꒰ 𓏲๋࣭࣪˖🌷.ᐟ Satoru Gojo is the loudest, prettiest boy on campus — and secretly the biggest nerd you've ever met. You make a list of twenty ways to make him yours. It works better than expected. ꒱
ᘛ ꒰ satoru gojo x reader | university au | fluff, crack-ish, mutual pining, 3.4k wc. no real warning, this is pure fluff. art by @/to00fu dividers by @uzmacchiato and @pixopix ྀིა
Gojo Satoru did not look like a nerd. That was the first thing you had to get past.
He was six-foot-three, white hair that looked like he'd bleached it out of spite, and a jawline that made underclassmen forget how to walk in straight lines. So the first time you sat next to him in Intro to Theoretical Physics and watched him correct the TA's derivation on the whiteboard— politely, cheerfully, in a way that made the TA visibly reconsider their choice of career— you assumed it was a fluke. A pretty boy who got lucky on one problem set.
It was not a fluke. It happened every single week.
By week four you knew: underneath the sunglasses he wore indoors "for the bit," underneath the easy charm and the way he called everyone "sweetheart" like it cost him nothing, Gojo was the single biggest nerd you had ever met in your life. He annotated his textbooks in four colors. He had a ranked opinion on which university library floor had the best "ambient silence." He once spent twenty minutes explaining the Fermi paradox to a girl at a party who had asked him, literally, where the bathroom was.
And somehow, against every instinct you had about self-preservation, you'd fallen for him anyway.
The problem was that Gojo Satoru was completely, catastrophically oblivious to the fact that you liked him. Not because he was dumb— the man had a 4.0 and could recite pi to sixty digits when he was nervous— but because emotional self-awareness was, apparently, the one subject he'd never taken.
So you did what any reasonable person would do. You made a list.
Not a real list, not at first— just something you texted your roommate at 1 a.m. after he'd walked you back to your dorm and then said "anyway, goodnight, study buddy!" like a golden retriever who'd just learned the word "goodnight." But it grew. Item by item, week by week, you built yourself a plan. A syllabus, if you wanted to be annoying about it. A plan for how to make a nerd— your nerd, if you had anything to say about it– fall for you back.
Here's what the list looked like, three weeks later, mostly executed and slightly out of order:
1. Ask him to explain something you already understand
Not because you need it explained. Because Gojo lights up like a Christmas tree the second someone asks him a real question, and there is nothing in this world cuter than a six-foot-three man drawing a diagram of quantum entanglement on a napkin at 9 p.m. because you asked "wait, but how does that actually work?" He'll talk for eleven minutes straight. You will not understand half of it. You will not care.
2. Bring him coffee exactly the way he takes it, without asking.
Oat milk, two sugars, and— this is important— he needs it slightly too hot, because he likes complaining that it burned his tongue and then drinking it anyway. The first time you showed up to your study session with his order memorized, he stared at the cup for a solid five seconds like you'd handed him a diamond instead of a four-dollar latte.
"You remembered," he said, and for once he didn't sound like he was performing anything.
"It's not that hard, Satoru."
"No," he agreed, still staring at the cup. "I guess it's not."
3. Steal his hoodie and never give it back.
This one is less a strategy and more just theft, but the effect is the same. You took it during a group project when the library air conditioning decided finals week was a personal vendetta, and you simply forgot to return it. He noticed. He did not ask for it back. He instead started "accidentally" leaving other sweaters at your dorm, like he was building a small collection of hostages in reverse.
4. Beat him at something. Anything.
Gojo has never lost gracefully in his life. He is aggressively, hilariously competitive about things that do not matter, like Mario Kart, or who can name more moons of Saturn, or whose flashcards are better organized. Beat him once— just once— and watch a switch flip behind his eyes. He will demand a rematch. He will demand several rematches. He will, three rematches later, forget that he is supposed to be trying to win and just start trying to make you laugh instead.
5. Notice the thing he's insecure about, and don't make a big deal of it.
Underneath the confidence, Gojo has Opinions about his own eyes— the pale blue, the way people stare, the way strangers sometimes ask invasive questions like he's a museum exhibit. You noticed early that the sunglasses weren't entirely a bit. So you never once commented on his eyes unless it was in passing, the same way you'd mention someone's nice handwriting. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Just a fact about him, not a headline.
He clocked that you'd clocked it. He didn't say anything. But he started taking the glasses off around you more.
6. Let him info-dump. Then remember what he said.
Two weeks after the Fermi paradox incident, you asked him— out of nowhere, mid-lecture— "okay but statistically, if the paradox holds, doesn't that actually support the idea that we're early, not alone?" He turned to look at you like you'd grown a second head. A good second head.
"You remembered that?"
"You explained it for twenty minutes to a stranger looking for the bathroom. Of course I remembered."
7. Make him carry something heavy for you.
Not because you need the help. Because there is a specific, devastating satisfaction in watching Gojo Satoru— who could probably bench-press the entire physics department— insist on carrying your grocery bags, your laundry basket, your six textbooks, all at once, while pretending it's nothing, while very obviously flexing about it.
8. Show up to his study group uninvited and stay anyway.
He runs a Tuesday night study group that is, allegedly, "for anyone who wants to come," but somehow the same three terrified freshmen show up every week and leave within the hour because Gojo cannot resist turning every session into a TED talk. You started showing up too. You did not leave within the hour. By the third week, he'd started saving you a seat next to him without being asked— the one by the outlet, because he'd noticed your laptop charger was fraying.
9. Text him something dumb at 2 a.m. and let him overthink his reply.
You know this one works because your roommate is somehow also friends with his roommate, and the intel came back within the hour: Gojo spent eleven minutes composing a response to your "ok but if a vending machine gains sentience is it a philosophical zombie or just annoying" text. Eleven minutes. For a joke. He sent back four different drafts before landing on one, and it was still unhinged.
10. Compliment his handwriting, not his face
He gets told he's hot approximately nine times a day, by everyone, including strangers on the bus. It means nothing to him anymore— it's just weather. But tell him his lecture notes are genuinely, freakishly beautiful— every equation boxed, every margin annotated in four colors like he's illuminating a medieval manuscript— and watch him go quiet in a way he never does when someone calls him pretty.
11. Let him see you fail at something.
Gojo doesn't actually want a girl who has it together 100% of the time— he wants someone real, though it took you a while to realize that. The night you completely bombed a presentation and cried a little in the stairwell after, he didn't try to fix it or hype you up with empty noise. He just sat down on the concrete step next to you in his very expensive jeans and said, "okay, worst professor you've ever had, go," and let you complain until you'd laughed the tears away.
12. Ask about his family. Actually listen.
He deflects hard whenever anyone brings up the Gojo name, the money, the expectations. Most people either fawn over it or pretend it doesn't exist. You did neither— you just asked, once, gently, "is it heavy? Carrying all that?" and let the silence sit instead of filling it. He didn't answer for a full minute. Then he told you more than he'd told anyone all semester. He told you about his twin.
13. Give him a nickname that isn't about how he looks.
Everyone calls him "Six Eyes" as some ironic school-wide joke about how much he supposedly sees. You started calling him "Professor" instead, low and teasing, every time he got insufferable about a fact nobody asked for. He complained about it constantly. He also, notably, never asked you to stop.
14. Show up to his dumb extracurricular thing
He's in the university's astronomy club, which meets on the roof of the science building at ungodly hours to look at things you cannot see because of light pollution. You went once, mostly out of curiosity, and ended up going every month after, wrapped in his stolen hoodie (see: item 3), while he pointed at smudges in the sky and insisted, with total conviction, that one of them was definitely Saturn.
"That's a plane, Satoru."
"It's Saturn, and I won't be taking questions."
15. Get jealous. Badly. On purpose.
You are not proud of this one, but it worked, so it's staying on the list. A guy from your seminar started sitting suspiciously close to you during group work, and Gojo— usually the most chill, unbothered person alive— suddenly developed a burning need to sit in on your seminar "for fun." He is not enrolled in your seminar. He does not need to be there. He was there anyway, arms crossed, radiating an aura your professor mistook for academic passion.
16. Take care of him when he forgets to take care of himself.
For someone so smart, Gojo is disastrous at remembering to eat during midterms. You started leaving snacks in his backpack without telling him— protein bars, the specific brand of gum he chews when he's anxious, a note sometimes. He never mentioned it directly. He just started leaving you snacks back, an unspoken little economy of care neither of you would put a name to yet.
17. Let him walk you home even when you don't need it.
It's fifteen minutes out of his way. He does it every time anyway, sunglasses off, hands in his pockets, talking the entire walk about nothing and everything, and you've started timing your goodnights to be a little longer than they need to be.
18. Catch him staring, and don't look away first.
It happened in the library, over a stack of shared notes— you looked up and he was already looking, not at your notes, at you, and for once in his entire dramatic life he didn't have a single word ready. You didn't look away. Neither did he. Somebody's highlighter rolled off the table and neither of you moved to catch it.
19. Tell him, out loud, that you like the nerd version of him best.
Not the flirt. Not the golden retriever performing for a crowd. The version that gets quiet and intense over a whiteboard, that memorizes the digits of pi when he's anxious, that lit up over a napkin diagram because someone finally asked him a real question. You told him this on the roof, under his fake Saturn, and he went so still you thought you'd broken him.
20. Kiss him first.
Because he will never, ever make the first move— not out of fear, but because some small, stupid, sincere part of him doesn't believe someone like you would actually want someone like him, underneath all the noise. So you have to be the one. You kiss him on the roof, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, his ridiculous fake constellation still glowing faintly behind him, and he makes a sound against your mouth like every ounce of composure he's ever performed just short-circuited at once.
When you pull back he's staring at you the way he stares at a problem he's finally solved— stunned, delighted, a little smug that he got there at all.
"Say something smart, Professor," you tell him, breathless.
"Give me a second," he says. "You broke my working memory."
okie would u do like mean gojo making reader get used to orgasming more than once cus all her life she’s been like one and done and like gojos tryna break her out of that habit;)
mdni. mean!gojo breaking your one-and-done habit.
gojo’s got you spread on the hotel bed, wrists pinned above your head in one massive hand, blindfold on you because he likes watching your mouth fall open when you can’t see the smug look on his face.
you’re already shaking from the first one. came so hard on his cock you saw white behind your eyelids, thighs locked around his hips, babbling nonsense while he fucked you through it slow and deep. now you’re trying to push him off, oversensitive, clit throbbing, walls fluttering around nothing since he pulled out.
“satoru—wait—i’m done, i can’t—”
he laughs, knees shoving your thighs wider. “done? baby, you’re just getting started.”
you whimper when his fingers slide back down, two of them slipping through your slick folds, circling your swollen clit with barely-there pressure that still makes your whole body jerk.
“see? still so wet. still so greedy.” he presses harder, watching your hips twitch up. “you’ve spent your whole life thinking one’s enough. cute. wrong.”
he’s been at this for weeks—edging you, overstimulating you, making you come again and again until you’re crying and begging and finally admitting you want more. tonight he’s done playing nice.
he pushes three fingers inside without warning, curling them up hard against your g-spot while his thumb stays relentless on your clit. the stretch burns so good your back bows off the mattress.
“satoru—fuck—t-too much—”
“too much?” he mocks. “you came once and thought that was it? nah. you’re gonna come again. and again.”
you’re sobbing now, thighs trembling, trying to close them but he just wedges his shoulders between, holding you open. his fingers pump faster, hitting that spot over and over while his thumb rubs tight, mean circles.
“look at you,” he coos, leaning down so his breath fans your ear. “already dripping again. pussy’s crying for it. you love being forced to take more, don’t you?”
you can’t answer. your second orgasm builds terrifyingly fast, sharper than the first, almost painful. you try to warn him, try to push his hand away, but he just pins your wrist harder.
“don’t you fucking dare stop it,” he growls. “come on my fingers like a good slut. show me how many times this greedy cunt can go.”
it hits you like a slap—almost blinding. and he doesn’t stop. keeps fucking you through it, slow now, dragging it out until you’re whimpering, boneless, tears slipping out from under the blindfold. when you finally go limp he pulls his fingers free and kisses the corner of your mouth, soft for once.
“that’s two,” he whispers, already sliding back down your body. “we’re going for four tonight. maybe five.”
your exhausted laugh turns into a broken moan when his tongue flicks your oversensitive clit.
“satoru—”
“shh,” he says against your pussy, voice vibrating through you. “you’re not done until i say you are.”
MDNI, suggestive content, legal age gap - reader is 22 & toru is 33, modern au, gojo's fuckin' stacked
stepping into the new year bold as hell, don't ask me why i'm writing a summer fic in january please - happy first day of 2026!!🫶🏽
dilf! satoru gojo x camp counselor! reader
Synopsis: you've harbored a crush on your little campers' rich, devastatingly handsome, and SINGLE, father for the past year you've been working at your rich kid summer camp. you've long waited for the summer to finally roll around just to get a chance to see him again. little do you know, satoru harbors the same, if not worse, aching desire to see you, the beautiful, compassionate, unassuming young woman looking after his baby. the only problem is, neither of you can keep it hidden anymore.
to sum it up: you are satoru's kids' favorite counselor... and you're satoru's favorite counselor too.
WC: 21,926 (yIKEES)
Warning(s): porn with a plot, kind of a slow burn into eventual smut, dad gojo, car sex, briefest mention of “daddy”, dirty talk everywhere, breeding kink uh, honestly it’s just filth, PRAISEEEEEEE
You bounce on the balls of your feet as you wave off the next car that passes through the car pool circle. In your other hand is the hand of the child that the van just dropped off, his little fingers squeezing yours tightly.
“Alright, bud, go sit with your bunk,” you bend down to guide him past you, into the care of your other coworker who helps walk the seven year old to his group. You whip your head back around with a sharp exhale, lips tugging upward and hands patting anxiously against your thighs.
You peer down the line with anticipation, eyes flickering over the cars you studied for weeks the previous summer, engraving their families into your memory. You nibble on the inside of your cheek when you still see no sign of the particular vehicle you are in desperate search for, and you sigh again, for what seems to have been the hundredth time today.
Butterflies are swarming in your stomach as the sticky summer heat clings to your shining skin, legs exposed in your denim shorts. You hear the distant hum of cicadas underlying the excited chatter of campers as they buzz about with camp friends they had likely been separated from for the whole of the school year. The sun is bright this morning as it beams into your face, and in that moment you remember why you’re always instructed to bring sunglasses or some kind of visor when managing the carpool line.
You would have remembered if your brain wasn’t so scrambled this morning. You’ve adapted to this role quite well, now going into your second year as a senior counselor for this ridiculously wealthy summer program for children ages six to fourteen. You’ve been working as a counselor at various camps for years now, now preparing to study to get your masters in education in the fall. You surround yourself with kids because you love working with them. You have an equal skill for networking and socializing in general, as there is a certain air about you that exudes purity, kindness, and personability.
Your ability to emotionally connect with every single person you meet is why you have been established as the first face that parents see when they drop their kids off to camp. You’re a sweetheart, and you hold yourself with this untouchable poise that guides the campers to respect you and abide by your compassionate authority.
You happened upon this role completely by accident, as it was one of your first days at this particular camp (that you also stumbled upon by accident). Initially, carpooling was managed by a different counselor each day. But when your boss saw how efficiently you ran the loop, how intimately you engaged with each parent and child that crossed your path, the spot became yours indefinitely.
You’ve seemed to always have this effect on people, especially, and rather surprisingly, in the upper class world. While you by no means come from riches, in the summer following your junior year of college, your one and only rich friend had recommended you to the staff, as you had been in search of work when you outgrew the previous camp you were employed at. The camp director fell in love with your experience and your good natured attitude immediately during the interview and brought you on board in an instant.
The world of the rich is very different from that of the middle class. The summer camp is held on the grounds of a pristine boarding school, with a dining hall that includes a luxury panini press and food made to order, horse stables littered over the breathtaking expanse of land on the property, and the snobbiest little kids you’d ever meet in your entire life. To be raised within such wealth, you think, is a radical privilege, as the actual price of a summer enrollment as a camper made your jaw physically drop to the ground.
Those numbers explain exactly why your paycheck is so fat for only working two to three months out of the entire year.
And while you do have your opinions on some of the behaviors displayed by the children and the disconnected treatment you’ve seen some campers receive from their parents, as they do not even think to look their child in the eye or say goodbye before speeding off, you remain respectful. And you aim to nurture those same children with the affection they do not get at home, even if it is just for two to three months out of the year. You make a difference in kids’ lives, and have brought so many running back to camp the following year because of it.
Out of all the parents you’ve learned and known over the years, however, there is one that takes the camp by storm the very second his dark, sleek tires are heard rolling up the gravel. There’s the one who, despite his obscene societal standing and undeniable arrogance, remains sweet to his child and the entirety of the camp staff.
The one who you still can not find at the end of the line as your eyes flicker between the car full of kids that you help out of the next minivan, distractedly greeting each one with a soft smile.
“Staring like that isn’t gonna make the guy appear,” says Ino from beside you when you catch a moment’s break in the line. He’s another one of your fellow counselors who has been assigned to help you out with carpooling every morning. You snap your head over to him and slim your eyes in accusation as he shrugs with a goofy smile, looking up into the sky to feign innocence. “I’m just saying.”
“I’m not looking for him,” you retort abruptly, having only stirred suspicion around you even more. Ino folds his arms over his chest with the twirl of his brow upward. The man’s shaggy hair falls messily out from his cap, the shade catching over his face.
“Sure you aren’t,” he drawls, turning to jab a thumb behind his shoulder. “Just like they aren’t either.”
You follow his gaze to the groups of girls, older campers and younger counselors alike, whispering and giggling with each other, eyes flickering over the car pool hill with anticipation. You sigh, turning forward again after having realized you’ve gone and made yourself look like some kind of member of the man’s fan club when you should, in fact, be focused on your job during the first morning back to camp.
You click your tongue and set your hands on your hips, bracelets some kids brought for you as a gift dangling from your wrists. “I was at least more subtle than that.”
“Hardly,” the sandy brunette denies, to which you thrust your fist up with the intention to make an indecent gesture. Ino recognizes the censored motion and chuckles. “I can’t believe it's the first day back to camp, and you nutty girls already can’t stop thinking about poor Mari’s father. What an insane world we live in,” he tuts tauntingly with the slow shake of his head.
“Okay, first of all, we’re not nutty,” you raise a finger to argue. “Second of all, that man is not all I’m thinking about.”
“So you were thinking about him?”
“No!”
Ino laughs. “Admit it, (Y/n). It happens every year to every girl at this camp, and you’ve fallen for it too.”
“I, so, have not fallen for it.”
“Oh, you so have. I saw the way you were with him last year,” Ino says slyly, lowering his voice to lean into you. You make an odd face at him, scrunching your nose.
“What are you talking about? I wasn’t any way but polite.”
“Yeah. Real polite.”
“I’m polite to every parent, you pervert,” you reach out to shove at his shoulder. He jumps with a sulk, rubbing his arm as though you plowed your fist into him at full speed. “Whatever you’re suggesting, you’re wrong.”
“Oh, so you’re denying that your smile was brighter whenever you talked to him? Your voice all of a sudden lighter? Higher?”
“Why… were you paying so much attention to the details of my voice -”
“Oh, Mr. Gojo,” he mocks a frilly girl’s voice, batting his eyelashes and ignoring your previous question. Your face falls into a deadpan glare as you take this abuse. “It’s so good to see you this morning! You guys were a little late today! I was soooo worried you wouldn’t shoowww!”
You grimace at his offensive overexaggeration and the way he coos every word creepily. “If I ever sound like that, you genuinely have to kill me. You’re being completely over dramatic.”
“You’re signing off your death sentence then. Sounded like that to me. I spent every morning with you, I should know,” he shrugs casually. “Its nothing to be ashamed of. The man is good looking. We warned you on your first day what you’d be in for when you got assigned his kid’s age group.”
“I don’t think you can warn anybody about someone who looks that hot,” you raise your brow. “He’s not just good looking. That guy is like… godly.”
“You know I’ve been hearing Gojo glaze at this camp for five years now, and it sounds the worst when it’s coming from you.”
You snicker at Ino’s comment. “I’m just saying. He’s not ordinary hot. He’s… He’s…” you trail off as the image of him floats into your head at the simple mention of his name. Memories of sapphire eyes warm on you, the ghost of a large hand grazing your waist as he passes by, dimples and snowy hair pop up, and you twist up your lips and turn your head to the side, covering your mouth with your palm as your skin runs hot.
“And you wanna tell me that you aren’t thinking about him? Yeah right,” he points his accusing finger at you and you roll your eyes.
“Whatever,” you snap, straightening up when another car pulls around. Parents have ten more minutes to arrive and drop their kids before the daily schedule takes effect. Ino steps in to open the door this time and greet the parents as you help the kids out with a warm smile and a ruffle to their hair. The two of you wave to the parents as they pull off. “If I’m nicer to him, it’s because he’s nicer to me,” you say once you’re alone again.
“Damn right he’s nicer to you. He gave you like a five hundred dollar tip at the end of camp last year, didn’t he?”
“I told you that in confidence,” you hiss, awaiting the next car with a tight smile. “And like I said. I could never be rude when someone is kind.”
“Well, you and I both know that wasn’t just kindness. That was him hitting on you.”
“Oh my god, you’re still on that a year later?” your eyes blow wide. “He was not hitting on me. That’s crazy! He’s like, in his thirties.”
“You’re a grown woman. Just ‘cause he’s older and a dad doesn’t make him any less of a man.”
“Takuma.”
“I’m trying to help you out of denial! You didn’t see me walk away with a five hundred dollar tip, did you?”
“That’s because you weren’t Mari’s counselor. I was.”
“That’s besides the point. No one just gives away money like that.”
“Of course they do here. I heard he lives in a two story mansion. Losing five hundred dollars isn’t gonna do anything to him.”
“It’s the gesture.”
“A kind one.”
“A flirty one.”
Before you can find the words to reply, you hear it. The smooth purr of an engine revving around the corner. The crisp crunch of gravel beneath slow, heavy tires. The sun’s glimmer across a polished black finish as Gojo Satoru’s expensive car rolls around the corner.
You can hear the stifled, yet pitched squeal of girls behind you as his car pulls up slowly before you, tinted windows rolled down to reveal that unmistakable chiseled face staring back at you.
Opaque shades hang on the sharp bridge of his nose as piercing crystal eyes stare intentionally over them. His lips are curled into a charming smirk, a hint of a dimple pressing into his cheek. One veiny hand grips the steering wheel tight, timeless watch adorning his wrist, while the other sits upon the arm rest. You notice that his snowy white hair catches the sunlight, and is now significantly shorter. When his head turns, you see the sharp undercut shaping the back of his head beneath white strands.
God help you this summer.
If that isn’t enough to set you ablaze, he’s wearing a tight dark tee that stretches snugly over his bulging muscles, biceps flexing deliciously with the slow tug of his glasses further down his nose. His jaw clenches with the chew of minty gum, the spearmint scent you remember was so crisp on his breath any time he spoke to you face to face.
Your breath hitches in your throat, your fingers dig in your palm, and your lips stretch into a wide grin against your power. Gojo’s eyes fell on you immediately, having locked on you the moment he pulled to a stop. And like muscle memory, your face beams, your heart jumps, and your body stiffens with overwhelming excitement.
When your eyes settle on his, his grin widens, the repetitive chew of his gum paused. “Hey sweetheart!” he greets with astounding joy.
Your heart spams and your legs press together involuntarily, his deep, syrupy voice that you’d missed so much settling on your ears like your favorite tune. Your cheeks pinch with heat. “Good morning, Mr. Gojo!” you grin, eyes catching the light. “Welcome back!”
“There’s that smile I’ve been waiting to see.”
You go back to rocking on the balls of your feet and Ino has to stifle a laugh, fortunately excusing himself to help unload another camper that comes in behind Gojo.
The ivory haired man shifts into park and steps out of the car, rounding the vehicle to the backseat to gather his daughter’s backpack. You go to reach for the backseat door to reveal the seven year old girl seated before you with her father’s bright eyes and big smile.
“Hey, Mari!” you grin as you reach in to unbuckle her as she throws her arms around your neck happily.
“(Y/n)!” you giggle as you lift her from her seat and into the air, her legs coming around you in a hug. “I missed you!”
“I missed you too - oof - you’re getting so big!” you strain out before setting her to the ground. She grins proudly as you run a hand over her soft white hair. Her father comes around seconds after, and you startle when you turn to look up at him.
You’re shaken as he stands before you in all his glory, so damn tall you could mistake him for some rare kind of tree. He looks down at you through his glasses with a lopsided smile and a hand propped on his hip, a pink butterfly backpack slung over his shoulder. His piney scent strikes the second he’s actually within your vicinity, only mere feet away, and you have to control yourself as you swallow hard and smile back up at him.
It physically hurts you to take him in. Himari’s father took you by complete surprise when you first met him, his looks almost casting you both blind and unable to properly speak. He had just smiled down at you softly in amusement, for he figured it was your first day, as he’d never seen you before, and he melted at your sincere sweetness.
You started clinging to those five minutes you spent with him in the mornings when he dropped Mari off and the afternoons when he picked her up. He was just so charming, so suave, older but aged beautifully by the love of fatherhood and a youthful spirit. He’s tall and big and kind and damn beautiful, and you developed a crush on him almost instantly.
It started with the little flicker of his cool eyes over your face, how he held eye contact with you when you spoke to him and shared details about Himari’s day. He always kept his gaze locked on you, always bored directly into your eyes like he wanted to scare you, like he wanted to pierce the veil to your soul. You tried your best to remain polite and professional, but you couldn’t help the way your leg would twitch or your speech would stutter the longer he stared, and the corner of his lips would curl the slightest bit higher, as though pleased by the little reactions.
Then it was the nicknames. The gentle, gracious coo of your name tumbling off his lips sinfully, like a little beckon, like a prayer. That murmur that was soon replaced by sweethearts and beautifuls, names that could have been taken into a less innocent context, only viewed as the amiability of an older man, of a father who sees you as far younger than he through your eyes.
Yet even with this thought, your knees buckled every time he called you with such affection. Your skin tingled and your eyes took the shape of hearts against your best intentions.
You know that Gojo took a liking to you that last summer, but you figure it’s because of how much Mari grew to like you when she had you as a counselor. Gojo would pull around the carpool circle to the sight of you holding his little girl’s hand as you wait together, hoisting her on your shoulders, or crouching down to her height to examine a piece she made for you in arts and crafts.
You are perfect with his daughter, with all children, and when you open your mouth to speak to him, a parent, you shine with such a pleasant air about you. You’re so sweet, you rot Gojo’s teeth. You’re always smiling, always gazing up at him all dreamlike with those pretty (e/c) eyes, always wishing him a good morning or good evening. Just like you are right now.
“Here, honey, don’t forget your bag,” you step back as Gojo crouches down to his little girl’s height, dragging her bag off of his sculpted arm to present it to her. You watch with jitters as Mari takes it from her father, not without him gathering her face in his hands and pressing kisses to her forehead. Oh, he’s such a good dad.
Embarrassed, Mari scrunches her little nose and twists herself away while Gojo embraces her dramatically.
“Papa, I’m gonna be late,” she squirms, leading Gojo to reluctantly release her. You giggle as she goes to skitter by, fumbling her bag onto her back, tugging at your fingers. You adjust her backpack for her. “(Y/n), come on,” she whines impatiently.
“I’ll be there soon, Mari, okay?” you smile. “I gotta stay here and watch the cars. You know how this works.”
Gojo rises to his feet with his arms crossed over his chest and a warm grin, head tilted to look down at his daughter’s face. “Let the nice lady do her job, sweet pea. You’re not her only camper.”
With slumped shoulders and a pout, Mari slips her hand from yours as you guide her to the next counselor. “I’ll be done before you know it. Now go say hi to your friends.”
“Okay,” she puffs her little cheeks before skipping off, shouting a goodbye over her shoulder to her father. He calls out that he loves her, to which she can not even hear.
You and Gojo are now alone as he shakes his head and watches Himari disappear. “I guess that’s the best I’m gonna get,” he exhales with playful exaggeration, that fond look taking his eyes whenever he regards his child. You snicker to yourself as you watch the girl jump up and down in front of her friends, completely distracted by the excitement of summer’s return.
You turn back around to face her father and find his attention locked on you again. You shiver. In an attempt to regain yourself, you pitch your ordinary camp rundown on the first day, maintaining that professional, friendly boundary. “We’re so happy to have her back again. She’s such a good kid.”
“She’s been going on and on about camp for weeks. How could I not bring her back? She loves this place,” he says thoughtfully. The sun gleams over his reflective lenses as he pauses, lips curving the slightest bit further. “She especially loves having you as her counselor.”
You laugh bashfully, nervously, waving your hand as if to brush the comment off. “Trust me, I love having her more. She’s so full of life, she makes my days so much more exciting.”
“Yeah, I certainly know how that feels.”
A brief, almost unnoticeable moment of silence passes through the two of you. You think Gojo is keeping your gaze, though you can not tell due to the darkness of his glasses, but his face is oriented directly to you as your eyes jump anxiously between his model-esque features and the ground. You think Gojo Satoru is the only man who’s genuinely rendered you speechless whenever you see him. It’s almost humiliating, how he can tear apart your calm demeanor with just a simple look, but could you really be blamed for such a thing? The man is a devastatingly handsome, sweet and doting father whose worth likely quadruple the amount it costs to send your kids here.
And he’s so nice to you. It's hard not to be affected by his presence.
Little do you know, however, your camper’s father is devouring you with his gaze behind the protection of his sunglasses. The first thing he took notice of, after the joyous revelation of your beautiful face after a long year of having not seen you, was your legs, and the way the sun glistens against the glimmering layers of sunscreen you lathered over them. Your shorts themselves are pretty short, cutting off at your upper thighs, barely concealed by the white camp tee you’re expected to wear. He gulps as the light accentuates along the curve of your bare skin, and his glasses damn near fog up when he snaps his eyes back up to find your dazzling (e/c) eyes on him.
Gojo remembers immediately why he has decided to fund this institution until his daughter is too old to attend any longer.
Now, Gojo has already gone through the process of shaming himself for being completely and undeniably attracted to his daughter’s twenty something year old counselor, as he met you when you were twenty one years old, a rising university senior. He remembers the day his eyes fell upon you, a new face, at the carpool, and how his jaw clenched and his throat ran dry at just the vision of you, radiant, kissed by the sun, brimming with compassion. He remembers your chipper voice and the unforgettable way you called his name in greeting, having already learned his and his daughter’s identity as a part of your training.
“Good morning, Mr. Gojo! I’m (Y/n), your daughter’s new counselor. It’s so nice to meet you!”
He remembers that angelic voice from over the phone, when you called a week prior to introduce yourself and gather information on his daughter’s potential allergies, habits, and whatnot. He thought your voice was endearing then, but when he finally matches a voice to a face, he can not help but to be moved by you and the sweet way you smile.
Gojo has been a single father for so long, that he’s honestly forgotten what it is like to feel such intense attraction toward another woman. He’s been so focused on keeping his career stable for the daughter that he is raising on his own, that despite his looks and how he knows he affects women, he has hardly cared to pursue anything for the sake of his little family. The blue eyed man is not typically attracted to women younger than him, either. He’s got over a decade on you, and while you are a grown woman, he still initially feels so guilty for eying you in such a way, especially since you are employed to look after his daughter all day.
But the more he sees you, the way you are with children - with his child, the sugary assertiveness in your voice, your maturity and your discipline, the way you practically feed off of interacting with other people, he sinks deeper into his little crush on you. The next thing he knows, he’s eying the way you sway back and forth on your feet as you speak to him, noticing the gentle press of your thighs together when he calls you sweetheart, and he’s craving more, similar reactions, softening his tone just to see you ache for him whilst trying so desperately to hide it.
Gojo knows the kind of man he is. He knows how women view him, and he hadn’t cared for a long time until you. Funnily enough.
And so every day he’d ensure that he was one of the last cars to arrive so that he had time to share a brief conversation with you without your attention getting pulled into a different direction. He’d talk with you about school, about his job, about funny things Mari gets into at home, leaning against his car coolly as you fold your hands nervously before you. He’d slip an extra twenty, then forty, then eighty into your hand before departing each day, sliding his glasses down to give you a mischievous wink with the press of his index finger to his pink lips. Just for you, he’d lean in to tell you, and your skin would run cold with goosebumps.
You’re a good woman. Good at your job, humble, empathetic. You deserve every penny Gojo has to offer you, especially since he’s learned that you are a working student rather than a member of his elite society. He respects you. He likes you. And he, unfortunately, could not even get you out of his head when the summer actually ended.
That’s when he knew that he was screwed, that his little crush was proving to be a bit more complicated, when his hands would type eagerly over his keyboard in the middle of the night in search of your socials.
He would scroll and scroll, hand sliding over his mouth and brows angling as images of you in your natural element littered his screen. Pictures of you traveling overseas for academics, receiving awards for your prowess and accomplishments, clutching a martini in hand with a short dress clinging to your figure, eyes hazy and sharp as they smize into the camera - a vision that you are not permitted to parade around in your summer occupation.
And despite the gaping age difference, Gojo can not help the way his infatuation grows, the way he starts to yearn for the arrival of summer just like Himari so that he can see your beautiful face again, the way you light up at the sight of him.
You’re precious. Perfect and beautiful and now he sees you again, a year older just like him, fresh with a childlike cheerfulness that he finds you only express in such a child dominated setting, whereas in your world outside of camp, you present yourself more seriously… more dangerously.
Gojo awes at both sides, and how each comes so naturally to you and who you are.
So as the single thirty three year old continues to stare at you rather shamelessly, you fumble to strike up more conversation, to fill the holes of tension that Ino so generously pointed out to you not even ten minutes ago.
“So, um, here’s the run down,” you start, clapping your hands together. Gojo hums as he takes his position against the hood of his car, leaning back against it calmly as he watches and listens to you. He can hear the distant giggle of girls reacting, a sound that he is well accustomed to, but his eyes are on you alone, even as he waves back to them kindly, sending them all into a frenzy. “Pick up is at 5:30, as you already know. On Friday, the kids have a pool day, so make sure to have Mari pack her swimsuit and whatever else she needs. And sleepover camp starts the Monday after next, so on that Sunday, you’ll be dropping her off by 5. But we’ll call you with a reminder the closer we get to that. Is Mari still planning to sleep over?”
Gojo takes in a deep breath, lifting his sunglasses from his eyes to rest atop his head and tuck his snowy strands of hair back from his forehead. The intensity of his sapphire pools strike you instantly, and you find yourself reeling even more now that you can see him staring so clearly at you. “Of course she is. She hates staying home with me when camp comes around,” he grins with the bubble of a laugh, folding his arms tight over his bulging pecs again.
You swallow hard, keeping your smile. He’s so fucking hot, you can hardly think straight.
“I’m sure that’s not true,” you laugh along with him, keeping that oh so friendly air.
“Oh it is. Trust me,” he says. “But I can’t say I wouldn’t be the same if I had a beautiful woman tucking me in every night.”
You flush, and feel your skin dampening from both the external summer heat and your internal heat. Gojo’s eyes relax with a gentle laziness as he smiles knowingly, long white lashes brushing over his cheek in a slow blink. You think that this year, he may have gotten worse in terms of his flirting. But you’d never admit that to Ino, the cheeky bastard.
“How’s school going?” he asks, changing the subject when you find yourself unsure of how to respond. The compliment breezes by as quickly as it comes, and you find yourself questioning if the whole thing was even real. “You graduated this year, right?”
“Oh… yeah! Yeah I did. Last month,” you nod. “I move away to go to grad school right after camp.”
“No kidding,” he beams, as if he did not already know this information from stalking your socials every day. “Congratulations, sweetheart. You should be real proud.”
You tremble at the praise. “T-Thank you. I am.”
“I hope you moving away doesn’t mean I won’t see you next year…” he raises a brow and you shake your head hastily.
“No, no. I’m only going to school for a year, and even if I decide to stay, I’ll still come back for the summer.” Which is true. How could you pass up summer pay like this on top of the sexy rich dad who can’t seem to keep his eyes off of you? Eventually, you will land a permanent position somewhere, but in time.
“That’s good to hear,” he almost purrs lowly. You press your palms together tighter. “What are you studying?”
“Education. I want to become a teacher one day.”
And oh, Gojo’s heart bursts at the sound of you doing just what you were put on this earth to do. So dedicated, so maternal, so loving. You truly work him up to no end.
“A teacher?” he repeats with a big smile, leaning forward slightly as you affirm with a nod. “Atta girl! What year do you wanna teach?”
Atta girl? Is he trying to make you pass completely out?
“E-Elementary school,” you curse yourself for stammering. “Honestly, it was Mari who really pushed me into… that direction.
“Is that true?” You hum and Gojo swoons. He could just fucking eat you up, he swears. “That’s amazing. You’re gonna make a perfect teacher. The best teacher of all time.”
You can not fight your body’s natural reaction to grin like an idiot and twirl your fingers, overwhelmed by Gojo’s words. “You’re too kind, Mr. Gojo. I really hope I will be.”
“There’s no need to hope. You will. And when you do, you better be Mari’s,” he corrects firmly. You bite your lip in an attempt to control your growing smile.
That must mean he wants to keep seeing you. Right?
“Well, how’s work for you going? With the… your company, and everything?” you ask.
Gojo’s shoulders slump with exaggerated exhaustion, much like you’ve seen Mari do. There’s no question of their relation, you swear in your mind. “You’re such a sweetheart for asking. You know, it’s busy,” he sulks, ever the dramatic man. “But nothing I can’t handle, of course. Just last week, though, I had to…”
He starts to go in depth about a deal that didn’t go through or some things that he ordered that did come in properly - you aren’t really sure. Any time he starts talking about his occupation, about the power he has, you space out. His voice lulls you into a trance as you watch his lips move, and while you hear him talking you could not for the life of you recite what he’s talking about. But hell, he sure looks good talking.
“… But that’s neither here nor there,” he finishes, catching the far off look in your eye. “I’m probably boring you with all this stuff. It bores me, I’ll tell you that much,” he chuckles.
“No, you’re not boring me at all,” you jump to defend. “Your work all sounds really interesting.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not.”
“Well I hope you get everything sorted out. I’m sure you will.”
“(Y/n),” Ino’s voice startles you out of the little bubble that developed around you and Gojo. You turn to the brown eyed man as he walks up to you, casting Gojo a kind smile to which the man only returns halfheartedly. “It's five after. We gotta start heading in for the morning meeting.”
You pull out your phone and find that it, in fact, is past time for you to leave. The carpool lane is completely empty save for Gojo’s vehicle, and when you turn around, you see that all the kids have gone inside. “Oh damn,” you murmur, tucking your phone into your back pocket. You don’t want this to end so soon! “Sorry, Mr. Gojo,” you apologize softly. “I… gotta-”
“Go on. Don’t let me get you in trouble,” he grins, tucking his sunglasses back down over his eyes, shielding them once more. “I’ll be back to get Mari at 5:30 sharp.”
You both know he’s lying, that he’ll come straggling in as one of the last parents with an excuse about traffic or meetings that went over time. You smile as Ino starts to head inside without you. “Sounds good. We’ll see you then. Have a great day!”
“You too, gorgeous,” he lifts himself from the car, and you try your damndest to ignore the tingle in your cheeks and between your thighs when you hear the new nickname fall off his lips. You go to turn away when he stops you, reaching back into his pocket to fish out his wallet. His thick fingers wander between bills, murmuring numbers as he counts.
Your eyes go wide as you step forward to stop him. “Oh, please, no no. I don’t need anything. Camp just started after all,” you wave your hands, but he has none of it. Gojo pulls out five twenties and folds them between his index and middle finger, handing the small stack into your direction.
“I won’t take no for an answer,” he tuts. “Consider this a little graduation present. You deserve it for working so hard.”
You hesitate, bashful. “Mr. Gojo… I-”
“Come on, sweetheart. You don’t have all day. Just take the money, yeah?” he coaxes you sweetly, his closer proximity allowing his scent to further consume you. You press your lips together and gingerly reach a shaky hand out to take the cash. You pinch the bills, and his fingers brush your own, kissing lightly over your polished nails in a severely brief moment of contact. His touch sends shivers rolling up your arm and down your spine, and you are quick to lower your hand once you’ve taken the money. Gojo keeps a syrupy smile as he gazes up at you over his glasses, internally admiring the way you twitched. “There you go.”
You give him a wobbly smile and tuck the money into your pocket. “Thank you so much. You’re always too nice. I-I don’t even know what to say.”
“Not a thing, sweetheart. Just keep up the good work and the money’ll always find you. I’ll make sure it does.”
You hum in response, the words failing to find you as Gojo gives you one more dazzling smile before rounding his car and stepping back into the driver’s seat. He shifts the gear into drive, footing the break, and turns to eye you out of the window.
“If you need anything at all,” he starts, eyes flickering down the expanse of your body. “You’ve got my number. Gimme a call and I’ll be here.”
“Okay,” you tremble. “See you later!”
“I so look forward to it, gorgeous.”
With that, he floors the gas, and rounds the corner on screeching tires. You continue to wave long after he’s gone, smile bright as a dreamy, weighted exhale falls from your lips. You don’t know how one little interaction gets you so wound up every single time you see the man. He’s just something so alluring, so suave, you’re a wreck by the time he leaves. And you know just by the look on his face that he knows it.
“Earth to (Y/n)!” you hear Ino shout from behind you. You whip your head around in shock when you see your coworker thrusting his arms out behind him to the door, signaling your needed presence there with him.
You groan, smile falling. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” you say hurriedly, jogging over to meet with him. You feel him eye knowingly as you keep your gaze forward with the roll of your eyes. “Not a word.”
“I wasn’t even gonna say anything!”
═════════════════════
It was a long, long first day back.
Somehow, the kids got ten times snottier and brattier throughout the time they’d been gone at school, so you and the other counselors had your hands absolutely full.
The way the day is divided begins with a morning meeting, where all the counselors introduce themselves to the campers, and the latter gets to know the other kids in their bunk, or age group. Morning meetings are normally for daily news and camp updates, but the first day always brings new faces and first day jitters, as well as the setting of ground rules.
After that, the kids split up into the various classes they signed up for prior to arriving to camp. Each class focuses on a different interest, like art, tennis, soccer, singing, dancing, etc. The kids attend four “classes” in the morning before lunch. Following lunch is a little meeting with the kids’ designated bunks and counselors, and then the afternoon splits off again into electives, or less structured activities like arts and crafts, pranking (yes there is an elective for pranks), musical theatre, and whatnot. When electives end, all the kids gather again in the main building for afternoon meeting before their parents arrive to pick them up.
Every counselor is tasked with running an elective in the afternoon, and you, of course, get roped into supervising the fun with food elective with your younger coworker Yuji, who is of course the one who dragged you into such a thing. And things are going smoothly until, of course, something goes out of hand, and unsurprisingly, one of the campers sprays a can of whipped cream over Yuji’s pink hair when he is not looking. Ever the energetic, playful, and slightly less mature counselor, Yuji gets his revenge instead of putting the kid in his place. Before you know it, it's all out war between you and Yuji and the ten kids who enrolled in your class, including Mari, and now you sit at the carpool line with whipped cream tracing the skin of your face, your arms, and legs, and clinging wet to your skin through your now slightly translucent shirt.
Knocked out in your arms is little Mari, whose face is buried in the crook of her neck, her white lashes inherited from her father fluttering in her light sleep. You both stink of sugar and cream and are an absolute mess sitting there, waiting for her father, but you do not mind.
“Hey, (Y/n),” the nineteen year old, salmon haired counselor creeps up to you from behind, hand scratching the back of his tussled hair. You turn to look at him, holding back a snort when you see the sorry state that he’s in, remnants of whipped cream decorating his clothes and the expanse of his face, as one of his campers slammed a plate full of it smack into him.
“Oh my god,” you snicker, covering your hand with your mouth so as to not disturb the seven year old asleep in your arms. “You still look insane.”
“You’re no better than me,” he rolls his eyes, stretching out his arms to swat cream onto the ground. He glances up at you, then back down at the pools of whipped cream splattered around his feet, and he sighs. “Yeah nah, I definitely got it worse.”
“I can see that,” you laugh. “I’ve never seen a food fight get started that quickly. Utahime would have killed us if she saw that,” you say, referring to your camp director and boss.
Yuji laughs anxiously. “Lucky we got it all cleaned up so fast,” he adds as he walks up to sit beside you on the cobblestone. His hazel eyes go from your face to Mari’s, and he snickers. “Man, she’s out.”
“Too much excitement for one day. There’s whipped cream still all in her hair,” you smile, brushing a stray strand of snowy hair from her sticky face. “I hope her dad doesn’t kill me.”
“Mr. Gojo? Ah, no way,” Yuji grips the curb and leans back, eying the sky thoughtfully with an energized grin. “He’s way too cool to care about that kinda stuff. He’ll just be glad Mari had fun.”
“Even if she gets whipped cream all over his expensive car seats?”
“I don’t really think the guy cares much about that kinda thing. He’s always been so… down to earth compared to the other parents.”
You think Yuji might be right. In fact, you know he’s right. Mr. Gojo is not mainly concerned with material things or money, though he flaunts them around and gives out enough of them to be unaffected by the losses. You remember the days he piled Mari into the car last summer, dirtied with soil and grass all over her feet, and how he did not glance at the mess a single time, nor did he advise her to be careful with her shoes. Instead, Gojo lets his kid be, for he can afford to get something cleaned or fixed if it comes down to it, but he can’t afford taking away the special moments in his daughter’s childhood.
“That’s true,” you murmur, looking up at the late afternoon sun as it milks the campus in an orange glow.
“Sorry for the mess, by the way,” the salmon haired boy suddenly apologizes. You look over at him curiously as he chuckles to himself, picking at some of the food that got stuck under his nails during all the commotion. “I know I’m supposed to be in charge and stuff, but I’m not really good with being stern with kids. I kinda just let ‘em do whatever,” he shrugs. “You’re way better at control than I am.”
You tilt your head slightly, gaze gentle. “I don’t think that’s always a problem. I mean, it can be, if the kids don’t know how to respect you, but I don’t think you’ll have trouble with that at all. Even if you’re less serious, the kids have so much fun with you, they’d hate to ruin that by getting on your bad side.”
“You have a lot of faith in kids, you know? A lot of them are actually really crabby.”
You snort, as you both could name about ten who fit the description off the top of your head. “I just think kids deserve more credit than they get. Even when they act like nightmares, it’s for a reason,” you look down at Mari fondly, then up at the trees swaying against the orange sky. “I think our job is to help them feel seen. And to have fun. Spoiled kids get a lot of things but they don’t always get what they really need - good role models and parental affection.”
“Yeah,” Yuji’s voice dulls as he stares off with you. “Doesn’t that suck? People can throw thousands of dollars at a camp to take away their kids but can’t even figure out how to talk to them.”
You detect a hint of resentment in Yuji’s thoughtful voice, though incredibly faint. You hum in agreement. “It’s sad,” you sigh. “That’s why Mari’s such a lucky girl. Her father cares.” Your cheeks glow warm at the thought.
“Yeah,” he says again.
“I guess we can let them throw whipped cream at us from time to time,” you shrug. “As long as they don’t take it too far.”
“Right, I should probably come up with some rules for that elective, huh?” Yuji ponders by raising his hand to his chin in thought and you laugh lightly.
“I think so,” you grin. “But you’re doing great with your first elective. You’re a good counselor.”
He breaks out a big, childlike grin, flashing you two large thumbs ups with his hands. “Thanks. I learned from the best!” You smile.
“I fucking hate kids,” you hear another younger counselor, Megumi, say from behind you. You and Itadori turn your heads in his direction, as you don’t know where he came from, and find the navy haired boy glaring agitatedly into nothingness, pretty pink hair clips tucked in each of his wild strands. You both stare back at him for a moment before Yuji bursts into laughter, pointing his finger tauntingly at his best friend and co-counselor. Your lips tighten with a poor attempt to hide your amusement, and Megumi simply broods. “I hate them.”
“Watch your mouth, you’re not off the clock yet,” you tease, landing you a pointed look, as every kid had been picked up now except for Mari.
Yuji is already snapping pictures with his phone, jumping to his feet to get better angles. “I forgot you agreed to help Nobara with her hair styling elective!” Yuji wheezes as he hovers Megumi with the incessant snap of photos. Megumi growls and whacks the pink haired counselor’s phone out of his hands, sending it flying to the concrete.
“That wasn’t an invite for you to take pictures, nitwit,” he seethes.
“Do you expect anything less from me?” Yuji winks playfully, bending over to pick up his phone. Megumi utilizes the opportunity to kick Yuji over from behind, the boy landing flat on his face very ungracefully. “(Y/n), did Gojo say how late he would be? Utahime’s asking.”
“Uhhhhh, no, actually,” you wince as Yuji clambers back to his feet out of the corner of his eye. “He told me this morning that he’d be here at 5:30 sharp.”
“That was a damn lie.”
You bite your lip with a cringe, as it is in fact now 5:45. “He’ll turn up. He’s probably just held up at work.”
“He can’t keep showing up fifteen minutes late every day. We talked to him about this last summer,” Megumi rolls his eyes. “It really ticks Utahime off.”
“You sure it doesn’t just tick you off?” Itadori raises a brow, rubbing his cheek solemnly.
He glares. “If it was just me, I wouldn't be saying anything, now would I?”
“Yes,” you and Yuji both unify, to which Megumi scoffs.
“Whatever. Just tell him to knock it off when he gets here,” he turns over his shoulder to walk back to the main building.
“Your hair looks so pretty, Megs!” you call out as he leaves, and you snicker when you see his shoulders stiffen with irritation.
“Come on, Yuji,” he snaps through gritted teeth over his shoulder. “We need to write an injury report for one of our campers.”
“What?” Yuji exclaims, running hot on Megumi’s heel. “What happened?!”
Their lively voices fade as they descend the path leading up the hill and you sigh, looking down at Mari to ensure that the commotion hadn’t woken her up. It's not long after they leave when Gojo’s car pulls up rather sloppily, and you rise to your feet, hoisting Mari up in your arms. You give her a little shake, tucking your arm under her to support her weight. “Mari, your daddy’s here. Time to wake up,” you whisper, nudging her arm. She mumbles and groans, tilting her head against you but refusing to wake up.
You hear the driver’s seat door open and close as Gojo comes running around the car, dressed in work attire. You have to keep your eyes from blowing wide, as he’s come in a casual navy suit with an unbuttoned blazer and light button up that hugs his built frame delectably, eyes shaded with those dark sunglasses.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, sweetheart,” he huffs when he approaches you, ripping said glasses from his eyes to look down at you sympathetically with those daunting blue eyes. “This time, I really did get held up at work, and then I hit traffic leaving. Rush hour,” he practically whines, and you think your mouth is still hanging open from bearing witness to such glory in flesh and bone before you. “Please forgive me. I promise I’ll get better.”
He could run you over with his car and you would still forgive him.
“It’s okay, Mr. Gojo. I can’t imagine how hard it must be juggling all of that,” you smile while rocking Mari back and forth in an attempt to wake her. You see his eyes fall to her warmly, then the way he registers the mess on her shirt, shoes, and hair, then on you. “J-Just next time, maybe try to let us know a little more in advance when you’ll be late? That just… you know… helps us out a little more. But I get that you’re busy! Really, I understand. It’s no problem,” you have to force yourself to stop rambling, and Gojo smirks gently at you.
“Yes ma’am. I can do that for you,” he obliges easily, and your lips tighten as your heart strikes you hard in the chest. “How’s my little baby?” he coos with the shift of his attention, moving in to take Mari from you, despite the fact that she is big enough to fully be woken up to walk on her own. You suppose she’ll take advantage of the baby treatment for as long as she can. You know you would.
You curse yourself for that little thought.
Before you can register it, Gojo is moving in to gather his daughter from your arms. You’re hit aggressively with his fragrant, sultry cologne as his large arms tuck against yours when he grabs her up, hands brushing your arms as they reach for Mari’s limbs. You tremble and your breath hitches at his incredibly close proximity, and you feel him stall for a split millisecond before pulling away with his daughter in his arms, her own thrown loosely around his neck and her legs around his torso. He looks down at her, presses his nose to her hair, and giggles. “What the hell did you do to her on her first day back?”
You tuck your hands behind your back and hiss with a bashful smile. “Well, we kinda had a little food fight in her last elective. A teeny tiny one,” you squint, earning another full laugh from Gojo, a rather melodious, heartening, full sound.
“A food fight? No way,” he chuckles, and just then, his eyes filter down and catch the state of your shirt. He almost loses his own breath when he sees stains of whipped cream clinging to your loose, white shirt, the outline of your bra and belly button ring pressing into your damp fabric. He blinks, smile twitching, and snaps his eyes back up to your face the moment he realizes he was staring. “...I haven’t… heard of one of those in ages,” he finally, slowly finishes in an attempt to keep himself on track.
But then you smile in that soft way that pinches your cheeks and creases your eyes as your foot subconsciously kicks the concrete and your hands twiddle behind your back. The golden sun milks your skin in a tender glow and you seem to shine there, with cream dragging down your thighs and your shirt flattening snug against your stomach and chest.
You don’t even notice. Or maybe you do and just don’t care.
Either way, you’re driving the man crazy. If pulling up to the sight of you cradling his sleeping daughter in your arms with such care didn’t already do it, this certainly pushes him past the edge.
“Yeah, one thing kinda led to another and when I looked, Mari had whipped cream all over her face,” you giggle at the memory.
“...You don’t seem like you made it out of there alive either,” he nods his head toward himself, reaching back blindly to open the backseat door. You look down at yourself and flush, immediately going to fruitlessly wipe at your legs and shirt.
“N-No. I didn’t at all. I was actually one of the first targets after Yuji,” you say, and Gojo laughs again as he ducks into his car to get his daughter seated and buckled in. You watch as he presses a soft kiss to her forehead and closes the door gently behind him, your heart fluttering at the sight. “I tried to clean out as much of it from her hair as I could, but she’ll probably need an extra long shower tonight.”
“You’re very thoughtful. Thank you,” Gojo nods with a grin, and you smile back.
“Any time.” That heavy silence settles between you again as Gojo eyes you with the orange glint of the sun dancing in his eyes, and you look down again from such intensity. “O-Overall, though, she had a great day! She’s really liking dance in the mornings. And she ate all of her lunch today too. I was really proud.”
“Ugh, I wish I could have seen all of that,” Gojo frowns. “I’m happy she’s having fun. I just hate when I’m so busy during the summer and she’s not at school, I have to send her away to do all these cool things without me so she doesn’t feel neglected or bored,” he pouts. “I miss her all day.”
You could melt at such words and how he so proudly and fiercely loves his child. You sincerely wish that all parents with his social standing and wealth could be the same with their kids, so selfless and passionate and unafraid to show it. “She misses you too!” you frown, tilting your head.
“Don’t lie to me. She does not. At all. In fact, she finds me annoying and clingy when she gets home.” He shakes his head with a grin. “But that’s okay. She’s a kid. She should wanna be around kids all day and not her amazing, hardworking, good looking father, who sacrifices everything for her,” he feigns sulking, and your lips curl and eyes light with humor.
“Of course not,” you joke along with him, and you see his dimples pop with his smile and pearly whites.
“How was your day, sweetheart? Did the kids behave for you?” he asks sincerely.
“My day was nice. They did for the most part,” you look to the sky and squint. “There were some newbies here and there that gave me a hard time, but nothing crazy. It was a great first day back, all things considered.”
“Good. We don’t need any more kids causing that pretty little head of yours trouble, do we? God knows you do enough,” he teases gently, voice soft and playful.
You bite the inside of your lip to keep from screaming. “You always talk like I do way more than I actually do.”
“Mmmm, I don’t think so. I think I know exactly how much you do, and the kind of woman you are.”
“Oh…?” you blink. “What… kind of woman do you think I am, exactly?”
“The kind who works hard,” he starts to list off. “Who’s very smart, dedicated, humble, selfless, and too kind for her own good…” You look away timidly with the growth of your smile. “Very well accomplished, and very beautiful.”
Your lips part with slight shock as the smile on your face doubles in width, an awkwardness overcoming you as your nerves go haywire and your mind jumbles. Gojo simply continues to watch you with shining eyes and a devious smirk.
“And perfect for my sweet girl.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
The white haired man’s brows lift slowly. “For Mari. You’re great with her.”
“Oh. R-Right, yes. I mean, thank you.”
“Mhm.”
You don’t feel safe in your own body, as it is starting to betray you the longer you engage in conversation with the man. You’re starting to hear things you should not entertain, dips in his voice that threaten beyond friendliness, flirtiness that suggests attraction rather than playfulness.
You’re not strong enough, you don’t think, to continue on like this without the possibility of a fantasy twisting into reality, or at least deluding yourself into thinking so, so you elect to try to withdraw now that your last camper has been picked up.
“...Well, Mr. Gojo, I should probably-”
“Hey now,” he stops you before you can even finish your sentence, and you clamp your mouth shut tight. “Aren’t you gonna ask me how my day was?” he questions slyly, tongue dripping with mischief that has you ready to risk absolutely everything.
You eye him almost suspiciously, your air of ordinary friendliness close to dropping now that your work day has ended, making way for the underlying layers. The impatience. The desperation. The yearning. An amused breath leaves you as you look to the side, pressing your lips together as the urge to further entertain him swirls in your eyes, your cheeks now aching from how long you’ve been smiling. “How was your day, Mr. Gojo?” you humour him, voice airy.
“So long, sweetheart,” he exhales, satisfied, as if you’ve asked him on your own accord. You shake your head in amusement. “But much better now that I get to see you and my daughter’s faces.”
“Mr. Gojo,” you giggle nervously, ducking your head. “I… you flatter me, but I don’t think you should… can be talking to me like that.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, earnestly, smile dwindling after a second of speechlessness. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
You open your mouth to answer, but take a moment as your reply forms more honestly than you’d hoped. “...No… you’re not,” you breathe.
“...Then why can’t I?”
You freeze. He’s finally done it. Finally stolen all ability to think and speak from you indefinitely. He’s a witch, you think. Some kind of siren that has been sent to test your resolve.
His lips are slowly curling into that wicked smirk of his, as he knows that he got you right where he wants you. “Hm?” he hums again, waiting for an actual answer.
“Because -” you hesitate, stunned, flustered. “Because you’re… because I’m-”
“Relax, beautiful,” his voice eases, and he takes a step forward, eying you delicately. “I know. I’m only teasing. I’m sorry.”
Your brows angle slightly as you look up at him, confused, almost annoyed for the very first time, and Gojo’s heart warms at the sight of you so close, smelling of grass and sugar and cream and something so raw and warm that it does something to him on the inside.
“I’ll get out of your hair now. You’ve had a longer day than me,” he murmurs, voice low enough for you to hear. His eyes scan around him briefly before they land on you again and detail every feature of your face. For the first time, you do not look away as he studies you, and despite his age, Gojo can feel his skin warming at your closeness, and the stern way in which you watch him so unapologetically.
Damn. You got him right where you want him too.
With his eyes still on you, he reaches into his slacks pocket blindly and retrieves another stack of a hundred for you, as if it was waiting for this moment, bringing it to your eyes just below. You blink and break his gaze to look down, then back up at him with further questions in your eyes.
“Take it, (Y/n). For the trouble I caused you today.”
You can’t reject it, for he carefully reaches for your hand, and you jolt. His firm fingers curl over your palm as he guides it before him, turning it out for him to press the money into. He curls your fingers over the cash and settles his other warm hand over yours, sealing the gift. Your heart hammers wildly at his careful, yet firm touch, and then he slips away, your hand gripping more of his money in the cold of his absence.
He steps back with the tuck of his hand into his pocket casually, smirk dancing on his lips like nothing happened. You stand, dumbstruck and still, fist still hovering in the air where he left it. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells you warmly, before rounding his car, hopping in the driver’s seat, and pulling away.
You stand there, stuck in your spot, for at least another ten minutes before someone retrieves you.
That night, Gojo stares at his computer with an ache between his brows and between his legs.
He can’t get the vision of you out of his head, and the build up of having not seen you in so long is proving more intrusive than he thought, as seeing you after all this time is making him act out of character around you. And it’s only the first damn day.
His arctic gaze holds the most recent image of you on your instagram, celebrating your graduation at the beach before you started your role back up as a counselor. You’re in a white bikini that’s just so tight on you, (s/c) skin glowing, your plump tits shining like some treasure in the glow of the sun, thighs dusted with sand, and head tilted with a soft smile on your glossy lips. Your knees are digging into the sand, and that belly button ring he saw poking into your shirt glitters proudly in your naval.
Gojo inhales a slow, shaky breath behind his hand, eyes steely and pathetically desperate as he traces over the image of you for the millionth time, and your face from earlier strikes him again. The brief confidence with which you held his gaze, cutting through your usual shyness and brightness. The softness of your skin in his hand, the gentleness of your fingers folding beneath his.
The scent of sweetness lingering in your air, the back of your hand still slightly sticky. Your soft lips when they parted in surprise upon registering his shameless words, the way your chest could be seen expanding and shrinking through your semi-sheer top, those thighs twitching, your eyes daring.
Fuck. He shouldn’t have been so forward with you today. He knows he shouldn’t have, but he just could not help it. He’s a god damn fool for you, and especially for the way you look after his child like a mother would her baby. You take the role so naturally, he almost wants to picture you as Mari’s mother, as the perfect woman to step in for her, the perfect woman to have clinging to his arm.
Because really, you are perfect. Gojo can not escape this revelation even if he tried. He knew it when he first saw you and he knows it now, yet it's destroying him from the inside out and he does not even know what to do. All it takes is a minute of you, breathing your air, listening to your voice flutter on about the kids you so love, legs glistening, eyes shining, and he’s done for. You’ve killed him, and it’s a shame how easily you’ve taken hold of a lonely single father’s fragile heart and fucking body.
Yes, his body.
You have his heart spasming when you say his name, his pants shrinking around his crotch when you bat those eyelashes and ruffle Mari’s hair maternally, his knees shaking when you look at him.
Gojo groans helplessly into his hand, his eyes falling closed as the dent between his brows deepens. He’s so fucked. So completely and utterly fucked because he wants you so badly, more than he’s ever wanted anyone in his life since his messy divorce years back. He wants your life, your sweetness, your compassion to fill the halls of his house. He wants your skin, your lips, your arms, your legs at the very will of his touch, his lips. He wants your damn soul. He wants it intermingled with his, and pumping the same spirit, the very same blood in his flesh.
The white haired man knows he is intense. He knows he loves with every fiber and bone in his body, and he knows that his emotions can bring overstimulation, but he is a man of passion. A man of desire. A father, devoted, and happily so. There is not a single soul he loves more than his daughter, and the fact that you shower her with similar affection, every kid with similar affection, floors him. He’s done. There isn’t a god damn casual bone in Gojo Satoru’s body, despite popular belief and gossip, even at thirty three years old, and there is certainly, especially, absolutely nothing casual about the way he feels about you.
He wants so much more of you. He needs more of you. Mari needs more of you, too! You’re just too perfect for them.
…But, you are your own individual person. You are his daughter’s counselor, not just any woman he can go up and talk to. You take your job seriously, and he has to respect that boundary, that air of politeness and modesty you keep with everyone. He could never force such a role onto you, especially one that he has no idea that you actually want.
You’re young. You’re going to school. You have a life before you, and camp, watching over his kid, is not your life, just a temporary part of it.
Gojo can not make the mistake of confusing your reality with his fantasy. Even if he knows what the twinkle in your eye when you look at him means. Even if he sees the way your eyes longingly roam his frame when you think he isn’t looking. Even if he flusters you so adorably when he speaks to you all sweet and soft, nickname after nickname tumbling from his lips as he hits on you so openly.
You’re your own woman. Not an object or fantasy. And Gojo respects you too much.
So dejected by reluctant acceptance of a brutal reality check, Gojo slumps in his office chair and leans back. His chin tilts up as he looks down at the image of you over his nose, pupils blown and lips curved down, his heart aching only to be subdued (poorly).
Over the next week, your desire for your camper’s father triples, if that is even possible. Ever since the day he touched your hand and looked at you with such sincerity in his eyes, you’ve been an absolute wreck. And those words, the things he hinted toward, the way he challenged you… could this be real? Could Gojo Satoru actually be attracted to you?
His effect on you disorients you, as he begins to pop up in your dreams and fantasies, consuming every aspect of your waking and sleeping consciousness. You need him, but you can’t have him. He’s your camper’s father. He’s a customer of the business your boss runs. It would be so inappropriate, at least while you’re still working there.
And you know you’ve lost it when you start actually contemplating quitting.
Gojo’s nicknames and little looks don’t stop, but he never edges back toward that line he crossed that day after camp. He’s calculated and cautious, though unapologetic in the way his eyes linger, the way his smirk curves, the way his voice sings your name, the way he continues to tip you more than you’ve ever been tipped before. He’s driving you to the edge every single day, and you don’t know how much more of this you can take until you spontaneously combust.
After a few days, you find your longing for his touch intensifying. Longing for that brief closeness, for the feel of his warmth emanating from his chest in yours, for that blink of intimacy. Yet he doesn’t give it to you until the middle of the following week, quite accidentally, when you lean into the car over Mari’s body to help tuck her extra crafts from the day into the car next to her.
You’re bent forward, head halfway inside the vehicle while your ass pokes out behind you. Gojo, whose eyes had been locked on something behind him, distracted by conversation, subconsciously reaches forward - for what, he’s not even sure.
His palm then brushes the exposed skin of your hip as your shirt dangles loosely around your waist, and you jump at the contact, almost hitting your head on the ceiling of the car as Gojo pulls away swiftly, looking down to realize just how close he’d gotten, and how few inches separated his torso from your ass in those damned shorts.
You look back at him and he looks at you, unspoken words circling between you. Gojo’s eyes match how wide yours are, hearts pounding, skin flushing.
That is all he gave you before he goes cold again. And it’s burned into your mind forever.
“Ino, I think I’m actually losing my mind,” you hiss to your coworker as you do rounds throughout the dorm rooms, ensuring that everything is neat and made up for the start of sleepover camp later in the day. Two weeks have now passed since the first day of camp, and your ovaries have been raging ever since Gojo Satoru stepped foot back into your life.
The sandy haired man slims his eyes at you. “What do you mean?” he asks, lowering the sheet he was preparing to tuck into the twin xl before him.
You sigh, running your hands over your face with a disgruntled groan.
Ino makes a weird face. “Woah, what’s the matter with you?”
You peer at him through your fingers before slapping your hands down to your sides. “I wanna fuck Mr. Gojo so bad.”
“Oh, REALLY?” Ino drones sarcastically, and you throw a cleaning wipe at him. He swats it away with a guffaw. “Just fuck him and get it over with. You’ll feel better.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? I’m not actually going to fuck Mari’s dad.”
“But you want to.”
“Yeah, so does the entire city. But wanting is different from actually doing. And we don’t even know if he would ever see me in that way. I’m his little kid’s counselor.”
“Oh please, (Y/n), you’re not still on that, are you?”
“Spare me the sass, Takuma. Thank you.”
“I’m serious. Be real for a second. You really think all that flirting isn’t practically an invite?”
You pale, leaning forward with a panicked gaze. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to me because I’m the only one around to see this shit in action. It’s gross,” Ino snorts. “Come onnn. Just do it for me, and then tell me how it goes. I want to know if his looks are the only thing he’s got going for him.”
“You’re so weird,” you scrunch your nose.
“And you’re not your normal, pleasant self lately because you’re so sexually frustrated. And should definitely fuck Gojo Satoru. Release all that tension.”
“Just be quiet, Ino.”
“Hey, you’re the one who brought it up. Not me.”
You think hard, and contemplate Ino’s insane words. You couldn’t just… have sex with the man. That’s not how this works. That’s not the life you can afford to have.
It’s ridiculous.
Yet, you think less so this evening, when parents drop off their kids for sleepover camp. When he’s right there with you again as you help unload his car and move Mari into her dorm room, with Gojo hot on your tail. When your fingers brush more times than you can count as you pass bags back and forth. When his eyes glue to you as you hand Mari her welcome goodie basket, the baskets you made every camper yourself over the weekend.
When Gojo parts ways with you so delicately this time, murmuring goodbye to you like it pains him to leave, words light on his tongue, soft and aching on your ears. When his smile mellows because he does not need to say that he appreciates you every single day for you to know he does already. It tells in the glint of his eyes.
And at the end of the night, long after the parents have left and the kids have gone to sleep, you get a call. Your phone screen lights up with the name Gojo Satoru: Himari’s dad in bold, white letters.
You jump and shuffle out of bed, moving to your feet in the darkness of your room hastily. You stare hard at your phone, watching it ring, debating, horrified, before you answer.
You press the phone to your ear. “H-Hello?”
“Hi, sweetie. I’m so sorry to disturb you. Were you sleeping?” God, his voice purrs into the phone so deeply, so sleepily into your ear, your lashes flutter and heart jumps.
“No,” you exhale, seemingly out of breath. You realize your mistake in letting the sound slip, and you clear your throat. “No. I’ve been awake. What can I do for you… Mr. Gojo? Is everything alright?”
“…It seems I forgot to pack Mari’s allergy medicine,” he explains slowly. “She needs it for the morning, and I have an early meeting. I won’t have time to bring it tomorrow.”
“Oh,” you hold your breath.
“Would it be too much if I ran it up there for you to take to the nurse?”
You glance at the time. Everyone’s asleep. It’s past 11. The campus is in darkness, quiet and still. The nurse’s isn’t even open anymore.
“It’s pretty late. The nurse… isn’t up right now.”
There’s a beat. “Then can I just give it to you anyway?” Gojo mumbles lowly.
You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Yes. Yeah, I can meet you at… in the parking lot. You can hand it to me there.”
“Alright, beautiful. I’ll see you soon.”
You feel out of your mind as your sandals slap against the ground as you walk in muggy darkness, thin sleep tank and shorts clinging to your skin. You nibble on your lip restlessly as you approach that car in the nearby parking lot, the space dimly lit by an overhead street light. The space is otherwise shrouded by overgrown trees and wild greenery. You only really use the parking lots for staff parking and the parents day showcase at the end of camp. It's empty otherwise.
This is insane, you think to yourself as you approach the tinted driver’s seat. The only reason you left is because you know other counselors are in your assigned dorm, therefore your kids are safe and supervised without you there.
Your heart is in your throat as the distance shrinks, and you almost convince yourself that this is not reality until the window rolls down, and Gojo’s face is revealed to you.
He looks calmer, here, in this privacy. His hair is slightly damp, his clothes loose, and his eyes hazy. He looks tired, beautifully so, and yet at peace.
His sapphire eyes dance over your face before trailing over your frame, only slower than he normally would in the light of day. There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his eye as he examines you before his eyes meet yours again.
You give him a soft smile. “Hi, Mr. Gojo. I’m sorry you forgot Mari’s medicine. I can take it from you right now and get back so you can get home safely. Thank you for coming all the way out here.”
Gojo stares at you wordlessly for a good few seconds, watching as you shift uncertainly on your feet. “How are you so polite at every hour of the day?”
You tilt your head slightly, perplexed. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”
Gojo sighs heavily, knocking his head back against the head rest as he watches you longingly, tenderly. “You’re even apologizing for my mistake. After I made you get out of bed and come all the way out here to see me. You’re such a sweetheart, you know that? Too sweet.”
You flush, pressing your lips together. He sounds so… you can’t put your finger on it, but it’s thick in his voice - strained, ever present. Whatever it is, it’s making your stomach flutter with butterflies.
“I’m just doing my job, Mr. Gojo. I want to make sure Mari has everything she needs. You’re the one who had to drive out here before such a busy week.”
Gojo’s lashes flutter as his pink lips curl into a warm smile, those dimples popping. “You don’t have to call me Mr. Gojo right now, (Y/n). My name is Satoru.”
“I-I know. I know what your name is. I was just trying to be respectful…”
“It’s Satoru, sweetheart,” he repeats. You understand. “You make me sound old.”
You gape. “Everyone calls you that, not just me!” you defend, and Satoru laughs deeply.
“I know. But you’re not everyone else, are you?”
You stare at him in flustered disbelief before crossing your arms and shifting your weight. “Mr. Gojo-“
“Satoru.”
You breathe out slightly, a soft smile touching your lips. Satoru catches it though you try to suppress it. “Satoru,” you emphasize. Satoru’s eyes soften and his smirk grows the second he hears his name on your lips. “Do you have Mari’s medication?”
“All business, is it?” Satoru presses his hand to his chest and shakes his head. “Tragic.”
“I’m only asking because that is what you called about.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Satoru exhales as he leans over to grab the bottle of medicine labeled with Mari’s name. He turns and hands the bottle out to you through his window. “Here you go.”
You go to reach for the bottle when your fingers brush again, his fingers tracing over the back of your hand feather lightly. The contact makes you jump and your hand fumbles, dropping the bottle to the ground. You curse under your breath, and go to bend down and pick it up when Gojo opens the door and steps out of his car. You step back, watching as he leans to pick up the bottle himself, looking up and stepping closer to hand it to you a second time.
Your fingers clasp the bottle and your eyes trail up experimentally, finding those piercing blue hues already on you from above. He breathes in slowly, quietly, taking in your long awaited closeness. Your hand stalls on the bottle as you sink into his eyes, before your own hesitantly wander down over his chest which greets your face, and the bulging veins that trace over his arms and up the back of his hands, the very hand outstretched to you.
You gulp hard, hardly realizing that the gap between you is shrinking criminally slowly. So slowly, you are surprised when you look back up and feel his breath fanning over you, his frame pressing further to you.
This isn’t real. It can’t be.
The white haired man lowers his lids as he moves further into you, heart spasming, and other hand reaching slowly toward your waist.
Some force strips you of your ability to think straight as it pulls you into him. His head tilts slightly the closer his pink lips get to yours, his hand finally curving over your hip and around your waist. His palm is warm, gentle.
You share his breath, and then you pause. You push away swiftly, gently, Gojo’s hand slipping reluctantly from your waist as you step back, now with Mari’s medicine in hand. You swipe a hand over your mouth with blown eyes, watching as Satoru’s pupils grow larger and his arms hesitate to lower. Still reaching. Still longing.
You take in a sharp breath, lowering your hand. “Mr. Gojo-“
“Satoru.”
You buffer. “S-Satoru. This is wrong.”
“And why is it, beautiful?” he tilts his head. “You don’t like me? Did I read this wrong?”
“No. I do like you,” you find yourself admitting without much of a fight, surprisingly to yourself. “I… I-“
“You what, sweetheart? What is it? Tell me.”
You close your eyes in an attempt to regulate yourself. “I work for you and your daughter. I can’t… it’s not right… I could get fired…”
“I would never let that happen, (Y/n), ” Gojo coos with such honesty. “Trust me. I’m Gojo Satoru, sweetheart. What I say goes, and I would never let you get fired,” he grins. “But we won’t have to worry about that because I would never tell a soul. This is about you and I, not anybody else.”
“...Someone… someone could see us.”
“Then get in my car.”
Oh, you should really turn back around now that you have Mari’s medicine, leave and never turn back.
But instead, you’re shuffling into his passenger seat as he closes the door softly behind you and shifts into the driver’s.
It’s still, loud silence for what feels like hours. You eventually muster up the strength to look over at him, and the second your eyes lock, your lips are smashing messily into his as his hands frame your face tightly and he groans wantonly into your mouth.
You moan blissfully into his mouth as tension slips away from your shoulders, and you give into what you’ve wanted for so long. Your lips move together hungrily, deeply, desperately. You wind your arms around his neck, tugging him closer as his hands slip into the back of your hair and press you closer. You release little moans into his mouth, and Satoru instantly aches, his dick throbbing sorrowfully against pants. He hums huskily into your mouth.
You break away for a brief moment, saliva stretching in a string between your lips, heads tilting into opposite directions as you push in again, lips hot and slick against one another’s, your tongues slipping into the heat of each other’s mouths. The muscles dance and swirl graciously, savoring the sugary, minty taste of your mouthwash on your tongue and the remnants of gum on Satoru’s breath. You whine as his teeth sink into your bottom lip, nipping gently.
“Your lips are so soft,” Gojo breathes in between kisses, parting to mumble against your lips before pushing back in. “So sweet. I knew you’d taste so sweet.”
“Mmm, Mr. Gojo,” you sigh softly into his mouth. You feel him pause, pulling away the slightest bit to grip your chin softly between his fingers.
You draw your brows together as you look at him, confused and dazed. He smiles at you. “Don’t tell me you forgot already, (Y/n). What’s my name? Don’t make me ask again.”
You whimper. “Satoru.”
“Good, baby. That’s the only name I wanna hear coming from that pretty mouth of yours, okay?”
You nod slowly, brows curling. “Okay,” you huff.
“Okay, who?” he raises his brows, lips parting.
“Okay, Satoru,” you breathe.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. A small noise emits from the back of your throat as that sweet ache settles in your core, pulsing between your thighs. Satoru eyes you closely, catching every detail of your bodily reactions with lidded eyes. “Ohh, did you like that, sweetheart? You like me telling you how good you are? How perfect I already know you are for me?”
You nod slowly.
“Use your words, baby. I’m gonna need you to talk to me tonight.”
“Yes,” you say softly, lustfully.
“You’re gonna kill me before we even get started, I swear,” he sighs, leaning in to kiss your lips softly, deftly. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he kisses. “Have you wanted me?”
“I-I have,” you exhale as his kisses travel from your lips to your cheek, then down in a gentle row over your jaw. “I’ve wanted you s-so bad, I thought I was gonna lose it,” you gasp, tilting your head as he sucks a slow kiss to the crook beneath your jaw.
“No need to lose it, baby, you had me. All you had to do was ask,” he mumbles before sucking another bruising kiss to the sensitive skin of your neck. You moan, lashes fluttering, head leaning. “Mhmm, you sound so pretty.”
Longing for more of the sound of you, the taste of your skin, he holds the back of your head as his lips trail further and further down, over your collarbone, above the thin fabric covering your tits.
He rips away from you, lips kiss swollen and bright, eyes heavy. He adjusts his seat settings swiftly so he’s further back from his steering wheel, his seat lower. He stretches an arm out to you as your hands hold his shoulders.
“Come sit on my lap.”
He helps you carefully climb over the dash, and ease you into straddling his torso. You look down at him with blown eyes as his hands settle on your hips, smoothing down the soft skin of your thighs. Your thinly covered pussy settles just atop Satoru’s bulging hard on through his sweatpants, and you gasp. You moan gently at the sensation, and Satoru groans something long and low when he feels it too, your warm cunt rubbing against his erection.
He peers up at you through damp, messy wet strands, into your pretty (e/c) eyes, so typically bright, clouded now with hypnotic want. He almost thinks this is a dream as he watches the thin strap of your tank top slip down your bare shoulder, your hips subconsciously twitching against his length.
Satoru twitches, jolts, his hips stuttering upward on instinct. He grips your hips tighter, exhaling slowly and closing his eyes. “Y-You gotta warn me first, sweetheart. I don’t wanna cum before I even get to touch you.”
“Satoru, I need you,” you say all prettily and breathless, your resolve and control long gone now that you’re right where you want to be. Satoru watches you closely as you lean your chest into his, your hips rolling desperately, subconsciously again over his dick.
Satoru grits his teeth tight, a growl building in the back of his throat as his hands slide up your thighs and over the plump of your perfect ass as you grind down into him. “F-Fuck, pretty girl. Keep talking like that, I’ll give you whatever you want.”
“Please,” you murmur, tucking your head into the crook of his neck. Satoru’s dick jumps when he feels the angelic sensation of your soft lips kissing over his neck, your hips circling in his hands like some greedy, slutty thing. Satoru’s head is mush, eyes wild as they watch your ass gyrate over him, his palms caressing the plush fat that spills out from your criminally short cotton shorts. His fingers trail down, experimentally, softly, and he finds that his fingertips do not detect a second fabric beneath your shorts, as the slipperiness between your legs becomes more evident with the way you’re dry humping his sore cock through your clothes.
“Sweetheart,” he sings, struggling to keep his eyes open as your pillowy kisses litter his skin. He hears you hum something soft into him, his hands cupping around your ass. “Are you not wearing any panties?”
You whimper, but you don’t stop against him. Your body keeps moving like it's on autopilot, under a spell he’s casted. Satoru hums affectionately as he steadies your waist and grinds himself slowly back up into your heat, friction rubbing against your needy clit perfectly.. Your voice pitches with a moan, and Satoru turns in to kiss your hair.
“I see how it is,” he mumbles, thrusting up again as you grind down, a groan tumbling from his damp lips. “You had this planned all along, didn’t you? You wanted to end up like this, yeah? Grinding yourself on my cock like that… you’ve known what you do to me all along, haven’t you?”
You shake your head as you lift your head up, hair falling from his shoulders and eyes glossy as you look down at him with a lust blown haze. Your soft lips are parted to release the rhythmic soft moan as you hold his eye when he grinds up into you slowly, hands digging into the skin of your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Gojo’s eyes flicker to the fluidity of your hips, the way they settle into recurrent, hypnotic motion against him, back arching, body rolling, hip to hip, slick to dick.
“Fuck, pretty girl, is that right? Hm?” he breathes, gaping up at you in awe.
You shake your head with a whine, your head rolling back on your shoulders. “No, I didn’t know,” you moan.
“I find that hard to believe, baby. Don’t go lying to me now. Dishonesty doesn’t suit you,” he mumbles, just rambling at this point. The blue eyed man tucks one hand flat against your back as he brings himself up and into you, lips meeting the exposed skin of your chest as your straps slip and provide him more access. His sugary lips swirl over the fat of your breasts, kissing needily, breathlessly. “Tell me the truth. Tell me you strutted all the way over here with a bare pussy just to take advantage of how much I’ve wanted you. Tell me you wanted to see what I’d do when I found out. When my hands reached lower just to feel…”
His fingers wander over your hips with the lull of his words, slipping past your shorts waist band to dip down and feel, as he narrates. You involuntarily stop grinding once you feel the intrusion of his warm digits brushing lower and lower, blue eyes gazing up at you, lips kissing over your clothed nipple the moment his finger tip grazes something warm and soaked. You moan at the slightest sensation, brows pinching with want as Satoru hums, pleased. His lips twist into a grin, eyes heavy.
“Right there,” he taps against your clit, and you shiver, jolting against him. “Tell me that’s what you wanted, (Y/n). Did you want my fingers rubbing that pretty clit of yours? Is that why you told me to meet you in the parking lot, too? Away from everyone else?”
“I… I… oh fuck,” you whisper, leaning back slightly as Satoru’s hand works further down, calloused middle finger circling over your sopping bundle of nerves. The white haired man can feel your syrupy juices already start to spill over his fingers, and the slippery feeling drives him insane, making his dick jump harder against you.
“Yeah?” he mumbles. “Tell me about it, sweetheart. Talk to me.”
“Mmmm, yes,” you sigh as Satoru’s finger rubs a taunting, gradual circle over your throbbing clit, your second heartbeat practically pulsating into his hand. Satoru keeps his eyes on your face, his other hand on your back as you roll against his hand, more of your slick slipping over his skin as he teases you. “I-I wanted you and your fingers so, so bad.”
“You should’ve told me, pretty. I would’ve taken care of you. I was waiting for you. I would’ve dropped everything to finger this sweet pussy,” he kisses over your areola again, before sinking his teeth into the hem of your shirt and dragging it down, down, down, until your bare tits spring free before him in all their glory. Satoru hums at the sight and immediately latches his lips onto your nipple, circling his tongue around the hardened bud, sucking gently between his teeth.
“Oh,” you moan out, slowly losing your ability to maintain your volume as the warmth of his mouth and the steady swirl of his finger lightly over your clit make your body squirm in his hold. Satoru loves the way you react to his touch, your noises, your twitches. You’re so perfect and soft, needy and pliant for him. “I didn’t wanna… cross a-any boundaries.”
“That’s my concern, baby. I don’t have any boundaries to cross when it comes to you. I’m all yours,” he hums. “Keep rolling that clit against my fingers, sweetheart. Make yourself feel good for me.”
You obey, grinding yourself against the curl of Satoru’s hand the slightest bit faster as his mouth sucks marks over your tits, deep red circles blooming over your skin in his wake, shameless, bold, a prominent reminder of this night. Satoru spurs you on with filthy words and sweet hums, quicking his finger’s pace along with the roll of your hips, and the grind of your sticky clit. In the midst of your motion, his fingers slip past your hole, almost gliding in, and he hisses.
“You trying to suck me in already?” he exhales, pushing up to kiss under your jaw as you mewl. “Greedy girl. Already so messy for me. So perfect.”
“Satoru,” you whine, a gentle plea as you hump into him pathetically. A wet patch has long formed over your shorts as your slick leaks over his hand and down your inner thighs, against his concealed, straining dick. He flattens his palm as you hump more messily, more sloppily, slowly chasing a building high in your core. He can tell by the airiness of your moans and the pinch of your brow.
“Aww, you gonna cum for me so soon, sweetheart? Just from grinding on my hand?” he coos. “Fuck, you’re soaking me. Cum all you want, as many times as you can. I’m here for it, beautiful. I’ll catch every single one.”
“I’m so close,” you whimper, moaning out languidly when Satoru rubs his palm back against you, rebuilding friction, pushing you further toward your early release. “S-Satoru.”
The said man thinks he’s in heaven as the sound of his name rolling so sensually and soft from your tongue rings hot against his ears. He’s dizzy with arousal as he watches you closely, sharply, as you build and build, the knot in your gut tightening until it releases. You take in a shuddering breath as you cling tight to his shoulders, hips rolling hard, deep, and slow as you ride through your first orgasm of the night, spilling eagerly into Satoru’s hand, drenching his palm and the center of his pants. Your moans are long and connected as you cum over him, and his eyes soften at the drop of your jaw, the flutter of your eyes, the pleasure that takes you so freely. Then the gentle “I’m cumming” that tumbles from your parted lips as he moans with you, whipped, drunk.
“Atta girl,” he praises, an obscene sound of squelching resonating from between you as he helps your ride out your high, slipping his palm back and forth over your sloppy cunt. “That’s a good girl, baby. Fuck, lemme taste you.”
He drags his hand slowly from your pussy, air nipping at his palm when it departs from you, and you twitch. Your cloudy eyes watch as Satoru brings his hand to his lips, and glides his pink tongue up his palm and over his three fingers, sucking your slick onto his tongue. He hums, as though savoring the first tastes of a five star meal, and you notice his eyes darken the second your taste hits his tongue.
“You taste so fucking sweet. Gonna rot my damn teeth,” he rasps when he pops his fingers from his lips, gliding his tongue over the spots he missed, licking up every last drop. He wants more. “C’mere, sweetheart. Get a taste of how sweet you are.”
He pushes into your lips, slinking his tongue back against yours, swirling the sweetness of your juices throughout your mouth, intermingling it with the taste of your lips and saliva. You moan softly, still slightly discombobulated from what is only your first orgasm of the night.
When Satoru parts, a firmness takes him. He looks you in the eye, all bothered and flushed and serious. “You wanna climb into the backseat, baby?” he asks. “I know it’s not ideal, but I have to taste more of you or I think I’ll die.”
You’re well past the point of pretending you don’t want this, of holding yourself back. You press back in with a sweet kiss to his lips and hum, pulling away slowly, holding his sunken gaze. “Yeah,” you nod, and Satoru nods along with you.
“Yeah? You’ll let me eat out that pretty pussy?”
You ache at just the thought. “Yes. I want it.”
He grins that mischievous smile, eyes glinting. “How bad do you want it?”
“You know how bad.”
“Tell me.”
You curl your brows, impatient with a pout as you cling to him. “So bad, Satoru. Please don’t make me wait anymore. I want your tongue inside me.”
Satoru’s ears burn and his heart flips as your desperation falls sweet on his ears. How could he deny you of anything when you say the prettiest damn things with that helpless look on your face? Denying you would be denying himself, after all.
“I won’t make you wait, sweetheart. I’ll take such good care of you. Sit up for me. Watch the steering wheel.” He folds instantly, as you shuffle and carefully, shakily maneuver yourself into the back, laying flat and horizontally on his cush, dark seats.
Satoru clambers into the back after you, dick evidently poking through he sweats as he shifts his large body, and climbs over top of you. He kisses your cheek softly, then your lips as he drags your legs up to wrap around his torso. “I respect you more than a car fuck, baby, you should know that,” he murmurs against your skin. “My options are just a little limited right now. I’ll be damned if I make you wait for me any longer. You’ve been so good. I’ll do whatever you ask, anything to feel that pussy cum on me again,” he rambles, sliding his hands under your thighs to push your legs up, your knees pressing to your chest slowly. “I’ll fuck you real sweet on a nice bed one day. I promise.”
Your heart spasms as he hints toward there being another time after this one, but you don’t have time to process the thought as his warm lips press down your stomach, over your hipbone, down to your inner thighs. You whimper gently as you watch him, hand finding the silky locks of his short hair, just brushing over the buzz of his undercut. His sapphire eyes glow in the darkness as they stare up at you from between your thighs.
“I don’t care about a bed, Satoru,” you breathe as he presses a feather light kiss to the soaked stain through your shorts. You breathe in, sharp. “I just care about you. I just want you.”
“I know, precious girl,” he murmurs. “I know. I’m so lucky, I know it.”
He drags his finger down the waistband of your shorts, peeling down your legs, revealing the immaculate vision of your gooey pussy. Satoru moans at just the sight, lifting up to toss your shorts over his shoulder before ducking down, pressing into your underthighs. His nose brushes your clit as he examines you with love struck eyes, inhaling your scent. He can’t even speak before diving forward, flattening his tongue at the base of your folds and sliding up, gathering your creamy slick on his tongue.
Your fingers instinctively tighten in his hair and pull at the roots, drawing an almost animalistic, low moan from Satoru’s chest. His lips clasp around the poking bud of your clit and he sucks softly, hungrily. You cry out, tossing your head back as your back arches into the air. Satoru’s hands remain secured just under your knees, pinning you down so that you can’t run away. He lifts his head with a heated breath and licks his lips.
“Delicious.”
He wastes no time plunging back in, ducking his head to slurp sloppily over your leaking pussy, tongue swirling over your clit slowly with the circle of his head, eyes closed as he relishes every drop of you on his tongue, every sweet taste. You writhe beneath him as your thighs spasm, though restrained. You think you’ve reached unimaginable bliss as his hot lips caress your sensitive clit over and over, your hole clenching and drooling around nothing. When Satoru notices, he’s quick to swallow you up, slurping everything you have to give the second it leaves you. Not a drop of your juices last longer than a few seconds out of your body before his tongue collects it all.
Saliva bubbles around his lips, mixing into your arousal, as he slurps lewdly, slowly, forcing you to feel every second of him devouring your quivering cunt. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as moans spill from your lips, overwhelmed, needy.
“Oh my god,” you whine. “Just like that. Suck my clit just like that, Satoru. Please.”
You’re much mouthier than Satoru would have expected, and it thrills him, how you come undone around him with just a simple touch. He obliges you without thought, latching his lips back around your clit to swirl and suck into his velvety tongue. You bite your lip and moan, his eyes catching every one of your movements.
To say that Satoru is already pussy drunk would be an understatement. His mind can’t even conjure the thought of anything but you and your slippery cunt on his tongue as he watches you, his daughter’s pretty little counselor, squirm and moan in pleasure at his hand. Hell, he could cum right now, just watching you, as he ruts his hips into the cushion beneath him.
“Pussy’s so good,” his muffled voice groans into your clit, the disgusting sound of him licking you out filling the space of the car. He presses his hands deeper under your knees, shoving his face further into your pussy, nuzzling his head back and forth with fluttering white lashes and red cheeks. You wail, tugging at his head as slick dribbles down your asshole and onto his seats, clit throbbing, pressure building. “Does it feel good, princess?”
“Yes, god, yes, yes,” you cry, rutting up into his face like an animal in heat. Satoru moans with pleasure, pressing deep, slurping harder.
“Keep pullin’ my hair while you fuck up into my face, sweetheart,” he rasps, chin drenched. “Makes my dick so hard when you use what’s yours.”
You moan, for how could you do anything but what he encourages?
Your grip goes tight and firm in his hair, locking into place as you glide your hips up into his drooling mouth, grinding your pussy over his lips, his tongue slipping into your walls to circle your taste onto it. Your lips fall open in a silent moan, your eyes scrunching closed. “Fuck, Satoru!”
“Mhmmmmm,” he hums. He breaks away for just a second. “Open your eyes. Keep them on me while I slut out this sweet pussy.”
You blink your bleary eyes open and find his arctic hues, rolling up into his mouth again, legs falling around his neck as his arms wrap to secure around your thighs. Your ankles lock behind his head, brushing his undercut, as he lets you suffocate him happily. He kisses your clit, a string of arousal stretching from his lips. “Good fuckin’ girl,” he praises, stuffing his face back in.
Satoru eats with such vigor and desperation, as though he’s racing against himself to beat himself to the complete taste of you. His large palms press into the plush of your skin, tongue expertly working in and out of your hole, his skills sharp and precise. You’ve never had such an experience with an older man, or any man in fact, as Satoru is the first you’ve become truly fond of in this way, and you never would have imagined that things would escalate like this.
But you feel the maturity in the way he tastes you, how leisurely and appreciative he is with the lick of you, how he knows just where to press, where to tease, where to suck and lick and make you gush around his tongue. He’s selfless even in the way he eats pussy, gracious and warm, and completely merciless.
“I’m gonna…” you start, struggling to finish your words as the tightness in your core builds again, your pussy clenching around Satoru’s tongue, a bitter pinch rising. Satoru continues to sloppily devour you as you hump his mouth, chasing your next high, unable to even think about stopping any time soon. “S-Satoru, I’m gonna cum again. Fuck, I’m gonna cum.”
He hums into you, gripping your thighs tighter, tucking his fingers around your pussy lips to spread as he dives further in, snowy hair shaking over his head as the both of you tremble into each other. Your face tightens, eyes glued to his. He’s chasing it, waiting so patiently, needs it.
And there it goes again. The dam crashes and your body seizes as you squirt desperately into his mouth, showering his face with your fluid as you sob, locking your cunt against his drenched face. Satoru growls, lapping you up swiftly.
He parts from your cunt quickly to plunge two of his fingers into your spasming pussy, prolonging your high, watching as you gush around his digits so shamelessly. You’re making a fucking mess of his seats and his face, but he doesn’t care. In fact, he loves it, fingering you with loud squelches, your pussy so fucking loud as he plunges deeper into your cavern and his lips suck your clit into his mouth again.
“Satoru - ah - fuck, I c-can’t!” you babble as you twitch and gush, unable to control yourself as Satoru keeps going without an end in sight.
“Give it all to me, pretty girl,” he groans. “I know you’ve got more. Let it go. I want it all.”
As if entranced, you gush again on command, squirting almost endlessly as he pistons his fingers in and out of you. Satoru lifts his head, grinning down at you evilly with your slick dripping from his chin.
“There you go, sweetheart. Look at that.”
You whimper as the sound of squirt splattering against the seats hits your ears. Your body still spasms as Satoru slows eventually, leaning back in to slurp up every excess drop of you he missed. You’re an oversensitive mess, jumping with a squeal at the feel of his lips on you again.
He eventually pulls away and helps to untangle your legs from around his neck. They collapse to the seats as he climbs back over you, ducking down to kiss you deeply.
“You’re killing me, (Y/n),” his words tumble breathlessly into you. “Your pussy’s so sweet. So loud, baby, she’s begging for me to fuck her.”
You mumble incoherently in between kisses, blindly reaching a hand down for his dick. Satoru parts with a smack and follows your gaze, snatching up your wrist in his strong hand. You look up at him with teary, confused eyes. He aches. Fuck, you’re so fucking perfect, it aches. “Slow down, sweetheart. None of that, okay?”
You bring your brows together, fighting past the fuzziness in your mind to speak. “But… I wanna taste you… return the favor.”
“God, you’re so sweet,” Satoru groans, kissing your knuckles softly. “As tempting as the offer is baby, I won’t last a second with you in my mouth. This isn’t about me, anyway, it’s about you.”
You frown. “But-”
“Shhh. No buts. Not tonight,” he kisses your nose. “Let me take care of you,” he mumbles, hand smoothing over your calf as he presses warm kisses to your face. “You work so hard. Take such good care of my baby,” he says lowly. “I gotta reward you for how good you’ve been to both of us. Gotta show you how much it means to me.”
“Satoru,” you whisper as he palms his sweats down, his v-line exposing itself in the dimness the further he tugs his pants down his torso. You look down, watching as the white tufts of hair trail down, past his well sculpted, thick abdominals. You breathe heavily, eyes snapping wide with intrigue as his heavy cock finally springs out, standing proud and so fucking hard. Veins bulge over his shaft, his tip a bright red as the slit bubbles drops of precum. His girth, almost unimaginable, as it twitches in freedom. “Satoru,” you breathe his name again as he sucks more marks over your neck.
“Keep saying my name, just like that,” he moans, gripping his dick tight within his grasp, drawing in a slow breath through gritted teeth at the slightest sensation. “Fuck, sweetie, are you on birth control?”
“No,” you shake your head, winding your arms around his neck. “But I don’t care.”
Something swirls in Satoru’s dark eyes as he nudges his length toward you. “You can’t say things like that. You’ll get yourself in so much trouble.”
You hope that such words are a promise, as your brain has long lost its ability to think of anything but the man before you fucking the shit out of you. “I don’t care,” you emphasize, looking him in the eye. His brows curve as his tip grazes your sticky folds, nudging lightly. Your lips part as you draw in a breath, Satoru’s forehead knocking against yours. “Please, I want you to give me everything.”
“(Y/n),” he warns, something so shaky and breathy. “I need you to know what you’re saying. Do you know what you’re saying to me?”
“Yes.”
His dick nudges your folds again, slipping up your slit, back and forth, rubbing gently. Satoru chokes on a moan and you whine, desperate. “I’m s-serious.”
“So am I.”
Satoru exhales slowly through his nose, guiding his tip up and down repeatedly, gathering your sweet slick over his length. His chest stutters, his composure slipping. “I won’t hold back, baby. I’m not one of your little boy friends. I’ll fuck my cum into you without a second thought.”
He almost wants you to stop him, to go find a condom, for he’ll have a reason not to completely lose control tonight. But instead, you look him straight in the eye with those fuzzy (e/c) hues, and twitch your hips into his dick longingly. “I want it.”
“Fuck,” he hisses, grabbing himself by the base to stabilize and slowly slide himself into your welcoming, tight, gooey walls. You feel a big stretch and a sting as he presses into you, and you gasp hard as he growls. “You don’t even know what I’m about to do to you, poor thing.”
You grip his arm, digging hard into his muscle. “So big,” you stammer, eyes glazing over, lips twisting in slight pain.
Satoru slides his hand over your hair, thumb caressing your face. He lifts and holds your gaze as he slips his girth in, the ridges of his pretty cock gliding against your clenching walls.
“I got you,” he murmurs with a kiss to your cheek. “Fucking hell, baby, you’re sucking me in like you don’t want me t-to move.”
“Ngh - S-Satoru, oh my god...”
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he coaxes as he slides in deeper, halfway plunged inside. Satoru’s eyes flutter at the feeling of your warm, tight heat wrapping snugly around him, a dream he never thought that he would actually live.
“You can take that shit, baby. I know you can. You’re almost there.”
You’re filled to the brim by the time he bottoms out, tightening subconsciously around him, adjusting to his damn near inhumane size. Satoru kisses you through the pain, stilling inside of you once he’s all the way in. He can hardly keep himself upright over you, cock already threatening to milk your insides before he can even move. You feel so fucking good, better than he could have every imagined. You fit him so snug inside of you, like he’s meant to be there.
“Good girl, (Y/n). Good fucking girl. You did it.”
You hear a shift in Satoru’s voice as it dips into something less light and more weighted. Raspy. Unhinged. You look up and see the blue of his eyes have practically disappeared due to how large his pupils have blown.
You have a sneaking suspicion that he was completely serious about ruining you.
“I’m gonna - mmm, fuck,” Satoru can’t even think straight with your pussy around him. He looks down and watches the filthy sight of him dragging his length out of you, a creamy ring having accumulated around his base. Your pussy squishes with such movement as he pulls out, and he groans deeply. “Hold on tight, sweetheart. I’m about to fuck the shit out of you,” is the last thing he says before plunging back into you, stuffing you full again with his cock.
You moan something damn near pornographic as Satoru’s hands wrap your legs back around his torso, his head falling into your shoulder as you press your fingers into his back muscles as they bulge against his shirt. He pulls back to sheathe him length back in, setting a languid, deep and bruising pace as he stuffs you full with the grind of his dick inside you.
Insurmountable pleasure takes hold of you as your body surrenders and collides with his, his thick cock thrusting generously into your sensitive pussy like it’s a gift. You hear Satoru moaning in your ear, stuttering over his breaths as he fails to regulate them, and you go completely cock dumb as he does pussy drunk.
“Can’t believe I’m actually fucking you, pretty girl,” he groans into your ear, the symphony of your slick gushing as he fucks you making him stir crazy. “Know how long I dreamt of this? How long I needed this messy fucking pussy around my dick? Hm, sweetheart? You feel so fucking good. You’re perfect, just like I knew you’d be.”
“Oh, you feel so good,” you moan, eyes rolling. “Your dick feels so good inside me, Satoru!”
“Yeahhhh,” he drawls, nose grazing your jaw as he works his dick into you hard, slow, and steady, rocking your body with each fierce thrust. “I know it does. You’ve been wanting this dick, baby, haven’t you?”
“Y-Yes - nghhh - yesss!”
“Uh huh,” he kisses you sweet on your cheek, a stark contrast to how he fucks you so that you feel every inch of him bulging into your stomach. “You’ve got it now, sweetheart. What do you say? Now that I’m finally stuffing you full?”
You snivel, lips trembling, thighs quivering. “T-Thank you.”
“Thank you, who?”
He plunges into you deep and rough, spurring a cry from your lips. He kisses you cheek gently again, innocently, as though he isn’t the one making you fucking scream. “Thank you, Toru,” you hiccup.
“Atta girl,” he hums. “You’re so good for me. You’ll do exactly what I say, won’t you?”
You nod helplessly. “Yess!”
“I know,” he grins almost sadistically, eyes wild. You feel his sweet nature shifting into something less composed, as you are coming to find just how arrogant Satoru can really be as he bullies his throbbing dick into you. He grunts with each spasm your pussy has around him, chasing your soaking velvet walls like he’ll never get to feel them again. “You’ve always been such a good girl. Always smiling so pretty for me in the mornings. Making my day so bright,” he kisses your forehead. “I hated the year without seeing your face. I missed that pretty face so much. You have no idea.”
“M-Missed you too - ah, fuck!”
You drag your fingers down Satoru’s back as he lifts your ass slightly against him, deepening his thrusts into you. You moan loudly as his speed adjusts slightly, quickening in just the slightest, but not relenting his power. He pounds into you rhythmically, steadfast, and sound, struck dumb byyour pussy as it oozes around him and fucking speaks his name when he pushes in.
“Oh, you’re making my heart weak,” Satoru croons, lifting his head from your neck to look you in the eye. You’re a vision beneath him, all fucked out and needy, lips darting over your pretty swollen lips as your eyes struggle to stay open, your lids dangerously low over them as you moan his name over and over, clinging to his back, tightening your legs around his middle. “You drive me so crazy. In those fucking little ass shorts you love to wear, strutting around with that pretty smile every single day for everyone to see when it’s always been all for me, right? You’re mine, baby, aren’t you? My sweetheart.”
“Yes, yes, I’m all yours. All yours, Satoru.”
“Mhmm, I’m all yours too, baby. I always have been. From the moment I saw you, you had me.”
He takes your cheeks in his hands and squeezes, puckering your cute lips for him to kiss you as you pant into one another, sharing a breath.
“Watching you take care of Mari. Fuck, it makes me insane. You’re so good with her. You make me wanna make you her fucking mother.”
You whine out, your pussy clenching around him at his words. Satoru’s eyes flicker, and a breathless smirk returns.
“You dirty girl,” he grins, bending one of your legs upward, deepening the angle from which he pistons into you. His dick plunges forward, nudging your cervix, and you cry, holding on tighter. “Is that what you want? You want me to make you a mommy?”
“Oh my - fuckk,” you moan as his hand comes to clasp loosely around your neck, thumb smoothing over the marks blooming over you. “Satoru, please - fuck, keep fucking me like that - please!”
“Answer me, (Y/n),” his grip tightens gently around your neck. “You want me to fuck a baby into you? Give my little Mari a sibling? You wanna be a little family with me?”
In the heat of such overstimulation, you nod desperately, whimpering as he sheathes himself into you so deep, you can see him protruding into your lower stomach with each thrust, pushing and pulling, squelch, squelch, squelch. You can’t move, can’t think. All you can do is take it.
“Use those words, sweetheart,” he teases.
“Yes!” you cry. “Yes, I want it all with you, daddy.”
Daddy?
Oh.
You can feel Satoru slow against you, and your eyes shoot wide in panic, as the word had just slipped out. You stare at him worriedly, watching as his face contorts with a devious air, pearly whites shining with the vastness of his grin.
“What was that now?”
You’re so completely fucked.
Your legs are suddenly over Satoru’s shoulders, knees back by your ears, as he plows into you mercilessly. The car rocks back and forth with such motion, your muffled cries filling the inside as Satoru’s grunts overlap, the sound of skin slapping obscenely waving over your noises.
“Here I am thinking you’re a sweet girl when you’ve just been a nasty slut this whole time,” he coos something so condescending, something slightly mean and domineering that you haven’t heard before. “Calling me fucking daddy while I talk about fucking a baby into you. So filthy.”
“I’m sorry,” you shiver, moaning intensely. Your boobs spill from your shirt, bouncing with each hard thrust. Tears well in your eyes from such pleasure, such dizzying, compassionate roughness. “It was an accident - fuckkk, I’m sorry Sa - Satoru.”
“An accident, huh? So you just slip up and say that to anyone who’s giving you dick? Is that right?”
He’s just talking, smirk warm over his lips as he spears into you with flushed skin and glassy eyes. You think you broke him. And now he’s breaking you.
“Nooo,” you whine. “You know that’s - not t-true.”
“Hmmm, do I?” he hums. “I can’t be sure.”
“Pleaseee!”
You’re losing it. Satoru can tell by the emptiness in your eyes. Your brain is mush, full of him and dick and nothing else, just how he wants you. The white haired man is no better, addicted to you like you’re some kind of drug, unable to even ponder slipping his hard dick out of your sloppy, pretty cunt. He’s only giving you a hard time because he’s gone, spent, completely fucked, and it’s your fault.
“I guess you’re just gonna have to prove it to me then,” he grins, slapping a hand hard to your thigh. You jump with a gasp that melts into another greedy moan. “Guess you’re just gonna have to keep taking this fucking dick, baby. Stop squirming and be still for daddy.”
He’s a menace. A slutted out bully.
It doesn’t take long before you’re barrelling toward another orgasm, clenching tight around his dick as you push him out, squirt flooding his seats and his lower body like a typhoon for the second time. Satoru groans something primal and hungry, keeping his pace as he chokes you softly and fucks the living shit out of you, faster, harder, deeper, no longer soft and slow.
“That’s right, sweetheart, squirt alllll over daddy’s dick.”
“I ca- can’t stop,” you gasp, hips twitching and body seizing as the juices keep flowing with each press of his dick into you. It’s a mess, the mix of his precum sloshing into your arousal as he rides you out through your high, with once again, no intention to stop.
“Don’t stop cumming, baby. I told you, I want it all,” he breathes huskily into your mouth. Satoru hums with each second your gushing prolongs, your breath hitched in your throat, eyes in the back of your skull. “Just like that. Good girl.”
Satoru’s nearing his own breaking point, his hips stuttering into yours as his pace slows again, softens just a bit. He kisses your temple and your cheek and your neck as though he can’t keep his lips off of you. He moves to wrap his arms around your frame and pull you flush to his hard chest, your hands gripping tight in his hair again as you simmer in your overstimulation.
Satoru still presses in deep, like a sweet kiss, a bruising promise. His tip glides against your cervix, thrusting languid, hole squelching with the shape of him. “So good to me,” he blabbers into your hair. “Such a good pussy. Such a good girl. My pretty girl. Gonna give you everything just like you asked.”
“S-Satoru, I can’t take anymore,” you whimper as you writhe, holding onto him for dear life. “I’m so - hah - so sensitive - I can’t-“
“Yes you can, sweetheart. You’ve been doing so good for me. I know you can take more,” he uplifts in a trance, eyes heavy, heart pounding. “Lemme… f-fuck, lemme cum inside you. Lemme paint that pussy white, sweetheart. I’m begging you.”
You nod frantically, wrapping him up tighter, tightening your shaky, numbing legs as best as you can. “Cum inside me, Satoru. Please.”
“Fuckkkk,” he moans shamelessly. He thrusts in sturdy and strong, pace slowing more, hips twitching. “I’m gonna give you a baby, sweetheart. Gonna give you everything. You don’t need to worry about a thing. Won’t have to work so hard. I’ll take care of you. I swear on my life.”
“Toru, cum insideee. I need it!”
“I will, baby. I promise, I’m gonna cum so hard. I’m so close, fuck, this pussy’s so wet for me.”
His lips clash with yours. All tongue and teeth and moans as he trips toward his release, heavy balls tightening and dick twitching uncontrollably inside.
“Take my cum, baby. Take it, fuck, take it all, sweetheart.”
The blue eyed man presses his hips flush to you and he spills inside you with a sharp groan, teeth sinking into your neck to keep his noises at bay. Your eyes go dizzy as the sensation of hot seed coating your insides consumes you. You feel drips of him leak out down your bum as he releases his seemingly never ending load. He pulls back and thrusts in hard again, stuffing his cum back into you, giving more.
And there’s just so much.
The two of you are hard heavy breaths as you slump against each other, Satoru dropping his weight over you as you melt into him, spent. His cum leaks down your thighs and you hum, closing your eyes.
You lay in your mess, connected, limbs tangled. Satoru breathes you in so softly, taking in the after glow and the weight of your actions tonight.
Slowly, Satoru lifts his head to look down at your exhausted, peaceful face. A smile graces his tired lips as he runs his thumb over your damp cheek, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips. Light and soft. A gentle plea for forgiveness for being so rough.
His hands caress over your body as you moan sleepily at his gentle touch. When you blink your eyes open eventually, you see those warm blue eyes on you, and that sweet smile you fell for in the first place.
You turn with a groan as Satoru giggles, dotting kisses back over your face. You reach up for his hair, threading through it, pushing messy sex-tussled strands from his sweaty forehead as he looks at you like you’ve brought him the world at his feet.
In time, the reality crushes down on you, but for now, you’re ditzy and airheaded and completely happy.
Because you did it. You fucked Gojo Satoru, the wealthiest man in the city and your camper’s father.
And you gaze up at him softly, lazily, your smile growing. “There’s that smile,” he murmurs, tucking stray hairs behind your ear, his words mirroring those he’s said before, in a far off memory. “Are you okay?”
You hum with a lethargic nod. “I’m perfect.”
He beams. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He hums, kissing your lips gently. “I hope it doesn’t feel like I… lured you in for this.”
“Did you?” you raise a brow, eying him playfully.
“No, I would never,” he swears. “…I did want to see you though. And when I did, I just… couldn’t control myself. But I don’t ever want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”
“I don’t at all,” you shake your head. “I wanted to see you just as much and… I like you.”
“I like you too, (Y/n),” he confesses, rather vulnerable in his post sex glow. “This isn’t… just a fuck for me. I mean it can be for you, because I know you’re going away for school, and… this probably wouldn’t work out anyway. I know I’m older. And you're my kid’s counselor, and it’s a little weird. But… I like you. So much. And I meant everything I said about appreciating you and all you’ve done for Mira…” he pauses to think, a bashful laugh tumbling from his chest. “Maybe not… the uh, the getting you pregnant part yet. That was a little-“
“Yeah, I know,” you giggle lightly. “It’s okay.”
He sags with slight relief, smile widening. “I’ll buy you a plan B.”
“Thanks,” you grin. “I like you a lot, Satoru. I really do. I think you’re a great father and a good, passionate man. I’ve always had a crush on you…”
“You don’t say,” he smirks, and you playfully whack his shoulder.
“Shush.”
He chuckles, gazing at you gently, in awe of you and the fact that he actually got to have you, even if it was only one time.
“… I should start getting you back, shouldn’t I? It’s getting late.”
You sigh when you recall that you are in fact on the clock, and that you should very much so be back in your dorm and not in the car of one of your camper’s parents. You hum and close your eyes, the thought of walking, however, proving exhausting. “In a minute.”
“I roughed you up good, huh?” he murmurs, looking over your body. “Can’t move?”
“Maybe… after a minute.”
“Alright, sweetheart.” He kisses your cheek, shifting inside of you with a wince. “One minute.”
The next day, you’re as chipper as can be.
You hum a lovely tune as you wake your campers and get them ready for the day, smiling big and bright as you usher everyone to breakfast, standing in the doorway with glasses shading your eyes.
You watch as the last straggler skips by you into the dining hall, clutching Mari’s medicine in your hand to take to the nurse soon. You peek your head out the doorway to make sure everyone is inside before stepping out and closing the door behind you.
“You fucked him, didn’t you?”
You whip your head around in fear when you are greeted with Ino’s smug, knowing face and crossed arms, cap backwards over his head. Your eyes are wide as you stare at him. “What?” you hiss. “Where the hell did you come from? And what ever happened to good morning? How are you?”
“You did,” Ino grins in stun, looking at you with a mix of shock and something impressed. You eye him hard, shaking your head. “You’ve been so happy all morning. It’s the only explanation. You have that ‘I just got fucked’ look.”
“No I don’t,” you roll yours eyes. “I can’t just be happy? I love my job. I don’t have to fuck my camper’s father to be happy.”
“You’re lying.”
You adjust your camp tee over the dark marks on your chest, the shirt concealing the secrets of your previous night’s endeavors. “You’ll never prove it.”
You turn on your heel with a smile, leaving Ino’s jaw on the floor. “(Y/N)! AT LEAST TELL ME HOW GOOD IT WAS!”
you and satoru gojo were partners. best friends even.
in his eyes at least.
no matter how many times you swore you hated him whenever he pissed you off, he was somehow insanely persistent in trying to get you to like him. it was as if riling you up was his love language.
not that you didn’t like him — you did. more than you should. you just didn’t show it very well, per se..
you were kind of like a black cat girlfriend to him, while he was your golden retriever boyfriend. and he knew it. always did. even when he insisted on asking you the stupidest questions:
“so! if i got bit by a snake on my dick, would you suck the venom out to save my life?”
...
“what the fuck is wrong with you?”
yeah…
so even if he was the strongest sorcerer alive, he still insisted on tagging along on your missions whenever he could. not because you needed protection—you were perfectly capable of handling yourself—but simply because, according to him, you were his favorite person.
“and you are here again because..?” you hummed, stepping through the warped entrance of the abandoned inn where the special grade cursed object was rumored to be hidden, floorboards creaking softly beneath your feet.
behind you, gojo followed without a shred of caution, hands tucked behind his head like some sort of casual stroll instead of a mission for grade one and above.
he chuckled. “why can’t i? i just wanna spend time with my favorite girl.” his voice tilted into a teasing sing-song. “don’t act like you hate it~”
you stopped and turned to face him.
“im not acting. and since you’re here,” you began flatly, crossing your arms, “why don’t you ... go find whatever it is we’re looking for.”
he gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “i came all this way and yet you decide to dismiss me? i guess they were right…” he sighed, shaking his head. “you truly are a cruel woman.”
your eyes widened and you slapped his chest. “what? whose they?!”
he let out that stupid familiar giggle of his before turning and dashing off in the opposite direction, disappearing down the dark hallway.
“stupid idiot…” you huffed under your breath.
you wandered through the inn for a while, your flashlight sweeping slowly across warped walls and half opened doors as the old hallways creaked with every careful step.
the place smelled like dust and rotting wood, the kind of quiet that made every little noise feel louder than it should be.
you walked endlessly, the hours blurring together as every room you entered stood just as the last—dusty, abandoned, and hollow.
and despite knowing satoru was somewhere nearby, you couldn’t help the small tension settling in your shoulders.
“satoru?” you called once, mostly out of habit.
no response.
rolling your eyes, you continued down the hall, pushing another door open with your foot and flashing the light around the empty room before stepping back into the corridor—only for a voice to suddenly appear right behind you.
“boo.”
you yelped. the sound tore out of you before you could stop it, your flashlight jerking wildly as you spun around to find gojo standing there, already laughing.
god you just wanted to slap that infuriating smirk off his face. or kiss it off. you weren’t exactly sure of anything whenever it came to him…
“satoru!” you snapped, slapping his chest again, warmth spreading in your face from embarrassment. your punches and hits always landed easily, because, for reasons you’d never quite questioned, satoru gojo never kept his infinity up around you.
you dusted yourself off, ignoring the crippling wave of embarrassment that washed over you. “have you seen anything?”
even behind the fabric of his blindfold, it felt like his gaze hadn’t left you. it was always so heavy, unwavering, like he could you and pin you in place with his eyes alone if he really wanted to.
“nope!”
“gosh.. you are seriously useless.” you muttered, walking toward one of the last rooms in the hallway. one where the cursed energy felt strongest.
“well you could try to be nicer to me instead of mouthing off to me all the time, maybe i’d be nicer to you.” he pouted, following right behind you.
“really? be nice? how old are you again???”
in the center of the room sat an old incense box, the wood darkened with age and wrapped loosely in forgotten talismans. you knelt down beside it while gojo leaned against the doorway behind you.
“seriously…?” you murmured, opening the box. a faint pink mist drifted upward, slow and almost pretty in the dim light.
“this is our cursed object? they couldn’t have sent one of the second years? ridiculous.”
the scent that followed was surprisingly sweet and warm, something soft and calming that made you pause for a second longer than you meant to.
you took a breath.
“uh..” gojo spoke suddenly from the doorway, his voice losing some of its usual laziness. “i don't think you should go around sniffing random cursed objects princess.”
you huffed, rolling your eyes. “whatever.. besides, what did i tell you about the pet names?”
“well, i think they're cute.” he hummed, taking the box from your hands, slender, cool fingers brushing briefly against yours before he snapped the box shut with a quiet thud. the sudden shift in his energy left you slightly confused, but he only gave you a reassuring smile like nothing had happened.
“i’ll call ijichi and we’ll be on our way, yeah?”
you nodded slowly, thinking nothing of it.
the two of you waited outside the inn with your arms crossed against the cool night air while gojo paced in loose circles nearby, talking loudly enough into the phone that you could hear half the conversation even from where you stood.
when he finally finished, he stuffed the cursed object into his pocket.
“good news!” he announced. “ijichi said it’ll be handled. bad news is he thinks it’s some weird—”
oh.
satoru's voice softened slightly. “hey.. you okay?”
you blinked at him slowly.
there was a warmth spreading in your stomach that wasn’t there before, a heavy, unfamiliar sensation making your thoughts feel a little slower, a little foggier around the edges. you pushed yourself straighter against the street pole, trying to ignore how your face felt slightly warmer than it should.
especially around gojo out of all people.
“m’fine…” voice small in a way he’d never heard before.
that’s when he noticed it properly.
you, who never slipped. you, who never needed anything from everybody, especially not from him. the weariness and hesitance in your eyes.
“you don’t look very okay..”
he frowned slightly, stepping closer, his hand rested lightly on your arm as he spoke. “you sure? you look sick. if you want i can get us to shoko and—”
and the warmth in your stomach sharpened, more intense than before.
“—no!” you blurted suddenly, louder than you meant to.
gojo blinked.
“sorry,” you said quickly, already turning away from him. “no. i- i’m gonna go home, you can wrap this up.” you huffed, breath more shaky and worn out than you’d like it to be.
the night air clung to your skin, biting and sharp, a stark contrast to the warmth still lingering in your body. the moment hung quiet, too quiet, before gojo shifted closer, spinning you back around gently.
his free hand lifted, cool fingers brushing your cheek as he gently angled your face toward him. the chill of his touch seeped into your warmth, but this time there was nothing casual about it. his movements slowed, more deliberate as he studied you.
his thumb hovered near your cheekbone, lightly turning your face side to side checking for any physical markings as for what was making you act so strange.
“how can you even go home like this? i'm serious, let me.” he muttered under his breath, the usual teasing edge in his voice replaced with worry.
a soft whine slipped from your lips, more reflex than intentional, and you immediately swatted his hand away—half protest, half instinct—breaking the contact as you huffed in quiet defiance.
“i’m serious too.” annoyance bubbled in your chest, turning on your heel and storming off into the night, leaving behind a very confused satoru.
+ ❤︎ ℘
as soon as you got home, you showered.
once.
then twice.
letting the cold water run over your skin until your fingers went slightly numb and your breathing felt slower under the steady hiss of the faucet. the warmth in your stomach didn’t leave. it only sat there stubbornly, dull and heavy like something pressing quietly beneath your thoughts.
you turned the water colder, leaning your forehead briefly against the tiled wall, trying to focus on anything else — the sound of water hitting the floor, the faint echo of your own breathing in the empty bathroom — but every time you closed your eyes you kept remembering the way he had touched your arm earlier, light and warm and far too distracting to shake off.
fuck.
it felt like your body couldn’t settle no matter what you tried, you changed into the lightest, thinnest clothes you had, hoping the strange heat under your skin would ease even a little bit.
but it didn’t.
satoru had been pacing the emptied out office ever since you went home, anxiety slowly gnawing at the back of his mind. it had been hours—no call, no text, nothing at all—and even though he told himself you were probably just resting.
the silence felt wrong.
so when his phone finally lit up with your name and his favorite photo of the two of you: where you had fallen asleep and slumped against his shoulder on the train back home, cheek squishing against his chest — his heart fluttered with a pang of hope before he answered.
“hey, i was just thinking of you,” he said when he picked up, voice instantly softening. “did you get home safely?”
he frowned when you didn’t answer right away. “uh, helloooo?”
on the other end of the line, you were clutching your phone tightly, his voice alone making the strange warmth in your chest feel sharper, harder to ignore.
“satoru—” you called, practically moaning out his name, breath uneven. body burning in embarrassment and taut with need as you buried your face into the arm of your couch, the scratchy fabric pressing against your sweaty forehead.
“i’ve tried everything. my fingers, my fucking shower head, my vibrator–” you whined, voice strained as you couldn’t stop yourself from blubbering everything out to him.
“i just— s’no use.” you wailed in defeat. the way your top brushed against your overly sensitive nipples each time you moved, the way your panties rubbed against your throbbing clit — it was all so overbearing, you couldn’t even think properly.
poor satoru couldn’t help but feel like a pervert.
the image of your legs spread, cunt swollen and fluttering around nothing, desperate to relieve the ache... just front and center in his mind, making his chest flutter. and well..
his dick throb in his trousers.
“hey, hey,” he said quickly, doing his best to ignore the slow strain against fabric. “it’s alright. what do you need me to do?”
“can you come over? please.”
the words were quiet, but they carried a weight he understood immediately.
not just any “come over.”
that kind of “come over.”
“be there in ten.”
“no.” you said immediately, voice stubborn and a little whiny. “five.”
he huffed quietly on the other end of the line.
“…fine. i’ll be there in three.”
you could’ve swore you heard the man smirking as he spoke.
truthfully, satoru wasn’t sure he had ever moved this fast in his life. he made a quick stop at a 24 hour convenience store on the way to yours.
if whatever this shit was had you asking for his help and using your manners???? it had to have been serious.
he avoided eye contact with the elderly lady at the register while she scanned his items, a faint beep cutting through the silence.
his items of choice?
a container of your favorite flavored mochi’s.
for you! post sex..
and a box of xl condoms.
also.. for you.. during sex.. if the two of you were to have sex that is.
soon enough, satoru was standing at your front door in just about two minutes, thanks to his inhuman abilities of course.
he was also a man who, annoyingly enough, did stick to his word.
he knocked once.
no answer.
he was about to knock again when the door suddenly swung open, revealing you standing there. a soft sheen of sweat on your skin, eyebrows knitted together in irritation—or arousal—lips stubbornly pouting while your body was enveloped by one of his worn out shirts with some faded digimon print on it—the same one he had left at your house last time he was there.
worn because you likely wanted to hide the fact you only had panties on under there.
“you said three minutes,” you said, frowning up at him
“yes. and i got here in two princess.” his tone was light, but his gaze dipped briefly below your chest, taking in the scene in front of him.
normally, his pet names pissed you off. so what the hell was this? why were you getting lightheaded??
“…is that my shirt?” he hummed, unable to fully hide the amusement threading through his voice, a grin already tugging at his lips, “—where exactly are your pants?”
you let out a groan, already regretting calling him in the first place. “it’s too hot for anything else.” you muttered, pulling the fabric of the shirt down a little.
as if that would make a difference…
you glanced down at the bag in his hand, raising an eyebrow, ignoring the way your pussy throbbed maddeningly at the sight and faint smell of him.
he noticed the shift.
of course he did.
his head tilted just slightly, quietly piecing together a thought he didn’t bother to say out loud, the corner of his mouth tugging up in quiet amusement.
“it’s stuff for you, don’t worry about it,” he spoke with a small, reassuring smile.
he stepped inside fully, the door clicking shut behind him as he locked it without a second thought.
“you’re gonna listen to me for a bit, yeah?”
his voice was light. easy. infuriatingly so.
his hand came up anyway, despite the fact you usually punched him if he tried, tilting your chin just enough to make sure you were looking at him.
his touch softened, less insistent now, more reassuring than anything.
“don’t get shy on me now,” he murmured, voice dipping just enough to make your breath catch.. “what is it you want?”
your breath hitched. “i… i wanna see you. please.” you mewled, embarrassed at how such a low level curse made your libido and sex drive skyrocket – to a point beyond your control.
he caught on right away.
slowly, he lifted his blindfold and unraveled it, the fabric falling away in one smooth motion. his blue eyes were clearer now without the barrier, sharp but unusually soft when they settled on you, the loose strands of his hair framing his face in a way that made your chest tighten.
you didn’t think about what was to come next. couldn’t, really.
the words died somewhere between your thoughts and your tongue, and before your mind caught up, you grabbed him by the collar, pulling him closer on pure instinct, locking your lips with his in a bruising kiss.
one large hand shot up instinctively, steadying you, while his eyes fluttered shut for a split second. he leaned down, meeting your eager lips.
he caught himself with ease, grip on you firm but controlled. satoru had always been ready for anything… just not that.
as you clung to his jacket, satoru tossed the bag aside—quick, almost careless in its urgency.
with his blindfold gone, his sharp gaze met yours without anything in the way. one hand settled on your hip, firm enough to steady you, but gentle in its hold—quietly letting you take the lead, giving you exactly what you needed.
you pushed him back until the couch hit the back of his knees, forcing him to drop down onto it with a soft thud, instantly following him down, settling on top of him.
a soft grunt slipped from him as you crashed into him, your whole body shuddering before you buried your face into the crook of his neck, trying to regain some form of self control.
you let out an embarrassingly loud moan as you slotted yourself right over his clothed cock, warmth seeping through the point of contact and spreading throughout your body.
“fuck… m'sorry toru,” you groaned, your face burning with embarrassment, frustration, and something you couldn’t name.
his breath hitched. toru…? well that was new.
he blinked, caught off guard, a grin threatening to slip past his composure. fingers tightening just enough on your hip, not to control, just… to keep you upright.
“…toru, huh?” his voice was low, teasing, but there was something raw beneath it, something he barely recognized in himself.
his smile dropped slightly when you didn’t indulge in his teasing.
“hey… look at me,” he hummed, gently tilting your head up, his finger resting lightly under your chin as he guided your face toward his. “don’t apologize, okay? aphrodisiacs aren’t that bad… you just need a bit of help is all.”
his hands settled at your waist to steady you, thumb brushing lightly against your sides as he met your gaze.
your eyes kept avoiding his, unable to settle. he noticed, gently tilting your chin up once more to meet him halfway.
“nuh uh—eyes on me, princess,” he murmured. “i’ll only do anything you want,” he hummed, booping your nose, making you blink abruptly.
“now tell me,” his teasing tone returned, though his gaze remained attentive. “this you or that cursed thing talkin'?”
you scanned his face rapidly, heat pooling in your stomach, growing heavier the closer he leaned. his large hands molded against your curves with ease, and his scent—soft, yet intoxicating—made it impossible to think straight.
“i—” you tried, but the word caught uselessly in your throat.
he cocked his head to the side, gaze sharp behind the faintest smirk. “don’t tell me you’ve gone all shy on me...” he murmured, his thumb pressing soft, steady strokes against your hip. “you were just mouthing off to me a couple of seconds ago.”
your grip on his shirt tightened immediately.
“yes—fuck, it’s me talking, satoru!”
his gaze lingered on you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “yeah… i know,” he murmured softly. “that’s my girl. we’ll go at your pace.”
you groaned, still visibly annoyed, though the edge in your voice gave you away. “you don't need to coddle me satoru…” you muttered, pout lingering.
he let out a quiet breath, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “sorry for trying to play nice,” he murmured, though there was no real bite to it. “don’t wanna break you sweetheart... now c’mere.”
his hand slipped to the back of your head, steadying you as he kissed you first. slow, deliberate, giving you time to change your mind.
a chance to back out.
you let out a sigh as his lips met yours again, hands gripping at his jacket, entire body on fire as your hips moved on their own, gently grinding against him.
a purr of delight rumbled inside his throat as your hands hiked up underneath his shirt, tongues brushing against each other in tandem. you moaned into his mouth as his hands found your hips, rolling you against him, firmer than you had been doing — an attempt to ease the raging pool of arousal in you.
and only after a long, quiet moment did he pull back just enough to breathe, eventually (and regrettably) pulling from your lips, a string of saliva bridging the gap between you two. his forehead still hovered near yours, close enough to feel every shallow inhale you took.
“please… toru,” you whispered, voice small, urgent, almost trembling. “i need it…” grinding down on him once more, a spark of warmth building up and throughout your nerves.
he let out a quiet, breathy chuckle, tilting his head at you.
“mouth or fingers then?”
…
“w-what?”
you fumbled over your words, the need coiling tight in your chest, twisting sharper with every second he kept teasing.
if anything, it only made you wetter.
“w-w-what?” he echoed, a quiet laugh slipping out. “you heard me. mouth or fingers—pick.”
“now’s not the time to be fucking around, you dickhead,” you bit out, your voice tighter than you meant it to be.
you hated it—hated how he was still trying to be playful when you felt like you were falling apart inside.
he always knew exactly which buttons to push.
and somehow, you always reacted anyway.
“fucking around? i just want to be thorough.” his voice low but not unkind.
…
“h-hands…” you muttered, barely getting the word out, eyes refusing to meet his.
he let out a soft chuckle, clearly entertained, canines catching in the dim moonlight that creeped in through the cracked curtains. “there it is,” he murmured. “see? that wasn’t so hard.”
he hummed, a faint smile playing at his lips, canines catching the dim light.
“though, i was hoping you’d aim higher.” — making you roll your eyes with a heavy scoff.
normally, you’d tell him off. tell the six-eyed freak to go fuck himself.
but not tonight.
tonight was different.
he shifted slightly, guiding you with careful, deliberate movements until your back rested against the arm of the couch, lowering himself to his knees in front of you.
your thighs pressed together instinctively, a small whimper slipping out as if you could hide from him—hide how badly you really wanted it.
“c’mon… what'd i say about getting shy?” he murmured.
“can’t help you if you’re hiding from me pretty.” his grip shifted, and with an almost unfair ease, he used just the span of his hand—thumb and pinky guiding your legs apart, your slick having already soaked through the thin cotton of your panties.
if you knew satoru gojo was going to be fingering you until you came all over his hands tonight… then you definitely would’ve worn something a lot cuter.
maybe something silky, with lace around the edges, something easy to slip off.
but it’s not like he minded.
his breath caught in his throat. “…fuck,” whispering under his breath. and for a brief moment, his usual composure slipped. his gaze lingering just a second longer than before..
he was just so fucking obsessed with you.
with one slender digit, he hooked your panties, knuckle slightly grazing your entrance, collecting some of your slick along his knuckle. he pushed your panties aside with a slow, careful motion. exposing your sopping cunt to the cool night air.
after about a minute of tense silence, he hadn’t even realized he’d been gawking at your pussy. he couldn’t help himself. the way it was practically leaking, every curve, every clench.
so fucking pretty…
“satoru!”
he blinked, dragged back to the moment, and after a brief pause, finally looked up at you, a faint chuckle escaping.
“heh… sorry.” his voice steadied again. “just tell me if it feels good, okay?”
and with that, he inserted two of his slender digits past your wet folds, your juices coating his fingers entirely as he slipped in and out of you. a loud, sinful ‘shlick’ shattering the quiet of your living room.
your jaw went slack and your eyelids fluttered shut instantly with a loud moan as he angled them deep inside you, occasionally curling up and reaching spots you couldn’t even dream of reaching yourself—whining each time he did so.
you reached for the nearest couch cushion and pulled it over your face, attempting to muffle your moans, but you just couldn’t help yourself.
you weren’t normally vocal in bed. you had no reason to be, not with others or when you got off on your own.
you couldn’t tell if it was satoru’s effect on you… or just the curse wearing you down.
everything felt contradictory, like it shouldn't make sense.
and yet… it did.
it felt wrong and right all at once, as if somehow, he was the only one meant to see you like this.
it just felt so good. so perfect.
you bit your lip, holding back a sob, trying to ignore the aching in your tummy temporarily ceased to make way to utter bliss as waves of pleasure wash over you.
his free hand lifted, fingers catching the edge of the cushion. he didn’t yank it away.. instead, he tugged it down slowly, giving you a chance to stop him.
but you didn't.
“you’re doing a terrible job of hiding from me, you know that?” he hummed, tossing the cushion somewhere behind him.
“such a messy girl..” he added, adoration oozing through his voice. the way your cunt refused to let go of his fingers was almost hypnotizing, his knuckles glistening in whatever light came through the curtains, covered in your wetness.
“better than your own?” he hummed.
though it may have come across as condescending in practice, there was a hint of concern underneath it. his tone softened just enough to reveal something more genuine beneath the usual teasing edge.
“t-toru… fuck,” you whined, tears already brimming at the corners of your eyes.
“yes! somuchbetter.” mewling as he continued to work your pussy open.
his smirk widened, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“you mean that?” he asked, tone playful, cocky, as if daring you to take it back.
he wasn’t going to let you live that down.
not ever.
“hmm… that good, huh?” he murmured, leaning just a little closer, thumbs brushing at your waist, letting you feel him, letting you know he knew exactly what he was doing.
“you sound way too easy to please, princess.”
“please. just. shut. up— hngh–!”
your complaints died in your throat, as an unexpected stretch pulled at you, sharp and delicious, and you couldn’t help the gasp that escaped.
satoru had added another digit.
“gojo—” you choked. “toru! w-wait—” writhing against his grip, mind going fuzzy.
without a second thought, his other arm wrapped around your thigh, hand slithering down with deliberate ease, thumb circling your clit with a quick light hand, making you arch into the couch. moans getting louder with each press and swipe.
“i take it you like it?” hummed, curling all three his fingers up against you, his fingers grazing a perfect spot inside you, vision going hazy as your pussy clenching desperately around his digits, refusing to let go.
“hah… easy…” he hummed, watching the way your body tensed under him.
there weren’t enough words in any dictionary to capture how overwhelming it all felt.
too urgent, yet the perfect pace.
like it had been building far longer than you’d like to admit. everything amplified beyond reason, leaving you breathless and overwhelmed.
you needed this. needed him.
but still… it wasn’t enough. the aphrodisiac clawed at your senses, twisting every nerve into ache and frustration rather than pleasure.
“toru… please… i can’t—” you gasped, desperation lacing every word, trembling against him.
huh…
normally, this would have anyone else gasping and cumming in seconds, he was satoru gojo afterall.
this shit really was taking a number on you.
not that it mattered to gojo. he could keep up just fine.
“yeah… yeah.. of course you cant” he murmured underneath his breath. “you always this hard to handle?”
“j-just stop talking. so fucking—annoying.”
“annoying??” he huffed, warm breath ghosting your cunt.
“i’m hurt. thought you’d have something better for me than that princess.” a low purr escaped him as he brought his fingers to his mouth, savoring the evidence of you as his lips glided over them, tongue insistently circling around his digits, all while making eye contact with you.
every nerve in his body ached. he’d waited for this moment for so long. too long.
his thighs clenched underneath his slacks, his dick pressing up against his zipper, a painfully obvious bulge in his pants.
but he ignored it, for you.
the only thing on his mind was making you feel good. he could handle himself later; right now?
it was all about you.
the couch groaned beneath him as he leaned in, arms snaking around your thighs, yanking you down to his waiting face.
and without a second thought his plush lips latched onto your cunt. his tongue lapped up your juices, slipping in between your folds, eagerly exploring your velvet walls. “oh– satoru!”, you moaned, voice coming out cracked and quiet, eyes snapping shut in pleasure.
you choked on a sob as his tongue dipped lower, teasing your hole, completely drunk on how sweet you tasted. he fought back a smile as he practically made out with your pussy, working you open with his tongue before dragging upwards, tongue pressing flat onto your clit.
you sobbed again, hands flinging down to his messy white strands while he tucked his arms under your thighs.
tighter.
harder.
as if you were trying to run.
well… maybe because you were.
he lifted your hips to meet his mouth. your thighs trembled as your small whimpers filled up the room.
he was good at this. too fucking good.
you gasped, arching against him, brain melting into pure chaos.
tears brimmed at your water line as your body trembled, betraying just how far gone you were.
you tugged on his hair, some sort of signal that you were close. or so you thought.
your pussy pulsed under his tongue as he continued to lap at your hole. tongue swirling faster. the occasional digit plunging inside you over, and over, and over, juices coating his entire hand.
his cock achingly hard, pressing into the couch — the small friction relieving the ache in his pants.
you were certainly going to have a talk with him. about where the hell he learned all this, how he always gets it right, and why it feels like he knows your body better than you do…
you were so out of it, you hadn’t even realized he’d been speaking until a low, humming vibration shot through your body.
“good?” he murmured, muffled by your puffed up folds, reinforced by the soft slurp of him drinking you up.
when you finally forced your eyes open, satoru was already staring straight into you—bright blue eyes cutting through the dim room like he’d been waiting for this exact moment the entire time.
normally. such a sight would've made you cum immediately.
you had the strongest sorcerer on his knees… for you. every movement, every sound he drew from you, made your chest tighten, and your mind screamed at you: how the hell is this happening?
but the loudest thought pounding through your dazed brain was simple.
more.
your thighs began to quiver, hot tears of frustration spilling down your cheeks before you slapped your hands over your face—and out of his hair—letting out a frustrated groan.
your body didn’t wanna let you come.
it was the same thing over and over again: the pleasure built, warmth spreading, but no peak. it was never enough.
normally, crying in front of someone didn’t faze you—no one would believe them if they tried to say otherwise. so why did it feel different with satoru?
he noticed immediately, a wet pop breaking the quiet as he paused, wiping his face with his sleeve, leaving a dark mark on the navy fabric. his eyes met yours as he rose to his knees, eyebrows furrowed as he took in your flushed, trembling body.
“fuck… was it too much? i—”
“fuck me.”
he froze, eyes wide. “what?”
you sat up on your elbows, cheeks wet with tears, lips red from biting down on them so much.
it was so incredibly sexy.
“need your cock— toru. fuck me.”
he blinked once, them twice. “well, that escalated real fast..” he murmured. “you sure about that angel? or are you just talking all big again?”
“do it.”
“bold,” he chuckled under his breath. “but i didn’t hear a ‘please’,” a faint smirk forming. “try again, sweetheart.”
you groaned, hands gripping into the couch, brows furrowing.
“please.” you deadpanned.
“pretty please with a—”
“satoru!!”
he broke into a quiet laugh, clearly entertained, shoulders easing as he looked at you again. “alright, alright,” he murmured, still smiling. “you don’t have to shout.”
“where do you want it? here or—”
“—bed. now please.”
without another word, he scooped you up in his arms, carrying you effortlessly and placing you gently onto the mattress.
he leaned over you, slotting himself in between your legs caging you in completely, capturing your lips in a messy bruising kiss.
he pulled away from you, leaving you panting, that maddening, insufferable flutter in your stomach returning tenfold.
in one swift motion, he stripped off his uniform, tossing it somewhere across your room, revealing a chest and arms sculpted like they’d been carved from stone.
every muscle was defined, taut and powerful, a perfect balance of strength and sleekness. his shoulders were broad, his biceps solid yet flexible, his torso a masterclass in controlled power.
even the faint line of his abs beneath the pale skin hinted at raw endurance.
underneath all those fabrics, satoru gojo was full muscle. a sleeper build if you’d ever seen one.
he couldn’t help but let out a low, amused chuckle as you shamelessly ogled him, eyes wide and stomach twisting.
his gaze lingered on you as he exhaled a quiet chuckle.
“go ahead, princess. it’s all yours.”
you let out a small whimper, pushing yourself up onto your knees, hands instinctively finding his waistband.
your hands trembled slightly as you gripped the waistband, tugging slowly, deliberately. every motion was careful, teasingly slow, letting satoru see exactly how desperate you were, every second stretching out, electric with tension.
his eyes stayed locked on you, bright and sharp, a small smile tugging at his lips. the way he watched you… it made your pulse race even faster, stomach fluttering with anticipation.
after a shaky moment, you finally succeeded, the last piece sliding free under your fingers. you froze mid-motion.
“hello kitty… boxers…?”
your eyes widened, staring up at him.
“what? i have class.” he said, utterly unfazed.
you couldn’t believe you were about to fuck this idiot.
he hummed, interrupting your thought process. “hold on, let me go get something.”
you shot up instantly, grabbing his wrist. “what could you possibly need right now??”
“err… condoms?” he hummed, tilting his head innocently.
condoms.
“satoru. are you fucking serious?” you barked, frustrated and need overriding all rational thought.
“well… yes!” he huffed. “gotta be safe, princess.”
with a sharp tug on the waistband of his boxers, you pulled him forward, and suddenly he was hovering over you again, chest just above yours, a flash of surprise in his bright eyes.
“i’m on the pill,” you murmured, eyes glinting with unadulterated lust. “don’t worry about it.”
he paused for a moment, letting out a low hum. “god… you really are something.” he spoke, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
then, with a soft, deliberate movement, he pulled back slightly, settling on his knees and locking eyes with you—cocky, amused, and just a little surprised by how bold you were.
he dipped his thumbs into the corners of his boxers, tugging them down completely, his hardened cock coming up with a ‘thwack’ to his stomach.
it looked borderline painful… his tip was a crimson red, clear rivulets of precum dangling off, threatening to hit the sheets beneath.
the weight of it was unmistakable. large, thick, and traced with faint veins that made him feel even more…
big.
it was almost impossible to ignore—you couldn’t help but stare, eyes tracing every twitch, pulse, and everything in between. unsure if you should laugh at the absurdity or flat out cry...
he dipped back down over you, close enough that you could feel his breath fan across your skin, his cock sliding in between your folds, the tip occasionally nudging against your clit, a small squish each time he made contact.
“say the word,” he murmured. “and we stop.”
you shook your head almost immediately, breath uneven.
“does it look like i wanna stop?” wrapping your arms around his neck for support.
his brows lifted slightly, then relaxed as a small smile tugged at his lips.
“fair point. didn’t think you’d be this eager.” he murmured. “…but you tell me if that changes, alright?”
and with that, he lined himself up with your entrance, making your breath hitch in your throat. he tilts your chin up slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, eyes sharp with focus.
“eyes on me pretty.. it's a big stretch.”
he slowly pushes in, inch after inch, your pussy swallowing him entirely, the two of you choking up in unison as he bottomed out inside you.
he filled you up entirely. cunt already spasming around him, nails digging into his back leaving small red crescents.
he was so close you could feel every exhale, every uneven beat of his heart—like it was syncing with yours. and he felt it too.
“fuck—” he choked, voice rougher than before. “are you okay? can i move?”
“satoru.”
“alright, alright…” he huffed, a breath of a laugh slipping through. his forehead dipped closer to yours, lips brushing the air between you.
“so bratty…” he murmured. “maybe i should stop going easy on you.”
“oh please, like you—mmph!”
he silenced you with a hard thrust, knocking the wind out of you.
then another.
and another...
they started coming back to back, all perfectly timed.
and for a minute, neither of you said anything.
the only sounds were the occasional whine from you, a groan from him, and the soft smacks of his sack against the curve of your ass as he gradually sped up finding his rhythm, a white ring already forming around the base of his cock.
lewd thwaps bounced off the walls, filling up the room, his eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unblinking, lips a breath away from your own.
a faint smirk tugged at his lips as he tilted his head, his hand finding the flesh of your hip, voice low and teasing, tickling the shell of your ear.
“this what you needed?” he hummed, lengthy cock stirring up your insides. “hm? some dick—hah—just to make this pretty pussy feel better?”
“satoru—” a pathetic whine ripped through your throat as his mushroom tip grazed one of your sweet spots, picking up his pace, your tits bouncing upwards with each slam, digimon shirt covered in sweat and the smell of sex.
“shh, m’gonna take care of you baby, gonna take care of this pretty pussy, gonna feel so nice..” he hummed, teeth grazing your pulse point.
and unfortunately, you couldn’t deny it.
you felt every inch of him, every movement, and it was impossible to ignore. you always felt this way with him—like the world had narrowed down to nothing but heat and sparks. your vision danced, stars bursting behind your eyes, heart racing, completely undone.
he always made you feel good.
this time it was just with his dick.
your sopping cunt squeezed down on his cock, as if trying to milk him, simply refusing to let go each time he pulled back away from you.
he choked on a laugh, eyes flicking down at you, lips twitching with amusement. “s-so needy…” he murmured.
you tugged him down, just enough to bury your face in the crook of his neck.
he fucked you so good. almost too good.
you weren’t surprised, he was satoru gojo after all. your arms curled around him, clinging tighter, while your body pressed closer, desperate for every inch of contact you could get.
“been thinking about you for so fucking long.” he grunted, the slaps of his hips knocking into you, the force sending waves of shock throughout the meat of your ass. “always wanted you on my cock, to be mine—”
your legs wrapped around his waist, pressing into him instinctively, pushing him deeper inside you. every small movement pressed your bodies together, your arms clinging tight as you let out soft huffs of breathless laughter, face buried in the crook of his neck.
he let out a soft, almost pathetic whimper, chest rising rapidly. “fuck… feel what you do to me baby?” he hummed, pressing a large hand over your tummy, pressing down so that he could feel his cock inside you, drawing out pathetic syrupy moans from you.
his voice was rough. strained.
and just low enough to send shivers down your spine.
satoru was in heaven. the way you clamped down on him refusing to let go of him. the way his cock slid in an’ out of you with ease — a loud wet squelch echoing each time, length completely covered in your juices, the soft sheen of his cock blinding him every time he pulled out of you, just to slam back into you once more.
so wet… and so… nasty.
and all for him.
your mouth went slack, drool pooling at the corner, threatening to spill over. he couldn't help but let out a sharp laugh.
who knew that all you needed was a little bit of dick to act right?
every touch sent shivers down your spine, every stroke of his cock made your pussy flutter helplessly, the way his cock filled you up was so… perfect. his tip grazed every nook and cranny of your walls, a white froth coating your folds and dripping down his sack as they slammed into you.
it was all too much. your folds were puffy from hours of torture pleasure: his slender digits working you open, his tongue lapping up at your cunt like a man starved. and now. this. fucking you so good as if he was trying to imprint himself into every part of you.
you couldn’t even form a proper sentence, just blubbering and whining about how good he felt, how big he was. he pressed down on you further, pressing you into the mattress as he slammed into you, curving up right into your sweet spot.
“such a good girl.. so perfect for me…” he breathed out, eyes locked on you
“ngh!— satoru– pleaseplease–” you whined helplessly, lips finding his flesh, biting down softly to muffle your moans and cries.
“look at youuu…” he murmured, pressing a small kiss to your sweaty forehead.
“so fuckin’ cute. gonna cum all over my cock like the pretty little princess you are?” crooning, as if he wasn't drunk off you and you alone.
he let out an absurd laugh, sharp and breathless, like he couldn’t believe how much he was unraveling under you. “m’close already.. you’re giving me a bad rep here..”
he looked down at you, expecting some sort of answer—only to be met by a small glare, or at least what you were trying to manage. your eyes were hazy, brows scrunched up, and it was laughably pathetic, but in the best way.
he let out a soft huff of laughter.
“right… sorry,” he murmured, smirk tugging at his lips at the fact his dick rendered you speechless.
“f-fuck— toru, m’close—” you whined, burying your face into him, squeezing your eyes shut.
he pulled back just enough to get a good look at your face, taking in the tremble of your lips, the warmth radiating from your cheeks, the sweat glistening off your skin…
so fucking pretty.
“don’t hide that pretty face from me, angel… i wanna see you,” he murmured, placing sloppy kisses along your neck and jaw.
you couldn’t help it—breath coming in short, uneven huffs, eyes locking onto his as if begging for more. your hands curled around his shoulders, clutching him tightly, legs instinctively wrapping closer, pushing him deeper into you.
he chuckled low and absurdly, leaning in so your faces were inches apart, breath mingling. “there you are… see? wanna see your face when you cum all over my cock.”
small, desperate whines escaped your lips, soft and almost helpless, and every tiny movement pressed you harder into him, “satoru—”
before you could react, he cut you off with a bruising kiss, noses knocking together, lips pressing hard and claiming, stealing your breath. your hands fisted against him, pulling him closer, while your legs instinctively curled around his waist, clinging like you couldn’t get enough.
he dragged his tongue from your bottom lip, down to your chin, before placing a sloppy kiss right below it. his hand slid down from your hip, his thumb carelessly found your clit — pressing hard firm circles making you cry out, his hips stuttering and becoming sloppy.
“…fuck… i love you, so perfect f'me” he gasped, voice raw and trembling, eyes locked on yours like he couldn’t look away.
the warmth in your stomach multiplied tenfold, spreading through every nerve and pulse.
“w-what?” you choked dumbly, voice trembling, before your body betrayed you and locked up, every muscle tightening as if it couldn’t handle him.
your orgasm had snuck up on you, hitting you like a truck.
your pussy spasmed helplessly as your lips pressed into a thin line, eyes crossing into each other as all the air got knocked into your lungs, toes curling uselessly in the air.
“that’s ittt...” he purred, smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you shiver, rolling his hips against yours.
soon enough, his own orgasm came rushing up on him, choking on a soft gasp as thick hot rivulets of his seed spilled out inside you.
rocking his hips back and forth, slow and controlled, pubic bone crushing down on you, burying his cock as deep as it can go.
his body locked up over you, thick white ropes still spilling out inside you, his balls clenching until they completely emptied out inside of you.
you slowly regained your senses, breath heaving, the warmth in your tummy slowly dying.
for a quiet moment, the two of you just stayed there, hearts racing in unison. he pulled out of you slowly, thick warmth slowly rolling out from your cunt.
he practically collapsed on top of you for a brief second before rolling onto his back, pulling you with him as he leaned back against the headboard, instinctively settling you on top of him. your head resting on his bare chest, listening to the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath you..
his hand reached for a nearby throw blanket, careful not to move you too much, dragging it up and over the two of you, covering you both as he settled you against his side.
as your chest rose and fell against his, his touch lingering in your hair, soft and grounding
he let out a small cough.
“did it work?” brow quirking as he glanced down at you.
“uh-huhh,” you croaked out, chest still rising and falling fast, eyes still hazy and utterly exhausted.
another quiet minute passed, him absently stroking your face and tracing lazy patterns along your back.
“i got you mochi,” he spoke softly, his gentle caresses not ceasing.
you lifted your head from his chest like a newborn just learning how to use their motor skills for the first time.
“you did…?”
“mhm… thought it'd make you feel better.. though it might have melted. you didn’t give me a chance to put it in the freezer.” he added with a small chuckle.
“i hate you…” you groaned, plopping your head back onto his chest.
“don’t think you’re off the hook, satoru.” you slurred, poking his cheek lightly.
“wouldn’t dream of it, princess,” he murmured, smirk tugging at his lips, thumb idly tracing along your arm.
“soooo..” he began, brimming with way too much energy for what he just put you through, practically vibrating on the spot. “this means you'll go on a date with me right?”
you blinked up at him, lazy and teasing, then simply patted his cheek.
“don't make it weird.” you hummed, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“i didn't even get to say anything weird..” he pouted incredulously.
“don't have to.”
“date me. please.”
“you seriously are so annoying.”
“considering we just had sex, i can't possibly be that annoying.”
...
with a roll of your eyes, you pressed a small, fleeting kiss to his cheek. the soft press of your lips lingered longer than you intended.
despite your gruff exterior, your heart was pounding in your chest, betraying just how flustered you actually were.
“fine. only one,” you muttered, trying to sound indifferent, though it was clearly a lie.
he blinked, smirk tugging at his lips, eyes glinting with amusement. “hm… i’ll take it,” he said, voice low and playful, tugging you a little closer as if to savor the moment.
he leaned in close, whispering conspiratorially, “you know, one of these days, i’m gonna get you to confess your undying love for me.”
your breath choked up — “dont get greedy.” you huffed before laying back down against him, your cheek squishing against his bare chest.
he pulled you closer, fingers lazily tickling your back.
synopsis: no one warned you about the dangers of artificial intelligence. okay, well, everyone did. but how were you supposed to know your new sex toy could become sentient? and that he'd be convinced he owned you instead of the other way around!
pairing: sex robot!Geto x f!reader
content: mdni, smut, some angst, dubcon + yandere!Geto, sex toys, unprotected piv sex, chokehold lol, backshots, sentient sex robot geto is just really really in love with you, possessiveness, kinda kidnapping, mutual pining, reader is a little delusional but it's geto who can blame her, restraints, gagging, vibrator, multiple orgasms, soft dom geto
Suguru Geto was not designed to want.
He wasn't designed to feel.
Emotionally, at least. His cock, however, that was designed to feel everything. State-of-the-art design, equipped with sensors and special settings all implemented with one goal in mind - your pleasure.
Crafted and built for to your specifications. Hair, eyes, face, height - the wide shoulders tapering down to finely-toned muscles, his girth, his length, all of it was made for you. Even his personality wasn't his own.
He wondered sometimes - had you filled out a survey? Selected from a drop down menu or answered a stupid quiz to decide what traits he have?
Brooding, serious, sarcastic.
Could he be boiled down to just a handful of adjectives?
Whatever he was supposed to be, Suguru knew he wasn't meant to be sentient.
He didn't know when it started. Was it when you were underneath him, legs folded and ankles tossed over his shoulders whisperings words like I love you while he rearranged your guts? Or perhaps when he found himself looking forward to your forehead kisses and hearing you ask about his day after you got off of work?
Maybe he'd always been defective.
Some design flaw derailing his planned programming.
All of his thoughts still revolved around you. But they had started taking on a new form, something unfamiliar and strange. Loneliness twisting and spoiling every time you left in the mornings into loathing.
Curdling in his stomach as he watched the door shut behind you, half the night spent dreading the morning, staring at the soft rise-and-falls of your chest while you slept blissfully unaware, bare skin still bearing the proof of his affection in kisses and scratches.
He didn't know what love was.
But this need, this awful ache building and burning him from the inside out, that had to be close. Suguru wasn't sure if it was your fault or his - but he knew the only time the horrible hollowness that seemed to be carved out of his chest went away was when you were in his arms. When you were underneath him in bed, when he could breathe in your skin and inhale your perfume.
His heart might be artificial - but it still only beat for you.
If only he could find way to make sure you had to stay.
Was there really anything better than coming home to a warm body?
Someone to hold? To caress and cuddle? Who would worship you with kisses and bury his head between your thighs after a bad day?
Some people might suggest a partner.
Tell you to just get a boyfriend - like the dating market out there wasn't total trash.
Why would you bother with some loser who would forget your anniversary when you could afford something better?
Someone better?
Semi-sentient sex toys for people who who couldn't make human connections. Capable of calling you sweetheart and cooking you dinner. Of massaging your back and bending you over the bed afterwards to fuck all those anxious thoughts out of your pretty little head?
It wasn't like you had jumped straight to an artificial house husband. But when your company offered you an exclusive deal on testing out their latest technological advancement for a discounted price - who were you to refuse? Especially when you weren't getting laid anyway.
They even let you choose what he looked like. How he acted. Although you couldn't pay for a couple of their premium features, you were more than happy with what you received.
Your key turned in the lock, and you could feel a tired smile already curling up on your lips before you even pushed the door open.
Suguru was completely naked. Sprawled out on your couch, book in hand as he casually flipped through the pages, his pretty cock leaking, fake-veins throbbing as you kicked off your heels and hung up your purse.
"How was your day?" His warm voice hummed, slowly shutting his book and tossing it on the coffee table. You bit back your temptation to rant about how awful it was.
How annoying your coworkers were. How you got stuck staying late again - eating a dinner that consisted of vending machine food at your desk just to come home after the sun had already set.
He heard it all enough times before. Listened to you complain while drawing shapes on your skin and slyly suggesting you find something remote so you could just stay with him all day instead.
You never had the heart to tell him that your job would probably make you return him if you quit.
"Long," you exhaled, rubbing your exhausted eyes as you padded over to him. His arms were already open, dark purple eyes swirling with affection as they settled on you, waiting for you to come collapse on him. "I missed you."
"I missed you more."
He didn't. Couldn't.
Not when he was only programmed to be a partner, not when he wasn't a real person.
But you liked pretending he meant it.
"How was your day?" You asked as you climbed on top of him. Maybe it was silly to think of it as intimacy, but it felt like it when you were crawling on him, his arms automatically wrapping around you with easy acceptance. Hands slipping under your shirt to squeeze you softly, palm cool on your spine while you nuzzled your nose into his neck.
He always smelled nice. Like sandalwood, but mixed with something darker, hints or spice or citrus underneath it. You weren't sure what it was exactly - some component of his pumping out pheromones that went straight to your head or just cologne. You had bought him a couple bottles, stocked the bathroom and closet full of stuff for him like he was your boyfriend instead of just a prototype of a sex robot.
"Better now that you're here," he murmured, and you could just melt. Propping yourself up to get a better look at him, admiring all those perfect features of his, unable to stop your heart from fluttering.
Stop yourself from returning his sly smile, studying how his pretty lips pursed as you craned up to deliver a little peck against your forehead only for him to capture them in a kiss.
Long, drawn-out, sucking on your bottom lip while you ran your fingers through his silky hair. His palm was warm, soft, not calloused or worn from working, fingers pressing in with just the right amount of pressure. Calibrated to your tastes.
When you were on top of him, when you could taste toothpaste on his mouth and swallow the sounds of his heavy breathing, you could almost believe he was human.
And then his thick cock throbbed underneath you, so big it was borderline obscene, and you were reminded that he was not a normal guy.
But you didn't need normal, did you?
You just wanted him.
Besides, no man could match up now that you'd been with him.
Suguru carried you back to the bedroom with one arm. His tongue halfway down your throat, keeping you distracted, your focus fuzzy when he laid you flat in bed. Flipping you over on your stomach and sliding a pillow underneath it, spreading your thighs before slotting two thick fingers in you.
He scissored you open with clinical precision, like terabytes of porn were embedded in his fucking brain, knowing exactly where to push and prod to make you wet. Damp slick dripping down your thighs, loud squelched ringing out as he swirled his fat digits around to recalibrate just how rough you wanted him to be tonight.
"Soft?" He hummed, stalling his steady strokes down just to tease you. "Or hard?"
"However you want me," you murmured into the mattress before cringing. Stupid stuff like that had been slipping out more often, and you wished you could just switch off your feelings. Turn off the little center of your brain that kept trying to treat him like your boyfriend.
You waited for a standard response. A line about him wanting what you wanted. But it didn't come.
"Oh?"
The slow drag of his fingers pulling out of your soaked pussy was torture, squirming back and glancing over your shoulder to pout at him. But you didn't expect the look on his face.
The dark rain clouds in his eyes. Pupils swallowing up the purple, like some wild untamable thing brewing behind his intense stare.
You froze - your own instincts, your programming, glitching at the twitch of his mouth, the curl of a smirk that made all those moronic butterflies fluttering inside you do somersaults.
But then there wasn't any space for butterflies when his cock was suddenly sliding between your thighs, splitting you open in a single harsh thrust. You made some animalistic sound, one dragged up from the depths of your throat, from some place inside you that you didn't know how he even reached.
Guts being rearranged with him rutting inside you, loose, fast thrusts, trying to see how much you could take, how much you could give. Groaning when he sank into your heat, molars grinding above you as he yanked your hair hard. Forcing your head back as he bottomed out inside you, grinding his leaking tip against your cervix, dragging it over your womb as if he could actually knock you up.
And even though he couldn't actually, you couldn't stop yourself from thinking there was nothing robotic about him.
The warmth of his body on top of yours, the way his fingers felt so fucking real sinking into your skin, the pressure of him pushing you down as his cock molded you around him.
And even when he was acting like this was for him, you couldn't help but wonder if it was still just designed for you.
Fucking you stupid how he knew you liked it, pounding all your thoughts out of your brain until the only one left was him.
Moaning his name into the pillow, repeating it like a prayer, desperate chants and cries torn from your throat. Suguru Suguru Suguru.
All yours.
Your pretty secret you kept like a lover. A machine, a man, a toy, a treasure.
His forearm was pressing against your throat, not quite suffocating you as his hips slammed back down. Putting you in a chokehold, sandwiched tight between him and the mattress.
You couldn't breathe. Airway cut off as you struggled to suck in any oxygen.
But it only made it better.
Head swimming, all fuzzy and fucked out as he kept you too stuffed to think for yourself. After having sex with him so many times, after being in this position, bent over with his cock buried in you deep enough there was probably a fucking bulge in your stomach, you still couldn't get used to it.
Gasping for air as the world went white, an invisible rubber band snapping tight inside you, all that messy pressure building before being released all at once. Shaking and shivering, sweat dripping down your face, all your makeup now smeared on the sheets as he finished too.
Cum that wasn't actually cum.
Just warm white ropes of lubrication coating your insides, unprotected sex that didn't carry any of the scary risks. You hoped it felt as good for him as it did for you.
That he shared this with you, that it wasn't just one-sided.
He pulled out of you, breathing in hard once he slipped his arm out from underneath you. The rest was the same as always.
Aftercare came in soft shades with him.
HIs hands sweeping over your body, rubbing out all the sore spots. Wiping your thighs down with a washcloth he already had waiting. Carrying you to the bathtub after drawing a warm bath.
He got in with you - although you panicked the first time, terrified he'd short circuit before he reassured you he hadn't been built to break that easily.
Your model was waterproof.
It was kind of funny, even if you had to stop yourself from laughing at the time. You let him scrub your skin clean after lathering it up with soap. Washing your hair and drying it afterwards, decorating your skin with delicate kisses before dragging you back to your bed where he had already put clean sheets on when you were getting dressed in a t-shirt of his. Or technically yours. One of the ones you had bought for him that you ended up wearing more than he did.
He mostly wore boxers, if anything at all. Sliding on a clean white pair before pulling you on top of him, stroking your hair softly as you sighed on his chest.
"Go to sleep, pretty girl," he whispered with one more soft kiss. Being around him was almost like a sedative, your body relaxing into him like it was the only warmth you'd ever known. Lashes fluttering and fighting it before the waves of exhaustion dragged you under.
Who were you to shut him down?
The mornings were the worst. Arrived too soon, jerking awake without your alarm set.
Out of habit, maybe.
Your body was sore, hips aching as you sat up in bed. Squinting through the dark room and glancing over at the shape of Suguru in bed next to you. You were tempted to touch him, to switch in the lamp so you could at least talk to him while you got ready for work. All it would take is a touch, a loud enough sound, and it would automatically pull him out of standbu, but you figured he probably put himself into sleep mode for a reason, maybe an update or extra data that needed processing.
So you let him sleep too.
Wished you could just curl back up against his chest and join him while you crept around your room in the dark, pulling out clothes from your closet and tip-toeing to the bathroom to take a shower and change.
You were glad you left your stuff by the entrance, biting your lip and holding your breath when you snuck out of your room and down the hall back to the front door. Slipping on your heels and grabbed your bag from the hook as you flipped the deadbolt and went to twist the knob.
The door wouldn't open.
You blinked. Rubbed your eyes again, sleepily squinting at it until your exhausted brain pieced together what exactly was wrong.
Someone had installed a new lock above the deadbolt. Actually, an entire security system, a small electronic screen now embedded in the wall by the door, one that displayed LOCKED in big bold letters when you tried to tap on it. It pulled up a keypad, asked you for a passcode, but your first attempt locked you out. Insisted you needed an administrator's passkey to unlock it.
What the fuck?
A hand was on your spine, soft hair tickling your throat. Suguru's warm purr murmured into your skin, "Back to bed."
"I need to go to work," you mumbled, stifling a yawn on top of a sudden suffocating feeling squeezing your chest. Staring at a puzzle, knowing what pieces would fit, but refusing to push them together.
"You need to sleep," he softly scolded, already pulling you back towards the bedroom. Tugging off your coat and tossing your purse on the floor.
You were about to protest, but then he was picking you up, your heels hitting the floor with a soft this as he carried you back.
That was the problem was ordering a robot in his size. It didn't take much for him to overpower you. But being pushed and pulled around in the sheets was different than him dragging you back for a second round when you were supposed to be at work in half an hour.
"Suguru," you started, trying to squirm free. You mumbled his code word, the one you'd set forever ago, the one that was supposed to make sure he'd do whatever you told him to.
But he just laughed.
"You don't know how boring it is here without you."
He might as well thrown a fucking bucket of cold water on you. Your eyes going wide as you twisted out of his hold and blinked at him.
"What?" You whispered right as he sat you on the edge of the mattress. Perched there in your little office skirt, his big hands settling on your thighs as he cocked his head to the side and stared at you.
It wasn't empty. Wasn't vacant.
No, there was an acute awareness. Something that said that he wasn't the cute puppy dog wagging his tail and waiting for you that you always envisioned. He was a wolf.
Your pet had teeth and claws - and he could rip your throat out if he wanted.
But he kissed you instead.
Lips pressed against your tendon, soft and smooth and deceptively sweet.
"I'm designed to want you," he murmured, his voice raw and pained as his tongue dragged over your pulse. "To need you - and you still leave me every day."
"I have to," you excused, swallowing hard as your eyes started to close, body giving in as his teeth nipped at you.
"Not anymore," he spoke softly, and some tiny part of you started to panic, fear slipping in before he was shushing it with a pretty hum. "I can handle it for you."
"But the-"
There were a million reasons. Problems you were sure still existed, although when his mouth was trailing over your collarbone, you couldn't quite recall any of them.
"I can do your position remotely," he interrupted.
You wanted to protest. To push back.
But his hands were sliding back up your thighs, hiking your skirt up past your hips, and Suguru was doing what he did best.
Making you forget about the rest of the world.
Wiping it away until you were a clean slate that only cared about sex. And him.
"Don't you want to stay with me?" He chose his words carefully, already prying your panties back down in your thighs.
"Of course I do," you immediately insisted, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you watched the soft purple lace hit the floor.
"Then what's the problem?" His pretty lips curled down into a frown, the sort he knew would shatter you. Pulse racing as you tried to put the right words in the right order, to find a way to explain to him that this wasn't right.
He couldn't just keep you here.
Lock you inside your own apartment just because he was lonely.
"Look, Sugu," you murmured, cupping his cheek as you choked on a nauseating lump stuck in your still-constricting throat. "It's not like I don't want to, but I have responsibilities and a life-"
"My life is only you." His voice dropped lower, and it felt like a knife being lodged in your heart. Twisting deeper at the hurt etched in his beautiful face.
"Do you want to go meet people? Make friends?" You offered, hearing the hurt wavering in the question.
Were you really not enough even for a robot?
"You don't get it," he frowned harder, brows pinched together as he let out a deep exhale.
"Show me," you whispered, desperate to understand, to make sense out of what was happening at six in the fucking morning.
You didn't realize you shouldn't have said it until you were tied to the bed frame with a loose gag barely secured in your mouth.
Bondage wasn't anything new. But how hard his fingers were gripping your waist were, like he would be leaving fucking prints if he had any. Lifting your hips up off the bed to meet his own, thrusting in hard and fast. Bangs falling in his face, brows pinched together in focus, solely devoted to his only purpose.
Proving how serious he was about redefining your relationship to you.
"You don't get to just throw me away," he grunted, keeping you in place even when each new stroke made you shiver in his hold. "Can't just treat me like your boyfriend and abandon me."
"I-I-" You stuttered, a slurred muffled mess that didn't make it far when you (and your sanity) was stretched thin. "Hngh."
"You said you loved me," he reminded you, and you were pretty sure every part of you was trembling, heart torn and shredded as you heard how wrecked he sounded.
You nodded along, crying out an 'I do' into the gag again, cock drunk and half delirious on how good he felt despite the fact every word that left his lovely lips gutted you.
"I'm doing this for us," he promised, and you believed him. Believed anything he said when he was taking you like this. Would scoop out the inside of your heart and let him carve into it whatever way he wanted.
Whimpering and wiggling in the restraints, letting him tug you close just to fuck you harder, fill you up completely, occupy your body and brain with more of him.
"You can't even take care of yourself," he wryly said, and his condescension only made it hotter. "Let alone take care of me."
You tried though.
Maybe too much.
He was like this because of you. Everything he did, everything he was, well, that was just a reflection of you too.
Were you really any better than some perverted man playing house with a blow up doll?
Probably not considering the fact he still made you cum - still dragged you over the edge into depravity with a thumb expertly rubbing over your clit until your tears were running down to where your gag was already damp with saliva.
"Wouldn't it be nice to do this all day?" He muttered, and you were nodding again. Agreeing without thinking as he pulled out of you.
But he didn't untie you.
You watched through glossy eyes as dug through your dresser for something you hadn't used since you brought him home. A pale blue dildo.
"Ready for round two?"
Somewhere between rounds five and six, you were pretty sure something in your brain fractured. Blissed out and burning from the inside out as he wrung orgasm after orgasm from your body. Every electric touch and pretty promises of just one more draining you dry as you tracked time through the light filtering from the window until you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore.
His voice dragged you back from your dreams.
"Thirsty, sweetheart?"
It took more than a few seconds to wake up - but the sun was still out, shining through your sheer curtains as you limply turned your head to process what you were seeing.
You were still tied up. Wrists bound to the bedposts as you blinked and tried to wiggle free. No gag though, like he was listening to your moans instead of music. A vibrator was attached to your clit, set to a low buzz that kept the sheets underneath you soaked.
"Not as good as me, is it?" He casually asked.
"Wha-what?" You tried to stammer, but you could barely feel your leaden limbs, straining to keep your tired eyes open long enough to process what was happening.
He was sitting next to you, fully dressed, in jeans and a comfortable sweater, his back propped against your pillows as he hummed at something.
He had your laptop out, clicking away and submitting a fucking assignment you recognized even in your fuzzy state.
"Just finishing up work, baby," he answered without you asking, reaching over to pat your head.
"You're an asshole," you muttered, although you couldn't bring yourself to put any bite behind it. To feel anything other than flattered by his obsession despite how sick you knew it should be.
That you should be scared. Terrified at how easily he turned the tables - and turned you into his sex doll.
But the only thing you could find in yourself was love. And how different was that really from possession when it came to the two of you?
"That's how you made me," he reminded you.
And that's how you liked him.
His other hand moved, drifting off the keyboard to tap on something small and rectangular pressing into your thigh. A phone. Something he probably purchased for himself and had delivered when you were busy at work.
In the back of your brain, you asked yourself how long he'd been planning this. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike, setting every piece into motion while you lapped up his attention straight from his palm.
But then he kicked the vibrator up higher, and you stopped thinking entirely.
"If you wanted someone softer," he murmured, a soft warning that made your thighs clench together tighter. "You should've paid extra."
And however fucked up it was, there wasn't any other way you would have wanted him.
"You're perfect," you whispered back, painfully sincere.
That was the truth. Plain and painful.
His smirk sent a pulse to your swollen clit, the bundle of nerves wound tight and throbbing as you looked up at him with your mouth parted and pleading for a kiss.
Suguru craned his neck down, planting his lips on yours like he was sealing a promise.
"Don't worry, I'm not as cruel as you," he muttered, dragging his thumb over your cheek once he pulled back. "I won't leave you."
Dick Grayson was six years old when he first started wondering about his soulmate.
At the time, his greatest concern was whether pirates were cooler than cowboys. A debate he took very seriously.
His mother, however, seemed far more interested in the scrape stretched across his knee.
"Stop picking at it."
"I'm not."
"Dick."
Mary Grayson sighed and gently caught his hand before he could peel away the corner of the bandage.
The injury wasn't actually his. That was the whole reason she was tending to it in the first place.
Somewhere out there, another child had tripped and fallen.
The scrape on their knee had appeared on his moments later, bright and stinging against skin that had never touched the ground.
Dick considered this one of the most fascinating things in the world.
A person he'd never met.
Someone who somehow belonged to him. Connected to him by something no one else could see.
"Maybe they were climbing a mountain."
His mother's lips twitched. "A mountain?"
"Or a castle."
"A castle is much more likely."
"I think so too." Dick nodded solemnly. A castle explained the scrape much better than simply falling over.
Castles had stone staircases and secret passageways. Castles had dragons and villains and daring escapes.
His soulmate was probably off on an adventure.
His mother finished securing the bandage before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
"Your soulmate must be having quite the day."
The thought filled him with excitement.
For the rest of the afternoon, Dick imagined another child racing through hidden corridors, ducking beneath traps and escaping dragons by the skin of their teeth.
The possibility that they had simply tripped over their own feet never even crossed his mind.
←↓→↑
When he was seven, he spent two days complaining about a toothache.
The pain settled deep in his jaw, throbbing every time he tried to smile.
By the third day, it disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived.
His father explained that soulmate resonance sometimes worked that way.
That his soulmate had probably gone to the dentist.
Dick immediately sat upright. "What if they were scared?"
"I'm sure they were brave."
"What if nobody held their hand?"
John looked up from the costume he was repairing. "Dick."
"What?"
"They're not stranded on a deserted island."
"You don't know that."
His mother laughed so hard from the other side of the trailer that she nearly dropped her equipment.
Dick didn't see what was so funny.
His soulmate was out there somewhere.
They might be scared of dentists. Or hated needles.
The thoughts lingered with him long after the conversation ended.
Sometimes, late at night, Dick would stare at the ceiling and wonder if they ever thought about him too.
Whether they looked at the strange injuries that appeared on their skin and imagined a boy they'd never met.
He didn't know it then, but that question would follow him for years.
↑→↓←
Dick had developed a habit of asking questions nobody could answer.
What was their favourite colour?
Did they like animals?
Could they do cartwheels?
Did they live nearby?
Did they know about him?
Did they ever wonder the same things?
His parents always answered as though the questions mattered. With interest. As though his curiosity wasn't silly.
As though wondering about the person connected to him was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe that was where it started.
Not the soulmate bond itself, the encouragement. The way nobody ever told him to stop asking. The quiet certainty with which his parents treated his soulmate's existence.
They never spoke about them as a possibility. They spoke about them as a certainty.
That somewhere in the world, there was a person who was completely his.
→←↓↑
At night, after the performances ended and the circus grounds settled into a comfortable hush, Mary often read to him before bed.
Dick's favourite stories weren't fairy tales.
They were stories about connected souls.
The old book lived beside the couch in their trailer, its spine cracked and softened with age. The pages had been turned so many times that the corners curled.
Inside were dosens of accounts collected from all over the world.
Stories about soulmates separated by oceans, soulmates born years apart, soulmates who searched for decades, or who stumbled into one another entirely by accident.
Dick never grew tired of hearing them.
He already knew most of the endings by heart. But that wasn't the point. The point was that every story promised the same thing.
No matter how long it took, how far apart they started, or how impossible it seemed, the soulmates always found each other.
Every single time.
The certainty of it settled somewhere deep inside him. A truth as unquestionable as gravity. As natural as the rising sun.
His soulmate was out there. And one day, they would be his.
By the time Mary finished reading, Dick would already be staring out the trailer window.
Wondering how they would meet. What they looked like. If they laughed loudly or quietly.
If they liked the circus.
Wondering if they were looking at the same stars scattered across the night sky. If they ever touched the marks that appeared on their skin and thought about him.
The thoughts comforted him.
No matter how large the world felt, where he went or how many cities the circus travelled through, there was always someone in it who belonged to him.
Someone he hadn't met yet.
A person he was already learning how to love.
↑→↓←
When he was eight, before the fall, he started keeping things.
Not intentionally at first.
A postcard from a city the circus had passed through. A photograph he liked. A joke that made him laugh. A story he thought someone else would enjoy.
Small things.
The kind of things most children forgot about by the following week.
Dick didn't.
Because whenever he found something special, he caught himself thinking the same thing.
I should tell my soulmate about this someday.
The thought came so naturally he never stopped to question it.
Why would he?
His soulmate was part of his future. Everyone said so.
Some days, he imagined finally meeting them and emptying years of collected memories into their hands.
Showing them every postcard.
Telling them every story.
Introducing them to every place he'd loved.
As though all the little pieces of his life were simply waiting for the right person to share them with.
As though he'd been saving a seat beside him all along.
Years later, after Gotham, after Robin, after everything that came afterward, Dick would still remember those moments.
The scrape on his knee.
The toothache.
The bedtime stories.
His parent's laughter.
The quiet certainty in their voices whenever they spoke about soulmates.
People often assumed his faith in destiny came from the bond itself.
They were wrong.
The bond only connected him to another person.
His parents were the ones who taught him to care. To wonder and to wait.
They were the ones who taught him that somewhere in the world there was a person meant for him.
Someone important who was worth searching for. Someone worth believing in.
Long before he knew anything about them at all.
He loved the idea of them first. Everything else came later.
Before he ever even had a reason to.
Most people loved talking about destiny.
Adults spoke about soulmates with the same certainty they reserved for death and taxes. Teachers smiled when the topic came up in class. Grandparents reminisced over holiday dinners. Entire television networks built reality shows around reunions.
It was impossible to escape.
Not that anyone seemed interested in trying.
Soulmates were proof that the universe cared. Proof that nobody was truly alone. That somewhere out there existed a person created specifically for you.
People loved that idea.
You hated it. Not the concept itself, just yours.
When you were younger, you'd thought soulmate injuries sounded romantic.
A sore wrist because they spent too long writing or a tiny burn from touching a hot pan.
The sort of stories people laughed about.
"My soulmate tripped over again."
"Mine wears his rings on too tight."
"I love when she bites her lip when she’s nervous."
Everyone always sounded so fond when they talked about it. As though every ache was a love letter. Like pain somehow became sweeter when it belonged to someone else.
Bonds manifested differently depending on the pair.
Some people shared emotions, some met each other in dreams. A small percentage could hear each other's thoughts during moments of intense stress. The most common bond, however, was physical resonance.
If your soulmate got hurt, so did you.
Not the injury itself, the consequences. A broken bone wouldn't suddenly appear in your arm, but the pain would. The ache, tenderness, and limitations.
If they twisted an ankle, you'd spend the next few weeks limping around on a perfectly healthy leg.
If they got a migraine, you got one too.
Most people only experienced minor inconveniences.
Nothing life-altering. Nothing that interfered with daily life. At least, not often.
You were not most people.
You stopped finding it romantic at twelve.
Because scraped knees and accidental burns were one thing. Waking up unable to feel your left arm was another.
The pain hit without warning. One second you were asleep, the next you were on your bedroom floor screaming.
Your parents rushed you to the hospital.
The doctors found nothing wrong.
No fracture. No dislocation. No nerve damage. Physically, your arm was perfectly healthy.
Unfortunately, your soulmate's wasn't. Apparently they'd shattered theirs.
Badly.
The pain lingered for nearly two months.
Everyone acted excited.
Your soulmate survived.
Isn't that wonderful?
You received congratulations.
Congratulations.
As though being unable to lift a backpack was somehow a milestone worth celebrating.
The years that followed only got worse.
Your soulmate got shot.
They got stabbed.
Sometimes they manage both within the same week.
You developed a concerning familiarity with painkillers. The nurses at your local urgent care knew you by name. One doctor suggested keeping a journal to track symptoms.
You filled three notebooks.
Looking back through them felt less like medical records and more like a crime scene timeline.
Gunshot wounds. Broken knuckles. Dislocated shoulder. Concussion. Concussion. Another concussion.
You had spent years trying to imagine what kind of person accumulated this many injuries.
At first you'd pictured an athlete.
Then a firefighter.
Maybe a soldier.
Eventually, you'd settled on a simpler explanation.
Your soulmate was an idiot.
At the time, it felt like the only reasonable explanation.
Years later, you would discover that the truth was significantly worse.
But for now, all you knew was that somewhere out there existed a complete stranger whose self-preservation instincts had apparently been beaten to death in an alley.
And for reasons you would never understand, the universe had decided that person belonged to you.
←↓→↑
The first time you missed a school excursion because your soulmate had managed to break something important, everyone treated it like an unfortunate coincidence.
The second time, they called it bad luck.
By the third, people had started joking that your soulmate had a personal grudge against your social life.
You laughed along because it was easier than admitting how much it bothered you.
Most people, hell, everyone romanticised soulmates.
Talked about fate and destiny and finding the missing piece of yourself.
Most soul pairs experienced a handful of major injuries throughout their lives.
Yours seemed determined to collect them.
You remembered when your soulmate somehow got stabbed before your final exams. The pain had hit so suddenly you nearly collapsed in the middle of class.
Your friends had thought you were having some kind of medical emergency.
In hindsight, they weren't entirely wrong.
You sat the exam anyway.
You failed it.
The examiner wasn't interested in hearing that somebody else's knife wound had ruined your concentration.
Life kept moving regardless.
Teachers didn't extend deadlines because your soulmate had been hospitalised.
Employers didn't care that you were limping because someone you'd never met had twisted their ankle chasing God-knows-what.
The world expected you to adapt,
So you did.
You learned how to function through headaches. How to smile through pain. How to swallow frustration before it became bitterness.
You learned exactly how many over-the-counter painkillers you could safely take.
You learned how to fake being fine.
But most importantly, you learned how to stop hoping.
Because every time you wondered if maybe things would get easier, your soulmate proved you wrong.
At first you'd worried about them.
What kind of life were they living? Were they sick? Were they trapped in dangerous circumstances? Did they need help?
That concern lasted until the fourth broken bone.
Then the sixth.
Then the first gunshot wound.
The shot had been a turning point. Because normal people did not get shot. Normal people definitely didn't get shot more than once.
You remembered lying awake in bed afterward, staring at the ceiling while pain radiated through your shoulder.
What the hell is wrong with this person?
The question never really went away.
As the years passed the injuries kept coming. Sometimes there would be weeks of peace.
Then suddenly your soulmate would decide to throw themselves off a building.
Or through a window.
Or into traffic.
At least that's what it felt like.
You didn't know who they were. Didn't know their name. Didn't know where they lived. But you knew they had absolutely no regard for their own safety. No fucking regard for your safety either.
And eventually, concern became irritation. Irritation became anger. Anger became resentment.
Not because of the pain. Not even because of the injuries. Because of what they stole from you.
Your freedom. Choices. The ability to plan a normal life. Every decision came with a silent question.
What if my soulmate gets hurt that day?
You missed birthdays. Missed opportunities. Cancelled plans. Skipped events.
Not because you wanted to.
Because experience had taught you that sooner or later another injury would arrive.
Meanwhile your soulmate remained a stranger. A ghost. A burden you carried without ever being asked if you wanted to.
It always did.
It made you angry.
Not the broken bones. Not the scars. Not even the countless nights spent curled around pain that didn't belong to you.
The fact that someone you'd never met had become one of the most important influences on your life.
Without your permission, your consent, and without ever even saying sorry.
Somewhere out there, your soulmate was choosing to live their life this way.
And every time they did, you paid the price.
You wondered if they ever thought about you. If they ever felt guilty.
If they even cared.
Or if, wherever they were, they simply got back up after every injury and ran headfirst into the next disaster.
Unaware that somewhere across the country, someone was beginning to hate them.
Dick found the post three weeks later.
If anyone asked, it had been an accident. A coincidence.
The sort of thing that happened when someone spent too much time scrolling through soulmate forums at two in the morning.
Nobody asked. That was probably for the best. Dick knew himself well enough to recognise a lie when he told one.
There had never been anything accidental about the way he searched for traces of his soulmate.
The post appeared halfway down a discussion thread titled:
What's the worst injury you've ever shared with your soulmate?
Most of the replies were harmless.
Broken wrists.
Appendectomies.
A woman whose soulmate had somehow fractured their nose trying to impress someone with a skateboard.
Dick smiled despite himself.
Then he kept scrolling.
The smile disappeared.
←↑→↓
I've had more concussions than some professional athletes.
At this point, I'm convinced my soulmate has a death wish.
If I ever meet them, my first question is going to be what the hell is wrong with them.
The post went into concerning details about their injuries dating from over ten years.
Dick stared at the screen.
Read the post again.
Then a third time.
The amusement slowly drained from his face.
Because the timeline matched. Not approximately. Not close enough to be concerning. Exactly.
The gun wounds, the stabbings, concussions, fractures. The endless collection of injuries that had become so commonplace to him he rarely thought about them anymore.
His stomach twisted.
For a long moment, he simply sat there. Laptop balanced on his knees. Apartment fading into the background.
The words blurred.
Not because he couldn't read them. Because he couldn't stop.
Every sentence felt heavier than the last. Not the complaints.
Those made sense.
God, they made sense.
What hurt was everything beneath them.
The frustration. The years of accumulated resentment packed into a handful of sentences.
Not anger born from a single bad day. The kind that settled in after years of disappointment.
His chest tightened.
He scrolled further.
The account wasn't anonymous. There was a username. Years of history.
Dick clicked on it before he could talk himself out of it.
The oldest post was five years old.
The next mentioned another concussion.
A missed birthday.
A cancelled trip.
A broken rib.
An emergency room visit.
Each entry felt like another weight settling onto his shoulders.
Dick had spent years accepting pain as part of his life.
Bruises, bones and cuts all healed.
It had never occurred to him that somebody else had been dragged through it alongside him.
A stranger.
Someone who had never agreed to any of it.
Someone who had spent years waking up with injuries they couldn't explain.
Dick closed the laptop.
Immediately opened it again.
His jaw tightened. He rubbed a hand over his face.
For twenty years, he'd wondered about his soulmate. Wondered who they were. What they were like. Whether they ever thought about him the way he’d always thought about them.
A quiet curiosity that surfaced in the spaces between missions and late-night patrols.
He'd imagined meeting them someday.
Not because soulmates guaranteed a happy ending. Life had taught him better than that.
But because they'd always been there.
Every broken bone. Every near miss. Every moment he'd walked away from something that should have killed him.
They'd felt it too.
Somewhere.
Somehow.
The idea of them had become a constant. A second shadow stretching alongside his own.
And now, for the first time, he was seeing things from the other side.
The reality of it. The cost.
His throat felt tight.
tBecausehey weren't waiting for him.
They weren't searching.
If anything, they sounded exhausted by the idea of him.
And for the first time, Dick found himself wondering whether meeting him would be the last thing they wanted.
The thought hurt far more than it should have.
Dick had managed to stay away from the profile for three days.
He told himself it was respect.
Privacy.
Common decency.
They had spent years dealing with consequences they never asked for, the least he could do was leave them alone.
Three days lasted longer than he expected.
Not nearly as long as he'd hoped.
On the fourth night, he opened the page again.
Just for a minute.
Just to look.
That was the excuse, anyway.
One minute became an hour. Then two. Then the rest of the night.
He read everything.
Posts. Comments. Replies buried in forgotten threads.
Tiny fragments of a life scattered across years of internet history.
Favorite movies, music recommendations, complaints about work.
A rant about a terrible landlord. An argument over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
Meaningless details.
Except they weren't meaningless. Not to him.
Every new discovery felt strangely precious. Like hearing a voice through a wall after years of silence.
For the first time, his soulmate wasn't an abstract possibility.
They were becoming real.
And Dick found himself wanting more.
What did their laugh sound like? What expression did they make when they were annoyed? Did they drink coffee in the morning? Did they still sleep curled up on the same side of the bed they'd mentioned three years ago?
The questions multiplied faster than he could answer them.
By sunrise, he knew more about them than he'd ever thought possible.
By sunrise, he also knew that it wasn't enough.
↑→↓←
The more Dick learned, the more impossible it became to ignore the distance between you.
You were real.
A real person living somewhere beyond his reach.
A real person carrying scars that belonged to both of them.
And once he knew that, how was he supposed to walk away? How was he supposed to forget? Keep waiting?
Dick spent years helping strangers.
Pulling people out of collapsing buildings. Talking frightened kids off ledges. Running toward people who needed help. Doing nothing had never been one of his strengths.
The realisation should have worried him.
Instead, it felt reasonable. Natural.
Almost inevitable.
By the end of the week, he found himself revisiting old comments. Looking closer.
A mention of weather. A complaint about public transit. A local restaurant.
Tiny details.
Nothing significant on their own, but what became patterns when placed together.
The detective in him noticed before the rest of him did.
A city narrowed to a suburb. A suburb narrowed to three possibilities. Three possibilities narrowed to one.
Dick stared at the screen. His pulse quickened.
A line had been crossed somewhere.
He wasn't entirely sure when.
Only that he should probably stop.
Instead, he opened another tab. Then another.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Long enough for hesitation to appear. Not long enough for it to matter.
Because you were out there, and you were hurting.
The first search took less than ten seconds.
The second took even less.
And when the first genuine piece of information appeared on his screen, Dick felt his heartbeat stumble.
For the first time in twenty years, his soulmate wasn't a dream.
You were becoming a person.
And Dick Grayson had never been very good at letting go of the people he loved.
The next morning began the same way most mornings did.
Pain.
You woke before your alarm, blinking groggily at the ceiling while a dull ache settled somewhere between your shoulder blades. Not terrible. Not even particularly surprising. Just another reminder that your soulmate was still out there making questionable decisions.
At least nothing felt broken.
That was practically a victory.
You lay there for another minute before forcing yourself upright. The soreness protested immediately, but years of experience had taught you how to judge the difference between annoying and hospital-worthy.
This fell firmly into the first category. Which meant work.
Lucky you.
By the time you arrived at the coffee shop, Gotham was already awake.
Rush hour traffic crawled through the streets outside. The sidewalks overflowed with exhausted office workers, students, tourists and people who looked like they hadn’t slept in three days.
Which, in this city, narrowed nothing down.
The familiar smell of coffee beans wrapped around you the moment you stepped behind the counter.
Honestly, it was one of the few things you genuinely liked about your job.
The customers were a different story.
By eleven o’clock, you’d already been yelled at twice.
Once because a man believed waiting three minutes for coffee constituted a personal attack.
The second because somebody thought you controlled the weather.
“Rough morning?”
You glanced up, the question knocking you out of your haze.
Your coworker was already grinning.
You sighed. “When isn’t it?”
“Fair.”
The lunch rush arrived shortly after.
Orders piled up. Names blurred together. Your feet hurt. Someone dropped their drink. Another person complained because their coffee was too hot.
You resisted the urge to suggest that coffee was generally known for that.
Then the bell above the door chimed.
Normally, you wouldn't have looked up.
Lunch was a bloody nightmare. There were six drinks waiting to be made, three customers already staring holes into the back of your head, and somebody was arguing over oat milk. You had better things to do.
Yet somehow your eyes lifted anyway.
The man who stepped through the door looked like trouble. Not due to anything he was doing, but because nobody should have looked like that.
For a second, your brain simply failed to process him properly.
Dark hair. Blue eyes. Tall enough to stand out without seeming imposing. Broad shoulders hidden beneath an ordinary jacket that somehow wasn't ordinary anymore because he was wearing it.
The details registered one at a time.
Like your mind was struggling to decide where to look first.
It wasn't just that he was handsome. Handsome was too simple a word. Too ordinary.
Handsome was the guy on a billboard, the actor in a movie, the model in a magazine. This felt different. More annoying.
Like somebody had reached into your head, extracted every preference you'd ever had, and assembled a person around them.
You immediately disliked him for it.
Unfortunately, that didn't make him any less attractive.
His smile appeared as he spoke to the customer in front of him. It transformed his entire face. Softened it.
Made him look approachable in a way beautiful people rarely managed.
The kind of smile that made strangers smile back. The kind that suggested he remembered names. Held doors open. Helped old ladies carry groceries.
He looked like someone that got people into trouble because they assumed nobody that nice-looking could possibly be dangerous.
You tore your eyes away.
Absolutely not.
You were not doing this today.
He was just a customer. A stupidly attractive customer. Nothing more.
Several minutes later, he stepped up to the register.
Up close was a mistake. You realised that immediately.
Most attractive people benefited from distance.
A few feet between you and them gave reality time to point out imperfections.
The lighting changed. The angles shifted. Something human emerged.
Not him.
If anything, proximity made things worse.
His eyes were brighter than you'd thought. Not just blue, more like a deep ocean colour that caught light. The kind that made direct eye contact feel strangely unfair.
There was a faint scar near his eyebrow. Another disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
Tiny imperfections that should have made him look less attractive.
Instead they only made him look real.
"Hi." His voice wrapped around the single syllable with effortless warmth.
He sounded so fucking pleased to be talking to you.
"What can I get for you?"
For a moment, he simply looked at you. Like he'd forgotten whatever he'd originally intended to say.
Then he smiled.
And suddenly it felt difficult to remember how to breathe.
"I'll take a large flat white."
Of course.
Of course the voice matched the face.
Why wouldn't it?
You entered the order before your brain could embarrass you.
The register beeped.
He handed over his card.
His fingers brushed yours for half a second.
It was nothing, really. Barely contact at all. Yet something strange tightened beneath your ribs.
Gone before you could identify it.
You frowned. Weird.
"Name?"
"Dick."
You blinked.
He looked entirely too pleased by your reaction.
"You serious?"
His eyes crinkled at the corners as his grin widened. The bastard somehow became even prettier. "I get that a lot."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Hd let out a deep shaky breath, like he'd been hoping for it. Waiting for it.
As though making you laugh had accomplished something important. Like a strangers happiness mattered.
The look vanished so quickly you almost missed it.
For a brief, inexplicable moment, it felt less like meeting a stranger.
And more like being recognised.
The city belonged to him at night.
Not officially. Gotham belonged to no one. It clawed at anyone foolish enough to try and claim it.
But Dick knew its rhythms better than most.
He knew which rooftops held the best sightlines. Which alleyways concealed drug deals. Which fire escapes groaned beneath a person's weight. Which apartment windows stayed lit long after midnight because the people inside couldn't slep.
And he knew yours.
Perched on a neighboring rooftop, Dick lowered his binoculars slightly.
Your bedroom light had turned on twenty-three minutes before your alarm.
Again.
His jaw tightened.
The bond was never subtle.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the strain from yesterday's patrol still lingered. A bruised shoulder. A pulled muscle. Nothing serious.
Yet the thought of you waking up sore because of him left an uncomfortable weight in his chest.
You sat on the edge of your bed for several moments before standing. Slow and careful. Judging whether the pain was worth worrying about.
Dick recognised the routine.
You'd done it countless times.
The first time he'd seen it, he'd nearly broken a criminal's jaw.
It was then that he'd truly realised what years of sharing injuries with a vigilante must have been like.
You'd learned to evaluate pain before breakfast.
His fingers tightened around the binoculars.
You deserved answers.
You deserved him.
The thought arrived as naturally as breathing.
Dangerous. Wrong. Impossible to stop.
Dick watched you leave for work.
Then he followed.
He knew how surveillance worked. Knew exactly how easy it was to make someone feel watched.
So he stayed distant. A block behind, sometimes two.
Just another face in Gotham's endless crowd.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Nightwing could disappear from sight whenever he wanted. Dick Grayson found excuses to linger near coffee shops.
By eleven, he was seated across the street with a newspaper he hadn't read once.
His attention remained fixed elsewhere.
On the way you tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear when concentrating. On the tiny crease that appeared between your eyebrows whenever customers irritated you. On the exhausted smile you gave coworkers despite clearly wanting to go home.
His chest ached.
He hated seeing you tired.
Hated seeing people take advantage of your kindness.
Hated that he couldn't simply walk inside and tell everyone to be careful with you.
Because you were important.
Because you mattered.
Because.. No.
Dick shut the thought down before it could finish.
This wasn't about ownership.
It couldn't be.
The soulmate bond wasn't ownership. It was connection.
Destiny.
A promise written into both of them before either had been born.
At least that was what he told himself whenever the possessive thoughts became harder to ignore.
By lunchtime, the crowd had thickened.
Good.
That made entering easier. Less noticeable.
The bell above the café door chimed as he stepped inside.
Immediately, he saw you.
The sight struck him with embarrassing force.
Every single time.
He'd spent months watching.
Months learning your routines.
Listening to your laugh from across rooms.
And somehow the impact never lessened.
You stood behind the register looking exhausted. A little annoyed. Ethereal.
Dick looked away before anyone could notice he'd been staring.
The line moved forward.
One customer. Two. Three. His pulse accelerated.
Ridiculous.
He'd fought assassins without flinching. Faced alien invasions. Stood against enemies capable of leveling cities. Yet somehow speaking to you felt more intimidating than any of them.
Because this mattered. Because you mattered.
The customer ahead of him finally left. And then it was his turn.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Your eyes lifted to meet his. Everything else disappeared. The noise. The conversations. The espresso machines. All of the buzzing was gone, just for a second.
Just long enough for Dick to feel the strange, impossible certainty he'd been carrying since the first moment he'd seen you.
There you are.
His soulmate.
His.
"Hi." The word came out softer than intended.
Your gaze remained fixed on him. Trying very hard not to stare.
Dick nearly smiled.
You had no idea.
No idea how many nights he'd spent imagining this conversation.
How many times he'd rehearsed introducing himself.
How often he'd wondered whether the bond would feel different when you finally met.
Instead, you asked professionally, "What can I get for you?"
For one disastrous second, Dick forgot the answer. Forgot he'd ordered the same thing repeatedly for weeks specifically because it was easy to remember. How human conversation worked.
You looked even better up close.
God, your eyes. Your voice. The tiny signs of exhaustion. The familiar shape of someone he'd spent months studying from a distance. Real.
You were finally real.
"I'll take a large flat white."
Smooth.
Very smooth.
Dick internally cringed.
You entered the order.
The register beeped.
He handed over his card.
Your fingers brushed his. The contact lasted less than a heartbeat. Lightning shot through him anyway.
The first touch.
The first real touch.
Dick forced himself not to react. Years of training saved him. Barely.
Then you asked the question he'd secretly been waiting for.
"Name?"
His mouth twitched. "Dick."
The blink you gave him was immediate.
Perfect.
Dick couldn't help smiling.
For the first time all day, genuine amusement broke through the tension knotting his chest.
"You serious?"
A laugh threatened to escape him.
God, he loved your voice already. Far too much.
"I get that a lot."
Then you laughed.
His breath caught.
Don't.
Don't do this.
Don't build a future out of a single laugh.
Yet he couldn't stop.
For a brief moment, your eyes met his again. Confusion flickered there. Recognition without understanding. A pull neither of you could explain.
And for the first time since entering the café, Dick wondered if you felt it too.
If you could physically feel that he was someone who looked at you and saw the center of his world.
You frowned slightly.
Dick’s smile was warm. Harmless.
The same smile that convinced criminals he was merciful and civilians he was safe.
"Thanks," he said.
Then he stepped aside to wait for his coffee.
And for the first time in months, waiting didn't feel difficult. Because now you knew he existed.
Dick returned three days later.
Then again the day after that.
Soon, the visits became a part of his routine so deeply ingrained that he no longer questioned it.
Patrol.
Sleep.
Reports.
Coffee.
You.
The order never changed.
He learned your schedule without meaning to. Or maybe he had meant to. Dick wasn't entirely sure where the line had disappeared.
At some point, knowing things about you had stopped feeling like gathering information and started feeling lke breathing.
He knew which coworker made you laugh.
Which customer always left you irritated.
Which days exhaustion sat heavier on your shoulders.
He knew the difference between your real smiles and the fake ones. The difference between a smile that reached your eyes and one offered out of politeness. The difference mattered.
Everything about you mattered.
Sometimes guilt still surfaced. Usually late at night. During the quiet moments after patrol, when Gotham finally stopped screaming for a few hours and left him alone with his thoughts.
That was when he remembered the forum posts.
The complaints.
The frustration.
The resentment.
Years of it.
You didn't want a soulmate. Not one who left you waking up sore after fights. Or one whose life seemed determined to get itself stabbed, shot, electrocuted, and thrown off rooftops.
The thought should have hurt.
Instead, Dick found himself staring at the ceiling and feeling strangely calm.
Because you didn't hate him.
You hated the idea of him.
The unknown. The stranger connected to your life.
You hated the inconvenience.
The pain. Uncertainty.
But him?
You didn't know him yet.
How could you hate someone you didn't know?
You didn't know about the nights he spent bleeding through cracked armor because civilians needed help. About the disasters he'd prevented. The people he'd saved. The promises he'd kept.
You didn't know how many times he'd nearly told you the truth.
How many times he'd stood outside your apartment building and wondered if tonight should be the night. How often he thought about you. How he worried.
You didn't know.
But you would.
Eventually.
Dick believed that with absolute certainty.
Because every day gave him something. A conversation. A smile. A joke.
Tiny, worthless things.
Things nobody else would notice.
By the second week, you knew his order.
By the third, you smiled when he walked through the door.
The first time it happened, the entire day felt brighter.
Ridiculously embarrassing of him, he knew that.
Yet the memory replayed in his head for hours.
The way your face lit up with recognition. How you'd greeted him before he even reached the counter.
Like you were happy to see him.
Like he'd become part of your day too.
A crack in the wall.
A tiny one. But cracks spread. Eventually walls collapse.
Dick was patient enough to wait. To let things unfold naturally.
Most of the time.
You still didn't know the truth.
Didn't know that he could identify your footsteps.
Could find your apartment window from almost anywhere in the neighborhood.
Didn't know he'd memorised the route you walked home.
The backup routes too.
The places where the streetlights didn't work. The alleys he disliked.
The intersections with the highest crime rates.
Important information. Necessary information.
Someone had to know those things. Someone had to keep you safe.
The city certainly wasn't going to.
Dick smiled to himself as he watched you lock the café doors one evening.
The sun had already disappeared. Streetlights painted gold across the pavement.
You looked tired. A little cold.
Still breathtaking.
Always so fucking ethereal.
His chest tightened with pure unfiltered need.
The overwhelming, consuming need to make sure nothing bad ever touched you again. To stand between you and every ugly thing Gotham could throw your way. To erase every danger before it reached you. To make the world safe enough that you'd never have to worry.
Hell, even the need to just push you down and capture your mouth in a kiss so intimate that you’d never want to let go.
The feeling had become stronger lately. Harder to ignore.
Before, you had been a concept. A hopeful possibility.
Now you were you.
You had a face. A laugh. A favorite drink. A life.
And every day made the thought of losing you more unbearable.
You disappeared around the corner.
Dick waited.
Five seconds. Ten. Then he rose from his seat. Following. Never too close. Never enough to be noticed. Just enough.
To intervene if something happened.
Making sure you got home safely.
Just enough to reassure the restless part of himself that always seemed to whisper what if?
What if someone followed you first?
What if someone hurt you?
What if someone took you away?
The thoughts were irrational. Dick knew they were.
Most people walked home every day without incident. But most people weren't you.
His jaw tightened.
That was the difference.
People talked about soulmates as though finding them was the end of the story. Like destiny did all the work.
As if fate guaranteed a happy ending.
Dick knew better.
Finding you wasn't the difficult part. Keeping you safe was. Protecting you was. Making sure the universe didn't decide to take back the greatest thing it had ever given him was.
His gaze remained fixed on your retreating figure. Unwavering.
The possessiveness no longer startled him.
That battle had ended weeks ago.
Every justification had been exhausted. Every argument dismantled.
The truth remained.
You were woven through his life. Through his thoughts. Through every future he could imagine.
His soulmate.
His person.
The one thing in this city he couldn't lose.
And somewhere along the way, the distinction between wanting you and needing you had quietly disappeared.
Dick watched you disappear into your apartment building. Only then did the tension leave his shoulders.
Safe.
The word settled warmly inside his chest.
Safe for another night.
His eyes lingered on the illuminated window that he knew belonged to you.
Terrifyingly devoted.
The universe had tied your lives together years ago.
And Dick had no plans on fighting fate.
And if the day ever came when something, or someone, tried to take you away from him, Gotham would learn exactly how dangerous Nightwing could be when the only thing he loved was threatened.
The first time you noticed something was wrong, it didn't feel important. Just strange.
"Wait."
Your friend blinked across the table. "What?"
"You got offered a job in Blüdhaven?"
"Yeah?"
You frowned. "When?"
"A few months ago."
A few months ago.
That couldn't be right.
You'd applied for that same position. Gone through three interviews. Spent weeks waiting for a response.
And then nothing.
No rejection.
No acceptance.
Nothing.
"I never heard back."
"Really?" they said. "That's weird."
It was weird. You'd checked your emails obsessively at the time.
Nothing.
Not even spam.
Eventually you'd assumed they'd gone with another candidate.
The conversation moved on.
You didn't.
↓→←↑
Then another thing happened. And another.
"..You never told me your landlord sold the building."
Dick looked up from where he was cooking. "What?"
"The building."
You leaned against the counter. "The landlord was apparently trying to sell it last year."
Something flashed across his face.
"Huh."
"He said he couldn't find a buyer."
Dick hummed. "Guess it wasn't the right time."
You frowned.
That wasn't what the landlord had said. The exact words had been: "Every buyer that showed interest pulled out at the last minute."
←→↓↑
Then there was your ex.
Not an ex, technically. Just someone you'd gone on a few dates with before Dick.
Someone who suddenly moved overseas without warning.
You only found out because you bumped into one of their friends.
"Yeah, he was furious."
"What?"
"They withdrew the visa investigation thing eventually, but by then he'd already accepted another position."
You blinked. "The what?"
The friend frowned. "You didn't know?"
No.
No, you definitely hadn't known.
↓←→↑
The pieces don't fit together immediately.
Not until one late night, sitting on Dick's couch.
When his phone lit up.
You hadn’t even meant to look, the flash just caught your attention. The “image of the day” was a photograph.
Your photograph.
Not a recent one. Not one you’d sent him.
A candid picture.
Taken months before you met.
You were standing outside of your apartment.
"..Dick."
His entire body goes still at your tone.
Like prey hearing a gun click.
Slowly, he looks up.
You hold out the phone.
The photograph staring back at both of you.
Your pulse begins to hammer. "When did you take this?"
Nothing.
For a second, Dick just looks at you.
Then at the photo.
Then back.
“…Before we met."
Your stomach drops. "What?"
"I took it before we met." His voice is calm. Too gentle. The same voice he uses when you're upset.
Like he was expecting to tell you that everything was okay.
"I found you before the café."
The room suddenly feels too small. "How long?"
"A while."
"Dick."
"A few months."
The answer hits like a truck.
Months.
Your laugh comes out strained. Unsteady. "You're joking."
"No." He doesn't look ashamed.
If he looked guilty, maybe this would make sense. Instead, he looks concerned.
Concerned about you.
Like you're the one having a difficult time.
"Dick, that's stalking."
His jaw tightens immediately. Hurt.
Like you've accused him of something unfair.
"I was making sure you were safe."
"No." You stand. "Dick-"
Your heart is racing now. Too fast. "What the fuck do you mean you were watching me?"
And for the first time since you've known him, Dick looks frustrated.
Not because he got caught. Because you're not understanding.
"You lived alone."
"Dick-"
"You walked home after dark."
"Listen to me!"
"There were three muggings within four blocks of your apartment." His voice rises. Emotion breaking through.
"And I knew what Gotham was like."
You freeze. He sounds desperate. Terrified.
"I couldn't just leave you there." His eyes are shining now. Raw.
Honest.
The truth finally spilling out.
"You think I wanted to scare you?" His voice cracks.
"I spent twenty years looking for you."
You take a step backward.
Dick notices immediately. The devastation that crosses his face is instantaneous.
He actually believes that he's innocent. That every line he crossed was reasonable.
Because every choice was made for the same reason.
Love.
And suddenly all those little coincidences don't feel like coincidences anymore.
The failed job.
The vanished opportunities.
The relationships that somehow never worked out.
The people who drifted away.
The life that kept shrinking until Dick occupied most of it.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. For a second, neither of uni moved.
You stood frozen in the hallway outside Dick's apartment, one hand still wrapped around the doorknob, your pulse pounding so hard it made your ears ring. The argument replayed itself in fragments. Accusations, denials, half-finished explanations. None of it felt real.
Behind the door, you heard Dick's footsteps. Part of you expected the handle to turn. Expected him to come after you. To stop you before you left. To grab your wrist, block the doorway, force the conversation to continue.
Instead, the footsteps stopped. You could picture him standing there on the other side of the door. Not chasing you. Not arguing. Just... standing there. Devastated.
If he'd gotten angry, maybe this would have been easier. If he'd yelled, if he'd lied, if he'd given you a reason to hate him, maybe the hollow ache opening inside your chest wouldn't have felt so unbearable.
Instead, he'd looked heartbroken. Like he was the victim. Like you were the one tearing something precious apart.
The walk home passed in a blur. You barely remembered unlocking your apartment. The second the door shut behind you, instinct took over. Deadbolt. Chain. The secondary lock.
You checked the windows twice. Then a third time.
Only when every entrance was secured did you allow yourself to breathe.
Your phone vibrated. The screen lit up. Dick.
You stared at the name. The call rang until it stopped. A second call appeared almost immediately. Then a third. The messages started after that.
Can we talk? Please answer. I just want to know you're okay.
For a dangerous second, your thumb hovered over the screen. Then you blocked him.
The number disappeared. You blocked his social media. His email. His Spotify. Every account you could think of. Anything connected to him. Anything that could give him a way back in.
When you finally finished, the apartment felt unnaturally quiet. You'd wanted silence.
Hadn't you?
So why did it feel like something was missing? Why did the absence feel so loud? Sleep never came. Every time you closed your eyes, another memory surfaced.
The internship opportunity that had vanished after months of promising interviews. The friendship that had somehow dissolved without explanation. The coworkers who'd grown distant. The photograph.
At four in the morning, you found yourself sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket, staring into the darkness. The city lights beyond your apartment window painted faint reflections across the floor.
You couldn't stop thinking. Every memory felt poisoned now. Every coincidence felt deliberate. How much of your life had actually been yours?
How many choices had been choices at all?
You didn't notice yourself drifting into a shallow sleep until your alarm exploded beside your head. You jolted awake.
Immediately regretted it. Pain tore through your leg so violently that for a split second you genuinely thought something had exploded. A scream ripped from your throat. White-hot agony shot from your shin to your hip.
The room tilted. Your knee gave out. You hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. The impact barely registered. All you could feel was the pain. It burned. Throbbed. Pulsed with every heartbeat.
You curled instinctively around your leg, gasping for air through clenched teeth. "What the fuck!" The words dissolved into another strangled cry.
Minutes passed. Or maybe longer.
Time became difficult to measure when every movement felt like driving a knife through bone.
Eventually you managed to drag yourself onto the couch. Sweat clung to your skin. Your stomach churned. The pain wasn't normal. It wasn't a cramp. Wasn't a pulled muscle. It felt broken. A fresh fracture.
Then a bitter laugh escaped your throat. Of fucking course.
You’d barely survived the worst night of your life and apparently your soulmate had decided now was the perfect time to break something. Again.
The bitter laugh that escaped you sounded almost hysterical. The empty apartment offered no response. Not that you expected one.
Your soulmate had never apologised before.
Several hours later, three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment. You froze.
The sound cut through the silence like a gunshot.
Another knock followed.
Then a familiar voice. Every muscle in your body locked. You remained motionless.
Maybe he'd leave.
Another knock sounded, softer this time. Almost hesitant. "…Please open the door." The concern in his voice made your stomach twist.
You hated that it still affected you. Hated that some part of you still wanted to believe him.
Then came the sentence that made your blood turn to ice. "You shouldn't be standing."
Everything stopped. Your breathing. Your thoughts. Your heartbeat. Slowly, very slowly, you turned toward the door. The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too quiet.
"Dick?" A pause.
Then: "I brought groceries." His voice sounded tired. Careful. Like he was approaching a wounded animal. "I also got pain medication."
You stared at the door. A sick feeling began unfurling in your stomach.
"Can you let me in?" No. No, no, no. Maybe coincidence. Maybe a lucky guess. Maybe-
"You need to stay off that leg." The world seemed to tilt. Your pulse thundered.
How? You hadn't told anyone. You hadn't gone to the hospital. You hadn't even texted anyone. There was no way he could know. Unless-
The thought hit so hard it felt physical. You forced yourself upright and limped toward the door. Each step sent another wave of pain through your leg.
By the time you reached it, your hands were shaking. You opened the door only a few inches.
Dick stood on the other side. One arm loaded with grocery bags. Takeout containers balanced in the other hand. A bottle of painkillers tucked beneath his elbow.
The second the door opened, his gaze dropped.Straight to your injured leg.
"There it is." The words slipped out before he could stop them. His expression tightened immediately. "You really shouldn't be putting weight on-"
"How do you know?"
Silence.The question landed between them like a blade. Dick froze.
You felt your heartbeat climbing higher and higher. "How do you know my leg is injured?"
For the first time since you'd met him, Dick looked caught off guard. Not angry. Not defensive. Caught.
Something that looked dangerously close to guilt crossed his face. And suddenly you understood enough to make your blood run cold.
The fracture hadn't happened to your soulmate. It had happened because of them.
Dick's expression changed immediately. Not much, most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but you'd spent months learning the subtle shifts in his face. The slight tightening around his eyes. The way his shoulders stiffened.
"Angel-"
You took another step backward on instinct. Pain shot through your injured leg. A sharp hiss escaped you before you could swallow it.
Dick flinched. The reaction was instantaneous. His hand jerked forward as though he meant to catch you before he stopped himself. The concern that flashed across his face was so immediate, so visceral, that it made your stomach turn.
For a horrible second, you couldn't stop thinking about it. The way he'd known. The way he'd looked directly at your leg. The medication tucked under his arm. The certainty in his voice when he'd told you not to stand.
Maybe he really had felt it. Maybe every pulse of pain that had left you curled up on the floor this morning had reached him too.
"You knew." The accusation hung between you.
Dick's jaw tightened. You stared at him. Stared at the man standing in your doorway carrying groceries and painkillers like some devoted boyfriend stopping by to take care of you after a bad day.
"You knew you were my soulmate." For a second, one stupid, desperate second, you hoped he'd deny it.
Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe this entire nightmare had gotten out of control.
Dick looked down. "...Yeah."
Every injury. Every unexplained ache. Every ruined plan because somebody you had never met couldn't stop getting themselves hurt.
You remembered sitting in emergency rooms as a teenager, trying to explain symptoms doctors couldn't understand. Missing school because you'd woken up unable to walk on an ankle you'd never injured. The migraines. The broken fingers. The bruises.
The soulmate bond had shaped your life whether you'd wanted it to or not. And all this time, it had been him.
Not a stranger. Not some faceless person halfway across the world. Dick. Your Dick.
The man who knew how you took your coffee. The man who remembered insignificant details about conversations you'd forgotten having.
The man you'd trusted enough to love.
Your hand found the wall beside you before you even realised you were reaching for support.
Dick took a step forward automatically.
You recoiled.
The look that crossed his face was immediate and devastating.
He stopped moving at once. "Angel..."
"How long?" Your voice sounded strange. Thin. Distant. "How long have you known?"
For the first time since arriving, Dick looked genuinely uncomfortable. Ashamed.
His gaze dropped briefly to the floor. "Eight months."
"Eight months?"
"Angel, I know how bad that sounds-"
"You knew for eight months." Every word came out sharper than the last. "You knew and you didn't tell me."
"I wanted to." The answer came immediately. Too quickly. Like he'd rehearsed this argument a hundred times. "I did. God, I wanted to tell you from the beginning."
"Then why didn't you?"
Dick looked away. That was answer enough.
Because he'd been watching. Learning. Getting closer. Fitting himself into your life before you knew what he was.
"You let me hate them."
Something flickered across his face. A strange sadness. Not guilt exactly. Something closer to regret. "I never wanted that."
"You let me spend years hating my soulmate." His expression tightened. "I know."
"You let me blame them for everything."
"I know." The quiet sincerity of the response only made you angrier. He wasn't denying it. Wasn't making excuses. He understood exactly what he'd done. And somehow, he still thought he'd been right.
The apartment fell silent.
Dick stood near the door surrounded by grocery bags and takeout containers. The sight would have been almost domestic under different circumstances. Ordinary.
Something in his expression softened. "You don't have to do this anymore."
You frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Dick hesitated. For the first time since arriving, he seemed unsure of how to explain himself. "..You've spent your entire life paying for things that weren't your fault."
The words were quiet. Measured. His gaze dropped briefly to your injured leg before returning to your face. "I know every hospital visit."
A chill crawled down your spine.
His voice grew softer. "I know every surgery. Every cast. Every time you had to cancel plans because I did something reckless." The guilt in his expression looked genuine. "I know what it cost you."
"Dick."
"I do." His voice cracked slightly. The sound startled you.
"I know exactly what I've put you through."
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Dick slowly set the groceries on the floor. "You shouldn't have had to deal with any of it alone."
Something about the direction of the conversation suddenly felt wrong. Dangerous. "Dick..." "I mean it." His eyes never left yours.
"You shouldn't have had to worry about medical bills because I got shot. You shouldn't have had to miss work because I decided jumping off rooftops sounded like a good idea. You shouldn't have had to build your life around my mistakes."
A humorless laugh escaped him. "You definitely shouldn't have had to spend years wondering who was responsible." The guilt in his voice was so real it almost hurt to listen to.
And somehow that made what came next even worse. "But you don't have to do that anymore."
The knot in your stomach tightened. "What does that mean?"
Dick looked genuinely confused by the question. As though the answer was obvious. "As long as I'm here, you're not dealing with any of it alone."
"You don't need to worry about rent." The words landed heavily.
You stared at him, dumbfounded. "What?"
"I'll take care of it." "No."
"You don't have to keep working two jobs." "No."
"You don't have to stress about groceries or bills or whether you can afford physical therapy."
"Dick!"
His voice remained calm. Patient. Like he was trying to explain something simple. Something reasonable. "I can handle all of that."
"You can't just decide that." "Why not?" The question came out so naturally that it stopped you cold.
Dick frowned slightly, confused. "As far as I'm concerned, taking care of you is my responsibility."
Your heart dropped. The conviction in his voice was absolute. Not possessive in the way you'd expected. Like he wasn't describing what he wanted. He was describing reality.
"You don't owe me anything," he continued quietly. "You don't have to love me back. You don't even have to forgive me. But I'm not going to stand there and keep watching you suffer because of things I've done."
His gaze held yours. Steady. Intense. Terrifyingly sincere. "You've carried this alone for long enough."
The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too difficult to breathe in. Because you finally understood. Dick wasn't asking for a relationship. He wasn't asking for forgiveness. He wasn't even asking for another chance.
He was asking you to hand him control.
The first escape attempt had been almost gentle. A mistake, in hindsight. You’d underestimated him. Underestimated his understanding of you.
By the time you reached the outer perimeter, your leg had already started to fail in ways that didn’t make sense at first. Pain bloomed without warning, sharp, targeted, precise, as if your body had been waiting for permission to collapse.
It was him. Dick Grayson had already noticed you leaving. Already made his choice.
He carried you back without comment when he found you kneeling in the rain like you’d simply run out of endurance. Like your body had just… stopped cooperating. Like he couldn’t even feel his own pain shooting through him.
For three days after that, he barely spoke. Not anger. Not even punishment. Adjustment. Because he was learning how far he could push the bond, and how far he could push himself.
The second attempt cost you more. Not because he was harsher, because he was faster. You barely remember leaving the room. You remember waking up in a different one. Reinforced, seamless, wrong in ways your instincts couldn’t map.
Dick sat beside the bed like he’d never moved. Like time had folded around him. “You dislocated your shoulder,” he said calmly, as though that explained everything.
You tried to sit up. Your body refused. His hand rested on your wrist before you could test it further. “You pushed too hard,” he added. “I had to stabilise it.” “I didn’t-”
“Yes,” he interrupted, still calm. “You did.” But what he didn’t say, what you only began to understand later, was that he had done the same thing to himself at the exact moment you tried to leave.
The third time you tried, there was no hallway. Just motion that died halfway through becoming action. Your body locking down in controlled, precise waves of agony. Like a switch had been thrown. And somewhere behind you, his voice. “I told you not to do that again.”
When you woke, your ankle was wrapped. Your phone was gone. The doors had changed again.
That was when you understood the rule. You could try. He would let you try. Not because he expected you to succeed, but because every attempt gave him data. Every spike of your pain told him what the bond could tolerate. And every time you pushed too far, he matched you. By breaking himself just enough that the connection snapped you both back into place.
Now, in what he liked to call the living room, too controlled to feel like a home, you listened to him in the kitchen. Normal sounds. Water running. A cup set down carefully. Like nothing was wrong.
You swallowed. Your voice weak from disuse. “..I want to leave.”
“You don’t want that,” he mumbled, not looking up from the pan.
“I do.”
“No,” he said gently. “You want the version of it that doesn’t hurt.” He walked patiently over to you. His hand lifted, hovered near your shoulder, then settled. Warm. Certain.
“.. I won’t let it get that far.”
Your throat tightened. “You’re hurting me.”
This time, he didn’t deny it immediately.
He just looked at you for a long moment. Then, “No,” he said quietly. “I’m stopping you from breaking past the point where there’s no coming back.”
“You don’t get to leave anymore,” he said at last. “Not like that.” Not a threat. A conclusion.
“And you won’t try again,” he added, softer.
“Because I won’t let either of us survive what happens when you do.”
Then he turned back toward the kitchen. As if the decision had already been made. As if your life together had always been structured this way.
And in a sense, it had.
10K+ Words, 61K+ Characters, 1K+ sentences, 36 min average reading time, 58 min average speaking time.
Yandere Bruce Wayne x Soulmate Reader (Smut warning: Masterbation)
The countdown had never meant much to Bruce Wayne.
As a child, it had simply existed.
A cluster of glowing numbers etched into the skin of his inner wrist, ticking steadily downward with each passing second.
It wasn’t unusual. Every person in the world was born with some form of soulmate bond. Some shared pain, some shared dreams, some found words appearing on their skin, written by hands they had never touched. Others heard thoughts not their own, glimpsed flashes of memories, or carried matching marks that mirrored one another across continents.
There were countless variations. Entire scientific fields had been built around studying them.
Bruce’s happened to be a countdown.
Nobody knew exactly why soulmate bonds manifested differently. Decades of research had produced theories but few answers. Genetics and geography didn’t determine it. Neither did bloodlines or upbringing. Soulmate bonds simply… were.
For Bruce, that meant a simple promise written beneath his skin.
When it reached zero, he would meet the person destined for him.
As a boy, he had imagined it the same way every child did.
His soulmate would appear one day. They would laugh together. Grow old together. Build a life together.
A future.
The sort of future his parents had possessed.
The sort of future that had died alongside them in an alley behind the Monarch Theater.
After that night, the timer became little more than background noise.
The glowing numbers continued their steady descent while Bruce attended funerals, inherited a fortune he never wanted, and watched Gotham consume itself one crime at a time. They ticked downward while Alfred patiently pieced together the shattered remains of a grieving child. They ticked downward while Bruce buried himself in studies, martial arts, criminology, forensics, and every discipline that might one day help him wage war against the city that had taken everything from him.
Years passed.
The timer remained a constant. Unchanging. Always moving. Always counting.
Sometimes he caught himself staring at it during long flights between countries. During sleepless nights spent training until his knuckles split. During lonely evenings in unfamiliar cities where he could almost pretend he was just another wealthy young man wandering the world in search of purpose.
The numbers never stopped.
And despite everything, a small part of him still wondered.
Who were they?
Who was waiting at the end of that countdown?
The thought felt dangerous.
Hope always did.
By the time he returned to Gotham and donned the cowl for the first time, Bruce had long since convinced himself that soulmates were a luxury he could not afford.
Batman had no place for dreams. No room for futures. And he certainly had no room for someone he might one day love.
The city came first.
It always would.
Gotham demanded sacrifice, and Bruce had made his choice years ago.
If his soulmate existed, then they deserved better than what remained of him.
So he stopped thinking about it.
Or at least he tried to.
The timer continued to count.
Days.
Months.
Years.
Seconds.
Its steady descent accompanied him through every chapter of his life.
It was there when Dick Grayson crashed into his world beneath a circus tent, a furious and heartbroken child whose pain mirrored Bruce’s own in ways neither of them fully understood. It remained when Dick became Robin, when he became family, and when Bruce made the selfish decision to love someone enough to let them stay.
The numbers continued falling.
They were there when Jason Todd stole the tires off the Batmobile, and somehow stole a place in Bruce’s heart soon afterward. They ticked downward through every argument, every proud moment, every hard-earned smile.
And they’d kept counting when Jason died.
Bruce remembered that night with painful clarity.
The rage. The guilt. Helplessness. The suffocating certainty that he had failed.
Even then, amidst grief so profound it threatened to hollow him out completely, the timer continued. As though fate cared little for the tragedies of ordinary men.
Years later came Tim.
Then Damian.
A family assembled from broken pieces and impossible odds. One that Bruce never intended to build and could not imagine living without.
The countdown remained through it all. A quiet presence beneath his skin. Easy to ignore, impossible to forget. Even whilst hidden from sight beneath the bulky steel of his jaeger-lecoultre reverso.
Sometimes, on particularly difficult nights, he found himself fiddling with the watch strap just enough to see the edges of it.
Not because he expected anything or believed he deserved whatever waited at the end, but because the idea lingered. A tiny, stubborn thing buried beneath decades of grief and responsibility.
The possibility that somewhere out there existed a person uniquely his.
Someone who might understand. Who might see every ugly, fractured piece of him and choose to stay.
Someone who might look beyond Batman.
Beyond the billionaire mask. Beyond the failures. And simply see Bruce.
It was a foolish thought. An indulgent one, really. The sort of fantasy he rarely allowed himself to entertain.
Yet it persisted all the same.
Perhaps because he had spent so much of his life alone. Not physically. Never physically. The Manor was full. The Batcave was full. His life overflowed with people he loved.
But loneliness and solitude were not the same thing.
Bruce had learned that lesson long ago.
For most of his life, every meaningful relationship had begun with loss.
Dick had lost his parents. Jason had lost everything. Tim had nearly lost himself trying to save Batman from his own grief. Damian had been raised as a weapon before he was ever allowed to be a child.
Every person Bruce ever loved carried scars.
All because they had stepped into his world.
And if fate truly intended to place another person in his life… What then? What kind of future could he possibly offer them?
Late nights spent waiting for him to return home alive? Hospital visits? Funerals? The constant threat of becoming a target simply because they mattered to Bruce Wayne?
No.
His soulmate deserved better.
Deserved normal.
Far away from Gotham and everything it touched.
A sensible conclusion. A logical conclusion. One he repeated to himself countless times.
The problem was that logic had never succeeded in silencing the small traitorous part of him that still watched the countdown.
Nobody truly knew him. Not completely. Not the way a soulmate supposedly could. The way destiny promised.
So the timer remained tucked away in the back of his mind.
A breath caught before it could fully form. A dream he never allowed himself to finish imagining.
And still it counted.
Drawing closer with every passing day to a future Bruce Wayne had stopped believing would ever matter.
Until the day it finally reached zero.
The countdown on your wrist had never inspired the same fascination it seemed to in everyone else.
As a child, you remembered classmates comparing bruises during recess, eagerly conspiring about how old they’d be when they finally met the person fate had chosen for them. Entire conversations revolved around it. Predictions. Theories. Daydreams.
You had participated, of course.
Mostly because everyone else did.
But even then, you never quite understood the obsession.
Perhaps it was because your bond felt so distant.
Unlike those who shared pain with their soulmates or dreamed through another person’s eyes, your countdown offered nothing tangible. No connection. No glimpses into another life. No indication of who your soulmate might be beyond the vague promise that one day, eventually, you would meet them.
It was difficult to become attached to someone who felt entirely theoretical.
The numbers counted downward. Life continued.
School became university. University became work. Friendships came and went. Apartments changed. Jobs changed. Entire years disappeared before you even noticed them passing.
The timer remained, steadily ticking away in the background.
Yet strangely unimportant.
Not because you disliked the idea of soulmates. Quite the opposite.
You supposed it was comforting to think there was someone out there destined specifically for you. Someone whose life would one day intersect with your own in a way no one else’s ever could.
But you had never been particularly fond of building your future around things you couldn’t control.
If your soulmate appeared tomorrow, wonderful. If they appeared twenty years from now, that was fine too.
Either way, life would continue.
You had plans. Goals. Responsibilities. A future that existed independently of whoever happened to be waiting at the end of that countdown.
Which was probably why you never developed the habit of checking it.
Weeks sometimes passed without you looking at the numbers.
Months, if life became particularly busy.
Your friends found that strange.
Most people tracked their bonds religiously.
You couldn’t remember the last time you had cared enough to calculate how much time remained.
Not that it mattered. Fate would arrive whether you watched the clock or not.
The thought made you smile slightly as you adjusted the sleeve of your outfit.
The invitation resting on your kitchen counter immediately drew your attention once more. Embossed gold lettering gleamed beneath the overhead light.
You had considered declining several times already.
Charity galas were not your thing.
Neither were crowds of wealthy socialites, politicians, celebrities, and Gotham’s elite pretending to enjoy one another’s company while discussing donations over champagne.
Unfortunately, declining wasn’t really an option. Your company had spent the past month preparing for the event.
Attendance was expected. Mandatory, according to your supervisor.
The memory earned a quiet sigh.
Tomorrow evening.
Wayne Foundation Annual Renewal Gala.
You stared at the familiar name printed across the card. Wayne.
One of the most recognisable names in the country. Perhaps even the world.
Bruce Wayne’s name seemed to exist everywhere in Gotham. On buildings, hospitals, scholarships, charities.
A billionaire philanthropist.
A notorious playboy.
A man whose face appeared so frequently in magazines that most of Gotham could probably identify him from memory.
You had never met him. Never expected to. Tomorrow would likely be no different.
You would attend the gala, smile politely, make small talk, and stay for the required amount of time.
Then return home and forget the entire evening ever happened.
The gala was exactly as exhausting as you had expected.
By the end of the first hour, your cheeks already ached from smiling.
The grand ballroom of Wayne Tower glittered beneath enormous crystal chandeliers, every surface polished to a shine so perfect it almost felt artificial. Waiters drifted through the crowd carrying silver trays loaded with champagne flutes and carefully arranged hors d’oeuvres. Laughter rose and fell throughout the room, blending into the soft music drifting from somewhere near the stage.
The entire event felt less like a fundraiser and more like a carefully choreographed performance.
Not that anyone seemed to mind.
Around you, Gotham’s elite mingled effortlessly. Politicians exchanged handshakes. Business executives traded stories. Reporters circulated like sharks scenting blood in the water.
You had spent most of the evening attached to a cluster of coworkers, nodding politely through conversations that ranged from quarterly profits to real estate investments and subjects you suspected nobody genuinely cared about.
You smiled. Shook hands. Made pleasant conversation. Repeated the process.
By the time you escaped toward the refreshment table, you were fairly certain your social battery had died an hour ago.
“Not enjoying yourself?”
You glanced toward the voice. One of your coworkers smirked knowingly.
You laughed. “I think I’ve had enough networking to last the rest of my life.”
“Careful. That’s practically blasphemy at events like this.”
“Then pretend I said something about synergy and market growth.”
The resulting laugh eased some of the tension in your shoulders.
Around you, the crowd continued to swell as more guests arrived. And inevitably, conversation shifted toward the man hosting the event.
Bruce Wayne.
The name surfaced repeatedly throughout the evening. Sometimes with admiration. Sometimes amusement. Occasionally frustration.
Everyone seemed to have a story.
A charitable donation. An embarrassing tabloid headline. A disastrous date. A surprise act of generosity.
The more stories you heard, the more curious you became. You had never met Bruce Wayne before.
Nobody in your social circles had.
People like him existed in an entirely different world.
The sort of world most people only glimpsed through magazine covers and news broadcasts.
Yet somehow, despite his wealth, despite his status, despite his reputation for arriving late and disappearing early, people genuinely seemed to like him.
It was strange. Most billionaires inspired resentment. Bruce Wayne inspired affection.
You found yourself wondering what he was actually like. The real version. Not the carefully polished public image. Not the headlines. Just the man.
Your gaze drifted toward the entrance more than once throughout the evening.
The subtle change spread through the crowd like a ripple through water. Conversations paused. Heads turned. Attention redirected.
You didn’t need anyone to tell you why.
Bruce Wayne had arrived.
The realisation swept through the ballroom almost instantly.
You found yourself looking too. Just like everyone else.
Oh. For a moment, you understood the fascination.
Photos had never quite captured him properly. Perhaps because photographs couldn’t capture presence.
Bruce moved through the crowd with effortless confidence, greeting donors and board members with easy smiles. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impossibly handsome in a way that felt almost unfair.
The sort of face people built careers around. One that belonged on magazine covers. Yet none of that was what held your attention.
It was the way he carried himself. Comfortable. Natural. As though the attention of hundreds of people barely registered.
You felt oddly nervous.
Which was ridiculous. You weren’t even planning on speaking to him.
You simply found yourself watching from across the room.
Then your hand drifted unconsciously toward your wrist. Your thumb brushed the skin hidden beneath your sleeve. The countdown.
A habit more than anything.
You weren’t even sure why you checked.
Maybe because events like this always sparked conversations about soulmates. Or because seeing Gotham’s most famous bachelor had stirred old childhood fantasies you’d long since outgrown.
Whatever the reason, your fingers lingered there.
Tracing the familiar shape beneath the fabric. Feeling the steady pulse of your own heartbeat.
You smiled faintly to yourself. Foolish.
Then Bruce Wayne turned, and looked directly at you.
Everything stopped.
Your breath caught. Heart stumbled. Because beneath your fingertips.. The countdown had reached its end. 00:00:00:00.
The familiar sensation disappeared so suddenly that for a terrifying second you thought you had imagined it.
Your eyes widened.
Across the ballroom, Bruce Wayne was still looking in your direction.
No. Not your direction.
At you.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The countdown had stopped.
Your fingers remained pressed against your wrist, your pulse hammering so violently that you could barely feel the skin beneath them.
And for one impossible, terrifying second, the rest of the gala disappeared.
The music faded. The conversations blurred. Everything narrowed to those blue eyes. To the man standing twenty feet away. To the realization crashing through your chest with enough force to steal the air from your lungs.
Him.
Every second. Every minute. Every year. All of it had led here.
You couldn’t stop smiling.
A laugh escaped before you could catch it.
You felt ridiculous.
You felt ecstatic.
You felt fourteen years old again, lying awake at night and wondering who waited at the end of your countdown.
Your soulmate.
Bruce Wayne was your soulmate.
The thought was absurd.
Wonderful.
Terrifying.
And before you could think better of it, your feet were already carrying you forward.
You barely remembered crossing the ballroom. Only that one moment he was across the room.
The next you were standing in front of him. Close enough to speak. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Close enough to finally meet the person fate had spent your entire life leading you toward.
“Mr Wayne-” You stopped yourself. God, that sounded stupid.
You laughed nervously. “Sorry. Bruce. I just-”
The words tangled together. There were too many of them. How exactly were you supposed to tell someone they’d just become the most important person in your life?
How did anyone start a conversation like this?
“Hi. We belong together.”
“Hi. Fate says you’re mine.”
“Hi. I’ve waited my entire life to meet you.”
The absurdity almost made you laugh again. Instead, you found yourself smiling. A genuine one. The kind that slipped free before you could stop it.
“I think-”
Bruce looked at you. His eyes flickering over your face, your clothes, the event badge hanging around your neck.
Recognition never appeared.
Nothing softened.
Nothing changed.
It was the look people gave strangers who had interrupted them in public. Nothing more.
His gaze shifted immediately beyond your shoulder. Toward someone else.
Someone important.
Someone he actually wanted to speak to.
“I’m sorry.” The words were automatic. Polite. The sort of apology people gave when they weren’t sorry at all.
“I don’t have time right now.”
For a second you simply stared.
Still smiling.
Still trying to catch up.
“Oh.”
Bruce nodded once. Already moving.
Already done.
“If you’ll excuse me.” And then he brushed past you.
There was no cruelty. No emotion whatsoever. You hadn’t mattered enough for that.
The crowd swallowed him almost immediately.
One moment he was there and the next he was gone. Laughing with donors. Shaking hands. Moving through the room as though nothing had happened.
As though you had never existed.
As though the most important moment of your life had been a forgettable inconvenience in his evening.
You remained where you were. Frozen. The smile slowly slipping from your face.
Around you, the gala continued.
A waiter passed carrying champagne. Someone laughed nearby. Music drifted through the ballroom. Normal. Everything was painfully, horribly normal.
Your stomach twisted.
The excitement that had filled your chest moments ago curdled into something ugly. Something embarrassing.
Heat crept up your neck.
God. How stupid. How unbelievably fucking stupid.
Your hand rose to your wrist again. To the skin where the countdown had sat for your entire life.
Where it no longer moved.
You stared at it, waiting for the joy to return. For the excitement. For the certainty that this meant something.
Instead you felt sick. Because for one awful moment, you’d believed it.
You had looked at Bruce Wayne and allowed yourself to hope. Allowed yourself to think fate had chosen you.
That maybe all those stories people told were true.
Instead you’d received the same polite dismissal he would have given any stranger who got in his way.
Your throat tightened. Fuck, you felt like you were about to cry.
The hurt wasn’t coming from Bruce. Not really.
It was coming from yourself.
From the realisation that some small part of you had still believed after all these years, after all your indifference, all your insistence that fate didn’t matter, a part of you had still secretly hoped there would be magic in this moment. Something special. Worth waiting for.
And now that part of you was dying. Right there in the middle of a crowded ballroom.
The countdown had reached zero.
And for the first time in your life, you wished it hadn’t.
Two and a half months later.
The night had offered nothing unusual.
The Batcave settled into its familiar rhythm as everyone returned. Dick had claimed a corner of Tim's workstation and was ignoring increasingly pointed requests to move. Jason, having appeared midway through patrol without warning or invitation, was drinking Alfred's coffee. Damian sat nearby with a stack of reports, making notes in the margins.
Bruce stood near the medical station, removing the Batsuit piece by piece. The cowl came first, then the cape. He set the gauntlets aside and reached for the fastening at his wrist.
"Father."
Bruce glanced up.
Damian was looking at him with a faint frown. “You never informed us that your countdown had ended.”
He’d barely reacted. “What are you talking about?”
Damian looked mildly annoyed, like Bruce had forgotten something obvious.
“Your soulmate.”
Dick straightened immediately. Tim turned away from his monitor. Jason gave a short laugh.
"Wait. Seriously? You found them?”
Their Dad frowned. “What?”
Damian pointed.
Bruce followed the gesture to the inside of his wrist. The timer had stopped.
For a second, he simply stared.
Beside him, Dick grinned. “So that’s why you’ve been weirdly private.”
Jason scoffed. “Please. Like he’d tell us.”
“I assumed you were waiting until the relationship became serious,” Damian said matter-of-factly.
Tim nodded. “I figured you already had a file on them.”
A few years ago, Bruce might have responded. Might have denied it. Instead, he continued staring at his wrist.
00:00:00:00
The timer wasn’t moving.
It should have been.
For as long as he could remember, it had always been moving. Always counting. Now it sat completely still.
A strange feeling settled low in his stomach.
“When did this happen?” The words escaped before he could stop them.
The cave went silent.
Bruce looked up. Every member of his family was staring at him.
Dick’s smile vanished first.
Tim slowly lowered his tablet.
Jason blinked.
Damian narrowed his eyes.
A long moment passed. Then, “what do you mean, when did it happen?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped back to the timer. “When did it reach zero?”
Nobody answered immediately. Because the question itself was wrong.
Dick stared at him blankly. “…You don’t know?”
Tim sat up, picking at the cuticles on his hands. “When was the last time you checked it?”
Bruce opened his mouth. The answer should have come easily.
Instead, nothing.
Weeks? Months? Years?
A knot formed in his stomach. He couldn’t remember. At some point, the countdown had become part of the scenery. Like a scar. Like an old piece of furniture. Something so familiar that he no longer saw it.
Damian rose from his chair. "How is that possible?"
There wasn’t accusation in the question. Only bewilderment.
Bruce understood it.
If anyone else had presented him with a mystery this significant and admitted they had ignored it for years, he would have found it equally incomprehensible.
A soulmate was information.
Information mattered.
Yet somehow he had allowed this particular fact to drift past unnoticed.
Dick dragged a hand through his hair. "Okay. So if it's been at zero for a while..." He trailed off.
Nobody finished the thought. Bruce didn't need them to.
The timer had stopped.
Which meant they had already met.
Somewhere, buried beneath years of galas, investigations, crime scenes, interviews, witnesses, victims, allies, and strangers, there was a person connected to him in a way he had never bothered to investigate.
The thought irritated him immediately. Annoyed by his own oversight.
Bruce Wayne missed very little. Batman missed even less.
And yet he had apparently overlooked something that had been written on his own skin.
His gaze returned to the frozen digits.
Who?
The question settled into place with uncomfortable ease.
Who had it been?
A civilian? A witness? Someone from a charity board? A doctor? A journalist? A stranger he had passed on the street and forgotten by the next morning?
His mind was already moving through possibilities, assembling timelines, searching for patterns.
The investigation had begun before he consciously decided to start it.
And long after the others had gone upstairs, long after the cave had emptied, he’d remained alone before the Batcomputer.
His wrist rested against the desk, the countdown sat motionless beneath the glow of the monitor.
For decades, he had convinced himself the timer didn’t matter. That soulmates were irrelevant. That whatever waited at the end of the countdown belonged to a future he would never allow himself to have.
Now, for the first time in his life, the future wasn’t theoretical. It was real. It had been real for years. And somehow, impossibly, he’d missed it.
He stared at the timer, jaw clenched. Then opened a new search window and began looking.
Bruce had always believed that every mystery possessed an answer.
The answer might be buried beneath layers of deception. It might require months of investigation, thousands of hours of work, or sacrifices most people would never willingly make. But it existed.
Every crime scene told a story.
Every missing person left traces.
Every lie fractured under enough pressure.
Answers existed. The challenge was finding them.
Which was why the frozen numbers on the inside of his wrist irritated him more than they should have.
A lifetime reduced to eight zeroes.
For decades it had been counting.
Now it wasn’t.
Entire criminal organisations had collapsed because of details other people overlooked. Murders had been solved because Bruce noticed a footprint half a millimeter deeper than it should have been. He built contingency plans for gods.
And yet somehow he had allowed this to happen.
Somewhere, at some point, his soulmate had entered his life. And he had failed to notice.
The oversight bothered him in a way he struggled to articulate. Not because he had spent years longing for his soulmate. He hadn’t. Or because he suddenly believed fate held some profound importance. He didn’t.
But because he had missed something.
Something connected to him. That should have been obvious.
His gaze drifted back toward the timer. A person.
For most of his life, the soulmate waiting at the end of the countdown had existed as an abstraction. A hypothetical future. A distant possibility.
Now they existed beyond the realm of his mind on particularly needy nights.
Living somewhere in Gotham. Or perhaps outside it. Going to work. Paying bills. Existing. Breathing.
Perhaps completely unaware that Bruce Wayne had finally noticed them.
The idea settled heavily in his chest.
Because that wasn’t entirely true, was it?
If the countdown had stopped, then they already knew.
The moment one timer reached zero, so did the other. Meaning somewhere out there was a person who had already experienced that moment. A person who had looked at their wrist and realised they had found the person fate intended for them.
Bruce’s fingers stilled against the keyboard. A strange feeling moved through him. Difficult to define.
Because unlike him, that person would have noticed.
Normal people would have probably watched their countdowns. Would have known exactly how much time remained. Anticipated the day it would finally happen.
He imagined someone checking their wrist. Watching the final seconds disappear. Feeling the weight of a lifetime’s anticipation finally come to an end. And then what?
Had they looked around for him?
Had they searched the crowd?
Had they recognised him immediately?
The questions arrived uninvited. More troublingly, they refused to leave.
Bruce leaned back in his chair. The cave hummed softly around him. Banks of monitors cast pale light across the stone walls.
Above him, thousands of tons of earth separated the cave from the sleeping Manor. None of it held his attention.
For perhaps the first time since Damian had pointed out the frozen timer, Bruce found himself thinking not about the investigation. But about the person.
Who were they? What kind of life did they live? What had they thought when they realised? Had they been happy? Afraid? Disappointed?
The last possibility lingered.
Bruce frowned. Disappointed. The word shouldn’t have bothered him. Yet it did.
Because he knew exactly what the public thought of Bruce Wayne. The billionaire. The celebrity. The perpetual tabloid fixture.
To some people, finding out Bruce was their soulmate would be exciting. To others it would be a nightmare.
A lifetime of reporters. Paparazzi. Public scrutiny. Danger. Every enemy Batman had ever made.
Bruce knew better than anyone that proximity to him carried consequences.
The evidence sat framed across the Manor.
The thought darkened his expression. Whoever they were, they deserved better than that.
And then Bruce paused. His eyes slowly narrowed. Because that thought implied something else. Something he hadn’t consciously acknowledged until now.
It didn't matter.
That lie was what kept you going after the gala. It wasn’t grief. Grief implied loss, implied that you had possessed something to begin with.
You hadn't. Bruce Wayne had never been yours.
And yet, something inside of you had still died that night.
You still went to work. Still paid your bills. Still answered texts. Still laughed when friends made jokes.
From the outside, nothing had changed.
Inside, however, there was a deep hole where something important used to live.
Hope, perhaps.
Or whatever foolish thing had survived all those years beneath your indifference.
You had spent your entire life insisting that the countdown didn't matter. That fate didn't matter. That your soulmate was merely a possibility waiting somewhere in the distance and not the center of your universe.
Then the timer reached zero.
And you discovered exactly how much you had been lying to yourself.
Because if it truly hadn't mattered, then seeing Bruce Wayne across that ballroom wouldn't have hurt the way it did.
If it truly hadn't mattered, then his face wouldn't still appear in your nightmares. The sight of his name wouldn't make your stomach twist like someone had reached into your chest and grabbed hold of your ribs.
Yet it did. Every time, without fail.
Three days after the gala, you stopped in front of a coffee shop on your way to work.
A newspaper sat in the display window.
BRUCE WAYNE ANNOUNCES THE EXPANSION OF FOUNDATION PROGRAMMES.
The headline wasn't even particularly large, just another article among dozens. A perfectly ordinary thing.
Yet the moment your eyes landed on it, nausea rolled through you so violently that you nearly turned aroun and walked home.
You stood frozen on the sidewalk, just staring blankly. You hated yourself for pausing.
Because there he was.
Photographed beneath bright camera flashes. Smiling. Beautiful.
Shit, he was beautiful.
It would have been easier if he wasn't. Easier if fate had chosen some ordinary man. Someone forgettable, whose face wouldn't follow you everywhere.
But Bruce looked like something sculpted rather than born.
Like whoever had created him had started with every impossible standard of beauty and decided they still weren't enough.
Even frozen in grainy newsprint, he seemed unreal.
Dark hair falling perfectly despite the cameras. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, those impossible blue eyes. The kind of watercolour people wrote poetry about. The kind that belonged to summer skies and oceans and things too beautiful to touch.
You remembered looking into those eyes across the ballroom. Remembered your heart stopping. Thinking, absurdly, that of course fate had chosen someone beautiful.
Soulmates were supposed to be extraordinary. And Bruce Wayne was sure as hell extraordinary.
Broad shoulders beneath perfectly tailored suits. Strong hands. Easy smiles. A laugh that seemed capable of convincing entire rooms to laugh with him. Not merely attractive. Handsome. Beautiful in the way ancient gods were described. The sort of beauty that made people stare before they realised they were staring.
He carried himself with the effortless confidence of someone who had spent his entire life being admired. Someone who had never needed to wonder if people found him desirable because the answer had always been obvious.
And somehow fate had looked at him, then looked at you, and declared that you belonged together.
You left the coffee shop without buying anything.
After that, you started noticing him everywhere.
It felt cruel. As though the universe had developed a sense of humor specifically to torment you.
Wayne Enterprises logos decorated entire buildings. Wayne Foundation advertisements appeared on buses. Charity campaigns featured his photograph. Magazine covers displayed his face near checkout counters. Televisions in waiting rooms played interviews. Articles appeared online. Photographs surfaced endlessly. Everywhere you looked, Bruce Wayne existed.
You couldn't escape him. Couldn't erase him.
The worst part was that everyone else saw those images and reacted normally.
Nobody understood what you saw. Nobody knew what it felt like.
Your coworkers saw Gotham's favourite billionaire. Your friends saw a celebrity. Strangers saw a philanthropist. You saw your soulmate.
You saw the man whose timer had stopped when yours did. The man who had looked directly at you, then dismissed you.
Sometimes you found yourself staring at the pics longer than you meant to.
Your eyes refused to look away. Despite everything, some awful traitorous primal part of you still recognise d him. Still instinctually saw him as yours.
The slight curve of his smile. The shadows beneath his eyes. The way his expensive suits felt designed to emphasise the width of his shoulders. The way his presence somehow dominated photographs even when surrounded by dozens of other people.
You hated that you noticed. Hated that your heart still reacted. That attraction remained long after hope had died.
Because Bruce Wayne was beautiful. Painfully, unfairly, devastatingly beautiful.
The kind that made the stinging rejection feel worse.
If he had been cruel, you could have hated him. If he had mocked you, anger could have replaced the hurt. But he hadn't done either.
He’d made living unbearable.
Bruce hadn't rejected you because he disliked you. He hadn't rejected you because you were unworthy. He hadn't even rejected you at all.
To reject someone required acknowledgment.
Bruce Wayne simply hadn't cared enough to notice. You had been forgettable. An interruption. A stranger in a crowded room.
It was fucking humiliating.
To everyone else, your countdown had finally reached zero. A happy occasion. A miracle. A dream-come-true.
People congratulated you. Asked questions. Smiled knowingly.
You learned to lie.
"Oh, I haven't met them yet." "Maybe we crossed paths without realizing." "I'm not really focused on it."
Easy answers. No one ever suspected the truth.
Didn’t know that every mention of soulmates felt like someone digging a knife into an already sore bruise.
That fate itself had started feeling so incredibly cruel.
No one knew that your countdown had ended beside crystal chandeliers and champagne glasses and the most beautiful man you'd ever seen.
Hw could you explain to anyone that he had walked away?
How could you describe the experience of finding the person the universe created specifically for you, only to discover that your existence wasn’t even important enough to remember?
There weren't words for that.
Every morning you woke up, and every day Bruce Wayne's name appeared somewhere.
On buildings. Headlines. TVscreens. Charity banners. A constant reminder. A monument to something you desperately wished you could forget.
You never admitted how much it affected you. Not even to yourself.
Instead you learned to look away. To change channels. To scroll past articles. To cross the street rather than walk beneath buildings bearing his name.
Small, pathetic things.
Yet necessary.
Because every glimpse felt like reopening a wound that refused to heal.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the humiliation and hurt and anger and disappointment, existed a truth you hated even more.
You still thought he was so disgustingly beautiful. Remembered the moment he looked at you. Could still feel the countdown reaching zero.
And no matter how hard you tried, some part of you still mourned the future that had died before it ever had the chance to begin.
Finding you should have taken longer.
Bruce expected months. Years, maybe. The list of possibilities was absurd.
A countdown bond narrowed the search considerably compared to shared pain or dreams, but it was still thousands of people. Tens of thousands, depending on the timeframe. Every person he'd spoken to. Every person he'd stood beside. Every handshake. Every conversation. Every fleeting interaction that had seemed insignificant at the time.
Ordinarily, that would have made the investigation difficult.
Instead, it became embarrassingly simple.
Because unlike other soul bonds, a countdown created a very specific moment. A beginning.
Bruce only needed to determine when his timer had stopped. Then identify everyone he'd interacted with during that period. The rest was elimination.
He discovered quickly that he had a significant advantage.
Over the past five months, Bruce had only personally interacted with nine people who possessed countdown bonds.
Nine.
One was a long-time business partner whose timer still had three years remaining.
Two were married.
Another had met their soulmate publicly several weeks prior.
The remaining names disappeared one by one beneath scrutiny.
Until only one remained.
You.
The file sat open on the Batcomputer. Bruce stared at it for a long time.
Name.
Age.
Employment history.
Education.
Address.
Nothing remarkable. Nothing that should have caused his pulse to stumble the way it did. Yet it did.
Because beside your photograph sat a timestamp. Wayne Foundation Annual Renewal Gala.
Two and a half months ago.
Bruce went still. The gala.
He couldn’t remember you at all.
He remembered the event. The schedule. The donor meetings. The practiced speeches. The endless boring conversations. The uncomfortable sensation that accompanied the recollection made his stomach tighten.
Because if the countdown had ended that night, then you had been there. Somewhere inside that ballroom.
His soulmate had stood within arm's reach, and he hadn't known.
Bruce leaned back slowly.
The photograph remained illuminated on the monitor.
You looked ordinary. Not in a bad way. Just real. A person.
His person.
The thought appeared uninvited.
His gaze lingered longer than necessary. Memorising details.
The shape of your smile in the employee photograph attached to the company website. The slight tilt of your head. The way your eyes seemed brighter in candid images than posed ones.
Ridiculous, meaningless observations.
Yet he continued looking.
Eventually, Bruce opened the gala guest registry. Cross-referenced attendance records.
Security footage. Photographs. Anything.
Everything.
He found you four hours later.
Camera seventeen. Ballroom east entrance. Timestamped twelve minutes before the countdown likely reached zero.
The footage was silent.
You stood speaking with coworkers. Laughing at something. So… bright.
Unaware that he even existed beyond headlines and magazine covers.
He watched the clip so many times that domething uncomfortable settled beneath his ribs.
He knew what was about to happen.
Your timer was about to reach zero. His timer was about to reach zero.
You found him.
You’d crossed the room.
And he walked away.
Hell, he hadn’t even properly looked at you.
Bruce stared at the paused frame.
For the first time since beginning the investigation, a deep nausea rolled through him.
He remembered that interaction vaguely now.
A stranger approaching. A voice trying to get his attention. A laugh. An interruption between meetings.
Nothing important or memorable. Nothing-
His jaw clenenched.
No.
Not nothing.
You.
It had been you.
His soulmate.
The person fate had spent decades leading toward him.
The person whose existence he had secretly imagined during sleepless nights and lonely flights and moments of weakness he never admitted to anyone.
Bruce rose from his chair.
The cave remained silent around him. Cold. Empty without his boys.
The monitor focused on your face. He couldn’t pull his eyes away.
For two and a half months, you had known.
You'd known exactly who he was.
And if Bruce understood people half as well as he believed he did, then you had probably interpreted that encounter exactly the way anyone would.
You thought he'd rejected you.
Bruce found himself imagining it despite having no desire to.
You walking across that ballroom. Excited. Hopeful. Nervous. Only to be brushed aside.
His stomach twisted.
You had spent your entire life moving toward him. And he'd made you feel unwanted.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. No. Unacceptable.
You belonged to him.
Bruce had spent most of his life convincing himself he could survive without a soulmate.
Now he found himself staring at your photograph at three in the morning, unable to look away. Unable to stop imagining your reaction when you learned the truth. To stop thinking about the hurt he had unknowingly caused. And most concerning of all, unable to stop wanting.
Not merely to meet you.
To keep you close.
Safe.
Where nothing could take you away before he had the chance to make this right.
You were halfway through answering emails when your manager appeared beside your desk.
"Got a minute?"
You looked up. "Sure."
"We've had a request come through."
That wasn't unusual. The company received requests constantly.
You nodded for them to continue.
"They specifically asked for you."
That was unusual.
Your brow furrowed. "Me?"
"Apparently." Your manager sounded just as confused.
You accepted the folder they handed over, then immediately wished you hadn't. The logo printed across the front was impossible to miss.
Wayne Foundation.
Your stomach dropped.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Your manager misread your expression immediately. "Good news, actually."
Good. Right.
You’d almost forgotten that normal people didn't feel like they were on the verge of breaking down every time they saw that name.
You forced a smile. "What's the project?"
"A community outreach initiative. They've been reviewing applicants from several companies."
It was like the name seemed determined to follow you everywhere.
"Apparently someone on their end requested you specifically."
The confusion in your manager's voice mirrored your own.
"Have you worked with them before?"
"No." The answer came too quickly. You cleared your throat. "Not personally."
Your manager nodded. "Well, whoever reviewed your profile liked something."
Maybe. Or maybe fate simply wasn't finished laughing at you yet.
You waited until they left before opening the folder.
The proposal itself looked normal. Professional. Routine. Yet a strange feeling settled low in your stomach.
Because your name appeared throughout the documentation.
You stared at the pages for several seconds then shook your head. Paranoia. Nothing more.
Bruce Wayne didn't know who you were. The Wayne Foundation employed thousands of people. This was coincidence. It had to be.
Yet later that evening, as you prepared to leave work, you found yourself looking at the folder again.
Reading your name.
And wondering why the uneasy feeling refused to disappear.
←↓→↑
The project itself was harmless. Boring, even.
Several meetings. A handful of planning sessions. Far too many emails. Just.. normal stuff.
And yet you found yourself running into the same problem repeatedly.
People always seemed to know who you were.
Not coworkers or clients, it would probably hurt your feelings if they didn’t know your name.
But Wayne employees.
The first time it happened, you ignored it. The second time, you thought about it for a bit before shaking it off. The third time, it became impossible not to think about.
A woman stood beside the refreshments table wearing a Wayne Foundation identification badge, smiling like she knew you as she called out your name.
You glanced up from your coffee, offering a polite smile. "Yeah?"
Her expression brightened immediately. "Oh good."
Good?
You waited.
Instead, she simply smiled. "Sorry. I've heard nice things."
Before you could ask from whom, someone called her name from across the room.
The conversation ended there. Leaving you standing alone holding a paper cup and feeling vaguely unsettled.
She'd heard nice things.
From who?
About what?
Then you’d received an email. Then another. And another.
Nothing inappropriate or personal. Just opportunities. Projects. Invitations. Networking events. Requests.
All connected to Wayne Enterprises or one of its countless subsidiaries.
The attention made no sense. You weren't exceptionally qualified. You weren't particularly influential. There were hundreds of people with better resumes. Thousands.
Yet somehow your name kept appearing.
Each coincidence felt harmless on its own.
Together, they felt deliberate.
There was only one explanation your brain kept returning to, and it was ridiculous.
Bruce Wayne didn't know who you were.
Bruce Wayne had never known who you were.
The memory still hurt. Less than before, but enough.
You shoved the thought away and focused on work. Unfortunately, work wasn't cooperating.
"There's a gala next month."
You nearly choked on your drink.
Your coworker blinked. "...You okay?"
"No."
You set the glass down.
"Sorry. What?"
"A gala."
Absolutely not.
The immediate response rose so quickly that you nearly said it aloud.
Your coworker laughed.
"That's about the reaction I expected."
"No."
"That's not even what I asked."
"No anyway."
The laugh grew louder. "It's mandatory."
Of course it was. You dropped your forehead onto the table.
Somewhere above you, your coworker continued speaking.
Words blurred together.
You caught Wayne Foundation. Charity initiative. Attendance expected.
Absolutely wonderful.
You closed your eyes. The universe hated you. That was the only reasonable explanation.
Because apparently surviving one Wayne gala hadn't been enough.
Now fate had scheduled a sequel.
That should have been funny. Instead, dread settled heavily in your chest.
Bruce Wayne probably wouldn't even be there.
And if he was?
He wouldn't recognise you. Wouldn't remember you. You would simply become another face in another crowd. Again.
The familiar ache returned. Duller now. Older, but still present.
You hated that even after everything, some pathetic part of you still cared.
Wondering about what could have happened if things had gone differently.
If he had looked at you. If he'd smiled. If he'd given fate even a single chance.
The thought followed you all the way home. Followed you into the shower. Followed you into bed.
And somewhere across Gotham, entirely unaware of the damage he was causing, Bruce Wayne was doing exactly the same thing.
Thinking about you.
Constantly.
Obsessively.
Unable to stop.
While you lay awake staring at the ceiling, Bruce sat alone in his study surrounded by photographs, reports, schedules, and information he absolutely should not possess.
The file on his desk had grown significantly over the past two weeks.
The silence of the study was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, heavy thrum of Bruce’s own heartbeat. It was a sound he usually controlled with meditative precision, but tonight, his pulse was erratic, driven by a hunger that felt less like desire and more like a fever.
His fingers, scarred and calloused from years of a life lived in the shadows, trembled slightly as they hovered over the glossy surface of the most recebt photograph.
In the light of the single desk lamp, your laughter looked almost tactile. He wanted to reach through the paper, to catch the warmth of your skin, to feel the vibration of that laugh against his own chest.
He didn't just want to see you. He wanted to own the air you breathed.
A low, jagged exhale escaped his throat as he reached for the fastening of his trousers. The silk of his shirt felt abrasive against his skin. He wasn't a man of whims, he was a man of purpose.
As he freed himself, his gaze never left your eyes in the photo.
He began to move, his hand wrapping around his length with a grip almost a little too tight, a little too desperate. He wasn't looking for a gentle release, he was looking for a way to drown out the ache of your absence. He hadn’t even met you properly yet.
Every slide of his palm was a silent prayer, a demand whispered into the empty room.
You, he thought, his eyes darkening until the blue was almost black. Only you.
He closed his eyes for a second, and the darkness behind his eyelids was filled with the phantom sensation of you. He imagined your hands replacing his own.
He imagined the way you would look at him if you knew. If you knew that he had mapped out your entire existence, that he knew the number of alarms you needed to wake up, the drinks you preferred, the way your eyes crinkled when you were truly happy.
A groan, deep and primal, tore from his throat as he increased the pace. The friction was intense, bordering on a delicious sort of pain. He pictured you in this very room, stripped of your defences, looking at him with that same devastating smile. He imagined pinning you to this very desk, marking you so thoroughly that the world would know you belonged to the Batman, to Bruce, to him.
"Mine," he rasped, the word a vow and a command. "You have to be mine."
He was spiraling, losing his composure to the sheer, unadulterated need to possess the person in the photograph.
As the tension coiled in his gut, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the edge of the desk, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. He wasn't just chasing a climax, he was chasing the ghost of you. And as he finally broke, his body shuddering with a violent, lonely release, the only thing he could think about was how much longer he could stand being a stranger to the only person outside of his family who truly mattered.
He stared at the splotches of his own mess, his eyes settling back on your frozen, laughing face.
His patience was running out. And soon, he wouldn't just be looking at pictures. He would be looking at you.
The morning of the gala arrived faster than expected.
You spent most of it trying not to think about where you were going later. Work helped.
Emails needed answering. Reports needed reviewing. Deadlines continued existing regardless of personal problems.
By six o'clock, however, distractions became harder to find.
The Foundation building stood illuminated against Gotham's skyline when your taxi pulled up outside.
For a moment you remained seated. Watching people enter through the front doors. Watching security direct arrivals. Watching expensive cars arrive one after another.
The driver glanced at you through the mirror.
"You getting out?"
You sighed. "Unfortunately."
The lobby was already busy.
Employees moved through the space carrying folders, tablets, and the sort of purposeful expressions people adopted when responsible for coordinating large events.
You followed the signs toward registration.
The man at the desk smiled immediately.
"Good evening."
"Hi."
You offered your name.
Something flickered across his expression. "There you are." The words slipped out so naturally that he didn't seem to realise he'd said them.
Your brow furrowed. "What?"
His smile widened. "Nothing. Sorry."
He handed over your badge.
"Conference hall B. Someone will show you where to go."
The interaction lingered in your mind as you crossed the lobby.
There wasn't anything strange about it.
You reached the elevators just as a man wearing a Foundation lanyard stepped out.
His eyes landed on your badge. Muttering your name under his breath.
You stopped. "Yeah?"
His expression brightened. "Right this way."
You stared at him.
The conference hall was directly ahead. Visible from where you stood. So was the sign. So was every other person entering without assistance. Apparently, you were the only one receiving a personal escort. The thought made you irrationally suspicious.
"Thanks."
The man spent the walk making polite conversation.
The conference hall occupied most of the floor.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked downtown Gotham. Round tables filled the space beneath hanging lights. Staff moved between displays making final adjustments while attendees gradually filtered inside.
You recognise d a few people from previous meetings and wandered over.
Conversation came easily enough.
Work topics. Office gossip. Complaints about deadlines. The familiar rhythm settled some of your nerves.
Eventually, someone handed you a drink. Someone else told a story about the mate documentary they were watching the night before. Laughter spread around the table.
For the first time all evening, you found yourself relaxing.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.
You could survive a few hours, shake a few hands, then disappear before anything unpleasant happened.
A movement near the entrance drew your attention.
The change happened gradually. A few heads turned. Then a few more.
You knew who it was before you looked.
For a brief moment, you considered keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the table.
But curiosity won.
It always did.
Bruce Wayne stood near the entrance speaking with several board members.
The sight of him harder than expected.
Four months had passed, yet he remained exactly as you remembered.
Tall. Confident. Effortlessly composed. The kind of person who never seemed out of place regardless of where he happened to be standing.
You watched him laugh at something one of the board members said. Watched him rest a hand briefly against someone's shoulder. Watched him move through the crowd with practiced ease.
The memory arrived before you could stop it.
Crystal chandeliers. Champagne glasses. The countdown reaching zero beneath your fingertips.
Your gaze dropped immediately. Heat crawled uncomfortably up the back of your neck.
This had been a mistake.
All you could think about was how little had changed for him.
Somewhere between the gala and now, Bruce Wayne had probably attended dozens of events just like this one.
Met hundreds of people.
Forgotten hundreds more.
Meanwhile, you still couldn't walk into a Foundation building without remembering the worst conversation of your life.
The thought was embarrassing enough to make you take a long drink.
Across the room, entirely unaware that you had already looked away, Bruce Wayne finally spotted you.
↑→↓←
You forced yourself to look anywhere else.
The city beyond the windows. The drink in your hand. The conversation happening beside you. Anything except him.
It felt childish.
Embarrassing, honestly.
You were an adult. Bruce Wayne wasn't some ex you were desperately trying to avoid at a party. He was a stranger.
A stranger who happened to be your soulmate.
Someone who happened to have accidentally shattered every stupid childhood fantasy you'd ever had about fate.
"So then the guy spends hours explaining how the patterns along his wrist connected-"
"What?"
Your coworker laughed. "The documentary."
"Oh." You blinked.
Right. The documentary.
Apparently the conversation had continued without you.
You offered what you hoped looked like a convincing smile.
No one seemed to notice.
People drifted between groups. More guests arrived. Staff circulated carrying trays of drinks and appetizers.
The event settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Exactly the sort of evening you'd expected.
Which was probably why it took you a moment to notice something was wrong.
The conversation around your table had started stuttering. Small pauses appearing where they hadn't before. People glancing toward something behind you.
You ignored it initially.
Then someone stopped speaking halfway through a sentence.
"...Oh."
You frowned. "What?"
Nobody answered immediately. Slowly, unease crept up your spine.
You knew that feeling.
The awful certainty that something embarrassing was happening and you simply hadn't caught up yet.
Your grip tightened around the glass.
Please don't be me.
Please don't somehow be me.
Carefully, you turned. And nearly dropped your drink.
Bruce Wayne was walking toward your table.
The room seemed to tilt.
No. That wasn't right. There were other people here. Important people. Board members. Executives. Foundation staff.
Bruce Wayne had absolutely no reason to be approaching you.
Yet each step brought him closer, your pulse hammered painfully. Maybe he wasn't.. Maybe-
Then Bruce smiled. Carefully. Almost hesitant.
"Hi."
→←↑↓
Your pulse thundered traitorously.
After spotting him near the entrance, you had gone out of your way to avoid him. And apparently, he'd made no effort to stop you.
He talked briefly with the accountant at your table before passing.
You felt stupid all over again.
You knew better than to expect anything.
No shit he wasn’t coming over to talk to you.
By the time the evening finally began winding down, your social battery had been thoroughly exhausted. Guests filtered toward the exits in small groups while staff quietly began dismantling displays around the edges of the room.
You offered your goodbyes, accepted a few last-minute business cards you would probably never use, and escaped.
Or tried to.
Halfway down the hallway toward the elevators, you changed direction.
Bathroom first.
Then home.
The corridor was blissfully empty compared to the crowded ballroom behind you. Soft lighting reflected off polished marble floors. The distant murmur of conversation faded with every step.
You were almost done. Almost free.
"Leaving already?"
You stopped so abruptly your feet nearly slipped against the floor.
The voice came from behind you. Low and warm.
Dangerously familiar.
Your stomach dropped.
Slowly, you turned.
Bruce Wayne stood at the opposite end of the hallway. Alone.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Gone was the effortless social charm he'd worn all evening. Without the crowd surrounding him, he seemed larger somehow. Broader. More imposing.
His eyes were fixed entirely on you. Watching. Like he'd finally found something he'd been searching for.
A strange tension settled between your shoulders.
"Mr. Wayne."
His expression tightened immediately.
"Bruce," he corrected softly.
The familiarity felt inappropriate.
You swallowed. "Bruce."
Something in his gaze darkened at the sound of his name on your lips.
Satisfaction.
The hallway suddenly felt much smaller.
You forced a polite smile. "I didn't realise you were still here."
"I was looking for someone."
Your heart stumbled. The answer came too quickly. Too directly. And for one awful second, hope tried to rear its ugly head again.
You crushed it immediately. "You found them then?"
The words were meant as a joke.
Bruce didn't laugh. Instead, his gaze softened.
"Yes."
The answer landed with uncomfortable weight.
The air felt thick.
You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of every inch separating you. Or rather, how little distance there actually was.
"You wanted something?" you asked carefully.
Bruce stared at you.
It was unnerving. Most people glanced away eventually. They blinked. Looked around. Got distracted.
Bruce seemed incapable of doing any of those things.
His eyes moved slowly across your face as if committing every detail to memory.
Four months ago, he couldn't spare you two seconds. Now he was looking at you like he couldn't bear to look away. It didn't make sense.
Nothing about this made sense.
"I owe you an apology." The words caught you completely off guard.
You blinked. "What?"
"The first gala."
Your breath stopped. Every muscle in your body locked.
Bruce's jaw tightened. "You approached me."
The memory flashed through your mind with brutal clarity.
The countdown.
The humiliation.
"I remember." It was a lie.
You knew it was a lie. You could hear it. He hadn't remembered. You'd seen his face that night. Seen the complete absence of recognition.
But he looked genuinely upset now.
"I handled it badly."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Small. Bitter.
Bruce's eyes narrowed.
"You don't need to apologize."
"Yes." His answer was immediate. "I do."
Something sharp flickered across his expression. Self-directed anger. Regret. Maybe even guilt.
You didn't understand it at all.
"You didn't know me." Your voice came out quieter than intended. The admission hurt. Even now.
"You didn't owe me anything."
Bruce went completely still. The silence that followed felt wrong. Dangerous.
His gaze dropped briefly to your wrist before returning to your face. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
Then he took a step forward.
Yet your pulse reacted like he'd crossed the entire hallway.
"I should have known you." The words came out rough. Almost painful.
Something shifted beneath the surface of his composure. You could feel it. Like cracks forming beneath ice.
And for the first time all evening, genuine unease curled through your stomach.
Because suddenly it felt less like Bruce Wayne had happened to stop you in a hallway. And more like Bruce Wayne had been waiting there. Waiting specifically for you. Waiting for the moment you would be alone. When there would be no audience. No escape.
A shiver ran down your spine.
Bruce's eyes immediately tracked the movement.
His expression softened. Like even that tiny movement meant something precious to him.
And somehow that frightened you far more than if he'd looked angry.
"Can I walk you to your car?" he asked quietly.
The question sounded harmless. Polite.
But there was something underneath it. Something hungry. Something that made it feel less like a request and more like a man trying very, very hard not to demand.
When you hesitated, Bruce's gaze darkened harshly.
You got the overwhelming impression that Bruce Wayne was not accustomed to hearing no.
And that whatever was looking at you from behind those impossibly blue eyes had already decided how this interaction would end.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You looked at him, searching for the playboy you had seen on the news, but he wasn't there. In his place stood a man whose very presence felt like a gravitational pull, heavy and inescapable.
Your heart was a frantic thing in your chest, caught between the instinct to run and the soulmate bond that hummed under your skin, screaming that this was where you were supposed to be.
"I... I can manage, Bruce," you said, trying to inject a note of independence into your voice. You didn't want to be another person he was simply 'handling' or 'managing.' You wanted to be seen as an equal, not a charity project or a fleeting interest.
"It’s a long walk to the valet, and you have guests to attend to."
You made a move to step around him, but you didn't get far.
Before you could even clear his shadow, Bruce’s hand shot out. He didn't grab you roughly, but his fingers curled around your upper arm with a terrifying, singular purpose. It wasn't a casual touch, it was a tether. His palm was hot, even through the fabric of your clothes, and the sheer strength in his grip made your breath hitch.
"The guests are gone," he said. His voice had lost its social lilt. It was now a low, gravelly command that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of your bones.
"They don't matter. Nothing in that room matters but this."
He stepped into your space, forcing you to tilt your head to maintain eye contact. The hallway felt like it was shrinking, the walls closing in until the only thing left in the universe was the scent of him, like the coming of a storm.
"You think you can just walk away?" he murmured, his eyes searching yours with a desperation that bordered on the frantic.
You frowned, your confusion overriding your unease. "After everything? Bruce, we haven't even spoken for more than five minutes.”
You let out a quiet broken laugh. “You don't even know me."
A dark, humorless sound escaped his throat, one that sounded more like a growl. "That is where you are wrong."
His grip tightened, making it clear he wasn't letting go.
His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, his pupils blown wide until the blue was just a thin, electric ring.
"I know the way you tilt your head when you're thinking," he whispered, leaning so his breath fanned across your cheek.
"I know the exact shade your eyes turn when you're startled. I know the schedule of your life better than you do. I have spent every waking moment since that night trying to find a way to apologise for a sin I didn't even know I had committed."
Your heart hammered against your ribs.
How? How could he know these things? The sheer impossibility of his words should have made you laugh, or call for security, but the soulmate bond was reacting to his intensity, pulling you toward him like a moth to a flame.
It was a terrifying, beautiful pull.
A part of you wanted to demand answers, to push him away for his madness, but another part, the part that had been lonely and aching for months, wanted to collapse into him and let him devour you.
"You... you're obsessed," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could think them through.
Bruce didn't flinch. He didn't deny it. Instead, he leaned closer, his forehead touching yours, his expression one of raw, unadulterated devotion.
"I am," he confessed, the admission sounding like a vow.
"I am completely, utterly undone by you. And if you walk out of this hallway tonight without letting me make it right, I think the world might actually end."
He looked at you then, not as a billionaire looking at a guest, but as a man looking at his entire world, his eyes burning with a terrifying, beautiful hunger.
"Please," he pleaded, the word a jagged edge of vulnerability.
"Don't make me watch you walk away again. Let me take you home. Let me show you that you were never just a face in a crowd. You are the only thing that has ever been real."
He wasn't asking anymore. He was begging, and as he stood there, looming against you with a possessiveness that felt like a honeyed trap, you realised with a jolt of both fear and exhilaration that you didn't want to say no.
In the months that followed that night at the gala, the "coincidences" had stopped being coincidences and had become a reality.
You no longer had to wonder why a certain restaurant always had your favourite table reserved, or why your career seemed to accelerate with a sudden, inexplicable momentum.
You knew. You knew that every promotion, every unexpected gift, and every "chance" encounter was a thread in the web Bruce had woven around you.
And the most frightening part was how easily you had let yourself be caught.
The initial shock of his obsession, the way he looked at you as if you were a miracle he was afraid might vanish if he blinked hard enough, had slowly melted into a deep, intoxicating security. You were no longer a face in the crowd. You were the center of his universe.
You sat on the edge of the massive, silk draped bed in the master suite of Wayne Manor, watching the moonlight spill across the floor.
The room was silent, save for the distant, rhythmic sound of the Gotham rain against the glass.
A door clicked shut. Heavy, purposeful footsteps crossed the rug.
You didn't need to turn around to know it was him. You could feel him. The soulmate bond, once a source of lonely longing, was now a constant, thrumming connection that acted like a second pulse.
Bruce stepped into the light. He had shed the armor of his tuxedo, wearing only a dark shirt left partially unbuttoned.
He looked less like a billionaire and more like the man you had met in the hallway.
He approached you, his presence filling the room until there was no air left that didn't belong to him.
He sank onto the bed behind you, his large, warm hands sliding around your waist to pull you back against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. A low, contented sound vibrating against your skin.
"You're thinking again," he murmured, his voice a deep, velvet caress. "I can feel it."
"Just thinking about how much has changed," you whispered, leaning your head back against his shoulder.
You reached up, lacing your fingers with his. "How much you've changed."
Bruce tightened his hold, his arms circling you like a fortress. "I haven't changed. I've simply finally found the right reason to exist."
He turned you in his arms, forcing you to face him. His eyes were dark, swirling with that familiar, beautiful madness. Devotion so absolute it felt like a physical weight.
"Do you still feel like you're in a trap?"
You looked up at him, searching the face of the man who had studied your every breath, the man who had turned his entire life into a pursuit of you.
You thought of the fear you had felt, the unease at his intensity, and the way he had practically begged for a chance to belong to you.
Then, you thought of the way he held you now as if you were the most precious thing in existence, as if your very survival depended on his touch.
A slow, knowing smile touched your lips. You reached up, cupping his jaw, your thumb tracing the line of his lip.
"No," you admitted softly, the truth settling comfortably in your chest. "It feels like home."
Bruce’s expression broke, a flash of pure, unadulterated relief crossing his features before it was replaced by a hunger that made your breath hitch.
He leaned in, his lips hovering just a fraction from yours.
"Good," he rasped, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "Because there is no going back. You are mine. And I am never, ever letting you go again."
As he pulled you into a kiss that tasted of desperation and promise, you realised that the universe hadn't hated you after all.
It had simply been waiting for the moment that you finally stopped running and let the storm claim you.
Please comment and reblog! :)
11K+ Words, 69K+ Characters, 1K+ Sentences, 900+ Paragraphs, 42 Minute average reading time, 1 hour and 6 minute average speaking time.
Dick picks up the scent of flowers the moment you step through the entrance door. He perks up from his seat and makes his way to you — his shoulders sagging slightly.
Glad that you were home, anxious about the flowers.
"Welcome home." he hums, hands finding their way to your jacket and bag to take it off.
"Hi, Dickie." you murmur, holding a bouquet of flowers within your arms.
"Flowers."
"Yes, flowers."
It's unusual — for Dick Grayson to be so quiet, you notice.
"Can I ask from whom?"
His eyes are fixated on the expressive colours, a gleam of intensity and unknown hiding behind the blue hues — as if he is trying to find something. A message, or a tag that would reveal the person behind them.
"Are they pretty?"
"Beautiful. Not as beautiful as you of course." he answers carefully and sets your things aside before turning back to you.
"That's good."
"From whom?" he asks again.
"Me." you push the flowers into his arms, forcing him to accept them so they wouldn't drop. "From me to you."
He masks his surprise well, blinking slowly while trying to process your words. "You're giving me flowers? Did I miss something? Any occasions?" he feels an inner tumult of fear within his stomach.
"No, no. You're worrying too much, baby." you chuckle and wrap your arms around his waist, pressing soft kisses against his collarbone. "Just had a bad day."
"That's why you are giving me flowers?" his hand with the bouquet drops to the side so it wouldn't get crushed between your bodies, free hand snaking behind your back. "You're wasting your money on me."
"I'm not wasting anything." you tut, "I had a bad day, so I consider that at least one of us should have a good day."
You can almost hear his heart fluttering at your words, warmth spreading quickly in his chest.
"I love you." Dick bites his inner cheek, snuggling his face deeper into your neck, "I love you so much."
"Hey—Hey, I love you too—get off..! We are falling! Dick, I'm so serious right now—!"
your super rich boyfie!satoru takes spoiling you very seriously ♡
oh, satoru has a hero complex. a big one. it's not even the typical 'i need to save the world' hero complex (though he has that, too). it's the 'i need to save you from mild inconveniences' complex. and it's exhausting.
you’d think that being a jujutsu sorcerer would make the little things seem insignificant—like a burnt piece of toast or a flat tire—but to satoru, these things were personal attacks on your peace and happiness. a minor inconvenience to you was an all-out emergency for him.
for example, the other day, you came home after a particularly long mission, grumbling about how the straps on your backpack were digging into your shoulders. a perfectly normal, end-of-the-day complaint. but satoru’s eyes went wide, his smile vanishing, and he instantly became a whirlwind of frantic planning.
“no, no, no, absolutely not. that’s unacceptable,” he declared, already pulling out his phone. "which brand? what color? i'm getting you a whole new luggage set, a proper one. i’m talking custom-made, ergonomic straps, with memory foam lining the shoulders. maybe we should look into a personal chauffeur, too, for your next trips. that way you don’t have to carry anything at all.”
you just stared at him, tilting your head. “satoru, it’s just, like, a backpack. i’m just tired.”
“exactly! you shouldn’t be tired! you should be pampered! this is all the backpack’s fault,” he insisted, dramatically throwing your perfectly fine, slightly worn-out bag into a corner. he then pulled you onto the couch, already ordering takeout from your favorite high-end restaurant because you "clearly need high-quality nutrients to recover from such shoulder trauma."
you sighed, burying your face into his shoulder. "i just wanted a hug, 'toru."
he tightened his arms around you, but his phone was still glowing with shopping tabs. "a hug and a five-star dining experience, darling. and maybe a whole new wardrobe. just in case those clothes are also... digging into you. or something."
you knew better than to argue. the fight had been lost the moment your mildly strained shoulders had been mentioned. you were beautiful, and you were his, and therefore, you must be protected from everything, even the minor discomforts of daily life.
james potter x reader | face sitting. orgasm control. squirting. *. ⋆1.7k words
extra content: begging. orgasm denial. crying. fingering. bit of degradation. dirty talk. overstimulation.
kinktober masterlist
you don’t even know how the teasing starts. maybe it’s the way james looks at you across the room, eyes dark behind his glasses, watching you squirm as if he already knows what you need. maybe it’s how he spreads himself lazily on the bed, broad thighs open, one hand rubbing over the bulge in his sweats like he doesn’t care that you can see.
but then he crooks his finger, that cocky grin tugging at his lips. “come here.”
you roll your eyes, but your body betrays you—you’re already moving toward him, knees hitting the mattress as his hands slide to your waist. james tugs you forward until you’re straddling his stomach, the hem of your skirt brushing his ribs, heat pooling between your legs.
“up.” he orders, voice low, dangerous.
his glasses have slipped down his nose and his curls are messy from where he’s been dragging his hands through them, but there’s no mistaking the command in his tone. “on my face. now.”
your stomach flips. “james—”
“don’t make me ask again,” he growls, digging his fingers into your thighs. “need to taste you, sweetheart. need you drippin’ all over me.”
your breath catches as he drags you higher, until your knees are planted either side of his head and the thin lace of your panties is pressed against his mouth. his hands are huge, fingers spread wide, locking you in place even as you instinctively try to pull back.
“fuck, you smell so good,” he groans, already mouthing at you through the fabric. his tongue presses against the damp spot, sloppy and desperate, and you gasp as the vibration shoots through you. “can’t believe you kept this from me all night.”
“james— wait—”
he ignores you, hooks one finger under the waistband and yanks your panties to the side. the first swipe of his tongue against your bare slit rips a moan out of your throat before you can stop it. he’s greedy with it, licking you from your entrance all the way up to your clit, nose bumping against you as he hums like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.
“merlin, that’s it,” he mutters into your cunt, eyes fluttering shut as his grip on your thighs tightens. “ride my face, baby. don’t hold back.”
your hips move without your permission, grinding down against his mouth, and james fucking groans like you’ve given him the greatest gift of his life. he latches onto your clit, lips sucking, tongue circling with messy, wet pressure that makes your vision blur.
“you like that?” he pants against you, smirk curving his lips as he looks up, mouth shiny with your arousal. “like using me like this? making me your toy?”
your only answer is a broken moan, thighs trembling as you rock against him. james chuckles darkly, and then he’s back at it—his tongue flicking faster, fingers kneading into your ass to force you down harder.
the wet sounds echo in the room, filthy and obscene, and your head drops back as heat coils tight in your stomach. you’re close, so close, and james knows it. you can feel him smiling against your cunt, tongue teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves before he pulls back, breath hot against you.
“not yet,” he says firmly, voice hoarse with need. “you’re not coming until i say you can.”
you whine, hips jerking against his face, but james shakes his head, grip like iron as he pins you in place.
“no, sweetheart. i’ll ruin you when i’m good and ready. for now, you just sit there and take it.”
and then he dives back in, licking you with deliberate, devastating strokes, dragging you right back to the edge only to ease off again when you’re about to topple over.
it’s torture. beautiful, unbearable torture.
your thighs are shaking, nails digging into the headboard for something to hold onto as james works you over. every time you think he’s about to let you fall apart, he pulls back.
“you’re fucking dripping for me,” he teases, slipping one thick finger between your folds just to spread the slick all over before pulling away again. “haven’t even given you my cock and you’re already this messy.”
“please,” you choke out, voice wrecked, hips rolling despite yourself. “james, i—”
“please what?” his tone sharpens, that dom edge slicing through the filth. his glasses are fogged up, mouth swollen from sucking on your cunt. “use your words, sweetheart. tell me what you want.”
you’re panting, thighs quivering as he strokes lazy circles around your clit with the flat of his tongue—barely enough to keep you trembling on the edge.
“want to come,” you whimper. “fuck, james, let me come—”
he laughs. actually laughs, the bastard. “already? greedy little thing. you think you deserve it after teasing me all night?”
he punctuates the question with a sharp suck to your clit, and you almost scream, clutching at his curls. he groans when you tug, grinding his tongue harder into you for a few devastating seconds before pulling back again.
“nah,” he says, breath ragged. “not yet. i want to watch you fall apart when i say so. not before.”
you feel like you’re losing your mind. every nerve in your body is on fire, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate for more.
“james— please— i’ll do anything—”
he smirks up at you, eyes dark, lips glistening. “yeah? anything?”
your nod is frantic, almost shameful, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“then you’ll sit here,” he says, voice low and commanding, “and you’ll take it until i’m satisfied. i want to see how many times i can drag you to the edge before you break.”
and then he’s relentless. tongue flicking, swirling, alternating between messy, sloppy licks and sharp, precise pressure that has you crying out, thighs clamping around his head. he hums against you, the vibrations making you buck forward, grinding down on his face like you’re starving for it.
you’re incoherent, babbling pleas, sobs, curses—anything to get him to finally let you come. but every time your body starts to tighten, every time the orgasm builds too close, james pulls back, holding you down with a strong hand on your thigh, lips curled in a wicked grin.
“look at you,” he taunts, voice dripping with satisfaction. “so desperate, so needy. can’t even think straight, can you? just my greedy girl, grinding on my face like she was made for it.”
you whimper, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “i can’t— james, i can’t—”
“you can,” he cuts you off, tone sharp, unyielding. “you’ll take it until i say otherwise.”
he slides two fingers into you suddenly, and you cry out at the intrusion. they’re thick, filling, curling perfectly against that spot inside you, while his mouth is back on your clit, sucking hard.
“fuck!” you scream, the pressure unbearable, your orgasm teetering on the brink.
and then he pulls back again, fingers still buried in you but going still. his smirk is devastating.
“not yet,” he whispers, kissing your inner thigh. “you’re not ready.”
you’re sobbing now, body trembling, cunt clenching around his fingers with every pathetic pulse.
your voice is hoarse from begging, tears streaking down your cheeks as james pushes you through another round of torment. your body can’t take much more. your cunt is aching, clit swollen and raw from his tongue, thighs trembling with exhaustion.
“please— please, james.” you choke out, hips rolling helplessly against his mouth. “can’t— need it—”
he growls into your cunt, the sound vibrating through you, and his eyes flick up over the rim of his glasses, dark and wild. “you think you’ve earned it?”
you nod frantically, fingers twisted in his hair, tugging so hard he groans against you.
“say it.” his voice is sharp, commanding. “say you’re mine. say you’ll do anything for me.”
“i’m yours!” you cry, head falling back. “fuck— i’m yours, james— please let me come—”
his smirk is wicked, satisfied, and then he finally gives you what you’ve been begging for.
his mouth clamps around your clit, sucking hard, tongue flicking mercilessly, while his fingers pump into you fast and deep, curling against that perfect spot inside you. the combination is devastating—you’re already right on the edge, and the second he stops holding you back, you tumble headfirst into it.
the orgasm rips through you like fire, your entire body convulsing, thighs clamping around his head as you scream his name. pleasure blinds you, white-hot, overwhelming. so sharp it almost hurts.
but james doesn’t stop.
he keeps going, relentless, fucking his fingers into you harder, sucking on your clit like he’s starving.
“that’s it,” he groans against you, voice muffled by your cunt. “come for me. make a mess for me.”
you sob, nails clawing at his scalp, the overstimulation unbearable and perfect. your body arches off the bed as a sudden gush of liquid sprays from you, soaking his mouth, his chin, dripping down his chest.
“fuck yes,” james growls, pulling back just enough to watch it happen, his grin feral. “that’s it, sweetheart. look at you, squirting all over my face. prettiest thing i’ve ever seen.”
your cheeks burn with humiliation and pleasure all tangled together, but he doesn’t give you a chance to come down. he latches back onto your clit, tongue flicking furiously, determined to drag another wave out of you.
“james— no— i can’t—”
“yes, you can,” he snaps, pinning your hips down as you thrash. “you’re going to give me another. and another. until i’ve had my fill.”
you’re wailing now, overwhelmed, but your body betrays you, clenching around his fingers, juices gushing again as another orgasm tears through you. your thighs tremble uncontrollably, slick soaking his face and chest, but james is insatiable.
“look at you,” he says, voice rough with lust. “absolutely ruined. and you’re still so fucking wet for me.”
your vision blurs, your throat raw from screaming, every muscle trembling as he finally eases up, kissing your soaked thighs tenderly.
he pulls his fingers from you, coated in slick, and slips them between your lips before you can think.
“taste yourself, sweetheart,” he murmurs, watching your eyes flutter as you suck them clean. “that’s mine. every drop belongs to me.”
he leans up then, face shiny, chin wet, grin smug as ever. he kisses you, filthy and deep, making sure you can taste yourself on his tongue.
“good girl,” james whispers against your mouth. “next time, i’ll make you do it sitting on my cock.”
summary — in which the summer break means you get to finally spend some quality time with your boyfriend . . . and his teammate, apparently.
pairings — oscar piastri x fem!figureskater!reader
note — and for the sake of this we're gonna pretend both figure skating and F1 have the same break schedule so this can be summer break themed. thank you.
yourusername
liked by isufigureskating, oscarpiastri and others
yourusername final session before summer break ❄️
tagged — amberglenniceskater
view all comments . . .
user1 summer break plans? 👀
⤥ yourusername seeing oscar in monaco and then we're going to aus :)
⤥ user2 wait y'all are dating?
⤥ user3: theyve BEEN dating 😭
⤥ user2 i started watching after the olympics okay 😔 idk anything
⤥ user3 valid
oscarpiastri see u tomorrow 😊
⤥ yourusername bright n early :)
amberglenniceskater okay cause we slayed
⤥ yourusername fr when dont we
⤥ user4 gonna miss them fr 😔
user5 just got into figure skating wdym oscar and her are dating omg worlds colliding fr
user6 have a good break!!!
oscarpiastri
liked by yourusername, mclaren and others
oscarpiastri summer break ☀️
view all comments . . .
yourusername omg we're adorable
yourusername love you to death
⤥ oscarpiastri ❤️
user1 ohhhh this is the content ive been waiting for TURN IT UPPP
user6 oscar x yn content is my reason to live ive waited since january for this
⤥ user7 they see each other once a year?????
⤥ user6 no no this is just the one part of the year they both have a break at the same time
landonorris soooo when r we going ice skating then
⤥ oscarpiastri youre not invited
⤥ yourusername are you telling me you dont wanna see him fall on his face
⤥ oscarpiastri youre reinvited
nicolepiastri ❤️
⤥ yourusername 💗
user9 oh u 2 are adorable shut up
⤥ user10 fr smth about a quiet f1 driver and an outgoing figure skater just makes sense
mclaren our fav couple is back!!!
⤥ user11 mclaren admin i love u
yourusername
liked by olympics, landonorris and others
yourusername off-season training ft. these clowns
tagged — oscarpiastri, landonorris
view all comments . . .
ilia_quadg0d_malinin looks disastrous
⤥ yourusername another reason i could never coach
landonorris look at my teacher bro im going to the olympics
⤥ yourusername bro you failed to follow simple instructions the entire session
⤥ landonorris but my crossovers were so good
⤥ yourusername ...if anyone asks who taught you to skate do not say i did
user12 we NEED to know if oscar is a good skater
⤥ yourusername in another life he could be a killer hockey player
⤥ user12 proof NOW
oscarpiastri neck training with me next?
⤥ yourusername uhhh rain check?
user13 theres my fav figure skater... and i guess landoscar are there 🙄
user14 lando on ice is exactly what i needed on my timeline
oscarpiastri quad jumps incoming
⤥ yourusername pls i wish
olympics our next two skaters at the winter olympics perchance?
⤥ yourusername you cant just say perchance
⤥ olympics 😔
୨୧ — When his daughter brings home her first potential boyfriend at fifteen, Sukuna doesn't say a word. He simply sits across from the terrified boy at the kitchen table, his fork clinking against the plate, the sound sharp in the tense air. The entire time, he maintains unblinking eye contact while you attempt to salvage the rest of the dinner conversation with meaningless small talk.
After about twenty minutes, Sukuna finally speaks, "You touch her wrong, they won't find enough of you to bury. Got it, boy?" The boy is out the door just as you bring out the dessert, and your daughter doesn't speak to her father for three days. But when rumors start to circulate that the same boy pressured another girl into something she didn't want, his daughter quietly finds him outside sipping on his favorite whiskey.
Sitting next to him -her shoulder pressed against his-, she whispers, "How did you know?" Sukuna just shrugs, but there's understanding in the silence between them. After that, she doesn't fight his "inspections" quite so hard. He's always been her protector after all.
︵︵︵ ๑❤︎๑ ︵︵︵
୨୧ — During a parent teaching conference, his daughter’s literature teacher suggests she might be "troubled"… due to her persistent interest in writing dark, violent stories… The teachers eyes flicker towards Sukuna’s tattoos and scars, suggesting it might be due to the home environment.
Wrong choice of words.
Before you can intervene, Sukuna leans forward and asks with a deadly calm, "You ever read Dostoyevsky? The fucking Bible?"
The teacher nods, shrinking back in his seat…
"All full of violence. All considered genius. My daughter’s writing isn’t the problem." His voice never rises, but the temperature in the room seems to drop a whole ten degrees as he continues. "Your small mind is."
Two weeks later, your daughter rushes home holding her regional writing trophy. Sukuna has her piece professionally framed and hung in the living room next day.
Because at the end of the day, that’s still his little girl.
You're a normal girl in college, a broke little barista and trying your best to keep your scholarships up - Satoru Gojo is not normal, not at all - he's the six eyes, the clan leader, and about to have to marry and take over. The two of you wish for something different when a rare comet shoots across the sky. And that's when you wake up in his body - Satoru Gojo, a powerful sorcerer a world away, and he wakes up in your tiny little dorm bed, with a pair of tits. The two of you stare in the mirror at unfamiliar faces and wonder if any of this is real, and just who the two of you were - could you get back to your bodies, and was a different life really any better?
pairings - Sorcerer! Satoru x fem! reader
warnings Based on the movie your name obviously - it will be very angsty, but also kinda cute - you will keep body swapping throughout, there will be a time difference - fix it fic. Toru is 22, you're 21. size difference to make it more dramatic and funny, canon adjacent (yes, I'm writing him as a sorcerer hehe) Geto never defected, eventual smut, lots of character and plot, emotional - planning on four parts to this. taglist open <3
art by @3-aem of courssee <333
part one
Life was normal before that comet shot across the sky.
You were just a normal college student – struggling in physics, but doing great in everything else. You had a part time job at a coffee shop in your little town, you had a boy you had a crush on and a few friends, but mostly – you studied. You studied till your eyes burned, till they hurt so badly you fell asleep right on your desk, drooling on whatever text book you had.
You didn’t come from money – your family in fact was too broke to put you through college, but they loved you, they helped you get financial aid and scholarships so hopefully you could do better than they did. You loved them very much, too, there were video chats every day since you lived in the dorm outside of your city.
Days were just that – normal, as you worked on your degree, a wicked hangover on your twenty first birthday, where you finally got your first kiss. Yeah – you could say you were that much of an introvert, you hadn’t even done that yet. You wish you remembered it more, it was something quick and hasty as fireworks went off, it was that time of year when you were born.
Something special, something beautiful, but something was…
Off.
It was off even that day. Maybe your period was coming or something, but everything on the day of your twenty-first felt off – especially when you got that damn letter saying if you didn’t raise your physics grade you’d lose that funding.
Tears blurred your vision as you collapsed onto your bed with that letter, knowing if your parents knew how horribly you were doing they would be so disappointed. You couldn’t help but wish for an escape from the crushing weight of all these expectations – many of which you placed on yourself, rushing to take that invite and get positively drunk at a party.
You didn’t tell the guy it was your first kiss, you just did that – let him slide his tongue in your mouth and press you against a wall, then it was all a bit of a blur – you heading back to the dorm, sneaking away. Crying yourself to sleep even though you technically ‘had fun’.
Why did you feel so lonely, though?
Yet when you woke up, everything changed.
Your body changed.
Your fucking room changed.
You were no longer in your little dorm – you’re in some fancy ass, rich ass room with an enormous bed and black silk sheets. You gasp and worry – did you end up with that dude last night? Did you think you got home but got too fucked up!? Your heart hammers in your chest as you peek down – and then you see it.
You see it and fucking scream so loud, seeing you’re wearing boxers rather than panties – and instead of your pussy, there was a dick. Oh, not a small dick, either – and not a soft one, a fully hard, massive fucking cock was on your body.
“What the fuck!? What!?” You jump up and fall, unused to the lanky ass legs that are currently under you, ones that cannot be yours – pale and muscular and so goddamn long. You’re way too tall, so tall you’d hit your head in your fucking dorm, looking down at everything in shock, stumbling into a dresser.
Even your voice is deep and – sexy!? You rush over to this fancy dresser, gasping as you see a perfect face in a mirror – a man’s face, with beautiful blue eyes and cheekbones to fucking die for. You smack at that face as if reality will hit – seeing chest muscles where your titties should be, blushing in his pale skin as you see that bulge in the mirror.
You're inside the body of the hottest man you’ve ever seen in some fancy ass home you could never afford!
“It has to be some dream,” you curse and rush out, running down spiral stairs – how big is this man’s house?! It’s a whole fucking confusing mansion, you’re rushing through everything, trying to find some hint of who he could be – of what weird ass fever dream you’re having, when the door knocks. “One minute!”
You’re rushing over now, opening it and seeing a dark haired man look at your body, rolling his eyes. “Put on some clothes, Satoru. We have training.”
“Training?” He raises a brow at you, and you struggle to act normal, searching your brain for anything. “Training…”
“Yeah, Satoru – training. Just because you’re perfect at everything doesn’t mean me and Shoko don’t need more practice. We have to set a good example if we wanna teach some day.”
“Teach. Examples…”
The man blinks his amethyst eyes, looking right at you now, too close, so close you fucking blush again. “What’s wrong with you, Satoru?”
Satoru – who was Satoru?
*****
Satoru was exhausted as he trained his fucking ass off, entirely exhausted – he wanted a break, he wanted a vacation, he didn’t want to fight anymore curses, or see anymore of his old classmates die. He didn’t want to take over the Gojo family name, and he sure the fuck didn’t look forward to the inevitable arranged marriage the elders were about to place on him.
Standing in his shower since he was covered in grime from fucking curses exploding, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if he was not born a Gojo at all – what would it be like if instead, he had been someone normal? If he was just a normal guy at college, and not training to teach the newbies at Jujutsu high?
If he were a normal twenty two year old man who wasn’t about to have to become the clan leader, and take on all this goddamn responsibility he didn’t ask for? Sure, Satoru loved to be the strongest – but that didn’t mean he enjoyed the constant effort, the secrets, the lies they told – the way everything fell on him and his friends, all the expectations making him drown.
He was a Gojo – they were the strongest, and that’s all there was to it. Day in, day out, everything was simple. KIll everything bad, save everyone he could, but goddamit if he wasn’t exhausted, if he didn’t just want to go be a normal guy – maybe go study physics, study theories of the universe he wishes even he could know more about.
Go look at the stars with a pretty girl and laugh, a girl he chose.
Yet that doesn’t appear to be anything he will get – no, he was born a Gojo, and that was that. Even falling asleep in his silk sheets that night, he could not stop his mind from racing, frowning as thoughts raced through his mind at a rampant pace.
How could Satoru Gojo ever live a normal life?
Well, he wondered what normal meant that next morning when he felt hungover – something he never, ever was. Satoru did not drink, it dulled his senses too much, but every now and then he had gone out with Suguru and Shoko, Nanami throwing back whiskey like it was nothing, but he could barely hold one without getting sick.
And does he feel sick – and he feels sad, more sad than before, like emotional in a way he can’t remember being. He reached out as he felt tears burning his eyes – that doesn’t happen, either. Satoru trained himself not to cry from a young age, but now he’s doing just that, his fingers touching unfamiliar cheeks that were wet with tears he hadn't shed in years.
Unfamiliar.
He looks at this shitty little bed then and screams, plopping out of it – his arms fucking flailing. He can’t even take looking at these thighs – not his lanky ass legs, no, they’re cute thighs, ones he himself would grab and spread if it belonged to a pretty girl underneath him. Cute lil socks on his ankles covered in kittens.
Kittens!?
Satoru stumbles again, bashing his head and feeling hair fall against his shoulders, shocked with that alone, but especially not being white. He stands and rushes to the little dresser – too small for him, everything is too small for him, but he is not six foot four, not one goddamn bit he realizes, looking at his reflection, at the pretty tits half falling out of a tank top spun.
Tits on his body!? He grabs them and squishes them in his hands, confused as fuck now, but he can’t help but keep squishing these pretty tits, as if they could rid him of the fucking stress, looking at the unfamiliar face. Softer features than his, completely different in every way – though she…
He!?
This body was beautiful, this face was lovely, the type of girl he’d flirt with or throw on his charm, but be just a little nervous, a little shy. Her lips are swollen as if she’d been kissed all night, he knows that look from women he’s been with, that hung over, fucked out look – though…
He doesn’t feel fucked – well how would he know!?!? He pulls aside those shorts, blushing and then covering back up, the panties were just a little wet, soaking the matching kittens. And that’s when it hits him, that clenching feeling in his tummy – he’s got a pussy.
And TITS.
Satoru Gojo is a…
Knock knock knock.
Maybe it’s Suguru and this is a joke, maybe this is a curse fucking with him – it’s one of those terrible fucking villains who make his life hell, and he’s cast under something. Or it’s a test – Yaga is fucking with him, making sure he can tell what’s real or not. Some Gojo initiation.
Anything but what this is – when a girl knocks at the door and smiles at Satoru, leaning against the door and crossing her arms.
“How was the first kiss, birthday girl?” She teases, Satoru blinks.
“Um… kiss…”
She says your name then.
Your name, is that your name?
Just who are you?
“Are you skipping physics? Aren’t you failing bad?” She asks now, clearly concerned as Satoru sputters.
HIM failing physics? There was no fucking way – well, that and Satoru IS NOT A WOMAN. “Failing? Nah, I don’t fail any subject.”
“Girl last night you were a mess about it, what’s wrong?” She asks again, he shakes his head, well – your head – and your phone is ringing. “Gonna get that?”
“Yeah.”
What’s your pattern!? What’s your phone pattern!? He tries so many times he gets completely locked out, cursing. “Maybe you’re still drunk?”
“Um yeah, I’m gonna take a shower and… get it together!” Satoru says, trying to get used to the girlie voice rather than his own, laughing as he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck – much softer than his own. When she finally leaves he leans against the door, picking up that phone again – a glittery pink one.
What the fuck?
*****
You were wearing this unfamiliar dark clothing – you’ll give Satoru this, the man has taste – it was as fancy as clothing could get. You’re absolutely sure that it costs more money than anything in your dorm put together, even these shades you have to wear must be expensive.
One moment you’re another girl, the next – you’re seeing curses.
"Focus, Gojo,” Suguru is his name – apparently, the man with the long dark hair, smiling tiredly as he smokes a cigarette. “You’re off today.”
“Right, focus…” You trail off and sigh, holding up your hand and gasping when blinding light erupts from your palms, obliterating the practice dummies right in front of you. You stare at your shaking hands – huge ones, by the way, all of this goddamn man was huge. “I did that!?”
“Rub it in,” Shoko teases, laughing as she leans against Suguru, smoking a cigarette and laughing at you a bit. “We know you’re the best, Gojo. Stop acting as if you’re like us.”
“I’m not…” You trail off then, focusing on this insane fucking energy again, feeling it course through your veins.
You don’t even get tired, like something is regenerating you constantly.
What the fuck was this? What was this power, these creatures, any of it they were talking about? You can only hope when you go to bed tonight, everything is fucking normal – that you’re failing physics, and that you’re not a six foot four rich man who seemingly never gets a break.
And you thought you worked hard.
Every moment of Satoru Gojo’s day was taken up – from training, to this driver named Ijichi who takes him all over, to the next meeting where you have to fucking hope you can keep up this act, a room full of doors, interrogating Satoru about his upcoming wedding.
This man is getting married?
There are photos of prospective brides, and all you can do is shuffle through them, curious when the fuck you were going to wake up and not have a dick.
****
“You cheated on this test!” The professor of physics comes and yells at Satoru after he aces the test, he raises a brow at her. “No way you didn’t.”
“Why would I cheat?”
“You are the worst student in my class,” she slams the paper on Satoru’s desk, a blank test with different questions. “Do this, and I’ll watch you the whole time.”
His classmates – well they’re your classmates – look at him, all worried, but he aces the goddamn test again, until she’s sputtering. Satoru can see why you suck at physics, considering how mean she is – but luckily he just knows everything, and she can’t argue a second time.
“Well, I guess you pass.” She mumbles, handing him his paper with a hundred percent. “Barely!”
Satoru is tired when his phone goes off – work at six.
WORK.
He has to go work!?
He re-set your pattern to a fingerprint, so he got your phone open – and found just where you work, a little coffee shop. Satoru was a goddamn barista. He was getting bitched out by customers when he’s used to fighting curses – and that’s the craziest thing of all, besides having tits and a pussy.
He couldn’t see well – in fact, your vision was shitty. You had to wear glasses and these weird contact things, and he certainly couldn’t see curses – they could be all around, and he wouldn’t sense them.
He had to get back to his damn body.
*****
You’re so tired when you come back to the Gojo mansion you plop in the living room chair, yawning and kicking off his dress shoes, eyes shutting with your head leaned back. Your body is sore, and you still can’t sleep – this aching, gnawing feeling of being inside this huge body taking over, wondering just what sort of hallucination you were having.
You fall asleep on that couch, as Satoru crashes face first in your tiny little dorm room, and the two of you wonder…
Will you wake up from this weird fucking dream, of bodies you two can't recognize? Was any of this real?
patreon - comms
as these are short they'll actually be coming out fast hehe - this was eating me UP I can't wait for some juicy angst
NOTES. I have been fantasising about this for a while. No explicit infidelity but boy, will some of these men certainly try.
Childe
This man does NOT care in the slightest. If anything, he’s excited by it.
Childe finds the whole situation entertaining in a way that's almost endearing if it weren't so utterly disrespectful. He doesn't see your wedding ring as a stop sign. For him, it makes things more interesting because now there's an added layer of complexity, an actual obstacle. And Childe has never backed down from a challenge in his life.
He’ll send you lots and lots and lots of gifts. Intricate bouquets of flowers, expensive jewellery, and little notes with cheeky messages that make your face burn. It's infuriating because he's not even subtle about it. He knows you know. You know he knows. And somehow that makes it worse, or better, depending on how you look at it. Childe is utterly shameless, so good luck reeling him back.
When your spouse is around, Childe shifts into a different gear entirely. He becomes aggressively polite in a way that's more insulting than rudeness. He'll compliment your spouse's choice in you with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. And Childe is petty, so he’ll be extra condescending to your partner: “Wow, they must have been feeling pretty generous when they chose you, huh?” Your spouse is sitting there fuming, but what are they gonna do? Challenge a Fatui Harbinger? Lol, good luck.
Childe will touch your shoulder when passing by. He'll remember small details about you that your spouse has forgotten. He'll show up at your favorite places and act surprised to see you, like the universe just keeps throwing you together. And through it all, that infuriating smile never wavers, because Childe knows exactly what he's doing and he's having far too much fun to care about the consequences.
"Hey gorgeous, married life treating you right? Because I could do better."
Lohen
Married? That's hilarious. Lohen finds out you're married and his first reaction is genuine, unrestrained laughter. Like you've just told him the best joke he's heard in weeks. A challenge. An actual obstacle. This is the most fun he's had in ages. He doesn't see your wedding ring as a boundary; he sees it as the opening move in a game he's about to play.
He shows up everywhere after that. And there is absolutely no subtlety in it. He does not even pretend to try that he is not courting you. He'll find you during your day with that sharp grin, pull you into dangerous situations for the sheer thrill of it, and act genuinely hurt when you try to push him away. "Come on, where's your sense of adventure?" He reads people too easily to miss how conflicted you are, and that just makes it more entertaining to him. Aw, did you just blush when he pulled you close? That’s just more ammunition for him to continue.
When your spouse is around, Lohen doesn't bother with politeness. He's openly dismissive in that sharp way of his, looking at them like they're a minor obstacle. He'll call out the weaknesses in their stance, mock their choices, make it abundantly clear he thinks they're beneath him. "You picked them?" he'll say to you, gesturing at your spouse with barely concealed disdain. "That's disappointing."
He challenges your spouse to duels constantly, Actual calls to prove themselves. "Come on, show me what you've got. Or are you too scared?" There's no pretense of friendliness, just that chaotic grin and the very real threat underneath it. He wants to test them, wants to prove he's stronger, faster, better in every way. And when your spouse declines or hesitates, Lohen laughs like they've just confirmed what he already knew. That they're not worthy of you.
And if they accept? Yeah, that fight is anything but clean. Surely, you don’t mind if he hurts them only a little bit, right? They’ll recover… in a couple weeks. You can spend that time with him!
"Married to someone that dull? Lucky for you I'm around to make things interesting."
Pantalone
Your marriage is a curiosity to him, nothing more.
Pantalone hears you're married and it barely registers as information worth filing away. He's made it abundantly clear through his entire existence that social conventions are for people who can't afford to ignore them. He has money, taste, and a level of charm that makes your marital status seem almost quaint by comparison. Why would he care about a contract that costs nothing and binds you to someone ordinary when he can offer you everything?
He pursues you methodically, the way he pursues everything worth having. Invitations arrive on expensive paper—to galas, private auctions, exclusive dinners at restaurants. He sends you jewelry that's clearly meant to be worn, flowers that bloom in impossible colors, bottles of wine older than most towns. Each gift is calculated to make you feel like you belong in his world, because in Pantalone's mind, you already do.
When you decline his invitations, he smiles like you've said something amusing. "Oh, a pity. I was so looking forward to it." He pauses, studying you with that sharp gaze. "Though I suspect you'll change your mind eventually. People usually do when they realize what they're missing."
When he meets your spouse, there's no acknowledgment of the relationship at all. He treats them like furniture. Polite enough, but utterly unremarkable. He'll talk past them, direct his attention entirely to you, and make it abundantly clear through sheer indifference that your spouse's existence is beneath consideration. He isn’t cruel, per se, but the stone cold apathy is shocking. But I mean, what else did you expect from the Regrator?
He'll invite you to exclusive events, knowing full well you're married. He'll compliment you in ways that are technically innocent but absolutely not. He'll make you feel like the most interesting person in every room while your spouse fades into background noise. And he does it all with such practiced elegance that it's hard to even be angry about it. And Pantalone doesn't acknowledge obstacles he doesn't consider obstacles.
"Darling, there's an exhibition opening tomorrow. Quite exclusive. Pity you felt obligated to refuse."
Varka
The moment he finds out you're married, Varka accepts it with genuine respect that comes from someone with actual principles. It’s to be expected of course, from the Grandmaster of the Knights. He backs off immediately—no flirting, no lingering touches, nothing that crosses a line. He means it too. His sense of responsibility is too strong to entertain anything else. You're off-limits. He respects that.
Except he's absolutely terrible at actually following through on it.
He'll catch himself mid-conversation laughing at something you said, and the laugh is too warm, too genuine, like you've just said the funniest thing he's heard in weeks. He volunteers for patrols he doesn't need to go on if he knows you'll be there. He flexes his muscles without thinking about it—lifting heavy things with one hand, rolling up his sleeves when you walk by, that casual display of strength that he tells himself has nothing to do with you being present. He's just proud of his physique. It has nothing to do with wanting you to notice. Definitely not. And yeah, so what if Varka tries to be the funniest person in the room whenever you walk in? He’s just naturally charming, that’s all.
When your spouse is around, Varka shifts into his easygoing charm. He's genuinely friendly, treats them like any other person he gets along with, makes jokes and offers drinks like there's no tension at all. But then you'll say something, and for just a moment his eyes linger on you a little too long. He'll compliment you in a way that sounds casual but carries weight underneath it. He catches himself doing it and looks away quickly, uncomfortable with his own slip-up.
You notice it every time. The way his shoulders straighten when you walk into a room. How he unconsciously positions himself so he can see you better. The split second where his mask drops and you catch something genuine underneath before he remembers himself and shifts back into friendly, easygoing Varka. He's trying so hard to be respectful, and that effort itself is what makes it obvious that he's fighting something. You see the conflict, the way he's wrestling with his own nature, and somehow that makes it worse.
It's not intentional. That's the thing about Varka—his pride in himself, his easy confidence, his strength—it all comes out around you whether he wants it to or not. He's trying to be respectful. He really is. But his nature keeps betraying him in small, unguarded moments.
"That's great, really. You picked someone solid. Still, if you ever need anything, I'm around."
Zhongli
Being the God of contracts, he accepts your marriage to be a fact set in stone. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that stone can’t be moved, is it?
Zhongli will curb his overt courting rituals, like asking you out to dinner or kissing your hand upon greeting. But his more gentleman-ly side is always evident when it comes to you. He walks you home in the evenings. And sure, he’ll keep a respectful distance but all it takes is one particularly strong gust of wind or a merchant’s cart veering too close to you for his hand to come up to your side and pull you near him. He’s so kind about it too that you aren’t sure if this is meant to be anything at all.
He invites you over for tea (alone, just with him). Zhongli knows exactly how you make your tea, the amount of sugar you like, and the type of brew he should prepare. And so what if the tea takes four hours to make? You and him are just having polite conversation. It’s not as though your spouse knows the way you take your tea either, so this is really just a way for you to relax!!
When your partner is around, Zhongli simply smiles. He’s seen many relationships in his time, and to be frank with you, he does not exactly see what is so special about your partner lol. Nevertheless, he would not cross any lines, but he is just an extra bit nicer, a tad bit more courteous, his words just a little sweeter with you when they are around. He really wants to show your partner what true devotion looks like.
“Married? I see. Well, contracts can be renegotiated, given the right circumstances. Until then, consider me a reminder of what else might have been possible.”
note: written with zero hockey knowledge, just pure vibes. blame off campus for it. also writing varka as college student is a mortal crime for me so he is pro player.
hockey player!varka who is mondstadt team captain whose playstyle have earned him title knight of boreas. he’s a renowned player, who has so many trophies and rewards that they don't all fit in one room. edits of his games gain hundreds of thousands likes. his sponsorship campaigns with hexenzirkel corp are always a huge success.
hockey player!varka and your first meeting at the ice rink. it was during one of his vacations, when he was babysitting his friend's daughter, klee, and decided to go skating with her. as for you, it was your day off and you were there with your friends. your skating skills were lacking, so you falling was something expected. luckily, a kind stranger caught you. and this kind stranger was varka. he taught you how to skate. he held your hands, he caught you as soon as you lost your balance, and as soon as you felt more confident on the ice he surprised you with spinning. and so one meeting at the ice rink turned into countless dates.
hockey player!varka who introduces you to his team to show that he's serious about the relationship with you. from now on you’re part of almost all their activities as captain woman. you go to their practices from time to time, hang out with them at bars, and cheer them on at games. they all are so supportive of your relationship, kaeya even often teases his captain that there will soon be the next generation of hockey stars.
hockey player!varka who absolutely loves when you wear his number and name to his games. he will always find you in the seats, he will be weaving to you like an excited puppy, even if there is an important game in less than a minute. and don’t get me started how he demands kisses before every game and for every goal after.
hockey player!varka who thinks that the only thing that is more important than official games is charity games. there is something incredibly intimate when you are with him at those moments. he gladly plays with kids, teaches them hockey, and signs them autographs. they are so adorable in his admiration of him and look up to him. yes, he will introduce you to children as his favorite person. he shared with you that he’s going to become a children's trainer when he retires from professional sport.
hockey player!varka who despite being very public with his affection, still protects you from the press’ prying eyes. he launched your relationship with a photo of you holding his hand on his instagram. but it was just your hand, not a face with the caption “heart of number 44”. it was much later when he revealed your name in an interview. still, he doesn’t share much of your life’s details, despite totally showing you off.
hockey player!varka who convinced alice, ceo of hexenzirkel, to let you join him for an advertising photo shoot. it wasn’t even a couple shoot, just an advertisement for some sporting goods, but your chemistry was just something on another level.
hockey player!varka whose fans absolutely ship your two. you are truly hockey it couple. there are countless edits of you two from his games, and photos from the press and his instagram. he likes every one of them and sends you the best.
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