summary : everyone knows you and robby are like two magnets, pulled together and destined to be together. everyone except the two of you, apparently.
word count : 10.1 k
warnings : mentions of blood, passing out, smut, p in v, semi-public sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up), 18 +, MDNI , implied aged gap , fingering
a/n: as usual, not proofread !
The waiting room looks like hell.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
Too bright. Too loud. Too many people packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath fluorescent lights that wash everyone the same sick shade of exhausted gray. A toddler screams somewhere near triage. Somebody vomits into a plastic bag near the reception desk. EMTs burst through the ambulance bay doors every six minutes carrying fresh disasters like offerings.
And over all of it: the constant overhead paging.
The ER never really sleeps. It just bleeds into the next catastrophe.
“You got a room for a possible bowel perf?” a paramedic barks, already wheeling the patient forward.
“Trauma Two,” You answer automatically without looking up from your chart.
“Trauma Two’s occupied.”
“Then hallway bed six.”
“That guy’s psych hold.”
“Then put him literally anywhere with oxygen and a pulse ox.” The paramedic grins tiredly.
“That’s why I like you.”
“Yeah, well, poor judgment’s a recurring theme around here.”Behind you, a familiar voice cuts through the noise immediately.
“She flirts with everybody before midnight. Don’t take it personal.”
You don't have to turn around to know it’s Dr. Robby. Still, your stomach betrays you anyway.
Stupid thing.
The paramedic laughs.
“Damn, Robby. Possessive tonight.”
“That’s not what this is,” Robby mutters immediately.
You finally glance up. Big mistake. He looks exhausted. Not regular exhausted. Hospital exhausted. The kind that settles into the bones after too many double shifts and too many people dying under your hands no matter how fast you work. His dark curls are damp at the temples from hours under harsh ER heat, scrub top wrinkled, stethoscope hanging crooked around his neck. And still— still unfairly handsome. You hate that about him.
Hatesthat after fourteen hours on shift he can still look across a trauma bay and make your brain briefly stop functioning like a licensed medical professional. The paramedic wheels off laughing. Robby steps into the space beside you immediately, eyes dropping to the chart in your hands.
“You re-order the labs on Bed Nine?”
“Mmhm.”
“He needs another lactate.”
“Already done." Robby’s mouth twitches faintly.
Of course it is.
Working with him became dangerous months ago.
Not because he’s difficult.
The opposite.
Because somewhere along the line the two of you became… this.
Too synced up.
Too aware of each other.
Too comfortable.
You know how he takes his coffee.
He knows when your migraines start before you say anything.
You hand him instruments before he asks during procedures.
He automatically moves people out of your path during traumas without even looking.
Nobody misses it. Especially not Dana.
“You two are way past appropriate,” she muttered three shifts ago while watching you two argue over a chest tube placement like a divorced couple.
You laughed.
Robby didn't.
Now he leans slightly over your shoulder, scanning the chart.
“You eat yet?” There it is. Every damn shift. You keep your eyes on the paperwork.
“I had coffee.”
“That ain’t food.”
“It has nutritional value emotionally.”
“Cute.” His tone flattens immediately. “Eat somethin’.” You scribble another note onto the chart.
“Yes, dad.” Robby sighs through his nose. Not annoyed. Worse. Concerned.
“Seriously.”
“I’m fine.”
“You said that six hours ago.”
“And look.” You gesture vaguely at yourself. “Still vertical.” His eyes flick over your face briefly. Too briefly for anybody else to notice. Long enough for you to feel it anyway.
“You got that headache again?” he asks quietly. You blink.
“How the hell do you always know that?”
“Because you rub your temple every thirty seconds when it starts.” your hand drops immediately away from your face. Robby’s expression shifts just slightly.
Victory.
Tiny.
Private.
Dangerous.
Before either of you can say another word, the overhead speakers crackle violently:
“CODE TRAUMA. MULTIPLE GSWs EN ROUTE. ETA THREE MINUTES.”
The entire ER changes shape instantly. Everybody moves. Nurses sprint toward trauma bays. Stretchers reposition. Gloves snap on. The easy rhythm of conversation disappears beneath adrenaline and practiced chaos. Robby is already moving.
“So much for food,” you mutter.
“You’re still eatin’ after this,” he throws over his shoulder.
“You can’t legally force me.”
“I know where your locker is.”
You snort despite yourself and follow him into Trauma One. Three minutes later the ambulance bay doors explode open. And suddenly nobody has time to breathe anymore. The first patient crashes before the second stretcher even clears the ambulance bay.
“Twenty-three-year-old male,” the paramedic shouts while helping transfer the body over. “Multiple GSWs to the chest and abdomen, lost pulse twice in transport—”
“We got him,” Robby cuts in immediately. And just like that, he changes. Not physically. Something else. The warmth disappears first. The dry humor. The tired little almost-smiles he only really gives staff he trusts. Everything narrows into sharp-edged focus so complete it almost feels frightening to witness up close.
“Tube him,” he orders. You’re already moving before he finishes speaking.
“On it." The room erupts into controlled chaos around you. Monitors screaming. Gloves snapping. Blood everywhere. The patient looks young. Too young. Baby-faced beneath the oxygen mask, skin already going gray around the lips. Robby climbs onto the side rail slightly to get better leverage while assessing the chest wounds.
“No breath sounds left side.”
“Tension pneumo?” you ask.
“Looks like it.” He points instantly. “Needle.” You slap the decompression needle into his waiting hand before the nurse beside you can even react. Robby doesn’t look at you when he takes it. Doesn’t need to. That’s the problem. You work together too well now. A hiss of trapped air escapes the patient’s chest.
“Pressure’s tanking,” Langdon says.
“How bad?”
“Seventy systolic.”
“Blood now.” You move automatically, cutting through clothing while Robby barks orders over the noise. Another stretcher bursts through the doors behind you.
Second GSW. Teenager this time. Jesus Christ.
“Trauma Two ready?” Dana yells.
“No,” you answer immediately. “Use Three.”
“We need you in there too.” You glance toward Robby instinctively. Big mistake. Because he’s already looking at you. Just for a second. Long enough for that familiar awareness to pass silently between you both beneath the chaos.
Go.
You peel away instantly toward the second trauma bay. The teenager is conscious at least. Barely. Crying. Blood soaking through both hands where he’s trying to hold pressure against his own stomach.
“Hey, hey—look at me,” you say firmly while climbing beside the stretcher. “Stay with me.”
“I don’t wanna die,” he chokes out immediately. God. You hate when they say that.
“You’re not gonna die.”
“You promise?” You don’t answer fast enough. Because nobody smart makes promises in an ER. Behind you, through the open trauma bay doors, you can still hear Robby running his room like a battlefield commander.
“Push epi.”
“Again.”
“Clear.” The defibrillator cracks loud enough to echo. Your own patient starts crashing ten minutes later. Then everything becomes movement again. Blood transfusions. Suction. Pressure. Yelling.
At some point somebody presses a protein bar into your scrub pocket without explanation. You already know it was Robby. You don’t even have to look. Two hours pass like that. Then three. The teenager survives surgery. The first patient doesn’t. You know the exact second Robby loses him because the entire energy of Trauma One changes. The noise drops. Voices lower. A silence settles that only really exists in hospitals after death. You finish dictating notes at the nurses’ station forty minutes later with aching shoulders and blood dried stiff across your scrub sleeves. The ER has calmed slightly. Not quiet. Never quiet. But survivable. You rub at your eyes tiredly while signing discharge paperwork.
“You didn’t eat that.” Your head lifts immediately. Robby stands beside the desk holding the untouched protein bar from your pocket. Shit.
“I forgot.”
“You forgot for three hours?”
“It was busy.”
“It’s always busy.” You sigh dramatically and reach for the bar. He doesn’t hand it over yet.
“Robby.”
“You get dizzy again?”
“No.”
“You lyin’?”
“…maybe a little.” His jaw tightens. Not angry. Worried. Again. You hate how much that affects you.
“I’m fine,” you insist more quietly this time.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That phrase means absolutely nothin’ when it comes outta your mouth anymore.” Before you can answer, Dana walks past carrying charts and immediately stops dead seeing the two of you standing too close again.
“Oh my God,” she says flatly.
You blink. “What?”
“This.” She gestures vaguely between you both. “Whatever weird emotionally repressed slow-burn nonsense this is.” Robby pinches the bridge of his nose immediately.
“Dana—”
“No, seriously. It’s painful.” She points at you. “You look at him like he personally hung the moon.” Your entire soul leaves your body.
“Excuse me?”
“And Robby looks at her like somebody put a live grenade in his chest.”
“I’m literally standing right here,” Robby mutters.
“You two have been divorced-married for like six months.”
“We are not—”
“You shared fries yesterday.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“You remembered her migraine medication before she did.” Robby opens his mouth. Stops. Closes it again. Dana looks vindicated immediately.
“Oh, my God.”
“Dana,” you warn weakly.
“No wonder the whole department thinks you’re sleeping together.” Silence. Complete silence. A nearby nurse actually turns around trying not to look interested. Robby stares at Dana like he’s reconsidering several HR policies simultaneously. You can physically feel heat crawling up your neck.
“We are not sleeping together,” you say tightly. Dana snorts.
“Honestly that’s worse. The tension in this department could power the city grid.” Then she walks away before either of you can recover. You stare at the floor. Robby stares somewhere over your shoulder. The protein bar gets silently placed into your hand at last. A wave of nausea fills you head to toe as your migrain pounds against your skull, and you wince and push away from the desk.
"Eat it." Robby pushes. You nod, turning away from him.
"Yeah, i will. Later-" You barely finish your sentence when your vision tunnels and you stumble. You sway a little in place before gravity does it's job and you go crashing for the floor.
"Shit !" Robby catches you before you have the chance to crack your skull open on the linoleum, fingers pressed to your neck to check your vitals. A stupid reflex. He looks up at Dana, who is walking away. "Dana ! A little help here !" He calls. Dana stops and spins around on high alert, and her eyes blow wide.
"Oh for pete's sake." She breathes, slinging her stethoscope off her neck as she runs forward. "What the hell happened ?" Robby shifts you in his arms, one hand supporting your limp neck.
"She's dehydrated. Only had coffee." He explains, his voice rough. Dana swears under breath and looks up.
"Perlah, get me some saline !" She shouts, "Santos, Whittaker, get me a bed !" Everything moves at once after that. The ER shifts shape around emergencies automatically, instinctively, like a living organism responding to injury. Nurses break into motion. A gurney appears from somewhere down the hall. Somebody lowers the volume on the television overhead. And through all of it, Robby doesn’t let go of you for even a second.
“She hit her head?” Dana asks quickly, already checking your pupils while Robby keeps you upright against his chest.
“No,” he answers immediately. “I caught her.” The speed of that answer makes Dana’s eyebrows climb. Interesting.
“BP?” she asks.
“Couldn’t get one yet.”
“She breathing okay?”
“Yes.”
“Pulse?”
“Fast.” His jaw tightens. “Too fast.” You lie limp against him completely unconscious, cheek pressed against the navy-blue fabric of his scrub top. One of your hands is curled loosely against his chest like your body just gave up trying to hold itself upright. And Jesus Christ— Robby looks terrified. Not visibly to most people. But everybody here knows him. They know the difference between Dr. Robby handling a crisis and Robby barely holding himself together through one. Langdon skids to a stop beside Mel and Samira, who have stopped in their tracks to stare at their friend passed out on the ground.
"Jesus, what happened ?" He asks, his tone wuipped.
Robby looks up, incredulous.
"The fuck does it look like Frank ? She's unconcsious !" He swears under his breath. "Whittaker ! Where the fuck is that bed ?"
“Coming through!” A stretcher rattles around the corner at full speed. Whittaker wheels a bed over fast while Santos helps clear space beside the nurses’ station.
“Robby,” Dana says slower this time. Like she’s talking him down off something. His eyes flick up finally. For half a second he genuinely looks like he forgot anyone else was there. Then his face shutters immediately back into professional composure.
Right.
Doctor mode.
He carefully transfers you onto the bed, one hand still bracing the back of your head even after you’re safely down against the mattress.
“She’s burning up,” he mutters. Dana presses a thermometer against your forehead.
“Low-grade fever.” She frowns. “Probably running herself into the ground.”
“Shocking,” Santos mutters under his breath. Robby shoots him a look sharp enough to cut steel. Santos immediately raises both hands. “I’m just saying.”
“Get fluids running,” Robby says flatly. Dana watches him for a second too long. Then:
“How long’s this been going on?” Robby doesn’t look away from you.
“What?”
“This martyr complex of hers.” Dana gestures vaguely toward your unconscious body. “She’s looked like hell all week.”
“She said she was fine.”
“Oh my God.” Dana actually laughs once. “And you believed that?” His expression darkens immediately because— No. He didn’t. That’s the problem. He knew. He knew you were overworking. Knew you were skipping meals. Knew the migraines were getting worse because he memorized your tells months ago without meaning to. And somehow he still let this happen. The guilt crawls visibly across his face. Dana sees it instantly.
“Hey,” she says, voice softening slightly. “This isn’t on you.” Robby exhales sharply through his nose.
“She passed out standing next to me.”
“Because she’s an idiot.” A beat. Then quieter: “And because this place eats people alive.” Nobody argues with that. Perlah arrives with saline while Princess hooks you up to monitors. Your pulse flashes too fast across the screen immediately. Robby stares at it like he personally offended the laws of medicine.
“She’s gonna wake up pissed we made a scene,” Dana says knowingly. That almost gets a smile out of him. Almost. Instead he reaches down absentmindedly and brushes a strand of hair back away from your face. The entire room goes still for exactly one second. Because that— That was not a coworker gesture. Robby realizes it immediately after doing it. His hand stills. Dana’s eyes widen slowly like she just found proof of life on another planet.
“Oh,” she says very quietly. Robby straightens instantly. Professional again. Too late. Way too late. “You are so screwed,” Dana informs him with the calm certainty of someone announcing a weather forecast.
“I’m not discussing this with you.”
“You’re in love with her.” Whittaker nearly chokes in the background. Robby’s face hardens immediately.
“Dana.”
“No, no, this is actually insane now.” She points between him and your unconscious form. “You looked two seconds away from coding yourself when she hit the floor.”
“She fainted.”
“And you caught her like a grieving Victorian widower.” Silence. Santos turns around entirely to hide his laughter. Mel and Samira pretend to be busy with a chart as Mckay walks by, her brows furrowed at the scene. Langdon whistles and turns around, walking off his his hands in his pockets. Robby rubs both hands down his face hard enough to leave red marks behind.
“This conversation is over.”
“Mhmm.” Dana crosses her arms. “You gonna tell her before or after the next time she collapses from neglecting basic human survival needs?” His eyes drift back toward you automatically. Unconscious. Pale. IV running steadily now. Something in his expression shifts again. Softer this time. More dangerous.
“Soon,” he says quietly before he can stop himself. Dana goes completely still. She sighs, and her face breaks into a grin.
"Great. Abbot owes me a hundred bucks." Robby goes still.
"What ?"
-------------
The world is bright.
God, it's so bright.
You crack your eyes open and immediately regret it, groaning as the bustling sounds of the ER flood back in.
"Ah. Rise and shine, sleepy-head." You tilt your head to the side. Langdon and Mckay are in your room, Mckay down by the computer, checking your chart while Langdon is sat by your bed, adjusting the drip flow in the IV.
Wait.
Why are you in a room ?
Your voice is rough with sleep when you speak.
“…what?” Langdon grins immediately.
“Oh, she’s alive. Shame. I was just about to steal your locker.” You blink at him slowly, brain still buffering.
“…why am i in a room?” You croak. "Why are you guys in a room.. with me ?"
“Visiting hours,” McKay says dryly without looking up from the chart. “We brought flowers.” You glance around blearily. No flowers.
“…you’re both assholes.”
“Correct,” Langdon says pleasantly. Then your brain catches up.
Room.
IV.
Monitor.
The realization hits all at once and you groan, dragging a hand over your face.
“Oh my God.”
“There it is,” McKay mutters. “The embarrassment. Nature is healing.”
“How long was I out?” Langdon checks the watch on his wrist dramatically.
“Long enough for Robby to threaten three residents, snap at a nurse, and hover outside this curtain like a divorced father at a middle school dance recital.” Your stomach drops instantly.
“…what?” McKay finally looks over at you then, expression dangerously entertained.
“Oh, yeah. It was bad.”
“He scared Santos so badly she almost started crying,” Langdon adds.
“That’s not true.”
“She absolutely thought she was getting fired.”
“I did not snap at Santos,” Robby’s voice cuts in sharply from outside the curtain. Both of them immediately grin like sharks scenting blood. And then Robby steps into the room carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and an electrolyte drink in the other. He stops the second he sees your eyes open. Every inch of tension in him visibly shifts. Not gone. Just redirected.
“Oh, there he is,” Langdon says smugly. “The grieving widow.”
“Frank,” Robby says flatly.
“You were pacing.”
“I was working.”
“You checked on her seventeen times.” McKay snorts into her coffee. Robby ignores both of them completely, eyes already on you instead.
“You with us?” You nod weakly.
“Unfortunately.”
“Any dizziness?”
“Yes.”
“Nausea?”
“A little.”
“Headache?” You just stare at him. He sighs. “Right. Stupid question.” Robby looks like he wants the earth to physically open beneath him.
“Okay,” he says tightly. “Everybody out.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Langdon says immediately.
“Frank.”
“Nope. This is the best day of my life.” Robby points toward the door with terrifying calm.
“Get out.” McKay is already cackling as Langdon lets himself be physically shoved toward the curtain. The curtain swings shut behind them amid open laughter from the hallway. Then it’s quiet again. Well. Quiet except for the distant ER chaos and your own heartbeat trying to escape your body. You stare determinedly at the blanket over your lap. Robby stares somewhere over your left shoulder. Neither of you speak for a full five seconds. He sighs, pinching his nose.
"We put you on IV Saline. You were dehydrated." He explains, walking over to the seat Langdon had previously occupied. You gulp, nodding.
"My bad." He chokes on a laugh, shaking his head.
"Yeah, it is your bad. I can't have you collapsing like that in the middle of a shift." You groan, shaking your head.
"What, would you rather I do it before ? Or after ? I'm sorry, oh ER overlord, i'll try to control my unconscious state from now on." Robby lets out a short, incredulous breath through his nose.
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“I’m not getting smart,” you say, already pushing the blanket off your legs. “I’m getting out of here.” His head snaps toward you instantly.
“…no, you’re not.” You pause mid-movement.
“Yes,” you say slowly, like he’s missed something obvious, “I am.” Robby stands up so fast the chair behind him scrapes the floor.
“You just passed out.”
“And I woke up.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It’s exactly how it works.” You swing your legs over the side of the bed anyway, ignoring the slight sway in your balance as you reach for your shoes on instinct. Robby’s voice drops.
“Stop.” You freeze for half a second. Not because he told you to. Because of how he said it. But then you shake it off and pull your shoe on anyway.
“I’m going back to work,” you repeat. Robby moves closer immediately.
“You’re not cleared.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.” You glance up at him sharply.
“I didn’t ask for a second opinion.”
“And I’m not giving you one,” he snaps back. “I’m telling you, as the attending who just watched you hit the floor—”
“Because I forgot to eat,” you cut in. “Not because I’m dying.”
“That doesn’t make it better!” The words echo harder than either of you probably intend. Silence hits for a beat. Your fingers still on your shoe. Robby drags a hand down his face, breathing out through his nose like he’s trying not to explode.
“You don’t get to just—” He stops himself, jaw flexing. “You don’t get to walk back out there like nothing happened.” You stand up fully now. A little too fast. The room tilts slightly.
“I’ve got patients,” you say more quietly. Robby’s voice goes lower.
“So do I.” A beat. Then: “And as of right now, you are on of them. Now, I’m telling you to sit back down.” You stare at him. He stares right back. There’s no humor in it anymore. No teasing. No banter. Just that same pressure from earlier—too much concern packed into too little space. You exhale through your nose.
“…you don’t get to order me around.” Robby laughs once, sharp and disbelieving.
“Apparently I do, considering I just watched you hit the floor and scare half the department into thinking we were gonna lose you.” That lands. Harder than it should. You look away for a second. Then back at him.
“I’m not fragile,” you say again, quieter. Robby’s expression shifts instantly.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You’re acting like I am.”
“I’m acting like you’re someone who almost cracked their skull open because they refused to take a break.” That makes you go still. A beat passes. Then you grab your badge from the bedside table. Robby’s eyes widen slightly.
“…don’t.” You clip it onto your scrub top.
“I’m going back to work.”
“No,” he says again, sharper now. You step around him. He moves with you immediately, blocking the exit. You stop. Look up at him.
“…move.” Robby doesn’t. For the first time since you woke up, he looks genuinely frustrated in a way that isn’t controlled anymore.
“You’re making a stupid call.”
“And you’re not my keeper.” That hits something in him. You see it. The flicker. The crack.
A pause. Then softer—but no less firm:
“I’m still not letting you walk out there like that.” You stare at him for a long second. Then, very deliberately, you step sideways. Not pushing past him. Not fighting. Just… going around. Robby turns instantly.
“Hey—”
“I said I’m fine,” you cut in, already heading for the curtain.
“You’re not—”
“I am,” you repeat, not stopping. Robby follows you out into the corridor. Langdon and McKay are still visible down the hall, both of them immediately clocking what’s happening and exchanging a look.
“You don’t get to just leave.” You finally stop in the middle of the hallway. Turn back to him. People move around you. A stretcher rolls past. A monitor alarm bleats somewhere in the distance. Life keeps going. Even when you’re both frozen in it.
“I have a shift,” you say calmly. “You have patients. We are both adults.” Robby looks at you like he wants to argue and can’t find the right angle anymore.
“You’re still dizzy.”
“I’ll sit if I need to.”
“You shouldn’t be standing.”
“And yet I am.” A beat. Langdon quietly mouths, this is insane, to McKay. Then you turn and keep walking. You wrap your arms around yourself, walking over to the nurse's station and picking up the chart you had left there. Your teenage patient. You sniffle and walk over to his room, pushing the curtain aside. Robby follows.
Of course he does.
You feel him before you even hear him—heavy footsteps that don’t belong to the usual ER rhythm, too deliberate, too controlled, like he’s forcing himself not to close the distance in three strides and drag you back by force.He stops just outside the curtain.You don’t look at him. You can’t afford to. There’s a chart in your hands and a patient who actually needs you upright, even if your skull still feels like it’s full of cotton and static.
“Vitals stable,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.
“You don’t get to just—”
“Robby,” you cut in, sharper than you intend. A warning. Or maybe a plea. “Not here.” Silence. Then, quieter, dangerously controlled:
“You think I care where it is?” That finally makes you look at him. He’s standing half in the curtain light, half in the hallway chaos, scrubs wrinkled, hair slightly messed from running his hand through it too many times. He looks like he hasn’t stopped moving since you collapsed. His jaw is tight. Not angry anymore. Past angry.
“You passed out,” he says. “In my department. In my ER. In front of my staff. And you woke up and decided the appropriate response was to go back to work like nothing happened.”
“I am back to work.”
“No.” One step closer. “You are standing on adrenaline and spite and a saline bag that’s barely had time to do anything.” You let out a short breath, half laugh, half exhaustion.
“You always this dramatic with every patient, or am I special?” That lands. You see it hit him—right under the ribs. His expression shifts, like something in him finally snaps into place instead of being held together.
“No,” he says. Then he reaches for your wrist. Not hard. Not rough. But decisive.
“Hey—Robby—” He doesn’t answer. Just turns and walks you backward—not dragging, not forcing, but absolutely not giving you the option to argue your way out of it. You stumble once, annoyed, and he adjusts instantly without even looking, like he already knows exactly where your balance breaks.
“Seriously?” you hiss. “You’re doing this now?”
“Yes,” he says flatly.
“You can’t just abduct your attending in the middle of a shift.”
“I can when she’s about to drop again in front of Trauma One.”
“That is not—” He opens a door you didn’t even see him key into. On-call room. Small. Dim. Too quiet compared to the screaming outside. He guides you inside and shuts the door behind you. The click of the lock is loud. Final. He draws the curtains shut. For a second, neither of you moves. The room feels wrong in a different way—no monitors, no alarms, just the hum of the hospital through the walls and the two of you trapped in a space that suddenly feels way too intimate to be professional. You turn on him immediately.
“Are you serious right now?”
“Yes.” You stare at him. He stares back. Then he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for hours and finally gave up.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“Sit,” he repeats, voice lower now. Not loud. Not angry. Final. Something in it makes your irritation falter for half a second.
“I don’t need—”
“You almost face-planted into a hallway cart,” he cuts in. “So forgive me if I don’t trust your assessment right now.” That stings. You hate that it stings.
“I told you I’m fine.”
“And I told you to stop saying that like it’s a magic spell that makes it true.” Silence snaps between you. You cross your arms. He runs a hand over his face, dragging it down like he’s physically trying to keep himself from losing control again. Then, softer—dangerously honest: “Do you have any idea what it looked like?” Your voice drops a fraction.
“No worse than what we see every day.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?” He looks at you. And whatever restraint he’s been clinging to finally slips just enough for you to see what’s underneath it.
“I thought I was going to lose you in my own department,” he says, quiet and raw. “While I was standing ten feet away.” That shuts you up. Not because you don’t have a response. Because suddenly you don’t trust your voice. Robby steps closer again, slower this time, like he’s approaching something that could still break.
“You don’t get to decide that it’s nothing,” he says. “You don’t get to walk it off because it’s convenient.” Your throat tightens.
“I wasn’t trying to make it convenient.”
“Then what were you doing?” he asks immediately. A beat. Your answer comes out smaller than you want it to.
“Working.” He lets out a humorless breath.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what scares me.” You frown slightly.
“What?” He looks at you like he regrets the words the second they leave him—but not enough to take them back.
“That you’ll always pick the job over your own body,” he says. “Even when it’s failing you.” Something shifts in your chest. You don’t like how seen that feels. Then he steps right in front of you. Close enough that the air changes. A pause. The hospital noise outside feels miles away. You swallow.
“This is inappropriate,” you mutter automatically, because your brain is scrambling for something safe to hold onto. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile.
“Yeah,” he says. “We passed that a while ago.” You scoff, backing away from him.
"God, Robby - Why do you care ? I'm an adult, i can handle myself-" He moves with you instantly. Not chasing. Not grabbing. Just… matching you step for step until your back meets the wall and there’s nowhere left for you to retreat without admitting you’re retreating.
“You call that handling yourself?” he asks quietly. Your jaw tightens.
“I didn’t ask for a performance review.”
“I’m not performing,” he says. “I’m telling you you scared the hell out of me.” That lands harder than anything else so far. Because it’s not clinical. It’s not Dr. Robby. It’s just him. You force a short laugh, brittle at the edges.
“You, scared?” you repeat. “You? You run trauma codes like it’s any other Tuesday and you’re telling me I scared you?” His eyes don’t move from yours.
“Yes.”Simple. Unapologetic. That shuts you up for half a second too long. Then anger finds its way back in—because it’s easier than whatever is sitting underneath it.
“You don’t get to do this,” you say, voice sharper now. “You don’t get to pull me into a room, lock the door, and act like—like—”
“Like what?” he cuts in. You gesture vaguely between you.
“Like this matters more than everything else.” Robby goes still. That’s the wrong thing to say. You see it immediately.Something in his expression tightens, like he’s been holding something behind his teeth for too long and you just forced it open.
“It does,” he says. Quiet. Flat. Absolute. Your breath catches slightly.
“No, it doesn’t,” you say automatically, because that’s safer.
“It does to me.” Silence. You stare at him, trying to find the angle where this becomes a misunderstanding you can fix with sarcasm or distance or anything familiar. But there isn’t one. Robby exhales through his nose, frustrated now—not at you, but at himself.
“You really think I’d be doing this,” he gestures between you again, sharper this time, “if it didn’t matter?”
“You’re my attending,” you say quickly. He laughs once, humorless.
“That’s what you’re going with?”
“It’s a boundary.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”Your pulse spikes.
“Excuse me?” Robby steps closer again, and this time you don’t move fast enough to stop it.
“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” he asks. “You think I don’t know exactly how this looks? How long this has been going on?” Your throat goes tight.
“Robby—”
“I’ve been watching you almost pass out for weeks,” he snaps suddenly, voice rising. “I’ve been watching you run yourself into the ground, and I keep telling myself it’s just work, it’s just stress, it’s just—”He stops. Jaw clenches. Then quieter, but sharper somehow: “And then you collapse in front of me and I realize I don’t care if it’s ‘appropriate’ anymore.”
Your breath stutters.
“Stop,” you whisper.
He shakes his head once.
“No.” A beat. Then it comes out—rough, unplanned, like it slips through a crack he didn’t know was there. “I can’t do this pretending I don’t—” he cuts off, swallows hard, eyes flicking down for half a second like he’s annoyed at himself for losing control. “I can’t stand there and watch you walk yourself into the ground and pretend it’s nothing to me.” Your voice barely works.
“Robby…” He looks back at you. And whatever restraint he had left finally breaks cleanly.
“I’m in love with you,” he says. No softness. No buildup. Just truth, thrown into the air like it’s been suffocating him. The room goes completely still. Even the hospital noise feels distant now, like it’s happening to someone else’s life. You don’t speak. Not because you don’t have words. Because you have too many and none of them fit right. Robby watches your face change like he’s bracing for impact. And then, almost immediately, regret floods in.
“Shit,” he says quietly. One step back. “No—forget I said that.” Your stomach drops. His jaw tightens like he’s trying to physically shove the words back into his chest.
“Robby,” you say, finally. He stops. Doesn’t look at you immediately. That alone says everything.
“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” he says, almost bitter now, like he’s punishing himself. “I just—”
'Robby."
Venice
Your voice is quiet, but it cuts through his frantic backpedaling like a scalpel. He finally stops, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. He still won’t meet your eyes, staring at a point on the scuffed linoleum floor like it holds the secrets to avoiding this exact moment. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, filled with everything he just said and everything you haven’t.
“Robby,” you say again, softer this time. You take a half-step forward, closing the tiny gap he’d created. “Look at me.” He hesitates, a war playing out across his face. The urge to flee warring with the command in your voice. Finally, slowly, he lifts his gaze. The raw vulnerability in his eyes is a punch to the gut. It’s the same look he had when you were on the floor, but magnified, stripped of all clinical pretense. It’s just him. Scared. Exposed.
“I…” he starts, then stops, his throat working. “I know I shouldn’t have said that. It’s out of line. It’s—” You don’t let him finish. You surge forward, grabbing the front of his scrub top in both fists and yanking him down to you. The movement is clumsy, desperate. Your mouth crashes against his. It’s not a kiss of gentle revelation. It’s a kiss of frustration, of relief, of months of unspoken tension finally detonating. It’s all teeth and desperate pressure, a clash that’s been brewing for longer than either of you would admit. He makes a sound against your lips, a harsh, surprised groan, and for a second he’s frozen. Then his hands are on you, not gentle, not asking. One hand clamps onto the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place with a grip that’s just this side of painful. The other arm bands around your waist, lifting you slightly, pulling you flush against him until there’s no air, no space, just the frantic hammering of his heart against yours through the thin fabric of your scrubs. You kiss him back with everything you have, pouring all the fear from the hallway, all the annoyance at his overbearing concern, all the traitorous warmth that’s been pooling in your stomach every time he looks at you for months. You bite his lower lip, hard, and he groans again, deepening the kiss, his tongue claiming yours in a way that’s possessive and demanding and utterly, completely Robby. He walks you backward, and your back hits the wall with a soft thud that doesn’t break the kiss. He pins you there, his body a solid, warm weight, one of his thighs wedging itself between yours. The pressure is intoxicating, a dizzying contrast to the lightheadedness from before. This is a different kind of spinning out of control. One you don’t want to stop. His hand slides from your neck down your side, tracing the curve of your ribs before coming to rest on your hip, his thumb digging in, holding you captive. You can feel the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his breathing, a mirror to your own. He finally breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. Both of you are breathing hard, chests heaving. The room is silent except for the sound of your ragged breaths and the distant, muffled hum of the hospital that feels worlds away.
“Christ,” he rasps, his voice thick and wrecked. His eyes are still closed, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin just below your ear, and a shiver runs through you. “You can’t… you can’t just do that.”
“You’re the one who said you were in love with me,” you manage to get out, your voice shaky. “And then tried to take it back.”
“I wasn’t taking it back,” he says, lifting his head. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with a mix of adrenaline and something else, something hungry. “I was trying not to fuck everything up.”
“Too late for that,” you breathe, and then you’re kissing him again. It’s just as rough as before, maybe rougher. His hands are everywhere, roaming over your back, your sides, gripping your ass and pulling you harder against him. The wall is hard and unyielding at your back, and he’s solid and unyielding at your front, and you’re trapped in the best possible way. He rolls his hips against yours, a slow, deliberate grind that sends a bolt of heat straight through you, and you gasp into his mouth. He takes the opportunity to kiss a trail down your jaw, his scruff scraping deliciously against your skin. He nips at your collarbone, his hand sliding up under your scrub top, his palm hot and firm against the bare skin of your stomach.
“Robby,” you pant, your head falling back against the wall as his mouth finds that spot on your neck that makes your knees weak. “We’re… we’re in the on-call room.”
“Mhmm,” he murmurs against your skin, not stopping. “Locked the door.” His thumb brushes against the underside of your breast, and you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. He chuckles, a low, smug sound that vibrates through you. “Someone could knock.”
“Don’t care,” you gasp, as his other hand tugs your scrub top out of your pants, his fingers finding the waistband of your pants. “God, don’t stop.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. There’s a question there, a final check-in, but it’s buried under layers of raw want. You answer it by grabbing his hand and guiding it further down. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, and then his mouth is on yours again. He tastes like burnt coffee and the faint metallic tang of hospital air, but there’s something else, something bitter and sweet and rawly, desperately Robby that makes you want to climb inside his chest and break his ribs open from the inside. His hand is already down the front of your scrubs, palm hot against your hipbone, fingers trembling just enough to betray everything he won’t say aloud. You fumble at the drawstring on your own waistband, frustration clawing up your throat in a low, angry whine when the knot won’t loosen fast enough. You stare up at him—mess of dark hair, sweat on his brow, pupils wide enough to swallow the brown—and wonder absently if this is what it feels like to code. For a minute nobody says anything. You just breathe, harsh and hungry and desperate, noisy enough that if anybody is in the hallway they’d know exactly what was happening in here. It’s Robby that breaks first. He makes a strangled sound, forehead dropping to yours, so hard your noses smashed together. His voice comes out low and shredded and nearly begging.
“You gotta let me know if you want me to stop.”
You don’t.
Fuck, you don’t.
You want him to break you down to single-celled organisms. you turn your head and bite the meat of his bicep, just to feel him jerk.
“Shut up and do it, then,” You mutter. Your hands drop around his shoulders, pulling him down, and the next kiss is more teeth than lips. You don’t even notice his other hand has made it to your waistband until you feel the cool slide of his hand against your skin. You’re so far gone, you don’t even feel the fear or shame anyone normal would. Can’t bring yourself to care that you’re half-pinned to a drywall partition and the edge of a cot, moaning into your supervisor’s mouth like you’re both undergrad idiots caught in a blackout at frat formal. His hand is relentless, moving fast and clever, not even bothering to be delicate. You nearly lose your balance when he presses a thumb down just right over your scrubs, and your center of gravity hops about a foot left.
“Fuck—Robby, fuck—” You hiss it against his jawline, legs starting to shake. He gets a hand under your thigh, hefts it up, then hooks your knee on his belt so all you can do is hang there and let him wreck you. Somewhere in the back of your awareness you’re listing all the ways this is the worst idea you’ve ever had, but your body refuses to stop. He’s cursing too, breathing your name into your neck, voice so rough you can feel it vibrating in his chest. You want to put a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet but you know if anyone comes in, you’re both dead anyway. He fumbles at the drawstring with clumsy, single-handed urgency, finally manages to get it untied. The relief when his fingers actually slide past the waistband is so intense your vision goes white at the edges. He doesn’t even tease—just buries his hand against you and makes a noise so dark and satisfied it spikes something hot and relentless at the base of your spine.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re fucking soaked.” He says it like he means it as both a compliment and a diagnosis. Then he pushes his palm harder against you, finding every sensitive spot and working you with unerring, almost clinical precision, like he’s taking inventory of every way you can be taken apart. Your head thunks back against the wall with a little hollow sound. You want to tell him to stop, or slow down, or just breathe for maybe two seconds, but you don’t. You can’t. Instead you let yourself fall open and let him see it. The fact that you’re wrapped this tightly around him is not new information, but this—exposed, desperate—is a new evolutionary stage. He leans in, mouth back on yours, and you taste sweat, salt, and faint chemical hospital on his skin. The wall is cold at your back and his hand is molten at your front and your whole body is nothing but contrast and overload and hunger. You barely register your own hands, but they’re on him, pulling up the hem of his shirt, searching for bare skin, something to ground yourself. You feel the heat of him even through layers, alive and pulsing and real. He holds you still, fingers working in brutal, short pulses, driving you mercilessly toward the edge. It’s not careful. It’s not gentle. It’s like he’s making a point. Like he’s proving to you, to himself, to God, that you’re not going to scare him off, not ever. You come like a detonation. It rips through you so hard your vision whites out again and you clench around his hand. He groans, slowly slipping his fingers out of you before taking a step back away from your and pulling down your scrub pants. You gulp as you watch him undo the drawstring on his own pants, your mouth watering with need. The cold air against your exposed cunt is making you clench involuntarily, and the only thing you want right now is to have him inside of you. He pulls his pants down, only enough to free himself, and the air feels like it’s knocked out of your chest. His cock slaps up against his stomach, flushed dark, thick and heavy with blood, and the sight alone is enough to make you squeeze your thighs together in anticipation, shivering even though the room is sweltering. He spits in his palm, slicks himself, then walks over to you. His hands hook beneath your thighs and you jump up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he presses you against the wall. He pushes your hair back from your face, kisses your nose. He doesn’t waste a second. The first thrust is brutal, messy, all pent-up frustration and months of not acting on impulse. He’s thick—bigger than you’d let yourself admit in all those late-night, shamefaced fantasies—and the stretch steals the air from your lungs. Your jaw drops open, eyes rolling back as you lock on to the faces he’s making: mouth slack, eyebrows knit, a bead of sweat at his temple that you want to lick off more than you want to live. He’s got both hands under your ass, fingers digging hard enough to bruise, holding you up so all you can do is take it. And you do, with everything you have, bearing down on him so you can feel every inch, every twitch. He huffs a shaky, humorless laugh, the kind you only make when you’re so overwhelmed you can’t do anything else.
“You okay ?” He rasps, kissing his way up your neck. The sound that comes out of you isn’t even a word. He pounds into you with another deep, brutal stroke and your body locks up so tight you’re glad he’s the one holding you or you’d have fallen flat. Every thrust slams your spine into the drywall and it should hurt, it should, but all you can do is claw at his shirt, nails catching the rough cotton, dragging it up over his ribs so you can feel him—real, alive, so much hotter than any fever you’ve ever run in the hospital. The slap of skin, the hiss of your breathing, the mangled noises you’re making—all of it so loud, vulgar, so perfectly, awfully public even behind the locked door. He’s whispering shit into your neck. At first you think it’s curse words, but then you catch your own name buried in there, and then more, like instructions, like hymns.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he says, the words punching out of him like he’s angry about it. “God, you’re unreal.” His hips snap again, harder, and your shoulders knock back against the wall, sharp bite of drywall dust filling your nose. Each time he thrusts in, your vision smears around the edges, the pleasure so hot it borders on pain. It isn’t like you pictured, not really—it’s better. The angle, the rush, the way he bullies all the air out of your lungs with every movement. Your hands are in his hair, clawing tight, pulling him down so you can mouth at his neck, take the taste of him into yourself. He shoves your scrubs up higher, rough hands leaving trails of heat on cold skin, then fists one hand in the fabric at your shoulder, pinning you harder to the cinderblock. There is nothing gentle, nothing careful, nothing but his body taking yours apart, and yours letting him, wild for it. He keeps muttering, a string of filthy reverence against your ear:
“Can’t believe it’s you, can’t believe you let me—fuck, you’re so—Jesus, clench again, just like that—” The words run together, get lost under the wet slap of skin and the broken sounds you’re making. You can’t answer except to dig your heels into his lower back, desperate to keep him as close as possible, to force him deeper, to make certain it’s real. This has to be real. For months you both acted like this wasn’t going to happen, like you didn’t live your whole life in inches, waiting for the day the rules would break and you’d get to see what would actually happen if you let go. Now you’re against the wall, and he’s inside of you raw and fast and a little bit mean, and every expectation is dissolving in a haze of salt and friction and heat. You want to tell him he can do anything to you, that there is nothing off-limits, but all that comes out is a shattered little whine, just his name, again and again. He bites your collarbone, sucks a mark there, and the pain is almost enough to bring you back down, but you’re already spiraling. Robby’s voice is a chant in your ear, weirdly reverent, filthy and devotional all at once. He’s running hot, sweat trickling down his neck, the muscles in his forearms taut as bowed steel where he brackets your hips. Each thrust slams you against the wall hard enough to rattle the fluorescent hum down to your teeth. You know you’ll have drywall dust embedded under your nails, maybe even in your hair, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Your world is reduced to the vicious, deliberate drag of his cock inside you, the scratch of his stubble jaw against your cheek, the gasp-and-hitch cadence of your own lungs. His hand slips, finds your jaw, thumb prying your mouth open.
“Look at me,” he grates. It’s not a request. You do, eyelids dragging heavy, drool stringing from your lips. He shoves his thumb inside and you clamp down on it, tongue greedy, and watch his resolve ripple and snap at the edges. “Fuck, you love this,” he hisses. A hot, shameful thrill blooms in your gut. You can’t even nod; your brain’s gone chemical, all instinct and nerve and the urge to let him ruin you properly. He pulls his thumb free from your teeth, then brings his hand back to grip your jaw, rough, almost cruel.
“You gonna come for me like this?” His pelvis snaps up, grinding you against concrete. “You gonna soak me, right here, where anybody could walk in?” He means it as a threat, but the promise makes something deep in you uncurl and spiral tight. You dig your nails into his back and feel the give of his skin, the helpless rocking of your own hips. You’re close again—embarrassingly, stupidly fast—and he can tell, because he starts fucking you even meaner, chasing the edge with all the subtlety of a gunshot.
“Jesus,” he says, “you feel so good, I can’t—fuck. I can’t stop.” Like he’s ever going to. You snarl something incoherent, probably his name, and you feel the tension crest, shatter, and pour out in waves so intense you lose track of your own body. Robby keeps moving, not letting up for a second. Everything’s too much: the raw thud of your shoulderblades grinding cinderblock, the way your ankles have locked behind his back, the friction and heat and static spit-glue between your skin. You try to tell him you’re gonna lose it but only manage a wild, choked keening that doesn’t sound like it could belong to you. He drops his head to your shoulder, teeth scraping, and groans your name so low and honest it makes your toes curl. There is nothing in the world but this. Nothing but him pinning you, holding you, fucking you like he’s lost count of where the rest of the world even is. Your hands are in his hair, wrenching, and you yank his head up so you can bite at his bottom lip. He lets you, gives a little gasp, then locks eyes with you and pours all that manic, frantic reverence right into the next kiss, mouthing at your skin and then burying his face in your neck like he’s drowning. The pace gets relentless—body-shocking, staccato, sharp even through the haze of it. He fucks through your aftershocks as if it’s a challenge, like the goal is to keep your body from ever regaining equilibrium. When you come again it’s so loud you’re sure the ward must hear; he clamps his hand over your mouth, eyes blown so scared and wild, but the pulse of his cock inside you says he’s not really trying to stop you so much as channel every iota of your body back into his. His own rhythm gets jerky, sloppier, and his mouth drops open against your jaw as he pins you tight and starts to lose it.
“Fuck, oh fuck, gonna—” His body locks, hips jammed flush against you, and you feel him pulse hard, the warmth spilling inside you like he’s pumping more heat into an already-overloaded core. He’s breathless, shaking, still pressed in deep as if he can’t trust gravity to hold you together otherwise. You stay like that, tangled, your cunt still rippling around him, both gulping at the hot, sick air, until your numb legs make you both slide down the wall in a graceless heap.
You’re both wrecked. Sweaty and glassy-eyed, scrub shirts sweat-stuck to your ribs, bodies still twitching in the late echoes of what the fuck just happened. There’s a sheet of drywall dust on your back and your own fingernail crescented into his skin; he’s smiling, shit-eating, delirious, and you’d punch him if you weren’t still shaking like a defibrillator just went off under your sternum.
He leans in, a gentle press of lips to your forehead, and you want to tell yourself it’s just an autonomic reaction, that the only thing happening here is a literal pressure release after months of idiotic, unyielding need. But you know better. The way he holds your face, the way he says your name soft into your hair, the way he’s still—still—inside you, hips slotted to hips, like he can’t bear to break the circuit.
You roll your head to stare at him. He meets your gaze, a thundercrack of worry, awe, and something else you don’t have the energy to name. You want to say something pointed and clever, but you can’t ; all you manage is a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a whimper.
It should be awkward.
It should be so fucking awkward.
He kisses your face as he slips out of you and shoves himself back inside his pants before dropping you slowly to the floor, hands braced at your waist as your legs wobble. He slips your own pants and underwear back up your thighs, looking up at you.
“You okay ?” He asks, his voice soft.
“Yeah,” you say, and it’s weird, how true it is. You blink, vision still dazzled and dopplered, and catch Robby’s hand trembling where it rests on your hip. The shake is microscopic, like a skipped frame in film, but it’s there, and it’s only then you realize you’re vibrating too. You try to laugh, and the sound cracks, warbles, but he mirrors it, leaning in until your foreheads tap, bone on bone. He smells like fresh sweat and latex and the antiseptic tang of someone who’s spent an entire adulthood hunched over sterile trays. He rubs his thumb slow circles at your waist, and the gentleness is so unexpected, so at odds with the way he just had you, that you almost start crying on the spot. You swallow it back and close your hand over his, try to will him not to let go just yet. You listen together to the radiators pop and the wild rattle of your pulse. He keeps his head dipped, mouth resting on the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. Neither of you moves. He’s still breathing you in, slow, like he’s afraid if he does it too fast, it’ll all be over.
“Didn’t hurt you, did I?” he whispers, so low you almost miss it beneath the thonk of your heart in your ears. You want to make a joke, something flippant, but you’re too raw. It all comes out honest, whether you like it or not.
“No. You could’ve hurt me more.” The silence after feels like a dropped glass; sharp, fragile, ready to split the air. Robby closes his eyes. You see every microflinch, the way his throat sticks around the swallow, how he steadies himself before answering.
“‘Kay. Just—” He hesitates, and you sense it’s the kind of pause he’d usually grease over with a quip. Not now. Now he’s counting on you to stay, just a little, and not run. “I’ll be gentle next time. Or not. Whatever you want.” He tries to smile, but it turns lopsided, uncertain. You grab him by the collar, tug him in for a kiss that’s less a collision and more a hinge opening, slow, like letting light into a dark corridor. You can taste the apology before he says it. You hate that you love it. Robby pulls away, eyes shiny in the half-light. He nudges your nose with his, then plants a kiss at the corner of your mouth, softer than anything he’s ever done. It feels as reverent as a benediction.
“You should lie down,” he says. “Your legs are—” he gestures with a shrug, then glances down and grins sheepish. “Sorta toast.”
“My legs are awesome, thank you,” you say, but you lean your full weight into him anyway, allowing yourself to be steered to the bed. He maneuvers you down with surprising care, one arm looped around your back, the other smoothing your hair off your sweaty forehead. He smiles down at you, sighing.
“I’ll go get you some saline. You are on bedrest for the next two hours.” You frown, gasping.
“Oh you devious fuckwad.” You mutter. "This was your plan all along.' You grumble.
"No." He says, and then winces. "Okay. Maybe. I was initially planning to just lock you in here.. I didn't play on telling you I love you and coming inside you. That... was a slight hitch in my plan." You roll your eyes.
"You're an asshole."
"An asshole who doesn't want you to run yourself into the ground." He mutters, brushing your hair away from your face. You sigh annoyedly.
"Fine. You win. Two hours." Robby grins, triumphant.
"Ah. Look who finally is listening to reason." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I'll go get the Saline from Perlah. Don't move." You roll your eyes, swatting at him.
"Ha-Ha."
“And water. And probably something vaguely edible that passes for food in this place.” You reach out and catch his wrist before he can leave. He stops instantly.
“Robby.”
“Yeah?” You look at him for a second—really look. Tired. Stressed. Still half in doctor mode even after everything. And completely, unapologetically here.
“I love you too,” you say quietly. Something in his expression breaks open again. It’s not dramatic.It’s worse than that. It’s steady.
"I know.” You let go of his wrist. He holds your gaze one more second, then forces himself to move—because he still knows how to function even when his entire emotional life is on fire. The hallway is chaos again the second Robby steps out. He’s halfway to the supply station when he sees him. Abbot. Clocking in. Standing dead still. Staring straight at the on-call room door like he’s just witnessed a miracle or a crime or both. Robby doesn’t even slow down. He walks past him, grabs the saline bags, and says flatly, without looking up:
“You owe Dana a hundred bucks.” Abbot blinks.
A beat. Abbot stares at the door again. Then lets out a long, defeated breath.
𝒔𝒖𝒎. you've been working at the same company for the last five years and you'd continue to do so if your circumstances hadn't suddenly changed. after you put in your resignation, your boss is doing everything he can to make you stay. . .
𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ── .✦ mdni (18+), office au ; smut ; light angst ; making out ; porn with plot ; fíngeríng ; cünnilíngus ; biting ; hickeys ; praise kink ; piv ; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it) ; dirty talk ; big díck gojo ; creampíes ; multiple orgasms ; tiny bit of overstim ; little bit of nípple play ; use of wrist restraints but like not really (it's readers shirt) ; makeshift restraint if you will ; gojo kinda pervy but that's how i like him ; gojo's a yearner (also how i like him) ; f!reader (she/her used) ; pet names used ; no use of y/n [11.6k]
For the past handful of years, you’ve been working at a large marketing company for the CEO as a personal assistant. The job is what it is and the pay makes up for any sort of… eccentricities from your boss. Despite this, it can’t change the fact that you’re struggling to pay rent and need to move back in with your parents.
You were coping before but your roommate… the guy you were… it’s complicated. Anyways he moved out and now things are just too expensive for you at the moment. It doesn’t help that anywhere else close to work is in the same range for rent, stupid fancy company in a stupid nice area. It’s frustrating because you’re attached to this job but it’s not feasible anymore.
So, as much as you’re unwilling to part from your current position, something has to give and you’ve chosen to resign. Steeling your resolve, you walk into Gojo’s empty office and gently place your two weeks’ notice on his desk. Lingering for a short moment, remembering your first day here and how intimidated you were by him.
It was never your plan to stay here so long in the first place but it’s nearly been five years now, maybe it is time to move on to something different. Think positive, you just have to think positive and things will be good. You’ll get a new job and you’ll make new friends and your boss will be kind and maybe not as weird.
Exiting the room, you sit back at your desk that’s located outside Gojo’s office. It’s hard to focus when you’ve got so much on your mind but sometimes you think that he wouldn’t get anything done if you weren’t around.
You’d gotten a text earlier about how he had an early meeting but you know he doesn’t, he’s probably just left the office to go get himself some sweets. He won’t be back for a while either because he’s going to sit in a park or somewhere quiet and eat the evidence before he gets back to the office.
Why he even bothers to lie to you at this point is beyond you but you’ll ignore it because sometimes you want to be alone for an hour too. Unlike him though, you simply don’t have the luxury of doing that on company time.
When he does get back to the office he stops by your desk and smiles at you like he wasn’t just shirking his responsibilities for the better half of the day. He waits very impatiently for you to acknowledge him, and you continue typing at your computer like he’s not there.
Gojo eventually speaks up, “Saying good morning to your boss is the polite thing to do, by the way.”
You hold up a hand while you finish up your email and send it off, only then do you look up and raise a brow at him, “Morning? Gojo… it’s nearly midday and you’re only just now coming into the office.”
“I told you I had a meeting,” he pouts because he knows he’s caught. “And how many times have I told you to call me Satoru?”
“If you had a meeting it’d go through me because no one trusts you to show up to the ones you agree to.” You look back down at your computer and continue working, ignoring the second thing he said.
Sighing dramatically at you, “You’re so mean to me.”
Not even looking up at him when you retort, “If I were nicer to you would your job get done?” He doesn’t answer and you add, “That’s what I thought.”
“I’ll get all my work done so quick you’ll be embarrassed about doubting me.”
“Uh huh,” as he walks off you call after him, “you’ve got chocolate on your tie.”
Gojo pauses, looks down to his tie and then uses his finger to try and swipe it off, “No, I don’t.” He scuttles away into his office.
It’s then that you’re remembering the letter you’d put on his desk and you decide it’s time for your break. Sneaking away, you hide a few floors down in the employee break room. Your hands cradling a cup of tea that was hot but has now gone cold in the time you’ve been holding onto it. You’re staring blankly at it, not knowing how you’re going to face Gojo when he’s read your resignation.
He’s a bit of a drama queen and you’re not sure… you don’t even want to leave so having him fuss over it might make you feel worse. Oh, but what if he doesn’t care. What if he doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t feel like you’re all that important to him. That might be worse. You’re in a hell of your own making.
You’re brought from your spiralling thoughts by a hand on your shoulder, jumping at the touch and looking up to see Nanami. His face is as stoic as ever but his eyes are laced with a mild concern for you.
You talk before he can ask, “I’m fine, just daydreaming.”
A sound of acknowledgement comes from him, not believing you but pacified enough to move on and make himself a cup of coffee. Not facing you when he says, “Gojo’s looking for you.”
Frowning, “What? How do you know?”
He sits down across from you and plainly states, “Because I walked past him and he asked where you were.”
A small grumble leaves you, it’s just not possible to avoid him for the whole day and even if you could, you couldn’t do it for two full weeks.
“What’s going on?”
Your tea is too cold to drink now and you push it away, “Do you really want to know or are you just being polite?”
He takes a sip of his coffee like he’s giving himself time to think about his answer, “…I want to know.”
“I have to resign,” is all you say.
Nanami nods, “Well, that explains the frantic look on his face.”
Scoffing at him because that sounds ridiculous, “I left the letter on his desk and then hid.”
“You can’t hide forever.”
“I can try,” you smile, “he’s always showing up late and sneaking out anyways, I’ll probably be able to avoid him.”
The look on his face conveys severe doubt but he doesn’t comment on your words, “Why are you leaving?”
“None of your business.”
“You’re the only reason why communicating with Gojo is bearable, you leaving is going to be a nightmare for so many people.”
Your eyes roll at the sentiment, “Well, gee, I’ll miss you too.” A silence falls over the two of you and you explain, “I gotta move home for financial reasons.” It’s not everything but you don’t feel like spilling your guts to him right now.
“Ask for a raise,” he shrugs, “you deserve it.”
“It’d have to be one hell of a raise,” you fold your arms on the table and lay your head on them.
His tone comes out monotonous, “There there.”
Mumbling against your arms in reply, “You’re such a comfort, Nanami.”
“I know.”
The clicking of heels alerts you to someone else in the room but you don’t bother lifting your head to look. Not that you need to, the voice letting you know it’s Shoko, “Gojo’s looking for you.”
“I’m aware,” you sigh.
She sits down next to you, “If you’re hiding from him, this was a poor choice because I’m pretty sure he’s on his way here.”
“Have I got time to run?”
There’s a hand on your head, a tight lipped, “No,” coming from above you.
Ah, you’re caught. Sitting up, you smile at Gojo like you’ve not been hiding from him, “Gojo, is there something you need me for?”
He doesn’t bother trying to get you somewhere private, “Why are you resigning?”
Shoko asks, “You’re resigning?”
Sighing out a tired, “Yes,” before getting to your feet and walking out the room.
Immediately, Gojo is hot on your tail, “Why? Why are you resigning?” He keeps pestering you despite the fact you’re not answering, “Is it something I did? Have I been a bad boss? Do you want me to show up on time more?” A pause, “Is it because I never bring you back any sweets? I’m sorry! I just get so excited to eat them…”
Your foot taps impatiently as you wait for the elevator, arms folded and feeling frustrated by him. “It’s nothing to do with you…” he’s generally a good boss, a bit odd but he’s a good person and you’re quite attached to him, “though, you should be showing up on time.”
“Are you really not going to tell me why you’re leaving me?”
“I think my letter covered it.” The elevator dings and his presence is felt looming over you as he follows you in.
“Your letter didn’t cover shit,” he grumbles, “it was all that polite corporate speak.”
“It’s not a big deal, Gojo.” Your eyes meet his properly for the first time and he looks so genuinely hurt, it’s making this harder for you. “It’s nothing you did, nothing the company did. No one did anything, it’s just time to move on.”
“I literally cannot survive without you.” He blinks, “My company is going to go bankrupt without you and then Suguru’s will be number one, is that what you want?”
“If Geto’s company is ever number one it’s because he shows up on time and doesn’t ignore calls from clients.”
He scowls. “They should be calling you anyways, the old bastards only call me because they enjoy pissing me off.”
“Poor, poor, rich boy,” you say, looking away from him.
Gojo’s brows pinch up. “There’s nothing I can do to make you stay?”
“Nope.”
The pair of you walk off the elevator together and he’s still closer than necessary, like you’re going to disappear at any minute. “I’ve got two weeks to change your mind,” he singsongs.
It’s been a few days since that awkward conversation with Gojo and he’s been in the office every day… on time. You thought maybe the first day was just a fluke but then he kept showing up and staying. His behaviour is unpredictable at the best of times but this is the first time in the five years that you’ve been here that he’s shown up on time for multiple consecutive days.
Whatever, you’ve just been ignoring him and continuing your work. At least you would be but he’s not giving you anything to do. Suddenly, he’s interested in doing everything himself and actually staying on top of things. If this is his way of getting you to stay… it’s not working. Not only do you have nothing to do but you’re worried that he’s fucking things up.
A few hours since you’ve been in office and you’re officially bored, staring blankly at your quiet inbox. This isn’t going to work for you, you get up and walk into Gojo’s office. He’s tapping away at his keyboard and you’re a little surprised by the focus on his face.
Pursing your lips as you stand in front of his desk, feeling conflicted on whether or not you should disturb him when he’s like this. There’s papers spread out on the surface beside him, his usually clean desk now messy.
“Gojo, I’m still your assistant until the end of next week,” your voice is gentler than how you feel, taking pity on him.
He doesn’t look to you, eyes firmly on the screen. “Not if I can convince you to stay.”
“I don’t know how many times I have to say this,” you take a step closer, “but my resignation has nothing to do with you, so there is nothing you can do to change my mind.”
His eyes meet yours then, he looks tired.
Continuing to add, “All you’ve done is make me redundant, stop stealing my work and do your own.”
“I won’t hire anyone else.”
“The board will make you.” Tilting your head at him, trying to add some levity, “And there’s no way you’re not messing things up.”
He points at you, “Hey! I’ve been very diligent.”
“Which you won’t be able to keep doing long-term.” Reaching up, you tap the tip of his finger with your own.
That has him deflating, falling back into his chair and humming at you, “Okay, have all your stupid and tedious work back.”
“I will.” You glare at him as you lean over to pick up the papers off his desk.
Shuffling through them, you can see they’re a bunch of companies reaching out and trying to set up meetings or sending through complaints. Things you usually handle before he sees because it’s not worth his time.
“So much of that stuff shouldn’t be coming to me.” He’s leaned in closer, annoyance clear on his expression. “It shouldn’t even be going to you; they should be communicating through the team they’re dealing with.”
“Yes, well, a lot of companies overestimate their importance to you.” Picking through the stack quickly, you pull out the papers that are solely for him and put them down on his desk.
His brow raises to you, “Now, where did they get that idea?”
“Who knows?” You smile politely.
His people person skills are severely lacking, especially when it comes to dealing with formalities. You may or may not be making up for it.
“I’ll get back to you about these.” Hand shaking the papers, “Do not even try sneaking off, I’ll need you here while I sort through this mess you’ve no doubt made.”
“I told you I’ve been diligent.”
“And I have absolutely no reason to doubt that.” Turning to leave before stopping. “You should keep coming in on time and staying the whole day, it’s nice.”
Gojo’s groan is heard as you walk back out his office.
After you took back your workload, Gojo decided to try and make you stay through other means. It’s almost as flattering as it is distracting. The very next day and he’s taken to pulling a chair in front of your desk and sitting with you. His arm holding up his head, chin resting in his palm. It’s got you on edge, he’s just watching you. Eyes tracking your every movement, silent like he’s maybe trying to think of something to say.
“Is there something you need, sir?” Phrasing it in a certain way in hopes of reminding him he’s your boss with his own work to worry about.
“Nope.” The singular word popped back at you.
Looking to your screen, you pull up his calendar, “So… you’re all prepped for the meeting later today at three?”
It’s silent and it prompts you to look at him again. The reply you’d been expecting comes only when your eyes meet. “I’m so prepared,” his smile is easy-going and you don’t feel the same.
“Are you sure? Because you’ve just been sitting here doing nothing.”
“Don’t worry about what I’m up to.”
“All I do is worry,” you glare at him, “it’s like my whole job.”
Obviously able to tell you’re growing a bit exasperated now and switching to flattery, “And you’re very good at it.”
“I could be better at it if you’d be a more willing participant in your own company.”
“Bleh,” he pulls his head back and waves his hand at you, the expression on his face disgusted.
You ignore the fact that you don’t find him as annoying as you probably should and change the topic, “Well, while you’re here doing anything but your job, I have some applications you can look through.”
“Applications?” He looks at you curiously and takes the papers you’re handing him.
There isn’t an answer from you as he reads them, his face scrunching up more and becoming annoyed as he realises what it is he’s looking at.
“Resumes?” Gojo’s voice has lost its chirpiness, coming a bit strained, “I didn’t know we were hiring.”
“I know you won’t do it yourself, so I put up an advert yesterday,” you point at the resumes he’s holding, “those are the best applicants.”
“I don’t want anyone else.”
“I can’t stay, Gojo. It’s out of my control.”
It’s his turn to glare, it’s the first time he’s been this angry with you. You still won’t tell him why you’re leaving because you’re embarrassed and also, you’re becoming a little concerned that he’d actually give you an insane raise. You can do without that guilt.
“Fine.” He eventually says.
A breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding leaves you, “Thank you.”
He starts going through the pile, “This isn’t an entry level job,” he flicks away that applicant. “No references,” another chucked. “Wouldn’t be able to put up with me,” that one is crumpled. “This one’s messy,” gone. “This person has put under hobbies ‘organising’,” he squints like he’s weirded out before deciding, “trying too hard,” ultimately it’s chucked too. The rest of the pile discarded in much of the same manner.
You’ve watched him in disbelief, blinking at him, “They all had better resumes than I did.”
“I didn’t want an assistant before you and I won’t want one after,” he shrugs.
Fingers rubbing into your temples, “How did I even get hired when you’re this picky.”
“You’ve raised my standards,” he praises you, “and your resume was so ugly looking that I wanted to see who sent it in.”
You gape at him, shocked, “That’s why I got the interview!?”
“And you got the job because you put up with me during,” his tone has softened again, “you adjust to your surroundings well and it impressed me, even if your resume didn’t.” He thinks for a moment, “Well, your resume actually did impress me but only because it was awful—”
“—Stop,” holding a hand up, “I can’t believe you hired me because you hated my application that much.”
“Don’t leave me,” leaning in on your desk, “I don’t think I’ll ever see a resume that ugly ever again.”
Grumbling and falling back into your chair, you cross your arms. “I knew I shouldn’t have worked here.”
He grins and stands to his feet. “Don’t show me anymore applicants, they’ll immediately get thrown away.”
“Gojo—” You call after him.
“—Bye bye now.” He’d cut you off, done with this conversation and the direction it was headed.
It’s Monday again and you’re concerned about what Gojo’s going to pull this week. Last week he’d obviously stolen all your work rendering you redundant and stared at you disconcertingly for nearly an hour before revealing he’d hired you because of your shit application. He also brought you back various treats every time he left the office, not to mention the insane amounts of praise he kept sneaking into conversation.
It's not something entirely new from him but he’s taken to doing it far more often lately and you hate how much you don’t hate it. His compliments making you a little flustered every time, you weren’t aware how much you liked being reaffirmed until he started doing it so obviously and frequently.
Apparently, he must’ve caught on to you not hating it because he’s not stopped. The grin on his face self-satisfied every time he does it, pleased by your reactions. You don’t know if your heart is going to make it through this week but it’s your last, so you don’t have much of a choice either way.
In the lobby, you run into Shoko. Greeting her with a small smile, “Good morning.”
“Morning, quitter,” she smiles back.
“Ouch,” you hiss jokingly.
Her head tilts at you, “Ah, you lasted five years, it’s impressive really.”
“I’m not resigning because of him,” you roll your eyes.
The rumours in the office have been abundant to say the least, everyone blaming your leaving on Gojo. You correct people every time but they either don’t believe you or are too excited about gossip to let themselves really hear you.
“You’d be the first,” sucking on her teeth as she recounts, “I think there was… five? six? Before you. They all quit because they couldn’t put up with him.” She pauses. “Though, he didn’t hire them personally.”
“Didn’t you hear? He only hired me because he hated my resume.”
“Good luck finding another job with it then.”
You chuckle at that. “I’ll miss you, Shoko.”
“Yeah, whatever,” she brushes you off, “if you really were gonna miss me, you wouldn’t be quitting.”
“For someone who’s so unamused by Gojo, you sure sound like him sometimes.”
She side eyes you, “Take that back.”
“Nope!” You laugh as you walk away.
At your desk, the first thing you do is pull up Gojo’s calendar. Double checking that you’re remembering the itinerary for today properly. He’s got a meeting just before midday with a large company, you’ve been trying to secure a meet with them for months and they finally caved. Taking them on as a client would be a huge win for the company and it’d bring Gojo joy because he knows Geto has been trying to secure a deal with them too.
Competition isn’t something you invest a whole lot of your time in personally but you can’t help but feel happy when Gojo ‘wins’. This week is going to be gruelling; it’s getting harder to ignore how much you enjoy your job. You thought it wasn’t going to be such a big deal. It’s a job, you do it and if you need to, you find another.
Everyone here will be part of what you miss though, you won’t get to work alongside Gojo anymore… Pushing down those feelings of affection, you start your day how you often do and check your inbox. Seeing the first emails coming through as soon as business hours are official always amuses you as much as it pisses you off.
The sound of a soft tap on your desk startles you, it’s just Gojo but you’re still not quite used to his early (on time) arrivals. He’d set a coffee down for you, expression bright as he smiles at you.
You reach for the drink, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he singsongs. “Feel like staying?”
“Because you bought me a cup of coffee?”
“Among other things.”
You’re thinking of how to answer him when he yawns and stretches his shoulders back. He seems tireder than usual, “You been sleeping okay?”
He takes the opportunity to whine, “No, my favourite employee is leaving me.”
“That must be agony for you.”
“It is,” eyes sparkling, “it’s awful, I wish she would just see reason.”
Instead of replying to that, you remind, “Don’t forget your meeting at eleven.”
Dropping the pleading look, he replies, “How could I forget? Stingy bastards took forever just to agree to meet.”
“Try to have a better attitude when you talk with them.”
“You know what would make my attitude better?” Grin on his face showing that he’s clearly plotting something.
“Dare I ask?”
“You basically did.” He points at you and then himself, “You come with me.”
A range of emotions go through you at that but it’s mostly reluctance, “Do I have to?”
“I’m your boss… so, yes?” Not waiting for your reply. “Be ready by ten-thirty.”
It’s going to be a long week indeed.
By the time ten-thirty rolls around, you’re in the garage of the building with Gojo. He’s guiding you towards his car and you’re confused, “Where’s Ijichi?”
“I don’t know,” his answer is dismissive.
“Should we wait?” you frown and look at your phone, “…I don’t want you to be late.”
Clicking on the keys, the car beeps as it unlocks, “We’re not gonna be late.” He moves around to the driver’s side and opens it, stopping before getting in when he sees you’re not moving. “Get in.”
Incredulous look on you face, “Can you even drive?”
“That’s so insulting, I’m a fantastic driver.”
You’re sceptical but get in the car anyways, not willing to be late because you were squabbling with your boss.
“Why am I coming with you?”
He hums, “Because I have a surprise for after.”
“Couldn’t you have just picked me up after the meeting?”
“No. If I have to go then you do too.”
Grumbling back at him, “You’ve never made me come before.”
“If I leave you in the office you might run away before Friday,” his tone carries a playful lilt.
“You’re so dramatic.”
By the way, he is decidedly not a fantastic driver.
The surprise he was talking about was lunch, he’s taken you out for lunch. You’re overwhelmed and feel underdressed, it’s a nice place that you definitely cannot afford.
Just as he’s about to walk inside, you grab his sleeve and pull him back, “Gojo, I can’t afford lunch here.”
He snickers at you, “You thought I’d force you to a meeting with me and then take you out to lunch and make you pay?”
You say nothing.
“Seriously? What do you take me for?” A hand rests over his heart like you’ve wounded him.
Frowning at him, “I’m… I’m also a little underdressed.” Wearing business casual doesn’t feel appropriate for here.
“You look great,” he compliments, “you always look great.”
It feels like your skin grows hotter just from that simple compliment. You can’t linger on it for too long though. From just off to the side of Gojo, you spot Geto and you know this lunch is going to be on the rocks. “Please remain calm and remember that you just got new clients and how nice that feels.”
About to ask what the hell you’re going on about when Geto makes himself known, hand on Gojo’s shoulder. “What a coincidence, Satoru.” He smiles politely, nodding his head at you in acknowledgement.
You’ve always been neutral towards Geto, if you had to describe him in a word, you’d say he’s gracious. But you’re not stupid, you can tell he enjoys pressing peoples buttons. If you didn’t know any better you’d think it was merely an accident but you do know better and you can tell he does it because he gets a kick out of it. He’s similar to Gojo in that way.
“Suguru,” Gojo gives a tight smile. “What are you doing on this side of town?”
Oh, he’s already annoyed by his presence.
“This and that,” answer kept vague deliberately. “You guys about to have lunch?”
“Yes.” You answer respectfully, not forgetting your manners.
From what you know, Gojo and Geto used to be close friends working at the same company before Gojo moved up. Geto left after that and started his own company. Usually, Gojo isn’t so annoyed by him but he’s been a little extra touchy about things ever since you put in your resignation.
“That sounds great,” you reply before Gojo can. Geto walks in ahead of you both and you tug on Gojo to get him to lean down. “It’s just lunch, we’ll both survive.”
“I’m not so sure,” he mumbles back.
It’s awkward, incredibly so. Geto knows that Gojo got the client they’ve both been angling at and it’s all grins with hidden meanings and sly jabs. It’s hard to enjoy the food when you’re stuck observing this disaster of clashing egos.
After a lull in the conversation, Geto suddenly says, “I heard you’re quitting.”
You’re taken aback, you didn’t realise that company gossip would travel so far, “Yes… I am resigning.” Putting emphasis on the last word because you don’t appreciate the attachments to quitting.
Gojo’s tense, you can tell.
Geto pushes past your slight attitude. “May I ask why?”
“You may ask,” you smile politely, taking a page out of his book.
He doesn’t even blink, “Well, if you’re looking for a new job I’d be happy to take you off Satoru’s hands.”
Gojo scoffs at that, “She’s still my employee, you know?”
“From what I hear, not for much longer.”
You hate that you even semi consider Geto’s offer, he’s unfortunately closer to your parents’ home so you could live there and travel to his company. It’d upset Gojo though and you don’t know if you have it in you, even if it is just business.
Stopping their bickering with a simple refusal. “I’m fine, thank you for the offer.”
“It doesn’t expire,” Geto pushes, “if you change your mind, you’ve got a job with me.”
“I want to remind you I’m a personal assistant, Geto, not some highly sought-after marketing whizz.” You can’t understand the push for you, other than he knows it’ll piss off Gojo and you don’t play those games.
Clearly, not one to be shaken so easily, “Oh, I wouldn’t sell yourself so short.”
“Alright, I’m done being all civil now,” Gojo stands up abruptly, “We’re leaving and you can pay the bill for pissing me off, Suguru.”
“Gojo,” you scold him lightly but he’s not budging, “I’m very sorry, Geto,” standing up as well, “lunch was nice.”
Gojo grumbles, “Don’t apologise for me, I’m not sorry.”
Geto ignores Gojo and replies to your last statement, “We’ll have to do it again sometime.”
“Over my dead body,” Gojo points at him.
And then you’re being tugged out of the restaurant, following after an uncharacteristically angry Gojo. It’s not like he’s especially polite and he’s always had little jabs with Geto but it always seemed more like a friendly rivalry to you. To have this kind of reaction isn’t usual and you don’t really know how to approach talking to him now.
It’s not until you’re back in the car that he’s huffing, “Can you believe that? He tried stealing you out from behind my back… in front of me!”
“It’s just business, don’t let it get to you.” You mean it as a comfort but his eyebrow twitches.
He starts the car and mutters, “Not to me.”
Today is your last day. It’s been a busy week so Gojo didn’t bother you as much, anytime you spoke it concerned work. Well, that’s not completely true, he was still trying to get you to stay and begged a little but otherwise.
You don’t feel ready to leave, you know all you’d have to do is say you want to stay and Gojo would welcome you with open arms but you can’t make it work… not right now. It’s already been hard on you physically with all the moving preparations and now it’s hard on you emotionally. You don’t think people usually feel this much regret about resigning, shouldn’t you be all relieved or something.
After work, you and your empty apartment have a date with lots of alcohol. Drinking before you move may not be a great idea but you thought living with a guy would be a good idea and look how that turned out. Fuck him. This situation is so draining and unfair and you wish you could go back and change things but you’re stuck with the cards you’re dealt.
It’s quitting time soon, the hour hand on the wall across from you slowly inching towards six. Your riveting clock watching is interrupted by Gojo standing in front of it, “Could you go down to the employee floor and give this to Nanami?”
He hands you over a file and you take it without complaint, what’s another few extra minutes on your last day. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”
You’re restless, caught between wanting to get out of here and not wanting your last day to end. The elevator dings and opens to the employee floor, when you step out you’re confused by how dark it is. It’s borderline scary, you’ve seen enough scary movies to know that you don’t stay on an empty and ominous dark floor.
About to turn around and head back for the elevator when the lights flick on and people jump out at you. You don’t have a physical reaction aside from a slight jump, only staring blankly and screaming on the inside. Taking in your surroundings you realise it’s a bunch of familiar faces standing underneath a shoddily painted banner that reads ‘we’ll miss you’ with a very small ‘quitter’ written under that. It’s like it was added last minute in pen and you have a feeling Shoko did it.
Gojo runs up from behind you, “Holy fuck, we have so many stairs,” he looks to your face and then at everyone else, “did she scream?”
Nanami answers him, “No, she’s just been staring like that the whole time.”
Gojo moves to stand in front of you, asking, “You okay? Did we get you too good?”
Everyone starts murmuring and you’re very suddenly overwhelmed by all the emotions you’ve been stuffing down all week. Tears slipping from your waterline and trailing down your cheeks before you can stop them.
“Woah, what’s wrong?” he’s fussing over you, “Hey, I’m sorry, we just wanted to send you off properly.”
You use the back of your hands to wipe at your face, “Sorry, I need a moment.” Pushing the file Gojo had given you towards him before running off to hide in the bathroom.
Taking deep breaths, you try to calm down but it’s hard when you’re also dying of embarrassment. It was really nice of them; you weren’t expecting anything so to have so many people set up a going away party was really sweet but it’s just another reminder of your shitty situation and your reluctance to leave.
A soft tap on the door alerts you to someone’s presence, “Can I come in?” Gojo calls.
“No,” you call back.
It’s quiet and then he says, “I’m gonna come in anyways.” True to his word, he enters the bathroom but he doesn’t say anything more.
Unprompted you apologise, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I didn’t mean to cry,” sniffling, “I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he walks in closer to you, placing a hand on top of your head. “If you’re so upset you could always stay.”
You laugh a little bitterly at that. “I’m fine now, I’ll come out and we can celebrate.”
“I can send everyone home if you’re not feeling up to it.”
“No, I want to say goodbye to everyone,” you look up to him, “thank you for doing this.”
“Of course,” he tucks his hands into his pockets, expression a little shy, “I couldn’t not give my favourite employee a send-off.” His upper body moves in a little like he’s going to share a secret, “I wanted to do something bigger but Shoko told me not to.”
A smile is on your lips at that, it’s so like him to want to go big. You owe Shoko for that advice, if he’d done something grand you’d be even more embarrassed than you already are. “Let’s go back.”
It’s not rowdy, it’s an office party so it’s mostly mingling and eating some snacks but it’s nice and it beats the hell out of getting drunk alone in an empty apartment. Nanami is the only one you’d given a reason as to why you’re leaving and he’d kept it to himself so you get a bunch of questions but you field them all pretty easily.
Your eyes keep finding their way back to Gojo before you feel a pang of guilt or sadness and you look away. Things slowly die down as more and more people head home and before it becomes too obvious, you slip away back upstairs to your desk.
Gojo’s office is left slightly open and you walk inside; it’s dark. The only light entering the room is coming from the surrounding building lights. You move to stand in front of the large window and look out to appreciate the view. You’re going to miss this part of the city.
“You’re not planning on robbing me on your last day are you?” Gojo asks from the door.
Getting over the shock of him suddenly appearing, you joke, “Are you kidding? I’ve been robbing you blind since my first day here.”
He crosses the room to stand beside you, “Only cause I let you.”
“What a gentleman.”
“I’m gonna say it one more time,” he looks to you, “stay.”
You don’t know how to answer him so you just lean in and hug him.
His arms wrap around you, “This isn’t very professional of you.”
“Cause you’re so professional,” you murmur back, “also you’re not my boss anymore.”
The both of you don’t say anything, just holding each other. Probably far too intimate for a working relationship but… you really needed this. It’s nice, he’s big and warm and he holds you gently. It’s giving you a lot of comfort and at the same time it’s making you want to cry again.
“I’ll miss you, Gojo.”
“I think you’ll be the first to.”
“Not true.” As much grief as everyone gives him, they’d still miss him.
He laughs a little and lowers himself so his lips are by your ear, “I’ll miss you, too.”
A shiver goes down your spine at his voice and you pull back to look at him. His face is close to yours and your eyes linger on his lips. Doing your very best to look into his eyes, you say, “Don’t ruin the company just because I’m gone.”
“I wouldn’t want to ruin all your hard work,” he grins.
You roll your eyes and move to untangle from him. He doesn’t let you. “What are you—”
Gojo’s closed the gap between the two of you with a kiss, a large hand cradling the side of your face. His thumb strokes high on your cheekbone as his lips implore yours. It doesn’t take you long at all to react, hands grabbing onto his jacket and kissing him back.
It’s overwhelming, his kiss all consuming. Almost like he’s been waiting for the perfect opportunity to kiss you like this. Lips insistent on yours, his body coming closer with a single step forward. His hand on your face tilts you up, thumb trailing to the hinge in your jaw and pressing.
You’re opening your mouth to him more and he sighs happily, licking to deepen the kiss as much as he can. It’s dizzying, mind slowly slipping of focus the longer he holds you. Your body shudders against your will because it’s never felt this good to be kissed before.
Pushing back on him, afraid you’re about to lose your mind and all he’s done is kiss you. Gojo pulls back with a suck of your tongue and your legs nearly falter, small whine leaving you. He’s stopped but he’s not moving back, hand still on the side of your face, the other having moved down to rest on your hip.
“You want me to stop here?” He asks, thumb pulling on your lower lip teasingly.
“This isn’t really—”
“Appropriate?” He asks, closer than he was before, lips almost touching yours, “Like you said… I’m not your boss anymore.”
Fuck it.
You’re the one to close the gap this time, kissing him again. It’s messier than before, an even more heated exchange and you’re realising he was being gentle with you a moment ago. Mood suddenly changed as it feels like he’s aiming to devour you whole.
He spins you so your back is against the cold glass of the window, his lower body pressing close to you. Able to feel his erection, it’s scandalous and making you tingle. You wrap your arms around his neck and he moves his hands down lower, sliding to your lower back. His fingers twitch against you like he’s holding back from touching you more.
Lips parting again so he can trail his kisses lower, burying his face into the side of your neck. Teeth nip at your flesh and you gasp, “Gojo!”
His smile reaches his eyes, “Something to remember me by,” he laves over the mark with his tongue.
Your heart twinges when you realise that your close relationship with him is ending and suddenly you’re asking, “Leave another?”
Gojo laughs a little breathlessly at that, “Hah, don’t have to tell me twice.”
He leaves another mark at your request, and then another lower down before trailing back up, his nose brushing against your neck until his lips meet yours. Words coming mumbled as he keeps kissing you, “You smell so fucking good.”
“Just shut up…” you grumble back, “and kiss me more.”
You know he wants to make another smartass comment but your shoving your tongue in his mouth to keep him quiet, he seems to be right where he wants to be though. Hands growing bolder as he grabs your ass and tugs you closer, grinding his erection against you.
Breaths coming heavy as you comment, “Pervert.”
“If I were a pervert…” he hums happily, “I’d do something more like this.” One of his hands is off your ass and slipping into the front of your pants, fingers swiping through your folds over your underwear.
A gasp leaves you, fingers digging into his shoulders as your knees grow weak. He’s prodding at your hole through your panties, almost penetrating if it weren’t for the material of them. It’s cruel, your arousal seeping into your underwear providing a slick glide for him to slide up to your clit.
“My,” he comments as if he’s shocked, “aren’t you a little too wet over a few kisses?”
“You can’t talk,” you pout, skin warming.
His eyes are bright with mischief. “Don’t be embarrassed,” finger carefully circling your clit and keeping you on edge, “it’s cute.” Sliding back to your dripping hole, “Though…” teasing you there too and then trailing back to your clit again, “you being embarrassed is cute too.”
“Are you– hff– gonna tease me the whole time?” You blink up at him.
“Probably.”
Hips rocking slightly, needy for him to touch you more, “Aren’t you being unreasonable?”
“I don’t think so.” He’s purposefully avoiding giving you what you’re seeking.
Your head falls to rest against him, hands gripping his shirt. Pleasure that feels just a little too distant running through you, making you weak and frustrated. Legs shaky to stand on with how antsy you’re getting. You should’ve guessed that he’d be a tease by how he acts regularly.
On the brink of asking him to touch you properly when he slips his hand under your panties, fingers immediately sliding inside your weeping cunt. You’re left gasping out a pathetic moan as he borderline whines. Clinging to him desperately as he angles his digits to hit the sweetest spots inside you. Slow in his pursuit, like he’s learning what gets the best reactions from you.
Gojo’s control is slipping, the tight grip you have on his fingers making it hard to think. Not to mention just how hot and wet you are, he’s not sure how he’s going to last fucking you when you feel this divine around his fingers alone.
Moans tumble from your lips and you struggle to stifle them back down, trying to rock your hips against his hand for anything more he’ll give you. It’s messy, dripping down into the palm of his hand, no doubt ruining your panties in the process. The sound of him finger fucking you obscene and too loud. Your skin is hot and you’re embarrassed from just how horny you’ve gotten, whimpering as he crooks his digits up and hits something sweet.
“Fuck– come over here,” Gojo pulls his fingers from you and tugs you over to his desk. He lifts you to sit on top of it effortlessly, hands tugging your pants and underwear off in one go. Movements rushed, impatience clear.
He’s sitting back into his desk chair and rolling forward a bit, hands resting atop your thighs. You ask him, “What are you doing?”
The answer comes incredibly blunt, “I’m gonna make out with your pretty pussy while you sit on my desk.” All smiles as he pushes your thighs apart, “I’m gonna think about this view every time I sit here from now on.”
Tongue boldly licking through your folds and making you squeal, your hand threads through his hair for something to hold onto. Quickly discovering just how good at this he really is, sliding his tongue inside your cunt and slurping at you lewdly.
Gojo eats you like a man starved, fingers digging into your plush skin as he holds you open. Your juices drip down his chin and onto his desk and all he can think about is how good you taste and how cute you are when you twitch around his tongue and how he’s probably going to get hard just thinking about this later.
Of course, he’s also going to be playing the whines and moans you’re letting out on repeat in his head later too. Finding everything about you completely endearing, even more so in your dishevelled and aroused state. To have you melting under his touch is almost too much for his poor heart to take.
Your lungs seize in your chest at how good it feels, his nose grinding into your clit with how close he’s pressed his face into you. If you had any higher brain function in this current moment, you’d be concerned if he could even breathe.
It’s getting harder and harder to sit still, desperate to move your hips in response to his stimulation. You’re falling back onto your elbows, hoping to leverage yourself better to rut against his face but he’s stronger than you anticipated. As if in punishment for your impatience, he pulls his tongue from you and trails it up to your clit. Licking it gently before wrapping his lips around it and sucking.
The feelings that run through you are immense and head spinning, feet kicking at the shock of it. Your elbows shake and give out, back bowing up in response. Hand reaching back for his head, tugging on his hair which only has him moaning against you. The vibrations have your hole twitching. Ever observant, Gojo stuffs two of his fingers inside you. Hitting all those perfect little spots he’d found earlier. Apparently having learnt a lot about your body in a short time.
“Gojo– hng– you gotta stop– hff– I’m gonna—”
His eyes look up to you, glinting mischievously. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Mouth off you long enough to say, “I’m not gonna stop.”
Almost as soon as his lips are back around your clit are you cumming; twitching and writhing through the high flooding your senses. All sensitive and whingey as he keeps fucking you with his digits. You can’t hear anything but the blood rushing in your head, feeling as though you’re floating.
That is, until Gojo pushes you dangerously close to overstimulation. His mouth off your clit, only to stuff his tongue back inside your cunt along with his fingers. Stretching you open as he eats you in a completely debauched manner.
“Too much– hnn– Gojo.” You push back on his forehead and he relents. “Perv.”
“Sorry sorry.” He grins, looking a little less than sorry about it.
He keeps your thighs open, admiring the way fresh slick drips from you entrance. He really wants to lean in and tongue your hole some more but he’ll refrain, diverting his focus to kiss your inner thighs. Sucking hickeys into your skin as much as he can, starting on the left before moving to the right. Getting a little too into it and biting your thigh a couple times, you twitch and whine at it and he doesn’t miss the way your pussy clenches around nothing in response.
Gojo gets to his feet and leans over top of you, pecking your cheek before kissing you deep and slow. It’s not hurried, taking his time to explore your mouth carefully. You don’t even realise he’d been unbuttoning your shirt at the same time until he’s moving away and opening it.
Hands quick to grope your tits over your bra, “Hmm… this is pretty,” he comments, fingers slipping under the strap and pulling back just to let it snap! back against your skin.
“Gojo!” you chastise, voice coming a little breathless.
He doesn’t even bother to take your bra off properly, just pushing it up and over your tits so he can gain direct access to your nipples. Head ducking back down to leave more marks on your soft skin, licking over your nipple to see what kind of reaction you’ll have. He’s not disappointed when you moan and tug at his hair.
Moving to rest his forehead against the valley between your breasts, he hums out, “You’re so perfect, from head to toe.”
“Don’t think flattery will get me to stay,” you joke, feeling bashful and trying to change his focus.
“How about a really good dick down?”
“Aren’t you a little too self-assured?”
Gojo stands up, shucking off his jacket and then beginning to unbutton his own shirt, “Ask me that again after we fuck.” He shrugs it off his shoulders and lets it fall to the ground.
You knew he was well built but seeing him shirtless is making you realise just how well built he is. All broad shoulders and toned abs, it’s a little hard to stay focused when you’re this horny and he’s that hot shirtless. Happy trail leading out of his pants to his belly button making your mouth water and you’re suddenly remembering that it’s rude to stare when you look back into his eyes.
Though obviously, Gojo takes it as a compliment. Large grin on his face at your blatant ogling. “Like what you see?” He asks.
“I didn’t say anything,” you turn away from him.
“You didn’t have to,” he laughs, “the hearts in your eyes said enough.”
“Oh, shut up.”
He starts unbuckling his belt, “Your pouting will only turn me on more.”
Sitting up as you tease, “You’ve got some weird kinks, huh?”
“Not at all, it’s just that I could get off to anything about you,” he replies smoothly.
You really shouldn’t find that as flattering as you do. “Not appropriate for the workplace, Gojo.”
“Getting tongue fucked on the CEO’s desk isn’t exactly appropriate either but here you are.” He reaches into his pants and pulls his cock out, hissing, “Plus, as you pointed out earlier, I’m not your boss anymore.”
There would definitely be some remark you’d make to that but your focus is kind of caught up on how big his dick is. You knew from it digging into you earlier that he was… well-endowed but to see it now is a little scary.
You point at it accusatorily, “There’s no way I’m taking that.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he laughs. “Don’t stress so much, it’ll fit.”
You quirk an eyebrow at him as if to ask, ‘you sure?’
“The foreplay wasn’t just for fun,” Gojo purrs, “though I definitely did have fun playing with your pussy—.”
Your hand slaps over his mouth, “Do you need to be so vulgar?”
He nods wordlessly from behind your hand, eyes bright with his enjoyment of this interaction.
You take too long to remove your palm and he’s licking it, your reaction immediate as you pull back with a grimace. “Ew, what the hell?”
“Ew? My tongue was literally in your mouth not five minutes ago,” his eyes roll at you.
“This and that are different things.”
“Uh huh,” brushing you off, “Open your legs more, I’m gonna blow my load before I even get inside you at this rate.”
Your legs cross at that, “Say pretty please.”
Gojo leans down and rests his hands on the desk either side of you, eyes level with yours, “Pretty please open your legs for me, sweetheart?”
There’s a bit of a begged tinge to his voice that makes you cave immediately, parting your legs again. He grabs your hips and pulls you closer to the edge of the desk, humming happily, “Thank you.”
The head of his cock is dragged from your clit to your opening and back again, sliding himself through your folds a few times just to make you desperate. Ignoring the fact that you’re already desperate, needy for him to fill you to the brim.
“Stop being a tease.”
“I thought you were worried about it fitting?” He asks.
Your retort is fast, “I thought you were going to give me a good dick down?”
“I believe I said a really good dick down,” notching the head at your pussy hole, “but I’ll forgive you this time.” He doesn’t push in immediately, instead leaving a chaste peck on your lips before he murmurs against them, “Deep breath.”
About to tell him he’s ridiculous and something about his ego being heavy to carry around when your lungs are struggling, the initial slide of his cock entering you making all air knock from you. Nails clawing at his forearms either side of you, not even able to make a noise as he splits you open.
Stopping not even half-way to give you a second to breathe, “I told you to take a deep breath.”
“Hnn– I– hng—” You can’t even reply yet, stopping your attempts to fill your lungs with air.
Gojo’s head dips as he looks at where you’re both connected, “Fuuuck—” he tilts his head back to look up at the ceiling, “I’m gonna cum too early if you don’t relax.”
He’d already held off on cumming just from touching you a couple times, finally being inside you is driving him crazy. Not even at the half-way point and his dick is twitching like crazy, your cunt sucking him in greedily and clenched so tight around him. You’re still panting and struggling to wrap your head around the stretch of him and as cute as it is, it’s also a massive fucking turn on that’s making his life harder.
You’re falling forward into him, head resting on his chest, hands clinging to him desperately. Managing out through moans, “Why– hff– why is your dick so huge?”
Breathless laugh leaving him, “You’re being really cute.”
“Shut up.”
“Getting cuter.”
He wraps his arms around you, lips pressed to your ear. With the movement his cock slides just that bit more inside you. The sound of his soft, needy whine is ringing in your head and making you twitch. Practically creaming around him already, it’s embarrassingly early to be this much of a mess but he’s worked you up so much and you can’t help but fall deeper into the pleasure.
Desire is overflowing from you and you have no idea what to do with it, holding onto him tighter as a result. Turning to the side, you kiss him wherever you can, it doesn’t take long at all for him to dip and kiss you back hard. Getting lost in his lips, wishing you could somehow pull him even closer.
While distracted, Gojo takes the opportunity to fuck the rest of the way into your tight pussy. Your mouth is dropping open with a whine, feeling the tip of his dick against your cervix has you trembling. You can’t tell if you’re imagining it but you’d swear you can feel the thump thump! of the veins on his cock throbbing against your walls.
He lowers you down onto the desk but the movement has him shifting inside you and you’re whining again, back arching against the wooden surface. You wrap your legs around his waist, feeling the need to cling to him even more.
Gojo’s head tucks into the crook of your neck, his words coming out mumbled, “Ooh, you’re gonna have me dreaming about this.”
“You– hng– you have to move.” You can’t take any more of this slow pace, your pussy begging you—and him—to be fucked.
His face comes into view, expression struggling to stay cool, “You need to keep your legs open nice and wide for me then.”
Pout making its way onto your face immediately because you really want to keep him this close but you also really want to do what he says. “This better be worth the embarrassment.”
“It will be.”
He’s pulling away from you at the same time that you’re parting your legs, hoping you’ll get away with resting your inner thighs against his hips. Clearly, that’s not satisfactory enough for Gojo because he’s grabbing behind your knees and pulling your legs further apart. Manhandling you lewdly into a position that exposes you to his greedy eyes.
Sighed moan leaving him, “You’ve got such a pretty cunt.”
“You’ve– ah– got such a dirty mouth.” A laugh moves through his chest at your retort and you don’t understand why you’re feeling butterflies over it.
“I’m gonna move now, sweetheart.”
“Please.”
The heavy drag of his cock pulling back gives you a visceral reaction, fingers digging into his desk, looking for something to hold onto. Every inch of him rubbing up against something delicious with each one of his movements, no matter how small. Tuned into every sensation you’re experiencing and feeling so sensitive with it. You’re feeling everything, pussy creaming around him at it, clearly in love with his dick.
On the other hand, Gojo’s losing his fucking mind about as much as you are—if not more. His cock throbbing, pulsing inside your hot cunt. Even though he’s going insane over how sweet your pussy is, he’s still pausing when he’s pulled out. Watching how your hole twitches and convulses around the head of his dick. Fresh slick dribbling from you and sliding down his shaft, he’s not sure he’s ever going to be normal again.
Slamming his hips to yours in one movement and as soon as he starts, he can’t stop. Repeatedly fucking into you over and over, his eyes glazing over as whimpers spill from him. You’re not doing any better, whining and grabbing onto whatever’s closest, obviously needing something to keep you grounded.
He’s bullying your womb with his tip and you’re so close to cumming, only a few more thrusts and you’re finishing around him. Surprised by your own high, hips meeting his to ride it out. Teeth digging into your lower lip as your eyes roll, too involved in yourself and the pleasure to be embarrassed.
“God– hah– you’re already?– fuck!” Gojo can’t believe it, his heart hammering in his chest at how you cum. Your pussy sucking him in divinely, begging him to keep stuffing you full.
In your fucked out bliss, you slip up, “Satoru– hmf—”
It’s the first time you’ve used his given name and his brain short circuits, everything inside him excited and he can’t help himself. Whining pathetically as he cums, not a hint of shame from him. Caught up in how pretty his name sounded coming from your lips, a little slurred in your messy state.
Not able to stop his thrusts either, your mixed cum drooling down the sides of his cock as he keeps fucking you. Keeping you both on cloud nine to the point of overstimulation. The pair of you buzzing and lost in each other. Everything is hot and messy and feels so fucking good.
His brain is stuck in a loop of your pitiful voice calling for him. “You’re unbelievable– hnn– you should stay– hah– don’t leave.”
“I can’t– ngh—”
“Breaking my heart,” he sulks, hips slowing to a steady rut.
You can feel tingling all the way down to your toes. “That’d– hff– be more believable if you weren’t balls deep inside me.”
He finally stops, pelvis flush to you. Looking down his nose as he replies, “I’m multidimensional.” Sliding his hands from your legs to your waist, “And still horny.”
His dick slips from you and then he’s using his hold on you to flip you over so you’re face down on the desk. Taking a second to admire the way his seed drips from you before plugging it with his fat dick again. Shiver going down his spine, gaze trailing up your body. Disappointed by the lack of skin showing, you’re still wearing the unbuttoned shirt he neglected to properly remove in his impatience.
Touch gentle as he slides the sleeves down your arms, initially going to take it off but changing his mind at the last second. Instead, wrapping your wrists in it haphazardly and turning it into a makeshift restraint.
When you realise what he’s done, you struggle a little against it and then huff. Forehead resting against the wood, cunt overstuffed, and now restrained in your arm movements. You feel a little helpless and it makes your insides flutter.
Gojo checks in, “You good, sweetie?”
“Pervert,” you mutter in response.
“What was that?” Fingers unclasping your bra, sliding his hand over where it’d been fastened.
“I’m good,” you reply.
He pats your ass, smiling to himself, “Then this pervert’s gonna fuck you again.”
Pace instantly brutal, angling his hips so his dick drills into your weakest point. Already having figured out your body far better than you ever have, driving you to the brink of crying from how overwhelmingly good it feels.
You have nothing to hold onto, hands trapped behind you and forced to stay there. It’s got you squirmy, unable to ground yourself with anything and it’s manifesting as you wriggling and your toes curling. Panting and writhing below Gojo, digging your nails into the cotton of your shirt as a pitiful replacement for something sturdy.
Gojo groans, hands holding you still, his fingers digging into your plush skin. “Stay still, pretty.”
“Can’t– ngh– can’t help it.” Your eyes wet from unshed tears.
He moves one of his hands up to the back of your neck, putting just enough pressure there to stop your wriggling. Immobile under him now, taking what he’s giving you. Your pussy shaking around him, consumed by him and his presence. Trusting him wholly in this moment to do what will bring you both the most pleasure, a kind of trust you’ve not given to anyone before.
There’s a creamy ring around the base of his cock from your mixed cum, a sight that makes him even more aroused. Everything you do, everything about fucking you, is only working him up even more. Thinking he’s gotten as horny as he can possibly get only for you to whine, or call his name, or twitch, or pulse around him. Causing him to fall deeper and deeper into his own insanity, borderline unhinged from how you’re making him feel.
Everything feels so much more heightened now that you can’t take it out on the furniture, brain zeroing in on exactly where his tip is hitting or the sounds he’s making for you. The soft whines and moans from him are causing your brain to fry, tingling all over and smiling a little dumbly at how he sighs your name.
It feels so good, too good, it’s almost a little scary just how good it feels. Like you’re going to fall apart at any second and you have no idea of knowing when, kept on edge and waiting for the final thrust that will do you in.
Gojo can’t believe what’s in front of him, able to feel you so vividly but still feeling like he’s dreaming because it’s just too good to be true. But you are here below him, your pussy is crying around him and begging for more. It’s real and it’s heavenly and he’s greedy for more.
“You’re so pretty,” he sighs, “so pretty– hff– and smart and your cunt sucks me in so fucking nicely.”
Managing to pant back at him, “Don’t talk.” Your pussy betrays you though, jumping at his praise.
“Why not?” Soft laugh leaving him, “Feels like you like it.” He hums softly, hand tickling down your spine, “It’s– hah– like how you got flustered by me complimenting your work.”
You’d almost forgotten that, all his words of affirmation and the kindness he’d spilled in an attempt to get you to not resign. It didn’t work but it definitely did make you feel all fuzzy inside. “I don’t know what you’re– ah!– talking about.”
“I think someone has a thing for praise,” he giggles. “That’s okay, I can give you all the praise in the world.”
“I don’t,” you deny poorly. It’s hard to sound convincing when you’re full of his cock.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” you can hear the smile on his face, “you’re doing– haa– such a good job, pussy taking me so well. Being real nice to me too, all wet and needy.”
It’s fucked up how easily he reads you, it shouldn’t be allowed. “Stop– hm– I’m gonna cum if you keep—”
“—Gonna cum because you like being told what a hot cunt you have and how great it is to fuck.”
He’s so annoying, so persistent, so stubborn, and so good at getting you off. You’re cumming around him as he gives you his nasty version of a compliment, moans loud and embarrassing. It’s the hardest you’ve ever cum and it’s knocked the wind from your lungs. A mess of shivers and whines as you ride it out. His cock prolonging your high because he’s not stopped fucking you.
Gojo’s head tips back, eyes watching how you’re squeezing around him, “Fuck– fuck– oh my god– hah– that’s it, cum around me juuust like that.”
It feels fantastic, your bliss washing over you. It won’t stop feeling good, brain all mushy and thoughtless as you barely register his words. You can feel his cock throbbing inside you, holding his own orgasm off through sheer willpower alone. “Satoru… you– hng– you gotta cum, please?”
“That’s not fair,” he whines.
You’re not playing fair. He’s trying his absolute hardest to prolong this moment, wanting it to never end and here you are asking him so very nicely to cum. He couldn’t possibly deny you, not when you’re so placid and sucking him in so lovingly. Pussy practically begging him for another one of his heavy loads.
Voice calling to him again, “Please, I want it.” And you do, you want to hear how his moans get even more pathetic as he finally lets himself go.
Not even all the way through your sentence does he fold for you, hands slamming down onto the desk as his hips jut forward, filling you to the brim with his achy dick. His pelvis keeps you so close to the edge of the desk, the wood digging into you.
Your hole flutters around him at his pretty moans and he feels every second of it, his sensitive cock reacting to it. “You feel sooo fucking good– ngh– I can’t take it, you’re killing me, sweetheart.”
He’s panting from above you, trying to catch his breath as his body shakes from aftershocks. The both of you twitchy messes, all heavy breaths and soft jerks. Your body is all limp on the desk, brain fuzzy and not thinking much of anything aside from how delightful everything feels.
In his hazy state, he manages to remember that you’re still restrained. Struggling a little to untangle the mess he made of your shirt and freeing your hands. Your arms fall to your sides, all lazy and fucked out.
Gojo slips from you and sits back onto his desk chair, taking you with him. Your head flops back onto his chest as you whine in protest but you’re too weak to stand. “Your cum is gonna get all over this chair.”
The laugh that he lets out vibrates against you, “It’s fine, I’m sure the owner won’t mind.” His big hands come around to your front, pulling your bra off properly before cupping your tits in them.
“The owner is a weird pervert.”
He’s playing with you, groping your tits how he pleases, “Oh, you’ve met him? Should I be jealous?”
You continue going along with his bit, “No, he’s some lazy guy who never shows up on time and always sneaks out to blow off work, I’d never have sex with him.”
“Wow, lucky I’m not him,” he tilts your head to the side and kisses you deep. Humming softly against you as he licks at your tongue. When he pulls back he asks, “So, was it a really good dick down or what?”
Your eyes grow wide and your skin heats up, “I refuse to answer that.”
“Because then you’d have to stay,” he grins back, arms moving to wrap around you.
There’s a quiet that goes over the both of you, “I can’t.”
He tucks his head into your neck, asking, “Are you finally going to tell me why?”
“If I told you why you’d want to help and I’m handling it on my own.” There’s a lot you can’t manage to tell him and needing to move is only the tip of the iceberg.
As much as he wants to argue back or push more information from you, he accepts your words, “There will always be a place here for you, I was serious about not hiring anyone else.”
These are your last moments with him, him being kind to you after giving you the best sex of your life and you can’t even be completely honest with him. Instead of mourning the moment before it’s over though, you let yourself be here. Held by him and warm.
𝒂ﾉ𝒏. thank you sm for reading !!! i'm sorry it took me so long to finish it 🥲 my writing speed fluctuates rapidly, i am who i ammmm. ngl i got most of this done ages ago and got stuck on the smut. ANYWAYS,, i have ideas for a second part with a little bit of angst and dramaaa but only if people want it smile ◡̈
also if it seems unrealistic to what working in marketing is like #sorry i've never worked corporate. i'm studying psych and worked as a lifeguard so i've got NO CLUE 😛
your roommate has been running her mouth to her now ex-boyfriend that you were a nerdy little virgin, and after they broke up you let kuroo find out if she's telling the truth.
starring. kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader
genre: fluff, romance, smut, timeskip!kuroo
wc: 9.7k
warning: 18+ mdni., smut. nsfw. unprotected sex. cunnilingus. some themes of exhibitionism (?). cheating. mentions foursome. detailed smut. tit play. oral (f and m!receiving). face sitting. creampie. p in v. pwp (?). kuroo and reader matches each others freaks.
You live in a two-bedroom apartment tucked away in a quieter ward of Tokyo—not too far from the city’s rhythm, but just enough to give you a breather. It's modern, clean, and honestly more space than you need. You could’ve gone solo. The rent was well within your budget, a little indulgent even, but something about sharing the space felt… right. Whether it was a leftover instinct from dorm life or just the quiet knowledge that silence in too many rooms can get heavy over time—you weren’t entirely sure.
Eventually, through a casual coffee catch-up with an old college colleague, you were introduced to someone else who happened to be in the same position: apartment hunting, strapped for time, and looking for something stable. The arrangement was convenient. She seemed easygoing enough, worked long hours like you did, and respected shared space. No red flags, no awkward tension. You didn’t overthink it.
And for a while, everything just... worked. You had your routines—brushing past each other in the kitchen during rushed mornings, the occasional shared takeout dinner in front of the TV, the soft hum of separate lives running parallel. You didn’t hang out much, but you coexisted comfortably. That was enough.
What you hadn’t expected, though, was the shift that happened a few months in. The subtle kind. The kind you wouldn’t notice at first—until a stranger’s shoes started appearing by the door on the weekends, or the low murmur of laughter drifted from her bedroom late at night.
You didn’t care.
She could do whatever she wanted, and it wasn’t your business. When she first told you she was seeing someone—some guy named Kuroo, apparently—you offered nothing more than a nod. They’d been together for a few months, she said. “He might start staying over more. Was that okay?” You told her it was. You didn’t mind. Not really.
Even the nights when the walls failed to hold their secrets didn’t bother you. You’d hear it, sometimes. Soft giggles turning breathy. The rhythmic creak of her bedframe against the wall. The occasional slip of a moan that crawled down the hallway. But it was always distant. Easy enough to ignore. You’d just turn up the volume on your music or pretend your pillow muted everything. It didn’t affect you.
You rarely crossed paths with him.
Work kept you out late, and on most nights, you slipped into the apartment quietly, careful not to wake anyone even when you knew they were still awake. Sometimes you’d see him in passing—a flash of dark hair as he leaned over the sink, his hoodie thrown carelessly over one shoulder. His voice would drift from the other room, low and teasing. But he never really looked at you. Never acknowledged you. And that was fine. You had no interest in making small talk with your roommate’s boyfriend.
He must have thought she lived alone.
And maybe she wanted it that way.
Still, there was something oddly satisfying about the way he lingered in the living room sometimes, eyes drifting over the shelves that lined the far wall. The ones filled with manga spines, collector’s editions, limited-release box sets. Hand-built Lego models positioned with the care of a gallery. You’d catch the subtle pause in his voice when he spoke near them, the shift in his tone from casual to curious.
“This stuff’s cool,” he said once, running a hand along the edge of a display. “Didn’t know you were into Legos.”
You hadn’t been close enough to see her face, but you could hear the disdain wrapped around her reply.
“God, no,” she laughed, that practiced little snort she used when she wanted to sound above something. “That’s my roommate’s. She’s like, a total nerd. Obsessed with comics and kids’ toys and whatever. I let her keep it out here. It’s, like, her thing.”
You stood just out of sight in the hallway, expression unreadable, your bag still slung over your shoulder.
You didn’t say a word. Just turned toward your room, the door clicking shut behind you as her laughter faded into silence.
Let her laugh. Let her act like it was something to be embarrassed about.
Because the way his voice had caught before she answered? You didn’t miss that.
It was subtle—the kind of pause most people wouldn’t think twice about. But you weren’t most people. You caught that split-second hitch in his voice. Like he was expecting someone else to respond. Like he had a different name on his tongue before hers came out. And once you noticed that—everything else started to unravel.
After that, your roommate’s colors started bleeding through her carefully layered persona. The kind of girl you swore you left behind in high school. Pretty, mean, passive-aggressive. The type who needed to feel above someone just to breathe easy.
She liked to act casual, like it was all girl talk. Like she wasn’t trying to sink her claws into your insecurities.
“Kuroo was so good last night,” she would say, eyes glinting as she leaned against the counter, always loud enough for you to hear. “I swear, he knows my body better than I do. He had me pinned—biting, moaning, choking. I couldn’t stop shaking.”
She’d glance at you as she said it. Smirking. Cruel.
“I mean... not that you'd know what that’s like,” she added with a fake laugh, stirring her tea like she hadn’t just thrown acid at your self-worth. “He doesn’t go for girls like you.”
You smiled. Calm. Unbothered.
“You’re right,” you said sweetly. “And I’m not interested. That’s fine.”
But inside? You were laughing.
Because she had no idea.
You’d lived that wild, messy, electric kind of life she only pretended to understand. Back in college, you’d had your fair share of boyfriends—and girlfriends. Pretty ones, sweet ones, dangerous ones. The kind who got on their knees just to worship your thighs. Who sucked on your tits like they’d die without the taste. You’d been kissed against dorm walls, fucked in music rooms, devoured in the backseat of a car while your heels dug into fogged-up windows. You’d had people beg to taste you—tongue-deep until your legs shook, until your moans echoed down quiet hallways.
You’d been wild. Reckless. Insatiable. You’d even tried a threesome with a married couple once—just to see if you could make them both fall apart. You did. Twice.
But then you graduated. Got a job. Realigned your priorities. You weren’t that girl anymore—not all the time.
You hung up the stilettos and the lipstick-stained wine glasses. You traded morning-after texts for early meetings. Nights spent tangled in sheets became nights at your desk, fingers flying across a keyboard instead of someone else’s skin.
You retired from the chaos and focused on your career.
But that girl—the one she thought you couldn’t possibly be?
She still lived within you, and she was just waiting to come out and play.
You’d almost forgotten her until that morning. The one where she sat at the kitchen island with bed hair and a proud smile, sipping her coffee like it was just another Tuesday. She didn’t just talk about her night with Kuroo—she dissected it, glorified it, sprinkled it over your morning like sugar in your tea. Not that you asked, but she offered every lurid detail anyway, like you were the best friend she never had and the enemy she always needed. He was so big. He made her gag. She choked a little—laughed as if the memory alone still lingered at the back of her throat.
You didn’t flinch. Not then.
But it didn’t stop. It became a pattern. Whenever Kuroo stayed the night—his shoes by the door, his laugh echoing in the kitchen—she’d find a way to mention it. How her throat was sore. How she could still feel him. How she couldn’t walk straight. All of it tossed out with that lazy grin and self-satisfied tone. At first you told yourself it was just her way—crude, bold, a little drunk on the attention. But something in her voice changed. Something smug. Pointed.
And then came the men who weren’t Kuroo.
You saw one first by accident. You’d woken early for work and padded down the hallway, half-asleep and still rubbing your eyes, only to nearly crash into him outside the bathroom. He was tall, wearing nothing but boxers and looking for a jacket. He blinked at you like you were the one in the wrong hallway. He muttered a soft “morning,” then disappeared into her room.
You didn’t say a word.
But the worst—no, the most unforgettable—happened one humid night when sleep just wouldn’t come. You'd tossed in bed until frustration took over, deciding a warm glass of milk might help settle you down. The hallway was dark, the tiles cool beneath your feet. But the second you turned the corner toward the kitchen, your breath caught.
Her bedroom door was wide open.
You froze.
The sounds were unmistakable—flesh on flesh, low groans, the wet thud of skin colliding with skin. Heavy breathing, slurred moans, and the distinct slap of motion too fast to be just hands. The room reeked of alcohol and sweat. And you saw it all—every obscene detail lit by the dim glow of her desk lamp.
One man was behind her, rhythm sharp and relentless, his hands gripping her waist as she braced herself on shaking arms. Another lay beneath her, her knees braced on either side of him while he thrusted up into her from below, mouth latched to her breasts, tongue circling one nipple then the other like he couldn’t decide which to devour first. And a third—God—the third stood in front of her, hips pumping as she sucked him down, her mouth stretched wide around him, spit slicking her chin and dripping to her collarbone.
You watched as her whole body trembled under the force of it—three men, three directions, all taking turns. Her throat constricted as she took him deeper. Her back arched as the one underneath groaned into her chest. The man behind her pulled her hips back, harder, rougher. She whimpered. Moaned. Her nails scraped the sheets. And when the one in front finally shuddered and came, you saw the spill of it leak past her lips, trailing white down her chin as she let out a breathless laugh—uncaring, uninhibited, completely lost in pleasure.
None of them noticed you.
Not even when you stepped back and nearly knocked over the dish rack in your daze.
You almost laughed.
So much for good sex.
So much for Kuroo not going for girls like you.
You didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, she confronted you in the hallway, freshly showered and still damp, eyes smug with victory. “You saw, didn’t you?”
You didn’t deny it. Just nodded once, softly.
And she beamed—fucking beamed. “I can take three cocks at once,” she said proudly. “Feels good, you know? Having every hole filled at the same time. It’s like—ecstasy. And they even took turns, babe. I lost count of how many times they came. My holes have been filled thrice as much.”
You stared at her, mouth dry, heartbeat unsteady. Her words were half confession, half performance.
And then, as if it were an afterthought, she added, “I wanted you to see it.”
Your brows furrowed. “What?”
“I left the door open on purpose. Thought it might loosen you up. But I figured you wouldn’t join anyway. Those guys probably aren’t into your type.”
You didn’t rise to it. Not yet. “How about Kuroo?”
That made her pause for a second. Just a flicker.
She shrugged. “The dick’s good. But he’s getting clingy. Talking about labels and exclusivity and all that serious shit. I don’t like that.”
Your stomach sank. “You told me it was serious.”
“It wasn’t. Until he thought it was.”
And just like that, she turned away, humming to herself as she made her coffee like she hadn’t just shattered something in the room. Something delicate. Something quiet and private and stupidly hopeful that you didn’t even realize you’d been holding on to.
You never judged her. God knows college has been a blur for you too. You’d partied, drank too much, made your own share of mistakes. But still—something about seeing her like that, twisted and shaking and laughing with a mouthful of someone else, had done something to you.
Maybe it was the betrayal. Maybe it was the performance. Maybe it was that deep, unspoken part of you that had started to care about Kuroo even if you didn’t want to admit it.
But what you never forgot—what stayed carved in your mind, looping over and over like a cruel joke—was the smirk she wore as she wiped cum off her chin and looked toward the door.
She knew.
And you’d never seen her look more pleased.
It was one of those rare, treasured off days—the kind where time stretched and slowed, unbothered by alarms or obligations. You padded out of your room with a fresh mug of coffee and a sealed box in hand: the latest Lego Architecture set you’d been dying to build. The living room was quiet, lit by soft daylight filtering through the sheer curtains, and for once, blissfully yours. Or so you thought.
You settled cross-legged on the rug, carefully opening the box and sorting the pieces into neat color-coded piles across the coffee table. The soft clink of plastic against plastic was meditative, your fingers already moving by muscle memory as you started on the foundation.
Then, the door creaked open.
You glanced up, expecting it to be your roommate stumbling in from a late-morning hangover—or another boy doing the walk of shame. But instead, it was him.
Kuroo Tetsuro.
Hair tousled in every direction, eyes half-lidded with sleep, and wearing nothing but a loose shirt and sweatpants slung far too low on his hips. He blinked at you like you were a hallucination.
“…Shit,” he muttered under his breath before stiffening like he’d been caught stealing.
You raised an eyebrow.
There was a beat of stunned silence before he scrubbed a hand down his face and cleared his throat. “You’re—wait, you're the roommate?” He pointed at you like he couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re her roommate?”
You looked back down at the half-built Lego set and calmly clicked a few pieces together. “Mmm. That’s what it says on the lease.”
Kuroo stared at you, then at the Lego box, then back at you. “Is that—oh my god, is that the Fallingwater set?” His voice pitched up slightly, boyish excitement suddenly blooming on his face.
You blinked, slightly surprised at the sudden shift. “Yeah. Limited edition, too.”
His eyes lit up in a way you hadn’t expected from someone who, until now, had only existed in your mind as a tangled mess of sex sounds and sneaky exits.
“I’ve wanted to build that one for months,” he said, stepping closer without even realizing it. “Frank Lloyd Wright is—God. His work is insane. That cantilever design? Pure genius.”
You stared at him for a second, momentarily caught off guard. “You’re into architecture?”
“I’m into Legos,” he corrected with a grin, dropping down to sit a few feet away from you on the floor. “Architecture’s just the gateway drug.”
The way he said it was so earnest, so casually nerdy, that you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. He didn’t seem to notice he was still inching closer, eyes darting across your sorting piles with the practiced gaze of someone who had done this a hundred times before. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for a piece, to help build.
“You’re not usually home,” he added after a second. “She always says you’re working.”
“I usually am,” you replied, not bothering to hide the slight edge in your tone. “Today’s the exception.”
Kuroo paused, then gave you a sheepish look. “Well, I feel kind of dumb. I’ve been talking to your Lego collection like it was hers.”
You glanced at him, amusement tugging at your lips. “So you do talk to the Lego sets.”
“Only the ones that deserve respect,” he shot back easily, gesturing toward your build. “That one? Deserves a round of applause.”
There was a pause—just long enough to realize how quiet the apartment was with only the two of you in it. Just long enough for the tension to crackle faintly in the air, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
For the first time, you were seeing him as something more than your roommate’s cocky lay. He was still smug. Still smug and way too attractive for his own good—but there was a softness there too, the kind that clung to people who used their brains for more than ego. A surprising amount of dork nestled beneath the devil-may-care smirk. You didn’t know what to do with that just yet.
Still, you couldn’t resist the tease.
“You can help sort, if you wash your hands,” you said, tilting your head.
Kuroo gave you a mock gasp. “You think I’d touch a limited edition set with dirty hands? I’m offended.”
You laughed under your breath as he stood up and headed to the sink, and as the sound of running water filled the space, you glanced back down at the instructions in front of you.
It seemed like, for once, today might actually be interesting.
And maybe—just maybe—so was he.
Eventually, you and Kuroo became close, as he sometimes helped you with your builds if you were free and he happened to be in the apartment.
It was just an innocent hangout since you two shared an interest—nerding out over collectors' sets, comparing mini-figures, debating Marvel versus DC, and even spending quiet evenings building modular LEGO cities in comfortable silence. It was never anything more than shared company, quiet companionship, and a love for plastic bricks and fantasy worlds.
But apparently, that probably hit a nerve with your roommate.
Because a few days later, you came home from work and stepped into the middle of a storm brewing in the living room.
“You always hang out with her now,” your roommate spat, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Why?”
You froze, one foot just inside the doorway, the other still outside. You blinked at the tension in the air—at the way Kuroo stood across from her, jaw tight, like he hadn’t expected this either.
“She’s cool,” Kuroo said simply, voice calm but edged in confusion. “We like the same stuff. That’s all it is.”
“That’s all it is,” your roommate echoed mockingly, rolling her eyes. “So what, you're into nerds now? You think you're gonna build a little LEGO love story with her?”
Kuroo frowned. “It’s not like that.”
She scoffed, arms flying up in the air. “Bullshit. You’re getting soft. And since we’re airing things out—guess what, Kuroo? I’ve been fucking other people the entire time. Not just one or two.”
You watched from the hallway as she stepped closer, lips curling into a smirk. Like this wasn’t a confession—it was a flex.
“Three guys,” she said, slowly, as if daring him to react. “At the same time. And I liked it.”
She said it proudly. Like there was no shame, no remorse, no thought to how it might hit him.
And it did hit him.
You saw it in the subtle shift of his stance, the way his shoulders pulled back and his jaw clenched. He didn’t yell. He didn’t crumble. But you saw the exact moment it clicked—that he wasn’t just some convenient hookup to her, but completely disposable.
“You’re serious?” he asked, slowly.
She shrugged, unapologetic. “Dead serious. And I don’t get why you’re acting like we were exclusive. I never promised you anything.”
He inhaled sharply through his nose, glancing away like he was trying to keep his temper level. “I just thought we respected each other. I thought you gave a shit. And I thought you and your roommate were friends. That’s why I even talked to her in the first place.”
The room fell uncomfortably silent after that. You felt a sting deep in your chest—for him.
You knew Kuroo wasn’t the type to get attached easily. But he had cared. He wouldn’t have lingered around your coffee table for hours helping you alphabetize your manga, or asked you what your dream Star Wars set was, if he was just killing time between fucks.
And now, he looked like he’d just had the wind knocked out of him.
You didn’t want him to see your face, the way your brows pulled together or how your heart ached with sympathy for him. So, quietly, you backed away from the hallway and slipped into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you before the fight could escalate further.
You didn’t want to hear any more of it—not the insults, not the ego, not the unraveling of something he’d believed was real.
All you could do was sit on your bed, palms pressed to your thighs, and let yourself hurt in silence—for the boy who never deserved to be treated like a backup plan.
After that argument, you never saw much of Kuroo again. You hadn’t asked for his number or any of his socials, and he never asked for yours either. Maybe it was intentional—maybe it wasn’t—but either way, you chalked it up to a chapter that closed before it could fully begin. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Your roommate moved on fast. So fast that the same night you’d heard her moaning another boy’s name through the thin apartment walls while you buried yourself under a pillow and turned the volume of your anime up louder than usual. You weren’t sure if it was pity or residual anger that lingered in your chest, but either way, you avoided bringing it up.
A few months passed. Your job had picked up pace, and while your calendar was often cluttered with deadlines, you managed to put away enough money to indulge yourself a little. Which is why you didn’t even flinch at the entrance fee for the local comic and toy convention—hell, you even treated yourself to priority access, determined to beat the crowd before anyone could swipe that rare LEGO Star Wars Ultimate Collector Series set you’d been eyeing online for weeks. You weren’t sure if it would even be there, but the hope was enough. And if not, there were always manga volumes to haul home, limited prints, and maybe another blind box you didn’t need but would justify with weak logic about resale value.
The place was buzzing with life. Cosplayers brushed past you in elaborate wigs and armor; booths were stacked high with colorful displays; the air smelled like plastic wrap, buttered popcorn, and overpriced takoyaki. Your bag was already a little heavier than it should’ve been—three volumes of a manga you hadn’t even started and two keychains you didn’t need clinked together at your side—but your heart was light. It was a good day. You were in your element. You were happy to be spending money that you earned doing something you didn’t hate. That in itself felt like a win.
You were crouched in front of a display, squinting to read the fine print on the LEGO box tucked in the farthest shelf corner—your prize almost within reach—when a familiar voice slid in from behind you, smooth as ever, but touched with disbelief.
You turned. And just like that, the convention disappeared for a second.
Kuroo stood a few feet away, noticeably overdressed for the venue. His dark button-up was tucked neatly into charcoal slacks, the lanyard from the Japan Volleyball Association still clipped to his belt, a blazer slung casually over one arm. His hair was a little more tamed than the last time you saw him, like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom instead of a crowd full of anime fans and collectors. And yet, his expression—wide-eyed and visibly caught off-guard—was anything but polished.
“…Tetsu?”
He grinned then, that same crooked smile that used to flash your way over unfinished LEGO builds in your living room, the kind that warmed something unguarded in your chest.
“I thought that was you. I’d recognize that laser-focus over a brick set anywhere,” he teased, stepping closer. “You stalking LEGO aisles now?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” you said, glancing pointedly at his outfit. “Did you just come from a funeral or are you here to do tax audits on people’s purchases?”
He laughed, the sound genuine. “Meeting at the JVA ran long. I was supposed to head straight home after, but I saw the convention signs on my way out and figured I’d pop in. Nostalgia, you know? Didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew… especially not you.”
Your smile faltered only slightly, the past nudging its way in. “Yeah… I didn’t think I’d see you again either.”
For a second, neither of you said anything. The noise of the convention carried on—someone shouted about free pins at booth twelve, another person squealed over a celebrity sighting—but in that moment, it was just the two of you, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a LEGO display that felt like a full circle too ironic to ignore.
“I didn’t get to say sorry,” Kuroo said quietly, his voice softer now, lower. “Back then. I should’ve reached out. But I didn’t even know how.”
“It’s okay,” you said, and maybe you meant it. Maybe part of you still felt the sting of that goodbye-that-wasn’t, but seeing him again like this, in the middle of a day you thought would be just another solo outing, made the ache feel a little more bearable. “You don’t owe me anything.”
His eyes searched yours for a long moment, as if trying to read between the lines. And then, with a small smile, he gestured toward the shelf. “So… you finally get it? That LEGO set you’ve been after?”
“Almost. Some guy just bought one before me. I’ve been debating if I should just fight him for it or cry in the corner.”
Kuroo smirked, like it was 3AM again and you were bickering over missing pieces. “I’ll help you strategize. Worst-case scenario, we distract him with a full-blown scene in the Gundam section.”
You laughed, and just like that, the heaviness began to lift. Maybe the past didn’t need to be reopened in full detail. Maybe there was something worth picking up from here instead—on neutral ground, between plastic bricks and overpriced manga—and maybe this time, neither of you would let it slip so easily.
You eventually started spending more time at Kuroo’s apartment—not because it was necessarily more convenient, but because the idea of inviting him over to yours felt layered with complications you weren’t ready to unpack. Your roommate still lived there, and after everything that had transpired—the awkward tension, the quiet spite, the ghost of her moaning someone else’s name just hours after things ended with Kuroo—it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel neutral. And you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking she had any space in whatever it was that you and Kuroo were slowly building now.
He never asked questions. Just unlocked the door, let you in, and cleared space on his coffee table for your snacks and whatever LEGO set he’d been tinkering with that week. It became your quiet ritual. He’d handle the bulk of the instruction booklet while you sorted pieces by color or shape, occasionally bickering about which build deserved priority. You laughed more often than you had in weeks. Kuroo, for all his smug quips and relentless teasing, had a calming presence when he was relaxed like this—lounging in sweats, hair pulled back haphazardly, glasses perched on his nose, and a cup of instant coffee steaming between you.
It was during one of these hangouts—somewhere between building a replica of the Millennium Falcon and reorganizing his manga shelf—that he really started noticing the little things about you.
You wore glasses at his place. Not the contact lenses or styled versions of yourself that the world got to see, but the comfort version—the one with oversized hoodies, your hair tied up, and those thick-rimmed frames slipping down the bridge of your nose every few minutes. You’d wrinkle your nose every time they slid too far, push them back up with a finger, then hunch further into the build like you were preparing for battle. It was absurdly endearing.
Kuroo found himself watching you more than he watched the pieces. The way your brow furrowed in focus, the way your voice softened when you talked about your favorite arcs, how your hands hovered when he got too reckless snapping bricks together.
And the more time he spent with you, the harder it was not to remember all the things your ex-roommate used to say about you.
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. She’d speak in offhand remarks—half-laughed criticisms and quiet jabs that he hadn’t really questioned. Stuff like, “She’s sweet, but kind of childish, don’t you think?” or “Her room’s full of toys and junk, I don’t know how she lives like that.” It sounded harmless then. Maybe even normal, like the kind of light annoyance roommates always had about each other.
But now, sitting across from you while you earnestly explained the rarity of a certain manga edition you were planning to hunt down next weekend, he realized how misplaced those comments really were.
Your roommate hadn’t been annoyed. She had been dismissive. Cruel, in subtle ways that made him feel gross now that he understood the full picture. Because if this was you—brilliant, expressive, unapologetically passionate—you weren’t someone to mock. You were someone worth watching. Worth listening to. Worth knowing.
Kuroo was starting to think he’d like to know you even better.
And he did.
The more time you spent at his place, the more the line between casual hangouts and something softer, something more intentional, began to blur. It wasn’t sudden—nothing about it was rushed or dramatic—but rather a quiet shift, the kind that unfolds slowly when two people realize they enjoy each other’s company more than they probably should.
It started with the little things.
He began walking you home instead of just waving from the doorway. He'd pick up your favorite snacks without needing to ask. Once, he texted you in the middle of the workday just to share a photo of a new LEGO architecture set he spotted in a store near the JVA office—“Made me think of you,” he’d said.
Then came the first not-quite-date, when he asked if you wanted to grab ramen after a long build session. It wasn’t phrased romantically, but when he held the door open for you with a lopsided grin and a low, “Dinner’s on me,” it lingered like a promise.
After that, it became a quiet pattern—late-night meals, museum dates disguised as “research” for future builds, bookstore strolls where he let you drag him into the manga aisle even though he always ended up walking out with more volumes than you did.
One evening, he surprised you with a black box tied in yellow ribbon, smugly handing it over like he was presenting you with a Nobel prize.
You opened it to find a bouquet of LEGO flowers—intricate, colorful, and painstakingly detailed.
“I figured they wouldn’t die on you,” he said with a small shrug, but his ears flushed red, betraying just how much the gift actually meant.
You smiled so brightly it made his chest ache.
Later that night, you sat side by side on his floor, building each stem and petal piece by piece. Your fingers brushed occasionally, and each time it happened, he didn’t pull away. Neither did you.
And when you were finally finished, the vase of plastic blooms sat proudly by his kitchen window, catching the light like real blossoms might. It stayed there—quiet, permanent, and real in its own way. Just like the two of you were starting to become.
More sets of LEGO flowers bloomed forever in the corner of Kuroo's bookshelf, perched beside a manga box set he'd later surprise you with. Then another. Then a collector's figurine. A special-edition Blu-ray. It became a habit for him—dropping by a shop after work, carrying something that made him think of you. Something you’d gush over while adjusting your glasses or scrunching your nose in delight. Kuroo loved how animated your voice became when you explained the significance of a certain volume or lore from a world he only half-understood but always listened to anyway.
He loved the way your eyes sparkled when you carefully peeled away the plastic wrap, reverent in a way that almost made him jealous of the object in your hands.
“Tetsu, I told you to stop giving me gifts randomly.” you scolded him after he just handed you a new set of Lego figures.
Kuroo shrugs his shoulders and gives you a sheepish smile, “I like giving you gifts just because, okay?”
That went on and on—nights tangled in LEGO instructions and accidental laughs, meals shared over manga discussion, and growing routines that never needed to be spoken aloud. Eventually, he started asking you on actual dates. A quick dinner after helping him with his laundry. A detour to the park after a weekend spent sorting model kits. You never had to ask if it was a date—he made it clear every time he paid, every time he walked you home, every time his fingers lingered at the small of your back.
Then one night, he took you somewhere just a little fancier.
A cozy, tucked-away place with dim lighting and soft music humming underneath clinking silverware. You wore something nice—not over the top, but enough to make Kuroo smile the moment he saw you. He was dressed in a dark button-down shirt, sleeves casually rolled, a silver watch peeking from his wrist. Formal enough to make your heart thump a little harder when he pulled out your chair for you.
You talked—about work, a new LEGO release, some anime remake coming out soon, and halfway through dessert, it slipped out.
“So…what are we?” he asked, fingers absently running along the rim of his wine glass.
You paused, lips parting—but he beat you to it.
“I mean, I already know what I want us to be,” he added, voice quieter, more certain. “I’d just like to know if you feel the same.”
Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer with words—not right away. Instead, your hand slid over his on the table, your thumb brushing his wrist like it had always belonged there. Kuroo’s smile widened, soft and crooked.
That night, after he drove you home, it was meant to end the same way it usually did—warm, unspoken affection lingering in the air, a kiss on the cheek, a casual “see you soon” exchanged in the quiet of the night. Kuroo leaned in like always, one hand still gripping the steering wheel out of habit, his lips brushing against your cheek.
But this time, you didn’t let it end there.
"Stay," you said—softly but with no room for refusal—as your hand curled around the lapel of his coat and tugged him through the door. The click of the lock behind you echoed in the quiet, both of you breathing just a little heavier now.
His brow lifted, slightly amused, but when you reached for him—when you pressed your lips to his without hesitation—Kuroo dropped all pretense. He kissed you back just as fiercely, meeting the pull of your mouth with a hunger that had simmered under the surface for far too long.
You wrapped your arms around his neck as if anchoring yourself there, while his large hands settled on your waist, grounding you. The soft press of your bodies swaying closer felt like gravity had chosen this moment to pull tighter.
His mouth moved down—along the curve of your jaw, then lower to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. When his lips found your neck, hot and deliberate, you tilted your head back and let out a breathy moan that made something flicker in his chest and spark in his eyes.
"God, you have no idea what you do to me," he murmured into your skin, voice low and gravel-thick with restraint. His hands were already wandering—sweeping over the curve of your waist, tracing the line of your ribs, bunching the fabric of your top like he couldn't decide whether to peel it off slowly or just tear through it and devour you whole.
Then, in one fluid motion, he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly. You gasped, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he carried you through the apartment like he already knew every step of the way. He nudged open the door to your bedroom with his foot and kicked it closed behind him with a soft thud.
“Are you sure about this, darling?” he asked, lips ghosting over your throat, warm breath teasing your skin. His voice was careful, velvet-wrapped concern undercut by the tension thrumming just beneath it.
“Yes,” you whispered without a second thought—breathy, aching, already burning. “Kuroo, yes.”
That was all he needed.
He set you down on the edge of the bed, fingers already working the hem of your top. He tugged it over your head, eyes darkening as more of your skin was revealed to him. “Fuck,” he breathed out, like seeing you undone just for him knocked the wind from his lungs. “You’re unreal.”
You helped him out of his shirt next, palms gliding across his toned chest as if you needed to commit every line, every scar, every warm plane of skin to memory. His pants were next, discarded somewhere along with yours, clothes tossed carelessly onto the floor as your mouths met again in a kiss that was less polite now—more heat than hesitation, more teeth, more tongue, more everything.
When he finally laid you down on the mattress and hovered above you, bare and wanting, the look in his eyes wasn't just lust. It was reverence.
“You're so fucking beautiful,” he said, almost like he was scolding himself for taking this long. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this—about you.”
And then he kissed you again, slower this time, as his hand drifted between your legs—testing the waters, coaxing more of those breathy moans he was already addicted to.
“Gonna take my time with you,” he growled, “because after tonight, I’m not going anywhere.”
His voice was thick—low and rough with promise—as his mouth descended onto your chest. Kuroo's lips wrapped around your nipple, tongue swirling slow, lazy circles before he sucked hard enough to make your back arch. His free hand slid between your thighs, fingers parting your folds before his thumb found your clit with practiced ease, rubbing gentle, teasing circles that made your hips twitch.
“Tetsu,” you whimpered, threading your fingers through his dark, unruly hair, tugging just enough to draw a low moan from him.
Kuroo glanced up, eyes half-lidded but gleaming. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice vibrating against your skin. “Keep saying my name like that.”
You gasped as his fingers pressed in deeper, sliding along your slick heat, fingertips curling just right—just enough to make your thighs tremble and your breath catch.
He sucked on your other breast, taking his time, leaving red blooms along your skin like a trail he’d follow again later. The slow, wet sounds of his mouth on your tits mixed with the obscene slick of his fingers fucking you open, setting your nerves alight.
“Tetsu—fuck, I can’t—” you choked out, hips stuttering beneath his touch.
“Yes, you can,” Kuroo whispered, lips ghosting over your nipple before he kissed the swell of your breast. “You’re doing so good for me.”
He pulled back just slightly, lifting his head to watch you unravel for him—your body flushed, eyes glassy, chest heaving with every broken breath.
“Taste yourself, baby,” he said, bringing his glistening fingers up to your lips. You parted them instantly, moaning as he pushed them past your tongue. His groan was almost feral. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
When he kissed you again, it was rougher—needier. He cradled your head in his hand, the other already stroking his cock as he lined himself up at your entrance.
“Tell me you want this,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you, Tetsu,” you breathed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “All of you. I’m yours.”
Kuroo didn’t hesitate. With a low groan, he pushed inside—slow and deep, stretching you open inch by inch until he bottomed out.
“Fuck,” he cursed, jaw clenching. “You feel… fuck, you feel like heaven.”
And when he started to move—thrusting slow, deliberate, grinding deep—you knew you’d never want anyone else. Not when Kuroo made you feel like this.
Each stroke was intentional, like he was mapping your body with every inch of his. One hand anchored beneath your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft underside, while the other stayed between your bodies, lazily circling your clit in time with the slow grind of his hips. The sounds he drew from you were loud, raw, almost embarrassing if they weren’t so fucking honest. You didn’t care. Not when Kuroo was whispering filth in your ear, kissing along your neck like he was claiming you with every mark.
“You feel that?” he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “That’s me. That’s all me, baby.”
When your back arched and your nails raked down his spine, Kuroo groaned—low and guttural, like the sight of you unraveling under him was too much to handle.
To say the least, Kuroo was obsessed with you in bed. He didn't expect someone so quiet, so soft-spoken and unbothered with drama, to be this wild and insatiable behind closed doors. Sometimes his stamina was off the charts—athlete-built and fueled by ego—but even he could admit: fuck, he couldn’t always keep up with you.
It drove him crazy in the best way.
You were demanding in all the right places. Greedy with your kisses, shameless when you rode him like you needed him deeper than physically possible, and vocal when you came, screaming his name like a prayer and a curse. Every time he thought he had you figured out, you flipped the script.
Kuroo used to think he was the one with the upper hand. He wasn't.
Your roommate—back when she and Kuroo were still trying whatever you’d call that—once mentioned you in passing. They were cuddling on your couch, legs tangled up in each other, when she scoffed and said, “She’s probably a virgin. You’ve seen her room, right? It’s full of Legos and manga. All that nerd shit? She’s definitely never been touched.”
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, just hummed and nodded, though something about the certainty in her tone stuck with him.
Months later, when things with your roommate fizzled and Kuroo found himself in your bed, tangled in your sheets and catching his breath after your second round, he brought it up.
“She said you were probably a virgin,” he told you, laughing, head resting on your stomach.
You had chuckled, brushing your fingers through his messy hair.
“Yeah?” you replied, eyes gleaming. “Tell that to the guys I had in college. I practically broke one of them.”
You weren’t lying.
You proved it to him that same night. Straddling his face with that lazy smile and those goddamn glasses sliding down your nose. You rode him like you’d been waiting to prove a point and holy hell, Kuroo swore he saw the light. You had him pinned, hips grinding, thighs squeezing around his head like a vice, and he welcomed it. Happily. Drowning in your slick, drunk on your moans, Kuroo didn’t even care if he suffocated in your thighs that night.
He’d die a happy man.
You were so hot like that—uninhibited, filthy, hungry for him. And god, you looked so damn good when you sucked him off still wearing your glasses. Hair all messy from his fingers, mouth slick and eyes daring him to look away. He couldn’t. Not when your tongue ran along his shaft like you were savoring every inch. Not when you moaned around him like he was your favorite flavor.
“Fuck, baby,” Kuroo had groaned, head tilted back. “You’re gonna kill me.”
And you? You just smirked.
“I’ll make it worth your while.” He didn’t doubt it.
Kuroo had been ruined for anyone else after that.
The moment you rode him in his home office, shirt half-unbuttoned, your hands gripping the back of his chair, hair falling into your eyes and mouth hanging open when you moaned his name—Tetsurou—like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.
He never wanted to let you go anymore.
If he could marry you right then and there—naked, sweaty, your panties dangling from his desk lamp—he would’ve gotten down on one knee without a ring. Just a promise. Just you and him.
But you deserved something better. Probably something by the ocean. A quiet, golden beach proposal with the sound of waves behind you and a little velvet box tucked behind one of his science joke t-shirts. Yeah. That’d be perfect. He’d plan that out eventually.
Still, your little dates didn’t slow down.
Lego-building marathons in his living room, your legs tangled across his lap as you bickered about which minifig was better. Cuddles during movie nights where you wore his college volleyball hoodie and snuck popcorn from his bowl. Quiet mornings when you stayed over, sipping coffee and flipping through manga in nothing but your panties and his button-down shirt.
You called it simple. He called it everything.
Kuroo kept giving you things. His love language wasn’t subtle.
Whenever you were at your apartment, a box would show up. Your favorite snacks. A collector’s edition manga you mentioned only once. That limited-edition Ninjago set you joked about. Sometimes he even had them delivered while you were out—just so he could text,
"Check your doorstep, sweetheart."
And when you opened the door, it was there. Sometimes with a post-it that read, "Build this with me tonight?"
And you always did. The second you stepped inside his apartment—his real home, now that you’d practically claimed it with your spare toothbrush and the fluffy slippers he bought for you—there’d be a new set waiting on the table. Or a volume laid neatly beside your favorite spot on the couch.
You would groan playfully, “Tetsu, this is too much…”
But your eyes always sparkled. And that was all he ever needed to see.
Kuroo wasn’t a man of restraint when it came to spoiling you. He liked seeing your expression when you tore the wrapping off. He liiked hearing your happy little gasps. And he especially liked the way you thanked him—sweet kisses at first, and then crawling into his lap and grinding down until his hands gripped your thighs, his voice rasping near your ear.
"Fuck, sweetheart. Is this how you're gonna thank me every time I buy you something?"
You always gave him cuddles… or him fucking you in return.
Neither of you would have it any other way.
Most of your dates happened right there in his apartment. It was your little world. The walls full of bookshelves, scattered Lego creations proudly displayed beside framed photos of his team. Your favorite blanket always draped over his couch, because he swore it smelled like you. You’d both start watching something—some superhero rewatch, some obscure Netflix docuseries—and end up tangled on the couch, kisses turning sloppy, laughter breaking into gasps as he dragged you under him.
It was always his apartment. His couch. His bed. His office. You bent over his desk, your nails scratching at the surface as he fucked you from behind. Or on his kitchen counter, panties pushed aside as he held your thighs apart and groaned against your neck.
"You’re fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart," he’d whisper against your skin. "Can’t believe you’re mine."
And you—smirking, breathless, always ready to drive him wild—would moan out, “I’m all yours, darling.”
That was the thing about you two. No matter where, no matter what—it was always just the two of you. A little domestic chaos, a little nerdy fun, and a whole lot of love.
Kuroo Tetsuro was ruined for anyone else.
And truthfully, he liked it that way.
He liked waking up in his apartment with your leg tangled with his. He liked how your shampoo clung to his pillows and how your glasses sat on his kitchen island beside your empty mug. He liked carrying you to bed when you fell asleep on the couch with a LEGO brick half-built in your hand. He liked that you left things behind—your books, your socks, your presence.
Kuroo Tetsuro had turned his apartment into a second home for you, and he didn’t even realize it until one afternoon when you opened a drawer in his bathroom and found your toothbrush, your hair ties, and your lip balm already waiting. It felt easy with him—domestic. Warm. Comfortable. Real.
But last night, he needed more than domestic.
He’d just come back from a grueling business trip—seven days without you. Seven days of restless sleep, ignored hotel breakfasts, and staring at unread messages while stuck in JVA meetings that ran longer than necessary.
And the second he saw your text, “Door’s open. I’m still up.”
He didn’t go home.
He went to your apartment instead. And the second he walked in and saw you in your oversized sleep shirt and those thick-rimmed glasses you forgot you were wearing—his restraint snapped.
He took you right there in your bedroom.
On the bed. Then again on the floor. And once more with your thighs trembling on the edge of your desk as his name broke from your throat in loud, obscene cries you couldn’t muffle even if you tried.
Kuroo always had a thing for your glasses. Something about the way you looked up at him while you were on your knees, eyes blown out, lips stretched around him, lenses fogging up while you sucked him deep like you missed the taste of him as much as he missed the heat of your body. And he always loved how you let him fuck you in them—wanted it even—telling him how dirty it made you feel when his cum splattered your lenses or dripped down your chin as he kissed you hungrily after.
And last night?
He made you wear them the entire time. Told you he’d missed seeing your pretty face get ruined while they were still on.
So yeah, Kuroo made good on every lost second from that trip. Filled you so many times you couldn’t remember if your name or his was the last thing you said before passing out. Your inner thighs ached. Your sheets were still crumpled with drying stains. And you still felt the wet, pulsing mess between your legs as you stood in the kitchen making breakfast the next morning, robe half-open, neck blooming with hickeys.
He had left early for another JVA morning call—but not before kissing your forehead and stuffing you full one last time in the shower.
But of course—unfortunately for you—your roommate had heard everything.
At first, she brushed it off. You weren’t exactly loud usually, and she assumed you were probably a virgin or celibate by choice. But when she heard your voice—unfiltered, breathless, begging—moaning “Tetsu!” like a prayer answered through gritted teeth and slick skin, it made her stomach churn.
And it was the final straw when his voice echoed in return.
Moaning your name.
Groaning about how tight you were. How much he missed your pussy. How pretty you looked taking every drop.
It made her snap.
So when you entered the living room that morning, holding your travel mug and your bag slung over your shoulder, she was already there—arms crossed, face sour, passive-aggressive aura bleeding into the walls.
“How long has that been going on?” she asked without looking at you.
You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You just sipped your coffee.
“Define that.”
Her nostrils flared. “Don’t play dumb.”
You leaned against the counter, hair still wet from the shower, smirking slightly.
“If you mean Tetsuro—last night was just making up for lost time,” you said airily. “He missed me. So did my thighs, apparently.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Funny. That’s not what you said when you told me all about your foursome while dating him,” you replied, tilting your head. “One behind, one underneath, and one shoving it down your throat, right? You left the bedroom door open just so I’d see. Said you were trying to prove a point. What point was that again?”
Her mouth opened, then closed. Scoffed. “That doesn’t mean you get to snake away my ex.”
Your grin widened—sharp, knowing.
“Sweetheart, you cheated on him constantly. I just didn’t say anything because, frankly, it wasn’t my relationship to mourn.”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s probably just using you to get back at me. You really think Kuroo Tetsuro would go for you? You said it yourself—he’s a career man. And you—well, look at you.”
You took another sip from your mug. Unbothered. Your petty meter had barely lifted.
“You told me he wouldn’t fuck someone who wore glasses. Now he asks me to keep them on. Funny how things change.”
She scoffed again, louder this time. “You’re seriously going to act like I wasn’t the best sex he ever had?”
“I don’t have to act. I know he’d disagree,” you replied, voice sugar-sweet. “Besides, we were just friends at first. You remember that, don’t you? He liked my LEGO builds. We bonded over manga. I still have the first limited edition he gifted me. First of many.”
“I knew something was up when he started hanging out with you more. You’re not even his type.”
“He said I’m exactly his type,” you said softly. “Smart. Funny. Loyal. And, apparently, really good at taking his cock.”
That was the one that hit.
Her eyes narrowed. “Just because you finally lost your virginity doesn’t mean you’re special.”
You laughed, really laughed, and set your mug down.
“Oh, sweetie. I’ve had a wild sex life in college. I just toned it down to focus on work. Tetsu just brought it back out. And then some. He fucks me in every corner of his apartment. Did he ever do that with you? Kitchen table? Floor? Balcony during rush hour?”
She didn’t answer.
“Didn’t think so,” you murmured.
“You’re lying.”
You stepped forward and whispered like it was a secret.
“He came in me three times last night,” you said casually. “Told me he missed seeing it drip out. Even helped push it back in.”
Her face twisted.
You raised your brows. “But if you want, I can play you the voice memo he sent me last month. He had his cock in his hand and couldn’t stop moaning my name. It’s really quite romantic.”
“Bitch.”
You tilted your head. “Always have been. Just quieter about it.”
She let out an angry shriek before stomping back to her room and slamming the door hard enough to rattle the coat hooks.
You took another sip from your mug and hummed under your breath.
Toned down? Maybe. But this?
This was your victory lap.
And you hadn’t even told her yet about the time Kuroo made you cum just from sucking on your tits while you rode his thigh—glasses on, mouth wet, his hand around your throat as he whispered that he wanted to keep you forever.
🏁 pit stop ! 𖦹 you’ve known yuuji itadori since the days where he was all scrapes and bleeding knees. you’ve loved him since the day he first called you pretty and saved you the last red popsicle. you’ve never been able to have him, because your best friend and his little sister has always stood in the way (2.3K)
🏁 safety car ! ⋆ not safe for work ⋆ smut ⋆ eighteen plus only. college au, not canon compliant, characters in 20s, mutual pining, friends to lovers, forbidden romance, jealousy, small legal age gap (2 years), dry humping, car sex, clothed sex, best friend’s older brother yuuji itadori & fem reader.
the third oldest of four siblings who lived in the last house on the street. he came with two brothers and a sister your age, who decided the first day that you met — you would be best friends for the rest of your lives.
it was a pinky promise, sacred and sworn — overseen by two sets of parents in your backyard, early spring when you were around five. you didn’t know at the time it would come with a decade of yearning and heartbreak. an older brother you could never have, one you’d never get to keep. that one bad thing you’d crave for years on end.
he’s always been there, yuuji has, in the background of all your memories. never mean to you, like sukuna was (the oldest brother) and a lot more friendly than the nervous wreck choso (the middle brother) but always loud in your ear and disrupting tea parties or sleepovers when you spent the night with his little sister. your best friend who you’d drawn a contract, of course in brown crayon, stating that you’d never pick yuuji itadori over her.
even when he’d save you the last red ice-pop instead of saving it for his sister because you liked them better and she always tossed them halfway through. even when he’d let you sit on the back of his bike in the summer because you’d never quite learned how to ride. even when he’d invited you to his all boys birthday party, and walked you out of the laser tag room because you’d been too scared of the dark to keep playing. you remember his sister being upset with you that day.
you realise that you like him very early on. yuuji itadori, that is. yuuji who had been the first ever boy to say your hair looked nice after your mum made it pretty with a new silk ribbon. yuuji who smelled like the park on a hot day, like tarmac but also earthy because he’d come home coated in soil down to his scraped knees that bled through his jeans. yuuji who chased his little sister through the house with mud tracks, blamed it on the two of you but ended up stuck with the punishment anyways. the same yuuji who went to middle school ahead of you both just by two years and deemed it his duty to walk you home from elementary, he’d wait for you by the gates all scary with bandages on his cheeks from the fights he’d get into, but smiley all the same.
yuuji, who carried you back home the summer before you started high school when you broke your wrist running the woods behind his house — who didn’t flinch when your best friend scolded him for being a clutz. it was her fault not his. it’s always funny to see them bicker, she’s always so protective of you and yuuji the same. you feel a part of their bond, like you belong with the two of them at your side … which is why the guilt hurts when you start to look at yuuji differently that summer. when he starts to grow into his looks and your heart starts to flutter every time he’s near.
you try not to overthink how much he cares for you, staying awake with you while you wait in the ER to be seen — smiling with you and holding your free hand when they put a cast on you. he bares the burden of telling your parents, begs them not to punish you but him instead. for a girl at fourteen it’s chivalry. you pretend it isn’t love.
in high school you walk the halls with your best friend, fully in love with her brother — you pretend it doesn’t hurt that he’s become so popular, that all the cheerleaders seem to have his attention and he’s got so many friends he doesn’t need to hang out with his little sister and her minion anymore. you sit through awkward double dates at the local diner so your friend can get closer to her crush but your heart most looks forward to yuuji picking you both up at the end of the night in the old truck he decides to fix up in time for college.
“boys your age don’t know what they want,” he leans back from the driver’s seat to tell you — hair wild and brown eyes warm. “be careful.”
and you want to ask him if he knows what he wants. if it’s you. you don’t.
the two years where yuuji is in college before you can join him are the worst. he hardly visits, off on his sports scholarship which takes up all his time and you miss him more than anything — hopelessly in love and endlessly yearning. your best friend gets a boyfriend and suddenly life doesn’t feel like how it was back then, no more ice pops made with red fruit and juices that run down your arm, no more scraped knees and hospital rooms for sprained wrists and broken bones. no more late night drives in yuuji’s truck after curfew. it hurts, and the boys at school suck — they’re not kind like itadori is.
when you’re in college yourself, it’s all the same. boys still suck except they major in business or economics or compsci and party instead of studying. your best friend is at a college two hours away and you take turns visiting one another every weekend — she barely brings up yuuji, but the little fragments she shares of him still makes your heart flutter. you ask if he has a girlfriend. he’s never brought anyone back home for winter break. once the weekends end, you’re back on your own again rolling through the mundane with your heart tucked under your sleeve until you see it. him. pink hair and brown eyes, his laugh catching in the spring breeze — yuuji is there. on your campus for some kind of away game and when he sees you. everything clicks. it feels right.
after practise that day he takes you for a drive, still in his truck from high school — couldn’t get rid of her, too many memories. your laugh is woven into the seatbelts in the back seat and your tears are probably soaked in the material too. yuuji drove down ahead of his teammates to visit a friend, not a girl. he adds. the whole drive your heart hammers in your chest so loud you think he might be able to hear it and if he does — yuuji says nothing. though he looks at you every five seconds, gaze flickering away from the road to watch your face. the silence broken into pieces by the small, aimless questions he asks you. how’ve you been? are you liking your classes and …
“can i kiss you?”
he asks once you’ve stopped, hidden somewhere in the back of a fast food parking lot. your conversation had lulled, but the tension had grown thick — so much so that not even a knife could slide through. the fries the cinnamon twists itadori had ordered for you both cool on the console between you, brown eyes are hazy and hooded with an emotion you can’t quite place — striking nerves through your heart almost like cupid’s arrow. you’ve wanted nothing more for a decade and a half. To be looked at by yuuji in the way he’s looking at you now. to be wanted by him.
“why?” you ask.
yuuji leans closer, the palm of his hand sliding to cup your face. “i’ve missed you, is all.”
he says back.
a million thoughts rush through your mind, the longing you’ve always felt. the stupid, teenage girl crush that’s always lingered in the back of your mind. the guilt you’d feel hiding this from your best friend, his little sister — his only sister. she’s all you have left, a constant in your life … but your selfishness overrides anything you feel towards her. the promise you’d made in crayon on a4 paper as a child disintegrating into dust as you nod eagerly, shyly, leaning into yuuji’s touch like someone might rip it away from you all too soon.
“please?” you blink slow, doe like in a manner that makes itadori groan as though he’s been shot in the chest. it’s needy, hungry and it makes you melt in your seat. “please kiss me, yuuji…”
within a heart beat his lips are on yours, searing feverish like glass that’s been heated to the highest degree. there’s so much feeling behind the way yuuji moves, tender love and notes of longing and maybe lust that no longer feels like it’s one sided. when he kisses you everything sort of… clicks into place, this is what you’ve needed and dreamed of for years and it’s everything you wanted. his hand slips to the back of your neck, comforting and possessive as though he doesn’t want you to slip through his fingers, and he pulls you further into the messy lip lock. his tongue swipes over your bottom lip, tasting the strawberry lip balm you’d slapped on earlier — yuuji asks, he doesn’t take. waiting for you to open up to him like a flower in bloom.
your own fingers tangle in messy, windswept hair that reminds you of the cherry blossoms across campus — they tug at and tighten in his locks bringing him further into you to the point where you think itadori might crawl over the console just to have you. he tastes like red-juice popsicles and feels like the summer sun beating down on your skin. yuuji feels like home against you and it’s something that you didn’t even know you’d missed.
things progress faster than you realise, not that you mind, and it should feel wrong, so , so wrong to be kissing your best friend’s older brother like this — to be letting him pull you into the back seat, hands sliding under your worn out high school hoodie to settle on your hips as he tugs you onto his lap. you should feel sick to your stomach every time he moans your name like it’s a sin he’s been waiting to taste his whole life.
you gasp itadori’s name back almost rehearsed — like you haven’t pictured him with you like this before. and when he rocks his hips up against yours, concealed hardness straining against his jeans with the touch material hot on your clit through your denim shorts, the world stops just for the two of you. “waited so long,” yuuji mumbles, lips swollen, breathing ragged and hands everywhere. “never thought you’d let me…”
“i’ve wanted this,” you breathe into his mouth, tongue curled against his and your salvia smeared across his rosy lips. yuuji blinks up at you like you’ve just given him the whole world and you lazily sling your arms over his broad shoulders — hiding in your own bicep, suddenly shy. “i’ve always wanted you.”
smiling to himself, yuuji’s hands map their way up to your ribcage, feeling for your thrumming heart — dizzy from the heat in his car and the confession on your lips. carefully, he pulls you back and forth over his lap, watching you fight and lose your own battle of holding back dulcet mewls and whimpers. “you have no idea how happy that makes me, to hear you say that.” he kisses your cheek, much gentler than before. his forehead presses into your cheek and itadori grinds harder, faster making sure there’s a constant delightful pressure against your throbbing clit.
his long lashes flutter against your cheek like angel’s kisses — barely there, unlike the thickness of his clothed erection against your soaking mound, as it drools between the layers of your clothes. he lets you hug him close, lets you swivel yourself down on him and take what you need in the back of his car. the one where you’d laughed with your best friend, cried against his little sister.
casting her from your mind, you screw your eyes shut and focus on the blistering bliss that brews in your lower belly. chanting his name as though it’s all you’ve ever known. “yuu, yuuji — ah! it feels…” you whisper, brain miles behind the pace of your hips as they buck down against his. when yuuji pushes up, you push down, that little pleasure nub tucked between puffy pussy lips catching on his rock hard girth. “feels so—”
wrong. so good. so insane and crazy. but you can’t stop, wanting him, needing him, grinding on him.
“i know baby, i know,” yuuji whimpers, pet name slipping out like its natural — too far gone. “feel it too, you got me. ‘m right here. promise, i’m with you.”
itadori hugs you close now, the strength of his arms tugging you across his lap and his length until you’re both panting messes slumped against one another — the tensions and the highs you’ve been building stacking so high there’s no choice but for all of it to come crashing down. you’re all curses and cumming, orgasms that rip through space and time in sync, soaking your shorts and running his jeans. it’s messy, has you trembling but yuuji is in no better state, lips dropping to your collar bones as you sniffle into his hair. both of you ruined for everyone else but each other.
regret should follow fast, you should push him away and have him drive you home because you’ve betrayed the only other person in your life to have cared. your best friend, mere miles away — expecting to see you this weekend, ready to greet you with her adoring smile and big heart she’s always kept you in. you should feel like shit for fucking her older brother.
but you don’t and you don’t care what happens beyond tonight, because you’ve wanted yuuji for longer than you’ve ever known and maybe naively you think this’ll work out.
this falling in love and fucking your best friend’s older brother behind her back thing.
end. reblogs and comments are always appreciated! just liking doesn't do anything. so leave a comment to motivate this writer if you'd like to see more!!
SYPNOSIS. in which you reunite with your childhood friend—except now he’s a stupidly hot, heavily tattooed, nationally famous basketball player!
PAIRING. basketball player! sukuna x f! reader
WC. 4.3k
CONTENT. MDNI. porn with slight plot. oral sex (f receiving). penetrative sex (protected). dirty talk. praise kink. marking/bruising. overstimulation. cute post sex type shit. childhood friends to lovers. sukuna's kinda famous.
A/N. art by 0010.jfh on ig! i didn't proofread ;3
number 1. forward. the one they call the king on the court.
ryomen sukuna.
the lights in the arena buzz overhead, harsh and bright, casting long shadows across the polished court. the crowd was the loudest. it's mostly home fans, but you see a few pockets of visiting supporters chanting his name like it's a curse and a prayer at once.
he's everywhere tonight. pink hair slick with sweat, tied back loose so strands fall into his eyes when he drives. black ink crawling up his arms and neck, visible under the sleeveless jersey—his team's colors, white and black. muscles flex with every cut, every pivot, every brutal screen he sets that sends opponents stumbling. it makes you wonder, when exactly did he get so hot?
you knew sukuna from childhood.
back then he was just 'kuna, the scrawny little terror kid with knobby knees, always covered in dirt from head to toe after he'd rolled in mud for fun. his pink hair always looked wild and unbrushed, sticking up in every direction after he'd climb trees or chase stray dogs through empty lots. clothes torn at the hems, knees perpetually scraped, hands grubby from digging in the dirt.
he'd show up at your door smelling like grass and sweat and whatever weird snack he'd scavenged. one time it was a half-eaten candy bar from the sidewalk, another time apples nicked from someone's yard... he would be grinning with those too-sharp baby teeth, offering you the grossest half like it was a gift.
"dummy, play with me! i got this for ya."
he was messy in every sense possible. his room a disaster of comic books, action figures, and mystery stains. he had a temper too, quick to flare if anyone looked at you wrong. he'd punch a kid twice his size once for tugging your braid too hard. according to him only he gets to make fun of you.
sukuna would always get you into trouble—from sneaking into abandoned houses to racing bikes down hills without helmets, coming home bruised and laughing.
but he was your mess. the one who'd shove bullies away, share his stolen snacks even when he was starving, sit with you on the curb after dark when your parents fought.
he once was everything.
then came the day his dad got a job offer away. moving trucks rolled up one summer morning while you were still asleep. he gave no warning or goodbye. you ran to his house barefoot, heart in your throat, only to find the front door already locked. you stood there staring at the for-sale sign until your mom dragged you home.
he didn't communicate either. no calls, no nothing.
weeks turned to months, months to years. you stopped looking for pink hair in crowds, stopped expecting that familiar "dummy" yelled from across the street. life moved on. you moved on.
or so you thought.
now here he is... the scrawny kid who once tripped over his own feet is gone. replaced by broad shoulders, veined forearms, jaw sharper now, shadowed with stubble he probably doesn't bother shaving during the season. the tattoos started showing up in high school pics you glimpsed online once—black lines creeping up his arms first, then his neck, chest, probably more hidden under the fabric.
you're sitting a few rows up with your friend and she leans over during a timeout, "isn't he so hot?"
you almost choke on your drink but your eyes dart to him again.
"...yeah. he is."
she grins like you just confessed something juicy. "told you... i wouuuld risk everything for him."
you hum noncommittally, looking back at the court.
when the game ends, his team wins comfortably. the visiting fans cheer while everyone else heads for the exits. your friend stands up, already zipping her jacket.
"okay i'm ready to bounce. you coming?"
"go ahead, i need to use the bathroom real quick. i'll catch up at the car."
she gives you a side-eye. "you sure? don't get stuck in line."
"i'll be fine. text me when you're there."
she shrugs and heads off with the crowd. you wait until the section is mostly empty, then stand and make your way to the concourse. the bathroom is quick, cold water on your face trying to shake off the weird mix of nostalgia and nerves. you step back out into the hallway, heading for the main exit doors.
and stop short.
sukuna's there.
leaning against the frame of the exit like he's got nowhere better to be. still in his game uniform, a towel draped over one shoulder with his arms crossed.
he looks up the second you appear.
that slow smirk curls his mouth.
"knew it was you." his voice is low probably from four quarters of shouting.
you swallow. "how'd you even—"
"i saw you third quarter," he pushes off the doorframe, takes a step closer. "you came to watch me?"
you cross your arms, trying to look steadier than you feel. "i came to watch the game."
he snorts. "how cold... bummer i'm disappointed."
you glare at him as people are still trickling past, it feels like the hallway narrowed to just the two of you.
"you look different," you say quietly.
"yeah?" he tilts his head, eyes flicking over you. "you don't though, still bite your lip when you're nervous."
you stop doing it instantly which makes him smirk.
"it's been a while."
you exhale, "yea it has."
he scratches the back of his neck, glancing down the hall toward the locker room. "look. i smell like ass and i need to shower. wait for me? players' exit is right around the corner—black doors by the loading dock. five, maybe ten minutes. i'll change fast."
"my friend's waiting in the parking lot."
"tell her you ran into someone or don't, your call." he steps closer again. "but don't leave."
his eyes hold yours like he's begging for you to say yes.
"...okay."
"ten minutes," he repeats. "don't make me come looking."
he disappears down the corridor toward the locker room, the black doors swing shut behind him, leaving you alone in the hallway with the faint hum of the arena’s ventilation.
you pull your phone out fast to text your friend.
hey i’m actually gonna stay a bit longer. ran into an old friend from back home. catching up real quick.
the reply comes in seconds.
OLD FRIEND??? who tf is this and why am i just hearing about it now
you bite back a laugh, typing one-handed while you start walking slowly toward the loading dock side.
you pocket the phone after the convo, and keep walking. you find the black double doors easily, a faded “authorized personnel only” sticker half-peeled off. you lean against the wall next to them.
the minutes drag. you check your phone twice. seven minutes... nine.
then the door bangs open.
sukuna steps out fresh shower. damp pink hair pushed back messy, black hoodie zipped halfway over a plain white tee, gray sweats slung low on his hips. he’s carrying a black duffel over one shoulder, tattoos peeking at the collar and cuffs.
he looks annoyingly good.
“you actually waited.”
"your ass told me to wait."
"yeah i did and you actually listened." he teases, his eyes flicking down to your lips for half a second before meeting yours again. "that's new. used to take three dares and a threat before you'd do anything i said."
you huff a small laugh, "maybe ten years ago 'kuna."
"'kuna" he leans one shoulder against the wall beside you, echoing his own nickname. "missed that, i missed you."
you freeze up, he's not subtle.
"i sure hope you missed me too, sweetheart."
"keep dreaming."
"i have been." he pushes off the wall. "c'mon we're not staying here. my car's out back."
you follow him through the loading dock doors into the night. the lot is mostly empty now, just a few staff cars and his matte black jeep. he unlocks it, tosses the duffel in the back, then opens the passenger door for you without a word.
you slide in. the leather's still warm from the heater he must've left on. he drops into the driver's seat after you.
"you hungry?"
"starving."
he nods once and pulls the jeep out, headlights sweeping the empty lot before hitting the dark street.
settling feels easy, it's like you never separated in the first place. it's so comfortable.
you watch the city lights slide over his profile. your thighs press together without thinking. ten years gone and somehow you still get a weird feeling whenever you stare at him.
he keeps one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift.
"there's this place five minutes from here," he says after a minute. "pretty sure it's open all night. the burgers are kinda greasy but the fries are actually decent, you down?"
"im down for anything."
he pulls into the small lot. there's a faded red sign buzzing "open 24 hrs," two trucks parked crooked, windows glowing yellow. inside it's warm, the waitress waves you to a back booth without a word.
you slide in across from him.
after choosing from the menu, he orders two double cheeseburgers, extra fries, onion rings, two black coffees. when the food lands he pushes the basket of fries your way first.
"still steal the crispy ones?" he asks, already taking a massive bite.
you snag the crunchiest one. "you always let me take your food."
"someone's gotta keep you fed." he chews, eyes flicking over your face. "you look good, really good. different but same."
you feel the heat crawl up your neck. "you too. the tattoos... when did you even start those?"
he glances down at his forearm, "uh, high school? got the first one the week i turned sixteen...thought it'd make me look hard. hid them for a few years after that till i got a bit older and stopped giving a fuck what anyone thought." he continues, "now they're just part of the package."
you watch the way his forearm moves when he reaches for another fry, veins standing out, tattoos stark under the fluorescent light. your stomach does something stupid again.
that simple innocent action did something to you.
face to face with him really feels different. you remember the scrawny kid again. the one with dirt under his nails; now those same hands are bigger, rougher, and the thought of them on you possibly after this makes your pulse throb between your legs. you shift in the booth, trying to play it cool, but your leggings suddenly feels too tight and your skin too warm.
"they suit you," you manage to say, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.
he smirks, catching the way your eyes linger. "yeah? you staring at them or at me?"
"shut up and eat your burger." you give him a glare which he laughs at.
you eat in comfortable quiet for a while, stealing glances at each other over the table. every time he licks salt off his thumb your mind flashes to what that mouth could do somewhere else. every time his tongue darts out to catch a drop of ketchup you feel it low in your belly. you keep replaying the way he looked at you in the hallway—like he already knew exactly how this night was going to end.
you also know that you shouldn't get your hopes up too high. this might just be a regular catching up thing. you're not entirely sure what sukuna is like now so you shouldn't be too careless.
he finishes first leaning his back against the booth, watching you again.
"you eat slow."
"well stop watching me."
"i'm not," he says trying hard to sound innocent. "im just looking in front of me?"
you flip him off as you finish the last onion ring, push the basket away. he pays with cash then stands, offering his hand.
you don't question it, wanting to know how touching him feels like again. his palm is warm and rough, he doesn't let go until you're back at the jeep.
sukuna opens your door, waits for you to slide in, then closes it gently.
you watch him round to the driver's side, he starts the engine asking for your address. the drive to your place is quiet except when he hands you his phone so you can save your number. eventually his hand finds your thigh halfway there, his thumb stroking slow circles, inching higher until you're shifting in the seat.
when he parks in front of your building but he doesn't kill the engine right away. you guys sit there, his hand still on your thigh, staring straight ahead.
"this is you," he says quietly.
you nod. "yeah."
he exhales slow. "get some sleep. text me tomorrow."
it's over again... he's leaving again.
even a proper goodbye from him doesn't feel good.
now is the time to be brave.
so you lean over to kiss him, a soft and lingering kiss just enough for him to remember you after tonight.
"night, 'kuna."
sukuna's dumbfounded watching you walk away. the sweet girl he knew would've never dared to initiate.
when you step inside, the apartment is dark and quiet. you kick off your shoes, drop your keys on the counter, head toward your bedroom. you smile to yourself still tasting him on your tongue.
you make it three steps inside when the knock comes.
impatient knocks.
you open the door.
he’s there—sukuna's outside your door. hoodie half-zipped, hood pushed back so his pink hair sticks up in every direction. there’s a flush high on his cheekbones, breathing a little too quick, like he ran the stairs.
his eyes are dark, almost black in the hallway light, pupils blown wide. he looks wrecked and desperate.
“couldn’t leave,” he says. “couldn’t walk away again."
you grab the front of his hoodie, yank him inside hard enough his shoulder bumps the doorframe.
he crowds you against the wall so fast your back hits with a soft thud. his mouth crashes into yours, his tongue pushing in like he’s been starving for it. your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails scraping through fabric, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left.
he groans low when you bite his bottom lip. one big hand slides up under your shirt, the other cups the back of your neck. you feel his hips roll forward, his thick length already straining against the sweats, pressing right between your legs through your leggings.
“fuck,” he mutters, lips moving to your jaw. “been hard since i saw you... couldn’t focus on the fucking game.” he continues, “saw you in the stands and all i could think about was bending you over the railing, fucking you right there while the crowd screamed my name.”
“you’re disgusting if that's true.”
“yeah?” he bites the spot under your ear. “then why’re you grinding on me like you want it?”
you don't answer him, you don't need to. sukuna already knows how right he is. you want him bad.
you shove at his hoodie. he yanks it off one-handed, white tee following so fast. now you see all his tattoos—black and jagged across his chest, ribs, curling down his arms. he looks carved, dangerous, and the sight alone makes your cunt clench around nothing.
“bedroom 'kuna."
he doesn’t argue. he scoops you up, your thighs hooked over his hips. he carries you like you weigh nothing, only to drop you on the mattress when you reach the bedroom.
you’re already kicking your shoes off. he pulls your leggings and underwear down in one rough pull.
then he grabs your ankles, yanks you to the edge of the bed so your ass is right at the corner. spreading your thighs wide with rough hands as holds them open. he stares at you long enough you feel exposed.
“lemme see,” he hurries. “lemme see what i’ve been missing all these years.”
he drops to his knees between your legs. he leans in and drags his tongue up your slit, tasting every inch from bottom to top. you gasp, not expecting him to start so quick.
he groans against you like you’re the best thing he’s ever put in his mouth.
“shit,” he breathes, lips brushing your clit. “taste even better than i remembered dreaming about. sweet little cunt...been starving for this.”
"y-you dreamt of me?"
“yeah,” he says almost embarrassed but not quite. “saw one of your posts online maybe… a year ago? i couldn't stop looking at one of your pictures,” he drags his tongue over your clit again watching you shudder. “couldn’t find a way to message you without looking like a fucking creep. didn’t know if you even wanted to hear from me."
he continues, "but i couldn’t stop thinking about you after that. jerked off to that one picture more times than i’m proud of. kept checking your profile like a stalker, hoping you’d post something new. but my girl's so quiet so nothing ever came. so yeah… i dreamt about you. a lot.”
he dives back in before you can respond—tongue pushing inside you now, fucking you with it while his thumb rubs messy circles over your clit. you cry out while he groans again like he’s the one getting off.
“should’ve reached out,” he mutters between licks. “should’ve slid into your dms but i was a coward...not anymore.”
he spits on your clit, he watches it drip down then shoves two thick fingers inside you.
"s-shit! oh my goood."
“gonna make up for lost time,” he rasps. “gonna eat this pussy till you’re crying, then fuck you till you can’t walk. gonna fill you up so many times you’ll be leaking me for days.”
he curls his fingers inside you, pressing right against that spot that makes your hips jerk off the bed. his mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking hard now. all happening as he watches your face the whole time. your thighs start shaking around his ears, one hand fisted in his hair, the other clawing at the sheets like they'll save you.
"kuna f-fuck...i'm—"
he doesn't stop, if anything he goes harder. your back bows, breath punching out in short, broken gasps until the orgasm hits. you come on his tongue and fingers, it's both sloppy and greedy, not stopping until you're whimpering and trying to push his head away from oversensitivity.
he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and climbs up your body slow, caging you under him. his cock is straining against the gray sweats, a dark wet spot already soaking through where the head leaks. he kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and you moan into his mouth without shame.
"need to be inside you," he says against your lips. "been thinking about this too fucking long."
you nod, breathless. "got condom in that drawer."
he leans over, yanks the drawer open, rummages for a second and comes up with a foil packet. he pauses, eyebrows lifting as he looks back at you.
"you keep these around?"
your face heats. "yeah. just… in case, you know."
he tears the wrapper with his teeth, rolling the condom down his length slow while he watches your face. "just in case what? you actively fucking anybody right now?"
"no," you say quickly. too quickly maybe. "haven't in a while."
"are you?" this time you ask.
"no," his smirks, "after this i am." he strokes himself as he continues to look at you. "because after tonight nobody else is touching this pussy, understood?"
you swallow hard, nodding.
he strokes himself once more through the condom. he’s long—longer than you expected. he kneels between your spread legs again, his blunt head nudges your slick folds, parting you just enough to feel the stretch begin.
“eyes on me,” he orders.
he pushes in slow letting you feel every inch as he sinks deeper. your lips part on a silent gasp... the burn your feeling is exquisite, bordering on too much. halfway in he pauses, breathing through his nose like he’s fighting for control.
“fuck… so tight,” he moans. “gonna ruin me, aren’t you?”
you can’t form words yet, just a shaky whimper. your nails dig into his biceps, leaving crescent marks on inked skin.
he rolls his hips experimentally, grinding the base against your clit when he's all the way in. the pressure makes your back arch, a broken sound slipping out. he stays there letting you feel how deep he is—how completely he’s claiming the space inside you.
"so full 'kuna! so fuuull."
then he starts to move.
punishing thrusts that make the headboard knock against the wall. the rhythm is brutal from the start. he doesn't care for gentleness—every snap of his hips jolts your body forward, breasts bouncing under your thin shirt that he still hasn’t bothered to take off.
“look at you taking it,” he growls. “so proud of my girl."
he hooks one of your legs over his elbow, opening you wider so it's easier for both you and him. your eyes roll back, you can’t help it.
“that’s the spot, yeah? gonna make you come again... g-gonna make you soak my cock while i’m balls deep.”
your hands scramble for help—he hisses at the sting when you scratch his skin but fucks you harder for it, like the pain flips a switch.
“harder,” you manage to gasp, surprising even yourself.
his laugh is breathless. “greedy little thing.”
he shifts his weight, plants one knee on the mattress for leverage, and drives into you with punishing force. the bed creaks dangerously; something on your nightstand rattles. you don’t care. all you can feel is him stretching you open over and over until your mind blanks out.
he leans down, mouth crashing against yours in a open-mouthed kiss. messy as your tongues slide together, sharing the taste of sweat and sex and earlier orgasms. when he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips brush yours with every word.
“gonna come inside this condom so fucking hard,” he pants. “then next time—next time i’m doing it raw. gonna pump you full till it’s dripping out, mark you from the inside so you remember who owns this pussy.”
"b-but i already know."
"not enoughhh... shit cum baby, fuck!"
your orgasm reaches when he suddenly goes faster, your whole body giving in around him. walls fluttering and milking him so tight he curses through gritted teeth. your cry is muffled against his shoulder as you bite down, hard enough to leave teeth marks.
he doesn’t stop though. continues to thrusts without slowing down, chasing his own release. until his rhythm stutters, hips slamming erratically.
“fuckfuckfuck! take it—”
you feel him throb inside the condom filling it while his fingers dig bruises into your hips, holding you flush against him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
for long seconds neither of you moves. the faint smell of sex and his soap hanging heavy in the air.
finally he eases out slow, both of you hissing at the loss. he ties off the condom and tosses it, then collapses half on top of you, heavy and warm. one arm snakes around your waist, pulling you into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
his lips brush your temple, surprisingly soft after everything.
“go again?”
“no,” you rasp, voice hoarse from all the crying out you’ve done. “i’m tired, ‘kuna.”
the arm around your waist loosens for you to breathe easier. he shifts his weight, rolling mostly onto his back so you’re no longer pinned, though he keeps one hand splayed possessively over your hip.
“yeah? fair. you took it like a fucking champ.”
“can’t believe i had sex with the king of the court.” the words slip out sleepy and half-teasing, muffled against his chest. you feel the low rumble of his laugh start before you even finish the sentence.
you peek up through your lashes. his eyes narrow, the same look he used to give you when you’d call him out for cheating at street basketball as kids.
“never call me that,” he says.
you blink, innocent. “what? it’s true. they literally chant it. there are signs, jerseys, fan accounts. i saw one girl with your face tattooed on her—”
he cuts you off by rolling fast, sudden enough that you squeak, pinning you under him in one fluid motion.
“say it again,” he dares, voice dropping to that dangerous purr he saves for when he’s about to do something mean in the sweetest way. “go on. call me king of that shit one more time.”
you bite your lip to keep from grinning, but it’s useless. “king—”
he attacks.
fingers dig into your sides without mercy, tickling you ruthless. the spots he’s known since you were nine, the ones that make you fold instantly. you shriek, twisting under him, legs kicking uselessly as laughter punches out of you in helpless bursts.
“s-stop kuna... fuck—mercy!”
“nah,” he growls against your neck. “you don’t get to call me some arena nickname after i just fucked you stupid. that’s not my name to you.”
his hands move higher, under your ribs, relentless. you’re gasping, tears pricking your eyes from laughing so hard, trying and failing to shove his wrists away.
“okayokayokay," you surrender. "‘kunaaaa i'm gonna pee!”
he finally eases up after that, his palms flatten over your ribs, holding you down without tickling.
“better,” he mutters. “you call me ‘kuna but never that other shit. that’s for them, not you.”
“possessive much?”
“damn right.”
“fine,” you whisper. “no more king. just my ‘kuna.”
without a ride and any support, you find yourself at an abortion clinic with your roommate’s best friend, satoru gojo. do you do it, do you not do it, the thoughts haunt you, gojo’s there to stick by your side through it all.
★ PAIRING: frat!kuna x nerdy! fem reader x nerd!jo
★ CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ content, MDNI. topic of abortion. unplanned pregnancy. some angst.
★ WORD COUNT: 3k
★ JADE’S NOTES: accidentally might’ve turned this into a mini series gulp
part two of double shots and double lines
the couple crumpled up bills in your pocket feel like lead with each step you take back to your dorm, choosing to take the long way and prolong the minutes you had left to think about your decision. realistically, there's not much to think about, you know that much.
sukuna doesn't want to be a father, he doesn't bother talking to you when there's more than one person in your vicinity, and he'd essentially rid himself of all responsibility by handing the money over. that should be it, end of discussion. but you can't bring yourself to be 100% comfortable with the idea, even if you knew, you knew that it was the most reasonable option.
you're still a college student. a dorm building where trash cans are filled to the brim and then some and walls are thinner than parchment paper is no place to raise a baby, you know. and yet, the idea of completely getting rid of it doesn't sit right in the bottom of your gut.
shoko's sitting on the edge of the bed when you come in through the door, pretending to be engrossed in the black screen of her laptop. "how'd it go?" she finally looked up when you kicked off your shoes at the door, setting her laptop to the side.
you plopped down on your bed, a sigh leaving your lips. "surprise, the frat bro doesn't want a baby," you mutter, taking the money out of your pocket. shoko moves across the room, placing your head on her lap when she takes a seat.
she doesn't speak, not at first. she just offers her presence for the moment, her fingers rubbing at your shoulders in a way that make you slump back against her. letting the stress of the day pass you by. "and what do you want to do?" shoko finally decides to ask a couple minutes later, the question making your breath catch.
what do you want to do?
"i don't know what i should do," you mutter, eyes tightly wound shut as if you could simply blink away the situation if you tried hard enough. you couldn't—you'd already tried. "i think the safest bet's to get an abortion. he doesn't want anything to do with me, much less a baby."
a quiet hum left her lips, her movements slowing before resuming back again. "maybe he doesn't want anything to do with you, but you have to think about you too. think about your body and about how you feel about it. y'know i'll support you with whatever you choose."
and she had. when you finally came to the decision that it was something you wanted to get done, shoko had stayed up with you reading through reviews, through services, and looking through the different clinics nearby to find one you were satisfied with.
you'd been distracted the week leading up to your appointment, hesitating on picking up the phone and cancelling it before ultimately deciding it was for the best. your lecture notes had been half done at best, short little summaries of what your head could configure before getting distracted again.
and then the day came. since both you and shoko get around using the public transport at your disposal, she managed to get her friend, gojo, to pick you up and take you to the appointment. "don't worry. he'll just be there as your uber driver. you don't have to talk to him or anything."
gojo pulls up to your shabby dorm building in a sleek silver mercedes at exactly 7:55 A.M., already holding the passenger door by the time you'd stepped outside. "i read somewhere you shouldn't have coffee so i brought you a lemonade instead."
"thank you." it's sweet, but not overly sweet. exactly what you would've ordered. you find yourself wondering if shoko asked him to or if he simply did it out of his own accord. sukuna taught you not to think much of other people—you settled with it being the former.
there's a few protesters lining up the side of the building, yelling out a spew of insults at the first person that walks in through the door and waving their signs directly in their face. that makes you hesitate, your fingers hovering above the door handle.
"do you want me to go in there with you?" satoru clears his throat, looking over at you through the rear view.
"no, i'll be fine. you can just wait here, please." swallowing back whatever reservations you still held, you move to open up the door. your foot's barely out the door when satoru taps at your shoulder.
"okay, well, take my hoodie and headphones. you don't have to look or listen to them if you don't want to."
with a bright blue agumon hoodie and rain sounds (satoru joked about it being fried chicken before you left) playing on his headphones, you finally made your way into the building. pushing the hood over your head, you manage to block out the sight of the people yelling by your sides. the only thing you really see is their feet scuffing closer and closer before you're finally at the door.
it feels like a breath of fresh air when you finally step inside, you take a step up to the front, signing your name at the desk before taking a seat. there's a few other people seated, around six others, some young, some old, some the same age. you don't know what they're here for, if they're simply here for birth control or something else, but it does help to make you feel less alone.
your foot bounces against the floor while you wait for your name to be called, watching everyone else who'd been here before get ushered into a room by one of the nurses. it's a twenty minute wait (you counted), before that same nurse calls your name and ushers you into a room.
there's a couple routine questions that you need to answer—how often were you having sex, how far along was your pregnancy, were you absolutely 100% without a doubt certain you wanted to go with this procedure? once she finally finishes with her questionnaire, she takes your bloodwork, blood pressure, all the standard stuff.
and then she pulls out an ultrasound monitor. "considering that you're still in your early stages, we need to go in with a transvaginal screening. it's just a little probe that goes inside, you shouldn't be able to feel any pain," your nurse explains, taking a clean wand and lathering up in lube.
"you don't have to, but i'm still required to ask. do you want to see the monitor?"
"no, but thank you." you blink back a couple tears threatening to spill, the nurse turning the screen to the other side. you're not sure you could handle seeing the little thing you and sukuna created—even if it wasn't that much larger than a blueberry at the moment.
the lube feels cold as the wand is slid inside your vagina, the process taking a few minutes before it's done. it feels like it's lasted for an eternity by now. her face gives nothing away as she types away at her keyboard, occasionally turning to look over at the monitor.
"i know you just answered some questions but there's a counselor that you need to speak to before we go through with this procedure. it shouldn't take very long."
a short wait later until a counselor leads you to a office in the back, gesturing for you to take a seat on the grey couch pushed against the wall. and you do, the couch feels nice. it doesn't feel stiff like the ones you're used to around campus. the door's shut before she takes a seat next to you, a clipboard resting on her lap.
"good morning, my name's doctor hughes and i'll be asking you some questions before we get started with your procedure," she introduces herself with a small smile—just enough to be friendly, not enough to overbearing. you shake her hand and give her your name, her embrace warm but short.
"first one, how safe is your living environment?" she reads off the clipboard, tilting her head up to look at you.
"i live with my roommate, shoko. we live in a safe building and she doesn't have any violent tendencies," you respond, hands tightly clasped against your lap. dr. hughes takes note of that, scribbling something in her clipboard.
you're not sure how many minutes pass by of her running through the questions on her clipboard, each one focusing on how safe you were, if this was your decision, if you were coerced by any means to be here. dr. hughes marks one last thing on her paper before she sets the pen down, looking back over at you.
"im going to be explaining the procedure to you, if at any point you have any questions, feel free to stop me and ask." you nod, watching her pull out a series of different pamphlets.
you learn that there's two procedures:
mifepristone and misoprostol—the first one taken here at the clinic and the next taken a day or two later, some of the side effects including bleeding and abdominal pain.
and then the next is aspiration, where your cervix is opened and the cells are taken out. a short procedure, she claims, about ten minutes long, but one where you'd have to be under anesthesia.
you read through the pamphlets once, then twice, reading through all the different side effects, all the risks that are involved with each of the procedures available. "i think i'm leaning more towards the second option, please."
dr. hughes gives a curt nod, taking the pamphlets and jotting down something again on her clipboard. "since you're being put under anesthesia, do you have someone here waiting for you?"
"he's out in the parking lot." and as you speak, your mind refuses to let go of the fact that it should've been sukuna by your side instead. that it should've been him by your side at the appointment, should've been the one to reassure you and be with you throughout the process.
you're led to a different room across the hall now, a couple posters plastered onto the walls—ranging from vaginal health all the way to a diagram of a fetus in the back of the room. a blue gown sits on top of a hospital bed, the cold air hitting your body once you get undressed.
you're left alone for the first time in an hour, alone to be left thinking about this procedure. is it truly the right choice? you were so certain that it was, that it is, but you feel something clawing at the back of your head. trying to beg you to turn around and get out, that this was a decision you'd come to regret later on.
the door swings open.
"dr. hughes went over the procedures, so is there any that you're leaning towards?" your ob-gyn finally walks in through the door, the same kind of clipboard in hand. she looks at you expectantly, awaiting for your answer. there's nothing in her expression but calm, gentle understanding.
and you want to answer, you want to tell her something, you want to do anything other than just stare at her plainly. your tongue feels like quicksand, all the words that you're trying to get out sinking before you could articulate them. your hands clench by your sides, a tissue being passed your way before you even realize there's warm tears running down your cheeks.
"i-i'm sorry i can't do this, i gotta go," you mumble just loud enough for her to hear, heart thumping against your ears like a harsh drum. you make a quick stop to strip the gown off, getting dressed in your clothes, making a beeline out the door once you manage to get your shoes on.
the sound of your feet pounding against the linoleum floors echoes through your ears, the sound of the protesters, the flashing signs, everything, it all just builds into one mess that leaves you unable to even breathe. every breath you take feels like you're submerging underwater, desperately flailing your arms out to get to shore without any luck.
there's nothing you can focus on other than the shine of gojo's car, the only thing that can get you home. your fingers grip onto the door handle, slipping just as soon as you're about to get it open. frustration begins to seep into an ugly cocktail with the other emotions running rampant, your fingers forcefully pulling the knob open.
satoru's brows furrow with concern when you hastily step foot in the car, tear streaks running down your cheeks and breathing run ragged. your chest heaves like you can't get enough oxygen, your eyes focused on anything but him. his hand hovers in mid air, almost as if he's trying to discern if it's okay, before he rubs at your back.
you can practically see the wheels turning in his head, if he should say something or not. "is there something you want me to do?" his words come out in a quiet whisper, as if he's afraid of pissing you off even further. it would've made you laugh in different circumstances.
"can you just t-take me home? please?" your voice cracks with unshed tears, barely managing to get the words out. he nods, but he doesn't move immediately. his hand is steady against your back, rubbing it with all the care in the world as you slowly start to feel like your chest isn't caving in on itself anymore.
a deep exhale leaves your lungs. satoru pulls his hand away before speaking up again, "are you okay?"
(it's a ridiculous question. he realizes that the moment he opens his mouth, of course you're not doing okay. you can practically see him facepalm.)
but regardless, you find yourself nodding. "i'm okay."
the ride back home is spent in silence, which you can appreciate gojo for at least. there's no kind of music playing on the radio, no awkward attempts at conversation or any jokes. just the sound of the motor and the sight of the trees passing by. it takes little for the car ride to lull you to sleep, gojo's hoodie acting like a comfortable blanket as you curled up against the leather seat.
the car comes to a stop in front of a ice cream parlor, the parking lot completely and utterly deserted apart from one other car parked at the end. the person behind the counter, if you had to assume.
"i know you said you wanted to go home," gojo quickly speaks up before you can utter some kind of protest, "but you've had a hard day and i think some ice cream could do you good."
you can't bring yourself to protest the action, rubbing away the last remnants of sleep before getting out of his seatbelt. his movements are quick—akin to the flash, because in the next moment that you blink, he's already on the other side of the car and opening your door.
"why are you being so nice to me?" you break the silence, digging the spoon into your half eaten scoop of ice cream with more force than necessary.
"we were in the same group for astronomy. researching the average life of red giants. and you're the only one who actually tried on the project with me, you didn't expect me just to do the work for you," he responded, shrugging like it wasn't a memory you'd since forgotten about. "you're someone worth being nice to."
"you still remember that class?" you let out a quiet laugh, taking a spoonful of ice cream into your mouth, "that was like…four years ago."
"i still remember you." he takes an obscene bite out of his five scoops of unicorn flavored ice cream, "plus i'm pretty sure mmmph fuck this is good, shoko would have my ass if i wasn't nice to you."
"what ass?" that question has an exaggerated gasp leaving his lips and a napkin balled up and thrown in your direction.
the afternoon passes you in a blur of easy conversation and half melted ice cream, your fingers sticky by the time you're done. admittedly, you'd been planning to rot the whole day at home, avoiding any attempt at conversation with shoko or with anyone else. but it feels nice, it feels nice to talk to someone who isn't constantly looking over their shoulder.
satoru, you quickly come to learn, is surprisingly easy to talk to. the ride back home is full of digimon, of anecdotes about that astronomy class, about everything and anything that could fill the space. you'd thought of him as someone distant, difficult to talk to. someone who spent their time in front of a book. so did you. you supposed that's maybe why you got along so well.
the ride comes to an end in front of your building, gojo turning the engine over before leading you up the stairs to your dorm. you can't help but almost feel a surge of disappointment upon seeing him leave after having a good day with him, after getting to nerd out about guilmon and bread having a better friendship than kenta and kenzu.
"thank you for being here for me," you whisper once the two of you finally reach your door, giving him a small wave. you're fishing for your keys, digging through all the pockets in your purse. he can practically feel the seconds running out, the invisible clock ticking.
and before satoru steps away from your doorstep, he leans in and presses a small kiss on your forehead. an action that shouldn't have made your tummy flutter the way it did. if anything, you'd just blame it on fetus. yeah, that's what it had to be.
"if you need anything, whether that be a ride or something you're craving or something the baby needs, i'm here for you. not because of shoko or anything, but because i want to be," gojo whispered, leaving you one last reassurance before giving you his number in case. with that, he finally left for the night.
and as gojo's leaving, you could've sworn you heard the familiar roar of sukuna's car pulling off from the parking lot.
a/n: as this topic is quite serious, i hope that i was able to capture it as respectfully as possible. if you’ve ever been in this situation, just know that you took the best course of action at your disposal in that moment and i’m so incredibly proud of you. thank you for reading <3
☆ — plug!sukuna didn’t expect to fall for a manipulative brat with a pretty pout and god-tier pussy. now you own him.
genre/tags: smut, fluff, angst?, drug use (weed/edibles), casual power imbalance (sukuna is whipped as hell), light degradation/teasing, dry humping, oral (f. rec), overstimulation, breeding kink word count: 5.1k
never in his life did sukuna think he’d end up playing errand boy to some girl with shiny lip gloss and an attitude problem. and yet here he was— flicking through zelle requests with one hand while the other held up your bright pink tote bag, the one you insisted on using to “discreetly” carry your shit.
fucking ridiculous.
he should’ve known you were trouble the second you texted him “how much for pre-rolls? asking for a friend :)” and then followed it up two minutes later with “jk it’s for me. my lungs are sensitive. do u do delivery?”
delivery. as if he was fucking doordash.
but sukuna’s not stupid— he’s been around girls like you before. you bat your lashes, talk all soft, act like you don’t know what you’re doing. but you do. oh, you do. and for some reason, it works. because here he is, standing outside a party he didn’t even want to go to, hoodie up, blunt tucked behind his ear, waiting for you.
“oh my god, you actually came,” you say when you spot him across the yard, solo cup in hand, pink tongue peeking out to wet your lips.
“don’t act surprised,” he mutters, stepping forward. “you blew up my phone.”
you pout at him like he’s the one being difficult. “i thought you were ignoring me. you always leave me on read.”
“you always text me dumb shit.”
“and yet,” you grin, pulling him by the sleeve as you lead him toward the back of the house, “you always show up.”
sukuna clicks his tongue but follows anyway, because apparently his reputation means nothing when you’re looking up at him all sweet and sugarcoated, like you don’t already have him wrapped around your manicured little finger.
and he knows you’re full of shit, knows you’re not as innocent as you act. you’re just too pretty. too good at playing dumb. too good at leaning forward while pretending you “don’t know how to roll” and asking him to show you— knowing damn well your skirt rides up every time you shift in his lap.
he should’ve never agreed to the first favor. because now? now he’s somehow your personal dealer, weed tutor, and emotional support plug all rolled into one.
and you haven’t even let him hit.
yet.
+
sukuna wakes up the next day with a sore neck, red solo cup on his nightstand, and three unopened texts from you sitting pretty at the top of his lock screen.
you • 12:21 PM
hiiii did u get home safe ><
also
do u know how to make edibles ???
he stares at the screen for a second too long. groans. drags a hand down his face.
he should’ve said no. he was going to say no. but then you followed up with a selfie— some half-sweet, half-seductive bullshit of you holding a whisk and pouting in your kitchen like you were trying and “needed guidance.” said it’s “too confusing,” and that “smoking hurts your lungs” and “you trust him.”
you trust him.
so now he’s here— baking tray in hand, hoodie sleeves rolled up, googling “how to make brownies with weed but not make them taste like grass” while his roommates roast him from every angle of the apartment. he’s already spent the last two hours pacing between the kitchen and the living room, checking his phone every couple minutes as the oven timer ticked down, mumbling to himself and rereading your texts like they were sacred instructions. and to make matters worse, you hadn’t asked for anything normal— no brownies, no cookies, not even simple gummies— you wanted blondies.
blondies. the most annoying, temperamental, finicky bitch of a baked good.
it was bad enough that sukuna already didn’t know how to cook for shit, and now here he was trying to get the butter-to-weed ratio perfect for something he’s never even tasted before. your exact words had been, “not too strong, but not too weak. i wanna feel it, but like…cutely.”
whatever the hell that means.
his third and final attempt actually came out decent, which is the only reason he allowed gojo, geto, and toji to taste-test them without threat of violence.
“i don’t taste anything,” gojo says with his mouth full, kicking his feet up on the coffee table, “you sure there’s weed in this or did you just make a snack for your girlfriend?”
“she’s not my girlfriend,” sukuna mutters, slicing the tray into crooked squares.
“oh, she’s definitely your girlfriend,” geto hums, licking his thumb. “only explanation for why you’re baking at 1 am in a fucking apron.”
“it’s my apron,” gojo adds unhelpfully.
“he didn’t even charge her,” toji calls out from across the apartment. “was on the phone with her all night talking about sugar measurements and ‘do u prefer chewy or gooey?’ like a bitch.”
“i was just helping her,” sukuna says, reaching for the ziplocks in the drawer, trying not to look as flustered as he feels. “she didn’t know how to infuse the oil. and she was asking questions.”
“bro,” gojo deadpans. “she sent you a heart and now you’re making gourmet treats for free. be serious.”
he is serious. serious enough that he’s already snapping a picture of the finished batch before his roommates can tear into it any further.
sukuna • 2:21 AM
[Attachment: 1 Image]
they turned out fire
you • 9:03 AM
omggggg
ur literally the best
how much for like 6?? :o
he stares at your texts with one eye open, thumb hovering over the screen as he debates whether to say what he should say— or do what he always ends up doing.
sukuna • 9:08 AM
don’t worry abt it
i gotchu
you • 9:09 AM
what 🥺
nooo i feel bad now
lemme pay u pls
he’s about to respond with something chill and casual, something that doesn’t make him sound like a complete simp, when your next message comes in.
you • 9:10 AM
[Attachment: 1 Image]
i can pay in other ways maybe :3
jk jk
unless…? 👀
it’s a photo of your lips, pink and glossy, a little pout just dramatic enough to be intentional. the neckline of your t-shirt is slipping down your shoulder, bra strap peeking out, and you’re pressing your chest against your forearm to make your tits sit higher— just enough to make his brain short-circuit.
he doesn’t even blink.
sukuna • 9:11 AM
actually yeah no fr don’t even pay lmao
this one’s on me
when u want it?
you • 9:12 AM
u sure??
i’d hate for u to lose money ;(
sukuna • 9:13 AM
money comes n goes
ur satisfaction is priceless 🤭
dropoff or u coming to mine?
he doesn’t even like emojis. and yet here he is, typing one out like a clown, cheeks warm, heart thudding, already moving shit around on his schedule to make sure he’s home when you are.
after about a month and a half of being your full-time edible supplier slash unofficial emotional support plug, sukuna’s fully convinced you’re using him. and honestly? he doesn’t even care. he’ll make brownies, blondies, weed-laced cake pops shaped like little hearts— whatever you want.
if it means you keep texting him.
if it means you keep sending those pictures.
if it means you keep calling him “kuna” and telling your friends you’ve got a “special guy” who hooks you up.
his roommates keep calling him pussy-whipped. and maybe he is.
but when you text him “can u make sum w pink sprinkles this time? pretty pls?” he’s already preheating the oven.
+
enough time has passed that even sukuna can admit to himself— begrudgingly, silently, privately— that whatever this thing is between you two, it’s not exactly strictly business anymore.
sure, he’s still your plug. still drops off your weekly batch of cupcakes or brownies or cereal bars, whatever cute little edible treat you requested in your late night texts. but he’s also the one saving your name in his notes app with little hearts. the one checking the delivery time twice before knocking. the one you always invite inside now.
he’s convinced you’re evil. evil and dangerous and hot as fuck. and he doesn’t care. red’s his favorite color anyway.
“this is embarrassing,” toji mutters, nodding toward the mirror where sukuna is fixing his hair and checking his hoodie for cat hair before leaving. “you’re literally going over there just because she asked.”
“she said she wanted to see him,” gojo adds mockingly, holding his hands over his heart. “so romantic. so pure. so drug-fueled.”
“i’m literally just dropping something off,” sukuna snaps, grabbing the tupperware from the counter.
“then why the fuck did you put cologne on?” geto asks, not even looking up from his phone.
sukuna ignores them. leaves anyway.
by the time he pulls up to your place, he’s already mentally coached himself to be normal. be chill. just hand it off and go. no flirting. no lingering. no folding the second you bat your lashes at him.
you open the door in a tiny tank top and matching shorts and he immediately forgets every single rule he made for himself.
“you’re late,” you pout, pulling him in by the wrist.
“you never said a time,” he mutters, shutting the door behind him.
“still. i missed you.”
he doesn’t respond. just hands you the container, avoiding your eyes as you open it and gasp.
“oh my god, these are so cute!”
they’re heart-shaped this time. pink frosting. edible glitter. he won’t admit how many youtube tutorials it took.
“i love them,” you say sweetly, grabbing one and leaning against the counter. “wanna smoke?”
sukuna pauses. blinks. “what?”
you smile. “i mean… i did say i missed you.”
you end up on your couch together fifteen minutes later, his lighter in your hand and his hoodie now hanging off your shoulders because you claimed you were cold— even though you’re half sitting in his lap.
he lights the blunt for you slowly, his movements practiced and smooth, but his eyes keep flicking to your lips. “you sure you’re good?”
you nod. “i trust you.”
that word again. trust. the same one you always throw in at just the right time. it works every single time.
you’re nervous, though. he can feel it. can see it in the way your hand trembles slightly as you raise the blunt to your mouth. you take a cautious hit, coughing almost immediately, and he rubs your back as you groan into his shoulder.
“fuck,” you mutter. “that’s strong.”
“you good?” he asks again, softer this time.
you nod, snuggling closer. “just… don’t leave yet.”
sukuna swears under his breath, arms tightening around you without thinking. you’re warm and soft and high and dangerously close to making him fall for you completely.
“wasn’t planning on it,” he murmurs, and this time, it’s the truth.
he should’ve said no. should’ve left after the handoff. but now you’re curled up in his lap giggling about nothing, stealing puffs from his lips, and resting your cheek against his chest like you belong there.
you glance up at him, eyes glossy. “hey, ‘kuna?”
“hm?”
“you ever fuck while high?”
his whole body goes still— as if that question alone was enough to alter his brain chemistry. whatever half-baked thought he was chasing evaporates completely.
you smile, slow and wicked.
and just like that, sukuna’s fucked.
your lips are on him before he can even process what’s happening.
soft. slow. sweet at first. a lingering drag of cherry balm and weed smoke as you slot your mouth over his, pressing in like you’ve done it a hundred times before— like this isn’t the first time, just something you do when you’re bored, high, and feel like ruining someone.
his hand flies to your waist instantly, pulling you tighter, grounding himself as your tongue lazily swipes across his bottom lip. he parts for you with no hesitation, already drunk on the scent of you, the weight of you on his lap, the whimper you let out when he sucks on your tongue.
you taste too good. smell too good. feel too fucking good. your hips are already shifting— slow, grinding little movements like you’re testing him, seeing just how far he’ll let you go.
and the answer is all the way.
he groans low in his throat as your core presses flush against the bulge in his sweats, your thin sleep shorts doing nothing to hide how warm and wet you are through the fabric. he can feel it— can feel the heat and the slight dampness and the way you gasp against his mouth when his hips buck up into yours.
“fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “you’re gonna kill me.”
“mm…not yet,” you giggle, lacing your fingers behind his neck. “still need you for a few things.”
you roll your hips again— slower this time, deeper— and he physically shudders, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs.
“jesus christ,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut as you move against him. “you’re, fuck, you’re soaked.”
“mhm,” you hum, brushing your nose against his cheek. “told you i missed you.”
your tone is all sugar and satin but your hips are grinding like you want to break him. and he wants to be broken. wants to be used. wants to lay back and let you ride his thigh or his cock or his fucking face if it’ll make you keep making those breathy little sounds every time your clit drags against the ridge of his length.
he kisses you harder this time, messier— spit-slick and tongue-heavy, teeth dragging your bottom lip until you whimper. his hands grip your ass and guide your movements, slow grinds back and forth, letting your body rock against him while his cock twitches helplessly under the fabric.
“sukuna,” you whisper, all high and whiny, fingers tugging his hair. “feels good…”
he growls, hips stuttering. “keep going, baby. fuck, grind on me just like that. keep goin’, yeah…”
you’re panting now, mouth glossy and puffy from his kisses, hips faltering as you ride the length of him through the layers of fabric. your cunt is soaked, sticky and hot against the tent in his sweats—and every time your clit catches against the tip, your thighs twitch and your breath hitches.
“s’too much,” you whisper, but you don’t stop.
you can’t. he’s too hard. too hot. too much. and he’s everywhere. on your lips, under your hands, between your legs.
“you wanna cum?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “grind that pretty little pussy on my cock, yeah? i’ll make you cum just like this. don’t even gotta take your clothes off.”
you moan— loud and unfiltered, your forehead pressing into the crook of his neck, hips jerking forward faster, sloppier now. it’s wet. filthy. the friction sends shockwaves through you both, underwear completely soaked, sweat beading down your back as you hump him like a fucking pillow.
his hands roam, palming your tits over your shirt, fingers tugging at the neckline to expose more skin, thumbing over your nipple until you gasp. and when you arch your back, riding him harder, crying out into his shoulder— he thinks he might actually cum untouched.
“baby,” he rasps, rutting up against you with ragged breaths, “lemme eat it.”
you freeze.
“i mean it,” he pants, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “please. lemme taste you. wanna eat you out so bad. been fuckin’ dreamin’ about it.”
your stomach flips at the sound of his voice, low and desperate, completely wrecked with undying need— and when you pull back to look at him, his eyes are black.
“say yes,” he begs, gripping your ass. “just say yes, baby, i’ll make you feel so fuckin’ good, i’ll eat it til you’re shaking, i swear—”
you smile.
and slowly climb off his lap.
he stares up at you, chest heaving, lips parted, pupils blown wide.
“bedroom?” you ask, cocking your head.
he nods so fast it’s pathetic.
+
he gets you on the bed in less than ten seconds.
you’re barely halfway through peeling off your shorts before sukuna’s dragging them down for you, muttering curses under his breath the entire time. his hands are relentless— palming your thighs, kneading your ass, thumbing the wet spot on your panties like he can’t believe it’s real.
“fuck,” he groans, head dropping low so he can mouth at the fabric. “you’re soaked. you fuckin’ ruined these.”
“i told you i missed you,” you breathe, lifting your hips to let him tug your panties down.
“nah, this—” he pauses to spread your legs wider, jaw clenching at the sight of your glistening pussy, folds slick and sticky and already twitching from how worked up you are. “this ain’t just missin’ me. this is obsession.”
he leans in and spits directly on your cunt.
you gasp. he grins. and then he dives in.
no teasing. no warm-up. just full, nasty suction against your clit as his tongue works tight circles around it, lips wrapping around the swollen bud with a groan that vibrates against your core. it’s wet— obscenely so— the lewd sounds echoing off the walls as he eats you like he’s starving.
your hands fly to his hair instinctively, fingers curling in his soft pink strands as your thighs clamp around his head. he flattens his tongue and drags it up your slit, gathering all your slick on the way, moaning into your pussy like it’s the best meal he’s ever had.
“taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he mumbles, sounding muffled against your folds. “could live down here.”
he’s messy. slurping. sucking. scissoring you open with two fingers so he can tongue-fuck you deeper. when he pulls back to breathe, his chin is shiny, lips swollen, and he immediately spits on your clit again just to smear it around with the tip of his tongue.
“nngh, wait- m’gonna cum again,” you whimper, back arching off the mattress. “fuck, ‘kuna, slow down—”
“can’t,” he pants, rutting his hips into the bed. “you taste too fuckin’ good. pussy’s so fuckin’ pretty, baby, shit- feels like a dream.”
he wraps his arms under your thighs and pulls you closer, locking you in place. sucks your clit into his mouth again and flicks it over and over with his tongue until your legs are shaking and your fingers are pulling at his hair like you’re trying to hold on for dear life.
“c’mon, pretty girl,” he coaxes between licks, voice low and ruined, “wanna feel you cum on my tongue. need it. please, baby- gimme that shit. cum for me.”
you cry out— hips jolting, thighs clenching around his ears— you cum hard, voice breaking on a sob as your orgasm crashes over you. he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even slow down. just moans into your pussy and keeps sucking, licking, overstimulating you through every aftershock until you’re writhing and gasping and trying to shove his head away.
he finally lets up with a groan, pulling back with a wet ‘pop’. his lips are shiny. his chin is dripping. and when he looks up at you?
he looks feral.
“you good?” he asks, climbing up your body and kissing your collarbone, your jaw, your lips. “you with me, baby?”
you nod, still breathless. “fuck…”
“mhm.” he nudges his nose against yours, his cock hard and leaking against your thigh. “can i- can i just…?”
you blink up at him. “just what?”
his hand wraps around the base of his dick, guiding it between your thighs until the tip is brushing your clit— thick and hot and swollen. he drags it slowly up your slit, spreading your arousal all over himself with a low grunt.
“just this,” he murmurs, hips rolling forward to grind the head against your clit. “just wanna feel you, s’not even in yet- fuck, you feel so good already—”
you moan, thighs spreading for him automatically. he keeps grinding against you, cock sliding up and down your folds, tip catching your entrance every so often just to make you squirm.
“you want it?” he whispers. “wanna feel me inside, baby?”
he’s teasing. unraveling you. seamlessly gliding over your clit again and again until you’re twitching and chasing every lazy roll of his.
“beg me,” he breathes, voice cracking. “say you want it.”
you moan, eyes fluttering— but you hesitate, lips parted, a quiet whimper caught in your throat. you don’t wanna give him the satisfaction. not entirely. but your body betrays you anyway, clenching, reacting, practically pleading for more with every slick grind of his cock against your folds.
he doesn’t slip it in right away.
no, he keeeps teasing, just to mess with you at first. drags the fat tip up and down your pussy like it’s something he owns, spreading your slick until it coats his cock in a glossy sheen. you try to keep your breathing steady, try not to whine too loud, but the second he taps your clit again with the head— just right— you gasp and grab at his hips like you might cry if he doesn’t fuck you soon.
“fuck,” you hiss, voice hoarse, “quit teasing and just—” you pause, teeth gritted. “just fuck me already. you know i want it.”
but he still doesn’t give it to you. he keeps pulling back, smearing his precum all over your clit, lets it mix with your slick until it’s dripping down the curve of your ass and soaking the sheets beneath you.
“look at this fuckin’ mess,” he grits out, fisting himself at the base. “this all you, baby? or was it me eatin’ you out like a slut?”
you swallow hard. glare up at him, lashes wet. “don’t act like you didn’t love it.”
he smirks.
because he did.
and now he’s gonna make you say please.
you gasp when he taps the tip against your entrance again, teasing your hole but not pushing in, just letting you feel it, thick and heavy and right there.
“sukuna,” you whimper, legs falling open wider.
“yeah?” he pants, eyes glued to where you’re spread for him. “you ready f’me now? finally gonna let me fuck this perfect little pussy?”
you nod fast, breath catching, a broken little sound slipping out as your hips lift for him— quiet, desperate, not even trying to hide it anymore.
and that’s all it takes.
he sinks in slow at first, only the head of his cock stretching you open, and even that makes you tense all over, nails digging into his shoulders as your body jerks up from the pressure.
“fuuuuck,” he growls, head falling to your shoulder as he slowly pushes deeper. “you’re- fuck- you’re squeezin’ me so tight already, baby, holy shit…”
you’re so tight he can barely breathe. so warm, so wet, so fucking perfect that he swears his knees almost give out. he has to pause halfway in, breathing ragged, forehead pressed to yours.
“shit,” he huffs, hips twitching. “y’gonna break me.”
you’re clenching around him— walls fluttering, sucking him in— and the deeper he goes, the more you gasp, the more your legs shake, the more you whine his name like it’s the only thing you remember how to say.
“more,” you beg, wrapping your legs around his waist. “need it all, ‘kuna. please—”
he groans like it physically hurts, grabs you by the thighs and slams the rest of his cock inside in one brutal thrust.
you both cry out.
your back arches. your eyes roll back. your pussy clamps down so hard he nearly blacks out.
“jesus fucking christ,” he snarls, pulling out just enough to slam back in, “this pussy’s unreal- made for me, swear to god- fuck, baby, you hear that? you hear how wet you are?”
and it’s loud. squelching and sticky and filthy, your slick making a mess of his cock every time he drives back in. he sets a brutal rhythm fast, pounding into you like he’s trying to bury himself in your womb, muttering curses under his breath between every slap of skin against skin.
“take it,” he pants, grabbing your waist and pulling you down onto his cock, “take it all, baby, c’mon, i know you can. been teasing me for weeks, you can take this dick.”
you moan, gasping his name, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from how deep he’s hitting. your legs tremble, belly clenching as your orgasm creeps up again— faster this time, sharper, your body too sensitive from how long he’s been working you open.
“s-slow down, t-too much—” you whimper, words coming out shaky and slurred.
“nah, it’s not enough,” he growls, snapping his hips harder, “you’re takin’ it so fuckin’ good, baby, feel that? feel how deep i am?”
his hand slips between your bodies and presses down on your lower belly, right where he’s bulging inside you.
“that’s me,” he murmurs, slowing just enough to grind his cock into you. “right there, baby. stuffed so full of me. pussy’s mine, yeah?”
you nod. moan. sob out a yes, yes, all yours, and that’s when he snaps.
he flips you. manhandles you onto your hands and knees, one hand in your hair, the other gripping your hip as he fucks into you from behind with no mercy.
the sound of skin slapping fills the room, his balls smacking against your soaked pussy with every thrust. the headboard rattles. the sheets are soaked. your voice is ragged— gasping, crying, moaning his name over and over while he slams into you like he’s trying to rearrange your guts.
“wanna cum in this pussy so bad,” he groans, leaning over your back, hips still slamming. “wanna fuckin’ fill you up, baby. wanna see it drip out. you’d like that, huh?”
you nod, frantically. “please, ‘kuna- fuck, please—”
“you want my cum?” he growls, hand sliding around to rub your clit. “say it. tell me you want me to fuck a baby in you.”
your eyes roll back, pussy clenching hard as you weep from the overwhelming pleasure. “want it- fuck- put it in me, fill me up, i wanna keep it,” you cry, barely coherent. “wanna feel it dripping out- wanna feel you inside even after.”
and then you scream.
your orgasm hits like a freight train— sudden, devastating, body locking up as you gush around him, legs giving out, mouth falling open in a silent, shaking cry while he keeps fucking you through it, relentless, deep, as if he’s trying to imprint himself inside you.
he doesn’t cum.
not yet.
he pulls out slow, cock shiny and throbbing in his fist as he strokes himself, watching your pussy pulse around nothing, more slick pouring out of your hole while he smears it back over your folds.
and then he lines it up again.
grinds it against your aching clit in lazy circles, savoring the way your hips still twitch for it. the way you’re trembling, overstimulated, panting into the sheets like you can barely hold yourself together.
“one more,” he whispers, sound completely wrecked. “just gimme one more, baby. i’ll put it in after. promise.”
and you, still dazed out of your mind, nod weakly.
you’ll let him.
because at this point, you want him just as bad.
you’re still shaking when he slides back in.
slow. steady. not as brutal this time, more like he’s worshipping it now. loving the way your pretty cunt parts for him again, fluttering and dripping, still soaking wet from how hard he made you cum.
“there you go,” he mutters, one hand spreading your ass so he can watch himself disappear. “just like that, baby. takin’ me so fuckin’ easy now.”
you whimper into the sheets, body limp under him as he starts to move again— deep, dragging every inch of his cock out until only the tip remains, then pushing all the way back in until his hips are flush against your ass.
schlk. schlk. schlk.
the sound is filthy. wet. the kind of sound that would make someone blush if they walked by the door right now. but you don’t give a fuck. you’re gone. brain fuzzy, eyes glossy, mouth open with every shaky moan he pulls out of you.
“this pussy’s mine now,” he groans, “you hear me? ain’t no one else touchin’ you again. you’re fuckin’ mine.”
you nod. gasp. sob out his name when he hits that same spot inside you that makes your visions turn white.
“say it,” he pants, hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. “say it’s mine.”
“it’s yours,” you choke out. “fuck, ‘kuna- it’s all yours, promise—”
“that’s right,” he growls, hips snapping even faster, “only i get to fuck you like this. only i get to see this pussy cream for me. say you want my cum, baby. say you want me to fill you up and make it stay.”
you cry out, clenching around him so tight it makes his hips stutter.
“please,” you gasp, “cum in me, want it so bad- wanna feel it, wanna be full—”
he loses it.
slams into you one last time, deep and rough, cock throbbing as he unloads everything inside you with a broken moan against your shoulder. you can feel it— hot, heavy spurts painting your walls, thick ropes spilling out around the base of his cock as he grinds into you slowly, fucking it deeper, whining through the overstimulation.
“fuckfuckfuck,” he gasps, hips twitching. “so good, baby- so fucking good, i’m gonna lose my mind…”
you’re both breathing hard. sweaty. trembling. legs sore, pussy dripping, bodies tangled in the sheets as he finally— finally— slows to a stop.
and for a moment… everything’s quiet.
his head drops to your back. you’re still panting into the pillow. his cum is everywhere— inside, outside, leaking down your thighs and making a mess on the sheets. his cock slips out with a wet squelch, pulsing against your skin.
“holy shit,” he whispers.
you hum.
and then, after a pause—
“go get me some water.”
he blinks.
“what?”
you shift a little, nudging him with your heel. “i’m thirsty. go.”
he lets out a breathless laugh— totally fucked out, sweaty, pink-haired, covered in your slick and still catching his breath— and drags himself out of bed without argument.
“yes, princess,” he mutters, grabbing his boxers off the floor and stumbling toward the kitchen. “anything else, your highness?”
you grin. stretch.
“maybe some fruit. ooh, and another edible.”
he scoffs, but you hear the fondness in it. hear the smile in his tone when he says, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”
you hum again.
“good thing you’re mine now.”
he doesn’t even try to argue.
because he is.
your plug. your bitchboy. your boyfriend.
still delivers your weed. still makes your edibles. still sends you pictures before every drop-off.
but now he gets to eat you out too.
so really… everyone wins.
i literally made this blog just to get this fic out of my system lol ok baiiiii <3
changing is scary but so is staying the same changing is scary but so is staying the same changing is scary but so is staying the same changing is scary but so is staying the samechanging is scary but so is staying the same changing is scary but so is staying the same
tangentwithtanner
dededos
prguitarman
stormborns
kaledo-art
baratheonpilled
jbbartram-illu
