and no one. Only the distant drip of water and the low hum of the mountain breathing around you.
Your reflection stares back at you from the shifting surface, blurred by steam and movement. The quiet stretches.
If you’ll be killed for stepping outside your room, at least you’ll die clean and fresh.
Shrugging off your nightgown, you dip your toe in the water, then your leg and the other, and soon you’re fully emerged.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” you moan, letting the water soothe the aches in your bones. You sink deeper. The heat swallows you whole, up to your shoulders, then your chin. Your eyes flutter shut as you tilt your head back, strands of your hair clinging damply to your skin.
For a moment, just a moment, you forget. Forget the mountain, the monsters, the fate waiting patiently for you somewhere in its depths. The tension bleeds out of your limbs, your breathing slowing, evening out as the warmth seeps into you.
You drift, arms floating lazily at your sides.
A soft sigh escapes you. This is just like swimming in the lake near the village, except it’s warm and lovely and soothing.
It’s…peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Your eyes open.
Something feels…off suddenly. The water, once gently lapping, stills in a way that isn’t natural. The faint bubbling from below seems to deepen, shift. Like something moving far beneath the surface.
Your body goes rigid.
Slowly, you glance down. The water is dark there. Deeper than it should be. The glow from the stones doesn’t quite reach the bottom — it falls away into shadow, into something that looks less like a pool and more like a pit.
A pit that could swallow you whole.
Your breath catches.
“…Hello?” you call softly, though you don’t know why.
The surface trembles.
Something moves.
Your heart lurches into your throat. Instinct kicks in before thought does. You turn sharply, water sloshing as you begin to move, arms cutting through the surface, making for the edge.
Too slow.
Something clasps your ankle.
A gasp tears right through you, kicking hard, panic surging white-hot through your veins. “No!”
It coils.
Grabs.
Your leg is yanked downward with terrifying force.
The world flips. Water crashes over your head as you’re dragged under, your scream swallowed instantly. You thrash, clawing at nothing, lungs burning whilst bubbles tear from your mouth. Your hands grasp blindly, trying to find purchase, to find anything.
A shape.
A body.
You strike it. Push against it. Kick, struggle, fight with everything in you, nails scraping against something solid, unyielding.
Then it lets go.
You don’t wait.
You surge upward, breaking through the surface with a ragged gasp, coughing, choking on water as you scramble for the edge. Your hands slap against the stone, slipping once before catching, dragging yourself up just enough to cling to it. Your whole body trembles violently.
Air. You need air.
You suck it in greedily, chest heaving, water dripping from your lashes as your eyes dart wildly across the pool. “W-what…” you choke out, voice shaking.
A sound answers you. A low, amused exhale.
Your blood runs cold. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn your head.
He’s here.
The King of Curses.
Sukuna lounges against the inner ledge of the pool as though he’s always been there. One arm is slung lazily over the stone behind him, another resting loosely at his side, droplets sliding down the planes of his skin. And the remaining two are folded under the water.
He’s watching you.
No, observing you.
That smirk curls at his lips, sharp and satisfied, eyes glinting with something dark and entertained. “Well,” he drawls, voice echoing low against the stone walls, “your floundering was amusing.”
“W-why,” you begin, gulping air and frantically shoving the wet hair clinging away from your face, “why did you do that?”
A hum floats through the air, carried by the steam. It sweeps your skin. Sukuna says, “Because I could.” Then he barks a laugh. “When I came here to wash the stink of my latest massacre, I did not expect to find a human bathing in my onsen. How brazen of you.”
When he snaps his fingers together, you flinch.
Uraume appears.
Their head is downcast. They don’t look at your body, which you suddenly remember is bare and visible through the clear water. You throw your arms over your private parts.
“Who is this woman and why have you not killed her upon her first step of trespass?” he asks his servant. Sukuna doesn’t sound mad. Only curious.
“Because she is your bride, my Lord.”
You flinch at the term.
Sukuna barks a laugh again. “My bride? My bride! How comical that I would forget I have one.” He turns to you, eyes narrowing in with interest. “Why have you only now appeared before me?”
Gulping, you tentatively answer, “I did not think you would want to see me. And I’m sorry I intruded—”
“Wise,” he says, one of his massive arms running through his wet hair. “I am not usually fond of seeing humans; you are all so hideous and constantly quivering in my presence.”
There’s no possible way to reply to that, not without getting your blood spilled for insolence.
He stands upon the ledge and exits the pool.
He’s completely naked, as you are. His broad back, the impressive muscles that make it up, the perfectly symmetrical tattoos. He turns. His cocks swings with the movement. You quickly avert your eyes, cheeks warm.
If Sukuna notices that you noticed, he doesn’t say. Only, “Try not to drown — my pet swims beneath but he has already had his fill. Do not fatten him with your flesh.”
When you hurriedly climb out, squealing, his laughter echoes, filling the space even once his body, and his servant’s, have left.
You kneel on the smooth ground, panting, soaked and dripping, and thinking one thing:
The Curse King has a sense of humour.
And two giant cocks.
.
.
.
The next day, you find yourself back at the pool.
You tell yourself it’s simply because you want to bathe, but perhaps if you were more honest with yourself, you’d accept that maybe you were curious to see if he’d be there.
And he is.
Sukuna leans against the very same ledge he had been yesterday. He watches your every move, from when you first step in, to when you shyly shrug off your nightgown, and when you submerge yourself in the warm water.
Something has brought you here.
A pull you could not deny.
Thinking too much about it gives you a headache, so you let your body move on its own, unhindered by logic, by your mind’s concerns. You want to bathe, to be clean. He hadn’t killed you yesterday, and that counts for something.
Of course, you know the smart thing to do would be to not push it, to understand that two run-ins with him that didn’t lead to immediate death doesn’t mean a third would end the same, to count your blessings.
But…
Bath.
He says nothing, only runs a finger across the seam of his lips as his eyes drink up every shift of your body.
Boldly, albeit shakily, you ask, “Why haven’t you killed me yet?”
Sukuna’s eyes glint.
“I wonder the same thing myself.”
That’s not an answer, you note. But you don’t poke, scared if you do, if you push your limits more than you already have, he’ll snap your head as easily as he had snapped his fingers.
The way his eyes pin you down on the ledge opposite him has you squirming in your seat. It’s too intense. Too strong. Too dizzying. So you try to pretend it’s not cascading down the skin visible to him; you push forward, wading in the water. You stare at the ceiling, at the distance, at the darkness of the depths, at anything but him.
“My village offered me as sacrifice,” you remind him. “Will you spare them?”
Somewhere, he lazily replies, “I have yet to decide.”
Humming, as though you thought as much, you wonder aloud, “What will you do with me? I cannot imagine that the King of Curses would find much use in a human wife.”
“No, neither can I,” Sukuna drawls.
On and on, you swim. Arms cut through the water in slow, steady strokes, legs kicking behind you in a rhythm that’s begun to feel automatic. There’s no sense of direction, no shore to aim for, just the endless stretch of water surrounding you, thick and quiet, swallowing any sound you might make. Time slips, dissolves, until all that remains is movement for the sake of movement.
Then, as you turn, your hand meets something solid.
The impact is soft but jarring, your palm flattening instinctively against it. A wall. Smooth, unmoving, impossibly present where there had only ever been open water.
You gasp.
Sukuna stands behind you.
The bottom of the pool had risen. You still cannot reach it, but you’re aware that if you tried to, the water’s surface would be just above your head. The pool is under his command, bending to his will. How incredible.
Bare, wet skin meets bare, wet skin.
The heat of his body is hotter than that of the water.
He doesn’t step away despite how the water seems to be pushing you to him.
How did he get to you so fast? Last you saw, he was still sitting on the ledge. No, perhaps the better question is, why had he moved closer to you at all?
Hands grab your ribs. You gasp. They’re firm, callused. Burning.
“Wife?” he repeats, wide smirk revealing rows of flesh-tearing teeth. “You are not my wife. You are my bride. I am sure even a puny, little thing like you understand that there is a process to be followed, yes?”
A nail flicks your nipple under the water.
You let out a shuddery breath.
The other two hands grip the back of your thighs, lifting them till they’re wrapping around his hips. The top half of your body has emerged from the water, water dripping down. You throw your arms around his neck, a reflex to grab onto something before you fall.
Breasts presses to his chest. He must feel how hard your nipples are. You’re flushed with embarrassment, and an acute awareness of how much bigger his own body is to yours — if he wanted to, he could crush you with his bare hands.
Sukuna’s sharp fangs glint at the very peaks as he runs his tongue over them. “For you to be my wife, we would have to observe tradition. Do you understand what I refer to, little human?”
Breathless, you answer with your own question: “Do you refer to the wedding night, my Lord?”
One of his cocks pokes your entrance. You tense up.
You’ve seen their size; they are inhumanly big. They could not fit inside you, not without the preparation that the women in your village had giggled about, perhaps not even with.
But he doesn’t shove it inside you all in one go.
He doesn’t shove it inside at all.
The king merely slides you down his body, just a little, until that cock is sandwiched between your bodies.
It bumps a good spot on your cunt. You gasp.
“I do,” Sukuna says, huffing in amusement at your reaction. “I admit I have not been married before myself, but it is one aspect I am curious about.”
His strong hands are moving you up and down, testing every little sound that leaves your lips. And you’re letting him.
Is there something in the water? Some elixir that’s making you susceptible to his whims? An aphrodisiac stimulating wetness out of your pussy?
He must feel it, must feel how it drips down his length. Just like how you can feel the prominent veins of a cock that’s grown fully erect without you noticing. How long has he been like this? Since you walked in? Before?
Your nipples are scraping his chest. The sensation has you arching closer to him, grip around his body tightening. “M-my Lord!”
Sukuna tuts, moving you up and down like you’re a mere toy for his pleasure. He scolds, “That is not my name.”
“Sukuna?” you experimentally mutter the words. His cock throbs. You both groan. “S-something’s happening.”
Hips moving on their own, you feel as though you’ve been possessed. Your body is no longer your own — some invisible thing is urging you to grind down on his cock, on that burning heat between you, rubbing your clit on his flushed cockhead, on the veins that run up and down his length.
Humming, he says, quite distracted, “Yes. Something is. Allow it to happen. Do not fight it.”
This is pleasure you’ve never felt before. Pleasure you didn’t know truly existed. The women in your village always spoke of sexual pleasure as something only for men, joy a girl would be lucky to experience even once, if their partner was generous and not selfish, which was apparently rare.
Yet, here is, grinding your clit on the veins of his cock.
He licks his lips. “Go on, little human. Give it to me.”
With a loud moan, you throw your head back. Spasms wrack your body. A heady explosion warms your belly. Spurts of something even warmer paint your chest and stomach.
Sukuna grunts, fingers digging into the plush of your ass.
“Fuck.”
Your head falls back on his chest, slumping with sudden languishness. You pant. His chest rises with his own heavier breaths.
Coming back into your own senses, you tense. Then push away. He lets you.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, in near tears from shame. “Please forgive me, my Lord.”
You wade back, further and further away from him. Blood has pooled in your cheeks. What have you done? If he wasn’t going to kill you before, he certainly will now that you’ve defiled his body.
He pays you no mind. The water around his still body ripples. Sukuna grunts. Sucks in a harsh breath. Water laps at his contracting abdomen. Furious. Violent. You cannot tear your eyes away from the sight.
Oh god…he’s tugging furiously at his other cock whilst the other floats. His own spend is drying on his chest.
Mouth watering, you almost step forward to offer a hand.
But you don’t.
Instead, you turn around and make a run back to your room.
.
.
.
You haven’t returned to the pool. Not once in the week that passed.
He might not have killed you but one thing’s certain: you do not want to run into him again.
Especially now that you’ve caught his attention. Reminded him of your existence. Which is as one would expect: worse than being forgotten. So, so, so much worse.
For, every day since the meeting at the pool, he’s taken to dropping off severed limbs at your door. Still warm. Still bleeding. Often twitching. First it was a big toe. Then a whole foot. A finger. A hand. An arm.
And today, a head.
A scream shook the walls once your eyes landed on the thing.
Your scream.
Perhaps it’s adrenaline that urges every stomp your feet make. Perhaps anger or indignation. Whatever it is, it has you near-running through the halls, searching in every hollow for him.
An almost full circle has been carved at the very end of one tunnel you stumble down. Vines creep out of it. You step inside, heaving, and with fists balled at your side.
A garden.
It stretches farther than your eyes can follow, lush and sprawling, like the earth itself had been coaxed open and persuaded to bloom in defiance of everything you thought you knew about this place. The ceiling arches high above, fractured in places where thin shafts of pale light filter through, catching on drifting pollen and casting the entire space in a soft, dreamlike haze.
The air is warm here. Heavy with scent.
Sweet. Overripe. Almost intoxicating.
It’s not a human garden, you can tell immediately; the grass is black, as is the soil, and the roots which emerge from the ground are red. Things that couldn’t exist in the same place do, cohabiting quite well.
Flowers you’ve never seen before crowd the ground in wild abundance — petals like silk and flame, some translucent, others so dark they seem to drink in the light. Vines coil and twist up natural pillars of stone, heavy with blossoms. Leaves skim against your legs as you step forward, wide and waxy, or delicate as lace, each one foreign.
“How…?” you whisper, though there is no answer. It shouldn’t have been possible to have a whole forest inside a mountain. But then again, a great many things shouldn’t have been possible, yet they are.
The path, if it can even be called that, winds forward through the growth, barely visible beneath the encroaching green. It feels endless. Like you could spend your entire life sprinting down the path and never make it to the end.
There, some distance ahead, partially obscured by the curtain of hanging vines, a figure moves.
You freeze.
Bare feet press against the dark soil, soundless. A loose robe hangs from his shoulders, open just enough to reveal the breadth of his chest and the markings etched into his skin stark against the softness of the garden around him. One hand drags idly along the leaves as he walks.
“Hello, little bride.”
It still surprises you that he can utter the word so casually. You don’t flinch this time however. You only glower and maintain the distance. “Why have you been giving me body parts?” you interrogate, grateful that your voice is as firm as when you had rehearsed.
Sukuna lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Why have you not stepped foot outside your room since?”
He resumes walking.
Toward you.
Each step is unhurried, deliberate, crushing petals beneath his feet without a second thought. The garden seems to part for him, bending subtly to his presence, vines shifting, leaves snaking aside in quiet submission.
You don’t move.
You tell yourself you won’t.
Your pulse stutters anyway.
“You fear me,” Sukuna observes, like he’s stating something obvious. His eyes drag over you, taking in every inch, every subtle shift in your breathing, the way your fingers curl tighter at your sides. “And yet you came looking.”
“Because I want to know why you’ve been giving me body parts,” you snap.
“Mm.”
He’s closer now.
Close enough that you can feel the heat of him, even in the thick, perfumed air of the garden. Close enough that you can see the faint sheen of moisture still clinging to his skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the loose fall of his robe.
Another step.
Instinct finally kicks in; you shift back, just one pace.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I was curious.”
Your brows knit. “About what?”
“How long it would take,” he says lightly, “for you to stop hiding.” A finger traces the curve of your cheek. You hold your breath, staring up at him, waiting for his next move. Sukuna mutters, “How odd that your scent would be so much sweeter than the flowers that grow here. It makes me wonder.”
Why is heat travelling down your body? Why aren’t you running away, revolted by his touch or the gravel in his voice? Were you still thinking about the feel of his body against yours, both naked, in the pool? Of the cocks whose soft lengths had been engrained in your mind?
His nostrils flare.
A flash in his eyes.
“There it is,” he rasps. “A scent I could not escape, so much more potent now.”
In a blink of an eye, you’re flipped over, dangling in the air. He has you by the ankle, lifted high up.
You grab onto his robe, which has parted. Right in front of you is his cock. Both of them. Neither soft now. Definitely not soft. One smacks you right against the face. It leaves a wet mark.
The musk of a refined monster hits you. It’s…it’s addictive. Your mouth waters again, stronger this time than the time at the pool now that they’re so much closer to you. Irresistible.
Sukuna presses a nose to the apex of your thighs. Skin on skin. You jolt.
Your dress had fallen down your body, ballooning around your face. You hold the material away — he can see everything. That fact has you aware that you can see him too. The thickness of his cocks, the lengths rivalling your forearm, the weight of the balls beneath. Everything about him is massive. Intended to subjugate. Designed to dominate.
“You are already wet. Soaked,” he muses, thoroughly humoured. He rubs his nose on your clit, nuzzling the little bud. You dig your nails into his thighs. “Filthy, little human.”
That’s all he says before he licks a stripe through your slit.
“Sukuna!”
“Mm. Dessert. Just in time.”
The beast licks and laps and sucks. It isn’t anything like the women at the village described — men are supposed to be reluctant, they’re supposed to be frightened. Sukuna isn’t. He’s consuming your juices as though starved, needing nourishment.
In front of you, something emerges from his skin.
A wolfish grin.
There’s a mouth on his stomach, lips curled up and teeth gleaming. You scream, fighting to get out of his tight hold.
SMACK!
Sukuna slapped your ass. A dull heat blossoms on the flesh. He commands, “Stay still. I cannot dine when you worm like so.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Cruelly, he lays short slaps right on your clit, sending juices splashing onto your skin. The way his palm sticks, the sloppy noises, it's all so degrading. He’s doing it on purpose. He’s revelling in your clear desire for him.
You’re almost too distracted by the sight of a second, bigger mouth. Almost. But nothing can truly, wholly tear your attention away from the sucking of your clit and the way a fire is being lit in your very core. Soon, a thick tongue finds your entrance and buries itself inside. Your eyes roll back.
A hot, wet thing slides up the valley of your breasts. Slithering. Testing. Tasting.
The mouth, you realise. It’s sticking its fat tongue out, licking your breasts the way Sukuna’s face mouth is licking the inside of your cunt, stretching your walls, teasing the pleats there.
“Delicious,” one of them says. You can’t tell which. So much is happening at once. Too many to process.
At your lips, one of his cockheads smears its seed. You lick your lips. It’s salty. Eyes fixed on the frighteningly red thing, you open your mouth to suckle at it. That familiar possession has returned. You’re being controlled by an invisible force — your jaw has to widen to take the bulbous head. Your tongue runs over the tip, where there’s a slit.
Sukuna groans, pleased. Then he growls, “Do not neglect the other.”
Slightly afraid, you do as he says. The other cock is just as hard, just as big and long as the one you’re sucking on. It throbs approvingly when you tug on it.
“Good,” he groans out. “Very good, little bride.”
Obscene squelches are coming from above. It’s a reminder of how wet you are for him. Of how delirious the pleasure is. Of how you aren’t disgusted by the magical tongue flicking your tits, playing with the mounds, running the tip of it over your nipples. You’re not disgusted by the salty taste of him, of how he seems to be constantly leaking.
He’s lapping up at your pussy so furiously that he makes frustrated, wrathful sounds; he’s mad that you’re not producing enough wetness to match the pace in which he’s drinking it up.
“More,” he commands. “Give me more. Now.”
Sukuna pushes his face closer, uncaring of the fact that you’re making a mess all over his cheeks. He only has one thing on his mind.
“I’m gonna cum,” you warn him, mouth full and words garbled. The unfamiliar word leaves your lips so naturally you think you’d been warning him all your life of your impending orgasm.
Unfortunately, the warning is wasted. You don’t think he even hears the words with your thighs muffling his ears.
“Sukuna!”
The very same feeling, the same sensations, as the time in the pool rushes through you. Bolts of lightning thrum beneath the surface of your skin. You shudder, moaning lewdly.
He doesn’t stop. If anything, he’s only emboldened by the juices overflowing out of you. Slurrrrrping! so animatedly. So viciously. So animalistically.
A feral beast sucking your sensitive clit into another orgasm only minutes later.
It’s too much. It almost hurts. You slap at his meaty thigh. That seems to snap him out of his mania.
In a flash, you’re flipped back upright. Blood descends down your body. Lightheaded, your knees weaken. He catches you, lifting you up in his arms all while he’s collecting as much of your juices off his skin he can reach with his tongue.
Thud…thud…thud…
Sukuna strolls through the garden and back out into the rocky halls, robe discarded. Your dress is soaked with a mix of your juices, sweat, and his saliva. You’re filthy. He doesn’t complain.
Thankfully, there’s no one in the hallways to witness the remnants, of the proof, of your mutual debauchery.
“I have never considered myself as having a sweet tooth,” Sukuna begins, musing to himself, “but now I believe I would very much like to have dessert after every meal. What do you say, little human?”
“Hmm,” you sleepily hum.
“Then we are in agreement,” Sukuna concludes, pleased.
Your eyes flutter shut, too tired to keep them open. Before you fall into slumber, you feel a bed much softer than you remember cushion your body.
A hardness flanks you.
You dream of many hands brushing your hair, patting your hip, rubbing your belly, and tracing your cheek.
.
.
.
Since you’ve come to accept your odd relationship with the King of Curses, you’ve been spending an awful amount of time with him lately.
It started off with him keeping you in his room.
It’s a much nicer room than yours. Infinitely so. Almost triple the size and more lavishly decorated — a huge bed with silk sheets and a canopy with deep velvet curtains, a plush rug, dark red orchids in intricate and complex positions upon a table, paintings of different moments in time of human suffering that concerningly do not bother you.
You always find yourself back in here.
Whenever you wander through the halls, the walls seem to shift. They lead you back to his room. At first you were hesitant to enter, and you’d try to go a different way, but the caves insisted.
He isn’t here ever.
So you’ve started to think of it as your own.
During meal times, that’s when you’d see Sukuna.
Uraume would often escort you out of the room and into the dining hall. Another enormous space. You’d dine with him, and only him. There’d be curses posted inside, but they always step out, to give you privacy you assume. Naturally, these mealtimes were awkward for you in the beginning.
Sukuna didn’t speak. Not at first. He would just watch you eat, which only made you feel more awkward.
You were the one who broke the silence. “Are you… are you not going to eat, my Lord?” you asked tentatively.
A devious grin came upon his face. Happy he won a competition you didn’t know you signed up for. He replied, “I will. I am simply fattening up my pig before I devour her.”
Heat flushed through you. Cutlery clinking against the fine china, you gulped. There was a dangerous awareness of the darkness of his eyes feasting upon your flesh — you felt its weight sliding down the plumpness of your cheeks, the length of your neck, your collarbones, and your breasts which threatened to spill out from the confines of your dress.
Perhaps fear should have overtaken you at that moment.
Only relief and desire did.
What set you on edge most was not knowing what he wanted from you, why he had Uraume collect you, why he was wasting his time here when he could be doing kingly duties.
Now that he had made clear what he was seeking, you could allow yourself to rest easy and actually taste the food you were shovelling into your mouth.
“I am the pig in question?”
“Yes,” he replied immediately. A hand shoved a plate of pancakes towards you, encouraging. “You certainly squeal like one.”
Frowning, and pushing the plate away because you have too much to eat already, you argued, “I do not.”
“Do too,” he said, pushing the plate back towards you.
“Do not!”
An arm wrapped around your waist faster than you could see. Another swiped the food off the table. Everything fell with cacophonous clangs and bangs and splats!
Sukuna placed you on the table, which was now bereft of food. Your back met the hard wood. Your legs were thrown over his shoulders. Dress hiked up your waist. You were bared to him. Two of his callused hands yanked you closer to his face. Those four eyes, all scarlet and glinting up at you, didn’t look away.
He wanted you to watch him take a long whiff of your cunt.
His grip tightened on you once your scent hit him with full force. His eyes rolled back. Sukuna snarled, “Let’s see which of us is right.”
There were no soft kisses upon your sensitive skin, no caresses. Only unrestrained feasting. He immediately latched onto your clit, sucking on the thing with a fury. You cried out.
The king was frightening in his aggression.
He was gulping down every drop your pussy produced to please him, and it wasn’t nearly enough. Terrifying growls shook the table.
Sukuna seemed addicted to making your cunt let out vulgar squelchessss!
They came in quick succession. One after the other. Loud and clear. Displaying how well he was playing with your clit.
“Look at how your cunt flutters, searching for my cocks,” he mused, thumbing the entrance but not pushing in. “And look how your petals have grown swollen with blood. Oh, I bet your blood tastes as good as your pussy. We’ll test that too, another day.”
Stammering, you pleaded, “Don’t look!”
He stared too intently. Saw too much. It was more intimate than being tasted.
“Nonsense,” Sukuna said, waving you off. “I will look as I please, and I very much do.”
In response to his renewed lapping of your juices, you could only writhe and run your nails down the wood for anything to ground you.
“Do not waste your claws on the table,” he spat, spare hands snatching your ups and offering his wrists for you to dig into. You hesitated, chest heaving and vision swimming. Then he asked, “You do not find my flesh good enough to mark? You wish to offend your groom when he is at the altar of your legs?”
You didn’t want to know what he was like when he was offended so you clung to his thick wrists. You made a mental note not to actually scratch him — that seemed a more criminal act than offending him – but the pleasure born from his ravishing of your pussy bordered on pain and you could not help yourself.
The very moment your nails caught on his skin and broke through, one of the hands that was keeping your shaking legs apart darted out. It landed on your chest. With brutish finesse, it ripped your bodice. Cool air grazed over your breasts. That hand latched onto a tit.
“W-what– Oh God!” you screamed.
Something…
Something on his palm was suckling your nipple, like a babe.
Sukuna’s amused huff vibrated through your pussy, sending shivers up your spine. “No, not God, little bride. It is me. My mouth is making you feel good. But,” he adds after a little thought, “I do not mind being worshipped as a deity, heh.”
How could he be so nonchalant when two sets of mouths were eating you up, when your eyes were at risk of being permanently lodged at the back of your head? How could he make conversation so easily when his tongue, which felt so impossibly long, was wriggling through your walls and teasing the entrance to your womb? When the mouth at his palm was suctioning your nipple into that impossible space?
“Delicious,” he snarled, positively starved of your taste. “So fucking sweet. How can a human be so…so…divine? It defies nature.”
He wasn’t talking to you anymore. He was manically muttering to himself, reasoning with his own understanding of the balance of life. It baffled him. Bewildered him. Excited him. Sukuna could not get enough of you.
Whining, you called out his name, “S-Sukuna! It’s too -hngh!- much. I can’t.”
“Cum,” he said.
Your head shook, thrashed. “No, I -hah- can’t!”
“Cum,” he repeated. No, commanded. Ordered. Demanded.
And you could not deny a king.
You fell apart on the dining table with a scream. Wetness rushed out of you as though a dam had broken. He drank it all up. Slurrrrrpeddd! every single drop until you were writhing again. And when he growled, “More,” and, “Again,” you could not deny him then either.
It might have been hours later before he decided he’d had his fill.
Aside from meal times, you don’t see him during the day. He’s always gone. No one will tell you why, and you don’t feel brave enough to ask. You merely assume he’s doing kingly duties — keeping the curses of the Underworld and of the forests in line, maintaining balance between humans and monsters, and protecting his people.
In the meantime, you read in his room, which is now your room. There are plenty of books here. More than you could ever read in a lifetime, and certainly more than there ever were in your village. It’s hard to imagine he read any of the books in the collection but there are signs of use: folded pages, cracked spines, yellowing.
He read each one you had opened.
Poems.
Novellas.
Journals of travels beyond.
You don’t mind the hours spent on your own; the goblins walking along still scare you so you avoid running into them. Of course, there’s always the option to ask during your mealtimes, in between him eating you out and actually consuming food, if you could visit the village (for you know returning was too much). Not that you especially wanted to go home.
The villagers had sold you.
Abandoned you.
They would not welcome you home.
So you must consider the heart of the mountain your new home.
It’s simply about asking, about knowing the answer, about having the option.
But each time you considered bringing up your village to him, you backed out at the last second. He was not your husband. Not really. Not yet. He’s not even really your groom. That just seems like an excuse to do the salacious things you’ve been doing. At most, he’s your friend, and you cannot burden your friend more than you already have.
Truthfully, it hardly matters what exactly he is to you. He’s nice. Attentive. Generous. He hasn’t killed you, he hasn’t hurt you, hasn’t massacred your village and your family, and hasn’t thrown back in your face any of those facts.
That’s why every morning, when you know Uraume will escort you, you make sure never to be late.
You obediently, possibly excitedly, wait in front of the door for the knock.
You slide a hand down your new dress; it appeared in the closet, and is your size. It certainly isn’t Sukuna’s. Red lace, soft silk, dainty bows, easy to move in and breathe — it’s a beautiful dress. Far more expensive and luxurious than anything you’d ever owned. The chest area’s a little tight; it pushes your breasts up more than you’re used to, and somehow you’re sure that was on purpose.
When the door opens, Uraume’s patient self leads you out. They’re quiet. Respectful. They have been since the very first night.
“Thank you.”
Cold eyes flit to you. “What ever for, my lady?”
“For saving me,” you say, fiddling with the lace on your dress. “If you hadn’t suggested that he humour me, Sukuna would have—”
“The king,” Uraume cuts in, spine straight and gaze fixed ahead now, “does only as he pleases. It is his right. He grows bored of his new toys very quickly, and it is my duty to keep him entertained. I saw an opportunity to fulfil my responsibility. That is all.”
You have no response to that. You only blink, surprised and berating yourself for being so. Sukuna may be your friend, in your eyes at least, but Uraume is not. Sukuna may not mind the fact that you are human, but others may not share the same sentiment. Maybe Uraume thinks you are a plague. A rat. That’s often the story humans spread about curses and their philosophies.
Soon, you reach the double doors leading to the garden. Before the doors are opened, they add, “It is also my duty to throw old toys away.”
When you turn to look at them, they’re already gone.
“Finally,” Sukuna says, exasperated. “I resent being kept waiting. Walk here with haste, little bride.”
Uraume’s words linger in your mind; Sukuna’s sharp rows of teeth flash washes them away.
He’s in his loose robes, bottom set of arms tucked into the wide sleeves. A hand beckons you over, and the moment you are within reach, he snatches you up. You’re carried up in his arms, high enough to come face to face with him and see all four of his eyes watching you.
Sukuna nuzzles the crook of your neck. He starts walking down the path. Branches tickle the top of your head. “Did you sleep well?” he wonders. His voice vibrates against your skin. It tickles.
Gripping his hair for purchase, you murmur, “Yes.” Then, shuddering once his lips explores the length of your neck, you ask, “Did you?”
“I do not sleep,” he casually replies.
Within minutes, he’s managed to walk so deep into the garden that the surroundings have changed from exotic flowers full of vibrant colours and shapes to a forest of cherry blossoms. Petals whirl around you, swirling with the gentle wind.
Above you, the cave walls have shifted into the blue and vast open sky.
You gasp. “Are we…are we outside?”
The brightness almost sting your eyes; you have to narrow them with a wince to avoid being blinded. The smell of fresh air too nearly burns your nostrils. The chatter of live animals and insects are near deafening at first. Everything’s so different, so new, yet so familiar, so ordinary that it becomes magical to your senses.
He parts from your neck to eye your reaction. The smile on your face makes his grip on you tighten. Sukuna says, “Yes. Your complexion looked rather dull without sunlight, and my bride must be at her very best at all times. So here we are.”
That doesn’t sound quite true upon his lips but you don’t question him on it.
Instead, you beam at him and gush, “Thank you! Oh, it’s wonderful out.”
It’s easy to forget what the world above is like when you’ve spent countless nights under the mountain with rocks for company.
Sukuna sets you down. You waste no time running around, laughing at the green grass that tickles your bare feet.
The grass inside the mountain’s garden is black, with roots being red, for reasons you could not fathom. It’s coarser too. The softness of this green, human grass, in comparison, sets your heart racing.
There’s no wind inside the mountain, only a draught. This calm air is fresher, warmer, soothing on the body and doesn’t settle.
And the warmth of the sun…
Beams of distant fire soaks into your skin. You sigh, a small smile on your lips.
When you turn back, he’s sitting under a tree, all arms crossed and watching you. Always watching. Always aware of your every move, every position, every shift.
Somewhat shy with the realisation that he’d seen the entire display, you stroll back to his side.
“It is a lovely day out, yes?” he says.
You nod, grinning. “It’s perfect. Just perfect.”
About to sit beside him, you let out a squeal when he snatches you up again and sits you down on his lap. All of his arms cage you. Sukuna rests his chin on the top of your head.
“Now it is,” he mumbles, chest rumbling against your back.
You smile again, more coy this time, and grateful he can’t see it.
The grass is untouched. No footprints mar it. No broken twigs, no distant rustling of hidden creatures. It is a forest, yes, but stripped of all the unease that forests usually carry.
It is only you and him.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve as another petal lands on your lap. You pick it up, studying it like it might vanish if you blink too long. Glancing back at him, you tilt your head slightly. “Did you…make this place like this?”
His chin presses a little more firmly into your hair, a quiet, possessive weight. “It exists on its own,” he says. “I allow it to remain.”
Another petal skims your lips. Without thinking, you laugh — light, bright, unguarded — as you try to catch it, only for it to slip away again, carried by a breeze that barely stirs the trees.
“You’re noisy,” he mutters.
Yet he does not tell you to stop.
You lean back into him instead, comfortable now, warm from the sun and from him both. One of his hands idly flicks a petal from your shoulder, the motion almost absent-minded, as though he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. Or perhaps he does. And simply doesn’t care.
Your gaze drifts across the clearing again, softer this time. Slower. Relaxed, you ask, “You said you don’t sleep. What do you do at night?”
Sukuna hums, fingers drumming on your stomach. “I take care of my business.”
That’s vague, you think, but you don’t push. Instead, you ask another question: “Why do you not return to the chambers?”
He chuckles, teasing. “How forward of you, little bride. We have not yet been wed and you’re already asking to share the marital bed. Is this how you humans do it in this day and age?”
Heat flushes your cheeks. You smack one of his wandering hands, which has crept up to cradle a breast, and huff, “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I just mean, everyone needs sleep. Surely even you, the King of Curses. I wonder how you rest is all.”
A moment of contemplation passes.
Did you say something wrong? Did you go too far?
Did he hate that you smacked him?
“You are right,” he eventually says, head coming down to nudge you. His lips gently touches your cheek. “I do need rest. So allow me.”
His strong hands easily lift you off his lap, placing you down on the grass. Sukuna unfolds his large body and comes to lie perpendicular to you. His head weighs your thighs down.
With a wave of his hand, a book appears in your left hand at the same time he takes your right and cradles it to his chest. “Read,” he instructs. “Read to me. And after my nap, I will eat your little cunt and slap your clit thrice to punish you for smacking my hand even just once.”
A flutter at your core has his eyes peering up at you, glinting. He must have sensed it. Somehow. Whether by feeling or by smell. How mortifying.
“Or,” he starts, “I can eat you out now. I am fine with whatever order you prefer.”
“No, I’ll read,” you hurriedly say. You flick to the first page, reading the words out loud and only sighing in relief when his eyes flutter shut at the sound of your voice.
Sukuna’s lips curl up in the corner.
And so a new tradition is born.
.
.
.
“My Lord,” Uraume repeats outside the door, “they wait for you.”
Sukuna growls out, “Let them. I am preoccupied.”
You’re pressed to the door, the cold wood warming up to the flush of your cheek. Bottom lip bitten in a desperate attempt to keep quiet, you can do nothing else but let him rut his scalding length between your thighs.
This evening, he’d woken you up with his tongue buried inside your cunt. It seems after another whole day out in the garden, reading and strolling with him and tasting each other beneath trees before or after his naps, you fell asleep and were carried back into your chambers.
Has it been days or weeks since you’ve built up this routine of spending the days together and spending evenings apart?
Time seems to pass so quickly and yet so slowly. It’s begun to lose all meaning to you. It’s not a fact you lament.
You jolted with a shriek at the hulking figure under your covers. “About time,” he said, throwing the heavy thing off and baring how his skin glistened with your spend to you. “I thought I might have to fuck you with both my cocks at once to wake you.”
He was joking, you were sure. Or hoped…
“Wake me?” you repeated, back arching. “W-why?”
Sukuna replied, a fang rubbing your clit and being especially careful not to cut you, “Because I must leave again, but I did not want to without hearing my name upon your lips.”
A whine tore through you. “Why couldn’t you just wake me up the normal way?”
Red eyes flashed mischievously from below. He licked a strike up your inner thigh all while not breaking eye contact. “Because normal does not taste as good.”
Uraume’s voice called out soon after, reminding him of the evening meeting. You stiffened. Could they hear you? Do they know what he was doing with you on the bed?
Feeling embarrassed, you kicked Sukuna off and tried to push him to the door. You hissed, “You need to go. They need you.”
A hand slid inside your dress and groped your breast, cursed mouth appearing to nurse on your nipple. Another lifted your skirt up so that a third can coat its fingers in your cunt’s essence with the intention of easing the entry inside.
“So does your cunt,” he said. “And I know which I would rather attend to first.”
Oh, he was filthy. So, so filthy.
And so persuasive.
With you continuing, and struggling, to shake him off — legs quivering from the number his mouths had done to you today — you eventually made it to the door and was about to open it when something hot and heavy rested upon the curve of your ass and a second parted your puffy pussy lips.
It was almost like he planned this.
“Do not make a noise,” Sukuna rakishly rasped to your ear. Two rough hands gripped your bare hips, dressed hiked up over your ass. “Lest you’d like for Uraume to know what we’re doing.”
You definitely did not — they don’t like you very much. This wouldn’t help your case.
But…
His cocks are rubbing you up and down and back and forth. His fat cockhead keeps catching on your pulsing clit, bumping the thing over and over again until your cunt’s drooling on his veiny length.
“Press your thighs together. Tighter,” he commands, and groaning once you do. “Every part of you feels so good. It’s maddening.”
The pleasure building up in your core from a few thrusts is maddening. Truly. Irrevocably. You can’t tell him that, however. You can’t speak; if you do, a loud moan might slip out.
Sukuna’s grunting in your ear. The sounds are driving you wild. As is the fact that your tits are out and are being squeezed relentlessly by two hands. Mouths take over his palms. They don’t hesitate to latch onto your nipples. You gasp, head thrown back into his chest. “Sukuna!”
“Mm, I know,” he huskily says. “Me too. Be good, pretty human. Just allow me to use your thighs for now.”
He’s so tall your hips have to be lifted up to reach his cocks. Your toes dangle over the ground. You hang precariously but you never worry for a second that he might drop you.
Shlick! Shlickkk!
The sounds are obscene and they’re all you can hear. Uraume must hear them too. Yet, they’re still out there, saying, “My Lord, please. The council grows restless.”
Sukuna’s livid growl shakes the door. “They. Will. Wait. Do not interrupt me again.”
His rutting speeds up. The sucking of his cursed mouths intensifies. The tip of the cock behind you is smearing pre-cum on your back, and the sensation has you clenching around nothing.
“I’m cumming,” you whisper, eyes shut tight. “Nghhh!”
“Good,” he breathes out. “Good girl.”
You bring a hand down to your cunt, cupping the cockhead appearing and disappearing with every shallow thrust through your lips. It nudges your palm, squelching! and leaving wet sploodges of his cum and yours. Sukuna snarls.
And just like that, he cums too. His hot cum explodes into your hand, spilling through the cracks of your fingers and splatting onto the floor. More cum bursts on your back, dirtying your dress.
It’s so hot. Scalding.
He keeps ploughing between your soft thighs, wringing out every last drop until he shudders with a growl and you slump completely in his grasp.
When he pivots you around to check on you, specifically the cheek that had been pressed up against the door, you see his loose robe had fallen open. Some of his cum has ended up dripping down his skin. He’s tattooed and chiselled and hard everywhere. A true killing machine. You run your fingers down his chest, smearing his cum around, all the way to his stomach where a massive mouth manifests in time to clamp onto your wrist with a grin.
His teeth don’t break skin. They don’t even hurt. They merely keep your hand inside, huge tongue slithering to lick every finger and every inch. Curiously, you grip the appendage. It really does feel like a real tongue. You stroke it.
Sukuna grips the back of your neck. He glares down at you. “You are trying to bring me to my knees, aren’t you?”
You blink. “No! Forgive me.” You try to pull your hand out on your own but his sudden grasp on your wrist stops you.
“I did not say I did not like it.” He steps closer, licking his lips.
“My Lord…” Uraume grits out through the door.
Sukuna groans. “Yes! Alright!”
The door opens with a wave of his hand.
“I should massacre the whole council, then I will have all the time in the world to bury my tongue inside your cunt. One day…” he mutters under his breath, seemingly actually considering the idea. You swat his back, cheeks flushed from embarrassment.
Your dress falls back into place just in time for you to shield yourself from anyone else’s eyes but Sukuna’s. Not that it’s enough.
Uraume’s chilling eyes see all — the sweat on your skin, the mess of your hair, the quivering of your legs, and the droplets of cum on the floor. They do not look disgusted by it. They look disgusted by you.
“Be good for me, little bride,” Sukuna says, already stomping away. “I will look for you as soon as I am done with these fools.”
You take a step forward to Uraume, an apology on your tongue.
They step back, straightening up. “These meetings are important,” they begin. “They ensure the other lords feel seen and heard. It maintains peace in our domain, and in yours. You mustn’t keep him from doing his duties. Not only is it impolite, it is also dangerous.”
“I’m sorr—”
“Do not apologise to me. Apologise to the king for wounding him,” they snap. You frown, confused. “The marks you left on his wrists that he refuses to heal himself? He leaves them open and bleeding. He openly plays with the cuts in front of the council, in front of his audience, smiling. Whispers are making echoes of a weakness in our king. If you do not care about your safety, then you must care about his.”
Thoroughly scolded, you stay rooted in place, watching Uraume follow after Sukuna.
.
.
.
You take a walk through the garden this evening to clear your head.
What Uraume said forced you to contemplate your relationship with the king. With Sukuna. They reminded you why you were spared in the first place — you’re a toy. A thing for entertainment.
He is entertained by you now, by the pleasures your body provides. That, however, is not something unique to you; any woman can spread their legs, which is a crass thing to say, you know. But it’s true. To save their village, their people, to earn another day of life, or to even have the honour of serving a king, many women would offer their body up.
And you are no special woman. You are quite average, all things considered. Never the most beautiful woman in the room, the most intelligent, or most pure of heart.
The fact of the matter is, Sukuna will soon grow bored of you.
What is left to be considered now is, will he spare you once he finds a new toy or will you be ‘gotten rid’ of by Uraume?
Will you be sad?
The pang in your chest at the thought seems to suggest so.
Without realising it, you end up back in the cherry blossom grove.
It looks different at night. Just as beautiful as during the day, of course, but different. Fireflies light up the air, mingling with the stars above you. If not for them, you wouldn’t know where you are, wouldn’t know that the tree whose bark you’re grazing with your fingertips now is the very same tree you sit under with Sukuna.
You were always under the impression that being a king meant you could do whatever you wanted. Uraume’s warning proved otherwise — Sukuna had people to please. And you’re who pleases him.
For how long will you be enough?
With a sigh, you wonder if Sukuna really will come to find you after his meeting. He’s always busy in the evenings, and though you spent the hours of the night sleeping anyway, it’d still be nice to talk to him. His thoughts on books you’ve read are quite funny.
He hates silly heroines who make bad decisions and always fall for the gloomy, morally grey men, yet hates the morally grey men more for their cheesy lines. “‘I control shadows and I have wings,’” he’d mimic, lowering his voice to a deeper rumble than his own. Then he’d say in his own voice, “Yes, so do about a thousand other fictional men. You are not special.”
Sukuna’s brows would furrow and he’d scoff whenever you’d get flustered by the erotic passages you’d be forced to read aloud to him as you sit in his lap, but he never suggests changing books. You theorise he really just likes complaining.
“Pretty girl?”
You jolt.
That voice…
“Suguru?”
Behind a tree, a silhouette hobbles over to you. “You’re alive! Oh, thank the heavens!”
The man falls into your arms. He’s really here. Your bestest friend. But he isn’t how you remember him — long raven hair have turned matted and dull, clothes torn and dirtied, and skin scratched up. You can hardly recognise him.
He grips your face, dirt rubbing into your skin. Scanning for any harm that might have befallen you, he smiles with relief upon seeing you’re perfectly well. “I’ve spent so many weeks wondering what had happened to you. I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”
His words are going in one ear and out the other; you can only question, with terror and trepidation, why his hands tremble, why he’s jumping at every little sound, and pulling you away inch by inch.
“What happened?”
Suguru’s eyes harden. His grip falls on your shoulder. Tight. Insistent. You wince. He says, “Listen to me carefully. We need to leave. We need to leave now. We’re too deep in the Curse King’s territory. There are beasts about. We must run now. Come!”
Bewildered, you’re yanked forward, stumbling over your feet.
“Wait, no, I have to stay!”
He’s not listening.
Deeper into the forest, you’re pulled. The cherry blossoms morph into scraggly trees, leafless and with jagged branches like teeth reaching for you. The fireflies are gone now. You have to force your eyes to adjust as you trip over rocks and logs, and as your bare feet are caked in mud and moss.
Looking back towards the light, you start to heave. “Sukuna…Sukuna’ll be mad. I have to go back.” You try to tear his hand off your wrist, digging your nails, but he can hardly feel it. “Suguru!” you yell, in near tears.
The man whirls on you, eyes wide and red. The bags under his eyes are darker than even the dark. They startle you. “What’re you doing? Why’re you fighting me? I’m trying to save you, like I should have done when your family decided to sacrifice you to the mountain.”
You shake your head. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m not mad at you, so if you’re doing this out of guilt, then you don’t need to. Just go, alright? Go before someone notices you’re here. I don’t know what the goblins, Uraume, o-or Sukuna will do if they find you here.”
Suguru recoils. “Sukuna? You call the monster of the mountain by his first name?”
He doesn’t wait for you to answer. Something seems to dawn on him. His eyes properly take you in from head to toe — your clean skin, fresh hair, the plump in your cheeks, the expensive dress you wear, the lace, the silk, the jewels.
He releases you, like you’d burnt him.
“The king spared you…” he whispers in horror. “He spared you. And you’ve been living a life of luxury, as our village burned to the ground. You call him by his first name when his name was the last thing my family had screamed in their final moments. You wish to go back, to that thing, when I’m here and I’m taking you away…”
“What do you mean?” you ask, brows knitting together. “What happened to our village?”
It’s an impossible thing to imagine. Yet it shouldn’t have been. Many villages have suffered the same fate, or worse, over the many years since the rise of the curses. But your village was spared because of you, because of their offering, right?
A scathing laugh slaps you on the cheek. “You don’t know? You’ve been cozying up to that monster and you don’t know he wiped our village out from the map? That he massacred our people in one night? Are you just stupid or did he poison your mind?”
You fall back, shaking your head. “No, no, he wouldn’t.”
“He’s a killer!” Suguru roars. “He’s killed so many. Every single night. The very few of us that had survived have fled from village to village, trying to fight against him and his army of curses, but they always win. I’ve watched my friends, my allies, fall again and again. And yet, I thought of you every day. I fought for you, so I can return and save you from his torture.”
He scoffs.
“But he hasn’t been torturing you, has he?” Suguru grips your face suddenly, bruising your cheeks as he spits out, “No, he hasn’t had to use force to get you to spread your legs!”
Tears stream down your face. “Stop it,” you cry out. “Stop it!”
Suguru presses his forehead to yours, lips trembling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Let’s just go, alright? We need to go. You’re not safe even if you’ve earned his favour for now. He’s proven he isn’t a man of his word, and it’s only a matter of time before he tears you limb from limb like he had done to your mother and to your father, and to mine.”
Images of your home ablaze, of the night sky filling with the screams of the dying, of blood turning the ground crimson flash in your eyes.
You’re a fool. You’d actually convinced yourself that he isn’t the King of Curses, that creatures from the Underworld don’t bow to him, that he hasn’t been keeping you to laugh behind your back.
You’d allow yourself to believe you’re Sukuna’s bride.
That you’re something special to him, even momentarily, even just for now.
He’s looking at you impatiently, bouncing on his feet and listening out for any signs of hostile life in the forest.
Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself. “Yes, yes. Let’s go. He’s in a meeting right now, he’ll be busy.”
And off you two go, running in the dark, hand in hand.
Branches whip at your arms as you run.
The forest is different at night.
Where it had been soft, warm, almost dreamlike beneath drifting blossoms, it’s now a maze of shadows and silver light, the moon caught in the petals overhead. Your breath comes sharp and uneven, lungs burning, feet barely finding the ground as you stumble over roots and fallen bark.
Beside you, Suguru’s grip is firm. Unyielding.
“Don’t stop,” he says, low, urgent, pulling you forward when your pace falters. “We’re almost past the boundary—”
A roar splits the night.
It shakes the air. Rips through the trees. Sends petals scattering like frightened birds. The ground trembles beneath your feet, a deep, violent pulse that travels straight up your spine. It rattles your bones, grips your very soul and squeezes. It’s in equal parts wrathful and tortured.
You freeze.
Suguru doesn’t.
“Move,” he snaps, tightening his hold on your hand, dragging you forward again. “He knows.”
Of course he knows.
This is his domain.
Every inch of it.
You run faster.
Faster than you ever have before, lungs screaming, vision blurring, your hand clutched in Suguru’s like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. The trees thin for a moment, moonlight spilling across a clearing—
THUD!
The earth cracks beneath the impact. You both skid to a halt.
He stands there, between you and whatever hope you thought you had.
Sukuna.
Tall. Unmoving. Waiting.
That deranged smile curls slowly across his lips, too wide, too pleased, too knowing. His eyes gleam in the dark, sharp and bright and utterly unhinged, drinking in the sight of you: your dishevelled state, your trembling form, your hand still clasped in another’s.
For a moment, he says nothing. Then, “You are leaving me?” His voice is almost light. Almost amused. “For some pathetic human?”
The words hit harder than the roar. Your chest tightens, a hot and jagged thing rising up your throat, drowning out the fear, the instinct to shrink, to hide, to obey. “No,” you snap, breath shaking. “I’m leaving because you slaughtered my village. You killed my family. You lied to me.”
He laughs. Low. Disbelieving. Growing. Sukuna tilts his head, as though genuinely intrigued by your accusation, by the audacity of it. “You mean the village,” he begins, voice slow, deliberate, “that threw you, bound and gagged, at the foot of my domain to be sacrificed?”
Each word lands like a blade, cutting deeper and deeper, and twisting to remind you of your lowest moment, of the humiliation, of the powerlessness you felt.
“The family that readily offered you up? That never looked back even once?”
Your grip on Suguru tightens.
Sukuna’s smile widens.
“Yes,” he hums, almost fondly. Inspecting his hands, as though he can see the blood that still stains his unmarred skin. “Yes, I did. And very gladly.”
Something in your chest cracks.
“But I never lied to you,” he continues, eyes narrowing just slightly, the air around him growing heavier, sharper. “You just assumed that I would negotiate with lesser creatures. A fault that I have overlooked.”
Suguru steps forward, just enough to place himself between you and him. “You’re done,” he says, voice steady, though there’s tension coiled tight beneath it. “Whatever hold you think you have over her—”
Sukuna’s gaze flicks to him.
The shift is instant.
The amusement drains, not completely, but enough to reveal something colder beneath. Something ancient. Something violent.
“Careful,” Sukuna murmurs. “I do not take kindly to interruptions in my conversations with my bride.”
The air distorts.
Pressure builds, thick and suffocating, pressing against your skin, your lungs, your bones. Suguru doesn’t move, but you feel the way his hand tightens around yours, grounding you even as the world threatens to tilt.
Why hasn’t Sukuna killed you both? Why hasn’t he tore you two apart? Why is he standing under the moonlight, humoured and talking so leisurely?
Even till now, he’s not staring down at you with deadly intent. He’s conversing with you as if he’s asking how your breakfast is or what book you’d picked up to read to him today. It’s impossible to know what he’s thinking, and that’s more dangerous than if you knew he was going to rip you into pieces.
“She’s not your bride,” he spits, tugging you behind him.
Sukuna laughs again. Four eyes settle back on you. “Not mine?” he repeats, almost thoughtfully. “After everything I have given you?”
A step forward.
“After I took you in,” he continues, voice dropping, curling around the words, “fed you, dressed you, kept you alive when the rest of your kind would have happily watched you die?”
Another step.
Trying to steel your resolve, you retort, “You must feel betrayed, right? Imagine how I feel, Sukuna!”
“You think I feel betrayed?” he asks, head tilting again, that awful smile returning, sharper now. “No, little bride.” His gaze flicks briefly to your joined hands. Then back to your face. “This is not betrayal,” he says. “This is ingratitude. It seems I have spoiled you. Given you too much, too fast. I did not train insolence out of you. You have insulted me. And you will be punished.”
Suguru pulls you back a fraction.
“Run,” Suguru whispers.
His last words, before Sukuna flicks his wrist and his body is cut into thin ribbons of flesh, blood, muscle and bone. They fall into a neat pile by your feet, soaking the ground you stand on until your soles are caked in the remains of your only friend.
It happens so quickly, so suddenly, you couldn’t blink fast enough to protect your mind from the grotesque display. You saw it all. A man, a whole life, memories, a future, diminished to mush.
Sukuna smiles wider.
“Yes,” he says, almost eagerly. “Run, little bride.”
You do.
Feet slam against the forest floor. Bare soles strike damp earth. Sharp pebbles and stray twigs that snap beneath your weight. It hurts.
God, it hurts.
But you don’t stop. You can’t. The pain barely registers past the ringing in your ears, past the image burned into your mind, replaying over and over again.
Suguru’s gone. Your village. Your family. Everything familiar.
Your stomach twists violently, bile clawing up your throat, but there’s no time to be sick, no time to grieve, no time for anything except run.
Branches lash at you as you tear through the undergrowth, snagging against your dress, catching in the fabric and ripping it in jagged lines. The hem tears first, then higher, threads snapping with every desperate step until the once-soft material hangs in shredded strips around your legs. Chilling air kisses the exposed skin, quickly replaced by the sting of scratches, of thin lines of blood blooming where thorns and bark have caught you.
“So panicked. So scared.”
His voice.
Right there.
Warm.
Amused.
Mocking.
You choke on a gasp, nearly tripping over your own feet as you lurch forward, heart slamming so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs open. He’s not behind you, or in front of you, and yet it sounded as though he was.
“I have not even begun,” Sukuna murmurs somewhere, almost thoughtful. “And already you look like this. Adorable.”
The forest stretches endlessly before you, trees blurring together, shadows twisting into shapes that don’t exist. The petals that once felt soft now cling to your damp skin, sticking to the sweat, to the blood, to the places where your dress has torn open. Your lungs burn, each inhale sharp and shallow, your chest tightening with every second that passes.
You trip.
A root catches your foot, sending you pitching forward. Your hands barely catch you before your face meets the ground, palms scraping harshly against rough earth. Dirt grinds into your skin, mixing with the blood already there.
“Oh dear,” he muses. “Such a clumsy thing, you are. That’s why I keep you locked up with all the pretty things in my domain. Do you see now, why you must stay with me?”
Getting back to your feet, you stumble forward. “I’m never going back with you!”
You ignore the way your hands tremble, the way your legs and your unused muscles scream in protest as you force them to move again.
Run.
Run.
Run.
“You know,” Sukuna continues, his voice drifting lazily through the air, “I expected more from you.”
There’s a rustle above.
A shadow moving faster than you can track.
Where is he? Why isn’t he snatching you up? Why is he drawing this out?
He’s like a cat toying with a mouse, playing with his food, heightening your fear so you’ll taste even better.
“I gave you everything,” he says, less conversational now, more accusing. “And this is how you repay me? Running off into the woods like a frightened little animal, with some other man, a man I should have slaughtered along with the other rats?”
Your breath hitches.
“Have I not been good to you? Have I not been enough? Enough to stay for. For even a goodbye.”
A tear slips down your cheek, cutting through the grime. Devastatingly, a part of you notices the subtle crack of vulnerability. He masks it with amusement, with the undercurrent of anger, but you hear it all the same.
Still running, you yell, “You’re going to kill me, like you killed everyone. I’m just a toy to you!”
“And a very bad one at that,” he retorts without missing a beat. “Fear not — I will fix you once I catch you.”
“You’re not going to catch me,” you choke out, though it sounds weak, even to your own ears.
Sukuna tuts and it sounds like it’s right by your ear. “Ah, but I already have.”
Wind flips your hair around, making it hard to see, so when you whip your head side to side, looking for hope, you don’t see the barrier ahead until it’s too late.
Your body meets a hard wall. Two arms cage you in, unyielding.
A scream pierces through the forest. It’s so far removed from you, you think for a second that someone else is facing the same fate you are, and your heart breaks for her. When reality sets in, you cease to stop feeling sorry at all. You just weren’t fast enough. No one could be against the Curse King.
“Got you, little bride.”
In a blink of an eye, he has you carried up by your hips.
“Mark my words,” he says, “you will never leave me again.”
His lips slam onto yours.
Sukuna wastes no time shoving his tongue inside your mouth. A shocked moan escapes you. This is your first kiss, and with him. It’s not romantic like the stories described kisses to be. It’s not soft, tentative, gentle. It’s a kiss full of anger, of a need for vengeance, to dominate.
Sukuna’s channeling every ounce of his feeling of betrayal, try as he might to deny it, down your throat. With the nipping of his teeth hard enough to draw blood, the suckling of his lips to taste the iron on his tongue, and said tongue exploring the crevices.
“Just as delicious as your cunt,” he snarls, pleased.
You should fight him off, you know. But you can’t. He’s too strong, too all-consuming, too engrained in your body. It recognises his heat, his scent, his voice, and it wants more. So you don’t part from him; you clamp your teeth down on his bottom lip too, tasting his blood.
It’s sweet.
Sickly sweet in a way that rushes straight to your head.
He barks a laugh, a hand yanking your head back by your hair. “A biter…adorable.” He runs his tongue up the length of your neck before biting the curve. You moan. It doesn’t break skin, but the threat is there, and it has you clenching around nothing.
Sukuna takes a deep inhale of the air.
His eyes flash red.
“I killed your friend, decimated your village, and your cunt is still craving pleasure from me?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound very much like a question at all. “Your soul calls for me, do you realise it, little wife?”
“I’m not your wife,” you spit out.
“Not yet, but in just a moment, you will be,” he promises. At whatever expression you wear on your face, another laugh cuts through you. “You do not realise the trap you have run into, do you?”
Blinking, you finally look around, processing your surroundings.
They glisten with something under the moonlight — too thick, too dark to be dew.
Blood?
Behind you, a litter of scarlet petals trails right up to where you stand, as though marking every step that led you here, every foolish attempt at escape laid out like a procession. Rows of benches stretch out on either side, carved from twisted wood and bone, thorns curling along their edges, skulls embedded into the structure.
The forest has gone still.
No insects. No birds. No wind.
Only him.
Only you.
And this…
This altar.
“A fitting setting, no?” Sukuna murmurs against your skin, his voice lower now, richer, laced with something disturbingly joyful. His grip on your hips tightens, grounding you in place even as your mind threatens to spiral. “For a union long overdue.”
Dress hiked up around your waist, a long, slithering thing worms up your thighs. You writhe, trying to run away from it, but he won’t let you. Teeth hook into your underwear. It riiiiiiiiiips it off.
His curse tongue licks your cunt with a vengeance, as though punishing you for withholding your pussy and its juices from it. Shlick! Shlick! So vulgar. So indecent. So unrestrained.
Your pulse spikes. “This isn’t—”
“It is,” he cuts in smoothly.
The word lands like a final verdict.
Back arching, you’re powerless against the tongue prodding your entrance. He doesn’t mention it. Neither do you. You don’t mention how it’s far too big to enter you and yet it does, stretching your walls out with ancient powers you will never understand.
Inside, it licks every inch, every pleat. Maybe your hips work down, trying to suck it deeper inside. Maybe it doesn’t.
You’re far too focused on the fact that you’re finally at your wedding. A wedding you never wanted in the first place. A wedding he didn’t want either. He was just amused by the gall of the humans.
The domain itself is bearing witness.
There’s no need for friends, for family, for a priest.
He only needs himself and you.
Sukuna turns you with absolute certainty, positioning you to face the altar. It’s carved from dark marble, veined with something that glows faintly beneath the surface, like embers trapped beneath ash. Symbols you don’t understand are etched into it, curling and jagged.
“I chased you,” he muses, almost idly, though his hands never leave you, never loosen. They feel your body. Squeezing. Groping. Grip pulsing. Drawing out gasps and moans. “I let you run. Let you tear yourself apart on branches and roots like a frightened little thing.”
His fingers drag over one of the scratches on your arm, smearing the thin line of blood.
“And still,” he continues, voice dropping, “you came exactly where I wanted you.”
Your throat tightens.
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” he says, almost gently now, and that softness is far more terrifying than anything else. “Every path you chose. Every step you took. It all led here.”
The petals shift under your feet as he guides you forward.
One step.
And another.
“To me.”
Your thighs are soaked with his saliva. The entrance to your womb is being tickled. Clit rubbed by a wide, flat tongue. You’re face to face with him, panting, eyes unable to tear away with the undeniable allure of his. He’s tasting you, consuming you, devouring. He just can’t help himself. Even when he should be rough, when he should punish you, should teach you a lesson you’ll never forget, he cannot.
“Ngh! S-Sukuna,” you cry out as an orgasm tears through you. “Too much!”
For a moment, his gaze softens. “I know, I know. But you need to be stretched to take both of my cocks. Be patient.”
Blood drains from your face.
That’s when you start thrashing in his hold, fear taking over you. “No, no! I can’t take both of them.” They’re too big. You’ve seen them up close; no one could take them. No human. One would already be asking too much.
Both?
It’d be a death sentence.
Sukuna slowly lays you down on top of the altar.
Immediately, dark powers curl around your body. Wisps of shadow and smoke threading around your limbs, twirling your hair, brushing your cheek, unravelling your dress and slipping it off your body. They keep you in place.
You feel his energy touching you everywhere — stroking your lips, entering through your nose, sliding down your throat and filling your belly, flicking your nipples before wrapping around the hard bud and tugging, creeping down your stomach to stroke your throbbing clit.
They distract you, shushing the cries of protest.
“Beautiful,” he whispers as his eyes consume you whole. “So beautiful. And all mine.”
He touches your cunt, coating his fingers with your essence. Sukuna brings it up in the light between you. It’s red.
Automatically, your legs move to close. The shadows stop you. They yank your legs further apart so he can slot himself between them. His robes have fallen off. A cockhead pokes your clit, smearing its pre-cum onto the pulsing thing. You gasp.
When he licks your monthly blood off his fingers, you groan. “Stop! It’s filthy.”
“No, little bride. Nothing about you is filthy. Not in a way I don’t cherish, at least.”
Sukuna brings his wrist up to your lips.
“Bite me. Hard. Hard enough to bleed. Take your anger out on me. All your hate. Your melancholy. Your grief. Let it all out,” he demands, growling. “I want it. All of it. Every part of you. Give it to me!”
The shadows pry your jaw open. That’s it. It’s them that makes your teeth take hold of his thick wrist and bite down with every force you have in you. It’s them that make your teeth sink in through all layers.
Iron soaks into your tongue, trickling down your throat and warming your chest, like alcohol.
He throws his head back, chest heaving.
The forest rustles, cheering, trembling with pleasure. Meanwhile, the shadows are vibrating. Thrumming as it plays with your clit incessantly. As it pushes in the little holes of your nipples, pleasuring the fats from inside. You whine.
“Fuck!” he bellows
Sukuna snatches his wrist from you. His hands grip the marble, veins popping and threatening to burst. He’s gulping down air and rolling tension off his shoulders.
“You almost came, didn’t you?” you ask, smiling in victory.
Those red eyes dart up to you. He licks his lips. “Yes. Yes, I did.” Sukuna tilts his head, hand wandering up your torso before groping your breast. Like you already know to expect, his curse mouth disappears from his stomach and appears on his palm. It suckles on your nipple, obsessed with trying to find milk where there is none.
You moan, back arching.
Two hands hold your hips. They tug you down, closer to his hips.
“You expected me to be ashamed of your effect on me?” he wonders aloud, huffing in amusement. “I want you. I crave you. I own you. In the same way you want me, crave me, own me. The only difference is, I embrace it.”
He’s stroking his top cock leisurely, wringing out droplets you can’t tear your eyes from. Lips parting, your mouth begins to long to be filled. Your hips chase after the fat thing. His shadows keep you still.
Sukuna continues, rubbing the wrist you’d bitten on your stomach, “I am offering everything I have, everything I am, was and will be. You need only take it. Take me. Use me.” He draws a symbol, a sigil, you don’t recognise. With his other hand, he collects the blood between your legs. The bloodied fingers hovers above the mark. “Claim me.”
There’s sincerity in his eyes, which seem to plead with you.
Inside, a pull reaches for him. Desperate. Intent. Hysterical. It calls for him, pained. He calls back, even more so.
You can tell, whatever you feel for him, he feels it tenfold. No, infinitely more intense. It must drive him mad. The fraction of what you feel has you wanting to keel over, to rip your skin off and wear his. How he can function, can keep his head on straight, baffles you.
He’s commendable. A true leader. An unholy king.
That’s why, when he utters a final syllable, you cannot resist the pull any longer:
“Please.”
“Yes!” you wail. “I do! I do! I claim you. All of you.”
Arms flailing, you scramble towards him. Like a leech, you attach yourself to him, to his lips. You sloppily kiss him, smearing the blood and dirt on your body all over his. Fire burns beneath your skin. You’re set ablaze. Your soul. Your heart. Your skin. Every part is touched by him. Caressed. Treasured.
Sukuna releases a relieved breath, as though he’d been put out of his misery.
He holds you to him. He won’t drop you. You know it. You know it so deeply, it is like knowing your name.
The forest roars. Branches thrash. Leaves fall in spirals around you, a wall shielding you from the rest of the world. There’s no going back anymore. You’ve given in. You’ve surrendered.
Two hot things begin pushing inside.
For a moment, you tense, anticipating pain. None come. Only delirious bliss. Drool drips down your chin. Your eyes roll back.
The shadows haven’t stopped stimulating you outside and inside. You’ve been cumming over and over again. Little orgasms that make your limbs shaky. But the orgasm that hits you the moment both of his cock stretch your gummy walls?
World ending.
Tantalizing.
Immense.
Boundless.
The most glorious gift.
You scream.
“Yes, that’s it,” he coaxes. “Perfect. So perfect. My wife. Mine now and forevermore.”
Soon, he bottoms out. Hips flushed. Torsos pressed together tightly. Not a single thing could get in between you. You feel every inch of him. Every ridge. Every vein. Every nudge of his fat cockheads competing to draw out your pleasure most.
You thought it’d feel overwhelming. Too much too soon. Now, you can’t get enough. You think, if only one cock had entered you, you would have mewled and whined for the other to join.
“See?” Sukuna whispers into your ear, teeth scraping the shell. “You took me so well. Such a well-behaved girl. You were -hah- made for me.”
In spite of his teasing words, his whole body is trembling with the fight not to cum too soon. Your constant clenching, fluttering around both of his cocks, the way you choke him right to the base, has him at the very edge of sanity, which you doubt he had to begin with.
He’s ploughing his cocks inside you.
Thrusting with vigour that you feel at your fingertips. Your toes curl, back arching and head thrown back. Sukuna sucks at your neck, obsessed with the intensity of your scent there.
He’s like an animal let loose. He’s rutting into you so fiercely you fear he’d break your bones. But your king would never hurt you. Not in a way you wouldn’t like.
A crazed laugh echoes in the night.
You rake your fingers through his hair. Then you yank his head back, as he had done to you. “More, Sukuna. Fuck me more. I want to cum on your cocks over and over again. I command it, husband.”
Both lengths throb inside you.
Sukuna’s eyes cross. They’re glazed over. “Yes,” he mumbles without even realising it, thoroughly enthralled in your very being, “whatever you want, my beautiful, precious wife.”
Hours must pass.
Hours of fucking you in the air, on the altar, on the ground, against a tree.
His hands explore your body till he’s memorised the curves and the planes. You do the same.
The squelching of your cunt, the slapping of skin, the mingling of blood with cum, the reverberating of groans and moans envelopes you in a hellish cocoon. The bullying of his cocks through your sore, sensitive walls, the sucking of his curse mouth on your tits, the devouring of his mouth to yours, the fwop fwop fwop! of his balls on your poor clit — all of it sends you over the edge again and again and again and again, even once you think you will never feel better than the last.
You cannot get enough of him.
And he cannot get enough of you.
Sukuna whimpers your name out before and after every peak he reaches. He fills your belly up with his cum. It perpetually drips out of you. You can taste the salt on your tongue. It coats you from head to toe.
“My wife,” he exhales, like announcing to the world. “My life…my love.”
Where he ends and you begin blur.
Time ceases to exist. The rest of the world vanishes.
In this moment, in his arms, bouncing on his cock as he gazes upon every flicker of pain and pleasure on your face, only you two matter.
.
.
.
The sun has started to rise.
You watch it climbing over the hill, head laid out on Sukuna’s chest. He plays with your hair, twirling it absentmindedly. You’re both naked. Limbs thrown over each other. Tangled.
Juices and blood have dried over your skin. Some of it your own. Some of it his.
A deep satisfaction courses through your veins.
Sukuna’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek.
There is something almost surreal about it — this stillness, this calm. The same body that had hunted you through the dark now lies beneath you like an anchor, solid and unyielding in a different way. The heat of him seeps into your skin, bleeding into your bones.
His fingers continue their idle path through your hair.
A strand slips loose, caught and wound around his clawed fingertips before being released again.
Your body bears the marks of the night: faint bruises bloom beneath your skin, teeth marks darkening where they had once stung, thin scratches tracing your limbs from your flight through the forest. Sukuna’s hands soothe any marks he left on you, not regretful at all. His actions can be likened to basking proudly in the art he made.
All the while, you’re tracing the marks you left on him too — the scratches, the bite marks, the bruises he allowed you to give him. You run your fingers down his tattoos, avoiding the mouth on his tongue, which keeps licking you or trying to capture your hand. A very naughty thing indeed.
“Sukuna,” you murmur. He grunts. “I’m hungry. Let’s go back home.”
“How you have any room left in your small belly after drinking so much of my cum, I cannot fathom,” he voices out, curious and concerned. You smack his chest. “Yes, dear. I hear you. Let us take a bath in the pool and I will have a servant bring us food. Perhaps a goblin.”
As he stands up, you frown. “A goblin? Why not Uraume?”
Uraume’s his favourite. His right hand. His shadow. The goblins, on the other hand, he barely tolerates. You’ve seen him kick the poor things out of the way too often. Once or twice, you’ve reflexively tried to help them up, but they growl at you. You think they quite like being kicked about. It seems to be an honour to them.
Under his breath, as Sukuna stretches his body with a lazy yawn, he says, “Uraume is on time out.”
Using his outstretched hand to bring you to your feet, you ask, “Why? What happened?”
Petulantly, he grumbles, “The insolent brat took it upon themself to lead that waste of space human I tore to shreds to you. It seems they thought you were a bad influence on me.”
To punctuate his last sentence and emphasise the absurdity of the idea, he grins wolfishly down at you, more specifically at his cum dripping down your thighs. Cheeks heated, you press them together.
It’s hard to believe this evening had been orchestrated by Uraume, but also it’s not a huge leap in logic. They’ve made their point of view abundantly clear — you just didn’t think they would have tried to have you face imminent death crossing through the forest where creatures of the Underworld lurked.
“Are you…are you going to hurt them?”
Sukuna cocks a brow. “Would you like me too?”
“No,” you say immediately and sincerely. “Blood’s already been spilled tonight. I don’t want to be the reason someone gets hurt again.”
“Very well. Let me know if you change your mind. They sure do get upset if I let someone else cook my meals.”
You giggle.
Then, all the humour dies out of you.
Exhaustion has set in your limbs.
Whatever energy had overtaken you earlier is gone now.
His breath grazes your cheeks, warm against the cold air. One of his thumbs collects a tear right from your lashes. You didn’t even know you’re tearing up. He brings the droplet to his lips and licks it away. You hold your breath as he mutters, “Watching you run from me, hand in hand with some other man, hurts less than seeing you cry for him. It makes me wish I had made him suffer more before his end.”
“I’m not crying for him.”
Sukuna’s crimson eyes flit to you.
“Oh?”
Sudden sobs escape your lips. Your knees give out beneath you. He catches you, lifting you up in his arms. He always does. You bury your face in his neck. Sukuna rubs soothing circles on your back, cooing. “My ferocious, little wife…what is wrong? Did I hurt you too much? Do you…do you regret marrying me?”
The insecurity in his voice, the hesitation to ask, to hear a truth he would be distraught to hear, make you cry harder.
“Please don’t ever throw me away. I know I shouldn’t have left last night, but I really thought you were going to kill me. And maybe you will later. But please don’t,” you plead through your tears. “I want to be with you forever and ever.”
Silence passes.
A pregnant pause.
He laughs.
He actually laughs.
It’s full bodied. His stomach mouth joins in. “Hilarious! You never fail to entertain me with your constant overthinking. Always so afraid. So on guard. Too precious! You are just too adorable. You will rot my teeth.”
Weakly, you lay a barrage of punches on his chest. “Don’t laugh at me, you brute. I’m your wife. Respect me.”
Sukuna nods patronisingly, but he does shift his laughter into light chuckles, “Alright, alright. Forgive me, little wife. You are simply so delightful, so naive, and pitiful, I cannot help myself.”
“Put me down.”
“Never.” Sukuna presses a kiss to your cheek. He nudges your face away from his neck so you will meet his gaze. Seriously now, voice with his sacred vow, “I have no intention of throwing you away. Not since I laid eyes on you and felt a thing I did not know existed beat in my chest.”
Holding your breath, you listen to his confession.
“There is no world,” he continues, quieter now, though the weight of it presses heavier, “in which I allow you to slip from my grasp. Not heaven, not earth, not whatever fragile afterlife your kind clings to. If you are taken from me, I will unmake it. If you are hidden, I will find you. If you are reborn, I will recognise you.”
Shyly, you ask, “Even if I have a different face?”
Sukuna nods. “In whatever form, whatever shape, whatever state, you are. Wherever, whenever, you find yourself in. I will recognise you by your soul. For yours make up my own.”
He leaves a kiss to your forehead, to each of your eyes, to the tip of your nose. You giggle.
Then, huffing in amusement, he adds, “It certainly helps that we are bound by curse marriage. Not by your flimsy, human paper. But by blood. We curses take blood bonds very seriously. If we are to part, for whatever reason, we would both die, so it is in your best interest not to throw me away.”
That should startle you. Should scare you beyond belief. Instead, you think it’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard.
“I’m holding you to that,” you mutter against his lips.
Sukuna nuzzles your nose with his, a smile mirroring yours.
geto suguru is everyone’s first crush. having a crush on him is as hopeless as it is inevitable though your friends quickly disagree that the awe-struck, mouth gaping expression is a strictly you thing, and that he isn't as much of a campus celebrity as you believe he is. regardless, you're determined to put your inability to hold a conversation with him in the past. the solution is simple, you seek out his best friend. if geto suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then gojo satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak.
pairing: frat&icehockey!gojo x reader
content: mdni, idiots in love, oblivious reader, baby’s first kiss + virginity taken by same person (satoru ><), suguru as the wingman, a little angst, mostly fluff + crack !! titjob, a little spitting, p in v, degrading, oral, fingering handjob etc etc 37k+
note: happy belated national arabian horse day! this was meant to come out on the 19th but life got in the way... regardless of the day hit up a friend and start beating a dead horse to celebrate!
Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush.
Your friends insist you’re seeing him through some delusional rose-tinted lens and that he is, in fact, not as much of a campus celebrity as you believe him to be. You reject that notion. One look at him from across the room, other party goers be damned, is all it takes to confirm what you already know.
Geto laughs at something one of his friends says, tipping forward slightly as the alcohol softens his movements. You catch the tail ends of his laughter through the thumping bass, the glint of light reflected off his lip piercings when he smiles wide, his hand running through his untied black hair.
It would be as easy as walking up and saying hi to start a conversation. It would be as easy as smiling for him to turn his head and grace you with a smile of his own.
Oh, what you would give to be bathed in his gaze, for that pretty smile to widen at the sight of you. He’d spot you through the crowd, you’d tuck your hair shyly behind your ear and he’d politely excuse himself from his conversation to walk over to introduce himself to this mysterious beauty from across the room.
Shoko makes a noise like she’s strangling herself but when you turn to save her, she’s staring at your face. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”
“What’s wrong? Did I smudge my liner?”
You pull out your phone to check your makeup using the reflection but between the flashing lights and someone’s elbow jutting from your peripheral, you’re only eighty percent sure you don’t look a mess.
Considering you dragged your roommate out to this party last minute, Shoko sips her drink with commendable patience. “Even if you did, that would be the least of your worries. Look, you really don’t have to overthink this. We didn’t just spend all night planning this for you to end up weirding him out with that look in your eye.”
“Shit, that was the rehearsed deer look I was talking about!
“Rehearsed how?
You decisively ignore her. “I just want to do this right.
Her eyes soften slightly. She’s always been weak to your woes. “You will. He’ll love you. If you don’t believe in yourself, believe in me. I promise you I’ve known this guy for years and you’re exactly the type of person he just eats up.”
You think of all your attempts to enter Geto’s world. There's just something mystifying about him, some kind of aura he emits that has you tripping over your tongue and freezing at the worst moments. Your words become stilted, your humour and wit abandoned at every crucial moment, causing you to simultaneously dread talking to him as much as you wished for it.
Shoko turns you to face her, eyes steady in a way yours isn’t. “Are you ready?
You let out a slow breath and attempt to mimic her determination with a single nod.
“Then go find him.”
When you hesitate to even take a single step forward, Shoko gives you a push and then you’re off, legs moving without another thought. The crowd swallows you, bodies brushing past and jolting your shoulders, knocking you here and there. But none of that matters. Not when your heart is already set. Not when determination is the one thing keeping you upright, guiding you closer and closer to the boy who somehow makes a packed, sweaty houseparty fade into background noise
For too long, you’ve let this intoxicating feeling linger, letting it settle deep in your chest, almost convincing yourself that watching from the sidelines was enough. As if anything short of his eyes on you, perhaps even his lips on yours, could quiet the restless longing twisting in your heart. Limerence is what Shoko diagnoses you with, but the word feels too small for the intensity that surges through you every time his name crosses your mind.
Geto appears like a beacon before you, the crowds having finally parted enough for you to catch a good look. The party music transitions to an angelic choir but admitting that is basically affirming Shoko’s concerns that your infatuation is unhealthy, so you quickly refocus. Your heart clenches, pounds against your ribcage, and you only hope the dim lighting will hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. He’s right there, right within reach. All you have to do is say his name.
All you have to do is make him see you.
You take a step forward, mumble an apology to the girl you bumped shoulders with, take another step towards where he’s laughing with a friend—then veer sharply to the right and slip into the kitchen.
If talking to Geto were really as easy as saying hi, you would have done it months ago.
The kitchen is quieter, the bass reduced to a distant, muffled thump and you can finally breathe as the crowd thins. There’s still chatter though significantly more bearable and your eyes fall onto the small cluster of boys within, standing in the near dark.
Your feet instinctively slow but Shoko’s voice in your head tells you that you’ve done too much to stop now and with a deep breath, you step beyond the threshold.
One by one, the group takes notice of you, their rambunctious laughter quietening into soft chuckles as heads pop up to look. It’s not strange for someone to enter the kitchen at a party so the most you get is a head nod in greeting before they return to their conversation.
You reach for a red cup and then for a jug of some mysterious jungle juice.
Unfortunately, the jug sits behind one of the boys. Even worse, it sits behind who you’re really here at the party looking for.
Leaning lazily against the counter and nursing a red solo cup of something strong no doubt, stands Gojo, Geto’s best friend.
If Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then Gojo Satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak.
You can feel the burn of Gojo’s stare as you get close enough to lift the jug and pour, hands trembling slightly. Before you can help yourself, you steal glances from the side of your eye, landing squarely on his shirt specifically at the crude letting that reads ‘Two Seater’, arrows pointing abashedly toward both his crotch and his face.
You look back up immediately. You don’t want to know.
The punch sloshes into your cup, some of it missing due to your shaky hands and you don’t notice until a sticky trickle runs over your fingers. You hastily stop pouring and lick at the mess.
Before you can figure out how to announce your presence, there’s a rush of footsteps and another frat boy appears. Hikari, you think his name was, stands by the kitchen entrance, hair slightly disheveled from his usual style, loud and demanding as he’s always been.
“Hey!” He calls, scanning the room. “You guys need to come see this.
A chorus of half-drunk “what?” and “see what?” answers him like a herd of seagulls.
“In the living room,” he says. “There's two people on the floor and—” He stops, glancing over his shoulder like the situation might escape him if he looks away for too long. “Just hurry up!
His vague words cause curiousity to spread faster than wildfire. The group of boys begin funnelling out of the kitchen, cups still in hand, voices rising with excitement.
“What is it?
“Is it a fight?
“Please tell me it’s a fight.”
“Did someone break something?”
Hikari doesn’t elaborate, instead turning and leaving the kitchen, confident the herd will follow. One friend, Choso if you remember correctly, looks back at Gojo who remains calmly drinking from his cup, still leaning against the counter beside you
“Aren’t you coming, Satoru?”
Gojo shrugs, tipping back the last of his drink. “Nah. You go on ahead.”
Choso hesitates like he wants to ask why, then seems to think better of it.
“Suit yourself,” he mutters, already backing toward the door as someone behind him shoves past with a whoop.
Within seconds, the kitchen drains of bodies.
You’re deathly aware of the warm presence beside you. You inhale deeply and turn, ready to get this over and done with only to find him shamelessly looking at you.
For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, his expression unreadable as he looks you over before his face splits into a lazy grin. “Hey.”
“Hi,” you squeak, immediately reprimanding yourself at the awkward sound.
His smile only grows. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you looking for someone? Or maybe you missed the exit? It’s down the hall to your right.”
“That’s rude.” You cross your arms in an attempt to place distance between the two of you and to maintain a confidence you don’t feel. “I attend parties.”
Gojo huffs and you feel slightly offended. He straightens and steps closer, close enough that his cologne hits you—sharp, expensive, and entirely too much. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen you at one of these before.” His head tilts, regarding you. “How do you even know Sukuna?
For a moment you blank, wondering why he was asking about Sukuna. It hits you then that this party must be his. “Ah. I came with Shoko.”
He hums. “That makes sense. Shoko always did have a habit of collecting strays.
“Excuse me?”
“Not a stray,” he amends lightly at your glare. “More like her lost puppy.”“Just because you’ve only ever seen me when I’m with Shoko doesn’t mean I’m always with Shoko.”
“I was talking more about how you were holding onto her shirt in the crowds earlier. She didn’t bring a leash for you?
“Don’t project your weird kinks onto me.
“Do you often spend time thinking about what weird kinks I might be into?” Thankfully, Gojo lets the topic go before you really do decide to throw it all away and walk out. “But alright, let’s say I believe you and you’re just here for the party. Why are you here in the kitchen, then?”
“What else do people come to parties for? I’m here to drink. And stuff.” You trail off, clearing your throat.
“Really?” He eyes your untouched cup. “Because that’s just juice. The good stuff’s over here.
He steps into your personal space to reach over you to grab a bottle from the top of the fridge and you’re face to face with the gross words on his top. He retracts his arm, bottle in hand, but doesn’t step back. “Want me to pour you one?”
You think back to the last time you let yourself drink under the unwise judgement of Shoko, and how you can only recall glimpses of light and the vague memory of a toilet bowl “It’s fine, I’ve already had a lot to drink.
“Right,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t believe you for a second.
You watch as Gojo pours himself another drink, sipping leisurely, pointedly ignoring the way you’re staring.
Gojo isn’t exactly a stranger, but it’s an overestimation to call him your friend. In truth, he’s Shoko's friend—which means she occasionally drags him back to your shared dorm before disappearing to do whatever it is best friends do. You catch glimpses of him in passing, fleeting and inconsequential, never quite crossing into ‘introduce-yourself’ territory. Why would he? He’s the kind of guy who turns heads without trying, long-limbed, effortlessly confident, wearing the grin of someone who’s never been told no in his life.
Where Geto is soft-spoken and warm, guiding you through conversation with patient smiles and gentle ease, Gojo is loud and vibrant and reckless. There's a challenge in his eyes, a knowing smirk on his lips, like the world is perpetually entertaining and he’s always in on the joke.
You, on the other hand, are about as normal as it gets.
When the silence draws into something a little less casual and far more awkward, you clear your throat. “I’m Y/N by the way.
“I know who you are.”
“You do?”
“Shoko’s roommate, right? We’ve seen each other before. She’s mentioned you too.” He offers a hand, eyes holding yours like he knows you’ll pull away with anything less. “I’m Gojo. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
You go to echo his words, that of course you knew he was the Gojo Satoru but hesitate, settling instead for shaking his hand. His grip is warm and solid, carrying none of the jitteriness you feel. Hell, maybe you should have accepted a drink after all. What is this, a job interview? Why are you shaking his hand?
When you let go, you become painfully aware of how damp your palms are and curse yourself silently.
Gojo picks up on the silence and moves to lean against the counter, mimicking your earlier pose such that his arms are crossed over his chest, only emphasising his biceps in his sleeveless top. “So, Y/N. If you didn’t come in here for a drink, why are you here?”
His words cause you to still. This was it. Every moment in your dorm, huddled around the whiteboard usually reserved for studying, now littered with far less academic plans, Shoko chiming in her own thinkpieces occasionally. It all accumulated to this moment.
“I was looking for you actually. I wanted to talk to you.” Your voice is barely a whisper and humiliation slowly sinks in when he doesn’t answer immediately. Perhaps he didn’t hear you considering you’re speaking to your shoes.
When you finally look up, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gojo slowly tracks his eyes up and down your figure. Finally, he straightens, head tilted slightly. “Talk to me? Alone?"
You nod, and his face breaks into a broad grin.
“I wasn’t expecting that. Not that I hate it,” he purrs, voice dropping into something smoother as he steps closer and curls a loose lock of your hair around his finger. “What did you want to talk about, princess?"
Your mind vaguely registers the gesture, feeling the dampness of your palms once again. “I don’t really want to say here."
His fingers still, your hair wrapped around it. “Oh?"
You wonder what that look in his eyes meant. “Could we go upstairs?”
Gojo cocks his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His brows knit slightly, but his eyes gleam with amusement as he releases your hair, the strand falling back into place in a soft wave. “You do know I’m Shoko’s friend, right? And you’re her best friend?”
“Why does that matter?”
“Seriously? You don’t think it’ll be awkward?”
Awkward? You blink, trying to make sense of his words. Perhaps Gojo and Shoko had argued recently. Maybe he didn’t want her catching sight of the two of you together else it put you in an awkward position. He’s more considerate than you expected.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with her,” you say carefully. “Whether you or I are friends with Shoko—it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to talk to you.” You smile in satisfaction, relaxing a little at his kindness.
Gojo suddenly laughs, brushing a hand through his hair as he throws his head back like you’ve said the funniest thing. When he looks back down at you, his eyes are shining. “That’s what I’m saying! But every time I joke about it to Shoko, she goes all crazy on me. Looks like we have a lot in common, huh? I guess that makes us compatible.”
You continue to smile, the corners of your lips wavering a little in uncertainty. You’re not entirely sure what he means by that but considering you’re about to ask him for a favour, you appreciate his good mood.
“Well, alright,” he says at last, taking your hand. “I’d love to hear you out. Lead the way.”
Ignoring the little flip of nerves your stomach does as you hold his hand (perhaps he felt too drunk to climb the stairs alone?), you turn and lead him back into the living room and up the stairs to the quieter rooms of the house. The hand holding serves another purpose, you realise, as you weave through the crowds of people and he would surely have lost you had you not held on tighter, practically dragging him onwards.
You feel a tug before your feet can even touch the second floor, like he’s suddenly become immovable. Before you can turn and check on him, you feel the warmth of his chest against your back, his hand slipping from yours to settle at your waist. You’re pulled to a stop, his breath now brushing against your ear, his hair tickling the side of your face. You’re certain he’s leaning over you despite being a step lower, and the faint scent of alcohol and sandalwood fills your senses.
“I didn’t think you’d be so proactive,” he murmurs. You think he might have inhaled, slow and deliberate, but it’s hard to tell over the base vibrating through the floorboards and the frantic pounding of your heart. “What else are you hiding from me, hm?”
He reaches for your hand and turns you slightly so you can watch as he licks your fingers, tasting the sticky residue of your spilt juice. His blue eyes seem to sparkle, mesmerising in a way that makes you freeze. “You taste sweet.”
Your breath hitches and he must have heard because the hand on your waist tightens and pulls you against him, head leaning down to gently nip at your neck. Your stomach does that little flip again, this time accompanied with a hot flush that short-circuits your brain.
“Wait!” He chuckles softly, lips ghosting over a soft spot that makes your knees tremble a little. “Don’t be nervous. You have me right where you want me.”
You freeze, heart hammering, fingers twitching. When his hand slips just barely beneath the hem of your top, the words tumble out of you in a rush.
“I like Geto!”
For a heartbeat, everything goes still, his hand, his lips, his breath. Gojo pauses, lips pulling back from your sweaty neck. In fact, his entire body jerks back, both feet returning to the step beneath you, hand leaving your waist to turn you to face him. His fingers find your chin to tilt your face down, eyes dark as they hold yours.
“What did you just say?”
You swallow, looking him in the eye. “I like Geto.”
He stares at you wordlessly for a few more moments before he frowns, letting go of you completely and stepping down one more step just for good measure. “What the fuck are you doing here with me then?"
You gesture frantically between yourselves, finding the answer quite simple. “To talk? That’s what I said earlier, didn’t I? I wasn’t—I wasn’t insinuating… I wasn’t trying to—you know?”
“You said you wanted to come with me upstairs.”
“Yeah?”
“Alone.”
“Right.”
His frown only deepens at your easy response. “You know how that sounds, right? To get a guy alone upstairs at a party?”
“It sounds like I wanted to talk to you privately?” You try again at his disbelieving expression. “The music was super loud. I didn’t think you’d be able to hear me downstairs and I had to ask you something important so I didn’t want to risk it.”
He lets out a huff, something short and breathy, lips quirked upwards like he finds something amusing, even as his eyes stay locked on you, unmoving. “You’re kidding me, right?”
You hold out your hands as if to say, ‘What can you do?’.
Gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Figures this was too good to be true.” His hand drops from his eyes to cover his mouth as he continues to stare at you. “Nothing about that situation implied you just wanted to talk. And about Suguru, of all things? Seriously, he’s being a cockblock and he isn’t even here.”
“What was that?”
“Forget it.” He drops his hand. “I’m leaving.”
You quickly hold onto his arm before he can completely turn. “Wait!”
Maybe it’s the desperation in your voice, maybe it’s your iron-clad grip on his bicep but he doesn’t attempt to pull away. Instead, he looks back and wrinkles his nose at you, a strangely childish gesture.
“I’m not in the mood to just talk. Not anymore.”
“Come on, please? There’s no one else I can ask!”
“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”
“If you could just please, out of the kindness of your heart, hear me out I would seriously appreciate it!”
He doesn’t budge.
“I won’t tell anyone I rejected you!”
He frowns. “First of all, you didn’t reject me because it was a misunderstanding. Second of all, are you really in a position to blackmail me right now?”
“I won’t tell Shoko you were the reason her favourite candle knocked over and singed a bit of her rug.”
His frown only deepens. Blackmail, you think, is surprisingly effective. “Hold on, how do you even know that?”
“What do you mean? I was literally right there.”
Gojo lets out a deep, long groan. He wriggles out of your hold, sending you a glare. “You know, you really suck at asking for help.”
“You don’t have to agree to helping me just yet. Just at least give me a chance to explain. We’re already here, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, well, I had other plans when we got up here that didn't involve just talking.”
You remind yourself to be patient. Again, you were the one asking for a favour, he’s the only one that can help you with your dilemma, you need him. Don’t call him a disgusting freak and walk away.
Clapping your hands together, you muster your best pleading look and send it his way. “Please, Gojo.”
You’re not really sure what broke through his defenses. For your own ego, you decide it must be because of your puppy dog eyes because he lets out a sigh and gives a reluctant nod.
“Go to the room to the right of the stairs.”
You bite back the instinct to cheer. Halfway through turning around, you look over your shoulder. “You’re coming too, right?”
“Just get up there before I change my mind.”
Wondering if souring his mood like this would backfire on you, you quickly hop up the remaining steps and head to the mentioned room just in case he really does change his mind. It would be beneficial to appease him before you ask for a crazy favour, after all. Therefore, you don’t even try to eavesdrop as Gojo continues to mumble to himself as he follows behind, worrying that somehow he might hear and turn around.
When you both reach the room, he closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest and expression flat in a way that feels very un-Gojo. You’re suddenly struck by the unfairness of it, of how someone with such a careless, teasing exterior can also appear so unreadable when he wants to.
“Five minutes.”
You clear the irrelevant thoughts from your head. “Excuse me?”
“You have five minutes before I’m going back down.”
You take a deep breath. This is it, no backing out now. “Okay. I need your help.”
He huffs, unamused. “So you’ve said. But with what exactly? Calculus? Because spoiler, I’ve been drinking.”
“With Geto.”
You watch in real time as the connection in his brain is made. He straightens off the door slightly. “Wait. Suguru? You want help with Suguru? What kind of help? Love help? You want love help with Suguru?”
Every word from his mouth is like a bullet to your dignity. Through gritted teeth, you hiss, “Yes. Can you be any louder?”
“I can try,” He says with a hint of humour. The smirk returns to his face and a feeling of foreboding looms over you. “This is what you wanted to get me alone to say?”
“Look, I needed someone who’s close with him and you’re–”
“Close? Please, I’m his best friend. I’m practically his wife.”
“Oh. So that makes us competition?”
He wrinkles his nose and looks you up and down. “You want me to help you get him.”
You nod.
“You want to confess to him.”
“Obviously.”
“Date him?”
“That’s the goal."
“Sleep with him?”
You give him a look so incredulous that he laughs, short and amused. “If you want advice just hit up reddit. If you want him to like you back then an etsy witch has you covered for five dollars. I don’t see why you have to bother me.”
“Because,” You say slowly. “He’s surrounded by people. He doesn’t even know me. I need all of that, the advice, the reciprocation, and I need someone who can get me close enough to him where he can notice me. And I feel like getting an etsy witch to manipulate his dreams to include me would cost more than five dollars. And I’m broke. And I’m kind of bad with guys.”
“So, what? You want me to introduce you to him?”
“Sure. And maybe tell me what he likes?"
Gojo looks you up and down again. He leans back against the door but this time, there’s something smug and arrogant about his posture, eyes lazy as he takes up as much space as he can. “You’re not even his type.”
“That’s fine, I’m flexible.”
“That’s something you say at a job interview, not when you’re trying to get a boyfriend.”
“Just shows that I have an adaptable personality.”
“He just came out of a 2 year relationship,” He shoots back.
“I accept and embrace his past.”
“He has a habit of leaving his jackets on the arm rest of couches.”
“I have hands, I can put them away.”
“Where’s your self-respect?”
“With him. I’ll get it back after I get with him.”
Gojo huffs. “He doesn’t even know you.”
“That’s why I’m asking you for help.”
“You know, I think I liked you better when you were just a shy little thing stumbling over your words.”
Again, you can only shrug.
When he only frowns, you decide to use your hidden ace. Before he can open his mouth and surely reject you, you beat him to it, voice overlapping his.
“I’ll tutor you!”
His eyes narrow and when he doesn’t say anything else, you push on.
“I know you’re aiming for that sports scholarship to study abroad next year.”
“How do you even know about that?” He catches on quick with a groan. “Shoko.”
You nod. “And I know that you’re looking for someone to tutor you because you need to get good grades to get accepted. If you help me with this, I promise I can definitely bring your grades up. We both benefit!”
Gojo stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head and you think you’ve lost him when his lips twitch. Then, almost traitorously, one corner lifts higher.
“You,” he says slowly, pointing at you like he’s identifying a rare species, “Are trying to bribe me. You’re trying to bribe me because you can’t get game by yourself.”
“It's not a bribe,” you say stiffly. “I'm just saying there’s something in it for the both of us.”
“It’s a bribe,” he repeats, delighted now. “Holy shit, Shoko's roommate is bribing me. How desperate can you get?”
“I’m offering to give you academic support!”
“With strings attached.”
“Yes,” you sigh. "That's usually how deals work.”
He grins, wide and boyish and every bit infuriating as you’ve ever known him. “You think I can't get a tutor without helping you bag my best friend?”
“Well, you haven’t yet.”
“That's because I don't need one.”
“Right. So I should just forget all the times Shoko has ranted to me about how you keep asking her for help?”
“You know, this conversation has really enlightened me on who my real friends are.” His gaze slides back to you, assessing. “And you’re confident you can help me?”
You straighten your shoulders and give a solemn nod. “I’ve fixed worse than you.”
He studies you, eyes tracking your features down to your shoes and you fight the urge to squirm self consciously. He seems to be recalibrating you, seeing you not as Shoko’s tagalong but as an actual person making a very earnest, albeit very ridiculous, request.
Finally, he sighs, long and dramatic.
“Well, at least you have one thing going for you. Suguru eats this kind of stuff up, hardworking, stubborn, a little pathetic—”
“Hey.”
“—in a cute pet way,” he amends smoothly. “Relax.”
You glare at him anyway but the rational part of your brain reminds you that you need this. He grins back, entirely unrepentant.
“Fine,” he continues, raising a finger, “If I do this, we’re doing it my way. That means we need rules.”
You fight the urge to jump up and down in joy. “I was going to suggest that anyway! How about this, we—”
“Rule one,” he says, face settling into something serious. “You can’t fall in love with me.”
Unable to help yourself, you burst out laughing. “Trust me, that’s not going to be an issue. You're definitely not my type.”
At your laugh he smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Rule two, no complaining. Keep that mouth in check, sweets.”
You giggle. “What's wrong, fragile ego?”
He raises an eyebrow and you mumble irritated curses under your breath. “Sorry.”
“Rule three, if Suguru ends up falling head over heels for you, you owe me big.”
“How big?”
His eyes flick down to your mouth again, then back up, smirk slow and dangerous. “I’ll decide later.”
You catch the movement and swallow, feeling none of the humour from earlier. “Okay, deal. Then, rule four, you take your studying seriously. I don't tutor people who don’t care.”
“I think between the two of us, I want to succeed the most so that’s a given. Any more rules, sweets?”
When you shake your head, he nods. “Then, we’ll start tomorrow.”
“Not today? I mean he’s literally right here,” You quickly clarify. “Not a complaint, just a question!”
“I came here to get drunk and have a good time. I’m going to need at least three drinks to get me back there so be a good girl and wait. I’ll text you tomorrow if you really can’t be patient. Unless, you want to back out already?”
You straighten your shoulders, trying to match his confidence. “I’m not backing out! I just want to make sure you’re not going to ditch me. This isn’t really a normal request.”
“Oh, so you know?”
You roll your eyes at him but have the decency to at least look bashful.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats then jerks his chin toward the door. “Go on, sweets. Before I sober up and regain some self-respect.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“A complaint?”
You bite your lip. “A suggestion.”
“Here’s a real suggestion,” he starts, turning around to open the door. Standing in the doorframe, he gives you one last look. “Next time you ask a guy to go upstairs with you at a party, maybe start with the part about not wanting to make out.”
Your face gets hot instantly, mouth opening to splutter, “I didn’t mean anything by it!”
But he doesn’t stay to hear the end of it, rejoining the masses downstairs without another word. He lifts his hand once as a goodbye and then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the room, half mortified, half exhilarated. Unwilling to give him any sense of victory with his last words, you head back downstairs and find Shoko to tell her the results of the first step of your plan.
It’s a struggle pushing through the thick waves of people but you finally find your roommate off to the side, musing herself in a conversation with someone you don’t recognise.
Instinctively, your eyes search for Geto if only to recall what you’re doing this for. Standing beside him, arm swung over his shoulder is Gojo, already sipping from a cup and laughing into the conversation with a natural ease that reminds you of the gap between who you were and who he is. As if sensing your gaze, he looks over and you flinch as if burnt. Something stirs in your gut and you wonder if your little plan to get with Geto has taken a slightly unpredictable turn.
“You okay?” Shoko asks, noticing your fluster.
You nod, looking away quickly. “Of course. All going to plan, you know?”
“Then I guess you’re up to step two.”
“Right,” Your eyes drift back to Gojo and find him looking at you over the rim of his cup. The feeling in your stomach lurches. “Step two.”
Step two begins with Gojo texting you at the ass crack of dawn. You blink the sleep from your eyes, squinting at the bright light of your screen in mild disbelief and annoyance as he tells you to pull up to his 9am lecture. Despite the lingering feeling that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, you understand that this is necessary.
You know for a fact that you have no classes today and therefore no reason to make the trek to university. a whole day,just gone and tasked with the impossible task of putting up with that infuriating player.
No, you reprimand yourself as you text back your agreement. No complaining. Do it for him, do it for Geto. With those words repeating in your head like a mantra, you pull yourself together and out of bed to get to campus.
It would be helpful, after all, to see where his studies were at if you were going to take this tutoring business seriously.
You get a coffee at the station to combat your sleepiness and the chill of a winter morning before hesitating and getting another. With two coffees, one in each hand, you wait outside his lecture room until the doors swing open.
Spotting him wouldn’t be too hard, you muse, considering Gojo is impossible to miss.
And then, you see him.
His unmistakable frame, hair a messy white halo catching the late morning sun, strides into view. He's mid conversation as he steps out, animated, half-grinning, and you find yourself understanding why so many girls lose their minds over him.
“Gojo!” You call out, voice slightly drowned out by the chatter all around.
You’re about to give him a piece of your mind, him having been the reason why you kept to your phone all of last night like a wife anticipating the return of her war husband, when you freeze. Because when Gojo turns, your mind barely registering the amused look he gives you, the person he was talking to comes into view.
Because of course, where there’s Gojo there is Geto, the yin to his yang.
You weren’t ready for both of them.
Noticing your sudden stiffness, Gojo looks beside him and scoffs. Unimpressed, he starts walking over. You panic, attempting to smooth out your clothes and fix up your appearance though your hands are full of coffee so you end up doing an awkward wiggle.
“Look at you,” Gojo starts when he’s close enough. “Loitering outside my class like a fan. Maybe this is more urgent than I thought, not because you like Suguru but because you really need your self-respect back.”
You open your mouth to respond, to clarify, to deny, to just say something, but Geto catches up beside him and suddenly every possible word tangles up in your throat.
“Oh. Hey,” Geto says, recognition flickering across his face. “You’re Y/N, right?”
You blink, knees feeling weak and mind in shambles that he even knew your name let alone match it to your face. “Uh, yeah! That’s me!”
He smiles, soft and easy, all the charm you’ve seen him use on others now directed to you. “I thought so. You’re in one of Shoko’s tutorials, no? I think I remember her mentioning you.”
“I’m her roommate, actually.” You try for a smile and pray it doesn’t give off the extent of your adoration towards him.
“Right, that would be it. I’m Geto.”
You nod mutely, wishing your brain would reboot to say something, anything that doesn’t make you sound like you’ve never spoken to a human before. Geto, he says, like you didn’t already know his name, like he wasn’t one of the most known people on campus. Still, the fact that he so humbly introduced himself only proves his humility and your heart gives a quiver.
This moment was everything you’ve ever fantasied. His eyes on you, giving you that pretty smile you’ve only seen directed at others. You could have stood there and basked in his attention until the end of time if Gojo didn’t suddenly clap Geto’s shoulder and butt in.
“Great, so glad you’re both acquainted,” he says, ignoring your glare and throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side. “But as much as I’d love to keep standing here and soak in this riveting small talk, I think my very dedicated super fan here needs me for something.”
You shoot him a look. “I am not your super fan.”
“No? And is that not my coffee?”
You look down at your hands as if only remembering now what you were holding. Biting back a remark, you thrust out a coffee. “It is.”
He grins, taking it and letting his fingers brush against yours. “Thought so.”
Geto looks between the two of you. “Oh, I see how it is."
Your eyes fling back to him at the same time Gojo exclaims, “What?”
“Woah, did I touch a nerve there or something?” Geto’s smile quickly turns smug. He returns Gojo’s earlier gesture and thumps him hard on the back twice. “I get it. I’ll get out of your hair then. Be gentle with him, Y/N. He’s actually a pretty sensitive guy.”
It takes you a while to process his words so Gojo reacts first.
“Dude, I’m telling you it’s not like that.”
“Sure,” Geto says in a tone that very much suggests he isn’t convinced at all. “Guess I’ll see you around, yeah? Later, Satoru.”
You only realise seconds after he leaves that you hadn’t said goodbye. In fact, after Gojo’s interruption, you hadn’t managed to say anything more to Geto.
“Huh,” Gojo muses, breaking the silence. “You get like that around him?”
You groan and find the lump in your throat gone. “I stood there like an idiot!”
“You did.”
“He probably thinks I’m a freak!”
“Probably.”
“And you!” You look up to glare at him. “You didn’t have to make it sound so weird!”
“So now it’s suddenly my fault?”
“You caught me off guard by calling me your super fan!”
“Right, like that was the weirdest part of the conversation,” he shoots back, lips curled in dry amusement. “That, and not the super sour face you were making at him. Like a grimace.” He mimics your expression and you properly grimace this time, hoping against all odds that that was not the face you had been making at the person you were actually a super fan for.
Deciding you will only lose if you continue to defend yourself, you choose to change the subject. “You should have told me he’d be here.”
“You never asked. Besides, is it my fault if you didn’t prepare for that to happen?”
You sulkingly mumble a yes and he wags his finger at you, tutting disapprovingly.
“No complaining, remember? Come on, let’s go. We have things to talk about.”
You sigh though relent to fall into step beside him, fingers curling around your own coffee as the crowd thins around you. Now that Geto is gone, the world feels marginally more comfortable, less bright, less sharp, but also less mortifying.
You remember your stuttering self a few minutes ago.
Still a little mortifying but now bearable.
Gojo takes a long sip of his coffee, then glances sideways at you over the rim. “For future reference, I don't like coffee.”
You dig your elbow into his side and he winces but doesn’t remove his arm around your shoulder.
“Where are we going? I was thinking we could go to the library and look over your courses. That way I can pinpoint your weakness and where to target first. We only have a few months into graduation so we’re in a bit of a time crunch but I'm positive I can raise your grades from whatever they may be to… what?”
You trail off when you find Gojo looking down at you in disbelief. He shrugs when your eyes meet and shrugs, though the gesture is a little awkward with his arm over your shoulders.
“I just didn’t think you were serious about the whole tutoring thing.”
“I keep to my promises, Gojo,” you pause. “And I hope you will too.”
He reaches over with his free hand to ruffle your hair, ignoring your squeak. “Desperation isn’t a good look on you, sweets. Relax, relax, I'll get you two together. Trust me.”
You grumble but don’t voice your suspicions, instead letting him drag you in a certain direction. You perk up when you don’t immediately recognise your surroundings.
“Where are we going?”
“I get it, you want to check me out. I'm just taking us somewhere where that can happen.”
“Your studies, not you,” you clarify.
“Yeah, and my studies are mine so you’re checking me out.”
You grimace and he chuckles, turning you around a corner. “The library is too quiet so we’re going back to my place.”
You stop abruptly.
“Your place?”
“Yeah.”
“Your place?”
Gojo cocks his head as if listening to something in the distance. “Did you just hear that echo too?”
“Forgetting the fact that we should clearly just go to the library or somewhere on campus at least, I thought you lived in Sig Kap?”
“Right you are. Wow, I'm really starting to see why you’re the perfect choice as a tutor.”
“But you just said we’re going to your place.”
“Nothing gets past you.”
“Your place as in the Sig Kap house.”
“Look at you go.”
You stare at his side profile, waiting for a punchline that won’t come.
“Gojo.”
“Yeah?”
“I am not going to your frat house.”
“What happened to not complaining? That was the first rule and you’re already breaking it, sweets. I'm starting to dread this whole arrangement,” he continues to tease, looking ever so peaceful.
“I'm sorry, I don't know what you think I'm about but I wouldn't willingly walk into a den full of men named things like Chad. Do you even have furniture?”
“I only had a cot for the majority of first year but now I've upgraded to a mattress on the floor.”
“Great. Let's end this here.”
Gojo hooks his finger in your belt hoop before you can walk away. “First of all, we don’t have a Chad. We do have a Kyle though.”
“You're not doing yourself any favours.”
“Second,” he continues on, pulling you back towards him with his finger. “It’s ten in the morning. Half of them are in class and the other half are probably legally dead.”
You stand your ground. “Library.”
“Sig Kap.”
“Library.”
“Sig Kap.”
“Gojo.”
He leans in suddenly, close enough that you can see the faint crease at the corner of his eyes from squinting in the sun.
“You want Suguru, right?”
Your breath catches and despite yourself, you hear him out. “So? How is that relevant?”
“Because,” he says mildly like he’s talking to a little kid. “Sig Kap is where Suguru hangs out. He's my best friend, you know he’s my best friend that’s why you came to me. Why wouldn’t he be over at mine all the time? If you can’t handle coming over now how are you ever going to fuck him?”
“I am not—” you choke, voice pitching before forcefully lowering your voice when you notice people looking at you. “That is not— I haven't even—”
Gojo hums, watching you with a victorious grin. “So you don’t want to sleep with him?”
You make a startled noise and start walking in a random direction, eager to leave him behind. Life, however, is full of disappointments considering he follows, his arm draping over your shoulder once more.
“So where are we going?”
You give in. “Sig Kap.”
“Wrong way, sweets.”
You groan but follow as he steers you in the opposite direction.
Gojo chatters in your ear the entire walk to where the frat houses are situated on campus, about how his least favourite professor is out to get him, about someone in his frat who set off the fire alarm this morning, about the latest philosophical debate holding the frat hostage: whether cereal is a soup or not. It's a steady stream of nonsense, ridiculous but unbroken because at least he wasn’t talking to you so much as at you.
At some point, you stop responding entirely.
Somehow, his mere presence is enough to change your opinion and you actually feel relief when you finally see the house before you. Sig Kap stands broad and sunlit, paint only mildly chipped, windows open to let in the winter air. There's a couple bikes leaning against the porch railing and there’s an abandoned hoodie on the outdoor chairs.
“Oh thank god,” you mumble under your breath when he finally stops talking.
He lets you go to jog up the steps, opening the door to what you’re positive is about to be an overstimulating nightmare.
Warm air hits you first, carrying the scene of coffee and something oily. Sunlight stretches across worn hardboard floors until Gojo closes the door behind you and the hallway dims. A TV murmurs somewhere deeper into the house and there’s a loud conversation happening upstairs.
“You said everyone would be either in class or dead!” You hiss.
“It was an exaggeration,” he says lightly. "Don't worry, everyone’s harmless. But if you’re worried, you can just stick close to me.”
You ignore his cocky grin and shove him to get him walking. Unfortunately, getting to the stairs meant walking past the living room and you know things won’t be as harmless as he says when a voice calls out.
“Yo!”
Gojo pauses and steps back to poke his head into the living room. “Morning.”
You awkwardly step back to let him, pushing you into view too.
Two heads snap toward you at once. One of them is sprawled across the couch, blanket half-tangled around his legs and a bowl of popcorn balances on his stomach. The other is slouched in an armchair, controller in hand, eyes bloodshot and face pale as if he was still hungover. Considering the state of the party last night, you don’t doubt that he might be. Speaking of the party, you recognise the one on the left as Hikari.
“You’re bringing a girl back in broad daylight?” The controller guy says, no tact whatsoever.
Hikari snaps his fingers in recognition. “Hey, you’re the girl at the party.”
“Damn, back for more?”
Hikari shoves controller guy’s head down at the crude comment.
“She's here to save my GPA,” Gojo explains. “So keep it down, yeah?”
“That's what we should be saying to you,” controller guy smirks.
Unfortunately, Gojo smirks back. “You know they can’t help it. I'm just too good.”
He guides you back towards the stairs as the boys in the living room chuckle, and when you finally think of something to say you’re already standing in the middle of his room. By then, there’s another something to take up your mind and computing power.
Despite the relatively large floor plan, Gojo has decided to use none of it. True to his words, there’s a mattress lying on the floor against one wall, blanket a mess and a single pillow sitting flat at the top. A stack of old textbooks make up a bedside table where there’s a cute small lamp. On the other side sits a couch and a giant flat screen in front of it at a distance that would make optometrists frown.
Maybe that’s why Gojo is sometimes seen wearing sunglasses indoors. Maybe they’re prescription.
“This is what you bring girls back to?”
Gojo drops his bag on the floor and flops down onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come sit.”
You eye the seat in disdain.
“What's with the look?”
“Is that even sanitary?”
He snorts. “Worried you’ll get cooties or something? Relax, I rarely bring anyone back. Usually I go to the girls’ place for that kind of stuff. Fucking on a mattress is pretty harsh on the back, you know. You’re the first girl I've brought back in a while. Lucky you, right?”
You grimace but sit down gingerly. “Can you tell me what courses you’re doing?”
“What's the rush? Let's get to know each other better,” he says but he still reaches over to grab his laptop from his bag, opening it on his lap.
You can picture it so clearly, Gojo coming back from a long day of (skipping) classes to do his assignments and homework like this, slumped over his laptop on this surprisingly comfortable couch. The bare mattress on the floor might be a big contributing factor to his back pain, but you have no doubts that this routine wasn’t doing him any favours. “Here,” he places his laptop on your knees and leans back, pulling out his phone from his pocket. “You look.”
Considering his complete disregard of safety is not your issue, you don’t protest and quickly type in the college website. As if sensing this is not the right time, a prompt pops up to log in again.
“Password?” you ask, tilting the screen to him.
He barely looks up from his phone, one arm behind his head, the other typing away. “Sixeyes69 question mark exclamation mark.”
You pause and type it in. It goes through.
“What's the number?” He asks, disinterested.
You look on the screen. “67.”
He chuckles. “Nice.”
“Are you seriously okay with telling me your password like that?”
He shrugs, screenshotting the multi authenticator screen before hitting enter. The website in front of you loads and opens to his details.
“Tt’s not like there’s anything you can do with that. Are you planning to sneak in and do my assignments for me?”
Finding no fault in his words, you accept it and click through the tabs. Your brows quickly knit together as you read the contents.
“Gojo.”
“Mhm?”
“You’re missing three assignments in this class, you have a midterm for another in two weeks and you’re barely passing first year statistics.”
Gojo looks up at the ceiling in deep concentration before looking down with a smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right, why?”
“This is insane! I'm not a miracle worker!”
“Better find a lamp that grants wishes soon because your love life is on the line,” he points out. “That was the deal, you find a way to get me into that scholarship and I get you and my best friend together. It's not my fault you were weirdly confident and didn’t check to see where I was at before proposing that.”
Flabberghasted, you can only open and close your mouth like a fish. “Look, the midterm in two weeks, I can probably help with. The three assignments? You failing statistics?”
“Pretty sure I passed that last quiz. Maybe check again?”
“51 is just barely passing which is basically a fail.”
“Oh no, it seems like you can’t do this after all. Looks like the deal is over. Hey, by the way, since you’re already here, why don't we—” Gojo sits up and leans in, one hand on your thigh above his laptop.
“I demand another favour.”
He freezes. “You can’t just do that.”
“I can,” you square your shoulders and meet his eyes. “I did this statistics class during my first year so I still have my notes. I can easily alter them and give them to you and if you have any questions, we can meet up and I'll go through the questions with you. There's no way you can submit two of the three missed assessments as late but I can help you write the one that was due last week. There will be a mark reduction but I'll make sure it’s as good as can be. And, like I said, studying for the midterm is possible in two weeks.”
Gojo stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. When he finally moves, it’s only to remove his hand from your knee and slump back into his leather couch. “You’re insane.”
You wonder if he’s sulking.
“But,” you continue on. “If I help you with this then I can add to my condition. Besides, I made it too vague earlier and you’ve helped me see that. So thank you.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me.”
You bite your lip. “Go on a practice date with me.”
He blinks at you, giving you that same incredulous look before bursting into a fit of laughter that does wonders for your ego.
“Hey.”
He keeps laughing, one hand resting on his chest.
“Hey!” You hit his arm and he finally cracks an eye open to look at you.
“You’re kidding,” he chuckles, struggling to catch his breath. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t do dates.”
“Don't refer to yourself in third person.” You smack his bicep one more time for good measure and because he’s weirdly solid under your touch. “It won’t actually be a date. I just need to know how dates work. I can't just go from zero to not-zero without practice!”
His laughter trails off though the smile remains on his face. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re at zero?”
You freeze, feeling like you’ve walked into a trap.
“Define zero.”
“Have you kissed anyone?”
You look away. “Define kissed.”
He laughs again, though mercifully shorter. “That's crazy. Next thing you know, you’re going to ask me to teach you how to—”
“Please!” You say quickly. “It won't be anything serious. I just need to know the mechanics, you know, how dates actually work. What you’re supposed to say, how you sit, when you pay, whether eye contact should be continuous or intermittent—”
“Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re actually a lost cause.”
“Well I've never done one before!” You clamp your mouth shut after, mortified at how loud you just got.
Gojo watches you for a long moment, the amusement still there though dimmed now by something closer to curiousity. Maybe even concern if you squint.
Silence stretches between you, warm sunlight pooling across the floor, distant house noise muffled beyond the door. He looks down at his laptop on your lap then back up to your face.
“...okay.”
Your heart stumbles and you inhale sharply. “Okay?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Really?” Relief overwhelms your system and your shoulders relax.
“Gojo Satoru doesn’t go back on his promises.” He straightens and places a hand over his heart, a mock solemn expression on his face. Before you can poke fun of his use of third person again, he continues. “Besides, I need to figure out where you stand. Let's go on a date tomorrow.”
“Eager much?”
He shrugs. “Rip the bandaid off. Besides, I have no other time this week, I have practice all of this week for the upcoming game.”
Though you were ready to disagree, you find yourself nodding. “Okay, tomorrow.”
“It's a date,” he says sweetly before clapping his hands together once loudly. “So, does that mean I'm off the hook for today? Steam is having this massive sale and I have money to spend.”
You snort. “What makes you think you’re free to go?”
“You got what you wanted,” he points out reasonably. “Practice date secured so mission accomplished, right? Seems like a natural stopping point and the Steam store is calling me.”
He reaches lazily toward the laptop. You smack his hand away without hesitation.
“Well hang up because you’re failing statistics and the submission box for that technical report is waiting for you. I'm afraid you’re going to have to reschedule.”
“You're kidding. I dragged you here and gave you nothing to prepare with, there’s no way you'll have anything to tutor me with.”
You stretch out your arms, fingers interlaced, and listen to the satisfying pop of your joints. “Watch me.”
Night has long since settled by the time you return to your dorm. Despite his perennial sulking throughout the entire tutoring session, lips jutted out when he isn’t whining, eyes drifting from the screen when you’re not giving him your full attention, he still offers to walk you back to the opposite side of the campus where the dorm houses are. Guiding him through the writing assignment was somewhat akin to extracting teeth from a little kid, but he’s surprisingly quiet when you’re talking and only chooses to complain when you’ve stopped.
And by the end of it, you’re proud to announce that he has 500 words on a once empty doc that was almost ready for submission.
Hey, you did mention before that you can’t create miracles.
Still, there’s something bright in his eyes when he reads through his own work, mumbling the words under his breath. So then, when you had reached down to pick up your tote bag and call it a day, he’s on his feet almost instantly, laptop snapping shut as he follows.“I’ll walk you,” he says, like it’s not even a suggestion.
The campus at night feels different, all those late nights in the library had taught you that. It’s quieter, softened at the edges and maybe it's placebo, maybe it isn’t, but the air feels fresher and time seems to slow. Streetlamps cast warm pools of light along the pathways, the winter air crisp enough to bite at your cheeks. Your breath fogs slightly as you walk, footsteps echoing in companionable rhythm.
For once, Gojo isn’t talking.
He makes the occasional comment, something about how dead campus feels after dark, how he hates early morning practices, how someone keeps taking his chocolate milk from the fridge, but for some reason you don’t find it so tolerable. Maybe it’s the way he’s saying it, slower and calm, nothing like before.
You steal a glance at him.
His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed, expression softer than you’re used to seeing. Without the performative grin and constant chatter he looks less like the campus celebrity Everyone knows and more like he’s just some guy. Albeit, very attractive but you digress.
“You didn’t have to walk me,” you say into the silence that he hadn’t immediately rushed to fill after his last anecdote.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
He shrugs. “Just felt weird not to. Besides, it’s late out and your dorm is half a century away. I need you alive to fix my grades, remember?”
You give him a faint chuckle and look forward again.
A few more steps pass in silence, broken only by the shuffle of feet.
“Hey,” he says suddenly.
You look up, watching the light scatter over his side profile.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For today.” He kicks at a pebble on the path, watching as it skitters ahead. “For not giving up on me after the first five minutes.”
You huff softly. “I said I'd help. And Y/N never goes back on her promises.”
He looks over at you and you both share a smile before his expression turns thoughtful. “Yeah, but people say stuff all the time.”
You study him. “Do they?”
He hums and doesn’t elaborate.
The dorm building comes into view ahead, lights glowing warmly through the windows. There's still a couple students drifting in and out, bundled in hoodies and coats and wearing slides, soft laughter spilling into the night.
You slow, suddenly aware that the walk is almost over. You turn to him so you can look at each other.
“You know, you’re not as hopeless as you think,” you say quietly. “I think you’ve just never pushed yourself to seriously try.”
He snorts. “Thanks, real inspirational.”
“I’m serious,” you protest but the corners of your lips quirk up.
He looks at you then, properly looks, eyes searching your face with a small frown. When he can’t find whatever he’s looking for, his brows relax.
“You really think I can pass?”
“Yes.”
Something in his shoulders loosens, tension easing away.
“Okay,” he breathes out. “Then, my grades are in your hands, teacher.”
You make a face. “I think I prefer sweets.”
He laughs and you turn to walk up to the entrance. The automatic doors remain stubbornly closed until you step into the sensor’s range, humming softly as they slide open. Warm air spills out, smelling faintly of old carpet and air freshener.
For some reason your feet slow.
“Hey, Y/N.”
You turn, looking at him as he stands just outside the warm lobby light, hands in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold.
“Yeah?”
He hesitates.
“See you tomorrow."
You bite your lip and nod, repeating his words softly. Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn and walk into the building. The doors close with a soft thud, sealing you inside.
Through the glass, you watch him turn and head down the path, white hair catching the glow of the streetlights. And of course, he doesn’t look back.
Your reflection stares back at you instead, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes a little too bright, heart still beating faster than it should.
Tomorrow, apparently, you’re going on a date, practice or not.
For some reason, ghetto pops up in your mind and you tighten your hold on your tote bag, making your way up the stairs. The soft curve of his smile earlier this morning, the way he had said your name like it belonged in his mouth, or maybe that was just wistful thinking. But the warmth in his eyes that had nearly short-circuited your brain was most definitely real and you cling to the image.
Right, this is for him.
Your phone buzzes a little after you settle into bed that night, making you jolt. you roll onto your side and reach for your phone, pulling it free from your charger as you read through your notifications.
gojo: i made it back safe in case you were wondering ><
You get comfortable, tucking your doona under your chin as you type back, your phone the only light source in your dark room.
you: trust i wasn’t worried but thanks ig
gojo: who said anything about being worried?
also don’t flake on me tomorrow
i’m taking this mentorship very seriously so u better asw you: i won’t flake ik i’m already asking sm of u
gojo: oh u know do u?
so ure going to pay for our date tmrw?
you: it’s not a date
gojo: sure it isn’t
you: it’s just practice
gojo: i didn’t say it wasn’t
but if you admitted it was a real date i’d pay yk
you: please
like i’d actually want you to pay for my coffee
not a date, not real, don’t need u to pay for my drinks
gojo: ure a hard girl to please
you: if its from someone like you, its gonna be harder than just hard
try impossible
gojo: harder than hard?
you: ?
gojo: something feels wrong about that sentence for some reason
anyway
is the campus close for you or should we meet up in the city
you: the campus works for me
gojo: ure not just saying that to avoid the date allegations are you
you: no way
gojo: sure sweets i believe u
don’t wear anything boring
first impressions matter yk
you: oh my god stop pushing the date allegations
its just practice !!!!
gojo: okay and you can practice dressing up for me
for suguru
like for practice
you: ?
i know what u meant
but sure
as long as u do too theres no way im embarrassing myself by showing up overdressed if u show up in sweats and a hoodie
gojo: wouldn’t dream of it
see u saturday sweets
You stare at the nickname longer than you should.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before moving.
you: goodnight gojo
The reply bubble appears then disappears before appearing again. Nothing comes of it as it disappears one more time and stays gone.
You swipe off the app and place your phone back on your bedside table, ignoring the pleasant buzz running through you.
You show up early like a super fan.
You’ve been sitting at the little corner table situated at the back of your favourite campus cafe for the past ten minutes now, stirring your drink just to look busy. The cafe hums around you with soft chatter, clinking spoons against teacups and ceramic against ceramic, a mellow playlist faintly playing in the background, but your nerves drown most of it out.
You’ve already gone through three mental checklists as you sit there, waiting. Your fingers curl around your empty cup, feeling the beads of water drip down your fingers and you really hope you won’t need to make an awkward break for the bathroom anytime soon considering he should be here about now.
You tell yourself you’re not nervous but you catch yourself glancing at the door every other second, heart jumping each time it swings open.
The bell chimes again and you look up with a start, eyes immediately locking onto Gojo as he saunters in, lifting his sunglasses so they rest on his head. He’s dressed casually, a white and blue jersey over a pair of blue baggy jeans, but his good looks mold the outfit into something appropriate for a date.
Gojo spots you at his first look around and grins, sliding into the seat across.
“Morning,” he greets, a wide smile on his face. His eyes flicker down once at your empty cup. “Did you wait long?”
“No, not at all!” You remember who you’re talking to and relax a little. “Actually, I got here fifteen minutes early. I guess I got a little anxious.”
“Well, you don’t need to be. You look nice,” he says, tone light. His eyes look you over once to make his words comprehensible and then one more time purely for the love of the game. “Trying to impress me?”
You scoff, trying to recover. “You told me to dress nice.”
“C’mon, sweets. Play along. We’re on a date, you know. Your next lines should be something like,” he suddenly tucks his elbow in, body curving to the side slightly, hand half closed and held delicately over his lips and chin. His eyelashes flutter over his cheek as he looks down and to the side, a faux shyness that makes you want to laugh. “‘Thank you, you look good too’.”
You let yourself laugh, shoulders relaxing. “What the fuck?”
“You give it a try. It always works in anime.”
“No way in hell,” you continue, laughing fading into occasional giggles as his gesture replays in your mind. “Besides, this is a practice date. I'll save that technique for the real deal, thank you very much.”
“And for practice, we’re going to pretend this is a real date.” He leans back into his seat, legs stretching out and bracketing yours under the table. His feet bump against yours lightly. “Let's give it another try. Did I make you wait long?”
You stir the straw inside your drink, pretending to be nonchalant, though your fingers twitch slightly against the glass. “Not long… I guess.” You try a mysterious act, hearing that guys like a woman with secrets. At least, that’s what Shoko told you though a small part of you wonders if you should be taking “how to seduce a guy 101” from a lesbian.
“‘I guess’?” he echoes, tilting his head. “That’s the best you can do? You’re supposed to be charming me, remember? At least try to make it look like I'm not coercing you here.”
“I don’t care if I charm you or not,” you say quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m here to learn and you’re here to teach me.”
He laughs, a low, easy sound that makes your chest tighten. “You know, I'm not exactly made of time. Do you know how many girls and guys would kill to be in your position right now?”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes though don’t stop yourself from making your voice dry. “Oh sure, let’s spend this entire date talking about all the competition I have.”
“We would need at least four more dates to cover it all.”
“I didn’t know getting into a relationship with you would be such an investment.” You snort. “If all five of our dates are just going to be you listing my competition, I'd rather stand you up now and save myself the time. And the money.”
“I did offer to pay for your drinks.” He grins at the back and forth, the sides of his shoes bumping into your ankles lightly. “That’s it, you’re getting into it.”
“For practice.”
“Sure, sweets. Practice. Speaking of,” he says, leaning forward just enough that the sunlight catches his hair. “You should call me Satoru. We’re on a date, remember? I can’t tell if you’re on a date with me or my dad if you call me Gojo.”
You grimace. “Calling you by your first name makes it too real.”
“It is real. That’s what you should tell yourself to get into this.” He juts out his lower lip, drawing his eyebrows inward. “Come on, sweets, let me hear you say my name.”
“When you say it like that, it makes me want to throw a drink in your face.”
“Just once, Y/N.”
You huff and roll your eyes. “Satoru.”
“Oh my god, a girl called me by my first name!” He squeals.
You almost stand to get out of here if it means preventing people from associating you with him. He grabs your hand and drags you back down into your seat before you can properly escape, much to your dismay. “Relax, I’m just playing.”
“Are you here to mess around or help me?”
“Well, you need to tell me so I can help you. What do you even know about him?”
“About Geto?”
“Yeah, unless there’s someone else you want to know more about?” He grins, easy and confident.
You ignore his comment. “Well, I know he… likes books. music. He's kind… thoughtful. Plays the guitar. Ah, specifically electric."
“Are you listing off what’s on his dating profile right now?”
“Shut up,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than intended.
“He isn’t actively on any dating app right now, just for your information.”
“And how would you know this? What are you doing on there?”
“I’m not on hinge, unfortunate for the female population, I know. We just tell each other everything,” he says, leaning back, one elbow resting on the armrest of his chair as he studies you from across the table. “I’m helping you, you know? First rule, don’t just parrot his interests. Though maybe I don't have to worry about that since you’re clearly struggling to even remember them.”
“I wasn’t going to parrot him.”
“I know you were,” he interrupts, wagging a finger. “Last time I checked, liking exactly what he likes does not make you compatible. It makes you predictable. And desperate.”
“Okay, harsh.”
“It's all tough love, sweets.”
You fold your arms, slumping back in your seat, letting gravity do half the work of your sulk. “Fine then, oh wise love guru. What should i say instead? Like, let’s say he asks me what I'm into and my mind goes blank like last time. What then?”
“You're asking like it’s that difficult. Just be honest, tell him what you like regardless if it matches his interests. Do you want to be a groupie or be something more than a friend?”
“I want to be someone he likes.”
“So you're going to play the role of Suguru’s perfect girlfriend? And what after that, genius? Are you just going to pretend forever?”
Gojo looks over to the front counter and smiles at some waitresses standing there already looking in his direction. He turns back as they start giggling and playfully arguing over who should come over to take his order.
“Don’t force yourself to perform for him or curate yourself to be digestible. If the two of you are meant to be then he should want you.”
You look away, picking at nothing on your glass. “That's easy for you to say.”
“It's actually incredibly tiring being this emotionally intelligent all the time,” he says, face neutral.
You snort despite yourself and he looks satisfied.
“And what if I tell him and he doesn’t like it?”
Gojo shrugs, slow and deliberate. “Then he’s not for you.”
You frown. “Wow, you’re terrible at pep talks.”
One of the waitresses finally makes it to your table, an eager smile on her face and a determined look in her eyes. Behind her, you catch the rest of the staff shooting encouraging looks. She clutches her notepad a little too tightly, taking in a deep breath before talking. “Hello, are you, um, both ready to order?”
“Yeah,” Gojo says easily, flashing her a smile. “I’ll just grab a hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”
The woman quickly scribbles his order down. “Of course! one hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”
“And whatever she wants,” he adds, nodding toward you.
You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I already ordered earlier. I'm fine for now, thanks.”
The waitress spares you a glance, eyes flickering briefly over you before returning to Gojo like a magnet snapping back into place. “Not a problem. Is there anything else I can get you started with today?”
“We're good, thank you.”
Her face falls. She nods, but lingers a moment too long, clearly hoping for something, another question, a joke, anything to keep the interaction going.
Gojo’s grin grows just a little bit wider as he obliges.
“Busy today?” He asks casually, tone warm and interested.
Her face lights up and she quickly steps forward again. “A little! It's usually busy in the mornings what with the morning rush and all. Honestly, it’s like nonstop until at least 1pm.”
“That’s brutal,” he sympathises, leaning back in his chair, posture loose and open. “At least you’ve got good coffee to survive on.”
She laughs, a bright and breathy sound that makes it clear she’s not just laughing at the coffee comment alone. “Perks of the job, I suppose. Do you come here often?”
Gojo tilts his head as if the question deserved genuine thought and wasn’t just a throwaway pick up line.
“Not as often as I should,” he decides easily. “But I might start if the service is this friendly.”
Her smile widens, pink creeping into her cheeks. “We try our best.”
“I was talking about you, sweetheart.”
You’ve been listening and watching with apt attention, taking mental notes on the right time to smile, when to tilt your head just so, when to tuck your hair behind your ears and when to employ the double tuck, when his last words make you frown.
You clear your throat, eyes fluttering away when both Gojo and waitress look over at you.
“Well,” the waitress starts suddenly, glancing down at her notepad like she needs to remind herself she’s on the clock, "I'll bring your drink out as soon as it’s ready.”
“Looking forward to it,” Gojo replies, though he hasn’t looked away from you yet.
She lingers half a beat longer, then turns and walks away, shoulders a little straighter than before.
“Done staring?” He teases.
“I was not staring. Don't you have the tact to not flirt with someone else when you’re on a date?”
“Oh, so now it’s a date? Only when it’s convenient for you, huh?”
You reach over for a napkin and crumble it up to throw it at him. It barely makes it halfway across the table before it starts fluttering down.
“It’s only manners,” you insist, cheeks warm. “I didn't know what to do when the two of you were talking.”
He snorts. “You could’ve joined the conversation.”
“And said what? "Hello, I'm also present and this jerk’s date for the day?”
“Hey, I like the sound of that,” he muses.
Your next crumpled up napkin doesn’t get any further than its predecessor. You glare at him, something about that conversation rubbing you the wrong way, echoing unpleasantly in your head in a way that makes you want to peel your skin off.
You clear your throat again.
“You're here to teach me like I taught you statistics, right? Even though one is clearly harder than the other.”
“Right. Getting you to date ready is much more difficult.”
You ignore him to save the life of one napkin. “So, how do I do that? Flirt so effortlessly and not make it cringe?”
“You want to use what I just said with the waitress on Suguru?” He actually laughs out loud. “Do not, he’s going to see right through you. You should have met his last ex. The two of them were absolutely disgusting and— oh wait, should I not talk about that?”
“Yeah, let’s not.”
He hums and changes the subject. “Anyway, just let it happen. Be natural. You talk to me just fine.”
“Yeah, but you’re you. frivolous, class clown, never takes anything seriously, probably never commits to anything,” you start listing, counting them on your fingers.
“I feel like the first thing and the last thing mean the same thing. Put one finger down.”
You refuse, still holding up four fingers. “Sleeps on a mattress on the ground.”
“So does half of Sig Kap. But relax, I get it. So you suck at flirting. Shouldn’t you be happy I gave you a live demonstration of how it’s done?”
That gets you frowning again.
“Do you always call everyone something?”
“What does that even mean?”
“You called her sweetheart.”
“I don't know her name. I wasn't about to call her ‘woman’, that sounds very sexist and I'm a feminist at heart. Thoughts on banning periods?”
“She has a name tag.”
“I don’t look at that area on a woman on the first date,” he pledges.
You continue without thinking.“How is anyone supposed to know when you actually mean it when you give everyone similar nicknames?”
He goes quiet, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?”
Before you can elaborate, or maybe divert and make him look away so you can dig yourself out of the hole you just created, the waitress returns with his drink. She leans over him, placing it down carefully.
“Here you go!”
“Thanks,” he says, polite but no longer quite as engaged. In fact, he hasn’t looked away from you, still giving you that same disbelieving look.
You fiddle with your own drink. Maybe you should have ordered something else if it meant spicing up the number of objects you have in your possession to pass awkward silence with.
The waitress lingers a moment before hesitantly leaving when it’s clear there’s no encore performance.
“I just meant it’s confusing for anyone, hypothetically,” you say in a rush, beating him. “Anyway! Flirting techniques, let’s talk about them!”
He watches you for a moment longer before dropping his head and ruffling his hair. You grimace, eyeing how close his head is to his open drink. When he looks back up, whatever conflict on his face has disappeared.
“Fine, okay. Let's talk. First of all, it’s important where the date takes place. There's unspoken etiquette for every typical date location.”
“Like how you go on a coffee date, you shouldn’t flirt with the waitress.”
Gojo cracks a grin. “You’re getting it. Look, Suguru is kind of an artsy guy. He'd probably take you to an art museum or like a jazz bar for your first date.”
You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I told you, he tells me everything. Focus.” He dismisses your look. “He’s kind of an enjoy-the-moment kind of guy. Probably won’t talk too much while you’re both admiring something together and saves all the talking until after when he leads you to some underground totally underrated dinner spot.”
You wince. “Shit. I kind of like making little jokes in the moment.”
He snaps his fingers, face brightening. “Right? Like when you’re watching a movie in the cinemas!”
“Okay, that is a bit tricky. It depends.”
“Don't Genshin theorycraft me.”
“You're lucky I got that reference.”
Gojo shrugs. “Well, Suguru enjoys just existing with his special someone. Don't get me wrong, he definitely talks when you get him started but I think he’s kinda cool for being able to sit in silence with someone.”
You chew the inside of your cheek. “I’m kind of bad with silences. I end up embarrassing myself just to fill them. Do you think it’s fixable? Should I just not talk?”
“Woah, slow down. It’s fine, he has enough social awareness to fill in the gaps if you’re uncomfortable. But i’m just telling you what he likes,” he studies you. “He doesn’t like petnames, by the way.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “That’s fine, it’s not a dealbreaker,” you mumble.
“I'm just saying. He's a real fan of using your first name. When you two get on that basis, of course.”
“Anything else, Geto expert?”
Gojo hums, taking a long sip of his latte, eyes tracking up. “He likes meaningful stuff like art with a story behind it, long conversations about philosophy. Like yeah he still likes doing things just for fun but there’s a difference between like and love.”
You wince. “But love is meant to be silly, meaningless stuff. Like sending pictures of dogs cuddling because it reminded you of us or whether you’d still love each other if you turned into worms. Like taking the longer way back home just to spend more time together. Or, I don't know, building blanket forts as adults.”
Gojo’s mouth twitches.
You stop, suddenly aware you sound like you’ve been storing these thoughts and they’ve suddenly all gotten loose.
“Stuff that doesn’t matter,” you finish weakly.
He rests his chin on his palm. “Like going to the arcade and getting plushies for each other at the claw machines?”
You laugh, shoulders relaxing. “I'd obviously do better. You look like you have no hand eye coordination.”
“Did you forget I literally play ice hockey?”
“Right, your role as the benchwarmer?”
“My ass has never once graced those benches.”
“I don't know, I swear I remember seeing you on the sidelines.”
“You’ve come to watch me play before?” He grins, cheek slightly smushed from his position.
“Because Shoko went.”
He juts his lower lip out. “Harsh.”
There's a few seconds of silence as the conversation replays and you feel a sudden rush of embarrassment. You look up to see if he clocked your earlier slip up but he only tilts his head more into his hand.
“What?”
“Nothing.” You clear your throat and look down at your drink. It's left behind a ring of water around its base. “How are you two best friends when you’re so different?”
“Because he slows me down,” Gojo says like it’s simple. “And I drag him out of his head. But he doesn’t need another person to do that for him so don’t even think of taking my spot.”
You both share a laugh and it lingers a little longer than the joke deserves, warm and easy, until it naturally tapers off into something softer.
“Why do you even like him?” He suddenly asks, voice soft against the murmur of the cafe.
You slowly slide your gaze out the window as if reliving the moment. You can almost feel the rain on your skin, the warmth of a hoodie not your own, and the residual laughter at the back of your throat that makes you smile.
“Last semester when it was pouring rain, he saw me waiting outside a building without an umbrella and we ended up running through the storm. It’s stupid but it was fun and meaningless and definitely what I needed after my finals.”
Your words make him frown, finger tracing a random shape on the wet surface of his glass absentmindedly. “That doesn’t sound like him.”
“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought?” You offer.
“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s my other half.”
“Again, should I be concerned right now?”
“Are you homophobic?”
“No?”
“Then you’re fine.”
“Wait…”
Gojo glances down at his phone and sighs. “It's getting late, sweets. I'd love to stay longer but I promised the boys we’d go do this carwashing event.”
He pauses and looks up.
“Did you want to come?” he quickly adds on, “You don’t have to come alone, you could bring Shoko along or something.”
You wrinkle your nose. “No thanks. You can imagine that she’s not keen on seeing a bunch of shirtless boys.”
He grins. “Suit yourself. I'll walk you out. It's the least I can do on this date.”
You roll your eyes but stand and follow him out anyway, ducking under his arm as he holds the door open for you. Stepping out, you’re almost blinded by the bright sun and you have to cover your eyes to look up, squinting even with the shade provided by your palm.
He moves to stand in front of you. “Well, I'll see you around.”
Next tutoring session,” you remind him, letting your arm drop to your side. "Don't forget to watch the online lectures before then. And remember to do the weekly quizzes this time. And—”
He reaches over to ruffle your hair fiercely, laughing when your words turn into a startled squeak.
“Yes, yes, I got it,”
He lets you go and watches with a toothy grin as you start fixing your hair, glaring up at him and his audacity to smirk. His face quickly softens.
“Sorry I can’t walk you back to your dorms. I'm already running kind of late.”
“Don't worry about it,” you say when you feel like you look presentable enough. “Um, get there safe?”
“I will,” he starts stepping back. “Text me if you need anything.”
“Okay, make sure to—”
“Relax, sweets, I got it,” He says with a chuckle and a wave, before he turns and starts walking off in your opposite direction.
You watch him go for a little longer before heading back to your dorm.You stare up at your ceiling. your ceiling stares back down at you. You've been staring at your popcorn ceiling for so long that you’ve begun to discern shapes and different shades of what you had previously considered to be beige, plain and simple, but was now warping into the image of Gojo.
Something he had done yesterday clung to you even hours after the date. The ease in which he allowed the waitress’ fingers to brush his as he handed her the menus, the way he easily held onto your hand at the party, the lack of concern as he stood close to you on the walk back. You lift up your hands and slowly interlace your fingers. It's comfortable, familiar. until you start wondering one hand as someone else's.
Before you can doubt yourself, you pull yourself up and gather your phone and keys, heading to the door without another thought. On the way through the dorms, you send a quick text.
you: u free? im coming over
You stand outside Gojo’s door and knock. There's a muffled, incoherent reply before the door is pulled open, revealing Gojo. His hair is slightly damp with stubborn strands clinging to his forehead and he’s brushing his teeth. He's not wearing a shirt.
You stare at his chest.
“One second,” he says around the foam in his mouth. He holds the door open a little wider and ushers you in, letting the door fall to a gentle click behind you. “Sit on the couch.”
Wordlessly, you do, watching his bare back as he heads into his bathroom. The sound of water muffles your racing thoughts until he reappears, still shirtless but at least he’s not brushing his teeth anymore.
“Hey,” he says, irritatingly casual. “I saw your text. You didn’t even wait to see if I was free or not. For the record I am but imagine I wasn't. That would have been an awkward situation and between you and her, I would have picked her.”
You blink away your surprise and look up at him. “Her?”
“It’s a Friday night, Y/N. You’re lucky I don't have someone over.”
You frown a little at that and he continues, heading to his kitchenette to open his fridge, pulling out two beers. He hands you one, pushing it towards you once more when you don’t immediately take up his offer.
“So, what are you doing here?”
“Are you going to put on a shirt?”
He blinks before a wide grin splits across his face. “I was wondering what you were looking at so deep in thought. I didn't want to assume again after you made a fool of me at the party but I guess you do have working eyes after all. Do you want me to put on a shirt?”
You blush, finally looking away. “Obviously.”
He chuckles and places his beer down on the coffee table before going on a hunt to find a clean shirt. “But from the way you were eyeing me it really wasn’t that obvious. Besides, you’re telling me to put on a shirt in my own home?”
“It's common sense when you have a guest over.”
His voice carries over from his room. “You’re not really a guest, more like a pest. A guest implies I invited you over, no?”
“But yesterday you said I could come to you for anything.”
“Right. What was I thinking?” Gojo comes back out and flops next to you, the couch dipping under his sudden weight. He takes the beer from your hands and cracks it open before handing it back and doing the same to his. “So, you finally going to tell me what’s up or are you just here to leech off my dwindling beer supply?”
“I don’t even drink,” you mumble, watching as the water beads down your fingers.
“No, but I do have some manners for my guest.”
“You just said…” you trail off, recognising that you’ll only go round and round in circles if you keep up this conversation. you place the beer on the floor and turn to him. “Forget it. I'm here because I need your help.”
“Figures.” He holds the beer to his lips and takes a deep swig. “What can I do for you today?”
You bite your lip before turning to him. “Can I kiss you?”
Gojo chokes, pulling the beer from his lips with a hack, liquid spitting out onto his no longer clean shirt and sweatpants. He finally manages to get his mouthful of beer down, but he only coughs and hits at his chest. Hesitantly, you reach over and pat his back lightly.
He shrugs your touch away, looking at you in disbelief. “What did you just say?”
“I was wondering if you’d let me kiss you?”
“Just because you’re saying it politer now doesn’t take away how crazy you sound.” He stares at you incredulously. “Look, I know we went on a date yesterday but I thought you of all people knew it was a practice date. I'm sorry but I don't feel the same way. Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships.”
You groan, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t suddenly develop a crush on you, Gojo.”
“Satoru,” he corrects you despite his shock.
“Satoru,” you emphasise. “I don’t like you.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Yesterday just got me thinking. You’re so natural with touching and stuff and I realised that I have literally no experience whatsoever. I know Geto isn’t the type of person to care about whether I'm a virgin or not but I care. I care because I know I'll freeze up if we ever get to that part.”
He stares at you. “When i asked you a few days ago about whether or not you wanted to sleep with him, you told me to shut up.”
“That was a few days ago.” You shuffle closer to him on the couch and watch as his eyes drop to your thighs inching closer, then back up, something like fear on his face. “I know this is a big favour but I thought since you’ve kissed so many girls before and they’ve never meant anything that you might be okay with this? I mean you thought we were going to kiss that time at the party. So is this really that crazy to ask?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “It is. because you like Suguru and I'm his best friend.”
“But this is practice.”
“You can’t just echo what I've said in the past.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking off in the distance before coming back to you. “Suguru isn’t the type of person to rush to things like that. You'd be in good hands.”
“I know but this is for me. So I know what to expect.”
His face is contorted in a way you’ve never seen before. You decide to give another push.
“Just think of me as one of your hookups.”
He exhales softly, eyes staring into yours. “Are you sure? Have you even thought this through?”
“Yes, I have,” you lie. “I mean, there aren’t any cons. I'll lose my first kiss, get experience, and it’s all under practice anyway so it won’t mean anything. And you get a hookup for the night. It's a win win!”
His face only seems to pale more at your words. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet? Fuck, that’s a lot of pressure. And I feel like you have the wrong idea about what a hookup entails.”
You shrug. “Kissing? Making out?”
“Sex.”
You pause. “Well, we won’t go that far. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” He exclaims and you quickly deflect because he’s looking more and more shocked.
“We can start with kissing.” You shift closer, your thigh pressing against his. “Come on, it doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, from the encouraging look in your eyes to the determined line of your lips. He huffs, running another hand through his hair at the absurd change to his Friday night plans. Sure, kissing someone wasn’t a big deal for him, not when he’s tasted the lips of many before, but there was something different about taking someone’s first kiss.
Finally, he sighs, long and hard. “Just a kiss.”
You beam, face lighting up. “Of course!”
He hesitates, cursing under his breath something long but incoherent, before gently reaching out to tilt your chin up. “Tell me if you change your mind. Just shove me away, okay?”
You nod enthusiastically. “What do I have to do?”
“Just let me take the lead for now. And if you feel confident enough to kiss back, go for it.” Again, Gojo mumbles something under his breath, the absurdity of the situation still not lost to him. He leans forward as if to seal the deal before pausing, moving his hand up to caress your cheek tenderly.
Your breath hitches, eyes wide as you curse your own touch-starved form.
“You okay?” He asks, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. “Changed your mind?”
You shake your head slightly.
Gojo huffs and you feel the puff of air against your lips.
When his lips finally press against yours, fitting against yours in a way you’ve only ever seen in movies, you feel… nothing. You squeeze your eyes tighter, trying to dig through the sensations and pick out the one that’s meant to set off fireworks and melt your stomach into goo. Instead, it just feels like there’s someone’s lips touching yours.
Sensing your discomfort, Gojo pulls back, eyes fluttering open to meet your unsure ones. His nose scrunches up a little as he studies your expression.
“Hey,” he starts, voice low. “You're hurting my ego.”
You lick your lips, trying to return your lips to their usual sensation. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.”
“What were you expecting?”
“Butterflies?”
He chuckles, hand still caressing your cheek. “You're kissing me without any feeling. It’s not my fault you’re as stiff as a board. Relax. Imagine Suguru or something.”
Now it’s your turn to make a face. "Wouldn't that hurt your ego more?”
“Just relax,” he repeats and you make the conscious effort to focus on the way he’s stroking your face soothingly. “That’s it. Good girl.”
“Don't call me that, I cringed.”
He laughs, leaning in. “Abandon the part of you that cringes not the part of you that is cringe.”
With that, he brushes his lips against your again, letting you feel the slow movement and determine the pace.
It’s not exactly rocket science, this kissing business, and you start to mimic the motion of parting your lips against his. It takes a few tries for him to hum in approval and deepen the kiss, his free hand sliding up to cup your neck and gently pull you closer to him. You let out a soft squeak and quickly pick up from the momentary break in rhythm on your end.
When his tongue slides against the seam of your lips, you blanch and pull back.
“Okay,” he starts. “That really hurt my feelings.”
“What was that?” You cover your mouth with your hands, the slimy sensation replaying in your mind.
“That was my tongue.”
“Why didn’t it feel good?”
He rolls his eyes at your complaint and slides an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re half on his lap. “Because you’re thinking too hard.”
“I was not thinking at all, actually,” you say, scandalised. “I didn't know I was going to be ambushed.”
“Okay, my bad, I should have given you a heads up.” He pauses and announces solemnly, "I'm going to start using my tongue.”
You make a face and he huffs out a laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. Up close like this, you can feel the vibration of it in his chest, the way his grip tightens just a little like he doesn’t want you getting any bright ideas about you escaping.
“You're doing fine,” he says more softly, thumb brushing slow circles at your waist.
You think briefly that this must be the allure to him that has girls fawning for his attention. You're not immune either, and you sub consciously melt under his touch, relaxing again. Once you’ve done it once, given into his temptation, it’s easy to fall back again.
“Fine doesn’t seem like outstanding status,” you mumble, trying to maintain some resistance.
“For your first time, it wasn’t so bad.” His nose nudges yours, playfully and coaxing and you’re in his web again. “C’mere.”
Gojo doesn’t pull you this time. Instead, he just waits, one arm warm and steady around your hips, hand stroking your hair as he waits for you to come to him. It's a sign of consideration that has you feeling jittery and warm, though there’s a lazy smirk on his lips that suggests he has other ulterior motives that makes it as infuriating as it is attractive.
Your gaze flicks to his mouth then back to his eyes. His lashes lower just slightly, watching you watch him, and something in your stomach flips over completely. Probably your common sense.
“Just… slower,” you mumble.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Slower.”
He still doesn’t move first which is deeply unfair, because now you have to be the brave one.
You lean in. It's clumsy at first, more of a gentle bump of noses and a too-soft press of lips than anything smooth or cinematic like he had kissed you earlier. You almost pull back in embarrassment, ready to admit that maybe he was a better kisser than you had given him credit for if it’ll mean this pathetic peck of yours can end and he can make it good again, when his hand tightens on your hip and he takes over.
His mouth settles properly over yours, angle shifting until the awkwardness disappears, until it stops being baby’s first kiss and starts becoming a warm, steady pressure that has your toes curling. Yhe faint brush of his breath against your cheek, the subtle tilt of his head that fits your mouth together and when he nips at your bottom lip, a soft startled sound escapes before you can stop it.
He swallows it down without hesitation.
His hand tightens reflexively and slides down, cupping your ass as he leans back and guides you onto him, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes to keep you there, not that you had any plans of moving. One moment your body is twisted awkwardly to meet him and the next you’re seated full on his lap, his warmth solid beneath you.
His breath fans across your cheek in uneven bursts, warm and damp, and the faint scrape of his teeth lingers as a tingling awareness.
You realise, distantly, that you’re no longer stiff.
Your hands, which had been braced awkwardly against his shoulders, loosen without permission. One slides up into his hair as you lean into him, damp strands cool at the ends, warm near the scalp, and the sensation grounds you in a way nothing else does. His mouth opens at the sensation and when his tongue sweeps along your lower lip again, you don’t pull away. It isn’t slimy or invasive like last time, in fact you welcome it, mimicking his openness and the kiss deepens.
Your breath mingles, movements syncing up and under the guidance of his lips and tongue, you start getting bolder.
You shift closer, just a fraction, your head moving up and face tilting down to angle yourself deeper when a low sound slips out of him.
Your eyes fly open and you pull away. “Was that—”
“Nope,” he says immediately, eyes darker than when you last checked. He's panting beneath your palms, a slightly warm tint to his face as he stares at you.
You swallow. “You just—”
“I didn’t,” he insists, far too quickly.
When he’s so adamant like that, it’s a little hard to say anything more. Besides, while it’s almost fun to poke the bear, the memory of his mouth on yours has you thinking about something else entirely.
You don’t move from his lap and he doesn’t push you off.
“Think you’re getting it?” he asks, watching you with something unreadable lurking in his eyes.
You don’t hesitate. “No.”
You stare at each other, catching a much needed breath.
“Alright,” he says, voice rough. “One more. and then we have to stop.”
You lean in and he lets out a soft sigh like a man doomed before meeting you halfway.
Gojo doesn’t start slow this time, maybe because he knows if he does, he won’t be able to control himself.
His hand slides more firmly to the back of your neck, guiding you towards him with a kind of impatience, mouth finding yours with confidence, your chest tightening at the gesture. Your fingers clutch at his shirt instinctively and he makes a low noise at the back of his throat, deepening the kiss until you slide your fingers up and into his hair.
A low exhale slips through his nose, almost shaky and he tilts his head in response to your faint tugs.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips.
Emboldened, you tilt your head and slide your tongue into his mouth to taste him. He tastes like beer and minty and something addictive that has you repeating the movement over and over. When he reciprocates, your stomach swoops instead of recoiling.
You shift, suddenly desperate to get closer and settle over his bulge.
Wow.
You both jerk away from each other quickly, your hands leaving his hair and his arm retracting from your waist. The break feels violent in its suddenness, like surfacing too fast in deep water.
Cold air rushes between you where there had only been warmth seconds ago. Your lips tingle, oversensitive, parted as you drag in a shaky breath. Gojo’s chest rises and falls sharply, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen before, pupils blow dark. For once, there is no smirk, no teasing glint, just a raw, stunned awareness, like he’s trying to process several things at once and failing at all of them.
You become acutely aware of exactly where you’re sitting.
Heat floods your face and to the tips of your ears. you scramble backward, knees slipping against the couch cushions, putting space between your bodies even as the loss of his warmth makes your skin prickle.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn't trying to—”
“Don’t,” he groans, slumping back, covering his flushed face with his arm. His other hand reaches down to adjust himself though he doesn’t seem to have any ideas of covering himself so you watch unabashedly. “Just don’t say anything for a second.”
You clamp your mouth shut obediently.
The room feels too small, too quiet, every little sound like the rustle of fabric or the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchenette, even your own uneven breathing, suddenly feels magnified.
Eventually, Gojo pulls himself up, fixing dark eyes on your figure.
“I’m sorry.” You rush to say, though you’re not sure what you’re apologising for.
“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. It wasn't because of you, I guess I've just been pent up,” he runs his hand through his hair and you watch as he pauses, something passing over his face before he abruptly pulls his hand away. “Anyway, it’s normal.”
You nod too fast. “Right, yes. Totally fine. Super normal, nothing weird happened.”
“Right,” he says. “Nothing weird.”
Your shoulders sag a little, tension leaking out now that that’s been cleared up. The adrenaline leaves behind a strange floaty sensation and you try, and fail, to push down the sudden desire to continue, to explore even further.
“We’re definitely stopping the practice today,” he says, crushing your dreams.
You nod again, somewhat grateful that a decision has been made for you considering the conflict thoughts warring in your head. “Okay.”
He suddenly ruffles his hair all messy and stands up with an exaggerated groan that makes you jump. “Okay! That's over. You did good by the way. You’re gonna be trouble when you actually start dating someone.”
You frown. “Why?”
“It's a compliment, sweets, learn to recognise them, yeah?” He starts walking over to his kitchenette. “Want an actual drink?”
Your brain is still somewhere back in that last kiss, struggling to catch up. “Sure. Just water, right?”
He snorts. “I’m not a creep.”
When you lean back against the couch and close your eyes to recenter yourself, he steals a glance and lets out a long exhale. He closes his eyes for a moment like he’s deeply exhausted.
When he opens his eyes again and makes his way to you, his signature smirk is back.
If anyone saw how nervous you look about to text Gojo, they might think you had a crush on him. Which is absurd because you clearly have a crush on Geto.
Your thumb hovers over the send button, chewing the inside of your cheeks as you debate whether this is a good idea or not.
It’s been a week since you first asked Gojo for advice and though his methods weren’t orthodox nor was he incredible help, you still had to give him his merits. Talking to him was relaxing in a way, the constant back and forth familiar and even his judgement didn’t seem to come from a bad place. The physical stuff was a whole other story and did not influence your thoughts on how you felt about him whatsoever.
In summary, Gojo has given you determination that you couldn’t have achieved on your own.
Using this newfound confidence, you take a deep breath and finally hit send.
you: hey are you in class today?
Not even a full minute later, his reply buzzes.
gojo: yeah i am
stalking me, super fan?
you: god this is exactly why i hate texting u
gojo: :(
why whats up though
ur class doesn’t finish until 2 right?
you: yeah how did u know that?
u sure ure not my super fan?
gojo: guilty!
i just know dont ask what u cant handle
so u gonna leave me in suspense or are u gonna tell me
you: well you have class with geto right
The inside of your cheeks starts getting a little tender as you continue to gnaw and bite at the flesh, anxiously waiting as Gojo’s typing bubbles appear and disappear.
gojo: yeah i do
you: can i come see you?
gojo: what
you: like ill come to your class but can you leave after so its just me and him
u were talking about creating these situations on saturday right
so like
wouldnt this be perfect?
gojo: god this conversation isn’t good for my heart
you: ?
gojo: our class ends later than urs
you: that’s fine i can wait !!
gojo: nah i dont feel like it
you: ?????
man what the hell you said you’d help me
gojo: and i did
on saturday
what if i want suguru all to myself today?
you: come on please???
gojo: what if i dont want to see u
you: well i wont be bothering u this time
i just need an excuse to see him
i think whatever magic u casted over me on sat worked im feeling like scarily confident
i want to talk to him before the feeling goes away
like i feel like i can really do it this time you know?
please satoru?
gojo: god u have no idea how evil u are
fine
ill get us to go to the library
you: THANK YOU@!!!!!!
gojo: u owe me
you: YES DEFINITELY
gojo: another date this friday then
you: OKAY!!!
wait what
Waiting at the library is agonising. you attempt to complete some smaller tasks for your courses that you’ve left in lieu of thinking about, well, boys. But just like every time before, your thoughts stray and settle on him. His pretty effortless smiles, his soft laughter, that sparkling glint in his eyes when he looks at you and it’s like the world quietens just to listen too. his long fingers, the mole on his earlobe, his white—
When your phone buzzes again an hour later, you jump up from your seat to find the location of the photo Gojo sent.
You slip into the fifth library floor as quietly as possible, scanning the endless rows of students for the familiar top of someone’s head. It doesn't take long for your eyes to settle on him.
Gojo is impossible to miss, slouched low in a study booth, hood up and drooping over his hair and the bottom pulled up to cover his mouth. His arms are crossed over his chest as he stares at his laptop screen.
And of course, Geto sits across from him.
Taking in a deep breath, you slow your pace into something that might pass as a casual stroll as if you had randomly come upon them by chance and stop by their booth.
“Oh, hi Satoru!”
He doesn’t look up. “Hey.”
Then, after a manual moment, you turn to Geto. “Oh my god! Geto? Wow.” Your voice comes out pitched a little too loud. “What a coincidence!”
Geto looks up with a smile. “Hey, Y/N. What are the chances we ran into each other?”
Gojo snorts and you don’t miss how pointed it is. You take the chance to glare at the side of his face but he only sinks into his hoodie with a grumble. You continue to stare, even narrowing your eyes as if it’ll sharpen your gaze and he finally lets out a loud groan, flipping the hood down to ruffle his hair and sit up.
“Oh no,” he announces into the silence, loud enough to draw a few irritated glances, not that he cares. He checks his phone, staring at his empty notification list. “It looks like my best friend accidentally locked himself out of his dorm.”
Geto pauses. “I'm your best friend.”
You purse your lips, watching as Gojo begins to slowly pack up his things. Granted, he only needed to close his laptop and shove it into his tote bag, without a case mind you. He refuses to look up despite your efforts to catch his gaze.
“Sorry man, duty calls. I can’t help that i’m such a good friend.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. When he passes by, his arm brushing against yours despite the empty space all around, he leans down to whisper, “Good luck.”
You don’t have the time to decipher if it’s sincerity or sarcasm that you detect because he leaves, his lingering cologne the only sign that he was ever there.
You turn back to Geto, offering a small, awkward smile, wondering if he’s caught on.
“What was that about?” You laugh.
Geto chuckles softly. “Sorry about him. You know how he can be sometimes.”
He looks up at you patiently.
“Well, an empty spot has opened up. Are you staying to study?”
You fight the urge to celebrate. You happily erase thoughts of Gojo from your mind, leaving the gruelling task of decoding his strange behaviour for another day. Gojo’s seat is still warm when you take it, pulling out your laptop just for the act. There was no way you were wasting this golden opportunity with actually studying, don’t be silly.
“So,” you begin, picking at the corner of your sleeve. “Any plans this weekend?”
“You didn’t hear? Satoru is having a game this weekend. It’s just a preliminary but he’s been hyped for it. I'm sure he’d love it if you rocked up.”
You almost laugh out loud. “No way. He'd hate that.”
Geto’s brows lift, amused. “Why would he hate it?”
“Because,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “We're not really friends. More like we have a symbiotic relationship. If we didn’t have that, I doubt we’d even talk to each other.”
“I don't think so,” Geto smiles at you but instead of giving you the butterflies, it leaves you feeling unsure. “But you should come. Not by yourself, of course, I'm sure Shoko would come along.”
“If she was going to go, she’d just take Utahime.” You shift in your seat, throwing the idea around in your head. “Even if I wanted to, I don't think I know anyone else who’d want to come with.”
“Do you want to go with me?”
Your brain blanks.
“What?”
“I was planning on going anyway,” he says, tone casual and all your senses tunnel-vision on him. “Besides, I've been curious about the girl who’s been taking up so much of Satoru’s time.”
Your answer is obvious.
“I’d love to!”
It comes out a little too fast, a little too bright, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care. Relief, excitement, disbelief, it all tangles together in your chest until the only discernable thing left is a giddy sort of lightness.
Geto’s smile widens, clearly pleased and you beam back. He hands you his phone.
“Can I have your Insta then?So I can text you the details later.”
Your hands shake as you take it, thumbs clumsy as you type in your username, backspacing more times than you’d like to admit. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything, the way he’s close enough to see your screen, the warmth of his hand where it had just been, the ridiculous desire to go through your own profile but through his eyes settling on your mind. Later, you can already imagine stalking your own profile, scrutinising every photo, every caption, trying to imagine what it would look like to be him scrolling through for the first time.
When he takes his phone back, he doesn’t immediately pocket it. Instead, he actually looks, thumb scrolling down, humming.
Oh god, he’s looking right now.
"Where's that quote from your bio from?” He asks, glancing up briefly. “It sounds familiar.”
“Oh, um. It’s from my favourite novel.” Your eyes flutter across his face as you tell him the title, sneaking in a quick description to try to sell it.
“I’ll have to check it out then,” Geto says, putting his phone away. “Do you read often?”
“Not as much as I want to. You know how it is, with school and everything. Not to mention books are crazy expensive nowadays.”
He nods sympathetically. “There's this small bookshop tucked away near the city. It's actually close by the rink where Satoru’s game is. I could show you after his game on Saturday.”
Your breath catches.
“After the game?” You repeat, trying very hard to sound normal and not out-of-breath.
Geto nods, completely at ease.
“If you’re not in a rush to get back after,” he adds, considerate as ever. “It says open pretty late.”
You stare at him for a second, thoughts scrambling over each other.
He’s inviting you out after a game. That meant walking together, talking more, being alone without the buffer of a crowd screaming over a bunch of men slamming into each other and hitting with their sticks.
You realise you’re meant to give an answer and quickly hurry.
“Yeah, that sounds perfect actually!” You say, a touch too fast, then wince and try again, softer. “I mean—yeah. That sounds really nice.”
“Good,” he says simply, smile deepening. “It's a cozy place. You could get lost in there for hours.”
“That sounds dangerous. I already have a book-buying problem."
“Secondhand prices,” he reminds you. “It's much safer.”
You hum. “That's debateable. Lower prices just means I have to buy more.”
You can’t believe your luck. Not only had Geto basically invited you on a date to Gojo’s game, he’s also asked you to go book shopping together afterward. And somehow, you had just finished a perfectly normal conversation with him without embarrassing yourself beyond recovery.
Could things possibly get any better?
“You know,” he starts up again and you lean in. “Satoru’s doing suspiciously good in his classes recently. Any clue why?”
You freeze, temporarily thrown off guard. “He better be. I don't tutor him for nothing.”
“I knew it was you. Why are you tutoring him? If he’s blackmailing you, I can help,” he says with a straight face.
“No, no! nothing like that!” You rush to explain.
He cracks a smile. “I’m just joking. He's not actually as bad as his reputation makes him out to be. It's all bad rep, you know?”
While you’ve known Gojo through his reputation for as long as you can remember, you’ve never once stopped to consider that might not be everything about him.
“What do you mean?”
“Sig Kap had a frat sweetheart two years ago,” Geto explains, folding his hands loosely on his laptop. “She was nice, really sweet but some of the older guys treated her like shit. When Satoru called some of the boys out for messing with her they weren’t too happy.”
Your brows lift. “So did they kick him out or something?”
“Not that there’s much they could have done considering his family.”
“What about them?”
He glances at you surprised. “You don’t know?”
You shake your head.
“Huh.” His expression softens into something gentler. “Yeah. A lot of people approach him because they want something, connections, favours, you know the deal. He absolutely hates it. Ironically, that influence is also what kept the older guys from pushing back too hard and they couldn’t exactly scare him off so he’s there to stay.”
“And some people still don’t like him?”
“Some still don’t,” Geto confirms. “So they spread all those stupid rumours instead. Probably easier that way since it’s not exactly traceable.”
Your stomach tightens. “What kind of rumours?”
He hesitates, then shrugs. “Stuff about him sleeping around. that he’s messed with every girl on campus, that kind of thing. You don’t have to look so devastated, it doesn’t bother him much. If anything, it gets him more game. But it’s far from the truth. I mean you’re a girl on campus and he hasn’t messed with you.”
Something about the way he says it, calm and matter-of-fact, makes your chest ache.
“He did earn a lot of respect back,” Geto continues, oblivious to your growing distress. “Especially from the younger guys. But some of the older ones never really got over it.”
He falls silent, studying you with that gentle, searching look that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope and the spotlight is shining down on you. Whatever he sees under the lens makes him smile.
“It’s nice,” he says softly. “That you’re so genuine with him. He doesn’t get that very often.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Couldn't he have used a word other than ‘genuine’? Because you aren’t genuine, far from it, and that realisation makes your stomach drop, nausea blooming sharp and sudden and upheaving the contents.
You approached Gojo with a plan just like all those who have approached him with ulterior motives in the past. And you’ve used him for his friendship and his willingness to help, to get closer to the person right in front of you.
You are no better than the people Geto just described. Worse, even.
Heat rushes to your face, then drains away just as quickly, leaving you cold.
You push your chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor.
“Where did Gojo go?” you ask, wincing internally.
Geto blinks up at you, startled by the sudden shift. “Oh, uh.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit. “He said he had to help me—that is, his friend unlock his door. He's probably back in his room now though.”
You nod too quickly, already stuffing your laptop into your bag with fumbling hands, cables tangling as if they’re conspiring against you.
“Are you going after him?” Geto asks gently.
You freeze for a split second.
Are you?Here you are, sitting across from the person you supposedly like, the person you engineered this entire situation to get closer to, and you’re about to abandon the conversation to chase after his best friend. This is your chance, the perfect golden opportunity, and you’re throwing it away. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to completely doubt yourself.
“Yeah,” you say, half a smile hovering on your lips. “I’m so sorry. There’s just something I need to say to him.”
You bite your lip.
“See you at the match though?"
Geto’s surprise melts into an easy grin. "Don't worry about it. Good luck. And Y/N, seriously, take care of him, okay?”
The words prick at your skin with a faint sense of deja vu, but you don’t stop to examine it. Instead, you give Geto one last shaky smile, sling your bag over your shoulder, and hurry toward the exit. Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns everything else.
You knock at what you believe is his door if memory serves correct.
“Go away, I'm jerking it.”
You can’t decide if he’s being serious or just scaring unwanted guests away. Regardless, you clear your throat and talk.
“Sorry for interrupting? Look, it’s me, it’s Y/N. Can I come in?”
No sooner had you said your name, the door flies open, Gojo standing right behind, eyes wide and face flushed.
“Y/N? What are you—I mean, I thought you had that date with Suguru?” He goes to run a hand through his hair but pauses, switching to his other hand.
“Yeah well, clearly I left him to come see you.” You sigh deeply and brush past him into his room. “There’s something I need to say to you and it’s really eating up at me for some reason.”
“No sure, go ahead. Walk right in,” he mumbles but doesn’t try to stop you, instead closing the door gently. “What are you doing here? Because if you’re here to gloat or have a girl talk, Shoko is the one for you.”
You flop onto his couch, staring up at his ceiling. He pauses before following, the couch cushions dipping under his weight as he drops down beside you.
“Gojo, I’m really sorry,” you say, turning to him.
He stares back unamused. “I told you to call me Satoru.”
You blink, momentarily caught off guard before correcting yourself. “Satoru. I'm really sorry.”
“Okay.” His frown lifts and he leans back to look at you. “About what?”
You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly unsure where to even start.
“About everything?” You try weakly.
He raises a brow. “That narrows it down.”
You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Okay, specifically I feel like I've been using you and being annoying and dragging you into my mess. And also I abandoned you in the library which was rude and I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn't and I'm really sorry.”
Gojo blinks at you and you hold your breath for the verdict.
“...that’s it?”
“That’s not ‘it’, that’s a lot,” you argue, pushing yourself up. “You've been helping me this whole time and I'm just barging into your life, asking for unreasonable favors and taking up your time.”
He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, surprise, confusion, maybe even something softer that he quickly buries under a flippant expression.
“That's it?” he repeats, slower this time.
You nod, twisting in your fingers together in your lap, the fight leaving your body as quick as it came. “I mean, it's not nothing. I know I've been a lot. And you didn’t have to help me at all, with any of it, but you did and I…” Your voice falters. “I don't want you to think I was just… using you.”
Silence settles between you, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. The hum of his mini fridge in the corner fills the gaps. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams and laughter echoes faintly before fading.
Gojo exhales through his nose and leans back, head tipping against the couch cushion as he stares up at the ceiling.
“You’re terrible,” he mutters.
He turns his head to look at you properly, blue eyes sharp in a way that makes your chest tighten. Up close like this, without the buffer of banter or crowds or motion, it’s impossible to ignore how intense he can be when he isn’t performing for anyone. You've had the privilege to see this side of him a few times, and the thought that he’s let you in and you’ve only gone and used him fills you with more guilt.
“You didn’t abandon me in the library,” he continues. “I left on my own free will, remember?”
“Yeah but—”
“And you’re not using me,” he adds, voice flattening slightly. “If you were, then you aren’t using me to my full potential.”
You huff a weak laugh. “Thanks?”
“I mean it,” he says, not smiling. “People who use others don’t show up at their door looking like they’re going to throw up from guilt.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “I did not look like that.”
“You did,” he says easily. “Still kind of do.”
You shove his shoulder lightly. He barely moves, solid as ever, but the corner of his mouth lifts and the tension in your chest loosens at the sight.
“So… you’re not mad?” You ask carefully.
He considers that more seriously than you expected. “I was.”
The worry comes back tenfold.
“But not for the reason you think. So stop looking like you’ve aged ten years, sweets, it’s not a good look on you.”
You wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t.
You sigh, unable to keep up with the emotional whiplash and opt to instead throw it all away.
“Okay, well that’s cryptic," you mutter.
He shrugs. “I'm a mysterious guy. It’s all part of the irresistable, untouchable charm.”
“I don’t see how you can be mysterious when you’re so loud.”
“I open up to you and this is what I get?”
“You did not open up.”
He turns his head back toward the ceiling. “And now I'm closing back down.”
You roll your eyes, but the knot in your chest has loosened enough that you can breathe again, you almost miss this back and forth and it seems he does too because he relaxes fully into his couch. Without thinking, you mimic him, shoulder brushing his. This time, neither of you moves away.
The proximity feels different than before. You've been closer to him than this, and you randomly recall being on his lap for some reason unrelated to this specific moment and the charged, quiet atmosphere.
After a moment, he speaks again, softer.
“Did you at least get what you wanted?”
You hesitate, the question knocking you out of orbit. “I think so. I mean he asked me to go to the game with him. and then a bookstore after.”
Gojo goes still beside you.
“My game?” He shakes his head with a scoff. “Figures. Well, good for you.”
You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers, suddenly unsure why that answer feels so unsatisfying.
“Yeah,” you say anyway, forcing brightness into your voice. “It is good.”
He hums noncommittally, eyes still fixed somewhere on the ceiling. For someone who never shuts up, his silence feels louder than anything he could say. You sneak glances at him from the corner of your eye, observing the strong curve of his nose, the harsh bob of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of his chest and his big hands you’ve had the opportunity to feel on your ass.
The quiet stretches, though it is far from quiet inside your head.
Then, before you can stop yourself, you’re already opening your mouth.
“Can I ask you something?”
His gaze slides to you instantly, sharp and attentive as if he was waiting for you to break the silence first. “Not to be that guy but you just did.”
“A real question.” You roll your eyes though his somewhat predictable rage bait helps ease some tension. Still, you hesitate, throat tight. If you say it out loud, it becomes real and no longer a suppressed fantasy. But if you don’t say anything, this feeling in your chest might never go away, tainting every future you might have with Geto.
“How do you know what you’re doing?” You ask.
One white brow lifts. “In what context? I'm good at a lot of things. You're gonna have to narrow it down, sweets.”
You groan softly. “With girls. With… touching. And stuff. Etcetera.”
Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once. You don’t catch the shift in experience because you stare stubbornly at your hands clasp in your lap, heat flooding your face.
“Oh.”
“I just don’t know,” you admit, voice small. “I don't know what I'm doing at all and it’s embarrassing.”
He sits up a little, attention sharpening in a way that makes your skin prickle.
“Y/N.”
You press on before he can interrupt. “I mean, I know theoretically, obviously. That's what bio class is for right? But I know in practice I’ll just freeze. Or overthink or do nothing. And if things ever go further with Geto, I don't want to be useless. You mentioned he’s had exes before, right? But I haven't. And that kind of sucks to think about.”
Then softly. “You're probably the closest thing to experience I have.”
“Useless,” he starts. “Is not the right word I'd use. Suguru would never think that. He’s not a dick.”
You finally look at him. “I don’t want him to regret it. Or think I'm awkward. or that I don't want him.”
He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something he hopes not to find. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
You scoff. “You're not stupid. I mean sure, you almost failed baby’s first statistics but you’re not dumb.”
“No, I guess I'm not, thanks,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But I was kind of hoping maybe I'm still fantasising.”
“You were fantasising before?”
“Let's not go there.”
“It’s a Friday,” you say slowly. "Shouldn't you have a hook up right about now?”
He pouts, looking oddly down. “I wasn't feeling like it.”
“So you had to use your hand.”
“I wasn't jerking off, Y/N.”
Neither of you believe that statement. Here you are, sitting on the couch of campus heartthrob Gojo Satoru, joking around about the lack of a female body against him while you’re upset about being a virgin. Even Gojo, who isn’t admittedly the best at math, shouldn’t struggle with putting two and two together.
“Right, I believe you.” You bite your lip, opening your eyes wider as you plead. “I just hate feeling unprepared. You’ve seen just how bad I freeze. Can’t you help me?”
He chews on his lips aggressively before finally groaning, running a hand down his face. “You have the worst ideas known to man. Fine. I'll help you. But we're stopping if it gets weird.”
“Obviously.”
“Do you even remember how to kiss?”
“Find out for yourself.”
You grab his collar and tug him towards you, smacking your lips against his the second he’s in range. It's not the graceful, fireworks-exploding moment from rom-coms, more like two magnets clashing awkwardly, teeth bumping before you recall the right angle. Gojo chuckles into the kiss, the vibration tickling your mouth, and you pull back just enough to glare at him.
“It hurts that you don’t remember my lessons, sweets,” Gojo purrs, clearly enjoying your fluster.
“Shut up and kiss me properly,” you mutter, snarky even as your cheeks burn.
You dive back in, and this time it clicks, most likely due to his more active participation. Your lips move in sync, his tongue slipping past your teeth. It's surprisingly nice, all heat and shared air, making your stomach flip in a way that’s equal parts nerves and excitement. You didn’t realise how much you were craving this since the last time.
Gojo’s hands stay loose on your waist, respectful but firm, until he deepens the kiss with a low hum. You feel him shift under you, his body reacting before his brain catches up. When you break apart for air, his eyes are darker, pupils blown wide. He adjusts his hips, and there’s no missing the semi-hard bulge straining against his jeans because it nudges insistently against your inner thigh.
You both look down.
“Uh, yeah,” he says, voice a little rough, something like accusation in his eyes as he glares down at Gojo junior. “Guess that means you do remember lesson one after all. Mind if I lose the pants?”
You snort, trying to play it cool despite the heat pooling in your gut. “Not so reluctant now, huh?”
“Game is game.”
He grins, all cock swagger, and pops the buttons off his jeans. They slide down his legs in a heap, leaving him in snug black boxers that do nothing to hide his growing interest. Gojo’s leaner than you’d pegged him for, abs carved from lazy gym sessions, waist dipping in before flaring to solid shoulders. But your eyes zero in lower, where his cock twitches half-hard against the fabric, outlining a decent length that’s got you curiously intrigued rather than intimidated.
When he sits back down, he leans back on his palms and smirks. “You can touch me, you know. I bet it’s better than just looking.”
“Anywhere?”
“I'm practically offering myself up to you on a platter. Yes, Y/N. Everywhere’s fair game.”
You eye him for a little longer. He's not as big as he carried himself around to be.
As if sensing your unspoken realisation, he hurriedly explains, "I'm not completely hard yet.”
You nod, sympathetically. “Right, no I get it.”
“I’m serious, Y/N, stop looking at me like that.”
He grabs your hand and places it on his abs, ignoring your sudden squeak.
“You’re going to have to work to get me there.” He watches as you hesitate, his heartbeat quickening slightly under your touch.
“This seems less like teaching and more like you just wanting someone to get you off.”
“You’re learning.” Despite his teasing tone, he eases you closer to him. “Look, it’s not exactly rocket science and what I tell you probably won’t apply to everyone. But most guys are animals so if you can make them feel good then that’s all that matters. What's meta for most guys though is probably their neck and lower stomach. But you can start anywhere.”
His smirk falters just a tad when you explore, tentatively at first, palms sliding over his ribs and thumbs brushing his nipples until they pebble under your touch. Gojo’s breath hitches, but he keeps it together, murmuring encouragement. “I guess you could try there too. Fuck, this is kind of embarrassing. Can’t you be normal and go at my neck or something?”
“Your neck?” Your fingers slide up to touch him there but he laughs and gently brushes your hand away.
“Okay, don’t strangle me. When I say touch, I don't just mean with your fingers. You can touch your lips too, can’t you?”
You bite your lips and nod, wetting them quickly with your tongue. You lean in closer, your lips finding the pulse point of his neck. It's a quick peck at first, testing, and he just arches a brow, unimpressed.
Fine, challenge accepted.
You brace yourself on his shoulders and lick a slow stripe up the tendon, tasting salt and faint cologne which isn’t the best tasting thing in the world, so you nibble the skin. Gojo hums, head tilting to give you better access, and you dive in, sucking lightly, alternating with kisses that leave faint marks.
It’s heady, this rush of control. His bare chest radiates warmth against your arm, heavy breaths ghosting your ear as he lets you lead.
“Hungry, are you?” Gojo finds his footing against the absurd situation because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s receiving attention from pretty women. If he closes his eyes like so, focusing only on the cute licks against his neck, he can almost ignore the fact that it’s coming from you. “I'd be careful not to leave any marks. Girls get jealous easily, you know?”
You roll your eyes at his very unsexy comment. He's underestimating you, you’re sure he is, and you’re even more determined to prove him wrong.
You kiss down his neck, licking at the column of his neck, and when you find this soft patch of skin, pale under your lips and glimmering with a thin layer of sweat, you do what your instincts roar at you to do and bite him as he’s mid yapping.
“I never really let girls kiss me like this, so be grateful that I—ohfuck!”
Gojo’s reaction is immediate as a downright sinful moan escapes his pretty lips unchecked. His hands tighten in your hips, head dropping forward, panting as he catches his breath from the sudden sharp inhale.
You let go, licking at the mark left behind. “Oh, sorry. You don’t do marks, right?”
“That was…” He trails off, eyes dark as he holds you in his gaze. “Jesus, sweets, where did you even learn that kind of stuff?”
You shrug, letting him hold you back and feeling a little bit like a rabid animal. “It was just something I wanted to do. Was it bad? Did it hurt?”
“No, it was fine. Keep going just… use your hands a bit more too,” he hurries to add on, clearing his throat and loosening his hold on you. “It feels better if you use both your mouth and hands at the same time. Keep going, but don’t forget the rest of me.”
Finding no error in his words, you enthusiastically go back to kissing and sucking on his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. Meanwhile, you slide your hands down his chest, marveling at how smooth he feels despite his muscle.
When you graze your finger tips between the medial line of his abs, you feel him shiver and you detach your lips from his neck to watch his eyes track your every move, hungry and unblinking.
“Atta girl,” he rasps, abs flexing under your palm and he shivers as you slide even further down, hand hovering his stomach. His cock visibly thickens in his boxers as you trace the ridges of his abs.“That’s it. Take your time, sweets. I'm not going anywhere.”
You never considered that Gojo would be so vocal during sex, not that this even counted as sex yet. If anything, that made you even more curious, wondering if he himself knew how much he was talking and how little any of it even meant. In case he didn’t, you didn’t dare talk in case it would break the spell.
Your fingers skim the waistband of his boxers and he sucks in a breath, voice dropping an octave.
“Fuck, yeah. That’s the spot.” The fabric tents fully now, his cock hard and straining, the tip outlined clearly. It's thicker than you expected, pulsing with need, and the sight sends a thrill straight to your core.
Gojo’s eyes flick between your hand and your face, flushed and focused. “See? told you it’d wake up. want to see all of it?”
You nod, eyes trained on his bulge.
He grins, taking your hands to hook your thumbs into the sides of his boxers. He helps you slightly though he lets you do most of the work. Emboldened, you tug the boxers down just enough to free his cock, watching it spring up, thicker now, veins prominent along the shaft, the head flushed and glistening with a bead of precum.
Your first words are, of course, very sexy.
“Oh damn.”
Gojo laughs breathlessly. For my own ego, I'm going to take that as a good thing.”
“It just doesn’t look how I expected it to.”
That makes him frown. He ducks his head to meet your gaze. “Hey. She has feelings too, you know. Don’t imply that she’s ugly, she’ll sag.”
“She?” It's so ridiculous you snort, the nervousness running away to let curiousity fuel your movements once again, fingers curling around his hot, velvety length. He's rock hard under your soft touch, precum slicking your palm as you pump him experimentally. Gojo groans low in his throat, head falling back against the couch.
“Shit, just like—ngh—that,” he grits out, voice wrecked. The sound hits you like a spark, raw and primal, making your thighs clench. “My—my dick has she/her pronouns. It’s 2026 now, get woke.”
Still looking at you, he takes your hand again, wrapping it around his shaft.
“Hold it properly. Feel how hot it is.”
He groans softly as you hold him, guiding your hand up and down in a slow stroke, pressing down where he’s sensitive just the way he likes it. “Squeeze gently and twist your wrist as you move.”
He demonstrates the twist motion, his large hand enveloping yours, precum beading at his tip from both the sight and feel of you.
He lets you go, leaning back on his elbows, enjoying the view of you jacking him off. “You’re a natural, keep going, just like that.”
His breathing becomes heavier, his abdomen tensing. He can’t help but buck slightly into your hand.
Despite his unattractive dirty talk, it doesn’t drive away the power you feel and it doesn’t take away from the sounds, the way his body trembles under your control. It's all so intoxicating, way better than any awkward fumble you’ve imagined with Geto late at night with your hands down your pants.
To shut him up, you squeeze a little tighter and he hisses, pulling you away.
“Slow down,” he pants, catching his breath. He closes his eyes for a moment before locking you in a fierce gaze. “Do you usually shove your finger inside when you’re dry?”
“What?”
“This is why lube exists, woman. God, my poor lady,” He looks up at you, eyes trailing down from your eyes to your lips.
“Please don’t refer to your dick as a lady.”
“I’ve gotten no complaints so far.” Gojo reaches up, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it down slightly. “Have you ever spat on anyone?”
“Excuse me?” You look down at him as if he’s grown another head.
He lets out a strangled groan, hips bucking up under you. “Yeah, keep looking at me like that and spit on my dick. Give her the good old hawk tuah.”
Your grimace only grows and he bites his lip, the corners quirking up. “Please,” he whispers and you’ve lost.
The word hangs between you like a dare, his blue eyes locked on yours, all wide and pleading in a way that clashes hilariously with his usual attitude if the unsure quiver to his lips didn’t wreck you.
Gojo’s cock throbs in your loose grip, the head leaking more precum that drips down the shaft, making your fingers slick without even trying. You hesitate, face heating up at the sheer audacity, but the way his abs tense, the subtle roll of his hips begging for more, chips away at your resistance.
“Fine,” you mutter, rolling your eyes to mask the flutter in your stomach and you must have imagined the way he groans. “But just know I’m judging you the entire time.”
“Even better,” he moans.
You lean over him, one hand steadying on his thick thighs, firm muscle under smooth skin, and purse your lips as you spit on him. It’s awkward as hell, the glop of spit landing off-centre on the underside of his shaft, but you smear it around with your palm.
The glide turns smoother instantly, wet and filthy, your strokes picking up speed as his cock slicks up fully.
Gojo’s reaction is immediate, a deep, rumbling moan spills from his chest, his head knocking back against the couch with a thud, not that he notices. “Fuuuck, yes—that’s it, just like that.”
His hands fist the fabric of the couch on either side of his hips, knuckles white, like he’s fighting not to grab you and take over. But he doesn’t, he lets you work him, hips jerking up in shallow thrusts to meet your rhythm, the tip bumping your palm on every upstroke.
“Keep going, tighter… shit, you’re killing me here.”
The power rush hits you harder now, watching him come undone under your touch. His cock feels massive in your hand, thick and veined, pulsing hotly as you pump from base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit to collect more precum and spread it down. You can feel every ridge, every twitch, and it’s nothing like the vague fantasies you’d spun about Geto. This is real, messy, and way more intense. Your own arousal builds, thighs pressing together as you grind subtly against nothing, the heat between your legs turning insistent.
“Does it… feel good?” You ask, voice breathy and you slow your strokes just to tease, squeezing the base and watching in awe as a fresh bead of precum pearl at the head.
He cracks one eye open, gaze hazy and dark, lips parted in a pant. “Good? Sweets, don’t sell yourself short.”
A grin tugs at his mouth but it falters into a groan when you resume, faster now, the wet schlick of your hand echoing in the room causing you to squirm.
“Don’t stop,” he all but whines. “Gonna cum if you keep this up. Want me to, sweets? Want me to paint your hand or what?”
The crudeness should turn you off, but it doesn’t, it only amps up the thrill, making you bold. You nod, biting your lip as you lean closer, free hand bracing on his chest to feel his heart hammering.
“Yeah, do it. cum for me.”
Gojo’s control snaps like a rubber band. his moans pitch higher, body arching as his cock swells in your grip, veins bulging. “Fuck—fuck, can’t help it, I’m gonna—”
He bucks hard once, twice, and then he’s erupting, thick spurts of cum shooting from the tip to splatter your fingers, his stomach, even a streak across his abs. It's hot, sticky, rope after rope as you milk him through it, not knowing what else to do. You slow your strokes until he’s spent, twitching sensitively in your palm.
He slumps back, chest rising and falling like he ran a marathon, a lazy, disbelieving laugh bubbling out. He runs a hand down his face, groaning softly.
“I am…” He lets out another breathless laugh, head dropping back against the armrest of the couch. “So fucking washed. What the hell was that, sweets?”
You blink, a little dazed yourself. Your hand is still loosely wrapped around him, slick and messy, and only when his eyes flick down do you jolt and snatch your hand back like you’ve been burnt.
“I—I don’t know,” you mumble, gratefully accepting the tissue he hands you, awkwardly deciding to dab at his stomach and abs too, anywhere your eyes can safely land that isn’t his softening cock. “That was… hey, wait a minute. Shouldn’t i be asking you? What the hell was that spitting thing?”
He shrugs, your body moving with the motion as you remain on his lap. “I told you, there’s some things some guys like and some don’t. As a note of reference, maybe don’t spit on Suguru. You’ll kill his ego.”
He has the audacity to smirk at the thought considering the state of him, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, mouth pink and kiss-swollen from all the swearing and groaning.
“You're disgusting,” you accuse weakly, trying not to think about how he’d looked under you a few seconds ago, jaw slack, eyes glazed, like you’d wrung the soul out of him.
“Mmm.” His gaze drags over your face, down the line of your throat, lingering a beat too long at your chest before he drags it back up. “So, how are you feeling after all that?”
“Embarrassed,” you say immediately.
“But kinda turned on, too?” he guesses, just as fast.
Your mouth drops open. “I did not say that.”
“Don’t have to,” he says, maddening. “You’re still sitting on me, you know.”
You freeze. You're still straddling his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs on the couch, hips pressed to his, fingers bunched at his stomach. You'd be so focused on that scrunched up look on his face when he came that you kind of forgot to be mortified about the position.
Now you remember.
“I was busy,” you mutter, shifting like you’re about to climb off.
His hands come up automatically, one at your waist, one braced at your hip, holding you there without quite pulling you back down. “Hey, hey. I didn't say you had to move.”
“But you’re all…” you wave a hand vaguely at his lap, face burning. “Post-nut clarity or whatever. You should be resting or something.”
“That’s hilarious, do you think I’m an old man?” He huffs a laugh. “If my stamina lasted one puny handjob I would never show my face anywhere. Hey, don’t glare at me like that. you know what that does to me. you glaring at me and spitting on my cock while you jerk me off—fuck.”
“Don't say it like that,” you hiss, heat flooding your chest. “You literally told me to.”
“And you did so good,” he croons. “Look at you, all flustered now. You were seconds away from calling me pathetic, you know.”
“How are you turning this on me? You’re the one that liked it,” you shoot back, shoulder tensing.
His fingers flex at your waist, like he’s remembering it. “Yeah. I really, really did.”
The way he says it sends a tiny shiver through you. You feel ridiculously aware of yourself suddenly, of your damp palms on his chest, of the way your thighs are pressed around him, of the restless thrum under your skin you’ve been trying not to notice since he first groaned for you.
You shift again, intending to put some space between you, and hiss as the movement drags you a little too firmly against him, sparking through the ache low in your belly.
You go very still and so does he.
His eyes flicker, dropping for a fraction of a second to the point where your hips meet his. You can feel the change in him, no longer wrecked and loose-limbed, but sharpened like he’s honing in on every tiny flinch.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Feeling something, sweets?”
“Don’t start,” you warn, feeling every urge to catapult yourself off his lap. His hand tightens on your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles, maddeningly casual. “Can you let me go already?”
“But it’s not over yet, are you sure you want to miss the best part? If I said I wanted to make it your turn, would you say no?”
The question hangs between you, heavier than his usual teasing.
“This isn’t… about that.”
“Sure it is,” he whispers, lips curved into a wicked grin. “You wanna learn how to make a guy feel good right? Then you also need to know what you like. If you know what works for you, it’s easier to tell him what works for him.”
Has Gojo always been so reasonable?
“Besides,” he continues when you’re not rushing to sign up to his touch. “I’m being selfless here. You can’t seriously think I'd let you walk out of here without repaying the favour first, right?”
“Way to sound like a douche.” You swat at his chest, a weak attempt to appear levelheaded.
“How else am I supposed to say it?” He laughs softly, catching your wrist but not pushing it away, thumb stroking over your pulse. “I want to touch you. properly. Can I?”
Your stomach swoops.
“Just to know what it feels like?”
“Exactly.” His smile goes crooked at the edges. “Now you’re getting it.”
You stare at him, breathing shallow. Your heart is thudding way too fast. you’re hyperaware of your own body again, of the way your panties stick uncomfortably, of the restless ache that’s only been getting worse, of how easy it would be to fall into his tempting embrace.
“Hey, come back to me,” Gojo murmurs. “We don't have to do anything you don’t want. I promise I'm not a dick. So? What do you want, sweets?”
You look down at where his hands rest, big and warm on your hips, fingers flexing like he’s trying very hard to stay put.
You could say no, you know that. He'd let you hop off, probably make a dumb joke to break the tension, and the both of you can go back to pretending the constant physical touch is driving you up the wall. But you also know your legs are still a little unsteady, and that every time you shift you have to bite back a sound you really don’t want him to hear.
You swallow, hard.
“You have to listen,” you say finally. “If I say stop, you stop. and none of your stupid comments either.”
His expression sobers instantly, hands jumping a little at your hips. “Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”
“I’m telling you, when you say shit like that, everything goes back inside.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you want me quiet. So can I touch you or are you going to keep torturing us both?”
“You deserve the torture,” you grumble, then quieter, “But, yeah. okay.”
He hums. “Not good enough. Say it again?”
You bite back a complaint. “I want you to…touch me.”
It comes out barely more than a whisper, but it hits him like a truck. His eyes darken, lashes lowering as he sucks in a breath. One moment you’re straddling him, the next he’s sat up and turned you around so your back leans against his chest, his breath tickling your neck.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, hands sliding down to your stomach. His fingers play with the hem, nails barely grazing your bare skin. “Can I?”
You shiver, looking down to watch his hands with anticipation. Swallowing, you brace yourself and nod.
“Good girl,” he breathes.
His hand trails under your shirt, fingertips tracing nonsense shapes on your skin. He doesn’t go straight where you know you’re aching for him to go. Instead, he takes his time, mapping out the sensitive spots he finds, where your muscles jump when he squeezes, lowering his hand to where your breath stutters when he drags his knuckles along the inside of your thigh.
“You're wound so tight,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Relax for me, Y/N.”
“Shut up and stop teasing,” you hiss, and then gasp when his hand finally slips higher, brushing over the edge of your waistband.
“Is that a no?” He asks instantly, stilling.
]You want to throttle him. “I’m just… nervous.”
“Of course you are,” he says, voice going stupidly soft in your ear, hands playing with the fabric. “The first time’s always weird. But it doesn’t have to be bad-weird.”
He slowly slips his hand under the band, feeling you go still.
“Hey.” He presses his lips to your hair, mumbling soft words of praise. “You're okay, you’re doing good. Just breathe for me.”
You do, albeit shakily, his fingertips brushing the damp centre of your panties.
“You’re already… Jesus," he says quickly. “I really did a number on you, huh? And without even touching you, too.”
“If you don’t shut up, I'm leaving,” you threaten weakly.
He chuckles, guiding your attention away. Gojo slides your shorts down so you can see exactly where his fingers press against, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks at the sight of his thick fingers prodding against the backdrop of the panties you chose out this morning. If you knew something like this would happen, you would have worn something else.
Gojo thankfully doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he slowly explores, no sudden movements, no overwhelming pressure, just the occasional slide against your clit.
“Okay?” he asks, and you realise you’ve gone silent, holding your breath again.
“Yeah,” you gasp. “Just feel different than—nevermind.”
“Different good?” He prompts, thumb pressing down on your clit and you jolt, an audible inhale escaping you.
You feel his arms tighten around you.
“Oh, there we go,” he mutters, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself. “That got you.”
You don’t dignify that with an answer, not that you have the capacity to because the next moment, he’s moving his fingers with practiced purpose. His thumb circles your swollen clit through the damp fabric, the barrier muffling any sharp pleasure though it helps you wrap your head around the sensation.
When you start lifting your hips to meet his touch, he knows he has you where he wants you.
With his other fingers, he slowly slides your panties to the sides and touches you directly. The effect is immediate, your eyes snap down to watch, body tensing, want like you’ve never known it before shocking you.
The sight of your own arousal makes you wetter and he abandons his touch to touch you directly.
“Look at that,” he coos in your ear, voice breathy with awe and smug satisfaction. “Here you were acting like you wanted to leave when you’re this wet. Thought I wouldn't know, sweets? That I couldn't see you eye my dick all hungry like that?”
He emphasises his words with a harsh pinch of your clit and your head falls back to rest on his shoulders with a filthy moan ripped from your throat, raw and unprocessed.
Gojo takes the chance to kiss your neck.
You should hit him for his words, you really should. But instead, your hand flies up to his forearm, nails digging in when he slides a finger to circle your entrance and the world briefly whites out.
He groans quietly, like your reaction is doing something to him. “That’s—fuck, you’re so cute. Do that again.”
“Don’t tease,” you say again, voice barely there and brain too mushy to think of something original.
And like he knows, Gojo slowly slides a finger into your pussy and the pressure temporarily pushes out all of the pleasure. But then his free hand is playing with your clit and he’s telling you how good you are and how pretty you sound, and it comes back.
He thrusts that finger in and out slowly, letting you adjust to the intrusion and when you’re sighing soft moans and broken demands again, he curls it and doesn’t stop moving. He could easily overpower you, could pin you down and take, take, take, but he doesn’t. Every time you tense like you might pull away, he backs off just enough, murmuring at your ear, though by the time you’re close you haven’t panicked in a while.
He’s the one breathing hard when you start to chase your peak, like he’s the one being touched.
You’re writhing now, his arms having to tighten around you to keep you still as he slides another finger inside.
“That’s it,” he whispers, panting when your thighs clamp around his hand, head tipped back on his shoulders and eyes starting to roll back. “There you go. I've got you. Let go for me, yeah? Doing so good for me, sweets.”
“S-Satoru,” you choke out, the name ripped from somewhere deep.
His whole body jolts behind you and you feel a twitch near your ass.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, like you’ve done something filthy. “Say my name like that again, I swear to god—”
You don’t because suddenly, you’re gone.
His fingers pressed against the spongy spot inside, his thumb circling your clit, and suddenly everything tightens then snaps and you’re tumbling, shaking around the steady anchor of his hand and his arm and his voice in your ear. He doesn’t speed up, letting you ride your orgasm on his hand, mumbling sweet nothings against your sweaty neck.
It’s messy and overwhelming and a little scary for a second, then his palm is flat over your lower stomach, grounding you as waves of sensation roll through your body. His other hand finally gentles and you can breathe again.
When you finally slump back against him boneless, the room feels dimmer. your chest heaves, skin prickling with aftershocks that he guides you through.
He eases his hand away and wipes it on his pants, keeping you steady on his lap.
“Hey,” he says softly, lips brushing your hairline. “You still with me?”
You nod, or at least you try to. “I think so.”
“Yeah?” He presses, smiling against your skin.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath with you. “You did amazing, sweets.”
“You're making me sound like a dog.”
“Well, you were very obedient,” he says lightly, then winces. “Okay, that sounded kinda bad.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re still half-leaning against him. One of his hands comes up, hovering for a second like he isn’t sure if touching you again is allowed, then settles gently at your side.
You catch your breath, stealing a glance. His hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still blown wide but there’s something softer around the edges, so different from his usual cocky composure that it does something strange to your chest.
“You're the worst,” you mumble, just to say something.
“Oh?” his brows lift. “You seemed pretty satisfied with the lesson.”
You keep your mouth shut because there is absolutely no winning that argument.
Silence falls, not heavy nor awkward, but certainly unfamiliar. Without the distraction of movement or adrenaline, your mind starts spinning into the consequences of your actions.
And the fact that you’re still sitting between his thighs.
You stiffen and he notices immediately.
“Uh. Do you… want to—”
“Yes,” you say at the exact same time he says, “We should probably—”
You both stop, voice overlapping as you tell each other to continue then stop again. It’s funny if not awkward and you laugh, startled and breathless.
“Okay,” he says, hands lifting slightly in surrender. “You first.”
“No, you go,” you insist, scrambling upright a little too fast. The room tilts for half a second and you grab his thigh to steady yourself.
His hands hover again, then settle at your waist just in case.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still a little… y’know?”
You straighten and stand away from the couch, legs wobbling in a way you pretend not to notice. The cool air hits your skin and reality comes rushing back in a tidal wave of embarrassment.
Your skirt rests on your thighs but they’re crumpled, and your hair is surely a mess.
Gojo watches, biting his lip hard enough to leave teeth marks. He stands too, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking almost shy as he grabs his discarded shirt and pulls it back on.
For a moment, neither of you know where to look.
You fixate on a crack in the wall and he studies the floor.
“Do you, uh… want me to walk you back?”
The normalcy of the question feels surreal.
“I’m fine with walking,” you say quickly. “The weather’s nice so.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Fresh air. Definitely.”
You grab your bag with fumbling hands, nearly knocking it off the couch in the process. He catches it before it hits the floor, fingers brushing yours again as he hands it over.
Neither of you pull away immediately. Then, you both do at the same time.
“Right,” you say.
“Right,” he echoes.
He opens the door for you, peeking into the hallway first before gesturing.
“You sure you don’t want me to walk you back?”
You almost cry at the visual of a way out. “No, no, I'm fine. It’s not too far anyway.”
Gojo studies your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue or not. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s in on some big secret. He just looks uncertain.
“If you say so,” he mutters, stepping aside.
You slip past him into the hallway, letting out a big sigh of relief when you hear the door close gently behind you with a soft click. Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo follow you out anyway.
Your feet slow. “You don’t have to, I'm really okay.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m just heading in the same direction. That's all. What a coincidence?”
“Uh-huh.”
The staircase is only a few doors down, but the short walk stretches, each step heavy with things unsaid. You can hear voices downstairs, life continuing on, oblivious.
At the top of the stairwell, you stop.
“Are we still going the same way?”
He shakes his head.
“I’ll see you around,” you settle on when the silence stretches.
“See you, Y/N.”
You take one step down, then another. After a third, you glance back.
Gojo is still there, watching. your chest does something uncomfortable as he waits.
“Goodnight, Satoru,” you say softly.
He blinks, like the name catches him off guard every time. Then he smiles, small but warm.
“Night, sweets.”
When you reach the bottom and push out into the night air, it feels shockingly cool against your overheated skin. The campus is quiet, streetlights painting everything gold and shadowed, the distant sound of traffic humming like white noise.
You walk faster than necessary because if you slow down, the thoughts will quickly flood in. And if you start thinking, you might realise that somewhere between asking him for help and leaving his room tonight, something has gone very, very wrong.
You’re not sure why you care so much.
You tell yourself it’s because Geto will be there, because this is a chance to make a real impression, because this is what all of it has been building toward. But as you stand in front of your mirror, turning this way and that, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, adjusting your hair for the third time, checking your reflection from angles no one in real life would ever see, you realise this isn’t normal.
You’ve never put this much thought into a “casual” outing before.
Not the outfit, carefully balanced between cute and effortless, like you didn’t spend forty minutes deciding between two nearly identical tops just for the jersey to cover it anyway. Not the makeup, soft enough to look natural, deliberate enough to feel like armor. Not the way your stomach flips every time you picture stepping into the arena.
You know deep down this isn’t about Geto. That thought alone makes your chest feel tight.
You grab your purse before you can overthink it further and leave.
When you walk into the arena, the roar of the crowd hits you like a physical force, loud and electric, buzzing with anticipation and cheer. It bleeds through the concrete walls, through your bones, and through the floor beneath your shoes.
The game hasn’t officially started yet, you made sure to come before then, but the energy is already at a fever pitch.
Your eyes sweep the rink automatically, searching. And you spot him immediately.
Gojo, in his navy and white jersey, skates across the ice like it belongs to him, like the rink exists solely to accommodate his momentum. It doesn't seem to matter that his helmet obscures most of his face, you’d recognise him anywhere. the easy confidence in the way he moves, the loose, effortless posture, the casual speed that looks like he isn’t even trying—it’s unmistakable.
His hair, damp under his helmet, peeks out in soft white tufts. His cheeks are slightly flushed from exertion, breath fogging faintly in the cold air as he glides past teammates, exchanging easy shoves and taps of sticks. He's the easiest person in the world to look at and the hardest to look away from.
He glances up towards the stands during warm-ups, scanning lazily, and your heart stutters. You freeze, suddenly aware of yourself, of the crowd, of how ridiculous it is to hope he’ll notice you among hundreds of people wearing the same colours.
I mean, all these people? All wearing the team jersey? And you wouldn’t call yourself beautiful, not in the kind of way that makes someone stand out across a packed arena, and certainly not in a way that draws eyes automatically, not—
Gojo turns a little more. and then his eyes meet yours.
The jolt is instantaneous, sharp and electric, like touching a live wire. Your breath catches, lungs forgetting their purpose entirely as a stupid, bright grin spreads across his face.
A strange warmth floods your chest, blooming outward until it feels too big to contain. You bite your lip, trying and failing, to suppress your own giddy smile as you tug lightly at the hem of your jersey, lifting it just enough to show the number at the front and point at it.
06.
If it's even possible, his grin widens. He spins around without hesitation, and easily mind you, skating backward for a few seconds just to show off the back of his own jersey, jabbing a glove thumb at the matching number with pride.
Heat rushes to your face.
It's ridiculous, childish even, but your heart is pounding and the warmth in your chest swells until it’s almost overwhelming.
When warm-ups end, he lifts his stick in your direction in one last, unmistakable acknowledgement before skating toward the bench, where his teammates swarm him instantly. One of them hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him down while another plays bongos on his helmet, elbows digging into his ribs.
From this distance you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you don’t need to. His expression gives everything away, the wide grin and mock protests, and the way he shoves them back half-heartedly while still laughing.
Someone whistles, another bumps his shoulder and one even points toward the stands, toward you. Your stomach flips.
“Y/N?”
You start, tearing your eyes away as if caught doing something incriminating. Geto stands beside you, already holding two drinks, his expression warm and easy.
“Hey,” he says, offering you one. “You made it. I found seats over here, it’s a pretty good view, if I don’t say so myself. We should head over before the game starts.”
You take the cup automatically, fingers brushing his. “Thanks!”
He smiles, guiding you through the rows of people with gentle awareness, making space and steadying you when someone brushes past too close. It's thoughtful and careful and exactly the kind of thing that made you fall for him in the first place.
Once seated, conversation comes easily to him. It’s all polite small talk and soft jokes, quiet observations about the team and season. He fills in the silence like Gojo had predicted, never letting it become uncomfortable. He does all the right things that you could almost tick them off a list. He laughs at your comments like they’re genuinely funny and asks questions that make it clear he’s paying attention.
It should be perfect, it should be everything you’ve ever wanted.
And yet, your eyes drift back to the rink, to the flashes of navy and white.
To the tall figure leaning against the boards, helmet off now, shaking his hair as he listens to a coach, nodding absentmindedly while his gaze flicks upward.
Your pulse jumps when his eyes land on you again. Except this time he doesn’t grin. It might be your imagination but he seemingly looks to Geto beside you, then back, just watching.
You force yourself to look back at Geto, nodding at something he just said, hoping your smile looks natural and not strained.
BUZZWORD
The game starts fast.
Faster than you expected, faster than anything you’ve watched on TV, faster than seems physically possible for men balancing on thin blades over frozen water. The pluck drops and suddenly the rink explodes with motion, bodies colliding, sticks clashing, skates carving violent crescents into the ice.
You lost track of the puck almost immediately.
Geto leans closer, voice raised just enough to carry over the roar of the crowd. “Watch Satoru, he plays center so he’ll usually be in there.”
Your eyes find him easily.
He moves differently from everyone else, you see, loose, flashier, or maybe that’s just you. No, you reject that notion as he accelerates in bursts, gliding between players with impossible precision, stick tapping the ice impatiently when he doesn’t have the puck.
Every time he skates past your side of the rink, your chest tightens and your throat hurts a little more as you try to cheer louder.
The first goal goes to the other team.
Your side of the arena groans as one, a wave of disappointment that rattles through the stands. You feel it too, a sinking drop in your stomach, though you don’t fully understand the play that led to it.
Gojo slams his stick once against the ice in frustration, then shoves off hard, jaw set.
Geto doesn’t seem worried. “They’ll bounce back. Satoru is the best they have, after all.”
Just like he predicted, they do. Midway through the second period, one of Gojo’s teammates manages to slip the puck past the goalie, and the building detonates. People surge to their feet to cheer and you find yourself in that crowd, cheering without thinking, adrenaline crackling through your veins like you personally contributed.
On the ice, Gojo grabs the scorer by the shoulders and shakes him, helmet bumping into helmet, grin blinding even through the cage.
It’s a tie game until it’s not. Another goal to the opposing side which Gojo’s team equalising moments after. Again and again, a tense back and forth that even has Geto inhaling sharply at moments.
By the third period, your nails are dug into the flimsy paper cup in your hand, ice long melted into a yucky watered down version of whatever was in the drink. You barely notice when Geto takes it from you and sets it aside so you don’t crush it completely.
The scoreboard reads 3-3 and the clock tells you there’s two minutes left.
The noise is deafening now, frantic and desperate, every movement on the ice met with gasps or shouts.
Gojo has long since lost the playful edge from earlier. He circles near centre ice, knees bent, weight forward, eyes tracking the puck like it’s the only thing that exists in the world. A defender tries to box him out and he shrugs him off with a brutal shoulder check that makes the crowd howl.
The puck slides loose along the boards, ricocheting off a tangle of skates and sticks like it has a mind of its own. Someone on Gojo’s team snatches it first and fires it forward, a risky pass that slides clean across open ice, and towards him.
Gojo receives it in stride, blade cushioning the impact with effortless control. He doesn’t even glance down. his head is already up, scanning his way forward. A defender lunges for him and he slips past with a sharp pivot, hips twisting, edges biting deep into the ice.
You’re on your feet before you realise you’ve moved.
“Go—!” you scream and like a domino effect, people around you start to cheer.
Gojo fakes a left. The goalie commits.
He snaps right, dragging the puck across his body in one powerful motion, forcing the goalie to witness the outplay. And then he flicks his wrist and a sharp crack echoes across the rink.
The puck lifts, a black blur slicing through air, threading the narrowest gap between glove and shoulder, and slams into the back of the net.
For half a heartbeat, there is silence. Then the buzzer screams and the crowd erupts.
Sound crashes over you in a tidal wave, screaming, stomping, clapping, the metallic rattle of the stands shaking under hundreds of pounding feet. You’re shouting too, throat tearing with it, hands flying to your mouth before dropping again because you need them free to clap and wave, anything to release all this energy exploding out of you.
Down on the ice, Gojo throws his head back and roars, pure exhilaration bursting out of him. His teammates collide with him seconds later, swarming him in a pile of navy and white, shoving his helmet and grabbing his shoulders, almost knocking him over in their celebration.
He's laughing.
Even through the cage, from the distance, you can see it, the wild brightness in his eyes and the way his chest heaves with adrenaline.
They won.
They actually won.
You’re bouncing on your toes without realising, hands clasped in front of your mouth.
Gojo breaks free from the pile just enough to turn and look up into the stands. It's easier finding you this time around when he knows where to look.
His whole face lights up, grin splitting wide and unrestrained, so bright it feels like it could blind you, he lifts his stick and points it straight at you then thumps it once against the ice in a triumphant salute.
Your stomach swoops violently.
You laugh, breathless and giddy, lifting both hands to wave back like an idiot. Your body is already leaning forward, feet shifting as instinct screams for you to move. To go down there, to be closer, to meet him at the glass while he’s still glowing with victory looking as beautiful as you’ve ever seen him, so alive that it radiates off him in waves.
You want to throw your arms around his neck.
You want to tell him that was incredible.
You want—
“Y/N?”
Geto’s voice cuts gently through the chaos, close to your ear.
You blink, tearing your gaze away from the ice to find him watching you with a small, amused smile.
“That was intense,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I forgot how crazy these games get at the end. Makes you glad you came, right?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, though it comes out shaky and raw from all the cheering. “Yeah it was. Definitely.”
Your eyes flick down despite yourself and find Gojo still looking up, smile dimmed.
Geto gestures toward the aisle. “If we leave now, we can beat the post-game crowd. The bookstore’s only a short walk away anyway. We can find Satoru after he comes out.”
The words land heavy in your chest. How could you forget? There was a plan in action, the reason why you came, the person you’re supposed to be focusing on.
“Right,” you say, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears.
On the ice, Gojo’s teammates are tugging him toward the bench, shouting in his ear and shoving him here and there. He goes easily enough, though not without one last glance at you. He tilts his chin, a silent question in your eyes, clear despite the distance.
Are you going?
Your fingers curl into fists at your side.
“Ready?” Geto asks softly.
You swallow. “... yeah.”
But as you turn to follow him up the aisle, the roar of the arena swelling behind you, you can’t shake that you’ve made the wrong decision. You feel it, that strange, electric thread stretching thinner and thinner behind you as the tunnel swallows Gojo whole.
BUZZWORD
It should be fun.
Geto is easy to talk to, he’s polite, thoughtful and gentle, and all the right things. You trail behind him between the shelves as he talks about a book he likes, or some theory he discovered that explains so much and makes so much sense.
You try, you really do. You nod your head and attempt to store that information away.
But everything just doesn’t feel right. It's hard to store that information away when your head is full of that look Gojo had given you, the way his white hair had stuck out from under his helmet, damp from the effort and glory of winning, eyes sparkling under the stadium lights, the way he had lifted his stick to point at you.
Geto is kind. But your tastes don’t match. Your jokes land in different places. He's nice, and you do enjoy his conversation. But not in the same way you had enjoyed Gojo’s company that day in the cafe.
You don’t feel nervous. You don’t feel excited. Honestly, you just feel like pretending.
And as if the universe is screaming at you about something just beyond your grasp, when you reach for the same book, your fingers don’t brush. And you don’t want them to.
Geto’s phone buzzes when he’s in the middle of explaining some theories from this guy called Slavoj Zizek? He winces at whatever he reads.
“Sorry,” he starts, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I need to head out. But hey, here–” He pulls a paperback off the shelf and hands it to you. “This is the one I was talking about. I think you’ll like it.”
you accept it automatically. “Thanks,” you say, and then he’s waving and gone the next moment, door swinging behind him.
For a while, you wander the bookstore in an attempt to rationalise the complex emotions warring inside you. Geto is your crush. You know this. And yet, it all feels so superficial. Gojo had been right, there was nothing personal about the things you liked about him to explain the crush.
You stand in the quiet of the aisle, holding a book you frankly don’t care about, surrounded by a silence that feels like the wrong choice made tangible long after the last customer walks out. Heavy rain falls outside, pelting against the roof of the store, a steady white noise that backgrounds your thoughts.
When the bookstore begins to close, you’re ushered outside. You swear as you’re suddenly caught in the harsh weather and through the heavy sheets of rain, there looks to be no other store open. Hastily, you run out in the rain to find some place where you can get cover over your head. Finally, you see a small awning from a closed shop.
You run under the awning, hugging your arms to your chest as you wait out the storm, feeling stupidly alone and stupidly unsure why you’re this upset. This is what you wanted right? But the part of your heart that has always known the truth traitorously voices the thoughts you’ve been pushing down all this time.
Gojo.
Through the sheets of heavy rain, someone is running towards you. Tall, white hair, still in his jersey, his hair now damp (read: soaked) with rain water rather than sweat.
He skids under the awning, breathless, terribly drenched, an unopened umbrella in one hand.
“What the hell,” he says immediately, voice sharp with concern and frustration. “Are you trying to get pneumonia? Why didn’t you go home? Didn’t you check the weather? It clearly said it was going to rain today!”
You blink, gaping at his sudden presence. “What are you, no, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”
He snorts. “Yeah, I was. Until Suguru texted. Said he left you at the bookstore and for me to pick you up. Seriously, you didn’t even bring an umbrella?”
The situation finally catches up to you and you frantically gesture to his own umbrella. “How can you lecture me when you just ran out all the way here without opening your umbrella? it’s literally in your hands, all you had to do was open it!”
“Like i had the time to! My legs are literally burning from the game and you made me run all this way out to save you!”
“I never asked you to!”
“Well, I had to!” He steps closer, finally freeing himself from the rain completely. His presence fills up the cramped space under the awning and you catch a whiff of cedar and sweat. “I couldn’t just let you die out here in the cold!”
Speechless, you open and close your mouth like an idiot. Finally, you manage to ask, “How did you even know I was out here?”
“Weren’t you listening? I told you Suguru told me he ditched you!”
At Geto’s name, your face falls. Ah, right. your little moral dilemma about Geto.
Gojo also calms down a little, his chest heaving a little slower as he uses the silence to catch his breath. his eyes scan your expression, picking up on the way you bite your lip, eyes looking away.
“Hey,” he says, voice soft though still strained. “You okay?”
Your throat tightens. “I guess? I don't know. Look, sorry. I appreciate you coming.”
“Don't give me that. Just don’t. You’ve told me every embarrassing thing about yourself when you outed that you, you know, like Suguru. Don’t hide something from me now. Are you upset that he left?” His hand comes out to wipe water off your cheek. “Don't cry.”
You scrunch up your face in mild disgust. “I’m not? That's literally just rain water.”
“Oh. So you're okay?”
You inhale and let it out slowly. Were you okay? You shouldn’t be, not if Geto was your crush and he just ditched you. And yet, under Satoru’s shadow as he stands in front of you, blocking the rain, brows furrowed and lips pressed tight as he looks you over in concern, you find yourself feeling okay. More than okay.
“Why do you even like him?” He asks, quietly, a question that would have easily been lost to the rain if you weren’t hanging off his every word.
“I told you,” you start, just as quiet. “He saved me that one time.”
“Yeah?” He opens the umbrella with one hand, and holds your hand in the other, gently guiding you out from under the awning. Rain hits heavy against the fabric and he holds you close to keep you out from the storm, your chest grazing his. “He saved you that day in the rain, did he?”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
“Just like this?”
Mutely, you nod. In his arms, you barely notice the slight chill.
Gojo searches your eyes for something. He exhales, long and uneven, like he’s been holding this in for longer than he’s willing to admit. And yet, he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t tear his gaze away from yours, just keeps holding the umbrella over your head, tilted ever so slightly in your direction such that you’re completely covered.
“That day,” he says, quiet but steady, “When you got caught in the rain after that stupid orientation thing? Suguru wasn’t on campus. He went back home for a month before the semester started and didn’t come back until the second week. I was the one that found you.”
Your breath falters. “What? But he… he gave me his hoodie. His name was on the tag.”
“Yeah,” Satoru laughs, a single disbelieving puff. “I was wearing his hoodie. He wasn’t at the dorms so I stole some of his clothes to wear. It’s whatever, he steals some of mine sometimes. The point is, I was the one that helped you.”
For a moment, you stop breathing entirely. The rain pours around the two of you, a curtain of noise, but it’s silent under the umbrella.
You’ve never seen Gojo so nervous. Definitely not before the big game earlier, not on any of the practice dates, never when he talks to a group of people. Between the two of you, nervousness came more naturally to you. And yet, standing before you vulnerable, wet lashes stuck together, cheeks flushed from running and is that a faint bruise forming on his jaw? He looks nervous and it’s a sight that sends warmth all over your face.
His eyes are unbearably soft as he waits for your verdict.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice sounds too small.
“Because you thought it was Suguru. Because you liked him. And back then, I didn't realise that I wanted you to know it was me.”
Your heart thuds, something a little more daring saying the next few words for you. “And now?”
This moment was perfect. The two of you had been slowly closing that small gap of distance, eyes seeing nothing but each other and suddenly all those rom coms and kdramas come to mind. All those scenes of first kisses (forgetting the practices because those didn’t include real romance), all those late night conversations with Shoko about what it’s like, they all come and leave your brain.
But instead of leaning in and sealing the deal, Gojo’s entire body suddenly stiffens. His arm around you loosens, placing more distance between the two of you.
What the hell?
His gaze drops a little further before coming back up with a discipline that can only come from reciting the digimon opening theme over and over in his head. “Now I'm trying really, really hard not to stare at you.”
Curious, you look down to your soaked shirt where the fabric clings painfully close, embarrassingly sheer. It only serves to emphasise the lines of your bra and though you can’t really see anything, Gojo’s face is flushed pink not just from exertion, and his jaw is tight.
“Satoru–”
“my place,” he blurts. “we should, uh, get you warmed up. Your shirt is literally see-through and if I have to keep pretending I don't notice, I'm going to walk myself right into traffic.”
“That is so dramatic.” The beginnings of a smile causes the corner of your lips to quiver upwards at his flustered state.
“i’m dramatic,” he insists, voice strained, still not looking. “now come on. I still don’t want you catching pneumonia out here and Sig Kap is literally right near the gate. We can keep talking there when you don’t look like a puppy left out in the rain.”
“Says you.” You eye his white hair plastered to his forehead and smile, reaching up to move a few clinging strands from his eyes. “But okay. I’d like that a lot.”
Unfortunately, the gesture makes him look back down at you, inevitably making him catch an eyeful of your chest. He closes his eyes. “Let's just go before I give you this umbrella and walk onto the road.”
You laugh a little. “Geez, you really are dramatic.”
He walks you to Sig Kap, refusing to stand fully under the umbrella. When you try to grab his arm and pull him under, he only launches into a talk about being a feminist and how chivalry isn’t dead and how much he hates periods and loves matcha. You laugh and he smiles down at you before looking away. Seriously, he needs to get over that.
At the door outside the house, Gojo stops you.
“Here.” he hands you the umbrella, fingers brushing yours, before reaching down to take his jersey off. You instinctively blush and look away, but considering your state of undress it would only be fair if you stole a glance. So you peek at him from the corner of your eyes.
You only manage to look just below his abs when something warm and slightly damp flops over your head.
“Hey!”
He takes the umbrella back from you, standing in front of you and covering your back with the umbrella.. “Put that on before we head inside. Take your wet jersey off, hurry.”
Feeling warm despite the rain, you hastily pull off your soaked top, making sure he’s looking politely away, and throw his jersey on. It’s still damp but not as drenched as your own. Looking down, it falls past your skirt and just above your knees.
“You’re going to walk in shirtless?”
“Better than you walking in looking like that.” He doesn’t give you a moment to think about his words. “Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.”
He leads you to the now familiar front door and when it opens before Gojo can even touch the doorknob, you understand the reasoning of his actions.
“Dude!” Hikari cheers, wrapping an arm round Gojo’s shoulders and eagerly pulling him in despite his grunt of protest. “Congrats on the win, man!”
Hikari quickly notices your presence.
“Oh. So you’re already celebrating, huh?”
Gojo brushes past him, his hand holding tours to guide a path through the sweaty frat boys. “Shut it, Hikari. Is Sukuna in?”
“Nah. The whole floor’s gone.” Hikari answers, raising his voice as Gojo quickly places distance between him and you.
When the door of his room closes behind you both, he turns and pulls you in, his hand falling down on your hips, pulling you close. You both look like wet dogs but you couldn’t care less.
“Sorry about them,” he mumbles against your hair.
“It’s fine,” you pause. “Who's sukuna?”
“The guy in the room next to mine.”
“Oh.”
He hesitates, searching your eyes in the dark of his room. The storm rages on beyond his window, rain entering through a slightly ajar window, but neither of you make the responsible move to close it. Instead, you find yourself pressing up against him, hoping for more.
“Sweets,” he says, his voice low. “Please don’t tell me this is still practice.”
“It’s not.”
He takes a deep breath in. “You piss me off. You’re annoying, and insistent, and you always get what you want.”
You frown a little. “Hold on, I thought this was going a different way.”
He shushes you by placing a finger against your lips. “You never listen to me and you never act how I think you will. You’re definitely not normal and your thoughts are all weird and messed up. But you’re always in my head and you have the prettiest smile and the softest voice and when you tell me to shut up I want to drop to my knees and lick your feet.”
“Okay, it’s definitely getting weird now.”
“I think I’m seriously doomed,” he whispers despite your protests. “Because I bought that coffee you gave me months ago and I still drank it even though I hated how it tasted. And I haven’t been able to get it up without thinking about you and those pretty lips.”
“Now I see why you don’t do relationships.”
Gojo chuckles, eyes unbearingly soft. “I think I’m in love with you, Y/N. You’re all I can think about.”
You let out a slow exhale.
This was not how you imagined any of this. That day when you sat down with Shoko to plan a devious scheme to get with Geto, you naturally assumed it would end with him by your side, or with a crippling inability to reassimilate with society.
Never in a million years did you think you’d be here, in Gojo’s enormous room inside a frat house, him hanging off your every word.
But thinking on it now, there’s nothing you want to change in your plan.
“I think I’m in love with you too.” You say just as quietly, a smile playing on your lips.
“Really?” If he had dog ears, they would have surely perked up. “Because I was lying, I definitely don’t just think that.”
“Woah, let’s calm down a little.”
He chuckles, breath misting your face.
His thumbs rub circles and you shiver at the faint sensation.
“Cold?”
You bite the lip and nod. Now that you’ve confessed, the forbidden desire building up in your core no longer feels like something you need to hide. Instead, you embrace it, and you let Gojo see the change in your eyes.
He nods back, looking down at his jersey on you.
“You should probably take this off or you’ll get sick.”
You grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it over your head, leaving you in just your bra. You mentally fist bump your past self for overthinking your attire earlier that morning and throwing on a matching set.
His pupils dilate as he looks at you, eyes lingering on the delicate lace.
“Am I moving too fast?” He whispers, breath misting your ear as he leans in.
You rapidly shake your head, heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with tension, the rain pattering against the window like a distant drumbeat.
He sighs, a low, relieved sound that vibrates through his chest. “Good. C’mere.”
He backs you up against the door, the wood cool against your bare back. His hands slide up your sides as he traps you. The guise of getting you out of wet clothes feels like a thin excuse now, but you don’t mind, your own hands already tugging at his waistband, eager to feel more of him.
Gojo’s lips crash into yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim your mouth. You kiss back just as fiercely, fingers digging into his shoulders as you push against him, guiding him backward step by step. He stumbles slightly, surprised by your assertiveness, but a smirk tugs at his lips against yours.
He falls onto the couch with a soft thud, pulling you down on top of him. You straddle his lap, only because it’s the only position you’ve had experience with thus far, and the friction of his hardening cock against your core sends sparks through your body. Your mouths meet again in a heated makeout, tongues tangling, breaths mingling in short, desperate gasps.
His hands roam your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. You arch into him, pressing your bare breasts against his chest, nipples hardening from the contact.
“Fuck, you’re so hot like this,” he growls, nipping at your lower lip. “Where were you hiding all of this, hm?”
You shiver, fingers digging into his shirt. “You like it when I tell you what to do, don’t you? Big bad frat boy, already so hard because a girl’s got you pinned.”
He groans, hands gripping your ass to grind you against him. “Keep talking like that, and I'll show you who’s really in control.”
But you don’t stop. Instead, you push him back further into the cushions and trail your lips down his jaw, his neck, biting lightly to mark him. He lets you, for now, his breath hitching.
His eyes look down your body, hands feeling the softness of your skin before resting at the waistband of your cute, little skirt. He smirks and before you know it, you’re torn from his neck because he flips you onto your back in one swift move, pinning your wrists above your head.
“My turn,” he purrs, voice rough.
You try to wriggle free. “What are you doing?”
“You've always had a thing against my tongue, haven’t you?”
“That was weeks ago, I don't—wait a minute!” Your hands find his head, trying to push him back up but he refuses, settling properly between your legs and lowering.
“Relax.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, eyes on yours. “I'll make you feel good. I always do, don't I?”
You hesitate, your arms losing their strength as the tension eases from your body. He watches you carefully, his gaze soft yet intense, making sure you’re okay before he moves. With a gentle nod from you, he lifts the edge of your skirt and flips it up onto your stomach, groaning low at the sight of the damp spot on your panties.
“So cute,” he hums, his free hand sliding between your legs to rub at the numb poking out through the fabric. “This little clit’s begging for attention.”
You let out a startled gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sudden touch. It’s all still so new, the sparks of pleasure shooting through you like electricity.
“You want my mouth on this pretty pussy, don’t you?” He murmurs, lowering to mouth against your panties.
His warm breath seeps through the thin material, and the flat of his tongue presses against you, exploring with teasing pressure that’s not quite enough to satisfy the ache building inside.
You jolt again, the sensation overwhelming, back bowing slightly as if to instinctively pull away. He doesn’t let you go far, his hand on your thigh tightening to pull you back against his mouth.
“I know, I know,” he coos against you. “It's too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, looking down and feeling a fresh surge of heat when you meet eyes with him.
“That’s it, just feel it,” he encourages, his thumb stroking your thigh in slow circles.
Finally, he draws your panties to the side and doesn’t waste another second.
Gojo’s mouth descends on your pussy, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit.
You gasp sharply, hips bucking up as he sucks the sensitive nub between his lips, rolling it gently. His hands hold your thighs apart, fingers digging into your skin to keep you open for him. He eats you out like he’s starved, tongue delving inside you, tasting your wetness then circling back to your clit with firm, insistent strokes.
“Oh god,” you choke out, the words tumbling from your lips in a breathless rush. “Fuck, it’s too—fuck it’s so good!”
With your hands free, you curl your fingers in his soft white hair, guiding him exactly where the pleasure feels strongest. It's your first time feeling anything like this, and the intensity builds fast, a coiling heat that’s overwhelming but addictive.
He hums against you, the vibrations making you whine as his tongue thrusts in and out, mimicking what’s to come, stretching you open with wet, probing motions.
“Mmm, taste so fucking sweet,” he growls between licks, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your folds. “You’re clenching so hard already—gonna finger fuck you open so you can take my cock later.”
He adds a finger, sliding it inside your slick heat slowly, curling it to brush against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That's it baby, feel how wet you are for me? so tight around my finger, imagine how you’ll squeeze my dick when I'm buried deep.”
You nod frantically, the haze of pleasure making it hard to form words.
He senses your building release, slipping a second finger inside to stretch you further, scissoring them gently to prepare you while his mouth latches back on your clit, sucking harder. “Come on, cum for me—wanna taste you so fucking bad, sweets. I want to feel you shake.”
The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over your body without warning. you cry out, back arching off the surface beneath you as your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with release. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you through it, drawing out every shudder until you’re boneless and gasping for air, his tongue coaxing every last tremor from your oversensitive folds.
Gojo pulls back slowly, a string of saliva still connecting to you until he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he crawls up your body.
“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he murmurs, leaning in for a deep kiss and letting you taste yourself on his lips.
You kiss back weakly making him chuckle, and he pulls back with a wet chu.
“You okay?”
You nod weakly. One moment you’re catching your breath on the couch, the next he’s lifting you over his shoulder and laying you down on his bed.
You yelp, feeling gravity turn on its head until you’re safely on his mattress.
Watching as he eagerly strips, you say, “You got a bedframe.”
He grins widely, shimmying down his boxers to join his sweatpants on the floor. “Yeah, I did. Do you like it?”
You huff. “Yeah. About time, Satoru.”
Gojo’s smile is oddly bright as he gets on the bed and hovers over you. He shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, his blue eyes darkening as they fixate on your chest. Without a word, he moves down, his mouth hovering just above your skin before he presses his face into the soft valley of your tits, inhaling deeply as if savouring your scent.
“God, I love these things.” he groans, voice muffled, his lips brushing the sensitive underside. “So goddamn perfect. Feel how hard you make me just staring at them?”
You squirm, indeed feeling his cock throb against your leg. “You’re such an animal.”
“I can't help it. Been thinking about these ever since last time.” He peeks up at you though he’s still hesitant to part with them completely. “Can i fuck them?”
Your nod is all the consent he craves. He straddles your waist carefully and guides his thick length to rest in the plush channel you’ve created by pressing your breasts together. The first slide is torturously slow, the velvety skin enveloping him as he rocks forward, the tip emerging shiny with precum near your collarbone.
“Shit, yes,” he hisses, hips snapping in a shallow rhythm. “So soft, so fucking warm around me. Look at that, sweets. Your tits are hugging my dick like they were made for it.”
His voice drops lower, rough with building pleasure, each word punctuated by the slick glide of skin on skin.
You watch him, mesmerised by the concentration etching his features, brow furrowed, lips parted as he pants. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his temples as his abs flex with every controlled push. The friction builds between your tits, his precum smearing across your skin, making the slide even smoother and more obscene.
He glances down to watch his cock disappear and poke out from your cleavage. “Open your mouth for me, baby.”
“Sweets,” you remind him.
He lets out a stifled groan, hips jerking forward. “Sweets, please. Let me see your pretty tongue. Want it on my tip when i come through so fucking bad.”
The nickname sends a thrill through you, and you part your lips obediently, flattening your tongue in invitation. He groans at the sight, hips stuttering as he angles higher, the flushed head of his cock brushing your waiting mouth on the next thrust.
“Fuck, just like that,” he rasps. “Your tongue feels so good lapping at me like that. Swirl it around, taste how much I want you. God, sweets, you’re killing me.”
You do, tracing the sensitive underside when he pushes forward, the salty tang of him flooding your senses. His reaction is immediate, a deep, guttural moan escapes him, his rhythm faltering as he jerks deeper, chasing the wet heat of your mouth.
“Can't get enough,” he growls, drawing back only to thrust again, his tip kissing your tongue with deliberate precision and drawing back a sticky string of his precum and your saliva. “Gonna fuck your mouth next, stuff it full of my cock until you’re choking on it. You'd take it so well, wouldn’t you? Suck me down like the greedy little thing you are.”
Saliva pools on your tongue and drips down to mix with the mess on your chest. He watches it all with hooded eyes, rutting faster now, the slap of his hips against your breasts echoing softly in the room.
“Fuck, sweets—gonna cum,” he warns through gritted teeth, his forehead creasing in that pretty, desperate way. “Can’t hold back with you squeezing me like this. Shit, i’m gonna paint you, mark every inch of these pretty tits.”
He lurches forward suddenly, back bowing as he towers over you, one hand bracing beside your head while the other strokes his base to control his release. The first hot spurt lands across your neck, thick and warm, followed by another that arches toward your open mouth. He aims with a focused groan, pressing down on the head to guide it, ropes of cum landing on your tongue, filling your senses with his taste.
“Take it, that’s a good girl,” he pants, voice breaking on a final, shuddering thrust. “Look at you, covered in me. So fucking hot, dripping with my cum on your face and tits.”
His body quakes through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving yours, drinking in your reaction as he milks every drop onto you.
When he’s spent, he collapses forward slightly, catching himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you and leans down.
Your lips meet his in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongues tangling slow and sweet at first, then hungrier as you melt into it. The taste of him, salty from earlier, mixed with the faint tang of your own arousal, ignites you, and you tug him down, hands roaming his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under sweat damp skin. A soft moan escapes you, and he swallows it, his grip tightening just a fraction.
He pulls back and pants against your lips, half laughing.
“Sorry, I should have warned you. Kind of not the most virgin friendly thing to do, huh?” He sits up and reaches for some tissue to clean you. “Should of saved this for inside you, sweets.”
You clench, squeezing your thighs together. “I’ve never…”
His eyes soften, wiping the last of his cum. “I know, sweets. We can wait if you need to, there’s no rush.”
But curiousity and want is a dangerous cocktail and you find yourself shaking your head. “I want to.”
Gojo lets out a shuddering breath and nods, sliding off your chest, his cock glistening and heavy against his thigh. “Let me get you warmed up again.”
He doesn't find much difficulty with that because one hand against your slit and his eyebrows are rising, feeling your wetness despite the lack of attention.
You blush, feeling caught. “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s embarrassing.”
“What’s got you so wet, hm?”
You squirm, feeling the lingering pleasure flare up. “It’s not my fault you’re so vocal.”
“Dirty girl. You like hearing how good you make me feel?” His thumb smears your entrance, picking up and spreading the fresh arousal that gathers there and it’s as good as any verbal answer. “Feel that? So worked up with nowhere to go.”
His fingers part you gently, circling your entrance with feather-light strokes that make you gasp.
“Let me warm you up again, sweets. You’re so swollen here, feels like you’ve been waiting for more. Gonna make sure you’re nice and ready for me.”
He plays with the mess between your legs, his own expression a mix of hunger and restraint, breaths coming in measured pulls as he fights the urge to rush. One finger dips inside you shallowly, then two, curling just right to brush that spot that sends sparks up your spine.
The stretch is easier now, your body remembering the pleasure, and he coos softly at your soft whimper, thumb finding your clit to rub in slow, firm circles.
“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans quietly, voice rough around the edges. “So warm and wet, it’s killing me not to slide in right now. But we’re taking our time, yeah? Making this perfect for you.”
Your hips rock instinctively into his hand, the coil of heat tightening low in your belly, and he grins, leaning in to pepper kisses along your jaw.
“Look at you, getting into it. My sweet girl, so responsive.”
You whine, the pleasure having reached a plateau and when you buck up for more, he withdraws his hand. The loss makes you whine but he hushes you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, reaching over to the nightstand and searching through his messy drawers for a condom.
The foil crinkles under his fingers as he tears it open and positions himself at your entrance. You're still slick, he’s made sure of that, but the anticipation makes you clench, nerves building up. He notices your sharp inhale and lets his tip nudge your slick folds, parting them teasingly though he pauses there to let you feel the pressure without pushing in.
“Hey, eyes on me, sweets,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the way his chest heaves, his cock twitching against you. “You still okay? Tell me if it’s too much, I’ll stop, I promise. But fuck, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be inside you.”
“I’m okay,” you whisper breathlessly, fingers curling into the sheets below. “Just… go slow?”
He notices and slides a hand down to interlace your fingers, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss to your palm. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
The stretch is immediate, a slow burn as he guides himself in, sinking bit by bit. His cock is much thicker than his fingers but the warmth of him, the way he watches every flicker of your expression with that twitch in his jaw, makes it bearable.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he rasps, eyes shutting briefly. “Gripping me so good already. Easy, sweets, just relax into it.”
His voice cracks a little on the end, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds himself still once he’s halfway in.
It aches, but the fullness is intoxicating, waves of pleasure chasing the discomfort as your body yields. You gasp, squeezing his hand and he coos softly, stroking you with his thumb.
“Can I keep going?”
You nod and even before your next breath, he’s already sliding in and bottoming out with a shared gasp, hips flushed against yours. His forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the humid air.
"How's that feel? Too much?” He asks softly.
“Full… so full,” you whimper, rocking experimentally and he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up just a fraction before he catches himself.
“Fuck, want me to move, sweets?” He shifts beneath you, guiding your hips in a gentle circle to grind against you, his praises making the movement slick.
“Please,” you gasp out as the fullness sparks pleasure deep inside and he rewards your honest words with a slow roll of his hips.
“Good girl,” he praises, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he starts to move, shallow thrusts that build a steady friction. Each slide in and out drags against your inner walls, drawing out filthy whimpers and sighs as he hits that sweet spot with precision born of his experience.
Soon, your toes are curling and your back bows off his mattress, desperate to meet his thrusts.
“Listen to those sounds you’re making,” he coos, emphasising his words with a deep thrust. “You’re taking me so well, sweets. makes me want to stay buried in your forever.”
The pace gradually quickens, his control fraying at the edges as your moans encourage him. He shifts the angle, one leg hooking over his shoulder to deepen the penetration, and the new position has you crying out, pleasure coiling tight in your core.
Sweat beads on his skin, dropping onto your chest and he leans down to capture a nipple between his lips, sucking gently as he thrusts harder, the wet slap of skin echoing softly.
“That’s it, let go for me,” he urges against your tits, teeth grazing the peak before soothing it with his tongue. “I can feel you squeezing, you close for me already? Come on, sweets, chase it.”
His words weave through the haze, dirty and devoted, spurring you higher as his freehand slips between you to circle your clit in time with his hips. The dual sensations overwhelm, building to a peak that has you trembling beneath him.
When it hits, it’s blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls clenching rhythmically around him and pulling him deeper. He groans your name like a prayer, thrusts stuttering as rides it out with you, prolonging the bliss with expert rolls of his hips.
Only when you slump, sweaty and panting, does he let himself follow, a filthy groan escaping his lips as he buries himself deep one last time and spills into the condom, body shuddering as he struggles to hover over you.
He doesn’t pull away immediately, instead pressing his hips closer to ensure you’ve gotten everything before collapsing half on top of you, peppering lazy kisses along your neck.
“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “My perfect girl, did so good for us.”
You whimper against the ticklish sensation. “You're too heavy.”
He chuckles and rolls off you, slowly pulling out to pull the condom off and discard it. you watch him with sleepy eyes, eagerly nuzzling into his arms when he settles back beside you.
“Need anything? Water? Cuddles?”
You hum, feeling the satisfaction morph into a drowsiness that has you melting into his arms, only feeling his warmth.
“You?”
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m so glad I stole you away. You’re so fucking perfect for me.”
You lean into his side, feeling a sense of indescribable completeness that fills you with certainty.
Geto Suguru may have been everyone’s first love but Gojo Satoru is the one you choose.
And judging by the way his arm tightens around you, the way his grin softens when he looks down at you, he knows it too.
Geto Suguru is everyone’s first love.
Even to this day, your friends will roll their eyes and insist that can’t possibly be true. But from experience, that was exactly who he was, someone to admire from afar like a painting behind glass. Beautiful and alluring, and just out of reach.
You see him now up, sitting on the couches at the house party driving the murmur of conversation with ease, a red cup used to gesture. Laughter ripples outward in waves, people leaning closer, drawn in.
You smile out of solidarity, resting against the wall with content misplaced at a busy place like this.
“Did you wait long?”
You turn your head to find your boyfriend weaving through bodies with the casual confidence of someone who assumes space will make itself around him. Two drinks in hand, hair messy under his cat, grin already forming because he’s caught you staring.
You push off the wall, reaching automatically for whichever cup is closer but he pulls back to sniff both before handing you the opposite one.
You take it gratefully and when you take a sip, you realise it’s your favourite juice.
“Wait time longer than the lines at Universal,” you tease.
He grins, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Next time I'll get us the priority pass. Not that it looked like you minded the wait. Don’t think I didn't see you eyeing Suguru like that. Do I have competition again?”
You shove him playfully. “Please, like I'm the one who’s been draping themselves over him for the past hour.”
Across the room, Geto laughs again, someone hanging off his shoulder while he tries to keep the liquid in his cup from spilling. He catches your eye briefly and lifts his cup in greeting. You return it with a smile.
Next to you, Gojo sighs dramatically.
“Wow,” he says flatly. “Right in front of me too. Why can’t I see any remorse in your eyes?”
“Because there isn’t any there,” you snort. “You're the one who told him to come tonight.”
“Where there’s Satoru, there’s Suguru.”
“I learnt that the hard way.”
He hums, arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against his side. His thumb starts tracing lazy circles just above your hip, absentminded and affectionate, a touch so familiar you barely notice as you lean into him in return.
“Still,” he murmurs, quieter now, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to keep looking at him like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking about what you could have had.”
You tilt your head to look up at him. His expression isn’t jealous, not completely, just searching, softer than the bravado he usually wears.
“I'm not,” you promise gently. “It was always superficial. You know that better than anyone. I guess now, looking at him is like looking at a relic of a different version of me.”
He hums. “He would have liked that sentence.”
You roll your eyes, ever so familiar with his dramatics. “You have nothing to worry about, baby. I promise.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You reach up and adjust the brim of his cap slightly, smoothing down a piece of hair that refuses to stay put. “Besides, I think I traded up.”
“Keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me,” he grins, voice lowering.
You smack his chest but your other hand lingers in his hair, fingers slipping into the soft hair at his nape. "Don't get cocky.”
Too late. He's already smiling wide, not the loud, flashy grin everyone else gets, but something softer and almost boyish reserved just for you.
Gojo leans down and finds your lips. The kiss is slow and unhurried, deeper than something meant for a crowded room but not quite indecent, like he’s forgotten where you are or just doesn’t care.
He pulls back just enough to talk. “Hey, I have an idea that’ll solve this three way jealousy.”
“What?
“Why don’t we just have a threesome?”
a/n: i had to repost this because i realised i could fit everything into one post but holy hell reformating everything made me wanna die so please smash that like button hit subscribe and don't forget to turn on that notification bell ++ shoutout to flatline and happy pokemon day to those who celebrate
summary: Satoru finds company in the most expected places with the least expected person. nerdjo x stoner!reader
features: fem!reader, plot with some smut, p in v, choking, praise, oral(f), creampie, finger sucking, tit sucking, biting, hickies, lots of smoking weed, accidental ingestion of weed, alcohol consumption, blacking out, anxiety and panic attacks, ac: @/dewbiscuits
wc: 21k
There were a few times Gojo saw you in the library.
The times like right before finals and everyone has filled up the tables on every floor and he has to do circles before finally finding an empty space. The occasions he has seen you, it's usually in some corner, feet propped up on the table and your textbook in lap or on your phone. Not the most efficient way to study, but he wasn't there to judge.
He was there to study, as he was every night leading up to an exam. It was easier to focus in the campus library. Especially when his roommate was loud with whatever quest he decided on that night. It was never the same two nights in a row - gaming, girls, getting drunk.
Gojo didn't care too much for it. He was in school to get his degree and get out, not fuck around and waste his time and money by having to repeat classes.
He liked to study. It was calming - headphones on blocking out the world and all of his focus going into his notes. He didn't have to think about any other aspect of his life when he was nose deep in his textbooks.
Once he was in his groove, hours passed by in what felt like minutes. Pages and pages of his notebook were filled with practice questions, extra notes to remember, and summaries of everything he'd been over.
He didn't notice the way his fingers tapped against the table to the beat of his music or that his head would bop along too. He didn't notice the way he'd mumble to himself when he realized what the solution to his practice problem or how he grumbled when it took him longer than normal to figure it out.
It was cute, how into it he got. Someone like him must have loved the degree he was taking.
And he did. Gojo was a physics major and he loved it. He loved learning all the different ways the world worked and all about these crazy theories. Every course he's taken was interesting.
Most times it was late into the night when he realized he should pack up and head home. The daylight completely vanished from the sky as he treks across campus to his dorm. The exhaustion won't hit him until he hears the sound of his roommate even out in the hallway.
It's not that Gojo didn't like his roommate, it was just that Sukuna was loud. And not just sound wise - his whole personality was loud. Bright hair, obnoxious laugh, the way that he just believed he was on top of the world all the time. He was a decent guy but living with him was a learning curve.
Tonight, Gojo sighed before pushing open the front door of their shared dorm. He could hear the bumping music three doors down and realized it was a Thursday night - Sukuna's favourite night to have people over for a pregame before hitting up whichever bar they decided on.
It wasn't too bad - four people he recognized were scattered on his couch.
Geto had one arm along the back of the couch, playing with the ends of Yuki's hair as they chatted. Gojo had known him even longer than he'd known Sukuna - the two went through first year orientation together but quickly realized the different paths they were one. Still, they'd keep in touch.
Toji and Shoko were rolling what looked to be joint on his coffee table. He hoped it was just tabaco and they were just snooty bastards who preferred to hand roll their cigarettes.
Considering how late it was getting he assumed this was it. They gave Gojo a wave as he walked by, headphones still over his ears but no music playing.
"Satoru," Geto dragged out his name. He could have pretended to not hear him but it had been a long time since the two had seen each other. He pushed down his headphones to rest around his neck. "You joining us tonight?"
"Gojo come with!" Yuki excitedly clapped her hands together at the idea.
"Nah not tonight," he rejected in the most chill tone he could muster up at this hour. He trekked along, hoping to avoid any further conversation.
Sukuna was in the kitchen digging through their shared fridge.
"Hey," he popped up as Gojo tried to sneak by. "Sorry we're headed out pretty soon here, didn't think you'd be back this early."
Early? It was just past 10pm.
"All good." Truthfully, all he wanted to do was go shower and crash into bed but with there only being one shared bathroom he'd have to wait until their guests were gone.
"Hey, uh," Sukuna closed the fridge door. He rubbed at his shoulder for a second before continuing, "I know it's not your scene but we're going to this party next Saturday if you want to join. It's not going to be anything crazy."
Technically, he could.
His exam tomorrow wasn't until the afternoon and then he was free until the following Thursday where he'd have a quiz to study for.
That being said, Gojo didn't go to parties - especially not the ones that Sukuna attended. The music was too loud and he hated how shit faced people got. He walked into an unfortunate fucking-in-the-bathroom scene once and he swore off ever having to piss at a party again.
"I'll let you know," he shrugged - aka I'm not going. His usual response whenever he was asked to go out. "Have fun tonight."
Sukuna nodded in thanks. He clapped a hand down on Gojo's shoulder before joining his friends again.
Gojo wasn't sure if Sukuna actually enjoyed living with him. He was sure that some partying going want-to-be frat boy would have been better off instead. But, he never complained about having him as a roommate and regardless of their vastly different personalities and went as far to include him in things.
Thirty minutes later the dorm was silent. Gojo locked himself up in his room while he waited for them to leave. He'd done a review of the notes he made during that time, the midterm tomorrow was a big one and he wanted to make sure he was well prepared.
There were empty cans on the bathroom counter, thankfully no further mess. Sukuna was fairly decent about cleaning up after his friends, there was still a good chunk of the time that Gojo found himself tidying up. Not that he minded all that much, he liked the place cleaner than most guys his age so he was okay putting in the extra work to make it that way.
He couldn't be bothered to that moment, just wanting the shower he'd been craving for the last hour.
Gojo sighed as the hot water pounded down on him. He was tired, mentally too. As much as he did love the courses he was in and studying until late hours of the night, it took a toll too. Midterm season was coming to its end and he spent more time in the library than he did his own room.
Maybe he should go to the party next weekend.
He deserved a break. Deserved a couple of beers. The few parties he went to over his university years he remained mostly sober, only indulging in a few drinks and never enough to be hungover the next day. The anxiety surrounding over drinking and forgetting the things he could say or do was too much, he couldn't handle it.
Gojo rested his forehead against the cool tile. Maybe he'd go. Maybe. He'll make a decision after a few more inquiries.
It took all of his will power to drag himself from the shower to his bed. Half dried and not caring he slipped under the perfectly made duvet still naked.
A break would be good.
A release from all the stress he had building up over the last few weeks. A few beers, trailing around Sukuna as he said hello to all his friends, and introducing him to girls that were clearly more interested in his taller roommate. It wasn't his ideal of fun but it was good every once in a while.
"F-fuck," Gojo groaned out. He was pent up, anxious about his exam tomorrow and doubled down with the thought of maybe going to a party.
It was a... temporary solution to his stress. A lazy fist jerking his aching cock. No need for him to try to be quiet because he was home alone. One of the rare times he indulged in these random spikes of desire.
It's sloppy, no rhyme or rhythm. Quick jerks that have his shoulders caving in and loud moans that echo in the empty space. His imagination running through some faceless girl who's got a sloppy cunt just for him. Someone who begs him to fuck her harder and harder until she's a bubbling mess of cum and desire.
"Ah- shit, p-please," he whines to himself. It hits him hard as thick shots of white coat his torso. His breathing is heavy as he strokes every last bit out. It takes him a few minutes to catch his breath and furthermore clean himself up again.
Still stressed. Still thinking about how maybe he will just go to that party.
~~~~~~~~
Gojo was mostly used to the foot traffic that went through his dorm room. The two bedroom space was small, barely a kitchen and a pathetic excuse of a living room. One small bathroom separated the 2 bedrooms.
However, it was rare for there to a) be a knock on the door, most people just let themselves in at this point b) for there to be someone coming over when Sukuna wasn't home.
He thought he misheard the first time, sure it was some background noise in the video game he was playing. Two minutes later it came again, angrier and louder this time. He paused the game before tripping over himself to race to the door. A loud thud echoed, followed by a curse.
There was no composing himself before he flung the door open, already feeling horribly guilty for not coming at the first knock.
"Took you long enough, I'm already doing you a favour coming all the way over least you could - Oh shit sorry."
It took Gojo a moment to realize where he recognized you from. The girl from the library, feet kicked up in the corner. It was the same dark hoodie he'd seen you in before. He'd never seen you this close before, didn't realize that under that hood you had such a pretty face.
He watched the confusion on your face as you checked the door number, then back down at your phone as if you were making sure the address matched.
"Sukuna live here?" You finally looked up into his eyes. Your own widened for a moment before shying away. Gojo felt his cheeks warm, suddenly realizing how disgustingly under dressed he was to be speaking to someone he didn't know.
Ratty Digimon t-shirt from high school that he swore to himself he'd finally throw out (he didn't), mismatched socks, an old pair of sweats that a hole in the crotch. At least he was wearing underwear. After his exam earlier that day he couldn't care less about what he looked like with no plans on leaving.
"Huh?" you leaned in some when he didn't answer right away.
"He lives here," Gojo tried to stop the flush rushing up his neck from spreading. God this was embarrassing. You pushed past him, letting yourself into the dorm. He got a strong waft of weed and floral perfume from you. "He's out right now."
"Ugh, what a piece of shit," you grumbled. He's never seen you around here before - he knew most of Sukuna's friends. Maybe he managed to successfully lock himself in his room the times you had been over. "When will he be back?"
"He just went to the gym, probably a couple of hours," Gojo shrugged. He scratched at the back of his neck, unsure how to handle this situation. Not to mention he felt awkward under your gaze. Whatever you were here for, clearly you weren't happy to do it. "Can I, uh, help with anything?"
"You can tell that dumbass not to fuck off when he texts me to bring him his stuff," you nearly growled with annoyance. Gojo winced at your curses towards his roommate.
"I'll uh, let him know."
"And tell him if he ever sends that motherfucker Naoya my way again I'm going to have Choso beat his face in. I swear - Ugh, sorry I'm pissed off," you shook your head, cutting yourself off. It wasn't fair to take your annoyance of Sukuna out on his white-haired roommate.
Gojo stood with wide eyes, even more not sure how to process you standing in his living room with this rage rolling off of you. Who knew someone with such a cute face could hold so much anger.
"I need a joint," you rubbed a hand down your face.
Gojo watched as you rustled inside the pocket of your hoodie and pulled out a clear plastic bag with - what he was 95% sure - was weed inside.
You held it out for him, giving it a little shove when he didn't grab it right away. Reluctantly, he grabbed the bag between his two fingers as if he didn't want to touch it.
"Either you can pay me what he owes now and figure it out later, or Sukuna can pay double the next time I see him. Personally, I'm fine with the latter."
Sukuna sucked at paying Gojo back. He would always have his rent in on time - that was never the issue. It was the small things - buying dinners, spotting him cash for a case of beer, new things for their dorm. Last thing he wanted was to be part of this... drug deal.
"Um, I guess I'll let him know that you owe him double then, too." Just another thing to tac on the list of things he has to break the news of to Sukuna.
"Perfect, well... thanks then."
And you were gone, so quickly that Gojo swore he hallucinated the entire experience. He stood there for a full minute before realizing he was still holding the bag of weed and that you truly were just standing there. He set the bag down on the coffee table and stalked over to the window.
Just as you said, a puff of smoke blew from you as you walked away from his dorm, burning joint between your fingers. Even with your frustration, you still had a lazy walk - no urgency whatsoever.
God did he just do a drug deal? What would happen if the school found out? His perfect record shattered all because a little bag of weed. Anxiety spread through his chest filling up every nerve in his body.
Gojo stood in the bathroom, scrubbing his hands until they were raw and red as if it would wash away what he'd just done.
~~~~~~~~
Gojo sat in the back corner of the library. Hood up, headphones on and nose deep in his textbook.
The quiz he had tomorrow wasn't even a difficult one but his nerves all week had been shot. He found comfort in the library, comfort in perfecting his knowledge until he basically memorized every line.
When Sukuna got home from the gym last weekend Gojo was an anxious mess. He'd been pacing so much his calves were burning and his skin was raw from the scratching. He went over every single possibility of what could go wrong with the bag of weed sitting on his coffee table.
How he could get kicked out of school, how he could go to jail, an academic misconduct, the possibilities were endless.
It wasn't until Sukuna got home and assured him that none of that would happen. He believed him, truly, but deep down his anxiety was still getting the best of him. Sukuna had a barky laugh at Gojo's anxiety - it wasn't the first time that he's seen him go through this. He didn't mind talking him off the ledge, especially this time when it was his fault.
Everything was fine. He was fine. Nothing to be worried about. He just needed to keep telling himself that over and over until he felt okay again.
Later that night Sukuna came back smelling similar to what you had that afternoon. Deep skunky stench clinging to his clothes, his breath, filling up the dorm so strongly until Gojo had to resort to his room to avoid it.
That same smell filled his nose again as he sat at the library. Gojo looked up from his textbook, heart nearly jumping out of his chest at the shock of someone sitting across from him. How long did they go unnoticed?
"'bout time you looked up."
You'd been sitting there for nearly five minutes before he even noticed you. The same, poor, white-headed guy you yelled at was hiding away in the corner. Even with his hoodie up it was easy to spot the white tufts sticking out and the shiny blue eyes hiding behind those big round glasses.
He was so engrossed in his studies, and by your guess, music so loud, that he didn't notice you join him at the table. The library was packed and there were no tables free, you invited yourself over to his.
His cheeks were flushed pink as he realized you were sitting there. It was intriguing watching him. He twirled his pen between his fingers, head bopping along slightly to whatever music he was listening to. He silently mumbled to himself as he worked through problems on his own.
"H-how long have you been sitting there?" He managed to choke out while so flustered. He pulled his headphones off and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
"Few minutes," you shrugged. The nonchalance in your tone made him envious. So calm, carefree - he wished he could be like that. "You're kind of cute when you study."
It was true - he was cute - but really you wanted to see if his face turned even more red. Poor guy looked like he wanted crawl in a hole and die with embarrassment. Your lips curled up into a cheeky grin.
He didn't even know what to say to that. More so, he didn't know how to react around you.
He was still anxious from your last encounter. His heart palpitated even more as you leaned into your hands on the desk.
"So Sukuna's roomie, do you mind if I study here? It's kind of busy."
You were obviously high - even Gojo could quickly tell. Red hazy eyes, lingering skunk smell, even your movements were lagged. Not to be rude - but he didn't think people like you studied at all - even if he had seen you here a few times.
"Um, Gojo - or Satoru - whichever," he mumbled out. "My name, I mean."
"Sa-to-ru," you enunciated every syllable trying it out. "I guess that's easier than Sukuna's roommate. Y/N."
"Y/N," He repeated. Pretty. "Um, yeah, you can sit."
You could sit but there was not a fucking chance he'd be able to focus anymore. He watched you with a keen eyes as you pulled out your laptop and books. You didn't say much else, putting on your own headphones as you found your own groove.
Thirty minutes passed. Silence.
Not a single word came from either of you. Gojo's eyes darted between the notes he made zero additions to and the scrunch your face every time you came across something you didn't know. His headphones rested over his ears but no music played. Instead he listened to your pen tapping against the desk and how you shuffled every five minutes.
He kept tugging at the strings of his hoodie. Watching above the rim of his glasses at every chance. If you felt his eyes on you, you didn't say anything about it.
Another thirty.
Gojo managed to focus for maybe ten minutes before you distracted him again. A little pout on your glossed lips when you struggled to figure out the solution. He could hear your sighs through the headphones, each one getting more and more frustrated.
"I need a smoke," You decided, standing up suddenly. "And a coffee. And a fucking a break."
Gojo pulled his headphones down around his neck, watching as you dug around your bag until you found the lighter and the joint you were searching for.
"Can you watch my stuff?" There was a joke on the tip of his tongue - one about how they just met and how he could be a thief. Maybe just funny enough to get a little laugh out of you. Instead, he managed a nod.
When you were out of eyesight, Gojo spun your laptop around to get a look at whatever had you so frustrated. Between a quick read of the chapter you had open he was able to solve it pretty quickly. He typed in a few bullet points where you left off in hopes it would help when you got back.
He went back and forth for five minutes if he should leave any notes. Would you find it weird? In the end he left them there.
Gojo didn't have anything left to study. It was just a quiz tomorrow - one that he didn't even need to review his notes for. Yet here he was - spending extra hours in the library because you decided to sit with him.
Which was stupid because his heart annoying raced with anxiety the entire time. He felt trapped in his seat and the horrible pit in his stomach would not go away. Yet here he was, watching your stuff and helping you study. Waiting, getting impatient for your return.
Most of his things were packed up by the time you got back. Two iced coffees in hand and a slight cough still left in your lungs. Gojo's nose twitched, not used to the smell at all. Thankfully, he didn't think you noticed.
"You done studying?" You slid the second drink over his way.
"Mostly," he lied. There wasn't anything left for him to study. He knew his notes inside and out. "Thank you, you didn't need to get me anything."
"Least I could do for bombarding your space. And for yelling at your the other day. Sorry about that," you logged back into your laptop. Immediately, you noticed the additional notes that were certainly not there before you left. "Did you do my work?"
Gojo flushed, playing with the arm of his glasses. "Err, just pointed you in the right direction you looked like you were getting frustrated. I hope that's okay."
"Have you taken this class before?"
"No, but I read your textbook a little and put it together." It wasn't anywhere near his expertise, but Gojo was always good at figuring things out quickly." "I'm sorry I shouldn't have -"
"Ah, so Shoko was right, you are super duper smart." You leaned in. This guy just kept getting more interesting. One look at your work and he's figured it out while you've been stuck on it for ages. "Thank you, Satoru, I appreciate it."
Why did his name sound so good coming from you?
"Y-you're welcome," there was only a single beat of silence, but he couldn't stand the uncomfortableness of it. "So um, how do you know Ryo?"
"We have some mutual friends. Shoko introduced us, she's been around a few times you might know her." Gojo knew her - she was a frequent flier in the house, always trailing the smell of cigarettes behind her. "Sorry again about the other day, I was... in a bad mood. Sukuna knows how to get me even more annoyed."
"S'okay," Gojo shrugged. He was certainly not okay. It took him two days to feel somewhat back to his normal self.
"Did you, uh, get your money?" He watched your scowl form and grow - an answer all in itself. You took a long sip out of your drink. "He's pretty shit at paying people back."
"He's just a piece of shit in general," you argue, smiling a little as Gojo laughs.
"He's not that bad. He's been a decent roommate." Gojo tries to defend. There was a silence, he toyed with his glasses again. "Do you um, often, uh... sell?"
"Why you want some?" you gleam up at him, hint of a grin on your lips. Gojo furiously shook his head, a little laugh came out of you from it. "No, I don't. It was a one time favour. But... You let me know if you ever change your mind."
"I will not but thank you."
"Oh Satoru, you're too innocent for this world."
~~~~~
Satoru was not someone you would have expected to enjoy living with Sukuna.
You chatted for well over an hour after you grabbed coffees. He wasn't just smart - he was a full on geek. Digimon, mangas, video games, hell he even mentioned that he was in theatre when he was younger. But gosh, he was just so cute when he got excited about all those things.
He wasn't what you expected - nerdy as hell sure - but he was kind with a sharp tongue.
The past few days he lingered in the back of your mind. Subconsciously you looked for that mop of white whenever you roamed campus.
He stuck to his usual spots outside of classes. The library, his dorm, the coffee shop in the science building that was on the top floor and overlooked the campus. He claimed it was the best spot on campus to enjoy some time away from the clutter of books and people.
You on the other hand? Hidden spots between buildings to sneak a smoke, lingering around the campus quad to see your friends. Skipping classes because you forgot or didn't feel like it. Not the same kind of lifestyle - the only overlap is both of you wanting to hide away in the library.
He intrigued you for sure. Satoru was different than the rest of the people in your life, you liked that.
"Y/N" Shoko dragged out your name. She dragged you to this party that she assured was 'lowkey' and was far from it. You sat on a disgusting, grimey couch with burn holes all over it in some basement of a frat. Parties were fun. Frat parties? Not so much.
A blunt burned away between your fingers. Fried out of your mind already, you passed it over to Shoko. She looked ridiculous, cigarette in one hand blunt in the other and a solo cup of alcohol nestled between her thighs. You should have known she was going to go hard tonight she'd been whining all week about how she hated her life during exam season.
Music bumped loudly enough from upstairs that it bled into the basement. The crowd of people dancing and drinking upstairs rumbled through the roof above you. It was busy downstairs too, dozens of people in the hazy space but it was quieter. Most people were high not drunk - some both.
"Let's go upstairs," Shoko tried to convince you. Your head lulled back to rest on the couch, eyes glazed over at her. There was no shot you were getting up from that couch. Not when you could barely even feel your toes and any movement was three times slower than it should be. "Please please pleaseeeee. Ryo just texted me that they've been here for a while and have been looking for us."
"Couldn't be looking that hard, he knows we'd be down here," you shrug. Carefully up pluck the cup between Shoko's legs for a sip. The blunt made your mouth unbearably dry this time. "Tell him to come to us."
"No I want to go drink more anyway and all the liquor is up there," Shoko put out her cigarette and the rest of the blunt in the ashtray in front of her. Her arm looped tightly around yours and before you could complain she was hauling you up to your feet.
"Hey wait I wasn't done with that -" you complain at the no longer lit blunt.
"You're off your rocker high as shit, anymore and you're going to literally melt into the couch," Shoko scowled at you. She pulled you along by the arm towards the stairs.
It was even more busy than when you arrived. Bodies every where, sticky floors, so many pairs of tits threatening to spill out of the tight shirts they were wearing. Mentally, you glared at Shoko - never again would you believe her when she said it was going to be a small party.
I'm too fucking high for this.
You found yourselves in the kitchen, two cups of whatever monstrosity was created. Shoko continued to search the crowd - if it was for Sukuna then he shouldn't be that hard to find he was a head taller than everyone else.
White.
Bright white in the dark house - like a beacon almost.
What the actual hell was he doing here? You redirected Shoko towards him, likely the one she was looking for was over there.
"Satoruuuu," You sang out - stepping all the way up on your toes to reach as close as you could to his ear. His back was towards you but as soon as he heard his name he spun around. His glasses were low on the bridge of his nose, bright eyes shining towards you. He wore a black button up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and jeans - basic but still so different than the attire you've seen him in before. Sexier.
A loose smile lit up his face.
"You keep popping up every where now, Satoru. If I didn't know better I'd say you're following me." There it was - the pink cheeks that he usually had from shyness.
Regardless of the shyness, he leaned down to your eye level. He smelt divine, wearing some woody cologne that you're sure he's never warn around you before. It made you lean in just a little bit more. His breath reeked of alcohol as it fanned across you cheek.
"You're high."
"And you're drunk as shit," you giggle. Was this really the same guy that was geeking out in the library only a few days ago? The alcohol really washed away all his pent up anxiety. "I wouldn't have pegged you as the kind of guy that goes to parties."
"He's not, nearly dragged him here," Sukuna slung an arm over Satoru's shoulder. He wasn't much taller than Satoru, but broader in ever way. Your eyes narrowed at his appearance. "I didn't know you two were friendly."
"You owe me money you dick."
"Ah fuck," Sukuna tapped his pockets like he was looking for his wallet just to come up empty handed. Typical. "Gojo do you have any cash on you?"
Without even hesitating Satoru went to pull out his wallet. You raised your hand to stop him. Not a chance.
"No no, I don't want his money Sukuna, I want yours. Have it for me the next time I see you or I'll send Choso over to get it. Got it?"
Satoru's eyes darted between the two of you at the interaction. He was glad you weren't losing your shit like last time at least. Still, it was hard to gauge what kind of friendship you held with the pink haired giant.
"Yes ma'am," he faked saluted. The full cup of alcohol sloshed around in his hand. He licked the spillage, looking up to Shoko with a new glint in his eyes. With a final tap on his roommate's shoulder, he bid farewell, "I'll leave you kids to it then. Promise I'll have cash for you next time."
Shoko and Sukuna followed each other deeper into the crowd of people, leaving the two of you standing there - seemingly out of place. The tip of Satoru's finger traced around the rim of his cup. He looked nervous to be left alone, like clinging to Sukuna was the only comfort he had in this foreign place.
Like Shoko did earlier, you looped your arm into his. He eased into your hold. It hit you - he was anxious to be here. That cup of alcohol was probably calming his nerves, much as the joint you had earlier eased yours. He chugged back another large sip. His face scrunched up at the strong taste.
His gaze slid over you. Up your bare legs, you chest, lingering at your neck before finally analyzing every bit of your face. You looked different than the last time he'd seen you.
"You look pretty," Satoru complimented. It was much the same to every other girl in this party. Skimpy little dress with the addition of layered necklaces and bracelets. He was probably the only one here who would have chosen pretty over sexy. "Very pretty."
"Thank you Satoru, you look very handsome yourself." It was your new life mission to see those cheeks of his always have a pink blush to them. "Does Sukuna usually drag you out to these things?"
He shook his head. This was the first time that you'd seen him at a party before. Maybe you just hadn't noticed him but he stuck out in these kinds of crowds.
"I didn't want to come tonight," he admitted, slurring his words slightly. "I was going back and forth and Ryo promised it was going to be a small party and it's not. I don't like it."
Sounds like Sukuna and Shoko had similar promises.
"What's it like being high?" Gosh he was talkative when he was drunk. Satoru took another sip out of his cup. He looked at the bottom as if there was a hole in it and that was the reason it was empty, not because he'd been pounding it back. "I want another."
He didn't give you the chance to answer his question - with your arms linked he led you back to the kitchen so he could refill his cup. It was more spacious in there at least. Regardless, you missed your spot downstairs and the blunt you didn't get to finish.
Shoko was right though, two more puffs and you'd start twitching. The stupidly annoying spasms that you got when you smoked just a little bit too much. It was a teetering sign that you were close to greening out.
"I can't believe Ryo would leave me like this," Satoru sighed, a fresh new cup in his hand. He leaned against the kitchen counter, head tilted back and exposing his throat. "He promised he wouldn't."
He sounded like a whiny kid about it - a cute one at least. Satoru didn't look so out of place here, not as much as you would have expected. He was certainly handsome behind those nerdy clothes he hid behind.
It was a pleasant surprise running into him here of all places.
"You have me," you patted his arm, feeling the surprising bit of muscle under the tight shirt. "I'm sure he wouldn't have left you otherwise."
"Promise you won't leave me?"
"Pinky promise, Toru."
~~~~~~~
You woke up drenched in sweat. Literally drenched. The sheets were soaked, hair stuck to the back of your neck, and every bit of moisture was void of your mouth. Hellish.
Satoru, to no surprise, needed to go home shortly after your pinky promise. He was way too drunk and reached the level where you were sure he was going to start puking everywhere. You couldn't have been bothered last night to find Sukuna and tell him to bring his roommate back - instead just sending him a text that you would do it yourself.
It was a battle to get Satoru back to his home. He was so large and so drunk that leading him anywhere was a task that really needed two people. You made it (thankfully with zero puking in the car ride, he passed out as soon as he sat down).
His room was about as you expected. Clean, organized, nerdy little posters scattering the wall above his desk. A bookshelf filled with all different textbooks, manga's, and casual reads. It was so Satoru.
As soon as he crossed into his room his clothes were stripped off and he was crawling into bed. You nearly had to beg him to drink the glass of water he left on his nightstand ahead of time. The next biggest mistake? The way his fingers latched onto your wrist and he looked up at you with desperate eyes asking you to stay with him.
You promised not to leave me.
At least you weren't hungover.
A heavy arm was slung over your waist, firm body snug against your backside. Satoru had latched onto you as soon as you joined him in his bed (which he nearly begged to have you in). He was a furnace in his (almost) nakedness. Only his briefs were providing a barrier between his rock hard morning wood and your ass.
In any other situation, you might have considered grinding against it harder. With Satoru? You knew his ask to stay with you was purely innocent.
His arm tightened around you as he groaned himself awake. There was a moment of perfect stillness followed up by him nearly sprinting out of the room. Not even ten seconds later you heard the vile sound of him throwing up in the bathroom next door.
Gross.
The perfectly sweet moment that could have been waking up in his arms ripped away with the reminder that he was hungover.
When the sounds of gagging came to a stop you begrudgingly got out of his bed to go check on him.
Satoru rested his back against the side of the tub, legs sprawled out and head hung in his hand. He looked worse for wear.
"How are you feeling Satoru?" You leaned against the frame of the door. On the way over your noticed Sukuna's door was cracked open - likely he didn't come back last night. He jumped at the sound of your voice - like he forgot that he woke up next to you. "Can I get you some water?"
He meekly nodded, avoiding looking at your directly. It seemed like without his glasses his eyes shined even brighter. What a beautiful blue indeed.
When you returned, he was still in the exact same position. He gladly accepted the water and the antiacids you rummaged around for. After swallowing both, he hovered over the toilet bowl as if he was about to throw up again. Thankfully he kept it down.
His cheeks were flushed, eyes watery. If it wasn't the situation that he was in you'd argue he looked fucking sinful. Satoru had a lot more muscle under those clothes of his than you anticipated. No where near his roommate - but there was some definition there. He was long and lean.
His eyes dragged up your bare legs, to the t shirt he lent you, and finally your own wandering eyes.
"That's my shirt," his voice was raspy.
"It is."
"You're wearing my shirt... and no pants," he continued with the obvious observation. The heel of his palm rubbed into his bare chest right above his heart. You could see the thoughts racing through his head and the growing concern reaching his face. "Why - why are you here? What..."
The pace of his hand increased, eyes darting around the room trying to connect the dots of why this situation came to be. His breathing increase - faster and harder as if the air won't fully reach his lungs.
His shoulders were tense, pulled up to his ears like he's physically bracing his body against the onslaught of these thoughts. He switched between tugging at his white hair and rubbing his chest. Eyes darting around the room like it's closing in on him. Small signs of anxiety multiply.
Satoru stumbled over his words - asking half questions before moving onto the next. You can't fully understand him but he's anxious about last night you're sure.
No, not just anxious it's panic.
He was reaching the start of an panic attack.
Calmly, you sat down next to him. The space was small but you kept far enough away not to touch him. Didn't want him to feel trapped in the safety of his own home.
"Toru," you began. There's been a few times you've seen this before. Your roommate, Shoko, everyone's had moment of anxiety and you know sometimes it's hard to back down from that feeling. This was something more. "It's okay. Do you not remember all of last night?"
He shook his head tightly. "Do you want me to to go over what happened? Nothing bad happened - you didn't do anything wrong, okay? Nothing bad happened to you or anyone else."
There was hesitation. You reached out to grab the hand not clawing at his chest before stopping. Without thinking twice he grabbed it, pulling it close to him like an anchor. He glanced over at the corner of his eye, nodding once for you to continue. He hated this feeling of not being able to remember what he did or said and who he was with.
You told him everything - starting with the pinky promise not to leave him alone at that party. The drinks he pounded back and how carefree he became - the big smiles he wore. The friends you introduced him to and how you ran into Sukuna and Shoko later in the night. Satoru gave a dramatic hug and a kiss on the cheek to Sukuna who barked out a laugh and gave him a peck back.
How you danced to the beat of the music together, sweaty bodies touching and swaying until he became aware of his stomach was starting to hurt from the alcohol and you needed to bring him home. Satoru watched you so intensely as you smoked a new joint while waiting for your ride back to his home. Wordless, but captivated.
You told him about getting him to bed and how he asked you to stay with him. Politely, with no ill intentions. How he insisted you wear one of his shirts instead of the tight outfit you wore all night. Lastly, with his request to stay in his bed, because it wouldn't be very gentleman like to have you sleep on the couch.
The longer you spoke the more he calmed down. His hand dropped from his chest, his breathing slowly returning back to normal. You could feel the tension drop from his body along with his grip on your hand loosening.
"I was with you every minute last night, I promise you you have nothing to be worried about. You were nothing but a sweetheart," you assured him. He dragged his long legs up to his chest, keeping a hold of your hand and subsequently pulling you a little closer to him. "Do you want to stay here? Do you want me to stay here?"
Another single nod. He tucked his head between his knees, white hair going in every direction. You stayed, not moving, not saying anything until he was ready.
Ten minutes went by. Fifteen. Nearly twenty by the time he was fully calmed down.
"I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for Satoru," you promised. His hand - your intertwined hands - literally dripped sweat onto the bathroom tiles. It didn't matter, not if it helped him relax. He peeked up at you, trying to read your expression to see if you were sincere.
With Satoru... you felt different with him. You wanted to watch out for him, wanted to have his focus on you. It's been fun getting to know him. Maybe he didn't plan to have you see this side of him so quickly but this was a part of him too.
"My ass is starting to hurt." You try to lighten the mood. He seems mostly okay now. Salty streaks stain his cheeks, eyes glassy and red. He's safe with you, whether he fully knows it or not.
Satoru huffed out a chuckle. He tucked his head one more time and with a final deep breath peeled himself away from you. The side of the tub you leaned against suddenly felt like ice.
He stood before you (in all his near naked glory) with a hand stretched out to help you up. After a moment of admiring him (which he clearly noticed you do because his other hand went to cover his crotch) you accepted.
"Please don't look at me like that."
"I wasn't," you lied. He watched you saunter out of the room, clearly swaying your hips just a little extra. "Brush your teeth you just threw up."
~
Gojo decided to shower. For a few reasons - he hoped it would help the hangover go away, he felt disgusting from the amount of people who bumped into him, and mostly importantly he was hard as fuck.
He was a mess of emotions: anxiety, shame, regret, admiration, and horny. Really horny.
Those few brief moments of waking up with you in his arms may have been the best moments of his life. Your ass melded into his body - though he was embarrassed by the fact that you'd felt his morning wood. And to see you in nothing but his shirt? Gojo was ready to melt away.
Cold water wasn't enough - he needed his fist and the image of your thighs engraved in his brain to finally feel some reprieve.
He felt a new wave of emotion when you talked him through his panic. Of course he was grateful for helping him before it could reach it's peak - but mostly he was in shock that you so easily picked up on and adapted to the situation. Gojo had worked himself through panic attacks before, none of them had he eased out of so quickly.
He still felt like shit when he got out of the shower. The hangover loomed over him like a dark cloud but at least he didn't feel like he was going to throw up anymore.
With minty fresh breath and a towel tied tightly around his waist he padded back to his room. Your clothes from the night before were crumpled on the floor but you were nowhere to be seen. Gojo called out your name to see if you were elsewhere in the apartment but there was no response.
Did you leave in such a rush that you forgot your things? No - there's no way you would just up and leave like that after staying with him for so long. He didn't see your phone - and it wasn't until he passed by his desk did he notice something off.
One of his notebooks was open. In big letters 'BRB :)' was scribbled in orange highlighter. He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. You were coming back. He didn't get to thank you properly - for everything.
Gojo changed into a pair of sweats and tried going through all of his t shirts to find one that was clean and not incredibly nerdy. Why did he have so many Star Wars shirts?
The front door swung open before he could find a shirt.
"Satoruuuu," you called out, a little giggle in your voice. He was trying to go through his shirts faster but you reached his door before he could find one. For a second time that morning you looked at him with those eyes. "Oh. Sorry."
High-induced eyes trailed across his bare torso. The absolute primal stare you gave him made his recently relieved cock twitch back to life. Drips of water trailed down him still from his hair that was matted down.
He caught himself staring too. You wore the same shirt as earlier but now it was also the pair of sweats he was looking for earlier. They were clearly too long for you. The waist band was rolled up several times and they were bunched up around the ankles. How did you manage to make his ratty old clothes look so sexy?
"I uh, sorry," he repeated back your apology. Gojo grabbed a shirt nearest to him and cringed when he realized there was a giant Kirby on it. It would be too awkward to put back but he needed you to stop staring at him like that. It was bad enough you'd already seen him in just his underwear - more so that you were comforting him in just his underwear.
"I think your cheeks are almost as pink at Kirby, Toru," you laughed. "Are you feeling better? I ordered us some McDonalds."
Gojo gave you a playful glare and followed you into the living room. It was quite the feast you had ordered. The food was spread out across his coffee table, along with two coffees as well. He damn near moaned taking the first sip of it.
"I didn't know what you wanted so I got a little bit of everything," You explained. "And I ordered it while smoking so everything sounded delicious."
"You're not hungover too?"
"No, I don't drink much anymore," you shrugged. "When I started smoking weed drinking was less interesting to me."
Gojo chewed down a few more bites. "What made you start smoking?"
"Nothing made me start," you began with a little laugh, "Shoko let me try it one time, I just liked it more. No hangover, no forgotten decisions, I didn't wake up with anxiety. Sorry - I'm not trying to convince you at all I just wanted to explain myself."
Gojo shook his head, he knew that. Although everything you just described was what he had literally just gone through.
"I um, don't really drink so I don't know my limit too well - as you can tell," Gojo explained himself. He felt his hands get clammy recalling your morning together. "So I just wanted to say I really appreciate you watching out for me last night. And taking care of me this morning. I owe you - however you want. If you need help with school or anything let me know."
"Getting to see you almost naked was payment enough."
Gojo spit out the sip of coffee he was trying to take. He hacked up the rest of what was stuck in his lungs as you laughed so hard tears formed in your eyes.
"Please stop."
"I will not."
~~~
[10:31pm] Y/N: Toruuu
[10:36pm] Y/N: Satoruuuuuuuuuuuu
[10:47pm] Y/N: Toruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
[10:55pm] Y/N: omg wait is it past your bedtime
[10:55pm] Y/N: omg it totally is. kk well sweet dreams I'll ask you tomorrow <3
[6:31am] Satoru: Good Morning
[6:32am] Satoru: What did you want to ask me?
[8:06am] Y/N: do you workout
[8:13am] Satoru: That's what you wanted to ask me? Ryo and I go sometimes but I don't usually
[8:16am] Y/N: hmm
[8:16am] Y/N: send pic next time a juicy bicep pic
[8:16am] Y/N: plz plz plz
[8:18am] Satoru: Are you high?
[8:22am] Y/N: maybe
[8:22am] Y/N: still meant it
[8:23am] Satoru: I will not
[8:24am] Y/N: :'(
~~~~~
Gojo was sprawled out on the couch, long legs spread as he slouched. PS5 controller in his hands and eyes glued to the screen. Sukuna was similar, one leg propped up on the table in front of them. It was one of the few nights that they were both home without anything to do and decided to play some Fortnite together.
"Oh shit they're on me," Sukuna refocused on the TV. "Last two."
"I'm coming," Gojo pulled up just in time to eliminate the last player right as Sukuna went down. It was close but he managed to get the victory. "Nice man, about time I'm tired of getting our asses kicked."
"For real we were on a serious losing streak there," Sukuna set down the controller and stretched his arms out. "Classes have been good?"
"Yeah, It's a pretty light semester besides my one class," Gojo nodded. It always felt a little awkward at first when they did hangout. Once they found their groove it went smoothly - or maybe this was just another thing Gojo overthought about. "You?"
"Could be worse," he shrugged. Sukuna didn't care about his grades like Gojo did. As long as it was a pass that's all that mattered. "Yo, Geto was saying that he wished you'd come out with us more often."
"You know I'm not really a big fan of parties," he scratched at the back of his neck. The occasional one - sure - but he couldn't, nor did he want to, keep up with them. "Let me know you guys do something actually casual I'll try and make it."
They readied up for another round, the timer counting up at a particularly long wait in the lobby. Gojo tapped on the back of his controller as silence consumed them.
"Hey, uh," he started. How could he ask this without sounding like a creep? "You know Y/N right?"
"Yeah, she's one of Shoko's stoner friends. She comes out with us sometimes, comes in clutch when you want a joint. You seem to already know her, what's up?"
"Just..." Gojo trailed off as they entered a new game. "Just want to know more about her I guess. She um, took care of me at the party when I got too drunk. Been talking to her ever since."
"Man you were fucked," Sukuna laughed at the memory. Not in a condescending way, but it still put of spike of anxiety through Gojo. "She's good like that though. Happy to take care of people if she thinks they deserve it. Puts 'em through hell otherwise. Naoya made that mistake already."
Gojo nodded along. They fought against a hard duo in the game and lost pretty almost immediately.
He set down the controller, took a sigh and leaned back against the couch. So she deemed him worthy enough to take care of? Would you still feel that way the next time? He enjoyed spending time with you, enjoyed texting you too even though he wasn't really a texter.
He found himself staying up later than he normally would to keep your conversations going just a little bit longer. He'd dive towards his phone at every notification.
"You like her?" Sukuna cocked a brow. Not what he expected Gojo's type to be at all. He'd expect some other nerdy girl that they could geek out together. Not a stoner with a rep of partying.
Gojo flushed. He liked seeing you, talking to you, he certainly liked admiring you too.
"Think you can handle someone like that? She's a lot more than what you're used to."
Gojo wasn't 'used' to anyone. He didn't date much, didn't sleep around with random people. He stuck to his usual crowd of intellects and didn't stray unless it was Sukuna driven. But he felt the difference with you. You didn't push him in a bad way, didn't ask for him to keep his interests and grades to himself. Like you'd only accept his true self and nothing less.
"Yeah man, I think I could."
~~~~~
"You're not even studying, don't you have better places to be than here?"
"Not really."
You were sitting across from Satoru in the library again. You found him here more often, sitting with him even if it was just for a few minutes between classes or for hours late at night. He spent a lot of time here - subsequently so did you.
It was clear he came here right after class - worn slacks that had been wrinkled throughout the day, a black sweater vest over his button up. Same glasses as usual hiding those beautiful eyes of his.
You learned Satoru had two main outfits - any variation of the one he was currently wearing which was generally for class and another of sweatpants and either a plain hoodie or some geeky shirt which was reserved for lounging. Only once have you seen him in jeans - which was at the party you both went to weeks ago.
In those weeks you'd seen him nearly every other day. In between it was texting - the occasional call.
Your friends teased you for adopting the 'campus nerd'. Shoko complained how you could be spending your time with such hotter for fun people - like Geto or Toji. Choso barked out a laugh every time you told him you couldn't hangout because you were with Satoru. Poor kid is going to be tainted by you he'd claim.
Choso was a complicated relationship. He'd sell you weed, smoke with you, fuck you sometimes when you really needed it. It was nothing serious - for both of you. Choso knew you didn't like him like that but he was happy to sink his cock into you when you asked so nicely. It worked.
Satoru was refreshing. He didn't act or think like your usual crowd. He asked about your life like he was genuinely curious not because it felt like a common courtesy. You could relax around him, be real without the influence of weed making you yourself. There were no dark basements hot boxed with 10 people sharing a blunt. No drunk fucks trying grab your ass. No back alley joints in the freezing weather.
There was quiet library hangouts. Video games in the dark, cuddled up in blankets. Listening to him babble about his physics courses because he genuinely loved what he was learning and it was fucking adorable. There were late night giggles and shared stories.
So no, he wasn't 'fun' like Geto or Toji, but he sure as hell made you laugh and enjoy yourself.
"Wouldn't you rather be back in your room instead of here?"
"Nah," you shook your head. "Mei Mei, my roommate - she's got this fucking weird relationship with her brother and he's over all the time. I don't like to be there when he's over."
Satoru nodded in understanding. It explained a lot for him as to why he's seen you here so many times before - and why you've joined him as well. Not that's going to complain about having you keep him company (even if it was distracting when he really needed to study).
"Sorry to hear that."
"Nah, it's fine," you shrugged. There were only a couple of months left in the academic year and you wouldn't have to live with her anymore. "Means I get to spend more time with you."
"Wouldn't you rather hang out with your friends?"
"Toru are you saying we aren't friends?" You pouted. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"
"No!" He squeaked out a little too loudly, receiving glares from some of the people nearby. "I just um, mean you're not obligated to keep me company."
Maybe your new obsession was watching his cheeks grow pink. It was so easy to make happen. You cheeks rested in your palms, elbows on the table, the same pout still there.
"Are you done studying?" Satoru shrugged. Not really but he could pick it up again later. Later when he was alone and could focus properly instead of looking up at you every two minutes. "Let's go get some food. There's a new udon place on campus that looks good."
Satoru's stomach growled at the mention of food. Regardless if he was done studying he realized how starving he was. Quickly, methodically, he packed up his things. The bag was slung over his shoulder and he was ready to go.
You asked him about what he had been working on as you made your way out of the library. He got into this whole explanation of his assignment and how exciting it was that new breakthroughs were still happening. His hands were dramatically telling the story right along with him.
You looked a little silly walking together. Satoru in his preppy outfit, hair perfectly styled and a clean backpack over his shoulders. You were the opposite - ripped up jeans, dirty sneakers that you'd been meaning to replace, oversized hoodie. He didn't seem to mind.
As per many times you were on your way to get food, you pulled a joint out from the metal case you carried around. A few hand rolled ones were safely nestled inside.
Satoru watched as you felt around in all your pockets, unlit joint hanging between your lips. Searching.
"Ah fuck," you cursed. You were missing your lighter again, they seemed to be disappearing more often lately. Not that they were pricey to replace but it was a real pain when you didn't have a single one on you and wanted to light up.
"Here," Satoru unzipped the small pocket on his bag and and pulled out a small, metal square. A lighter. A really nice Zippo one at that. You flipped it over in your palm, a sun was engraved on it. He clearly dropped some cash on this thing.
"Why do you have a lighter, you don't smoke at all?" You questioned, but graciously accepted it. Fucking Choso stole your lighter yesterday when you saw him. Piece of shit.
He watched you block the wind with your hand and the small glow emitting on your face as you lit it up. Satoru had watched you every time you lit up a joint when he was near, he couldn't help it.
It was the same every time. Your hand protecting the flame, the other flicking the lighter. Joint between your lips holding it up until the tip is lit. Eyebrows scrunched up just a little bit as you concentrated. One second. Two seconds. Puff of smoke past your lips. Body relaxing.
"You keep losing yours," he answered simply. Your eyes shot over to him.
"You went and bought a lighter just in case I didn't have one?" You asked, confirming if you were right. Satoru nodded.
He watched you several times in the last few weeks of digging around your bag for a lighter just to come up empty handed. Not only did he watch, but he remembered, he did something about it. He thought of you outside of your time together and put this selfless purchase just so he could maybe help you out.
Fuck.
That's so sweet. Literally the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for you even if it was something so small. He noticed your huffs when you didn't have a lighter on you. He noticed how you lost them, misplaced or forgotten them. He bought one, to keep on him, just in case it would be of use to you.
He didn't smoke. Didn't want to smoke. Yet here he was carrying around a lighter just for you.
Emotion waved over your, your heart suddenly aching.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
For the first time in a long time you felt tears threaten to well up in your eyes with glee.
Satoru stopped walking as you did. You looked between him and the lighter. His breath caught in his throat as you slammed into him, arms tight around his waist and cheek nuzzled into his chest. It took him a moment to realize what was going on, another until he returned your sudden hug.
"You're too kind to a tainted soul like me, Toru."
"You deserve the world, the moon and all the stars, Y/N."
~~~~~
[4:12pm] Y/N: can you plz help me with some homework. I'm dying here.
[4:14pm] Pinky Pie: For sure. When?
[4:19pm] Y/N: I'm at the library rn but whenever. it's not due for a week
[4:20pm] Pinky Pie: lol
[4:20pm] Pinky Pie: I'm here too where are you
[4:21pm] Y/N: LOLLLLLLLLL
[4:21pm] Y/N: I'm on the second floor by the window. ummm like the window that looks down in that corner where people go to makeout bc they think people can't see them but I can in fact see them.
[4:25pm] Pinky Pie: That's oddly specific.
[4:25pm] Pinky Pie: And I unfortunately know exactly which one you're talking about. Be there soon.
[4:27pm]: Y/N: thank youuuu. I offer buying you dinner in return.
[4:31pm] Pinky Pie: Don't worry about it, I'm happy to help you :)
[4:33pm] Y/N: wait are you wearing button up or sweater vest today
[4:34pm] Pinky Pie: A button up, why?
[4:34pm] Y/N: omg plz roll your sleeves up while explain things to me that'll be so hot. I'll even call you Sensei
[4:35pm] Pinky Pie: No.
~~~
[7:13pm] Sunshine: Mei Mei is gone 4 the weekend come over
[7:18pm] Pinky Pie: I'm not a booty call ask nicely
[7:23pm] Sunshine: Satoru can you please come over and watch movies with me to keep me company. Your presence would be most gracious.
[7:24pm] Pinky Pie: On my way!
The opening credits of Revenge of the Sith roared on your tv. Satoru insisted you watch the Star Wars movies in chronological order instead of by release order. The first two movies had been watched last weekend, now you were on the third.
Pizza was ordered and on its way. The two of you each cuddled up in your own blankets with an empty couch cushion between you. Your new perfect night in.
"Oh shit I forgot my water bottle in the kitchen," you realized, starting to get up before Satoru stopped you.
"No no, I'll go get it, you watch."
"Thank you Toru, help yourself to whatever you want in the fridge too," you told him. While he's gone, Anakin finally makes his first appearance on screen. You hear him clanking around in the kitchen.
He was comfortable in your space. Comfortable with you. No longer the awkward mannerism he had when you first met. More bold with his quips towards you. Smiling more, laughing more. The real him, not just this shell he uses to protect himself against the outside world.
He's not afraid to talk about the things he likes - even when he knows you don't understand any of it. He doesn't feel guilt when he comes to you excited that he aced another exam or ashamed when he didn't do quite as good as he wanted to.
He's noticed the same about you. You're not afraid to ask for his help with some homework. You'll lip him off just for fun because you know that he knows it's all just fun to get him embarrassed. He likes to answer all your silly questions.
Your legs were sprawled over his thighs as you watched in mostly silence. Satoru would point things out in the film as you watched. It was clear when there was a scene coming up that he had a fun fact to tell you about, he'd get all antsy and impatient for the scene to finish before explaining something about it.
The pizza arrives right after Obi Wan kills General Grevious.
Satoru once again offers to go get it. This time you pause the movie. He wobbles slightly as he stands but brushes it off from sitting for too long.
It's a long time before he gets back. Like way too long for just picking up a pizza from downstairs. Long enough that you're starting to worry if he locked himself out and couldn't get back in. Or maybe the delivery guy saw how pretty he is and tried to kidnap him.
You keep checking your phone to see if there's any texts or calls from him but nothing. Five more minutes then I'm going down to check on him.
In the next two your front door is clicking open and the warm smell of pizza fills your nose. Thank god.
"Something does not feel right," Satoru's legs are heavy as he carries both pizzas. His mouth is dry and his head feels light. He plops back down on the couch with such force that it gets pushed back.
"How so?"
"I feel... I don't know like..." Satoru tries to explain the feeling but can't grasp the words he's looking for. Something shocking considering he's usually so elegant with words.
It isn't until you notice the redness in his usually bright eyes do you realize he's right - something isn't right. There's a little smear of chocolate on his cheek - the side opposite to where you were sitting and hadn't noticed until now.
"Oh no," you realize what's going on.
"What? What's wrong?" Satoru starts to panic.
"Did you, um, eat any of the brownies out in the kitchen," you ask. The answer is obvious already. He nodded hesitantly. "How big of a piece?"
Satoru shaped out the approximate size he had with his hands.
"Oh no," you mumbled to yourself again. His eyes were so gone. His hands were sweaty as you grabbed them both into yours. "Toru, you're high as shit right now."
"I... I'm what?"
"You're high as shit."
"What?"
"I'm not repeating myself again." This is not good. Satoru had told you so many times that he didn't want to smoke weed. Although, this isn't really smoking. Now, you've accidentally gotten him stoned out of his mind - especially with the amount of brownie that he ate. "Those were pot brownies. I'm so sorry Toru I should have told you before hand."
"I'm high?" You nod. It's taking everything in you to hold back the laughter fighting to break out. This was not at all how you anticipated your night going.
"Are you okay?"
"I think so?" He sounded unsure. He looked down at his hands as if they'd give him the answer he was looking for. "I'm... so hungry. Everything feels heavy. I... my arms literally feel so heavy."
"Want me to feed you?" You joked. The first time high... he was lucky that it's the munchies and no lingering anxiety. Knowing him, you assumed it would have been the latter.
"Please?" He looks over at you with these beautiful glazed eyes, a little pout on his lips. So fucking pretty is what he is. There's a lightning of ache in you, there's a moment of wanting to indulge and a realization you couldn't.
"One slice, then the rest you're on your own."
Satoru moaned at his first bite. Fully moaned. Like moaned in the way that your thighs pressed together and your chest felt warm.
You were so close to him as it was, pressed into his side with his slice of piece in your hands. Hearing him like that? God it did not help with your earlier thoughts.
"I think this is the best pizza I've ever had," he chewed with his mouth open. This was so not like his usual self.
"You have the munchies, everything is going to taste good." Me included. "I'm so sorry Toru, I really didn't mean for this to happen."
"s'okay Sunshine," he was eerily calm about this. You expected him to panic and freak out, but here he was accepting it with open arms. "You always look so happy when you're smoking, I've been a little curious."
Oh my god Choso was right, you were corrupting him.
Satoru chomped his teeth together, silently asking for another bite.
He sat with his legs spread, arms loose at his sides. In a somewhat bold move, you decided to haul both of your legs overtop of one of his. Just so it's easier to feed him. He didn't seem to mind - going as far as to wrap his heavy arm around your waist.
"I don't want you smoking because of me, that's never been my intention."
"I'm not." Another big bite. "I wouldn't have if you didn't drug me."
"I didn't drug you!" You lightly smacked his chest with your free hand. "You drugged yourself. Never trust a brownie in a stoner's home."
"It feels like it's getting stronger," Satoru tried to explain the sensation he was feeling. His fingers nestled their way under you clothes, dragging them in little circles against your bare skin.
"It will, for a little while. Edibles kick in slowly and you ate a lot. If you start to feel sick at all let me know, okay? I don't want you to green out." He knew what that meant after a quick google search when he looked into weed - which he'd done not long after you started hanging out.
The single slice of pizza you promised to feed him was gone. He rested the open box on his other thigh, and you both chowed down. Clearly, you should have ordered two pizzas. Satoru ate nearly the entire large on his own with the exception of two measly little slices he left for you.
Next was a bag of chips.
A chocolate bar.
Another chocolate bar.
3 ginger ales.
Then there was the absurd amount of laughing as Anakin burned to death in Mustafar which was definitely not a scene you would have laughed at. He laughed so hard tears streamed down his face. Laughing as he poked your cheeks. Laughing at the sound your couch made when you reached to grab a sip of your water.
Finally, as Satoru reached the end half of his high, was the lanky limbs looking to snuggle into you.
He got tired as the movie ended. His already heavy limbs becoming even more limp as sleep threatened to take him over.
"Satoru, I'm not getting trapped under your on my couch - if you want to sleep go to my bed."
"I don't want to leave."
"I didn't say you had to leave I said go sleep in my bed." It was just his head laying on your thighs, one arm wrapped around them. He had a death grip on you. One of your hands rested in his hair, nails scratching along his scalp.
"Noooo," he whined shaking his head and holding you tighter. "Feels too nice like this."
"I can keep scratching in bed, promise."
This would be the second time you're having a sleepover. Though the first time Satoru couldn't remember any of it. This was a (mostly) conscious decision. You could have offered to go sleep in Mei Mei's room, you could have slept on the couch. The selfishness in you didn't offer either.
"Promise promise?"
"Yes, Toru."
So he followed you to your room. His feet dragging across the floors, blindly trusting you through the dark hallway to you room. The layout was different than his dorm, he didn't know where thing were but he trusted you fully.
So tired, Satoru peeled off his clothes like he was going to sleep in his own bed on instinct. It wasn't until you turned around did a quiet oh leave your lips at the sight of him near naked again.
"S-sorry, I'll put them back on," he reached for his pants. He was too sleepy to be thinking properly - too high to be thinking properly.
"S'okay, sleep how you're comfortable Toru." He didn't argue, just pulling back the blankets and slipping into your bed. "Close your eyes I'm changing."
He listened to you shuffling around, resisting the urge just to take a little peak. Just one, just to ease his curiosity. No. No he couldn't betray your trust like that.
The dim light that he could see behind his eyelids switched off, then the dip in the bed as you joined him. His breathing was so steady you though he fell asleep in that short amount of time.
Satoru wrapped his long arm around your torso, snuggling deep into your side as you were propped upright. As promised your hand went to his hair, continuing the motion you were earlier.
A quiet, barely audible moan slipped out. He must not of noticed that he did it because you didn't feel him tense, just relax more into you.
"Night Sunshine," Satoru mumbled out.
"Night Pinky Pie."
You didn't sleep at all that night. Not when Satoru pulled you in closer every chance he got. Not when you felt so safe and warm in the embrace of his arms. Not when your bare legs were tangled with his, chest to chest with no gaps between your bodies.
Not when he kissed the top of your head in his sleep.
~~~
[2:13pm] Sunshine: Sorry I'm late be there in 20 min
[2:14pm] Sunshine: bringing gifts dw
Gojo didn't mind that you were late. He was used to it by now between you and Sukuna.
He minded that you were on your phone giggling away on his bed while texting someone. He minded that you came strolling in here with hickeys on your neck.
When you complained earlier this week that Mei Mei was going to have her weird brother over all weekend, Gojo so kindly offered if you wanted to stay over so you didn't have to feel uncomfortable in your own home.
You told him you'd be over in the early afternoon - when in reality you pulled up late in the evening. Way past the 20 minutes you assured him you'd be.
Which was fine, he paced and waited anxiously as he waited for you, or even a text. Nothing until he probably walked four thousand steps in circles. And it was fine, it wasn't a strict timing for you to go over.
What wasn't fine?
What wasn't fine was the sudden possessiveness he felt over you as you kicked your feet to the texts you received.
It wasn't fine that he wanted to rip your phone out of your hands so he could pin you down to his bed and kiss you until you forgot whoever it was that you were texting.
His pen tapped against his desk with more force each time he heard you laugh. No amount of his assignment got completed, not when he couldn't focus on anything but you.
It was irritating enough as it was that for the last two weeks all he could think about was how you clung to him all night. When he woke up with you in his arms still and how you laid there for hours the next day talking and laughing - still cuddled up like it was something you did always.
He couldn't rid the feeling of his legs intertwined with yours, so smooth and bare. Or how it felt to have your fingers rub against his scalp and play with his hair. It was engraved in him.
You apologized profusely for accidentally drugging him with the weed brownies. Gojo seriously didn't mind - he was speaking the truth when he said he was curious about it. Not enough for him try to on his own but he wasn't mad about his night.
He learned two very important things that night: 1) he didn't care to be high again. It was fine but not his style. 2) He might just be addicted to having your body snug against his as he slept.
Gojo took an angry sip out of the coffee you brought him. His pen slammed down on his desk - unintentionally catching your attention.
"You okay, Toru?"
"Fine," he clipped.
"Are you almost done your assignment?"
"Not really."
"Do you wanna watch the next movie?"
Silence. Maybe too long of a silence while Gojo thought about his answer.
Of course he wanted to watch the next Star Wars movie with you, cozied up in his bed while it played on his laptop. Maybe you'd sit on opposite sides of the device, maybe you'd decide you wanted to nook yourself into his body. He'd get to smell the lingering traces of your perfume and the joint you smoked before coming up. He'd be forced to look at the fading bruises on your neck.
Forced to think about how you were in the bed of another man - which he had no right to be mad about. Not when you were nowhere close to being his. No - he was just your friend. Someone to pass the time with and didn't look at in the way he craved. He was just your nerdy little friend.
That's just how it was supposed to be.
Gojo was just a place holder until you got bored with him and moved onto the next friend.
"Toru."
He jumped, so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice you plant yourself behind him. Warm breath against the side of his neck as you whispered his name in his ear.
"You sure everything's okay?" You asked, slinging your arms over his shoulders from behind. He tensed slightly. Not enough for you to notice.
"Yeah." Lie. "Let's watch the movie I'll finish this later."
Gojo wished he was a little more shameful. You'd be disgusted at his thoughts the last week, late at night when he's alone. Nothing but the lingering feeling of your body against his and his perverted thoughts of you.
He wished he was more shameful about the way his dick was hard with you just on the other side of his bed. The hoodie you once wore was shed with how hot he kept his room leaving a skimpy little tank top that had your tits out on display for him.
Not for him.
No, he was just a friend.
You clearly had someone else to go fuck.
Your phone lit up again. Another text. His eyes darted to the screen. Choso. He's heard you say that name a few times but he didn't recognize the name outside of that.
It lit up again with a second text before you finally looked at it to answer. A smile cracked your lips as you read it. Gojo couldn't stop the annoyed huff this time - and with you so close you heard it loud and clear. Although his attention was on the laptop in front of him he could feel your stare.
"Satoru seriously what the fuck is going on with you." You paused the movie so his full attention had to be on you. "Do you not want me here? You've been ignoring me all afternoon."
Gojo stared at the paused screen. He couldn't share his true thoughts with you but he didn't know what else to say. How could he explain to you that he was ready to ruin this friendship you'd been cultivating for the last month and a half?
You watched him intently as you waited for an answer. The frustrated tic in his eyebrows, his lips in a thin line. His whole body was tensed up - even his fingers clasping in and out of a fist. This wasn't like the anxious mannerisms he had before, this was something else - something new that you'd never seen on him before.
It was jealously - but you'd never be able to figure that out on your own.
"Satoru."
"It's fine." He pressed play on the movie. It ran for about ten seconds before you paused it again.
"Satoru if you don't want me here I'm leaving," you gathered up your hoodie, the lighter you left on his bedside table and shoved it into your bag. You made it to the door, hand on the handle when he finally spoke again.
"To Choso?"
Gojo watched you freeze. The name was foreign on his lips but he was certain it was the same one you were moaning recently. His body moved without his mind keeping up - up off the bed towards you and your still frame.
One hand of his rested against the door. His body hovered so closely behind yours that he could feel the heat radiating off of you. Too close, too close. Your smell, your breathing, all of it was too much on his already overloaded senses from overthinking every little thing.
"Don't go to him."
You flipped around, an angered look in those hazy, stoned eyes of yours. It didn't last long, not when he was so close to you and you suddenly felt oh so small. Gojo was always tall, a little lanky but some muscle hidden in there. Now, before you, he felt huge towering over you. Trapping you between himself and your one route of escape.
"Toru I-" you cut yourself off. There was a lot going through that pretty little head of yours, he could see it in your eyes, all over your face, even the way your voice felt forced.
This feeling in his chest, this yearning that he gets only for you, it's overpowering. Consuming. Every nerve in him gravitates towards you. It's unbearable.
He shouldn't feel this way, shouldn't think this way about someone he'd consider his best friend. Yet, here he is, standing with your body pressed against his and his gaze glued to your parted lips.
His hand is burning against your skin as he cups your cheek. Maybe it's your own skin that's an inferno. His thumb slides back and forth over your cheek bone, still staring at your lips.
Gojo aches all over. Aches for you.
Slowly, ever so slowly, does he lean closer to you. You can feel his pulse in his hand, thumping so erratically that you fear he might work himself up too hard into a panic.
There's a jolt that shoots through his entire body as his lips barely graze yours. Not a kiss, hardly even a touch - but it's enough for him to feel it. Enough for him to brush against them again, more this time - more until you do anything besides stand there in shock.
He wants to kiss you, fuck does he need to. Gojo stops himself, pulling back just an inch but the taste of your lips is already part of him.
"I'll stay."
Your voice so quiet, so barely audible that he's not sure if he's just imagined you saying it. Finally, he looks up to your eyes. He swears they're glazed with unshed tears but the darkness of his room doesn't give enough for him to be sure.
"I want to stay. With you."
You're louder this time but shaky. Like there's something else that you want to say to him but too afraid to voice it. He gets it - he knows exactly what that's like.
So he doesn't push. Gojo grabs your shaky hand and leads you back to his bed.
The movie long forgotten about as your limbs become a tanged mess together. Gojo's hold on you is tighter than it's been before - like if he loosens it even just a little you'll slip away from home. You prefer it anyway, makes you feel needed.
Truthfully, Gojo does need you.
~~~
"You're twitching."
This was bad. Really bad.
Sleeping with Choso was not what you planned when you went to pick up some weed from him. It wasn't your intention at all. Instead he opened his door with nothing but some shorts on and invited you inside. It was supposed to be a quick trip until his hands were on your body and his lips nipping at your neck.
It wasn't a mistake, but you still felt guilty about it seeing how broken Satoru looked at you knowing what you did. That shit hurt your soul.
"S'fine."
Shoko found you in your dorm, so fucking high that she was worried you'd green out. It started with a joint. Then some edibles. Then another joint when the edibles didn't get in fast enough and when they finally did hit you were so zoinked you could barely keep your eyes open and your body involuntarily twitched.
You just wanted to stop these thoughts ricocheting around in your mind about Satoru.
Every time you closed your eyes all you could feel was his body pressed against yours. His lips - how that half a second led your mind to wander how they would feel everywhere. The way he towered over you in such a dominating matter that you'd never sensed from him before.
Fuck.
You shouldn't have slept with Choso again. But at the same time you wanted him to mark you up everywhere just to see the kind of reaction Satoru would give.
Maybe he'd kiss you until you couldn't breath. Maybe he'd pin you against the door for real this time and fuck you until your legs were numb. Or he'd make marks of his own, bigger darker ones that would take weeks to full fade.
But that wasn't your Satoru. He wasn't like that.
The weed wasn't enough to drown the thoughts. Not how you wanted it to. They were still there, idling, ready to kick back to life the second you hinted at bringing it to the forefront.
He was too good for you. Too smart. Too kind. Everything that you weren't. A special grade student who was at the top of his class and deserved it. He shouldn't be bumming around with someone like you anyway.
"What's with you?" Shoko pushed. She'd seen you go through these phases before - a slump of sorts. This felt different.
"I think I'm in love," you admit out loud. "With someone I don't deserve."
There was a beat of silence as she took it in. Shoko had her suspicions. You didn't usually latch your time onto one person but Satoru had been consuming every spare moment from you.
"Gojo?"
"Yeah."
"What about Choso?" Shoko knows about the two of you. But she's also well aware that you've been spending almost all your free time with Sukuna's roommate.
"Nothin' serious. He knows." Sure he'd be annoyed but he had women left, right, and center to choose from. "s'different with Satoru. He sees my fucking soul. Reads it and still wants it."
"Then why not?"
Why not?
Because you might lose him for good. Might fuck this up so badly that you'd never recover. Might corrupt him and have to live with knowing that the rest of your life. There's too many what ifs.
"s'not fair to 'im," you decide on. "He's the sun and I'm nothing but the moon."
~~~~
[2:12pm] Sunshine: how was your exam
[2:12pm] Sunshine: Shoko mentioned a party tonight do you want to go
[3:47pm] Pinky Pie: No. Exam was shit. Fucking pissed.
[3:53pm] Sunshine: awe im sorry toru. want me to come over?
[3:56pm] Pinky Pie: no. at the gym.
[3:58pm] Pinky Pie: *Image Attached*
[4:02pm] Sunshine: im frothing at the mouth for real let me have your babies
[4:06pm] Pinky Pie: Freak
"How did you even get in?"
"Sukuna before he left."
You were sprawled on Satoru's couch, a feast of his favourite food scattered on the coffee table. When he told you his exam didn't go well you nearly sprinted over this his favourite spot to try and cheer him up when he got back from the gym.
He wore a loose shirt that clung to him from the sweat and a pair of shorts. Although he still had on his glasses, he did opt to wear a backwards hat to keep the hair out of his face and fuck did it look good on him.
"Can you do me a big favour and flex your biceps for me?"
That got him to crack a smile. Finally, he didn't give any when he walked in and saw you there.
"I sent you a picture, was that not enough, Sunshine?" Satoru walked past you towards his room. This felt so... normal. Like he was used to coming home to you and listening to you flirt with him. He liked it.
The fear that lingered in him over the last few times he saw you was dissipating. He wasn't sure how you were going to react to his near out burst but you'd been fine about it. No awkwardness, no pressing him for information. Just existing together as you always do.
You turned around on the couch so you could watch him. Satoru stripped his shirt and tossed it in his laundry hamper. Freshly worked muscles gleamed with sweat.
"Stop," he glared over at you. It wasn't often he went to the gym but today he felt like he needed to with the shitty exam he just finished that morning. Although it helped with his mood, coming home to see you waiting there made it significantly better.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're staring," he shot back. His cheeks were nearly red with shyness. "I need to shower."
"Can I watch that too?" You grinned. Satoru slammed the bathroom door shut, shaking his head to the sound of your cackles on the other side. Five seconds later he cracked it back open, sticking just one half of his body out and flexing his arm just as you had asked. "Awooooga!"
He slammed it closed even harder than the first time and you were certain that he was terribly flustered.
Anything to get his mind off his bad mood and shitty exam. Not to mention it felt... easy flirting with him. Sure you loved watching him get all embarrassed by it, but it never felt forced with him. It was natural, just as everything with him was.
Your confession with Shoko blurted out of you from the high-induced comatose state you were in but it was entirely true. These little pockets of teasing him were the closest thing you'd get to having him. Satoru deserved someone like him - smart, kind, true to themselves. Someone that you could never be.
That was the sad truth of it all.
He'd learn soon enough that you couldn't be enough for him.
Maybe it'd be easier to go fuck Choso again, just to drive home the point that Satoru shouldn't want you. It'd be easier to hang off the arm of your plug while Satoru watched and realized. It be easier, sure, but the thought of doing something like that to him made you nauseous.
The shower turned off, a few minutes later he came out with just a towel around his waist. You sat on the couch, arms on the back as you watched him fiercely.
Water droplets slid down his body, hair pushed back out of his face. A trail of white hairs leading down to beneath the towel. Fuck he was sexy like this. Thankfully, he couldn't see the way your thighs pushed together at the sight of him.
He stood at his door with a glare at you, shutting the door with such force again. Maybe you'd been a little too obvious with your staring this time.
Satoru took his time in his room. You liked to think maybe he was jerking one out real quick to the thought of you but if you fell down that rabbit hole of thoughts you'd likely pounce on him the moment he walked out. Instead, you focused on the fact that his food was cold and needed to be reheated.
"You didn't have to get all this for me," he startled you. It wasn't just the food you were heating up, but the sweets and cakes he saw lined up for him too. "It's not your job to fix my bad mood."
"'course it is Toru," you stopped to turn towards him. "I'd be a shitty friend if I didn't help."
"Thank you," he helped grab the hot takeout boxes and bring them back to the living room. "I don't deserve this much kindness."
Your head snapped over to him. Him? Not deserving this kindness? There were so many arguments you wanted to make against those words but you'd been so shocked that none came out.
"I'm sorry for the other day," he continued on. "I... I shouldn't have gotten mad at you. I'm sorry for my behavior."
Ah. The Choso issue. It seemed you were both avoiding that conversation until now. It must have been bothering him if he felt the need to apologize for it. There was nothing to apologize for.
"Don't be," you waved him off. "It was hot."
"Why can't you take me seriously," he deadpanned.
"I am," you assured, mouth full of food. You swallowed before continuing. "It was hot. And you don't need to apologize for that. If I was upset I'd tell you."
He knew you would. You had before when you told him you didn't like when he showed up to your place too ahead of schedule because you weren't ready yet. You told him when you didn't like how he always assumed you had something better to do than be with him. He trusted that about you.
"Promise it's okay?"
You raised your pinky up in response. He latched his own around it, a smile on his lips. Pinky promise.
"You wanna talk about your exam?" He didn't question your change in topic. Instead, he bitched about how his quantum mechanics professor is the biggest shithead on campus who's out to get all of his students. Even Satoru, top of the class, wasn't able to answer some of the questions.
He had a scowl on his face between complaints. A scowl as he ate his food. It only lessened when he finally got to the desserts that you brought for him. He had such a sweet tooth it was adorable.
"God this is fucking delicious," he moaned out, mouth full of the sweet cream he scrapped off the top of the small cake. A dallop was on the corner of his lips until his tongue darted out to wipe it clean. You bit the inside of your cheek to stop any lewd comments from coming out.
He scooped up another, this time pointing the spoon towards you. His eyes refused to leave yours as tried the cream. A burning intensity was behind them. You let out a delighted hum at the taste.
"You're right," you nodded in agreement. You hadn't quite gotten all the cream off the spoon. Satoru - either consciously or unconsciously - licked the rest of it clean. He seemed to enjoy it a little more than the first time knowing your tongue had just been on it. "I'm glad you're enjoying it."
"'m enjoying it more because you're here, Sunshine. Thank you again, I was in a pretty foul mood."
You leaned into him some, hand going to the back of his neck to play with the little hairs there. He shivered at the sudden touch before falling into it more.
"Why do you call me that?" He frequently called you Sunshine, it was cute and you liked it but you still weren't sure where he got it from.
"Because you are my sunshine," he shrugged. "You light up my days, make everything brighter."
How is able to say something like that with such nonchalance but can't handle a single comment about how hot he is?
"That's not true," you shook your head. He was the sun. He had always been the sun. From your first meeting, to now, until the day you died he'd be the light you were drawn to.
"It is true," his eyebrows scrunched together with a new sternness. "You listen to me talk about my classes and the shows I'm interested in even though I know you don't really care about either you still pay attention. You look out for me when I'm not doing well. You keep me company in the library for hours even though you don't need to be there.
"You're always the first one I feel comfortable to go to when there's things on mind. You watched a movie I mentioned once just so that I'd get excited to talk to you about it. You're there for me, through all the tough shit and ready to celebrate even the smallest of wins. I've never had someone like that before so yeah, you are my Sunshine."
"Toru..." your voice cracked.
There was a new kind of ache in your chest. Not the anxious one or the frustrated one. Not the one of longing that you've held for your white-headed friend in front of you. This was something you had never experienced. This ache was the realization of belonging.
Satoru's words filled your heart with such a love and belonging that your eyes welled with tears. He cared this deeply about you?
This ache, this need that you felt... you couldn't let it go. You never wanted to let it go. Fuck it to knowing that he deserved better, you couldn't fathom the thought of someone else having this feeling with him.
His hand reached up, wiping away the stray tears that were falling. You nearly collapsed into him with your arms around his neck, nuzzling yourself into it. Fat, wet tears fell harder onto his skin.
Satoru, without hesitation, enveloped you into his body, pulling you against him even tighter. His hand rested at the back of your head, the other drawing soothing circles into your waist where your shirt rode up.
"S'okay my Sunshine," he murmured. "I'm not going anywhere, I'm here."
"Satoru?" You pulled away just enough to meet his eyes. "Promise you won't leave me?"
Just as you had earlier, he pulled his pinky out between you. You latched yours to his. Tears still slipping down your neck. Never had you felt this vulnerable with someone before. This emotional vault you've cracked open just for him... it was in his hands to pry open and fill it.
"Satoru," you swallowed hard, "I'm in love with you."
It was out and he knew. Whatever he did past that, it didn't matter because at least this weight is free. You wanted to be greedy, to take all of his love for yourself but if he didn't want that you'd manage. Manage but go through life with an empty void if he wasn't there with you.
He wiped your tears with the pad of his thumb before pressing it into your bottom lip that was pouted. Silent still as he leaned his forehead against yours. He was so close you could hear his quiet shaky breath. Like he was nervous too. Like he wanted to tell you something that was so buried deep he couldn't dig it out.
You sat together for what could have been an eternity. Your chest cracking bit by bit as each moment passed and you couldn't tell how he felt about this sudden confession.
If this was your last moment with him, you'd stay as long as you could in silence just to cherish it.
Satoru pulled back just enough to press his lips into your forehead. The frames of his glasses had been digging into your skin and you couldn't be bothered to notice until the pressure was gone. You thought he remained composed, more so than you, but wet droplets slid down your forehead.
He was crying.
Your arms around him tightened, maybe too much as he let out a dry, choked sob against you.
"My Sunshine," he whispered with a crack. "I love you. I never want to leave you."
Those beautiful blue eyes of his that you loves so dearly were brimmed with tears. His cheeks stained with salty tracks just as yours were.
"Say it again," he asked, "please."
"I love you, Satoru."
"Can I kiss you now, please?" You managed a meek nod. Satoru's sweaty palms encased your cheeks. The small distance between you felt infinite as he leaned in, slowly, unsure of himself. If this were even real or not.
His kiss was hesitant, lips barely grazing yours - a second chance for you to back out of his before his heart could get too shattered. He knew once he kissed you fully, he'd never be able to let you go.
You knew for certain he didn't want to let you go when he kissed you for real. When his lips crashed so feverishly against yours that you could feel his love oozing out. It was needy and a mess of lips and tongue but you needed more of it. Needed to feel this way every fucking day until you died.
Needed to hear him moan against your mouth just from kissing you every fucking day.
He was eager which lead to sloppiness, drool pooling at the corner of your lips. Smearing down your chin as your tongues fought. Your hands were everywhere on him, under his shirt, tugging at the little hairs at the nape of his neck, up his thighs.
Satoru pushed you down on the couch, your legs tucked between each of his as he hovered over you. His chest was heaving. His cheeks so sweetly pink. Glasses fogged up just enough to dampen that bright blue hue.
"I love you," he repeated. Over and over again between each of his kisses, mumbling it into your mouth as if he were scared you'd leave if he stopped.
Half of his weight was on you, the rest supported by the forearms he rested on and his knees. He was too tall for the couch, cramped up and clearly uncomfortable but it didn't matter when he was kissing you like this. He couldn't notice anything besides the way it felt to have you lips against his.
He whined as his hips fell into yours. Shameless grinding against you with his hardness. His thickness was evident even through all the layers of clothes. Moaning now as you maneuvered your legs to wrap around him, pressing him harder into you.
"F-fuck, oh my god I love you so much."
"Toru," your breath was shaky as his lips nipped and sucked the thin skin of your neck. Marking you as his. Course you were his, everyday from here on out. Mine. Mine. Mine. "Your room."
Clumsily, without leaving your lips, the two of you stumbled into his room. Every step nearly ended in tripping as he guided you backwards, too consumed with you to even thinking about parting for even the small distance. You laughed into each other as he closed the door with his foot.
The back of your knees hit the edge of his bed and you tumbled onto it. He stood before you, panting, red, flustered with emotion. Satoru peeled off his shirt, leaving that strong torso you'd been admiring not even an hour ago to your view.
You reached out to him, hands gliding over his lean muscles, then to the white trail of hair you quickly grown to love. He shuddered as you traced along his waistband.
"Can I..." he started, unsure of himself, "can I please taste you?"
"Learn to take, Satoru, not to ask."
So he did. Without hesitation dropping to his knees at the edge of his bed, fingers latching into the band of your pants and shimming them down your legs ever so slowly. Taking, but hesitant.
Has he done this before? Was he a virgin? Satoru was so handsome, he could easily get girls with his looks alone but he was so damn awkward you weren't sure. Worse, you worried if you asked that he'd be offended.
He looked so beautiful kneeled between your legs. His broad shoulders were wedged between them, glasses falling down his nose as he looked up at you. He didn't look away from you as he finished removing your pants. Like he was waiting for your permission to take.
A small nod was enough.
Enough for him to wrap those big biceps of yours around the underside of each of your thighs and pulled the apart. He pulled you more to the edge of the bed, the motion causing you to fall back.
"So fucking pretty," he kissed up your legs. Every other kiss was a sharp bite into your skin, just to be soothed with the flat of his tongue. "Baby she's glistening already. All for me right?"
Not a virgin. No way.
"Toru please," you whined. Your ankles rested on his back, you pressed your heels into him in hopes it would urge him to continue on.
He obliged, a small kiss straight to your clit. Delicate, barely there, but enough to have your thighs tensing. Again and again, his lips barely there driving you crazy already. Glistening... you'd be dripping soon enough.
Satoru paused, just for a moment. Enough to have you whining his name, enough for you to miss his bare touch. Enough that when he went back to your sweet pussy, you cried out from the shock of his aggression.
"Oh my god!" Your back arched as Satoru relentlessly licked and sucked between your thighs. His tongue flicked across your clit, slurping up every bit of your juices that he could along the way. He'd feel your thighs tighten when he switched to sucking, tighter when he went harder.
Your fingers clutched into the sheets, his hair, everywhere just to try and stabilize yourself with the overwhelming pleasure. He'd moan even harder when you tugged at his roots.
"Toru, fucking - oh fu CK!"
His tongue glided between your soft folds, desperate for more of your sweetness. Desperate like he'd been dreaming of this for months now.
He couldn't even part long enough from you to run through the nasty, disgusting thoughts streaming through his mind. How could he when you tasted so fucking good for him? He couldn't do anything besides vibrate moans against you.
His fingers were tight on your thighs to stop your squirming. Each time his nose would brush against your clit your hips would be bucking up - just as your empty pussy would be spasming around nothing.
Satoru was a messy eater. So much of his drool mixed with your juices, dripping down onto his bed but he was so drunk off your taste he couldn't care less. He sucked on your clit, moaning into it almost louder than you. You were close, whining and pleading for him to keep going so you could cum all over his tongue.
The tension grew, more and more until suddenly it was gone.
Satoru's lips no where near your aching pussy, his hands loose on your thighs. Leaving you right on the edge, aching and panting for what could have been.
" m'sorry, m'sorry," he was nearly on the verge of tears with his apologies. "Didn't want to stop but you taste so fucking good if I kept going I was going to cum in my pants, m'sorry baby I'll make it up to you I promise so sorry."
Oh. My. God.
Was he seriously about to cum just from eating you out? No grinding or jerking, just from pleasing you? That's probably the hottest thing he could have ever done.
"S'okay Toru," you assured, still out of breath from the sheer pleasure he just put you through. He pushed himself up, crawling up the bed until he kneeled above you once more. Your hands reached out to the tent in his sweats, just barely brushing over it had his abs tightening. He pushed the hem of his pants down, just enough for his achy cock to spring up.
You knew he was going to be big, but you didn't expect him to be this beautiful. Such a pretty pink tip covered in precum. Long, veiny, just a slight curve. Stark white pubes were trimmed down.
His tip leaked so much, just as he said it had been. So close to cumming just from tasting you.
"I want to give it a kiss," you pulled down his pants even more until he had to lift his knees to pull them off the rest of the way.
"I'm going to cum if you do," he shakes his head. You believed him. He pulled up the bottom of your sweater, up over your head. Your sweet lacy bra next. "Fucking beautiful."
Satoru leans down to kiss you again, slower this time. It's not the eager kind he's been giving you, it's full of all the love he's stored up for you over your time together. Wet kisses trail down your neck until reaching the valley of your chest.
The left one first - tongue swirling, sucking, a light bite as he pulls away to do the same to the next one. His hand teases between your legs. Teasing until you're whining for more of him and he finally dips two fingers into your dripping, needy hole.
Instantly his fingers curl up, pressing around until you're moaning at one particular spot. Over and over again he's jamming into it as he marks your tits with his teeth and lips.
"S'fucking soaking down here," he pants.
"Feels - ah - feels so good," you're a mess for him. Legs wrapped around his body, clawing at his back. "Please n-need you inside me."
"I don't have any condoms," he warned. His fingers curl again, enticing one more moan out of you before he pulls them from you. Methodically almost, he licks them clean.
"I'm on the pill." Satoru hesitates but nods. He trusts you. Not to mention he wants to feel you properly, entirely.
"Are... are you high right now?" He sounds weary to ask, like he's scared to ask or to know the answer. He's never minded you being high or complained about it. He loved every version of you.
"Not even a little bit."
"Good," he teased the head of his cock between your wet folds. His breath was shaky at the sensation. He pulled on of your ankles up to his shoulder, the other wrapped around his waist. "I want you to feel all of this properly."
Satoru's room became a symphony of moans as he pressed into you. Inch by fat inch stretching you out in the most delicious way.
"Fuck, squeezing me in hnngh so tight, Sunshine," his head fell back at the pleasure. He pulled back just a little, not even the whole way in yet. Teeth bit down into the fat of calf, he was trying so desperately not to blow his load before even fully inside you. He gave himself only a moment to compose before slamming his hips so hard into your the wind knocked out of your lungs.
"Shit, Toru, so deep!" He pulled your second leg up over his shoulder, arms wrapped around your thighs so you couldn't squirm.
He was a mess. Even more than he was with his lips on your pussy. More than his first kiss with you. More than he'd ever been in his life. Moans and cries as his hips jutted into yours with barely any rhythm.
"unghh - you feel so good," he was deep into you, grinding his hips as he leaned into you. Your thighs getting closer and closer to your chest. Impossibly deeper. "S-stick out your tongue."
Mindlessly, you did. What a fucking sight. Satoru groaned, admiring your fucking out face. Hazy, glassy eyes that he's seen nearly every time you're high but now... now it was all because of him that you looked like this. Fucked out and needy for him. High on the pleasure he was giving you.
"Fucking gorgeous," he pressed into you harder, fully bending you in half so he could kiss your lips. "My pretty girl. Mine."
"Yes Toru - ah!" You cried out with the overwhelming pleasure. He was getting close, balls slapping into you with each plap! plap! plap! "'m all yours. So, ungh, full."
Obscene squelching filled the room. You're disgustingly drenched with each languid movement of his.
Satoru's glasses slipped down with the sheen of sweat covering him. He got tired of them, ripping them off and tossing them to god knows where. Those eyes you loved so dearly were filled with need.
"'m not gonna, fuck, last," he warned. One hand stabilized himself on the bed, the other roaming your body. Squeezing your tits, dragging along your waist until finally resting at your neck. His fingers just lightly pressing into the sides, just enough for your eyes to widen at the sudden wash of pleasure. "Can't look at me, nngh! like that, fuck I'm going to cum. Please baby, cum with me."
"Mmm close," your dug your nails into his arms. "H-harder!"
He obliged. Cock snapping harder into you, each strike causing your breath to get caught in the tighter grip around your throat. A string of curses left you both, whining of each others names as the pleasure grew to it's peak.
It snapped within you all at once. A sharp, intense pleasure that started in your core and spread everywhere within you. Your eyes rolled, back arching off the bed. Sweet, sweet pussy clamping and spasming so tightly around Satoru that he was following you in seconds. Fucking you through your release and chasing his own.
"Oh fuck, squeezing me so much, g-gonna cu- ah fuck fuck fuck!" Hot spurts of him filled you. He couldn't pull out - probably didn't even try to. Satoru moaned your name out as his length twitched against your walls.
"m'sorry."
"Sorry?" You panted, legs loosening against him until they slipped to either side of his sweaty body. He leaned down to kiss you sweetly, so softly compared to everything he'd just given you.
You winced as he pulled out of you, instantly feeling his release pour down you and onto the bed. Satoru groaned at the lewd sight. His fingers instantly went to the white mess, collecting up the drop seeping from you.
"Sorry for making such a mess inside you." Half joking- you stuck your tongue out. He didn't hesitate to stick his digits inside your mouth and watch you suck them clean.
"Oh my god I'm going to get hard again," he pulled them out before he really did get hard. He didn't think he could handle cumming twice so quickly, not when the first one was so intense. "I love you. I love you so much."
"I love you more," You beamed up at him. He kisses you again, long and passionate. With one tug of his arm he falls into you, big bicep around your waist as your naked bodies lay close. "You are perfect, Satoru."
He's not by any means and he knows it. He knows he's bad for cutting you off mid story. And that he's greedy when it comes to your time. He knows he can be stuck up with his grades and intelligence. He's looked down on other before because they're not like him.
But, he's going to be fucking perfect at loving you.
~~~~~
"Toruuuuuu."
"Yes, my love?"
"Come meet me," Your phone was tucked between your ear and your shoulder, half burnt join between your fingers as you hid from the wind.
Satoru basically lived in the library the last couple of weeks. Final exam season was coming up quickly and he was studying almost nonstop. Which was perfectly fine, you joined him sometimes, other times let him focus so he could get what he needed to done and find his way into your bed late at night.
You would never ask him to take away his hours of important studying to be with you instead, not when you knew how important it was to him. Still though, it didn't mean you didn't miss him or tried to steal him for a few minutes between breaks.
"Where are you?"
"Look out the window." Satoru sat in the corner of the second floor in the library, against in the window where he could perfectly see the hidden little spot between buildings where couples would go to make out. Instead, he saw you, beaming up at him with a wave. He chuckled over the phone.
"I'll be there in a second." He hung up, shaking his head at how cute you looked down there.
You finished up the smoke and pulled out a stick of fruity gum to mask the taste of the weed. As much you restrained yourself from wanting all of Satoru's time - he felt a similar way of kissing you after you smoke. He'd never say no to your kisses, but you certainly noticed the level of passion he'd give when you weren't smoking. It became a new habit to smack some gum before seeing him.
Loving him was easy. Navigating the compromises, as for anyone, had it's learning curves. Learning, but never fighting.
Learning to love that he needed to touch you in some way when you slept in the same bed. Learning to love the way he gets so engrossed in his studies that he'll sometimes forget you're laying on his bed. Learning to love every little piece of him.
Learning that even if you were two totally different people, that there was always a way to find love in the unexpected.
"Hey Sunshine," Satoru peaked his head around the corner. He opted to leave his things on the table he was studying, knowing this was going to be just a quick break for him before he needed to get back to the books. The gum you were chewing was spit back into the wrapper.
His hands slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him as he gave a soft kiss your lips. Before he could pull away you were kissing him deeper, tongue sliding against his lips until he gave in. He walked you backwards until your back hit the brick wall.
"Hi my handsome," you mumbled between kisses. Your hands were laced behind his neck, keeping him from pulling away.
Hidden away between the bustling of other students, Satoru kissed you with all his love, all his need. He moaned into your mouth, grasping at every inch of bare skin under your shirt. He was bold today.
His body was flushed against yours, enough so that you could feel his cock stirring to life in the middle of campus. He pulled away before it got worse.
"You can't just kiss me like that in public," he huffed, looking down at the half-mast tent he was sporting in his slacks. His cheeks were tinged pink, just as you loved.
"You kissed me back like that," you argued, "wanna feel how we my panties got?"
"Stop." You leaned up to peck his lips once more. Even in these months, getting him blushing was still your favourite thing to do. "Did you call me down here for just a kiss?"
"Mostly," you shrugged, toying with the buzzed undercut he recently got freshened up. "I also wanted to tell you that I love you, too."
"I love you more." He had a cheesy grin on his cheeks, never in his life would he get tired of hearing those words from you. Satoru was yours, in every way, and he'd be sure to keep it that way forever. "I do have to get to studying though, I want to get as much done this week as I can so we can enjoy our weekend together."
"Mmm you still want to go? We can stay home." Satoru's hands were firm on your hips, tugging you impossibly closer to him as you offered to skip the year end party Sukuna invited you both to this weekend.
"We can go, you want to."
"Yeah but I like staying in with you too," you argued. He shook his head, insisting that you both go see your friends before they leave for the summer. "Are you going to hold your liquor this time or go hard again?"
"You going to take care of me again, Sunshine?" You wiggled your arm between the two of you, holding up your pinky for him to interlock. He chuckled as he did, kissing your lips with a smile on his own.
"I promise to, Pinky Pie."
a/n: eeee!!!!! omg I can't believe it's done I was so excited to write this!!! I hope you all enjoyed <3 it feels good to be back into writing
ᨒ the daughter of the town mayor, you, have always lived a life of ease and comfort. until the day you’re kidnapped by a feared and ruthless outlaw wanted for crimes across multiple counties: toji zenin. toji plans to use you as a bargaining chip to blackmail your father, but as time goes by, the connection between you grows more complicated.
for you, this is your first taste of real danger and the harsh realities of the world outside your sheltered life. for toji, you’re initially just a means to an end, but you begin to slowly break through the hardened exterior he’s built to survive ˓˓
characters. outlaw!toji zenin x mayor’s daughter!reader. wild west au. includes fluff, smut and angst. implied age gap (reader early 20’s, toji early 30’s) cw’s are included seperately in the fics down below !
MAIN STORY ␥ BACKGROUND INFO
꒰ ꒰ PROLOGUE: outlaws from the west
꒰ ꒰ CHAPTER 1 : dust and whiskey
꒰ ꒰ CHAPTER 2
❑ taking shelter in a shady inn with toji on the outskirts of a faraway town, you’re forced to share your bed. as if that wasn’t enough, you’re awakened by him carrying your half-naked body along on the run from . . . bounty hunters ?
SYNOPSIS: you’re megumi’s best friend first, but you can’t help also being his dad’s biggest mma fan
PAIRING — mma!toji fushiguro x uni!reader
CONTENT — MDNI, angst, NSFW, filthy, age gap, nsfw, thigh riding, pet names, MAJOR spit kink, virginity loss, corruption kink, spanking, cheating, daddy kink, pussy slapping, cunninglingus, creampie, unprotected, dacriphilia,
A/N — end of fic for informational + donation links 🍉
you were just a girl. and being a girl you obviously fangirled over silly things.
it varied really. you fangirled over one piece, aot, video game characters, film characters, peaky blinders, game of thrones, k-dramas, and of course sports. you had silly crushes on soccer players, but the one athlete who truly dominated your heart was the best mma fighter of all time and that was none other than, Toji Fushiguro.
“megumiiii!” you run over to the boy, throwing yourself on his back making him stumble, just as yuuji came, also jumping on megumi.
nobara was running as well with her shopping bags and boba before gasping for air by the time she reached the doorstep of the fushiguro household.
“we missed you!” yuuji whines. the three of you decided to pay megumi a visit after his weeklong absence due to his cold.
“get off me.” he grunts.
“it’s okay! we don’t care that you’re sick!” you dramatically cry out, yuuji crying as well as you kiss megumi’s cheek—
“It’s not because I’m sick, but because you idiots are heavy!” megumi shoves you and yuuji as he stumbles back. his vein was throbbing on his forehead, only making the three of you bark with laughter.
“y/n, and I will cook for you!” nobara was already shoving her way inside as you trailed after. taking over the fushiguro kitchen as yuuji dragged megumi back inside, crashing in the living room. everyone making themselves at home, as if they’ve lived here for years. megumi didn’t say anything. only commenting about not burning their hands again, because the truth is megumi missed them too.
snuggling into the blanket, yuuji played the new game megumi had bought. nobara had maki on speaker as she tried to give instructions on the new curry recipe. while you lounged on the counter scrolling through your phone—
“smells good.” the deep voice sent shivers down your spine. you glanced up to see the man you fantasized about, before even meeting megumi. you’d known megumi since your first year at university. but it wasn’t until you made a joke about how him and the mma fighter have the same last name did everything click.
“ya, he’s my dad.” your fate was sealed. you could never ever ever have sex with your idol, because he was your best friends dad.
how the heavens have cursed you.
but that didn’t stop you from always trailing behind the man. smiling brightly, rambling about your classes, telling him about how the professor hates you but loves megumi. you’re happy he never noticed the way your cheeks would sting every time you’d speak to him, or when he’d look at you, or when he’d pat your head, or when he’d-
“nobara is about to burn it though,” you mutter, behind your hand, toji looking over at nobara who’s sweating bullets as she tries to figure out how long she should be cooking this.
“so you’re not doing anything?” he muses, your lips part.
“I was! she just doesn’t need help right now,” you retort, sitting up, but toji’s hand lands on your head, beckoning you to follow him. “I need help moving some things.” a furious heat rushed up your body, the feeling of being needed by him sent you spiraling.
“oh okay!” you immediately perk, bouncing off the seat as you follow toji. his lips turning when he sees you trailing so quickly behind him like a cute puppy.
“why’re you throwing this stuff?” you frown seeing the boxes stacked in the basement.
“not throwing it, I’m moving it to the gym.”
“oh, good,” you smile, bending down to lift the boxes—
“woah, sweetheart.” your skin burns as toji pressed a hand to your waist. “I just need your help holding the door and opening the trunk.”
his chuckle made your cheeks warm. “I’ll still help!” you turn back around, but toji stops you with a sigh.
“fine, grab these,” he hands you a single framed picture, and nudges forward to get the door. you were ready to complain before you noticed the photo in your hands. “door.”
“sir, this is like the best photo ever! this is the original one right!?” you suddenly gush holding the door open. toji hums, carrying three stacked boxes as he walks out of the basement, heading out to the driveway.
“this was when you beat Kenjaku in a knockout and finally won your first title!” your eyes were fixated on the photo as you rambled on and on about how you’ve never seen the real thing, and how you remember your dad flipping a table out of how excited he was.
toji sat the boxes on the ground, turning to look at you.
“how long have you been a fan?” he was curious. i mean he trains yuuji after he opened his gym, ready to retire in a year, but the rest of megumi’s friends were never as interested in him as you were.
“since this fight,” you beam, finally looking up. your heart thumps at the look he’s giving you. “you’re just cool,” you mutter in embarrassment, cheeks flushed beyond measure. you lean into the trunk, sliding the framed photo carefully. your sweater riding up as you stretch your arms…
tojis eyes trail down to the bare skin, his pupils dilating at the sight.
“what’s this?”
his thumb suddenly caresses the skin of your hip making you jump. turning sharply, toji looks at the mark that peaks out of your pants.
“oh, i got a tattoo,” you lean against the trunk, lifting your shirt a bit. the tattoo was an olive branch that started from just outside your hip, and with your finger you motioned over your pants where it ended, the inside of your thigh.
“I didn’t know you liked tattoos,” he mutters, still brushing the top of the tattoo. your ears were burning, his hands were so big, you liked how rough his thumb was against your soft skin.
“don’t tell anyone,” you lower your voice, motioning toji to glance up at you as you talk behind your hand, as if someone were actually here. it was endearing. “but kyo was afraid of getting one himself, so he begged me to get one with him.” he clenched his jaw.
kyo…the low-life scum that megumi always had the pleasure of telling him about, mainly about how he was dirt compared to you. how you deserve better. how nobara hates him to death. and yet you’ve now been dating for almost two full semesters.
toji’s voice dropped. “so he forced you?”
“no!” you shook your head, almost breaking into a laugh. “as if anyone can force me to do anything.” you wave off the older man, still laughing as you head back to the basement.
toji hadn’t noticed how warm his cheeks were until you walked way. swearing under his breath he picked up the boxes shoving them in the truck. what was it about you?!
“yuuji you keep dropping your shoulder after you kick!” you whine, leaning over the ring as you watch yuuji spar toji.
“I’m not!”
“you are!”
“am not!” yuuji receives a blow to his dropped shoulder, toji finally hitting it on the nail that yes, you were right.
“told you,” you mutter, yuuji huffs, glaring over his shoulder at you.
“stop picking on him, y/n.” toji unwraps his gloves, noticing the way your eyes avert.
“how about you spar him, since you’re so good,” yuuji spits, his cheeks flushed and slightly out of breath.
“no, we have to go. we’ve been here long enough,” kyo groans from his position on the bench. he came to pick you up, but you told him to wait, wanting to see how much yuuji has improved. it was also the second time toji has met him. the moment kyo stepped into the gym, he was on his phone, only leaning down for you to peck his cheek before you came rushing back to the ring. arrogant prick, thought toji.
“five more minutes,” you reply, pulling your sweater off as you rush into the ring. you bounce up to toji grabbing yuuji’s gloves who almost laughs at kyo’s irritated expression.
“you ever spar before?” toji helps you put the gloves on. your lips part—
“she has!” yuuji interrupts, before you can lie.
“just a little martial arts,” you frown at yuuji, who grins even wider.
“nah, she’s like a black belt in Jujutsu—“
“taekwondo,” you correct with a spit.
“either way, don’t hold back on her!” yuuji cackles, sticking his tongue out as you move to lunge at him, but toji wraps an arm around your waist pulling you back to him. he notices kyo glance with a raised brow, his hand was splayed on your stomach, gently calming you. your cheeks flush, as you hum. toji pulls away, side-eyeing kyo briefly, turning his attention back to you.
“okay okay, let’s see what you got,” toji fixes the helmet on your head, before stepping back. you pound your fists together eyes glinting as toji immediately sees what you’re trying to do. he does his signature start, pounding his fists twice, creating a booming clap with each one.
“okay,” you smile, getting into your start. your hands are up by your face, blocking off your body as you stand to the side instead of squared off in the middle.
“FIGHT!” yuuji shouts, you immediately shift inside, throwing your leg up to catch the top of his helmet.
“whew!” toji brushes the kick off with a whistle, a grin spreading across his lips. “not bad.” he fixes his hands up. “keep going, sweetheart.”
you’re smiling too bright. cheeks flaming as you rush in for another kick. you completely lost track of time as you sparred the renowned fighter. he easily blocked or dodged your kicks, his fists were light taps as he got you a couple times. nothing compared to the harder blows he gave yuuji. he obviously held back, but he still entertained the living hell out of you. fueling your blood as you went harder, and with a little luck, and toji getting distracted by the sweat trickling down your full bouncing chest, you landed kick to his stomach.
“oh shit.” you mutter.
“oh shit!” yuuji repeats stunned. megumi and nobara sit up noticing the sudden silence.
“ohhhhhhhhhh fuck yeahhh!” you scream, jumping up and down as you toss the helmet off and yuuji joins you as you celebrate the tiny victory that felt like the most incredible win in the world!
toji is cackling, rolling his eyes as he takes his gear off. megumi quirks a curious brow when he notices the way toji’s looking at you.
“settle down,” he pats your head. his expressions shifts once you glance up at him, your pretty lips all wet as you heaved, sweat rolling down the tops of your smooth tits. his green eyes glance away, clearing his throat, a sting spreading across his face. “next time you can spar yuuji.”
your face brightens as you turn to your friend. nobara was already leaning into the ring as she started laughing, recording her entire bit. “y/n will definitely beat your ass!!”
“as if!” the three of you start arguing, until after a moment you look up.
“where’d kyo go?” the bench was empty, your bag laying there by itself.
“left awhile ago,” megumi answers. toji glances over, noticing the way your cute brows pinched together, clearly upset.
“cmere, lemme give you some pointers,” toji calls you over. your feet carrying you easily. the three friends huddle around as they do their work. nobara occasionally glancing up to see you sitting on the mat as toji casually sat in front of you.
“y/n is the only person that can get mr. fushiguro talking.” Yuuji looks up after nobara’s comment. humming in agreement.
“ya he said the funniest joke ever when y/n asked for one yesterday. Damn what was the joke again?” yuuji taps his chin thinking as megumi looks over, his father seemed deep in conversation. it wasn’t like you were rambling, no. you were listening attentively. engaging with small encouraging nods as toji spoke. your lips would part as you gave the most animated reactions, clearly enjoying his company on a different level.
interesting.
toji had weaknesses. the first being money. if his manager and megumi weren’t handling it then his bank accounts would be empty in a flash. his second weakness was definitely a need to eavesdrop, especially when you were over.
“no, i told him no,” your words were quiet. you and nobara sat in the living room while yuuji and megumi went to pick up some snacks from the store.
“thought you said you were ready?” she questioned.
“i am, but like…he’s like…” your voice trails off, burying your face into the cushion.
nobara groans with you, hitting the top of your head with light slaps. “you’re so confusing. if you don’t wanna have sex with him just break it off. he’s a dick anyways.”
“you don’t understand.” you whine. “i wanna do it, im ready, but whenever he starts—“ a glass crashes to the floor. startling the two girls as they glance to see toji picking up the broken cup.
“mr.fushiguro what are your thoughts on kyo?” nobara suddenly belts. your head snaps to her, eyes wide. what kind of question?!
“he’s arrogant,” toji cleans the spilled beer. “a prick, and doesn’t respect anyone other than himself—“
“how would you know?” you cut him off. toji looks up.
“cmon he’s just saying what everyone else has been. you said it yourself,” nobara is desperate. she wants you to finally acknowledge how fucking crappy your boyfriend is, if you can even call him that.
“ive only ever heard shit things about him. and you don’t deserve that. that’s all I’m gonna say,” toji excuses himself. he was pissed. pissed about how upset you got when he made a comment. you never spoke that way to him. nor did you cut him off and vise versa…
however later that night, he hears a small creak on the steps. looking over his shoulder he see you coming up the steps into his second living space on the estate. he was watching his own movie with a beer resting on his side.
“don’t you have a fight?” you mutter, coming over to the man. “you shouldn’t be drinking that.” the light from the screen shines against your exposed skin as you walk in front of the man, taking a sit beside him on the couch. you’ve done this a couple times. usually when everyone has fallen asleep and you’re still wide awake, you’ll lounge with toji watching his shows until you also knocked out. but this time felt different. you sat closer. your head was bowed to your chest as you fiddled with the ends of your boy shorts.
“i treat myself to one every couple weeks,” he answers, taking another sip, his eyes locked on the tv. “they all asleep?” you hum.
toji enjoyed silence. especially at night. but this silence was somehow eating at him. he was aware of your little glances, the way you suddenly shift and move. he needed you to talk—
“next time, don’t say anything about kyo…” you mutter, it was so soft, he could barely hear it. but he did. and it irked him.
“so I shouldn’t say the truth?”
your eyes glare up at him, a scowl forming on your lips. “no you shouldn’t.” you snap. “it’s none of your business.”
“you were in my house. so that makes it my business.” toji meets your glare. his jaw looked sharper against the flickering lights, his collarbones peaked from his white t-shirt, his hair tousled over his eyes accentuating how fucking attractive he is.
“well…that’s not fair,” your legs come up, burying your face in it. your heart was beating so fast, your body heating up. you just wanted to be close to him. you couldn’t cross that line, you couldn’t! but toji’s hand slide up and down your back.
“okay…I’m sorry.”
his words sent a certain warmth spreading deep into your core. you didn’t answer, but toji still pulled you into his side as he stroked your hair, letting you rest your head on his chest. he heard your sniffles, but was silent. but then your small hand started playing with the one on his lap.
his felt his heart jump.
you pressed his hand against your damp cheek, leaning into it.
“what is it?” his voice was so soft, like honey as he gently turned your face up. your lips were open as you stare up at the beautiful man. eyes glossed over. “stop crying.” he sighs, making more tears slip down your adorable cheeks. “awe sweetheart.”
toji leans down, holding your face, he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. you should be satisfied with that! but you wanted another one, your eyes were dilated and filled with unshed tears as you hummed so quietly that only toji could hear. he understands you, understands the way your eyes linger.
“don’t cry,” he kisses your temple, then your eyes, feeling the salty tears coat his lips. your chest was filled with water as you let out small quiet sniffs, fists clenching his shirt, still begging for more. “babygirl,” he sighs, his face lowered. brushing his lips so close to yours. you can feel his breath.
then, out of nowhere, he presses a kiss to your lips.
your heart stops. he pulls away your tears still flowing. his heart aches at the expression on your face. it was like he completely shattered your heart. but you still held onto him, burying yourself closer to his side, ultimately falling asleep to his strokes.
the next morning you woke up beside nobara tucked under the blanket. you buried your face even deeper, ignoring nobara’s comments about it being the first time you don’t kick her in your sleep.
if toji was expecting not to see you because of what happened, he was very wrong. you still came to watch yuuji practice in the gym, you still lounged around the fushiguro household, you even joked with toji as if nothing was wrong. toji was happy you were doing okay. but he felt his stomach churn when megumi mentioned.
“ya supposedly they got into it yesterday.” toji closes the fridge, turning to look at his son sitting at the counter eating. by they he means you and your dick faced “boyfriend”.
“what about?” megumi glanced up, toji noting the look. “you’re the one that brought it up.”
megumi swallows his food. “something about never being alone together. so they started arguing at todo’s place and he ditched her. now she’s giving him the silent treatment, but last night they got into another fight in the car. nobara and maki came rushing out to—“
“did he lay his hands on her?” toji suddenly starts up. not realizing his complete attention is on the kid. megumi quirks a brow, shaking his head.
“no, but…” he swallows again. “everyone’s telling her to break up with him. there’s zero redeeming qualities about the guy. he treats her like shit. flirts with every other girl when she’s not around. I don’t know why she’s still with him.”
toji didn’t know why he cared so much. why he’d carefully guide any conversation he had with his son to you. wondering how you’re doing, checking in on something megumi had told him last week. megumi wasn’t an idiot, but toji couldn’t even realize what he was doing to know how to not do it. especially when megumi stated.
“you never ask how nobara is doing.” the weight of the statement sent the room into a momentary silence. the only thing that could be heard was the characters talking on the tv in the distance.
when toji failed to respond it left the two simmering in silence.
but toji couldn’t help the small jitters that filled his stomach when he heard the familiar footsteps late at night. of course he knew you were over, and of course he made a show downstairs grabbing a drink to show that he’s staying up. all he had to do was wait an hour until time the rest fell asleep, to enjoy your company alone.
“did i miss anything?” you slid onto the couch, curling up as you hugged the pillow. toji briefly explained the last episode, before sinking back into silence. toji didn’t mind the silence, but he also knew that usually during these nights you both would talk for hours. but he knew this time was different. his eyes focused on the screen. but he could feel your eyes on him. drinking in his beautiful face, his sharp jawline, his damp hair. everything about him was perfection in your eyes. you knew it was forbidden which made it more exhilarating.
he liked when your eyes were on him. he also hated the small victory that lit his being when he reclined even more, spreading his legs wider and opening his arm up. an invitation.
you gently slid closer, cuddling up to his side. he was always so warm, a personal heater, and you were happy to be wearing shorts and a loose tshirt, smiling to yourself. you couldn’t help but lean closer, blushing at his natural scent mixed with the forest body wash.
“you smell good,” you mutter, making the older man chuckle lightly.
“thanks, sweetheart.” he rests back, settling in again, arm tightening around you.
your heart was pounding, lips parted as you glance up. his neck gave easy access, but you had to bite your lip. your legs closed tight, your thoughts swirling in your head causing your body to react to things he’s never done to you! yet, you also have a mouth that seems to act on its own too…
“do you hate me?”
toji’s brows shot up. “why would I hate you?”
your ears sting, burying your face in his chest. toji sighs, pulling you even closer, his hand gently tracing small strips up and down your arm. an odd occurrence followed, one that surprised him, but nonetheless he did.
“i like your company. spending time with you isn’t so bad.” the truth that slipped his lips was something he hadn’t done in awhile. he spoke to you often, that’s correct, but talking about his feelings, that took something more. however, his stomach churned when he felt your body tense. turning his head, he glances down.
staring right at him are your big doe eyes filled with unshed tears, your soft wet lips trembling gently. his heart skipped a beat. “what’s wrong?!”
“nothing.” your ears sting, immediately covering your face. you sniffle, desperately trying to collect yourself. toji chuckles, landing a hand on your head. the rough treatment immediately softens, coaxing you to slowly pull your hands away.
“are you embarrassed?” his voice was so deep, which didn’t help your flustered state. his hand slides to the back of your head once you look up at him again. his half lidded eyes made your cheeks flush. the shadows that highlighted his features, his own lips parting showing you his tongue as he licked his lips. his body heat making you sweat. he was definitely not from this earth. “you’re so cute.”
your breath hitched. did you say that? no, that was definitely him. your throat is dry as he gently massages the flesh of your thigh. he laughs again. “don’t pretend like you don’t know. is that why you’re always crying in front of me?” he knows that isn’t why, but still. “batting your big eyes at me.”
“i…” your cheeks flush a deeper crimson. he smiles in victory. hes left you speechless.
“that’s my weakness.”
“girls crying?” you mutter, upset.
he massages your thigh, leaning further down, giving you no escape from his eyes. “seeing you cry.” you mouth went dry. “are you embarrassed?”
“no.”
he licks his lips. “good.” he smiles. “you don’t have to be embarrassed around me.”
you can smell his musk more clearly, clouding your senses, but still mutter. “same to you.”
he smiles again, but this time it’s more tender. “whys that?”
“i like it when you’re being yourself.” your words are even sweeter than your voice, causing a light flush to spread across the man’s cheeks. “you’re really funny…and I like when you’re having a good time. it makes me happy.”
his eyes grew bigger. heart beating faster.
“what?” you’re looking at his shocked expression, ready to throw yourself out the window for embarrassing yourself—
“nothing.” he tilts his head, eyes softening. “i missed your voice.”
idiot! who says that. you try to look away, but he’s so close, your eyes can’t help but dart around like a lost puppy. “whatever.”
“you were quiet this whole time, but now you’re saying such adorable things.” he lightens the air when you bite your cheek. “i like hearing you talk too.”
“really?” you mutter.
“it’s nice.” your finger lazily twirls around the hem of his shirt. “you like it when i say you’re nice?” you nod. he clicks his tongue. “i wanna hear you.”
“yes.”
“good girl.” he coos, massaging your thigh with his big hand, crawling it further between your legs, having noticed earlier how much you were keeping them closed. you whimper so softly when he squeezes the inside, your skin so soft in his rough palm. “you like that I’m praising you or touching you right now?”
what’s going on? why is he acting like this? he laughs again! “cmon…you come here at night and pretend to be all quiet.”
your jaw is weak, staring at him.
“is it because i kissed you?”
your breath catches.
he leans closer, hand falling deep between your legs, grabbing your inner thigh, your warmth spreading from his hand all the way to his pants, feeling his bulge start to lift his sweats up. ah how much he liked that feeling. when you’d make him feel his heart beat a little faster.
“do you want another kiss?”
you nod your head immediately, hair falling down in eagerness. he waits, raising a teasing brow.
“i want you to kiss me.”
“good girl,” he leans even closer, the small space between you felt like hours instead of seconds. the tension building as you felt his breath fan across your wet lips.
as if he could feel your staggered breath, he leaned forward. his lips curl up watching your eyes flutter just before he meets your lips.
it felt different then your first kiss. he was much more confident, and so were you. so warm and wet. he kisses your bottom lip, caressing it with his tongue and holding your thigh, his eyes half-lidded as he watches your features contort in pleasure.
his hand travels a little higher, continuing his slow caresses, smiling even more when he pulls away, noticing your leaning further in awaiting some more.
“eager, now.”
you hum, shamelessly. sending a wave of blood rushing into his hard-on. he captures your lips again, biting down on your lip, a silent punishment for getting him so worked up. but the gasp you let out gives him the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, caressing your tongue with his. your hand falls on his wrist, the way he’s squeezing your soft flesh has your panties completely soaked, and the only thing running through your dizzy head is the thought of his long rough fingers playing with your pussy.
toji pulls away again, this time to catch his breath, your tongue hanging out and your hazzy eyes had him smiling. “you like it?” he kisses your tongue. “you taste good.” he licks your tongue. “want more?” he pulls away just a bit once you let out a little moan. he doesn’t know how far he’s pushing it, but when he carefully tilts your chin, thumb stroking your bottom lip before pulling it down, you suddenly felt a rush of hot white heat.
his tongue came out to spit into your mouth.
and his cock almost burst at the moan that escapes the back of your throat.
you lean forward, kissing him again, your hand holding his wrist as you press his hand to your cheek, desperate for more attention.
toji pulls away, your lips part, but a gasp escapes when your back hits the cushion. laying across the couch, he leans down between your legs, resuming the makeout session. it was wet and messy, all thoughts thrown away as you both got lost in the others lips. the longer it went on the more toji started pushing the very big red line that’s he’s been slowly crossing.
with caution, he slowly began to lower his hips, closer to your open legs. his tongue playing with yours had him grabbing the cushion beside you, finally pressing his bulge right against your clothed cunt.
your jaw dropped. pussy tightening as he gives another cautious role of his hips. you can feel him so clearly, the sweatpants and your shorts weren’t doing much as he rolled his hips again and again. blood flooding your cheeks as you felt the outline of his cock. he was big. the stimulation on your clit had you gasping quietly. tongue falling out for more of his wet kisses. he swore very quietly, only enough for you to hear as you bucked your hips up. your legs came up to the back of his thigh, then up his torso as he continued to rub himself between your legs.
a wet patch slowly began to emerge between your grey shorts and his white ones. he was getting himself worked up, and your little gasps and moans were enough for him to start to lose all control.
his fingers slid between your bodies, playing with the waistband of your shorts, creeping a hand into the front, his head spinning as he watched your pretty lashes bat up at him, tongue sticking out awaiting his fingers to touch the place you were so needy for.
“dad?”
time stopped.
toji immediately froze as you tensed up, eyes staring up at toji in horror. the slow steps up the staircase, gave toji enough time to pull away, cursing at the wet patch between your legs, then noting his own. he tosses a blanket over you, as he grabbed another blanket throwing it over his lap.
“pretend to sleep.” he shot at you, even though you were still overwhelmed by the sudden shift, you listened. closing your eyes.
reaching the top of the stairs, Megumi shuffled lazily towards the couch, rubbing his stomach under his shirt.
“dad.” toji looks over his shoulder, grunting a response. “need your phone.”
toji holds his phone up. megumi comes closer, taking it, that’s when he notices the second person in the room. “y/n?” toji shushes him immediately.
“she’s sleeping.”
“why here?” that’s when you and toji both realize that not everyone knew you came up here when everyone fell asleep. it almost felt like some dirty secret getting revealed now.
“she couldn’t sleep, I don’t know,” toji shrugs. “why do you need my phone?” he pretends like megumi can’t read him, even though toji never questions megumi for wanting his phone.
“can’t find my phone.” Megumi gives one last look between you and toji before heading down stairs, his dad’s phone in his hand calling himself. once his feet disappear, you’re sitting up, but toji presses a hand to your thigh.
“he’ll come back up.”
the room falls into silence. your eyes looking over at toji who’s attention is now back on the tv. his cheeks still slightly pink, especially with your attention focused on him.
you can’t help but mutter. “should I go?”
“if you want.”
“do you want me to stay?”
“i don’t care.”
your throat bops. suddenly feeling horribly uncomfortable. was this a mistake. should you ask if it was a mistake? but if he says yes, then you’ll definitely cry.
“is kyo coming tomorrow?” he’s never called your boyfriend by his real name, nor has he ever bring him up in conversation with you.
“why are you talking about him?”
“he’s your boyfriend, am i not allowed?” he’s still not looking at you.
“like you care.”
“you’re right. I don’t.” he tilts his head, so clearly agitated. you don’t know how to respond. you don’t think he’s ever spoken to you with such edge.
you disobey him and sit up, your eyes swirling with confusion, and the second your hand lands on his, everything melts.
your hand was so warm on top of his. his eyes met yours as you peer up at him. not only is he a man, but he’s older too, so why is he acting like a jealous fucking teen?
“I’m sorry.” you words feel like absolute heartbreak. a pit of ugly guilt rages deep inside him, especially when he doesn’t respond, allowing you to stand, wrapping the blanket around you, leaving him.
megumi is startled when you suddenly appear at the bottom of the steps. he screws his eyes in the dark, were you crying? but you mask it with a fake yawn, rubbing your eyes as you fall beside nobara, burying the comforter over your nose.
“your dad is so boring.” you mumble, unconvincingly.
“are you ready?” yuuji nervously leans over megumi as they all huddled around the fighter as he sat on the bench. “are you hydrated? should i get more water? are you angry? the dude was yapping a lot before the match! he’s definitely talking shit about you right now, I can only guess what he’s saying—probably saying how you’re getting old and your punches are slower than snails!—“
“yuuji!” nobara elbows him. maki is coordinating with shiu, as toji continues sitting in silence, wrapping his hands.
“it’ll be great.”
toji feels his heart beat. glancing at you as you kneel in front of him. a soft smile on your lips as if last night had never happened. it was toji’s final match of his career. all of his son’s idiot friends were huddled in the locker room. but you also were here.
you were dressed all pretty, he had to suppress his thoughts when you came running into the locker room, afraid of being late. your hair so fluffy as your skirt danced around your thighs. you rarely wear skirts, he thought. your tight long sleeved shirt had his eyes zeroing in on how well it hugged your pretty tits. his cheeks ran hot as he remembered the way he rolled his hips up between your legs, the hot pulsing of your clothed pussy. fuck he regrets not slipping a hand up your shirt and squeezing your tit—
“how are you feeling?” your eyes fell soft. holding no animosity in them as you gently reached out to help him hold his gloves as he continued wrapping it around.
toji felt a burst inside his stomach, the good kind.
“ya you’ve got it! we’ve trained a lot!” yuuji is ready to interrupt some more before megumi grabs the back of his collar, holding him back. all because he saw the softness in his fathers gaze. his once pinched angry expression, was tender and gentle as you spoke to him. the conversation wasn’t in whispers, but it felt intimate. nobara looks over, also noticing megumi’s lingering eyes.
nobara wasn’t an idiot. at least not in the love department. she always knew, I mean she also found megumi’s dad hot as fuck. but finding someone attractive is different than the look you were giving him. like he held the entire world in his hands. it was definitely a look she’s never seen you give kyo. how didn’t she notice this before?!
“thanks, kid,” toji pats your head, tenderly. the aggressiveness of it, absent. he didn’t ruffle your hair, but the weight atop your head sent a fury of emotions swirling inside you. he ignored the brief moment of hurt that flashed across your face when he called you kid.
you glance up when he takes his hand away. his cheeks flush.
“anytime.” your smile was a puncture to his heart. no words came to his mind, so instead he brushed your hair, his thumb unconsciously caressing your cheek. your eyes swam with need, begging him for anything, but his hand drops. standing up and moving past you, following shiu’s directions.
kyo was already waiting at the vip seats. the rest of you joining once the lights began to dim for the athletes entrances. you were still in an argument with kyo, but he still held your hand when you sat beside him, his lips pressing to your cheek sweetly, smiling when you hum in acknowledgment, but it’s all thrown out the window once toji steps into the cage.
the arena immediately shifts, his energy resonates throughout the entire stadium.
this was your second time seeing toji’s match in person. however, knowing this was his last fight meant something different. yuuji was screaming his lungs out, as was nobara. toji was up against some young prodigy nicknamed ‘the honored one’, also known as gojo satoru.
your cheeks filled with blood as you screamed for toji’s victory. flinching and looking away when gojo sent a violent blow straight to his ribs. kyo glanced at the tremble in your eyes, brows creasing as you clutched your chest, as if grabbing at your heart. his jaw snapped.
“y/n, let’s go,” he suddenly stood, grabbing your arm.
“what?” you stumble, surprised by the aggressive pull. nobara and megumi looking over at the commotion. immediately stepping in to hold you back.
“what’re you doing?!” you struggle, wincing when his grip tightens on your wrist. the fight in the cage was getting more intense, but the grip kyo had on you made your stomach churn. his eyes filled with rage as he glared at you. “get…off—nobara,” you call to her, realizing that his grip really is tight.
“fuck off, kyo! megumi,” she looks over her shoulder but megumi is already gripping kyo’s wrist, making him loosens his grip on you. the scene was insignificant compared to the fight in the stadium, but being close to the cage, it caught toji’s attention.
his expression darkened, blocking gojo kick, as he immediately spun, hitting gojo right in the ribs knocking him back. toji glanced again to see you back in your seat clapping and cheering. what happened? were you okay—
“eyes here old man!” the white haired kid cackles. itching a sore spot in toji.
“what’s happened I can’t look anymore!” Yuuji cries covering his eyes as you clutch his collar, shaking him like crazy as you scream. nobara is biting her nails as megumi winces. gojo landed another violent hit straight to toji’s already bleeding eyebrow.
“stop it, he’s gonna win!” you cry, heart pounding and gaze fixed on toji. your lips trembling as toji stumbles. somehow, you feel butterflies breakout the second toji glanced briefly in your direction. you don’t know if he’s looking at the group or you, but still, you couldn’t help yourself from smiling, putting two thumbs up encouragingly. even though you were scared seeing him bleed so much, you couldn’t describe the amount of confidence you had in his victory.
the stupid smile almost had toji scoffing in amusement. you really are adorable.
so when toji’s name rings out throughout the entire stadium as the victor, your screams were deafening. yuuji crying from happiness as nobara shakes megumi and you’re…you’re completely in tears. choking with joy as you all scramble into the cage to congratulate the victor. however just when you’re about to reach him, a bunch of press speakers and cameras block your path.
nevertheless, the afterparty at the gym was enough time to celebrate the winner. everyone was there. drinks and music blasting as you all congratulate the man.
you were babbling to toji, your lips curling once he pats your head affectionately. answering your unending questions as he continued talking. it came easy to him, having you listen to him.
“I told you this story already?” he realizes midway.
“it’s okay, i like hearing you talk,” you smile tenderly, triggering a deep flush on his cheeks, something that’s become more and more familiar. clearing his throat, he pets your head, so you wouldn’t catch his expression.
“y/n.”
your heart drops, turning to see kyo. “we need to talk.” he glared past you at toji, who raised a brow, testing him back. you set aside your drink, apologizing to toji.
a hand stopped you.
“break up with him.”
his thumb caressed your wrist gently. but his words only did the opposite. your expression reminded him of the day he told you his feelings about kyo. why did you look at him like that?
“he’s a dick…you deserve better.”
your jaw clenched, the ground occupying your pretty eyes, toji waited for you to think. but when glanced back up, he inhaled sharply, your lips wet as a few tears lined your waterline.
“I’ll never have better.”
you rip your arm away, turning on your heel. he watches you exit the gym, meeting kyo outside. he can’t describe the ugly twist that he felt deep in his gut. he drank some more, and some more, until he realized that getting drunk was nothing and that he’d rather head home. he didn’t want to think about it, or about his feelings, none of it. his gaze fixed on the tv as he waited for sleep to take him.
unfortunately the rest of the kids were black out drunk. so toji had to hear the commotion downstairs as they crashed into things and yuuji’s whispering was more like yelling. after a couple of minutes it was finally silence again, except for his show…
“what’d I say about sneaking around?”
toji heard the creaking. recognizing your soft footsteps the moment you stepped up the staircase, clearly trying to conceal your presence.
“thought you were sleeping…” your voice was meek, as you stare at the back of his head. your heart thumping loudly once you saw his arm raise lazily, two fingers motioning you forward.
of course, you obeyed. sucking in some air to calm your nerves as you round the couch, slowly. toji watched your bowed head, that’s when he heard the quiet sniffles. his brow pinched high as he sat straight.
“did something happen?” he was on alert.
you don’t respond. only feeling your cheeks flush and heart clench, why is he so concerned?
“did the prick lay his hands on you,sweetheart?”
sweetheart….he really picks his moments, you scoff. “he didn’t.”
he settles back. but you raise your head, tears sprinkling out like beautiful jewels.
“why did you ask me to break up with him?” you hiccup. toji is left speechless. why was he so mesmerized by your emotions. his pretty girl, crying so vulnerably. “answer me!”
“I don’t know.”
he cringed. it was evident you disliked that answer.
you bit your cheek, grasping at your megumi’s shirt. you felt your cheeks run hot, lips wet as you spoke. toji could read your lips before he heard the words. his stomach churning in disgust.
“he wants to have sex with me.” your face is burning, but you don’t care anymore. “kyo has been begging me. we’ve kissed me, he’s sucked my tits. I’ve given him handjobs. but he wants to have sex with me now.”
his jaw was locked, veins straining his arms and neck. “I don’t like knowing that shit.” his voice was deep sending even more nerves down your throat.
but you don’t care anymore. you swallow thickly. toji didn’t know if he was prepared to hear about your sexual relationship with that shithead. knowing he laid his dirty hands on you, kissed your pretty lips, played with your full beautiful tits that he loved to stare at. his blood was boiling.
“toji,” your lip trembles. cheeks hot knowing this is the first time you’re calling him by his first name. toji also noticed, especially as you inched closer. your tears still full in your eyes, making his chest swell, unable to tear his gaze away from you. “I don’t want him touching me anymore.”
his arms instinctively reach out, and pull you onto his lap. his arm circling your back as he cups your neck with the other. “i only want you.”
“fuck.” his lips crash into yours.
your hands instinctively go to his hair as he licks your bottom lip, forcing your mouth open, pushing his tongue to meet yours. you felt your stomach explode, eyes filing with tears as you kissed him back passionately. cheeks stinging as he caressed his wet tongue against yours, groaning as you arched into him. his rough hands pulling your hips forward, groaning as you slide against his bulge. you gasp, pulling away for a second, but his lips move to your neck, licking a strip up to your ear.
“be a good girl, start rocking on me.” your body shivered, humming as you started rolling your hips down on his hard bulge. “just like that. feel good?” he nips at your skin, helping your pace as you hum softly. the cotten shorts you wore slide with each grind making toji feel more clearly the heat radiating from your pussy.
“you can’t cry like that. it messes with my head.”
you moan gently as you feel his hands slide up under your shirt. eager to listen, you helped him pull it over your head, tossing it to the side. your cheeks aflame the second he saw your bare chest. you liked it so much, his attention all on you. you wanted him to touch you so badly. a deep groan resounded from the back of his throat .
“you know how many times I’ve imagined seeing these,” he grabs a handful of your tit, licking his lips at the weight in his palm. you watch him lean forward, tongue sticking out to run from the underside, licking a long tantalizing strip up, pressing down when he got to your nipple.
“i thought i was seeing things,” you moan gently, hand tugging on his black locks. “i didn’t know if you were staring at them.”
“how could i not? you made it pretty hard,” he drools on your nipple, your eyes dilating at the lewd sight. “dreamed about sucking these pretty tits. you purposely wore flimsy bras in the gym so I can see them bounce?” your cheeks flush as you pout looking away. he groans again, more frustrated. “you let that asshole touch you like this?” you whine when he bites meanly down on your nipple, tongue swirling to ease the pain before he does it again, his other hand helping you rock a little quicker, your shorts sliding to the side, as your pink panties come into view. completely wet as you whine.
“only a few times,” you mutter.
“few times.”
“he’s my boyfriend—ah!” you cry louder, the bite he gave much harsher, tears trickling out. you feel pathetic as you cry just from the stimulation of your tits, toji was growing more annoyed.
“you didn’t break up with him?” your lips part, grasping his hair, whining when he pulls away, looking up at you. you were lost, your lips hanging open as you stare down at the man.
“i—“
something strange surged inside him as he quickly went back to your lips, cutting off any response. his body hugging you closer to his chest as he slid your shorts and panties to the side, a low groan slipping once he felt your arousal coat his fingers. “your pussy’s crying too,” he coos.
“finger me, please, please,” you gasp, whining even more as he circled your cute little clit. his senses running haywire the more you begged.
“you’re so needy.” he groans, pinching your clit making you cry. “has he fingered you? shoved your cute cunt with his disgusting fingers?”
“mmm….he has,” you cry out feeling toji shove two fingers inside you without warning. his teeth biting down on your nipple as you tremble all over. “i like it….like it….” you moan, jaw dropping as he abused your pussy, stretching it out with his fingers, only to curl them right on your squishy part, grinning at the shocked expression that flashed across your face.
“he make you cum?” toji grunts, glancing down at the arousal that slide down his palm, licking his lips.
“he did….made me cum…” your words only fueled a dormant emotion that he thought he’d never feel again. jealousy.
toji curled his fingers, biting your lips as he sent you over the edge. your entire body shook, clinging onto him as you came with a shocked gasp. tears sliding down your hazzy eyes. “toji…mmm…” your soft little voice resounded in his ear as you pressed your cheek to his shoulder still shaking. however, toji only gave you a moments rest, before he was lifting you with him.
“I’m not done.”
your body hit the unfamiliar bed, your eyes briefly glancing around you as your vision cleared. It was a spacious master bedroom, your eyes catching the minimalist dark furniture, and the large balcony windows briefly open. “”ah!”
your hips jumped, legs closing around his hand after feeling the harsh slap to your pussy. you glared up at him.
“ow!” you cry, pouting once toji kneeled on the bed, shoving your legs open.
“i was talking to you and you weren’t listening.” he rubs your pussy again, his expression was sinister, dark…fuck he was so hot. your cheeks went pink when he aggressively pulled your shorts and panties off, spreading your folds apart. “you’re telling me…” his jaw locks. “the prick saw your pussy?”
you bit your cheek, nodding your head. a wave of arousal rushed down to your pussy once toji dropped his head back, groaning in frustration. his hand coming up, laying another harsh slap to your pussy.
“i answered you!” you cry, holding his wrist, not admitting to him how turned on this was making you.
“well I’m pissed,” he huffs, giving another slap, now getting a moan out of you.
“why are you pissed?” you cry, another slap making your hips buck. his eyes no longer shined green, but instead were encompassed by a dark black shadow.
“because he touched you.”
“so?”
“so, it’s annoying. he’s not allowed too.”
“and whys that?”
“because you’re mine.”
toji was heaving. his nails having dug into your knees, only now realizing his words. your reaction absolutely priceless. the stunned expression and wide eyes sent his heart racing.
“fuck, don’t look at me like that.”
his tongue licks your lips, groaning as he felt your tongue meet his, a satisfied whimpering slipping from the back of your throat. your hips bucking as your own nails racked through his hair. his fully clothed body made you even more turned on, bucking your hips up as he began to grind down on your pussy.
“can you eat me out?” you mutter, rocking your hips up. toji chuckles, sliding down your body as he licked and kissed your nipples, licking down your tummy, as he sucked a dark bruise on your pelvis. your cheeks flush, your fantasies slowly unfolding before your eyes. toji brings your hand to his hair, looking directly into your eyes as he licks a bold strip up your pussy.
his own eyes roll back, groaning as your arousal floods his tastebuds. he takes another lick, swirling his tongue deeper between your folds, playing with your pussyhole, purposely avoiding your bud.
“tojiii,” you whine, tugging his hair. he grunts. “you’re being mean.”
“I’m being mean?” he smirks, parting from your wet folds. “because I’m not kissing your little clit.”
you nod, flustered. “but it’s all swollen and pink, I don’t wanna hurt you.” he feigns concern, making you look away, ears hot.
“you won’t hurt me.”
he didn’t know if it was the combination of your voice and that expression that made him nearly cum in his pants, but he broke.
your back arched off the bed as he sucked your clit harshly into his mouth. the sudden stimulation had you crying, your hand coming up to your mouth as the other held his dark locks with a vicious grip. it was a pleasant surprise to toji, though he fantasized about his son’s close friend being shy and somewhat of a prude, he was practically drooling seeing you so aggressive and needy with him.
encouraging you to tug his hair, he lapped your clit, biting down whenever he felt you loosen your grip in his hair. fuck, this was definitely a kink. his arms wrapped around your thighs, lifting your hips up onto his lap as he bent his back eating you out. you’ve never seen anything like it.
the dark bruise on his eye, the cut on his nose, the cracked knuckles gripping your flesh….your eyes rolled back as he pulled out, spitting a big wet glob right on your clit, his jaw aching, but seeing the way you twitched, and tugged his head back, he felt how drenched his boxers were.
“toji…keep…going,” you pant, your grip doesn’t loosen, which was enough for him to continue. the knot inside your core, starting to tighten more and more, edging you closer as he slurped your arousal, the lewd sounds, clouding your senses as he pulled your hips higher to his face, your heels pressing on his shoulder blades as you bite your hand, the broken cries and aggressive tug had toji moaning into you.
“gonna cum… ‘m…hngh close…” your voice cracks, eyes rolling back as toji feels your body tense. his tongue flattening on your clit, sucking your bundle.
your eyes widen, suddenly loosening your grip as you push your palm on his forehead trying to push him away.
“toj-m-move I-i—“ you were gasping, moans choking your words as you shiver. toji aggressively hugs your thighs, keeping your body still against his face.
“if you don’t cum on my face, then don’t ever think about doing this again.”
it was a lie. but you didn’t need to know that. you cried, eyes filling with tears as your legs began to shake uncontrollably.
“b-but tojii…”
you bury your face in your arm, which he notices right away, biting down on your clit. your back lifts as you squeal.
“hands off.”
you shake your head, so toji unwraps an arm to grab both your wrists, holding them down against your tummy as he sucks your clit between his teeth, the sounds of his mouth had you crying immediately punching the coil as your hips stutter up and a drawn squeal comes from the back of your throat as a wave of relief washes over you, releasing a flow of pleasure…. hitting toji.
“shit.” he utters, jerking back when he feels the splash hit his face. your wrist wiggles in his grip as you gasp. “fuck…” his groan is low as he slaps your pussy, making a bigger mess as you continue to release a stuttered flow.
“mess—ahnghh-“ you cry, not even able to finish your sentence.
“ya its fucking messy,” he chuckles, “and hot.” his eyes darken as he latches his lips back on your pussy, drinking your arousal with more pleasure than he can bear, eyes closing briefly as you cry a little louder. “that’s it. ngh all over my face, puppy.” he’s panting, “ya good girl.”
toji doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so attractive. the twist in your face, the drool coming from your lips, the tears filling your eyes, your tits high up in the air, all from his mouth. he’s so sloppy, circling your overstimulated clit as you shake and stutter, quiet sobs slipping out.
finally, he lets go with a wet pop. your pussy clenching in spasms as you gasp. tears blocking your vision until you feel the relief of your hands being free, rubbing your eyes lazily, leaving your hands over your face.
“why did you do that?” you sniffle.
“are you embarrassed?”
you’re quiet.
“have you ever squirted on that shithead?” your legs rest on either side of his torso as he lazily strokes your thighs and hips. large hands soothing you.
your fingers split apart as you look at toji. his eyes immediately finding yours, softening a bit at the dried tears.
“we’ve only ever kissed.”
silence. his face drops.
“what….”
your stomach twists when you see his brows start to come together, looking at you more sternly. his grip tightens around your hips, your body cringing, as he slowly realizes what you’d just done.
“you lied to me?”
“i extended the truth.”
he laughs. “that’s an understatement. so he’s never touched you? your tits—“
“that wasn’t a lie.”
“so you admit you were lying.”
“no!” your hands fall, staring back. that’s when you really clock in on the state he’s in. his face wet with your arousal, shirt also being victim to your pleasure, his hair was a mess, not realizing how much tugging you’d done till now. his arms bulging as he held your hips. and his cheeks were so pink!
is he mad? the longer he stares the more you feel blood rushing up to your face. “the part about kissing, playing with my tits, and um handjobs, was for real….everything after that….no.”
you’re looking away now. biting your cheek nervously, because yes, he’s older and definitely much scarier when he’s all serious.
“are you mad?” you mutter.
his hands travel up your torso, thumb caressing the warm skin, making you more nervous.
“mad…” he repeats, like he’s thinking it over. you glance back at him, lips parting.
he takes the invitation, kissing you deeply. you hum in surprise, tasting yourself immediately which sends your body burning again. he presses himself over you, trapping your arms between your chests, his lips part, your tongue coming out making him grin. “you knew how much I hated that douche and used it against me.”
you flush, licking your lips as he continues to stare down at you, much closer now. “i wasn’t sure if it was gonna work.”
“well it did.”
he kisses your cheek, dipping closer to your ear to whisper a gentle. “at least, now I know I’m the only one that’s seen you like this.” he licks your ear to conclude, sending a shiver up your spine. his arm sliding up your thigh, moving down to grab your ass, kneading the flesh, before laying a slap. a yelp slips in surprise. “you like making me loose my cool?”
he slaps your ass again, your head shaking as you manage to free your arms, trying to hold his shoulders, just for a harsher slap to send your hips bucking up, pressing into his shirt. “getting my dick hard just for your little games.”
you’re not even trying to hide your moans anymore. each slap sending another wave of pleasure down to pool in your pussy.
“my puppy likes being all dirty,” he growls, biting your lips as he holds your body off the bed, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs crossed behind his back as he rocks his cock into you, kissing you so passionately it’s making you dizzy again. this time when he pulls away, the string of spit connecting you guys has you loosing all cool, all to utter the silly command.
“spit in my mouth.”
toji freezes.
you’re staring up at him, with big dumb eyes. lips open softly. now he’s the one that’s blushing. his cheeks bright red as he stares at you.
“fuck me.” he drops you on the bed, unwrapping your arms, as he sits up. your heart is beating rapidly, frozen because now you’re scared you’ve done the wrong thing. was that it? is he gonna leave—no he’ll kick you out—
“since when did you start acting like a little virgin, who wants to get her pussy ruined?” he snaps. his voice deeper than before. your eyes wide when you see him stripping his shirt, your lips closing as you see his muscles flex, then his beautiful abs right in front of you. the bruises from todays match looked painful, especially the one on his ribs, remembering the harsh blow his opponent had given him. but your mind is swept away when his biceps flex, leaning forward, hand holding your face tight, he tilts your face up. “open wide.”
you feel like cumming just from his command. but you submit immediately, opening your mouth, tongue hanging loosely as you blush, waiting for him because he makes you wait, just enough for him to capture this image before him. his son’s pretty little friend, sticking her tongue out for him, her pussy hot and messy, and her tits covered in his spit. and it was all for him.
he leans forward, gathering a nice amount in his mouth, lining himself over you. he stays a distance away.
you’re panting like a cute puppy, desperate for any attention. drool slipped down your chin, as he felt it roll down his wrist.
you’ll be the death of him.
he spits.
the low groan was deep seeing your entire body shake as his heavy spit lands on your tongue. your hips bucking as you roll his spit in your mouth, whining so audibly in pleasure.
“swall—“
you already do. your body suddenly rehydrating like that was the first drink you’ve had in days.
“what a dirty fucking pup,” he grabs your jaw again, crashing his lips on yours. you whine, flushing at how loud he’s kissing you. it was so messy, and sloppy, your hands holding his wrist as he moved your jaw up, deepening the kiss, tongue pushing inside your mouth as more spit collected between your battling tongues.
“can you fuck me now?” you push away, panting in his mouth as you try to slide your heel into his waistband from behind.
a sudden thrill takes over your body at the deadly smirk he gives you. laughing into your lips. “you’re not shy are you?”
“you’ve already made me squirt,” you look away. “that was embarrassing.”
toji doesn’t laugh, his eyes boring into your face, making your skin warm. “I’m jealous.”
“huh?”
“I’m jealous that you can give me something so special.” your cheeks heat up, you can tell by his eyes that he was being serious. “I want you to give me more.” he dips his head, kissing your chin, moving down to your neck. his lips trail down to the tops of your tits, kissing his way down, distracting you as his thumbs hook under his sweats and boxers, pulling it down.
your head is tipped to the side, letting out sighs of pleasure.
“mmm, toji,” you squeak, hips jumping when you feel his two fingers inside your pussy.
“fuck, you’re too tight,” he mutters more to himself. that’s when you realize what he means. he’s sitting between your legs completely naked. you feel your breath catch when you follow the dark hairs of his happy trail all way down to the well-groomed but still hairy base of his thick cock. fuckk. your mind cannot wrap around how big he is. it was shiny which meant he’d already stroked his pre-cum around, now it was hanging between his large thighs, too heavy to stand fully erect. you couldn’t stop the drool from slipping out.
kyo’s didn’t look like that.
“No kidding.” toji meets your puzzled eyes. you’d just said that out loud? and now he has the most shit-eating grin ever.
toji pushes a third finger inside, making your jaw drop, reaching out for him. “it okay princess, I’ll make it fit.” your eyes kept falling down to the monster between his legs, your head going cloudy just thinking about it how that’ll be possible.
“want it now… put it inside me.”
toji clicks his tongue, still fingering you, his brows pinched in concentration. his tip was an angry red, leaking even more.
“you’re too tight. haven’t fucked a virgin in awhile.”
“it’s fine. I just…” you whined bucking your hips to the rhythm of his skilled fingers. “just want your d-dick inside me, please. please.”
toji slaps your pussy. hard. “stop being a fucking brat.”
you bite your lip only to start whining again as you keep eyeing his heavy hanging cock his tip drooling making your pussy tighten around his thirsting fingers. his dark pubes made your pussy cream even more. “toji.” you draw out his name. he meets your gaze, clearly frustrated, but suddenly you give him that annoying look. the one where your eyes get all big, dumb, and wide, and you bat your lashes up at him, your lips all wet and pouty. his jaw clenched. you could even see the vein on his jawline, only making you more needy. it was the same look you would innocently give him when he’d scold you about walking home alone at night.
“can’t even let me open you up,” he slaps your pussy. “crying like a whiny little brat.”
“please.” tears swell up, gently making your eyes sparkle.
he rolls his neck. “you’re killing me, sweetheart.” your hands reach for him, making him click his tongue as he grabs his base, pumping his cock harsher than you’d expect. your lips fall open, salivating at the sight. your mind remembering all his matches, how every hit he threw looked like he was breaking cement in half. you swallow thickly, eyes glancing up to see toji’s flushed cheeks as he jerks himself off. his eyes staring at how close your pussy is to his dick.
your stomach twists, a stupid feeling swelling in your belly as you become jealous of his hand.
“in me. toji toji—“
“I needa teach you a fucking lesson about patience,” he grabs your face, immediately seeing how dilated your pupils are, as you lean up, meeting his lips. you were fucking adorable, the desperation made him twitch even more. he couldn’t remember the last time he’s leaked this much pre-cum where it looked like he basically came already. “gonna take it slow.” he utters, rubbing his tip between your folds, collecting all the messy slick.
you moan into his mouth, soft little sighs as he continues his teasing actions, your fingers brushing his nape as you lick his bottom lip waiting….waiting. when his tip catches onto your clit, you let out a quiet cry. “to…jj…stop playing with me…”
“it’s all swollen though,” he coos, smiling when you flush, humming with him. “was I too mean on your poor clit?” you shake your head quickly. “want me to fuck y’r pussy now?”
“mhm, inside please, want it deep,” you add to his lewd words, making him chuckle. you always were a talker, but he’s still surprised how fucking dirty your mouth is. the same one that was always so polite with him, even if you guys did joke around, you always called him sir.
“eh, is that right?”
you nod, biting your lip, blushing when you hear him groan. he slides his tip down to your hole. your heart pounding a little faster, a small pit of fear dawning on you watching toji’s broad figure hover over you. his entire form covering you as he gently pushes his engorged cock head into your awaiting entrance.
you suck in sharply, gasping at the unknown feeling as he gives you your first real stretch, neck craning as your nails dig into his shoulder and nape.
“relax, sweetheart,” his hand runs up and down your thigh, squeezing your sweaty skin. as he runs a hand up your stomach letting you take some deep breaths. his jaw is clenched, biting down as he feels your vice grip on his cock, absolutely suffocating him. “fuck baby, y’r too tense, deep breaths.” he chokes out.
“o..okay.” you’re trembling. trying to take a deep breath, but it felt so weird, your pussy could feel his fat tip. his eyes fall to your scrunched up face. the only thing on your mind was simply. toji’s inside me. toji’s inside me. megumi’s dad is inside me! the chanting had you going dumb and unintentionally doing the worst thing you could do to a man struggling to hold his patience: you clenched around him.
“fuck baby!”
toji’s growl had your stomach tightening, squeezing him even harder as your back arched. “breathe baby!”
“i am,” your face is warm and sweaty. “help…it hurts.”
toji freezes, staring into your big doe eyes. his heart melts, cupping your cheek as he speaks gently.
“don’t cry,” he coos, “i’ll take care of it,” he strokes your cheek as you sniffle, nodding. “I’ll handle it.” you suddenly gasp feeling a familiar stimulation. his thumb swirling around your swollen clit making you whine in pleasure, he groans feeling your body start to relax a bit more. giving his cock some relief.
“just like that, good girl, shit,” he coos feeling you clench around him from the praise. “we’re not done yet sweetheart.”
“mmm, okay.” you’re so cute, but he sees the mischief in your eyes, that’s when he feels you start to rock your hips up. “want it all.”
“slowly.” he says sternly.
he pushes a little more, leaning back when you begin to act up again, his hand falling down on your pussy making you giggle in pleasure, his tongue peaks out to lick his teeth.
“don’t start acting like a spoiled brat again.”
“I’m not,” you whine, tongue coming out as you continue rocking your hips up. his stomach clenches, eyes falling over your sweaty figure. your tits bouncing with each buck. it would be so easy to slam into you right now. have your pretty lips cry out as he took your virginity so meanly.
“what a pretty girl,” he runs his hand up under your tits. smiling when you arch up for him. he continues to push his cock deeper inside you, your moans shifting into a quiet cry. “never had a pussy this tight. ya ever put anything inside?” you shake your head.
“no,” you blush, biting your lip trying to decide if you should say what you wanted.
“spit it out.”
“i wanted you to be the first person to touch me down there.”
you whine feeling his big cock twitch inside you. he’s pulling out, sliding back in getting your slick to run down his cock.
“ ‘s that right?” he lifts.
“mhm, didn’t wanna finger myself either.”
“so you only played with your little clit?” you nod.
“you’re so cute.”
your cheeks sting, opening your mouth to respond, but the stretch started to sting. he was going too slow.
your hands lift off your chest to reach for his shoulders. “too slow.”
“watch it,” he meets you lower, your hands running around his shoulders as you pant so softly at his agonizing pace. slowly stretching out your little pussy hole. “you’re gonna regret your words in a sec.”
“fuck me,” you command. the snappy voice making his jaw tick. you’re a fucking handful, and now seeing how much of an attitude you catch when you’re horny made him even more turned on.
“baby.” he warns.
“cmon, please please.”
his patience fucking breaks.
your breath catches when his arms are grabbing your thighs, pulling you forward so easily, immediately slamming his entire length inside you.
a strangled cry rips from your throat. gasping as he pulls out again and slams his burning cock deep inside you hitting your cervix and leaving it in there so you can feel just how full he’s making you.
“is that what you wanted? fuck!” his cheeks are red as he groans from the drag of his cock. you were absolutely suffocating him. his eyes glancing down at the blood mixing with the creamy base of his cock. his dark pubes all wet and sticky as the slick covered your thighs as well.
“g-goo…d…” you’re in tears, gasping as he slams his cock slow and hard. letting you feel him, every curve and vein of his cock. your mind going hazzy as you look up at his sweaty face, holding one leg under his arm as the other runs up your pelvis, pressing down on your stomach.
“feel that baby?”
you moan loudly when he presses on the bulge his cock was making. you nod, eyes looking up at him with hearts. his own chest beating rapidly, cock twitching as you clench around him.
“who’s making you feel good?”
“you are.” your hands fall to hold his on your tummy. “toji’s inside me.”
“that’s right, baby.” he groans again, thrusting into you again, and again. your gasps and cries making him start to lose his cool.
he leans back on his knees lifting you up easily, sitting you on his lap, his arm caging both your arms behind your back as his mouth immediately latched on to your tits, suckling on them as they hung right in his face.
“toji!”
he smiles, biting harshly on the buds as he held you close to his chest and started fucking up into you. the squelching of your sexes had you whining and crying. drool falling down your lips as he sucked bruises on your gasping tits.
“tell me how much you like getting fucked dumb.”
“I-i love it!” you cry, arms bound behind you only helping you arch closer to his chest as he held your wrists tight.
“you love?” he laughs loudly. “you came up to me because you knew I’d fuck this virgin cunt raw if I saw you, that right?”
“yes!” you’re definitely gone. “always thinking about you, sir!” his lips suck a harsh tug making your eyes roll back at the stimulation.
“what would that dumb head of yours think about?”
“a-about angh hngh your hands…” you break into moan when he slaps your ass at your hesitation. “and I thought about your dick.”
not surprising, but it still makes him grin widely.
“thought about how y-youd fuck me, and how you’d taste.” you whimper as his finger circles your little rim from behind. teasing you as he slows down each thrust so it was slow and sensual, wanting to catch every word.
“was your head always filled with sex when we talked?” he laughed. “poor virgin.”
“it was filled before we talked too. i love it…” your head forward, tongue sticking out as you press your head to his. “you’re perfect sir.”
he groans loudly. opening his mouth as you spit so generously. his arm caged your body tight as he started fucking you fast and hard, so unbearably rough you we’re seeing stars.
“big…ahh. toji,” your tongue hangs out as he goes harder. his eyes clenching as he feels his own orgasm starting to edge closer.
“tell me what you want baby,” he pants.
“p-put me….in a mating press.”
he snorts, loudly. “and how does my princess know that.”
you whine, feeling his cock nuzzle inside you again. “tw-twitter.”
toji laughs, freeing your arms to lay your back on the mattress. he grabs your legs and throws them over his shoulder as he leans over you. his big toned thighs press under your ass as he spreads his legs apart, sinking his cock deeper into you. “this what you want.” his voice shakes, only feeling your grip tighten around him again. “baby.”
“s-sorry.” you’re panting, his face was so close to you as he calmed his mind, fuck he needed to cum the second his pushed his tip inside you. he hadn’t realized how long it’s been. but he was going to take care of you first. your eyes rolled back as he pulled back, slamming his hips back in, he easily started picking up the pace, this position was all he needed to lose all sense.
“fuck, taking me all like a good fucking girl.” you clench. “like that baby?”
you moan in response, tits bouncing between you as he pushes down you so you can feel more of his weight. your pussy clenching and twitching around him. the lewd sounds of his cock fucking into you were loud. the slick, his thighs clapping into your ass in a relentlessly fast pace.
your tongue hangs out immediately making him lean down to lick your tongue. a moan coming out of him as you responded. you’ve never had an experience to compare this too, but was it supposed to be this messy? you couldn’t care. it was so hot. his big body handling every single part of you, he controlled the pace, the kissing, the touching—you loved it.
his fingers were digging into your thighs and his mouth was letting out so much spit that had you bucking and squirming drinking from his lips until you started crying. the sounds of your pussy producing more arousal had toji going faster.
“you’re gonna squirt all over me.” his command had you panting and moaning, tongue lulling out like a puppy. “got it puppy?” you flush.
“messy….big-“ your words were so scrambled, but he didn’t care. his pace was going faster, his biceps flexing around your thighs. oh how you wished this was being recorded, suddenly desperate to see his back muscles straining and moving as he was fucking you fast and hard. that sudden image in your head was enough to have your head falling back, eyes fluttering with tears as your orgasm crashes.
“fuckk fuck puppy,” his eyes are dilating as he looks down to see you gushing around his fat cock. the sounds of your pussy spraying as he continues to fuck more out of you has his ears ringing and stomach clenching.
you cried his name as he continued to pump his dick in and out, the clear liquid sprayed his thighs and the bed.
“that’s it, ah fuck , ungh fuck, fuck—“ toji was so vocal, grunting and moaning with how much you were squirting it seemed endless.
you were drooling, eyes crossed, vision white as pleasure consumed you. toji knew you lost all brain capacity when you began uttering the repeated sound of his name followed by little babbles of “want your cum.”
“you want my cum?” toji grins, showing his teeth as his thursts turned sloppy, losing his cool at your blessed out face.
“fill me up.”
fuck, toji really hated you. his hand grabbed your jaw, his thumb hooking inside your mouth, your tongue falling out. “telling me to fill this nasty pussy up wit’ my cum?” toji tsked feeling you clench at his words. “you don’t deserve it, being a brat the entire time.”
your drool coated his thumb as it ran down his wrist. along with your tears filling your eyes at his rejection. your hips bucked as you whined. “want it. want your cummy.”
cummy? if it was under any other circumstance the man definitely would have cringed, but you were absolutely fucked dumb, and hearing you slur your words had his whole body running hot.
“you’re not on the pill.” toji bites, jaw clenching as you licked and drooled on his tongue, eyes filled with tears.
“i am!”
his eyes sunk ten times darker. you were making him lose all sanity.
“shit.” his head dropped, hand grabbing the back of your knees, his entire body pressing down as he leans up, fucking his cock deep until you were absolutely knocked. the sight of his cock bullying your virgin pussy was making his head dizzy. your clit all puffy was like a magnet, drawing his thumb to fall on it in harsh circles. your body jerked, crying as you gripped the sheets.
“fhuck my pretty girl, squirting all over daddy’s cock.” your pussy clenched. “ya? like daddy’s cock filling you up?” his jaw clenched as your tongue peaking out shaking with each vicious thrust.
“daddy,” you repeat, head empty. “fill me up.”
you moan together. he was completely under your spell. his eyes focused on your face twisted in pleasure.
“never had this pussy filled, have you?” his thrusts are sloppy, his jaw clenched. “tell me why you deserve it?”
“g-good girl hngh!” your face was so cute, his laugh masking his groans.
“good girl eh?
you cry, nodding your head. “please!”
“who do you belong too?”
“you!”
“who?”
“t-toji…” your eyes are crossing, pretty tits shaking as his entire weight drives each thrust. the thought of his heavy cum filled balls bursting inside you…you tighten around him, his jaw clenching.
“who makes ya feel good?”
“you do, daddy!” his cock is twitching, abs clenched as he forbids himself from giving in just yet. the edging making his mind heated and the pleasure longer.
“no more boyfriend,” he pressed your knees down a little harder, almost suffocating you in this mating press. “you’re mine.”
“yesyes—“ the mindless chanting had his head spinning. the built up adrenaline from the match consuming his veins as he fucked out every last bit of it. your precious little body was the most generous outlet. his cock was so unbelievably painful, his moans were getting a little more vocal until finally he gave one final thrust until the first large burst of his cum painted your gummy walls. your mind went white, forgetting if you were even orgasming or not as you felt his cum gush inside you. his moans were unlike anything you’ve ever heard. so deep and strained. his body covered in sweat, muscles flexing as he shook with each thrust, filling you up until the cum started overflowing and coming out. he was stuttering above you, body shaking as he felt the most pleasure release him.
you were completely spent.
your vision was hazy as you drifted out.
“babygirl.”
you felt the gentle hand stroking your cheek as he leaned over you, his lips softly meeting yours. you sigh, opening your mouth automatically, inviting his tongue so you could suck on it, his thumb brushing your warm cheek as the other stroked your side, your legs lazily around his hips.
“you okay?” he pulled his lips away. “I wasn’t too hard?” he was still out of breath, which made you blush.
you shake your head. “not too hard. felt good. your cum is all warm inside.”
“ya?” he smirks, rubbing your thigh as he leans back. your pussy lips parting, all sticky as he watches his cum still seeping out. “you look so pretty like this.” his hand traces the olive branch tattoo on your thigh. “with my cum inside you.” he slowly bends down pressing a kiss to your sternum, your nails lightly scratch his nape, earning a satisfied hum. “do guys usually cum this much?”
toji blushes, lifting his head to look at you. “no, that’s why mine is more special.” he smiles, making you flush. “i mean it.” your lips part, but he looks back up, eyes meeting. “no shitty ass boyfriend.” you swallow.
“are you gonna be my boyfriend then?”
“yes.”
“you can’t just tell me what to do and—“ your breath catches, heart suddenly beating a lil faster, hyper aware of his long gaze. “what?”
“you said you’re mine. so that’s that.” toji moves up, just inches from your face as he watches every dart of your eyes, every breath that comes out…his lip tugs up. “you were only dating him because you didn’t have me.” your eyes look away.
“that’s that.” you repeat softly. your face is burning, an urge crawling up inside you. he wanted to be with you. he wanted to be with you….toji…wanted to be with you, but, “megumi.”
toji brushes your cheek. “don’t think about that. okay?” he kisses your warm cheek.
“okay.” he sits up fully now, gently dropping your legs. his face shifts slightly, his hand falling on the dark bruise on his ribs.
“does it hurt?”
his lips part to reassure you, but you lean over, laying your small soft hand on his ribs. “I’m sorry i asked you to go harder.” your lips meet his bruised skin, knowing it was a childish thing to kiss a bruise as if it was medicine. but toji’s face went bright red. his stomach fluttering as he stared down at you. your eyelashes so soft…
“don’t apologize, baby.”
your gaze meets, and he watches your eyes squint up as you smile. your thumb softly caressing the skin, sitting up. “but I’m sorry.” you tilt your head, giving a little pout. he raises a brow, his hands falling on your hips as you begin wrapping your arms over his shoulders, kneeling between his legs. “i was being a brat.” he knew exactly what you were doing. the playful glint in your eyes, the little teasing you only do with him.
“taking accountability?” he tilts his chin up, meeting your pout with a tilt of his own.
“mhm, i learn quick.” you smile. “did i work you hard? it’s okay we can go slower next time.” his jaw locks.
“oh ya?”
“mhm, it’s okay t-o-j-i, we’ll go at your pace.”
“you fucking minx.” he grabs a handful of your ass, pinching it. “you could barely take it.”
you squeal. “nuh-uh, you were trying not to bust a nut when you went inside me.” you squeal at the harsh slap.
“you’re a fucking talker ya know that.”
“you like it though.” you cry out a laugh as he grabs your face squeezing your cheeks to prevent you from yapping.
“making fun of an old man for controlling himself around a pretty little virgin. i would’ve hurt you, sweetheart, if i went too hard from the start. would’ve had you crying.” his eyes glanced over your face.
“i was crying already.”
he smiles. “that’s the good crying, baby.” he licks his lips. “would never actually hurt you intentionally.”
your stomach is bursting with butterflies. toji has always been kind to you and the others. he always kept his circle close, which really meant you were his own. but you didn’t expect such raw emotions from him. megumi rarely mentioned his long deceased mother, but when he did, it was always followed by how much toji had loved her.
the words slipped out before you could think. the green eyes suddenly grew lighter as his face went still.
“you’re a good man, toji.”
the warmth from his body spread to your cheeks as his arms loosened just slightly. not that he was pulling away, but that he was taking in your words. both of you so vulnerable at this moment, completely naked for everything to see, it felt more intimate than when he had his dick driving so deep inside you, giving you waves of his cum because this time his eyes grew softer, and his smile was as delicate as a dandelion.
“kiss me.”
you did.
you could feel the smile in his kiss. his lips wet, but soft. he was holding your chin, pulling away, his breath fanning your face.
“you’re an angel.”
your cheeks set on fire. lips breaking into a shy smile making him laugh.
“wanna shower?” you only nod, burying your face in his neck, clearly still embarrassed from his words, he laughs at your reaction, petting your head as he coos. “my little angel is embarrassed now.”
“am i your baby, sweetheart, puppy, or angel?” you mumble into his neck. “it’s too many.”
“is it too many, should i just stick with your name then?” he says your name. your body reacts, burying your face deeper into his neck. he barks out, laughing. “that’s your name, princess.”
princess now?! “shut up! you’re so doing this on purpose.”
“I’m just talking to you, puppy.” this fucking dick! you huff pulling away, you knew you looked flustered so you pushed his face away from you, not caring that he was wincing from touching his bruised eyebrow. “ow pup.”
you stumble off the bed, wobbling just so briefly before standing up straight. “puppy is a degrading one!”
“you came hard when I called you that. opened your mouth so wide—“
“ahhh shut up shut up shut up!” you cover your ears as you speed walk across the large master room to the bathroom. toji immediately jumps off the bed, scaring you. your eyes widen as he chases after you, making you squeal running faster.
“cmon, don’t act shy now. you were a pretty dirty angel when i had you stuffed full.” he grabs your wrists pulling them away from your ears. you shake your head. “stop it no, no—no bedroom talk when it’s not happening. what happens during sex stays in sex.”
“so ‘puppy’ is your sex name then. what if i want a little kiss?” you pause. “my mouth is so wet.” your eyes lock on his lips seeing him purposely collect the spit around. your body reacting immediately, stepping forward, as you lean up to meet his lips. “cmon puppy, open up.” your lips part, his pride swelling seeing you submit so fucking easily. his thumb comes up, pinching your nipple making your eyes flutter and moan drop your jaw. he spits directly into your mouth. “sex name?”
“shut up.” you lick your lips. cheeks hot as you turn your head. “are we gonna shower?”
he smiles.
next thing you know, you’re leaning against his arm, hugging it close as his other arm is slotted between you, fingers thrusting inside with such force, talking so dirty in your ear as you let out broken moans.
“you like getting finger-fucked by your friends dad, huh?”
your chopped moans had you drooling on his arm. eyes fully rolled back. “like daddy stretching this cute pussy?” your only replies were moans.
“come for daddy.”
“cu-cum-anghh.” your legs shake, knees giving out as you cum hard. he easily wraps a strong arm around you, holding you up.
you couldn’t wrap your mind on how you were even able to cum again, but when toji laid you under his bed covers, pulling you to his chest. you could feel the long night weigh your body down. “are you actually okay?”
your hand lays on his chest, fingers brushing his bruises.
“just tired.” he sighs, pulling you closer, an ease consuming his body the closer you pressed yourself to him. the comfort your touch brought was unlike anything. the memories of his past no longer a feeling of constant grief and sorrow.
you leaned closer, burying your face in his neck snuggling close. your lips meeting his warm skin as he sighs, arm wrapped around you.
“I’m scared megumi is gonna hate me,” you softly whisper. no clue why you were ruining this moment, but your anxiety was still creeping back in.
his eyes are closed as he answers. “because we fucked?”
“because i fucked his dad.”
“does he have a crush on you?”
“no!” toji laughs, turning his head to look at you.
“i said it’ll be okay.” his arm pulls you close, leaning his forehead to yours. your body growing warm. “do you trust me?”
“I do.”
“then go to sleep.”
and you do.
little did you know poor megumi was a little more sober than the rest and when he couldn’t find his phone in the middle of the night, he decided to go up and fetch his dad’s phone. was it because he was tired that he wasn’t picking up on the slight gasps and cries until he slid the door just an inch all for him to witness the millisecond of his dad’s bare ass drilling— SLAM
megumi was frozen. the door immediately shut. he didn’t want to decipher what he’d witnessed but why did your voice have to be so recognizable! Sadly the poor boy had to run away with hands covering his ears, only to run into a shocked nobara standing by the stairs.
“Is that y/n!!?” megumi ran covering the the girl’s mouth.
“shhhhh!”
in other words it wasn’t a big shock when you were all having breakfast and yuuji decides to speak.
“so are you like megumi’s mom now or?”
you choke on your cereal as megumi coughs violently. toji was still upstairs. your face was on fire. you couldn’t lift your head.
“look what you did, idiot!” nobara elbows yuuji hard. then your bottom lip shook, and worse a tear slipped. they all froze completely. you don’t cry easily. you don’t!
“please don’t hate me, m-megumi…” your eyes filled with more tears. you really are an idiot, you knew what would happen if you ever crossed that line. but…toji was different. your heart ached without him, and it swelled whenever he looked your way. when you were upset you wanted to see him, when you were anxious you wanted him to rest his hand on your head. when you didn’t want to talk, you wanted to hear him talk….he was different. but he’s also…
“your dad.” you swallow your tears, sucking it up. but when you decided to lift your head, megumi’s arms wrapped around your shoulders, pressing you tight.
“it’s fine.”
your mouth was dry, eyes wide, but you buried your face in his shoulder as he hugged you—which he never does—and calmed you down.
“you’re not mad?” you wipe your face as he pulls away.
megumi lets out a heavy sigh. “i knew this would happen.” everyone raises a brow. “all he does is ask about you, what’s y/n doing? where is she? did she finish her work? is she coming today? on and on and on—“ megumi groans. “at least now I don’t have to be a middle man.”
your cheeks stung. nobara couldn’t help but giggle, she’s never seen you so flustered. kyoi sure as hell never made you feel like that.
“what else has he said?” you bite your cheek.
“he told me he likes sparring you!” yuuji chimes in. your cheeks run red, remembering what he told you last night.
it did take some getting used to. toji randomly coming over and wrapping an arm around your shoulder was fine, but when he’d lean down and kiss you deep, megumi couldn’t help his gagging. do that was a no. but other than the slight pda (on toji’s part) it was all the same. except for something only megumi noticed, which was how much happier his dad looked.
he couldn’t explain how oddly perfect the relationship was. you fit him perfectly and him to you. so megumi bared his teeth at the awkwardness, and went about his weird life.
ALL EYES ON RAFAH!!
ALL EYES ON RAFAH!!!
I’m attaching some informational links and will also add some donation links!!
STAY INFORMED! STAY ACTIVE! This is not a war, this is a GENOCIDE!
info: link // link // link // link // link // link
synopsis: after a curse accidentally turns the most feared sorcerer killer into a stray dog, it looks like toji is taking shelter with the first sorry person that takes him in...which happens to be a completely clueless you!
pairing: dog!toji x f!reader
wc: 11.1k
content: mdni, fluff + angst, smut, unprotected piv sex (after he's human again okay lmfao), lots of pining and yearning, toji is literally a dog for a while lol + so pathetic about it, deep in denial of feelings, toji being a dick until he realizes he likes being taken care of, pet care, oblivious reader, nanami cameo, jealous toji, protective toji, okay he's actual just feral, collars and leashes, kissing, fingering, doggy style, pulling out, toji falling in love
a/n: toji art by @to00fu ! this was a commission for the extraordinarily lovely @chewiebee !!
Toji was having the worst fucking week of his life.
He had no interest in fighting curses. Why would he? He wasn’t getting paid to play sorcerer. All he cared about was taking out his current target, hungover as he squinted through bloodshot eyes at the scene of yet another pathetic fight unfolding in front of him.
So how the fuck had putting a bullet in some moron’s head ended in him getting caught off-gaurd by the thing he’d been chasing?
He didn’t know what it was classified as, what it was even supposed to be, but that was the definition of crossfire. Wrong place, wrong time, and now he was a mutt.
Truthfully, Toji had been called that (and worse) a time or two. Treated like a dirty dog with fleas.
He never realized how fucking itchy actually having fleas was.
Maybe this was karma. Retribution for all the awful deeds he'd done and justified over the years.
A pathetic curse had transformed him from a force to be reckoned with to a filthy stray. Trading in scarred skin for shaggy fur, calloused hands for paws, even growing a goddamn tail.
He’d gone a day or two without eating before, sustaining on ramen or whatever else he could scrounge up – but now he knew what starvation was like when he was faced with the realization he’d be eating out of fucking trash cans for the time being. Clumsily swiping at the metal lids or sticking his wet nose up as he sniffed around back alleys for scraps. Getting shooed away from restaurants, ignored by pedestrians, narrowly avoiding nosey people who’d probably take him to some animal shelter while he waited for this stupid curse to wear off.
Except, it didn’t.
Each day, he woke up with his slobbery head resting on his furry limbs.
The second week somehow managed to be worse.
Hunger gnawing at him, desperation and starving twisting together until he felt feral. Shiu was probably pissed off and pacing somewhere, surely thinking Toji was off on some bender instead of bent forward on his haunches, attempting to take a nap outside of some nice office building – the kind with the type of employees who’d toss him leftovers if they saw him sitting there sadly.
There weren’t many things Toji was good at that weren't phsyical.
But knowing what kind of woman would take him in was one of them. It wasn’t just about a pretty face or an expensive purse. It was that little gleam in their eyes, the faint hint of pity that undercut their attraction. Whether or not they had a wedding band, or wore designer brands, if they were searching for salvation in sex with some scumbag or just the thrill of doing someone they shouldn’t, those all came second.
There had to be sympathy, even if it was misplaced – the sort that made them feel like they had to offer him a bed and blankets to bury himself in, hot meals and clean clothes. A place to shower and scrape his life together between contracts.
Toji was trying for a few days – attempting to snag the attention from a do-gooder or divorcee to get himself somewhere to sleep.
He almost gave up. Until you came along.
And in an instant, he had you pegged. Planned out his play as you looked past him. Or, over him.
You were someone he might’ve slept with. Heels clicking as you walked up to the main entrance, pausing to give someone who was playing guitar on the sidewalk some cash between buildings, smiling all pretty before you shrugged your purse over your shoulder and hurried inside.
Sure, he couldn’t pull his usual tricks on you. Slide up to you or slip you his number, call you doll or pretty, until you were giggling and grinning up at him.
But who said he couldn’t find another way to win you over? And win himself somewhere warm to sleep while he was at it? He perked up, an idea brewing in his lemon-sized brain.
He supposed he’d find out pretty soon if you were a dog person.
ᴥ
You heard of the cat distribution service before. Giggled at the idea of the universe hanging you a pet on a silver platter like that. But the green-eyed shaggy beast barking in front of you felt a little more like a cosmic joke.
Did the dog distribution service exist? And if it did, why the hell had it decided you were capable of taking care of this?
All you were attempting to do was go back down the street after a particularly grueling shift, but this…stray was prowling around as if it were waiting for you. Padding back-and-forth on dirty paws, leaving muddy prints on the concrete as you glanced around for an owner you already knew didn’t exist.
He wasn’t wearing a collar – and judging by the fact you could see a couple ribs poking out, you doubted he’d been fed anything outside of scraps for a while.
“Hi, puppy,” you tried to greet him, holding your hand out for him to sniff. Tilting your head to the side while you cringed at the idea this hulking thing could possibly be a puppy. He was too big, dark scraggly fur sticking up, his coat dirty from living on the street for however long he’d been living out here. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d even seen a stray dog around here. Let alone one this large.
Was he someone’s pet they tossed out when he grew past puppy size? One that escaped and scrounged to survive?
He curiously came up, his long tongue sticking out and dragging over your fingers. It was kinda gross, struggling not to cringe outwardly this time before you wiped his slobber off on your pencil skirt. Glancing around as if someone else wearing an ‘I LOVE DOGS’ shirt would waltz up and take him in so you didn't have to.
“I don’t have any food for you,” you apologetically murmured, ignoring the snickering of another one of your coworkers brushing past you and the mutt rubbing his nose against your skirt.
He let out a low ruff, and you couldn’t tell what he was trying to communicate.
Still, you were convinced he would lose interest after a block. Or two. But he was still trailing after you by the time you finally reached your apartment.
“You can’t come in,” you protested at first, frowning at him yipping and pawing at your heels. You bit your lap, looking around to see if anyone else was around before almost immediately caving in and opening the door to the lobby for him. He rubbed his head against your legs, but followed your lead up to the back stairwell, keeping up with you until you reached your front door.
Were you a fool for letting some mangy thing inside your place?
Probably, yeah.
But you told yourself this was a temporary thing. God knows you couldn’t afford the additional pet deposit you’d need to pay to keep him. Or the dog toys and food required to keep an animal this big well-fed. And honestly?
You were too lazy to find the time to walk him every day.
He’d need what? At least an hour? A few miles?
You’d give him a few days, a week maybe. You’d have to take him to a vet too, get him checked out to see if he had a chip or anything. Afterwards, you could look up animal shelters nearby, but if those were full, you could try posting online to see if he was anyone’s missing pet.
A lot of work for…what?
Some stray?
He looked up at you with those dark green eyes, and you noticed a strange scar stretching over his lip, still visible through his fur, all jagged and rough. It was enough to tug on your heartstrings, squeezing it just hard enough that you only sighed as you unlocked your front door, barely beginning to push it open before he was barralling his way in.
Most of the mud on his paws had come off on the walk here at least, only leaving little marks of dirt as he padded into your living room, looking around almost critically. Eyes shifting from your couch to the tv hanging a little lopsided on your wall, quickly locating the adjoining kitchen and heading in the direction of your fridge.
Greedy thing, wasn’t he?
He barked, trying to get your attention.
Surely, if he knew what a fridge was, knew where to go, he had to belong to somebody, right? Maybe you would only have to play dogsitter for a day or two if someone was out there missing him. You’d have to keep an eye out tomorrow for posters on lampposts, fingers crossed that you’d get a reward for being a good samaritan.
You kicked off your heels, following your new friend over to your fridge.
He was pawing at it, practically whining, and another prick of guilt got you. Pierced into your soul, disappointed in yourself for already thinking about how fast you could get rid of him while the poor thing was staring.
“Do you like steak?” You asked, not sure what else you could feed him that you already had on hand. The steak was supposed to be for a date later this week, a guy you had sorta been seeing for the past few weeks.
You offered to cook for him, already got the ingredients, but you supposed you would just have to go to the store for another one – and pick up some actual dog food there too.
The dog was nodding, head moving up-and-down, as it was actually answering, and you giggled a little.
He was kinda cute. In a scraggly way.
Like the type of guy you swore you could fix. On the bright side, you could fix him. Fatten him up with some real food. Get him some proper exercise. Maybe a dog bed for him to stay comfy until you found him a new (or old) home.
“Suppose I should name you for now,” you murmured, getting down on his level. Not quite nose-to-nose, his surprisingly intelligent stare locking onto you.
He barked, and if you could almost believe he was trying to tell you a name when he was making eye contact like this.
But dogs couldn’t talk. And unfortunately for him, you weren’t all that creative. You went with the first (and not very fitting) name your brain came up with as you reached out to pet his scraggly fur.
“What about Fluffy?”
ᴥ
“Good boy.”
How fucking frustrating.
Toji was not a good boy. The number of bounties on his human body could probably vouch for that. Actually, anyone who ever met him would fucking agree that he was about as far as he could get from the definition of good.
He was a bad, bad man. One who would most certainly be much happier out there murdering people than having his paws shoved inside a fucking pet sweater before having a goddamn green collar fastened around his neck, a leash attached.
If he could scowl, he would be right now, regretting every bad decision that led him here.
(Although as much as he hated to admit it, the sweater was kinda comfy.)
“C’mon, Fluffy,” you purred, scratching behind his ear in a way that reflexively had him leaning into your hand, unable to control the canine whimper that came from his throat as you managed to make that infuriating itch that had been bothering him disappear.
Perhaps he picked the wrong woman.
You let him in. Fed him. But it was like you were trying to irritate him, piss him off with your cutesy nickname and condescending baby talk. Completely clueless, convinced you were doing a good deed by taking care of him.
“We’re going on a walk,” you spoke softly, pulling lightly on his leash to get him to follow you.
He barked back, trying to communicate that he didn’t fucking feel like it, that it was far too early in the morning to make him get up, the sun barely up before you were attempting to force him off of your couch.
Wasn’t it bad enough that he was collared and leashed? Contained in the body of a canine?
Toji didn’t know how long he could take it.
Sure, the steak you fed him was great. The warmth of your apartment, the coziness of your couch, that was all fine.
But putting up with you? And this?
He whined, resisting as you exhaled hard, rolling your eyes at him.
“You’re going to be stuck here all day,” you huffed. “Don’t you need to like, piss?”
Toji grimaced, his grumbling only coming out in low barks as he begrudgingly let you lead him to the front door. Your purse was tucked over your shoulder, plastic shopping bags sticking out of it as you plucked your keys free.
He had learned a few things about you over the past fourteen hours.
You were smart, sharp enough to look a little suspicious at his human-ish behavior. He had to do a few circles, sniff around the furniture to shake your stare after he scarfed down the steak and wiped his mouth on one of your hand towels before getting shocked by his own reflection looking back at him in the oven.
Growling a little, disturbed at the thought he made an ugly mutt.
Affectionate too, in an easy way. Rubbing his head and scratching underneath his chin every time you so much as brushed against him.
But you were still a fool.
Just stupid enough to see a stray and let it sleep with you.
Well, adjacent to you.
Shutting him out of your bedroom, leaving him to crash on your couch, curled up in the corner, eyes shutting from exhaustion before he could stop himself. He didn’t mean to doze off – but he couldn’t control it. After so long scrounging for survival, his body refused to stay awake any longer, bones worn, limbs terribly tired as dreams washed over him.
In them, he was human again, but still here.
Staring down at a sleeping dog in front of him, paws hanging off the couch and snoring while he scoffed.
What the fuck was he doing?
How the hell was he supposed to get back to his own body?
There were still things he had to do. Debt to be paid and bets to be made.
His life wasn’t good. Had never really been. But it was still his to live.
Toji flexed his fingers, trying to hold onto the feeling of having them before he found himself snapping back into his dog form – like some rubber band snapping and rebounding him back into the proper place.
He didn’t get the chance to protest.
Why did he expect anything different?
The world wasn’t kind to him. Why would it cut him a break now?
This was as good as it was going to get.
Maybe the universe was telling him to be grateful or some stupid bullshit like that – reminding him that even his strength could be humbled and stolen from him. Reduced down to a dog wearing a sweater, stuck on the leash of a woman who would go on to marry some small-dicked loser and have a picket fence life without half the worries he had.
Who would never know blood and death the way he did. Protected by the sorcerers he was contracted to kill.
“Are you really gonna fight me on this?” You pouted, stomping one of your heels as you gave another small tug at his leash.
He shook his head, and you blinked back surprise again, eyes narrowing before you swallowed hard. Accepted it as a little quirk, or whatever you had to tell yourself before letting it go at that. Leading him back down the hall, down the stairs, taking him back to the sidewalk and the streets he’d been prowling for the past couple weeks.
“See,” you murmured softly. “It’s not that bad.”
Yeah, it was, but he couldn’t argue with you the way he wanted to.
It was cold on his paws, the wind nipping at his nose, and you were barely hiding your shiver under your coat in the early morning air.
You had the decency to turn your back when he did his, uh, business.
The whole thing felt intimate – in a way he despised. How you would bend down to speak quietly to him, how your fingers felt running through his scruff. The way the tips of them would skim over his jaw as your eyes locked onto his.
If he was better, less self-centered, perhaps he’d stop to appreciate the fact you still spoke to him, even when he was only a dog. But you didn’t know he was really a human like you.
Actually, not really like you.
You were supposed to be nothing. You weren’t a sorcerer. Didn’t belong to a clan. There wasn’t even enough money in your purse to really have a place in his normal life.
The paths you were both on should have stayed separate. Never crossing, never intertwining. You were weak.
And you were still the one person who stopped for him.
“Guess I need to get you to a vet tomorrow,” you sighed, standing up straight and looking left back towards your apartment. “I’ll take you out for another walk after work.”
And you did.
The whole day by himself, padding around an empty apartment of a stranger, dozing off on the floor and fighting his animal impulses to find out how chewable your shoes and furniture were, it was kind of lonely.
Toji thought he knew what loneliness was. How it felt to be by himself, to not have anyone to talk to or turn to. But it wasn’t like this. Nowhere to go and nothing to do, nothing but his own morbid thoughts.
He was almost relieved to hear your key turn in the door. Showing up with a big bag of food, arms full with a comfy cushion big enough for him to sleep on and a bag of dog toys, setting up his bed next to your own and patting it softly before you peeled off your clothes to put on pajamas.
He was sleazy, sure.
But this time, he turned around, paws sinking into the soft cushion instead of staring at the bare expanse of your skin when your top came off. Didn’t watch you change or take the easy opportunity to see a pretty girl strip right in front of him.
It didn’t feel right.
He slept on the floor, shoving down the depressingly long day before you were walking over to him. Getting down on your knees, rubbing his back and resting your head on top of his.
“Good night.”
When was the last time someone had actually wished him that?
He was struck by the strange sensation pricking underneath his fur and skin that it felt nice to hear.
Truly, Toji loathed how easy it was to get used to this.
How long did it take?
Not nearly enough for him to find justification.
Even if his days stretched out far longer lately.
When did it happen exactly? How did getting his head scratched go from irritating to intoxicating? When did he start catching his tail wagging waiting for you to get back home? Or listening on the rare occasions where you patted for him to jump up and join you in bed at night? How he couldn’t control his impulses when it came to sniffing and licking your face the next morning?
Looking forward to the way you would sleepily stroke his fur, yawning and snuggling him close.
“Sweet boy,” you murmured, lazily throwing an arm around his torso.
He’d been called a lot of things.
Evil. Broke. Awful.
Never sweet. Never anything carrying an even remotely positive connotation before you unless it was just about his looks.
You took him to the vet, but he saw the way your brows knitted together when they scanned him for a chip and couldn’t find one. They offered to vaccinate him, but all it took was a few barks, whining and resisting for you to quickly decline and take him back home. Grumbling on the way back about needing to put up posters or make found dog posts online, but you didn’t do either.
Just turned the tv on and gestured for him to join you yet again, letting him get up on the couch as you sighed and scrolled through shows, glancing over at him every so often, tilting your head to the side in a way that was almost annoyingly cute.
He wanted to know what you were thinking.
What was going on in your head when you looked at him like that.
But the days ended how they usually did, with you returning back to your own bed, leaving him to his dreams.
Ones where he was human again – where he wasn’t stuck being your pet and eating fucking kibble and taking pisses in the street. Where he would actually be able to hold someone again.
Toji just didn’t realize he had started to think about holding you until the world reminded him that he couldn’t.
Watching you hurry around your apartment after work the next day, shutting him out of your bedroom just to step back out in a ridiculously tiny dress five minutes later. One that clung to your chest, stuck to your skin and rode up your thighs.
“I’m gonna be home late tonight, Fluffy,” you sighed, pulling at the hem of it as you slipped into your heels. You were even wearing more makeup than usual, the gloss on your lips catching the light as they parted apologetically.
He barked, and if he could, he’d tell you not to fucking think about it.
That you should really just stay here with him.
It was absurd. Simply absurd that he was attached to you like that.
He wasn’t supposed to be attached to anyone. To need somebody other than himself. To count on your company like that.
“I know,” you sympathetically sighed, bending down to cup his face.
When you touched him like that, he almost felt human again. Almost felt like you were actually seeing him.
But he was just a fucking dog to you.
ᴥ
“Do you like dogs?”
Your date coughed a little, wine dribbling down down his lips as he cleared his throat and used his napkin to wipe it off.
“Do you have one?” He asked, forcing a smile that made you feel awkward as you took the last bite of the dessert he insisted on ordering.
You postponed your date from before, but he suggested making a dinner reservation at some upscale restaurant that made you feel shy, a little guilty about ordering off the pricey menu when you had originally wanted to cook for him before.
The discomfort only grew at how incompatible you were slowly starting to think you might be.
“I sorta took in a stray,” you shrugged, dropping the fork down on the plate. He nodded along, placing a credit card over the receipt as you tried to judge where the rest of tonight was headed. If you should offer for him to come back to yours.
Honestly, despite the not-so-great date, you were dying to get laid.
To feel the warmth of something that wasn’t furry or inanimate. To be touched and adored, even if it was only for a few moments. Just a night where you were taken care of, treasured.
Although, the barking beast probably snoozing on his bed back home might pose a problem judging by the way your date was shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
He was a coworker, professional enough that you had never thought he was remotely interested in you until he politely declared that he'd like to go on a date with you a month ago, formally admitting his feelings for you had grown through break room chats and meetings.
Nanami was cute. All serious and steady. The sort of guy it would be easy to picture a future with. He definitely did his taxes – probably had his retirement half paid for already, a future mapped in five-year plans.
“Oh?” He asked, with just enough curiosity to help you work up the courage to ask your next question, thick fingers somehow still managing to hold a wine glass delicately.
“You could come meet him?”
How terribly could it go?
Fluffy was a little feral. But he didn’t bark or try to bite the people you passed by when you took him on walks.
So you hadn’t exactly anticipated how territorial he’d act after only living with you for a couple weeks.
Silence greeted you back in your apartment, pushing the door opening and calling out to him. Laughing a little at Nanami’s wry comment about your naming abilities and letting your hands skim over his broad chest, the button-up clinging to it as the sound of paws padding towards you made you turn.
Your dog started growling the second he saw Nanami next to you.
A low sound, from the deepest part of his throat, rolling as you protectively stepped in front of him and scoffed.
“Don’t be like that,” you scolded your pet, sighing and shaking your head with disapproval. “C’mon, Nanami.”
“Kento,” he corrected you, but when you glanced back, his focus was on Fluffy. Amber eyes narrowed, lines forming between his brows as he watched your dog get low to the ground and continue howling with his own disgust.
“We can go back to my bedroom,” you murmured, interlacing your fingers with him and leading him past your pet, keeping yourself between the two of them before you shut the door behind you.
Neither of you even got past taking your shoes off, or even peeling a single article of clothing off, only your purse getting the chance to hit the floor. His hand had just cupped your face, the sharp slope of his nose nudging against yours as he leaned in for a kiss when a loud thump interrupted.
Fluffy was throwing the whole fucking weight of his body against the door, barking and whining at being shut out.
“He’s not usually like this,” you muttered, embarrassment edging in at how much you sounded like one of those dog owners who swore their dogs never bit when they definitely did.
“Maybe next time we could go back to my place,” he lightly said, even when he was actively grimacing and glancing back to where the whole frame was shaking from the force of your dog acting like a dick.
Crack.
Wood splintered. The frame gave out, hinges creaking as a large hole suddenly burst through the center.
You stared at your now utterly destroyed door.
“What the hell?” You hissed, glancing down at your dog on the other side through the dog-shaped crater, wood chips in his fur and scattered on the floor. He was baring his sharp teeth, growling at the man behind you.
“I don't think he likes me very much,” Nanami dryly commented, and you couldn't even protest.
Just blinking at the huge mess you'd have to clean up as you numbly attempted to collect a shred of composure and higher reasoning not to completely lose it at the dog still trying to break into your bedroom to what?
Attack your date?
“Perhaps it would be better if I left,” Nanami muttered, right as Fluffy started barking even louder through the broken and splintered wood.
“You don’t have to-” You weakly protested, but he had made up his mind.
And you had sealed your fate of not getting fucked tonight the second you suggested coming back here.
You had to slip out of the door first, hardly managing to hold Fluffy back by his collar as your date hurried back out. Except, at the last second, he slipped from your grip, bounding across the living room in large strides and half-launching himself off the couch just for his canines to sink into the calf of your blond coworker. Ripping a hole in the tan fabric but thankfully not actually breaking his skin, only stopped by Nanami grabbing him by the collar and prying him off before he could.
“Holy shit, I'm so sorry,” you started frantically apologizing, rushing to grab him and hold him back, rambling that you'd buy him a new pair of pants.
Nanami politely muttered something about seeing you in the office again on Monday, dusting off his now ripped pants with more professionalism than you think you could ever fucking muster as you contemplated finding a new job so you wouldn't have to face a break room conversation apologizing for your dog assaulting his slacks.
The door shut too hard behind him, and you were left alone with your still-growling stray.
“I swear to fucking God, if you try to break the front door, I'll drop you back off where I found you,” you threatened, only letting go of the collar when he stopped. But then he was pacing, making unhappy circles and looking at you like you were the one that had committed some grave sin.
What the fuck were you supposed to do now?
Buy a dog crate? A new door? Try to call around shelters again to see if any of them had suddenly become available to take him?
Despite how pissed you were, how the disappointment and anger felt like it was boiling and bubbling underneath your skin, the thought of dropping him off somewhere and condemning him to being put to sleep or stuck somewhere for months without anyone to take him in kinda scared you.
You didn't want that to happen to him.
Even if part of you hated him right now for this.
Silently fuming when you stomped back into your bedroom, stripping down and huffing to yourself as you yanked pajamas from your dresser. Tossing them on and snatching your purse back up, rummaging through it for your phone to send an obligatory apology text before scanning through your contacts for someone to complain to.
Calling one of your friends as you sat on the edge of your bed, listening to the phone ring and the sound of paw pads pacing in the living room drifted through the gaping hole in your door.
“I thought you were on a date right-”
“My dog tried to fucking bite him,” you groaned into the phone, putting her on speaker before pulling up your browser to start searching for solutions for your current dog problem.
What would a responsible adult do?
You regretted not going along with your first plan, for putting your search for a proper place for him to stay on pause is it because you'd grown a little fond of the feral thing, procrastinating doing all those things you swore you'd take care of after they couldn't find a chip.
“That sucks,” your friend sighed with you, and the sound of a loud thud forced you to push off the bed and venture back into your living room, carefully stepping over the remains of your door as you peered at the lamp he knocked over.
At least Fluffy had the decency to look semi-guilty this time, attempting to nudge it back into place with his nose as you felt some invisible vein throb across your forehead.
You tucked your phone between your ear and your shoulder, squatting down to pick it up and fix it without looking at him.
“You still there?”
“Yeah, he's just making another mess,” you muttered, feeling defeated at the thought this was nothing compared to the other big repair this place would need. Worn by the past few weeks. Maybe you just weren't cut out for pet ownership. “I just wanted to get laid tonight.”
“God, I feel you there,” she giggled back, but your mood felt stuck in the gutter. “What are you gonna do about the dog?”
The dog. Maybe that was how you should start thinking about him instead of your dog.
“I don’t know,” you drawled into the phone as you stepped into your kitchen, elbows on the counter as you watched him prowl back-and-forth in your living room. Hopping up on your couch and slobbering a little on your throw pillow before jumping back down. “Do you think it could be like testosterone making him more aggressive? Or like, his breed or-”
“Does he still have his balls?”
You looked back at him, catching a glimpse of the subjects of your conversation before sighing.
“Yeah,” you exhaled. “You think I should go ahead and get him neutered?”
His ears perked up almost instantly, head snapping towards you.
It was a little funny, like he could somehow understand you, green eyes burning into yours with an expression that almost resembled betrayal.
“I mean, if you take him to the shelter, they'd do it anyway,” she replied, and you shrugged.
“Yeah, that's true,” you mumbled, considering it as your dog sorta stared at you like he was wishing you death for thinking about getting his balls cut off for the crime of preventing you from having some in your mouth tonight.
Well, it wasn't like he could actually understand you.
ᴥ
His balls?
You wanted to fucking neuter him?
What new indignity was this? How fucking cruel was fate for this to be his life?
First, you bring home a goddamn sorcerer. Act like you were going to fuck him, your hands on his chest while you giggled at what that fucking sap said as if it was even remotely funny or interesting. Looking up at him with a glint in your eyes and a smile you never gave Toji. All bright and grateful and giddy.
Disgusting.
The whole thing, really.
Like he'd actually let that stuck-up prick parading around like he was better than everyone get to fuck you. Even as a dog, he could feel his cursed energy. Sense it the same way he did as a human.
And even though that guy had no way to know it was Toji, he still caught the suspicious glances cast towards him, the flare of energy before Nanami or whatever the hell you called him had abruptly stopped after he tried to bite him. Like for a split second, he briefly considered using his technique. Like he thought Toji was a curse.
He supposed he was pretty close.
You were pretty when you were pissed. Pouting at him and grumbling to one of your friends on the phone, whining about wanting to have sex with someone – and it only irritated Toji more.
God, if he could, he'd fuck you hard enough you forgot about Fluffy or Nanami or the hole in your door.
But he couldn't.
And if you had your way, apparently he wouldn't be able to fuck anyone even if he got transformed back into a human if he didn't have his damn balls.
Toji refused to just lay there and take it. If he was anything, he was still a fighter, even in this form.
Listening to you weigh the options, grabbing a trash bag and bending down to pick up all the broken pieces of wood and shove them inside.
Maybe he wouldn't admit it even if he could, but he felt bad watching you clean up, a disturbing concoction of guilt and anger (and jealousy) brewing in the pit of his stomach as he laid his head down on his paws, stuck staring at you biting your lip and griping about what a dick he was, grumbling about all the overtime you’d have to work to cover the cost.
You were both probably better off without each other.
For once, Toji waited for the right moment, for you to be preoccupied tying up the trash bag while you pulled open the front door for him to make another impulsive decision. He ran. Nearly knocking you over, sprinting past you out into the hall and towards the stairs leading down to the lobby, ignoring your cries for him to stop.
He could hear your footsteps, the panic in your voice, the way your breath hitched as you hurried to catch up. And for some stupid reason, it made his heart stall. Made him hesitate, pausing for a few painful seconds before he forced himself to keep going.
Keep moving.
One foot paw in front of the other.
The last step almost tripped him up, but he didn’t stop, skittering across the lobby and almost slamming into someone shaking off an umbrella before he beelined for the closing front door. Toji barely made it through, the concrete cold and freezing on his paws as rain started to pelt his fur.
Of course, it would start to fucking pour when he was leaving you behind. On the bright side, you’d probably wouldn’t search for him when it was raining hard enough it was a struggle to see more than a couple feet in front of him. Racing down the sidewalk and slipping between people passing by, panting as he put distance between himself and a life of being a pet.
A life of being yours.
Telling himself he was scrambling from the possibility of being neutered so he didn’t have to think about what else he was running from. So he could ignore this frustrating tightness in his heart, the way his chest strained with every breath, his lungs constricted as he shut down the image that kept popping up behind his eyes of that irritatingly cute smile of yours.
He was doing you a favor.
You didn’t have the fucking guts to just toss him out like you should’ve done.
The rain was starting to soak him entirely, his attempts to shake it off pointless when two seconds later, more water droplets would be clinging back to his fur as his pace slowed.
He glanced back, trying to judge how far he made it, how much longer he’d have to keep going before he found some alley or discarded box discarded to take shelter in through the storm.
But all he saw was you.
Pajamas sticking to your skin, wisps of your hair clinging to your wet forehead as your voice was drowned out in the downpour. You were shivering, hand trembling as you held it up to shield your face from the rain and scan for him.
The second you saw him, you were running to reach him.
Toji knew he should run too. That this might be his only chance. He could try again with some other woman. Wait and hope and hold out faith that this curse would still wear off and he’d return to normal.
But he stayed.
Let himself be caught.
Why?
He couldn't comprehend it, couldn't understand the concern in your wide eyes either when you wrapped your arms around him and buried your face in his drenched fur.
“Don’t do that again,” you murmured, breath catching in your throat as you hugged him tighter. “You scared me.”
Maybe he’d lost brain cells.
But he knew that wasn’t it, not when he heard the soft whine of his next bark as he relaxed into you. Licked some of the water off your skin like it would do anything to help. Nuzzled back into you as you laughed even after he ruined your night.
Ruined your date and your door.
You deserved better than him.
Better than a loser like Toji could properly give you even if he was back in his own body.
He wanted to tell you sorry. To apologize for the first time in his miserable life to the only person who’d put any effort into him.
So he allowed you to grab ahold of his collar and lead him home, obediently walking back to your apartment, both of you absolutely drenched by the time you made it back to the lobby. He shook it out more effectively this time, water droplets flung all over the linoleum floor while your clothes dripped in a steady pitter-patter.
“You can keep your balls if you don’t do that again,” you muttered under your breath, too tired to be mad at him anymore. “And if you leave my doors alone.”
He barked, a short yip and a begrudging nod in agreement wishing he could ask you not to see that stupid guy anymore too if you were in the mood for making deals.
The only thing he could do as a dog was try to scare away any of your…suitors.
Especially snotty blond sorcerers.
The walk back up the stairs felt twice as long, the shame slowing him down, he supposed. Condemning himself to a future of being dragged around on the street if it meant sleeping in your room and biting any guy’s dick off that came around and tried to stick it in you.
It was embarrassing to pad around, rubbing against your legs while you grabbed a towel from the bathroom and rubbed him until he was close to dry.
Fuck, you even combed his hair out and brushed his goddamn teeth.
He felt like a creep when he glanced up to catch a glimpse of your midriff when you went to change for the third time tonight, a single strip of your skin as you pulled your soaked shirt off before he turned away. Tail tucked between his legs as he walked back to his bed.
His.
Walking around in a circle before laying down to get comfortable. It wasn’t resignation, not exactly, but as close to contentment that someone like him could get to.
Despite his fuck ups, you were still here. And so was he.
Tomorrow, he’d try to make it up to you. Lick your face and snuggle with you on the couch, on top of your chest with his paws on your collarbones, let you call him Fluffy or whatever the fuck you felt like, as long as you scratched under his chin and looked in his eyes like he meant something more.
Toji was still cold, involuntarily shaking, but there was a strange warmth in his chest. A fuzzy feeling in his chest he was unaccustomed to.
Footsteps approached, and his head instinctively snapped up to see you drying your hair with a towel, dropping it by your feet with a sigh. He could smell you on it even from here – the familiar scent surging that same protectiveness he felt taking over him earlier. He was already getting back up off his hindlegs, searching for forgiveness with your hand stroking his fur.
You leaned down to meet him halfway, and left a soft kiss on the tip of his nose.
Of all the kisses he had before, however hot and hungry they were, none of them compared to that single tender press of your lips. The cute sigh, the small exhale dusting over him, smelling faintly like your mint toothpaste.
And then you were standing up, switching off your light before getting in your bed and pulling back to the covers. It took a second for his eyes to adjust, but honestly, he could see better in the dark than he could when he was a human. You had paused, still staring at his shape before he noted the movement of your hands. Softly patting the spot next to you in your bed, sheets crinkling as you waited for him.
He listened to you.
You threw your arms around him like you did earlier, squeezing softly before mumbling something that he couldn’t fully hear, muffled into the pillow when you turned your face. Either you were calling yourself or him an idiot.
He was an idiot for sticking around. And you were one for letting him.
But this was the bed you both made to sleep in.
You rolled over a little, your cheek exposed – and Toji couldn’t stop himself from moving up to lick it. Drag his tongue over it while you huffed and rubbed the skin to get his saliva off.
“Gross,” you giggled, nudging his nose back down.
You got back up, navigating through the dark back to your bathroom to re-wash your face before you came back to him. Offering one last pat to the top of his head before you rolled away from him.
“Good night, Fluffy.”
ᴥ
There was a man in your bed.
A big, beefy, naked man.
You screamed. Or, well, you were pretty sure you did.
It was a big blur of movement, slipping out from underneath his heavy limbs and smacking him as hard as you could with the closest object – a hardback book by your bed, screaming for Fluffy, cold fear seeping in as the man groaned your name.
You stared, and you realized with horror that he wasn’t totally naked. He was wearing your dog’s collar. It was too tight, the skin bulging a little over the green edges, and he was moaning again, waking up and slipping his fingers underneath it in an attempt to loosen it some before he rubbed the red mark on his forehead where the book connected.
Honestly, if he wasn’t a stranger, an intruder, you would’ve thought he was hot.
The dark hair, the toned chest, the thick ridges and cords of well-toned muscles, looking like he just leaned after a bulk, he was insanely attractive. You just had no choice but to believe he was fucking derranged considering he ended up nude in your bed at nine in the morning.
You called out for Fluffy again, breathing hard, barely able to break your gaze to scan the room for him only to come up empty.
Did you forget to lock your door last night?
Had your dog ran away again, slipped out when this guy snuck in?
No, he wouldn’t. He might just be a mutt, an animal with all the instincts of one, but you felt like you made up. Fluffy wouldn’t leave you.
“My dog could literally rip your throat out,” you threatened anyway, pointing your finger as you pressed your back against the wall, slowly stepping towards your still-demolished door. Where the fuck was he?
If you screamed, would a neighbor call the cops?
“I am your dog,” the man in your bed grunted, sitting up and lifting his leg before pausing, like he wasn’t sure what he was about to do with it. Stopping completely, staring down at his hands in sudden shock, eyes stuck on his calloused palms before he slowly turned them around. Flexing his fingers before closing them into a fist, somehow managing to be more stunned as you inched closer to your exit. “Well, I was.”
Great, so he was fucking crazy too.
Even if it was eerie that he did sorta resemble Fluffy.
The green eyes, that familiar glint in them as they narrowed on your trembling form. The scar that stretched over the corner of his mouth. The way he tilted his head just slightly as his stare dragged over you, like he was trying to see what he could get from you.
“And my name’s Toji,” he gruffly informed you, swinging his long legs off your bed, the blanket barely keeping his crotch covered as you panicked and made a break for it, yanking open the door to slip out while he was still talking. “So you can stop calling me Fluffy, doll.”
Your dog wouldn’t call you doll.
But he wasn’t waiting for you with a wagging tail in the living room either. Not sitting in front of your fridge or by the pantry where you kept his food.
“Where ya’ goin’?” He called out, and you couldn’t get yourself to move.
Staring at your locked front door, everything exactly as you left it the night before.
Your wet shoes. The forgotten trash bag. Your phone on the connected kitchen counter.
This guy, Toji, his footsteps creaked across your floor, following the same rhythm of your dogs, even if it was strange to hear, a little stilted like he was getting used to walking on two feet again.
It didn’t make sense.
He came through your broken door, taking the space by your side as if it was the most natural thing in the world to him.
Watching you, observing you, and you had to force yourself to look up at him so your gaze didn't drift too low.
“I don’t understand,” you blinked, barely comprehending the facts seemingly in front of your face.
Your dog was missing. A stranger with the same eyes, the same jagged scar had taken his place.
“It’s complicated,” he grumbled, growling a little like he was still half-dog.
“You can’t really expect me to believe-” It was so absurd you couldn’t even finish your sentence. Couldn’t say it.
“What? Want me to bark for you?” He sarcastically offered, his voice hoarse, rough. He was rolling his shoulders back, really selling the whole visual, but your brain was still stuck on the sheer absurdity of the situation.
And then he was stepping closer, hovering over you with an intensity that warped your fractured thoughts even more, shattering your common sense with just a casual smirk.
“Woof.”
“You’re not-” You numbly protested, your stare drifting down from those damning eyes to those pretty lips. His huge shoulders, the biceps bulging as one of his hands landed on the wall behind your head.
A treacherous jolt ran through you, straight to the center of your stomach, some intangible thing twisting inside you at his proximity.
“I am,” he insisted again.
You couldn’t even give a real reason for believing him. Explain it in any rational way. But when he was looking at you like this, when his fingers reached out to cup your face. They were rough. The pads slowly dragging over your cheekbone until he was tangled in his hair.
“But you were a dog,” you uselessly said. Breathing harder, throat going dry as you stared at him, trying to find any evidence to argue with. But you didn’t know if you were trying to prove or disprove it.
What you even wanted the truth to be.
“And you let me lick you right here,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb over the spot Fluffy had slobbered on last night.
Your heart skipped.
Stalled or stopped or seized, completely halting as Toji confirmed what you already instinctively felt. Skin or fur, he was familiar.
And you guessed the collar wasn’t a lie.
He reached up to scratch at it again with his free hand, but you didn’t miss how he once again lifted his left foot before remembering it wouldn’t reach anymore.
“I literally picked up your-” You couldn’t even finish your sentence, disgust making your nose scrunch up as you smacked his chest.
Once, and then again, all sorts of funny feelings fluttering and fluctuating in your chest as you struggled to sort through all of it.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, but it was obvious he was the kind of guy who never said sorry for anything ever. He hesitated, like he didn’t know what to do or really what to even say. Toji dryly swallowed, clearing his throat before speaking up again, “Sorry.”
Taking his hand from the wall to run his fingers through his short black hair, feeling his scalp, the individual strands, before his massive palm found your waist instead, just above your hip. Seeking reassurance in a subtle squeeze, wrinkling the little shorts you were wearing.
“What are you doing?” You asked, like you didn’t know.
As if you were too stupid to see what was swirling behind his starving stare.
This time though, you didn’t think a steak would satisfy him.
Was this morally wrong?
Inappropriate to share the hunger heating up the air between you when you’d been treating him like a pet for weeks? Seeing him as your dog?
“Don’t play dumb,” he muttered, but that was really because he didn’t want to say it either.
“I’ve taken care of you,” you started, forcing yourself to look away to break the tension. “You know, fed you and-”
“I want to fuck you,” he grumbled, and you flinched.
Froze as his heavy words sank in, instantly replaying them. Blunt, without beating around the bush, making sure couldn’t misunderstand it.
“You say that to all your owners?” You mumbled, eyeing the door. “Or break their doors?”
“I was doing you a favor then,” he argued, tilting your head back towards him. “Besides, you could do better than that guy.”
“Yeah?” You exhaled hard, and his grip tightened. “Like my dog?”
He laughed, but it came out more like a sharp bark.
And then he was suddenly scooping you up, both hands grabbing your ass and abruptly lifting, carrying you back through your bedroom after kicking in the door the rest of the way.
Returning you to your bed, his frame encompassing yours as he climbed on top of you fully. Hooking both your thighs around his thick waist, and you found yourself automatically wrapping your wrists over his neck, entranced by his face.
“How am I supposed to know this isn’t a really weird dream?” You hesitantly asked.
“I don’t fuckin’ know,” he grunted, burying his head into your neck and taking a big whiff. Groaning at the scent alone, grinding his hips down before he even kissed you properly.
“That’s really helpful,” you sarcastically muttered back, but you found yourself scratching his head too, testing how it felt to sift through his hair, pulling it back so you could look at him again.
He whined like your dog did at the separation.
Although, you liked how it sounded better coming from an actual man.
“Toji,” you said his name slowly, unsure of how it sounded on your tongue.
He faltered too, and you watched his jaw lock up before he released it.
“What?” He answered, and you felt a surge of courage.
“Go get your leash.”
Toji’s lips pressed in a thin line, his scar twitched, but he reluctantly got off of you, grumbling under his breath but still obeying. Still being your good pup.
He yanked open the drawer of your dresser, pulling it out and tossing it to you.
“C’mere,” you murmured softly, and he was back on top. But it was you fastening the leash to his collar, attaching it on and tugging him close enough his nose grazed yours.
“Happy?” He snarkily asked, but he didn’t take it off.
“Happier,” you admitted, and you did something as stupid as taking him in to start with.
You kissed him.
Hard enough your teeth almost clashed, his lips opening enough to let you in as he returned it with the same fever. He kissed with enough experience that it sort of annoyed you, imagining some other girl getting to know what it felt like to have his tongue in their mouth once he was actually exploring yours.
Tempted to bite his lip to get some petty revenge, but you didn’t even know for what.
You guessed him fucking up your evening with Nanami made more sense now – added up with the realization he wasn’t just being territorial, but totally, completely, pathetically jealous. Snapping and barring his teeth to stop anyone else from sleeping with you because he wanted to.
What kind of petty creature had you invited into your apartment?
Was it a full moon? Some kind of reverse werewolf that only turned back into a human once a month?
God, you fucking hoped not.
One of his greedy hands snuck under your top, not subtle at all as he groped at your breast, taking advantage of the fact you slept without a bra to squeeze your tit. Toying with it and dragging his fingers over your nipple with a low chuckle, breaking the kiss to murmur next to your mouth that he couldn’t believe he’d been deprived of this for so long.
“You’re feral,” you wryly replied, out-of-breath as his other hand slipped inside your shorts, teasing the band of your panties.
“Can you blame me?” He licked his lips, and you nearly laughed. Alarmed at how charmed you were, how attractive he managed to be even this depraved. “Been fuckin’ dreaming about you.”
“Doing what?” You teased, tilting your head as he breached past your underwear, feeling what was already damp and waiting for him.
Teasing you right back, sliding two intimidatingly long fingers inside you with embarrassingly little resistance. You were already wet. Why wouldn’t you be?
A ridiculously hot man without any clothes had been flirting with you since you woke up this morning.
So what if all the other details were just, uh, strange?
He was staring at you like a piece of meat. Literally? Figuratively? You didn’t know anymore, but your train of thought derailed the second those sturdy digits of his curled. The stretch was delicious, dragging you down into the pit of lust you’d been attempting to claw yourself away from.
Scissoring you open slowly, taking his time to feel you clench down, his eyes narrowing as he lasered in on your open-mouthed reaction. Rushing to swallow up the needy sounds he drew from your mouth, his tongue sloppy and messy, running over the ridges of your teeth. Your knuckles tight around his leash, lost in the pleasure of his fingers splitting your open and making you see stars before he’d even put his dick in you.
Which you could already feel pressing firmly into your soft thigh, persistently throbbing in time with your own pussy squeezing down on his knuckles. Shapes and colors blossomed behind your eyes as he found that one special spot in the back, all spongy and sensitive, basically begging for him to poke and prod at it until you were begging him.
Eyes clamping shut, hips arching off as his rough fingertips pinched at your nipple right as he felt around, treating your body like a treasure map, exploring it with desperation to unearth your deepest secrets. Or maybe, just the darkest parts of you.
What you sounded like when you fell apart. How hard it would be to stitch you back together.
“T-Toji,” you gasped, struggling to hold it all in. To hide your pleasure when your sanity felt so splintered, but he just chuckled.
“What? Not Fluffy?” He grunted, and you gritted your teeth.
“You’re the worst,” you groaned, your other hand scrambling to grip the sheets.
His hair tickled your face, short strands as his mouth made his way south down your throat. Teeth scraping the tendons, doing his best to leave bite marks, canines on your collarbone while his rough voice was etched in your head.
“Yeah,” Toji grunted. “I am.”
You almost rebutted with another snide comment, but he hadn’t finished.
“But I’m your problem.”
Before you could reply, his fingers were pulling back out, still slick and damp as he suddenly flipped you over.
Onto your hands and knees. Shorts and panties shoved down your thighs. Shirt ripped in his rush to strip you down.
Still, you refused to drop his leash.
Holding onto it with an iron grip, even if he groaned, readjusting behind you, the weight of him heavy on your back as his mouth returned to your neck like it belonged there.
His cock swinging and hitting your ass before he readjusted, positioning himself at your entrance, slipping it in-and-out through your folds before edging it in. Making you whine first, throwing a long look over your shoulder at him.
Toji’s scar was taut, almost white as his eyes lazily looked over you. Appreciating every line and curve, the lump in his throat bobbing before he locked eyes with you.
“Well?” You challenged.
His dick was inside you before you could even arch your brow.
It was thicker than you expected, felt much fucking bigger when it was actually dragging across your walls, his tip grinding its way in deeper. Making sure you didn't miss even an inch, burying himself to the hilt as his sweaty chest pressed flat against your back.
Your knees nearly buckled, only supported by his arm snaking around your waist to hold you up.
He pulled back out slowly, if only to remind you of what it felt like to be empty before driving his dick back in one brutal thrust, your moans mixing together as your body reflexively jolted away from him.
Toji clicked his tongue to chide you, all deep and taunting, dragging you right back – determined to keep you stuffed full. “Not goin’ anywhere.”
“Says the guy that ran away,” you reminded him, wiggling your hips just enough he had to feel it too. Thighs squeezing as a guttural grunt escaped him.
“You wanted to cut my balls off,” he scoffed, and just to make a point, his next thrust left you feeling them smacking against you.
“It's not like I did it.”
He fucked you like his masculinity had still been wounded. Nursing it better with sex and sweat, inhaling your scent in between his hungry hickies while he shaped you out around him.
You wrapped the leash around your hand, pulling him closer, arms giving out so your cheek squished against the blankets as he groaned in your ear. Toji was ruthlessly slamming his hips back down, cock splintering you just for his huge hands to hold you together, his forearm still supporting your hips hovering up in the air while his fingers tugged on your hair.
Hadn't you said you wanted to get laid anyway?
Wasn't this probably better than whatever Nanami would've offered? Soft, slow sex was nice sometimes.
But everything about this was heightened, animalistic. Raw.
Every ridge of him etching itself in you, every moan you earned from him memorized as you held his leash.
He might've been the one fucking you, the one imprinting your shape into the mattress below, but the power was yours.
If you asked, you were pretty sure he'd flip you back around and eat you out until your throat was too sore to speak from screaming his name.
“Toji,” you purred his name, deciding you liked it. Liked him too. Even if he was a freeloader.
“Yeah?” He grunted, not even pausing his sloppy strokes, pounding into you as your back arched up higher, hips teasingly shifting and squirming in his hold. His next thrust was even harder actually, the force of it making something underneath you crack.
The bed frame?
You were too drunk on him to care. Fuzzy with the warmth he provided and still aching for it to burn hotter.
“Make me cum.”
You thought you heard his breath hitch, but then the arm that was around you moved, his fingers finding your clit faster than you could blink, rubbing mind blowing patterns around it.
It was impressive, really, on top of irritating that the knowledge it had to be practiced. Not sure if you were fighting a smile or a frown as his damp fingers tantalizingly danced across that sensitive bundle of nerves.
Not delicate, no, you didn't think a beast like him could ever manage that.
But it was desperate, following your command and seeking approval in every swirl and circle he drew.
Pressure building and threatening to crest every time, surging through you like a storm. Matching his intensity, pulling you in with a magnetism you only recognized when it was too late.
You were wrapped around his finger the same way he was wrapped around yours.
And when he made you cum, you didn't think any other orgasm you ever had could measure up. All the tides receding for one massive wave of pleasure, your whine of his name muffled into the comforter as you hid your face. Pulling down on his leash so you could feel as much of him on you as possible, his hips, his muscles, his chest. Craving the contact as you climaxed, sucking in mangled inhales that didn't seem to reach your lungs.
Barely able to lift your head enough to speak, vaguely aware through blurry vision that the whole world was slightly crooked while you started to come down.
“Good boy.”
You didn't think a man had ever pulled out of you so fast – but then he was letting out the lewdest moan you ever heard and something wet was splattering across your back. Warm ropes of cum dripping down your skin while he sounded like some B-tier porn star, all gravelly and gruff, stroking his cock as the last of it leaked out. You watched him over your shoulder, holding your breath at the sight of him like this.
His dark happy trail, the ‘V’ of his hips, how slutty he looked on his knees with nothing but a leash on.
Could you really keep him?
As a boyfriend, of course?
You blinked, and then he was getting up. Cock swinging in the air as he walked to your bathroom, snagging a washcloth from under the sink and running water over it before returning to clean you.
Wiping you down and huffing at where some of his cum had landed on the blankets, making a half-assed attempt at cleaning it up before tossing it on top of the towel you left on the floor last night.
And then he was just casually plopping back down on your bed, propping his head up with pillows and closing his eyes as you sat up.
“Come here,” he muttered, patting the spot next to him like you usually did. Holding his arm out to let you know you had a spot there.
You crawled over to him, tucking yourself against him and staring up at him, still entranced by his features.
He stroked your hair softly, keeping you cradled there. You reached up and unhooked his leash from the collar. Toji scratched at it, beefy fingers pulling at the leather with another low grunt.
“You’re paying me back for the pet deposit,” you huffed, glancing around your room. “And a new bed.”
“Don’t forget about the door,” he grumbled, growling at the memory of the man he almost had to bite last night.
You let yourself laugh, rolling on top of his chest and propping yourself up on your elbows. Squinting at him and sighing, tracing over his nipple to watch him flinch, his dark brows furrowing.
“An actual date too,” you added.
Toji rolled his eyes, but he tugged you up higher, letting out a little sarcastic scoff when you nestled into his neck, his collar pressing against your skin. You’d readjust it for him in a minute, loosen it more, but it was silly to see someone so stocky in it.
your stoner best friend choso and you are deeeep in sexual tension, you are his girl, but not really his girl. cuddling, forehead kisses, being glued to eachothers hip, it eventually simmers down until neither of you can take it anymore. (my favourite work i've done so far) (smut with a shit ton of plot, angst, fluff, comfort.)
wc: 16k || art creds: @/einrvji
smut with so, so much plot.
choso kamo is the kind of boy people notice without realizing they’re staring. he’s not loud, never one to demand a room’s attention, but something about him pulls you in, the lazy grace of someone who’s always just a little bit stoned and completely at peace with himself.
he throws the best parties on campus, the kind that aren’t just about getting drunk or high, but about the vibe. incense burning in the corner, led lights set to red or purple, trap playing softly over speakers. and yet, you’re the only one who really knows him.
you, the sweet girl who never misses a single one of his parties. the one always curled up next to him on the couch with a red solo cup of something you can barely taste, your legs draped over his lap, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. it’s always been like this. ever since freshman year, when you met him during that stupid icebreaker event on campus that neither of you wanted to go to.
somehow, you’d ended up next to him. not even talking at first. just being. and then he’d pulled one earbud out and offered it to you without saying anything, and you’d heard frank ocean’s “ivy” playing soft and crackly from his phone. you’d smiled at him, and he’d smiled back. just a little.
after that, it was like something clicked. you didn’t have to try with choso. you just existed in each other’s space like you were meant to.
you’re sweet, outgoing, a little flirty, always the first one to compliment someone’s outfit or remember their birthday. people love you for your light, your laughter, the way you make everyone feel seen.
but when it comes to closeness, to real comfort? that’s reserved for choso.
it’s a mystery to most people. you, the glittering, glowing party girl, and choso, the stoner boy who doesn’t even have social media. but it makes perfect sense to anyone who’s seen the two of you together.
you show up to his parties before anyone else does. you help him string the lights, pick the playlist, bring snacks no one asked for but everyone eats. you’re the one sitting on the counter while he rolls, sipping from a straw and babbling about your week while he nods, smiling faintly, muttering things like “that’s wild, ma,” or “yo, you’re too nice for them.”
and during the parties, you’re never far. you gravitate toward each other like magnets, slipping into place the way you always do. choso’s usually on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest, and you’re tucked under his arm without even thinking. you lean into him when you laugh. he rests his chin on your shoulder. he passes you drinks and you take tiny sips before handing them back to him with a wrinkle of your nose.
and it’s so easy. dangerously easy.
choso’s never been one to push. he’s got feelings, real ones, deeper than he’ll ever admit out loud, but he keeps them buried. not because he doesn’t want you. he wants you in a way that scares him sometimes. in quiet moments, when he’s too high and you’re asleep on his chest, he thinks about what it would feel like to kiss you. to be yours for real. but he’s content, at least for now. content to have you like this.
you give choso a kind of peace he didn’t know he was missing. before you, things were kind of blurry. background noise. but with you, it’s all color. you laugh and the whole room tilts toward you. you touch his hand and it’s like static electricity under his skin. he pretends he doesn’t notice. he jokes, he teases, he lets it pass.
because he thinks he’d rather have you like this, close and real and warm, than risk losing you completely.
and you? you love him. maybe too much.
you’ve never said it out loud, not even to maki or shoko, but you know it. you feel it every time you see him laugh at something you said, every time he lifts your chin to tuck your hair behind your ear, every time he waits for you outside class just because he felt like it. choso is yours, in a way no one else is. and you don’t know what to do with that.
maybe you’re scared to ruin it too.
it’s not just the friendship, it’s the rhythm. the quiet glances, the shared playlists, the way you always, always end up in his bed after parties, clothes still on, hearts too full.
you’ll lay there in the dark, both of you wide awake, and you’ll wonder if he feels it too. if he notices the way your breath hitches when his fingers brush your waist. if he hears the way your voice gets softer when you say his name.
but neither of you ever says anything. not really. not yet.
there’s something unsaid between you, always has been, something glowing and soft and maybe a little fragile. like the chords of “ivy” hanging in the air, too tender to touch. it’s in the way he looks at you when you’re not watching. in the way you linger at his door after a party, lip gloss smudged and heart aching. in the way he lets his hand rest on the small of your back just a little too long.
it’s a love that’s still blooming. hesitant. deep-rooted. and for now, maybe that’s enough.
maybe not forever.
~
the party’s already full by the time you get there, but you know exactly where to find him.
bass thumps through the floor like a second pulse, red lights spilling down the hallway, laughter echoing from the kitchen where someone’s poured jungle juice into a mixing bowl. bodies press close in the living room, the air thick with smoke, perfume, sweat, but none of it touches you. not really. not when you know where you’re going.
you slip past people who call your name, who compliment your outfit, who try to keep you still, but you’re already moving, already smiling like you’ve got a secret. because you do.
he’s on the couch. he always is.
slouched like he was poured there, long legs spread, a blunt pinched between his fingers. there’s a few people around him, suguru’s sitting on the floor, half-asleep against his knee, gojo’s perched on the armrest talking to some girl, but he doesn’t really look at anyone. just stares at the smoke curling above him, the red light making shadows under his eyes.
until he sees you.
choso’s head tilts slightly. his gaze sharpens, just barely. his mouth softens, corners curling up into something small, lazy, private.
“yo,” he says, voice low and smooth like honeyed smoke. “there you are.”
and just like that, you’re home.
you drop down next to him without a word, tucking your legs up on the couch, leaning into his side like you were made to fit there. his arm lifts automatically to rest behind you, and your bare shoulder brushes against his chest, skin to skin. he smells like weed and citrus and something warm, like sunbaked cotton. familiar. dangerous.
“i brought you chips,” you say, holding up a bag. “because you never remember to feed people when you throw these things.”
he laughs, soft and breathy, and takes the bag, tossing it onto the table without looking.
“you’re the only one who eats at my parties,” he murmurs, dragging the blunt to his lips. “they’re lucky you show up.”
he inhales, slow and deep. lets it sit in his chest for a moment. then he turns his head toward you and exhales, deliberately, slow, a trail of smoke that ghosts over your collarbone. it’s not on purpose, but it is. everything choso does is like that. unbothered. intimate. effortless.
your heart stutters.
“you look good,” he adds, like it just occurred to him. his eyes dip, trace your legs, the cut of your dress, the gloss on your lips. “real good.”
you smile, sweet and slow, like you’re soaking it in.
“you’re stoned.”
he shrugs. “yeah. still true, though.”
you nudge his thigh with your knee, and he smirks that lazy, barely-there grin that never quite reaches his eyes unless it’s you.
the party swells around you. bodies dance in the center of the room, the music gets louder, someone’s yelling in the kitchen about the beer pong table. but in your little corner of the couch, everything is slowed down. hazy. sacred.
he keeps passing the blunt, and you keep refusing with that little scrunch of your nose he always teases you about.
“don’t know how you come to my house every week and still don’t smoke,” he says, flicking ash into a red solo cup.
“don’t know how you survive without eating dinner like an adult,” you shoot back.
he chuckles, tipping his head back. his throat stretches long, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder to reveal the black ink of a tattoo just under his collarbone. you don’t even pretend not to look. choso doesn’t pretend not to notice.
“you missed me?” he asks after a beat, quieter now. the smoke’s made him slow, softer around the edges. more honest.
you glance up at him, lips parted. “i was here last weekend.”
“yeah, and then the whole week happened.” he shrugs, lazily. “i got bored.”
you nudge your way closer. your knee slides between his. “you say that like you don’t have other friends.”
he hums. “don’t hit the same.”
you’re both quiet for a second. it’s a thick, heady silence, not awkward, not tense. just full. full of everything that’s been building since freshman year. everything you don’t say. everything you both feel in moments like this, when you’re a little too close and he’s looking at your mouth and his hand is resting just a little too low on your waist.
you want to kiss him. god, you do. but not yet. not here.
so instead you lean forward, just enough to rest your head on his shoulder. you feel him go still for a second, then relax, melting back into you.
you stay like that. for a long time
later, when the house gets louder and hotter and someone pulls you up to dance, you feel his eyes on you.
you’re not a wild dancer, you move like you’re in your own little world, fluid and soft and smiling. some guy tries to grind up behind you and you immediately peel away, laughing as you shake your head. but when you look over, just once, you see choso watching from the couch.
his eyes are darker now. still lazy, still half-lidded, but focused. pinned on you like he’s memorizing the way your dress moves, the way your hair sticks to the sweat on your collarbone. one hand resting on his knee. the blunt long gone.
you move back to him eventually, of course you do, and he opens the space beside him again like he knew you would.
“have fun out there, superstar?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.
you shrug, settling back into him. “missed my favorite dance partner.”
he raises a brow. “you don’t dance with me.”
you grin. “exactly.”
he snorts, shaking his head. you rest your hand on his thigh, fingers splayed over ripped denim, and he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move. just lets you stay there. touching him. like you always do.
like you always will.
when the party starts dying down and the lights dim even lower, when suguru’s asleep and gojo’s disappeared and the couch is just the two of you again, you curl into him like you belong there.
he yawns, one arm around your shoulders, hand playing lazily with the strap of your dress.
“you crashing here?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
you nod, cheek pressed to his chest. “if that’s cool.”
he makes a soft sound, something between a hum and a laugh, and dips his chin to brush his mouth against your temple. not a kiss, exactly. just a press. warm, soft. barely there.
“always.”
you smile, closing your eyes for a second. his hand is still resting on your waist, fingers tracing absent little shapes into your skin like he’s not even thinking about it.
you could fall asleep like this. you’ve done it before.
but he shifts a little, murmurs, “come on, ma. let’s get off this fuckin’ couch. my back’s killin’ me.”
you whine quietly as he moves, and he laughs again, a lazy rumble in his chest and slides an arm around your waist to help you up.
“drama queen,” he says, tugging you to your feet with effortless strength.
he doesn’t let go.
you move through the sea of red cups and leftover smoke, past the people half-passed out in the hallway, with his hand still slung around your waist. like it’s normal. like it’s instinct. your arm hooks around his middle, and you lean into his side as you walk, slow and steady, like you’ve done this a hundred times. because you have.
choso’s room is down the hall. it’s the only one with a broken doorknob and a blacklight taped above the bed, buzzing faintly. it smells like weed and clean laundry and him.
you kick off your shoes the second you walk in and collapse face-first into the unmade bed, limbs spread.
he laughs, low and indulgent, then flops down beside you.
“yo, scoot over,” he mumbles, nudgin your hip with his.
“you scoot,” you shoot back, voice muffled by the blanket.
he doesn’t argue. just lets his body melt sideways until your shoulders touch again. you shift your head onto his chest without thinking, cheek to the soft fabric of his hoodie.
and there it is again. home.
“this party was kinda ass,” you say.
“nah,” he says softly. “you were here.”
your stomach flips.
but you don’t say anything. don’t need to. you just lie there, breathing in sync, your hands curled in the hem of his hoodie while his fingers play with your hair, slow, lazy twirls that make your eyelids flutter.
“remember the first one?” you ask, voice hushed now. “the freshman-year party where we met?”
choso smiles at the ceiling. “fuck yeah. you were wearing that little white dress and yellin’ at some guy who spilled beer on your shoes.”
“he ruined them,” you murmur indignantly.
“and i was just sittin’ on the porch, watchin’ the whole thing,” he grins. “high as shit. thought you were hot as hell.”
you lift your head to look at him, one brow raised. “you still say you don’t remember how we ended up talking.”
“i don’t. swear to god.” he shrugs. “one second i’m finishing a blunt, next thing i know you’re sitting next to me like you’d been there forever.”
“i probably just decided you looked safe,” you say, settling back down. “and hot. but, like, quiet hot.”
he chuckles, slow and low. “quiet hot?”
you nod. “like… hot in a way that doesn’t try. like you didn’t even know it.”
“damn,” he mutters. “flirting with me now?”
“always.”
his hand slides down from your hair to your shoulder, warm and broad and steady.
“that’s why i fuck with you,” he says after a moment. “you’re real.”
you blink.
“like, people show up to my parties for the vibes or whatever. you show up to make sure i eat dinner.”
you laugh. “well someone has to.”
“nah, but for real,” he says. “you’ve been showin’ up since day one. always got my back. always know what i need before i even do. shit’s crazy.”
your throat goes tight. but he doesn’t sound emotional. he sounds calm. sure. like it’s just a fact of life, gravity, weed, you.
he doesn’t say it like it’s a confession.
he says it like it’s just the truth.
“you do the same for me,” you murmur, voice small.
his thumb strokes your arm, slow.
“yeah,” he says. “i know.”
the room hums with silence after that. not heavy. not awkward. just real.
he lets you lie there on his chest, the beat of his heart under your ear, the rise and fall of his breathing making you feel safe in a way nothing else does.
you shift after a few minutes, and his hand moves automatically , tugs the blanket up over you both, settles you closer, fingers smoothing over your arm like it’s second nature.
he doesn’t flirt with anyone the way he does with you. doesn’t touch anyone like this. people know you’re close, but they don’t get it.
they don’t know how choso listens to you rant for hours about your classes even when he’s half-asleep. how he always keeps snacks in his room he doesn’t like, just because you do. how he’s seen you cry at 3am and didn’t say a word, just pulled you onto his chest and played with your hair until you calmed down.
how you’ve cleaned up after every party. how you always know when he needs water. how you never smoke but you always light his blunts for him.
they don’t know that you’ve been doing this, just like this, since freshman year.
you’re not together.
but this? this is something else.
“you good?” he mumbles, his voice starting to get gravelly with sleep.
you nod, curled into his side.
“you?”
“mhmm.” he exhales through his nose, deep and slow. “don’t leave before i wake up.”
“i never do.”
he hums, already drifting.
you close your eyes.
"night, cho."
"night, babe."
and in the dark, in his bed, wrapped in the quiet warmth of choso’s heartbeat and the hush of something unspoken between you, you fall asleep.
right where you’re supposed to be.
~
the sun’s too fucking bright.
choso’s got his hood pulled low, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his faded sweatshirt, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists like armor against the cold. his airpods are in, but he’s not playing anything. just using them to avoid eye contact. to avoid people.
his chem lecture starts in twelve minutes. he’s not rushing.
he’s never rushing.
the quad’s half-full with undergrads moving in packs, laughing too loud for this hour. he weaves through them like a shadow, dark-eyed and slow-moving, sleep still clinging to his bones.
he hasn’t showered. hasn’t brushed his hair. smells faintly like weed and sleep and your lotion, the floral kind you always keep in your bag.
he’s halfway across the quad when he hears it.
“yo.”
he looks up.
toji.
posted up on a low wall near the main staircase, nursing a large iced coffee and wearing the same zip-up he’s worn every morning since choso met him. he looks good, like he always does, jaw sharp, eyes tired, posture loose in that older-guy way that makes people think twice about messing with him.
choso pulls out one airpod. “yo.”
“you look like shit,” toji says, amused.
choso shrugs. “feel fine.”
“late night?”
“always.”
toji grins. “bet.”
choso wanders over, boots crunching gravel, and leans against the wall next to him. toji’s got that lazy menace vibe, like he could break someone’s nose or fall asleep in the sun, it could go either way. choso respects it.
they’re not close, but they’re good.
“you throw last night?” toji asks.
“yeah. packed out.”
“heard. saw some dude getting dragged out by the neck around one.”
choso huffs a little. “sukuna. again.”
“no shit?” toji laughs. “that guy’s a walking lawsuit.”
“got blood on my stairs,” choso mutters. “ruined the rug.”
“tragic.”
they’re quiet for a second. choso watches a squirrel dart across the walkway. toji sips his coffee.
“how much you make off the door?”
“couple hundred. enough for groceries. gas. weed.”
toji nods like that’s the natural order of things. “you ever think about pledging?”
choso snorts. “nah.”
“you’d run that shit,” toji says. “turn those little rich boys inside out.”
“i’m not good with rules.”
“fuck rules.”
choso grins a little. “you sound like yuki.”
“i taught yuki,” toji says, deadpan.
that gets a real laugh out of choso, low and amused, breath curling in the cold air.
“you got chem?” toji asks after a moment.
“yeah. lab.”
“tough.”
“i'm so fucking hungover.”
toji smirks. “so. last night. you go home alone?”
choso shrugs. “nah. crashed with her.”
toji looks at him. not surprised. not shocked. just curious.
“y/n?”
“yeah.”
a beat.
“you guys together now or what?”
choso looks up, brows drawn. “nah.”
toji raises an eyebrow. “huh. figured that would’ve happened by now.”
“why?”
“you’re always with her.”
“yeah.”
“you sleep in the same bed?”
choso shrugs again, easy and lowkey like it doesn’t mean anything. like it’s normal. “all the time.”
toji whistles under his breath, grinning. “you’re a better man than me.”
“not like that,” choso mutters, looking away.
“right,” toji says, smirking. “not like that.”
choso stays quiet. doesn’t explain. doesn’t elaborate. he just lets it sit in the air between them like secondhand smoke, warm, familiar, a little dangerous.
because it isn’t like that.
not yet.
but toji doesn’t push. just nods, takes another slow sip of his coffee, and claps choso on the shoulder with a rough hand.
“you’re cool,” he says. “but if you ever fuck that up, someone else won’t be.”
choso just exhales through his nose. shrugs.
he knows,
he knows.
~
choso slouches in his stool at station 4B, safety goggles pushed up into his messy hair, long fingers lazily rotating a test tube over the bunsen flame. he’s supposed to be running a titration, but he’s running on three hours of sleep and an edible that hasn’t stopped hitting since breakfast.
there’s a small chemical fire happening at the next table over. he doesn’t care.
his partner, some girl from his gen chem section who only speaks in whispers and perfume, scribbles answers onto their worksheet like her life depends on it. she’s never once asked him to help. choso’s fine with that.
his phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. he pulls it out without looking, thumb unlocking the screen by feel. it’s instinct. the way he always knows when it’s you.
[10:37am] you: what class r u in rn
[10:38am] choso: chem
[10:38am] you: ew
[10:38am] choso: yea
[10:39am] you: wanna meet up after?? i’m bored
[10:39am] choso: wya
the response comes fast.
[10:40am] you: bleachers behind the field. bring snacks or i’ll cry.
choso smiles.
it’s the kind of smile he never shows anyone but you. lazy. lowkey. like a secret he doesn’t need to say out loud.
he texts back a thumbs up emoji. tucks his phone away. watches the blue flame flicker under the test tube like it’s trying to tell him something.
~
the bleachers behind the athletic field are barely standing. rusted metal, cracked paint, half the steps warped from years of cleat-stomped abuse. it’s one of the only spots on campus that still feels untouched, still feels yours. people don’t hang out here. it’s too open, too weird, too quiet.
perfect.
you’re already there when he shows up, sprawled across the middle row like it’s a chaise lounge, sunglasses perched low on your nose and a bag of kettle chips open in your lap.
you perk up when you see him. smile wide and lazy. “you brought me snacks?”
he lifts a 7/11 bag in greeting.
“you’re an angel,” you say, and you sound like you mean it. choso climbs up beside you, drops the bag between you, and sits with a long sigh like the weight of the whole morning finally got the memo that it can fuck off.
he lets himself lean back on his elbows, head tipped toward the sky. hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbow. hands ringed in silver, knuckles faintly bruised from last night. jaw sharp, neck tattoo peeking just above his collar.
you glance over at him, bottom lip tucked between your teeth for a second too long.
he doesn’t notice.
or maybe he does.
but he doesn’t say anything.
“what happened in chem?” you ask, voice slow with sunlight.
“almost set the bench on fire,” he says. “again."
you laugh, and it’s the good kind, low and warm and familiar, like something soft you wrap yourself in. “you’re gonna fail.”
“nah,” he murmurs. “i got you. you’ll cry to shoko for me.”
you shrug. “probably.”
he grins.
you eat chips together for a while in comfortable silence. people jog past on the track below, but it’s like the two of you exist in another timeline, quieter, slower, deeper. every time your shoulders bump, he doesn’t move away. every time your fingers brush in the snack bag, he lets it linger.
you pull out a cherry lollipop from your tote. unwrap it with delicate, distracted fingers. stick it between your lips and suck thoughtfully.
choso looks over. blinks once.
his throat bobs. “you eat candy like you’re in a music video.”
“duh,” you say. “gotta stay on brand.”
“your brand is slutty candy princess?”
you flash him a wink. “you know it.”
he groans into his hands. “you’re gonna kill me.”
“you’d like it.”
“maybe.”
you both laugh.
but underneath it, there’s a tension you don’t touch. not yet. not today. not when the sun is this warm and the wind is this soft and the space between you feels like a bubble no one else can pop.
“so what’d you tell toji?” you ask suddenly, pulling your legs up under you. “he asked about us, right?”
choso blinks. shifts.
“how’d you know that?”
“i just saw him talking to you this morning and you rushed of before i could catch up.”
he sighs. rubs a hand over his face. “just asked about some dumb shit, was surprised we aren't fucking.”
“oh yeah?”
“yeah.”
you hum. “what’d you say?”
he shrugs. “told him we’re just friends.”
you nod.
but your fingers are tight around your lollipop stick. “did he buy it?”
choso looks over at you. eyes half-lidded, lazy. “dunno. didn’t really care.”
you don’t speak for a second.
then—
“you know,” you say lightly, “if we were dating, people wouldn’t question it.”
he raises a brow. “you wanna date me?”
you laugh like it’s a joke. like the idea’s crazy. “obviously not. i’d ruin your whole vibe.”
“nah,” he says, quiet and cool. “you are my vibe.”
it knocks the air out of you a little.
you don’t reply.
he doesn’t push.
instead, he pulls a lighter from his pocket. a faded red bic with a sticker of a cartoon frog on the side.
“you mind?” he asks.
you shake your head. “go for it.”
he lights the joint behind the bleachers, careful to block the wind, and takes a slow hit like he’s been doing it his whole life. like breathing.
you watch the way his lips part. the way the smoke curls from his mouth. the way he blinks up at the sky, exhaling slow, like there’s nothing in the world that could ruin this moment.
he passes it to you.
you hold it between two fingers. bring it to your lips, but don’t inhale. you just like the closeness. the ritual. the rhythm of it.
“you always smell like weed and coconuts,” you say absently.
“you always smell like sleep and candy.”
“that a compliment?”
“you know it is.”
you smile.
and then, like always, you shift until your head is in his lap, knees bent, lollipop back between your lips.
he threads his fingers into your hair like it’s automatic. like muscle memory.
you don’t say anything.
you don’t have to.
“there’s a party saturday,” choso says, like it’s just a passing thought. his voice is mellow, dragged slow with smoke and sun.
you squint up at him from his lap, one leg kicking idly off the edge of the bleachers. “yours?”
he shakes his head, dragging another pull from the joint before it sizzles low. “nah. kappa’s.”
“toji’s place?”
“mhm. sukuna’s throwin’ it.”
you make a face. “ew.”
he laughs, lazy and low. “yeah, i know.”
“what kinda party is it?”
he shrugs, flicking ash off to the side. “dunno. probly loud. messy. overrun with freshmen.”
“my favorite,” you say sarcastically.
“come anyway.”
you raise a brow. “you want me to go?”
he nods, eyes still soft from the joint. “yeah. all our people are gonna be there. gojo’s bringing that speaker he stole from the rec center. suguru’s bringing weed from the plug that scares everyone but him. shoko said she’s pre-gaming at yours.”
“she didn’t tell me that,” you mutter, amused.
“she said quote, ‘i’m getting blackout on your floor so you better have mixers.’”
“classic.”
“maki’s going too,” he adds. “and yuuji. megumi. nobara. y’all can take over the kitchen or whatever.”
you snort. “we always end up doing that. turning some random frat kitchen into our private lounge.”
“better lighting.”
“less vomit.”
he taps his knuckle to your forehead. “so?”
you blink at him. “so what?”
“you comin’?”
you stretch your arms over your head, lollipop tucked in your cheek like a secret. “mmm, depends. who’s walking me home if i black out?”
he gives you a look. “me."
“who’s holding my hair if i puke?”
“me.”
“who’s dancing with me when they put on early 2000s throwbacks?”
he smirks. “you already know.”
you grin and nuzzle into his thigh dramatically. “ugh, fine. i guess i’ll go.”
“what an honor.”
“you’re welcome.”
you stare up at him for a second, at the sharp angle of his jaw, the lashes curled against his cheeks, the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes.
there’s something warm in your chest.
like always.
“what time’s it at?” you ask.
“late.”
“when are we getting there?”
“later.”
you smile. “as always.”
“as always,” he echoes.
you reach over, fingers brushing the side of his hoodie pocket where his lighter peeks out, red and fading, sticker peeling at the edges.
he doesn’t notice.
but you do.
you always do.
~
the sun has long since set when you’re back in your dorm.
shoko’s stuff is already half-scattered across your bed, a tote bag overflowing with lip gloss and tequila, her ripped denim skirt folded beside your pillow like it lives here. your bluetooth speaker is charging in the corner. your fairy lights are glowing dim, and the whole room smells like something between vanilla lotion and sharpie markers.
because you’re painting.
your desk is a mess of scattered brushes, scratched acrylics, and an empty matcha can you’ve been using as a water cup. right in the center sits the new bic lighter you picked up after social, jet black, perfectly smooth, untouched.
you’re painting red spider lilies across the front, his favourite.
the petals curl across the plastic like veins, wet with gloss and attention. you’re careful with the details. you’ve looked up references. you’ve done this before.
but this time’s different.
this one’s for him.
you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s because his old one’s going dead.
maybe it’s because you love him.
not like that.
not yet.
but in the way you know exactly how he likes his ramen. in the way he texts you “home?” when it’s late and doesn’t sleep until you answer. in the way he rolls his blunts left-handed and always lights yours first. in the way he remembers your mom’s birthday even though he’s never met her.
in the way he makes you feel safe in a room full of noise.
in the way he never tries to make you anything other than yourself.
you lean over the lighter, the brush held steady between your fingers, and add the final line of gold detailing around the petals. your breath fogs the surface. you wait for it to dry.
outside, someone blasts a bad edm remix. the party’s already pulsing down the block.
you aren’t ready yet.
but you will be.
because he asked.
because you always go when he asks.
by the time you and shoko step into the kappa house, it’s already hell in there.
there’s music vibrating the walls, some mashup of jersey club and distorted britney spears, smoke curling from doorways, the reek of beer and weed and something you hope is a vape cloud drifting from the stairs. someone’s already swinging a half-finished bottle of patrón in the foyer, and a guy in a spiked collar is passed out half-naked on the pool table. red LEDs paint the room like a warning.
“jesus,” shoko mutters, pushing through a knot of people. “it’s worse than last time.”
“that’s saying a lot,” you reply, laughing.
you pass a makeshift tattoo station set up in the kitchen, a foldable table, three guys with gloves and prison-grade guns, girls taking shots with their shirts off, someone yelling about cross-contamination. someone else is already screaming into a paper towel, gripping their friend’s thigh as ink bleeds into skin.
“how much you wanna bet that guy’s not even licensed?” shoko asks, pointing with her cup.
a few feet away, a couple is practically devouring each other on the couch, hands in places that definitely shouldn’t be public, their moans barely muffled over the bassline. you and shoko share a glance.
“ten bucks says they’ll be upstairs in five,” she says.
“two,” you shoot back.
you find the rest of your girls near the island, maki’s drinking straight from a bottle of dark rum, nobara’s yelling at some guy for calling her “sweetheart,” and miwa looks like she’s trying to spiritually leave her body.
“there you bitches are,” nobara says, throwing an arm over your shoulders. “i was gonna beat some freshman’s ass for trying to say you weren’t on the guest list.”
“i just got here!” you laugh, letting shoko pull you in tighter. “i haven’t even taken my jacket off!"
“well hurry up,” nobara insists, pouring something violently pink into a solo cup and handing it to you. “this night’s cursed already.”
you take a cautious sip, bubblegum and battery acid. “what the hell is this?”
“it’s called the thong dropper,” shoko says helpfully.
“girl.”
you let the chaos swirl around you for a bit, settling into the rhythm of things, catching up on nonsense, swapping wild stories, dodging spilled drinks and clumsy hands. nobara starts talking about some guy she hooked up with last week, rolling her eyes and groaning dramatically.
“his stroke game was so weak,” she says, slamming her cup down. “he kept asking me ‘is that good?’ like, cmon. do you not hear me faking it?”
maki snorts. “you faked it?”
“of course i did. i had to get it over with.”
shoko leans in. “rookie mistake. just tell ‘em straight up.”
“i can’t crush a man’s ego like that,” nobara defends.
“they’ll live,” maki says.
you giggle into your drink, letting the warmth buzz up your spine.
“what about you?” shoko nudges. “you getting any lately?”
you shrug, trying to hide your smirk. “define ‘getting.’”
they all ooh at that, but you wave them off.
“nah,” you add quickly. “just been… chillin’.”
nobara raises a brow. “chillin’ with who?”
you don’t answer.
you don’t have to.
because you just spotted him.
across the room, slouched low on the ratty couch like a king on a broken throne, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blunt glowing between his fingers, is choso.
he’s got his head tipped back, laughing at something gojo just said, eyes heavy-lidded and hazy, lips pink and glossy from smoke. his legs are spread wide, rings catching the LED lights, and there’s a plastic crown crooked on his head like someone dared him to wear it and he just went along with it.
you hand your cup to shoko. “back in a sec.”
you beeline straight to him.
he sees you coming, of course. always does.
“yo,” he says, voice syrup-thick, laced in that lazy drawl you know too well. “there she is.”
you plop onto the couch next to him, thigh pressed to his instantly, as natural as breathing.
“hey, babe.”
he pulls the blunt from his lips and passes it to gojo. “you look real hot,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over you. “like… stupid hot.”
you grin. “you’re high.”
“and you’re a fucking bombshell.”
“so high.”
gojo chuckles. “he’s been saying shit like that about everyone for the last twenty minutes. told sukuna his chains looked ‘shiny as fuck’ and that he would fuck him if he was gay.”
“and i meant it,” choso says, nodding solemnly.
“sukunas a menace,” you laugh.
“a sweet menace,” choso adds.
gojo tosses the blunt into an ashtray and stretches. “aight. i’m gonna go find the aux before someone puts on country again.”
“godspeed,” you tell him.
choso watches him disappear into the crowd before turning back to you. “you good?”
you nod. “the girls are wild tonight.”
“when aren’t they?”
you smile. “mmm. party’s kinda gross, though.”
he grins. “yeah. it’s ass.”
“i miss your parties.”
he hums, dragging a slow breath through his nose. “next week, tuesday.”
“a tuesday party?”
“hell yeah.”
you laugh softly, eyes dropping to the front pocket of his hoodie. his lighter’s there again, the red one. the same one from earlier, edges worn down like it’s been used a thousand times.
without saying anything, you reach into your jacket pocket.
he watches you curiously as you pull out the lighter you painted, black and glossy, the spider lilies blooming across the surface in blood-red ink and gold veins.
you hand it to him wordlessly.
his fingers brush yours as he takes it, and something in his face shifts, softens, quiets.
he turns it over slowly in his palm, eyes scanning every detail like he’s memorizing it.
“you painted this?”
you nod.
“ma…” he says under his breath, almost like it’s too much. “yo. this is… this is fucking beautiful.”
“your other one’s dying,” you say, a little shy now. “figured you needed a new one.”
he’s quiet for a second, blinking slowly.
then,
“you’re such a fuckin’ angel.”
you laugh. “it’s literally just a lighter.”
he doesn’t let his gaze leave it. “nah. it’s you.”
you blink.
he says it so casually. so high. so him.
like it’s just a fact.
you don’t say anything, and neither does he. the music swells. the lights flicker. people scream and laugh and break things somewhere in the background.
but right now, it’s just the two of you, and a lighter between your palms.
“you’re gonna make me cry,” you joke, even though the way he keeps looking at the lighter makes your chest feel a little too full.
choso doesn’t answer, just keeps running his thumb over the curves of it like it’s some delicate artifact, black with the glossy gleam of fresh paint, those red lilies blooming across the surface like blood in water.
he flicks it once. flame bursts up.
“perfect,” he mumbles.
“it works?”
“better than my soul, babe.”
you laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder, and for a few seconds everything around you falls away, just the throb of the music, the warm press of him, and the soft flicker of that tiny orange flame between his fingers.
you sit like that for a little while, talking about nothing. him complaining about a group project he hasn’t started. you teasing him for skipping chem lab again. him promising you some “next-level weed” for tuesday’s party that “tastes like peaches and existential dread.”
his voice is slow, syrup-thick, a little slurred at the ends. he’s stoned, clearly, but you’re used to this. used to the way he leans into you when he’s like this, heavy and unguarded, every thought coming out a little slower and more unfiltered. it’s a version of him that doesn’t get tired of looking at you.
he tugs at the hem of your jacket playfully. “you gonna stay with me tonight?”
you raise a brow. “didn’t plan on going anywhere else.”
he grins, that sleepy smile that makes your heart tick funny.
then your name cuts through the room, pitched over the music.
“oh shit,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “they’re calling me.”
choso hums, not looking away. “tell ‘em i said hi.”
you hesitate for a second, not wanting to leave the warm bubble you’ve curled into. but shoko’s waving you over, and maki’s already halfway across the room with a bottle in her hand and trouble in her eyes.
“i’ll be back,” you say, giving his knee a squeeze as you get up.
he watches you go, eyes dragging over your silhouette, that sway in your hips, the flash of your smile as nobara yells something at you that makes you laugh and flip her off in the same breath.
then he’s alone.
not really, the house is packed, pulsing with bodies and music and smoke, but alone in the way that matters.
the lighter’s still in his hand.
and it won’t stop looking like you.
'she fuckin’ made this.'
that thought loops through his head in lazy spirals. he stares down at it like he’s still not fully processing that it’s his now, the way it fits so perfect in his palm, like you painted it with him in mind, like you know his hands that well.
(which you do.)
'what an angel', he thinks again, your face still ghosted in his mind.
he’s high. so high. his body feels like a heartbeat, slow and deep and pulsing warm. and the lighter, it keeps dragging him back to that moment on the couch, your thigh against his, your fingers brushing his, your quiet little smile when he lit it up for the first time.
'she always does shit like this. just makes stuff better. without even tryin’.'
it hits him all at once, sudden and full-body.
he needs to mark this. this moment. this feeling.
he’s already pulling out his phone before the thought’s even fully formed, scrolling through the camera roll he swore he didn’t care about but secretly checks too often. blurry candids, selfies with you curled against his chest, that pic from two weeks ago when you were looking up at him from the floor of his room with a red gummy in your mouth and sleep in your eyes.
he pauses there.
your eyes in that picture. big, soft, glassy, sexy.
his thumb hovers over the screen.
“yo,” a familiar voice calls, sauntering through the haze. “you look fried.”
sukuna.
choso glances up. “am fried.”
sukuna grins. “figured. that couch is cursed, by the way. guy got a blowie on it last week during pong night.”
choso shrugs. “adds flavor.”
they lean on the wall together, easy silence for a second.
“you see the tat guys?” sukuna asks, chin-jerking toward the kitchen. “someone just got a fucking worm on their calf. like a literal earthworm. said it was ‘symbolic.’”
choso laughs, low and thick. “symbolic of what?”
“dunno. being dirt, i guess.”
he doesn’t respond. just looks back at his phone.
sukuna raises a brow. “you good, dude?”
“yeah.”
“you look like you just had a vision.”
choso finally meets his eye.
“yo,” he says slowly. “you ever just feel something and know you gotta do somethin’ about it right now or you’ll bitch out?”
sukuna squints. “uh. like what?”
choso doesn’t answer.
instead, he pushes off the wall, hoodie slipping off one shoulder again, lighter still clutched in one hand, phone in the other, and starts walking.
sukuna watches him go, a little amused. “damn. alright.”
the air is thick with smoke and bass as he weaves through the crowd, bumping shoulders, dodging a girl dancing with her heels off and her hair in her face.
he reaches the makeshift tattoo stand.
it smells like rubbing alcohol and regret.
“yo,” he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as slow.
the guy behind the table, ink sleeves up to the neck, black gloves, sunglasses indoors, glances up.
“what’s up, man?”
choso leans down slightly, eyes low-lidded and unreadable, body loose and stoned and sexy in that careless way he always carries.
he holds out his phone.
“can you do this,” he asks, “on my arm?”
the artist blinks, then looks at the screen.
it’s a close-up of a girl’s eyes, wide, seductive, yet still glowing with laughter. looking up at the camera like whoever took the photo was the only thing in the world.
looking up at him.
choso taps the screen once. “those are hers.”
the guy raises a brow. “like… your girl?”
choso shrugs one shoulder. his eyes never leave the photo.
the buzz of the needle starts soft, a low, persistent hum, and choso doesn’t even flinch. he just leans back, one arm draped lazily across the armrest, hoodie shoved halfway up his bicep where the artist wiped him down with alcohol. his eyes are half-lidded, bloodshot from whatever gojo rolled earlier, but locked on the phone he’s holding out in his opposite hand.
the picture’s still up. her eyes, warm and wide, lashes curled, looking up at him like she trusts him with her whole heart.
“pretty,” the tattoo guy mutters, angling a small light to get a better look as he sketches the stencil. “yours?”
choso’s mouth curves slow. doesn’t answer right away. just flicks his lighter open and closed, click, click, click, the red spider lilies catching the light each time.
then finally:
“nah.”
the guy hums. “girlfriend?”
he huffs a little, amused. “not that either.”
he sets the lighter down on the table beside him, keeps his eyes on the screen.
“she’s just,” he pauses, then shrugs, soft and slow, “her. y’know?”
the artist side-eyes him. “deep.”
choso smiles again, eyes unfocused. “nah, i’m just fuckin’ high.” the guy presses the warm stencil into choso’s arm, smooths it into place.
“you sure you wanna do this while you’re, uh,” he glances at choso’s glassy expression, the faint grin still tugging at his mouth, “clearly not sober?”
“i’m not wasted,” choso says lazily. “and i’m not dumb. it’s not a mistake.” the artist nods once, respects it. “alright, man.” he flips on the machine again, lines it up.
“you done this before?” choso grunts a laugh. “y’think i got these in my sleep?” he gestures vaguely at the black ink already crawling across both arms, jagged, abstract lines, constellations and waves, some faded with age. some done in basements like this one. “first time sober was the weirdest one.”
the guy snorts. “fair.”
the needle hits skin.
choso exhales slow. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even blink hard. just stares at the wall across the room, jaw slack, hoodie sliding off his shoulder, the buzz settling into the meat of his arm like a low hum of intention. “you ever tattoo someone like this before?” he murmurs after a beat.
“like what?”
he shrugs again. “someone who’s… y’know.” the guy doesn’t answer right away.
choso elaborates, voice softer this time. “she’s not mine. i don’t want her to be. not right now. it’s not like that. it’s just…” he trails off, brows furrowing a little, tongue tucked against the inside of his cheek.
“she just means somethin’. don’t got a word for it.”
the artist doesn’t look up from his work, but his tone’s gentler when he speaks again. “yeah. i’ve seen that before.” choso sinks deeper into the chair, breathing even. the pain’s dull and constant, but it grounds him. keeps his thoughts from spiraling too far out, keeps his high in this exact moment.
“you think she’d be mad?” he asks, voice airy. “if she saw it?”
“dunno,” the guy says. “you gonna tell her?” he blinks slow, head rolling back against the headrest.
“nah.”
another pause.
“not now. it’s just for me.” the tattooer gives a small nod. “that’s real.”
a silence settles between them, the steady hum of the needle, the sound of someone vomiting into a bush outside the window, a muffled scream from the beer pong table two rooms over.
“looks good,” the artist murmurs, wiping excess ink from the forming lines of the eyes. “she’s got crazy lashes.”
choso huffs out a small laugh. “she’d fuckin’ love that you noticed that.”
“yeah?”
he smiles again, softer now. “talked about lash serum for like a week. gave me a whole presentation.”
the guy chuckles under his breath. “sounds like she talks a lot.”
choso closes his eyes.
“she talks just enough.” the buzz continues. the lines take shape. her eyes, right there, etched into his skin. not to claim. not to confess. just to remember.
just for him.
~
the buzz dies down gradually, tapering into a low hum before the artist finally flicks the switch and pulls back. the sudden quiet settles like a heavy blanket over the both of them, just the soft thud of bass from the next room and the subtle scrape of latex gloves against skin.
“alright, man,” the artist says, leaning back with a stretch. “done.”
choso blinks slow, still slouched deep in the chair like he’s been there for hours, like the cushion molded around his bones. he lifts his head, eyes hazy but laser-locked on the strip of bandage being pressed to his upper arm.
“yo, hold up, lemme see it before you cover it,” he says, voice low and hoarse from either weed or reverence, maybe both.
the guy lifts a brow, but obliges. carefully wipes the skin one last time, blood and excess ink coming away in soft red-black smears. the room’s fluorescent lights hit the raw lines at an angle, shining off the freshly tattooed skin like it’s something holy.
and fuck.
there it is.
your eyes.
wide and soft and open, curved lashes sweeping upward in a way no stencil should’ve captured but somehow did. that quiet way you look at him, like he hung the stars, like he’s yours even if the two of you never say it out loud. inked permanent on the soft part of his bicep, nestled between a set of waves and the jagged edge of a half-finished constellation.
for a second, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.
he just stares.
it hits him slow, like a good edible, starts behind his eyes, low and warm in his chest, then spreads.
yo.
he’s obsessed.
like fully, all the way, brain-meltingly obsessed.
he turns his arm slightly under the light, eyes tracing the lines, the slight curve of your upper lid, the detail around the corners like you're mid-laugh or mid-thought or both. it looks exactly like you, his favorite version of you. the version that looks up at him like nothing else exists in the room.
god.
you look good on him. not in the possessive way. not even close. it’s not that.
it’s something else. something way quieter. something he can’t even name when he’s sober, and definitely not now, baked out of his skull with his arm still tingling and his hoodie falling half off.
but still, he’s wearing you now. and it feels like something that’s always been true, just waiting for the ink to make it real.
“you good?” the artist asks, half amused, already reaching for the plastic wrap again. “yeah,” choso says, slow, mouth crooked into a lazy grin. “looks fuckin’ sick, dude.” the guy chuckles under his breath. “kinda figured you’d say that.”
“you killed it,” choso adds, finally dragging his eyes off the tattoo. “like, actually.”
the artist nods, pleased. “appreciate it. was fun as hell to do, honestly. you sure you don’t want her name or somethin’? under it?” choso snorts. “nah. that’d make it weird.”
“fair.”
he watches the guy gently press a clean dressing over the fresh ink, tape it up. the sensation’s a dull sting under his skin, not quite pain, just awareness. a reminder that it’s real now. that it’s his, for good.
she doesn’t know. you might never know. and that’s kinda the whole point. he’s not gonna flash it at you mid-party or say anything slick when you sit beside him later like you always do, throwing your legs over his lap and stealing his drink.
nah.
this one’s just for him. a secret under his sleeve, tucked into the curve of his body like a memory.
“you gonna keep it under wraps?” the guy asks, like he can read choso’s whole plan off his face.
“yeah,” choso mutters, grabbing his hoodie and tugging the sleeve back down with a practiced flick. “at least for now. don’t need her freakin’ out or nothing.”
“bet,” the guy says with a short laugh. “i get it.”
choso stands slow, body still heavy from sitting too long and smoking too much. he sways a bit but rights himself, shaking out his arms like he’s just come up from underwater. the whole basement smells like blood and rubbing alcohol and resin, but it’s warm, and the energy buzzes low and steady around him.
he digs in his pocket for a few bills, slaps them into the artist’s open palm.
“appreciate you, man.”
“anytime, bro. take care of that, don’t go dunkin’ it in a keg or anything.” choso grins. “no promises.”
he walks out with his hoodie draped low, sleeve tugged all the way to his wrist despite the heat and the crowd and the chaotic press of bodies funneling in from the hallway. music floods back in slow, a pulse of bass syncing up with his own heartbeat.
but he can’t stop thinking about it. every step he takes, every time the sleeve brushes against the fresh ink, it reminds him.
not of what they are.
but of what you mean.
upu didn’t need to give him that lighter. you didn’t have to think about him in that little quiet way you always did, like he’s more than just a weed plug or the guy you party with every weekend. that little moment, just you in your dorm, painting red spider lilies on a bic you knew he’d never throw away? that shit went straight to his chest. and now you're on his skin. maybe you'd freak out if you saw it. maybe you'd cry. maybe you'd laugh.
maybe you'd get real quiet and never say anything again. or maybe you'd look at him the way you did in that photo. maybe you'd look at him like you knew.
but all that’s for later. for now, he’s just stoned as hell, arm warm and throbbing, and so unbelievably content that it’s almost embarrassing.
he spots gojo again across the room, already perched on the arm of someone else’s couch with a red solo cup and a grin like he owns the house. choso veers toward him, slips back into the noise like he never left.
sleeve tugged down.
lighter in his pocket.
eyes on his arm, just for him.
~
later that night you navigate yourself back to choso after your banter with the girls.
you spot him sunk deep into the cushions, hood half up, curls falling into his face, a bottle of water in one hand and his eyes half-lidded and sleepy with that lazy high he wears better than anyone. he’s surrounded, gojo splayed on one armrest like he owns the place, sukuna lounged sideways with his feet on the table, and suguru perched on the edge, nursing a half-finished blunt.
“yo, look who it is,” gojo grins as you walk up, already clocking the way you move like you’re headed home, not just to a guy. “princess finally found her prince.”
you don’t say anything, just slide right into the little space at choso’s side like it was made for you. his arm shifts automatically, pulling you in like it’s instinct, and you tuck your face into his shoulder, letting out the softest exhale. you can feel the thrum of his voice in your cheek when he speaks.
“hey, ma.”
his hand’s warm against your hip, steady, grounding. he smells like weed and cedar and the faintest trace of paint from the lighter you gave him. it’s in his pocket now, safe like something sacred.
“so anyway,” suguru picks back up like you didn’t just crash-land in choso’s lap, “i’m telling you, the guy had no idea what he was doing. tried to roll with a swisher, no guts, just dumped the weed in and twisted the end like a fuckin’ lollipop.”
“god, not the lollipop roll,” sukuna groans, dragging a hand over his face. “freshman?”
“of course it was a freshman,” gojo says, grinning. “those little guys think watching one youtube tutorial makes them bob marley.”
“yo, remember that one dude at the delta party?” choso says, head tilting back slightly. “rolled a joint with a bible page.”
“amen,” sukuna snorts.
“nah, for real,” choso laughs, hand tightening just slightly where it rests on your side. “he said it made the high holier.” you huff against his hoodie, and his fingers flex like he felt it, like it was the best sound he’d heard all night.
they keep going, weed stories, party war stories, the dumbest shit they’ve ever seen in a frat house at 3am. it’s relentless, loud, chaotic, but you stay quiet, tucked against choso’s side like he’s the only still thing in the room. his thumb runs in slow circles against your waist through the fabric of your top, and you feel the way he laughs before you hear it.
“yo,” gojo says, leaning across suguru to point at choso. “what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done at a party?”
“besides adopt a girlfriend he doesn’t kiss?” sukuna adds. choso blinks slow. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t even twitch.
“probably that time at theta when i fell asleep in the bathtub and woke up with a raccoon in my lap.” suguru chokes. “you serious?”
“deadass.”
“was it… alive?”
“bro. it was chillin’. just vibin’ with me.”
“you probably hotboxed the tub,” gojo says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “raccoon was just tryna get high.”
choso grins, soft and slow, and you nudge your nose into his hoodie like you’re hiding your own smile. “what about women?” sukuna says suddenly, eyes glinting like he’s fishing. “y’all ever hook up at your own party?”
“you’re disgusting, that's against reg” gojo tells him cheerfully.
“don’t lie,” sukuna drawls. “you know you have.”
“alright, once,” gojo admits. “but i kicked her out after because she tried to name my bongs.” “you’re heartless,” suguru says, deadpan.
“you don’t name the bongs,” gojo insists. “they earn names. it’s sacred.”
“what about you, choso?” sukuna’s gaze cuts sideways. “you got bodies stacked in your stoner dungeon?” choso hums, slow and easy. you feel the low sound in his chest, pressed flush to your cheek.
“nah,” he says. “i don’t hook up with girls who don’t know how to roll.” the boys howl, gojo nearly falling off the couch.
“that’s so on brand,” suguru laughs. “you need standards,” choso mumbles, amused, and leans his cheek briefly against the top of your head.
the lighter’s still in his pocket. his arm’s still over your shoulders. and beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, hidden from the world, your eyes are inked into his skin.
you shift a little, just enough to tuck your legs under yourself, settling more fully into him, and he adjusts without thinking — arm around you tighter now, palm spread warm across your ribs, thumb grazing your side through the fabric. he’s careful. doesn’t let the hoodie ride up. doesn’t let anyone see. the tattoo’s still fresh, still tender, and it’s just for him.
“yo, you good?” suguru asks, nodding at him. choso blinks slow. “yeah man’.”
“that weed hit hard,” gojo says. “i feel like i’m seein’ sounds.”
“you tryna kill someone?” suguru laughs. “every time i hit one, i feel like my soul’s leaving my body.”
“shit’s a rite of passage,” sukuna shrugs.
“nah, a rite of passage is hosting a rager with a cop at your door and acting like you live there,” gojo grins. “have you?” choso asks, amused.
“bro, i’ve answered the door in a bathrobe before,” gojo says proudly. they all crack up again. you don’t say anything, but your smile’s pressed right into choso’s chest, and he dips his head for a second to nuzzle his nose into your hair.
“she’s real quiet tonight,” suguru says, noticing. “nah, she’s just comfy,” choso says easily. “she don’t need to talk when she’s like this.”
you don’t. not when you’ve got his warmth, his arm around you, his voice rumbling low in your ear with every lazy joke. it’s always like this, like no one else in the room really matters, like you could fall asleep right here and he’d keep the world spinning while you did.
“that’s love,” gojo says mock-serious.
“shut up,” choso mutters. but he doesn’t stop smiling. and the lighter’s still warm in his pocket.
and your eyes are still inked into his arm, safe and secret beneath layers of cotton and smoke.
~
the house is still going when you two finally get up. it’s past 2am, maybe closer to 3, but the music hasn’t let up and there’s still people on the floor, drinks in hand, voices loud and slurred over each other. someone’s passed out with a sharpie mustache, another guy’s making out with a pillow. classic kappa chaos.
choso’s the one who moves first. you feel it in the way his arm shifts, in the soft brush of his thumb against your side like a nudge. he leans in close, voice barely above a murmur.
“you good to dip?”
you nod into his hoodie, eyes half-lidded, heart heavy with warmth and weed.
he helps you up slow, palm steady at your back. when you stand, the cold air from the open back door hits your legs and you shiver a little, instinctively leaning back into his side. he shrugs his hoodie higher and throws an arm around your shoulders like he already knew it’d happen.
“yo,” choso calls out over the couch, voice scratchy and low. “we out.”
gojo perks up from where he’s still posted with a half-spilled drink, eyes bright. “tell your girlfriend goodnight for us.”
you don’t say anything, just press your face into choso’s shoulder again, and he laughs under his breath.
“night, man,” suguru says with a nod, already halfway into rolling another blunt.
sukuna lifts a hand lazily. “text if you end up in a ditch.”
“if i do, i’m takin’ you with me,” choso mutters.
they all laugh again, and it follows you both out the front door, the porch light buzzing weak and yellow above you. the night’s cooler now, quiet in a way that makes everything feel soft around the edges. your heels click against the pavement as you walk, but only for a second, choso notices and without a word, crouches down in front of you, glancing back over his shoulder.
“get on.”
you blink, amused. “seriously?”
“c’mon, ma,” he mumbles, tugging at your wrist. “your feet hurt.”
you climb onto his back with a little laugh, arms wrapped loose around his shoulders, and he stands like it’s nothing, steady under your weight. his steps are slow and sure down the sidewalk, the frat house lights shrinking behind you, the sounds of the party fading with every step.
“you always take care of me,” you mumble against his neck.
he hums low. “’course i do. you're my.. best friend.”
you walk like that for a while, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his hair brushing your face every time the wind shifts. he doesn’t say much, just hums sometimes or comments on dumb shit you pass, a traffic cone in a bush, a raccoon on the curb that freezes when it sees you, like it knows choso somehow.
he sets you down once you’re close, only when his own building’s steps are in sight. his hand stays in yours as he leads you inside, up the stairs, past the other bedrooms where people are either passed out or definitely not sleeping. his door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud, and everything goes quiet.
his room’s the same as always, warm, dim, the faint smell of weed and whatever incense he burned earlier in the week still lingering in the corners. one sock on the floor, a hoodie thrown over the back of his chair. you’ve been here a hundred times, maybe more.
but tonight feels different. softer. warmer.
he pulls his hoodie off slow, careful of the sleeve, and tosses it toward the desk chair. the bandage underneath catches the light for a second, but he turns before you see too much.
you toe your shoes off and crawl onto the bed without thinking. he follows, slower, body still heavy with high and heat and something else he can’t name.
you’re both under the blanket when he finally speaks.
“hey.”
you look over, curled on your side facing him.
his eyes are half-lidded, soft. one arm tucked behind his head, the other stretched toward you, palm open on the comforter like he’s offering it.
“i really fuckin’ love that lighter.”
your heart stutters a little. “yeah?”
he nods, slow. “like… a lot. been using it all night. even switched pockets for it, kept checking to make sure it didn’t fall out or get swiped.”
you smile, something small and full blooming in your chest. “good. it’s supposed to be yours.”
“feels like it.”
he looks at you for a long second. the space between you shrinks until his arm slides around your waist and pulls you in close.
you go easy, always do, settling into him like he’s your own bed, your own pillow, the place you always end up no matter how far you drift.
he breathes in slow, his nose brushing your hair.
“the flowers… why’d you paint those?”
you press your face into his chest.
“they reminded me of you,” you say quietly. “red spider lilies. they’re kind of… complicated. people think they’re about death or goodbye, but they also mean memory. rebirth. starting over. they grow in all the places nothing else does.”
choso’s quiet for a second.
then, soft, “you think i’m like that?”
you shrug against him, voice even softer. “i think you’re the kind of person who sticks. who stays even when shit gets hard. and you don’t always say how you feel but… you’re steady. like those flowers. like fire.”
he exhales slow.
“fuck, ma.”
“what?”
“you’re gonna make me cry or some shit.”
you laugh, a quiet huff against his chest. he wraps both arms around you now, tucking you into the space beneath his chin, his hand sliding up into your hair.
his fingers stroke slow, gentle. again and again.
“you can cry,” you mumble. “i won’t tell.”
he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you.
“nah, i’m good. just… i dunno. not used to someone thinkin’ about me like that.”
you don’t say anything. just curl closer, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt.
the room settles into silence. soft and slow. your breaths even out together.
his hand keeps stroking through your hair, steady and grounding. like he could do it forever. like maybe he will.
his voice comes again, quieter this time.
“gonna keep that lighter forever.”
you smile, eyes fluttering shut. “good.”
“not even gonna let gojo touch it."
“definitely good.”
his lips brush your hair, a ghost of a kiss.
you feel it all, the warmth, the safety, the way his body curls slightly to fit around yours like a shield, like a home.
his heartbeat’s slow against your cheek.
“night, ma,” he whispers, already half-asleep.
you murmur it back, voice slurred with sleep, breath syncing with his.
his fingers keep moving, slow circles through your hair.
and in the soft dark, beneath the blanket, beneath the silence, his arm curls around you just enough to press the fresh ink on his bicep to your side, a quiet secret. a permanent truth.
just for him.
just for tonight.
just for you.
~
~
it’s been a chill afternoon, sun’s out, classes dragging, brain fried. choso’s walking out of the lab building with his earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped, replaying your last message in his head. a pic of your shoes kicked off under a library table, captioned come save me, three broken hearts. made him smile. still does.
he’s almost past the quad when a shadow cuts across the sidewalk.
“yo, choso.”
doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.
that voice, too smooth. familiar in the kind of way that feels like smoke curling up your back.
he pulls one earbud out and slows.
toji’s leaned against the trunk of an oak tree like he’s been waiting. sunglasses on, black tee snug across his chest, arms crossed like he’s got all day. his smirk’s already half-there.
“what’s up?” choso mutters.
“you got a sec?”
choso gives him a long look. he knows toji. knows the kind of calm that means something’s coming.
“…yeah,” he says anyway.
they walk.
they’ve done this before, that time a few weeks ago before his lab, once or twice after parties, when everyone else was loud and drunk and messy. toji’s always been different. sharper. like he watches the room just to see where it bleeds.
“how’s life at delta mu?” toji asks after a few steps. casual. fake.
“same shit.”
“yeah?” he smirks. “you still throwing those weed parties with your little mascot?”
choso’s jaw ticks. “you mean y/n?”
toji chuckles. “yeah. her.”
he tosses a glance sideways. too casual.
“she’s got some energy, huh? always bouncing around, arms all over you. she like that with everybody or just you?”
choso doesn’t answer. toji doesn’t need one.
“nah, i’ve seen it,” he continues. “always tucked up next to you. on your lap. wrapped around your arm. clinging to your hoodie like it’s the last blunt in the world.”
he laughs under his breath. “kinda cute.”
choso’s fists go deep in his pockets.
“she’s just like that,” he says flatly.
toji hums. “you sure?”
choso looks over.
“what’s your point?”
“just wondering,” toji shrugs, still smiling like it’s harmless. “you’ve told me before, you two aren’t dating.”
“we’re not.”
“but you hang out every day.”
“yeah.”
“sleep in the same bed sometimes, right?”
choso’s mouth tightens.
toji grins like he caught something.
“so she’s single?”
choso stares straight ahead.
“…yeah.”
“good to know.”
silence.
the wind brushes through the quad. students chatter behind them. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker in the grass, something smooth, almost romantic. it doesn’t help.
“she’s just real… open, you know?” toji says. “like, warm. sweet as hell. makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.” choso stays quiet.
“i ran into her the other day,” toji adds like it’s nothing. “outside the gym. we talked for a sec.” his tone is lighter now. teasing. like he’s digging.
“she remembered my name. smiled real nice, too. said she was headed to meet you.”
no surprise there. you always say where you're going. always talking about choso like he’s the center of your world. and maybe that’s why this stings. and toji knows it.
“you ever wonder if she does that for you?” he asks. “tells other guys she’s headed to see you. uses your name like a shield.”
he doesn’t wait for a reply.
“or maybe it’s just habit. maybe she’s comfortable. you ever think about that?”
“don’t do this.”
choso’s voice is low now. warning. toji just smirks.
“look, man. i’m not trying to piss you off. just… trying to understand. ‘cause you act like you’re her boyfriend, but then you say you’re not.”
he tilts his head.
“so which is it?”
choso breathes slow through his nose.
“we’re close. we’ve always been close. that’s it.” toji nods. like he buys it.
but he doesn’t.
“damn,” he says. “you got more patience than me.”
“what’s that mean?”
“means if a girl like that was pressed up on me every night, i wouldn’t be wasting time calling her my friend.” he says it with a grin, but there’s something sharp underneath.
“you really never tried?” toji asks. “never kissed her? not once?” choso doesn’t respond. he can’t. he kisses you all the time, on the head, never on the lips.
because the truth’s stuck in his throat, the way you fall asleep in his arms, the way you hold his lighter like it means something, the way you always come back to him like he’s home. and he’s the dumbass who never claimed you.
“so she’s single, then?” toji repeats.
“yeah,” choso says, quieter than the first time, barely above a whisper.
toji gives him one last nod.
“fairs,” he says. “just wanted to be sure.” and then he walks away. choso doesn’t move. not for a long time.
just stands there, fists clenched, teeth gritted, watching toji’s silhouette disappear down the path like it’s a threat, because it is. he knew.
he knew before he asked.
and now he’s coming.
because choso left the door wide open.
and you?
you’re free to walk through it.
~
choso’s room, late in the afternoon.
your legs are curled under you on choso’s bed, hoodie three sizes too big hanging off your shoulder, his, of course. the windows are cracked open, letting in the soft hum of birds and the echo of some guys yelling down at the basketball court. his room smells like incense, sage and something deeper, something him, warm, sleepy. you’ve been here a hundred times like this. maybe more.
his hoodie sleeves keep sliding past your wrists as you text, thumbs quick, quiet smile pulling at your lips. he’s across the room, digging through a drawer for his rolling tray. you can feel his presence without even looking. you always do.
“yo, did you move my grinder?” he calls, glancing over his shoulder.
“nope,” you answer, distracted, fingers still flying over your screen. your phone lights again.
toji [3:04pm]: you looked cute at that mixer last night.
you bite your lip. thumbs hover.
then you type:
you [3:07pm]: oh, so ur stalking me noww?
you don’t see choso pause. you don’t see how long his eyes linger on your phone. you don’t realize he saw the name, until he speaks.
“who you texting?”
you blink up, tone of his voice unfamiliar.
“hm? oh—” you shift your phone in your hand, instinctive. “just… someone.”
he tilts his head.
“someone, huh.”
you laugh a little. “why do you sound like that?”
he doesn’t answer. he crosses the room instead, slow steps. plants himself at the edge of the bed, arms folded. you look up at him and that warm energy’s gone. replaced with something colder. sharp.
“that toji?”
your breath stalls.
“…yeah.”
choso stares at you. unreadable.
“why?”
“what do you mean why?” you ask, eyebrows tugging. “he messaged me. we were just talking.”
he hums, low.
'not buying it.'
“just talking,” he echoes. “what about?” you sit up straighter. “what’s going on?”
“what’d he say?”
“choso—”
“lemme see.”
he gestures at your phone. you clutch it instinctively. like muscle memory. like guilt? “are you serious right now?” he doesn’t answer. jaw’s tight. eyes dark.
“what’d he say?” he asks again. your fingers squeeze your phone. you feel a flush crawl up your neck. not from embarrassment, but shock.
“you’re not serious,” you say again, this time quieter. he just looks at you. so you speak.
“he said i was cute, that's it.”
his jaw ticks.
“you flirting with him?”
“what?”
“you heard me.”
you scoff. “no. i wasn’t. it wasn’t even- i didn’t mean it like that.” choso steps back, runs a hand through his hair. pacing now.
“you texting him while you’re in my bed?”
“what does that matter?”
“it matters.”
his voice is sharper now. rough around the edges. not loud, but tight, like it’s fighting to stay inside his chest. “you know how i feel about that guy.”
“choso, he’s been nothing but nice lately—”
“he’s not nice. he’s not interested in being friends. he’s waiting, he’s circling, you don’t see it?”
you blink.
“so what, you’re mad ‘cause i texted him back?” he looks at you like you just spit on the floor. “i’m mad ‘cause you’re in my fucking hoodie, in my bed, telling some other guy he’s got a shot.”
you freeze.
the silence that falls is loud.
so loud.
your eyes widen. you stare at him, lips parted. unsure if you heard that right. unsure if he meant to say it.
“a shot?” you echo. he looks away. exhales hard.
“never mind.”
“no,” you say, voice firm now. “say it again.”
he doesn’t. but you both feel the truth echoing off the walls.
you look down. suddenly too warm. like the hoodie’s burning your skin. “…i didn’t know you’d care,” you say, almost to yourself.
choso swallows. “i do.” you glance back up.
“why?”
he doesn’t answer, but you already know. and now the air is thick with it. the unspoken thing. and for the first time, it’s not sweet. not warm. it hurts.
because it means everything he’s never said, everything he’s been, came with conditions you never agreed to. came with borders he never drew, but expected you not to cross.
you breathe slow. he watches you. you speak first.
“if you wanted to be the only one texting me like that, you should’ve said something.” choso’s face shifts. his mouth opens like he’s going to say something, defend himself, maybe, argue the way he always stays quiet because he doesn’t want to lose you,but nothing comes out.
instead, his brows knit together, lips pressed in a tight line. his fingers curl at his sides.
“you really think i don’t wanna be that?” he says, voice rough. “you think this shit’s been casual for me?” you blink at him. your breath catches.
“you’ve never said it was anything else, choso. what was i supposed to think?”
“fuck,” he growls, pacing again. “you were supposed to know. i thought you knew.”
his voice rises, not yelling, but loud with frustration. he’s unraveling in real time, and it’s shaking something loose in you, too.
“how was i supposed to know?” you shoot back. “you flirt but you never say anything. you touch me like i’m yours but act like i’m just your best friend—”
“you are mine.” your voice dies in your throat.
he stares at you. and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, but no less intense.
“you’re mine,” he says again, like a confession. like a curse. “always been mine.” your stomach flips.
“then why—” your voice cracks — “why didn’t you say anything?”
choso runs a hand through his hair again, like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. like it hurts.
“’cause i was scared,” he snaps. “scared that if i said it out loud, it’d fuck everything up. that you’d look at me different. that you’d leave.” you stare.
“so you’d rather let someone else have me?”
he stiffens. you rise onto your knees on the bed, fire lighting behind your ribs now. “you’d rather let toji of all people try it?”
his jaw clenches. “he’s not gonna have you.” your heartbeat skids.
he moves in fast, faster than he ever has, and grabs your wrist, firm but not rough, like he can’t bear to let the distance exist any longer.
“i’m not letting him have you,” he mutters.
you’re still frozen, looking up at him. something between fear and thrill curling in your gut.
“choso,” you whisper. he doesn’t stop. he pushes you back gently onto the bed, one hand catching your waist, the other bracing against the mattress. he hovers over you, breath heavy, eyes searching your face like he’s begging you to see it, really see it this time.
“i’m fucking in love with you.”
your heart punches into your throat. his forehead dips, pressing against yours, voice hoarse.
“i’ve been in love with you since you showed up to my first party and we listened to that dumb song together.”
you let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are wet his thumb brushes your cheek.
“i never said it ‘cause i thought this was enough. thought just having you close was better than risking it all. but i can’t—” he pulls in a breath, voice shaking now too — “i can’t sit quiet while other people try to take you from me.”
you’re blinking fast now. breath catching. every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire beneath his touch.
“you’re my girl,” he says again, softer this time. “you’ve always been mine.”
you don’t answer right away. your chest rises and falls beneath his, shallow and unsteady. your palm is still on his cheek, but your eyes have shifted, staring past him now. unfocused. wet.
“you’re only saying that,” you murmur, “because someone else finally had the balls to go after me.”
his breath catches. your voice is quieter, but sharp now, like you’re trying to convince yourself. like you want to believe it, but the cracks are there, and they’re splitting open.
“you didn’t say anything until he got involved. until he started asking about me. texting me. seeing me.” your hand falls away from his face. “and now suddenly, i’m yours?”
his eyes widen. “no—”
“you had so long to tell me, choso. so many chances.”
“y/n, it’s not like that—”
“then what is it like?” you breathe. “’cause i don’t get to be the girl you only want when someone else does.”
choso stares at you, heart hammering. like you just ripped something raw and bloody straight out of his chest.
he swallows.
and then, slowly, he pushes back, just far enough to sit up on his knees beside you. the mattress dips with the weight shift. his hands fumble for the hem of his hoodie.
he pulls it up and over his head in one quick move. your breath stutters.
there, inked into the inside of his upper arm, where he’d hidden it every time you curled up against him, is a tattoo.
of your eyes.
staring straight back at you.
your real breath, the one stuck in your throat, finally punches out of you.
choso watches your expression shift, eyes flicking from the ink to his face and back. he swallows once, hard, and says:
“got it the night of the party. when you gave me the lighter.” you blink.
“you were curled up on me. whole time i was talking with the boys, i couldn’t stop thinking about you. how close you were. how you looked at me like that was your home.” he swipes a thumb under his nose, like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands. “so i got up, high as fuck, to the guy tatting people in the corner. told him to ink your eyes on me.”
your lips part, but nothing comes out. his voice softens.
“i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought it was enough. just having you near. but it’s not. not anymore.”
your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your ears.
he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. like he needs you to believe it. really believe it.
“this isn’t about toji. it’s never been about him. i wanted you long before he ever said your name.”
you’re still staring at the tattoo.
he moves closer again. his hand brushes your knee, gentle.
“you think i’d get your fucking eyes tatted on me just ‘cause i’m jealous?” you blink fast.
his hand finds your face again. tender. grounding “you’re it for me.”
his voice is low, raspy. not just from the emotion, but from how hard he’s holding it in, like if he lets go, everything he’s ever felt for you will come spilling out and drown him.
but he lets it go anyway.
“you’re all i think about,” choso says, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. “when i’m high, when i’m sober, when you’re across the room and laughing at someone’s stupid joke, when you’re asleep in my bed, wearing my shirt, you’re in my head all the time, ma.” your breath catches.
“every song reminds me of you. every little thing you do drives me crazy. you don’t even know how much of me you’ve got.”
he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.
“you gave me that lighter and i wanted to kiss you right there in the middle of that party. when you paint your nails i stare at your hands for hours. when you fall asleep on me at parties, i sit still like a statue so you don’t move. i’m always lookin’ at you like ive already lost you, and it kills me.”
his hand finds your jaw, warm and steady, fingers curling behind your ear. your breath hitches, and he’s close enough to feel it.
“you’ve had my heart since freshman year. and i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought maybe you didn’t want it. or maybe you already had it and didn’t need to hear it out loud.”
you swallow, shaky. lips parted. cheeks flushed.
and choso looks down at them, your lips, like he’s been holding himself back from kissing you for a lifetime.
and then he doesn’t anymore.
he crashes into you like he’s starving.
the kind of kiss that drags a sound out of your throat before you even realize it, all heat and pressure and ache, all the months and years and everything he’s shoved down, poured out into the way his lips mold against yours. he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, and like he knows you won’t.
your hands claw at his shoulders, winding into the mess of his hair, tugging him in even closer. and choso groans, deep in his throat, pressing you down into the bed, slotting his hips against yours.
his mouth moves fast, desperate, lips, tongue, teeth, like he can’t get enough. like the taste of you is something he needs in his lungs.
“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, dragging his lips down your jaw, “you don’t get it, do you?”
your back arches, lips parting when he sucks lightly under your ear.
“how bad i’ve wanted this. you.”
his hands roam, over your waist, under your shirt, up your sides like he’s trying to memorize all of you at once. and every place he touches leaves a trail of fire.
you moan his name, soft and shaky, and he loses it a little more, bites your bottom lip as he grinds his hips down into yours, heavy and hot and so there.
“say it again,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded, forehead pressed to yours. “say my name.”
“choso.”
he shudders.
“again.”
“cho!.”
he kisses you so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs. kisses you like he owns you, like you’ve always belonged to him, and like he’s finally letting himself claim what’s already his.
and fuck, you let him.
you’ve wanted this just as long, you've needed him just as bad.
and now, with your limbs tangled, your body burning under his, your heart thudding like a war drum in your chest, there’s no more pretending.
you’re his. he’s yours. and it’s written all over his face.
choso looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, like he’s starved for you, but still savoring the moment. his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. reverent. he cups your cheek with a hand that’s just slightly trembling, brushing his thumb along your skin like he can’t believe you’re real.
he kisses your forehead, slow and grounding, like a promise. then your nose. then your lips, and that one lingers. warm, aching, deep enough that it steals the air from your lungs. it’s not just desire. it’s everything he’s never said until now.
“please let me see you, ma." he whispers, voice hoarse, like he’s been holding back forever.
you nod, lips parted, eyes locked with his. your breath stutters as his fingers ghost over the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something precious. he tosses it aside, only to pull you in again. his palms spread wide across your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath your chest.
“fuck,” he breathes, low and to himself. “so fucking beautiful.”
he leans in, mouth dragging hot and open along your neck, kissing and breathing you in, his lips trembling against your pulse like he’s drunk off you. he murmurs something there, a soft, almost desperate, “mine,” before he undoes your bra with one practiced flick.
and when it falls away, he doesn’t touch you right away. he just stares, like the sight of you has knocked the wind out of him.
his hands come up slow, palms warm as they cup you like he’s afraid to break something delicate. “been dreaming about this,” he says. “about you. here. like this. in my bed. lookin’ up at me like you already know i’d give you everything.”
you shiver under the weight of it all, his voice, his gaze, his touch. and then his mouth is on your chest, lips sealing around your nipple, tongue flicking before he sucks. slow, deep, just enough to make you arch into him with a needy whimper.
“choso…”
he groans, hand sliding lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them down with your panties in one motion, dragging his palms down your thighs on the way. and when he sits back, just to take you in, bare, breathless, flushed, his eyes go wide, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. “look at you,” he murmurs, chest rising with each ragged breath. “you don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”
you reach for him, tugging his shirt up and over his head, palms skating down the strong lines of his chest, stopping only when your fingers find his arm. your breath catches.
your eyes. inked in black and red over his skin, etched like a confession. you won't ever get sick of seeing it.
he watches you take it in, sees the exact moment you understand, and he doesn’t say anything. not at first. he just leans in, takes your hand in his, and presses it over his heart.
“see?” he whispers. “been yours. always.”
your eyes brim, chest tight with something that has no name. and then he kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue stroking yours, hand sliding between your thighs. he groans into your mouth when he feels you, warm, wet, already trembling.
“so wet for me,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. “all this for me, huh?”
his fingers dip into you, one at first, then two, slow and deep, curling just right. your back arches, mouth falling open with a gasp as he starts to move them, watching every twitch and shiver you give him like he’s memorizing the way you come apart. “fuck, baby,” he breathes. “you feel so good, been wantin’ this for so long. just wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”
his lips trail back down, mouth closing around your nipple again as his fingers keep working you open, the room echoing with your broken gasps and soft moans. he kisses your sternum, your ribs, every inch of you he can reach like he’s trying to make up for every second he didn’t have you.
and when your legs start to tremble, when your thighs squeeze around his hand and you whimper his name into the crook of his neck, he groans, low and sexy, and pulls back just enough to strip the last of his clothes.
his cock is flushed, hard, already leaking, and still, he pauses.
he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “you sure you wanna do this hun?”
“i want you,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i want all of you.”
and when he slides in, slow, deliberate, it’s overwhelming. your nails dig into his shoulders, mouth open in a silent gasp, and he just groans, long and low, burying his face in your neck.
“fuck, sweetheart… you feel so fuckin’ good, made for me, huh?”
his hips rock into you, slow and deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you until you’re trembling again, mouth parted in helpless moans. he kisses you through it, messy and uncoordinated, full of teeth and tongue and need.
he doesn’t hold back anymore. not his body, not his voice. he’s everywhere, his hands, his mouth, his words, and every thrust is rougher, deeper, hotter than the last.
“been yours since the day i met you,” he breathes against your skin. “you’re mine, baby. mine. no one else gets to have you like this. no one else even fuckin’ compares.”
you believe him. how could you not, when he’s saying it like he’s been waiting years to let it out?
you fall apart first, clenching around him with a strangled moan, whole body trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, and choso follows, grinding into you with a low growl, holding you close as he spills into you.
he doesn’t let go. not even after. he stays buried deep, forehead to yours, one hand cradling your jaw like it’s fragile.
“not lettin’ you go,” he whispers. “not now. not ever.”
~
raging music throbs and the party’s already in full swing when you two walk in. the bass thrums under your feet, bodies packed tight in the kappa house. familiar faces flash by in strobes of color and sound, solo cups raised, someone laughing too loud, gojo shouting across the room with a bottle in each hand.
and then you and choso step into the chaos like it’s nothing. except tonight, it’s not nothing. it’s everything. your hand is in his. his thumb strokes over your knuckles like it’s second nature, and you’re tucked into his side like you’ve always belonged there. he’s wearing that hoodie you love, and you’ve got it slung off your shoulder like it’s yours now. he hasn’t let go of you since you walked through the door, and he doesn’t plan to. people notice.
gojo sees first. his mouth falls open around the mouth of a beer can, and he drops it on the counter with a dramatic gasp. “oh my god.” choso raises an eyebrow, smirking. “no fuckin way,” sukuna mutters, eyes narrowing. “this for real?” you don’t say anything. just smile, nuzzling into choso’s chest. and choso, god, he melts. his arm tightens around you like instinct, like he’s not even thinking about it. “you’re kidding,” maki blurts from across the room. she’s half-drunk and squinting, pointing her beer bottle at you two like she’s trying to make sense of a mirage. “you finally fucked?”
“maki,” shoko hisses, slapping her arm, but she’s already grinning. “i knew it. i knew it.” suguru lifts his drink with a slow, knowing smile. “took you long enough.” gojo, meanwhile, is spinning in a circle like he just witnessed a miracle. “wait wait wait,” he says, pointing between the two of you. “you’re telling me this entire time, we’ve been watching you two eye-fuck each other across every frat house on campus, and now you’re just casually showing up like this?”
“what can i say,” choso murmurs, pulling you even closer, “i figured it was time.” “look at his hand placement,” shoko says, leaning into maki. “that’s not friends. that’s boyfriend hand placement.”
“yeah and look at her,” maki laughs. “she looks like she just got dicked down and praised like a goddess.” you duck your head a little, embarrassed, but choso leans in and kisses your cheek, then your temple. it’s so soft, so easy, and when he pulls back, he looks straight at toji who’s staring wide eyed, steady, calm, but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes.
“don’t look at her like that,” he says, voice low. “not tonight. not ever.” toji scoffs, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his grin is sharp. “damn. someone’s possessive now.”
“been possessive,” choso mutters, like it’s not even up for debate. he turns his attention back to you instantly, brushing your hair behind your ear.
“you okay?”
you nod. “i’m perfect.” and then he kisses you. not a peck. not for show. it’s slow, unhurried, with his hand cupping your jaw and his lips moving with the kind of tenderness that makes your knees weak. the room could be burning down and he wouldn’t stop. you don’t even hear gojo’s dramatic screech until you break apart.
“yo this is crazy,” he says, spinning around and yelling to no one in particular. “choso is off the market. choso kamo, resident stoner-lover of no one but his weed and his hoodie collection, is now cuffed.”
“what’s it feel like,” suguru asks with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at choso, “to be someone’s boyfriend?”
“feels like i shoulda done it years ago,” choso says. you blink up at him, heart catching in your throat. “yo,” yuuji calls from the other side of the room. “does this mean we’re finally allowed to say you two have been in love since freshman year?” “i always said it,” nobara yells, shoving through the crowd with a drink. “don’t act like y’all didn’t see them cuddled up at every party like an old married couple.”
“wait does this mean she’s moving into his room?” gojo asks, visibly spiraling. “what’s gonna happen to the guest bed? who’s gonna roll for me when choso’s too busy being in love?”
“die mad,” choso says flatly, and everyone laughs. but even through all the noise and teasing and attention, his focus never strays from you. his hand stays on your waist. his eyes keep dropping to your mouth like he’s remembering exactly what it feels like.
“you good?” he murmurs again, like he just wants to hear you say it.
you press your nose to his chest and nod, smiling. “more than good.”
he kisses you again, slower this time, like it’s just for you. like no one else is in the room. like he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be.
and the thing is, he is.
he’s yours. fully, finally, publicly.
more choso for you >~< 'sticky situation' 'you,always.'
awe wasn't that sweet 👩❤️💋👨 masterlist !!
guys look at this beautiful art @ryololart did inspired by this fic i love her go like it rn omg this is the perfect visual.
wc: ~10k | cw: smut, formula 1 au! f1 gojo/racer gojo x f1/racer reader! sexist/misogynistic themes, rough sex, biting, unprotected sex, public sex, creampie, enemies to lovers?
summary: you’re the young american rookie driver on ferrari who is constantly overshadowed by your biggest rival and teammate—the golden boy, satoru gojo.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
THE WORLD CALLS you a miracle.
Not the soft, flattering kind of miracle people print on magazine covers. Not the kind that gets written into inspirational children's books.
More like an anomaly. A statistical glitch. A name that shouldn't even exist beside Scuderia Ferrari's legacy but somehow does.
You're the young, twenty-one year old, American girl who clawed her way up through the ranks—from tiny karting circuits with cracked asphalt to junior formulas filled with boys who were already being groomed by academies to the razor-thin margin where most dreams die before they ever touch Formula 1.
And yet—by miracle or pure talent alone, you made it.
You stand in the most exclusive paddock in the world, surrounded by the roar of engines worth millions, the scent of burning rubber, the glitter of cameras waiting to dissect your every breath—wearing Ferrari red.
The most prestigious team in Motorsport. The one children grow up drawing in crayon. The one old men defend over espresso as if it were religion. The team that wins hearts even in its losing seasons simply by existing.
Ferrari doesn't take risks on outsiders. Ferrari doesn't gamble.
Which is why some people still look at you like you don't belong in your own uniform.
They hide behind polite smiles and thin professionalism, but you hear every whispered doubt.
She's too young.
She's emotional.
She's a diversity hire.
An American, seriously?
Ferrari should've chosen someone safer.
Why her when there are men waiting in line?
And sometimes, when no one's trying to pretend about it, they don't even bother lowering their voices.
Being the only female driver on the grid makes you a novelty. Being the only female driver on Ferrari makes you a target.
Half the paddock stares like you're a disruption. The other half stares like you're a mistake waiting to happen.
And then there's him.
Satoru Gojo. Ferrari's golden boy. The crown jewel of the team. The reason half the fanbase buys tickets.
Japanese. Twenty-four years old with experience. Unreasonably tall. A face sculpted by some combination of genetics and God's sense of humor. White hair, pale blue eyes, a grin that looks expensive.
He is the man both broadcasters and fans treat like destiny incarnate.
If Ferrari were a monarchy, he'd be the prince everyone bows to.
He has talent that doesn't just look effortless—it is effortless.
Lap times that seem to materialize out of thin air. The kind of racecraft commentators replay for weeks. But talent alone isn't why they love him.
It's the way he carries himself. Chin tilted just enough to look confident but not arrogant, shoulders relaxed, voice smooth and amused, the aura of someone who never had to fight for his place because the world was already holding the door open.
He is adored—by men, by women, by media, by sponsors, by Ferrari upper management who speak about him like he's the second coming of Michael Schumacher.
When he enters a room, the energy shifts. When you enter, the energy scrutinizes.
And he treats you like you're in the way. Not overtly. Not cruel enough for headlines—just enough.
The subtle glances at your car when he walks into the garage. The almost imperceptible smirk when you debrief a mistake. The way he jokingly comments about you around the engineers.
"If she bins it this weekend, I'm not taking responsibility."
"Try not to embarrass us out there, yeah?"
"Don't let the pressure eat you alive."
They laugh with him.
Because when Satoru Gojo says something condescending, they call it banter.
But your skin burns with the knowledge that he means every word.
You're teammates at the end of the day.
But everyone acts like you're the extra piece in his puzzle.
You sit in strategy meetings, listening to plans built around his win potential. You watch new upgrades roll onto his chassis first. You hear race simulations prioritize his clean air over your overtaking chances.
You've tried to tell yourself it's because of seniority. He's been with the team for years whereas you're in your freshman season, and most teams insist they don't have a number one driver.
But Ferrari doesn't bother pretending.
He is the main act. You are the footnote.
And he knows you hate him. He revels in it.
There's a certainty in the way he looks at you—a quiet confidence that he will always outrank you, always overshadow you, always win the battles you're both too proud to admit you're fighting.
But buried beneath that—there's the smallest flicker of something dangerous.
He doesn't underestimate you. He just wants to break you first.
And this season you haven't won yet, although you want to—badly.
But the golden boy is dead set on making sure you don't. That's the real story.
That's the tension threading through every qualifying session, every team meeting, every media conference, every accidental brush of shoulders in the garage.
Two drivers. One team. One throne. And only one of you is welcome to sit on it.
You don't want to coexist.
You want to destroy him. And he wants to watch you fall.
Yet, despite everything—the scrutiny, the favoritism, the suffocating hierarchy, you've managed to survive half a season in scarlet.
Fourteen races down. Ten to go. And the standings look exactly how Ferrari wants them to.
Gojo sits first in the World Drivers' Championship with four wins, six podiums, and enough media worship to build him a throne out of microphones and champagne.
And you're seventh. Always seventh.
Always a few places behind him—not because you lack speed, not because you lack control, but because something always interferes.
A poorly timed pit call. A "hold position" order when you were faster. A late-race strategy shuffle that magically benefits him every time.
Or worse—the subtler infuriating way he'll compromise your laps in qualifying without ever doing anything blatant enough to punish.
Everyone sees the points gap. No one sees the reasons.
They only see the narrative they want to believe.
"She's not consistent."
"She doesn't have Gojo's composure."
"Maybe the Ferrari is too much car for her."
"She's a good midfield driver, but she's no Gojo."
Then there's the comments they don't bother hiding—the ones that sting more because they sound familiar.
"Maybe women just don't belong in Formula 1.”
"She got the seat because she's pretty, not because she's fast."
"Ferrari hired her for marketing, not racing."
"She's better off modeling instead of driving."
Online, the hate is worse.
Your name trends after every race weekend—drowned beneath screenshots and hot takes.
@F1Bro_99: bro she's like...mid. put her in F2 pls
@PitLanePatrol: imagine never placing and still having a job lol
@F1Pundit: unpopular opinion: women don't have the neck strength for 300km/h corners sorry not sorry
@SatorusWife: daddy gojo carrying the whole team AGAIN she should be grateful
And the inevitable, every time you out-qualify someone who isn't him.
@FerrariFanboy: must've been a fluke
@GridGirls4Life: nah the car did the work
Most of them forget you're a rookie. Most of them forget he's a five year veteran. All of them forget that you've matched his raw pace more times than anyone wants to admit.
And now, with the Austrian Grand Prix approaching—a track you know you can conquer, the pressure is tightening like a noose around your neck.
Ferrari wants another win for the golden boy. You want the season to turn in your favor.
And Gojo? He wants to make sure you stay exactly where you are.
Not ahead. Not equal. Behind.
And the weekend does not wait for you.
Morning breaks over the Austrian paddock—Free Practice 1 looms, unavoidable.
By the time you step into the garage, the world has already moved to the next narrative, the next headline, the next comparison between you and him. And all you can do is walk straight into the fire.
The Ferrari garage hums with its usual morning electricity—air guns whining, tire blankets humming, engineers speaking in fast clipped Italian, screens flickering with telemetry even though the session hasn't started.
Mid-season pressure is a living thing. Expectations choke the air like exhaust. Gojo's championship lead hovers over the garage like a storm cloud only you can feel.
You've been here long enough to know exactly where you fit in the chaos.
Far left. Second car. Second driver. Second priority.
Your race engineer, Luca, hands you a tablet with overnight data, "You will like this," He says, grinning, "Your long-run pace improved. Very strong."
You nod, tapping through the corners you nailed, the ones you need to tidy up. You're focused.
Until the atmosphere shifts. It always does when he enters.
Satoru Gojo walks into the garage like he's walking onto the red carpet—Ferrari suit unzipped to his waist, gloves tucked in his belt, hair annoyingly perfect for someone who's never touched a comb in public.
He smiles at one of the engineers. They laugh too hard.
Someone pats his back like he cured cancer overnight. His race engineer hands him a coffee like it's a ritual offering.
The whole garage bends toward him without meaning to.
You don't look up. You refuse to.
But he notices you anyway—he always does.
"Morning," He calls out loudly, stretching it like a taunt, "Didn't think you'd make it this early. Big day for you, isn't it?”
He's talking to you, obviously, but not directly. More like talking at you just to remind the room you're here.
"And why wouldn't I be early?" You ask, finally lifting your gaze from the tablet.
He smirks—slow, amused, condescending, "Ah, you know. Pressure. Expectations. Mistakes waiting to happen."
He tilts his head innocently, "I figured you'd want a full night's sleep before...you know," There's a tiny shrug, "Trying to keep up."
You don't flinch. Not in front of him.
"I'm not the one who missed apex three times in turn nine last race," You point evenly.
A few mechanics freeze. Someone coughs. Luca's eyes widen with a silent here we go.
Gojo stops mid-step. For a heartbeat, that perfect smile flickers.
Then he laughs—sharp and bright, "Oh? Keeping tabs on me now?" He walks closer, the space between you shrinking to something dangerous, "Careful. People might think you're obsessed."
Your jaw tightens. He sees it—the irritation, the restraint, and his grin widens in victory.
You look past him, addressing no one in particular, "If I was obsessed with mediocrity, I would've joined Haas."
A couple mechanics stifle laughs they shouldn't let escape. Gojo hears them. His smile drops half a millimeter—just enough.
Luca clears his throat nervously, "We should...go over strategy, sí?"
You don't move. Gojo doesn't either.
He steps into your space—close enough you smell the faint cologne mixing with engine oil.
Close enough to assert dominance. Close enough to show you exactly why the garage worships him.
"You know," He murmurs, voice lower, "You talk a big game for someone who's still proving she belongs."
You lift your chin, "And you talk a big game for someone terrified I'll take your throne."
His breath catches. You see it. Just for a second—the insecurity he hides behind theatrics.
He covers it quickly with a smirk, "Try not to spin in turn five today. Wouldn't want to interrupt my long run."
"And you try not to rely on the team saving your ass again."
He steps away at last, but not before leaning in just enough to whisper, "You'll never beat me."
You don't give him the satisfaction of reacting, "You're scared I will."
He turns his back on you, but you see the tension in his shoulders. The flicker of annoyance in the set of his jaw. The way he pulls on his gloves too sharply.
Your own crew surrounds you again, but the entire garage still feels like it's vibrating from the collision of you and him.
The rivalry isn't just starting.
It's been here. Simmering. Growing. Sharpening its teeth.
And practice hasn't even begun.
Luca eventually pulls you toward your car, trying to steer the tension out of your orbit.
Mechanics zip your suit. Someone hands you your balaclava. Telemetry screens flip from green to yellow as Free Practice 1 nears start.
You don't look at Gojo again. You refuse to give him more space in your head than he already occupies.
But you feel him. The weight of his gaze. The amusement simmering beneath his calm. The unspoken challenge hanging in the air like static waiting for a spark.
And as soon as Luca nods, as soon as your crew waves you forward—you climb into the cockpit, sinking into the molded seat that knows your shape better than anyone else in this building.
Whatever came before doesn't matter. Not anymore.
Because the moment your visor drops, shutting out the world in a clean, final click—for one suspended heart beat, there's nothing.
No garage noise, no engineers shouting across the bay, no echo of Gojo's earlier smirk. Just the hollow, steady drum of your pulse.
Then the engine fires behind you.
The sound is violent and beautiful, a roar that floods your chest and wipes every lingering doubt from your mind.
Whatever the media thinks, whatever Ferrari thinks, whatever Gojo thinks—none of it exists once the car becomes an extension of your body.
"Track is clear, (Y/N)," Luca advises, voice steady in your ear, "You're green to push."
You ease out of the garage, tires humming across the pit lane, the car twitching beneath you with the restless energy of something alive and impatient.
The sun lights off the halo; wind skims across your helmet.
The first laps are routine—warming the tires, feeling for balance, testing how the car wants to move under you.
You learn the grip through your fingertips, the rear through your ribcage, the airflow through the subtle resistance of the wheel.
You're finding the rhythm when Luca's tone tightens, "Car 17 approaching at high speed on a lap."
Car 17. Satoru Gojo. Of course.
A quick glance in the mirrors confirms it—red helmet, red chassis, the unmistakable posture of someone who believes the track belongs to him. He's closing the gap fast.
You're on a cool-down lap, technically entitled to hold the racing line. Courtesy, however, says you should move aside.
You don't. Not right away.
You wait long enough that he has to wonder if you're being difficult. Long enough to remind him he's not the only one who can bend etiquette. Long enough for your heart to spike with a hint of satisfaction.
He flashes his lights at you—impatient, sharp.
You smirk inside your helmet. Then you move aside, but not gracefully. Not generously. You make it just inconvenient enough to irritate him.
He flies past, close enough that the air shoves your front wing sideways. Under the roar, you can practically hear him seething.
"Don't play games," Luca warns, though gently, "Not now."
"Wasn't playing," You lie, but your pulse tells the truth.
When you're pushing again on your next flyer, karma arrives just as you lift onto full throttle.
Gojo exits the pit lane. Right as you reach turn twelve.
He sees you coming—there's no way he doesn't. The timing is too perfect. The trajectory too deliberate.
And he stays exactly where he is.
You brake early, the tires protesting, the lap bleeding away in a smear of red deltas, "Is he serious?" You snap.
Luca hesitates, which means he's choosing his words, "Car 17 is...also on a prep lap."
"Bullshit."
You don't need to see his face to know Gojo is laughing inside his helmet.
Your ruined lap shows on the garage screens. P11 and dropping.
He glances at you in his mirrors—just long enough to make sure you saw. A small, infuriating tilt of his head. A silent—try harder.
The session winds down, and he slices across the final corner like he owns the asphalt, throwing his car into the racing line the way men do when they've never been told no.
He finishes P3. You finish P11.
Commentators will say he looks strong.
They'll say you're struggling with consistency. They'll talk about pressure and mistakes and your future at Ferrari.
But the only person who knows the truth of what happened out there—the only one who will savor it, is Satoru Gojo.
And he will enjoy every second.
By the time Free Practice 1 ends, the tension hasn't left your blood.
You climb out of the car with adrenaline still buzzing in your fingertips, helmet tucked under your arm, jaw tight from the way Gojo ruined your lap and pretended it was nothing.
Mechanics avoid your eye. Luca gives you a sympathetic look he's not allowed to say aloud. And Gojo—of course walks past your car without acknowledging you, humming like he didn't just derail your entire session for fun.
You don't say a word as you hand off your gloves. You don't look at him. You can't.
Because the moment you do, the cameras catch it. And they're already watching—waiting for a headline, a crack, a breadcrumb they can twist into narrative.
And when Ferrari ushers you toward the media center, your hair is still damp from the helmet, your mind not ready for words, and your patience hanging by a thread so thin it might snap from a breath.
The session may be over. The fight isn't.
The press room is too bright.
The lights glare off every surface—cameras, sponsor boards, the glossy table lined with nameplates, turning the pace into a sterile stage where expression is both magnified and dissected.
You lower yourself into the seat assigned to you, adjusting the microphone you don't want to speak into, and ignoring the untouched bottle of water placed in front of you like a prop.
Gojo sits two chairs away.
He settles in with the ease of someone reclining into a beach lounger rather than taking on the media.
One leg stretches out, one arm drapes casually across the back of the chair, and the relaxed tilt of his body screams confidence.
He should be bored. He always pretends to be bored.
But the second you sit, cameras flash.
Not for you. For him. Always for him.
You keep your expression smooth, carefully neutral, as if the lights can't burn straight through your skin.
At the opposite table, a couple of Mercedes and McLaren drivers exchange quiet whispers, half-hidden smirks betraying their interest.
Everyone in this room knows about the rumored tension between the Ferrari teammates. Rumors sell—truth sells even better.
The moderator clears his throat, "We'll begin with questions."
A hand lifts immediately, "This question is for Satoru."
Of course it is.
"You finished P3 in FP1. How's the car feeling? Any concerns for qualifying?"
Gojo's grin is warm, easy—annoyingly photogenic, stupidly attractive, "Car feels great. The team's doing fantastic work. Just getting into the rhythm."
More questions follow. All for him. One after another.
You sit quietly, chin lifted just enough to avoid looking like background decor. Until a journalist finally glances your way.
"(Y/N), tough session today. P11," His tone is dipped in condescension—the soft, patronizing kind that pretends to be supportive, "Do you think the pace difference between you and your teammate comes down to experience? Or perhaps the pressure of the spotlight?"
The subtext of his question is clear—maybe you're not cut out for this.
Before you can answer, Gojo exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. Dismissive. Pointed.
Your eyes flick sharply toward him. You steady your voice, "Well, FP1 is for testing setup changes. We weren't chasing times—"
The reporter cuts you off, "So you're saying the car isn't working for you?"
"No," You say evenly, holding your composure by the throat, "I'm saying it's early. People jump to conclusions."
Another hand rises—a woman with cold eyes and no patience for decorum.
"(Y/N), there were a few moments today where Car 17 appeared held up behind you in the first sector. Was that a mistake on your part? Or...intentional?"
A ripple of interest moves through the room. Gojo raises a brow—not surprised, just entertained.
Every camera shifts toward you, "I followed protocol," You respond coolly, "I moved when appropriate."
Gojo leans into his microphone—the smallest motion, but loud enough in meaning, "Mm," He hums lightly, "If you say so."
The whole room pivots toward him. You turn your head slightly, eyes sharp enough to slice carbon fiber, "What's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugs, all lazy innocence, "Nothing. Just saying the telemetry might disagree."
A murmur spreads through the reporters. You inhale slowly—not because you're calm, but the alternative would be far too honest.
"I lifted," You say into the mic, "Fully. Made room. If he still felt blocked, that's not on me."
Gojo smiles—the kind that hides teeth, "You lifted late."
"I lifted in time," You snap, though your voice stays steady.
"Oh?" He rests his cheek against his palm, feigning boredom, "Because from my onboards, it looked like you waited. Sort of...deliberately."
The implication slithers between you. Your jaw clenches, "So is the story you want to tell that I sabotaged your lap?"
He spreads his hands in a lazy display of innocence, "Hey, hey. I didn't say the word sabotage."
The journalists come alive—an entire room leaning forward, "Satoru," One jumps in, "Are you suggesting (Y/N) compromised your run?"
Gojo's smile wides—slow, practiced, devastatingly smug, "Look, I know she's still adjusting. These cars are fast, the pressure is intense...mistakes happen."
No one misses the meaning—she folded under pressure. She's not equipped for this. She's not me.
Your hand curls around your water bottle until the plastic strains.
You remind yourself—millions are watching, sponsors are watching, Ferrari is watching.
You swallow your fury because swallowing is safer than spitting. But Gojo isn't finished.
He taps his mic softly, almost playful, "If anything, I admire her spirit. Fighting hard is good. Just—" His smirk deepens, "—maybe pick better moments to fight."
Something inside you flares hot and violent—but you temper it beautifully, "Funny coming from someone who blocked me into turn twelve," You say, voice honey-sweet and lethal.
A collective gaps shifts the air. Gojo's pale blues narrow—just a fraction, but enough, "Oh? I thought you said I was the one overreacting."
"Not overreacting," You reply smoothly, "Just pointing out that if you're going to imply things, be ready for the full picture."
The silence turns dangerous. A journalist lifts her hand cautiously, "Is there...tension between the two of you?"
Gojo answers before you can, "No tension," He says effortlessly. His gaze shifts to you slowly, "Just reality. I'm faster. That's all."
You don't blink, "That's not reality. That's your ego talking."
Something tightens along his jaw—so small the cameras miss it. You don't.
The moderator hurries in, voice flustered, "And that's all for today—thank you, drivers—"
Cameras explode into flashes as you stand. Your heart drums, your pulse running too hot—too fast.
Gojo brushes past as he leaves the podium. He doesn't look at you. But his voice catches your ear alone.
"Try not to cry about P11."
You don't give him an inch, "I'll be ahead of you tomorrow."
He chuckles—low, amused, "I'd like to see you try."
His voice follows you into the night, echoing every time you close your eyes.
Come next morning, the exhaustion of barely sleeping has morphed into something sharper.
The moment you step back into the Ferrari garage, the atmosphere is different—tighter, colder, ready for war.
Today is qualifying. And you're done giving him the upper hand.
Qualifying days always feel heavier, like the air itself knows what's at stake. Every sound blends into a restless pressure that sits beneath your ribs.
You stand beside your car while mechanics perform their final touches, tightening bolts with reverence and polishing the floor until the reflection almost blinds you.
Your gloves are already on, molding to your palms like second skin. Everything inside you is grounded, coiled, certain.
You will not be P11 today.
Luca approaches with the tablet, his expression earnest and almost fatherly, "You can do this," He murmurs, "This track suits you. And your long-run pace earlier—truly, it was perfect."
You nod, jaw set, "Let's make it count."
He opens his mouth to say more—but the garage shifts before he can.
Not loudly. Not visibly. Just a subtle tightening, like a collective inhale.
Gojo has arrived. Helmet in hand, suit zipped, posture loose in that infuriating, unbothered way that suggests the world always bends for him.
He doesn't look your way, but the slight tug of amusement on his mouth tells you he's thinking about the press conference yesterday; about how easily he painted you as the problem, about P11.
Luca takes a small step between you as if he's learned the dangers of letting you occupy the same air.
The race director's voice reverberates through the speakers, "Drivers to cars."
You lower yourself into the cockpit and it closes around you like a vault. The noise sharpens; your breathing steadies.
You're aware of everything at once—the warmth of the engine behind you, the gentle vibration of steering wheel, the faint scent of fuel.
Then Gojo's engine fires beside yours. The sound rolls over you like a challenge.
You don't look. You don't need to. You know exactly what he's doing.
You get released onto the track, and the early laps slip into a familiar rhythm—clean lines, warm tires, feel the balance. In the background, sector times flash across the monitors.
You place yourself easily in the top five. He edges into the top two. Neither of you push yet; the real fight hasn't started.
Qualifying tightens as the minutes pass. Grip improves. Wind shifts. Each lap matters more than the last.
You hear faint commentary through the garage speakers—his name spoken with admiration, your own with measured skepticism. It barely registers.
The only thing that matters is the car beneath you and the lap you haven't yet unleashed.
By the time the final segment arrives, the tension has settled over Ferrari like fog. Mechanics hover behind their screens. Engineers whisper in urgent Italian.
You sit in your car with the visor raised, watching the pit lane clock count down. Luca leans close so only you can hear, "You can take pole," He says, without a hint of doubt, "You just need a perfect exit from the final corner."
You give a small nod. Across the garage, Gojo's engineer taps his halo and says, loud enough for you to hear, "Let's get pole for real this time. None of that charity from these morning runs."
The word charity strikes like a slap. As if your presence on this team is a gift he bestows. As if beating you is nothing more than routine.
Heat gathers beneath your suit—anger, focus, whatever you want to call it. It fuels you more than it should.
The light at the end of the pit lane turns green. You're released first. He follows a breath behind.
Your outlap builds slowly, deliberately—warming the tires, clearing the traffic. You can feel the track gripping under you, rubber laid down through the day stitching every corner tighter.
Luca's voice crackles through the radio, "All clear. You are good to push. Go."
And you do. You throw the car into turn one with precision, catching the apex perfectly. Turn two flows beneath you, fluid and clean. Turn three catches you in a rhythm that feels more instinct than instruction.
The car dances through the middle sector—your hands steady, your focus razor sharp. Luca's voice breaks mid-report, "Purple. (Y/N), you are purple in sector two."
Fastest out of everyone.
For the first time this weekend you feel it—the car responding to you alone. Not to the team's doubt. Not to Gojo's shadow. To you.
And then—a shape in your periphery.
You catch it only for a heartbeat, the flash of red, the red halo, the unmistakable silhouette of Car 17. Gojo.
He has timed his exit perfectly, slipping onto the circuit just in time to tuck himself behind you. Too close. Far too close for coincidence.
Luca's voice spikes, "Car 17 behind—push, push, you have priority!"
He shouldn't interfere. Not on your lap. Not like this.
But he's there anyway—close enough to breathe down your exhaust, close enough that his presence alone threatens to unravel the perfect lap you've built.
You grit your teeth and keep going. Turn fourteen, critical, unforgiving. He doesn't back off.
His slipstream tugs at the rear of your car, dragging you forward just enough to unsettle the balance. You correct the slide with instinct, heart punching against your ribs.
"Keep going!" Luca shouts, "Go, go—Go!"
You hit the final corner full throttle. Across the line—P1.
The timing tower flashes your number at the top and your breath stutters in your chest. For a moment—just a moment, you let yourself feel it.
Then the board updates. Car 17. P1. -0.102.
Gojo—a tenth of a second faster. A tenth stolen off the back of your lap.
By the time you turn into the pit lane, he's already out of his car—peeling off his gloves, stretching lazily, grin tugging at his mouth.
Not a celebration. A dismissal. A smirk that says I let you dream. Then I decided to wake you up.
Ferrari crowds around him—cheers, back slaps, congratulations, as if only one car exists in this garage.
No one approaches you. Not until Luca does, quiet and apologetic, "That was incredible," He praises softly, "You were faster in the middle sector. Without...outside influence, that was your pole."
Outside influence. A polite term for theft.
You remove your helmet slowly, your hair damp with sweat, your breaths still uneven from the lap that should've been yours.
Across the garage, Gojo lifts two fingers in a lazy salute—mocking, amused. A wordless better luck next time.
Your blood turns to fire. You look right at him, chin high, eyes cold, every inch of you refusing to fold.
You mouth the words, "Fuck you."
His smirk curves wider, devilish, victorious once again. He mouths back, "Make me."
The words hit harder than they should. They lodge under your skin, impossible to shake, burning all the way down.
By the time you storm out of the garage and into the hospitality building, that anger is still simmering—sharp enough to keep you awake, hot enough to follow you down every hallway.
And when you finally walk inside—the screens are already replaying qualifying on a loop.
The slow-motion clip of him tucked behind you during qualifying three, your rear twitching under the slipstream, the commentators quick to assign to blame.
"(Y/N) nearly cost him the lap—look how unstable her exit is!"
"She's been struggling all weekend."
"Gojo establishing himself as Ferrari's unquestionable lead driver."
"The pressure's getting to her."
You sip water because it's the only thing you can do that won't get you fined.
A few tables away, journalists are already composing their articles. You can see the headlines reflected in their screens—big fonts, harsh words, zero forgiveness.
(Y/N) Impedes Teammate in Critical Lap—Tension Rising?
Ferrari Favorite vs. Ferrari Experiment
Experiment.
The word lands like a weight on your ribs. As if you're temporary. Conditional. Replaceable.
As if your seat is something they're trying out before they decide whether to throw you away.
You feel eyes on you—the prickling awareness of cameras turning, of whispered commentary, of people forming opinions faster than you can breathe.
You hold your posture steady, back straight, face cool, but the room feels like it's leaning in, waiting for you to break.
You're scanning for somewhere—anywhere quiet, when you see him. Satoru Gojo.
Radiant under the lights, surrounded by PR personnel and engineers, answering questions like he's being interviewed for sainthood.
He laughs, signs something for a fan, leans closer to the mic in that effortless, charming way that turns every moment into a highlight reel.
He catches you looking. He always does.
He lifts his eyebrows—barely a movement, but one loaded with meaning. A silent question, jealous?
You drop your gaze. He doesn't drop his.
You try to slip away—out the side door, away from the cameras, down the quieter hallway behind the hospitality pavilion.
You just need a moment. A breath. Something that belongs to you and not the public.
But he catches you before you make it ten steps outside, "Leaving without saying hello?"
His voice drifts from behind you, smooth and maddeningly amused. You stop, spine stiffening, not surprised he followed—not surprised he chose now.
You turn slowly. He's only a few feet away, hands shoved loosely in his pockets, still in his suit, still looking like nothing touches him—not pressure, not criticism, not even you.
You don't bother with formalities, "What do you want?"
He tilts his head slightly, "Just checking in. You seemed a little...tense in there."
You stare at him, incredulous, "That's rich."
He steps closer—not enough to invade, but enough that the space tightens between you, "You looked like you took the headlines personally," He says lightly, as if the words aren't knives, "You shouldn't. Media loves drama."
"You caused half of it."
He smiles—slow, subtle, unapologetic, "Did I?"
"You implied I sabotaged your lap."
"I didn't use that word."
"You didn't have to."
A breeze passes between you, warm and heavy with the smell of hot asphalt and engine residue. Gojo watches you with that aggravatingly relaxed posture, like he's enjoying this.
Like all of this—your anger, the headlines, the chaos, is fun for him.
"You drove well," He says after a moment, almost thoughtfully, "Better than I expected."
You grit your teeth, "I don't need your approval."
"No," He agrees, "But you want to beat me."
You say nothing. He takes another step, closing the remaining gap.
Not touching—never touching, but close enough that you feel the heat of him, close enough that the rivalry turns into something sharper, something electric.
His eyes drop to your mouth for the briefest second before lifting again, "Pole was mine either way," He says quietly, "You know that."
The frustration burns low in your gut, "You used my lap.”
He shrugs one shoulder, "Slipstream is a strategy.”
"You timed it on purpose."
"You're fast enough to make it worth it."
It's meant as a compliment, yet it sounds like an insult.
You breathe out slowly, trying to smother the spark in your chest, "Move."
He doesn't. He stays right where he is, blocking the narrow walkway, looking down at you with that annoying mix of confidence and curiosity.
"You were good today," He notes softly, almost like he's testing the words on his tongue, "Really good."
There's a short pause before he adds, "But not good enough."
Your breath stutters—rage, pride, humiliation, and something else tangled in it.
"And tomorrow?" You ask.
His smile is a slash of white in the dim hallway, "Tomorrow..." He murmurs, "...you'll still be behind me."
The pulse in your neck flips, "Keep dreaming."
"I don't need to dream," He says, "I just need to show up."
You step around him, shoulder nearly brushing his. Almost touching. Almost dangerous.
He doesn't stop you this time. But as you pass, he leans in just enough for his breath to ghost your ear, "Try to keep up."
You don't break stride. You don't look back.
But your hands are shaking, very slightly, with something that isn't just anger.
Tomorrow can't come fast enough.
You hardly sleep that night. Every time you try, you see Gojo's smirk, you hear the commentators criticism.
You wake with your jaw clenched and pulse already pounding.
Ferrari's paddock is quieter in the early hours. The air holds a strange suspended calm—like the moment before the lights go out on the grid.
Tire blankets hum. Engineers whisper. Beyond the garage walls, fans are gathering, but the roar hasn't reached here yet.
You're in your driver room, suit peeled to your waist, going over mental notes—corner speeds, tire temps, fuel deltas, anything to keep your thoughts from circling the wrong direction.
A soft knock interrupts. Two gentle taps.
Luca enters before you answer, closing the door behind him. He looks tired—tired in a way men look when they've been fighting battles no one else sees.
He gives you a small nod, "Morning, signorina."
You manage one back and he motions for you to sit, but you already are—so you straighten, bracing.
Luca takes the chair across from you and exhales—the kind of breath someone only releases when they hate what they're about to say.
"(Y/N)..." He starts, voice low, "...we need to talk about today."
A coil of dread tightens in your stomach, "What about it?"
He hesitates—rare for him. He's usually direct, technical, clean in his phrasing. But he's searching for words like each one might cut him on the way out.
"There may be team orders."
You don't react at first. You just stare at him, waiting for the part that hurts. He continues, gently—too gently, "They're going to prioritize Satoru."
There it is. Your breath leaves in a slow, controlled exhale, "I figured."
"I know you did," Luca says quietly, "But I wanted to tell you before the race director mentions anything over the radio. I didn't want you blindsided."
Your shoulders tense, "What exactly is the order?"
"If you and Gojo are close on track," He says softly, "You're expected to hold position."
Your jaw tightens. This isn't the first time you've been ordered to do so. But it doesn't piss you off any less.
"And if I'm faster?"
Silence.
"And if he's struggling?"
More silence.
"And if I get a real chance to pass him?"
His voice drops, filled with a sadness you don't want to see, "They won't want that."
Your heartbeat becomes a sharp, steady throb behind your ribs, "So they want me to protect him. Again."
"No," Luca tries—then stops. He can't lie. Not to you, "They want you to avoid jeopardizing him."
You let out a cold, humorless laugh, "Same thing."
He doesn't deny it. You stare at your hands—hands that hold a steering wheel at 300 km/h like it's part of you, hands that have never failed you, hands now curling into fists.
"Even if I can win?"
Luca's face softens with something like ache, "You can," He whispers, "You absolutely can."
"Then why won't they let me?"
He swallows hard, "Because Gojo brings more...value."
Not skill. Not speed. Value—Fanbase. Sponsors. Legacy. Brand power.
Golden boy currency.
Your stomach twists, "And if I don't listen?"
Fear flashes across Luca's face—real, immediate, "Don't even consider it. You'll risk your seat. Your future. They'll make you the villain. You know that."
You breathe in deeply, fighting the crack in your chest, "Of course—of course they will."
Luca rises slowly. He looks older today—older in the way disappointment ages people.
He reaches the door, pauses, one hand on the handle, and looks back, "Between you and me?" You lift your eyes, "You were robbed yesterday."
The words hit you harder than any insult ever could.
He doesn't wait for your reaction. He slips out quietly, leaving you alone with the hum of the paddock growing by the minute.
You sit for a long moment, staring at the floor, Ferrari red pressing heavy on your shoulders.
Today isn't just a race. It's a war. And deep in your bones, you know something is coming—something that won't be clean, fair, or easily forgotten.
Your blood runs hotter than the engines warming in the garages outside.
If Ferrari wants you quiet, obedient, and predictable this time—they've chosen the wrong driver.
You rise from the chair, grab your balaclava and gloves, and push out into the morning paddock.
The world is already shifting into race day rhythm. The air tastes like heat, fuel, adrenaline. You move through it with purpose.
By the time you step into the Ferrari garage, everything is alive. The hum of tensions engulfs the team like smoke.
Luca spots you, worry flickering across his face before he schools it into something steadier. Something almost like faith.
You nod once. A silent agreement passes between you. Race time.
Whatever Ferrari expects, whatever Gojo thinks he has secured, whatever narrative the world is waiting to write—you have other plans.
You approach your car and slide into the cockpit as if stepping into your real skin. The mechanics lower the halo. Darkness tightens around your peripherals.
Your breathing evens. Your heartbeat aligns with the slow, rising rumble of the engine behind you.
This is where everything quiets, where everything sharpens, where everything becomes yours again.
And as the garage door rolls open to the pit lane and sunlight floods across your visor—the Austrian Grand Prix begins.
The grid feels like a living beast when you step onto it.
Heat radiates off the asphalt in shimmering waves. Cameras flash in wide, predatory arcs. Reporters lurk behind barricades like vultures hungry for storylines they already think they understand.
You're P2. Next to him.
Gojo stands ahead of you on pole, the sun catching the red of his suit and turning him almost mythic—Ferrari's chosen son.
His visor is down as well, hiding whatever expression he's wearing, but you don't need to see it.
You can feel it. That smug, unshakable certainty. That belief—expectation, that you will fold.
Luca approaches, standing beside your front left tire, "Deep breaths," He says quietly, trying to reach you through the storm, "You know this track. You know this car. And you know him."
You nod, "Any word yet?"
He shakes his head, "No team orders until they give them," There's a grim pause, "But they will."
You swallow the bitterness, "I won't roll over."
"Just be smart," But your eyes are already locked ahead.
On Gojo. On the red car with the number 17. On the man Ferrari protects like a crown jewel.
Your teammate. Your rival.
Engines fire across the grid. The roar rolls through your chest like thunder. Five red lights blink to life above the track.
Your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Four lights. Three. Two. One.
And you launch out. A perfect start.
Your tires bite immediately, your acceleration clean, straight, powerful. The McLaren behind you spins its wheels in dirty air. Gojo's launch is quick, but yours is better.
You surge toward turn one side-by-side. For one breathless moment, the world hold its balance—two Ferraris lunging for the same corner, two drivers unwilling to lift.
"(Y/N), careful—" Luca's voice snaps into your ear.
You don't lift. Neither does Gojo. You take the inside. He stays on the racing line.
You brake later and the car grips. You slide just ahead, tires screaming, but stable.
You take the lead.
The crowd erupts. The commentators shout your name like they can't quite believe it.
"(Y/N) (L/N) takes the lead into turn one!"
"A brave move against her teammate!"
"She's not here to play support!"
Gojo's voice crackles through your proximity mic—a low, frustrated growl you're not supposed to hear, but do anyway.
"Tch. Reckless."
You don't answer. You don't need to. Your driving does it for you.
For the next nine laps, you hold him off—clean, precise, flawless.
Every sector, you're faster.
Every corner, you're sharper.
Every straight, you deny him the slipstream he weaponized yesterday.
Lap 7—he locks up in turn four. His first mistake.
Luca's voice flares with excitement, "You're pulling away! Keep this pace!"
You allow yourself one breath of triumph—one second of knowing you're out driving Ferrari's golden boy.
And then the radio clicks. A different voice. Higher. Sharper. Authority disguised as neutrality.
"(Y/N), hold position. Repeat—hold position. Do not fight Satoru."
Your stomach drops. It's happening.
Luca rushes in, frantic beneath the professionalism, "That's from above. Stay calm."
You grit your teeth, "I'm faster."
There's a beat of silence, "Instructions stand," The voice commands, "Let him through."
You see red. Not Ferrari red—rage red.
"No."
"(Y/N)—" Luca warns.
"He can pass me," You snap, "If he's fast enough."
Behind you, you see the flash of red in your mirrors, hungry and aggressive.
You defend perfectly—legal, tight, immovable.
Lap 11. Lap 12. Lap 15. He can't get past you.
And you know he hates it.
You feel the fury radiating off him. You feel the team panicking in your ear. You feel the commentators losing their minds.
"(Y/N) (L/N) is defending like her life depends on it!—"
"Ferrari will not be thrilled with this—"
"She's faster, she knows it, he knows it. This is incredible—"
But faster comes with a price.
By lap 17, your tires are blistering—tiny fractures that turn grip into glass.
"(Y/N), careful—rear temps are high. Switch to mode 6—" Luca pleads.
Mode 6 means back off. Mode 6 means give Gojo the chance to pass. Mode 6 means obey.
You ignore it. You push.
Too hard.
Turn eight bites. Just a twitch at first—a warning, a whisper.
But then you brake a fraction too late into turn eleven—fighting to stay ahead, fighting the team, fighting Gojo, fighting everyone, fighting everything.
And the rear snaps.
You almost catch it—almost. But almost isn't enough at 250 km/h.
The car spins—once, twice, the world blurring into red, white, and static.
Your front wing hits the barrier with a deadly crunch.
There is only silence, then, Luca's voice, "(Y/N)! (Y/N)! Are you okay? Answer!"
"I'm...fine," You force out, voice wrecked.
Fine is an utter lie.
Marshals wave yellow flags. A Virtual Safety Car is deployed.
Gojo speeds past your wreck on the restart, taking back the race like it was always meant for him.
The commentators praise his composure. The fans cheer.
You sit in the recovery van with your helmet still on, hands shaking, heart in your throat.
You don't cry. You don't break. But something inside you fractures.
Not from the crash—from everything that led you there.
Ferrari will blame you. The media will blame you. Gojo will enjoy every second.
You stare at your gloved hands—the hands that had victory today, lost it, and were forced to lose it.
The van slows as it pulls around the back of the paddock. The world outside is muffled, distant—until the broadcast feed comes crackling through the speakers mounted above the driver.
You hear it before you see it.
"And Satoru Gojo wins the Austrian Grand Prix!"
Your stomach drops. The crowd erupts—roaring, chanting his name like a hymn. The commentators gush over him, stitching the narrative before you even step foot outside the van.
"He kept his cool."
"He managed the race beautifully."
"He proves again why he's Ferrari's number one."
Number one.
Your fingers curl slowly, the gloves creaking.
By the time the van door opens, Gojo is already on the podium platform. The champagne bottle bursts in his hands, spraying into the sunlight. The foam catches the light like white fire.
He's laughing. Head tipped back, suit soaked, grin wide and electric—like the crash was inevitable, like the universe was always going to hand him with a win you knew he didn't earn alone.
You step down from the van. The paddock looks different from this height—lower, smaller, like you're seeing it from the bottom of a cliff he just climbed. Screens mounted along the walkway replay his celebration in slow motion.
A team coordinator rushes past with a tablet showing the final standings. A mechanic mutters under his breath without noticing you're near.
"God, thank fuck she didn't take him out with that spin."
You freeze. Another voice—the PR intern with the too-loud opinions, laughs, "She's finished. They'll crucify her for this."
Finished. Crucify. Your throat tightens, a slow, suffocating vice.
You force your legs to move. Because if you stand here any longer, you'll drown in the humiliation.
You push through the paddock doors into the Ferrari garage—and the second you step inside, everyone goes quiet.
Not because they care, but because they don't know what version of you is walking in.
Broken? Angry? Defeated? Explosive?
You keep your head forward. That's when you see him.
Satoru Gojo, still half-suited, white hair damp from champagne, leaning against the far wall like he owns the place.
He looks relaxed. Radiant. Victorious—your victory.
His eyes flick up the moment he senses you. The smirk is instant—slow, cruel, unmistakably satisfied.
Like he's been waiting for you. Like this—your crash, his win, is an inside joke only he finds funny.
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.
The room is thick and silent, every mechanic pretending to work, every engineer nervous to look directly at either of you.
Your pulse spikes. Your vision narrows. Every breath feels heavy.
Because this is not over. Not after today. Not after what he did. Not after what you lost.
And Gojo—the way he pushes off the wall, steps toward you slowly, like a predator choosing the exact moment to strike, makes it clear.
He knows it too. The collision you avoided on the track, it's about to happen here.
Behind closed garage doors. Where no cameras can save you.
He stops in front of you, just close enough that the heat of him presses against your suit.
"Walk with me."
It's not an order, not a question—more like a lit match dropped between you.
You don't move. He smirks wider, "Unless you want an audience."
Every mechanic pretends not to hear. You scoff and roll your eyes, then you walk. Not because he asked, but because you're done letting him control the narrative.
He leads you down the narrow hallway behind the garage—past racks of tires, past tool crates, past the hum of generators, until he reaches a small, unmarked door.
The storage room.
He opens it. You step inside. He shuts the door. The click is soft—final.
The air tightens as he turns towards you, "You took your time coming back."
Your hands curl into fists, already deciding you can't entertain him a second longer, "Get out of my way."
He doesn't move. In fact, he pushes off the wall and takes a deliberate step closer, "Rough race?" He asks with a feigned innocence dripping in mockery, "You spun pretty hard. Nearly thought you were injured."
"Move."
He tilts his head, "Nah. I think we should talk. After all..." He glances around the cramped room, "Everyone else is pretending you don't exist. Might as well get used to the only person who won't."
Your chest tightens painfully, "Gojo, not now."
He studies you—really studies you. His eyes flick over your suit, the scuffs from the crash, the way your hands are still trembling.
"You know," He says, almost conversational, "I expected you to ignore team orders. But I didn't think you'd crash trying to prove a point."
"I didn't crash because of you."
His eyebrows rise, "No? Strange. Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you were so desperate to beat me, you forgot how to drive."
Your breath punches out of you like a blade. You step forward—so close your chest brushes his, "Fuck you."
He smiles. Slowly. Infuriatingly, "There she is. The real you. Been waiting for that."
You shove him—hard. He catches himself on the wall, laughing, "Oh, I hit a nerve."
"You humiliated me," You snap, "On the track. In front of the media. You knew what the headlines would say."
"You made it easy," He fires back, "You had P1. You had the race. And you threw it away because you couldn't handle that I was behind you."
"Don't flatter yourself."
His eyes sharpen, "What do you want me to say? That you're good? You are. But you're messy—reckless, emotional. And that's why Ferrari will never choose you over me."
The words slice through you. Deeper than you expect, "And you love that, don't you?" You breathe out, "You love that no matter how well I drive, they'll always keep me beneath you."
He steps forward. Now he's close—too close. Your back touches the wall. His chest nearly touches yours.
"I love winning," He says quietly, "And if you get burned trying to chase me...that's on you."
Your breath catches. Not from fear. From rage—white-hot, blinding rage, "You think you're untouchable."
He leans in, voice low and mocking, "I am."
"No, Gojo," Your eyes burn into his, "You're just scared someone might actually challenge you."
His breath hitches—barely, but you feel it, "You think you challenge me?"
"I know I do."
Your faces are inches apart. Your breaths mingle. The air crackles. The silence turns heavy, charged, explosive.
His jaw flexes, "You crashed. You lost. I won."
"And you're still here," You shoot back, "In my face. Talking. Pushing. Why, Gojo? Why does it matter this much to you if I'm nothing?"
Something shifts in his expression—flickering, dangerous, uncontrollable, "Because you don't know how to stay down."
"Because you don't know how to stay ahead."
His hand slams against the wall beside your head, the sound echoes through the small room. You inhale sharply, his body presses closer, warmth radiating through your half-unzipped suit.
"You disobeyed team orders. Just to beat me," His eyes drops to your lips, "You want to win that badly?"
Your voice is a razor, "Yes."
"Then show me."
The challenge hangs between you—it's not about racing anymore, not about position, not about Ferrari.
It's about power, control, desire twisted into something sharp enough to cut.
Your heart fractures into adrenaline, "You first."
His breath trembles, just slightly—like he's collapsing into something he can't stop.
And then, he's kissing you—hard, violent, desperate.
As if the fight never ended, it just changed shape.
Your back hits the wall, your hands fist his suit; his mouth crashes onto yours with the kind of fury that tastes like champagne, sweat, and pure arrogance.
He groans against your lips—a deep, hungry sound that betrays every ounce of restraint he pretends to have.
He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your mouth, "This is why you crashed."
You grab the front of his suit and pull him back in, and this time—you kiss him like he's the only thing you want to destroy.
He bites your bottom lip, and you bite back hard enough to taste metal; he gasps, a raw, broken sound that only makes your blood run hotter.
You shove him, he stumbles back, and you follow, pinning him against the opposite wall with a grunt.
Your hands tear at the zipper of his suit, yanking it down as he does the same to yours. The frigid air hits your skin, and it does nothing to cool the fire.
"You want to fight?" He breathes, hands gripping your waist, bruising.
"Always," You snarl, and your hands find the waistband of his fireproofs, pulling him closer.
"Good," He growls, and he spins you both, slamming you back against a shelf of spare parts. A wrench clatters to the floor, the noise echoing your ragged breaths.
He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, the strength in his grip making your pulse race.
His other hand shoves your suit down your hips, exposing you to the cramped, dim light of the storage room.
"Look at you," His voice is low, rough with a hunger that mirrors yours, "All that fire, and you're still the one who came apart first."
You thrash against his hold, a useless, angry motion that only makes him tighten his grip, "Go to hell."
"I'm already there," His mouth brushes your jaw, his blue eyes dark, pupils blown wide.
Your leg hooks around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. The friction is a shock, a jolt, a promise. He sucks in a sharp breath, and for a second, his control wavers.
His free hand fumbles with his own suit, his fireproofs—the frantic, clumsy movements of a man who's waited too long.
"Tell me you want this," He demands, his breath hot against your neck, his teeth scraping your skin.
"I want to watch you lose," You gasp, arching against him as he finally frees himself.
His laugh is harsh, breathless, "Wrong answer."
He lines his cock up with your entrance, and the tip of him presses against you. There's no preparation, no warning, just the blunt, unyielding pressure of him about to take what he wants.
"Last chance to say no," He whispers, a final, cruel taunt.
You answer by digging your nails into the back of the hand holding your wrists—a silent, defiant dare.
He thrusts into you in one brutal, punishing stroke.
A strangled cry tears from your throat. It's pleasure. It's pain. A sharp, exquisite agony that feels like a win.
"Fuck," He groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his body still for a moment as he adjusts.
"That all you got?" You tease, your voice a strained whisper.
He lifts his head, his eyes flashing with dangerous light, "I'm just getting started."
He begins to move; a hard, unforgiving rhythm that has the shelf digging into your back, the tools rattling with every thrust. His grip on your wrists tightens, an ache that grounds you in the moment.
Every thrust is a challenge, every gasp a surrender.
"Say it," He pants, his hips snapping against yours, "Say you hate me."
"I hate you," You moan, the words torn from you by a deep thrust that sends a jolt of unwanted pleasure through your body.
"Louder," He commands, releasing your wrists to grab your hips, pulling you into him with bruising force.
"I—Hate...You," You gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders. Your fingernails dig into the flesh of his back, and he hisses in a mixture of pain and pleasure.
"Is that the best you can do?" He goads, his lips finding the sensitive skin behind your ear.
You answer by sinking your teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a possessive bite that draws a ragged groan from him. You taste salt, sweat and the lingering sweetness of champagne.
He retaliates by slamming into you harder, faster, a relentless assault that steals the air from your lungs.
The room spins, a blur of gray walls and red Ferrari equipment. The sounds of your struggle are obscene—a symphony of grunts, gasps, and the rhythmic slap of skin on skin.
"Still think you can beat me?" He growls, his voice a low rumble against your ear.
"I'm already beating you," You retort, your hands tangling in his sweat-damp hair, pulling his head back to expose the long, pale line of his throat.
He doesn't give you the satisfaction of a response, instead choosing to silence you with another brutal kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperate need.
You meet him with equal ferocity, your anger and desire a tangled knot in your stomach, tightening with every thrust.
This isn't about your pleasure. It's about his. It's about taking, about claiming, about leaving a mark he'll feel long after this is over. You can feel the tension coiling in him, the desperation in his movements as he chases his release.
His rhythm becomes erratic, his breaths coming in ragged, shallow gasps—he's close. The thought sends a surge of power through you.
"You're pathetic," You whisper, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear, "So desperate for it."
He lets out a strangled laugh, a broken, breathless sound, "Look who's talking."
And then, a sound from outside the room—the unmistakable click of a lock disengaging, the creak of a door opening down the hallway.
Panic flares in your chest, hot and immediate, "Gojo—"
"Stay quiet," He grits out, his pace faltering for a fraction of a second before resuming with renewed urgency.
Footsteps. Getting closer.
You bite down on your lip, trying to stifle the moan threatening to escape as he drives into you one last, brutal time. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body shuddering as he finds his release, a hot, pulsing flood that fills you with the undeniable evidence of his victory.
The footsteps stop right outside the door. A shadow falls under the crack. You hold your breath, your body a taut wire of tension and unfulfilled need.
The doorknob jiggles.
Gojo's eyes fly open, wide with a mixture of alarm and something that looks suspiciously like triumph. He doesn't pull out. Instead, he stays inside you, a silent, possessive claim, as the person on the other side tries the handle again.
"Locked," A muffled voice says, followed by a frustrated sigh, "Must be jammed again. I'll get maintenance."
The footsteps retreat, fading into the distance.
The room is silent again, except for the sound of your ragged breaths and the frantic beating of your own heart.
Gojo lifts his head, a slow, smug grin spreading across his face. "Well. That was—"
You shove him off before he can finish.
The sudden loss of his body heat is jarring—wrong in a way you refuse to name and the sticky wetness between your thighs only makes the humiliation sharper.
"Don't."
You tuck yourself back into your suit, movements hurried, trying to erase him from your skin, "This never happened."
He doesn't even bother fixing his hair. Just watches you with that ruinous, satisfied expression—lips bitten raw, pale throat marked where your teeth sunk into him.
"Pretty sure it did," He murmurs.
You glare at him, fury coiling tight under your ribs as you reach for the door.
He speaks before your fingers touch the handle, "You think I'm going to chase you about this?"
You stop, not turning, not moving, just frozen in your tracks.
You feel him step forward—close enough that the air tightens, close enough that your pulse trips.
His voice drops, low and steady, "I don't want you."
Not cruel. Not kind. Just true. And your jaw clenches—not hurt, but enraged.
"Good," You whisper, "I don't want you either."
He notices the tremble in your hands as you speak, "Then why are you shaking?"
You hate that he's right. You hate him. You hate this.
"Because you hate me," He echoes, brushing past you, shoulder grazing yours, "Funny—didn't feel like you hated me when you were taking every inch of my c—"
"Fuck you."
"I already did," A dark smile tugs at his mouth, "What—want more?"
Your hand snaps up to hit him, but he catches your wrist and leans in—voice dropping low and lethal, "You should've just let me through, (Y/N)."
"And you should've stayed out of my way."
He looks at you—really looks, and something unguarded flickers behind his eyes. Then he lets your wrist go and without another word, walks out.
The door shuts. Your legs almost buckle.
This cannot happen again.
But it will.
You know it. He knows it.
The season isn't over.
And whatever is burning between you and the golden boy?
pairing: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (medieval fantasy au)
summary: It’s expected for a princess to have a personal guard, especially when you’re an only child and heir to the kingdom. The knight who has watched over you since childhood is retiring and, much to your dismay, your father decides to put his best soldier on the job as his replacement - Ryomen Sukuna, the Kingdom’s most vicious warrior and far from your biggest fan.
Little did you know that Sukuna would end up tangling himself in your life in ways you never could’ve anticipated.
word count (so far!): 131k
content: 18+ mdni, smut, princess!reader, enemies to lovers, slow-burn(ish), forbidden relationship, medieval fantasy setting, fluff, angst, protective sukuna, fingering, spanking, sex dreams, violence, parent death, grief, confusing emotions, reader is chaotic, graphic violence, combat, bullying, anxiety, arranged marriages, references to child loss/misscarriage (not by the reader!), parental neglect, jealousy, depression, suicidal ideation, kidnapping, attempted sexual assault, injury, piv sex, cunnilingus, blow jobs, more tags to be added as chapters come out!
chapter one: nightmare
chapter two: dirt
chapter three: denial
chapter four: blossom
chapter five: temptation
chapter six: fear
chapter seven: all yours
chapter eight: discretion
chapter nine: implosion
chapter ten: potential
chapter eleven: loss
chapter twelve: bad luck
chapter thirteen: despair
chapter fourteen (coming soon!)
epilogue
Taglist open: let me know if you want to be notified when new chapters release!
[ SERIES SYNOPSIS ] — it was obvious when this started, it was simply a mutual understanding between two horny college students, with very high libidos, and didn’t want any random stds that this was a purely sexual relationship only. and yet, both of you are unintentionally toeing the line between that and something else. [ Fratboy!Sukuna FWB Series ]
[ TAGS ] — MDNI. 18+ nsfw. contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. fwb. angst. hurt/comfort. slow burn. fluff. spit. ráw. rough. heavy spanking. degradation. dacryphilia. slight exhibitionisim. pda. soft sukuna. choso + yuuji r his younger brothers. every position. heavy creampies. violence. depression/anxiety. anger issues. squirting. cockwarming. alcohol. family trauma. tags will be updated as series continues.
✮ ch 1 || how it all started
✮ ch 2 || miss me already?
✮ ch 3 || coming soon
✮ pt 1 — sukuna is starting to toe the line
✮ pt 2 — shoko/utahime make u doubt your fwb label so now you’re desperate to prove them wrong
✮ pt 3 — cockwarming him for the first time
✮ pt 4 — his brothers visit unexpectedly
✮ pt 5 — pregnancy scare with sukuna
✮ pt 6 — sukuna has a stash of naked polaroids of you
✮ pt 7 — halloween special. scare actor!sukuna
✮ pt 8 — (coming soon)
✮ ask tag ✮ music tag ♪ ✮ tiktok tag ✮ visuals ✮ bts lore
✮ main masterlist ✮ ao3 ✮
[INFO] — parts vs chapters: chapters is the actual series and is connected. parts exist in the same universe but is separate all dabbles that are not connected to each other or the chapters . [ they can be read separately. ]
series taglist CLOSED ✮ age should be visible on your blog.
taglist is only for chps not parts — (art by @/to00fu, dividers by @/lariesographic )
summary: on the rare occasion that sukuna takes his nephew out to the park, he notices another kid with blush pink hair— a baby to be exact. he tries not to stare too much, but it’s hard not to, it’s a rare hair color. it’s not until the baby’s mother takes her out of the swing set and back into her stroller when he realizes why you ghosted him almost 2 years ago.
genre/warnings: hidden child trope, ex-fwb to co-parents to lovers, angst (toxic relationships, fighting), fluff, smut, mood board
notes: im very excited to announce this upcoming one-shot as a part of @indiewritesxoxo friday night flicks event! the release date is still tba and im limiting the tag list to 50, but i’ll definitely be giving updates throughout the writing process ❤️
