Synopsis You kneel at the confessional, desperate for salvation, trembling with guilt and lust. Reverend Father Getou offers no judgment, only indulgence. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the unholy ache between your thighs, welcome to your new form of worship.
Pairing Priest!Geto Suguru x reader
Content. MDNI, dubious consent (priest authority), confessional setting, religious imagery & heavy blasphemy, power play, oral (male rec.), degradation & praise, choking (rosary style), hair pulling, face-fucking, crying during orgasm, sacrilegious blowjob, slight exhibitionism, masturbation, ATROCIOUS levels of holy fuck, crying during orgasm, c*m as communion, Happy ending (kinda? idk you're on your knees)
A/N: The cross is heavy but so is that DICK
The confessional is dim and eerily quiet. Wood creaks under you as you kneel, air filled with incense and something else.
Something that clings to the back of your throat like shame.
You press trembling fingers to your chest, tracing the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
The partition window slides open with a quiet scrape, wood groaning softly as if in protest or anticipation.
“Bless me, Reverend Father, for I have sinned.”
Geto’s voice answers on the other side, calm and measured. “How long has it been since your last confession, child of Christ?”
You swallow. “A week. Maybe less, I'm not too sure.”
You hear the faint smile in his tone, even if you can’t see his face.
“And what burdens your soul so urgently?”
You hesitate. The words knot in your throat with humiliation. “It’s… It’s been difficult. I’ve been trying to pray, I really have. But the thoughts won’t leave.”
“You’ve come again,” he says, and his voice is close, impossibly close, as though the partition between you is nothing but a flimsy veil.
“With your head bowed, your hands folded so sweetly in your lap,” There’s something indulgent in the way he says it, like a priest speaking not to scold, but to savor your sin. “Do you know what it looks like, little one? Do you have any idea how you appear when you come to me like this?”
You purse your lips together, the action almost painful, before speaking up again.
“I wake up in the night. Restless, hot, bothered and I think of…” Your voice is small, barely audible. “I think of bodies. Of what it would be like to have a strong one against mine...”
The silence on the other side stretches, but it isn't cold, it's contemplative.
And in that silence your mind betrays you completely. You picture him leaning in slightly, fingertips pressed together, dark eyes fixed on the partition like he can see straight through it. Like he can see straight through you.
His large hands, his broad shoulders hunched in quiet focus— the image arrives uninvited and refuses to leave. That, you think miserably, is precisely the sin you came here to confess.
“Temptation is the Devil’s oldest trick. He plants seeds in your thoughts and waits for them to rot you from the inside.”
His voice is softer now, gentler, like a hand on your shoulder. “But you’ve done well to bring it here. Speak, and be unburdened.”
You shift on your knees, wetness slowly building between your legs at the rasp in his voice alone.
Fuck, out of all people, how could you be this turned on by the priest you're confessing to?
“I please myself.” you state bluntly at last, as if ripping off a band-aid.
“When I feel it building. I try to resist, I do, but I end up on my knees anyway, just not like... this." you whisper as your nails dig into your thighs, leaving crescent marks.
"And afterwards I cry, because I just feel so empty and ashamed... Because I let my lust consume me.”
You hear the faint rustle of his robes shifting behind the partition. No other sound, just that, and the pounding of your heart, like it’s trying to escape your chest and climb into his hands.
“Child of God,” Geto murmurs, “you carry shame like a second skin. But if you come here seeking sanctification…”
The wooden grate clicks open. Your breath catches in your throat as a sliver of light spills through. Enough to catch the faint glint of his rings, gold and tarnished silver, engraved with tiny symbols you don’t recognize.
“Then let me take it from you,”
His fingers slide through the opening gradually, knuckles kissed by candlelight. The cuffs of his robe pull taut at his wrists, the soft black fabric whispering against wood.
“Let me purify your being.”
Geto's hands cup your face, warm and firm, brushing the stray strands of hair from your eyes, tracing the curve of your cheekbone with rough hands.
You tilt your head up, eyes glossy with unshed tears. You can’t see him clearly through the rail, but you feel the weight of his gaze, knowing and unyielding.
His hand tightens just slightly, as if to steady your trembling.
“This is no mere penance,” he croons, swiping his thumb below your eye tenderly. “It is a communion of flesh and spirit. Will you receive the Host I offer?”
You nod, barely, wordless and desperate.
“Very well, then.”
The wooden grate slides fully open, divider folding back with a quiet, final creak. The confessional no longer feels like two separate worlds but one dimly lit chamber charged with a secret, forbidden electricity.
Geto steps through, crossing over to your side. The flickering candlelight catches the deep black, traditional Roman collar crisp against pale skin.
His robe falls smoothly, the fabric pooling lightly at his ankles, just above polished black shoes. Around his neck hangs a beaded rosary with a silver crucifix.
His hands slide to your face again, steadying you as the other moves to his neck. The beads slip through his hands with a soft, rhythmic clack. He lets the strand fall gently, like a silent benediction, before looping it slowly around your neck, the cross resting heavy against your skin.
Geto tightens his grip just enough to tug the beads against your throat, a slow choke that makes your breath hitch sharply and pulse quicken.
Leaning in close, breath hot and ragged against your ear, he murmurs, “Open yourself, and let me absolve you.”
His eyes darken with intent as one hand slides down to the waistband of his pants. Fingers deft and sure, he undoes the clasp with a muted whisper of fabric and metal.
His cock springs out, pale and pretty with a pearly split tip.
And it's huge. So big and girthy that for a moment you wonder if you could even fit it in your palm. The sides of your mouth froth at the mere thought of it.
You part your lips, trembling, as he presses himself to your mouth. The tip slides past your lips, warm and demanding.
You take him in eagerly, mouth hot and wet, the taste sharp like consecrated wine.
Geto's hands thread through your hair, fisting it and holding you firm as he fucks your face. Low groans spill from his throat like worship.
“That’s it... the Lord will—”
His words catch, swallowed by a deep, guttural sound as he pushes himself deeper and deeper, your pretty little throat stretching to welcome him. The pressure of the beads around your neck and the fullness in your mouth blend into a pulse of sinful salvation.
You suck and swirl, tasting him fully—holy and profane in one breath—as his hips thrust forward with steady rhythm. The church walls seem to close in around you, sacred space pulsing with every grunt and stifled moan.
Your cunt throbs in perfect agony. Your cheeks are wet from the mixture tears and spit.
Your fingers slip between your thighs before you know what you’re doing, sin layered on sin, shame so sweet it could only be divine.
“I can feel your mouth praying for me,” he pants. “Isn’t this what you wanted? What you needed? The Lord forgives you. I forgive you.”
You gag softly as he hits the back of your throat, but you don’t stop. He doesn’t let you.
You look up through your lashes, drool spilling past your lips, fingers moving faster. You’re cumming all over your own digits before he does.
“More,” he gasps, voice heavy with need. “The flesh is–ngh–not your enemy, child. It is simply honest.”
Geto's head tilts back slightly, jaw tensing as a breath escapes him. He shudders, thick release flooding your mouth, hot and creamy ropes gradually painting near the inside of your mouth.
“Be a sweetheart...” he murmurs, voice hushed and hoarse, thumb tilting your chin up. “And swallow for me.”
You swallow, your throat aching and still tightening around the rosary beads.
Geto looks down at you through his hooded gaze—still kneeling, spit and release coating your lips lewdly. His hand finds your jaw again, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.
His eyes then flick down to your trembling hand, fingers slick and glistening with your own climax.
He catches your wrist with his free hand, bringing it up slowly. His tongue laps the mess you made, savoring the taste of your sex with a groan deep enough to echo through the confessional walls.
When he’s had his fill, Geto pulls off with a wet pop, licking his lips. "You have prayed for this, sweet little sinner..."
He lingers for a moment, eyes trailing over your wrecked form—your heaving chest, the tremble still in your thighs, the cross hanging heavy against your neck. Geto's breath is still uneven, but his voice is steady as he speaks:
“Perhaps not in words— but the body confesses what the tongue cannot. In this sacrament of flesh, you are reborn.”
Gojo's bathroom rack, once barren except for a two-in-one shampoo that doubles as body wash—is now cluttered with pastel bottles, a pink loofah with a bow, and some mysterious scrub labeled watermelon smoothie (which, to his utter disappointment, was not edible).
The mirror near the rack—once mounted at his freakishly tall eye level—now has a mini mirror suctioned right beside it, tilted lower just for you.
You didn’t even say anything. Just sighed one morning, yawned, and slapped it on with sleepy precision. He had laughed at you for being bite-sized, but caught himself using it when trimming his jawline.
And the fridge used to be sad, truly. Half a bottle of lychee-flavoured lemonade, a sketchy cucumber, and maybe a Red Bull or five.
Now there's fresh strawberries in containers you washed, vegetables, spices arranged alphabetically in matching jars. He made fun of it at first. But then two weeks later, when he could find the cumin instantly, he stared into the distance and muttered, “My baby's a genius.”
There’s a polaroid stuck to the fridge door with a peach-shaped magnet. You’re in the middle of the frame, laughing so hard your eyes are half-closed. Gojo’s beside you, one arm wrapped lazily around your shoulders as he makes the dumbest face known to man, while his other arm yanks a scowling Megumi into the shot like a hostage. The caption, scribbled in your messy handwriting, reads:
Family dinner (Megumi hates us).
Just beneath the photo, pinned by the same magnet, is a torn piece of paper:
-milk
-eggs
-bread
-celery
-don’t forget the glazed donuts you like even though they give you heartburn <3
Gojo keeps the list even after everything’s been bought, folding it once and slipping it into his pocket.
Because it might be just some grocery list to anyone else. But to him, it’s written in your handwriting, smells faintly like your lotion, and—most importantly—it ends with a <3.
So naturally, there’s no official "you moved in” moment. No big conversations or suitcases.
It's your scent lingering on his pillow. Your toothbrush sitting next to his in a cup he swears he didn’t buy.
It’s your hair ties scattered on his bedside table, the black ones that Gojo swears just keep multiplying. But he sometimes picks them up and just holds them for no reason, like they’re sacred relics of a goddess.
And then there are the things that aren’t objects at all.
The moments that take up space. The gestures, the silences, the care stitched into his life like you’ve always been part of it.
Like when you were in the laundry folding his shirts, humming off-key to something on your phone and snapping the fabric mid-air like you meant business. You didn’t notice him at first, standing in the hallway, gripping the doorframe like he’s been physically hit with feelings.
Gojo had to literally bite his knuckle to keep himself from bursting into tears or tackle you mid-fold and bite your arm out of the sheer overload of affection.
Or just last night, when he swore he passed out with the lights still on, jacket half-off, phone dead on the nightstand. He only remembers collapsing onto the mattress with his head pounding, too tired to even take off his shoes.
But he wakes up warm. Shoes off, lights out, a blanket tucked around his figure. There's a note scribbled in your familiar writing, just beside the glass of water and packets of Tylenol placed on the bedside table.
“Took your shoes off and put painkillers on the table. You looked like roadkill. Love you.”
He stared at it for a full ten minutes, blanket pulled to his chin like a little boy, blinking at the ceiling with the stunned realization that someone out there loved him like this—so gently, so normally, that it didn’t even ask to be acknowledged.
Gojo rolls out of bed like a man reborn and follows the smell of something frying in the kitchen.
Because of course, you’re there.
Barefoot, standing on your tiptoes at the stove, lips pursed in concentration as you stir something sizzling in a pan. His hoodie swallows you whole, dipping low on your thighs, sleeves bunched around your wrists. Your hair’s twisted up messily, and he swears if he looks any longer, he’s going to melt into the floor like a cartoon character.
It’s almost unfair how casual you look in his surroundings. Like you were always meant to be there.
Gojo forgets his exhaustion in an instant. The only thing sore now is his heart.
He pads over and wraps his arms around you from behind, arms sliding around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
“You’re trying to kill me,” Gojo mumbles against your skin.
You snort. “I’m literally making food for you.”
“That’s not what’s gonna kill me.”
“What, the garlic?”
“The fact that you’re standing in my kitchen looking like a walking dream,” he grumbles, kissing the side of your neck.
You laugh, wiggling your hips slightly to throw him off. “Down, boy. You’re gonna burn your fingers.”
He groans like he’s actually in pain, but doesn’t move. If anything, he presses closer, nuzzling his nose against the curve of your neck and mumbling nonsense into your skin.
“Y’know,” you say, flipping the pan with ease, “if you distract me, and we both die in a fire, that’s on you.”
“Worthy sacrifice,” he mutters, lips brushing your collarbone.
Gojo's hand slides down—slow, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. His fingers find yours, and he gently pulls your hand away from the spatula. You blink, confused, as he lifts your hand and lightly wraps his fingers around your ring finger, measuring.
You raise a brow. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” he replies way too fast.
You squint at him. “Is this another one of your weird kinks or—”
“Shh.” He coos as he kisses the tip of your finger. “Just checking if my future plans align.”
You narrow your eyes further, suspicious of where Gojo's going with this.
“You like rubies better or diamonds?”
You pause. “What?”
He grins into your shoulder, kissing it again. “I’m just saying. Hypothetically. If a guy wanted to be smart and lock it down before someone else does.”
Your voice comes out quieter than expected. “You’re serious?”
Gojo leans in, his voice low and uncharacteristically sincere, suddenly stripped of the teasing.
“I am so stupidly, pathetically serious about you, it’s embarrassing. I want to marry the girl who makes my apartment feel like more than just four walls. I want to put a ring on the hand that steals my hoodies and flips me off.”
Your lips part, but he keeps going.
“I want you in my kitchen, in my bed, even in my closet. Even when you leave coffee mugs everywhere. Even when you hog the blanket. Even when you bully me for crying during Pixar trailers.”
“You do cry during Pixar trailers.”
“And I’ll cry during our wedding vows too. I’m not an insecure man.”
You lean in and kiss him before he gets all sappy again, hands tangling in his hair as he wraps his arms fully around you, pulling you close enough to feel every soft breath.
Halfway through, Gojo smiles against your lips like he can’t help it. Like his heart spilled out through his mouth and all it could do was grin stupidly.
When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, eyes half-lidded, that smile still lingering.
“So, rubies or diamonds?”
You roll your eyes, but your own smile creeps in anyway. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Your idiot,” he replies.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s already engraving your ring size into permanent memory.
A/N: I literally got so lazy that I didn't even proofread before posting this. So if you spot a typo, no you didn't.
One awkward smile, two 'study mates', and a love story that’s chemically inevitable.
Synopsis: You only stopped at his science fair booth out of pity—but the tall, nervous guy with crooked glasses and a galaxy model has other plans.
Satoru Gojo is brilliant, awkward, and talking a mile a minute about black holes like it’s the most romantic thing in the world. You weren’t looking for a tutor. Or a crush. But he’s got stars in his eyes—and maybe, now, so do you.
Pairing: Nerd!Gojo Satoru x reader
Genre: MDNI, College AU, Fluff, Slow-burn-ish, friends to lovers.
Warnings: Angry makeout (rawr), frustrated confession, sexual tension is off the charts oh and, everything is wet as fuck (not a pun, seriously.)
Masterlist
The pool is almost empty by the time Gojo arrives, the faint smell of chlorine lingering in the cool air as if trying to mask the memory of noise that lived here earlier in the day.
The echo in the space makes even the smallest movements feel louder than they should be, the scrape of the bench legs, the soft thud of his shoes as he sits, the quiet exhale he doesn’t realize he’s been holding since the moment he left his dorm.
9:02
Suguru had said he'd be here by nine.
Gojo leans his head back against the cool tile wall behind the bench, staring up at the ceiling where pale light fractures into uneven shapes across the beams.
“I should've known better than to trust him out of all people...” he mutters to himself, the words dissolving softly into the hollow acoustics.
His phone feels heavier than usual in his hand when he pulls it out, thumb hovering over the screen for half a second too long before muscle memory takes over, navigating through folders he absolutely should not be revisiting right now.
He knows he shouldn’t open it, knows exactly how this ends. Knows he will only feel worse.
He opens it anyway.
The folder is embarrassingly obvious, labeled with nothing but a small heart that he had told himself was ironic when he made it, because of course it was ironic, it would be deeply pathetic otherwise.
Your face fills the screen in the first photo, slightly blurred because you had turned your head too fast when you realized he was taking it, caught mid-laugh beside a street cat you were trying (failing) to pet.
The picture is imperfect, a little crooked, your hand half raised like you were about to protest the photo entirely, but your smile makes the corner of his mouths turn up too.
He swipes.
Another one— the corner of your shoulder and the side of your cheek lit faintly by the dim glow of his desk lamp, the night you had both pretended you weren’t half-asleep while one earbud rested in his ear and the other in yours, Frank ocean playing quietly between you both.
He remembers the exact moment your breathing had slowed until it matched the rhythm of the music, remembers staring at your fluttering, sleep-filled eyes and wondering when exactly silence with you had started feeling so full instead of empty.
His thumb stills against the screen.
He exhales through his nose, something tight pulling faintly in his chest before he locks the phone and lets it fall loosely into his lap.
He needs to get a grip.
Whatever this is, whatever he has built in his head over the past few months, it clearly does not exist in the same way for you, and that is fine. It is normal. It is healthy, even, to let things go when they are not reciprocated.
He just needs to figure out how to convince his nervous system of that. Because currently, it seems to think of you as a life-threatening condition.
Gojo scrubs a hand down his face, pushing himself up from the bench, the quiet sound of undisturbed water in the pool responding to the shift in air as he moves.
He had dressed up yesterday, hoping you'd finally notice him in the way he'd like you to.
He had tried.
Even when you had set him up on a Tinder date like he was a defective appliance being returned to the manufacturer.
Which is fine.
It was also fine when you kissed him and he felt like he had reached Nirvana, losing his mind some more when you straddled—
The sound of the door opening cuts cleanly through his thoughts, the faint metallic click echoing across the tiled space.
“Nice of you to finally show up–”
The rest of the sentence dies somewhere between his throat and the air when he looks up.
You.
For a moment, his brain provides absolutely no additional processing power beyond that single, deeply unhelpful observation.
You are standing just inside the doorway, the dim hallway light behind you outlining your shape before the door swings shut with a quiet thud.
The soft blue reflection of the pool climbs slowly over bare skin, catching along the curve of your legs and the exposed strip of your midriff where your crop top ends.
The shorts are familiar.
Just short enough that he remembers very clearly the exact angle his eyes had carefully avoided the last time you had sat on his bed wearing them, entirely too focused on explaining something that he had not absorbed a single word of because he had been busy trying not to think about the way your knee had brushed his thigh every time you shifted.
The pool light flickers faintly as the water shifts, blue reflections trembling across your skin, turning something already distracting an act of provocation by the universe itself.
You look surreal. And hallucinations are known to occur under prolonged emotional stress.
He is experiencing prolonged emotional stress.
Therefore—
You shift your weight slightly as your gaze flicks briefly in his direction before sliding away again.
“Uh,” you say, voice quieter than usual, the sound of it tugging sharply somewhere under his sternum. “Suguru said he wanted this?”
Gojo blinks.
His eyebrows pull together slowly as the words slowly make sense.
“…he said what?”
You gesture toward the empty space, clearly just as confused as he feels. “He told me to meet him here. I don’t know, he was being weird.”
A pause stretches thin between you, understanding dawning in stages.
“That—” Gojo presses his lips together briefly, something halfway between a laugh and a groan threatening to escape. “That is incredibly suspicious.”
"Right?" You let out a small exhale that almost sounds like reluctant amusement. “I thought so too, but he kept insisting it was important.”
“Yeah,” Gojo mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to hide the obvious relief. “He also told me to meet him here. Which, in retrospect, should have been my first red flag.”
Your mouth presses into a line that might be suppressing a smile.
“He told me not question too much.”
“He told me to get a life,” Gojo says flatly.
Silence again, softer this time. You shift your weight once more, glancing briefly toward the door like the exit might provide a socially acceptable solution to whatever this is.
“Well,” you murmur, adjusting the strap on your shoulder slightly. “Since he’s apparently not here, I should probably just....”
You turn, reaching for the handle.
Gojo’s heart lurches instantly, words already climbing up his throat in a messy rush, something desperate and poorly structured forming faster than he can properly filter it.
Wait.
Please don’t go.
I’ll take anything.
Friend, convenient pass-time, background character in your life. I genuinely do not care as long as you keep existing within my general radius.
He takes half a step forward—
—and then the sound of the lock clicking into place cuts abruptly through the quiet.
Both of you freeze.
The handle doesn’t budge. You try to open it, frowning slightly, the faint rattle of metal echoing louder than it should in the empty space.
“…that’s weird.”
Gojo walks over, testing the handle himself, pulling a little harder just to confirm what is already very obvious.
Alas, it rattles uselessly beneath his grip before he lets it fall back into place with a soft metallic click, exhaling through his nose as he leans his forehead briefly against the cool surface. The overhead lights dim another fraction as the automatic night cycle kicks in.
Closed until morning.
He laughs once under his breath, the sound soft and disbelieving.
“I’m going to kill him,” he mutters softly to himself. “...After I thank him.”
Because now you are standing far too close in a space far too personal, and morning is still several hours away.
Behind him, he hears the faint shuffle of movement and the sound of fabric shifting. When he turns, he catches the moment you give up too, shoulders dipping slightly in quiet resignation as you step back from the door.
For a second, neither of you say anything.
Then you slip off your shoes.
The quiet tap of them against the tile echoes lightly as you walk toward the the pool and sit down on the edge like this is the most normal situation in the world.
Like being locked in a building overnight with someone you are absolutely not avoiding eye contact with is just another minor inconvenience.
You dip your toes into the water first, testing, the surface breaking into small ripples, inhaling softly as the chill first hits the tip of your toes.
You slide your feet in fully, the water shifting lazily around your ankles as you lean back on your hands, absentmindedly flicking your foot beneath the surface, sending another small series of creases across the pool.
Gojo stands awkwardly a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, feeling strangely overdressed for someone who is currently locked in a university facility overnight.
You still aren’t looking at him.
And it should not matter. But it does.
It matters in the deeply uncomfortable way most things involving you seem to matter lately. He wants to ask if he did something wrong, wants to ask if yesterday changed anything.
Wants, very strongly, to drop whatever dignity he has left and get on his knees right in front of you to just make you look at him properly again.
Instead, he swallows all of that down, as you glance briefly on your shoulder.
“It feels nice,” you say quietly, nudging the water once with your heel. “You could try it too.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, as if the fact that you talked to him requires a brief moment of processing itself.
“Me? oh,” he says, clearing his throat as though the single syllable got stuck somewhere on the way out. “Right. Sure.”
Gojo removes his shoes carefully, placing them beside yours with an unnecessary amount of precision before lowering himself onto the tile a short distance away, leaving space between you that feels both respectful and deeply unfortunate.
The water is colder than he expects. He tries not to react visibly as it curls around his ankles.
You brush your hair back from your face, fingers slipping briefly along the side of your neck, exposing the gentle slope of your collarbone.
Gojo looks away so fast it almost gives him whiplash. He watches instead as his feet disappear beneath the surface, the distortion of the water making everything look dreamy.
The silence stretches.
His lips part slightly before closing again, as if whatever he meant to say had abandoned him.
“...Do you think fish ever get tired of swimming?”
The question leaves his mouth before his brain has time to intercept it. He mentally slaps himself.
He watches your feet still faintly beneath the water, the small ripples settling slowly into stillness again.
A small laugh escapes you before you have time to stop it. "I hope they don't."
He exhales a quiet huff at your answer, somewhere between embarrassed and relieved.
“That was,” he mutters, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “not my strongest opener.”
You tilt your head slightly, the hint of a smile lingering at the corner of your mouth before it fades into something more neutral. “Did Emma teach you that amazing conversation starter?”
He frowns faintly at the unfamiliar name. “Emma?”
“The girl you sat with in lab yesterday,” you clarify, brows furrowed with both mild confusion and amusement. “You don’t even know her name?”
He stills.
Emma.
Whose existence he learned approximately twelve seconds before sitting down beside her because Suguru had insisted very confidently that “girls love a little jealousy, man, it’ll hit her like a truck.”
It did not hit you like a truck. It appears to have instead hit him directly in the face.
He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Yeah,” he admits, gaze fixed very firmly on the water. “I really didn’t.”
Gojo searches frantically for something better to say, which does not immediately make him sound like either an idiot or a terrible person.
But before he can settle on anything remotely coherent, he feels your eyes on him.
He looks up slowly, and there it is. That almost-smirk that you tease him with, subtle but unmistakable.
“It wasn’t very nice of you,” you say softly, tilting your head just slightly, “To replace me.”
“I didn’t—I mean—” he starts automatically, then stops, realizing mid-sentence that explaining the full context would require admitting to participating in what can only be described as a terrible social experiment.
He adjusts his glasses again, buying himself half a second.
“Sorry,” he mutters, the apology quiet but sincere. “That... wasn’t really the intention.”
You hum softly, like you are considering the answer.
“You know,” you say slowly, tapping your heel lightly against the side of the pool, sending a fracture outward, “I think the appropriate punishment for that little experiment of yours would be a nice dunk.”
Gojo turns his head toward you, eyebrows lifting, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
“You could try,” he says lightly. “You weigh like– what, a strong breeze?”
“I don't need strength,” you reply, completely serious. “Multiple studies support dunking as suitable punishment, and you should comply.”
“That sounds fabricated.”
“It’s in the appendix.”
“I would like to see the data.”
“You wouldn’t, trust me.”
A small laugh escapes Gojo as he shakes his head. It feels so unfairly good to talk this way with you again.
His dimples poke through his cheek, eyes softening behind the thin frame of his glasses. “You wouldn’t dare.”
You lean closer.
For a split second he thinks you might actually push him.
Gojo doesn’t even realise what you’re doing until your fingers brush lightly along the side of his face, grazing skin that already has a faint heat blooming beneath your touch.
“Hold still,” you murmur.
He does.
You slide the glasses from his face, the sudden absence of them making the world shift slightly out of focus, the edges of everything blurring faintly,
Everything except you.
You remain stubbornly clear, close enough that he can see the faint glint in your eyes as the light dances in them.
The reflections from the pool ripple across his irises, deepening the colour until the blue is even brighter and almost luminous in a way that makes it difficult to look anywhere else.
Long white lashes flutter, adjusting instinctively without the familiar weight resting on the bridge of his nose.
A small swallow tightens his throat, Adam's apple bobbing beneath your gaze.
For a long moment, you simply look at him. Openly enough that the faint pink beginning to spread across his cheeks deepens even more.
“They’re really pretty,” you say quietly, like the observation slipped out involuntarily. “Your eyes, I mean. It feels a little unfair that you hide them all the time.”
Gojo's brain, usually very capable under pressure, offers absolutely nothing useful.
“Oh,” he says intelligently.
“I— uh,” he clears his throat, gaze darting briefly to the pool then back to your face, entirely unsure. “They… help me see.”
The warmth in his cheeks refuses to fade, colour lingering stubbornly against pale skin, made more obvious by the cool glow reflecting upward.
You do not give him time to recover from his fluster. Your hand, still holding his glasses, drifts lightly from his shoulder to his back.
For half a second, he assumes you are steadying yourself.
Obviously, before he feels the push.
And just like that, six-foot-something Gojo disappears beneath the surface with a half-muffled yelp, as the water erupts outward in a dramatic wave that slaps loudly against the tiled edge.
Cold.
So cold.
He surfaces a moment later, sputtering. Pushes wet hair back from his face as droplets run down the slope of his jaw and neck, shirt already clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
“You—” he coughs, blinking water from his lashes, trying to look offended and failing spectacularly because you're giggling your wits off.
“That,” you struggle between chuckles. “was absolutely deserved. I should've recorded it.”
“I trusted you..” he says gravely, wringing water from the sleeve of his shirt.
“You asked if fish get tired of swimming.”
Gojo exhales as your laughter continues, looking up at you from where he floats near the edge.
“You don't know their lives.” he counters with something close to a pout, lifting one arm toward you expectantly. “Now are you just going to leave me here to perish, or help me up?”
You shake your head, still smiling as you lean forward, extending your hand.
“Alright, alright,” you concede. “Truce.”
His fingers close around yours firmly, the warmth of your hand against his damp hand sending an electric jolt through his body.
You brace slightly, expecting the upward pull of his weight shifting as he hoists himself out.
Instead,
You barely have time to register the sudden force before you're yanked forward with a surprised squeak, balance disappearing instantly as cold water rushes up to meet you.
The splash is even louder this time.
For a second, everything is disorienting and shockingly cold before you break the surface with a sharp inhale, staring at him in disbelief.
Gojo is laughing.
Open and unrestrained in a way you don’t think you’ve seen a lot, water dripping from the ends of his hair as he steadies himself in the shallow end.
“You are unbelievable,” you gasp, slapping lightly at his arm. “That was not fair.”
“I think it was extremely fair,” he replies, barely containing his grin. “You are not the only one capable of retaliation.”
“I only nudged you.”
“You launched me.”
You scoop a handful of water and fling it at him before he can finish, the splash cracking against his shoulder, droplets scattering across his face.
“Okay, Ceasefire—!” he starts, throwing an arm up to shield himself.
You don’t listen.
A bigger splash this time, water sloshing loudly as it breaks against his chest. The arcs dampen his already soaked shirt further as he squints through the spray, laughter breaking freely now.
“Hey—” he protests, half-laughing as he blinks water from his lashes, pushing wet hair back only for it to fall right back into his eyes. "This is a disproportionate response.”
"Good."
You drag both hands through the water this time, gathering more, colder, heavier, and send it straight at him again.
"Ow! That hurt–!"
Just before you can form another massive wave, he reaches out to stop your wrist mid-throw.
Your footing shifts instantly on the slick tile beneath the water, balance tipping forward as instinct takes over, free hand bracing automatically against the nearest solid surface.
Which happens to be his chest.
Solid and warm beneath soaked fabric as your touch sinks through it.
Your noses nearly brush as water drips slowly from strands of hair clinging to your cheek, the faint sound of droplets breaking the surface behind you filling the silence.
For a second, neither of you move.
The laughter fades naturally, replaced by stark awareness settling slowly into the space between you like a big, material punctuation.
Your hand is splayed lightly against his chest, feeling the subtle rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm.
The pool light fractures across the water, scattering pale reflections over the bridge of his nose and the faint color on his cheeks. A stray droplet traces slowly down the sharp line of his jaw before disappearing at the hollow of his throat.
Without the usual barrier of lenses his eyes really are unfairly pretty— and currently looking at you like he forgot how to blink.
His grip on your wrist loosens, but his other hand does not retreat.
Instead, almost cautiously, it lifts from the water.
Droplets slide down the length of his arm as his fingers hover for a second near your cheek, as though he is giving you enough time to pull away if you want to.
You don’t.
Gojo's knuckles brush lightly along your skin as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The pad of his thumb brushes your skin just enough to make your breath stutter.
Fuck. You're leaning in.
It is barely a shift, but the distance between you shrinks just enough that he feels the change instantly.
For one irrational second he considers stepping back. But he stays perfectly still.
His eyelids flutter closed before he can overthink it, long pale lashes clinging faintly together from the water, heart pounding so violently that it feels borderline humiliating.
He can feel the heat of your breath now, close enough that it skims across his lips when he inhales.
God.
He has kissed you before.
That stupid night that has been engraved in his head ever since.
The one you had brushed off so easily, laughing as you told him it was just practice, because that was what friends did, apparently. Practiced kissing each other like it meant absolutely nothing.
He had nodded like an idiot, pretended it didn’t matter, pretended the ghost of your lips that had lingered on his mouth for the rest of the night wasn’t slowly ruining his life.
But this…
This would be different.
There would be no excuse this time.
No casual justification he could hide behind later, no convenient label to make the moment smaller than it actually felt.
Which is probably why every rational part of his brain is screaming at him to open his eyes before he embarrasses himself beyond recovery.
Gojo is not one to listen to his brain when it comes to you, however. He licks his lips nervously, breath shallow, waiting.
One second stretches.
Then two.
Three–
The sound of your snort breaks the silence. Soft, quickly stifled, but unmistakable.
His brows knit faintly as confusion pushes through the haze of anticipation, eyes opening slowly. You are exactly where you were before. No lingering almost-kiss waiting to happen.
The tingling that had begun blooming in his chest collapses in on itself almost instantly. Pink creeps back on the tip of his ears, but this time it burns.
God.
He is so stupid.
Your lips twitch as you try, unsuccessfully, to suppress another laugh.
“I'm sorry,” you say, voice light with disbelief, “Did i misunderstand the situation?”
Each throwaway word of yours is like another dagger to his chest. For the first time since he has known you, your laughter doesn’t feel bright.
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. You are still smiling, still teasing, still you.
“Relax,” you add, nudging lightly at the water between you as though diffusing the tension. “It's okay. It'll be our little secret.”
Secret.
The word echoes unpleasantly in his head, muffling everything else you say after it.
The sound of the water sloshing softly around him feels suddenly too loud.
He nods automatically, “Right.”
Because that is what he is supposed to do.
Because that is what keeps you around.
Gojo shifts back slightly, water moving sluggishly around him as he steps away, each movement feeling strangely heavy. He turns toward the edge of the pool without quite trusting himself to say anything else.
The ledge feels slippery beneath his palms as he pushes himself up and out of the water in one smooth motion, clothes clinging uneasily to his skin.
You call his name behind him, the playfulness fading slowly.
He barely hears anything.
Water drips steadily from his body as he pushes the wet strands of his hair back from his face, before tugging his shirt up and over his head, damp fabric peeling away slowly.
He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening slightly as he squeezes excess water from the hem of the discarded shirt.
Footsteps approach quickly behind him, small splashes echoing faintly as you step out of the pool to follow.
"Wow. Are you giving me a show or what?" You comment teasingly, fingers tapping against his shoulder to get his attention.
“Hey, what’s—”
The question dies halfway through as he turns.
His eyes are rimmed faintly red, whether from chlorine or something else is impossible to tell, lashes moist clumped slightly together. Without his glasses, there is nothing to dull the way emotion sits openly across his features.
He looks wrecked.
Like he had allowed himself, for one pathetic second, to want something he had absolutely no right to expect. Like he is already annoyed with himself for wanting it at all.
His lips part slightly, breath unsteady in a way that doesn’t match the composed posture he is attempting to maintain.
“Stop.”
This time the word leaves him stricter, stretched too tight across whatever control he is trying to maintain.
“What?” you ask, fingers lightly hooked onto his arm, unaware of the way even that small contact is doing more damage than you realize. “What’s wrong, I don’t understa—”
“Do you ever?”
The interruption cuts your sentence clean. His hand drags back through drenched hair before letting it fall over his face again.
“Do you ever actually understand anything,” he says, voice uncharacteristically bitter. “or do you just make things up as you go and expect everyone else to adjust accordingly?”
You blink, caught off guard by the bite in his tone.
“That was rude.” you say, more defensive than you intended to sound.
“Oh, I’m rude?” he repeats, turning toward you fully now.
The tension is visible in the set of his shoulders, in the way his fingers flex once at his sides as though resisting the urge to do something impulsive.
Water continues to trail from the ends of his pale hair, sliding slowly down the slope of his throat, catching briefly at the dip of his collarbone before continuing lower, following the defined lines of muscle at his abdomen. Now that his shirt is discarded somewhere behind him, it's hard not to look.
Your gaze betrays you, fixed at the sight. The slow path of a droplet disappearing down his v-line and beneath the waistband of his pants pulls your focus back.
“Sorry,” you say, uncertain, the word quieter than before. “I didn’t realize I— I wasn’t trying to upset you.”
Your own shirt clings stubbornly to your form, darker where the liquid has seeped through the fabric completely, thin material outlining the shape like it has no intention of hiding anything. The curve of your bra against your chest is visible if someone looks long enough.
Gojo looks.
He absolutely shouldn’t, but he does.
His jaw tightens immediately as his gaze jerks upward, breath pulling slightly deeper into his lungs. His hand lifts, pressing briefly against his eyelids before sliding down over his face.
For a moment he just stands there, head bowed slightly, fingers covering his eyes as if physically holding his thoughts in place.
When he finally looks at you again, the restraint is visible in the way his shoulders remain slightly too still.
“God,” he exhales quietly, looking away again almost immediately. “Just… leave it, okay?”
His voice is thinner, more weary.
“Please just stop talking for a second because every time you speak right now I feel like I’m going to say something I can’t unsay.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively where they hover near his arm.
“Like what?” you ask, softer but still persistent. “You can’t just say cryptic things and then expect me to not ask.”
Gojo lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, except there is nothing amused in it. He inches toward you slowly, close enough that you instinctively take a step back.
“I’m sorry that I’m not like you,”
Another step.
You step back again, breath catching slightly as the distance disappears like it was never there to begin with.
“I’m sorry that I can’t just—” his hand lifts vaguely at the shrinking space between you, clearly annoyed at the inadequacy of language, “kiss you and pretend it was a neutral social interaction.”
Your lips part slightly. Despite everything, the faintest crease appears between your brows.
He shakes his head once, more at himself than you.
“I tried...” he continues, inching closer until your back meets the wall, the cool surface grounding in a way nothing else is.
He doesn’t stop there, though.
He doesn’t touch you, but he’s close enough now that even your breathing feels shared. “I actually tried to just be normal about it.”
His gaze drops for a second, on the way there isn’t really space at all anymore, before lifting again.
And the second it does, he regrets it.
Your shirt has only grown more transparent under the pool light.
He swallows, hard.
“I figured maybe you just needed time or maybe you just didn’t want to say it out loud,” he continues, voice rougher, words beginning to overlap slightly as frustration and embarrassment collide.
“But then you do things like this,” he gestures weakly toward the closeness that neither of you has fully stepped away from, “and I genuinely don’t know if I’m supposed to interpret that as encouragement or some twisted idea of fun.”
Your fingers curl at your side. You dare not interrupt him this time.
“I don’t know how you manage to get this close,” his gaze flicks to where your hand had pressed against his chest minutes ago, before snapping back up. “and then laugh like I hallucinated the entire moment.”
Gojo's hand lifts unconsciously, hovering briefly near your waist before he stops himself, fingers curling inward instead.
“I can’t do that,” he admits, almost reluctantly. “I can’t just switch it off. And yeah, maybe that makes me stupid–”
He mumbles, a small, embarrassed flush on his face at his own admission. “But I kept thinking maybe if I didn’t push, if I just waited, I'd eventually figure out whether I was imagining things or not.”
His gaze flicks downward once more despite obvious effort not to. The material of your shirt has molded completely to the shape of you now, the faint lace edge beneath visible when the light catches at the right angle.
Fuck it, he thinks.
He won't look away this time.
“Every time you pull something like this,” he continues, voice less defensive and more tired. “I feel like an idiot. I can’t keep pretending I don’t want more just because it’s easier for you if I don’t.”
He adds finally, forcing the sentence out more steadily than he feels. A faint, self-aware frustration flickers briefly across his expression.
“And I definitely can’t keep pretending I don’t think about kissing you every time you're this close,” he mutters, half-regretting his words, half-relieved to let it all out. "I'm not detached enough for that."
Your breath comes out uneven, and his eyes lift at the sound, catching it, half-wincing.
“I am not built for casual proximity with you,” he says, the admission almost sounding like an apology. “You are… profoundly distracting.”
His gaze flicks once more to your lips before returning to your eyes.
“I don’t need everything figured out... but I can’t keep being the joke you circle back to when you’re bored.”
Silence.
For a moment, you don’t say anything. You can't.
Gojo's gaze drops, like he’s trying to give you space and failing at it. His hands come up without thinking, bracing against the wall on either side of you, close enough that you feel boxed yet not touching.
“Yeah… that was—” he exhales, the sound uneven. “That was–uh–too far.”
A pause.
“I didn’t mean to just dump all of that on you,” he adds, words starting to trip over one another nervously. “I swear– it sounded worse than I—”
You don’t think about it. You just close the distance and kiss him.
For a second, he doesn’t move.
You feel it immediately. The stillness. The way his breath stutters against your mouth, stiff, like someone who's wanted a thing for too long and goes limp the moment it's there.
When you pull back, it's quick, startled by your own nerve, heat flooding your face before you've even fully separated.
"Oh—" Your voice comes out smaller than you'd like. "Sorry, I didn't— I should've asked, I just thought…"
Your fingers curl at your side. "I thought you wanted to."
He's still looking at you.
Pupils blown wide, lips parted, like the word wanted doesn't begin to cover it and he doesn't yet have the language for what actually does.
His hand lifts slowly, dazed, like his body is operating ahead of his brain, fingers brushing over his own mouth.
Checking. Making sure this is even real.
Then it drops.
And the other one comes up twice as fast.
His palm slides into your hair, fingers pressing gently at the base of your skull with a certainty that hadn't been there a moment ago. His other hand finds your waist, gathering the damp fabric of your shirt in his grip and yanking you close until there's no space left.
Not even enough for air.
This time he won't stop.
Gojo's mouth meets yours and it's nothing like the first kiss. That one had been hesitant, searching, his brain still running three steps behind his heart. This is him catching up all at once.
The sharp taste of chlorine lingers between you, and underneath it, something warmer. Familiar in a way you hadn't let yourself think about until now. His shampoo, the one you've borrowed from his bathroom shelf more times than you've counted, clean and faint and entirely too easy to recognize.
You lean into it before you can think better of it.
Your back presses harder against the wall, body giving in by inches. His hand at your waist slides to the small of your back, drawing you flush against him, your soaked top pressed between your bodies until you can feel the warmth of his skin through it like the fabric has stopped existing entirely.
Your lips part slightly.
He follows without hesitation. The kiss deepens, his breath mixing with yours, and there’s a faint sweetness when he tilts his head.
Strawberry tint.
Gojo remembers it immediately. The hand in your hair tilts your head back just enough, and you feel the way he groans against your mouth like he’s been holding it in for ages.
Your back arches slightly into the wall as you let out a soft exhale, the movement pulling you into him.
He doesn’t miss it.
His hand drifts lower, tracing the curve of your waist before kneading at your thigh. With a subtle kind of insistence, he lifts your leg, guiding it to rest against the side of his hip.
Everything feels warm and cold at the same time. The water still clinging to your skin, his, the way it transfers where you’re pressed together, soaking through what little space there was left.
When he pulls back, it’s barely an inch.
His lips drag against yours teasingly, before his teeth catch lightly on your lower lip, followed by a brief pull.
Just like you taught him.
“Don’t…”
Gojo stays close enough that you can hear the rapid pace of his heart. The hand that has your leg hooked against him still hasn't moved.
“Don’t apologize for that.”
His thumb shifts slightly against your scalp, absentmindedly soothing.
“If you’re going to kiss me,” he adds, nudging his nose against yours. “Don’t act like it was a mistake.”
Without his glasses, there's nowhere for any of it to hide. Not the color still high on his cheeks, not the way his eyes search your face like he's bracing for you to laugh again, to call it nothing, to fold it neatly into the category of things we don't talk about.
He wouldn't survive it a second time. You can see that clearly now.
The curtain yanks open with a dramatic rustle. You let out a squeal in surprise, whipping around as water streamed down your face. Instinctively, you slap your hands over your chest.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Good morning to you too,” Suguru hums contently, stepping in without ceremony.
His clothes are, unsurprisingly, already thrown somewhere across the bathroom. Midnight hair falls past his shoulders, a few strands plastered to his face. But most noticeable of all, is that unmistakable glint in his eyes. The infuriating, shit-eating sparkle that meant he was about to be absolutely insufferable.
“Water bill’s too high,” he adds, grabbing your shampoo from the shelf overhead.
“You just want to see me naked,” you mutter, still covering yourself with your hands like that would stop the inevitable.
“Sweetheart,” he leans in, lips brushing your shoulder, “I always want to see you naked.”
You shoot him a look. “You're such a perv.”
“And you look gorgeous right now,” he drawls, eyes trailing downwards languidly. “We should really do this more often.”
Suguru's lips press to your shoulder lazily, mouth warm even under the hot water. His kisses trail slowly, almost absentmindedly, over your collarbone as if tasting the steam off your skin.
His hands, though, remain annoyingly neutral. Adjusting the showerhead, pushing hair out of your face, lathering body wash on your back while he peppers kisses tenderly on each and every part of your body.
“So are we actually showering, or are you just going to stand there and... be you?”
“Don't act like you aren't enjoying this,” he replies, one hand casually snaked around your waist. “You could ask me to leave, y'know.”
“You never listen.”
“True,” he says, eyes flicking to your lips then back up. “But I’m an excellent multitasker.”
You open your mouth to respond but don’t get the chance. Suguru's hands find your jaw, cupping your face as he turns you towards himself. His lips press against yours, slow at first, steady, like he has all the time in the world.
Your hands fly to his neck, pulling him closer just as his body presses into yours, chest to chest, nothing between you but heat and steam.
He deepens the kiss further, one hand gripping your waist and pulling you closer like he can't bear even an inch of space between you. The other stays on your cheek, holding you in place, hips tilting just right as he grinds against you.
“Okay,” you breathe against his lips, dazed. “Now you’re just cheating.”
“Cheating?” he repeats, all innocent and wide-eyed. “I’m just loving you in high-definition.”
You roll your eyes. But don't stop him when he presses kisses along your jaw, when his hands drop lower, skimming your thighs, slipping up the backs with delicious deliberation.
Just as you finally give in and sigh, tilting your head, letting your eyes fall shut—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Suguru!” came Gojo’s agitated voice. “Are you trying to become one with the water in there? I am about to piss a new timeline into existence.”
You freeze on the spot.
Suguru does not.
In fact, he nips at your collarbone and chuckles, deeply amused.
“You gonna answer that, baby?” he whispers, one hand now teasing the insides of your thighs.
You slapped a wet palm over your mouth, desperately trying not to make a sound. Scrambling for composure you yell back, “I’ll be out in a minute!”
There's a pause on the other side before Gojo replies, voice suddenly chipper.
“Oh. Sorry! Didn’t know it was you. Take your time!”
Suguru raises an eyebrow. “Huh. He bought that?”
“I hate you,” you muttered, especially when his hand snuck between your legs with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how much trouble he was about to cause.
“Don’t lie now,” he said, dimples flashing with wicked satisfaction.
You glared at him, ready to curse him out, but that proved ineffective.
He caught your lips mid-protest, resuming the kiss with a hand tangled in your hair.
His other hand wasn't even pretending to behave as he hoists you up, clean off the ground. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and your back hit the cold tile with a gasp. He smirks against your mouth, breath ragged.
“Always climbin’ me like a tree,” he mutters, voice rough with amusement. “Might as well make it easier for you.”
“Screw you.” you hiss, barely biting back a moan.
“Yeah, yeah. Working on it,” he grunts, already rolling his hips into you.
His pace is slow, deep—each thrust angled to break you open. Your toes curl, head tipping back against the tile with a thud, fingers tangling in his soaked hair like you’re holding on for dear life.
Suguru stays close, mouth glued to your skin, groaning against your neck as he drives into you like he’s trying to fuck the air out of your lungs.
You were shaking, gasping, whispering his name over and over.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
“My hearing's just fine, you gross fucks! I swear if I piss myself while you're getting dicked down in my shower—”
Gojo’s tantrum doesn’t even phase him. Suguru’s too busy wrecking you, too caught up in the way you clench and cry out to care who hears.
“I love you,” he breathes into your collarbone.
“This is not romantic,” you whimper, nails digging into his back.
“Could’ve fooled me,” he pants. “You’re literally trembling.”
“Because Gojo’s threatening to piss at the door!”
On the other side, his best friend was banging on the door like his life depended on it.
“I hope the shampoo goes in both of your eyes and the water turns cold mid-orgasm!”
And yet, Suguru never stopped smiling.
— ✦ — ❖ — ✦ —
You barely made it out alive. Hair dripping, legs barely cooperating, and Suguru still looking like the devil incarnate he is, towel slung dangerously low on his hips.
You’re swaddled in the fluffiest one he could find, clutching it like a lifeline while trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
The bathroom door creaks open.
“Finally,” Gojo groans, stomping in with all the righteous fury of a man wronged. “I have seen entire civilizations rise and fall in the time it took for you two to defile my shower.”
He walks in and grabs his toothbrush, looking you dead in the eyes.
“I sincerely hope you both rot. Like, from the bottom of my heart.”
You shrink further into your towel, cheeks on fire. Suguru, of course, doesn’t even blink.
“You should’ve knocked,” he says smoothly, toweling off his hair with a yawn.
“Oh wait, you did. Three times.”
Gojo spins dramatically, toothbrush still in hand. “Three? I was one knock away from calling an exorcist for the sounds I heard.”
“You could’ve just gone in the sink,” Suguru says, utterly unbothered.
“I did. Not my proudest moment.”
You blink. “Wait. You seriously pissed in the sink?”
Gojo groans. “What choice did I have?! Every time I knocked, I was rewarded with moaning. It was like Pavlov's bell.”
You bury your into your hands, hoping the ground just up and swallows you whole.
Gojo turns to face you, deeply hurt by your betrayal. “You were my favorite, just so you know. Were.”
You’re about to defend yourself—say something—but Suguru wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close, and smirking like the devil himself.
“Wanna go for round two while he’s brushing his teeth?”
Gojo gags and retches. “I will shove that fucking loofah so far up your ass, you’ll be exfoliating from the inside out.”
Suguru just raises an eyebrow, calm as ever. “D’you want us to go at it again? Because you sound like you want us to go at it again.”
“I swear to god, if I hear one more thigh slap—”
“Slap?” Suguru muses, looking at you. “Did it sound like a slap? I thought it was more of a—”
“Don't you dare finish that sentence.”
“Can we just…” you whisper, already mentally packing your bags, “pretend this never happened?”
A/N: Everyone talks about how deranged Gojo would be as a boyfriend. But once you’re deep in with Suguru? Boyyyy that man would make Gojo look emotionally well-adjusted.
One awkward smile, two 'study mates', and a love story that’s chemically inevitable.
Synopsis: You only stopped at his science fair booth out of pity—but the tall, nervous guy with crooked glasses and a galaxy model has other plans.
Satoru Gojo is brilliant, awkward, and talking a mile a minute about black holes like it’s the most romantic thing in the world. You weren’t looking for a tutor. Or a crush. But he’s got stars in his eyes—and maybe, now, so do you.
Pairing: Nerd!Gojo Satoru x reader
Genre: MDNI, College AU, Fluff, Slow-burn-ish, friends to lovers.
Warnings: None for this chapter really, just mentions of hangover and strong language
Masterlist
Your head is pounding.
Not in a dull, manageable way either. It’s sharp and persistent like something is pressing from the inside out, a steady throb behind your eyes that makes even blinking feel like effort.
You drag your hand over your face as you walk down the hallway, fingers pressing briefly into your temple before falling away again. It doesn’t help.
Last night comes back in pieces, not quite in order.
Gojo walking you home.
Your arm thrown over his shoulder, your weight leaning into him more than you’d ever admit sober.
Your voice too loud, your laugh louder. Ugh, embarassing.
His hand around your wrist, steadying you. Lingering, maybe. You can’t tell anymore.
After that, everything blurs.
You remember the bathroom.
The cold tile, the throwing up. More than once.
You exhale slowly through your nose, adjusting your grip on the small juice box in your hand. It’s already half-crushed from how tightly you’ve been holding it.
“I’m never drinking again,” you mutter, dragging your feet.
You push the lab door open with your shoulder.
The lights hit you immediately. You squint, pausing just inside for a second longer than necessary while your eyes adjust to the bright white light. The familiar scent of markers and stagnant air welcomes you.
You move automatically after that, heading toward your usual seat.
Except, It’s not empty.
There’s a girl sitting there.
She turns when she notices you, unhurried, like she’s already comfortable here. Her hair is parted neatly, clothes fitted snug, gloss twinkling effortlessly when she smiles.
“Hey,” she says, sweet and polite. “You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?”
You stop. It takes you a second to actually process what she’s asking. For a moment, you think you might have confused your seat for someone else's.
Your gaze flicks over her, taking in the details whether you mean to or not, before shifting past her...
And landing on the man himself.
“Hey.”
Gojo is looking directly at you.
For a moment, your brain doesn’t quite catch up with your eyes.
He’s wearing a jacket with a light tee underneath. Not his usual oversized hoodie (the one that hangs off him as if he forgot what size he wears) but something that actually fits him. It sits properly on his shoulders, closer to his frame, dark, ironed.
His hair looks done. Still soft, fluffy, but not the usual mess. His glasses sit straight too, no tilt visible.
He looks different.
You can still see the same awkwardness in the way he shifts his weight slightly, the way his hand comes up to push his glasses even though they don’t need fixing. It's a nervous habit.
But there’s something else layered under it now.
“Uh—hey,” he says, voice catching for half a second before he steadies it. “You’re—uhm—you’re here.”
You stare at him, a faint crease forming between your brows.
“Yeah?” you say, your voice coming out meaner than you expected. You clear your throat lightly. “Last I checked, I’m enrolled.”
The girl glances between the two of you, curiosity flickering across her face before she looks back at you.
Gojo rubs the back of his neck, fingers catching briefly in his hair.
“So, uh—this is—” he starts, gesturing vaguely toward her, then dropping his hand again like he’s lost track of the sentence halfway through. “We were just— I mean—”
The girl steps in smoothly, filling the gap.
“We switched seats today,” she says with a small smile, batting her lashes. “I hope that’s okay.”
Switched.
Gojo nods quickly, like he’s trying to explain before you react.
“Yeah—just for today,” he adds. “I mean, unless... you know, if you’re not comfortable, she can—uh—move or—I can—”
He trails off, the words stacking awkwardly. You glance down at yourself without thinking.
The hoodie. The worn-out sweatpants you’ve had for years. Your hair, which you didn’t even try to fix this morning, stupidly enough.
The stupid ass juice box in your hand like some toddler.
You press your lips together briefly, then shrug, keeping your tone light.
“No, it’s fine,” you say, adjusting the strap of your bag. “It’s just a seat, right?”
Something shifts in his expression subtly, but it’s gone before you can place it.
“Right,” he says.
You don’t linger.
You turn away, scanning the room for somewhere else to sit, your gaze moving a little too quickly over familiar faces.
“Looking for somewhere to crash? Did your throne get usurped?”
You pause, turning at the familiar tone.
Getou is stretched out in his seat like he’s always been there, one arm hooked over the back of the chair, the other tapping a pen idly against his notebook.
You blink at him, deadpan. “Why are you here?”
He smirks, amused. “Wow. No ‘good morning’? No ‘you look stunning today, Suguru’?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he replies, leaning his arms on the desk. “I have this class.”
You frown. “…Since when?”
“Great question." He tilts his head, considering it. "Still figuring that out myself.”
You stare at him for another second, then glance at the empty seat beside him.
Without thinking too hard about it (or bothering to ask), you sit.
The chair scrapes faintly against the floor as you pull it in, dropping into it with less grace than usual.
“Didn't even bother asking?” he says, leaning back again. “Feisty mama. Me likey.”
“Shut your hole.” you mutter, pushing the straw into your juice box and taking a sip, the sweetness sitting strangely on your tongue.
He watches you for a moment. Then his gaze shifts past you, across the room.
To Gojo.
And back.
“Oh,” he says quietly. "I see."
You look at him, unimpressed. “What?”
“Nothing,” he replies smoothly. “Just… Satoru seems different today, don’t you think?”
You swallow another sip before answering. “It’s a jacket, Suguru. Not a personality transplant.”
“Mm,” he hums, like he doesn’t quite agree. “And the seat switch?”
You shrug again, a little too quick. “People sit in different places. It’s not a crime.”
“Of course not.”
He leans forward slightly, resting his chin in his palm, still watching you in that way that feels a little too observant.
“Emma wanted to switch, by the way.”
“…Emma?”
“The girl,” he says, nodding subtly toward her. “They’re partners for today.”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the juice box. The cardboard bends inward with a quiet crinkle.
You loosen your grip immediately.
“Good for them,” you say.
“Yeah,” Getou agrees. “She asked.”
You take another sip casually, trying to appear nonchalant. “....And he just said yes?”
Getou’s mouth curves just slightly. “Didn’t seem like he hated the idea.”
You look away.
Your gaze drifts back across the room before you can stop it.
Gojo is leaning slightly toward her now, listening. There’s a small smile on his face, shy, a little uncertain, but there.
He laughs at something she says, eyes crinkling slightly.
Your chest tightens, faint and unfamiliar. You shift in your seat, pulling your sleeves down over your hands, tucking your fingers into the fabric.
For the first time in a while, the room feels off. Everyone seems settled, like they know exactly where they’re supposed to be.
Except you.
Across the room, Gojo glances up.
His eyes find yours for a second, staying there like he’s about to say something. Like he should.
Then the girl leans in slightly, saying something you can’t hear.
And he looks away. Just like that.
You sit back in your chair, staring down at your desk.
Soon, the class settles into a rhythm after a few minutes, the low hum of conversation fading as the professor starts talking, marker scratching against the board in a way that makes your already pounding head feel worse.
You try to focus.
Notebook open, pen in hand, you copy down the first few lines of instructions, forcing your eyes to follow the board instead of drifting.
Acid-base titration today. Normally, this is the kind of thing you’re good at. It’s predictable.
None of that seems to matter right now. Because beside you, Suguru 'Insufferable' Getou does not shut up.
At all.
“Holy fuck you've got a tight grip on that pen,” he murmurs, slouching in his chair as if he doesn’t have lab starting in five minutes. “Should I be worried for my safety or is this self-destructive?”
You don’t even look at him, eyes set on the board. “If I stab you, it’ll be premeditated.”
He sighs, content. “God, you're so much more fun like this.”
You press your pen down harder than necessary, the ink digging a little too sharply into the paper as you write.
Across the room, you hear a soft laugh.
You don’t look. You absolutely do not make that mistake.
“Wow,” Getou continues, tone thoughtful in a way that instantly makes you suspicious. “Satoru’s really getting his dick sucked by the universe today, huh.”
You exhale slowly through your nose. “He’s talking to a girl that isn't me for once. Relax.”
“It’s not just that...” he says, tilting his head slightly as he watches something over your shoulder.
You don’t respond.
You underline a word twice in your notebook instead.
“Confidence,” he adds, almost like he’s narrating a nature documentary. “New social environment, potential mating behavior—”
You turn your head just enough to glare at him. “Finish that sentence and I will pour concentrated acid on your face.”
He pats your shoulder, motivating, apparently. “See, that’s the spirit! Channel that into the experiment, not me.”
You move your gaze back to your notebook with an eye roll.
The professor finishes explaining the procedure, and there’s a shuffle of chairs as everyone starts moving toward their stations. Getou stands, stretching like this is a casual afternoon hangout instead of a graded lab.
“Come on,” he says, grunting. “Let’s go earn that A I’m definitely not working for.”
You follow, because you don’t have much of a choice.
The lab setup is familiar. Glassware neatly arranged, solutions labeled, everything in its place. You tie your hair back quickly, hands moving on autopilot as you start setting things up.
Getou leans against the counter beside you, watching with mild interest.
“You’re very intense about this,” he comments.
“I like passing,” you reply flatly.
“Mm. And here I thought you were just competitive.”
You don’t dignify that with an answer.
But your focus sharpens. Because, despite yourself, your attention keeps drifting.
The girl—Bimbo of the year, apparently—is talking. Not quietly either. There’s a lightness to her voice that carries, the kind that fills space without trying too hard.
“So if we mix these two,” she’s saying, holding up two different solutions like she’s about to conduct a magic trick, “won’t it make a cooler color? Purple? Oh, maybe glitter?”
Your hand stills for half a second. You glance up before you can stop yourself.
Gojo’s posture changes immediately.
There’s a flicker of panic as his hand comes up to stop her mid-motion.
“No. Wait, don’t—” he says quickly, stepping closer, his voice low but urgent. “You can’t just mix random acids, that’s not how this works.”
“But it’ll look pretty,” she insists, already tilting one of the beakers slightly.
“Yeah, and then we’ll both fail and possibly lose eyebrows,” he replies, reaching out and gently but firmly taking it from her before she can do anything stupid.
There’s a pause.
Then she laughs.
And to your mild surprise, he laughs too.
It’s soft, a little breathy, like he’s still half-stressed about what just almost happened, but it's funny at the same time.
You look away immediately, focusing a little too hard on your own setup, grinding your teeth together too hard, too.
“She’s going to burn the lab down,” you mutter under your breath.
Getou hears it. Of course that annoying little shit does.
“Tragic,” he says, not sounding tragic at all. “And yet, Satoru seems… entertained.”
You measure out your solution with more force than necessary, the liquid sloshing slightly in the beaker.
“She doesn’t even know what she’s doing,” you continue, quieter now but sharper. “Who just mixes chemicals because they ‘look boring’?”
“Plenty of people,” Getou replies easily. “It’s called confidence.”
“That’s not confidence, that’s stupidity.”
“Mm,” he hums. “Interesting distinction.”
You shoot him another look.
He’s smiling again. Watching you, not them.
“You know,” he adds casually, “most guys don’t mind a little stupidity if it comes in a nice package.”
You slowly turn your head.
"Not every guy's a man-whore like you, maybe?” you say, voice calm in a way that is absolutely not calm.
"No need to be defensive sweetheart," He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Just an observation.”
Your grip tightens around your pencil.
For a brief, very vivid moment, you consider snapping it in half and using it as a weapon.
Instead, you turn back to your work.
But your thoughts don’t settle. They spiral.
Because across the room, she’s talking again, leaning a little too close, pointing at something on the table, her hand brushing his arm like it’s nothing.
And he doesn’t move away.
He just listens, responds, laughs again.
Your jaw tightens.
“I mean,” you mutter, almost to yourself, “she’s not even funny.”
Getou tilts his head slightly. “You don’t sound very convinced.”
“I am convinced.”
“Right.”
You add another drop to your solution, watching the color shift carefully.
Exactly how it’s supposed to be. Unlike whatever is happening over there.
“She doesn’t even understand basic reactions,” you continue, unable to stop now. “He's not laughing because she's funny, he's laughing at her. There's a difference.”
“Sure” Getou shrugs, “Whatever helps Ms. Snob sleep at night.”
You don’t respond.
Because obviously you’re smarter.
You don’t guess. You don’t mix things blindly. You actually understand what you’re doing.
That’s how this always worked.
You asked questions, he explained, you joked, he laughed. It made sense.
It was so easy and delightful.
So why—
You press your lips together, shaking the thought off before it can fully form.
Getou watches the shift in your expression like he’s watching a movie.
“Relax,” he says, almost kindly, which somehow makes it worse. “You’re going to break the equipment.”
“I’m fine.”
“Of course you are.”
You finish your setup in silence after that, movements sharper, faster, even more flamboyant.
If nothing else, you’re going to do this perfectly. Make sure your name sits above Gojo Satoru in the list of high rankers. In this class, at least.
You run the experiment with near obsessive focus, noting every change, every measurement, every detail with precision that borders on insane.
By the end of it, your results are exact.
Getou glances over your work, then lets out a low whistle. “Yeah, I’m definitely getting an A out of this.”
“You’re welcome,” you say flatly.
“I should irritate you more often,” he adds. “This is dope.”
You don’t reply.
The bell rings a few minutes later, cutting through the room. Chairs scrape back, conversations pick up again.
You exhale, tension loosening just slightly.
Finally.
You gather your things quickly, closing your notebook, sliding it into your bag. There’s a small, stubborn part of you that’s already decided that you’ll talk to him now.
Maybe you said something, or something happened last night. Whatever this weird, off thing is, you’ll just… reset it.
It’s fine.
It’s normal.
You stand, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, and turn— just in time to see her grab his hand.
So casually, like it’s already something she’s used to doing.
“Come on,” she says, tugging him lightly. “I’m starving.”
Gojo looks surprised for half a second, his body going a little still.
Then he lets himself be pulled forward.
“Sure, okay...” he says, adjusting his grip on his bag as he follows.
He doesn’t even look back.
They’re already halfway out the door by the time your brain catches up.
You stand there for a moment longer than you should, dumbfounded. Bag on your shoulder, lab manual pressed against your side.
Watching the empty space they left behind. You can almost envision clown makeup all over your face right now.
Getou steps up beside you, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“Well,” he says, tone light, “that was efficient.”
You don’t respond. Your grip tightens slightly on your bag strap.
“I wouldn’t take it personally,” he adds, glancing down at you. “Hunger is a powerful motivator.”
“I’m not,” you say, voice neutral.
And you mean it, mostly.
You adjust your bag and start walking toward the door, not waiting for him this time.
But you replay the moments of last night in your mind. You remember nothing problematic, actually, it was heartwarming if anything. Then what the hell happened?
Synopsis: What starts as a flirty late-night phone call turns into something far more sinister when a masked stranger begins describing everything you're wearing, and everything you're hiding. But Ghostface is already inside the house. Even worse? He’s someone you know.
And he's about to make you the star of his favourite scary movie.
W.c. 9.2k
Pairing: Ghostface!Geto Suguru x reader
Content. MDNI, cheerleader!reader, dubcon themes, home invasion, stalking, manipulation, voyeurism, psychological horror, oral (f!receiving), knife play (panty-dropping, not gore), orgasm denial, obsessive behaviour, filming/recording during sex, creepy phone calls, unprotected sex, implied cheating (if you squint?), mentions of blood (minor injury), manhandling, phone sex, slasher undertones, masturbation, BACKSHOTS RAHH rips off shirt like a werewolf in heat, Sorry for the Satoru slander I love my glorious blue-eyed king.
A/N: Due to my unhealthy obsession with Billy Loomis's Ghostface, this takes place around the time that the first Scream movie was released (1996). Enjoy ;)
Your chemise sticks a little where your skin’s still warm from the shower, and your silk robe’s already given up trying, one sleeve hanging off your shoulder.
You lean against the kitchen counter, hip jutted, phone receiver tucked snug between your cheek and shoulder.
“How could cheerleading go wrong?” a slow smile plays on your lips. “I mean, we did win.”
Shoko snorts on the other end. “No, dumbass— I mean how’s it going going? With Mr. Star Quarterback. I heard he took you home after the game.”
You hum, dragging your finger along the counter like it’s boring you already. “He did.”
“And...?” she presses silently in anticipation like she already knows where this is going.
“It was… whatever.”
“Whatever?” Her voice rises in disbelief. “Girl, don’t you da—”
“He came in, like, one minute and forty-five seconds, Shoko. I’ve boiled noodles slower.”
Shoko gasps so hard you can hear her light a cigarette out of pure trauma. “No. You’re lying.”
You let out a sigh. “I wish. He was looking me dead in the eye like he changed my life. I had to throw in a moan just to let him sleep at night.”
She breaks into laughter, disbelief crackling through the receiver. “God, and they make Satoru Gojo sound like the second coming of sex.”
You click your tongue disappointedly. “I've gotten more action from a shower hose.”
Shoko laughs harder at that, urging a giggle from you too— until another unpleasant flash of memory makes you groan.
“And I even brought my new digital camera, like an idiot.”
“What, why?”
“I thought he was gonna take me somewhere nice,” you huff, shaking your head as you flick a stray hair out of your face. “So I packed it to get a few cute shots. Instead, I ended up starfished on his nasty dorm sheets and left the damn thing in his room.”
Shoko chokes. “You left your camera? Your new one?!”
“Yep. It’s probably in there somewhere, next to his condom collection and that tragic poster of Tom Cruise.”
You're both still snickering when you hear a sharp knock on your door. You glance towards the direction of the sound, brows furrowing in annoyance.
“Hold up,” you say, setting the phone down with a clatter and sliding off the counter.
You walk barefoot through the hallway, silk brushing your thighs with each step as you crack open the front door.
Unsurprisingly, you're met with nothing but silence.
The porch is as empty as ever. A cold breeze brushes past you, enough to raise goosebumps. You linger a beat there, tongue against your teeth, before clicking it shut.
“Probably the neighbor's kids.” You huff, flopping back against the counter. “They’ve been little shits ever since I told their dad to stop ogling me while mowing the lawn.”
Shoko hums, but her voice has dipped lower, more serious. "You sure it's them? Not..... you know."
You roll your eyes. “Don’t start.
“You should be very careful,” She warns. “You heard what happened to that girl, right? The one from Lit?”
You listen to her noncommittally. “Yeah, yeah. No one’s coming after me. I'm a bitch, remember?”
“Yeah, well, even bitches bleed.” She retorts, half-joking, half not.
You snort, but there’s a sting in her words that lingers. “Sounds like someone’s been watching too much Dateline.”
“No, seriously." She presses. "I heard he asks girls their favorite horror mo—”
Whatever Shoko was trying to say gets cut off abruptly, as the doorbell rings obnoxiously again.
You groan. “Fucking hell.”
“Wait—”
“I’ll call you later,” you mumble, hanging up without waiting for a goodbye.
You walk towards the entrance slower now— less amused, more pissed. The robe, at this point, is clinging on out of spite.
You swing the door open again. But this time around, you step out onto the porch, arms crossed against the night.
“Very funny,” you speak into the dark, voice just loud enough to cut through whatever bush they’re probably hiding behind. “Real fucking original. Maybe next time try growing a pair instead of playing doorbell roulette, dickwads.”
You pause, waiting for any sign that would give them away. But you retreat upon hearing no sound except for the rustling of underbush.
“What a bunch of virgins,” You hiss under your breath, slamming the door shut.
But as you walk away, you don’t see the silhouette watching from across the street. A cheap plastic mask gleams under the porch light, breath fogging behind it predatorily.
♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡
The TV screen flickers weakly, channels skipping between static and late-night reruns of soap operas with bad lighting and worse acting. Saturated colors bleed into one another — crying women, cheating husbands, some dramatic slap that plays out in blurry slow motion. You sit curled on the couch, legs tucked under yourself, aimlessly clicking the remote with a glazed-over look.
Click. Click. Click.
Still nothing good.
Your eyes skim over somewhere around Channel 76, where a woman in a sparkly gown is screaming into a rotary phone. You’re not even watching anymore. Just letting your thumb drift over the remote while the glow of the screen pulses across your bare fore legs.
You're mid-yawn, head tilting back on the couch cushion, when the sharp crash of glass shattering cuts through the stillness like a gunshot.
The sound cracks your skull open from the inside. You jolt upright so fast your knee slams into the coffee table, sending a coaster flying and your heartbeat into cardiac arrest.
Your first thought is Shoko, you evil bitch, because of course she jinxed it with her 'you gotta be careful' bullshit, and suddenly you’re living in the Dateline episode she was probably referencing.
Your eyes flick toward the kitchen— the hallway looks darker now, like it knows something you don’t. The shadows stretch longer than they did five minutes ago. You don’t like it. Not one bit.
As if remembering your own limbs, you shove the remote aside and push up off the couch. Swinging your legs down without a sound, you grab the fruit knife still dripping with pineapple juice from the coffee table, and march toward the kitchen barefoot— silk flapping around your thighs.
You move toward the kitchen, steps light, pulse hammering loud enough to fill the silence. Whatever’s waiting, it’s about to meet a very pissed-off version of you.
But instead of some creep, a tiny gray blur shoots across the floor.
It's a kitten.
Your goddamn neighbor’s stray, probably.
It skids through the shards of what used to be your favorite set of crockery with the little sunflowers on it, then books it right out the door you had left slightly ajar earlier.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” you exhale sharply, slapping the knife down on the counter with a thud. “All this over a fucking Hello Kitty reject.”
You crouch down and start picking up the shards, still mumbling to yourself like that’ll keep the fear of being home alone at bay. “Just a stupid cat. Just a stupid plate. Just a stupid—shit—!”
A sharp sting shoots through your finger. You suck in a breath and see the blood welling fast from a slice near your knuckle.
“Motherfucker,” you hiss, yanking your hand back.
You stare at the cut, jaw tightening as the blood wells and runs down the side of your hand like it’s trying to make a dramatic exit.
You march to the cabinet with righteous fury, yanking it open one-handed. And of course, the first aid box is nowhere to be found. No band-aids. No gauze. No antiseptic. Just expired allergy meds, a single mint from a sushi delivery bag, and something that might once have been a condom but now looks like beef jerky.
Your eyes scan the room for something — anything — to MacGyver a solution, before a dish towel catches your eye. Old, kind of crunchy, and probably hasn't seen detergent since the stone age. It'll do.
You rip a strip from the corner with your teeth, wrapping it haphazardly around your finger like you’re some war-torn soldier in a lingerie ad. It's definitely not sterile, but you're no Florence Nightingale either.
The ringing of the landline splits the air again, loud and shrill like it’s laughing at you. You freeze, pulse kicking up a notch.
Your gaze turns towards the living room, where the receiver sits crooked on the hook, cord swinging slightly.
“I swear to God, if this is Satoru asking for a second chance, I will shove my foot up his ass.”
Still, you make your way over, more annoyed than scared, ready to stab anyone who makes your night worse. You reach for the receiver, fingers stiff.
“Hello?” you say, voice sharper than you mean it to be.
“Didn't think you'd actually pick up,” A voice echoes through the speaker, velvety smooth and entirely too confident.
“Wrong number.” You fret, ready to disconnect the call.
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
You narrow your eyes at the nerve of this unfamiliar voice, as you tilt your head in curiosity. “Bold of you to assume I answer calls from strangers.”
“Stranger?” the man muses in mock offense. “That hurts. You’ve been on my mind all night.”
You raise a brow amusedly, shifting your weight onto one hip. “Well, I hate to break it to you, Casanova, but unless you’re selling thin crust pizza, I’m hanging up.”
A soft chuckle ripples through the line. “I could do that if you'd like. Your wish is my command."
Your mouth curls despite yourself, satisfaction flickering at the corners as your teeth catch your bottom lip. Whoever this man is— he’s smooth, but not desperate. And honestly? This is already more entertaining than any soap opera rerun flickering on the living room screen.
“You don’t even know what I look like,” you tease, tracing a lazy fingertip down the cord, feigning boredom you don’t feel.
“Mmm,” he drags the sound sleazily. “That’s the fun part. I get to imagine.”
“Then tell me,” you purr, sliding your thumb to brush along your lower lip. “What do I look like to you?”
There's a momentary pause from the other side, like he's contemplating the question heavily. Or already picturing you.
“I think you’re the type to wear silk. Something dark… maybe red.”
Your throat tightens a little at the suspiciously accurate observation and the color drains from your fingers slightly, but you say nothing.
“It hasn't been too long since you took a shower,” he adds, softer now, almost like he’s whispering it against your skin. "Which means your hair's still a little damp at the edges.”
Your lips part involuntarily as you glance down at yourself. The damp cling of your chemise, the droop of your robe.
“You’re making a lot of assumptions,” you say, voice just a little dimmer than before.
He laughs again, lower this time. “And you haven’t denied a single one.”
You force a chuckle too, just to buy a second of normalcy. “Peeping Tom is the new trend, huh?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got good taste,” His breathing is audible now, unhurried, like he’s been reclining this whole time. “And you have a bad habit of leaving your curtains open when you're home alone.”
You don’t answer. A shiver passes through you, but you try to convince yourself it’s from the coolness of the night.
“The lace suits you.”
The silence after his words expands like a balloon in your chest, pushing against your lungs. For a second, there’s no air, no thought, just the sterile burn of panic lodging itself behind your ribs.
“…Sorry?”
“Your robe’s cute, too,” he says, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “But I think I like the way it keeps slipping off better.”
Suddenly the robe around you feels a little looser. A little thinner. You grip the fabric tighter across your chest, shifting against the counter with a new kind of tension.
“Don’t be shy now,” he croons. “I liked the show. That little sway in your hips when you thought nobody was looking? Fuck—I could watch you walk around like that all night.”
You press your lips together tightly, eyes darting towards the window. “You’ve got ten seconds to say something that doesn’t make me call the cops,”
“Let’s not pretend you want cops poking around. Not with that little history you’ve got. But go ahead, I’ll be gone before they get here."
You back away from the counter, as if the contact alone might burn you alive.
“There she goes,” he hums. “That’s it, baby. I like the way you move when you’re scared.”
You hear shuffling from the other side, like sharp metal scraping against a surface before he speaks up again.
“Y’know, I’ve always wondered..... was it worth it?”
You pause. “What?”
“Getting your teacher fired.”
The ground drops out from under you. No. that can't be it. Your parents made sure the news wouldn't make it outside the principal's office, made sure that the report didn't have a single trace of your name.
Then how the hell does he know about that?
“Mr. Kenzo, back when we were in our final year of high-school. You remember?”
He waits, letting the silence crawl inside your body. Your grip tightens on the phone, casting a harsh imprint on your palm.
“He lost his job, his marriage," the man clicks his tongue. "All for a seventeen-year-old with a short skirt.”
He doesn't even wait for you to answer.
“You know what was sad?" his voice drips with mock sorrow now, "The way he begged you to delete the messages like a puppy. You really should keep your nudes out of the staff room.”
Your nails dig inside your thigh, engraving moon-like stamps on your flesh. The tremor in your voice isn't even trying to hide itself as you speak.
“What do you want?”
There's a beat of silence before he speaks up again.
“What's your favorite scary movie?”
You blink, dumbfounded. “Seriously?”
His voice tilts toward a smirk. “Gotta set the mood, don’t I?”
“This isn’t some horror movie,” you snap.
“Mmm,” he says, slow and low, curling under your skin. “Could’ve fooled me. You’re the girl alone in the house. I’m the voice on the line. All we’re missing is a knife and a dead body.”
Your stomach knots. You grip the phone tighter, palms digging further into the plastic.
“Oh wait,” he adds lazily. “We already have the knife, don’t we?”
You slam the receiver down so hard the plastic cracks.
For half a second, you just stand there, blinking at the phone like it might spontaneously combust. Your pulse is riotous in your throat, in your fingertips, even in your goddamn eardrums.
This is not the time to think.
You sprint through the apartment like a mad-woman, slamming locks, drawing curtains, yanking the bedroom window shut so hard it nearly takes your fingers off.
The phone rings again, shrill and furious. Like it’s screaming at you to pick up.
You don’t answer.
Instead, you grab the knife from the counter—the same one dripping with pineapple juice just ten minutes ago, before your night took a nosedive into a fucking slasher film—and stomp back to the living room.
And in one clean slice, you sever the cord with a satisfying snap.
Your chest rises and falls in tight little jerks. The knife stays clutched in one hand, your reflection warped in it. There’s something almost liberating about it, if you weren’t one second away from pissing yourself.
You stagger back towards your bedroom. It’s not safety, but it’s got a lock and it doesn’t have any windows facing the fire escape. That counts for something. You shut the door behind you and press your back to the cold wood.
Ring. Ring.
Just a moment later, the piercing sound returns. Slowly and impossibly, your head turns towards the direction.
It’s the cordless landline by your nightstand. You don’t remember plugging it in. Hell, you don’t even remember owning that model.
It rings again. And again. And again.
You inch towards it gradually, like one would acknowledge impending doom. Your hand is shaking so hard you’re not sure you’ll be able to hold it steady, but somehow you pick it up.
“...Hello?”
The man's voice snaps through the line, no longer playful and suave. “Don't you fucking dare hang up on me again. You got that?”
You flinch like he’s standing right behind you. His voice is primal now, completely stripped of it's initial charm.
“Who the fuck are you?” your voice isn’t strong anymore, it’s shredded with disbelief.
“You really wanna know?”
There’s something slick in his tone now. The promise of something worse.
“Check under your bed.”
You don’t want to. Every cell in your body is shrieking don’t look. But your legs move anyway— one slow, crawling step at a time.
You crouch beside the bed, cold air kissing your bare knees as the floor creaks. Lowering yourself further, your trembling fingers curl around the edge of the duvet as you lift it.
Shoved just barely under the frame, nestled between a dust bunny and a forgotten sock— is a digital camera.
Not just any digital camera— your camera. The same one with a pink little sticker on it. The same one you'd left at Satoru’s apartment.
Your hand darts out and snatches it. You fumble with the latch, hands slippery with sweat as the screen flickers to life.
You tap Playback, and the world tilts on it's axis.
Dozens of photos.
All recent.
All… of you.
Sleeping, brushing your hair in the mirror, walking around in your robe. One where you’re bent over tying your shoe. One taken from inside your apartment.
There’s no sound inside the room except for your own breathing. The line is dead silent.
“Why do you have this?” you whisper, voice cracking mid-sentence. “How did you even—?”
The man only chuckles. “I told you I was watching, didn’t I?”
You lurch to your feet at that, camera clutched like a weapon, phone still glued to your ear.
The voice on the line doesn’t even sound human anymore. He’s not just speaking—he’s writing a script, and you’ve fallen into the role before you ever had a chance to decline the audition.
“Now that you know your place,” he sighs, as if already bored of your resistance. “be a good girl… and do exactly as I say.”
You don’t answer.
Not because you can’t, but because your instincts have gone eerily quiet, like prey trying to fool the predator into thinking it’s already dead.
“There we go,” he lilts, a low hum of approval. “Knew you were smart.”
You hate that you feel warm under the compliment. Hate it even more that heat is already blooming somewhere low and out of your control.
“I want you to get on the bed.”
You don't bother resisting this time— sitting back on your heels, chest rising and falling like you’ve just run a mile. The phone is warm against your cheek.
“Would you be a sweetheart...” he pauses. “and spread your legs for me?”
You shift your knees apart on the mattress, the hem of your robe slipping further up your thighs, cool air kissing skin that feels too hot.
The way he says it makes your skin erupt in goosebumps. You feel as if his eyes are dragging over every inch of you, peeling you apart. And your breath catches, because some part of you wants it.
“Such a fast learner,” he adds, voice slick with satisfaction. “You like this, don't you? You want to be told what to do.”
You sit there, legs parted, knees digging into the mattress, your pulse a frantic little rabbit in your throat. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he speaks again, low and amused, as if he’s savoring your reaction leisurely.
"You're doing so well," he says softly, like a verbal reward.
And fuck, you feel it.
It slides down your spine, warm and syrupy, until you’re arching just slightly without meaning to, robe slipping further off one shoulder, baring the swell of your collarbone.
"Alright,” he murmurs coaxingly, “run your hand down your thigh.”
You let your head tilt back against the pillows, hair spilling out like ink over white cotton.
"I wonder,” curiosity seeps into his tone. “If I told you to touch yourself right now… would you?”
Your lashes flutter. There’s a pause in your breathing but not in your movement. Your fingers skim higher. Not quite there, but enough to know that your body is already betraying you.
"Say it,” he demands. “Say you’d do it.”
You don’t speak.
You just press your thighs together tightly, biting your lip so hard you taste blood. But still, you don’t say a word, instead squeezing your eyes shut. You don’t know what’s more terrifying, his words, or how your body responds to them.
“…Yes.”
He groans, quiet and low, like the sound itself is meant to crawl under your skin and live there.
“That’s my girl.”
The phone crackles with static for a second, but then his voice comes back, heavier and thicker, soaked in need.
“Slide your hand down further,” he instructs, gentle but firm. “Let’s see how obedient you really are.”
You hesitate.
Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. That’s the biggest problem.
Your fingers trail over the curve of your thigh slowly, every nerve ending screaming for contact. The moment you brush over your panties, you suck in a breath—sharp and traitorous.
A low, throaty laugh escapes him. And just by that, you know he heard that too.
“Soaked already?” he drawls. “Fuck, you really are the sweetest little thing, aren’t you?”
Your face burns, but your thighs part wider. Shame tastes like sugar on your tongue, wetness pooling with each word.
“Pull them to the side,” he says, voice huskier now. “Just one finger.”
You do.
And the first one is electric, your body arches up without permission, legs tensing beneath you as a whimper slips past your lips.
“There she is,” he exhales a shuddering sigh. “You hear how pretty you sound when you’re not pretending to be tough?”
You clamp a hand over your mouth, as if that can trap the sound in your throat. But your body is moving on instinct now, chasing the drag of your fingers, the friction that barely satisfies.
“Faster,” he says, breathing heavy through the receiver. “Let me hear you lose control.”
You whimper again, this time without restraint.
Your hips rock into your hand, breath coming in broken gasps. The sheets twist beneath you as you move, the phone pressed tight to your ear like it's the only thing keeping you from disintegrating completely.
Your body tenses as your fingers stutter, control fraying dangerously.
God, you're so close.
So close it hurts.
“Don’t cum yet.”
Your whole body jerks, fingers halting. Your legs tremble with the effort of holding back. It’s agony. Perfect agony.
“What?”
“I said don’t—” he says, voice unforgiving. “cum until I say so.”
The line disconnects, leaving nothing but a slow hum of static before deafening silence. You hear a shallow creak, making you jump mid-motion.
The phone is forgotten beside you on the mattress, tangled in the sheets and your own ragged breath. The distant sound of footsteps echoes, creeping closer with each tap on the marble.
You whip your head towards the door. The hallway lights cast a long, lean shadow across the floor. Your stomach flips, a warning scream silent in your chest as the man steps into view.
He stands there like a shadow made of flesh, broad shoulders cloaked in black, shirt unwrinkled, and tucked neatly into the waistband of matching slacks that taper over long legs.
Dark, sleek gloves encase his hands like second skin, no fingerprints and absolutely no warmth.
Then there's the mask.
White, sculpted to the upper half of his face like poured porcelain. The exaggerated contours curve into the hollow-eyed, slack-jawed sneer of the Ghostface, a distortion of terror frozen in a silent scream. It gleams faintly in the low light, making the sharp lines of his jaw beneath it seem almost surreal, like something out of a fever dream.
One hand slips into the pocket of his slacks indifferently. Like he’s waiting in line at a café instead of your bedroom. The other holds a knife— nestled casually in his grip, silver blade catching the light like it wants to be noticed. Not threatening, just inevitable like it’s always been there.
He kicks his shoes off with sleazy precision, each movement coiled with a kind of obscene elegance, like a panther peeling itself out of it's restraints.
Once those are off, he climbs onto the bed like he belongs there. Like you belong to him. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, breath stilling in your lungs as his knees slot between your thighs.
Your body reacts before your brain does, and you sit up on your elbows, instinct curling your legs in just slightly.
His gaze flicks over you gradually— messy hair, sweat-slick skin, soaked panties still pulled aside. He cocks his head with a smirk as if you’re something curious on display.
“Look at you,” His voice is just as it was on the phone, amused and soaked in mockery. “So fucked out already. And I haven’t even laid a finger on you yet.”
Your lips part, the words trying to catch up with your racing pulse. “Who—who are you?”
His fingers drag up your thigh with the ghost of a touch, leaving goosebumps on their wake.
“You really wanna know, baby?”
You nod just barely. But it’s enough.
“How could I say no to such a pretty little thing?” he purrs, tipping your chin up with a single gloved finger.
With the slow, practiced flourish of someone who knows the moment is cinematic— he slides the mask up, knuckles brushing his cheek like it’s part of the act.
A grin spreads slow and sharp beneath it, eyes gleaming like he already knows you’re fucked.
And you damn near choke to death on your own spit.
“Miss me?”
It's Suguru.
Geto fucking Suguru.
Satoru’s best friend and flatmate— the kind of guy who blends into the background with his quiet presence. The one who always has his nose buried in a book, never bothering to make eye contact in the hallway, moving with that low-key, almost invisible energy that makes you forget he’s even there. Boring. Yeah, that’s what everyone thought when they weren’t blinded by Satoru’s spotlight.
Your whole body goes cold, then hot, then cold again.
You would be lying if you said you didn’t recognize him—if you said you hadn’t fantasized once or twice during awkward breakfasts when he wore nothing but gray sweatpants and irritation.
His grin widens when he sees the flicker of familiarity in your expression. “Ah. So you do remember me.”
You open your mouth, but Suguru cuts you off with a shake of his head, chuckling softly.
“Y’know,” he muses, lips pouting slightly in faux offense, “I was kind of offended when you didn’t recognize my voice.”
The cool edge of the knife in his hands traces lightly along your cheek, then slides down your jaw, tilting your face as if he’s inspecting you for the slightest flaw.
“But then again… you were too busy screwing my best friend, weren't you?”
The sting in his tone isn’t jealousy, it’s insult. It’s wounded pride disguised as cruelty. Suguru leans closer— long, midnight hair brushing your shoulders, the knife now resting casually beside your hip.
“I heard that little sigh you gave when he finished from my room,” he says, voice darker with intent. “Heard you fake your orgasm like a fucking champion.”
“But i-” You try to open your mouth in protest, but his eyes flash.
“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart. You don’t even realize how loud you are when you’re bored,” Suguru interrupts, a mocking smile ghosting across his face. “You do that little tongue click, like you’re disappointed.”
Your face burns as shame crawls up your throat. He isn't just mocking you, he’s dissecting you. Peeling back the curtain you didn’t even know were open.
“You’re so pretty when you’re frustrated,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face. “Made it so hard for me to not walk through that door and do it right.”
You swallow, thighs still twitching with restraint. You stare at him, heart in your throat, trying to hold your need and your sanity at once.
“You… you were listening the whole time?”
Suguru hums, fingers sliding from your hip to your bare thigh again, tracing slow, teasing patterns that set your skin aflame.
“You know,” he murmurs, voice dripping with that dangerous sweetness, “I didn’t come here just to watch. I came for more.”
You swallow, cheeks burning part embarrassment, part something electric. Your eyes flicker to the knife still glinting on the floor, a dull reminder of how this night spiraled out of control. But right now, it feels like neither of you could care less.
He leans in further, breath warm against your ear, voice low enough to make your pulse skip. “You’ve been keeping all that frustration locked up tight… I think it’s time to let it out.”
Your body responds despite yourself—shivers racing down your spine, legs parting like they crave the touch he’s promising.
His hands move with slow care, fingers sliding beneath your robe’s edge, brushing over your slick heat. Your heartbeat thunders loud in your ears, breath catching in your throat as his touch grows more and more demanding.
He presses his palm flat against the fat of your breasts, pinching the swell of your nipples lightly as you let out a gasp. For a moment, the world narrows to that single, heated contact.
Suguru’s smirk softens into something darkly amused, maybe even possessive, as his fingers casually unwrap that sloppy dish towel around your bleeding finger. You catch the faint drip of blood, barely visible.
Without warning, he leans in close, eyes locked onto yours, as his lips close around that injured fingertip.
He sucks on it steadily. Not a lick, not a quick kiss, but that deep, slow suction that sends a shiver rattling down your spine.
You bite your lip, caught between surprise and a twisted kind of release, breath hitching like you’re right on the edge of losing control.
His lips pull back from your finger with a soft, wet sound, a smear of blood glinting faintly on the corner of his mouth.
“Messy,” Suguru says, a teasing glint in his eyes. “But I like it.”
The knife beside him gleams in the dim light, but right now it feels like the least threatening thing in the room.
Your nerves are screaming, but God, his attention feels like a spark in the dark. Dangerous, yes, but alive.
Suguru's eyes flick to the floor— to that little black digital camera.
The one you’d forgotten. The one you’d left at his shared house with Satoru after that stupid fucking fling. It must’ve fallen out when you scrambled under the bed, and now—it’s just lying there.
He reaches for it listlessly, like he’s got all the time in the world– and turns it over in his hand, thumb brushing the power button. The lens extends with a soft mechanical whirr.
“It would be a waste…” He says, examining the camera. “If i didn't take a picture of you like this.”
He lifts it to eye level, head tilting slightly as he frames you, eyes lingering on the subtle heat still rolling off your skin.
You can feel the weight of Suguru’s gaze as it traces the pink tint in your cheeks, the way your lower lip’s caught gently between your teeth, the tension in your shoulders. His stare drags lower, catching on the thin strap that’s slipped from your shoulder, the lazy, intimate slope of it revealing the soft dip of your cleavage.
Click.
The sound slices through the air like a whipcrack.
“Perfect.”
Suguru turns the camera around and shows you the photo. The image is small, grainy, but still: there you are. Eyes wide, mouth parted, a shoulder bared like you’re undressing for the camera itself. You can’t help it as your thighs press together.
And he notices.
“Oh? You like that?” he says, one eyebrow raised in teasing. “Wanna see what you look like when I’ve got my fingers inside you?”
You whine at his teasing— at just how much he's making you wait— hips bucking up to grind against his for any semblance of friction. Suguru pins you down with hands on either side of your hip, stopping you in your action with maddening restraint.
“You know what’s crazy?” He says, trailing a finger down your throat. “I used to hear you moan through the wall and want to tape your mouth shut.”
“But now?” A smirk curls his lips as his hand maps across your collarbone, squeezing the plush of your breasts. “Now I kinda want to hear what you sound like when you’re not pretending.”
Click.
The camera flashes again, this time angled further downward, catching your half-lidded eyes and parted legs.
“Let me do everything he couldn’t, ” Suguru murmurs, setting the camera up and leaning down, forehead brushing yours. He presses a kiss on the base of your neck. “And I’ll make a whole fucking gallery out of you.”
His fingers ghost up your thigh with agonizing patience. One gloved hand planted beside your hip, the other gently coaxing your legs wider as he slots himself lower between them.
His mouth ghosts over the inside of your thigh, warm breath skating across your skin.
"God, look at that.” Suguru gazes at you with hooded eyelids. “Satoru’s sweet little fucktoy, putting on a show for his best friend.”
His tongue peeks out, finally touching your skin. He presses a kiss just shy of your aching pussy, then pulls back with an infuriating smirk. The action urges a soft squeal out of you.
“She's fuckin' soaked for me, baby.” He says, tongue darting across his own lower lip. “No wonder you didn’t recognize my voice. Bet your pretty little head was empty.”
He leans in nose-deep into your cunt, licking one long, decadent stripe up your folds like he’s tasting something forbidden— groaning deep in his throat as your back arches and your fingers fist the sheets.
One gloved hand holds your hip steady while the other moves to grip your thighs, thumb pressing against the meat of it possessively. Suguru doesn’t look away once.
Not when his tongue circles your clit slow and lazy.
Not when you gasp, a breathy whine slipping past your lips.
Not even when your hips stutter upward and he hums into you like you’re the first thing he’s eaten all day.
“Shh,” he coos against your core, lips slick and curled in a cruel smile. “Don’t wanna ruin the audio.”
Your head falls back, neck arching, and the camera blinks red in the corner— recording, capturing every breathy moan, every flutter of your lashes, every subtle tremor in your legs as Suguru feasts on you like a starving man.
You try to focus, to breathe evenly, but it’s useless. His mouth works you open with veritable filth—tongue flat, then pointed, then curling into the spongy spot deep inside you that no one's ever reached.
“I should’ve done this the first night I heard you,” he murmurs, pausing only long enough to pant against your dripping heat. “Should’ve walked in, thrown that little white towel over your mouth, and fucked the arrogance out of you.”
His grip tightens as his tongue prods at a faster, unrelenting pace. Your thighs start to shake with the onset of your climax—encasing his head tighter between them.
“You gonna give it to me now, sweetheart?” he grunts into your cunt, hands bracing around your legs firmly. “Gonna come all over my mouth while your boyfriend's waiting for you to call back?”
“He's not my—”
You try to form words, to retort— but your control snaps finally, as the knot in the wells of your stomach comes undone with a mewl. You cream all over his tongue while his eyes bore into yours.
Suguru's mouth is onto yours as soon as he detaches from your slick. His tongue licks into your throat, deep and claiming, the taste of salt and sweet from your release still clinging to his lips.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, harder—his grip on your waist bruises, but you don’t care. Every drag of his tongue, every sharp nip urges ragged breaths against your cheek, his body pressing you into the space between restraint and sheer hunger.
He pulls back, a string of spit connecting both of your lips, mouth glistening, chin slick, and that stupid little grin planted on his face like he’s carved you into a masterpiece.
You’re panting, legs trembling where they’re spread, hands fisting the sheets so tight your knuckles ache. He watches you catch your breath, dark eyes dragging over your body like he’s already planning the sequel.
The camera light blinks red like a heartbeat in the dim room, capturing every second of your ragged breaths and flushed skin.
Suguru leans back just enough to drag a gloved hand through his hair— hand tightening, tense, hungry — then slides the other glove to the edge of his fingers.
You watch as he bites down on the cuff with those perfect, ruthless teeth. A little snap, followed by the faint pop of latex breaking free.
Suguru pulls the glove off in one smooth motion, lips trailing the edge, pearls flashing dangerously close to your skin. Without warning, he snakes his hand under your waist— flipping you onto your stomach, that bare hand hitting the fat of your ass— earning a surprised squeal from you.
His fingers splay over your thigh, nails grazing, teasing, before he presses his palm flat against your hip, holding you steady.
“Your turn,” he breathes, eyes gleaming like he’s dared you to try and resist. You’re shaking too much to do anything but obey.
The camera, still recording, gets brought up to your flushed, desperate face—spit lewdly coating swollen lips, eyes glossy with sex. Suguru props it in your hand, fingers curling over yours just enough to steady it.
“Keep it steady, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh again. “Wanna see you take me from the back.”
You make a soft, wrecked sound, which at this point, sounds more like submission to each one of his actions.
“And don’t you dare look away. You’re gonna watch yourself fall apart for me.”
Before you can answer, he’s shifting behind you, fingers slipping under the edge of your chemise, dragging it up slowly— touch scorching hot against your cool skin.
The fabric slips over your ass, teasing, exposing that smooth curve, the soft skin just begging for his hands.
And then he lowers the camera. Just a little. Still watching you through it, but now one hand’s smoothing up your calf, gliding higher.
Suguru pries your legs apart gently, a devilish smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You’re bent over the bed now, chest pressed against the mattress, back arched like a bow—every muscle taut and trembling with torment.
His gloved hand slides down your spine, then dips between your legs, fingers finding your wet folds again, rubbing your sensitive spot in delicious torture.
"Jesus–" you whimper, hands trembling, barely keeping the camera still. "Put it in already."
"Patience," Suguru clicks his tongue in disappointment, though you know he's anything but disappointed. "Don't be a brat."
The camera shifts in your hand, lens capturing your flushed cheeks, the arch of your back, the way you gasp when Suguru's hands cup your ass, kneading on the flesh tantalizingly.
“You ready, baby?”
You nod shakily, breath catching in your throat with anticipation.
You hear the soft clank of metal as the hook of his slacks comes undone. Suguru lines himself up, fingers pressing into your hips, positioning you like a damn goddamn king claiming his throne.
He sinks inside slowly, filling you inch by scorching inch, stretching your hole dangerously with his massive size.
Your body quivers under him, desperately trying to adjust to his girth, eyes rolling back in pleasure.
"F-fuck," he shudders, balls-deep inside your pussy, matress creaking with the weight of the collision. "So tight... So fucking tight f'me."
You're letting out porn worthy moans, hands clawing at the sheets as his pace quickens, each thrust more intense, more claiming than before.
“You’re not bored now, are you?” he teases, teeth grazing your ear as his pace gets even meaner. “No little tongue click tonight, huh?”
Your breath stutters—half caught in your throat, half moaned into the pillow—when his hips snap into you harder, the slap of skin-on-skin obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet room. The only other sound is the camera’s soft whir, faithfully recording every ruined inch of you.
“Back arched just right,” he says, voice is ragged in between grunts like it’s scraping out of his throat. "You’re made for this, y’know that?”
Another thrust, sharper this time, more punishing—and the pillow swallows your cry.
“Don’t hide from me,” his hand fists in your hair, tugging harshly to pull your head up, to make you see yourself wrecked. “Look at yourself.”
Your gaze is forced to the screen again. To your glassy eyes, tear-stained cheeks, mouth falling open around a sob as your body rocks with each drive of his hips.
Your fingers tremble around the edge of the mattress, barely holding on. You choke out a broken noise when he slams in deeper into your cervix, tilting your hips just so.
“Ah, fuck—yeah, there,” he rubs circles into your clit with his fingers as he thrusts into the spot that makes you see stars. “You feel that?”
Your legs shake weakly, and you can do nothing but nod helplessly. Suguru tugs harder at your hair when you give no verbal response, making your head jerk back.
“I said—do you feel that?”
“Yes!” you wail, shame and pleasure burning like wildfire in your blood.
“Atta girl.”
His hand slides down, flattening over your belly, pinning you in place as he ruins you from behind.
“You think he ever fucked you like this?” he taunts, breathless, lips brushing against your ear. “Think he ever made you forget your own name?”
The coil in your stomach is taut now, stretched impossibly close to snapping.
He knows. Of course he knows. He feels it in the way your thighs tremble, in the frantic clutch of your fingers at the sheets, in the way your walls tighten around him.
“S-shit—” he groans, pace stuttering. "Gonna cum inside you baby, yeah?"
And when it breaks, when it snaps. It tears through you like lightning, leaving your body quaking and your throat hoarse from the sound you make. You feel thick, warm, creamy ropes of his own release pump inside your cunt, filling it to the brim.
But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter with his movements. Keeps fucking you through both of your releases, watching the aftershocks rack through your spine.
“Look at you,” he growls, nails digging into your flesh. "Never want you any other way.”
And then, abruptly, Suguru pulls out completely— both of your bodies now connected with nothing but a long, stripe of white.
Your body bucks at the loss, instinctively chasing him.
“Don’t worry,” he smirks upon seeing your reaction, reaching for the camera and angling it to a new view.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡
You’re still catching your breath—legs shaking like anything, chest heaving, the mattress soaked with sweat and whatever else he’s pulled out of you—when Suguru finally shuts the camera off with a casual flick of his thumb. He hums under his breath, the sound low and oddly pleased, like a man who just finished a particularly satisfying meal.
His fingers trail lazily down the curve of your spine, feather-light, like he’s painting you into memory. The gentleness would almost be sweet, if he hadn’t been two thrusts away from murder hours earlier.
“You good?” he murmurs near your ear, lips brushing just below it in a kiss that's far too tender to be trustworthy.
You manage a slow nod, still a little drunk on adrenaline. “Y-Yeah.”
He brushes your hair back from your face, then rises with unhurried grace — shirt wrinkled, pants unzipped, camera still dangling from his hand like an afterthought. Like a trophy.
He points it at you again, this time with the lens off, just watching. Admiring the view.
“God,” he says softly, almost to himself. “You’re a fucking vision.”
Your eyes don't waver as you stare at him, and something behind your ribs shifts.
It’s not that he looks dangerous. It’s that he looks… content. Like this was never improvisation. Like every step was scripted, and you’re the only one who didn’t get a copy of the lines.
Your stomach tightens, but you keep your expression still. If there’s one thing you’ve learned tonight, it’s that fear just makes him smile wider.
“Suguru,” you whisper. “What’re you gonna do with that footage?”
The camera in his hands lowers a little, before a smile graces his lips, slow and sticky with ardour.
“Jerk off to it when I miss you. Duh.”
You shoot him a flat look, nose scrunching in distaste. “You’re so damn disgusting.”
“Yeah?” He grins wider at that, tilting his head. “Well, you got fucked silly by disgusting, old me.”
You open your mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to throw a pillow at his head — but the landline rings.
Both of you freeze over as if someone hit a pause button. Suguru tilts his head, like he’s listening to the universe set up the punchline.
“…Expecting someone?” he asks lightly.
Your shake your head, mouth dry. “No.”
“Hello?” he says, voice polite. Cheerful. Like the kind of guy who holds the elevator door open.
You can’t hear what’s said, but whatever it is has his lips curling into a slow, poisonous smile.
He turns to you, eyes gleaming with mischief. Then mouths: It’s him.
Your stomach turns inside out.
Satoru.
Your heart lurches into motion again, the floor tipping beneath you.
Suguru stretches the cord with one hand and flicks the camera back on with the other, angling it towards you.
“She’s a little tied up right now,” he says into the receiver casually.
You scramble upright, heart racing faster. “What the hell do you think you're doing—”
He silences you with a finger pressed to your lips gently.
You hear Satoru’s voice crackle distantly through the receiver. “Is she with you?”
Suguru’s eyes don’t leave yours— smile all teeth and vicious.
“She’s not just with me, Satoru,” he says, tilting the camera a little, like he’s lining up a better shot. “She’s on me.”
Your cheeks burn brightly. You mouth stop it but he just winks, like this is the highlight of his week.
“She’s still shaking,” he drawls, voice thick with satisfaction. “Twitching from the last time I made her come. Poor thing can barely speak.”
You groan into your hands, full-body cringe. Because if humiliation could kill, you'd already be embalmed.
“I could let her talk to you,” Suguru muses, panning the lens down to your legs like he's conducting a tour, “but I don’t think she wants to. Not when her mouth’s already so—”
You slap the phone out of his hand before he can finish the sentence. It hits the hardwood with a thud. You slam the receiver back into its cradle, fists shaking.
“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” you spit.
He pauses, like he’s genuinely going to reflect on your words. Then steps forward and kisses your throat. Right over your pulse. Right where he could end everything, if he felt like it.
“You know,” he murmurs, thumb stroking your jaw with fondness. “you should’ve been dead by now.”
Your breath catches. He lets it hang in the air, not as a threat, but as a simple and unapologetic truth.
“But I guess,” he adds, smirking again, “I’m sentimental.”
Suguru leans in, lips hovering a breath above yours, close enough to graze, not enough to kiss.
“You moan too pretty to waste.”
Then he pulls back a fraction. His eyes scan your face — the flushed cheeks, the wide pupils, the lip caught between your teeth.
Your arrogant boss is always trying to get under your skin– and your skirt
The edge of Gojo’s desk bites into the back of your thighs, his papers scattered across the floor, half-written reports crumpled under your palms as he drags you closer by the hips.
“Shit—” he laughs, breath hot against your cheek, “you look way too good spread out on my desk like this. Gonna start charging rent.”
“Shut up,” you snap, but it’s ruined by the whimper that slips out when his hand cups your throat, thumb pressing lazily under your jaw as if he owns you.
Gojo grins like the bastard he is, tilting your head just enough to kiss you– messy, consuming, teeth clashing because neither of you are patient enough.
His other hand is already pushing your skirt up, knuckles brushing bare skin until you’re gasping against his mouth.
“Fuck,” he groans, breaking the kiss just to look down at you, starving. “You came to work dressed like this? What, you wanted me to lose my mind in the middle of a budget meeting?”
You smirk, breathless and taunting. “Didn’t hear you complaining when you told me to stay late.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating in your chest because he’s so close. “Oh, I’m not complaining, baby.” His fingers hook in the waistband of your panties, snapping the elastic just to make you jolt. “I’m cashing in.”
You don’t even get the chance to bite back before he’s kissing you again—filthier this time, tongue stroking yours while his hips press between your thighs. The sharp edge of his desk digs into your back but you don’t care.
Not when his cock is straining against his slacks, grinding right where you need him.
“Jesus christ,” you pant, breaking the kiss, “someone’s gonna—”
“—hear us?” he finishes for you, hand slipping under your blouse to palm your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple until your back arches. “Sweetheart, I want them to.”
Your breath hitches. “You’re—fuck—insane.”
“Mm, maybe,” he hums, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck before nipping hard enough to make you gasp. “But you’re still gonna ride me in this chair like the shameless little overachiever you are.”
His fingers tug your soaked panties aside, blunt nails scraping lightly over your inner thigh until you’re trembling.
His hand presses flat against you, middle finger dragging through your slick and making him groan like he’s just been blessed.
“Dripping already?” he teases, voice sharp and low in your ear. “Guess I don’t even have to be nice about it.”
Your hands fist in his tie, yanking him down for another kiss, and he laughs into your mouth before slipping a finger inside you, slow and deliberate.
The stretch makes you moan, hips grinding against his hand shamelessly.
“That’s it,” he purrs, curling his fingers inside that spongy spot which makes you see stars. “C’mon, baby. Make it good for me. Let’s give the janitor something to gossip about.”
You’d curse at him if you weren’t too busy getting fucked out against his desk.
Gojo Satoru had a reputation that stretched wider than the campus library’s opening hours.
There were geniuses, and then there was whatever species he belonged to. He was too smart, too fast, too consistently perfect.
People chalked it up to talent or discipline or whatever supernatural caffeine he must be drinking.
And the AirPods… those were part of the legend.
He wore them like an extension of himself.
Walking to class with that loose, arrogant stride; leaning back during lectures, twirling a pen between long fingers; locked in a study booth with a look that could kill.
Always listening to something. Always floating just a little above everyone else.
Most assumed that he used brain-wave enhancement audio because of course a freak of nature like him would use something clinical.
Others bet on classical music.
A few insisted it had to be some expensive productivity playlist curated by geniuses for geniuses.
Yet no one ever heard a single note leak out. He kept the volume low, intimate, like whatever he listened to wasn’t meant for the world.
And that alone made people curious.
He never corrected them, of course. Just let the rumors swirl because rumors were convenient.
Rumors kept people from guessing the truth.
Because the truth was… he listened to something very specific.
See, Gojo Satoru was competitive to his core.
He treated focus like a ritual, something to be sharpened through whatever worked. And what worked was not music.
Not ambient noise.
Not binaural beats or motivational speeches.
What worked was you.
Not your voice in conversation, neither a cute little accidental recording.
No.
He listened to the sounds you made when he pushed you inside his room before the door even shut, your back hitting the wood while he whispered “quiet” against your jaw because his roommate was brushing his teeth on the other side.
The breathy gasps, the helpless stutters of his name.
The barely-contained moans that slipped out when you tried your best to stay quiet.
The shaky little “don’t stop” that slipped out as the corner of his table dug into your skin, knocking over half his textbooks.
He saved every second.
Cleaned the audio like it was a priceless artifact.
Trimmed it down to the soft, ruined sounds that made his pulse spike and his focus turn razor-sharp.
He hid the file deep in his phone, protected by layers of names and folders that looked perfectly academic.
To everyone else, he was studying.
To Gojo, he was studying you.
Your voice filled his ears, soft and desperate, the exact pitch he remembered from nights when his sheets were a mess and you were even messier.
He didn't need the whole thing, just a few seconds.
Your whisper turning into a needy sigh as his fingers sink deep inside your tight little cunt.
That sinful, desperate noise that slipped out when he pinned you against the library shelves, one of your shoes nearly falling off as you hooked a leg around him for balance while he pounded into you mercilessly.
The campus thought he was driven by perfectionism.
But no amount of logic could explain how violently his performance dipped on the rare nights he studied without the audio.
How distracted he became, how restless, how irritated at everything.
How often he found himself staring at his phone like an addict who misplaced his fix.
And if someone ever walked past at the wrong time and saw the way Gojo's throat bobbed when your voice hit the exact moment where you begged for more?
If they saw the faint flush rising beneath his collar, the way his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek?
If they noticed the way he pressed a hand to his knee so hard that his nails left crescent shaped indents on his flesh?
They would know.
They would know exactly whose sounds he kept pressed to his ears.
And you— poor, oblivious you —walked past him in the hallways each morning, thinking he barely remembered your time together, your nights together.
When in reality, he replayed them more than you ever had.
⭒₊˚๑ Synopsis: Gojo’s patience (and zipper) is hanging by a thread after two hours of you on his lap, in the backseat of a car full of unsuspecting witnesses.
This was absolutely not how Gojo thought a weekend getaway with friends would go.
If you’d asked him earlier, he’d have said that he was looking forward to causing trouble, charming you half to death, and making sure Nanami popped a vein before the weekend was out.
What he hadn't planned, though, was you sitting squarely in his lap for the entire two-hour drive, every little motion sending your weight down into him and blowing his fuse entirely.
The whole disaster started back in the parking lot, with a trunk that clearly had no intention of cooperating.
“This is never gonna fit,” Geto muttered, shoving an overstuffed duffel bag with the determination of a man trying to jam toothpaste back into the tube.
“Oh ye of little faith,” Gojo declared, adjusting his sunglasses and cracking his knuckles. “Watch and learn, Suguru. Watch and learn.”
Five minutes later, both of them were grunting like they were trying to tip over a vending machine, fruitlessly plunging Utahime’s ridiculous suitcase into place.
“All this for a weekend?” Gojo barked between pushes, his long legs braced against the bumper, sunglasses starting to slide down his nose. “You don’t need fourteen outfits to sit by a lake!”
Shoko was buckled comfortably in the front seat, lathering sunscreen. “Should’ve rented a hearse. You two are embarrassing.”
Meanwhile, Nanami was already seated behind the wheel, hands resting calmly at ten and two, looking like he regretted every single life choice that led him to this moment.
When the last bag finally slammed into place and the trunk door shut, Geto dusted off his hands in satisfaction. “See? Fit like a glove.”
Alas, another problem came to light promptly.
Shoko was up front, Nanami was driving, and the backseat of the car could fit three adults at most.
But there were four of you left.
Gojo blinked, rapidly glancing between you, Utahime, Geto, and himself. Then back at the seat.
“…Awkward.”
Which is how you found yourself in the backseat, perched neatly on his lap, chatting idly with Shoko up front like nothing was amiss while Nanami navigated the mountain road.
But Gojo was in absolute hell.
His hands hovered on either side of your waist, not quite touching, fingers twitching every time your hips shifted just a little, your body pressing down against him every time the car hit a bump or took a turn too sharp.
And ohhh, those bumps. Those damn bumps.
He could feel the heat rising under his collar, his cock stirring to life with every subtle grind, every tiny rock of your hips. His throat bobbed, trying to think of literally anything other than the way your skirt kept riding up.
You felt something faint and unfamiliar poking against the small of your back, but brushed it off as just another bump in the road.
With a faint click of your tongue, you shifted your hips to adjust and settle more comfortably, completely unaware that Gojo was one second away from biting through his own knuckle just to keep quiet.
She’s gonna kill me, he thought, mind a mess of crude, lustful little fragments. If she does that again I’m gonna—fuck, don’t move, don’t move, oh shit—
He pressed his skull back against the headrest, eyes screwing shut behind his shades as his jaw ticked, trying to breathe through it. Trying to keep his damn hips from bucking up for friction like some hormonal teenager.
“Everything okay, Satoru?” Geto called lazily from the other end of the seat, voice full of suspicion. “You look a little pale.”
“Peachy,” Gojo shot back through gritted teeth, voice about two octaves higher than normal. “Absolutely peachy. Worry about yourself.”
Geto didn’t look convinced, but thankfully, he didn’t press. Just smirked knowingly and turned his attention back to his phone, muttering something under his breath about Gojo finally getting what he deserved.
The poor bastard beneath you was busy counting floormat stains and praying to whatever higher power was listening that you wouldn’t move again.
But of course, you did move again.
Not much, just a little shift. Maybe to get more comfortable, maybe just to torture him, he couldn’t really tell anymore.
Your hips rolled back ever so slightly into his, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth as another wave of heat shot down his spine, hands twitching uselessly at your sides.
Gojo couldn’t take much more of this– his patience was stretched thinner than the poor seam straining at his hard-on.
“Don’t.” he muttered painfully, the word curling off his tongue in warning.
You stilled for half a beat. Then slowly turned your head toward him, deliberately brushing against his crotch yet again as you shifted.
You tilted your head, lips parted in mock confusion as you answered sweetly, “Don’t what?”
That innocent little tilt of your head was almost believable. Almost. But the faint, wicked curve of your mouth betrayed you completely.
His breath ghosted warm against your ear, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you as he leaned closer.
“You think you’re funny, huh?” he murmured, low enough that no one else could hear. Gojo's fingers slid under your shirt discreetly, teasing the skin at your waist, slowly inching higher.
“Better knock it off... Or I'll forget we’ve got an audience and fuck the attitude right out of you.”
But you only smiled, unbothered by his words, letting your lashes dip in a show of innocence so sweet it bordered on mocking.
“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”
Gojo buried his face against your shoulder blades without a word, muffling a scoff into your shirt as his fingers flexed against your body.
After that, he didn’t say a single thing the whole ride. Probably because every single word on his tongue was wildly inappropriate.
The car finally rolled to a stop in front of the lake house, gravel crunching under the tires.
Shoko was the first to move, fishing a cigarette out of her pocket as she stepped out. Nanami and Geto followed, heading straight for the trunk, unloading Backpacks and Utahime’s ridiculous suitcase with muttered complaints. Utahime herself hopped out with a huff, stretching her arms overhead like she’d just completed a triathlon.
You shifted to follow them, ready to stand and make your escape—
—but Gojo’s hand shot out, curling around your arm before you could even rise.
You froze and glanced back at him, only to find his shades pushed up onto his head, blue eyes dark and glittering with something you really didn’t like the look of.
“You really think,” he drawled, tugging you back down sharply. “I’m just gonna let you walk away after that stunt you pulled?”
Your eyes went wide.
Right, consequences of your actions. You… hadn’t really thought that far.
You laughed weakly, trying for nonchalance as you wriggled under his grip. “Oh, c’mon, Satoru… we were just having fun. No harm done, right?”
But he only grinned, teeth flashing, and pulled you closer until your back was flush against his chest.
“No can do, sweetheart.” he said, voice dropped to a teasing purr right at your ear. “You started this. Now you’re gonna finish it.”
From outside, Nanami’s voice cut through the moment, clipped and impatient. “Are you both planning to sit in there all day?”
Gojo didn’t even lift his gaze. Just let his head tip back, tongue skimming his lower lip as his fingers toyed with the hem of your skirt.
“Go on without us.” he called back, voice smooth with mockery. “Got a little... attitude problem to fix back here.”
Utahime groaned from somewhere up the steps, loud and disgusted as the realisation finally dawned on all of them.
“Ugh, gross! Keep it in your pants, Gojo!”
And just like that, he slammed the door shut, cutting off the world with a definitive click.
“Better hold onto something, princess.” he crooned, pressing his hips up just enough for you to feel what was waiting for you. “'Cause you’re not getting off this lap until you beg.”
From the very first day, Satoru Gojo didn’t enter your line of sight. He stole it.
It started with a brief look, the kind that shouldn’t really mean anything other than friendly, but here you were. That man could walk into a room and boom- everyone’s eyes (yours included) were suddenly glued to him.
But you being reasonable, practical, painfully realistic you, told yourself what every sane person would:
He’s way out of reach. A guy like him doesn’t happen to simpletons like you.
You convinced yourself of that so thoroughly it became a shield. A quiet, stubborn truth you clung to whenever your pulse reacted stupidly to his presence. Whenever his laugh came too close. Whenever he turned those damned eyes on you for a second too long.
You realise quiet late that you should’ve held on tighter.
Because the moment he initiated something; the first teasing comment meant only for you, the first brush of fingers stealing something from your hands, the first night he stood closer than ever before; you felt something unlock in your chest.
Something warm. Something foolish. Something that whispered, maybe…
And being wanted by him, or whatever version of wanting he offered, felt like standing on a rooftop with the whole city beneath you.
Reckless, elevated, like wind had chosen you. Like the world suddenly opened its palms and said go on, take him.
But you didn’t know that being something to Satoru hurts worse than being nothing at all.
And now?
Now you’re sitting on your bed, knees pulled to your chest, the blue glow of your phone washing over your face.
Your thumb scrolls through your contacts, not to call anyone, you’re not that brave anymore. But just to avoid the line right at the top:
Satoru Gojo — 14 missed calls (Outgoing).
Over the course of three days, you had called him fourteen times. And he answered not once.
You don’t know what stings more. That he stopped trying… or that you didn’t.
A humorless laugh escapes you.
Silly, wasn’t it?
Reaching for the moon and expecting it to belong to you.
Because the moon isn’t anyone’s. And certainly not yours.
-------
The rain starts sometime past midnight.
A slow thumping against the windowpane that makes your dull apartment feel smaller than it is. You step out of the shower after standing under the hot water far too long, hoping the steam would clear your head the way it clears a mirror.
It doesn’t.
You’re towel-drying your hair when you hear the knock. It's strange, given the odd time. Who could be here at this hour?
You take one step toward the door, then another, the towel dragging behind you… but before you can reach the handle, the latch clicks, and the door opens on its own.
Your heart sinks and lifts at the same time.
You know that presence instantly. Mainly because no one else has the audacity or the keys to your apartment.
Satoru’s silhouette fills the doorway first, then steps into the light.
He’s drenched from head to toe. His hair is soaked through, strands sticking to his forehead, others dripping onto the collar of his shirt. Water clings to his lashes, his eyes- normally too bright and endearing for their own good- look tired and muted, like someone dimmed him down.
He shuts the door behind him with a quiet thud.
You don't speak yet. You wait for him to say something. Anything.
He doesn’t.
He just breathes out slowly and toes off his shoes, pushing them aside with a wet squeak against the floor. His jacket comes off next, peeled off his shoulders and dropped carelessly. The fabric hits the ground with a dull, damp slap.
Satoru's fingers rake through his wet hair, sending droplets down his neck. He looks nothing like the man who walks into rooms as if the world revolved around him.
He looks… human. Exhausted, frayed.
When he finally looks up and scans you up and down with those ocean blue eyes, you feel that same godforsaken hope come back.
He steps toward you without a word. One gradual step, then another.
You’re backing up before you even realize you’re moving. Something in his gaze is pulling, not demanding, but desperate in a way that makes the back of your throat tighten.
His hand lifts to your cheek, cold and soft. His thumb gently sweeps along your skin, like he’s checking if you’re really there.
You barely get out a shaky inhale to speak. His lips are on yours a heartbeat later.
There’s no warning, no easing into it, no room to think. His mouth crashes into yours with a hunger you haven’t felt from him in weeks.
Satoru's breath is warm but his body is cold from the rain. His fingers slide into your hair, still damp from the shower, gripping just enough to tilt your head back.
You gasp against his mouth, but he swallows the sound. He walks you backward, step by step, his body pressing into yours, until your back hits the wall with a soft thud. His other hand grips your waist, pulling you in until you can feel every line of him.
“Satoru—” your words disappear into a mumble between both of your mouths.
He only kisses you harder, lips moving with urgency, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he stops.
“Wait—” Your nails graze the back of his neck as you try to push him away, but he takes it as a shiver, not resistance.
His mouth trails down your jaw, the slick of rain on his hair dripping onto your collarbone.
“I missed you,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I was going insane.”
“Stop,” you breathe, pushing firmer this time.
He doesn’t hear it. Or he refuses to.
His teeth catch your lower lip, grip tightening on your waist. His whole body leans into yours, caging you in.
You shove him, as hard as you can this time.
He stumbles backward from the force, shock written so clearly on his face it almost physically hurts. He braces a hand behind him to keep from falling, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls. His hair drips onto the floor, lips still slightly parted from the kiss.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, chest rising and falling rapidly. “I told you to fucking stop, Gojo.”
He takes a tiny, hesitant step towards you, fingers flexing as though he doesn’t know whether to reach out or pull away.
“I thought…” His voice drops further. “I thought you wanted this.”
The redness on his lips catches your eye again, the slight swell from the kiss making him look vulnerable in a way that almost hurts you more than his words. Satoru's gaze flickers between anger and something softer; hurt, confusion, disbelief; all tangled together.
You look at him for a long moment, then shake your head faintly.
“What about hello?” You gesture helplessly. “What about asking me how I’ve been? What about sorry I didn’t answer your calls ? Or sorry I disappeared for days ? Not even once?”
He sighs, running a hand over his face. “You know how my job is. You know very well that I—”
“Do you think you can show up at my door anytime you feel lonely and I’ll just open my legs for you?”
His eyes widen, a flicker of guilt and confusion crossing his face. “That’s not… you know i didn’t mean it like that.”
“That’s what it feels like.” Your voice trembles, frustration finally surfacing. “Satoru, that’s exactly what it feels like.”
He steps closer, slower this time, cautious of your reaction. “I don’t see you that way.”
“Then why does it feel like that’s all I am to you?” Your fingers curl into fists. “Why do I get the disappearing and the last-minute nights where you touch me like I’m necessary but treat me like a convenience?”
The words land like a blow in the silence of your apartment, and he doesn't dare move.
“I’m terrified, Satoru. Of waking up one day and hearing nothing because you’re gone.” Your bottom lip trembles, even when you try your best to keep your composure. “Because you went ahead and got yourself killed.”
Something in him snaps at that. The softness collapses, replaced by something hot and brittle. A spark of anger flickers across his face, tightening his jaw.
“So that’s why you pushed me away. Because you think I’m going to die, just like that?”
“No.” Your fingers press into your temple. “You can't just walk in and—”
“That’s just how I show I care.” he blurts out, hand darting out to catch your wrist before you look away.
It’s not rough, but it’s desperate. His grip tightens for a second like he’s afraid you’ll slip from him entirely.
“That’s not caring, Satoru!”
He flinches at the volume in your voice, his eyes widening just a little, like he never expected you to react.
“I’m just...” You sigh, pulling your wrist away sharply from his grip. “I'm scared because losing you is the one thing I don’t think I’d recover from.”
The anger on his face stutters for a moment. But just as quickly, it reignites.
“That’s stupid,” he says stubbornly. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Are you done?” he drags his hands down his face, like you're the one being difficult. “Because I'm still here.”
“Satoru…” You fight the urge to laugh, or cry, or collapse entirely. “You are not immortal.”
He looks away sharply, jaw ticking.
Satoru hates hearing that.
You can tell he wants to fight you on it- wants to argue, wants to insist- but he stays silent, staring at the floor as water drips from his hair. You step closer as his chest rises and falls in tight, uneven breaths.
Finally he mutters, voice smaller than you've ever heard. “I don’t want you thinking about me dying.”
You bring your hand slowly up to his cheek, cold and pale from the rain.
“I don’t want to think about it either,” you whisper, thumb brushing the corner of his jaw. “But I can’t shut it off.”
For a beat, Satoru goes utterly still. He leans into your palm like it’s the only place he’s allowed to rest; eyes fluttering shut, his own hand coming up to cover yours, fingers curling around your wrist as if it's his one and only hope.
His shoulders lose their usual careless posture, sagging just a little, like your touch is the first real thing he’s felt all day.
He looks nothing like the man people call invincible. He looks like someone who’s running out of places to hide.
“I don’t want you thinking I’m using you.”
Your hand twitches in his grasp, but he only tightens his hold.
“You don’t get it,” he says quietly, almost defeated. “When I’m not with you, everything feels… wrong. Like I’m stuck in a world I don’t want to be in.”
His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist absently.
“But I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to love you like you deserve to be loved.”
He turns your hand slowly, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a kiss into your palm. Soft, lingering, but with a kind of desperation.
Then he finally opens his eyes, blue and hurting.
“I don’t want to lose this. Whatever it is.”
He's trying to persuade you, but it isn’t enough.
It’s never enough.
“This is what I mean,” you say, yanking your hand back. “You say things that sound like answers. And then I end up right where I started.”
You turn away haughtily, walking to your room before he can say anything else, footsteps light against the floor.
But you barely make it past the hallway as you feel the warmth of him at your back a moment before his hand closes around your wrist.
Not rough, but strong. Like he’s decided you don’t get to walk away from this conversation.
Your body stops with a small involuntary jerk, breath catching in your throat.
Satoru pulls you toward him, not yanking you, not dragging you, just guiding you backward with a pressure that brooks no argument.
Like he’s done this a hundred times.
Like your body naturally knows how to come back to his.
You pivot slightly as he spins you gently but firmly, your back hitting the wall behind with a muffled thud. His fingers slide from your wrist to your lower waist, palm warm even through your skin.
“Don’t walk away from me.”
Satoru's chest is almost touching yours, brows drawn together like he’s frustrated with you and himself at the same time. His other hand slides up your neck, softly tracing your skin like he’s reminding you of every night he’s had his hands on you.
Your chin lifts slightly as he tips your head toward himself, thigh brushing yours. His lips ghost your temple, voice is low and irritatingly calm.
“Maybe where you started wasn’t so bad.”
Your heartbeat stumbles as he lowers his head and kisses the spot beneath your ear.
“Maybe you’re overthinking.”
You let out a shaky breath. It feels like he steals it straight from your mouth.
“Satoru, stop.” you mutter.
He laughs under his breath. It’s small and humorless, and it hits your skin with instant goosebumps. “You always say you'll leave. But you never do.”
And you can't even argue this time. Because you're right where he wanted you, yet again.
The lot is half-empty when you pull in, that strange dead hour where the sun hangs low in the sky. Gojo’s leaning against the driver’s side of his own car, sunglasses perched on his nose and hair pushed back neat, like he’s on his way to a date instead of a custody swap.
Your son barrels straight into your legs from the passenger seat, sugar-high evident in the way he bounces while you steady him with one hand. There’s a tell-tale smear of chocolate at the corner of his mouth.
“Candy before dinner. Again.”
Gojo raises his arms in surrender, but that smile on his face is all teeth. “He asked so sweetly. What kind of monster would I be to say no?”
“The kind that knows how to parent, maybe?” you retort, wiping chocolate from your son’s cheek. “You can’t keep bribing him with sugar.”
It is then that you notice the foam sword clutched tightly in your son's tiny fist like some medieval prize. He waves the sword around with enough force to make you duck back.
“Mama, look! Daddy took me to the arcade and I got this!”
You level a stare at Gojo, who pushes off the car with the kind of casualness only people begging to be punched can muster.
“The arcade,” you repeat flatly, crossing your arms. “Which part of take our child to the park did you not understand?”
“C’mon, the arcade is just an indoor park." His eyes flick down as he speaks, slow and shameless, following the line of your dress before they return to your face like nothing happened.
You arch a brow at him, but don’t bother calling him out on it.
“Besides, I was going to take him there. But then we drove past the arcade, and, well—he gave me the eyes.” Gojo gestures towards your son. “You know, your eyes. I’m powerless against them.”
“You’re supposed to be the guardian,” you huff, brushing sweaty hair off your son’s forehead. “Not the co-conspirator of his rebellion.”
The kid practically vibrates with excitement as he takes out a handful of tickets from his pockets, holding them up like treasure. “Look! I’m rich now!”
Gojo ruffles his hair, leaning down. “Don’t let it get to your head, big man. First riches then women, and trust me, that’s a slippery slope.”
“Gross. Don’t talk like that around him.”
“Still so hot when you nag,” He drapes a hand over his chest, staggering back a step like you’ve just fired an arrow straight through him. “Right here, baby.”
You scowl. “And you’re still full of crap. Some things never change.”
The little boy beside you, though, whispers with the kind of exaggerated secrecy only kids know how to pull off, hopping from foot to foot.
“Um… I think I need to go bathroom.”
You glance at him, a little worried, but Gojo waves a hand, already rising. “I’ll take him.”
The boy shakes his head hard, tugging at your sleeve instead. “No, you come.”
Gojo leans back in his chair with a crooked smile, watching as you usher the kid toward the hallway.
When you return, your son is inside the restroom and you’re left waiting by the door– with your ex-husband slouching lazily against the wall beside you. It’s quieter here, the muffled noises of the parking lot a backdrop.
You clear your throat, testing the waters. “Your girlfriend didn’t mind you bringing him here on a Saturday?”
“Ex-girlfriend,” he corrects without missing a beat, like he’d been waiting for the opening.
You shift your weight, adjusting the strap of your dress at the shoulder. “Hm. No shock there.”
You try to tamp down the little surge of satisfaction crawling up your chest. A tiny cough, too carefully timed, gives you away though.
Gojo notices everything, of course. He tips his head toward you, grin widening.
“What? Don’t tell me you’re happy to hear that.”
“I’m not.” you shoot back, straightening your back as your son comes running back triumphantly.
“I washed my hands twice!” he declares.
“Good,” you say, buckling him into the car, slamming the door a little harder than necessary. From the window of his seat, he’s already reaching for his father, little arms outstretched.
“Daddy, high five!” he beams, and Gojo obliges with a dramatic smack that makes him giggle.
You settle into the driver's seat, fastening your seatbelt. “Say goodbye to Daddy.”
“Goodbye, Daddy!” your son chirps. Gojo leans one arm against the open window, waving back.
“Bye, champ. And goodbye…” his eyes flick deliberately to you, “…to my favorite girl.”
Your son giggles again, squirming in his seat. “She’s not your girl!”
Gojo gasps. “Not my girl? Ouch. You hurt me, buddy.”
“Mommy’s my girl,” the boy declares proudly.
Gojo tilts his head, that cocky sparkle in his eye never dimming. “Guess we’ll just have to share then.”
“Daddy, you’re so silly!”
“Yeah,” you mutter, cheeks warming. “silly’s one word for it.”
A/N: Divorced couple with sexual tension is my favorite genre
hii js wanted to lyk that the links on ur pinned don’t work!!
I apologize for the inconvenience guys. I update them every week idk why this keeps happening. I'll update them once more and report this issue to the tumblr management. Thank you for reading!!! Love you guys XX
i’ve recently stumbled upon the goldmine that is nerdjo (late to the party ik) and your writing is actually the next best thing after sliced bread. the links to the rest of the Molecular Romance series after part 1 don’t work though 💔💔 if you removed them sorry for the bother king
Oh noo, I did not remove them! I keep updating the links but they act up every week. Smh. So sorry. But you can view the parts on my profile.
The ceremony itself was… surprisingly short. Utahime had threatened Shoko for months about keeping the vows under ten minutes, and it showed.
Gojo spent most of it slouched in his chair, sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, pretending to study the floral arch. In truth, his eyes kept sliding to the back of your head.
The moment you tilted your head during the vows, or hid a small laugh behind your palm, his eyes betrayed him, seeking you out without permission.
He told himself it was because the hat you’d chosen was ridiculous for an indoor wedding. Not because he had the audacity to think you’d have looked better than either bride in white, smiling at him. A thought he immediately drowned with a gulp of champagne.
“Staring at the back of her head won’t reverse the breakup.” Nanami muttered beside him, not bothering to look away from the altar.
Gojo tore his gaze away like a guilty kid caught cheating on a test.
“I’m not staring,” he shot back a little too fast. “I’m—uh—admiring the symmetry of Shoko’s bun. It’s very… spherical.”
Nanami didn’t even dignify that with a glance. “Why are you looking two rows down for Shoko's bun?”
Gojo huffed and dropped his chin into his palm. “Do you ever shut up during weddings?”
Nanami shrugged. “Someone has to say what everyone else is thinking.”
Gojo kicked his leg out under the pew, scoffing. “You’ve gotten snarky in your old age.”
“I'm literally your junior.”
The ceremony ended soon after in applause and a burst of camera flashes. You turned just enough to join in the clapping, and Gojo caught the quick flick of your lashes when your eyes accidentally met his. God, those eyes.
He smiled, obviously. It was entirely out of reflex and the tiny hope that maybe, you'd smile back.
But you looked away as if the ceiling had suddenly become fascinating, crushing the little anticipation he harbored right in your palm.
So by the reception, Gojo had abandoned dignity entirely.
He paced near the edge of the dance floor with a glass of champagne, draining it in fast, anxious gulps and replacing it every time a waiter passed.
Nanami stood near the bar, arms crossed, and very much the designated adult amongst his seniors.
“If you keep that up, you’ll be more decoration than guest by dessert.”
“Relax,” Gojo replied, tipping back the last of another glass. “I’m a tall guy. Big surface area so it distributes evenly.”
He caught you once across the room, chatting with one of the groomsmen. You threw your head back laughing at something, not even at him, and he immediately snatched another flute of champagne off a passing tray.
Nanami gave him a look that could have withered crops. “Do you intend to drink every time she smiles?”
“Depends,” Gojo said lightly, though his eyes were clearly struggling to detach from your figure. “How much champagne do they have?”
Before he could wail about his cruel fate, the bouquet toss was announced. Shoko and Utahime climbed the tiny stage in front of the DJ booth.
Neither looked particularly bridal about it; Shoko was still holding her drink, and Utahime had kicked off her heels.
“Okay, everybody under forty-five, up here!” Utahime hollered.
“Under forty-five?” someone called.
“I’m being generous!” she yelled back.
Gojo, unwilling to be corralled into the throng, loitered at the edge with Nanami. The other man had his arms crossed, already unimpressed.
Shoko waved her free arm at the crowd. “Alright, we’re not professional pitchers, so aim low on your expectations.”
Utahime rolled her eyes and counted off. “Three… two… one!”
The tosses were disasters.
Shoko’s bouquet went up in a wild, wobbling arc that made a little kid in the back duck and sent a shower of petals flying like confetti.
Utahime’s had too much wrist on it and sailed sideways, threatening to take out the DJ’s laptop before gravity claimed it.
In the scramble that followed, you, who had clearly intended to stay out of the competition, lifted your hands out of sheer self-defense.
And Shoko’s bouquet thunked right into them like it had chosen you.
The crowd laughed and whooped.
Meanwhile, Gojo had been watching the whole thing with amused detachment. Right up until Utahime’s bouquet caromed off someone’s shoulder and made a perfect slow-motion dive for his chest.
He caught it reflexively, like a ball in gym class.
The DJ made a ridiculous little drum roll sound effect, and the crowd cheered even louder.
For a moment—a stretched, suspended heartbeat—it was just you and him, bouquets in hand, staring at each other across the small sea of guests.
Gojo’s grin flickered in a second too late, wide but tense, the exact face of a guy who’s wondering if bolting for the exit would be more dignified than standing there.
Nanami sighed audibly somewhere behind Gojo.
“Of course,” he muttered, “it would be you two.”
A/N: Good to be back after a loooong hiatus :D lmk if you want more parts!!
