Satoru Gojo is the top masseuse at this fine establishment - he's the best at giving his clients the happiest endings. Yet you are by far the most tense damn girl he's ever touched.
"Shit, you're all locked up," he mumbles, those long fingers gliding across your muscles, pressing into your skin with that jasmine scented oil. "You good, sweetheart?"
"Mmm, not really," you mumble, sucking in a breath when he starts pressing harder on your sore, aching muscles. "Ah! You're so rough!"
"Well normally I just finger girls, you actually need a damn massage," you snort and he chuckles a bit, pausing when you turn your head to look at him, pretty eyes all dilated.
You're so fucking pretty.
This elegant pretty that comes from being in your late twenties that is his weakness - Satoru is twenty three but he loves a thirty year old milf. He just can't help his tastes, really, especially when they blush all sweet like you.
He's no poor college student trying to make it, no - he's rich enough to buy this entire spa twenty times over. Satoru is here for the joy of it, carpal tunnel and all can't stop him from making sure he got these clients off. Nothing really is as fulfilling as watching a woman come apart under his long fingers.
Making them squirt is truly a fucking art form.
But he never has felt this much tension, he's having to put his actual skills to use for once - and honestly? Satoru was better at fingering than rubbing backs.
He tugs that tiny towel down, till it's barely covering your ass, thumbs gliding in on those cute dimples. He vividly pictures how pretty your hips would be in his big ass hands - breedable hips that are wreaking havoc on his brain.
He's usually pretty unaffected, used to this, but the way you arch and whine out fucks him up.
Satoru kneads those thumbs into your hips now, a couple stretch marks right on them making him throb - he's not kidding when he says he loves a milf. You're gasping out, little filthy sound ruining him, he can't help but raise a brow.
"Hmm, husband not doing it for you?"
"I'm separated now..." You mumble, peeking at that spot your wedding band left a line.
You're still technically 'married' to your shitty husband Naoya, who had always been terrible, but recently fucked someone right in your bed, and had the utter audacity to act offended when you left. So what better to cheer you up, then to have someone work all that frustration out?
"Bad split?"
"You could say that..." you can't stop arching up a more, he takes the hint and slides his hands up your ribcage, eliciting a soft little moan.
Fingers glide down the sides of your breasts, your cunt is dripping wet then - the very recent memory of your cheating husband washed away with every glide of long fingers on your skin.
"You like me touching right here, sweetheart?" He asks softly. you moan, nodding. "Then turn around for me."
You obey easily, blushing a bit, his hands brushing oil on your tits, making your lashes flutter shut, covering up just a bit.
"Don't, you're sexy.."
You blush even more if that were possible, breasts rising and falling as his huge hands knead that flesh, plucking at your nipples. Satoru moves to stand right over your head, the view of his cock tenting his pants fucking you up.
"You're getting the highest tip," he snorts at that.
"Oh?" He's gliding more oil across your tummy, leaning over to part your thighs and eye your slick pussy, hesitating just a bit - this is where he likes to let the clients guide him. "Put my hand where you want."
"Oh..." your heart hammers in your chest as you slip it down further, he lets out a soft little moan when his fingertips are right between your slit. "Mnh!"
"You don't need any oil there," he muses softly, teasing fingers slipping up your slit, making you jolt as they toy with your twitchy clit. Your hips arch as he teases your entrance, slick pouring from your little hole down his fingers. "So wet already, we just started the massage.... your little cunt is so needy."
All you manage is your eyes rolling back in your skull - your man just never made you cum, and your own fingers didn't feel close to as good as those five inch fingers did.
You swear they're bigger than your ex's cock.
Rough fingertips dip in your slick just to the first knuckle, slutty little moans escape your throat at it.
"Feel good?" He murmurs softly, one hand holds your thigh apart, the other swirls around your messy cunt and sliding in. "You're so tight here, too, I think need to loosen you up."
"Please," this slutty masseuse with pretty blue eyes pumps your pussy full - stretching you out with these sweet nurn6, that spongy spot he presses, making you gasp out, back arching off the little bed. "Mnh, there, there!"
"Shh, not too loud," he leans fully over you to press a kiss on your inner knee - that was not protocol, not when he couldn't stop thinking of drinking your pussy and breeding you. "Your cunt is already so loud."
You huff, earning another chuckle, when suddenly you can't help but tug at his zipper, sliding so your head dangles off the bed. He pauses, blushing and looking down at you, fingers sliding out.
"What are..." You look up all pretty with hearts in your eyes for him, biting your lip, thighs shaking.
"I really want your cock in my throat, I'll pay so much more," he almost laughs.
Paying him to suck his cock!?
"You sure, sweetheart? This is for you."
"I'll love it if you would like it," you turn around, on your elbows and knees, looking right up at him as he frees his cock. "Is this special treatment?"
"It is, can't say anyone's touched me," he mumbles, suddenly nervous, when you've got your mouth wrapping his cock, his head falls back, groan slipping from his throat as that tip grazes the roof of your mouth.
You didn't look the type to suck a dick down your throat like you have no gag reflex - but here you are, swallowing him like you can't get enough. Your oiled up ass is arched, Satoru reaches a long arm over you, one hand entangled in your hair, the other finding your hole and fucking his fingers in and out.
The loud sounds of your squelching pussy and his cock choking your slutty throat are loud, the stupid ass spa music falling on deaf ears as he thinks he's in love with your mouth.
"F-fuck you're... too good at..." He's never one to be at a loss for words, but with every glide of his pretty pink tip in your throat, you're swallowing impossibly more of him. "That's it - fuck, just like..."
Satoru bites down on his lower lip as he shoves the back of your head so he's choking you with his length, curling his fingers just right so you squirt right down him. Dripping in rivulets you're making the biggest mess, squishing sounds loud when he rushes his fingers side to side to make you squirt even more.
"Mmmph," tears streak down your eyes as you swallow Satoru's cock, thighs shaking on the leather bed, nails pressing into well muscled thighs. His grip on your head tightens as he bends over, fucking your throat even faster
"Want me to use your throat, cum deep inside it, huh sweetheart? Use your mouth like a pretty toy till all my cum makes you full?" Your answer is to desperately suck, two of his hands now on your head. Hips snapping, cock fucking in and out.
For a woman who had nothing but missionary and a little spit on your cunt as lube, you've never wanted to please like this. You want him to use yojr throat - fuck you would let him use every hole he wanted, looking up at him to see his flushed cheeks through your watering eyes.
"Mnh, m"gonna..." he cups your face to hold it in place, cock bottoming out so his drool soaked balls press on your chin. He pumps so much cum his knees are weak, he damn near has to cling to the bed as you keep sucking. "That thirsty? Gonna suck me dry..."
You keep sucking even as he is sensitive, Satoru pulls back and looks at the mess he's made of you, cum having slipped down your chin. He gathers it and slips it back between your lips.
"Open for me, pretty."
You eagerly listen- you, a soccer mom having this white haired masseuse spit in your open mouth in a filthy string. You eagerly swallow him up, earning him yanking you to your knees, kissing you right when the little timer goes off for his next client.
"Oh," you flush as you realize just how much you loved that, tying your robe hastily and almost bouncing at the door before he stops you.
"Hey," he tilts your chin up, pressing you against the door. "Can I see you again? Like... dinner or..."
"You want to go on a date? With me?"
"Nervous about a date but you just let me spit in your mouth?" he grins and you cover your face now.
"Oh god..."
"Pretty please?"
He is pretty sure he is in love when you give him your number and peck a kiss on his cheek.
and when he has to cancel his next client, it may or may not be because he's jerking his cock to the way your juices are still coating his fingers 💗
"It's all right princess, you can take us," Suguru murmurs in your ear, brushing your hair back to one side of your neck, kissing it all sweet like his cock isn't pressing into your cunt - stretching it right out with Satoru's length already buried, his pretty pink tip kissing your cervix.
"Relax, baby... f-uck you're so tight," Satoru's whimpering as he feels Suguru's tip sliding in right along side his. You're quivering around them both, nails digging into Satoru's shoulders, thighs shaking.
"Breathe," Suguru reminds you - it's stuck in your throat, you're so full already with Satoru's huge cock as you straddle him, Suguru easing from behind with just enough pressure to have you gushing down both of them. "You're taking us so well."
"Perfect, you're such a good girl," Satoru barely manages to speak, already coated in your slick with your gummy walls pulsing around him, he kisses down the curve of your pretty tit, lips wrapping around one of your nipples. "Mmm, so good."
You're struggling as their plump lips dance across your skin, leaving love marks as their fingers press into your thighs, your hips, the flesh giving underneath strong grips. You whine out when Suguru gets a little deeper, making you gasp, your head falling back against his chest.
"Toru... Sugu I..." You're so full when Suguru bottoms out, his pelvis flush against your ass with a loud smack. The stretch is overwhelming - Satoru's thick shaft pressing against your anterior wall, Suguru hitting those spots from behind.
They're so deep you can feel them in your stomach, the pressure so much you can't help but whine out, having blue eyes on your face hungry and dazed, Suguru's teeth sinking into your shoulder.
"Ngh! So much... too much..."
"Look at her," Suguru murmurs, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, holding you steady as he begins to move in and out of you, his balls tightening as he feels himself gliding right along Satoru's thick length. "Already cock drunk and we haven't even started with you - tsk, such a slutty little princess."
Satoru chuckles breathlessly against your breast, his tongue swirling around an aereola, his hand on your tummy, he can't help but whine out when he feels the bulge of his cock. "She's always so needy with us, aren't you sweetheart? Needed both of us in your pussy, couldn't just have one?"
"Ngh," you don't have an answer, just your back arching as they guide your hips.
"Answer him, pretty," Suguru murmurs, turning your face and kissing your lips, saliva dripping as Satoru thrusts up into your cunt, and Suguru stays still. "God, you're made for us, aren't you?"
"Yes," you whisper, making Satoru scowl now, biting your tit. "Ow!"
"You answer him but not me!?" He glares and shoves up hard, making you gasp out and giggle. "No way you're giving him more attention right now."
"Stop being so jealous, Satoru," Suguru laughs, but when the friction of your snug walls and Satoru's cock moving against him hits, he can't stop his own moan.
"Jealous, me? No she loves me more than you," Satoru sucks in a breath - you're dripping around them, making obscene wet sounds that echo in the room, the squelches and squishes of your needy hole being filled has him leaking. "Don't you, tell him."
"Love you both," you mumble, Satoru bites your other tit when Suguru laughs, pulling back his cock and gliding in slow, taking over as Satoru stays snug and buried.
"Please," you're not even sure what you're begging for - for them to slow down? For them to go faster? For them to both pump their ropes of white cum inside?
"Please what, princess?" Suguru's breath tickles your ear, his cock shoving in and making you almost fall apart. "Please fuck you harder?"
"Hmm," Satoru continues his torture, chuckling as he kisses up your neck, huge hands gripping your ass. Suguru's cock feels so good moving against him - not that he'd admit that, plus he loves your walls quivering around him even more. "Please ruin this slutty little pussy?"
"Mmnph," you're not able to speak, drool spilling down the side of your mouth as they move. Every drag of their cocks against your walls has you about to fall apart, your nails leaving crescent marks in Satoru's pretty skin, hips rocking on their own. "Close, close!"
"Cum for us then," Suguru says softly, his long dark locks brushing over your shoulder as he tugs you down fully. "Let us feel you milk us, huh?"
"Don't you want all our cum? Want us to breed your needy cunt?" Satoru asks, biting back a whine and kissing up your throat, already pulsing himself.
"Y-yes I... ngh!" Your walls clench around them now as you shatter, squirting all down their lengths as they groan from the feeling of it, of your walls clamping down so that their tips are shoved together, the two of them losing it right with you. "Please, please..."
"God, look at you," Satoru gasps out as your aftershocks hit him, your slick pooling down and soaking the little white patch of hair underneath his belly button. "So fuckin' pretty, squirting for us?"
"You deserve to get filled, hmm?" He whispers, kissing you once more, laughing softly as he swipes your drool. "Princess, did we fuck you dumb already?"
Your answer is a little whine, cunt stretched impossibly as they quicken their movements, their moans slutty and filthy in your ears. Your lashes flutter shut as the pressure hits. "Cum in me, please..."
They of course give you what you need - their cum mixing with each others' as their tips spurt out, the two of them moaning as they cling to you, hugging your body between the two six foot four men. You feel it all, every spurt that floods you, sweat breaking out on your skin, Satoru leaning up and kissing your lips all desperate.
"Fuck you're already pushing all that out," Satoru murmurs, you giggle all breathless, suddenly feeling just how stuffed full you still are. Suguru drags you for another kiss just for Satoru to turn your head back, until their lips brush together. "Mmm, stop kissin' me Sugu."
"Our dicks are touching?"
"Yeah well," he's blushing, making you giggle just a bit. "What I tried not to think about that part!?"
"Sure, Toru," he glares and lifts you off them, the mix of their fluids just dripping down their cocks. "Mnh!"
"Look at the mess you made princess," Suguru's hand entangles in your hair and tugs, your core tightens as he looks down under those dark lashes at you. "Don't you think you should clean us up?"
synopsis : satoru gojo’s life is a meticulously curated empire of protein shakes, gym selfies, and the unwavering adoration of six million followers. he’s got it all down to a science, a perfect balance of macros and influence that’s starting to feel just a little empty. but when a late-night scroll leads him to your quiet corner of the internet, everything changes. it’s not about your face—he’s never seen it. it’s about your hands, steady and dusted with flour, and your voice, a warm, patient hum that makes him forget all about his post-workout cardio. suddenly, the man who prides himself on control finds himself completely obsessed with a baker who offers something sweeter and far more dangerous than any cheat meal: a little bit of peace.
or: he could break the internet with a single photo, but he’s about to risk it all for a girl who accidentally liked his post one time.
wc ࣪— 39k ִֶָ☾. tags -> f!reader, plot with porn, influencer au, modern setting, fluff, humor, banter, slow burn, food as a love language, mutual pining, eventual smut, sexual tension, making out, food play, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, praise kink, marking, satoru goes feral, unsafe sex, rough sex, size kink, it won’t fit trope, breeding kink, creampie, aftercare, domestic fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, marriage proposal, wedding fluff, happy ending
athy says, hi my lovies, i'm looking at my follower count and i genuinely can't believe we've hit 9k before this little blog of mine is even six months old. thank you, from the bottom of my heart. this fic has been simmering away in my drafts for what feels like an eternity, and i wanted to dedicate it to all of you as a thank you. it's super soft, a little cheesy, and hopefully the perfect thing to curl up with. i hope you all enjoy it!! ♡(ӦｖӦ｡)
satoru gojo has never needed hashtags to break the internet.
he knows this the same way he knows his post-workout selfies could fund a small country’s economy, the same way he knows that the gym mirror loves him more than his own mother ever did.
so when he drops his phone against his sweat-dampened chest and angles it just right—shadows cutting across the landscape of muscle he’s carved with religious devotion, that mess of hair catching the fluorescent light like spun moonlight, eyes the color of winter storms narrowed in that signature smirk—he doesn’t bother with captions longer than “cardio day.”
six million followers don’t need context. they need salvation, and apparently, he’s their god.
the likes pour in before he’s even toweled off. comments that would make his grandmother clutch her pearls, fire emojis that could melt antarctica, marriage proposals in seven languages. satoru scrolls through them with the bored satisfaction of someone who’s never had to wonder if he’s attractive, clocking the trending status of his latest flex, watching the numbers climb.
after a few minutes of basking in the chaos he just unleashed—thousands of girls twisting in their sheets, thirsting themselves half to death—he flicks over to reels. it’s a casual, almost lazy motion, like a king turning away from the adoration of his court once he’s had his fill.
his reels are the usual rotation: endless loops of protein shake hacks, questionable “science-backed” mobility drills, and gym bros flexing in worse lighting than his bathroom mirror. sometimes a cooking video sneaks in—grilled chicken recipes that look like punishment meals, pre-workout snacks no sane person would enjoy, the occasional steak sizzling on cast iron just enough to hold his attention. mindless fuel, background noise for someone who already knows he looks better than half the influencers trying to sell him their macros.
but then, the algorithm, in its infinite, mysterious wisdom, does that thing where it thinks it knows him better than he knows himself, and suddenly his screen fills with something entirely different. no thirst, no desperation, no familiar symphony of validation.
just hands.
soft, capable hands dusted with flour, moving with the kind of precision that makes his chest do something weird and unfamiliar. the voice accompanying them flows like honey over warm bread, explaining the mysteries of chocolate tempering with the patience of someone who actually gives a damn about their craft.
“temperature control is everything,” you’re saying, and satoru finds himself leaning closer to his phone screen like an idiot. your hands work magic he doesn’t understand—folding, smoothing, creating something beautiful from nothing. there’s flour scattered across your black apron like stars, and he realizes he’s been holding his breath. “too hot and you’ll seize the chocolate. too cold and it won’t temper properly. you want that perfect balance.”
perfect balance. right. satoru gojo, who can bench twice his body weight and has never met a macronutrient he couldn’t calculate in his sleep, suddenly feels like he doesn’t understand balance at all.
he’s three videos deep before his brain catches up to his thumbs. your username—why.en_bakes—sits at the top of each video like a riddle he wants to solve. faceless content creator, obviously skilled, voice that could talk him through a panic attack or into one, depending on the circumstances.
his trainer would have an aneurysm if he knew satoru was mentally calculating the caloric content of buttercream roses at eleven pm.
his trainer doesn’t have to know.
meanwhile, you’re having your own crisis three hundred miles away, curled up in bed with your phone balanced precariously on your chest. you’ve been mindlessly scrolling through instagram, the kind of late-night brain rot that makes you question your life choices and wonder why you’re not asleep like a normal person.
the dm notification pops up from @squatoru—and there’s that little blue checkmark that makes your stomach drop because verified accounts usually mean one of two things: actual celebrities or influencers hunting for free stuff.
squatoru: hey, your hands are so steady, i’m pretty sure you could perform surgery. on my heart, maybe? kidding. mostly. anyway, the real question: do you take custom orders, or am i doomed to just drool over your perfect pastries through ig reels tutorials forever? my cardio needs a reward ;)
you frown, tapping on his profile with the kind of skepticism reserved for men who slide into dms and politicians. probably another influencer looking for free pastries in exchange for exposure. you’ve seen this song and dance before, and your content is specifically designed to avoid this—just your hands, your voice, and your pastries. no face, no personal details, no invitation for this kind of attention.
except his profile loads, and the image that fills your screen is so utterly, aggressively stunning that your breath hitches. your eyes go wide, wider than any pastry plate you’ve ever presented, and you feel a ridiculous, old-fashioned flush creep up your neck. like a victorian gentleman accidentally stumbling upon an exposed ankle, but instead of an ankle, it’s an eight-pack, a smirk, and eyes that could unravel your very soul.
you swallow, hard, your mind temporarily short-circuiting at the sheer, unapologetic perfection. the phone, balanced precariously on your chest, finally loses its grip as your hands instinctively clench in shock, and it falls. with a sickening thud, it smacks directly into your face, the impact rattling your teeth and, far worse, triggering an accidental double-tap right on his latest thirst trap. specifically, right on his absurdly defined abs.
because @squatoru isn’t just any influencer.
he’s all sharp angles and casual arrogance, the kind of beautiful that makes you question whether humans are supposed to look like that or if someone’s been editing reality behind your back. his hair defies every law of physics and good sense, standing up in ways that should look ridiculous but instead look like he’s been personally blessed by some very attractive gods. and his eyes—they’re not just blue, they’re the kind of blue that makes you forget other colors exist, like someone liquefied lightning and poured it into his irises just to see what would happen.
the worst part? he knows exactly what he looks like.
every photo is a carefully constructed masterpiece of casual perfection. gym selfies that belong in museums, mirror shots that probably crash servers, candid photos that are about as candid as a hollywood red carpet. he’s the kind of beautiful that makes normal people feel like potatoes, and he’s just casually sliding into your dms like it’s tuesday.
the little heart icon fills with red, mocking you. you immediately know you’ve made a mistake of astronomical proportions, a digital crime scene of embarrassment. you don’t even look at this kind of content. your algorithm is carefully curated chaos of baking tutorials, cat videos, and the occasional pottery reel.
you wouldn’t know a thirst trap if it personally introduced itself and asked for your number. but apparently, it just did, and you just liked it.
your phone buzzes almost instantly.
squatoru: oh, saw that 😉 figured you wouldn’t be able to resist. it’s okay, my content’s usually pretty captivating. consider yourself caught admiring the view.
you scramble upright, nearly launching your phone across the room in your panic. your heart is doing something between a tango and a cardiac episode, and you’re pretty sure you’re about to die of embarrassment in your own bed, which seems like a particularly pathetic way to go. you wince, rubbing your nose where the phone left a red mark.
why.en_bakes: it was an accident. my phone slipped. literally. it just smacked me.
the response comes back quicker than you’d like, quicker than gives you time to construct proper emotional barriers or remember how to breathe like a normal person.
squatoru: suuuure it did. 😉 a very convenient slip. but hey, thanks for the unintentional validation. speaking of irresistible things... i’ve actually been genuinely obsessed with your videos. that chocolate work? absolutely insane. like, i’m genuinely curious about trying your stuff in person. my cheat day budget just went up.
he’s been watching your videos. this man, human equivalent of a renaissance sculpture, is obsessed with your chocolate work? you, who usually only gets comments from sweet grandmas and fellow bakers, are suddenly being eyed by the thirst trap god himself. you stare at the message until the words blur together, trying to process this information like a computer that’s been asked to run software from the future.
why.en_bakes: well, the cafe info is on my profile if you’re actually serious. we’re open from 8-6 tuesday to saturday. no freebies.
because you’re not about to make this easy for him. you’ve built a whole business on not making things easy, on the radical concept that good pastries require effort and patience and maybe a little suffering. if this man wants to waltz into your world with his perfect face and his ridiculous hair, he can follow the same rules as everyone else.
squatoru: oh, trust me, cupcake. i’m serious about good desserts. and good conversation. and maybe a few other things. consider me booked. see you soon.
cupcake.
he called you cupcake, and something in your stomach does a little flip that has absolutely nothing to do with the leftover anxiety from accidentally liking his photo and everything to do with the way that familiar, sweet word, usually piped with buttercream and sold by the dozen, suddenly tasted personal, a secret, delicious indulgence meant just for you.
satoru, meanwhile, is having his own moment of amused contemplation in his ridiculously expensive apartment, a smirk playing on his lips as he stares at his phone. because here’s the thing that’s currently piquing his interest in a way almost nothing else does: you don’t know who he is.
not in the way everyone else does, anyway. you’re not sliding into his dms with marriage proposals or asking him to promote your skincare routine. you’re not breathless with excitement or falling over yourself to impress him. you claimed you liked his photo by accident—a blatant, adorable fib, if your mortified response was anything to go by. you immediately tried to take it back like it was a mistake, but satoru knew better. people didn’t accidentally double-tap his abs. they just got shy when they were caught.
when was the last time someone feigned indifference to his attention?
he can’t remember, and that bothers him more than it should. he’s so used to being wanted, expected, demanded, that your casual dismissal, even if it was just an act of shyness, feels like a puzzle he needs to solve. you’re talented and professional and seemingly unimpressed by the fact that he exists, and something about that makes him want to try harder than he’s tried at anything that didn’t involve weights or protein shakes.
plus, there’s your voice. that soft, warm tone that guided him through chocolate tempering like you were sharing secrets, like you actually cared whether he understood the difference between seeding and tabling methods.
that night, he replayed your videos more times than he’d admit to anyone, and each time he notices something new—the careful way you handle delicate pastry, the little satisfied hum when something turns out perfectly, the genuine enthusiasm when you explain why certain techniques matter.
which is how satoru gojo, influencer extraordinaire and professional beautiful person, finds himself googling the address of a bakery at midnight like some kind of carb-obsessed stalker.
your cafe isn’t far from his gym. isn’t that convenient.
he screenshots the address and adds it to his calendar with the kind of focus usually reserved for competition prep, already planning his route and calculating what time he’ll need to leave to avoid the morning rush but still catch you during business hours.
because apparently, satoru gojo has stumbled upon a new obsession—someone who makes croissants for a living and couldn’t care less about his follower count, pretending she didn't just like his gym selfie.
his trainer is definitely going to have that aneurysm.
he timed it perfectly—after the morning rush had thinned and the café’s cheerful hum had settled into something softer. strategic timing, really. fewer distractions meant more of your attention, and satoru gojo had never been one to settle for scraps when he could have the whole meal.
the bell above the door chimed, small and unassuming, almost absurdly inadequate for the entrance that followed. satoru filled the doorway like gravity had personally rearranged itself around him, a quality white tee draping effortlessly over shoulders that looked like they’d been carved by someone with a personal vendetta against moderation, hinting at the landscape of muscle beneath. well-cut dark cargo pants, practical yet stylish, hung casually on powerful legs that could probably crush watermelons, and his hair—that impossible mess of silver-white strands—caught the morning light like it was showing off.
he walked in with the kind of confidence that made people forget what they were saying mid-sentence. calculated but effortless, the way predators moved when they weren’t particularly hungry but enjoyed the hunt anyway.
you recognized him instantly, and the mortifying memory of that accidental double-tap crashed through your mind like a wrecking ball made of pure embarrassment. heat threatened to crawl up your neck, but you shoved it down with the kind of ruthless efficiency that came from years of dealing with difficult customers and even more difficult ovens.
“welcome to flour & sugar,” you said, voice carefully steady as you finished wiping down the espresso machine. your movements were precise, controlled, the kind of calm that came from having your hands busy while your brain short-circuited. he caught the swift dart of your eyes, the way they met his for a fraction of a second before skittering away, and a slow, knowing amusement bloomed in his chest. oh, you were definitely lying. “what can i get for you today?”
but satoru wasn’t listening to your carefully rehearsed greeting. he was too busy having what could only be described as a religious experience with your display case.
“jesus christ,” he breathed, and those storm-glass eyes went wide as they tracked across the pastries like he was cataloging treasures. his hands pressed against the cool glass, long fingers splaying as he leaned in closer. “is that—are those pain au chocolat actually laminated properly or are you just trying to make me cry?”
the croissants sat in perfect golden rows, their surfaces glossy and flaked to mathematical precision. next to them, danish pastries spiraled with fruit preserves that caught the light like stained glass windows. chocolate éclairs lined up like soldiers, their choux pastry shells piped so perfectly they looked machine-made, topped with ganache so mirror-smooth it reflected the café’s warm lighting.
“showing off, obviously,” you replied, corners of your mouth threatening to betray you with something dangerously close to a smile. your fingers found the edge of your flour-dusted black apron, smoothing it down in a gesture that was becoming embarrassingly predictable. “we just brush regular croissants with chocolate syrup and hope no one notices.”
that earned you a bark of laughter, bright and genuine and so unexpected it made something flutter in your chest like a bird trying to escape. his whole face transformed when he laughed—the careful perfection cracking open to reveal something warmer underneath.
“oh, you’re trouble,” he said, grinning as he straightened up from the display case. ran one hand through that gravity-defying hair, messing it up in a way that somehow made it look better. the motion caused the soft fabric of the white tee to subtly shift and stretch over his chest and shoulder, a brief, undeniable testament to the power beneath, and he noticed you noticed. his grin widened almost imperceptibly. yeah, you definitely hadn’t liked his photo by ‘accident’. “i can tell already. so what’s your best ‘i’m definitely going to regret this later but it’ll be worth every minute’ option today?”
“the chocolate tart is popular,” you said, gesturing toward where it sat in solitary splendor—a perfect circle of temptation with ganache so dark it looked like liquid sin. “our kouign-amann sells out by noon.” you pointed to the golden, layered pastries that looked like edible architecture. “and if you’re feeling particularly self-destructive, the salted caramel éclair has a cult following.”
“dangerous recommendations,” he mused, those impossible eyes still cataloging every curve and swirl of your handiwork. his gaze lingered on the fruit tarts, their pastry cream bases topped with berries arranged like tiny works of art, then moved to the cinnamon rolls that spiraled with mathematical precision, their surfaces glazed to perfection.
he was quiet for a moment, just looking, and something in his expression shifted. softer somehow, like he was seeing more than just pastries behind the glass.
“what about you?” he asked finally, those winter-storm eyes finding yours. “what would you eat if calories didn’t exist and your trainer wasn’t going to lecture you about macros tomorrow?”
the question caught you completely off guard. most customers just wanted their order taken, not actual conversation, not genuine curiosity about your preferences. your hands stilled on the apron, suddenly aware of how he was looking at you—really looking, like your answer mattered.
“oh, definitely the chocolate tart,” you said, and a sudden, unexpected spark lit up in your eyes. you leaned forward just a fraction, your voice gaining a soft, enthusiastic edge. “it’s not just chocolate, you know? we use a blend of valrhona guanaja for that deep, almost bitter cocoa base, but then there’s a hint of madagascar vanilla bean in the custard, just enough to bring out the sweetness without making it cloying. and the crust—it’s a sable breton, a really buttery, shortbread-like texture that just crumbles perfectly. it’s about the balance, the way the intensity of the chocolate plays with the richness of the butter and the delicate snap of the shell. it’s… everything.”
you finished with a quiet, almost breathless sigh, a small flush on your cheeks from the sheer passion of your explanation. you hadn’t even realized you were practically lecturing him until you saw the look on his face.
something flickered across his face then, a slow dawning of satisfaction mixed with a captivating curiosity. his eyes, usually so sharp and teasing, were softened, fixed entirely on you. he hadn’t understood half the technical terms, but he’d understood the passion, the genuine love that radiated from you when you talked about your craft. that, he realized, was even more intoxicating than the thought of the tart itself.
“sold,” he declared, his voice a low, pleased rumble. “one chocolate tart for me. and—” he paused, head tilting as he studied the menu board behind you. “matcha latte. extra sweet, if you don’t mind. gotta balance out all that virtue somehow.”
the way he said it, low and curious, made your pulse skip in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine. “mr. gojo—”
“just satoru,” he interrupted, and that easy smile turned softer somehow, more genuine. leaned against the counter on his forearms, bringing himself closer to your eye level. the sleeve of his white tee shifted, briefly revealing the impressive curve of his powerful biceps, practically begging for your gaze, and you felt that familiar, involuntary tightening in your throat again. he was far too aware of the space between you, of the way the air thrummed with unspoken things. “i’d prefer it if you called me satoru. ‘mr. gojo’ makes me sound like my father, and trust me, that’s not the vibe we’re going for here.”
heat crept up your neck despite every attempt at professional composure. he was close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and expensive that probably cost more than your monthly ingredient budget—mixed with the faintest hint of lingering workout endorphins.
“satoru, then,” you managed, fingers finding the register keys with muscle memory while your brain tried to process the way he smiled when you said his name. “find a seat anywhere you’d like. i’ll call you when it’s ready.”
he pushed back from the counter with fluid grace, all loose-limbed confidence and predatory satisfaction. chose the corner table by the window—of course he did—prime real estate for people-watching and and, more importantly, you-watching. settled into the chair like he owned not just the seat but the entire building, phone out but screen dark, attention fixed entirely on your workspace.
you tried to ignore the weight of his stare as you moved through your routine, but it was like trying to ignore sunlight streaming through windows. persistent, warm, impossible to escape. steamed milk for his matcha latte, the bright green powder swirling into pale foam like liquid jade, sweetened just enough to match his request for extra sugar.
selected his tart from the display case with the reverence it deserved, the chocolate ganache mirror-smooth and perfect, reflecting the café’s warm lighting like dark water.
“order for satoru,” you called, and watched him unfold from the chair with that fluid grace that made ordinary movements look choreographed.
“that was fast,” he said, accepting the small plate and cup. his fingers brushed yours for just a moment—warm, callused from whatever weights he threw around when he wasn’t terrorizing bakeries. “efficient.”
“i try not to keep people waiting.” the words came out steadier than you felt, professional smile firmly in place even as your skin tingled where he’d touched it.
“and here i was hoping you’d take your time,” he replied, that insufferable smirk back in full force. tilted his head just enough to catch your eye, silver hair falling across his forehead in a way that should’ve looked accidental but absolutely wasn’t. “guess i’ll just have to savor this extra slowly to make up for it.”
back at his table, satoru lifted the fork like he was about to perform delicate surgery. cut into the tart with surgical precision, watched the ganache yield to reveal the perfect custard beneath, dark chocolate giving way to pale cream in a contrast that made his mouth water before he’d even tasted it.
the first bite rewired something fundamental in his brain.
it wasn’t just the flavor—though that was devastating enough, rich and balanced and absolutely perfect. it was the memory that came with it, sudden and overwhelming. his grandmother’s kitchen on sunday mornings, flour handprints on her faded apron, the smell of butter and vanilla thick in the air like incense in a church dedicated to sugar and love.
he’d been a chubby kid back then, all round cheeks and soft edges before growth spurts and gym obsessions carved him into something else entirely. back when sweetness meant safety, when dessert wasn’t the enemy but the reward for scraped knees and hard days and just existing in a world that sometimes felt too big and too scary.
this tart tasted like coming home to a place he’d forgotten existed.
he tried to eat it slowly, really tried. wanted to analyze the flavor profile, identify the techniques, make it last. but his body had other plans entirely. each bite melted on his tongue like a prayer answered, and before he knew it the plate was empty and he was staring at the evidence of his complete lack of self-control.
worth every single burpee he’d have to do tomorrow. worth twice that many.
he pulled out his phone, angled it to catch the crumb-scattered plate in afternoon light. typed out “found heaven” with thumbs that were steadier than they had any right to be, tagged the location, posted it to his story without a second thought.
let his trainer try to explain that one.
when he looked up, you were watching him from behind the counter, expression carefully neutral but eyes curious. caught in the act of caring whether he’d enjoyed it, whether your work had lived up to whatever expectations he’d built in his head.
“verdict?” you called across the space between you, voice carrying just the tiniest hint of genuine interest beneath the professional politeness.
“devastating,” he called back, not bothering to hide his grin or the way he gestured to the empty plate like it was evidence in a criminal trial. “absolutely devastating. i’m going to have to come back tomorrow just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”
“tomorrow’s monday. we’re closed.” the correction came automatically, but there was something softer in your voice now, the professional mask slipping just enough to let real personality peek through.
“then tuesday,” he said without missing a beat, standing up with that fluid grace and reaching for his wallet. “and probably wednesday. thursday’s looking pretty likely too.”
you ducked your head, but not before he caught the small smile you were trying to hide. watched you wipe your hands on that flour-dusted apron in the nervous gesture he was already learning to catalog alongside all your other tells.
“same time tuesday, then,” you said, like you were discussing the weather instead of planning his return to the scene of his carbohydrate crime.
“wouldn’t miss it, cupcake,” he replied, dropping a twenty on the counter for a twelve-dollar order and heading for the door before you could argue about the change.
he walked out into afternoon sunshine already calculating how many extra miles he’d need to run to justify coming back in two days.
spoiler alert: he was coming back regardless, and you both knew it.
the cafe, which once felt like a carefully controlled universe of flour and sugar, now had a new gravitational pull. satoru gojo had become a regular. not just a customer, but a fixture, like the espresso machine or the perpetually overflowing tips jar.
except this fixture came with perfectly tousled hair and a smile that could probably power half the city.
tuesday morning, 10:47 am. the bell chimed and there he was, silver hair catching the morning light like he’d been personally blessed by some very aesthetic gods. today’s ensemble: a loose knit sweater that somehow managed to look both cozy and criminally expensive, draped across shoulders that belonged in a renaissance sculpture exhibit.
he approached the counter with that easy confidence, long fingers already drumming against the glass as those winter-storm eyes conducted some kind of pastry reconnaissance mission.
“just making sure the integrity of your laminated dough hasn’t... suffered since yesterday, cupcake,” he said, leaning against the counter like he’d been doing it his whole life. the casual way he invaded your space should have been annoying. instead, it made something flutter stupidly in your chest.
you barely suppressed an eye roll, busying yourself with restocking napkins because your hands needed something to do that wasn’t embarrassing. “my laminated dough is doing just fine, satoru.”
“is it though?” he tilted his head, hair falling across his forehead in a way that was definitely not accidental, studying a pain au chocolat like it held state secrets. “because that one right there looks criminally perfect. almost offensive, really. i might have to do something about it.”
the way he said it, all mock seriousness with those ridiculous blue eyes sparkling with mischief, made your lips twitch despite your best efforts. “such a hardship for you.”
“devastating,” he agreed, pressing a hand to his chest like he was physically wounded. then that grin broke through, the one that made him look less like a fitness god and more like a kid who’d found the cookie jar. “i’ll take two. and one of those.” he pointed to a lemon meringue tart, its peak of toasted meringue golden and proud. “for balance.”
you reached for the pastries, trying to ignore how he watched your every movement like he was memorizing the choreography. “balance?”
“very important nutritional concept. sweet, then tart, then back to sweet. it’s basically science.”
“that’s not how nutrition works.”
“says who? my trainer?” he waved a dismissive hand, the gesture fluid and careless. “he thinks protein powder counts as a food group. clearly not a reliable source.”
wednesday brought a different satoru—button-down with sleeves rolled just so, revealing forearms that should probably be illegal in most countries. he ordered three chocolate éclairs this time, each one a perfect torpedo of choux pastry and dark ganache.
“consistency test?” you repeated, watching him pull out that expensive wallet like he was performing surgery.
“scientific method, cupcake. very important.” he peeled off crisp hundreds with the casual air of someone who’d never met a price tag he couldn’t ignore. the bills looked fresh from the bank, and you briefly wondered if he requested new ones specifically for pastry purchases. “can’t make proper recommendations without thorough research.”
your fingers found the edge of your apron, smoothing down imaginary wrinkles. “recommendations to who?”
“my trainer, obviously. gotta give him fair warning about what’s destroying his careful work.” that laugh again, bright and completely unrepentant, the sound warming something deep in your chest. “speaking of which, what’s the caloric damage on these beauties?”
“you don’t want to know.”
“try me.” he leaned forward slightly, chin tilting in challenge, and you caught yourself staring at the way his collar bone disappeared beneath the cotton of his shirt.
“about three hundred each.”
he paused, éclair halfway to his mouth, and you watched something flicker across his face. not regret exactly, but the quick mental calculation of someone who’d spent years thinking in macros and meal plans. then he shrugged, a movement that somehow made his shoulders look even broader, and took a bite that was pure bliss.
his eyes actually fluttered closed for a second, and the small sound he made was borderline indecent. you busied yourself with the register before your brain could process the implications.
“worth every burpee,” he declared, and the conviction in his voice made something warm unfurl in your stomach. this wasn’t just politeness or customer service charm. he meant it.
thursday he showed up in a perfectly fitted black tee that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and your professionalism took a brief vacation. the fabric clung to every angle and curve like it had been painted on, and you spent an embarrassing amount of time pretending to organize the already-organized pastry display.
he ordered what could only be described as half your case. two kouign-amann, a slice of blood orange tart, three of your dark chocolate cookies, and a danish that had been sitting there looking particularly photogenic.
“research again?” you asked, voice carefully light while your eyes decidedly did not linger on the way his shirt stretched when he reached for his wallet.
“training day,” he said, and there was that subtle flex again, the movement so casual it might have been accidental if not for the way his lips quirked slightly. he knew exactly what he was doing. “need the fuel.”
you handed him his order, fingers brushing his for just a moment. warm, slightly callused from whatever torture routine he put himself through daily. “for what, exactly?”
“deadlifts. squats. the usual punishment for having a sweet tooth the size of tokyo.” he examined the danish like he was conducting a forensic investigation, head tilted just so. “my trainer keeps threatening to fire me, but joke’s on him—i’d just find someone who appreciates the finer things in life.”
the mental image of satoru gojo interviewing personal trainers based on their pastry tolerance made you duck your head to hide a smile. “how much extra cardio are we talking here?”
“for this haul? probably an extra hour. maybe two.” he bit into the danish with the kind of focus usually reserved for important life decisions, and you watched his expression melt into something approaching reverence. “but look at this thing. the way you’ve layered that fruit, how the glaze catches the light... that’s art, cupcake. you can’t put a price on art.”
heat crept up your neck at the genuine appreciation in his voice. “apparently you can. it’s twelve dollars.”
“cheap for a masterpiece.”
the compliment hit different when it came wrapped in that soft tone, without any of his usual performative charm. just honest appreciation, and it made your chest feel tight in ways you didn’t want to examine.
by friday, you’d started doing something incredibly stupid. anticipating his visits with the kind of precision usually reserved for oven timers and proofing schedules. you knew his patterns now—tart first, then creamy, then something with crunch. complex flavors that demanded attention, just like everything else about him.
so when he walked in wearing a cream-colored sweater that made his hair look like spun moonlight, you’d already committed the crime of setting aside a perfect almond croissant and a slice of your new cardamom pear tart. just sitting there on a small plate behind the counter, waiting like evidence of your growing soft spot.
he stopped short when he saw them, and something shifted in his expression. softer somehow, like you’d surprised him in the best possible way. “you read my mind, cupcake.”
“just good service,” you mumbled, but your hands betrayed you, finding your apron and smoothing the flour-dusted fabric with nervous fingers.
“is it though?” he leaned forward, elbows finding the counter, bringing himself into your space in a way that made your pulse skip. up close, you could see the faint freckle near his left temple, the way his ridiculously long eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. “because this feels suspiciously like you’ve been paying attention to my very sophisticated palate.”
the teasing lilt in his voice made your stomach do something acrobatic. “your very expensive palate, you mean.”
“that too.” those eyes were studying you now with the same intensity he usually reserved for pastries, curious and warm and entirely too perceptive. “so what made you choose these? professional instinct or...”
“or what?”
“or maybe you’re starting to like having me around.”
the question hung between you like sugar dust in afternoon light, sweet and impossible to ignore. your cheeks felt warm, but you kept your voice steady through sheer stubborn will. “you’re a good customer.”
“just good?” he tilted his head, hair falling across his forehead in that way that made your fingers itch to brush it back.
“you tip well.”
“ah.” he straightened up with fluid grace, grinning like he’d just solved a particularly entertaining puzzle. “so it is about the money.”
the lie sat bitter on your tongue, but you’d rather eat raw flour than admit the truth. that you looked forward to his visits. that you’d started timing your baking schedule around his usual arrival. that the ridiculous tips were just an excuse to let yourself enjoy his company without feeling guilty about it.
“everything’s about money, satoru.”
“everything?” that voice dropped lower, softer, and you felt it in places that had absolutely nothing to do with business. “what about the art? the passion? the pure, unadulterated joy of creation?”
your breath caught slightly at the way he said ‘passion,’ like the word meant something more than flour and butter and sugar. “rent doesn’t pay itself with passion.”
“fair point.” he took a bite of the almond croissant, and you watched his entire face transform. the careful composure melted away, replaced by something raw and genuine and absolutely devastating. “jesus. okay, this is... this is stupid good.”
pride bloomed warm in your chest, the kind that came from watching someone truly appreciate your work. “just stupid good?”
“life-changing. earth-shattering. the kind of good that makes me question every life choice that led to me discovering it this late.” he took another bite, slower this time, actually savoring it like it deserved. watching him eat something you’d made with such obvious pleasure did dangerous things to your equilibrium. “where did you learn to do this?”
the question caught you off guard. not his usual surface-level compliments, but genuine curiosity about you, about your story. you found yourself answering before you could think better of it.
“culinary school. then a few years working under other people before i saved enough to open this place.” you gestured around the café, at the warm lighting and carefully chosen décor that had taken months of planning and every penny you’d managed to scrape together.
“other people?”
“a french pastry chef who made gordon ramsay look like a teddy bear. learned more in six months with him than i did in two years of school.” the memory still made you wince slightly, even wrapped in gratitude for everything it had taught you.
satoru’s eyebrows rose, and something shifted in his expression. less playful, more attentive. “sounds intense.”
“he once made me remake the same batch of croissants seventeen times because the lamination wasn’t perfect.” the words came easier now, maybe because he was listening with such focused attention. “i cried in the walk-in cooler.”
“and the eighteenth time?”
“eighteenth time was perfect.” you surprised yourself with how much warmth crept into your voice. “finally understood what he meant about respecting the process. about not cutting corners just because you think you know better.”
“and now?”
“now i can make them in my sleep.” you gestured toward the display case where your croissants sat in golden, flaky perfection, evidence of countless hours and stubborn determination. “muscle memory and spite, mostly.”
that drew a laugh from him, rich and genuine. “deadly combination.”
he was looking at you differently now, those impossible eyes softer somehow. like he was seeing past the professional politeness to something more real. it should have been unsettling. instead, it made you want to keep talking, keep sharing pieces of yourself you usually kept locked away.
“so this chocolate work you do—the tempering, the ganache—that all came from drill sergeant pastry chef too?”
you found yourself actually wanting to explain it, to share the thing you loved most about your craft. “some of it. but chocolate is... different. more temperamental. you can’t bully it into submission like dough. you have to coax it, understand what it needs.”
he leaned closer, genuinely interested, and you caught a whiff of his cologne mixed with the lingering sweetness from the pastries. clean and expensive and entirely too distracting. “what does it need?”
“patience. the right temperature. respect for the process.” you pulled out your phone almost without thinking, scrolling to a video you’d posted last week. “see this? the way the chocolate looks when it’s properly tempered versus when it’s not?”
he moved around the counter—when had you said he could do that?—to look at your screen. close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, see the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. “show me the difference.”
your fingers were definitely not steady as you pointed to the glossy, perfectly smooth chocolate in the video. “this one. snappy, shiny, stable. versus this.” another clip, chocolate that looked dull and streaky. “seized because someone got impatient and tried to rush the cooling process.”
“someone like me, you mean.”
the self-awareness in his voice made you look up, and suddenly you were much too close to those winter-storm eyes. “someone exactly like you.”
“ouch.” but he was smiling, that soft genuine smile that made your pulse forget its rhythm. “so you’re saying i need to learn patience.”
“i’m saying chocolate will teach you patience whether you want to learn or not.”
“and if i wanted to learn? hypothetically speaking.”
the question settled between you like powdered sugar, sweet and impossible to brush away. your heart did something complicated against your ribs. “hypothetically?”
“completely hypothetical. just curious about the... educational process.”
you studied his face, looking for the usual playful smirk, but found something more sincere instead. something that made your chest feel tight and warm and terrified. “it’s not easy. takes time. messy. lots of failures before you get it right.”
“i’m not afraid of messy.” his voice was softer now, and you realized you were still standing much too close, could see the faint gold flecks in his impossibly blue eyes.
“no,” you said quietly, taking in his perfectly styled hair, his carefully chosen outfit, the way he carried himself like problems were just puzzles waiting to be solved. “i don’t think you are.”
he stayed longer that day, nursing his matcha latte and working through the cardamom pear tart with the kind of focus usually reserved for meditation or very important life decisions. every so often he’d look up and catch you watching him, and instead of that cocky smirk you’d grown dangerously fond of, he’d give you something softer. more real.
when he finally left, he paused at the door, hand on the frame, looking back like he wanted to say something else.
“same time monday?”
“we’re closed mondays.”
“tuesday, then.” that smile again, the one that made your knees forget their primary function.
“tuesday works.”
he pushed through the door into afternoon sunshine, and you watched him pull out his phone to photograph the empty plate he’d left behind. the story that went up an hour later was just the image with no caption, but your café’s location tagged like a promise.
your phone buzzed, not with an explosion, but with another steady pulse in what had become a low, constant hum of new activity over the past few days. each time he’d posted and tagged you, a new wave of curious followers would wash over your small page—a few hundred more likes, a dozen more comments asking who you were. this post felt different, though. more potent.
it felt less like a ripple and more like the tide starting to turn. you stared at your phone screen, watching the new notifications roll in, a knot of anticipation tightening in your stomach. you realized you were in trouble. the kind of trouble that was only partly about the looming threat of viral fame, and everything to do with the way your heart had started keeping time to the rhythm of a certain someone’s visits.
the cafe visits had become routine, but so had something else entirely. late-night video binges. satoru, tucked into the ridiculously expensive italian leather couch in his penthouse, would scroll through your youtube channel like it was late-night cable, airpods in, the city lights a distant hum.
your voice, a warm honey he’d once only associated with chocolate tempering, now filled his ears, a constant, comforting presence. it was oddly intimate, an exclusive soundtrack to his solitary evenings. he’d watch you explain the subtle art of a perfectly proofed brioche, the meticulous fold of a puff pastry. and as he watched, as your gentle explanations filled the quiet of his apartment, he started associating sweetness with more than just taste.
it was in the warmth of your voice, the patient way you corrected a common baking mistake in a tutorial, the quiet dedication in your hands as they measured flour. sweetness became patience. sweetness became quiet strength. sweetness became you.
he’d drift off to sleep with the soft cadence of your voice in his ears, and that’s when the dreams started. not about gym glory or brand deals, but about pastries that didn’t exist yet. wild, impossible creations: a lavender-infused crème brûlée that shimmered like moonlight, a pistachio and rosewater financier that smelled like spring, a miso-caramel tart with a delicate sesame crust. he’d wake up, confused and disoriented, craving flavors you hadn’t invented yet, a strange, persistent ache in his chest.
and then, the texting began.
it started innocently enough, a playful jab after a particularly indulgent visit.
squatoru: seriously, that pain au chocolat today? should come with a warning label. my trainer cried.
why.en-bakes: glad to be of service 😃
but then, the messages started appearing at odd hours. 1 am, 2 am. sometimes a simple, nonsensical emoji. sometimes a flurry of half-baked ideas.
squatoru: what about a churro croissant? is that legal? asking for a friend. (the friend is my sweet tooth).
you’d wake up to the ping, groggy and annoyed, but then you’d read his absurd suggestions, and a small smile would tug at your lips. sometimes, inexplicably, they were good ideas. too good.
your fingers would hover over your phone, considering the absurdity, then find themselves scrolling through your pantry. a few days later, a churro croissant would appear as tomorrow’s special, flaky and cinnamon-sugared, a tangible reply to his late-night musings.
he’d walk in the next day, a triumphant grin on his face. “i knew it,” he’d say, leaning against the counter, eyes sparkling. “you’re secretly taking commissions from my dreams, aren’t you, cupcake?”
you’d just shrug, a faint flush on your cheeks. “just a good baker with good ideas, satoru.”
he began to wonder if this was what inspiration felt like, this constant buzz in his brain, these unexpected surges of creativity that always, always, revolved around you and your world. it was foreign, intoxicating.
the teasing messages started to shift, to soften. the playful jabs giving way to something more sincere, more vulnerable.
squatoru: that apple crumble changed my life, no joke. thought i peaked, then tasted that. turns out i can still be surprised.
a message like that would arrive late at night, catching you off guard. you’d be scrolling through a supplier catalog, exhausted, and then his words would bloom on the screen, a quiet warmth spreading through your chest.
squatoru: didn’t know honey could taste like that. your honey cake. it’s something else.
you’d stare at your phone screen, a strange mixture of fluster and genuine pleasure unfurling inside you. these weren't compliments about his abs or his follower count—they were about your work, your taste, your ability to create something beautiful. when you thought no one was looking, usually tucked under your covers or in the quiet pre-dawn hours of the cafe, you’d screenshot them. little digital keepsakes of his quiet adoration.
squatoru: you made winter feel kind today. the lemon tart. tasted like sunshine.
you didn't know what to do with messages like that. they weren't flirting, not exactly. they were… observations. gentle, heartfelt observations that chipped away at your professional armor, one sweet, unassuming word at a time.
back in the gleaming, sterile environment of his gym, satoru’s performance was, to put it mildly, suffering. his focus, once laser-sharp, now drifted like dandelion fluff on the wind.
he dropped weights mid-set, the heavy clatter echoing through the gym, startling the other lifters. he’d be thinking about the impossibly smooth texture of your lemon curd, the delicate balance of your custard. the way it melted on the tongue. the exact shade of the toasted meringue.
his trainer, a no-nonsense man named masaru who believed in pain and protein above all else, crossed his arms, a vein throbbing faintly in his temple. “satoru. you’ve dropped that sixty-kilo bell three times this week. you sleeping enough?”
satoru grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel, his mind still halfway back in your cafe. “yeah, fine. just… distracted.”
“distracted by what? another brand deal?” masaru eyed him skeptically. “you’re hitting your protein, right? macros are still on point?”
“yeah, yeah. all fine.” satoru lied, easily, smoothly. he hadn’t logged his macros properly in days. he hadn’t done his usual post-workout cardio in favor of replaying your new almond croissant tutorial. he wasn’t fine. not in the way masaru meant.
he was falling. falling faster and harder than any deadlift he’d ever attempted. and the landing, he suspected, was going to be deliciously, terrifyingly sweet.
satoru’s multiple story posts tagging humble your café’s location, each one a testament to your baking prowess and his insatiable sweet tooth, had brought chaos. glorious, sugary chaos.
by the next morning, tuesday, there was a line winding around the block of flour & sugar—a serpent of eager customers stretching down the street, smartphones out, food bloggers scribbling furiously into notebooks, and a worrying number of local influencers trying (and failing) to recreate satoru’s “found heaven” aesthetic shots outside your unassuming facade.
you opened the doors at seven, expecting your usual tuesday hum. instead, you were hit with a tidal wave. your tiny cafe, usually a haven of quiet contemplation for pastry lovers, became a buzzing hive of anticipation.
by 9 am, the display case was utterly, tragically barren. empty shelves stared back at you, pristine and devoid of life. you were sold out, completely overwhelmed by the sudden, unprecedented influx of customers, all asking for “whatever satoru gojo ordered.”
you’d spent the last hour politely explaining that satoru gojo had a different order every day and, no, you couldn’t just whip up a fresh batch of everything right now. the exhaustion was real, but so was the faint, bewildered pride.
when he showed up at his usual, leisurely time, strolling in at 10:47 like he owned the sunshine outside, he stopped short. the bell above the door gave its usual chime, but for once, satoru’s fluid confidence faltered. his storm-glass eyes, usually so sharp and discerning, widened, then slowly swept across the utterly desolate display case.
the devastation on his face was almost comical—like someone had just told him christmas was cancelled, forever, and replaced it with a mandatory kale cleanse. his impossible silver hair seemed to droop slightly, mirroring the sudden collapse of his shoulders.
you, wiping down the already spotless counter, saw his expression crumble, the playful mischief in his eyes replaced by a profound, almost childlike grief. a genuine wave of apology washed over you.
“i’m so sorry,” you started, stepping closer to the counter, your voice softer than intended. his gaze flickered to you, briefly losing focus on the tragedy before him. “we… we sold out early today. there were just… a lot of new customers.” you gestured vaguely towards the lingering stragglers outside, still hopeful.
he ignored them. his eyes were fixed on the barren shelves, staring at the empty spaces where his beloved pain au chocolat and lemon meringue tarts usually sat in gleaming rows, like they had personally betrayed him. his perfect posture, usually so effortlessly arrogant, sagged just a fraction. “all of it?”
you nodded, a small, sympathetic frown creasing your brow. “all of it. the pain au chocolat, the kouign-amann, even the cinnamon rolls. everything.” you watched him process this profound tragedy, the quick flicker of shock, then disbelief, then a truly dramatic despair. a strange, soft tug pulled at your chest. it was ridiculous, of course, but also… kind of sweet.
you couldn’t help it. his absolute, unadulterated heartbreak over a lack of pastries was surprisingly endearing. “but… i could make you something?” you offered, the words tumbling out before you could fully censor them. “fresh? if you don’t mind waiting.”
his head snapped up, those storm-glass eyes widening again, now alight with a sudden, improbable hope. it was like you’d just offered him the moon, gift-wrapped and topped with ganache. “you’d do that?”
“well,” you said, trying to ignore how his entire face lit up, a blinding sunrise of relief and joy. you felt a blush creeping up your neck. “can’t have you wasting away to nothing, satoru. i imagine your trainer would send me a very strongly worded email.” you added, a small, wry smile touching your lips.
what you didn’t say: that you’d already set aside ingredients for his usual favorites—an almond croissant, a chocolate tart, a couple of those irresistible dark chocolate cookies—before the morning rush hit, carefully hidden in the back like a secret stash, just in case. just in case he showed up, heartbroken, and needed a little private magic.
he seemed to take this as a cue, a permission granted. a wide, relieved grin spread across his face, lighting up the entire cafe. “you’re a lifesaver, cupcake. a literal, delicious lifesaver.” he pushed off the counter, moving with renewed purpose towards his usual corner table, settling in with the patience of a cat waiting for milk. “anything you make will be perfect. take your time. i’m in no rush.”
you ducked your head, a smile finally escaping, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the espresso machine. the cafe was empty of customers, but suddenly, it felt very, very full.
you disappeared into the back, the familiar rhythm of your kitchen a welcome balm after the morning’s chaos. pulling out the pre-portioned ingredients, you began to work, your hands moving with skilled precision. you rolled the pastry for his almond croissant, its buttery layers promising flaky perfection, then assembled a miniature chocolate tart, ensuring the ganache was extra smooth, the sable crust extra crisp. the aroma of warm butter and dark chocolate began to waft through the now quiet cafe, a comforting, familiar scent that promised indulgence.
satoru, at his table, watched the kitchen door, an expectant, almost puppy-like eagerness in his posture. when you finally emerged, a small plate held carefully in your hands, he practically vibrated with anticipation.
“almond croissant and a chocolate tart, fresh out of the oven,” you announced, placing the plate gently before him. the croissant gleamed, its toasted almonds a fragrant crown, and the chocolate tart was a miniature masterpiece, its surface still faintly warm. “and a fresh matcha latte, extra sweet, just like you like it.”
he stared at the plate, then up at you, his impossible eyes wide with genuine awe. “you… you made this? just for me?”
you felt a blush spread across your cheeks. “it’s part of the job, satoru. making people happy with pastries.”
“you’re doing a very good job,” he said, his gaze lingering on your face for a beat longer than strictly necessary. he reached for the croissant first, breaking off a piece with careful precision. the warm, buttery scent filled the air around him. his eyes fluttered closed for a second, a soft, appreciative hum escaping him as he chewed slowly, savoring every flaky, almond-laced bite.
this wasn't just a pastry. this was a personalized act of kindness from the one person who seemed utterly immune to his usual charms. and it tasted like pure, unadulterated happiness.
he devoured the croissant, then moved to the chocolate tart, taking a huge, satisfying bite. the warmth of the chocolate, the sweetness of the ganache, the unexpected crunch of the crust—it was pure bliss. he ate it with the focus of a man who’d been starving for days, yet somehow also with a deliberate slowness, trying to make the moment last.
when he finished, the plates were impeccably clean, as if licked. he pulled out his wallet again, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “i’m going to need the damage report, cupcake. and i have a feeling this kind of bespoke service warrants… extra compensation.” he placed two crisp hundred-dollar bills on the counter, pushing them towards you. “for the trouble. and for the extra miles i’ll have to run tomorrow.”
you stared at the money, then at him, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “satoru, this is ridiculous. it’s twelve dollars. the ingredients were already here.”
“nonsense. that was a private showing of artisanal genius. worth every penny. consider it a down payment for future emergencies.” he grinned, then stood, stretching with a languid grace that drew your eyes to the way his t-shirt draped over his chest. “so. tuesday, then? same time?”
you watched him, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the oven. “tuesday. we’ll try to save some for you.”
“no need,” he said, a playful wink accompanying his words as he headed for the door. “i have a feeling you’ll make something special just for me.”
and as the bell chimed, marking his departure, you couldn’t help but smile, already thinking about what new creation you could conjure up for his next visit. he was right. you probably would.
the cafe had always run on rhythm. espresso machine hissing, ceramic clatter, quiet conversation hum. but lately, that rhythm had acquired a distinct satoru-shaped beat that threw off your entire carefully orchestrated world.
he’d been coming in daily now, not just tuesday through saturday, but every moment the doors were open. his excuses were increasingly transparent, delivered with charming smirks that you almost bought—would have bought, if you weren’t becoming dangerously familiar with the way his mouth curved when he was particularly pleased with himself.
“needed caffeine,” he’d declare one morning, striding through the bell’s familiar jingle with the kind of confidence that made gravity seem negotiable. never mind that his penthouse probably housed equipment worth more than your monthly rent. he’d stretch deliberately, quality fabric pulling across shoulders that belonged in renaissance sculptures, while storm-glass eyes swept the display case like he was conducting some kind of sacred inventory.
another day brought, “had a meeting nearby.” vague gesturing down the street with long fingers that moved like they were conducting invisible symphonies, as if his presence wasn’t the actual purpose. he’d unwrap an éclair before fully paying, chocolate scent momentarily masking cologne that probably cost more than your weekly flour budget.
then came the most audacious: “thought i smelled something burning.”
perfectly straight face, not even a twitch in those ridiculous cheekbones. dramatic air-sniffing that somehow made him look like a very expensive bloodhound. you’d given him your flattest look, the one usually reserved for customers who asked if your croissants were “really” made fresh daily.
there was, of course, no burning anything. just your patience, slowly crumbling like overbaked cookies.
today was thursday. he walked in wearing a dark long-sleeved shirt that committed actual crimes against your ability to concentrate and cargo pants that somehow looked effortlessly expensive on legs that went on for geological ages. ordered his usual—chocolate tart, almond croissant, extra-sweet matcha latte that matched his ridiculous sweet tooth—but bypassed his customary corner table.
instead, he chose a small two-person spot against the wall. direct, unobstructed view of your main workspace. the audacity was breathtaking, really.
you felt his attention immediately, warm weight settling between your shoulder blades like a cat claiming ownership. moved to the prep station where vanilla cupcakes waited for rosettes, your hands usually surgeon-steady despite the early morning rush. but under his unwavering focus, fingers felt clumsy, disconnected from your brain. delicate buttercream swirls wobbled slightly, and you bit back the urge to hum—your usual working soundtrack felt too intimate with him watching.
annoyance mixed with growing heat that had nothing to do with the ovens. furious blush threatened to betray every professional instinct you’d cultivated.
during a lull, you glanced up, and immediately regretted it. his table sat maybe six feet away but felt impossibly close, like he’d somehow bent space around himself. no pretense today—phone abandoned beside his matcha, screen dark as those winter-storm eyes. just watching. chin propped on palm, elbow on table, head tilted with languid grace that suggested he had all the time in the world to study your every movement.
his expression was soft, unguarded. usual playful glint replaced by something direct, seeing. it made your chest tighten strangely, breath catching like you’d forgotten how to process oxygen properly. awareness jolted through you like touching a live wire.
“you’re staring,” you called across the space, voice steadier than your pulse deserved. the words came out sharper than intended, defensive armor against the way he was looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in his very curated world.
he smiled slowly, easy stretch reaching those impossible eyes. blue depths softened, losing glacial edge for warmth that made something flutter stupidly behind your ribs. lifted his matcha with deliberate grace, sipped without breaking eye contact. the movement was calculated casualness, performative in its confidence.
“just appreciating the artistry, cupcake.” his voice carried new weight today, rougher around the edges. more honest than his usual smooth control, like he’d forgotten to put on his public persona along with that perfectly fitted shirt.
“the artistry of cupcakes?” you countered, fingers tightening around the piping bag until plastic creaked in protest. forced attention back to swirling white frosting, but your mind kept circling back to how his gaze felt like warm spotlight, illuminating corners of yourself you usually kept professionally dim.
he chuckled, low and private, the sound meant for your ears alone despite the public space. head tilted again, silver hair falling across his forehead in a way that should have looked messy but instead made him look like some expensive magazine’s idea of casual perfection. storm-glass eyes held yours, reflective depth replacing sharp teasing.
“the artistry of you making them.” the words fell between you like powdered sugar, sweet and impossible to brush away.
this compliment rewired something fundamental in your chest. bypassed professional pride entirely, sailed straight past the fluster you’d been fighting, and landed somewhere dangerous. settled like comfortable weight against your ribs, warm and persistent. wasn’t about pastries anymore, or technical skill. about you.
the quiet passion, focused dedication you poured into everything you made. like he’d reached past counter, past flour-dusted apron, past practiced customer service smile, and seen something essential you rarely let anyone witness.
heat crept up your neck in a slow burn, spread across cheeks like spilled cinnamon. you ducked your head, suddenly exposed in ways that made your skin feel too tight. terrifying and exhilarating simultaneously, like standing at the edge of something vast and unnamed.
foolish joy blossomed behind your ribs anyway. he really sees it. sees you.
“well, thank you, satoru,” you managed, voice softer than intended, betraying the carefully constructed composure you wore like armor. squeezed the piping bag, and a perfect rosette bloomed—slightly lopsided but charming in its imperfection. “it takes a lot of practice. years, actually.”
your fingers trembled slightly as you set the cupcake aside, reached for another. started humming under your breath without thinking, a soft melody that always accompanied your work. caught yourself, stopped abruptly.
he made a thoughtful sound, those long fingers drumming against ceramic in a rhythm that somehow matched the song you’d been humming. like he’d been listening, filing away even your unconscious habits. “years, huh? that’s...” he paused, rolling the word around like he was tasting it. “dedication.”
something almost wistful colored his tone, like he was trying to imagine that kind of sustained commitment to anything that wasn’t maintaining his ridiculous physical perfection. his thumb traced the rim of his cup, absent gesture that drew your attention to hands that were probably softer than yours despite all his gym time.
“some people think it’s obsessive,” you admitted, surprising yourself with the honesty. smoothed your apron with nervous fingers, flour transferring to already-dusty fabric. you’d heard it before—friends who didn’t understand the 4am starts, the burned fingers, the endless pursuit of perfect crumb structure.
“obsessive?” he repeated, eyebrows rising toward that impossible hairline. familiar smirk tugged at lips that were unfairly well-defined, but gentler somehow. less performative. “coming from someone who’s memorized your operating schedule and has been conducting what could generously be called ‘pastry surveillance’ for months?”
the self-awareness in his voice, paired with that slight flush across sharp cheekbones, made something warm bubble up in your chest. despite yourself, you snorted. actual snorted. like an undignified, very unprofessional sound that would have mortified you with any other customer.
his grin widened into something brilliant, transforming his entire face. less magazine-perfect, more genuinely beautiful. the kind of smile that made you forget he was probably genetically engineered for maximum visual impact.
“touché,” you murmured, ducking your head to hide your answering smile. started humming again, softer this time, the melody weaving between words. “though i’d hardly call buying excessive amounts of baked goods ‘surveillance.’”
“excessive?” he pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, the gesture making his shirt pull across torso that defied reasonable proportions. leaned back in his chair with fluid grace, all long lines and casual power. “i prefer ‘thorough research methodology.’”
“is that what we’re calling it?” the question came out teasing despite your best efforts, fingers moving in familiar patterns as buttercream spiraled into perfect peaks.
“absolutely. very scientific.” he took another sip of matcha, eyes sparkling with mischief that made him look younger, less untouchable. “can’t make proper assessments without comprehensive data collection.”
you paused in your piping, tilted your head in challenge. “and what exactly are you assessing?”
something shifted in his expression then, playful mask slipping slightly. “everything,” he said simply, voice dropping to something more intimate. “the way you move when you think no one’s watching. how you hum when you’re concentrating. the fact that you always check the oven timer twice, even though you could probably bake blindfolded by now.”
the observation sent warmth spiraling through your chest. he had been watching, really watching. not just appreciating the view but memorizing details, cataloging habits you thought were invisible.
“speaking of which,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, elbows finding the table. closer now, close enough that you could see the way his lashes cast shadows on those ridiculous cheekbones. “how does one even begin to learn something like this? hypothetically speaking.”
the question caught you off guard, made you pause with piping bag hovering over another cupcake. something in his tone had shifted—less flirtatious banter, more genuine curiosity. like he was actually interested in your answer rather than just enjoying the conversation.
“hypothetically?” you echoed carefully, studying his face for signs of his usual performative charm. found something more sincere instead, vulnerability creeping around the edges of his confidence.
“completely hypothetical,” he assured, but that flush across his cheekbones deepened slightly. fingers stilled against his cup, waiting for your response with the kind of focus he usually reserved for gym routines or camera angles.
you considered this, set down the piping bag to give him your full attention. “well, hypothetically... most people start with basics. measuring, following recipes exactly. learning to fail gracefully.”
“fail gracefully?” curiosity brightened those storm-glass eyes, head tilting like he was genuinely trying to understand a foreign concept.
“burned cookies, collapsed cakes, chocolate that seizes because you got impatient.” you shrugged, began humming again as you arranged finished cupcakes on a tiered stand. the melody helped organize your thoughts, made the explanation flow easier. “it’s part of the process. you mess up, figure out why, try again.”
he was quiet for a moment, processing this with the kind of intense focus that probably made his personal trainer weep with joy. thumb traced patterns against ceramic, unconscious gesture that somehow made him seem more human.
“sounds like it requires patience.” something rueful colored his voice, like he was recognizing his own shortcomings.
“tons of it. and thick skin. and the ability to get up at ungodly hours because bread waits for no one.” you glanced up, caught something almost vulnerable in his expression. like he was actually considering this impossible scenario, measuring himself against requirements he’d never had to meet.
“ungodly hours,” he repeated thoughtfully, hair falling across his forehead as he leaned closer. “like how ungodly are we talking?”
“four am, sometimes earlier during busy seasons.” you watched him wince dramatically, all sharp angles and exaggerated horror. the reaction was so genuine it made you laugh, soft sound that seemed to catch his attention like a hook. “different kind of brutal than your workout schedule.”
“definitely different,” he agreed, then found yourself adding, voice softer, “but worth it. when everything comes together perfectly, when you create something that makes people happy...” you trailed off, humming resuming as you lost yourself in the thought. “there’s nothing quite like it.”
the way you said it, gentle and genuine and completely unguarded, made something shift in his expression. that performative confidence melted away entirely, replaced by raw curiosity and something that looked dangerously like longing.
“you really love it,” he observed quietly. not a question, more like a realization. like he was seeing you—really seeing you—for the first time.
“yeah,” you admitted, suddenly shy under his intense focus. smoothed your apron again, nervous gesture that left more flour streaks across the fabric. “i really do.”
silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. charged instead, humming with possibilities and the weight of his attention. you could feel something shifting in the space between counter and table, subtle but significant. like tectonic plates moving, rearranging the landscape of whatever this was becoming.
and maybe, just maybe, you were starting to see him too. past the perfect exterior and calculated charm, to something more genuine underneath. something worth the risk of letting your guard down.
“well,” he said finally, voice softer than usual, that vulnerability still threading through his tone. straightened in his chair but somehow seemed less distant. “hypothetically speaking, that sounds like something worth learning about.”
you met his gaze, heart doing complicated acrobatics against your ribs. started humming again, melody filling the space between words. “hypothetically.”
“of course.” that slow smile returned, different now. less performative, more real. like sunlight breaking through carefully constructed clouds. “purely theoretical interest.”
“naturally,” you agreed, trying to ignore how your pulse had shifted into overtime.
but as you watched him settle back in his chair, something had definitely changed. the air between you felt thicker, more charged with possibility. and for the first time since this whole thing started, you weren’t entirely sure who was in control of this particular game anymore.
not that you minded being a little lost, especially when the alternative was finding your way back to the safety of professional distance. some risks were worth taking, even if they came wrapped in designer clothing and impossible blue eyes.
two months in, satoru gojo’s meticulously structured life had quietly reorganized itself around flour & sugar’s operating hours. his calendar, once a rigid grid of training blocks and sponsorship meetings, now had soft, flexible pockets of time carved out for “research.”
his trainer, masaru, had progressed from exasperated sighs to leaving passive-aggressive notes about “dietary consistency” taped to his gym locker. one simply read: “carbs are not your friend, satoru.” satoru had crumpled it up with a grin.
his friends had progressed from gentle ribbing about his "carb phase" to outright intervention attempts.
“dude, you know there are other bakeries in the city, right?” his roommate had asked last tuesday, watching satoru check the time for the third time in ten minutes, a nervous energy thrumming under his skin. “ones that don’t require you to rearrange your entire geopolitical schedule?”
satoru had just shrugged, eyes fixed on the clock. “the lighting’s better at this one.”
but they didn’t understand. couldn’t understand. because somewhere between that first accidental like and now, somewhere in the quiet hum of your cafe and the warm scent of your pastries, this had stopped being about the pastries entirely.
wednesday morning found him arriving at his usual time—10:47 am, after the morning rush but before lunch prep fully consumed your attention.
he’d timed it perfectly over weeks of careful observation, memorizing the rhythm of your day like scripture. the bell announced his entrance with a familiar chime, and he felt that stupid, predictable flutter in his chest when you looked up from behind the counter, a small, knowing smile touching your lips.
you were piping something delicate onto petit fours, tiny, jewel-like cakes arranged in neat rows. your movements were precise, economical, each squeeze of the pastry bag adding perfect, miniature rosettes of buttercream. but it was the soft humming that got him—a barely audible, contented melody that seemed to flow from some deep, quiet place inside you. he’d started cataloging these details without meaning to.
“morning, cupcake,” he said, his voice a low, familiar rumble as he settled into his usual spot by the window. the endearment had become natural, automatic, though he wasn’t sure when that had happened. it just… fit.
“morning, satoru.” your voice carried a warmth that made something dangerous and hopeful bloom in his chest. you finished the petit four with a final, delicate flourish, set down the piping bag, and he watched you wipe your hands on your flour-dusted black apron—the same gesture he’d seen hundreds of times now, but it still made him want to memorize the movement. “the usual?”
the usual. like he was a regular fixture, a predictable part of your day, which he supposed he was. chocolate tart, almond croissant, matcha latte with extra sweetness because you’d noticed his ridiculous sweet tooth weeks ago and started accommodating it without him ever having to ask.
“you know me so well,” he said, and the words held more weight than he’d intended.
something flickered across your face—pleasure, maybe, or a quiet satisfaction at being seen as perceptive. you moved through the preparation with a practiced efficiency, but he caught the way you selected his chocolate tart from the back row, where you’d obviously set aside the most perfectly formed one. he noticed how you added just a touch more syrup to his matcha without measuring, your muscle memory perfectly calibrated to his preferences.
these small kindnesses shouldn't have meant so much. but they did. they felt like secrets, quiet acknowledgements of this strange, unspoken thing growing between you.
“here we go,” you said, setting his order down with a quiet care. your fingers brushed his as you handed over the matcha, a contact so brief it was barely there, but so electric it sent a jolt straight up his arm. “perfect timing, too—that tart just came out of the case.”
“perfect timing,” he agreed, his voice a little rough, though he was talking about more than pastries. every visit felt like perfect timing now, like the universe had conspired to place him in this specific seat at this specific moment, watching you create magic from flour and butter and impossible patience.
he settled in, but the cafe felt different today. quieter. the lull between rushes seemed to stretch longer, leaving just the two of you in the warm, sweet-scented space. he ate slowly, deliberately, making the experience last. he’d finish a bite of the rich, decadent tart, then take a sip of the sweet, earthy matcha, his eyes constantly drifting back to you as you worked.
you were arranging the petit fours now, a focused intensity in your movements. you felt his gaze on you, a familiar, warm weight. but it wasn't just observation anymore—it felt like a presence, a quiet companionship that filled the empty spaces in the cafe.
“those look almost too pretty to eat,” he called over, his voice a low, appreciative murmur.
you glanced up, a small, genuine smile touching your lips. “almost,” you agreed. “that’s the goal. make people hesitate for at least a full second before they destroy your hard work.”
he chuckled, a rich sound that made your chest feel warm. “a full second? that’s ambitious. for me, it’s more like half a second of quiet reverence, followed by total annihilation.” he gestured to his now-empty plate as evidence.
the conversation fell into a comfortable silence. he finished his latte, but he didn't move. he didn’t pull out his phone, didn’t start gathering his things. he just sat there, watching you, a soft, unguarded expression on his face. the hesitation was palpable, a quiet reluctance to break the spell of the morning. you felt your own heart beating a little faster. he was waiting. waiting for what, you weren't sure. maybe for you to tell him to leave.
but you didn’t want him to.
your hands stilled on the counter. you took a breath, a small, shaky thing. this was new territory, a step beyond the safety of your professional boundaries. “so,” you started, your voice a little softer than you intended. “i was, uh, working on something new this morning.”
his head tilted, a spark of genuine curiosity lighting up his storm-glass eyes. he leaned forward slightly, all his attention focused on you. “oh yeah? a new instrument of torture for my trainer?”
the familiar banter was a lifeline, and you grabbed it. “something like that,” you said, a real smile breaking through. you ducked into the kitchen for a moment, the hum in your throat picking up a nervous, excited tempo. when you returned, you were holding a small, pristine white plate. on it sat a single, perfect creation.
it was a small, dome-shaped mousse cake, glazed with a mirror finish so pale blue it was almost white, the exact shade of his eyes on a clear winter day. delicate, crystalline sugar work spun around its base like fractured ice, and on top, a single, perfect white chocolate feather rested, reminiscent of his impossible hair, dusted with the finest silver powder. it looked like him. it looked like a feeling you were terrified to name.
you placed it on the counter between you, a silent, trembling offering.
satoru stared at it, his usual playful smirk gone, replaced by an expression of genuine, stunned awe. his eyes, so often a similar shade of impossible blue, widened as he took in the delicate details. the color. the single white feather. the resemblance was subtle, artful, but undeniably there. he knew, instantly, what—or rather, who—he was looking at. “cupcake,” he breathed, the word soft, reverent, barely a whisper. “what is this?”
“i’m not sure what to call it yet,” you admitted, your fingers finding the familiar comfort of your apron, twisting the fabric. “it’s a white chocolate and blueberry mousse. with a yuzu curd center. i was trying to capture a feeling, more than just a flavor.” your eyes were fixed on the cake, unable to meet his.
he looked from the cake to you, his gaze intense, searching, his heart hammering against his ribs. he understood. oh, he understood completely. “what feeling?”
you felt a blush heat your cheeks, a slow, deep burn. you risked a glance up, and the raw vulnerability in his expression made your breath catch. “i don’t know… quiet. calm.” you gestured vaguely at the peaceful cafe around you, a weak attempt at deflection. “like… the feeling you get when you finally perfect something. that moment of peace.” your lie was thin as spun sugar.
he was silent for a long moment, just looking at you, a universe of unspoken understanding passing between your locked gazes. then, his eyes met yours, and there was a raw honesty in them you’d never seen before. “can i…?”
“i was hoping you would,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “i need an honest opinion. from a professional researcher.”
that earned you a slow, breathtaking smile. it wasn't his usual cocky grin—it was softer, more genuine, and it reached all the way to his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. “my services are at your disposal.”
he moved from his table to the counter, taking the seat opposite you. the shift was significant. he was no longer a customer in your space—he was a guest, an invited participant. he picked up the small fork you’d provided, his long, callused fingers surprisingly delicate.
he took the first bite with the focus of a bomb disposal expert. you watched, holding your breath, as his expression shifted. his eyes widened slightly, then fluttered closed for a brief, blissful moment. a soft, involuntary sigh escaped his lips.
he chewed slowly, thoughtfully. you saw the surprise as the bright, tart yuzu hit his palate, cutting through the creamy sweetness of the white chocolate and the subtle fruitiness of the blueberry.
when he opened his eyes, they were dark, intense. “cupcake,” he said again, his voice rough with emotion. “that’s… that’s not a pastry. that’s a poem.” he looked from the half-eaten cake back to you, a question in his eyes. a silent asking. is this for me?
pride, warm and overwhelming, bloomed in your chest. “so… it’s okay?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly.
he laughed, a real, incredulous sound. “okay? it’s… perfect.” he took another bite, slower this time, savoring it. “it tastes exactly like you said. like a quiet morning. like… peace.” he looked at you then, and the weight of his gaze was enough to make your knees feel weak. “like finding something you didn't even know you were looking for.”
“i try,” you whispered, your heart doing a wild, joyful dance against your ribs.
he finished the entire cake in a reverent silence. when he was done, he set the fork down gently, a thoughtful, almost sad expression on his face. “the only problem,” he said, looking at the empty plate, “is that it’s over.”
his gaze lifted to yours, and in that moment, in the quiet of the empty cafe, with the ghost of a perfect pastry between you, you both knew he wasn't just talking about the cake anymore.
he was in trouble. deep, irreversible trouble.
and as you looked back at him, a soft, shy smile touching your lips, you realized with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty… so were you.
thursday passed like a held breath.
you found yourself checking the clock obsessively—10:30, 10:45, 10:47. each minute that ticked by without the familiar chime of the entrance bell felt heavier than the last. by 11 am, you’d reorganized the display case twice. by noon, you’d deep-cleaned the espresso machine that was already spotless. by 2 pm, you were fighting the urge to text him, though you didn’t even have his number.
the rational part of your mind supplied perfectly reasonable explanations. content creation. gym sessions. life. but the irrational part—the part that had spent last night dreaming about storm-glass eyes and the way he’d said “perfect” like a prayer—whispered crueler possibilities.
maybe he’d finally realized how far he’d drifted from his carefully curated routine. maybe masaru had staged a successful intervention. maybe yesterday’s cake had been too much, too obvious, too vulnerable.
maybe he’d finally gotten tired of your little bakery.
the lunch rush came and went in a blur of mechanical smiles and automated responses. customers complimented your strawberry danish, your matcha cookies, your perfectly crafted lattes, but their praise felt muted, like hearing music through water. you caught yourself glancing toward his usual table—table three by the window—every few minutes, each time hoping to see white hair catching the afternoon light.
instead, you saw empty chairs and the golden dust motes dancing in the space he usually occupied.
masako, your part-time helper, noticed your distraction during the afternoon lull. “you seem off today,” she said, wiping down the counter with characteristic directness. at sixty-two, she had no patience for subtlety. “waiting for someone?”
“no,” you lied, your voice a little too bright. “just tired.”
she hummed, unconvinced, but left you to your melancholy. you spent the rest of the afternoon perfecting a new recipe for honey lavender madeleines, throwing yourself into the familiar comfort of precise measurements and careful timing. baking had always been your meditation, your way of quieting the noise in your head. but today, even the methodical ritual couldn’t quite drown out the disappointed whisper in your chest.
by 6 pm, you’d accepted the truth. he wasn’t coming.
you began your closing routine with a heavy heart, moving through the familiar motions on autopilot. wiping down tables, washing the last of the display cases, counting the till. the evening light slanted golden through your windows, painting everything in warm honey tones that should have felt cozy but instead felt lonely.
you were just reaching for the door lock, keys jingling softly against your wrist, when you heard it—the soft tap of knuckles against glass.
your heart performed some impossible acrobatics as you turned, and there he was. satoru gojo, looking uncharacteristically nervous in the fading daylight, one hand raised in a small wave, the other clutching something behind his back. his usual confident smirk was nowhere to be found; instead, his expression held a tentative quality that made your chest ache with sudden, overwhelming relief. even anxious, he was devastating—the way his white hair caught the golden hour light like spun silk, how his broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorframe despite the uncertain set to them.
you fumbled with the lock, your hands trembling slightly as you let him in. “satoru,” you breathed, his name carrying more emotion than you’d intended, your fingers still wrapped around the cool metal of your keys. “i thought—”
“i know,” he said quickly, stepping inside and bringing with him the familiar scent of clean soap and something indefinably him. his free hand found the back of his neck, rubbing in a gesture you’d never seen before, vulnerability written in the uncertain tilt of his mouth. “i’m sorry. i had… things to take care of.” a pause, where he seemed to gather courage from somewhere deep. “i was going to come this morning, but then i realized i needed to do this properly.”
“do what properly?” you asked, your pulse hammering against your throat. the question came out softer than intended, curiosity and hope threading through your voice as you unconsciously stepped closer.
instead of answering, he brought his hidden hand forward, revealing a small bouquet that made your breath snag. white camellias, maybe a dozen of them, their petals perfect and pristine as fresh snow. in japan, you knew their meaning: you’re adorable. my destiny. in love with you. the message was clear, vulnerable, impossibly sweet.
satoru’s cheeks flushed the faintest pink as he watched your expression shift, the color spreading across his sculpted features like watercolor on paper. “i spent three hours at five different flower shops,” he admitted, his voice carrying that rare uncertainty that made him seem younger, more human. “the florist at the last one had to explain the meanings because apparently i’m hopeless at this.” his storm-glass eyes met yours, earnest and a little scared, the usual playful glint replaced by something raw and real. “but these… these felt right. they reminded me of yesterday. of that cake. of the way you looked at me when i said it was perfect.”
you took the bouquet with reverent hands, your fingertips brushing his in the transfer—a contact so brief it barely registered but electric enough to send warmth spiraling up your arms. the delicate petals felt like silk against your skin as you brought them closer, breathing in their subtle fragrance. “satoru,” you whispered, and the name came out like a sigh, like gratitude made sound. “they’re beautiful.”
relief flooded his features like sunlight breaking through clouds, and a hint of his usual confidence crept back into the curve of his mouth. those impossibly long lashes fluttered as he blinked, and when he smiled—really smiled, not the practiced grin from his instagram posts—it transformed his entire face. “i was hoping you’d say that. because i have a question to ask you, and i figured flowers might help my case.”
you looked up at him expectantly, your heart doing that familiar flutter-dance, clutching the camellias like an anchor.
“would you…” he started, then stopped, that hand finding his hair again, fingers raking through the white strands and leaving them slightly mussed. you’d never seen him this flustered, and it was endearing beyond words, the way his carefully maintained composure cracked to reveal something beautifully nervous underneath. “god, why is this harder than my first brand partnership pitch?” he muttered to himself, making you laugh despite your nerves.
the sound seemed to center him. “satoru,” you said gently, setting the flowers carefully on the counter, your movements deliberate and soft. “just ask.”
he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath his fitted black sweater, shoulders squaring as he found his resolve. “would you like to have dinner with me? tonight? there’s this place…” his voice gained momentum, words tumbling out like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. “it’s small, nothing fancy, but they make the best karaage in shibuya, and their ramen is…” he trailed off, shaking his head with a self-deprecating smile that made your stomach flip. “i’m selling this terribly. what i’m trying to say is, it’s my favorite place. where i go when i need to feel grounded. and i want to share it with you.”
the vulnerability in his voice, the way he was offering you a piece of his private world, made your chest feel too small for your heart. you pressed your palms against the counter for stability, the cool surface grounding you as you processed the magnitude of what he was asking. “i’d love to,” you said simply, and watched his entire body relax with relief, tension melting from his shoulders like snow in spring.
“yeah?” he asked, that devastating smile breaking across his face like sunrise, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made you want to memorize every detail.
“yeah,” you confirmed, grinning back at him, your own smile feeling bright enough to power the whole cafe. “just let me grab my things.”
you found a small ceramic vase in your supply closet and arranged the camellias carefully, their white petals catching the last of the evening light. they looked perfect on your counter, a promise of something beautiful beginning. after gathering your cardigan and bag, locking up the cafe with hands that trembled only slightly, you turned to find satoru watching you with soft eyes, his gaze following your movements like he was cataloguing them for later.
“ready?” he asked, offering you his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman, the gesture somehow both casual and reverent.
“ready,” you replied, slipping your hand through the crook of his elbow and trying not to think about how perfectly you fit against his side, how solid and warm he felt beneath the soft fabric of his sweater.
the walk to his favorite restaurant took fifteen minutes through the bustling streets of shibuya. he guided you away from the main tourist areas, down narrow side streets where locals hurried past small family-owned shops and the air smelled like yakitori and car exhaust and the particular energy of tokyo at dinnertime. his free hand occasionally gestured as he talked, painting pictures in the air, and you found yourself watching the elegant line of his wrists, the way his long fingers moved with unconscious grace.
“nervous?” he asked as you walked, and you realized you’d been quieter than usual, too busy cataloguing the way his presence beside you made the familiar streets feel brand new.
“a little,” you admitted, your fingers tightening slightly on his arm. “good nervous, though.”
“me too,” he confessed, and the honesty in his voice made you look up at him in surprise. up close, you could see the faint freckles scattered across his nose, barely visible unless you were really looking. “i haven’t done this in a while. the whole… proper date thing.”
“what do you usually do?” you asked, then immediately regretted the question, your cheeks warming. “sorry, that’s none of my business.”
“no, it’s okay,” he said, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your arm where your hand rested, the touch absent and soothing. “honestly? usually nothing this meaningful. protein bars in my apartment while editing content isn’t exactly romantic dinner material.” his laugh carried a note of self-deprecation that made you want to argue with him about his worth.
you laughed, the sound bright in the evening air, and felt him relax beside you. “well, you’re setting the bar pretty low for yourself.”
“exactly,” he grinned, and there was that practiced charm again, but softer somehow, more genuine. “smart strategy. exceed expectations by actually trying.”
the restaurant he led you to was tucked between a small bookshop and a traditional tea house, so narrow you almost missed it. the wooden sign above the door was weathered and simple: “momiji.” no english, no tourist-friendly decorations, just the kind of place locals protected fiercely from guidebook discovery.
inside was warm and cramped in the best possible way. maybe ten tables total, most occupied by older couples and small groups of friends talking quietly over steaming bowls. the air was rich with the smell of soy and garlic and chicken fat, and your stomach rumbled appreciatively, the sound making satoru’s mouth quirk with amusement.
“gojo-kun!” called out an elderly woman from behind the counter, her face lighting up with genuine affection that transformed her weathered features into something beautiful.
“evening, chiyo-san,” satoru replied, bowing slightly, and you watched his whole demeanor shift into something warmer, more relaxed. the careful influencer polish melted away, replaced by genuine fondness. “i brought someone special tonight.”
the woman’s eyes immediately shifted to you, taking in your simple cream-colored dress with the tiny floral print and the way satoru’s hand had found the small of your back as he guided you inside, his palm warm even through the fabric. her smile grew knowing, delighted, the expression of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. “ah, i see. the usual table?”
“please,” he said, and she led you to a small booth in the back corner, quieter and more intimate than the rest of the dining room.
as you settled across from each other, the worn wooden bench soft beneath you, you realized how different this felt from your morning encounters at the cafe. there, you’d had the safety of routine, the professional distance of counter service. here, with nothing between you but a small wooden table scarred with years of use and the soft glow of paper lanterns, the connection felt immediate, electric.
“so,” you said, glancing around the cozy space, your fingers playing with the hem of your dress, “how did you find this place?”
his expression grew thoughtful, a little nostalgic, and he leaned back against the booth. even relaxed, there was something elegant about the way he occupied space, long limbs arranged with unconscious grace. “my first year trying to make it as a competitive swimmer, i was broke. like, eating convenience store onigiri for every meal broke.” his fingers drummed against the table, a nervous habit you’d never noticed before. “but i’d just started posting gym content online—mostly because i was bored and thought my workout routines were decent enough to share. turns out people really liked watching me lift heavy things.” his grin turned almost smug, and you could see a hint of that cocky influencer confidence bleeding through. “went from the chubby kid getting laughed at in middle school to having people leave fire emojis on everything i posted. not gonna lie, the ego boost was incredible.”
you nearly choked on your own spit. “you were chubby?” the question came out before you could stop it, eyes widening as you tried to reconcile this information with the man sitting across from you—all sharp angles and lean muscle and the kind of physique that probably broke instagram servers on a regular basis.
his laugh was rich, genuinely amused by your shock. “hard to believe, right? but yeah, i was this round little kid who lived on baa-chan’s pastries and had absolutely zero athletic ability. got picked on pretty relentlessly for it too.” his expression grew more serious for a moment. “kids can be brutal about that stuff.”
“i can’t even imagine,” you said, still staring at him like he’d just revealed he used to be a completely different person. “you’re so…” you gestured vaguely at all of him, “you know.”
“devastatingly handsome?” he supplied with a grin that was pure mischief.
you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “i was going to say fit, but your ego doesn’t need any more help.”
“my ego is perfectly calibrated, thank you very much,” he said, taking another bite with obvious satisfaction. “six million followers can’t be wrong.”
“six million?” you nearly choked on your tea, your eyes widening in genuine shock. you’d known he was popular—the blue checkmark, the sudden influx of customers at your cafe—but that number was astronomical. you hadn't even looked when you’d first clicked on his profile, too stunned by the… scenery.
a flicker of confusion crossed his features, quickly replaced by a slow, amused smirk. he leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, those storm-glass eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “wait a minute,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing drawl. “you’re telling me you stalked my entire profile, ‘accidentally’ liked my abs, and you didn’t even clock the follower count?” his eyebrows rose in mock disbelief. “cupcake, were you that mesmerized?”
heat flooded your cheeks, a furious, mortifying blush. “it was an accident!” you insisted, your voice a little too high. “my phone slipped! literally! it fell on my face!”
he just laughed, a rich, delighted sound that made chiyo-san glance over with a fond smile. “sure it did. a very convenient, gravity-induced slip right onto the like button of my most recent thirst trap.” he leaned back, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “it’s okay to admit it. my content is very… engaging.”
“it was an accident,” you repeated through gritted teeth, though the corner of your mouth was twitching with a smile you were desperately trying to suppress. “i barely even noticed.”
“you noticed enough to get flustered when i walked into your cafe the next day,” he countered, his grin widening. “don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” he winked, a quick, devastatingly charming gesture.
you sighed in dramatic, feigned defeat, shaking your head in amused disbelief. here he was, this successful influencer with millions of people thirsting over his content, sitting in a tiny restaurant getting excited about karaage and still finding the time to relentlessly tease you about a two-month-old instagram mishap.
he gestured around the small restaurant with obvious affection, his smile softening, the teasing glint in his eyes receding as he switched back to the more serious topic. “anyway… that first real brand deal came through when i had a lot fewer followers than i do now. i wandered around for hours after i got the email, just buzzing, until i smelled chiyo-san’s karaage and… followed my nose. she fed me for about half what anywhere else would have charged, and when i tried to tip her, she refused. said young athletes needed to save their money for important things.”
“like what?” you asked, charmed by the story, by the way his whole face animated as he spoke.
“protein powder, apparently,” he laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “she’s been trying to fatten me up ever since. every time i come in, she adds extra portions and pretends not to notice.” his expression shifted, became more thoughtful. “funny thing is, she reminds me of my grandmother. same stubborn kindness, same inability to let people leave hungry.”
something in his voice made you lean forward slightly, sensing a story. “your grandmother?”
“baa-chan,” he said, and the childhood nickname made him look younger somehow, vulnerability flickering across his features like candlelight. “she lived with us when i was little. made the most incredible pastries—mont blanc, cream puffs, these little butter cookies shaped like flowers.” his fingers moved as he spoke, sketching shapes in the air. “i was… well, let’s just say i was a chubby kid with zero self-control around her baking.”
the admission came with a self-conscious laugh, and you watched him duck his head slightly, white hair falling across his forehead in a way that made your fingers itch to brush it back. “i probably ate my weight in cream puffs every week. my parents were horrified—kept talking about discipline and proper nutrition—but baa-chan would just smile and make me another batch.”
“what happened?” you asked softly, sensing the weight beneath his words.
“she died when i was twelve,” he said simply, but you caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, the old grief still tender. “that’s actually when i got serious about swimming. needed something to prove, you know? the chubby kid who got picked on suddenly had abs and could out-swim anyone.” his laugh held a note of old satisfaction. “worked pretty well too, until my shoulder decided otherwise at nineteen.” he shrugged, and there was something almost casual about it, like he’d made peace with that disappointment long ago. “funny thing though—turns out all that discipline translated perfectly to social media. and honestly? after years of being called names, having people thirst over my workout videos was… pretty addictive.”
the parallel wasn’t lost on you—him finding your bakery, the way he’d gravitated toward your humming, your pastries, your quiet care. your throat felt tight with understanding. “she sounds wonderful,” you managed, your voice softer than intended.
“she would have loved you,” he said, and the certainty in his voice made warmth bloom in your chest. “would have probably tried to steal all your recipes and then pretend she’d invented them herself.”
a soft, watery laugh escaped you at the image, a sound thick with an emotion you couldn't quite name. you reached across the small table, your fingers gently covering his where they rested on the wood. his own smile softened in response, and he turned his hand over to tangle his fingers with yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. “i think i would have liked her too,” you said, your voice a little shaky. “even with the threat of culinary espionage.”
as if summoned by your shared laughter, chiyo-san appeared at your table with a pot of jasmine tea and a knowing smile, her approach breaking the tender moment. “the usual for you, gojo-kun?”
“the usual sounds perfect,” he confirmed, then turned to you with a slightly sheepish expression, running his hand through his hair in that nervous gesture. “i hope you don’t mind me ordering for both of us. she knows what i like, and trust me, you want what i’m having.”
“i trust you,” you said, and something in his eyes flickered with pleasure at the words, his whole posture straightening slightly.
chiyo-san bustled away, and you found yourselves alone again in the warm bubble of the corner booth. the awkwardness you’d expected on a first date was nowhere to be found—instead, conversation flowed as easily as it did in your cafe, maybe easier without the professional barriers.
“so,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on the table, “tell me something i don’t know about you.”
you considered this, idly tracing patterns on the wooden table with your finger, the surface smooth from years of use. “i didn’t always want to run a bakery,” you admitted, glancing up to find his attention completely focused on you, those storm-glass eyes intent and curious. “i went to university for literature. thought i’d be a translator, maybe work in publishing.”
“what changed your mind?” his question came with that particular quality of attention he gave you—like you were the only person in the world worth listening to.
“my grandmother,” you said, and your smile carried the warmth of a thousand memories. “she taught me to bake when i was little. not recipes from books, but the kind of knowledge that lives in your hands. how to tell when dough is ready by feel, how to adjust for humidity, all those little secrets that make the difference between good and extraordinary.”
you paused as chiyo-san returned with plates of food—golden karaage chicken that smelled like heaven, perfectly chewy ramen with rich, cloudy broth, gyoza with crispy bottoms and tender tops, and several small dishes you didn’t recognize but immediately wanted to try. the portions were generous enough to feed a small army.
“this looks incredible,” you breathed, the savory aroma making your mouth water.
“chiyo-san’s love language is overfeeding people,” satoru explained, already reaching for his chopsticks with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this countless times. “but finish your story. about your grandmother.”
you took a tentative bite of the karaage and nearly made an embarrassing sound of pleasure at the perfect balance of crispy exterior and juicy interior, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. “oh my god, this is amazing.”
“right?” his smile was proud, like he’d made it himself, and you caught the way he watched you taste everything, cataloguing your reactions with obvious satisfaction. “best in the city. now keep talking.”
“well,” you continued between bites, your chopsticks moving with less grace than his but no less enthusiasm, “when she got sick, i took leave from my job to take care of her. we spent months baking together, and she made me promise to keep her recipes alive. not just the techniques, but the feeling behind them. the idea that food can be comfort, celebration, love made tangible.”
your voice grew softer, more vulnerable, and you found yourself looking down at your bowl. “she died two weeks before i was supposed to start my master’s program. instead of going back to school for my master's, i realized what i really wanted. i used my savings for culinary school instead, and then opened flour & sugar. some days i think she’d be proud. other days i wonder if i gave up too easily on my original dreams.”
satoru’s chopsticks stilled in his bowl, and when you looked up, his expression was gentle, understanding written in the soft set of his features. “you didn’t give up,” he said quietly, and there was conviction in his voice that made your chest tight. “you just found a different way to tell stories. every pastry you make, every customer you welcome—that’s narrative too. connection. meaning.”
the simple validation made your throat tight with emotion, and you had to blink back the sudden threat of tears. “you think so?”
“i know so,” he said firmly, leaning forward slightly, his intensity focused entirely on you. “because i’ve been living that story for two months now. every morning at 10:47, getting to be part of whatever magic you create in that little space.”
you felt heat bloom in your cheeks, partly from his words and partly from a sudden realization that had been nagging at you all evening. “satoru,” you started hesitantly, your fingers tightening around your chopsticks, “can i ask you something?”
“anything,” he said, then caught your serious tone and set down his chopsticks entirely, giving you his complete attention.
“your routine,” you said carefully, worrying your lower lip between your teeth, “your content schedule, your training… am i messing that up for you? because if masaru is angry, or if coming to the cafe is interfering with your workouts…”
he was quiet for a long moment, considering his response, and you watched emotions flicker across his face—surprise, thoughtfulness, something that might have been relief. when he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, honest.
“yes,” he said simply, and your heart sank until he continued, his mouth quirking into a rueful smile. “you’ve completely destroyed my routine. i used to plan content three weeks in advance. i had optimal posting times calculated to the minute. i scheduled my life in fifteen-minute increments for maximum engagement.”
“satoru—” you started, distress clear in your voice.
“let me finish,” he said gently, and there was something in his expression that made you settle back, though worry still thrummed beneath your skin. “you’ve ruined all of that. and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
you stared at him, confusion clear in your expression, your head tilting slightly in that way you had when you were trying to puzzle something out.
“for three years, since swimming didn’t work out, i’ve been pretty happy with what i built,” he continued, his hands gesturing as he spoke, and you found yourself watching the elegant movement of his fingers. “good content, solid following, enough brand deals to live comfortably. got to turn all that training discipline into something that actually pays the bills.” his smile was easy, confident. “and honestly? i was enjoying it. liked the routine, liked the control, liked seeing the numbers go up.”
he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours where they rested beside your ramen bowl, and the touch sent electricity racing up your arm. “but then i found your cafe, and suddenly i had something to look forward to that wasn’t about hitting my macros or optimal posting times. something that was just… nice. simple good. like that first bite of your chocolate tart, or the way you hum when you’re concentrating, or how you remember exactly how i like my matcha without me having to ask.”
his thumb traced across your knuckles, the touch feather-light but grounding, and you found yourself holding your breath. “masaru thinks i’ve gotten distracted, and he’s probably right. but honestly? i’m not complaining. life’s been pretty good to me, but this…” he gestured vaguely between you both, “this is something different. something better.”
the weight of his confession settled between you like a shared secret, and around you, the restaurant hummed with quiet conversation and clinking chopsticks, but you felt suspended in this moment, in the warm golden light and the earnestness in his eyes.
“so no,” he said, his voice dropping to something warm, genuine, meant only for you, “you’re not messing anything up. if anything, you’re making everything more interesting.”
you felt warmth bloom in your chest—relief, happiness, something sweet and uncomplicated swelling until you could barely contain your smile. “that’s either the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” you managed, your voice slightly wobbly as you turned your hand palm-up beneath his, fingers intertwining, “or you’re really good at making excuses for carb addiction.”
he threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich and delighted and completely unguarded, and the momentary emotional intensity dissolved into warmth, comfort, the easy joy of sharing a meal with someone who understood the shape of your heart.
“probably both,” he admitted, grinning as he brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that made your entire body feel warm. “masaru keeps leaving increasingly desperate notes in my gym locker. yesterday’s just said ‘vegetables exist, satoru.’”
“he’s not wrong,” you said, gesturing at the mountain of fried chicken between you with your free hand, though you made no move to let go of his. “this is not exactly influencer food.”
“which is why,” he said, reaching for another piece of karaage with his chopsticks, absolutely no shame in his expression, “we’re going to enjoy every single bite, and tomorrow i’ll do an extra workout. balance.”
you spent the next hour working through chiyo-san’s generous spread, talking about everything and nothing. he told you about growing up in a family that expected perfection, about the pressure of competition, about the crushing disappointment when his swimming career ended with a shoulder injury at nineteen. you shared stories about the early days of the cafe, the learning curve of small business ownership, the quiet satisfaction of creating something with your own hands.
the conversation flowed like you’d known each other for years instead of months, punctuated by his groans of appreciation for the food and your laughter at his increasingly dramatic descriptions of masaru’s passive-aggressive campaign to restore his “macro discipline.”
“he’s started leaving printed meal plans in my gym bag,” satoru confessed, twirling ramen noodles around his chopsticks with practiced ease, his expression one of amused exasperation. “like a nutrition-focused fairy, but more judgmental and with better organizational skills.”
“maybe you should introduce him to my neighbor,” you suggested, dabbing at a drop of broth on your chin with your napkin. “she leaves notes about proper composting technique on everyone’s door. they could bond over their shared love of unsolicited improvement projects.”
“god, can you imagine?” he grinned, his eyes crinkling with genuine mirth. “they’d have the most organized, health-conscious children in tokyo.”
by the time chiyo-san brought you perfectly ripe persimmons and more jasmine tea, the restaurant had begun to empty out. you’d somehow made it through most of the food—a feat that seemed impossible when the plates first arrived—and you felt full in the best possible way, warm and content and slightly drowsy from good food and better company.
“i should probably get you home,” satoru said eventually, though his tone suggested he’d rather do anything else, his thumb still tracing absent patterns across your knuckles. “it’s getting late, and you have to open tomorrow.”
“unfortunately,” you agreed, though you made no move to gather your things, reluctant to break the spell of the evening.
he signaled chiyo-san for the check, waving off your attempts to pay with a firm shake of his head that left no room for argument. “this was my idea,” he said, his voice carrying that quiet authority that probably served him well in business negotiations. “besides, you make me breakfast five days a week. it’s the least i can do.”
“that’s different,” you protested, your cheeks warming. “that’s business.”
“is it?” he asked, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your pulse skip, the question loaded with weeks of careful circling around each other. “because it hasn’t felt like business for a while now.”
heat bloomed in your cheeks, and you looked down at your hands, still tangled with his. “no,” you admitted quietly, the word barely above a whisper. “it hasn’t.”
he settled the bill with chiyo-san, who sent you off with a paper bag of extra gyoza “for tomorrow’s lunch” and promises that you were welcome back anytime, her knowing smile making it clear she approved of satoru’s choice. the night air was cool against your skin as you stepped outside, a pleasant contrast to the warm restaurant, and you pulled your cardigan closer around your shoulders.
“which direction?” satoru asked, offering his arm again, the gesture now familiar and comforting.
you pointed toward the quieter residential area a few blocks away, and he fell into step beside you, matching his longer stride to yours with the easy consideration that seemed to come naturally to him. the streets were less crowded now, mostly couples heading home from dinners and workers catching late trains.
“thank you,” you said as you walked, your hand warm in the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid strength of his arm beneath the soft fabric of his sweater. “for tonight. for the flowers. for… all of it.”
“thank you,” he replied, and there was something wondering in his voice, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck, “for saying yes. and for making that cake yesterday. i know it was for me.”
you felt a flutter of nervousness in your stomach, your steps faltering slightly. “was it that obvious?”
“the white chocolate feather was a dead giveaway,” he teased gently, his voice warm with affection, but then his expression grew more serious. “but even without that, i would have known. you put yourself into everything you create. it’s one of the things i…” he trailed off, suddenly uncertain.
“one of the things you what?” you prompted, though your heart was already beating faster, hope and fear warring in your chest.
just as he was about to answer, his phone buzzed sharply, shattering the quiet between you. he flinched, annoyance flashing across his face as he pulled it out. you caught masaru’s name before he silenced the call with a jab and shoved the phone back, sighing.
the fragile thread of his confession snapped. he looked away, jaw tight, then met your gaze again—this time not raw, but steadier, warmer, as though he’d chosen a safer honesty.
he stopped walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a street lamp, the light casting golden highlights in his impossible hair. his hands found yours, warm and slightly callused and infinitely gentle, and the touch grounded you even as it sent your pulse racing. “
i had a really good time tonight,” he said quietly, his storm-glass eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “like, really good. better than good.”
the words hung in the air between you, warm and honest and making your heart do that familiar flutter-dance in your chest. you felt your breath catch, your entire world narrowing to this moment, this quiet confession, the way he was looking at you like you were something wonderful and unexpected.
“me too,” you whispered, your voice full of wonder and possibility.
he looked like he wanted to kiss you then. you could see it in the way his eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, the slight parting of his own. you wanted him to. you wanted it more than you’d wanted anything in a long time. but the moment stretched, suspended and fragile, and neither of you moved. the spell broke when a car passed, its headlights momentarily blinding you both, and the chance was gone.
he cleared his throat, a faint flush on his cheeks, and let go of one of your hands. “we should… get you home.”
the rest of the walk passed in a charged, comfortable silence. the unspoken moment from the streetlamp hung between you, electric and full of promise.
“this is me,” you said as you reached the small apartment building where you lived above a quiet bookshop, the familiar sight made new by his presence beside you. the white camellias waiting in your cafe felt like they were calling to you, a promise of sweet tomorrows.
he stopped at the entrance, his hands finding the pockets of his cargo pants. “well… goodnight, cupcake.” there was a touch of awkwardness in his posture, a reluctance to leave that was both sweet and agonizing.
“goodnight, satoru.”
he lingered for a beat longer, his storm-glass eyes holding yours. you knew if you didn’t do something now, the night would end on this note of sweet, unresolved tension. and that simply wouldn’t do.
before you could lose your nerve, you reached up, your fingers finding the soft collar of his sweater. he looked down at you, surprise widening his eyes. with a soft tug, you pulled his head down towards you. even then, with his six-foot-plus frame bent, you still had to rise up on your tiptoes, stretching to reach him.
it wasn’t his lips you found. it was his cheek. you pressed a soft, quick, deliberate kiss to the spot just beside his mouth, your own lips lingering for just a fraction of a second against his skin. it was warm, smooth, and felt impossibly intimate.
“bye,” you whispered against his cheek, then you pulled back, let go of his sweater, and practically fled—turning and rushing up the steps to your building’s entrance without a backward glance, your cheeks absolutely on fire.
satoru stood frozen on the sidewalk for a full minute after your door clicked shut, stunned into immobility. slowly, his fingers came up to touch the spot on his cheek where your lips had been. a slow, genuine, devastatingly happy smile spread across his face, unguarded and brilliant under the streetlight.
inside, you leaned your back against the cool wood of your apartment door, your heart hammering against your ribs. you brought a trembling hand up to your own lips, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up in your chest. a mix of pure terror and giddy exhilaration coursed through you. what did you just do?
a moment later, your phone buzzed in your bag with a familiar notification sound. you fumbled for it, your hands still shaking, and saw the instagram icon on your screen. it was him. a new message.
squatoru: you missed 😉 but thank you. see you tomorrow, cupcake.
you stared at the screen, a wide, foolish grin spreading across your face. the teasing emoji, the playful admonishment through the same app where this all started, the sweet promise of “tomorrow”—it was perfect. it was everything.
your heart did complicated acrobatics as you typed back a simple, breathless reply. tomorrow, you decided as you got ready for bed, still smiling at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you were going to make him something even better than that cake. something that tasted like jasmine tea and stolen kisses and the beginning of something beautiful.
after all, you had a story to tell. and now you had someone who wanted to read every chapter, someone who understood that the best stories weren’t the ones you planned, but the ones that found you when you were busy making other, smaller plans. and you couldn't wait to see what happened in the next chapter.
the weeks following your first date settled into a new, delicious rhythm. satoru’s visits were no longer just a feature of your mornings—they were the anchor around which the day pivoted. his excuses grew bolder, more ridiculous, delivered with a playful glint in his eyes that dared you to call his bluff. “my coffee machine is staging a protest,” he’d declared one monday, looking deeply offended. “it refuses to respect my caffeine requirements.” another time, he’d claimed he was performing a “long-term atmospheric study” of the cafe.
the tentative space between you had warmed, filled with inside jokes murmured over the counter and a steady stream of late-night texts that ranged from his profound thoughts on protein-to-carb ratios to blurry photos of his cat sleeping on his face. yet, for all the new intimacy, an invisible line remained, drawn somewhere between a shared laugh and the memory of a soft, hesitant kiss on a quiet street corner. the air between you hummed with a constant, unspoken question.
which brought you to this thursday.
the afternoon had bled into soft golden-hour evening, the last loyal customers drifting out into cooling air, leaving behind lingering coffee scent and quiet refrigerator hum.
you were twenty minutes from closing, moving through your end-of-day routine with practiced, meditative rhythm. wiping down the gleaming stainless steel counters, the sharp sanitizer scent cutting through the day’s symphony of sugar and butter. humming a soft, unidentifiable tune that filled the empty space like invisible thread weaving through silence.
he was still there. satoru. at his usual table, fortress of one, half-empty matcha latte sweating onto a coaster. he was pretending to work on his sleek, expensive laptop that seemed alien in the cozy analog warmth of your café. but the screen had been dark for ten minutes, its black surface reflecting the warm, buttery pendant light glow.
he was just watching you. watching you move through your closing routine with the kind of quiet, unwavering attention usually reserved for things you never want to forget. his focus was a tangible weight between your shoulder blades.
“you know,” he says suddenly, his voice a low, unexpected rumble that cuts through the comfortable silence, startling you from your rhythmic wiping. those long fingers drummed a restless, silent rhythm against the closed laptop—a nervous tell you’d never seen from satoru gojo before. the man who moved through the world like he owned it was nervous. the realization sent a warm, unfamiliar jolt through you.
you paused, cloth in hand, leaning a hip against the counter. the setting sun slanted through the large front window, catching the silver strands of his hair, turning them to spun gold. “what’s that? wondering if i’m ever going to kick you out so i can finally go home?”
he smiled, a slow, easy stretch that didn’t quite reach his storm-glass eyes. there was something different there today, a depth you hadn’t seen before. “something like that,” he admitted, his voice softer. he closed the laptop with a quiet click, the sound definitive, final. “how long does it actually take to learn? to do what you do?”
this wasn’t his casual, playful curiosity from before. not banter about his “research methodology.” this was deeper. vulnerable. it made your breath catch in ways that had nothing to do with flour dust.
“depends what you want to learn,” you said carefully, your voice quiet in the empty café, sensing the delicate shift in the air between you. you placed the cleaning cloth on the counter, giving him your full attention.
“everything.” the word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. he stood, unfolding from his chair with fluid grace that was at odds with the tension in his shoulders. all that easy, performative confidence had been stripped away, replaced by something raw and honest. “i want to understand it all. the whole process. from scratch.”
you turned to look at him properly, taking in the way he watched you with those impossible eyes, the slight tension in his jaw like he was bracing for rejection. “from scratch?” you echoed, a faint disbelieving hum in your throat. “satoru, that’s... that would take a while. it’s not just following recipes. it’s feel. touch. intuition you build over years.”
“i know,” he said, his gaze unwavering. he took a step closer, then another, until he was leaning against the counter opposite you, the broad stainless steel expanse the only separation. the space felt charged, intimate. “i’ve been watching you. it’s different. the way you work. there’s patience to it. respect for the ingredients.” his voice dropped lower, more intimate. “i want to understand what it feels like to create something like you do. not just consume it.”
the confession, earnest and stripped of his usual charm, rewired something fundamental in your chest. he wasn’t just talking about baking. he was talking about meaning, purpose—things you never would have associated with the man who posted thirst traps for a living.
“that would take months, maybe longer,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.
“i’ve got time,” he said immediately, the words a quiet, fervent promise. he pushed off the counter, moving around it until he was standing in your workspace, in your world. he was close enough that you could smell the faint clean scent of his cologne, the subtle matcha sweetness on his breath. “we could start tonight. if you want. something simple.”
your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in your chest. you realized what he was really asking for. not just lessons. not just a hobby. your time, your space, a piece of your world. he was asking for you.
“it’s almost closing time, satoru,” you managed, the words a weak protest against the overwhelming tide of his sincerity.
“i know.” another step closer. his storm-glass eyes were dark, intense, searching yours. “perfect timing, actually. no interruptions.”
you hesitated, suddenly acutely aware of how empty the café felt, how the golden late-afternoon light streaming through the windows made everything feel dreamlike and charged. you could hear the soft refrigerator hum, the quiet clock ticking, the frantic thumping of your own heart. he saw your pause, the flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, and something shifted in his expression—doubt maybe, disappointment that made your chest ache.
“unless you’re too tired,” he started, his voice suddenly losing its confident edge, “or you have plans, or this is a stupid idea, or—”
“no!” the word came out too enthusiastic, cutting him off. you felt a mortifying blush creep up your neck. you cleared your throat, trying to regain some composure. “i mean, yes. we could do that. tonight.”
the smile that spread across his face was different from any you’d seen before. not his usual cocky smirk, nor the playful teasing grin. this one was softer, more genuine, tinged with profound relief and something that looked dangerously like joy. it transformed his entire face, made him look younger, more vulnerable. utterly beautiful.
“yeah?” he breathed, the single word full of hopeful, boyish charm that completely undid you.
“yeah,” you confirmed, a real, unguarded smile finally breaking through your professional facade. “but you’re on dish duty.”
he laughed, a bright, relieved sound that echoed in the quiet café, and in that moment something fragile and beautiful and terrifying was born between you.
you settled on chocolate soufflé. it felt appropriate—impressive enough to justify the extended after-hours lesson, but delicate enough to require real technique and timing. a challenge worthy of his newfound sincerity.
you flipped the sign to ‘closed’, the soft lock click echoing in the silence. you dimmed the front lights, leaving just the warm, focused glow of the kitchen workspace, creating an intimate golden bubble just for the two of you.
“soufflé?” he raised an eyebrow as you pulled out ramekins, his voice a low, amused rumble. he was leaning against the prep counter, watching with an intensity that made your skin prickle. he’d shed his expensive long-sleeved shirt, revealing a plain black t-shirt that clung to every powerful line of his torso. no designer labels, no carefully tousled hair. he looked simpler. more real. and almost nervous, a faint tension in his broad shoulders that you found ridiculously endearing. “isn’t that supposed to be impossible? the final boss of desserts?”
“only if you don’t understand the science,” you said, gathering your hair with practiced efficiency, tying it back. you felt his eyes on the nape of your neck, a warm focused heat. you started humming under your breath, a soft melody that always accompanied your more delicate work. “it’s all about incorporating air properly, then not letting it collapse. it’s very... temperamental.”
the word hung suspended in the chocolate-scented air, heavy with obvious double meaning. his storm-glass eyes darkened slightly, a slow knowing smile touching his lips.
“first, we make the base,” you explained, your voice slightly breathy as you turned to face him. you showed him how to melt dark chocolate with butter in a double boiler, the rich intoxicating scent starting to fill the air. “low and slow. you can’t rush it, or everything seizes up. gets bitter.”
he stood beside you, closer than necessary, watching intently as you stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon, the chocolate melting into a glossy dark pool. when you handed the spoon over, his fingers brushed yours, a brief electric touch that sent a jolt up your arm.
“like this?” his voice was a low murmur as he mimicked your gentle circular motions. his focus was absolute, his usual playful energy replaced by quiet, earnest concentration that made something warm bloom in your chest.
“perfect. keep that rhythm.” when he started stirring just a little too fast, a little too aggressively, he moved behind you to adjust the motion. his broad chest pressed against your back as he covered your hand with his much larger one, and you went completely still. the solid wall of muscle behind you made thinking suddenly impossible. you could feel every shift of his torso, the way his breathing had gotten slightly unsteady, the heat radiating through his thin t-shirt. “feel how it’s getting smoother? the proteins are relaxing. you have to be gentle,” you managed, voice breathless and unsteady.
“sorry, cupcake,” he murmured against the top of your head, voice soft and slightly shaky. “i’m... not usually this nervous about stirring things.” there was wonder in his tone, like he couldn’t quite believe he was here, doing this with you.
his voice was a low, rough growl when he answered. “kind of hard to focus with you pressed against me like this, cupcake.”
but the real intimacy, the real danger, came with the egg whites. you separated them with practiced grace, the yolks and whites parting cleanly. when you handed him the large copper bowl and the whisk, he looked genuinely intimidated, like you’d just handed him a live grenade.
“this is the make-or-break moment,” you told him, your voice soft but firm. you showed him the copper bowl, the clear viscous whites shimmering within. “the whites need to be perfect—not under-whisked, not over-whisked. just right. perfect stiff peaks.”
he started whisking, and it was all wrong. too aggressive, too fast, his powerful shoulders putting way too much force into it. the whites started foaming unevenly, large sloppy bubbles forming instead of the fine consistent foam you needed.
“no, no,” you said, looking up at his technique with barely contained laughter. “gentle at first, then build up. like this. it’s not about strength—it’s about rhythm.”
he stepped behind you with obvious reluctance, like he wasn’t quite sure this was a good idea either. “show me,” he said, voice slightly strained. his much larger hands covered yours on the whisk handle, his chest pressed against your back as he leaned over your shoulder to watch the bowl. the solid wall of muscle behind you made your pulse stutter, and you could tell from his uneven breathing that he was just as affected. “this is... harder than it looks,” he murmured, clearly talking about more than whisking.
“slow circles first,” you managed, acutely aware of how he was bracketing you, the clean scent of his cologne mixing with lingering chocolate. you started the motion, and he followed your rhythm with careful precision, his hands slightly unsteady over yours. you felt him lean down, his breath warm against your ear, and you had to bite back a nervous giggle at how ridiculous this all was. “feel the resistance change? now we can go faster.”
“this is torture,” he said softly, but there was fondness in his voice, like he was amazed by his own predicament. when you sped up the whisking motion, his body moved with yours, and he let out a soft, almost helpless sound that made you want to turn around and kiss the dazed expression you knew was on his face.
“they’re getting stiff,” he said, his voice rough, strained.
“perfect stiff peaks,” you agreed, your own voice shaky, though you were definitely talking about more than egg whites now. the air was thick with unspoken things, with the scent of chocolate and the clean masculine smell of him. “now comes the tricky part.”
“but first,” you said, reaching for the small container of flour from a nearby shelf, “let me just...” you dipped your fingers into the white powder, then without warning, dabbed it across his cheek, leaving a pale streak across his sharp cheekbone.
he went completely still, his storm-glass eyes widening in surprise. “did you just—”
“oops,” you said innocently, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “occupational hazard. flour gets everywhere in real kitchens.”
a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. “is that so?” he reached for the flour container, dipped his own fingers. before you could react, he’d brushed powder across your nose, a gentle touch that made your breath catch. “seems like you’re right. very hazardous.”
what followed was gentle chaos. a playful flour fight that had you both laughing breathlessly, white powder dusting your hair and clothes and every surface within reach. he was careful not to be too aggressive, but his competitive streak showed when he managed to get a handful down the back of your apron.
“satoru!” you squeaked, arching away from the cold powder, which only pressed you closer against his chest. he was grinning down at you, flour in his silver hair making him look younger, more carefree than you’d ever seen him.
“what? you started it, cupcake.” his voice was warm with laughter, his hands settling on your waist to steady you. “just evening the playing field.”
“we’re supposed to be baking,” you protested weakly, but you were smiling too hard to sound stern. you hummed a soft laugh that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“we are baking,” he said solemnly, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. “this is... technique development. very important for proper soufflé preparation.”
“technique development,” you repeated skeptically.
“absolutely. building trust between chef and... sous chef.” his fingers tightened slightly on your waist. “can’t make good food without trust, right?”
something in his voice made you look up at him properly. you were both flour-streaked and disheveled, hair messed and clothes dusty, but his expression was soft, genuine. like he was asking about more than just cooking.
“right,” you agreed quietly. “trust is... essential.”
the moment stretched between you, charged with possibility, until the timer on your phone chimed a reminder about the chocolate base.
“folding is an art,” you told him after you’d both brushed off the worst of the flour, your voice a low murmur as you spooned a third of the whipped egg whites into the chocolate base. you started humming again, a soft tune that helped organize your movements. “too rough, and you’ll knock out all the air we just built up. too gentle, and it won’t incorporate properly.”
you demonstrated the motion—a gentle lift up from the bottom, a turn of the spoon, a clean cut down through the mixture. it was graceful, practiced, almost hypnotic. a quiet ballet of the hands.
“your turn,” you said, handing him the spoon, your eyes locking with his over the bowl. his were dark, almost black, pupils blown wide.
his first attempts were clumsy, awkward. he was trying to stir, not fold, and you could see the frustration building in the tense set of his shoulders.
“here,” you murmured, gesturing for him to step behind you again. “it’s easier if you can see the motion properly.” this time when he moved to stand behind you, his positioning was more natural but no less distracting—his height allowing him to look over your shoulder easily, though he seemed to be having trouble concentrating on anything but the way you fit against his chest.
you demonstrated the folding motion with him watching intently, his breath tickling your ear. “lift... turn... cut down,” you guided softly, trying to ignore how his hands trembled slightly when they covered yours. “it’s all about the wrist action. gentle but firm.”
the double entendre hung in the air, and you felt him go completely still behind you, then let out a quiet, slightly hysterical laugh. “you’re killing me here, cupcake,” he said, voice strained but fond. “i’m trying to be a gentleman.”
“like that?” he asked when you guided him through the motion, voice breathless and wondering, like he couldn’t quite believe he was here doing this with you.
“exactly like that,” you whispered back, your own voice soft with affection and barely contained laughter at how completely gone you both were. “you’re a natural.”
the confession, so simple and true, settled between you like flour in still air, impossible to take back. you didn’t step away this time. you couldn’t. instead, your hands tightened over his on the spoon, a silent mutual acknowledgment that this had stopped being about baking.
“satoru,” you whispered, his name a soft questioning sound against his skin.
he turned in your arms, the movement slow, deliberate, until you were pressed between his warm solid chest and the cool unyielding edge of the counter. the spoon was forgotten, clattering onto the prep surface as his hands, large and warm and sure, found your waist.
what started as one soft, hesitant kiss, a question asked and answered, became something hungrier, deeper. your hands fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded by lifting you easily, effortlessly, onto the prep counter, his strength making you feel cherished and utterly safe.
“we should... put the soufflés in the oven,” you breathed against his mouth, your mind vaguely aware of the prepared ramekins sitting nearby, waiting.
“in a minute,” he murmured back, his hands spanning your waist, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin under your ribs, sending shivers through you. “i like you messy, cupcake. flour suits you.”
his mouth trailed down your throat, a hot open-mouthed path that made you arch into him, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him impossibly closer. he groaned softly at the contact, the sound a deep guttural vibration against your collarbone that made your entire body hum with want.
“they’ll collapse if we wait too long,” you tried again, halfheartedly, your fingers tangling in the soft silver strands of his hair.
“then we’ll make new ones,” he said against your skin, his voice a low possessive growl. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his storm-glass eyes dark with a want so profound it stole the air from your lungs. “but i’ve been thinking about this for weeks, cupcake. thinking about you. about what it would feel like to have you in my arms, in my kitchen.”
his mouth found yours again, a deep, possessive kiss that spoke of weeks of pent-up longing, restraint finally shattering. it felt like surrender, a point of no return—until your eyes fluttered open and caught on the copper bowl behind him. the glossy egg whites, the soul of the soufflé, were already softening. the baker in you screamed in silent protest.
your palms pressed to his chest, firm but trembling. “satoru, wait,” you breathed, lips brushing his. “the soufflé—the egg whites will collapse.”
he groaned, burying his face in your neck for one tortured beat before pulling back. the panic in your eyes softened his frustration into something fonder, and a wicked smile tugged at his lips.
“can’t have that,” he murmured. “a collapsed soufflé on my first lesson? my record would be ruined.” he stole one last hard kiss. “okay, chef. lead the way.”
the shift back to the task was electric. the air was thick with what almost happened, and what was definitely going to happen later. with trembling legs, you slid off the counter, your body buzzing with unspent energy.
somehow, between shaking hands and the distraction of his solid presence behind you, you managed to get the soufflé mixture into the ramekins and slide them into the preheated oven. your movements were less precise than usual, some ramekins fuller than others, your usual perfectionist tendencies completely derailed by the heat radiating from his body every time he leaned close.
“and now we wait,” you said, stepping back from the oven and immediately missing the warmth of him behind you.
“twelve minutes,” he repeated, voice rough around the edges. he ran a hand through his silver hair, leaving it more disheveled than usual. “what do we do for twelve minutes?”
“try not to think about them,” you managed, wiping your flour-dusted hands on your apron with nervous energy. “soufflés can sense anxiety.”
“well, that explains a lot,” he said, that crooked smile making your pulse skip. “i’m the human embodiment of anxiety right now.”
the twelve minutes crawled by with painful slowness. you cleaned up together, hyperaware of every accidental brush of fingers, every time he had to reach around you for something. the domesticity of it was strange and intoxicating—him washing dishes while you wiped surfaces, both stealing glances at each other and the oven door.
when the timer finally shrieked, you both jumped like guilty teenagers.
you opened the oven door with trembling hands, and a cloud of warm, chocolate-scented air enveloped you. your heart did a little flip. they’d risen, yes, but unevenly—some tall and proud, others slightly lopsided, one that had clearly gotten too much mixture and was threatening to spill over its ramekin in a delicious, molten wave. they were messy. they were imperfect. they were theirs.
“oh,” satoru said softly from beside you, and you could hear the genuine disappointment creeping into his voice as he took in the imperfect results. his broad shoulders slumped just a fraction, a quiet admission of his high expectations meeting a messy reality.
you turned to face him, a gentle, reassuring smile on your lips as you caught the slight downturn of his mouth. it was an expression you’d never seen on him before—not arrogance, not charm, but a boyish, sulky pout that was ridiculously endearing.
“hey,” you said softly, nudging his arm with your shoulder. “it’s your first time making one of the most notoriously difficult pastries in the world. and,” you added, your voice dropping to a warmer, more intimate tone, “they’re made with love. that’s what really matters, right?”
he looked down at you with those storm-glass eyes, something soft and vulnerable flickering there. “but yours are always perfect,” he retorted, his voice a low, almost mournful grumble. “everything you make is always perfect and made with love. it’s not fair.”
heat crept up your neck at the raw sincerity in his voice, the way he was looking at you like you’d hung the moon and personally arranged the stars. the compliment, born from his own momentary failure, felt more potent than any of his previous praise. “satoru…”
“what? it’s true.” a hint of his usual confidence returned as he grabbed two spoons from the drawer, his movements decisive. he handed you one, but his expression was still earnest. “you need to taste it. for science. to confirm that my love-infused-but-lopsided soufflé is still edible.”
the first bite was molten chocolate heaven, rich and airy despite the uneven appearance. you made a soft, involuntary sound of appreciation, your eyes fluttering closed for just a second. when you opened them, he was watching you, a hopeful, almost anxious look on his face.
“good?” he asked, taking his own first, tentative spoonful.
instead of answering with words, you scooped up another bite from the messy, overflowing ramekin—his ramekin. you held it out to him, surprising yourself with the easy intimacy of the gesture. “you tell me.”
his eyes went wide for a moment before a slow, devastating smile spread across his face. he leaned forward, his lips closing around the spoon you offered in a way that made your pulse stutter. the soft, pleased sound he made, his own eyes fluttering closed in bliss, sent a wave of heat spiraling through your chest.
“incredible,” he breathed, his gaze locking with yours, dark and full of a wonder that had nothing to do with the chocolate. then, a mischievous glint returned. he scooped up some of his own. “your turn.”
you leaned forward to accept the bite he offered, hyperaware of how his gaze tracked the movement of your lips around the spoon. the chocolate was perfect—rich and warm and somehow tasting even better when he was the one feeding it to you.
“this is ridiculous,” you murmured, but you were smiling, caught up in the sweetness of the moment.
“ridiculously perfect,” he agreed, then leaned closer, eyes dark with intent. “you’ve got chocolate...”
instead of telling you where, he kissed you, slow and sweet and tasting of molten chocolate and something like joy. when he pulled back just enough to speak, his lips barely brushing yours, you were both breathing unsteadily.
“found it,” he murmured against your mouth, then kissed you again, deeper this time.
the spoons clattered forgotten to the counter as his hands found your waist, lifting you easily onto the prep surface. your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as his mouth moved against yours with increasing hunger.
“satoru,” you gasped between kisses, your hands fisting in his t-shirt.
“been thinking about this,” he confessed against your throat, his voice rough with want. “been thinking about you. for weeks.”
his mouth trailed soft kisses along your jaw, your neck, finding that sensitive spot that made you gasp and laugh at the same time. “been thinking about this,” he confessed against your throat, voice full of wonder like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. “been thinking about you. driving myself crazy for weeks.”
your fingers tangled in his silver hair, and he practically melted into the touch, letting out a soft, almost reverent sigh. “you’re ridiculous,” you murmured fondly, then squeaked when he found that particularly sensitive spot again. “and apparently very good at distracting people from baking.”
“i’m a man of many talents,” he said against your skin, then pulled back to look at you with that boyish grin that made your heart do stupid things. “though i have to say, this is my new favorite.”
what started as one soft, hesitant kiss, a question asked and answered, became something hungrier, deeper. your hands fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded by lifting you easily, effortlessly, onto the prep counter, his strength making you feel small and cherished and utterly safe.
he groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound of surrender. his hands, large and sure, span your waist before sliding down, gripping your hips with a possessive strength that makes your breath catch. with an effortless display of power, he lifts you, settling you back onto the cool, flour-dusted prep counter without breaking the kiss. you are surrounded by him, pinned between his hard body and the solid surface, the intoxicating scent of him—clean soap, expensive cologne, and a faint, sweet hint of matcha—filling your senses.
he breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at you, his storm-glass eyes dark with a want so profound it makes you dizzy. his breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily. he rests his forehead against yours for a moment, a quiet beat in the rising storm, as if to center himself.
“been wanting to do that,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough growl, “since the first time i saw you wipe flour on your apron.” his thumbs trace slow, hypnotic circles on your hips. “weeks, cupcake. i’ve been going out of my mind.”
the raw honesty in his voice, stripped of all its usual playful charm, makes your heart hammer against your ribs. you can only nod, your fingers still tangled in the soft fabric of his shirt.
he straightens up slightly, his gaze dropping to the simple, practical dress you wear for work. a slow, wicked smirk begins to curve his lips. “this has got to go,” he decides, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. he reaches for the small zipper at the back of your neck, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “can’t properly appreciate the artistry with all this… fabric in the way.”
a wave of shyness washes over you, and your hands instinctively move to cover his. “satoru, wait…”
he pauses, his large, warm hand gently covering yours. he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, his storm-glass eyes holding yours, suddenly tender. “hey,” he whispers. “it’s just me. just us. i want to see you. all of you.” the sincerity in his voice, the quiet plea in his eyes, melts your resistance. you slowly, hesitantly, release his hand.
with a triumphant but gentle smile, he unzips your dress, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. he peels the fabric from your shoulders with a reverence that makes you feel cherished, not exposed. he lets the dress pool around your waist, revealing the simple cotton bra and bloomers you wear for comfort during long hours on your feet. he unhooks your bra with practiced ease, his fingers deft and sure, letting it fall away.
his breath hitches. “fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, his gaze sweeping over you with an almost worshipful intensity. his eyes, so often a playful, teasing blue, are now dark with a raw, unadulterated awe. he reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breast, as if memorizing your shape. “so perfect.”
he breaks away for a moment, and you hear the soft hiss of a canister. he returns with the whipped cream you’d left out from the cupcake prep, a playful, predatory glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a frantic flip.
“what are you doing?” you whisper, your voice shaky, a nervous laugh bubbling up in your throat.
“you make perfect things all day,” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble, as he steps back between your legs. “so sweet. so delicious.” his hand slides up your thigh, his touch warm and sure. “it’s only fair i get to make you my pastry for once.” he shakes the can, the sound a playful rattle. “for research, of course.”
you watch, a mixture of terror and fascination, as he aims the nozzle. “satoru, that’s going to be… cold,” you manage, a faint note of protest in your voice.
“i’ll warm you up,” he promises, his eyes dark with intent.
he doesn't start where you expect. he sprays a small, perfect dollop of whipped cream on your inner thigh, right above your knee. the cold shock makes you gasp, your legs instinctively trying to close. he just chuckles, a low, pleased sound, and holds them gently in place. he leans down, his silver hair brushing against your leg like spun silk, and licks the cream away in one slow, deliberate swipe. his eyes flutter closed as he savors the taste. his gaze lifts to meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded. “delicious.”
he moves up, a slow, methodical artist at work. he sprays a delicate swirl on your hip, another on the sensitive skin of your stomach, just above your navel, each cold touch followed by the hot, wet warmth of his mouth. he’s decorating you, his movements precise and artful. his final touches are the most deliberate: two perfect, delicate rosettes piped directly onto your nipples. the intense cold makes them pebble instantly, and you cry out, a sharp, surprised sound.
“look at that,” he breathes, admiring his handiwork, his voice thick with a possessive pride. “my perfect little cupcake. so pretty.” he leans in and devours his creation, his tongue tracing the swirl on one nipple before he takes the entire hardened peak into his mouth, licking and sucking the sweet cream away until you’re writhing on the counter, your fingers fisting in his hair. he gives the other nipple the same reverent, all-consuming attention, his praise a constant, filthy murmur against your skin. “so sweet… knew you would be… perfect for me…”
his attention then moves lower, his mouth trailing a hot, wet path down your stomach, licking away every last trace of cream. his hands find the waistband of your bloomers, then the delicate lace of your panties beneath. he doesn't remove them. instead, he hooks his fingers in the elastic, pulling the fabric taut, creating a perfect frame for the sight of you. you’re already dripping for him, the thin lace dark and damp with your arousal. he groans, a low, satisfied sound against your skin. “look at how wet you are, pretty girl. already melting for me.”
he doesn't push the fabric aside. he presses his mouth right against the damp lace, the slightly rough texture an immediate, shocking friction against your sensitive flesh. his tongue darts out, tracing the outline of your folds through the material, mapping you. the friction is maddening, a delicious, textured pleasure that makes you cry out, your hips lifting instinctively from the counter. he laps at you, teases you, soaking the lace until it clings to you like a second skin.
“so sweet,” he pants against you. “i can taste you right through your panties. fuck, that’s so hot.” his praise is relentless, a filthy, hypnotic mantra. “that’s it, let it go for me… soak yourself for me… i’m going to taste every drop…”
then, the teasing stops. he positions his mouth directly over the heart of you, and with a low groan, he pushes the tip of his tongue firmly against the lace, right over your entrance. he doesn't just lick, he fucks. he presses his tongue into you, a firm, insistent pressure that mimics the head of a cock, working his way into your channel through the thin barrier of fabric. the sensation is overwhelming, a dull, deep friction that sends shockwaves straight to your core.
he moves with a steady, relentless rhythm, his entire focus narrowed on this single, filthy act—fucking you through your own panties. you can feel the lace stretching, rubbing, a maddeningly indirect stimulation that is somehow more intense than direct contact. he works you like this for long, torturous moments, his breath hot and ragged, until your mind goes blank with overwhelming pleasure.
with a choked sob, you come, your body convulsing on the counter, your inner muscles clenching with a helpless, shattering release.
he stays there, lapping up the fresh wave of your release through the lace, until the last of your shudders subside. then, and only then, does he pull back, a triumphant, proprietary smirk on his lips. he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your soaked panties and bloomers, pulling them down your legs with a slow, deliberate motion, tossing them aside.
“oh, pretty girl,” he says, his voice a low, teasing drawl as he looks at the damp, glistening evidence of your pleasure on the counter beneath you. “you made a mess.” he tuts playfully, shaking his head. “we can’t have that. health hazard, you know. very unprofessional.”
before you can respond, a mortified blush heating your cheeks, he’s leaning in, his tongue darting out to clean you up, licking the sticky wetness from the cool stainless steel. his thoroughness is both humiliating and unbelievably arousing.
when he’s finished, he looks up at you, his eyes dark and hungry. “all clean,” he purrs. “but i think i missed a spot.”
he reaches for the whipped cream canister again. your eyes widen. “satoru, no…” you breathe, a weak, helpless laugh escaping you.
“satoru, yes,” he corrects, his grin wicked.
this time, he sprays a single, perfect, generous dollop right onto your swollen, hyper-sensitive clit. the cold shock makes you gasp, your hips lifting off the counter, a sound that is half protest, half plea.
he watches the cream start to melt against your heat, a slow, decadent drip. “now, for the final, most important detail,” he whispers, his voice thick with anticipation.
this time, there is no barrier, just his mouth and tongue and teeth, a relentless, worshipful assault. he licks away the cream with slow, languid strokes, savoring the taste of it mixed with your own unique sweetness. his tongue is an instrument of pure pleasure, tracing circles, flicking, dipping inside you.
his praise starts again, a low, constant murmur against your most sensitive flesh as he works. “fuck, you taste so good… my favorite flavor… so responsive for me, pretty girl… that’s it, let me hear you… scream for me this time…”
he finds your rhythm, his tongue a merciless, perfect piston against your clit. the pleasure is sharper this time, more intense, building with a speed that terrifies and excites you.
you feel the pressure coiling low in your belly, a tight, frantic knot. he senses it, his ministrations becoming more insistent, his fingers gripping your thighs to hold you still. he is determined to wring another orgasm from you, to leave you completely, utterly wrecked.
you come apart for him again, the climax even more intense than the first, a shattering, vocal scream that echoes in the quiet kitchen as he swallows every last drop with a deep, possessive groan.
he pulled back, mouth slick with your taste, a triumphant smirk curving his lips. you were a beautiful, dazed mess on his counter, boneless beneath his gaze.
then, unexpectedly, tenderness welled in him. he kissed you again—softer this time, slow and languid, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. his hands slid from your thighs to brush your hair back, careful, hesitant. he was trying to be good.
but you were wrecked. your body still trembling from back-to-back orgasms, raw with sensitivity, high on his filthy praise—and now achingly empty. his gentleness only stoked the hunger. you craved the strength he leashed, the overwhelming power you knew he held. you needed more.
“satoru,” you whisper, your voice shaky but threaded with a raw, undeniable determination. your hands, which had been limply resting in your lap, come up to fist in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. his gentle caresses aren’t enough. “don’t… don’t be so gentle.”
his hands still in your hair. he pulls back slightly, his storm-glass eyes searching yours, a flicker of genuine surprise momentarily clearing the haze of lust. he sees the pleading in your gaze, the desperate want, and something darker, more primal, begins to stir in their depths. the carefully constructed dam of his control begins to crack.
“you sure, pretty girl?” his voice is a low, dangerous growl, a stark contrast to his previous soft praises. the air crackles with a new, sharper tension. “i’ve been trying really hard to be good for you. but if you ask me not to be…”
you just shake your head, a single. your legs, which had been lying limp, tighten around his waist, hooking your ankles behind him, trapping him. “i don’t want you to be good,” you breathe, the confession a spark in the charged air, an open invitation to the freak you know is lurking just beneath the surface. “i want you.”
that’s it. that’s the only permission he needs. his control shatters into a million pieces. the last vestiges of softness in his expression vanish, replaced by a raw, possessive hunger that makes a shiver of fear and excitement race down your spine. his eyes darken, pupils blown wide, and the grip on your thighs becomes bruising, possessive.
“then you better hold on tight,” he growls, his voice a guttural promise of what’s to come.
“not here,” he says, his voice rough, a surprising, almost feral nod to the hygiene of your workspace, a last remnant of his respect for your craft. he glances around at the flour-dusted surfaces, at the cooling soufflés, then back at you. “i’m going to ruin you, and i want to see your face when i do it.”
before you can respond, he’s lifting you from the counter like you weigh nothing, your legs locked tight around his waist. his stride is long, purposeful, carrying you out of the warm kitchen into the dark back office. the door slams shut behind him, the echo sealing you off from the world. he drops you onto the worn couch, the springs groaning under the impact.
he looms in the dim light, a towering silhouette of unrestrained want—a predator finally given leave to hunt. his fingers fumble at his cargo pants, grace traded for frantic urgency, the rasp of his zipper loud in the silence.
then he’s free. your breath stutters, eyes widening as the faint glow catches on him—thick, heavy, impossibly long. he’s big. so big. a sharp, sweet edge of fear slices through the haze of your arousal.
“so pretty for me,” he pants, his eyes dark and wild as he moves over you. “all wrecked and wanting it.” he pins your wrists to the couch cushions above your head with one large, strong hand, his grip firm but not painful, a gesture of absolute domination. with his other hand, he parts your slick folds, his thumb stroking your clit in a way that makes you gasp.
he guides himself to your entrance. you’re soaked, still leaking from your last orgasms, but even so, the thick, blunt head of his cock just nudges against you, a solid, unyielding pressure. it’s too much. it won’t fit.
“satoru,” you gasp, your eyes wide, a real note of panic in your voice as you feel the impossible pressure. your hips instinctively try to shift away. “i don’t… i don’t think i can.”
“shhh,” he soothes, his voice a low, ragged rumble, though his eyes are blazing with intensity. he doesn't pull back. instead, he leans down, his mouth brushing against your ear. “yes, you can, pretty girl. you were made for this.” a possessive growl underlines his words. “and i’m going to make it fit.”
he demonstrates a restraint that is almost terrifying. he doesn't push. instead, he begins a slow, torturous tease. he rocks his hips, fucking you with just the very tip, the wide, smooth head of his cock stretching you, parting your slick folds, making you impossibly wetter.
he moves in and out of just that first inch, a maddening, relentless rhythm that feels like both heaven and hell. his control is absolute, his powerful body held perfectly in check.
“that’s it…” he groans, his own control fraying, sweat beading on his temples. “feel how much i want you? just the tip, and you’re already so tight… so good… gripping me…” every word is a praise, a promise. he watches your face, watches your eyes screw shut as you bite your lip, lost in the overwhelming sensation of being slowly, deliberately claimed.
you’re whining now, desperate and needy as your hips buck instinctively, trying to take more of him. the initial fear has been replaced by an all-consuming need to be filled by him, completely and utterly.
“eager for me, huh?” he chuckles, a dark, pleased sound. his hips stutter, a sign of his own fracturing control. “good. that’s so good, pretty girl. now, take me. all of me.”
he shifts his angle slightly, and then, with a slow, deliberate, powerful push, he begins to fill you. it’s a gradual invasion, an inch-by-inch claiming of your body. it’s an overwhelming, gut-rearranging fullness, a delicious, burning stretch that makes you cry out, your back arching off the couch.
he keeps going, slowly, steadily, until he’s buried to the hilt, and you feel a profound, soul-deep stretch as he bottoms out against your cervix. he fills you completely, impossibly.
he stays there for a long moment, buried to the hilt inside you, letting you feel the sheer, overwhelming size of him. he pants above you, his forehead beaded with sweat, his eyes closed as he just savors the feeling of being completely, perfectly sheathed inside you.
“fuck,” he breathes, the word a reverent sigh. “perfect fit.”
he shifts his hips just a fraction, a slow, deliberate grind that draws a whimper from your throat, and a satisfied smirk touches his lips. he opens his eyes, their storm-blue depths dark and intense.
when he finally begins to move, it’s with an agonizing, deliberate slowness. he pulls back almost all the way, the sensation of him retreating making you whine in protest, your hips lifting off the couch to chase him. he chuckles, a low, dark sound. “uh-uh, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his free hand coming down to press your hip firmly into the couch cushions, pinning you in place. “i’m in charge now. you’ll take what i give you.”
he thrusts back in, slowly, every inch a rediscovery, a fresh wave of overwhelming fullness. he establishes a deep, hypnotic rhythm—a slow, complete withdrawal followed by an even slower, deeper return. with every inward stroke, he presses deep, his powerful hips rolling, grinding the head of his cock against your cervix in a way that makes you see stars.
“feel that?” he groans, his voice a low, rough rasp by your ear. “that’s all for you. all of it.”
you can only nod, your own breath coming in ragged gasps, your mind starting to short-circuit. the dual stimulation is too much, your senses overloaded. you’re trapped, pinned by his hand on your hip and his other hand holding your wrists, completely at the mercy of his slow, deliberate torture.
“use your words, pretty girl,” he demands, his rhythm faltering for just a second. “i need to hear it. tell me how it feels.”
“it’s… so much,” you gasp, tears of pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes. “satoru, please…”
“please what?” he presses, his hips resuming that slow, torturous grind. he knows exactly what he’s doing, drawing out the pleasure, pushing you closer and closer to the edge only to pull you back. “tell me what you want.”
“i want… more,” you sob, the admission torn from you. “faster.”
a dark, possessive grin spreads across his face. “not yet,” he breathes, leaning down to kiss you, a deep, bruising kiss that tastes of salt and want. “not until you’re begging for it.”
he continues his slow, deep, punishing rhythm for what feels like an eternity. he talks to you the entire time, a constant stream of filthy praise and possessive commands that unravels you completely. “so good… gripping me so tight… look at you, taking all of me without even a single complaint… you were made for this, made for me…”
he’s right. you were. the initial overwhelming stretch has melted into a deep, profound ache of pleasure. your body, which you thought couldn't possibly take him, has molded around him, welcoming him.
finally, just as you feel like you’re about to shatter from the tension, he changes the rhythm. his thrusts become shorter, faster, focused on that one spot deep inside you that he seems to have memorized. your own hips start to buck against his hand, a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm.
“there it is,” he pants, his own control starting to fray. “that’s what i wanted to see.”
his head dips down. as a particularly deep, powerful thrust makes you cry out his name in a sob of pure pleasure, his mouth finds the soft flesh of your shoulder, just above the collarbone. he bites down. it’s not enough to break the skin, but it’s a sharp, possessive pressure that leaves a clear, red mark. a brand. he licks over it immediately, the rough swipe of his tongue soothing the sting.
“gotta leave a little reminder for you,” he rasps, his voice a possessive growl against your skin, his thrusts becoming frantic now, slamming into you. “so you don’t forget who you belong to. so everyone knows.”
the mark, his possessive words, the overwhelming fullness, the shift to a desperate, frantic pace… it all sends you spiraling. your mind goes white with sensation, and you come with a choked scream, your body convulsing around his thick cock, your inner muscles clenching and milking him with a helpless, frantic rhythm.
your orgasm only makes him harder, his own release held back by a thread of sheer, iron will. the feeling of your inner muscles convulsing around him, milking him, sends a shudder through his powerful frame. he groans, a low, guttural sound of a man right on the edge. but he’s not done with you yet. not even close.
he pulls out of you with a wet, obscene slap that makes you whine in protest at the sudden emptiness. but he doesn't give you a moment to recover. before you can even process the lingering tremors of your climax, he’s pulling you up from the couch, onto your feet.
“turn around,” he commands, his voice a low, rough growl, thick with unshed lust. you’re pliant in his hands, dazed and completely his to command. you obey without question, letting him guide you the few steps to the small, cluttered wooden desk. he positions you, turning you so you can plant your hands on the edge of it, your ass pushed out for him, a perfect, vulnerable offering.
he presses his hard, sweat-slick body against your back, caging you in, the heat of him a stark contrast to the cool wood beneath your palms. “look at you,” he rasps, his voice a low growl right by your ear as he admires the sight of you, bent over and waiting for him. “so good. so obedient for me.”
one powerful arm snakes around your front, his forearm pressing with deliberate, firm pressure against your throat. it doesn’t hurt, not yet, but it’s a clear, undeniable act of control. your breath hitches, a jolt of pure, primal fear mixing with a sharp spike of arousal.
his hold tilts your head back into the crook of his shoulder, exposing the long, pale line of your neck to him. his mouth is right there, at your ear, at your throat, his hot breath ghosting over your skin. his other hand grips your hip, thumb pressing into the soft flesh, holding you steady, claiming you. you are completely, utterly his to manhandle.
he thrusts into you from behind in a single, powerful motion. the angle is impossibly deep, hitting a spot that bypasses thought and sends a bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure straight to your brain. a scream tears from your throat, but as it does, the pressure on your windpipe increases. not enough to truly choke you, but enough to cut the sound off, turning your scream into a pathetic, breathy whimper.
the world begins to swim at the edges, your head light and floaty from the lack of air. it’s terrifying. it’s perfect. the combination of overwhelming fullness and oxygen deprivation sends you spiraling, your mind going blessedly blank.
his thrusts are deep, powerful, slamming into you with a relentless, animalistic rhythm. with the pressure on your throat, every frantic gasp for air, every choked moan, is a sound of pure, helpless submission that seems to drive him wilder.
his mouth finds the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, and as he fucks you, he latches on, sucking hard. you feel the sting, the pull, and you know, with a dizzying thrill, that he’s leaving a dark, undeniable hickey. another mark. a claim for all to see.
he’s not pulling out. this is the final, undeniable act of possession. “i’m going to come inside you, pretty girl,” he groans into your ear, his hips slamming into you, each word a percussive beat against your senses. “i’m going to fill you up… make you mine.”
the combination of his filthy, possessive words, the choking pressure making your head spin, the new, stinging mark on your neck, and the overwhelming, gut-rearranging fullness is what sends you over the edge one last time.
your fourth, and most intense, orgasm hits like a lightning strike, a complete system overload. your mind whites out, your body convulsing violently around him, and the helpless, breathy sounds spilling from your lips are his undoing.
with a final, desperate groan that’s more roar than word, he thrusts deep one last time and floods you with his release, the hot, thick seed a shocking, intimate brand deep inside you, coating your womb, claiming you from the inside out.
he collapses against you, his entire weight a comforting, solid presence. his arm immediately loosens from your throat, allowing you to drag in a ragged, desperate lungful of air. your vision clears, the world snapping back into sharp focus. his breathing is harsh, ragged against your ear, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your back. for a long moment, you just stand there, tangled together, held up only by the desk and his strength, the aftermath of the storm washing over you in slow, trembling waves.
he doesn't let you go. after a minute, when his breathing has started to even out, he shifts. his movements are gentle now, a stark, beautiful contrast to the ferocity of moments before. he pulls you back against his chest, his arms wrapping around your middle in a secure, protective embrace. he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, then another to the dark, angry-looking mark on your neck. his lips are soft, almost apologetic, yet deeply possessive.
“come on,” he whispers, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. he helps you gather your discarded clothes—the dress, the bra, the panties—not with any sense of shame, but with a quiet, domestic tenderness. he guides you back to the couch, sitting you down gently before finding a clean dish towel from a nearby hook and wetting it with a bottle of water from your desk. he kneels before you and carefully, tenderly, cleans you up. every soft swipe of the cloth is an act of worship, an apology, a promise.
when you’re clean, he helps you dress again, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he zips up your dress, his fingers brushing against your skin. he pulls you into his lap, cradling you against his chest, his arms a safe haven. you’re exhausted, boneless, and completely content.
and in the beautiful, comfortable wreckage he’d so lovingly made of you, you felt safer and more cherished than ever before. you were, unequivocally, his.
consciousness crept in slowly, warm and hazy and completely disorienting. your bed felt softer than usual, sunlight streaming through curtains that you definitely remembered closing last night. you were wearing your favorite sleep shirt—the oversized one with tiny croissants printed all over it—and had absolutely no memory of changing into it.
blinking up at your ceiling, pieces of the previous evening started filtering back. the baking lesson. satoru’s hands over yours. flour everywhere. the soufflés rising unevenly. kissing him until your lips felt swollen and your heart hammered like it was trying to escape your chest. everything after that was a haze of heat and breathless whispers and the way he’d touched you like you were something precious and breakable and his.
but how did you get home?
you sat up slowly, running hands through thoroughly disheveled hair, trying to piece together the gap in your memory. the last clear thing you remembered was being wrapped around satoru on your office couch, both of you breathless and covered in flour, the cafe dark except for the warm glow from the kitchen.
your phone sat on the nightstand, and when you grabbed it to check the time, your heart nearly stopped.
9:47 am.
wait, that couldn’t be right. you shot up from bed like you’d been electrocuted, panic flooding your system. if it was 9:47 in the morning, that meant— “shit, shit, shit!” the cafe should have opened an hour and forty-seven minutes ago. customers would have been lined up. your regulars, your weekend rush. they’d be confused, probably annoyed. your perfect attendance record, your reputation, everything—
that’s when you smelled it. coffee. real coffee, not the instant stuff you kept in your apartment for emergencies. and was that… bacon?
you stumbled toward your bedroom door, still half-panicked and completely confused. the soft sounds of someone moving around your kitchen, the quiet sizzle of something in a pan, and—was that humming? a low, familiar melody that made your chest flutter with recognition.
padding barefoot down the hallway, you stopped short in your kitchen doorway.
satoru stood at your stove, wearing his jeans from last night and nothing else except one of your aprons tied around his narrow waist. the soft pink fabric with tiny cupcakes printed on it looked absolutely ridiculous stretched across his broad shoulders, the ties barely meeting around his back. his silver hair was still sleep-mussed, sticking up in several directions, and he was humming while orchestrating what looked like a feast designed to feed a small army.
the counter was covered with an impressive spread that belonged in a five-star brunch restaurant. thick, fluffy japanese pancakes stacked impossibly high, their surfaces golden and perfect. fresh strawberries and blueberries arranged in artful clusters, some cut into delicate fan shapes. crispy strips of bacon laid out in precise rows alongside what appeared to be perfectly seasoned breakfast potatoes, golden and herb-crusted. scrambled eggs that looked like silk, probably made with cream and patience.
a small bowl of homemade whipped cream sat next to another containing what could only be maple butter. and was that hollandaise sauce? actual hollandaise sauce, made from scratch in your tiny kitchen, keeping warm in a makeshift double boiler.
“morning, beautiful,” he said without turning around, shoulders shifting as he adjusted the heat under a pan. his voice carried that particular roughness that came from a night of use, and the sound sent warmth spiraling through your chest as memories crashed back in vivid detail. “hope you don’t mind me raiding your kitchen. and your spice cabinet. and possibly your entire pantry.”
you stared at the spread, then at him, brain still trying to catch up to this alternate reality where satoru gojo had transformed your modest kitchen into a professional-grade brunch operation. “that’s my apron,” you managed, voice scratchy with sleep and something else entirely. your fingers unconsciously smoothed down your croissant-printed pajama shirt, suddenly very aware of how rumpled you probably looked.
he glanced down at the pink fabric with its cheerful cupcake pattern, then back at you with that boyish grin that made your knees forget their structural integrity. those impossible blue eyes held warmth and mischief and something deeper that made your pulse stutter. “looks better on you, obviously, but i didn’t want to get hollandaise on myself.” he gestured toward the elaborate spread with his spatula, movements confident and practiced, like he’d been cooking in your kitchen for years instead of hours. “thought you might be hungry after… well, after everything.”
the way he said ‘everything’ with that slight pause, that knowing look, sent heat creeping up your neck. memories flickered behind your eyelids—his hands, his mouth, the way he’d whispered your name like a prayer.
heat crept up your neck at the implication, memories flickering like film strips behind your eyelids. “satoru, what time is it? the cafe—i need to open, people are probably waiting outside wondering where—”
“relax, cupcake.” he turned fully now, and you caught sight of the feast he’d created on your small dining table. those long fingers gestured toward your phone on the counter, his expression gentle but firm. “it’s friday morning, yes. but look at yourself.”
you glanced down at your croissant pajamas, then caught sight of yourself in the microwave’s reflection. disheveled didn’t begin to cover it. you looked like you’d been thoroughly—well, exactly like someone who’d spent the night being completely and utterly ruined in the best possible way.
“when’s the last time you took a real day off?” he continued, leaning against the counter with those muscled arms crossed, the ridiculous apron making him look both domestic and absolutely edible. “and i mean a real day off, not just sunday afternoons when you meal prep for the week.”
“i don’t need—”
“you fell asleep mid-sentence last night,” he interrupted, storm-glass eyes serious now. “completely dead to the world. that’s not normal tired, sweetheart. that’s your body shutting down because you’ve been running on fumes for months.”
the endearment made something flutter in your chest, but you fought against the warmth. “people depend on their morning coffee. their pastries. i can’t just—”
“the world will survive one day without your croissants.” he pushed off the counter, moving toward you with that predatory grace that made your pulse skip. “but will you survive if you keep pushing yourself like this?”
you opened your mouth to argue, but he continued, voice dropping to something softer, more vulnerable. “i carried you home last night. you weighed nothing, and you were so exhausted you didn’t even stir when i changed your clothes or when the car hit every pothole between the cafe and here.” his hands found your shoulders, thumbs brushing over your collarbone through the soft cotton. “when’s the last time someone took care of you?”
the question settled between you like flour in still air, impossible to brush away. you stared up at him, taking in the genuine concern in those impossible eyes, the way his hair stuck up in seventeen different directions, the careful way he was touching you like you might break.
“i already put a sign on the door,” he admitted quietly. “professional-looking thing. ‘temporarily closed for equipment maintenance, reopening tomorrow with fresh selections.’ even laminated it.”
“you…” you blinked at him, torn between exasperation and something dangerously close to affection. “you laminated a sign?”
“seemed like something you’d appreciate.” that boyish grin made its appearance, but it was softer now, less performative. “besides, gives us the whole day to figure this out.”
“figure what out?”
“this.” he gestured between you with one hand, the other still resting on your shoulder. “us. whatever this is becoming.”
his own cheeks pinked slightly, and he ran a hand through his already-messy hair, the gesture making those silver strands stick up even more ridiculously. the movement drew attention to the lean muscles of his arm, the way his bicep flexed under unmarked skin. he was beautiful in the morning light, all sharp angles and soft edges, looking nothing like the polished influencer and everything like the man who’d whispered praise against your skin in the dark.
“right, about that. you were completely dead to the world, so i…” he paused, shoulders shifting as he turned to face you fully, and the careful way he moved suggested he was reading your reaction, making sure you were okay with this conversation. “i may have carried you.” the admission came out like he was confessing to a crime, storm-glass eyes searching your face for any sign of discomfort.
you were quiet for a long moment, processing this while your fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of your pajama shirt. the image of satoru gojo, internet famous fitness influencer, carrying your unconscious form through the streets while digging through your purse for house keys should have been embarrassing. instead, it felt like being cherished. “called a car, had to dig through your bag for your keys—sorry about that, by the way. total invasion of privacy but you were unconscious and i couldn’t exactly leave you on the couch all night.”
“and the clothes?” you asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper as you gestured to your croissant pajamas. your cheeks felt warm, not from embarrassment but from something softer, more vulnerable.
his flush deepened, spreading down his neck to disappear beneath the ridiculous cupcake apron, and he focused very intently on arranging the berries in perfect little clusters. his long fingers moved with surprising delicacy, the same hands that had mapped every inch of your skin now handling strawberries like they were made of glass. “you were… well, you couldn’t sleep in your work clothes. they were all flour-dusted and…” he cleared his throat, voice dropping to something rough and honest. “i was very respectful about it. found your pajamas in the top drawer, got you changed as quickly as possible.”
the careful way he said it, like he was worried you’d be upset, made something warm unfurl in your chest. after everything that had happened between you—the way he’d touched you, tasted you, made you completely his—the tenderness of him taking care of you when you were completely vulnerable felt more intimate than anything else. your heart did something complicated against your ribs, affection and gratitude tangling together.
“thank you,” you said softly, the words carrying more weight than they should. “for taking care of me.”
his shoulders relaxed slightly, and that devastating smile returned. “anytime, cupcake. literally anytime.” he moved back toward the stove, checking on something in a pan. “now come on, let me feed you properly. all this cooking and no one to appreciate it is making me feel like a very attractive housewife with an absentee spouse.”
despite everything, you snorted. “did you just compare yourself to a housewife?”
“a very attractive housewife,” he corrected solemnly. “the apron really brings out my eyes.”
you perched on one of your barstools, finally allowing yourself to really take in the spread he’d created. it was magnificent—restaurant-quality food that had obviously taken hours to prepare. “satoru, this is… how long have you been awake?”
“since about six.” he shrugged like it was nothing, plating the eggs with practiced precision. “i’m used to early mornings. besides, i wanted everything to be perfect when you woke up.”
something warm and dangerous bloomed in your chest at the casual way he said it, like making you elaborate breakfasts was just another tuesday for him.
he set a plate in front of you that could have fed three people. the pancakes were impossibly fluffy, stacked four high and dusted with powdered sugar. the eggs looked like silk, probably made with cream and the kind of patience you rarely had time for. the breakfast potatoes were golden and herb-crusted, the bacon perfectly crispy, and everything was arranged with an artistry that rivaled your own pastry displays.
“this is…” you took a bite of the pancakes, and flavor exploded across your tongue. light, airy, with just the right amount of sweetness and a hint of vanilla that made your eyes flutter closed. “holy shit, satoru. this is incredible.”
he beamed like you’d just told him he’d won the lottery, settling across from you with his own overfilled plate. “really? basic, but edible,” he said with obvious false modesty, but you could see the genuine pride in his eyes.
“basic?” you laughed, taking another bite, then another, suddenly ravenous in a way that had nothing to do with skipping dinner and everything to do with working up quite an appetite. “satoru, this is restaurant-quality. where did you learn to cook like this?”
you ate with the same focused intensity he’d seen you bring to your baking, that complete attention to flavor and texture that made him fall for you in the first place. watching you devour his cooking with such obvious pleasure made something warm and possessive bloom in his chest. he found himself memorizing the way you closed your eyes when you tasted the hollandaise, the soft sound you made when you tried the potatoes, the fact that you cleaned your plate completely before even pausing to breathe.
“years of meal prep,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady while watching you lick hollandaise off your fork with the same precision you used for piping buttercream. “when you’re trying to build muscle without destroying your body, you learn to make healthy food that doesn’t taste like punishment.” he gestured with his own fork, grinning. “though i’ll admit, i may have gotten a little carried away trying to impress you.”
“mission accomplished,” you said around another bite, then paused to really look at the spread. “seriously, satoru, this is restaurant-quality. why aren’t you doing this professionally?”
his cheeks pinked slightly, that boyish flush that made him look younger, more vulnerable. “because watching people enjoy things i make feels…” he paused, searching for words. “it feels like this. like watching you eat my food with the same appreciation i have for your pastries. makes me understand why you do what you do.”
you finished the last bite and sat back with a satisfied sigh, feeling more full and content than you had in months. the plate was completely clean—you’d devoured every single thing he’d made with the same focused intensity you brought to your own work.
“that was incredible. i mean it,” you said, then caught his expression. he was watching you with something like wonder, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
“actually,” he said suddenly, setting down his fork and running a hand through his silver hair. “can we… can we talk about something?”
your stomach dropped slightly. here it came—the regret, the awkwardness, the ‘this was fun but we should probably pretend it didn’t happen’ conversation. you set down your coffee cup carefully, trying to keep your expression neutral. “okay.”
he pushed back from the table abruptly, starting to pace behind the kitchen island like a caged animal. his movements were agitated, nervous energy radiating from every line of his body. “i’ve been thinking,” he said, voice strained. “and i realized i did everything completely backwards last night.”
you blinked at him, confusion replacing dread. “backwards?”
“i should have told you how i feel first.” he stopped pacing long enough to gesture vaguely toward your bedroom, cheeks going properly pink now. “before we… god, your neighbors probably hate me. i didn’t even tell you i love you first and i just…” his voice cracked slightly. “i mean, i really went at it, didn’t i?”
the confession crashed over you like warm honey, sweet and overwhelming. your heart stuttered against your ribs. “you love me?”
he stopped pacing entirely, those impossible eyes meeting yours with devastating sincerity. his hands were shaking slightly as he ran them through his hair again, making it stick up in seventeen different directions. “are you kidding? i’ve been completely gone for you since that first chocolate tart. i rearranged my entire life around your operating hours. masaru thinks i’ve lost my mind.”
“you love me,” you repeated, softer this time, like you were testing how the words tasted on your tongue.
“embarrassingly much,” he admitted, voice rough with vulnerability. he resumed his pacing, gesticulating wildly now. “which is why i feel terrible that i didn’t say it before i… before we…” he trailed off, looking genuinely distressed. “i’m not usually the type to put the cart before the horse, you know? but you make me forget how to think straight.”
something about his genuine distress, the way he was beating himself up over the order of operations, struck you as absolutely ridiculous. a giggle escaped before you could stop it. then another. soon you were laughing so hard tears pricked your eyes, shoulders shaking with the force of it.
“what’s funny?” he asked, stopping mid-pace to stare at you, looking wounded and confused.
“satoru,” you managed between giggles, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “you’ve been courting me for months. bringing me ridiculously large tips. asking me to teach you to bake. memorizing my coffee preferences. learning my schedule by heart.” you stood up, still laughing softly. “if that’s not love, i don’t know what is.”
his expression shifted from wounded to hopeful, like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. “so… you’re not upset that i did it backwards?”
“the only thing i’m upset about,” you said, moving around the island toward him, “is that you beat me to saying it first.”
his face transformed into that brilliant smile you’d grown to love, the one that made him look younger and completely unguarded. “so what does this make us then? officially?”
“well,” you said, reaching up to smooth down his ridiculous bedhead, fingers tangling in the soft silver strands. “you’ve basically moved into my cafe. you know my coffee preferences better than i do. and you just made me breakfast while wearing an apron that’s two sizes too small.”
he glanced down at the ridiculous cupcake-printed fabric stretched across his broad chest, then back at you with that boyish grin. “very domesticated of me.”
“extremely domesticated,” you agreed, hands still buried in his hair. “practically husband material.”
the word hung in the air between you, and you both froze slightly. too much, too fast, too honest for a morning after conversation.
“too fast?” you asked quickly, suddenly uncertain.
“definitely too fast,” he agreed, then that devastating smile returned full force. “but i like the sound of it anyway.”
you stretched up on your toes to kiss him, tasting coffee and maple syrup and morning possibilities on his lips. when you pulled back, both of you were breathing a little unsteadily.
“so… boyfriend then? for now?” you whispered against his mouth.
“boyfriend who’s completely obsessed with his girlfriend,” he confirmed, arms wrapping around your waist to pull you impossibly closer. “and plans to continue being your most devoted customer.”
“what about your trainer? your social media following? the whole influencer thing?”
“masaru can learn to live with disappointment. some things are more important than macros.” he pulled back just enough to look at you seriously, those storm-glass eyes soft with affection. “like making sure the woman i love gets proper breakfast when she’s too tired to make it herself.”
warmth bloomed in your chest at the casual way he said ‘the woman i love,’ like it was the most natural thing in the world. “satoru gojo, are you offering to be my personal breakfast chef?”
“i’m offering to be whatever you need me to be,” he said simply, honestly, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your waist through the thin cotton of your pajama shirt. “starting with the guy who makes you eggs and tells you he loves you every morning.”
your heart did something complicated and wonderful behind your ribs. “i love you too,” you whispered, the words feeling both new and inevitable. “even if you did steal my apron.”
“our apron,” he corrected with a grin, then lifted you off your feet and spun you around your tiny kitchen, both of you laughing like teenagers who’d discovered something wonderful and secret. your hands fisted in the ridiculous cupcake fabric as he spun you, the world blurring except for his face, his smile, the way he was looking at you like you were everything he’d ever wanted.
when he finally set you back down, he kept his arms around you, both of you still giggling and breathless. “we’re domestic now, remember?” he said, pressing his forehead against yours.
and standing there in your sunny kitchen, wearing croissant pajamas while satoru gojo held you close in your stolen apron, you thought maybe the best relationships really did come from a little bit of chaos, a lot of patience, and the perfect amount of sweetness.
seven months of official dating had settled into something sweeter than any confection you’d ever crafted. what started as satoru’s carefully timed visits to flour & sugar had evolved into something that had the internet completely obsessed and your little bakery busier than you’d ever dreamed possible.
it had started innocently enough—his social media transformation had been gradual, so subtle that his followers might have missed it if they weren’t paying attention. but the comments sections told a different story.
“bro where are the gym thirst traps”
“who is she and what did she do with our protein daddy”
“NOT HIM POSTING COUPLE RECIPES”
“the way this man went from ‘rate my deadlift’ to ‘rate our sourdough starter’ is sending me”
his instagram had become a love letter written in pixels and captions, a soft-focus documentary of domestic bliss that had somehow captured the internet’s collective heart. gone were the carefully staged shots of his abs and dramatic gym poses. instead, his feed had filled with your hands—piping delicate rosettes onto cupcakes, kneading dough with flour up to your elbows, writing recipe modifications in your careful script on index cards. blurry morning photos of you both tangled in the sheets above the bakery, sharing a croissant and coffee, your hair catching the golden morning light and his eyes soft with sleep and adoration.
“she said the croissants needed to be tested for quality control. who am i to argue with an expert? #worthit #carbsarelife”
the gym content that remained had evolved too. videos of him teaching you proper deadlift form while you corrected his piping technique, both of you collapsing into giggles when he inevitably got buttercream on the barbell. couple workouts that ended with you both on yoga mats, breathless and laughing, sharing post-workout protein smoothies that you’d somehow made taste like birthday cake.
his captions had gotten impossibly sappier, much to his trainer’s horror and his followers’ secret delight.
“strongest thing about me is how hard i fell for her” under a photo of you both covered in flour after an epic food fight that had started as a serious recipe test and devolved into full-scale warfare.
“she lifts my spirits, i lift heavy things. perfect partnership #relationshipgoals #sheputsupwithme”
“plot twist: the real gains were the pastries we made along the way” posted with a picture of a particularly elaborate croquembouche you’d attempted together, which had collapsed spectacularly but tasted like heaven.
but it was the video that really sent everything viral. he’d filmed you teaching him how to make croissants at 4 am, both of you in matching flour-dusted aprons, your voice gentle and patient as you guided his hands through the delicate lamination process. the video caught the moment when he’d finally gotten the fold right, the way your face had lit up with pride, how he’d spun you around the kitchen in celebration, both of you laughing breathlessly in the pre-dawn quiet.
“month 6 of pastry school with the best teacher in the world. still can’t believe she hasn’t fired me yet #luckiestman #sheputsupwitheverything”
the video had exploded overnight. suddenly everyone wanted to try the bakery where the internet’s new favorite couple had fallen in love. the hashtag #flourandsugar started trending, with people posting their own attempts at your recipes and sharing photos of their visits to the little bakery that had stolen the internet’s heart.
which was how you’d found yourself six months later, standing in what used to be the cramped storage room behind your original space, now transformed into a sun-drenched new kitchen three times the size of your old one. the success had been overwhelming in the best possible way—the new space was a baker’s dream, with warm butcher block counters instead of cold steel and creamy subway tiles that caught the light. it was professional, yes, but it still felt like your kitchen.
that warmth extended upstairs, where you’d expanded into a proper second floor with big, beautiful windows that flooded the space with light, now filled with mismatched armchairs you’d found at flea markets, their plush velvet cushions in shades of dusty rose and sage green inviting people to linger for hours. you’d added low bookshelves filled with old novels and cookbooks, making it feel more like a cozy, lived-in library than a cafe.
and outside, you’d finally built the outdoor garden patio you’d always dreamed of. it was a hidden city oasis, where climbing jasmine and wisteria wove through rustic wooden trellises, their sweet scent mixing with the aroma of fresh baking. warm, rounded wooden tables were nestled amongst potted lavender and herbs that you used in your recipes, and in the evenings, the entire space was lit by hundreds of soft, twinkling fairy lights, making it feel like a secret garden straight from a storybook. a small, charmingly weathered stage was tucked into a corner, where local musicians played soft acoustic sets on friday nights.
satoru had insisted on being involved in every aspect of the renovation, showing up in a hard hat that was completely unnecessary but made him look adorable, asking the contractors a million questions and somehow charming them into letting him help with the purely decorative elements. he’d painted the entire garden fence himself, claiming it was “functional exercise” when masaru complained about his training schedule.
and somewhere in the midst of expansion plans and permit applications and the beautiful chaos of success, he’d also become your unofficial apprentice.
every morning, he’d show up before opening hours, hair still messy from sleep and eyes still soft with dreams, pressing coffee into your hands and tying on the custom apron you’d made him—black with “sous chef (in training)” embroidered in white thread.
he was surprisingly good at it, once you got past his tendency to treat everything like a chemistry experiment that required his complete focus and undivided attention. his hands, so used to precise movements in the gym, had adapted quickly to the delicate work of pastry. he could pipe perfectly uniform rosettes now, roll pasta thin enough to read through, and his bread kneading technique was flawless—all that upper body strength put to decidedly more domestic use.
the only problem was how clingy he got during work hours, like a cat who’d decided you were the only warm spot in the house.
“focus,” you’d murmur when you caught him staring at you instead of watching his custard, which was definitely about to curdle if he didn’t pay attention, your own concentration wavering under the weight of his gaze.
“i am focused,” he’d protest, those storm-glass eyes never leaving your face, his head tilting in that way that made his hair fall across his forehead just so. “just not on the custard.”
he had a habit of finding excuses to be close to you—reaching over you for ingredients he could easily grab from the other side, his chest brushing against your shoulder as he moved with unnecessary slowness, pressing himself against your back to “check your technique” when you were demonstrating something he’d watched you do a hundred times, his breath warm against your neck as he murmured questions he already knew the answers to. stealing kisses between timer intervals that left you both breathless and your kitchen staff rolling their eyes so hard they risked permanent damage.
“you know,” your assistant manager had said one particularly busy morning, watching satoru follow you around like a lovesick puppy with separation anxiety, “most people don’t let their boyfriends work in their restaurants because it’s unprofessional.”
“good thing he’s not just my boyfriend,” you’d replied, not looking up from the wedding cake sketch you were working on, your cheeks warm with the kind of happiness that made everything else fade to background noise. “he’s my best student too.”
and he was. beneath all the playful clinginess and shameless flirting, he’d thrown himself into learning your craft with the same intensity he brought to everything else. he studied cookbooks like training manuals, practiced piping techniques until his hands cramped, and had somehow memorized the temperature preferences of every regular customer without being asked.
tonight felt different, though. there was an energy humming beneath his skin as he helped you test a new recipe—a delicate honey lavender cake that had been giving you trouble for weeks. the kind of nervous energy that made him move too precisely, like he was afraid his hands might betray him. he’d been unusually quiet, focused with an intensity that went beyond even his usual dedication to perfection. his hands, normally so confident and sure, had trembled slightly as he held the mixing bowl steady while you folded in the final ingredients, his knuckles white with tension.
you’d caught him checking his phone more than usual, running his fingers through his hair in that telltale sign of nerves that made the white strands stick up at odd angles.
the new kitchen was empty except for the two of you, the dinner rush long over and your staff gone home. upstairs, you could hear the soft sounds of the last few customers settling their bills and heading out into the night. soon it would be just the two of you in your expanded little empire, testing recipes and stealing kisses between batches like you had every night for months.
“perfect,” you murmured, running the offset spatula around the bowl’s edge to catch the last bit of batter, satisfaction curling warm in your chest. “finally got the lavender balance right. not too floral, not too—”
“marry me.”
the words fell between you like flour from a torn bag, sudden and everywhere at once. your spatula froze mid-swipe, batter clinging to its edge, and the kitchen went so quiet you could hear the soft hum of the new industrial refrigerators, the distant tick of the timer counting down on the oven, the rapid flutter of your own heartbeat.
you turned slowly, your heart doing something acrobatic and terrifying in your chest, like it was trying to escape through your ribs.
satoru was standing by the three-basin sink, soap bubbles still clinging to his forearms from washing the mixing bowls, his storm-glass eyes wide and vulnerable in a way that made the air catch in your lungs. his usually perfect posture had crumbled slightly, shoulders curved inward like he was bracing for impact. in his damp hands—hands that could deadlift twice his body weight but now shook like autumn leaves—he held a ring.
it was simple. classic. a single diamond set in white gold, understated and elegant and so perfectly you that your throat closed with emotion. it caught the warm led lighting of your new kitchen and threw tiny rainbows across the stainless steel counter between you, each facet a promise you weren’t sure you were brave enough to believe.
“i—” he started, then stopped, running his free hand through his impossible white hair until it stood up in anxious spikes. his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and you could see the flush creeping up his neck above the collar of his black henley. “i had a whole speech planned. been practicing in the mirror like an idiot for weeks. masaru kept finding me in the gym storage room rehearsing it to the resistance bands. hell, i even practiced on the contractors during the renovation, and they all said it was solid gold. but standing here, watching you perfect something for the hundredth time just because you refuse to settle for anything less than beautiful, i just… i can’t wait anymore.”
you set the spatula down with trembling fingers, your mouth slightly parted in shock, your eyes never leaving his face. there was something raw there, something that made your chest feel too small to contain your heart. the way he was looking at you—like you were the answer to a question he’d been asking his whole life without knowing it.
“i know we’ve technically only been together seven months,” he continued, words tumbling out faster now, like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. his free hand gestured wildly, flour still dusting his knuckles. “but i’ve been reorganizing my whole life around you for almost a year now, and it doesn’t feel fast. it feels like… like i’ve been waiting my whole life to find someone who makes me want to be better. who makes me want to learn the difference between brown sugar and turbinado sugar because it matters to them. who makes me want to wake up at 4 am just to watch them create magic from flour and butter and impossible patience.”
tears blurred your vision, but you couldn’t look away from him. couldn’t breathe. couldn’t do anything but stand there in your flour-dusted apron with your heart trying to climb out of your throat.
“you turned me from a guy whose idea of cooking was protein powder and water into someone who knows seventeen different ways to fold dough,” he said, his voice dropping to that soft, rough register that made your knees feel unsteady. “you made me trade my supplement-covered bathroom counter for skincare products and fancy soaps that smell like vanilla and cardamom. you let me reorganize your spice cabinet by color and didn’t even laugh when i alphabetized the sprinkles. you taught me that there’s a difference between vanilla extract and vanilla paste, and somehow made me care about it enough to argue with the supplier about quality.”
he was rambling now, the speech he’d practiced forgotten in favor of raw honesty, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
“you make me want to be the kind of man who deserves a woman who puts that much love into everything she touches,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. “and i know i’m not there yet, but i want to spend the rest of my life trying. if you’ll let me. if you’ll have me, with all my terrible habits and my tendency to leave protein powder rings on your pristine counters and my complete inability to remember which spoon is for tasting and which is for mixing even though you’ve told me a thousand times—”
“yes,” you breathed, the word escaping like a prayer, like something that had been building inside you for months and finally found its way out. your hands flew to your mouth, tears spilling over your cheeks. then louder, clearer, with a certainty that surprised you both: “yes. yes, of course, yes. you beautiful, ridiculous man, yes.”
relief crashed over his features like sunrise after the longest night, his shoulders sagging as the tension finally left his body. suddenly he was moving, crossing the spacious new kitchen in three quick strides, his long legs eating up the distance between you. he scooped you up, lifting you clean off the ground and spinning you around despite the flour that would definitely transfer to his black henley.
you laughed—bright, joyous, disbelieving—the sound echoing off the stainless steel surfaces as he set you down gently, his hands framing your face like you were something precious and fragile.
he took your left hand with reverent care, his fingers steady now, and the ring slipped onto your finger like it had been waiting there all along, a perfect fit that made your heart stutter. you stared down at it through tears, this small, shining promise that caught the light and threw it back in brilliant fragments.
“it was my grandmother’s,” he said softly, his thumb tracing over your knuckles, his voice thick with emotion. “she would have loved you. probably would have spent hours teaching you her secret recipes and conspiring against my diet with homemade cookies and guilt trips about being too skinny.”
you looked up at him, this beautiful, impossible man who’d learned to love the quiet corners of your world, and felt something click into place deep in your chest, like the final piece of a puzzle you hadn’t known you were solving. “she raised someone pretty wonderful,” you whispered, your voice watery with happiness.
he cupped your face in his flour-dusted hands and kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like promises and the lingering sweetness of cake batter. when you finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed like he was trying to memorize the moment.
“so,” he said, that familiar playful edge creeping back into his voice, though it was rougher now, weighted with emotion. “think we should celebrate with cake?”
you laughed, the sound bubbling up from some deep, happy place inside you, your hands fisting in the soft cotton of his shirt. “the honey lavender isn’t ready yet.”
“then i guess,” he said, pressing another kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there, “we’ll just have to make do with each other.”
and in the warm, sweet-scented sanctuary of your expanded kitchen, with an engagement ring catching the light and his arms around you, you thought you’d never tasted anything sweeter.
the next few weeks passed in a blur of congratulations and wedding planning that somehow felt like the most natural thing in the world, like every decision was just another recipe to perfect together. your expanded bakery had become an even bigger destination after satoru posted a photo of your engagement ring next to a perfectly plated slice of the honey lavender cake, captioned simply: “she said yes. tastes even sweeter than it looks. #luckiestman #sheputsupwitheverything #futurewife”
the internet had collectively lost its mind with joy, his comments section turning into a virtual celebration that lasted for days.
but the real magic happened in the quiet moments between the public celebrations. like the evening you’d spent sprawled on the living room floor of the apartment above the bakery—your apartment, officially both of yours now, his name on the lease and his terrible reality tv preferences integrated into your netflix algorithm—surrounded by wedding magazines and cake flavor combinations scribbled on index cards.
“okay,” you said, shuffling through your notes with the same methodical precision you brought to everything, your engagement ring catching the lamplight as you moved. “we’ve narrowed it down to seven flavors. one for each month we’ve been together.”
“our love story in cake form,” he agreed, lying on his stomach with his chin propped on his hands, looking at you like you’d personally hung every star in the sky. his eyes were soft and dreamy, the way they got when he was completely, utterly content. “very us.”
“so the bottom layer,” you continued, consulting your carefully organized list, your brow furrowed in that adorable way it did when you were concentrating, “vanilla bean with salted caramel. for that first day you came in and i thought you were just another pretty face with a sweet tooth.”
“just another pretty face?” he gasped in mock offense, rolling onto his back and pressing his hand to his chest like you’d wounded him mortally. his hair fanned out against the hardwood floor like a halo, and you had the sudden, overwhelming urge to run your fingers through it. “i’ll have you know this pretty face was already planning our future together after that first smile.”
“mmm,” you hummed, trying to look stern but failing spectacularly as warmth bloomed in your chest, “the second layer is dark chocolate with raspberry. rich and a little tart, like how i felt when i realized you were actually going to be a problem for my carefully ordered life.”
“a problem?” he sat up, scooting closer until he could nuzzle into your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “i prefer ‘best thing that ever happened to you.’”
“that’s layer seven,” you said softly, your voice going tender in a way that made his heart do somersaults. “honey lavender. sweet and unexpected and perfect.”
he went quiet then, understanding the weight of what you were saying, his arms tightening around you. “and the layers in between?”
“lemon with strawberry buttercream for the first time you made me laugh until my sides hurt—that morning you tried to help me make croissants and somehow got butter in your hair.” you were smiling now, lost in the memory, your fingers absently playing with the hem of his shirt. “coffee cake with brown butter frosting for all those early mornings you started showing up before we opened, just to spend time with me. vanilla rose for the day you told me you loved me. and…” you blushed, consulting your notes, “brown butter cake with cinnamon cream cheese frosting for the first time you stayed the night and i woke up to you making breakfast. the most chaotic breakfast, but the gesture was perfect.”
“hey,” he protested, pulling back to look at you with wounded dignity, his lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout, “that french toast was a masterpiece.”
“baby,” you said, reaching up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the sharp line of his cheekbone, “you used hamburger buns because i was out of regular bread.”
“innovation,” he said solemnly, leaning into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. “that’s what separates the great chefs from the merely good ones.”
you’d spent that night planning every detail, from the sugar flowers you’d craft by hand to the way you’d display each layer so guests could see the beautiful cross-section of your love story. he’d been unusually quiet as you worked, and you’d found him later at your kitchen table at two in the morning, surrounded by crumpled papers and wearing the ridiculous “kiss the cook” apron you’d gotten him as a joke, his shoulders curved in defeat.
“baby?” you’d whispered, padding over in your pajamas and his oversized gym shirt, your heart clenching at the sight of him looking so lost. “what are you doing?”
“trying to write my vows,” he’d said, voice rough with exhaustion and emotion, his hands buried in his hair. “but i can’t get it right. how do you put into words the moment someone becomes your whole world? how do you explain that you didn’t even know you were incomplete until they showed up and made everything make sense? how do you tell someone that they turned you from a man who thought love was a distraction into someone who can’t imagine existing without them?”
you’d climbed into his lap then, right there in the kitchen chair, your arms winding around his neck as you pressed soft kisses to his temple. together, you’d found the words. together, the way you did everything now.
the cake tasting had turned into an event in itself. you’d closed the bakery early on a tuesday afternoon, transforming the main floor into a private testing kitchen with the kind of nervous excitement you usually reserved for new recipe launches. your wedding cake, all seven layers of your love story, sat on the counter in individual slices, each layer labeled with a small card explaining its significance in your careful script.
“okay,” you’d said, suddenly nervous as you watched him approach the display, your hands smoothing down your flour-dusted apron for the hundredth time. “remember, these are just samples. the actual wedding cake will be much prettier, and the proportions will be better, and—”
“cupcake,” he’d interrupted gently, taking your flour-dusted hands in his, his thumbs stroking over your knuckles in that soothing way that never failed to calm your racing thoughts. “breathe. it’s perfect because you made it.”
the way he said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like perfection was just a natural byproduct of your touch, made your chest tight with emotion.
he’d insisted on tasting each layer separately, giving you detailed feedback like the world’s most devoted food critic, his expressions shifting from anticipation to bliss with each bite. the vanilla bean and salted caramel had made him close his eyes and hum appreciatively, a sound that sent heat curling through your stomach. the chocolate raspberry had earned a low whistle of approval that made your cheeks flush.
but you were just as gone for him, watching the way his face lit up with each taste, the way he’d pause and consider flavors with the same intensity he brought to everything else, the way his eyes would find yours after each bite like he needed to share the experience with you. when he reached for your hand during the coffee layer, threading your fingers together like he couldn’t bear not to be touching you, your heart did something ridiculous and fluttery in your chest.
“this one,” he’d said after trying the vanilla rose, his voice slightly rough, “tastes like that morning when you told me you loved me back. all sunshine and possibility.”
“you remember what i was wearing?” you’d asked, moving closer without really meaning to, drawn in by the softness in his expression.
“that yellow sundress with the little buttons,” he’d said immediately, his free hand coming up to trace the air where the buttons would have been. “you had flour in your hair and you kept fidgeting with the ties on your apron.”
the fact that he remembered those details, that he’d cataloged them like they mattered, made your breath catch.
but it was the honey lavender that had undone him completely. his whole body had gone still after the first bite, eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment you’d worried something was wrong. then his shoulders had started shaking slightly, and you’d realized with a start that he was crying.
“that’s it,” he’d said finally, his voice thick with emotion, eyes still closed like he was afraid to break the spell. “that’s the one.”
“which one?” you’d whispered, though part of you already knew.
“the feeling. the one you were trying to capture when you made it for me that first time.” he’d opened his eyes then, and they were bright with unshed tears that made your own eyes prickle in response. “it tastes like the moment i realized i was completely, hopelessly, forever in love with you.”
“satoru,” you’d breathed, and then you were kissing him, tasting honey and lavender and promises on his lips, both of you crying a little as you held each other in your expanded bakery surrounded by the evidence of how far you’d come.
“marry me tomorrow,” he’d mumbled against your lips, his hands fisting in the fabric of your dress like he was afraid you might disappear.
“we already have a date picked,” you’d laughed, but your voice was shaky with emotion.
“marry me right now then,” he’d said, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes wild and bright. “i don’t care about the dress or the flowers or any of it. i just want to be yours officially.”
the months leading up to the wedding had been a whirlwind of planning and preparation, but also of quiet domestic moments that felt like the real celebration
. mornings spent teaching him increasingly complex techniques, watching his confidence grow as he mastered croissant lamination and sugar work and the precise art of tempering chocolate, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration in a way that made your heart flutter.
afternoons working side by side, his playlist mixing with yours over the bakery’s sound system, creating the soundtrack to your shared life. evenings curled up on the couch, him reading nutrition labels to you while you sketched cake designs on his chest, both of you laughing at how perfectly your weird little habits complemented each other.
his social media had documented the whole journey, turning your followers into invested participants in your love story. posts about cake testing sessions and venue scouting, videos of him practicing his piping technique with the focused intensity he usually reserved for deadlifts, photos of you both covered in flour and grinning like idiots after successful experiments.
“wedding cake testing day 3: she’s perfect, the cakes are perfect, life is perfect #blessed #luckiestman #cakefortifiedgroom”
“month 12 of pastry school and she still hasn’t kicked me out. pretty sure that means i’m stuck with her forever #keeper #futurewife #sheputsupwitheverything”
the night before the wedding, he’d found you in the bakery’s kitchen at midnight, putting the finishing touches on the seven-layer masterpiece that would serve as the centerpiece of your reception. you’d been working for hours, crafting delicate sugar flowers by hand, each petal formed with the kind of patience and precision that had first caught his attention all those months ago.
“shouldn’t you be at your bachelor party?” you’d asked without looking up, your brow furrowed in concentration as you focused on attaching a particularly delicate rose to the top tier.
“nah,” he’d said, settling onto a stool at the work counter, his chin propped on his hands as he watched you work. “masaru and the guys went to some sports bar. figured they could celebrate my last night of freedom without me. i’d rather spend it watching you create magic.”
“it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” you’d protested halfheartedly, but you were smiling as you worked, warmth spreading through your chest at his presence.
“pretty sure that’s just about the dress,” he’d said, his voice soft with adoration as he watched your steady hands. “besides, i’ve been watching you create beautiful things every day for over a year. why would i want to stop now?”
you’d worked in comfortable silence, him occasionally handing you tools or holding delicate pieces steady while you attached them, his presence calming in the way it always was. when you’d finally stepped back to admire the finished cake—seven layers of love story rising in perfect, elegant tiers—he’d let out a low whistle of appreciation that made your cheeks warm.
“damn, cupcake. that’s not a wedding cake. that’s art.”
“it’s us,” you’d said simply, wiping your hands on your apron, and somehow that had said everything.
standing at the altar the next day in his perfectly tailored tux, satoru felt like his heart might actually burst from his chest. the ceremony was perfect—intimate and personal, held in the garden behind flour & sugar with your closest friends and family gathered under fairy lights and white flowers, the lingering scent of the bakery’s ovens mixing with the evening air.
the space had been transformed, but it still felt like home. like you. white flowers and trailing greenery wound around the fence he’d painted himself, and small tables scattered throughout the garden held miniature versions of pastries from your menu, little bites of your love story for guests to enjoy.
his hands were shaking again, the same way they had the night he’d proposed, and he had to flex his fingers to keep them steady. his best man kept shooting him concerned looks, and masaru had actually brought smelling salts, tucked discretely in his jacket pocket, after satoru had nearly fainted during the rehearsal.
but none of his nerves mattered when the music started—an acoustic version of the song he’d learned to play for you, performed by a local musician you’d hired for the garden’s friday night performances. none of his anxiety mattered when the small crowd rose to their feet, turning toward the bakery’s back door with expectant smiles.
and then you appeared, and the whole world stopped.
you emerged from the bakery like something from a fairy tale, like every perfect thing he’d ever dreamed of and several he’d never been brave enough to imagine. your dress was ivory silk and lace, simple and elegant and perfectly you, flowing around you like spun sugar as you walked down the short aisle between chairs draped with white fabric and scattered with rose petals—roses that matched the sugar flowers crowning your wedding cake.
but it was your smile that completely undid him—radiant and bright and aimed directly at him like he was the only person in the world worth looking at. your eyes were sparkling with tears and joy and so much love that he had to blink rapidly to keep from sobbing right there in front of everyone. the way you looked at him, like he was worth waiting for, like he was worth choosing, every single day.
his knees went weak, and his best man steadied him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
when your father placed your hand in his, satoru had to take a shuddering breath because the moment felt too precious, too perfect to be real. your skin was soft and familiar, and he could feel the slight tremor in your fingers that matched his own nervous energy.
“hi,” you whispered, just for him, your voice slightly breathless, eyes sparkling with mischief and adoration.
“hi, beautiful,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your knuckles where his grandmother’s ring caught the golden hour light. “you ready to be stuck with me forever?”
“i’ve been ready since you demolished that first chocolate tart,” you said, your smile widening as you spoke, and he had to bite back a laugh because of course you’d make him smile even now, when his heart was trying to escape through his throat.
the ceremony passed in a blur of tears and laughter and promises that felt too big for words but somehow perfectly right. when the officiant finally said “you may kiss the bride,” satoru cupped your face like you were made of spun glass and kissed you like it was the first time and the last time and every time in between, pouring seven months of morning coffees and shared recipes and quiet domestic happiness into the moment.
the reception flowed seamlessly from ceremony to celebration, guests moving from the ceremony space to tables scattered throughout the garden and up onto the second floor of the bakery, which had been opened up and decorated with more fairy lights and flowing white fabric. the seven-layer cake stood in the center of it all, a tower of love story and sugar art that had guests stopping to take photos and marvel at the delicate details.
“ladies and gentlemen,” the musician announced as the sun set over your little empire, “the couple would like to cut their cake and share the story behind this incredible creation.”
you and satoru stood before the masterpiece, his hand warm and steady over yours on the knife handle, his chest pressed against your back as he murmured sweet nonsense in your ear that made you giggle. “ready?” you asked, looking up at him with eyes bright with happiness, your cheeks flushed with joy and champagne.
“been ready my whole life,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, and meant it.
together, you cut into the bottom layer, the vanilla bean and salted caramel that represented that first day, that first moment when his world had tilted on its axis. the cake was perfect—moist and flavorful and beautiful in cross-section, each layer visible and distinct, a rainbow of your love story made edible.
he lifted the first piece to your lips with hands that finally weren’t shaking, watching as you bit into it with a soft hum of approval, your eyes fluttering closed in pleasure. a tiny dot of frosting stuck to the corner of your mouth, and without thinking, he leaned in and kissed it away, slow and sweet, tasting sugar and promises and forever on your lips.
“best cheat day of my life,” he whispered against your temple, his lips curving into a smile against your skin, making you laugh—that bright, joyous sound that had become the soundtrack to his happiness.
you looked up at him, your husband, this beautiful impossible man who’d learned to love the quiet corners of your world and filled them with light and laughter and more joy than you’d ever thought possible, and felt your heart swell with so much love you thought it might actually burst.
“we’re just getting started,” you said, and kissed him again, sweet enough to rot his teeth, perfect enough to last forever.
as the night wound down and the last guests filtered out into the summer evening, you found yourselves back in the kitchen where it had all started, still in your wedding clothes but with bare feet and sleeves rolled up, sharing leftover cake and feeding each other bites while recounting the best moments of the day.
“i think,” satoru said, sitting on the floor with his back against the cabinets, you curled up between his legs with your head on his shoulder, his bow tie undone and hanging loose around his neck, “this might actually be better than my first chocolate tart.”
you gasped in mock offense, turning to look at him with wide eyes, your hand pressed dramatically to your chest. “better than the pastry that started it all? that’s basically blasphemy.”
“nah,” he said, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your ring finger, right over the simple gold band that now sat beside his grandmother’s engagement ring. “the chocolate tart was just the beginning. this is the happily ever after.”
you looked at him, this man who’d stumbled into your carefully ordered world and turned it into something sweeter, richer, more alive than you’d ever imagined possible, and knew with absolute certainty that this was what love looked like. not the dramatic, movie-perfect romance you’d once imagined, but this: wedding cake and bare feet and quiet promises made in kitchen light, surrounded by the beautiful life you’d built together from flour and sugar and impossible patience.
tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me @ilovebeansyay @ethereal-moonlit @anathemaspeaks @fancypeacepersona @scryarchives @chieeeeeee @snowsilver2000 @k-kkiana
Synopsis ✦ It’s the most excruciating day of the year and you’re lonely, really lonely. You walk around the big city in hopes of finding something to do, like drink. You end up in the fanciest bar in the city where you meet a familiar looking man who can help take all your loneliness away.
Content ✦ MDNI, Valentine’s Day!!! smut, alcohol, mentions of smoking, slight exhibitionism, p in v, oral, teasing, fem!reader.
It was valentines. The day of love, and you were alone. Being alone in a big city was somehow much worse than being alone in a small one, you assumed it was since everyone were much closer in the smaller cities. But anyway, that didn't solve your issue since you were in a small town regardless.
Your friends were all with their boyfriends, because well, that was how you were supposed to spend valentines day—with your loved ones. Unfortunely for you you didn't have anyone, the closest thing you had to company was the people sitting next to you in this fancy bar. You'd never been here before, too expensive. Today you allowed yourself an expensive drink or two without caring about the cost.
You had just arrived, taking your seat at the bar after a very well dressed man took your winter coat to be hanged. Somehow it was still snowing, even though it was nearing spring.
The interior of the bar was beautiful to say the least, it had a classy look to it. The alcohol that was placed on the multible shelves above you, were lit up by a warm toned light that was coming from behind them. As you waited for your order to be taken you took your time letting your eyes wander all over the place. The color pallet contained three main colors: Gold, white and black. The place was much larger than it seemed from the outside, it had an airy sort of feeling that most bars hadn't. Most bars had a stuffed humid feel to them but here the air smelled like vanilla, mild tobacco and alcohol. The smell wasn't overbearing by any means, just there in the background.
The menu in your hands had two gold stripes by the sides, you found yourself running your fingers over them before you felt a figure move infront of you—Oh, the bartender. You quickly looked up with a smile only to freeze momentarily. The bartender was beautiful, he had long black hair that was tied back, his eyes were a lighter shade of brown but they looked almost...nevermind. The black gauges in his ears didn't take the attention away from his face at all surprisingly, they suited him well. The first thing you noticed was that he was tall, really tall, the counter was high but he still made it look normal from where he was standing. He was wearing a white button up but the collar was high, a bit priest like if you were being honest.
You came back to reality when he chucked softly, darkly.
"Oh, sorry long day, must have zoned out." You said quickly, traying to salvage what was left of your dignity after you openly oogled this random guy. He nodded and leaned forward against the counter with his palms. "What can I get you today?"
"Hm..." You looked down at the menu again, why were all the drink names in french?! You thought as you tried to search for one you maybe recognized. "Uh, what would you recommend?"
"Well, what do you like?"
You shifted slightly on the velvet bar chair, trying to think of something. "I like sex on the beach," you said, before you quickly added, "the drink!" Your face flushed as he laughed again.
"Yeah, I figured." Gesturing slightly to the bar, because why would you otherwise say you liked sex on the beach, you obviously meant the drink. This is why you're single, you have this nervous way about you whenever you speak to someone you find the least bit attractive. You took a deep breath, the nerves will calm after you've had your drink you told yourself.
"If you like sex on the beach, the drink." He added after with a small smirk. "I could make something similar, though i'm going to change the orange to lemon if that's okay with you, we don't have orange here."
You nodded, sex on the beach wasn't the most fancy drink so you were surprised he could make it for you. Sometimes at fancy places like this they only served the drinks on the menu, not what people requested.
You watched him as he made the drink, he moved smoothly through the bar, grabbing all the ingredients. "Do you come here often?" He asked without looking up at you. You chuckled at the cliché question, "No, my first time actually."
"Really?" He asked, looking back up at you, his eyes flicking over you briefly.
"Yeah, why? Do I look like I come to places like these?" You asked curiously, you supposed that you looked a bit like you'd fit in. You were still wearing your office clothes, a black pencil skirt, a blazer and some jewlery. You worked as a journalist at a well known magazine, so it was expected of you to wear finer things. Since your salary was okay you could afford it, but you didn't frequent places like this anyway.
"Hm, lots of different people come in here, there's no telling who belongs here or not really." He said casually, now staring to measure the different flavors.
"Well it is a very nice place so I can't imagine that the people here are so different really." You said, looking around in the bar. People were on dates, professional gatherings and like you--just having a drink. Everyone was dressed a certain way though, suits, dresses, blazers. You looked back at him, waiting to see if he could see the bar from your perspective, he could maybe see who had the money to go here everyday and who didn't, you certainly couldn't.
"If you've worked here as long as I have you start to see who's here to treat themselves or who's just here for a drink."'
"And what am I here for?" You asked softly, leaning forward slightly, you were already relaxing. There was something about him that made you feel comfortable instantly, even after just speaking a few sentences to each other.
He smiled as he placed your now ready drink on the counter, "I think you're here for a good time."
The night continued in pleasant talk with the bartender, the night was calm, probably since it was valentines day so he was mostly by you. It had been maybe an hour or two when the talking faded slightly.
"So why are you working on valentines? Did you lose a staff bet and were now put on duty on the most romantic day of the year?" You asked, leaning your elbows on the counter slightly.
"I was the only one who didn't have plans." He said calmly, soft almost mischievous eyes lingering on you like he was waiting for a reaction.
Oh. "Really?" You said, obviously surprised. You cleared your throat, "I mean, really?" You repeated, now more calm. His smile widened into a grin as he softly shrugged. "I just meant, most people are busy today." You added, still trying to make up for your earlier surprise.
"Well, i'm not."
"Well," You echoed, "You're working, I would classify that as busy."
"My shift ends in ten." Your eyes flicker to your clock, shit, it was almost eleven. "I'm Suguru," He said, stretching out his hand over the counter. You gently shook it and told him your name in return, a pleasant buzz hummed in your body as the tension that had been building up over the night doubled.
He looked over at the other bartender that had just arrived, "I'm clocking out early." He said, the other bartender just nodded. Which surprised you, they were both bartenders so why did the other just automatically accept that Suguru was clocking out early? Maybe he owed him a favour you thought as you watched Suguru step out from behind the counter, now by you side nut holding a respectful distance.
"So," He repeated your name, "my apartment is actually in this building, would you want to talk more there?" He asked in that gentle but rough voice of his. You nodded in response, "Yeah, I'd like that."
Correction, you'd love that.
"I'll just grab my things," You said, standing up from the comfortable seat to go retrieve your coat, you bag hanged loosely on you shoulders as you walked a bit to fast to get your coat.
When you returned, Suguru stood leaned against the counter. He straightened up as you came. "I didn't know people could live in this building." You said as he gestured for you to walk out.
"At first people couldn't but the owner of the complex changed that." He explained as you both walked out in the cold, there was a second entrance you realised. This one had a reception and was decorated just as nicely as the bar, how could you not have seen this before?
"This looks...nice."
"It is. When i first moved in i couldn't believe how much potential this place had."
You both took a golden elevator up to the top floor, which was a penthouse. Your eyes widened as you took the place in, he owned this? His penthouse had a more industrial vibe to it, probably kept some details from when it was first built. You stood still by the entrance before Suguru spoke again. "You can hang your coat here, do you want anything to drink?"
"Uh, what do you have?"
"Wine?" He said, walking into the kitchen. The kitchen. It had glass panels, white stone, metallic accents all over. It was like from those well known apartment complexes that were always in movies in 2014.
You nodded as you shrugged off your coat, placing it on the nearby hanger. You took of you shoes too, padding to him silently. It felt so odd wearing just stocking while walking without shoes. He handed you a wine glass, you were both leaning against the kitchen counter.
"So why are you alone today?" He asked casually, in a way that didn't feel invasive.
"Well, when you work as much as me you start to lose that uhm...what's it called? Free time?" You joked, laughing.
He laughed too, "Yeah, tell me about it."
"Why are you alone? You must meet a lot of people through work though."
He shrugged, looking at the wall briefly before looking back at you. "Not really, I mean when I'm at work I focus on that, not if the person I'm serving could be the right one for me."
"Hm, so you asked me here because?"
"Today I focused on that."
You chuckled, "Smooth." You smiled, looking up at him. "Yeah?" He hummed as he leaned on his side, facing you fully now. Suddenly the tension came back fully, the warmth of it invading all your senses. His eyes flicked down to you lips and you could feel your breath hitch. He smirked slightly at that as he leaned in, his free hand gently grabbed the side of you face, his other put his and your wine glass down on the kitchen counter before he closed the space between you fully.
His lips met your in a soft but firm kiss. The hand that wasn't on your face was on the counter, by your hips. His lips slotted perfectly against yours, soft, warm and wanting. The pressure came in pulses, soft-hard-soft-hard. Your hands traveled up to his jaw and arm, one of them held his bicep. He crowded you against the counter, his head tilting down and to the side to change the angle. The times when you separated for air were brief, only a second to inhale before you both dove back in. The kisses turned heated fast, your tongue invading his mouth and his hand gently tugging on you hair to make you tilt your head up further.
He started kissing down your jaw and neck as his leg slotted between yours. His firm thigh just below where you wanted him, your tight pencil skirt making it impossible for him to move his leg up. In the haze of him kissing your neck your hands left him to lift the hem of your skirt. Your pencil skirt now bunched up at your upper thighs, his mouth left your neck as he shifted slightly to watch you.
"Fuck," He groaned quietly as he saw your thigh highs, and the garters that held them up. One of his hands ran up your thighs, despite his size he was very gentle. He leaned in to kiss down to your collarbones while his thigh fully pressed up against your covered core now. You whimpered slightly at the contact and heard him huff a breath out, "beautiful." You couldn't help but slowly grind against his thigh, your hands holding his shoulders now. His hand that was on your thigh moved up to your hip, guiding your movements with precision, it was like he already knew your body.
One of your hands moved back to his hair, tugging at the hairtie a bit clumsily. He leaned back a little to look at your face, he hummed in a questioning tone, unsure if you were trying to tug at his hair to pull him back or something else. "I like the long hair," You said, a bit short of breath. He grinned at the statement, and nodded slightly. "Go on then." You tugged harder, the tie finally sliding off his hair. His hair fell around his face in a curtain of black silky hair. I smiled slightly, "You're somehow pretty and handsome at the same time." You said softly as you brushed a piece of hair behind his ear before leaning up to kiss him, not giving him a chance to answer. He groaned into the kiss, both his hands now at your hips, lifting you.
He sat you down at the counter, he picked you up like you weighted nothing, that sent a shot of heat through you. You spread your legs instinctivly for him to stand between. His hands started unbuttoning the top buttons of your blouse, revealing the top of your lacy black bra. His mouth was instantly on your chest, you leaned your head back, all you could feel was heat. You hadn't felt this way in a long time. Suddenly his lips were no longer on you, you opened your eyes to look, he was on his sinking down on his knees. "This okay?" You nodded quickly, he smirked at your eager response. "You look so pretty like this," he said and the hands on your knees spread you further open. He kissed his way up your thighs slowly, he was teasing you. "Suguru, c'mon." You said, your words coming out more like a whine. You leaned back on your elbows to look down at him, he was smirking. "Patience, baby."
You rolled your eyes as his gaze caught yours, your hands traveled from the edge of the counter to his hair, holding it back from his face as you guided him back down, a bit roughly. Both his hands held the back of your thighs, he moved you further to the edge of the counter as he moved his nose up your covered slit. Your legs tensed slightly and in response Sugurus thumbs moved soothingly over them. His breath was warm against you as he licked a stripe over your underwear, his fingers reached the edges of your underwear, pulling them down smoothly despite your position. He looks up at you, his eyes filled with desire, while keeping eye contact he licked up from you entrance to your clit. You moaned at the contact when he circled your clit with his tongue.
You leaned back almost fully against the cold counter, still halfly leaned back on your elbows. Your head tilted to the side, your eyes closed. When you opened them you were met by the image of yourself, you were mirrored in the glass window. You could see Suguru from the side, between your legs. The image was filthy, but so hot. Just the idea that anyone could technically see you from another high building made something flare inside you, something unknown.
Suguru sucked on your clit, his tongue moving up and down on it as his fingers teased your entrance. He hums against you, the vibration sending a shiver through your entire body, you temprature was increasing fast. His other hand held your hip firmly as his tongue continued to find every sensitive spot on you. His finger slides inside you slowly, working in and out in smooth motions before he deemed that you were ready for a second one. He curls them both upwards, stretching you out slowly. It wasn't long until you came, your legs twitching and tensing as your mouth gaped open at the pleasure.
You laid down fully against the counter, he slowly rose from his position on the floor. You opened your eyes slightly as you felt his wet fingers touch your lips while his other hand held your head up, you opened your mouth, letting his fingers enter you once again. Your tongue swirls around them, tasting yourself. "Good girl," He says and leans down, kissing your forehead. Both his hands holds your waist as you sit up, "Are you okay?" He says gently in a tone that makes you want to melt. "Yeah," you nodded.
You looked up at him as you shifted slightly on the counter, “So, where’s your bedroom?” You said, a slightly mischievous smile on your face. Suguru stilled for a moment, a hint of surprise in his eyes before he chuckled softly. “I’ll show you.” He said, moving to take a step back but you moved your legs around his hips squeezing slightly, he grinned, the hands on your waist moving to grip the back of your thighs. He lifted you up, your bare pussy against the front of his slacks. Your arms were around his neck, you didn’t even get to the bedroom before you started kissing. The kissing wasn’t soft anymore, it was rough—devouring. Suguru led you to his bedroom, laying you down slowly and carefully on his bed, you were so focused on him you didn’t even notice how his room looked, you didn’t care.
His dark sheets were a pleasant cold under you, cooling down your warm skin. You started unbuttoning your blouse, quickly. Sugurus eyes flickered down to your chest that was slowly getting revealed before he focused on your skirt. His hands traveled over your hips swiftly, trying to find the zipper, when he found it he quickly unzipped your skirt and pulled it down your legs, putting it down on the floor. His hands moved from your hips to your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh. “Can we keep these on?” He asked, his fingers tracing the top lace of your thigh highs. You nodded, “of course” as you tried to take your blouse off, its wasn’t easy getting a blouse off while laying down. Suguru quickly came to your rescue and helped with getting it off, his hands skimming over your skin as he did it.
Now you laid almost bare on his sheets, you felt a little self conscious, it had been a while since anyone had seen you like this. “You know it feels a little unfair that I’m basically naked and you’re fully dressed.” You said with a teasing undertone as you propped yourself up on your elbows. “Yeah, a bit unfair maybe.” He said and stood up from the bed, for a second you were a bit confused about what he was doing. Well, until you saw that he was going to undress right in front of you, not letting you help as he had done. He stood beside the bed, slowly unbuttoning his black dress shirt. He had a smirk on his face as he did, he knew you were watching his every move. Slowly his shirt opened, and your eyes widened almost comically. He was ripped, not in an overly muscular way but just the right way. He was toned but still you could see the outlines of his every muscle. You looked down at abdomen, waiting for his hands to move to his pants. “You like to watch, huh?” He said as he moved one of his hands down his chest to his belt, it was as if he was putting on a show for you and teasing himself at the same time.
Your face flushed at his words, at the accuracy of them but kept a steady tone. “Maybe.” His long fingers unbuckled his belt with grace, before moving to the zipper. He slowly stepped out of them, now only in his boxers, he was wearing black Calvin Kleins and his thighs were also a piece of art like the rest of him. He walked over to you, moving into the bed and over you. The heat of him against you was amazing, his hair ticked your shoulders slightly but you didn’t care. His mouth went to your neck instantly, kissing, sucking slightly but not enough to leave a mark. One of his legs spread your legs open more while he continued to kiss down your collarbones. He kissed down the top of your breasts, the plump skin that was coming out from the cup of your bra. One of his hands, the one that wasn’t holding him over you came to pull down the lace from your breast, bearing it fully. He kissed and nipped around your nipple before finally sucking it into his mouth. His free hand cupped your other breast that was still covered with his hand, first gently then harder when he realised you liked it. He twisted your nipple between his fingers and your hips shifted, grinding onto nothing.
“Suguru, I want you inside.” You whispered against the top of his head. He stopped his motions briefly, his hands moving to unclasp your bra. Your hands came to find the hem of his boxers. “Greedy, won’t even let me take care of you first.” He said teasingly against your skin as if eating you out wasn’t enough for you or him. He sat up slightly, helping you with his boxers. When they came off you realised why he wanted to prep you so much, he was huge. His hips twitched at the sudden cool air, his dick was standing tall against his stomach, his length was a pale shade but his tip was this pretty dark pink color. You spread your legs open instinctively, “Wow…You’re uh…” You couldn’t even finish your sentence, your eyes stuck on him.
He smirked and hovered back over you, he leaned his face down so his lips were almost against yours. You could feel his warm breath hitch slightly against your lips before he spoke. “C’mon tell me what I am.”
His hair that fell around you two, crowding you in slightly made it all feel a bit intimate. “Big.” You said against his lips before kissing him, wrapping your arms around his large back. You could feel him shift, his hips lining up more with yours, one of his hands went down to align himself with you. You twitched in his grip as his tip brushed against your entrance. “You okay?” He said as he broke the kiss briefly. “Yeah, yeah you can keep going.”
He nodded, he moved so his tip gathered your slick, moving it up your folds to graze your clit before slowly pushing inside. You squeezed your eyes shut at the stretch, warmth filling your entire body and an almost nervous tingle filling your stomach. He pushed inside slowly, making it easy for you to take him. When he finally bottomed out you wrapped your legs around his waist. “You feel so good.” He groaned out as he slowly started to move, his length moving in and out with slick sounds. You loved when you could feel his hips pressed fully against you, you pressed back against him slightly, a signal for him go a bit harder. He understood immediately. Soon enough the room was filled with slick sounds of your skin meeting, moans and groans. He kissed your neck as his free hand groped your breast, pinching your nipple. You held onto his back, biting into his shoulder when you wanted to moan. Your nails were digging into his skin, you could feel it, but it only made him go faster and his groans louder.
“I-I’m gonna—” He said, his voice cracking as his hips lost their rhythm slightly, but his tip was still hitting your g-spot repeatedly. You nodded, not being able to speak. Your body tensed up, your walls clenching around him as you felt the familiar buzzing feeling return. He continued, you could tell he was right at the edge but kept going so you could get there. Your body finally locked up and you came with a moan, wrapping around him tighter. He groaned, which turned into a whimper when he came. His warm seed filling you, he kept shallowly moving his hips, working you both through it.
When you both had come off the high he rolled off you, still breathing heavily. “I’ll be right back, just gonna get some towels.” He said, his voice rough, he gently squeezed your arm before walking to the bathroom. He returned with warm wet towels, he cleaned you up slowly, it felt so caring. When he was done he sat up by your side, “Do you want water?” He asked softly, you shook your head and tugged at his arm. He smiled slightly, laying back down by your side. Wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his side.
You looked at his bedside table briefly, seeing what looked like a business card laying there, which he had signed. Suguru Geto. He had never told you his last name but why did you recognise it? You thought as you looked at him, his eyes were closed and he was almost falling asleep. Geto? You repeated in your mind again, wait, wasn’t the bar you just had been at was named “Geto”
Reincarnated as a pixi stick!?!?- the duke's second life
Duke Gojo was sent to hell for his whorish ways before he met you - his pretty Duchess. You were reincarnated as a human, but Duke Gojo? Well, he's a pixi stick full of molly! That falls into your hands as you're partying at a rave for your birthday, now your reincarnated lover is demanding to know why you're dressed like such a harlot! Is he a Bridgerton cosplayer on April Fools, or is he really your past lover!?
warnings- cracked out asf, drug use, brief plug Suguru cameo, Satoru being jealous and confused by the modern era, p in v sex, oral, titty fucking, squirting, spitting, creampie, tummy bulges, size kink, honestly a lot of emotions and feelings for a crack fic, reincarnated lovers hehe
This is for object! gojo event (for my 50k followers/ birthday hehe) I literally am so self induglent here as reader is born on April fools, ty to @uhnosav for always helping me with these!!! a/n at the end <3
art is by @levitonin hehehe <3
You’re dancing in the strobing lights of the rave, the music undulating and thrumming, the bass so loud you can already hear your ears ringing the next morning. Sweat dripping on your skin, the heat from the sea of the bodies making you dizzy, mixing with the shots in your system, warmth rushing through your veins.
You’ve had a terrible set of nightmares recently, a pair of blue eyes glinting – perhaps it was an alien, or a demon, you’re not quite sure. But you’re hoping that you can get it all out of your head tonight, it was your birthday after all – what better to do than party for it? Your friends practically dragged you out for it.
What sort of birthday was April fucking Fool’s day!?
You’d hated it your whole life but you suppose you’ll have fun at this party, when a man is dancing on you, normally you’d back off but you should let go and have fun for your birthday, shouldn’t you? Let his hands on your waist, tugging you against him, feeling as everything starts to spin around you.
“Hey,” he asks softly, you turn your head and blink just a bit, the lace of your fishnets pressing just a bit into your thighs.
“Hmm?”
“Wanna do some molly?” You blink curiously – you think you’ve heard of it. “It’s kinda like coke, but way better.”
“I mean…” The demons in your head practically whisper – fuck it. You only live once, right? Make a fucking night of it, terrible decisions and all, you’re an office worker by day, no one would ever expect you to be dressed in bright pink with these damn neon boots, and no one here really knows you.
Your friends are all off dancing and they’d probably condone the psycho Aries nature you have, anyway.
“I guess so?” He chuckles a bit and takes your hand, you worry just a bit if you’ve really fucked up when he hands you a pixi stick, a tall blue one with a plastic casing – like the ones you buy in the front of the stores. “Um!?”
“It’s got molly inside, it’s a special one,” he kisses your lips then, you cringe just a bit at the sloppy attempt. “My treat, birthday girl.”
“Thanks?” He walks off and you’re a bit off to the corner of the rave now, it’s just a little less loud but you’re around where everyone is making out, kissing each other and grinding all up on one another in the halls towards the bathrooms.
You sort of excuse yourself – everyone is on something here, so it’s not that taboo or wild to go sneak off and take something. The thing is, the guy didn’t really explain what the fuck to do! You sigh and peer at the baby blue pixi stick, you’ve never seen one this blue – it’s almost reminiscent of those creepy eyes that have been haunting you.
“I’m already fucked up,” you mumble, popping it open and then finding the guy again, he’s already dancing with someone else. “Um… hey…”
“Birthday girl!” He grins and looks down at you.
“How do I…”
“Oh shit, just take a tiny bump,” he mumbles, as if he hasn’t handed you a giant fucking stick of mdma. He takes the stick from you and pulls a teeny bit out, you take it and then he closes the pixi stick back up. “There, that’s all you’ll need – keep that for another time.”
“Shit… okay…”
The music starts sounding all - wha wha wha - and you get crazy dizzy, dancing with the damn pixi stick like it’s your partner. You’re giggling as you jump up and down in time with the dj, feeling how fucking good you feel, your eyes shut and you bounce up and down in your pretty pink platforms, when suddenly the pixi stick falls from your hand.
“Oh shit,” you try to blink yourself back into reality, when a tall ass, white haired man is standing in front of you instead. You gasp, stepping back, but he grips your wrist, wearing some insane fucking regency era clothing. “Are you like… a bridgerton actor?”
“A bloody what?” You hear his fancy accent, and then look into his eerie blue eyes – and that’s when it hits.
You remember those eyes from your nightmares.
It can’t be… but it feels like you know this… actor? Cosplayer?
"Duchess?” He gasps and steps back – as sure as his days are you his pretty duchess from his past life, fuck he’s wondered for so long if he’d ever see you again, but he’s been cursed and bound to this fucking pixi stick!
It’s you though, those pretty fucking eyes that used to look up at him, the same body he remembers in a tight corset is now freely shown in scraps that count as clothing. He can see your tummy – the one he remembers having stretch marks from your children, now all smooth as the day he met you.
What.
The.
Fuck.
What has happened to his duchess! Even if it’s another life, shouldn’t she remember him? Rather than looking at him as if she’s scared, his Duchess wasn’t scared of shit, his Duchess hit men. Fuck, you hit him all the time, especially when you were riding his cock.
The memories make Duke Gojo ache, even if he’s been trapped for years now in this godforsaken pixi stick, he knew you reincarnated too, he’d fucked you throughout every inch in hell when you were sucked away one day. The deal to get back to the living? Live in a goddamn pixi stick of MDMA and wait for someone foolish enough to take it.
Well, your birthday was April Fools.
“Um you’re staring at me,” you murmur now, all shy for having your tits and thighs all out, fuck men were all staring at what’s his.
“Don’t you remember me? Really, Duchess?”
“Um, you’re cosplaying hard core,” you laugh nervously, seeing this handsome man staring down at you, cupping your face delicately and brushing his thumb over your cheek. You suck in a breath – are you so fucked up you think that you’re in love at first sight?
You do love Bridgerton, fuck that Duke was hot… maybe…
“What are these harlot clothes on my wife!?” You blink in a haze as the white haired man in the weird costume gapes at you.
"Um…” You look down at the floor, then back up at him. “Where did my molly go?"
He glares down at you now – how insolent is his duchess to get his goddamn name wrong, too? "My name isn't fucking Molly - it's Duke Gojo!”
“Duke, hmm,” you giggle now, leaning close to him, he feels so fucking good, god he even smells good, you watch him blush when your hands slip up his chest, feeling the material of his jacket. “This is so authentic! You’d think it was real!”
“Of course it’s real, tch,” you feel too damn good, his hand on your waist, feeling the curve of it, his cock twitches and he realizes just how long it’s been, at least five years in this dumb stick, and you’re easily in your mid twenties.
He was alone in hell for twenty years, and now his Duchess doesn’t even know him? There better not be that goddamn Mr. Nanami here too.
“You’re hot,” you’re giggling all drunk and fucked up, as if you’ve had too much of that sherry you used to throw back, he sighs, shaking his head.
“Let me guess, you didn’t eat.”
You pause, blinking and stepping back. “Um… how could you know that?”
“In any life you live off nothing,” he rolls his pretty blue eyes now, shaking his head and tugging you close against him, watching your eyes get even more dilated underneath the flashing lights that are annoying the shit out of him. “You really don’t remember me, do you bratty girl?”
“Your eyes look familiar but…” You sigh, realizing just how fucked up you truly must be. “I’ll get a ride um, do you want to come home with me?”
His eyes narrow. “Inviting strange men to your home like a brothel girl?”
“You’re so rude,” you shove now and scowl, turning away. “Fuck it then, I’ll go hit up my ex.”
“Your EX!?”
“Mhm,” you’re stumbling and giggling when you rush through the crowd, everyone compliments Duke Gojo’s outfit as he pushes through, following that pretty backside twitching in your slutty excuse for a skirt.
What has fashion come to?
What year is it?
“Duchess get your ass back here now!” You’re walking up to a man who looks just like Suguru Geto now, wrapping your arms around him and letting him spin you onto the floor, he’s got these metal things in his lips and nose but it’s fucking Suguru.
“Hey pretty birthday girl,” you all are exes but still good friends, sometimes you hook up and do just a bit of coke or smoke together, and Suguru eats you out. But you all just didn’t work in a relationship.
“Sugu! There’s a hot british dude calling me a duchess,” you look behind you and Suguru snorts in laughter.
“Fuck am I that high?”
“I think the molly got me…”
“Molly? You shouldn’t take that shit,” he frowns and you roll your eyes. “Seriously, you don’t know what people put in it. You should only trust things from me.”
“You’re just being a little yandere plug,” he snorts and tilts your chin up, eyes darting to your lips.
“You don’t miss me? Should I lick your pretty pussy for your birthday?”
Oh fuck.
“Excuse me!? No one’s licking her but me,” the duke guy has tugged you back angrily, you’re giggling even more when he wraps a possessive arm around your waist. “She’s my Duchess, Suguru.”
“How do you know my name!? Am I this fucked up?”
“I think he’s from the future-”
“You’re acting like a little foolish brat,” Satoru grumbles, picking you up suddenly, you gasp out. “I’ll go to your place, then. Fetch a carriage.”
Suguru and you burst into laughter. “Are you sure you wanna go with the Bridgerton dude, princess?”
“Don’t call her Princess - that’s what I fucking call her,” Satoru is making you soaking wet all possessive and shit, and you do feel like you know him – even if you may just be fucked up. “Tell him you wish to go to your chambers with me.”
“Oooh, chambers,” you giggle again, letting him carry you all bridal style in his arms, you don’t know just how much it means to have you in his arms again, even if you’re covered in some obnoxious glitter all over. “I’m good Sugu, promise.”
“Call me if you need me?” You nod but Satoru has already carried you out, the cool night air hits your skin, brushing against your skin and making your hair brush back, his pretty eyes looking at you under snowy lashes, you can’t help but bite your lip, feeling your heart fluttering fast behind your ribs.
“Hi,” you murmur, he sighs, frowning at you, hugging you closer. “Need me to fetch your carriage?”
“Indeed,” you smile and pull out your phone, Duke Gojo frowns at the sight of all the monstrosities swerving on the road. Cars were just made when the two of you died, and they looked nothing like these do.
You look at him curiously, seeing just how thrown off he is by the world around him. “Are you really from the eighteen hundreds?”
“So are you,” you hum a bit, frowning now, ordering a ride as he continues to just hold you. “I’ll get you to remember me, once I’m buried inside your cunt.”
Your fingers trace down his jaw, biting down on your lip. “Oh will you?”
*****
Well he certainly does.
Satoru Gojo or – the Duke as he calls himself – ripped your pretty pink fishnets with a loud tear in your room, shoving you down on your bed and burying himself between your thighs, fingers digging into the flesh as the mesh leaves its marks. His lips are hungry and desperate, just a little clumsy as if he’s been out of practice, but he quickly finds your clit.
He sucks it in his mouth and hums, fingers shoved inside your needy hole, you try to remember he’s a stranger and you’ve really only been with Suguru, but it truly is as if he knows your body. He’s sucking your tiny clit and vibrating his mouth better than any fucking toy, your fingers are entangled in those silky white locks, tugging.
“Duke… hah, duke,” you’re giggling and making him scowl up at you. “It’s just you eat pussy so well for a ‘gentleman’.”
“Hah,” he snorts against you, biting your clit and making your hips jerk up at the shock, looking at you under those fluffy lashes. “I’ve never been a fucking gentleman, slutty duchess.”
“Oh? Oh!” Satoru leans up and tugs at your chin.
“Open.”
You do just that, and the slutty duke spits a filthy trail of saliva right in your open mouth, letting it slip down your tongue and into your throat, you gasp, swallowing it as he grins.
“They did that in the 1800’s?”
“No, but I did,” he smirks and kisses you all messy, your cunt throbbing around his fingers as he keeps curving them up, fingertips almost touching your cervix, the pressure making your core ache. “Your cunt is just as loud as it always was.”
“Y-you’re kind of a dick, ngh!” He’s got you squirting right down his fingers, making a whole fucking mess, you tug at his annoyingly accurate cravat as your squirt drips down to your bed. “Naked. Now.”
“Demanding little brat in every fucking life,” he quickly rids himself of it, then slips off his blue velvet jacket, left in this flowy white linen shirt that makes you gush even more, he smirks. “You’re just as messy as I remember.”
“You’re so crazy I’m starting to believe you,” he is naked with his thick cock, all veiny and drippy, white drizzling right down from his pretty pink tip, you barely bite back a moan at the sight of it, spreading your thighs.
“Like what you see, duchess?” He taunts, you can still feel the Molly that was inside this… pixi stick!?... of a man rushing through your system, if this was some laced shit you were down for the night. Who doesn’t wanna get railed by a six-foot-four white haired Bridgerton man on her birthday?
“Fuck me,” he blinks a bit and blushes, you were rather bold but it’s been some time since he’s gotten to be with you, and he doesn’t like the thought of who made you this bold. You sit up and take his cock in your hand, spitting right on his tip and holding your tits together. “Do you wanna fuck them first?”
“God I am furious at whoever taught you this,” in his lifetime he was the one who taught you to fuck your pretty tits, but he’s missed you too much to argue. Duke Gojo slides his cock between your tits now, grabbing the fat of them and moaning as he holds them together, the tip slipping up and jutting against your chin. “Fuck, fuck…”
“Mnh,” you’re so wet from the sight, lapping at his tip and sucking it into your mouth with every stroke, his hands rough on your sensitive nipples, squishing your tits even closer so he can move his cock up and down. “Wh-what do I call you?”
“Hah,” he sighs, fucking even faster between your pretty, squishy tits, spitting down so his cock glides even easier, the saliva glittering on your skin. “You can call me Toru, you used to call me that.”
“Oh,” you feel it then… it’s fucking familiar, this psychotic stranger must be something special to you. Or your drugs are hitting really good, but he’s so quickly jerking his cock back and shoving you down, you almost can’t comprehend. “Ah! Toru…”
“Fuck,” he’s done for at hearing it from your soft voice, one that’s screamed at him, cried to him, moaned his name – years and years he spent with you, just to have you again, he can’t help but glide his cock through your slick and shove right inside. “Oh m-my… fuck you’re tight…”
“Ngh!” You’re stuffed full of Satoru then, his tip gliding inside your gummy walls, the tip pressing on that spongy little spot, you’re trembling as he shoves fully inside – as deep as he can – bottoming out, his heavy balls smacking your ass.
Your eyes dart up to his as he moans out, a hand on your tummy, smirking at you then. “I can’t wait to fuck my heirs into you.”
“Heirs? I… ah!” He’s too far gone, fucked out from two strokes in your pussy, when you shock him, using your thighs to flip his ass right back around.
“Sh-shit…”
You flip him down on his back, straddling his hips with your thighs pressing, he sucks in a breath, his hands slipping up your hips, thumbs pressing in. You reach down and take his cock, sliding it up and down your messy slit, easing it in your hole, easing down on it until you sink right down – his cock bulging in your tummy, he watches it and sucks in a breath.
“Oh f-fuck,” you lift your hips up and then slide right back down it with a roll of them, his tip slamming against your puffy cervix. “You’re riding cock like that!?”
“Hah, am I good at it, Toru?” You practically purr those words out, riding his cock like you’ve known how to, he’s blushing so cute across his pretty cheeks as your little hands rest on his hard chest, nails pressing in the pale, hot skin that stretches across his muscles. “You like me fucking you?”
“Oh you harlot,” you giggle and ride again, until he’s losing it underneath you, damn near panting as he grips your hips even tighter, bucking them up inside your slutty hole. “Who taught you to ride dick like this!? It better not have fucking been that dumb baker.”
“Baker?” You’re so fucked out you can barely register his nonsense, slamming down even harder, reaching for his fingers to suck them in your mouth, his lips part at the sight. “Mmm, no, I’ve only been with one guy.”
“Suguru?” You blink a bit curious, he takes his fingers out and smacks your tits, making you suck in a breath. “Answer me, slutty Duchess.”
“Y-yes, just him – ah!” He’s smacking your tits harder, scowling now. “What!?”
“Couldn’t have waited for me!?”
“To what, be a mdma pixi stick? I didn’t know - ngh!” Satoru snatches you up and tugs you forward, slamming his cock up inside until your eyes roll back in your skull, your lashes fluttering. “Toru…”
“You’re my duchess,” he chuckles as you start drooling, and he’s fucking his cock so deep it hurts, moaning at every sharp thrust that fills you up. “At least it was Suguru and not Nanami.”
“Who is… Nana – fuckkk,” you can’t speak or focus, not when he’s lifting your hips up, his feet planted flat on the mattress, pounding his fat cock in and out of your sloppy cunt over and over. The smacks of skin and squelch of your wetness are fucking loud, echoing in the room, you’re about to cum again, drool spilling that he swipes up with his tongue.
“That’s it, can feel her – hah, cum all over me duchess,” you fall apart, and he sucks in a breath, moaning as his gut tightens with need, feeling his own release building. “Gonna fill you up, have you dripping me on your birthday, huh? My gift, slutty girl.”
“Please, please,” he pumps one more time and takes you right with him, filling your cunt so full of his white ropes, moaning your name into your lips, and that’s when it fucking hits you.
Memories of a lifetime long ago.
Balls you danced at, smacking his face, him being a devious slut, you being messy and dramatic.
“Oh fuck…” You gasp and lean up, and he sees it written all over your face, grinning at you. “Satoru?”
“Yes,” he breathes out, jerking his hips so more cum hits your cervix, leaning up on his elbows to kiss your lips, feeling your cunt fluttering around him in her aftershocks. “It’s me, baby.”
“You were… I was…” He cuts you off with a kiss and you fall into it, fall into the next round where he’s got you on all fours and fucks more cum inside, as the white drips down his cock and falls onto the bed, making a mess. “Toru!”
“God I fucking missed you,” he buries his face in your neck, busting even more white cum, flooding your needy pussy till she can’t take anymore. “Mine, all mine. Can’t ever fucking leave me, even in death.”
“You’re psychotic,” your mumble has him amused, and soon Satoru is in your shower, naked, enamored by the modern hot water. “Do you like it?”
“I do in fact,” he smiles as he remembers baths with you – washing your hair for you, holding you close and running his hands along your body. The hot spray of the shower hits though, and he does enjoy this invention.
“I missed you,” you whisper now, memories flooding in as he cups your face, your hands slipping up his chest.
“Not enough to not fuck my best friend?”
You laugh and he glares. “He doesn’t know you in this life!”
“It doesn’t matter, tsk,” he sighs now. “At least I know Suguru fucked you good, Nanami though…”
“Wait! I know a Nanami but he’s not a baker,” you tap your lip and he scowls down at you. “He’s a co worker!”
“You’re not working there any fucking more,” you burst into laughter, making him tug you against him. “You’re not.”
“And what job will you do, duke, hmm? Someone has to pay the bills,” he grimaces at the thought. “You’re not rich in this life.”
“Fuck me,” he picks you up then, pressing you on the wall – the eyes of the evil, bratty, slutty Duke Gojo you loved, melting your heart. “Then I’ll just have to make sure you’re so fucked out you never leave.”
“Mmm, I don’t wanna leave, can be my sugar baby,” he raises a brow, you can’t stop your giggles. “Sugar baby Duke Gojo – oh it works! You were a pixi stick.”
“Oh you’re just as fucking bratty as ever,” he spreads your thighs and slides his cock in to the hilt, you gasp out with a ragged little breath, as he moans against your skin. “Never leaving me again.”
if you wanna read what it's based on here is Silent Serenades! my personal favorite of any of my stories. thank you AGAIN for 50k it actually blows me away, I love each and every one of you who enjoy to read what I love. A million kisses! Also TYSM for ALL your birthday wishes, I feel so special hehe.
pairings - stripper! satoru x naoya's bride! reader
warnings- heavy, heavy angst, arranged marriage, cruel Naoya, reader is taught to be 'a subservient wife', lots of depression, star crossed lovers, sneaking around, Naoya being a whole mf whore, sweet Toru.
This is a patreon series and part three is out here! preview below
“I already missed you,” Satoru kisses up your throat, pressing his lips underneath your chin and on your jaw line, sighing. “Is that fucking crazy?”
“No,” you’re rolling your hips, tongue fighting for dominance, his hands slipping up your back as you whine out softly. “Missed you, Satoru.”
He’s lost in your kisses, desperate need filling him, he wondered if it was enhanced that night but there was no way – this was ever maddening and insanity, drowning in you slowly. Your heat on his cock, the give of your thighs underneath his grip, the sounds you make in his ears all making him almost slip your skirt up and fuck you right here.
“You… he probably…” Satoru pulls back, unknowing of what to say, his eyes dark with lust. “Did he force himself on you, baby? Please tell me, so I can find him and fucking kill him.”
“No, no,” his eyes are dark then, your swallow nervously, nails pressing against his undercut as you run your fingers across it.
“It’s forcing even if you say okay – you didn’t choose that,” he murmurs, you look down then, blushing. “I’ll want you no matter what, I just would be much more… patient and careful if…”
“He hasn’t done anything with me.” Satoru leans back a bit, blinking then.
“No?”
“No he um… makes me watch,” Satoru feels disgusted as you speak, easing you off him to lay overtop you, pressing your back against the softness of the sofa, kisses dancing across your cheeks.
“He makes you watch him, what? Do things with others?”
“Yes,” he grimaces, seeing the pain in your eyes, ones that got so bright that night underneath him. “He says it's to teach me... to show me what he likes."
Satoru's whole body goes tense above you, jaw clenched visibly, you drift your fingertips across it slowly. “So he’s playing some sadistic fucking game?”
“I think to make me dread when it finally happens,” your words drift off, you swallow and shake your head. “Am I any better here?”
“Yes you fucking are, and I didn’t ask you here for this, sweetheart,” he kisses you softer, easier. “I was dying to see you, to know if you were okay. Everything that night told me to fucking take you away.”
“You can’t, it’s for my family…” His eyes narrow, with those fluffy lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.
“Fuck them if they sold off their daughter.”
“You’re sweet, really but…” He laughs without humor, leaning up and kissing across your neck softer, making your lashes flutter shut. “I’m technically…”
“Don’t call this cheating please, it’ll fucking break me,” your tears slip through, breaths coming in quick pants as his hands slide down your waist, and his lips brush your breasts, rising and falling with your quick breaths. “You didn’t choose that but you chose me that night.”
“I did,” you whisper, arching your hips up for his touch, lashes fluttering closed at the sensation, a gasp escaping your mouth. “I chose you, and I am so glad I did. It gets me through so much.”
“I can’t let you stay there,” he’s back to kissing you, his heavy weight pressing you against those cushions. “Let me figure something out.”
Your husband Satoru slams a hand to muffle your cries as he lifts you up and bends you right over the damn drying machine, running right along with the washer loud enough it quiets the filthy sound of your messy cunt on his fingers. He shoves aside your pajama shorts you've been cleaning in all day, moaning when he gets to rub his tip on it, pearly white cum sticking to your clit.
"Satoru, right n-now?" You hiss out the words, he chuckles in your ear and bends over you, clicking the lock shut for good measure, the two of you hiding from your two kids as he actively plans for another like the freaky little shit he is.
"Saw you bending over putting those pans away? Fuck, thought how good your hips would look in my hands," he moans and grips one, sinking his cock inside easily with how soaked you are, but it's a tight fit. "Oh fuck..."
"Can't keep quiet if y-you..." he slams his hand again on your mouth, shoving his nine inches all the way inside, tip drooling on your cervix. You whine out against his palm, eyes rolling back in your skull, the sounds of Bluey filtering in. "mmph!"
"They're busy, it's fine..." He fucks into you faster, whimpering quietly and pounding your pussy - he's not gonna last long with how needy and sensitive he is. "I wanna put another inside you, hah-"
You think to yourself he's insane, but when he starts whispering that filth in your ear you're about to shatter, every glide of his cock in your quivering walls ruining you.
"Mnh, you want it huh? Me pumping you full, mm?-" he bites down on your neck to muffle another whine, pressing you harder on the dryer as your legs just dangle - he's so damn tall it's the perfect height to bend you over. He's wrapping his arm around, hand gripping a tit and squishing. "I wanna see these full of milk - wanna suck it from them again... mm it's so sweet..."
A circle of his thumb and another pump inside has you falling apart, gushing down his length, he pulls his hand off your mouth to kiss you.
"Drooling on my cock and my mouth?" He taunts, the man who had just been giving your kids rides on his back now had damn near black eyes and a feral grin, shoving in deep and holding you there, watching your eyes damn near go cross, your tongue all little and pink hanging out. "Fuck you love my cum, don't you? Want me to breed you, baby?"
"Please," you know damn well you shouldn't have another yet, but - "Breed me, please."
Your whisper ends him - pumping you full and gasping out into your mouth, coating your walls white with his hot ropes, spurts catching your cute cervix that's already swollen from his mean tip. "Oh fuck... mmm, want four more kids... fuck..."
"I'll tie my tubes after three," he glares and you giggle, breathless. "One more!"
"Fuck that I'll untie them," you're gasping when he eases out, shoving his fingers deep to plug that cum up, before he hears your kids arguing and curses. "Four more."
"One more," He grins as he slips his fingers in your mouth, your cheeks hollowing, moaning at his taste. "Mmm, two then."
Satoru grins, fixing your clothes and then throwing your hair back into that ponytail. "Sure, sweetheart."
****
I'm ovulating STILL and god help everyone this week lmao
Satoru Gojo is a notorious demon - even Lucifer and Satan fear him, so how did you - a new angel - end up on an assignment with him!? The thing is, Satoru has loved you in countless lifetimes, and in every single one you both tragically die before your lives can really start together. From medieval to the regency era, to the most recent times, he always remembers you. When he finds out his love is an Angel in Heaven, where demons and angels can't be together? Well he'll burn heaven, hell and earth to be with you. But... will you remember him at all, and can you all break the cycle of reincarnation?
𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 - demon! satoru x angel! reader
𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 - very angstyyy, extremely emotional, forbidden love and doomed lovers - but with a happy ever after!! Explicit smut, holding his horns, use of that demon tail, cunnilingus, p in v sex, multi rounds, creampies, size kink (he's like 7ft) breed kink - 10.6k wc
this was a commission for @secretsofchance and I fell in love with this idea!! tysm my love <3 art in the middle is by @3aem !!
Satoru Gojo was the most notorious devil there was.
Everyone knows all about the demon that made Satan himself shake his head – all angelic looking and beautiful on the outside, those heavenly blue eyes and the snowy white hair, it was hard to realize he wasn’t one. Yet on the inside? Satoru was pure chaos – the most unhinged creature known to god or man.
How exactly did you end up paired with him of all immortals?
You – the most angelic of all angels, a relatively new one at that, some of these beings have been here for millenia, whereas you had died just a short time ago. You quickly made the ranks with your powerful presence, surpassing many – but of course you still have assignments to do, still have much to prove if you hope to rise further, and today is no different.
Today’s assignment against the Satoru Gojo just wasn’t even fair, everyone from your class (yeah, angels still had classes, fuck you all had jobs too) felt instantly terrible for you, no angel could ever win against Gojo’s influence. It was just a cruel thing to set you up against, but your instructor had it out for you, clearly.
You gave a brave smile as they looked at you with pity, hoping they would tell you it was some sort of joke, and they’d give you a real assignment, but no. Satoru Gojo is right there when that swirling, shimmering vortex sucks you right down to Earth, where you were to meet up with him.
When you first saw Satoru you sort of expected him to look more… demon like? Perhaps a bit like the dark haired, smirking Lucifer you’ve run across before – now he gave pure demonic energy. Of course many of you all had a little bit of a mix of both, no one was inherently good or evil, including angels and demons.
Yet Satoru was bright, he was pure and beautiful.
You can sense his power – it takes your breath when he flicks his pretty wings your direction, his eyes glowing an eerie blue as he smiles right at you, that tail flicking side to side.
You peer up at those horns on his head, they curve out just a bit and come to little points, blue tipped, glimmering underneath the sunlight. He tilts his head curiously as he walks up to you, gaze flitting across your pretty white wings, the ones you’ve just grown, your first wings were embarrassingly small.
Oh yeah, Angels and Demons still make fun of you too, the school is just as cliquey as college, actually more like high school, if you failed an assignment they’d straight up haze you. And the alcohol in heaven? Well it’s so damn strong it’ll make you dizzy, you all have a high tolerance due to the very nature of your beings, the first time you drank it they had all laughed at you.
Demons and Angels once hated each other, and fought constantly, but now they tended to work together. There had to be a balance on the earth, after all – not too much evil, not too much good. Necessary evils were something you couldn’t get behind, you always tried to do the ‘right thing’, whereas Satoru was notorious for delving in human pleasures, and living the life of debauchery.
“Look at you, a pretty new Angel,” he says with a little smirk, his fingers brushing against one of your feathered wings, you gasp as you feel it, black painted nails taking one and rubbing ever so softly.
You didn’t expect to have this reaction as an angel – not that you remember much of your human life at all, some people could, but you unfortunately lost much of it when you woke up here. You remember some sensations, including desire, love – you can almost taste it but it was so long ago, you couldn’t quite pinpoint it.
Your heart is racing in your chest, cheeks burning just being in his proximity, barely able to form a word. “So ya got assigned with me, huh?”
“I guess so,” you murmur, your eyes met with his chest, the strong muscles barely covered by the black dress shirt he’s wearing, covered in dark tattoos. His wings are black like most demons – leathery and scaled, but they’re lined with a pretty blue like his eyes.
Did Gojo choose to be a demon, or was he born as one?
He hums just a bit, looking over at the man you all are assigned to.
“Hah, this will be just too easy, I almost feel bad that you won’t pass your assignment, Angel.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” you say then, chin up just a bit. “I’ll pass.”
He grins at you. “Oh yeah? I like a little challenge, especially from a pretty little angel like you,” you blush furiously at that.
“I’ve heard you flirt as a tactic,” he gasps, hand to his chest.
“Me!? Never.”
“Mhm, won’t work on me,” you peer back at the blond man in the business suit now, smiling. “Can I go first?”
“Of course, Ladies first always,” Satoru inclines his head and watches as you morph into a ‘human’ form so that you could interact.
When you do his heart damn near stops, those memories of your human life together flooding, the many lives you all have shared together in fact – this was the first time you all didn’t end up in that loop once more. Yet in every lifetime, you always ended up recognizing him, including the most recent.
He’s glad you don’t remember dying, he really is, but to not remember him at all? To not feel anything, looking at him like he’s a stranger? He knew when he asked to be on this assignment that it would hurt, but how does Satoru not want to be near you in the afterlife too?
The Seraphs had expressly forbid him from helping you remember, you were an angel after all – the moment he found out you were in that realm with him, he’d destroyed the building the seraphim stayed in. They weren’t exactly happy with him, but no one fucked with Satoru Gojo – including Satan, God though?
God must just be doing this to fuck with him, he’s much crueler than Satan could ever hope to be.
In his human lives he was considered a god, it made sense he’d be extremely powerful in the heavenly realm, but for a moment he’s just a boy in love all over again, with that pretty girl he met one day in this very coffee shop. Even that doesn’t seem to jolt anything from you, either.
“What is it?” You ask curiously, he’s just studying you, he can’t even find the words to speak, his heart aching for you to know him once more. Yet to try to explain that to you? It would hurt your mind to try to get all those memories thrown right in your mind.
He could just touch your face and flood you with his own, that was an ability they all had – and his was finely tuned, much like his domain when he was a sorcerer, he could easily flood anyone’s mind and make them damn near still. Even heavenly beings had trouble handling it, though they would bounce right back, unlike humans.
Yet to send you just a bit of himself? One little memory? Your kisses, the first time he had you in his penthouse underneath him, pressing your hips into the bed? He’s throbbing just thinking of those memories – when he thought he’d never see you in this realm again, of course over years he has been with others sexually, but nothing came close to those human memories.
Even now he looks at that neck he’d bite, the collarbone he’d litter with all his kisses, pretty breasts rising and falling, making him ache to have them pressed against his chest once more. How could he handle not having you like he did before?
“Satoru, is something wrong?” He clears his throat and puts on a smile, playing the role of demon.
“You looked like this as a human?” He asks, keeping his tone husky, as if he didn’t know how the love of his lives looked.
“Um, yes, I didn’t change much like some of us do,” you’re nervous suddenly, Satoru is ethereally gorgeous, you have stayed human like. Not all glowy and insane looking like this demon. “Why?”
“You’re hot,” you blush again, looking down and then glaring. “What?”
“You’re flirting again!”
“Of course I am,” you roll your eyes, making him grin, leaning low with his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “You like it.”
You as an angel, him a demon? It’s some cruel joke fate just loves to play on the two of you – always dying young together, never getting to just fucking grow old and have it easy. Satoru remembers every life vaguely too, not as vividly as the last one, but they’re little memories that meld into one.
You.
“Don’t you know the rules? Do you really…” you trail off now, flustered as vivid images of him flit your mind, this demon even makes your thoughts wicked! “With angels?”
“Angels, demons, humans,” he shrugs a shoulder and smirks. “I’ve fucked all of them.”
“Oh my god,” you’re blushing so furiously you have to touch your cheeks. “You’re just teasing me.”
“Nah I really have, but never an angel as sweet and cute as you, most are pretty ruthless.”
“I disagree,” you turn away from him, trying to gather your bearings a bit. “Can you explain our assignment?”
“Of course I can. Our assignment is a man named Nanami Kento, your task is to get him to choose a loving future over one of money,” Satoru tilts his head where there’s a girl in the coffee shop, and this Nanami is waiting in line. “My goal will be to tell him love is nonsense, and that he should make enough to retire young, and have all the wealth he wants.”
“Surely he’ll choose love? He looks like he really likes her,” Satoru chuckles at that, shaking his head at you.
“You’re so cute, Angel.”
“Pshh,” you flicker your wings, they’re invisible but he can still feel them smacking at him. “I’m pretty tough actually.”
“I’m scared, sweetheart,” Satoru morphs then to a ‘human’ form, which is just as freaking unworldly pretty as his demon one. You blink a bit, eyeing the white haired, tall man right in front of you. “Like what ya see?”
“You were a stupidly pretty human… if you were…”
“Yeah I was a human too,” he brushes his locks back, slipping on a pair of sunglasses he’s popped out of thin air. “My eyes get sensitive on earth.”
“Ah,” don’t fall for his demon charms! You’re an angel!
“Wanna place a little bet?”
“A bet?” He brushes your hair back off your shoulders, snowy lashes flickering down to your lips, they part under his gaze.
You don’t remember him at all, do you?
He’s so damn mad right now, every touch you've forgotten, every time he came home exhausted after a mission and you made sure to wash his back, to massage him down. Sucked his cock down your needy throat until he was whimpering for you – the strongest sorcerer in that timeline.
He's been a sorcerer in a few, in every one he has some sort of insane power, like it's his very curse, and you somehow always nullify it. Whether he was a demi God, a sorcerer, a vampire (yep, he somehow still ended up dying as an immortal) you weren't affected the way others were. As if you were built just for him.
“Yeah, a bet where you have to give me a kiss,” his words make your pretty eyes dilate, in every lifetime those stay the same, even if your features alter. Those eyes he's looked into for hundreds and hundreds of years.
“A kiss?” You get this dizzy sensation when Satoru is too close, like you've somehow been here before. Perhaps you came to this coffee shop once upon a time? “You w-want to kiss me if I lose?”
“Mhm,” he leans low, the sun is casting shadows across his cheeks from those round sunglasses, thumb brushing over your lower lip. “Haven't you kissed before, Angel?”
“Um… not in this form no,” you get flustered then, fidgeting a bit with your hands in front of you. “I'm sure I did as a human but I can't remember.”
“How long have you been an angel?” He asks then, brows lowering, still holding your chin in place.
“It's been five human years,” his heart sinks.
Have you been up there for…
As long as he has?
“At that academy?” He asks, his voice just a bit hoarse, of course there he wouldn't have been able to sense your energy. The school was highly protected and had a barrier around it, similar to his days as a student on earth. The thought that you were so close but so far tears him apart. “No angel caught your eye?”
“No,” you admit. That fills Satoru with far too much pleasure, he's nothing if not a jealous human and being a demon merely enhances all of those aspects, to imagine anyone having their hands on his angel, well Satoru would end up back in hell’s prison because he’d fucking kill them. “I’ve been so busy learning and training, I guess I’ve never thought of doing more in the afterlife.”
“Lots of angels and demons do,” he gently lifts your hair off your shoulders, letting his fingertips trace a face he’s known so well for hundreds of years, the one in his very dreams. “We won’t get in trouble for a kiss, but I wasn’t planning on telling anyone if you don’t.”
“All right, I’ll take the bet,” his lips quirk up in that smile, and you can’t help but imagine how they’d feel pressing all over your face, your body, wicked thoughts that are entirely unangelic! “What if I win?”
“You won’t.”
“Ugh! You’re a jerk!” You push his chest and he chuckles, but the moment you touch him you feel something, giving you pause. “Is that your power I’m feeling or…”
“Or what?” He asks quietly, holding your wrist, you swallow nervously and pull your arm back just a bit.
“It just felt really familiar,” you look at him again, was there some way you knew him as a human? “A kiss if you win, that’s all you want?”
“I’d like to pick where I kiss,” you’re blushing so brightly, the heat is emanating off your skin. “But I’ll let you pick if you win. How about that?”
“You get a kiss either way!”
“Yep,” you roll your eyes and sigh. “Is it a bet?”
“Sure, but if I win I may not let you kiss me,” you’re lying your ass off, you’d love to feel those pillowy lips upon yours.
“Sure, sweetheart, lemme see what you got.”
You walk into the coffee shop, the familiar aroma kicking in your senses, things you thought you had forgotten like a coffee before classes kick in now. You’d died in your early twenties, the day before your college graduation – you do know that, but not much else, but the nostalgia fills you when you stand behind the handsome man, who is peering at stock market graphs on his phone.
“Do you know the best drink to get?” You ask softly, the man turns around and smiles, tired hazel eyes seeming to be friendly and kind.
Surely this will be an easy one.
“I’m always getting the same thing,” he admits, shrugging a broad shoulder. “Americano.”
“Oh, I like something sweet maybe,” he nods a bit, peeking back at the girl from the counter. “She’s pretty.”
“She is – I mean!? She’s… I…” he clears his throat now, a faint blush slipping across sharp, hollowed cheeks. “You think so?”
“Very pretty, she seems so kind, like her energy?”
“Can you read energy?”
“I very much can,” you admit softly, moving as the line lessens, closer to the counter. “Hers is so lovely and serene.”
“What about mine?” He asks, lips twitching at the corners.
“Yours is a little hard to read,” you admit. “It’s very strong but also I see some turmoil, like you’re trying to find peace.”
“All right you scared me.” You laugh and shake your head. “Are you some sort of psychic?”
“Not at all, though I could see the two of you together,” you place a hand on his shoulder, using your own power now – yours is to calm anyone, and to have them see your own visions in their mind. It can be whatever you want. “Can’t you?”
You project an image of him on a beautiful beach with her, she’s in this cute bathing suit and they’re splashing all around, he seems utterly entranced, and for a moment you wonder if it could work.
That’s when Satoru cuts in line and stands right next to you, tugging your hand off his shoulder, you glare at him.
“Hey, Nanami, do you remember me?” He asks all brightly, as if he already knows the man, his hand on his shoulder now. “I was trading stocks with you.”
“Oh yes I think so,” your images of the girl are gone.
“They’re going up, it’s the perfect time to invest,” he grins all charming, you clear your throat and stand on his other side, hands behind your back, smiling all pretty up at the man.
“Yet I think that could wait, perhaps you should say hi to the pretty barista?”
“Baristas can wait,” Satoru chuckles, the sound deep and far too pleasing, his eyes glowing red for a moment when he looks at you – just for the briefest moment however. “Can’t they, Nanamin?”
“Uh…” He frowns and looks at the girl, who is giggling and looking up shyly, you watch a flush come on his cheeks once more, as he looks at you, then Satoru.
An angel and a devil on his broad shoulders.
“I suppose that’s true. I come here every day.”
“But today is so special! The energy,” you giggle and it’s like a little tinkling bell with your angelic form, it almost ruins Satoru himself, and leaves Nanami to contemplate, his brows drawing together. “Don’t you think?”
“It does feel like good energy,” the three of you walk up, Satoru resting an arm on his shoulders like they’re best friends.
“Ah, with the season coming up, it would be better to come to her with a fat stack of cash behind you, huh? Take her on the most extravagant date.”
“She doesn’t need all that,” you see Nanami start to rub his temples, wincing as you and Satoru scowl when he’s not looking. “She likes little thoughts and gestures, not extravagant shows.”
“What woman wouldn’t want a boat though?”
“Why would she need a boat!?”
He scowls at you. “Why wouldn’t she want a boat!?”
“Because she just thinks he’s hot as fuck,” Nanami clears his throat at your heated whispers, Satoru raises his brows now.
“Oh and do you?” You blush yourself now, covering your face and wanting to scream at this little shit.
“This is about her, not boats or if I find him hot! He is though,” Nanami blushes even brighter red. “Sorry, you are.”
“Wow, and I’m right here,” you narrow your eyes at his dramatic antics. “Don’t you think I’m hot?”
“In a conceited, pretentious way – you’re pretty.”
He gasps dramatically. “You little brat!”
“Um… I think I should go,” you both stop Nanami then, grabbing either side of his arms, trapping him there. “Do I know both of you?”
“Nanami, you really should ask for her number today,” you look over where you all are almost to the front, heart hammering in your chest. “It’s the perfect day.”
“I should…”
“But this stock is closing in twenty,” Satoru tugs him over to his side, grinning all charming again, he literally has fangs this bratty demon. “We can invite her to your boat, yeah?”
“What is it with boats!?” You hiss, but it’s too late, Nanami sighs, looking at you apologetically. “Nanami, you –”
“Thank you but I think I would like to focus on that first,” he smiles and disentangles your arm off him, patting your hand all friendly. “I don’t disagree that she’s very pretty, but I’ll be here again.”
You’re crushed later, rushing outside to cry in frustration, you failed the assignment and surely they would be furious with you over it! You’re hardly able to keep in how angry Satoru made you, normally such a calm angel, he made you want to act very demonic, especially when he walks up behind you, hands on your upper arms, his lips against your ear.
"Nice try, Angel," he murmurs.
“You’re being sarcastic!?” You look back at him, he shakes his head, suddenly very serious.
“I’m not, sweetheart, but you forgot one thing."
“F-forgot what?”
"Humans love money over almost anything,” you frown as you turn to watch him walk away from love through the cafe window. “Hey, it doesn’t mean he can’t find love later.”
“Yet he may have missed something special!” You spin around on him now, eyes glimmering with tears. “I know you’re a demon and things need balance, but what if she was his soulmate? His true love?”
Satoru can’t speak, not when he sees every aspect he’s ever loved about you right here – and in the forms where both of you can’t really be killed for once, where you all could have eternity together. The righteous, pretty little thing that you were standing now, looking up at him with her wings buzzing a million miles a minute, practically trembling with your temper.
“Hey, you tried really hard, I’m proud of you,” he murmurs, fingertips brushing across your jawline ever so carefully. “Yet it’s not his time to find love yet, he has more to accomplish first before he’s ready.”
“Life is so short, Satoru,” your lips tremble a bit now. “Look at me, I can’t even remember mine but I know I was young.”
He sighs and lets his fingers drop, taking your hand in his own. “Let me take you somewhere, it’s my favorite place on this planet.”
“Why would you show me that?”
“I just think it will calm you some,” you nod in agreement, he wraps an arm around your waist tightly. “I’ll transport us.”
“Not flying there?”
“No this is faster, just hold on,” you cling ever so tightly, arms wrapping around his neck, until you’re transported to the top of a beautiful mountain, snow flakes are falling but you don’t get cold as an Angel anymore. You still instinctively wrap your arms around yourself, looking at the pretty lights below, as snow falls along homes, roads and sidewalks, the street lights dusted with white powder.
“Oh it’s beautiful,” he lays his jacket right down on the ledge and gestures for you to sit next to him, you do just that, suddenly taking in the beauty of earth.
Heaven was breathtaking, but earth had its own charm, especially from this view. “This was a special place for me as a human.”
“It was?” You look up at him, suddenly realize how close he’s gotten, his breath puffing condensation as he speaks in little puffy clouds.
“It was very special, for me and the girl I loved,” he closes up a bit then, looking where your hands sit next to each other, slowly putting his over yours, blue eyes suddenly nothing like a demon.
Satoru looks like an angel.
“You remember your life before? I wish I did,” you admit now, moving just a little closer to him now. “She must have been so lucky to have your love, I can feel it radiating as you speak of her.”
“Yeah,” he laughs a bit without humor now, shutting his eyes for a moment. “I think I was the lucky one.”
“I can’t imagine having love like that,” you admit softly, hurting Satoru’s heart when you hold his hand carefully, delicately running your fingertips along the veins on his hand, the tattooed markings along them he got becoming a demon.
Satoru almost can’t speak, he instead puts on his charm and his lips quirk right up at you, tilting his head. “So you lost the bet, but I’ll let you pick – where I kiss you, or if I don’t.”
“You’ll let me decide?” you whisper, he nods, as your mind races, feeling his energy humming through your very veins. “I’d like a kiss on the lips, like I see others doing, like I think I remember doing?”
“I’ll kiss you anywhere you want, Angel.”
His words fucking ruin you, when he cups your face delicately, his nose brushing your own as he leans in, pressing a heated kiss on your mouth.
That’s when Satoru the demon overtakes you.
You’ve never felt this pressure in your core – as far as your memories can carry – the need white hot, your thighs press together when he pushes his lips against yours again, moaning softly into your mouth. His tongue slips inside and somehow you instinctively follow, hands finding purchase on his shoulders as his dark wings wrap both of you entirely.
You’re whining out, arching for his kisses, your breasts pressing against his chest, nipples tightening as he deepens the kiss, pulling back so you can catch a little breath.
“Where else should I kiss you, angel?” He asks, his eyes black with need, fire in their depths reflecting in his pupils, his hands grip your waist tightly, those wings leaving you both cocooned away from the world.
“My neck,” you say it like instinct, shutting your eyes then. “I said that.”
It was your weak spot, especially in Satoru’s vampire life, he can’t help but smile when his lips travel down, brushing a scorching hot path as his wings tug even tighter around you both. He bites on your neck, cock leaking milky drops that should be inside your body instead, huge hands sinking in either side as his mouth moves over your delicate skin.
“Mnh! Satoru…” You’re soaking wet from a few touches, damn near on his lap now beneath the darkness of his wings, he tugs you on a thigh and lets you straddle it, earning your gasp as you rock against him.
“I fucking missed you,” he says it before he can stop himself, you pull back and blink a bit, that spot on your neck already healing.
How would he leave marks on you like this?
“Did you know me?” You ask now, easing your hips so you brush against his thigh, he whimpers at the sensation, breath ghosting your swollen lips when he cups your face.
“Yeah angel, I knew you,” what a tiny way to say he came inside you and then fucked your cum back into your cunt with his fingers. That you sucked his cock in the back of a limo, and he buried his face against you on the kitchen counter when you baked him cookies.
He knew you all right.
“I wish I could remember,” your eyes get glossy, a tear falling, kissing him once more. “It feels so familiar, your presence, but I can’t-”
Suddenly a swirling vortex appears overhead, Satoru grimaces and tugs back, looking up at it and glaring. “Even as a fucking high ranking demon I have to answer to higher ups.”
“Oh my god I’ll be expelled! Or-”
“Shh,” he cups your face now, his wings releasing you as you come to stand, resting his forehead against yours for a brief moment. “I’ll protect the memory from anyone, trust me?”
Your hands come to his wrists, nodding. “I trust you.”
Satoru locks that memory right up and throws away the key, he’ll be damned if he lets anyone see you riding his thigh if they prod your mind. “There, it’s all sealed.”
“How do you do that?” you ask, the force of the vortex brushing your hair around your face.
“It’s one of my abilities,” he kisses you one more time, sighing. “You definitely knew me, but I can’t tell you how.”
“You can’t?”
“No,” he literally can’t, if he does something terrible would happen to you after signing that dumb fucking oath he can’t wait to burn.
*****
“We appreciate your efforts, but you did fail,” you stand before the council the next morning, your shoulders slumped, peeking over at Satoru the next day, his hands behind his back as he tilts his head.
Satoru had haunted your dreams last night – dreams no angel should ever have played in your mind over and over! Of his tail doing the most wicked things, his lips kissing every place he whispered about. You can’t shake that feeling, waking up soaking wet between your thighs for the first time in your Angelic form.
Satoru Gojo is a dangerous demon.
“Let her have one more assignment with me,” Satoru offers as you both stand there under that scrutiny, smiling all charming at everyone and making even the firmest angels melt. “It wasn’t fair to put anyone up against me, give her one more shot.”
“Are you standing up for an angel?” The dean says, raising a brow.
“She really tried hard, I will give her a bit of a head start this time, hmm?”
“All right, one more.”
“Oh thank you!” You’re fluttering your wings all excitedly, pretty smile on your face that melts Satoru’s heart.
“Your next assignment and test is a man named Suguru Geto, you have the choice to have him give into his darkness, or find the light,” the dean looks over at Gojo now. “Play fair, no cheating.”
“I’d never cheat! Demon’s honor,” he snorts as Satoru raises two fingers up, before he and you walk out of the room, you hug him tightly and he pauses.
To feel you in his arms again.
Satoru hugs you close to him, burying his face in your hair and inhaling, sighing at just how good you feel, how good your scent fills his nostrils, your wings brushing against his own. Yours – golden white feathers – his, that black and blue leather, everything about the two of you is a contrast.
Yet when you smile up all shy, your eyes darting to his lips, he can’t help but throb in need. “You can’t kiss me here, slutty little angel.”
“Excuse me!” You shove at him and he chuckles, fuck you’ve always been so damn cute ro rile up. “I wasn’t thinking of that!?”
“Sure you weren’t,” he brushes his lips on yours and feels you melt, pulling back before the two of you could be caught, sighing now. “The assignment is for a couple days on earth, we will be all alone.”
“What would you do alone with me?” You whisper, your lashes lowering, Satoru sighs and brushes his lips against your cheek, tail slipping up your dress, teasing you over your panties. You barely hold back a moan, hands clinging to his biceps, unable to stop the pull.
It’s like this devil is pulling you with his gravity, like you’re about to crash into him at any moment, and there’s nothing in heaven, hell or earth that could stop it – nor would you want to. You feel so right in his arms, in a way you can’t explain, how he holds you like this, how you feel his strength, his head.
“I’d do things that would make an angel like you blush,” he teases, lips pressed on your ear now. “Lick your pretty cunt that’s soaking wet.”
“Lick it? Ah!”
“Shh,” he chuckles, his tail pressing higher against your puffy lips, hands gripping your waist tightly. “Let you tug on my horns and fuck my face, then pump you full of my cum.”
“You’re wicked!”
“Demon, remember?” You giggle and bite your lip, lashes fluttering when his tail moves once more. “Let’s go before someone comes out.”
“Y-yes…”
You let Gojo lead you out, as you prepare for your assignment on earth – the second one, but you can’t stop the visions from flooding in your mind.
Satoru and you alone together.
*****
Under disguise as humans – fake ids and all – you and Satoru are alone in a fancy lovers’ suite, after studying your next human assignment. Satoru is of course supposed to convince him that power is more important than anything, you’re to convince him that love and friendship are what truly matters, the two of you observing him before you approach.
The first night alone with Satoru has you aching between your thighs, has you weak and shaky, the two of you were pretending to be a married couple so of course there was just one bed, with your wings it’s like there’s no damn room. He’s laying on his side, shirtless just staring at his phone when you set down your own, leaning over to put it on the nightstand.
You’re just in this little white slip, looking like the prettiest angel he’s ever laid his goddamn eyes on, when you clear your throat, propping your head up on a hand like he is, your other running up and down the sheets. His tail flicks up and down, eyes glowing bright blue when you murmur his name softly.
“Hmm?” You lean a little closer, a hand brushing against his bicep, tracing the little tattoo running across it. “You like the marks?”
“They’re pretty,” he chuckles a bit, and your eyes lock. “What?”
“You’re fucking pretty,” you blush so damn cute he aches, his tail wrapping around your thigh, making you gasp a bit. “Every inch of you.”
“How do you know?” You ask softly, biting down on the plush of your lower lip. “Were we intimate, Satoru?”
“You could say that,” his voice is hoarse, breaking in the middle when he sees your eyes dilate, his tail slipping underneath your slip and tickling the curve of your ass, watching your lips part with desire. “Very intimate, I enjoyed drinking you up.”
“Drinking…” You’re burying your face against his neck, in every lifetime you seem to be a little innocent sweetheart, it makes so much sense you’re an angel, Satoru is always some sort of slut till he remembers you exist.
The moment he gets that vision of you, no one exists, every time the memories flood in he knows he’ll do anything to have you. It’s like he doesn’t even know how he exists before you, they all become distant memories the moment you run into him, whether it’s literally smacking into his chest on a sidewalk, or in the coffee shop you all met last time, a bar after a breakup…
Any way he’s ever met you – once it was at a ball in the seventeen hundreds, and Satoru courted you and all, he was quite the rake so it was the talk of the ton. Before that he remembers stealing you from your noble little knight, and capturing you to bring you right on his ship – of course he was a pirate too.
Satoru’s always something crazy in his lives, you’re always a princess, a sweet girl, an angel. You’re the very thing that makes him complete, with her breath on his neck, making him ache – this time he did remember, but he thought you were never going to come, thought you’d live a long human life and reincarnate, Satoru never knew you were so close but so far.
“You are a wicked demon to make me feel so…”
He smirks. “Wet?”
“You’re the worst,” he chuckles and tilts your chin up, that slip tugged up over your hips, his tail just teasing your inner thighs, gathering the slick that’s already dribbled.
“Do you want me to make you feel good, pretty angel?” He whispers softly, leaning over you with his wings spreading out, you take a shaky breath as you feel his heavy weight over you, nodding and swallowing nervously.
“I want it,” he moans and kisses you again, so desperately you pause, pulling back for a breath, seeing his eyes glowing. “I feel so…”
“What, sweetheart?” He slips his fingers down your front, between your breasts, gripping one and pressing a kiss on the underside of your chin.
“At home,” he pauses and looks up at you, emotions rushing in his eyes, seeing the color tinge your cheeks. “That sounds so silly, please… I want more…”
“I’ll give you more, then,” he moans and kisses down your body, tugging a tit out and sucking on one, the peak in his hot mouth pebbling right up, his tail wrapping right around your thigh, tugging it up. “You want me to lick your pretty cunt?”
“Please,” his strength is far beyond yours, his hands shoving your thighs up, those long nails barely touching your skin, leaving little marks that fade the moment he puts them higher. “You sure, angel? Gonna let a demon touch you?”
Your hands go to his horns, making him whimper, his tail teasing your slit over your panties. “Didn’t you say I can hold these?”
“You sure fucking can,” Satoru moans when you arch your hips. “Put me where you want.”
You’re controlling the high ranking demon – Satoru Gojo – one of the most powerful creatures in heaven or hell, tugging him low until his breath ghosts where you’re most sensitive, his horns cool and smooth in your grip. He laps his long tongue right up it, gathering the juices that have spilled, your head falls back, wings fluttering underneath you.
“Mnh! Take em off, please,” you whisper desperately, he sighs and eases them down, cock rutting on the mattress, so needy he can’t take it.
“Fuck your pussy is just as pretty as it always is,” you blink a bit in confusion, but his mouth is on you in moments, and every thought is licked from you – his head buried against you. His tail wraps around to tease your nipples even as his tongue fucks your needy hole. “Mmm you’re so sweet, Angel.”
Your answer is to spread wider – there’s no hesitation like you thought, not when it feels so fucking right, him devouring you like he’s always known you. His tongue flattens on your clit as he moans, vibrating against your core, having you leak and drool right down his mouth, dripping down his chin as he slurps it right up. The sounds are obscene, mixing with your soft, angelic little cries.
This demon’s powers, overtaking you with his strength, how his dark wings spread and cast shadows across the two of you and the bed, casting against the wall his large form. Satoru’s almost seven feet tall in his demon form, where your angel is much smaller, the size difference alone steals your breath.
Demons were tall but not as tall as him, Satoru was just extra and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t love it. You feel the difference even more with his huge hands wrapping you around the waist, his big body taking you over as his fingers touch that syrupy mess dripping down your slit, gathering it and pushing in. And fuck his fingers are long, so long they press your cervix.
“Ah! S-so deep…” You’re struggling to take just two fingers, he sighs against you, breath making you jump, his lips burning hot like a brand when they press a kiss on your hood again.
“You can take me,” he whispers, looking up under his thick fringe of white lashes, his fingers crooking against that spot in your tacky little walls, pushing up until you’re shattering. “That’s it, you’re made f’me.”
“M-made for… Satoru!” He groans and slurps at your clit, scissoring those fingers in and out so fast it’s utterly inhuman, you’re so goddamn wet they’re slipping, his sharp teeth come to bite your clit teasingly. “Ah! F-fuck…”
“An angel cussing,” he laughs softly, licking his teeth with that long tongue, before flicking it on your clit like an apology. “Tsk, what would heaven say?”
“They’d be m-more concerned about a demon licking me,” he snorts and you can’t help but giggle, turning into a broken moan when he uses those long fingers and his tongue swirls your clit, making you jolt and cry out.
“That’s it,” he whispers, cock throbbing so badly he could cum from sipping that flavor that’s coated his tongue for centuries. “Cum all over me, sweetheart.”
There’s no option not to, not when his long fingers curve up and hit your sweet spot, and you’re spasming, gushing, tugging his horns even harder as his free hand presses on your tummy, making the pressure unbearable. You’re spasming around those fingers, body lit on every nerve ending like you’re floating – even better than flying, this feeling.
You’re dizzy, like you’re not tethered to anything when he presses another kiss and looks up at you. “So beautiful cumming for me.”
That’s when it hits.
When you look at him and he’s leaning up, fingers rocking in and out of your cunt, and your hands grip his biceps, he pauses when he sees your wide eyes, as everything starts swirling, morphing into one Satoru Gojo. Always those baby blue eyes, always the ones that look at you with utter devotion, even when he’s irritated, or when you argued.
Arrogant and conceited in every timeline, too fucking powerful – he’s always the yin to your yang, you’re soft and sweet and he’s cold and ruthless on the exterior, but with you? He was sweet, silly, hilarious and loving.
Your Satoru, how could you not remember for so long?
“What is it, Angel?”
“Toru…” He pauses at that name, his fingers slip out gently, leaving you empty – tears slipping from his eyes and dripping crimson against your white slip, soaking the fabric and staining it with those bloody tears.
“You remember?” He asks softly, cupping your face with his clean hand, the other gripping your thigh, tugging it around his hip.
You remember a sorcerer, remember his power and what happened to him, then what happened to you after, your tears slipping down your cheeks, sniffling as he kisses your brow, your nose.
“Oh Toru you… I can’t believe I didn’t… five years…”
“It’s all right,” he whispers, looking down at you now. “I didn’t even know you were in heaven, they fucking kept you from me.”
“Why?” He shakes his head, resting it on yours and swallowing his emotions, your tears glitter like pretty diamonds, his like dark garnet, mixing together as you both hold each other tightly, breaths mingling together, hearts racing.
“I keep asking myself why,” he whispers, kissing you desperately, you fall apart underneath him. “Mmm, why can’t I fucking have you? Grow old and have babies with you?”
“Oh,” you’re emotional, your energy humming and radiating from your skin so bright, a contrast to Satoru’s darkness, kissing him again, this time with that familiarity that had been driving you insane. “I wanted that too, I wanted it.”
“Me to fill you with babies, pretty angel?” He whispers all husky, tugging down his pants and lining his cock up with your entrance, you’re already quivering around nothing, waiting to be full – that familiar fullness your entire soul memorizes that sensation.
“It’s insane now, w-we can’t…”
He cuts you off softly. “We can do anything you fucking want, we can’t die again baby,” he tugs your slip down, exhaling and looking at your pretty nipple, capturing it with his mouth. “I’d burn down any timeline for you.”
“I don’t w-want you to have to burn it all, I just… Toru in me, please,” you beg now, as he slips his tip up and down your needy slit, feeling her all greedy trying to suck him in.
“You forget you’re always innocent,” he teases, nose brushing yours, his eyes lidded as he eases his tip inside, watching your lips part with your gasp. “Angelic I would say.”
“And you’re slutty, demon,” you scowl and he laughs softly, shaking his head. “Couldn’t wait for me to come into existence, hmm?”
“I will make it all up to you, pretty, slutty little angel,” he shoves his cock deep inside, he’s even bigger like this, his cock stretching you out so much it’s hard to take. He’s groaning as you clamp down on him, his tail teasing your nipple, hands enwrapping your hips and dragging you down. “Fuck, feel her grip me, baby…”
He leans back and shoves your slip up higher with his tail, looking at the bulge as he moves in and out – his cock print right on your tummy. “Toru!”
“You’re so full, aren’t you?” His eyes glow so bright they’re hard to look at, fingers digging into your hips brutally, but you can take it – he’s never been able to really go rough with you, but your body is much stronger. “You were made to take me.”
“Please,” you murmur, lips trembling. “Move, please.”
“Anything for you,” he starts to ease his cock in and out of your slick cunt, watching it drip down his ten inches, of course it doesn’t all fit inside, but watching your puffy folds try to take him has him groaning desperately, your eyes fluttering shut. "Ah - ah, look at me."
You force your eyes open, meeting his burning gaze, lips parting in a ragged little gasp as he starts to move faster, shoving your thighs up, his arms resting right on the backs of them. “S-so much… pressure, nghh!”
"You can take me angel,” he whispers, wings covering the two of you carefully, enshrouding you in the darkness so the only light was his eyes, that glow even brighter with every stroke. “I want to see you fall apart for me."
His tail, which had been teasing your nipple, now snakes lower, the pointed tip circling your clit and flicking right against it, Satoru already knows every weak spot, every sensitive part of your body, things you don’t know or remember. He’s fucking into you as he circles your clit, pulling back to study you in the soft lights of the suite.
“You’re close,” he murmurs, watching your every expression as he tries not to bust fast – his sweet angel better cum at least three times before he does. “Let go for me, lemme feel you soak my cock."
Your nails press into his tattooed biceps, those markings lit up as he moans and sucks in a breath, feeling you spasm around him – your climax rushes through your body even harder than from his tongue. You’re drooling, babbling nonsense, eyes rolled back in your skull, as if being an angel enhances how sex felt before – and Satoru had always been able to fuck you dumb.
Yet he’s so fucking big like this, his cock has inches not inside you, so thick you’re split apart on him, his heavy weight ruining you. He’s whispering your last name – the one you forgot, mumbled and mixed with angel, pretty, sweetheart, his rhythm maddening as his tail flicks away.
Satoru laps your glittery slick right off it in the sluttiest little action, grinning down at you with those fangs of his, kissing you and using his tail to tug your body further down him.
“Wanna watch you ride me, baby, fuck… please?”
You flush and nod, he switches your positions so quickly you’re dizzy, rising and lowering yourself on his cock, your white and gold tipped wings extending. He moans at the sight of his angel, his huge hands snaking up to brush right between them, trailing up your spine and making you moan, gushing impossibly more down him.
"Fuck, yes… just like that… milk me, hah - doin’ s’good,” you giggle breathless and he narrows his pretty eyes. “You’re laughing? Should I make you take it all?”
“N-no, ah!” Satoru tugs you down until he bottoms out, bruising your cervix, your wings close up and flutter, cunt drooling as she tries to take as much as she can. “I was just remembering – you talk a lot during sex. And you whimper.”
“You brat,” you’re grinning all pretty and angelic, Satoru sighs now, leaning up on his elbows, his wings flaring wide, as he buries himself as deep as he can go, kissing your throat then looking at himself in your tummy, whimpering. “F-fine, yes I do… but it’s always your fault.”
“I love it,” you whisper, affectionately as you cup his face, tears spilling from your eyes even as you’re about to be flooded with him. “I love you.”
He pauses and then loses it, sucking on your tit and ripping your slip to shreds, moving you up and down him faster, an inhuman pace that you would not be able to take as a human. You’re barely clinging to him as he rocks into you, whining out when he starts pulsing, ready to fill you up, lost in everything about you.
“You still love me, baby?” He whispers, looking up at you with devotion in his eyes, you nod quickly, swallowing down your emotions.
“I love you, please… inside…” He groans and you feel him swell inside you, his pretty whines escaping those plump lips, his tail wrapping your waist as his wings spread wide and then circle your body.
“Gonna put so much inside you, angel,” he whispers, kissing you desperately – a hot, thick flood of white coating you as he spills himself into your needy hole. “That’s it, takin’ it all f’me… angel…”
“S-so much…” You’re gushing him down, a mess of white and gossamer on his pretty, veiny cock, he eases you off and flips you back, hovering over you and slipping his tail to scoop the mess you’re spilling. “Toru that tail i-is… diabolical…”
“Imma demon, sweetheart,” he grins all bright, breathless as his tail slips that cum right back inside you, snug in your fucked out cunt. You gasp at it, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. “I need it to stay inside, we’ll have our own little army – little hybrids.”
“Crazy,” you shake your head, but you’re too far gone, when he’s already hard and ready again.
“I am,” he admits softly, kissing you deeply, then grinning. “Wanna fuck in the air?”
“In the air!”
“I wanna fuck you on every inch of heaven, hell and earth,” he whispers, batshit insane as he slips his fingers down your hips, looking at your body lovingly. “Cum drippin’ all over every inch.”
You had forgotten just how insane the love of your life was.
*****
The next day
Before you all can even finish the assignment the next day, you both were having a cute little competition and bet, giggling and forgetting for a moment all the reasons this can’t work – when a vortex is summoned, making you both tense as it all crashes down. Tears already prick your eyes, sniffling as Satoru picks you up in his arms, sighing and looking up at it.
“Toru, I’m scared…” You whispered right before it sucked you both in, he had cupped your face then, shaking his head.
“I’ll never let you go again.”
He promised that before.
It echoes in his mind when they immediately have shackles ready for you once you’re back up in heaven – golden ones that’ll sap your power, Satoru’s helpless as they chain him right up with you. Your eyes are terrified, and Satoru’s heart is ripped into pieces, both of you thrown in the same cellar and told you’re to ‘face a trial’.
There are no fair ‘trials’ in heaven when it comes to angels and demons, especially for Satoru.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs that night, the cell is dark and fucking horrible, and the bars have blocked any magic or abilities. He’s holding you close when you bury your head against his neck. “Shh, I’m here.”
“It was worth it to be with you again,” your words break his soul, as he tugs you even closer to him, your tears hot against his neck. Satoru swallows and covers you up with his wings as you shiver, trying to comfort you. “I don’t know why they always take you from me.”
“Angel…” He swallows his emotions as you break down, your energy crackling and radiating to the point of pain as he feels it.
“I don’t know why, and I can never take it when you go,” you look up at him with a tear streaked face now. “I always die right after you because I can’t live when you go.”
“Sweetheart, I…” He doesn’t know what to say, brushing your hair back as his tears threaten to spill.
You do always die right after, and he never knows from what.
“A broken heart,” you answer softly. “I can’t eat or sleep when you go, I know you’d want me to live but maybe I’m selfish, too.”
He sighs and swallows. “That’s because without you there is no me, either,” he answers quietly. “I’d do the fucking same. But it won’t come to that, it’s different this time.”
“I just got you back,” you whisper, breaths rising and falling as he holds you close to him, those chains making it difficult to move as they dig into your wrists but you both still manage. “Only a day of remembering.”
“I’ll fix this. Do you trust me?” He asks, and you implicitly nod. “Then get some rest, who knows how long it’ll be before I can see someone.”
“Okay Toru,” you snuggle in his arms and fall into a fitful little slumber, but Satoru stays awake.
He’s not going to let this stand after everything he’s been through.
He lays you down quietly later that night when he leans forward on those bars, working his charm on the guard, even without his powers – Satoru is disarming. “Hey, how about I grant you one wish, and you let me just have a word with the seraphs?”
“A wish? Nah… I…”
“Bet you’d love to hook up with that pretty angel from your class, hmm?” Satoru grins and his eyes flash ruby. “I could make her fall in love with you.”
*****
“What on heaven are you doing out!?” The head archangels stand in formation when Satoru comes flying through their damn roof – he’s always had a bit of a flair for dramatics, but also fuck them.
“I came for my fucking ‘trial’.” He flies across to where they sit at their big fancy tables, the sky is already storming, rain is starting to fill the once immaculate building, he smirks at the fear on even the most powerful members of heaven’s faces.
“Seize him at once-”
“Let him speak,” the tallest archangel – well over ten foot comes over, Satoru’s always found them pretty fucking creepy if he’s being honest. All those damn eyes all over their body, feathers on their faces, they’re imposing even to a tall demon like him, but he walks forward, the chains still binding him. “This is about your lover.”
“She’s more than my lover, she’s my fucking soulmate,” he scoffs now, coming closer until he’s looking up at the massive archangel who will help decide his judgement.
“We know you all are fated, but your union cannot be. It will lead to all sorts of issues for Heaven, Hell and Earth.”
“I’ll burn down Heaven, Hell and fucking Earth for her,” Satoru says, the sheer force of his energy making everything in the enormous building shake and tremble, dust from the plaster falling over the imposing archangels heads, more rain pouring from the gray clouds. “Think I care!?”
“That’s the problem, in every lifetime your love leads to destruction,” the archangel approaches Satoru now, he laughs and tugs the golden chains meant to control his power like it’s nothing, immediately freeing his wrists. “That’s the reason you keep losing her.”
“I will not fucking lose her again,” his tears slip from his eyes now, heart hammering in his chest as he thinks of his pretty angel locked up because of him. “Just let us fucking be happy, god for once stop this. I will bring destruction to everything if I don’t get to have her.”
“Say we let you,” Satoru’s hands are around his neck, squeezing the archangel with ease, the others move to help but he holds up a hand. “She’s an angel, you’re a demon – we didn’t choose that, you two did.”
“Then I’ll make it to where what you are doesn’t matter, I’ll make it where angels and demons can fuck if they want, have babies if they want.”
“The precedent of this was-”
“I don’t care what tales you spin of what came before,” Satoru squeezes even harder, one more ounce of pressure and he’d kill this archangel with ease, he remains eerily calm. “She is mine. I will take her far away if that’s what you need, but she’s all mine and I won’t be without her.”
“Let go, son,” Satoru scoffs at the name, letting him go. “I’ll convene with God for a moment.”
“God caused all this, I’d love to fucking talk to him,” he steps back then, the others approach but halt as the head archangel holds up his hand.
“Your love is clear and pure, even if you’re a sinful devil,” Satoru smirks just a bit, and he closes his eyes, palm still raised.
It’s quiet in the room, for a long moment, when finally he opens his eyes, calm and serene, looking at Satoru carefully. “Well what did the big, scary sky man say?”
His lips twitch in a little bit of humor now. “You both can have immortal lives, and you can try to change heaven's hierarchy. Who is god to punish his children, even the demonic ones?”
“Fuck,” he exhales, his eyes shutting now. “Please get my Angel out of that shitty prison.”
“Satoru,” he says, earning fierce blue eyes. “If you both bring on destruction, just remember we tried to stop it.”
“I just want to fuck and kiss my goddamn girlfriend,” every angel gasps, Satoru just rolls his eyes. “I just want to be with her, whatever destruction shit you’re speaking of – I guess I’ll figure it out. Are we free from this cycle?”
“There are no more reincarnations for either of you,” he steps back now, gesturing to one of the seraphs. “Can you make the order to let her out?”
*****
“Satoru!” You’re jumping in his arms when he greets you, trembling from being chained up, he brushes those marks smoothly with his touches, his wings wrapping around the two of you.
“Angel,” he whispers, feeling your warmth against his skin, the scent that he can’t ever get out of his mind in any life filling his senses. “So how do you feel about a trip down to hell?”
“Hell!” You gasp and he chuckles now, tilting his head, his horns glinting from the light.
“I have approval to be with you down there if I help run things – Lucifer isn’t keen on taking Satan’s position just yet. We can be here too but the judgement would be much worse than down there.”
You grin then, your little wings fluttering gold, skin taking on this glowy sheen. “Can we still visit here? And Earth?”
“We can do whatever the fuck you want,” he kisses your lips, right in front of the onlooking angels and seraphs. “Don’t you know I alone in heaven and earth am the honored one?”
“You’re conceited in every lifetime,” he pauses at that, lips parted, watching as your eyes get glassy. “Satoru Gojo, I’d choose you a million times over, even if it meant dying young, if it meant short lives. I’d never choose differently.”
“Even if I couldn’t give you an old, happy life? Kids?” He’s crying too, crimson drops as thick as blood, you swipe it off his perfect cheeks, feeling his tail wrap around you tightly.
“I would always choose you,” he kisses you, holding you so tightly you think you might break from the force.
“Come with me,” he shoots you both up into the air with his huge wings in the sky, the rush of wind brushing cool against your skin, you welcome it eagerly after the suffocating confinement of the celestial prison. Heaven shrinks below you into just puffy clouds, islands scattered.
“It’s so beautiful, but…” you drift off, and he understands without you saying – heaven was a gilded cage, your cycles of constant reincarnation were a prison.
For once you feel so free, with his strong arms around you, his eyes glowing red around those blue irises, as you are floating in the air with him. “I’m bringing you to my home.”
“In hell?” You tease, he grins. “All right, take me there.”
“Hold on to me,” you do just that, burying your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent that is so achingly familiar you can’t believe you couldn’t place it before. In moments he’s got you in a decadent room, Hell is not burning hot like you thought though it’s warmer, brighter than heaven. “Are you dizzy?”
“Just a bit,” you admit, looking at his bed and biting your lower lip, in moments your clothes are gone, just your wings wrapping your body slightly, as Satoru kisses your neck, and you tug at his horns.
“Oh fuck,” he groans and eagerly pulls his cock out, lifting your hips so you’re suspended in the air, his tip slipping against your slick entrance. “I’m gonna put so many fucking babies inside you, have half demons, huh? Half angels hah – carry so many won’t you?”
“Please do it,” uncaring of whatever fucking consequence it was, you cling to his horns and arch your back, his tail wraps your thigh and flicks your clit, as his cock sinks inside, bulging your tummy. “Put em in me – Mnh! Toru…”
He pauses as you call him that nickname, the one you always have found for him, he tilts your head for a moment, his huge hand bigger than your entire face, thumb brushing your cheek. “You always call me that, angel, I wonder why?”
“Y-you always call me angel,” he smirks at that, kissing your lips and shoving his cock in deep again, your hands tighten as you arch for more, letting him hold you suspended with his cock buried deep. “Did you just know?”
“Maybe I did know,” he moans and his eyes flutter shut for a moment, opening and going from ruby back to bright blue, wings enshrouding your own much smaller ones, that tail toying with your twitchy clit till you’re about to break. “I’m never fucking letting you go again, Angel. I need to make up for so much time.”
“H-how are we making it – ah – up?” He chuckles at how cute you are, your thighs trembling, slick dripping down onto the floor as he moves his huge, veiny cock inside you.
“By pumping my angel full of cum every day,” you whimper at that, Satoru grins devilishly against your neck, letting you tug his horns as his tip kisses your puffy cervix. “I don’t fucking care if we destroy it all, I just want you.”
“Then take me,” Satoru moans and gives you all of him – whispering filthy things in your angelic ears, of the way he plans to put babies in you, how he wants to take over heaven and hell so your kids can rule both – powerful, insane strokes of his cock and husky, devilish words.
You’re Satoru Gojo’s angel, and he’s not letting you go ever again.
i loved this SO MUCH my heart was breaking and I was crying ahhh - I hope you all enjoyed <3
Patreon for more exclusive fics <3 comms closed for the moment!
about. she wasn't stolen. she chose the dark. a goddess of spring walks into the underworld—and stays. bound by fruit, touched by devotion, crowned in shadow. this is not a tale of captivity. it’s a love story.
pairings. Hades!Suguru x Persephone!Reader
words. 12.01k
content. explicit smut, NSFW, 18+ only, size kink, virginity loss, deep, slow worship, oral (f. receiving) | he does not come up for air, foreplay that feels like religious devotion, soft dom!suguru, possessive but reverent, sensual, mythic dirty talk, pomegranate symbolism used filthily, overstimulation, sacred intimacy, manhandling but gentle, he guides you, praises you, ruins you, calling you “my queen,” other jjk characters as greek gods and goddesses.
notes. ugh i am in love with hades and persephone i just had to.
The forest is dead quiet. Old roots tangle the earth, the trees tall and dense, their bare branches like blackened bones stretching toward the sky. This is his place. Where light doesn't reach. Where spring forgets to arrive. Where the living do not stray.
Suguru stands just beyond the tree line—still as stone, half cloaked in the shadows of the pines. He hadn’t meant to come here. Not really. The borderlands between realms are unstable, unpredictable. But something had pulled him. A whisper of warmth on the wind. A scent like crushed blossoms and rain.
And then he sees you, you’re not supposed to be here.
A field blooms beneath your feet—wildflowers in every shade of gold and violet, bowing gently to your steps. The grass glistens under your touch, dew rising where you walk, sunlight bending to follow your movements. You're humming. A tune only the flowers seem to understand, swaying in rhythm.
Suguru forgets how to breathe, not that he needs to.
Your voice cuts through centuries of silence he hadn't noticed he'd been living in. You’re laughing now—soft, private. You kneel to fix a drooping stem, speaking gently to it, as if the flower can hear. Maybe it can. He’s not sure. He’s never seen the living behave like this—so gentle, so good. The gods of Olympus are always posturing, always loud.
But you? You are everything the Underworld has never known.
Softness. Color. Warmth. He doesn’t dare step closer. He might shatter the moment. Frighten you. Ruin this light that has no place near the dead.
Still, his eyes drink you in. The curve of your cheek as it catches the sun. The flower crown you’ve lazily tossed in your hair. The joy you don’t try to hide. You're not like the others. You aren’t performing. He feels it—something ancient in him shift. Crack. He’s never wanted anything for himself. Not the throne. Not Olympus. Not even peace.
But he wants this. He wants you.
Not in the way the stories always say. Not yet. Not stolen. Not caged. He just wants to exist in your light. Even if it’s only from the shadows. So he stands there. Watching, and you don’t even know the god of the dead is falling in love.
You do not know you are being watched, and yet the shadows hold their breath. From the edge of the forest where no spring dares linger, he remains—cloaked not in fabric, but in dusk itself, the god beneath the earth who has wandered too close to the realm of the living.
Suguru does not move. He does not speak. The earth would split if he did. Instead, he watches you as one might watch a miracle: reverent, disbelieving. For an age, his world has known no bloom. No bird dares sing past the river Styx. The dead do not hum. They do not cradle daffodils in their palms or giggle at bees that flit too near. The dead do not wear crowns woven of wildflowers.
And yet you do, and he is ruined.
He had not meant to pass this way. The land between realms is vast and hidden, and he has long wandered it in silence when Olympus grew too loud, too proud. But now he wonders—had some ancient fate whispered his feet toward this field? Had the Fates spun your golden thread to cross his path, even unknowingly?
You kneel in the tall grass, lifting a bloom between your fingers, and he feels it like a wound in his chest. Not pain. Something gentler. Something he does not have a name for. The light touches your shoulders like it belongs to you. Even the wind seems to hush itself to listen.
And Suguru—Hades—realizes: he is not watching a goddess, he is witnessing a promise. A promise of all that the world could be, if it were not so bitter. A promise that the cold in him is not eternal, and something in him, long dormant, stirs. Not desire—not yet. But something far deeper.
A yearning. A hunger, not of flesh, but of soul.
To be seen not as a shadow, not as a sentence passed upon the dead, but as a man standing beneath the sky, watching spring laugh. He knows he should turn back, but he cannot.
Because in all his endless rule over the forgotten and the fallen, he has never once laid eyes on something so alive that it hurts to look at. You do not see him. You do not know what storm you have planted in the heart of a god, but the seed has been sown, and even in the Underworld, things now begin to bloom.
The great hall lay in silence.
Not the silence of sleep, nor the peace of still water — but the silence of stone buried deep beneath the earth, the kind that forgets the sun, the kind that echoes no names.
Shadows clung to the corners of the chamber, long and still as death itself. The air was thick with the scent of ash and iron, and the slow, measured burn of ancient oil. No wind stirred here. No time passed. And yet the torches burned, as they always had, in low and reverent flame. Upon the throne of black marble sat the King of the Dead. Suguru, called Hades.
His raiment was plain, yet weighty. His crown bore no jewels, no gold, only the pale bone of antler and obsidian fused by the heat of the world's core. Upon his shoulders lay a mantle dark as the chasm itself, and in his eyes — the dull gleam of ages. Gold once bright, now quiet with long sorrow. He spoke, not as one who sought reply, but as one who had long grown used to being unheard.
“Did they think me fortunate, I wonder,” he murmured, his voice low, like the earth shifting in its sleep. “The first to be born, the first to be devoured.” Below him, at the foot of the steps, stood the ferryman — steadfast, solemn, his head bowed in silent attendance.
“I emerged from my father’s belly before any of them,” said Suguru, his fingers curling upon the stone armrest, “and when the war was won, I stood ready to take what was due. I did not speak of pride. I did not clamor as Satoru did — bold and laughing and drunk on his own power. Nor did I disappear into the waves as Toji did, content to drown himself in silence.”
“No,” he said, a bitter breath between teeth. “I stood. And so they gave me the pit.” His gaze turned upward — not toward a ceiling, for there was none — only endless black above, carved from the bones of the earth.
“The sky, wide and wild, they gave to Satoru. His storms drown cities. His lightning splits the heavens. All cheer when he passes. And they call him King. To Toji, they gave the sea — boundless, violent, ancient. He cares not for Olympus, nor their games, and still they kneel before him. He does not even look to them. And still he is praised.”
“But me?” He leaned forward, voice low now. “I, who bore the war beside them. I, who walked the darkness first. I am named god of sorrow. Of rot. Of death.”
He paused, his words were not angry, not bitter, not cruel. They were weary.
“I did not ask for this kingdom. I did not shape its laws in hunger. I do not send war. I do not take life. I only keep what the living cannot.” He lifted one hand, gazing upon his palm, pale as moonstone.
“They call me merciless, but it is I who sees their faces when they fall. It is I who binds their hands in coin, who welcomes them with silence. I who remembers their names when even Olympus forgets them.” Stillness fell again. The ferryman Nanami did not move. He had heard these words before, but never in this voice — not so quiet. Not so… changed. Suguru’s brow furrowed. He did not look at Nanami as he spoke next.
“There was a girl.” The words sat heavy in the chamber. “A field I passed,” he said slowly, “near the border where life still breathes. I had not meant to linger, yet I could not move.”
“She was there — alone, but not lonely. She laughed, and the flowers leaned toward her, as if the earth itself wished to hear her better. The sun clothed her like a lover. The grass parted beneath her feet not in fear, but in worship. I have seen many things. I have watched men burn for gold, and gods slaughter for pride. I have seen beauty sculpted by Aphrodite herself, and it stirs me not. But this girl…” He closed his eyes.
“She did not shine. She glowed. There was no arrogance in her. No knowledge of her divinity. Only joy. Only peace. I thought myself carved from stone. Yet when I saw her, I felt my chest crack. I remembered the world before the war. I remembered spring, before it was taken from me. I remembered light.” His voice fell to almost nothing. “And I remembered what it was to want.” Another pause.
“I did not speak to her. I would not stain her name with mine. She did not see me. And perhaps it is better so.” He sat back, the throne groaning beneath him.“But I fear, ferryman, that I have been changed. And I do not yet know if that is a mercy, or a curse.”
The torches hissed softly, and somewhere beyond the hall, the River of the Dead whispered its slow lullaby, bearing the souls of the forgotten into sleep, and the King of the Underworld sat upon his throne, thinking of flowers.
The last echo of Suguru’s voice faded into the stone.
Silence reigned for a time. Then, with a low breath, like the world shifting on its axis, the King of the Underworld rose from his throne.
His mantle fell behind him in heavy folds, the fabric woven not from silk, but from shadow itself — the kind that clung to corners men feared to walk in, stitched with threads of midnight and mourning. The floor beneath him did not tremble, and yet the air remembered that it should.
Suguru stood tall, carved of something older than marble, his frame long and cloaked in quiet power. His hair, black as the abyss, fell loose over his shoulders. His eyes — gold, strange, and old — burned not with rage, but with the slow fire of a god who had been forgotten, yet never diminished. Beneath the dark robes, his hands were pale, strong, the hands of one who bore judgment without pleasure.
He stepped down from the throne, each footfall measured, and came to stand before his most loyal servant.
Nanami, the ferryman.
The man who had never flinched before gods, who had guided millions across the River of the Dead with no praise, no thanks, no rest. His robe was cut in clean lines — dark grey, fastened with silver pins that bore no emblem. His sleeves were rolled to the forearm, exposing the burnished skin of one who worked even in eternity. His face was solemn, his hair tied back with precision, and his eyes—though calm—carried the weight of centuries.
He bowed his head slightly and said, “My lord.”
Suguru looked down at him, his voice quiet but grave. “Who was she?” he asked. “The girl in the field.”
Nanami lifted his head slightly. He answered without hesitation, “She is Y/n. The Maiden. Daughter of Demeter. They call her Spring,” Nanami added, his tone respectful, as though naming something sacred.
Suguru’s eyes sharpened. “She is life,” he murmured, as if realizing it aloud.
“Yes,” Nanami replied. “And you are death. You are opposite. And yet, not enemy.”
The King’s jaw tensed. “Why was she alone?” he demanded. “Unattended? A soul so rare should not wander so freely.”
Nanami paused, then spoke with calm precision. “Her mother shelters her from Olympus. Demeter distrusts the gods, and rightly so. She keeps the girl hidden in the valleys, far from court, far from Satoru’s thunder and Toji’s storms. But the earth cannot bind Spring forever. She wanders. And so you found her.”
Suguru’s gaze dropped to the stone floor. He spoke softly, more to himself than to Nanami. “She did not fear the world. She sang to it. I watched, and my hands—these hands—forgot what it was to carry judgment. I looked at her, and I...” he hesitated, “I was unmade.”
His voice turned rough. “How can such warmth exist in this age of gods and cruelty?” he asked. “How does she not wither beneath their gaze?”
Nanami’s expression did not change. “She is not what Olympus would make her,” he said. “She is not vain. She is not cruel. She is not yet corrupted.” He met Suguru’s gaze and added, “But she is not weak.”
Suguru looked up sharply. “I do not wish to ruin her,” he said, the edge of sorrow in his voice.
“Then do not,” Nanami replied simply. “But if you wait, she may never know you. And others will find her. The gods are not blind forever.”
Suguru’s hands clenched at his sides. “They will devour her,” he said bitterly.
“Perhaps,” Nanami said. “Or perhaps she will become like them.”
“No,” Suguru whispered, his voice trembling—rare, even for him. “No, she must not.”
Nanami tilted his head slightly, his tone measured. “Then you must decide, my lord,” he said. “To remain her shadow. Or to bring her into your realm.”
Suguru fell silent. He looked once more to the tall black pillars, to the firelight flickering on stone, to the endless ceilingless dark that had been his temple for all eternity. He imagined her there. Pale flowers blooming between the cracks. Her laughter echoing in a place that had never known song. Color bleeding into ash. Life stirring in the land of the dead, and for the first time in all his long rule, he wanted.
Truly, with no shame.
Suguru turned slowly. His voice did not rise, but it carried weight like a sentence spoken by fate itself. “Ready my carriage,” he said.
Nanami lifted his head. His brow furrowed, voice measured. “My lord… perhaps it would be wise to speak with Satoru first,” he said. “If you intend to act—boldly—it would serve you to gain his favor.”
Suguru stopped midstep. He did not turn, but his shoulders squared beneath his cloak. “I owe Satoru nothing,” he said flatly.
Nanami stepped forward, quiet but firm. “He is still your brother,” he said. “King of the sky. You know he does not take kindly to being left out of divine matters.”
Suguru’s voice came low and cold. “He left me out of every divine matter since the world was divided.”
Nanami kept his gaze steady. “Still, he will see this as trespass. The girl—she is beloved. You will be accused of ambition.”
“I have no ambition,” Suguru replied. “Only intent.”
Nanami spoke again. “Demeter will raise her voice. Olympus will listen. You must tread carefully.”
Suguru turned at last. His golden eyes burned with a fire that came not from rage, but from purpose. “I will not beg for Satoru’s blessing,” he said. “But I will face him.”
Nanami’s jaw tensed. “You mean to go to Olympus.”
“Yes,” Suguru said, stepping forward, his shadow stretching long across the cold stone. “I will look into the eyes of thunder and speak plainly.” He moved past the final pillar, toward the edge of the hall where darkness broke and the long bridge to the mortal realm began.
His voice echoed behind him, steady and grave. “Ready my carriage,” he said. “I am going to Olympus.” And the darkness followed him.
The sun sat golden above the valley, heavy with warmth.
You knelt in the tall grass, fingers weaving through stalks of wild chamomile, your lips humming softly, not any song in particular—just something the wind had given you. Around your knees, the flowers bent, gentle and fragrant. Bees buzzed somewhere far off. The earth pulsed with quiet life beneath your palms. Above, the sky stretched blue and endless. No columns of Olympus, no shadows of gods—only birds, only clouds. You smiled.
Your mother was far, and for once, that was no burden. She guarded you as fiercely as a lioness, but the world did not seem cruel today. It breathed with you. Every breeze kissed your cheek. Every blossom leaned toward your voice. You tilted your head back and laughed. It rang like water poured into silver.
Then— The wind stilled.
Your fingers paused mid-weave. The meadow around you, once warm and breathing, seemed to exhale one long, hollow sigh. A shadow crossed the sun. You looked up. No clouds. Only light. But your skin prickled cold. The earth trembled. Once. A warning.
Then again—louder. You stood quickly, flowers falling from your lap, your breath catching. The grass split before you. A line opened in the soil—thin, then wide—ripping through the field like lightning carved sideways. Birds scattered. The warmth fled.
You stepped back. “No,” you whispered, eyes wide. “What—what is—?” The crack deepened. A sound rose from beneath the world—iron grinding against stone, low and monstrous.
And then the chasm opened. A black carriage surged from the depths, wreathed in shadow, drawn by four horses darker than night, their eyes glowing white, manes writhing like smoke. They screamed—not like animals, but like spirits—high, furious, full of ancient things.
You screamed. The sky above dimmed. The grass browned at your feet. The carriage rolled forward, great wheels groaning, and then it stopped. A figure stepped out. He wore no armor, no golden laurels. He did not shine. He loomed. His cloak dragged the night behind him. His hair hung dark and loose, and his eyes—his eyes—were gold like a dying sun.
You stepped back. “Stay away,” you said quickly, voice trembling. “Who—who are you? What is this—what are you doing?”
He said your name. Not aloud. But it filled your chest like a name you had known before you were born. You froze, his boots touched the earth. The flowers beneath his feet withered. He moved slowly, solemnly, like a priest before an altar.
“You,” he said, voice deep as thunder heard through stone. “You have haunted me.”
You shook your head, heart racing. “Please—”
“You sing in the sun,” he continued. “And I—who have never known light—heard you.”
“Stop,” you said, taking another step back. “You mustn't. You—who are you?”
“I am Suguru,” he said. “God of the Underworld. Eldest son of Cronus. Keeper of the dead.”
Your breath caught. The name rang in your bones. “No,” you whispered, horrified. “No—no, you shouldn’t be here.”
“I watched you from shadow,” he said, “and I remembered what it was to long for something beautiful.” You looked around frantically. The valley was still. No nymphs. No doves. No mother. Only you. And him.
“You can’t,” you said, voice rising. “You can’t take me. This isn’t your realm!”
He stepped closer. “It is not,” he said. “But you are.”
Your legs turned. You ran. The grass whipped against your calves. Your sandals caught on root and stone, but still you ran, behind you, he said your name again—not aloud, but you heard it. In your veins. In your chest. In your soul.
A cry tore from your throat. Then—arms. Strong. Cold. Unyielding. He caught you. One arm around your waist, the other cradling your back like you were breakable. You thrashed against him.
“Let go!” you shouted. “Let go of me!” He held you close, unflinching. His breath touched your ear—warm, quiet.
“I am not your enemy,” he said.
“Then let me go!” you screamed. His grip tightened. The horses screamed again. The earth cracked wider beneath you.
“I cannot,” he said. “For you are the first thing I have ever desired.” You beat your fists against him, but it was like striking the mountain itself.
“You are mad!” you cried. “You are a monster!” His gaze did not waver. There was no cruelty in it. Only sorrow. Only fire.
“I have been called worse,” he murmured. He stepped back toward the carriage.
“No!” you sobbed. “Please—someone—someone help me—!” But the sky above turned gray. The wind fled. The world did not answer.
He carried you into the chariot like you were made of spun glass. You kicked. You fought. You called your mother’s name. He sat beside you. The door closed with the weight of destiny. The whip cracked. The horses screamed. And the earth closed above you. Light vanished, and Spring was stolen.
The chamber was vast and silent.
The walls did not echo. They drank sound instead, like the rest of the Underworld—still, watchful, ancient. There were no windows, only towering pillars carved from obsidian, flickering torchlight casting long shadows that shifted but never danced. You sat on the edge of the bed—if it could be called that. Draped in fine silks, black and deep violet, the bedding was soft beneath you, but it felt as cold as the stone beneath your feet.
The room smelled of crushed myrrh and something darker. Not rot—never rot. But time. You had not spoken in hours. Your hands sat clenched in your lap, the hem of your gown curled around your fists. You were dressed as a goddess, draped in fine woven shadow and gold—but you did not feel divine. You felt stolen.
Then, he entered. The doors opened without a sound. The torches flared. Suguru stepped into the chamber, long and quiet, the way rivers slide through mountains—inevitable. His cloak followed like mist. His eyes were gold, unreadable. There was no crown, but he did not need one. The weight of power clung to him like a second skin.
He stopped a few steps from you, silent. Watching. You rose slowly. Your voice cracked as it came out—sharp, furious.
“My mother,” you said, trembling, “will crack the sky to find me.” Suguru did not move. “She will rip the clouds from Olympus,” you continued, louder now, “she will raise famine from the soil. The flowers will not bloom. The rivers will rot. She will bury the world in winter until I am returned.”
He spoke at last, his voice steady, grave. “I know.”
You stared at him. “Then you are a fool.”
“I have been called worse,” he said calmly.
Your fists clenched. “You speak as if you are patient. As if you are kind. But you dragged me here. You ripped me from the earth like a thief!”
“I am a thief,” he said. “I have stolen the only light this realm has ever seen.”
You shook your head, backing away from him, heart pounding. “You think this is love?” you demanded. “You think locking me in the dark will make me yours?”
“No,” Suguru said. “But I will not lie to you. I will not offer flowers in chains. I will offer a crown.”
You stared. He stepped closer, voice soft but sure.
“You will not kneel here, Y/n. Not to me. You will rise beside me.”
You spat, “I would never reign beside you.”
“You already do,” he said. “You bring light into shadow. The stones beneath your feet remember color because of you. The rivers slow their currents to hear you breathe.”
“Stop,” you said, voice breaking. “You can’t dress this up with poetry. You stole me. I did not choose this.”
“I know,” Suguru said. His gaze remained fixed on yours. “But you will.”
You laughed bitterly, the sound cracked and hollow. “You think I’ll fall in love with you?” you asked. “You think if you speak gently enough, I’ll forget what you’ve done?”
“No,” he said. “But I think you are more than what they’ve made you.”
You froze. He continued, slowly, as if the words had been buried for centuries. “They call you Spring. Innocent. Gentle. A child of the harvest. But I saw what Olympus refuses to see.”
His eyes never left you. “I saw a goddess,” Suguru said. “One who does not bend. One who commands the earth to bloom. One who walks unguarded in valleys because even wolves fear her light.”
You looked away, throat tight, unsure if it was rage or something far more dangerous that clawed behind your ribs.
“I saw your fire,” he said. “And I fell.” You stepped back again, voice raw. “Do not speak of me as if I am some dream you’ve conjured. I am not yours.”
“I know,” he said gently.
“I am not your queen,” you said.
“You are not,” he replied. “But you are the only one who could be.”
You stared at him, breath heaving. The torches flickered wildly behind him, as if the shadows themselves stirred to hear your words. He did not touch you. He did not reach. He only looked. And he said, softer than the dark between stars:
“You are so beautiful.”
Your breath caught. Not in awe. Not in fear. But because for a moment, you felt seen. Not like a daughter. Not like a prisoner. Like a force. He stepped back.
“I will not command you,” Suguru said. “You will walk this realm as you choose. If you wish to curse me, curse me. If you wish to scream, scream. If you wish to shatter these walls with your grief, I will not stop you.”
His voice did not falter. “But you are here,” he said. “And this kingdom remembers joy because of you.”
You did not answer. Your hands trembled. Your jaw ached from holding in what you could not name. He turned toward the doors.
“I will return at moonrise,” he said. “The realm is yours, as much as it is mine.” He paused. “If you do not wish to speak then either, I will wait again.” The doors opened. He walked into the dark. And you stood alone in the chamber, the only light in a kingdom of shadow burning, unwilling, and still divine.
The day had turned strange.
The flowers did not rise at Demeter’s feet as they usually did. The vines did not wind up her ankles, seeking her warmth. The birds were quiet. The air hung heavy with a silence she had not heard in an age.
Demeter stood still at the edge of the valley. The grass below was golden, the trees still in bloom, but something beneath the beauty felt… wrong. She turned to the attendants at her side—goddesses of grove and grain, her loyal handmaidens who sang to the harvest and tended her daughter’s laughter.
“Find her,” Demeter commanded. Her voice shook. “Y/n was here this morning. She gathered narcissus with you. She danced. She laughed. She was here. Find her.”
The nymphs scattered, calling through the groves, parting the grass, shouting her name—Y/n, Y/n, Y/n—but no answer returned.
Demeter wandered, and with every step, dread bloomed in her chest. By twilight, her crown hung crooked. Her hair had loosed. She clutched her own arms now, walking with bare feet torn from thorn and stone. Her daughter’s scent had vanished from the wind. Still the world did not answer.
At last, she descended into the temple of healing. The halls smelled of crushed roots and smoke. Torches lined the stone corridor, and at its heart, in a chamber quiet and clean, sat Shoko—the goddess of stillness, of salves, of bitter herbs that soothed divine pain.
Demeter burst into the chamber like wind into glass. “Shoko,” she breathed, frantic, “have you seen her? Has she come here?”
Shoko did not rise. She watched the elder goddess with eyes unreadable. “No,” she said. “Not since morning.”
“She is gone,” Demeter said. “She is gone. I cannot feel her. I cannot hear her. It is as if the earth swallowed her whole.” Silence.
Then Shoko spoke again. “There is one who may know.”
Demeter turned sharply. “Who?”
“The sun sees what we do not,” Shoko said. “He does not speak often. But he sees all.” Demeter wasted no breath on thanks. She was gone in the next blink, her rage carrying her to the farthest edge of sky—where the light rises, and the god of the sun stands alone at the cusp of dawn.
She arrived in fury.
The sky itself bowed to her grief. Clouds scattered. Winds died. The very rays of the sun bent back, and there he stood. Toge Inumaki.
The silent charioteer of the golden horses. Eyes pale as lightning through cloud. He did not speak often, for his voice was rare and divine. But he watched. Demeter strode forward, wild and winded. “You saw her,” she accused. “You see everything. Where is my daughter?”
Toge looked at her. He did not answer at first. His gaze was not cruel—but it was heavy. She stepped closer. “Speak,” she demanded. “I command it.”
His hand rose slowly. His fingers touched the collar at his throat—the band of light woven from the first sunrise. When he spoke, the words came quiet but clear, like prophecy from a well.
“Taken,” Toge said.
Demeter’s knees nearly buckled. “By whom?” she whispered.
Toge’s hand fell. His voice came again. “Hades.”
The name rang in her skull like thunder. Toge looked at her, solemn. He did not blink. “In the valley. The ground split. She cried. He took.”
Demeter staggered back. “No.” Toge said nothing. He could say no more.
Demeter’s mouth twisted. “He dared. He dared take her from the earth. From me.” Toge looked away. Toward the far horizon. The sun behind him flickered—dimmed.
“Zeus,” Demeter growled. “Did he know?” Toge did not answer.
Demeter clenched her fists. “He knew. That snake. That smiling tyrant—he let it happen.”
The winds howled. “I will not rest,” she swore. “I will not bless the soil. I will not grow a single seed until my child is returned.” Toge lowered his head. Demeter turned. Her gown tore on the rocks as she walked. Her voice echoed through the sky.
“She was not his to take.” And the world began to mourn.
The stone was colder than before. Or perhaps it was your skin that had numbed.
You stepped from your chamber with bare feet and no torch. Let the shadows come. You would not shrink from them. Not tonight. Your hands stayed folded before you. Your gown—the one the shades had laid out for you—fell in soft layers of ash-grey and starlight. Around your wrists were thin gold cuffs, heavier than they looked. They glinted as you walked, catching what little light the torches gave.
The corridor was long, the air thick. Every echo of your footfall returned to you twice—once like a whisper, once like a dare. You did not hesitate. At the end of the hall, two obsidian doors stood open.
He was there. Suguru.
He sat upon the throne carved into the mountain’s heart. Cloaked in shadow, spine straight, crownless but still unmistakably king. He was not surprised to see you. He rose. Slowly. You stepped into the chamber, your chin high.
“I want to see it,” you said.
His eyes did not waver. “See what?” “Your realm.” He paused. “You ask it of me now?”
“I ask it of myself,” you answered. “I am tired of pacing like a beast in a cage.” His brow furrowed. “You are not a prisoner.” “Then why do I feel like one?” you snapped.
Your voice echoed off the pillars, and something in you recoiled—but you didn’t take the words back. Suguru was silent. You stepped forward. Your tone softened, but only just.
“I am not here to forgive you,” you said. “You took me. You tore me from the world I loved. You turned the sun cold in my sky. That is not something I will forget.”
His jaw tightened, but he nodded once. “I know.”
“I was happy,” you continued, voice shaking. “I was free. I knew every curve of the hills. I knew every flower by name. I had a mother who loved me and a world that sang to me when I walked through it.”
“I know,” he said again, quieter.
“I was not ready to be a queen,” you said. “I was not ready to lose who I was.” “You have not lost her,” Suguru said. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” you breathed. “That is the truth of it.”
You looked up at him, heart pounding. “You said this place is mine as much as it is yours. So let me see it. Let me walk through the dark instead of drowning in it. Let me look upon what I have been dragged into. Not as your consort. Not as your captive. But as me.” Suguru studied you. Not like a man stunned by beauty—but like a god standing before a star he thought had died, now burning in full.
“You are bold,” he said. “I was always bold,” you replied. “You simply did not notice until you saw me from your shadows.”
A faint smile touched his mouth—but it faded quickly. “If you walk this realm, it will change you,” he said. “Not because it seeks to, but because it is what it is.”
“I am already changing,” you said. “Let me choose how.” He did not speak for a long time. Then he stepped down from the throne. He came to you slowly, as if afraid his presence alone might startle you. He stood before you, tall, silent, his hands at his sides. He bowed his head.
“Then walk with me,” he said. “Not behind. Not below. Beside.” You looked at him, uncertain.
“I do not trust you,” you said. “Then watch me until you do,” he replied. “Or until you never will. But see me. See this place. Know it, before you call it a tomb.”
You hesitated. Then slowly, you nodded. “I will walk,” you said. “And I will see.” Suguru turned. “Come,” he said, his voice soft but solemn. “I will show you what lies beneath the silence.”
And without touching you—without even brushing your sleeve—he led you into the dark. Not as a bride. Not yet, But as a force learning what it means to stand in shadow… without disappearing.
The path wound beneath the mountain like a serpent carved from stone and starlight.
You had never walked such a place. The walls did not echo with sound—but with memory. Each footfall seemed to pass over the remnants of countless lives. The air was cool, but not cold. Still, it clung to your skin like the hush before a storm. Suguru walked at your side. Silent. Regal. Cloaked in the same soft black he wore in the throne room—his long hair unbound, his eyes unreadable. He did not speak. Not yet. And so, you did.
“What is this?” you asked softly, glancing at the shimmering blue mist that hovered just above the ground.
“The breath of the newly dead,” Suguru said. “They shed it before they cross the river.”
You stared. It pulsed faintly, like moonlight trapped in water. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yes,” he said. But he was not looking at the mist. He was looking at you.
You turned away, unsettled but unsure why. Further down the path, the walls opened into a wide cavern—lit not by torch or sun, but by luminous moss that glowed faint green from the ceiling. Below, the ground was glassy black, slick as oil but soft beneath your steps.
You stopped as soft whispers filled your ears. You looked around. “Who is speaking?” “The souls,” Suguru answered. “The ones who linger.”
You peered into the gloom. Shapes drifted at the edge of sight—pale forms, weightless, whispering in languages you could not name. Yet you felt no fear.
“Do they know we’re here?” you asked.
“They know you.” You turned sharply to him. “Why me?”
“You are life,” he said. “And they are what remains.” You were silent for a moment. You stepped closer to one of the shapes—a soul kneeling beside a stream of silver light. It did not raise its head.
“This place…” you whispered, “I thought it would be cruel. I thought it would stink of ash and scream. But it… it doesn’t.”
“It mourns,” Suguru said. You looked at him. “It mourns?”
“Yes.” He met your gaze. “This realm is sorrow. But sorrow is not always cruel.”
You took another slow step forward. There were flowers—pale ones, ivory and translucent—growing along the rock ledges. They looked like frost, but they swayed softly, as if breathing. “I didn’t think anything grew here.”
“Only what chooses to,” he said.
You reached out, brushing your fingers along the petals. They were soft. “It’s beautiful,” you murmured again.
He didn’t answer. You turned—and found him still watching you. Not the moss. Not the souls. Not the flowers. Only you.
“What?” you asked, wary. He shook his head once. “I have seen this realm for eons. It has never looked like this.”
You blinked. “Like what?” “Alive.”
You lowered your hand from the flower. “You speak in riddles.” “I speak as I see.”
You looked back toward the whispering souls, the luminous ceiling, the translucent flora curling toward your light. And slowly, you said, “I think I understand why the dead follow you. You are not cruel. You are just…”
He tilted his head. “Just?”
“Lonely,” you said.
His gaze didn’t falter. But it quieted. And in that quiet, you both stood—two deities from different ends of the world, staring into the place where death meets wonder. Neither spoke, for once, there was nothing that needed to be said.
The river glowed blue beneath the boat.
It was not the blue of sky or ocean, but something deeper—like the color of forgotten dreams, or tears that never reached the surface. The vessel was carved from dark wood that glinted like obsidian, its edges feathered with gold. It moved without oar, without sail, as if carried by the river’s own will.
You sat near the front, hands folded in your lap, the hem of your gown trailing just above the water. Across from you, quiet and composed, sat Suguru. You did not speak for a time. The only sound was the water’s slow hush and the soft hum of unseen stars above.
At last, you broke the silence.
“What river is this?” you asked.
His gaze drifted from you to the water. “Lethe,” he said. “The river of forgetfulness.” You looked down into it. The water shimmered—faint images appearing and fading like thoughts slipping away. You saw glimpses of faces, hands reaching, then dissolving.
“What do you mean by forgetfulness?” you asked, voice low.
“Those who drink from Lethe forget their lives. Their grief. Their pain. Sometimes even their names.” You frowned. “That sounds cruel.”
“It is mercy,” he said. “Some carry sorrow too heavy to bear. Here, they lay it down.” You were quiet. Your fingers brushed the edge of the boat.
“Would you drink from it?” you asked. “No,” Suguru answered without hesitation.
“Why not?” “I would not forget you.” You looked up, startled. His gaze held yours—not fierce, but steady.
“I remember every soul that passes through my gates,” he said. “But I will remember you differently.” Your breath caught. You looked away, toward the water again. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why?” he asked. “Because I’m still angry,” you said. “Because it makes it harder.”
“I know,” he replied. Silence returned. But it was warmer now.
The river curved, and soft lights began to float above the surface—wisps of pale flame, like lanterns, drifting slowly in the air. They flickered without smoke, humming faintly. You reached out. One hovered near your palm. It pulsed, then dimmed, as if recognizing your touch.
“What are they?” you asked softly.
“Memories,” Suguru said. “The ones the river could not swallow.”
You looked at him. “Whose memories?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “A mother’s last lullaby. A warrior’s last oath. A child’s first word. The river takes the rest. But some memories cling. They were loved too deeply.”
You watched them float. They circled the boat like stars. You leaned back slightly, your shoulders relaxing for the first time in days.
“It’s beautiful,” you said.
He didn’t answer. You turned—and found him watching you again. Not like a man who believed he deserved your company. But like someone honored to be near you at all.
You met his gaze. Slowly. Carefully. “You don’t speak like a tyrant,” you said.
“I’m not one,” he replied. “You took me.” “I did.”
You expected more. An excuse. A reason. A defense. But he offered none. You looked at him longer this time. At the way his hair moved in the breeze. At the way the blue light kissed his cheek. At the way his hands, folded in his lap, trembled just slightly.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” you said at last. “I’m not a queen. I’m not like the others.”
“No,” he said. “You are not.”
You stared at him. “And you’re not what I thought you were.”
The boat drifted on. One of the memory-lights came to rest between you, hovering like a question. You reached out to it at the same time. Your fingers met. You both froze. And in that moment—no throne, no crown, no god or law between you—there was only silence, and a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. You drew your hand back slowly. He did not chase it. But his eyes followed you, quietly. Respectfully, as if you were already something sacred to him.
He asked her to close her eyes.
You hesitated at first. But something in Suguru’s voice—calm, deep, almost boyish in its quiet hope—moved you to obey. He led you by the hand. The path beneath your bare feet was smooth, cool. Not stone. Not soil. Something between the two. Then, at the crest of a soft rise, he stopped.
“You may open them,” he said. You did.
And you gasped. Before you stretched a valley—wide, glimmering, surreal. It was not nature as you knew it, and yet something in it tugged at your soul. The field was made not of petals, but of crystal. Pale blue, soft lilac, the faintest blush of pink. Blossoms that bloomed from black rock, their edges glinting like glass, but moving as if caught in wind. Flowers that sang, faintly—a hum of light against shadow.
Above, glowing orbs drifted in the place of stars. Not fire. Not moon. Something gentler. You stepped forward without realizing. The crystals beneath your feet did not shatter. They welcomed. They bent beneath your toes like grass made of silk.
“I…” you began, but the words failed you.
Suguru stood just behind you, hands clasped behind his back. “You said you missed the world,” he said. “I cannot make the wind smell like spring. I cannot summon birdsong. But I remembered the color of your eyes when you spoke of flowers.”
You turned to him slowly. “You made this?”
“I shaped it,” he said. “The souls helped me.”
You swallowed. “Why?”
He hesitated. Then simply said, “You should not feel buried.”
Your heart clenched. You turned away again, walking into the field, your fingers brushing crystal lilies that chimed softly beneath your touch.
“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.
He didn’t answer. You looked back. He stood still, like he feared coming closer might break the spell. You took a breath. “You don’t have to stay there.”
Suguru blinked. “No?”
“I’m not afraid of you,” you said. “Not anymore.”
He stepped forward slowly. Not like a king. Like a man. “May I walk with you?” he asked.
You nodded. You walked side by side in the field he made for you. It was the first time since your arrival that your voice held no bitterness. The first time his didn’t carry guilt.
“I used to think the Underworld was cruel,” you said. “It can be,” he replied. “But you’re not,” you added.
He looked at you. “You’ve suffered because of me.” You shook your head. “I’m angry. That’s different.” A small smile tugged at your lips. You glanced up at him. “You’re still difficult.”
“And you,” he said gently, “are still unyielding.” You stopped walking. The flowers chimed.
“I don’t know what this is yet,” you said quietly. “What we are.” “I will not name it before you do,” Suguru replied.
You looked down at your hand. Slowly, you reached out. He took it. Carefully. Without pressure. And in the crystal field, beneath the soft hum of not-quite-stars, death and life stood—not at war. But together. For the first time.
The sky over Olympus had dimmed.
It was not night—but the light bent strange, as though the heavens themselves braced for wrath. At the heart of the golden hall, the gods had gathered. Thunder crackled faintly above, rippling through clouds that had not moved in days. The air held no warmth. No scent of rain. Only the waiting.
And then she arrived. Demeter. Cloaked in frost and fury, her crown of wheat gone to rot, her robes dragging winter like chains behind her. Her eyes—green once—were pale as broken ice. Her voice, when she spoke, rang louder than thunder.
“Where is my daughter.” The hall fell still. Toji stood to one side, arms crossed over his chest, the sea sloshing in his veins. He said nothing—only raised a brow in interest.
Satoru Gojo, Lord of Sky and Storm, sat on the throne of clouds—grinning, as ever, but the curve of his lips did not quite reach his eyes.
“Demeter,” he drawled, “surely this is a bit much.” She stepped forward. The air around her hissed. The marble beneath her feet cracked with frost.
“I gave this realm its harvest. I fed mortals and god alike. And you—you—let him take her.”
Satoru’s smile faltered. “I didn’t let anyone do anything. I only… didn’t stop him.”
“You permitted it,” she hissed. “You knew, and you did not warn me. You call yourself king, yet you bend when your brother whispers.”
Toji chuckled from his post. “He didn’t whisper. He just said he was tired of waiting.”
“Silence,” Demeter snapped. “Your realm will freeze, too, Poseidon. The sea does not escape the cold.”
Toji narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Demeter turned to the hall again, arms raised. “Let the mortals suffer. Let their crops wither in their hands. Let their children starve. Let temples fall and kings beg. I will bury the earth in snow so deep it will never thaw. You have stolen the spring, and now the world shall remember.”
Satoru rose at last. He stepped down from his throne slowly, eyes still half-lidded, but his power stirred in the air like pressure before a storm. “Enough,” he said. “You’ve made your point.”
“No,” Demeter said. “Not yet. Not until she stands before me. Alive. Whole. Returned.”
Satoru exhaled. “I told Suguru not to cloak it in drama,” he muttered. “He could’ve just knocked on your door instead of tearing the earth open like some lovesick poet.”
“I want her back,” Demeter said. “Now.” A pause.
Then Satoru turned. “Yuuji.”
From the archway, a figure stepped forward—gold curls tousled by wind, eyes wide with concern. Yuuji, messenger of gods.
“Me?” he blinked. “You,” Satoru said. “Go to the Underworld.”
Yuuji’s brows rose. “Like, now?” “Yes. Find Suguru. Tell him the girl may return. If she wishes.”
Demeter’s mouth twisted. “She will wish it. She is mine.” Satoru glanced at her. “And if she doesn’t?”
Demeter stared at him. “Then Olympus will fall into ruin.”
Satoru didn’t blink. “If she chooses to stay, we will not drag her back.” Demeter trembled. Her hands clenched. “Say it, Demeter,” he said. “Say it aloud. You cannot hold the world hostage forever.”
A long silence. The frost deepened. The air thinned.
Then, at last— “Fine.” Her voice was like stone breaking. “Let the girl decide. But if she calls to me—if she so much as weeps for home—I will burn this mountain to its bones to bring her back.”
Satoru turned to Yuuji again. “You heard her. Go.”
Yuuji nodded, his usual brightness dimmed by the weight of the task. “I’ll be back before the moon shifts,” he said.
He stepped back, sandals already catching wind. Wings flared from his ankles in a flash of golden light. And then—he was gone. Demeter remained, unmoving, frost trailing from her fingers. Toji yawned. Satoru sat back upon his throne. And the sky held its breath.
The gates of the Underworld opened not with a creak, but with a sigh.
Yuuji stepped through. His sandals touched the onyx steps as if they’d been waiting for him. The air was thicker here—darker, yes, but not empty. It hummed with memory, soft and heavy like incense in a forgotten temple. The walls did not echo. They remembered. He walked past rivers that whispered, past spirits that parted before him in silence. His eyes darted side to side—curious, reverent, and just a little unnerved.
He walked forward, slow at first, adjusting to the dim. Shadows clung to the arches like drapes, pulled tight against the light that had not visited for an age. He passed the whispering river. Passed flickering souls who made no sound. The torches along the walls guttered slightly as he passed, as if they recognized him, and shrank from his warmth.
And then the great hall rose before him. At the far end, upon the twin thrones, you sat. You did not rise.
Your posture was composed, poised, regal in a way that was no longer borrowed. You had grown into it—like roots sinking into unfamiliar soil, only to find they fit. The light that once hovered around you had softened, cooled—but not dimmed. It pulsed softly from your skin like breath.
Suguru sat beside you. Still, as ever. Wrapped in shadow as in robes. His expression unreadable, save for the barest flicker in his gold eyes when Yuuji approached. The air between you was calm. Not distant. Not possessive. Something else. Something earned.
Yuuji stopped a few paces from the dais. He looked at you, then at Suguru, and bowed his head. “My lady,” he said. “My lord.”
Suguru’s voice was low, dry as stone. “Yuuji.”
You inclined your head. “You’ve come far.”
Yuuji gave a small, weary smile, though his shoulders remained tight. “That I have.” He took a breath, then continued.
“I carry message from Olympus. From Zeus. And from your mother.”
The words sat heavy between the stone walls. Suguru didn’t react—but you felt his gaze flick briefly toward you. Yuuji went on, slower now.
“Demeter threatens to bury the world in frost. No harvest. No spring. She has already sent snow to the valleys. Entire kingdoms falter in her grief.”
You said nothing. You only listened. Yuuji wet his lips. “But Zeus has given her terms. He offers you a choice. If you wish to return—no hand shall bar you. Not even his, and if you remain,” Yuuji said more gently, “then so be it.”
Stillness. Suguru’s hand, resting near yours, did not reach for you. But you felt him waiting. You looked down. Not in shame. Not in uncertainty. You simply gathered your thoughts.
And then Yuuji saw it. His eyes—restless, always scanning—fell to your lap. Just a glance. A breath’s worth of attention. And then they froze.
Your hand rested loosely upon the curve of the pomegranate rind. Half-empty. Four seeds gone. The juice stained your fingertips, a soft, shimmering red that glowed in the firelight.
Yuuji’s breath caught in his throat. His face paled.
“The fruit,” he said. You looked at him calmly. He pointed, voice rising. “You… you ate it?”
“I did.” Your voice did not tremble.
Yuuji blinked. “You… you did?” He stepped forward, disbelief painted across his face. “You ate the seeds? You—already?”
You nodded, slow and unhurried. “Yes.”
His mouth parted. “Before I even arrived?!”
“It was offered,” you said. “And I accepted.”
Yuuji ran a hand over his face, the weight of Olympus pressing into his shoulders. “That’s Underworld fruit,” he said. “Not a mortal fig to pluck for passing pleasure. That fruit binds the soul. You have tied yourself to shadow.”
“I know what it means.”
Suguru spoke then, from your side—his voice still as deep stone. “She was not ignorant. I told her what it would do.”
Yuuji’s hands fell to his sides. “But Zeus—your mother—all Olympus thought you still might return.”
You looked him in the eye. “I am not a child kept in the folds of her robe. I know what I have done.”
“You knew I was coming,” he said softly. “And you still…” “I chose.”
Suguru rose, the movement slow, like mountains waking. He stood tall beside you. “I did not press her. It was her right.”
Yuuji stepped back a pace, muttering beneath his breath. “This is final. This is forever. The earth will starve. Demeter will flay the fields. The mortals will cry to empty skies—”
“I do not intend to ask for release,” you said, calm. “But…” You glanced at Suguru. “But I would explain. I did not eat all. Only part. Four seeds.”
Yuuji stopped. His brows furrowed. His eyes lit with sudden calculation.
“Four,” he repeated. “Not six. Not the whole. Four.” He looked up sharply, the grin of inspiration dawning like gold behind clouds.
“Then not all is lost.”
You frowned. “What do you mean?”
He turned to Suguru now, speaking quickly. “If she has not consumed the whole fruit—then the binding is not complete. There is precedent. The scrolls speak of it. A soul half-sworn may walk in both realms.”
You turned fully to him. “To return?”
“Not forever,” Yuuji said. “But for part of the year. A season. Perhaps two. She may rise with the flowers, and fall with the leaves. Split her time, not her soul.”
“I speak what can be done,” Yuuji replied. “If she remains here always, the world will wither. If she returns always, this choice will be for nothing. But if she walks both—then balance may yet be struck.”
You looked to Suguru then, voice softer now.
“I do not regret what I’ve taken. But I would not have my mother waste away in grief. Nor the world die for my silence.”
Suguru was quiet. He looked at you—not at Olympus, not at the fruit. Only you, And then he spoke.
“If you wish it,” he said, “then I will not bar you. The gates will open when the time is right. The world will know spring again—when you bring it.”
Your chest lifted, breath fuller than before. Yuuji, relieved beyond words, let out a huff.
“Thank the gods,” he muttered. “Oh wait—that’s me.”
You allowed a small smile. Yuuji’s tone returned to proper form. “I shall return to Olympus with this accord. Demeter may curse and cry, but she will not call you prisoner.”
Suguru stepped back. “So be it.”
Yuuji bowed low, deeper than before. “My lady. My lord.”
And as he turned, the shadows parted once again, letting him pass. Just before he vanished into mist, he paused, glancing back at you with a grin half-swallowed by awe.
“A goddess of life in death’s halls,” he said. “Even Olympus did not see this coming.”
And then he was gone.
The shadows closed once more. Yuuji was gone. The stillness returned. But it was no longer cold. You remained standing before your throne. Suguru did not speak, and yet you felt the weight of his gaze like the warmth of fire cupped in your palms. It was you who turned first—toward him.
His figure stood as if carved from dusk itself. Tall. Solemn. Cloaked in silence and authority. And yet… before you, he looked almost undone. You stepped down from the dais, the hem of your robes brushing across black marble. The halls did not echo, but the realm listened.
“You do not speak,” you said quietly. “Yet your eyes… they burn with a truth untold.”
His head tilted, slow and reverent. “I have known many things,” Suguru said. “I have ruled over silence, over sorrow, over the shadows that no prayer can reach. I have seen kings buried in sand and lovers forget each other’s names. I have watched the world turn from me.”
He took a single step forward. “But I have never known this.”
You did not look away. “You are not what they say,” you said. “They speak of Suguru as cold, as cruel. As a god who takes. But I see now—you were only left behind.”
His throat moved, once.
“I am no thief,” he said. “I do not beg Olympus for favor. I do not demand praise from the stars. But I—” He faltered, just a breath, then steadied. “I would burn every throne beneath the sky if they dared touch a hair upon your head.”
You inhaled softly. He stepped closer.
“I am capable of setting the skies ablaze. I could wake the sleeping mountains. I could call the sea to crack the land in half. But never,” he said, voice low now, “never would I let a single flame touch you.”
Your chest rose with each word. “And if the sun itself sought to scorch you, I would pluck it from the heavens and bury it beneath the River Lethe until its memory forgot to burn.”
The words did not roar. They did not thunder. But they struck like lightning behind your ribs. You reached for him—not with your hands, but with your eyes. You saw it then. Behind the god, behind the shadows, behind the unyielding name— A man. One who had waited an eternity not to be adored, but to be understood.
“I never feared you,” you said, stepping closer. “Even when I trembled. I feared being caged. But I see now—this realm is no prison.” You lifted your hand, brushing your fingertips just above his. “This realm is yours. And now… it is ours.”
Suguru’s eyes—once molten gold, now trembling starlight—searched yours. “I would have let you go,” he whispered. “Even as the earth split to bring you to me—I would have let you go, had you wished it.”
“I know,” you said. And you meant it. His breath caught. You were inches apart now. No storm, no river, no war between gods—just this stillness. This gravity. His voice dropped to a whisper, ragged and full of devotion.
“That is why I have never let another near. Why I have stood untouched for an age. Because I knew the moment it came… I would fall.” You did not speak. You didn’t need to. Because gods do not need declarations to know what hearts scream in silence.
He leaned closer, and gods did not breathe—but you felt his breath like the first wind that stirred the world awake. You could take him by the throat and he would not flinch.
You could strike him and he would only draw nearer. Because you—goddess, spring, storm in bloom—had the power to unmake him. And he would let you. Because Suguru Geto, lord of the dead, feared nothing— Except the inch between your mouths. And gods above, how his eyes sparkled in its presence.
Silence bloomed in his wake—lush, breathless, final. You stood in the quiet like a lantern holding flame. You had spoken your choice before witness, sealed it with seed and word alike. The Underworld was yours now—by bond, by right, by desire. By love.
“You are certain still?” he asked, though his voice was softer now, laced not with demand, but with ache.
You stepped forward, gaze unwavering. “I have never known such certainty, my lord.”
He reached for you then. And when his hands met your skin, it was not with the rough heat of flame, but with the patience of stone worn smooth by the river.
Fingers at your waist, Suguru drew you close—his body vast and solid, the quiet storm of death made flesh. His lips found your temple first, then your cheek, reverent as if he feared you might vanish like breath in winter.
“You are no longer a visitor,” he murmured. “You are mine.”
You tilted your head up. “And you are mine.”
He guided you through the veil of his chambers, doors parting like tides at his will. The walls were carved obsidian, veined with silver, but it was not the room that took your breath. It was the bed—dark as ink, vast as the heavens, shrouded in sheets soft as shadows, cool as silk. Candles flickered on pillars of black stone, their flames lavender and low. Incense curled in the air, thick with violet and myrrh.
You stood before the bed and felt the earth tilt. And then he touched you again.
Suguru’s hand came to your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your mouth like he sought the shape of truth. You parted your lips for him instinctively, eyes fluttering as his thumb traced downward—over your throat, collarbone, and the beginning of your robes.
“May I?” he asked, voice nothing but dark velvet.
You gave a nod, pulse thudding like temple bells. He undid your robe with slow, deliberate care. Not a garment dropped but was touched, smoothed, kissed as it left your form. You were unveiled inch by sacred inch—each part of you seen, admired, adored.
When you stood bare before him, he did not take you. Not yet. He kneeled. A god. Before you.
Suguru’s palms warmed your hips as he bent his head, lips pressed to your navel, to your hips, to the inside of your thighs—each kiss a vow.
“Lie down,” he said, low and reverent.
And so you did, reclining into the dark sheets, hair splayed like a crown of dusk. Suguru joined you on the bed, not to hover above, but to settle between your legs with a patience that nearly undid you. He kissed your ankle first. Then your calf. Then the inside of your knee.
And higher. And higher still. Your breath caught. You reached for him, hand in his hair, and he hummed against your skin like a prayer, eyes half-lidded with restraint.
“You are untouched,” he said, not as question—but as awe.
“I am,” you whispered. “But I am not afraid.”
He looked up at you from between your thighs, haloed in candlelight and hunger. “Then let me teach you,” he said. “Not in haste, but in worship.”
He kissed you once more—soft, wet, open-mouthed—and then his tongue found your heat. Your hand curled in his dark hair with a gasp.
Suguru moved slowly—his mouth drinking from you with aching reverence, tongue tracing every petal, every tremble. He did not seek your peak. Not yet. He sought your unraveling. He moaned against you when your legs shook, dragging his tongue upward with a groan as though your taste alone was ambrosia. His grip tightened on your thighs, holding you wide, open, sacred.
You whimpered his name—a gasp of devotion. He lifted his eyes to you then, mouth glistening, voice hoarse.
“You are divinity,” he said. “And you shall be worshipped as such.”
And then he buried his mouth in you again—deeper, hungrier, with a skill honed not by lust, but by love. He did not rush. He did not relent.
He stayed between your legs like a king at his altar, lips dragging across your core until your back arched, your eyes rolled, your voice broke into prayers. But just before the end—before the heat could crash into bloom— He stopped. Your hips trembled, thighs still quaking from the brink, and you looked down at him, dazed, breathless, burning. Suguru rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like a man starved still.
“You will not shatter yet,” he said. “Not until I am inside you. Not until your first is everything it deserves to be.”
He kissed your inner thigh again—soft, slow. “We have eternity,” he said. “But I would still savor every hour.”
You reached for him, voice trembling with need and reverence both. “Suguru…”
He climbed beside you, pulling you to his chest, body burning with restraint. And in the shadows of the Underworld, between breath and bloom, you laid with your god—not yet joined in full, but already forever changed.
The room was quiet save for the sound of your breath—shallow, desperate, trembling. You lay against his chest, his arm around your waist, his lips brushing your hairline as if even now, he could not believe you were real.
You pressed your fingers against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. Not cold, not unfeeling. No, Suguru burned—hotter than the firelight dancing across the chamber walls, hotter than the pit of want blooming between your thighs.
“Suguru,” you whispered, voice raw, wrecked. “Please.”
His hand slid from your waist to your hip. He held you like you were made of silk and starlight, as if any sudden touch might unravel you. And maybe it would. You were trembling from the edge he’d left you on. Still aching. Still wet from his mouth. He shifted beside you, and you felt it—hard, thick, heavy against your thigh.
“I do not wish to hurt you,” he murmured into your skin. “You are still soft. Still unbroken.” You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, lips parted, voice thick with love.
“Then break me gently.” His breath caught. And then he kissed you. It was not chaste. This was not a kiss of restraint.
Suguru kissed you like he had waited eternity for this moment. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow and claiming, and you moaned softly into the heat of it, your fingers finding his hair again, pulling him closer. You felt his hand slide down—between your thighs, parting them once more. Two fingers slid along your slick folds, testing, spreading, and you gasped into his mouth.
“You’re still wet,” he growled softly, his voice deeper now, full of gravel and hunger. “Still open for me.”
“Yes,” you whispered, barely a sound. “Only for you.”
He rose above you, kneeling between your legs, his dark hair falling like silk around his face. He reached for your thighs and spread them gently, reverently, eyes flickering over your glistening center like it was sacred scripture. And then he took himself in hand.
Your gaze dropped—eyes widening at the sight of him. Thick. Long. Veined and flushed at the tip. He stroked himself once, slowly, groaning low in his chest as he watched your breath hitch.
“I will go slow,” he promised, voice hoarse with restraint.
You reached for him with trembling fingers, touching his chest, then his cheek. “I want to feel all of you.”
Suguru braced himself over you, one hand guiding his cock to your entrance. He pressed forward—just barely, just enough to tease. You cried out at the stretch, the fullness.
He stopped instantly, chest heaving. “Are you in pain?”
You shook your head, nails digging into his shoulders. “No. Don’t stop.”
So he didn’t. He pushed forward slowly, inch by inch, the slide of him dragging against tight, wet heat. Your walls clung to him—virgin body welcoming him deeper, deeper still. His jaw clenched, his forearms trembling as he fought not to rut into you with all his need.
“Gods,” he whispered. “You… you take me so well. So tight, little goddess…”
You moaned, thighs twitching at the stretch, but your eyes never left his. You held his gaze as he bottomed out—fully sheathed inside you. The pressure, the fullness—it was too much and yet not enough. You were joined. Finally. Utterly. He stilled, letting you breathe, letting your body adjust. But you were already clutching him closer, your body greedier than your fear.
“Move,” you begged.
So he did. Slow at first—each roll of his hips measured, deep, dragging along every swollen nerve. Your legs wrapped around his waist, anchoring him inside you. His name fell from your lips in a broken cry.
He groaned against your throat, his hips pressing flush with every thrust. “You feel like heaven,” he growled. “My sweet Persephone—my queen.”
You gasped at the name. “I’m yours,” you breathed. “Forever.”
His pace picked up—still slow, still sensual, but now laced with desperation. Your slick walls fluttered around him with every stroke, your body singing with heat. He kissed your throat, your breasts, your lips—anywhere he could reach.
Your hands slid down his back, over the flex of his muscles, nails scraping gently as you arched into him.
“You were made for me,” he said, voice near breaking. “Born from spring, bound to death. You—mine.”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Always.”
He moved faster now, groaning into your skin, his cock driving into you in long, powerful strokes, making you cry out with every thrust. The bed creaked beneath you. The air was thick with the scent of sex, of sweat, of sacred fire. You felt your peak rising—your belly tightening, breath catching. But Suguru was close too. You could feel it in the way his thrusts stuttered, in the way he swore in tongues long lost to time. He pressed his forehead to yours, his hips still grinding, deep and slow.
“I would spill inside you,” he said. “Claim you with seed, fill you full…”
You moaned, your thighs trembling at the thought. “But not yet,” he growled. “Not tonight.”
And with a final thrust, he pulled out, thick and glistening, his cock twitching with restraint. He collapsed beside you, pulling your body close—still shaking, still wet, your core pulsing with aftershocks. You nestled into his chest, your legs still open, your body still yearning.
“Why did you stop?” you whispered. He smiled against your temple.
“Because we have eternity, my love. And I would learn every sound you make… one night at a time.”
And so it was that death fell in love with life—not with the hunger of a conqueror, but with the awe of a god who had waited since time’s first breath to be seen. The Underworld, once mute and mournful, bloomed not with roses, but with devotion—roots curling around thrones, shadows trembling in the presence of spring. He, the stillness beneath the world, and she, the bloom that broke through stone. Where her foot touched ash, lilies rose. Where his hand found hers, eternity bowed. And from that day forward, the Fates wove their thread in awe—because even they knew: no myth, no mountain, no law of god or man could rival the quiet, feral truth of a love that bridged darkness and dawn.
Even the gods, fickle and furious as they are, spoke of them with something like reverence. Not for their power—but for their peace. For among all the unions forged in Olympus and beyond, none were as steadfast, as strangely tender, as Hades and Persephone. He, who ruled without mercy, and she, who reigned with grace. And though their love was born in shadow, it flourished—year after year, age after age—until even the stars, eternal and ever-watching, whispered:
Of all divine marriages, theirs is the only one touched by true joy.
synopsis: a story in which a depressed satoru gets sent to the future and sees just how bright it eventually becomes. meanwhile, you're reminded of how much of a brat your husband used to be when you first started dating.
cw: MDNI, time travel, smut w/ a touch of angst bc we LOVE plot, satoru's actually so mean at first lol, dad!jo (him and reader share a daughter together)
notes: hiiii we got 6.5k words for this one ❤️ comm for the lovely @sadlittlecucumber i hope u like!!!!
song rec: drag path — twenty one pilots
Satoru’s life ended up being a fucking bummer.
His best friend’s a mass murderer. Shoko’s gone off to do her own thing with medicine. Nanami left to go become a banker or whatever. Ijichi’s… Ijichi. Oh, and Haibara’s dead. Everyone who’s alive seems to have moved on— so should Satoru, honestly. But times proved that to be quite difficult.
He’s starting to understand where Suguru was coming from with the whole exorcise-absorb mantra. Except for him, it was exorcise and destroy, leaving every cursed site he’s stepped foot on looking like god himself decided to hit the reset button to obliterate the place.
Nobody says anything about it. He’s probably the closest thing to a god. Despite having tried his hardest all throughout his youth to fit in and act as if he was just like everyone else, people were still terrified to fuck with him.
And despite the chaos he’s constantly surrounded by— mainly from his own doing— the days still find a way to bleed into each other, morphing into a never ending cycle of boredom and violence. It’s quite the combo. The higher ups are lucky he’s too tired to plot anything behind their backs.
He’s exhausted.
The past is too blurry. The future’s too bleak.
Gojo was bound to fuck up sooner or later. The thought of him finally snapping like Suguru did, dangling in the back of his mind, taunting him.
He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things?
One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark.
That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way.
“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery.
He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this.
“Oh hey, you’re home.”
Home?
He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.
You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago.
You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”
First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?
Second, who even are you?
Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger.
Fuck.
“Honey–”
Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again.
“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”
Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth.
There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru.
Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.
“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”
He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”
“You also liked to argue, too.”
“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?”
“No.”
“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“
You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?”
“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you.
“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.”
“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.”
–
“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”
The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere.
“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”
Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”
“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”
“31.”
Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.”
Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.
“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”
“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody.
Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude.
“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion.
He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”
Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?”
“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”
“I tried my best! I swear!”
“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”
“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”
“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”
The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.
“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.
The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed.
—
You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand.
“Is the food good?”
“Sure.”
“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement.
“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.”
Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”
“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?”
Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.
“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being.
A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.
“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”
It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital.
“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.
“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake.
“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”
Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.
“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”
Sai wasn’t having that.
Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite.
But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.
“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”
“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself.
You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous.
“What?”
There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”
“She’s weird.”
“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”
“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid.
He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind.
“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious.
He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad.
For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear.
—
It’s been over a month.
Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.
But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort.
Over his dead body.
Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.
So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.
Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising.
Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married.
Satoru looks over your body once.
Twice.
He totally understands his future self.
He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks.
It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you.
You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure.
“Hey… any good news?”
“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.”
“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“
“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”
You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.
After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.
“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”
“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”
The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine.
But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him.
You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?”
“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.”
It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here.
“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered.
He’s always had a thing for milfs.
Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now.
“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”
You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you.
“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you.
And you fucking miss that.
He opens his mouth to respond.
Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you.
Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid.
His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”
Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”
It’s starting to sound more natural.
“Y-yeah,” she sniffles.
Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried.
His little girl was a dream.
—
Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.
It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world.
He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does.
It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.
With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table.
The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions.
You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off.
“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”
He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?”
“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.”
You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact.
Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.
It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake.
Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”
Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now.
“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone.
Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”
“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”
“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“
“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”
“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“
“Kay’ good night.”
Click.
Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head.
He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning.
“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?”
“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.”
“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him.
“So is waking me up.”
“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”
“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?”
“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.”
Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”
“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.”
“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden.
And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.
You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?”
“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.
“I can take care of that, you know.”
“What?”
“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.
“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?”
“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”
“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?”
“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.”
“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief.
“Is that a problem?”
“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.”
Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock.
“Feel good?”
His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”
You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.
“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask.
“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient.
His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”
“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”
You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are.
His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all.
"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.”
“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.
It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that— lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him.
"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."
You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out.
You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort.
"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."
You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder.
He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”
“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”
“You want me to fuck you harder?”
“Yeah.”
Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper.
“Better?”
He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”
“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.”
He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life.
Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”
“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”
He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch.
Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you.
“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself.
When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him.
You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.
And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.
—
It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back.
What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?
He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.
Acceptance.
He likes his life here.
You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.
No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second.
With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life.
You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache.
He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start.
You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.
“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.
There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”
He’s back.
“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”
—
Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.
Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers.
Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly.
Satoru was fucking devastated.
Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo.
God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point.
One Year Later
“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone.
It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job.
“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”
“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.”
The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable.
He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit.
It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him.
The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time.
“And what can I get started for you today?”
His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.
“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”
“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”
“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie.
“Name for the order?”
“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”
He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”
“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind:
He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number.
What could be more insane than having the Gojo twins - Nerd Satoru and Frat Gojo - as your very competitive and freaked out boyfriends? Well, finding out they have a triplet by mistaking him for his brother! Five minutes older, CEO Toru runs the family company so his 'younger' brothers can enjoy college. What better for a stressed out CEO than snatching up his brothers' girlfriend and bringing her to the office? Don't you need an internship anyway?
pairings - CEO Toru x Frat Gojo x Nerd Satoru x Reader
warnings- this is pure gojoception - CEO will be called Toru, Nerd is Satoru, Frat is Gojo lol. mistaken identity, CEO Toru is a menace, yandere behavior, oral (f receiving) getting smacked with Toru's backscratcher, choking, fingering, snorting coke off you, p in v sex, creampie, the twins do NOT want to share you with him, hehe enjoyyy
You can find the Gojo twins here - all of this art is from Tea for gods on X!! Did not proofread lol blame white claw
CEO Toru sighs as he opens the door to his family mansion, frowning a bit when he realizes it's not even locked. He opens it and grimaces when he sees his brother Nerd Satoru's notebooks and game system slung on his counter, his other brother Frat Gojo's beer bottles and bong right next to it.
He gets so annoyed when those little shits stay over, usually when he leaves his penthouse from out of state to come here, he's the only one. They're all in college and having the fun life while he runs the family company, the Gojo triplet with all the responsibility. Frat Gojo wants to just party and be a deviant, Nerd Satoru wants to be an astronomer.
Ceo Toru? Well he decided to be responsible so they could go pursue their dreams. Don't get him wrong, snorting coke in a high rise off a pretty secretary's ass? Sort of peak. Yet, it's not as if he didn't want to party or pursue studies, he was already done with college before he was twenty though.
Some say he's the smartest of the three, he was born five minutes before those two brats, so he sort of feels the oldest.
He loosens his tie, walking past Frat Gojo snoring on the couch, lanky body slung all over it, he tosses a blanket on his big ass, making him stir.
"Toru, you're here?" He mumbles sleepily, yawning and grabbing his head. "Shit, hangover."
"Yeah, I'm here - what are you two doing here?" Toru slips off his jacket and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, showing those veiny forearms off, slipping his hands in the pockets of his slacks.
"We were showing our girlfriend the Gojo manor," he snuggles back up, dopey grin on his face. "She loves it."
"Does she? Wait, 'our' girlfriend? Like you and Satoru... sharing? Isn't that... weird?"
"Well she likes me best," he falls back asleep, Satoru sighs, walking over to get a drink then, bending down to pop open a bottle of whiskey. Nerd Satoru couldn't drink for shit, Frat Gojo just chugged beer - CEO Toru? no, he has some class.
"Where's Satoru?" Toru asks, but Gojo is too far out, snoring now, he frowns a bit and sips his whiskey, walking through the living room and the hallway. He peers at his other brother, panties in his face, snoring on the bed. "Oh jesus."
The fuck is up with these two?
Toru hears the shower running when he walks toward the room he usually stays in, steam rising from the door, Satoru loosens his tie just a bit, raising a brow when the door opens, a pretty girl with a towel wrapped around her walking out.
Well, he sees the appeal, clearly you're fucking gorgeous, his blue eyes trailing up your thighs, dewy from the shower, up to the curves of your body in the soft terry cloth. He can't help but throb in response, cock already leaking pre like he's a teenager seeing tits for the first time.
CEO Toru was more experienced than his brothers, even Frat Gojo was less experienced, but something about you...
No wonder.
Your hips are begging for his hands when you smile all pretty at him, walking straight for him, the scent of cherry blossoms filling his senses, mixing with the steam rising in.
"Satoru I've never seen you in a suit," you're giggling all cute when you walk up to him in that towel. "Did you get new glasses?"
"I... what?" You're walking right to him, arms wrapping his neck, that towel just fucking falling so your tits press against his dress shirt, pressing a kiss on his cheek.
"You look so handsome like this," your lips trail his jaw, his hands stay at their sides, so he doesn't grab your ass, but you take them and put them right on your waist. "I won't take your virginity, Satoru, calm down. I just wanna kiss."
Oh you think he's...
Toru goes to correct you, but you're kissing him now, and your nipples are pebbling hard against his chest, he groans, hands slipping down your hips, tugging you close against his body. You're sighing into his mouth, gasping out when his tongue slips in, moaning softly.
"You're so hard, should let me take care of it," you whisper, brushing your hand over his cock, he loses whatever composure he has, tongue slipping in your mouth, lifting you like it's nothing. "Mnh!"
"Fuck," you taste so good, cunt heated as it presses against his cock over his slacks, shoving you right against the wall and groaning, the curve of your ass giving underneath his grip. "Sweetheart..."
"I never see you like this," you giggle then, kissing him back, hips arching up for more of him, cunt slick and dripping.
"You really think I'm him?" He asks then, you blink curiously, pulling back just a bit, smirking as your eyes widen. "Don't I feel a little different? I'm pretty sure I'm the biggest, yeah?"
You gasp now, looking at the man holding you - he's just a bit thicker in the shoulders you're gripping, his cock does feel even bigger if that was possible, bags under his pretty blue eyes that neither brother have. It can't be...
"There's three of you!?" You ask, he chuckles a bit now, dragging your naked body against his.
"Haven't they mentioned me? Maybe they were worried I'd take you, keep you all to myself," he smirks at you, devastatingly attractive as all the Gojos are - but fuck he was just ruining you with his slightly rougher hands, the way he flicks his tongue on your neck, humming just a bit. "I don't blame them, I'd lock you up, fuck I'd chain you to my bed."
"Chain me!? You're..."
"Mhm, the crazy brother," he nips your neck, dying to be buried inside your cunt, the one begging for him. "I wouldn't share."
"Toru, what are you doing here?" Satoru gasps when he sees his annoying 'older' brother holding his girl against the wall. You look at him with wide eyes. "Get off my girlfriend!"
"She kissed me," Toru chuckles and eases you down, letting you feel his body as he slowly drags you down, your thighs press together at the sensation, struggling to pull away from him when your body sure doesn't want to.
How greedy are you!? Do you need three versions of Gojo?
"What's goin' on?" Frat Gojo comes out, rubbing his eyes and glaring then, his hair is all messy, shirt shoved up from sleep, showing hints of those abs as he rubs his stomach next. "Toru? Baby, why are you naked with him!?"
"I thought he was... I thought he was you, Satoru," you mumble, clearing your throat as CEO Toru just fucking looks at you, he's even more psychotic than Nerd Satoru, and that's saying a lot.
"How could you mistake me pookie!?" Satoru pouts now, and you grimace, covering your face.
"You're identical."
"We are not!"
That's all three of them.
"Literally I could not tell, I can tell you two apart, okay? But him I... he seemed like Satoru!"
"Hah, she didn't think it was me," Frat Gojo grins, running a hand through his messy white locks. "I'm the favorite."
"I'm the favorite, she's always begging to suck me," Frat Gojo rolls his baby blue eyes, but CEO Toru is tilting your chin up as they start arguing.
A room full of six foot four, white haired, blue eyed Gojos.
Your ovaries ache, especially looking up at his dilated eyes, his lips glossy from licking them. "Sweetheart, what are your plans for the summer?"
"Plans?" You blink a bit now. "Um... I have to do intern hours, and taking a few summer classes."
"Perfect, major?"
"Communications."
"Even better," he brushes back your damp strands of hair. "You can work at the Gojo corp for the summer, with me."
"What?"
"She can't work," nerd Satoru says, stomping up and taking off his polo, slipping it over your head. "She should relax this summer, she has to be bred."
"I'm not getting bred," you mumble. "I'm twenty two I'm not having babies."
"I was gonna give you dick tonight, now you hurt me!" He's cupping your face, you laugh softly. "Don't laugh, its mean!"
"Well you all never told me! It's been like 3 months!"
"Well, I-"
"You fell asleep with her panties on your face," Toru chimes in, taking in just how pretty you look in that big polo swallowing that cute body, sighing.
"Well of course I did - it's a compliment to her!" Frat Gojo yawns and stretches, walking over to you and kissing your lips, you sigh softly into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut.
"She can't work, we don't want her to, she should just get fucked and look pretty."
"Gojo," you start, shaking your head. "I want to work!"
"She can be my pretty assistant," Toru wraps an arm around you, and suddenly all three of them are near you, touching some part of you.
Your mind is slutty, all you can think of is sinking to your knees and sucking CEO, stroking Fratboy Gojo and Nerdy Satoru. Have them all come on your tits. Your face. You try to shove those thoughts back, you're their girlfriend, you don't even know Toru!
"It'll be good on her resume," you sigh, biting your lip and looking back at him. "I'll be a perfect gentleman."
****
Perfect gentleman CEO Toru has you bent over his desk, beating the plump of your ass with a goddamn backscratcher.
You're whining out, biting down on your lower lip, he's not touched you, not crossed 'that line' but your wrists are bound in his black silk tie, the wood of the stick smacking your ass over and over, stockings ripped. You're struggling not to make noise as this psycho moans, palming the bulge in his slacks.
"Fuck, look at you," he smacks you again, leaving a whelp, you're gushing slick out of your hole and down your plump lips, whining out desperately. "They don't do this, hmm? Give you what you need?"
"Y-you're insane," you whisper out, pressing your ass out for more, moaning softly. "They're gonna be so mad you did this."
"Good," he smacks it again, sighing and kneeling, hands on your hips. "I've made sure they have it easy, they can share their pretty girlfriend with me."
Smack.
CEO Toru thwacks your ass again, you feel that gush of arousal slipping out, barely biting back a whine when he tugs your panties to the side. "Slutty cunt, do they really take care of it?"
"Mhm, they do - ngh!" Your phone goes off right before Toru can lick you, he glares and stands, swiping up to answer it.
"She's busy."
"Toru, I swear to god if you're- are you moaning!?" You bite your lip, feeling Toru whack your ass again, devious grin on his face when he hovers over you.
"She was just learning a lesson," he rubs where your whelps are, chuckling. "Such an excellent student."
"You better not be doing your freaky shit with her," you almost snort at Satoru's words.
"Satoru you tied me up and hung me from the ceiling last week," he sighs.
"Lovingly!"
"She wants to get filled right now, will you two deny her? Don't you want her taken care of?" Smack!
"Put her on video," that's Frat Gojo’s voice. Toru does just that slipping the phone to rest on the little holder, so your boyfriends see your already drunk expression. "Are you tied up?"
"Your brother is a freak, ah!" He's chuckling, dragging that piece of wood across you messy slit, making you drip.
"She's making a mess of my hardwood floors," he touches his cock underneath his slacks, watching you arch more, he sucks in a breath at the sight of your needy pussy. "You two never shared with me you know."
The Gojo twins stare at each other, then you when you bite your lip and your eyes roll back. "Let us see her."
Toru angles the phone down as he kneels again, showcasing your ass and thighs littered with marks. Satoru and Gojo are hard and leaking pre at the sight. "You're soaked baby."
"Mhm," you hear Satoru's voice - somehow you can distinct between the three.
"You're so greedy. You need all three of us inside you?" Gojo asks, you sigh, shaking as you bend over. Feeling Toru's fingers part your folds.
"I just l-love you all s'much, ngh!"
"Shh. Don't want my office to hear," Toru laughs softly, swirling his long fingers in your slutty hole and sinking them in. You jolt at the action, hearing their breathy sighs over the phone. "I think as the oldest-"
"By five minutes!?"
Toru glares at the phone. "As the oldest I should show her how it feels to really get fucked, hah I'll show you all when I come back home."
"Show us what?"
"I can teach you all so much about how to please her needy, slutty cunt," he laps his tongue up your slit from your clit to your ass, chuckling as he tugs your cheeks apart. "This hole too."
"My other - ah!" Toru is a while fucking freak, his tongue darting to trace your other hole, moaning as he slides your juices along it, mixing with his saliva.
"I'll have her home soon, she can show you what she learns," Toru hangs up the phone and tosses it, you glare back at him, making him throb. "You should be constantly full of cum, sweetheart, they shouldn't even let you walk."
"You're fucking crazy," you arch more, he chuckles at that, lifting a thigh over his polished wood desk, belt clicking and making your tummy clench, when his pink tip swipes through your sloppy slit you're barely holding back a moan, wrists still bound.
"Want me to send you home? Let my brothers take care of you?" He presses in and leans forward, a hand around your throat. "I'll let you go sweetheart, before my cock ruins you. Before you only know my shape."
Fuck.
Its like the final boss of the Gojo men!?
You look back and shake your head. He grins. "Good girl."
You've never been fucked like CEO fucks you. Frat Gojo could absolutely hit it from the back perfect, Nerd Satoru ate pussy so good you were always dehydrated from squirting. But CEO Toru is mean with it. Bottoming out in one stroke and not letting you adjust, slamming that veiny cock in your cunt so deep it hurts.
It takes three strokes against your soft spot in those slick walls for you to convulse around that girth, three more slams echoing with loud, squelching smacks to make you cum. Your eyes rolling back, drooling when Toru wrecks your hole with his angled thrusts, fucking you against that desk and making you hiccup and cry.
One orgasm into another, huge hand tightening on your throat and taking your air. "Mnh! Toru..."
"Fuck yes, say my name," he whimpers - all three of them do that - pressing in your messy hole and thickening. "Oh sweetheart. You'll only know my shape - m'brothers are gonna be s-so fuckin' mad."
"Hmm? Nghh!" Toru slams into your cunt harder, fingers choking you as his lips brush the shell of your ear, pink drooly tip spurting milky drops against your puffy cervix.
"Ya heard me, I'll fill you up so full, they'll have to fuck my cum back inside- hah," Toru is pussy drunk off you, kissing you filthy, his tongue swathing your and dripping saliva, grinning with batshit crazy blue eyes. "You want it, hmm? Three loads of cum - each brother? Ah, for now, soon you'll only want me."
Toru was the yandere of his two brothers - quite clearly as he fucks you harder, pumping you full of all the cum he's been waiting to put in you. You're milking him for all he's worth, earning his muffled praise, pushing that cum deeper with every thrust of his cock - still hard and coated in you.
"Take all of it, like a good girl."
Toru films his obscene mess after pumping another load into your hole, you're too fucked out to care that your other boyfriends are seeing it.
When they rush up to the Gojo office, after you don't come home that night, they catch CEO Toru snorting coke off your thigh. He smiles at his brothers, moaning and kissing g where he'd just laid out powder.
"Hey little brothers," you are a fucked out mess, your blouse wide open, pencil skirt ripped, the moonlight filtering in from the floor to ceiling windows of Torus office, making you look even more debauched.
"Gojo, Satoru," you're so fucked out you can hardly talk, throat sore from Toru choking it, wrapping his belt around it as he railed you bent over his desk. He'd fucked you on that damn window, then his chair, until the office was empty - only then did he grab his coke baggie and use you as a pretty tray. "I'm uh... sorry I haven't been home..."
"Fuck you're hot like this," Nerd Satoru pushes up his glasses, walking over and kissing your swollen lips. You moan softly, hands slipping up his chest.
"I m-missed you both," he sighs now, hands slipping down your thighs, still sticky from how much Toru made you squirt.
"I should have given you my cock, I was teasing too much," you giggle breathless, shaking your head.
"I'll show you how she likes it," Toru leans back in his chair, grinning when his brother's scowl over at him. Frat Gojo walks over and kisses you next, both men blicking their brother's view of your beat up pussy.
"We know what she likes," Gojo frowns now, thumb rubbing your lower lip. "You had us worried, baby. You can't just dissappear."
"I'm sorry," you sigh, hands on both of their chests.
"Wanna snort lines off her?" They look back very judgemental. "What? She loves it."
"Don't encourage bad behavior," you scowl over at the most devious Gojo brother. "I'll make it up to you all."
"How? Oh..." You sink right to your knees, Toru smirks and palms his cock - rubbed raw from fucking you, when you unzip each brother's pants.
He'll let you enjoy it for now - but Toru always wins, and he sure the fuck won't share you for long.
You're a young college professor teaching English Lit and history, you don't live an insanely exciting life - no, you enjoy spending time at home with a good book and a glass of red. You're perfectly content until a certain student sets his pretty blue eyes on you - senior Satoru Gojo. Obsessed with you, Satoru starts following you everywhere, observing and waiting. He just wants you to realize that he's the only one for you, and he'll do anything to make sure you throw your 'ethics' right out of the window.
pairings - college student! Gojo x professor! reader
warnings - MDNI - yandere content, Satoru is completely obsessed with reader, small age gap - Satoru 22, reader 30, reverse professor trope, power dynamics, push and pull, sexual tension. this part- Satoru being unapolegitically psychotic, breed kink like a mf, oral (f receiving) edging, teasing, them being honestly cute, his parents being terrible, multi rounds, mating press, cervix kisses, creampiess- wc 11k
I rly put a lot into this so I hope you all love it! can't wait to see your lovely comments ahhh!!
<<<part three - masterlist - part five>>> (soon)
part four
One time.
Just one time, right?
It keeps playing in your mind as you sit there at your desk, that it’ll only be that one time that you feel Satoru Gojo – your psychotic college student – inside you. Only one time will you feel it twitching and leaking pre as it presses into your cervix, having the spurts of his cum slammed down your throat. Never have his stupid long fingers hitting that spot, not have his tongue flicking desperately on your clit.
Never have him psychotically pressing his cum back inside your hole, spitting his own cum on your cunt in some batshit attempt to knock you up. It’s all for the best, you can’t just… have his babies and quit your job!? You can’t just leave everything you’ve always wanted to do, face the ridiculous judgement of his parents and lose your career over getting fucked really good by him.
Right?
You shake yourself out of it – would it be so terrible to let Satoru ‘take care’ of you? You do want kids, fuck you thought of getting a surrogate the way your romantic life was rolling, or maybe getting a donor and having a baby on your own. It was the modern era, after all, not the caveman era, so it’s not the thought of kids that upsets you.
No… it’s that you can almost believe his psychotic ass when he cups your face and says that shit, when he burns those images into your brain, even in your damn sleep you could swear you feel him – pretty and eerie blue eyes watching you. Waking up and inhaling his scent like you’re the down bad psycho here.
Maybe you are, maybe it’s you who can’t rip your eyes off him as he walks around handing papers to the class, watching him carefully with your eyes averted every time he peeked back at you. He’s not come near you all week actually, being utterly professional in his new teaching assistant role, walking out just a moment after and making sure to come close enough you can inhale him.
Are you the obsessed one, playing with your cunt at night when you never have hardly at all before, in lieu of a vibrator you’re pumping your pussy with two fingers desperately, hoping you could cum like he made you. Or even close, but you don’t get close to it, how can you when his fingers are so goddamn long, when they almost hit your cervix and you can’t even touch that little spot?
Giving up and running frantic little circles on your clit, and all you can see are his big, pretty blue eyes staring at you when you shut your eyes. Satoru Gojo, he’s supposed to be a one time thing, because you know better, and now that he actually gives you the space to breathe, you wish he’d touch you again.
“We’re reading Poe again?” One of your classmates ask, you laugh softly.
“Of course we are.” They all laugh, it’s pretty normal for you to throw random Edgar Allen Poe quizzes.
“Isn’t he a bit overrated?” Another student asks, you shake your head, fingers running over the old piece of paper in the worn down school book.
“Not to me, but what makes something overrated to you?” You tilt your head, feeling Satoru’s gaze on you as he sits at the little TA desk, leaning his chin on his fist and smiling just a bit. All nerdy and cute looking like the man isn’t an absolute menace who loves to torture your every thought.
“When everyone’s so obsessed, I think it’s overhyped. Like Game of Thrones.”
“Well,” you lean back a bit. “I love GOT. Why does popularity make it overrated? Is Shakespeare in your opinion?”
“Yep,” you laugh and the class does too.
“Don’t tell an English teacher Shakespeare is overrated,” Satoru chimes in, you look at him then, seeing his eyes crinkling at the corner behind his glasses. When he talks the girls fucking swoon, who could blame them though?
“Shakespeare influenced the world so much, don’t you think?” You go on with the discourse, finishing only when the bell dings. “See you all wanted to get out of today’s lesson, this was calculated!”
Everyone comes up to you after as usual, you’re a little too close to your students for Satoru’s comfort, but not much he can say about it, instead he pouts a bit, mad he’s not getting all the attention. It should be all on him, every smile you give, every laugh, every shy little glance down at your hands when someone compliments you.
It’s been hell not touching you, everything in his body practically screams to bend your pretty ass over that desk again, the one you’d dripped down. Sink underneath your desk and lick your pretty cunt – if his tall ass could fit he would die to do it, to taste his professor’s perfect cunt again. Instead, he has to be careful, he has to wait and bide his damn time.
You’re about to break, he can tell.
Every night as you fail all cutely at playing with your pussy, Satoru is jerking it in tandem with you, watching you toss off those blankets in frustration, giving him a better view of your cunt on the cams. He smirks at how frustrated you get, how badly you fail, knowing you’ll need him more and more, every time he visits Fluffy and your sleeping form, he can’t help but spritz just a bit of his cologne in the air.
It’s cruel not seeing you fully naked yet, he’s seen bits and pieces on camera but fuck imagine you in reality, not just a tug at your top to show a pretty areola just beggin’ for his mouth, your pretty cunt and just a hint of the curve of your ass. What does all of you look like, not just the pieces?
Imagine taking his fucking time with you, not hastily fucking you on a desk rather than worshipping your pretty body, or devouring your pussy in a bathroom, when he wants so much more from you. He wants everything, every part of you to himself, worship you for fucking hours on end until you’re crying, sniffling your tears and begging him to put it in.
Take his goddamn time, have you at his place, not a car, a desk, a bathroom. You just deserve more, if you’d let him give it.
Even now his gaze traces to your tummy – wishing it was full of him, you’re such a stubborn brat. He knows you fucking want kids, why do you have to make him work so damn hard to give you what you need? But then… fuck, he loves that about you, he loves everything about you, including the independent ass streak you have, and the way you fight this.
You already were falling apart for him, you look at him and think he doesn’t see, shift in that seat with your thighs pressed together, so easy for him to read even as you struggle to hide it. Holding a perfectly normal class conversation while biting your lip, brushing your hair back in clear frustration.
Oh he’d fix it all if you just admitted it.
The class files out, and Satoru lingers – but this time he’s closer than usual, a breath away from you, hands barring you against the desk from behind. He brushes your hair off one shoulder, lips brushing against the shell of your ear, hearing the sharp suck in of your breath, feeling the curve of your ass pressed against his thighs, trembling in his hold as you pause there.
“You good, teach?”
“Am I good,” you laugh without humor shaking your head and turning then, pushing him out of your way, snatching up papers. “I’m great, how are you? You’re doing great as an assistant.”
“Aw, praise makes me leak pre sweetheart,” you blush furiously, glaring at his grinning face.
“You’re so ridiculous.”
“It does, though, especially from pretty teachers.”
“And are there other teachers you-” He grins wider and you curse, looking down at your hands, clutching pens and tossing them into a cupholder in your haste. “I didn’t say that.”
“Why be nervous about being jealous,” your eyes narrow. “It's hot.”
“Psh,” you are, you get jealous every time a girl comes to him, they all fucking flock and you’re a petty, immature woman for thinking anything like that. You’re a grown ass woman. “I am just curious if it’s a teacher fetish, not jealous.”
“When you lie you blush all over,” his fingertips brush your collar bone, you slap at his hand. “Even here. Wonder if your pretty tits blush?”
“They don’t, I’m hot in here…” He snorts, eyes darting down to your chest, suddenly too hit. “Are you going to that auction tonight?”
“Of course, my dad would lose his shit if I didn’t,” he leans back on your desk, crossing his ankles, hands in his pockets as he studies you. “Are you going?”
“Yeah, I guess.” He raises his brows. “What, so surprised?”
“Hmm, figured you’d be curled up with your cat on your couch, reading some Poe or something.”
You blink a bit then. “How’d you know I have a cat?”
“You seem like you do,” he taps your nose, watching it scrunch and smirking down at you. “Why so tense, ya mad I haven’t fucked you again?”
“No!? I’m not tense!” He snorts in laughter, you hastily start gathering your things into your arms, trying to ignore the desire clenching your stomach, the way you want him to take you, when he picks them up and sets them back down. “What are you doing?”
“Wanna go as my date?”
“You know I couldn’t,” your heart hammers in your chest until you’re dizzy, swallowing nervously when he tilts your chin up again, making you meet his eyes. “You like to tease me.”
“Oh I’d take you, sooner you end this career, the sooner you can have all my babies,” he’s chuckling like he’s talking about the goddamn sports show, fingers trailing down the side of your neck. “You just wanna prolong the inevitable.”
You swallow nervously, emotions filling your eyes suddenly, making them just a bit glassy. “You’ll outgrow me.”
Satoru glares now, hand pausing at your shoulder, before slipping down your arm, gripping it tightly. “Why do you say shit like that? It makes me wanna beat your bratty ass with one of your rulers.”
“Psycho,” you mumble, wishing you didn’t love it all so much. “Because you will. I figured you’d have a date anyway,” you try to act casual, he’s too fucking close, so much so you can’t breathe when he’s in this proximity to you. “So what’s it really matter if I go?”
“There’s only one person I want on my arm, one who won’t do it,” you shake your head, a hand now on your waist as he stands so damn tall, rising from where he’d leaned against the desk, making your breath catch. “And she’s currently being a brat about it.”
“Please Gojo, don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, but your protest is weak, your resolve crumbling under the onslaught of his breath against your lips, the way his eyes darken as they stare into yours. “I’m at work right now.”
“Yeah I know, my pretty professor,” he murmurs, stepping even closer, hands shaking when they cup your face. You swallow nervously, he hasn’t touched you all week, almost allowing you to be delusional enough to forget for just a bit of what his touch does. “She works so hard, and why, hmm?
“Because I… we…” Your eyes drop to his lips, feeling shivers run down your spine as his thumbs stroke your cheekbones in little circles. “We can’t do anything like that again.”
“And we haven’t,” he leans down, soft breaths back on your ear, you barely bite back a wanton little moan. “How have you been doing, without my fingers? My mouth? My cock?”
Fuck.
You back off then, bumping into the whiteboard, hands clenched into fists at your sides as you study him, this psychotic glint and a grin like you’ve challenged his insane ass somehow. Tall, broad shouldered, slutty waist, insane student… god, what did his body look like? How badly you want to see it, to feel him-
No, stop that!
“I’ve been good, I’ve kept my distance,” he breathes out those words, closing in on you, your head falls back as his hands slip up underneath the thin material of your little blouse, leaving a network of goosebumps all over your skin. “But I’ve thought about this mouth every single second, thought of biting that lip so you stop gnawing on it, drinking those soft moans you think I can’t hear.”
He runs a thumb over that lip, over the soft little teeth indentations, his breaths coming faster. “W-we can’t do it again, no matter if I liked it or not.”
“If you don’t want to, I won’t,” he tilts his head now as he puts a hand on the other side of your head on that board, using his size to corner you in that maddening way he always does, until you can’t escape the truth. “Tell me not to, that you don’t want me. Then I’ll leave.”
You wish you could, but when Satoru Gojo wants your kisses, you want to give them to him, want to be looked at the way he is right now, like you’re all there is in the world. Heady, dizzying, addictive, licking that lip and tasting just the hint of his skin that had been on your mouth, breaths making your chest rise and fall.
“Say it – ‘Satoru, I don’t want it’.”
You can’t say that, you instead just tilt your head back just a bit, biting that lip until he tugs it right out of your grip – and that’s when his lips crash down on yours, hungry and desperate, his lips taking you over. Your sigh drank by his mouth hungry and greedy, taking you over in the way that only Satoru Gojo can.
He loses himself in it, fueled by a week of forced restraint when all he’s wanted to be was buried inside you. He was going to tease you a bit, but everything takes over, when he feels your lips on his, your body pressed against him, the way you gasp, every bit of holding back and ‘teasing’ or making you come to him is over – all he can think of is how to get you closer.
Every flick of his tongue against yours, lips pressing and moving, hands trying to touch any part of you he could before you thought better, before your little morals got in the way. He loves that about you too – you’re so sweet and try so hard to be a ‘good person’ when you should just focus on him. <3
You wish you could say you held it together, that you pulled back away from the long pink tongue that’s claiming your mouth like he owns it, and maybe he does, if you admit it to yourself. Maybe you love the push and pull, the tension, the games you know he’s playing – maybe your tongue meets his stroke for stroke, and your hands tremble at your sides, aching to card through his silky hair.
Kissing Satoru was like a drug, like a shot of pure ecstacy in your veins when his mouth ruins you. One of his hands slides down your back, pressing you flush against him, letting you feel the hard, thick length straining against his pants, pressing right against your tummy, earning your soft little whine that just makes him lose it further.
Satoru groans in your mouth, hands bruising on your hips, lifting you up like it’s nothing, having your thighs press around his hips as he holds you against that board, cock even harder against you, throbbing near your heat. You barely catch a breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, nails digging into broad shoulders as he holds you, moaning your name when he pulls back.
“You’re insane,” you whisper softly against his lips, glossy from your kisses. He smiles just a bit, nuzzling your noses like he’s a cute angel and not a sexual deviant. “Put me down.”
“Give me a minute, fuck haven’t I left you alone long enough?” Your mouth is captured again by his, this time you give up any pretenses, kissing him back desperately, hand finally sinking into the soft white strands, tugging and making him twitch against that heat. “Mmph, Professor has claws.”
“Shh,” you whisper, letting yourself lose it in that moment, grinding and earning his whimper, the one that makes you want to suck him dry. “Crazy…”
“Beautiful,” you shake your head and he glares. “You are, I’m so tired of you being this way, should I tell you when I fuck you dumb how pretty you are? Replace it like some good conditioning?”
“Gojo,” you giggle despite yourself, before blinking and hearing people walk by, remembering where you are. Quieting a bit, hands pressing into the fabric of his shoulders, pressing another kiss to his lips. “You’ll condition me, huh? Like some experiment?”
“If it fixes that self esteem, too pretty to be that way,” you hate how deep your feelings run, the feeling of never wanting to not be with him. “Smack you every time you say some shit, maybe I’ll teach you.”
Yes, he’s insane.
Yes, he’s your student.
Yet he makes you feel so damn special, getting so lost in him, where nothing else seemingly matters, but how good it feels, the high of him. You’re tired of fighting it, even as you ask him to let you down, tensing just a bit.
He laughs softly, easing you down. “Nervous we’ll get caught?”
“Very,” you whisper, sighing when your pussy just throbs around nothing. “It may be fun to you, but I have to think of my career.”
“I’ll compromise,” his teeth nip your ear, hand on the small of your back tugging you close against his chest. “I’ll let you do some online teaching, as long as you’re at my house.”
“So generous,” you laugh softly, as if he’s kidding, but then it turns into a soft whine once those teeth nip your earlobe.
“I can’t wait to see what you wear tonight,” his words are hot against your neck, where his plush lips press. “I can’t wait to see how pretty it’ll look on my floor.”
“On your…” You swallow nervously, eyes fluttering shut when his lips trace the column of your neck, hot, messy kisses that drag all across your skin.
“Mmm, will you wear my lipstick?” He asks softly, pulling back and leaving you feeling cold suddenly without him, he brushes your hair behind your ear, tilting his head to study you.
“Maybe,” your words are soft, a little breathless, Satoru kisses you once more, snowy lashes fluttering shut as he savors your every little taste.
“Admit it, you wanted me all week.”
“N-no,” he snorts at that, shaking his head and stepping back, you are barely able to gain your bearings when he walks toward the door, turning and looking you up and down, as if he can tell your cunt is wet, that your nipples are hard.
“Guess I’ll see you tonight, sweetheart.”
******
“Oh Gojo, you know about…” Satoru is sure these girls are talking but he’s so fucking bored he can’t listen, just humming along a bit, sipping the champagne that’s offered and looking over the rim of the glass, scanning the crowd.
That’s when he sees you.
You’re so fucking beautiful for a moment he can’t speak.
The shit they write in books, the things he always thought were nonsense, it all starts to make sense when you walk into the crowded auction, alone and clutching your dress tightly, he can see the tense set of your shoulders, the whitening of your knuckles as you try to hold your composure, clearly you feel out of place.
You are out of place in the best way possible – these pretentious, arrogant old rich fucks are the literal opposit of everything Satoru Gojo ever hopes to be. Then there is you, genuine, sweet and caring, you’re not born with that silver spoon in your mouth. Your eyes stop on his and he can feel your own gaze drifting as his slips to your pretty breasts, hints of them displayed in that gown.
He’s the only one who should see them, only one who should see any of you. If he could lock you the fuck away he gladly would, keep you so busy having his babies you’d never get silly thoughts of independence again. The way you walk toward him, while he’s ignoring the fresh set of annoying heiresses around him has his heart racing.
Only you can do that.
You eye them then, pausing and looking down, and he instantly sees it, the nagging insecurities you have no fucking business having. If only you could see how he saw you – how beautiful and perfect you are to him, he’d spend all of tonight kissing every part of your body until you did. The thoughts have his cock twitching behind his slacks, hand tightening on the glass.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he gives the girls a friendly smile that they giggle at, walking right over to you, fuck he can damn near inhale your scent when he’s still feet away, spot you in a room without his eyes open.
Vanilla, something sweet, like a cupcake he wants to devour, he does have a sweettooth, after all.
“Satoru,” you look at him now, you’ve been calling him that lately, you haven’t been saying ‘Gojo’. Fuck he loves hearing it from your pretty lips. “You look um… you look so handsome and… fuck me…”
You cover your face and he takes your hand in his, sliding it off, you’re a flustered little mess of a girl trying to act all stern and put together. He smiles at your little act, pressing his lips to the back of your knuckles. “You think I look handsome?”
“You always do,” he should smirk, gloat, anything but the genuine look he’s giving you that has you melting, feeling his soft lips on your knuckle again.
It’s like he’s read every book you’ve ever had, the little moment of long ago when a man did things like that, him in his tux tonight, his glasses even match the color of his tie, those blue eyes so bright behind them you get lost. You almost act as if this is some normal date, a normal thing to happen, and not what it was.
Your student who was inside you.
“You look beautiful,” you feel the heat rising in your cheeks, his hand reluctantly lets yours go. “Gonna argue about it? Should I take you to the bathroom tonight too, remember last time?”
“Diabolical,” your mumble has him laughing then, and you can’t stop your damn lips from twitching. “Thank you.”
“She took a compliment, hmm,” you roll your eyes.
He does make you feel so beautiful, and you’re sad for the day it inevitably has to end, more than you’ll admit.
“Good girl.”
“Don’t say that,” you almost hiss, pushing at him as he just laughs, before his mother comes up, and you pull your hand back. “Mrs. Gojo.”
“Ah, the girl everyone talks about,” she tosses her silvery locks and smiles meanly at you. You’re used to his dad, but she’s even worse. “Gojo, what are you doing? Aren’t you supposed to be mingling with the candidates?”
“Candidates?” You blink curiously, feeling Satoru tense next to you.
“I don’t want to lose any more braincells talking to them, if I hear one more-”
“Gojo,” she says it more firmly now, clearing her throat as his fists clench. “You hear me, go mingle, they’re lovely ladies, and all of high standing.”
Your heart hurts more for him then, as you see the clear reluctance in his stature, the pressure must be insurmountable. “Yeah I think you’re wasting their time, and mine.”
“No indeed, I’ll find more if they’re not to your liking,” she looks at you again, smiling. “You should go mingle with the fellow professors, I’ll guide you.”
You look at Satoru now, seeing the clear anger that almost frightens you, it’s as if he’s just one step away from losing it.
The tiny part of you that keeps thinking this could be something is screaming at you, when he is forced to talk to women, and when you’re forced to talk to colleagues. A guy that’s cute hits on you and asks you to dance, you can’t stand it, another hand on your back, being in anyone else’s arms.
You can’t stand seeing Satoru like that either, all the ‘girl’s girl’ in you has turned into a petty, jealous bitch, and you hate it. You hate that you just want him to hold you, to dance with you, it’s all you can think, being back in his arms, as his parents are speaking to you and the auction is starting, you can hardly focus.
What’s wrong with you?
“Well when will you start your new position?” Satoru’s dad asks, while Satoru comes up to stand next to you, handing you a champagne flute. You take it eagerly, and both parents scowl when he places his hand on the small of your back.
Part of you wants to tell him - don’t. The other?
You feel a thrill rush down your spine, stepping a little closer, looking up at him, something unspoken between you both. “I’m having a lovely time, are you Satoru?”
“I am, Professor,” his hand curves possessively around your waist, smirking up at his parents now. “Such a lovely time.”
“And now,” the auctioneer announces, “A private collection here, this one is a first-edition of the Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe from 1867.”
“Poe? How pedantic,” Satoru’s mom says, tittering behind her hand. Your jaw sets now, teeth clicking together. “Oh sorry, do you enjoy Poe, professor?”
“My favorite,” you murmur, his parents and everyone around them laugh just a little bit. “What’s wrong with Poe?”
“Nothing, it’s fine for more… simple people.”
“Simple?” Satoru cuts in now, you practically feel how tense he is. “She’s as far from fucking simple as it gets. She knows more than anyone in this fucking room when it comes to poetry and writing.”
“You are a very big fan of hers,” Satoru’s dad mentions, stepping closer. “Go ahead and bid for it, professor. It’s one you could probably afford with the extra I sent, everything else will be too expensive for… you.”
The insult was so casual, you already felt so fucking weird here in a room full of rich people when you’re just a normal, middle class person. You felt the heat rush to your face, a humiliating blush that you couldn’t control, hand clutching your glass. You open your mouth, then close it, anything you said would only make it worse, and you need your job.
Satoru’s hand vanishes from your back, you suddenly feel the absence of his touch, looking at his parents now, realizing just a bit of what Satoru must have gone through being raised like this.
“It’s cute that Gojo loves you so much,” his mom says, leaning close now. “However I wonder if you two are too close?”
“He is my favorite student,” you smile now, something overtaking you. “You should be so proud of him, you know?”
“We are indeed. Do you need another advance to make an offer? I’m sure your income is-”
“Five thousand.”
“Five thousand starting off, do we have six?”
“Ten thousand.” That’s Satoru, you gasp, running up to him then, gripping your dress in your palms.
“Satoru you can’t! That’s too much!” He smiles down at you then, breaking your fucking heart.
If only it was just sexual.
If only it was just infatuation.
Not what this is, in that moment where he’s bidding ridiculous amounts of money for your favorite book, right in front of everyone. Your heart hammers in your chest so violently you think it will burst, struggling through your tears, burning your eyes and swimming in your vision. The inevitable truth that you’re falling for the most off limits man there is – the one who you thought was insane.
Well, he is insane, but you see it then, all that shit he says? He means it.
“Please don’t spend all that,” you whisper now, touching his shoulder. “I’ll feel so bad if you do. We can ebay it for way less.”
“Charity auctions are for paying stupid rates, yeah? It’ll go to something good,” he whispers, tilting your chin up, uncaring who saw you both. “Let me do something for you, it’s Poe.”
“It is Poe,” you whisper, lips trembling, stepping closer. “Don’t go higher.”
“Fifteen thousand.”
“Satoru!”
“You called me Satoru, I love that,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Will you read these poems to me while I drink your pretty cunt? Brush my hair back?”
“You’re so insane,” you whisper, core heating up.
This is crazy and dangerous but…
You nod.
Satoru grins, pushing up his glasses. “Just as a um… thank you.”
“I’ll spend anything for that sweetheart,” the bidding war was short, Satoru didn’t flinch at any number, just raising the price until the other bidder concedes.
“Sold! To the young mister Gojo.”
A smattering of polite applause goes around. Satoru goes to pick up the books, when his mother corners you. “You think I can’t tell what’s happening? You act as if you’ll have any chance at the Gojo name.”
“I don’t want that,” you whisper, seeing Satoru picking up the ridiculously expensive books now. “You don’t know me, and you don’t know him. I have no intentions of hurting-”
“I am talking about the Gojo name, not him,” you scoff now, glaring at the woman in front of you. “You’re a commoner. He has women lined up of high class.”
“Yeah guess what, I’m not trying to marry or be with anyone, first off, I’m just his teacher.”
“Are you?”
“Second off,” you continue. “Gojo is a grown man and should make his own decisions of who he will marry.”
“You’re an insolent girl, you’re lucky everyone loves you so much,” you smile meanly.
“They sure do. Everyone.” Satoru snatches your hand up now, handing you the beautiful collection, your heart hammers when you take the old books in your hands, inhaling them. “They smell so good.”
You’re so pretty like this, hugging the books to your chest and smiling, eyes fluttering shut.
It’s as if you’re the only woman in the room.
Then again, of course you are. it's always been only you.
“Need a ride?” He asks softly, his mother has stomped off, going to gather some of the girls he’s supposed to ‘dance with’ tonight. “I want to avoid them.”
“Then let’s go,” you whisper, he raises his brows in surprise. “You’re still a psycho and this is a fucking mess, but I…”
“You what?” He asks softly, stepping close and leaning down, brushing your hair back gently.
“I don’t want those girls on you,” you glare, and he grins. “Don’t look so pleased, insane ass boy.”
“I like you jealous, fuck it’s hot.”
“Just… let’s go,” you mumble, acting as if every fiber of your being doesn't already feel too much. You're constantly terrified Satoru will move on, though you don't even know how to begin to describe it.
Having him and losing him could break you.
Satoru's hand grips yours tightly, his own large one swallowing yours, guiding you until you're in the back of his limo. You – a simple girl. A teacher in the back of this extravagant limo, next to Satoru in a tux, you in this beautiful dress. You almost feel like an imposter in this luxury, but Satoru's arm around you makes everything feel so real.
It's mere moments before you're shamelessly straddling your student's lap – well, he’s your T.A. now too, just to add to your academic dishonesty – his glasses smacking against yours with the eagerness of your kisses. Him so sure, you so nervous, but he lets you rock your hips, lets that heat grind on him, moaning softly and urging you with hands firmly on your hips.
“Mmm, you didn’t have to do that,” you finally whisper, your voice barely audible as the rain starts pelting the limo.
Why is it always rain with you two?
“Yes,” Satoru leans back, hands trailing up the nip of your waist, insistent cock nudging between your thighs. “I did. Look how happy it made you, hmm?”
You giggle then at his little smirk, shaking your head. “Tonight let's just…”
“Put babies in you?”
“No!?” He snorts again as you lean forward, cupping his face in your hands. “You're batshit.”
“I know," Satoru’s lips brush against your nose, almost adorably like he's not actively trying to baby trap you. “Tonight what?”
“I want to forget what we are in the real world for just a bit,” you brush back his hair, fluffy underneath your fingers.
“What we'll be in the real world is married with six kids.”
“Six? I swear to-” he's dragging you back in for a kiss. “I almost believe you're this insane.”
“Oh, I am baby,” he glides you to rock on his cock over his slacks, eyes flickering up to yours. “Have you ever been full of cum?”
You heat up, blushing and shaking your head. “I've never… no one has came inside.”
Oh fuck.
His cock leaks at the thought of that – filling his pretty professor up, being the only one to do so.
“Then I’ll be the first,” he whispers, dragging you down and letting you rock your hips, no pattern or rhythm, just moving and gliding your heated cunt as Satoru’s lips trail across your tits, leaving wet, open mouthed kisses. “I’ll fill you up so much, just like you need.”
“I’m s-still gonna take the pill,” he chuckles at that, looking up under his snowy lashes at you, lip quirking up. “Two.”
“Sure you will sweetheart,” he leans up and kisses you again, breathing your scent in and sighing. “Your place or mine?”
“I’ll feel so nervous in your big ass mansion,” you admit shyly, he cups your face, nodding just a bit like he understands. “This is insane, isn’t it?”
“You’re asking me what’s normal?” You laugh again.
It’s too fucking easy.
He’s so beautifully open in his psychotic ass nature, somehow he’s adorable as much as he is terrifying, this goofy boyish grin as his thumb and forefinger pluck your nipple. Your head falls back, eyes fluttering in pleasure, feeling the slick mess you’re making him through your panties.
“Your place, then.”
You know he’s seen the outside of your quaint little home, but having him in here was different, he’s just so damn… big, how he takes it over, bending just a bit when he encounters your ceiling fan. You giggle at that, as he loosens his tie, stepping close to you.
“Your house isn’t made for me,” he says, pulling you close. “You need to live in a mansion, sweetheart.”
“Crazy,” you pause when Fluffy starts purring, running between your legs and Satoru’s. “Oh! She hates people, hang on let me put her up-”
Satoru bends down, picking up Fluffy like it’s nothing, holding her close and grinning at her, brushing her soft white fur as she purrs so loud you can hear it. You blink in shock, lips open, he smiles just a bit, his blue eyes unreadable – fuck he almost looks like Fluffy with the eyes and the soft white hair. You’re at a loss, mouth opening and closing, looking at the cat in confusion.
“She’s never liked anyone but me,” he shrugs a shoulder, brushing her hair back before setting her down, she rubs happily on his legs.
“Animals love me,” he says with ease, like this is normal. “All of them.”
“I um… guess they do…”
“Or,” he trails off, tugging you against him. “It’s a sign, meant to be, and all that, hmm?”
“Oh is it?” He picks you up in his arms, you’re hanging on to his neck, guiding you straight to your bedroom. “Um… how do you know-”
“Easy floor plan,” he sets you down and smiles apologetically at Fluffy. “Mama will come back in just a little bit, okay?”
Fluffy happily meows and runs off !?
Who is Satoru?
He sinks to his knees now, what a sight that is, looking up at you when you brush his soft hair back, earning a pleased little sound escaping his throat, nuzzling your palm just a bit, sighing. He presses a little kiss to it, pressing your back against the wall, before ever so achingly slow taking your heels off.
Just that is perhaps the most intimate thing you’ve had done, and everything is so quiet, your heart pounding in your ears, breath rapidly quickening as everything hits. Not the taboo of the classroom, the thrill of the bathroom, the quietness of the car in front of your home that first time – no, Satoru Gojo is in your house, guiding your stockings down next, thumbing the little garters that hold them up and exhaling.
“Fuck these are hot,” for a moment he does sound like the twenty two year old he is, you smile softly at that, his boyish little smirk when he presses a kiss to your thighs. “You’re just beggin’ for me to put babies in you.”
Never mind, he’s still insane.
“You wish,” he grins.
“I do,” soft lips press your inner thigh, your head falls forward, lashes fluttering shut when his breath tickles your skin, leaving goosebumps all over your skin. “I can’t wait to fold you in a mating press.”
“A what?”
“Mmm,” he’s adjusting his cock, the one you’ve been teasing since this morning in the classroom, looking up at your pretty flushed face when he has your legs bared for him. “A mating press, haven’t you read that in one of your books?”
“N-no,” you admit, tensing just a bit when his teeth scrape your skin. “Mating… some breed… thing?”
“Yeah, some breed thing,” he’s chuckling, standing slowly, turning you to face the mirror on your dresser, and you see him behind you. Feel him pressing so hard against you, making you ache for more. “You’re so cute, innocent little thing.”
“I’ve done things,” you have barely done shit, but you’re not a thirty year old virgin either. “Just not freaky things like you.”
“What a waste, I wish I met you four years ago.”
“I would not even then!”
“No?” You shake your head, he smirks. “Why not?”
“I’m already cougar enough,” he snorts, kissing across your shoulder, guiding the strap down with his teeth ever so slowly, you shiver just a bit.
“You’re young, stop acting that way,” he slowly unzips your dress, the sound echoing in the quietness of your room. “I don’t want anyone but you. How clear should I make it?”
Your eyes shut now, leaning forward when he presses you just a bit, guiding the zipper down until the dress falls off your shoulders. “I know I’m like the ‘hot teacher’ for you all, I’m not clueless to it. But-”
“One more ‘but’ and I won’t let you cum,” you laugh again, shaking your head and holding the dress up, his hands tug at your wrists gently. “No sweetheart, I’ve been obsessed since I saw you walk through the hall, thought you were gonna be in one of my classes. Then I found out you were teaching it? Not gonna lie it did make it hotter though.”
“Freak,” you smile at him though, letting your dress fall to a pool around your ankles, suddenly nervous. You do look young – you are still young – but you’re not perky as you were at twenty two, gravity has chilled just a little of that. Your hips aren’t as narrow as they were, the signs of being a woman now.
But his exhale says everything.
He walks around you, ever so slowly, brushing your hair back off your shoulders to reveal your pretty frame to his vision, his hands slip down the curves of your breasts, leaving goosebumps, your nipples hardening and begging for his mouth. Satoru’s seen you more than you know he has, but nothing really got him like that moment, where you make him nervous.
It takes a lot to make Satoru Gojo nervous, but suddenly he is, swallowing just a bit as he runs them down the nip of your waist, thumb brushing over a little freckle here, a little mark there. Things he couldn’t see before, things he wants to kiss and savor like the texture of your skin, how soft it is everywhere under his touch, down to the curve of your hips, pressing thumbs against your pelvis.
Your hands clutch at the lapels of his jacket, your chest rising and falling as you look up at him with dilated eyes, your lips parted ever so slightly. “Relax,” he murmurs softly. “You’re perfect.”
Whatever hopes you had of ethics and morals leave your body when Satoru kisses you, and for a moment he’s not the psycho that wants to control your life and make you have his heirs – he’s sweet, careful even despite you feeling his muscles tense, as if he’s trying not to fuck you right there. Easing you back until the backs of your thighs hit your bed.
Your hands tremble as you fumble with his buttons, he goes to help and you stop him. “I wanna do it myself.”
“There’s the bratty attitude,” you laugh again, shaking your head. It’s too easy to be like this, despite your nerves, he lets you undo his tie, slipping it over his head, finishing the buttons until you shrug him out of his jacket and dress shirt in one go. Your tummy flutters then, seeing his body for the first time, fingers tracing down strong muscles that flex underneath your touch.
You had felt his strength when he picked you up the way he did, but seeing him made your throat go dry, pussy clenching around nothing still in those panties, the only material left on your body. Your fingers dip lower, to his belly button and the white strip of hair leading to his cock, veins and cut muscles on either side of it, he moans softly when you touch them.
“You’re um… you’re so…” He cuts you off with a kiss, this one filthy and messy, no longer taking it easy, lifting you until you’re on the center of the bed and climbing on top of you. “Didn’t let me finish.”
“You’ll finish,” you snort, shaking your head when he slips off both of your glasses, slipping them on the nightstand, you tug him close and he smirks at you. “Gonna tell me one more time?”
“You know this is doomed to fail,” you frown then, caressing his jaw. “You’re Satoru Gojo.”
“And you’re my slutty little professor,” you bite down on your lower lip, his beautiful eyes even more intense without at least those glasses on, taking you over as he drinks you in, one hand braced by your head, the other slipping across your chest, then lower. “I’ll let you say once all you want, but you know you’ll never have anyone but me.”
“Satoru…”
“No one,” he shoves you up the bed, last bit of his gentleness done with, shoving your thighs back until you’re bent in half, gasping. “When I fuck you like this? That will be a mating press.”
“It w-will?” You’re so fucking cute, blinking up at him, he chuckles and lets your thighs down a bit, slipping your panties down your thighs, spreading them for him, baring your glistening cunt.
“It’s how you’ll keep all that cum inside,” you’re a flustered mess, his mouth kissing down your body. “I wanted to take my time then, but I got too… excited. Your fault.”
“Was it now?” You roll your eyes as he kisses lower, even though he’s done it before it’s even more intimate in your room, on your bed, the way he somehow owns it just existing here.
“I didn’t wanna just bury my cock right away,” he pouts a bit, kissing a little stretch mark on your inner thigh, sighing. “Cute.”
“They’re so not cute,” you feel cute though, when he kisses another little mark, then higher, right where your pussy is begging. Your hands grip his hair tightly, hips arching. “You’re cute, for a psycho who wants me pregnant.”
“Aww thanks teach,” he grins, before he laps his tongue all around your puffy lips, not giving you what you need, making you whine out in frustration. “I wanted you so ready you begged for it, not a quick fuck on your desk – though after the first time, I would have done that anyway.”
“Y-yeah?” He looks up under his snowy lashes, pressing another kiss to your bare cunt, breath tickling your twitchy, neglected clit.
“You’ve been rubbing her too much, tsk,” he parts those folds and smirks, eyes dark with need, already pussy drunk from just your scent. “She’s puffy, are you failing when you masturbate to me?”
“I don’t…” He kisses your cunt again. “Will you… just do that thing with your mouth please?”
“When you admit it,” you roll your eyes but soon they roll back, when Satoru’s tongue circles around your clit and then he blows teasingly. “You play with this pretty pussy thinking of your student.”
“You’re so slutty,” you grumble, tugging at his hair and arching. “You wanted me like this, now you’re teasing?”
“Edging is the term teach,” he flicks your clit again, humming.
“Gen Z… you’re such a… ah! Satoru, fuck, please!”
“I’ll get there,” he runs his fingers down your slit, gathering the juices pouring there. “Everyone knows what edging is, you’re just a little innocent thing.”
“Mmm, I’ve fucked okay,” he shoves two fingers in, stretching you so much you hiss. “Ah!”
“Barely,” he eases them back now, moaning softly at the sight of your arousal coating his fingers in a gloss, lapping it up with his tongue – lewd and fucking obscene, wrecking your damn ovaries. “Never got fucked good before me, did you? Never came before with anyone?”
“No, psycho,” he grins and slides his fingers back in, curling up until he hits that soft, spongy spot in your quivering walls. “Mnghhh, that thing, that thing!”
“Fucking adorable,” he leans back over you, pressing a kiss on your lips so you taste yourself, as he rocks them up and down, faster and faster, watching drool spill from your mouth. “Aww you’re so messy, I’m just starting.”
“Get in me now, t-terrible student,” he kisses you once more as his fingers wreck you, your hands gripping his biceps, feeling the muscles flex and move underneath your grip. “Insubordinate.”
“Fuck you’re gonna make me cum, can’t waste it when I need to knock my pretty teacher up,” you don’t even care what he’s saying anymore, you’re too lost in every rock of his fingers, every press up that has you close to falling apart in moments. “You love it that I jerk off to you, hmm?”
You shake your head, an utter lie and he knows it, pulling his fingers out right before you cum to slip them to your lips.
“Suck, little liar,” you obey, so ready for his cock you can’t even summon a coherent argument, sucking his fingers to the knuckles and bobbing your head up and down. He moans at the sight, cock twitching inside his slacks, exhaling and kissing you all over again, leaving your pussy throbbing. “Poor little cunt, she wants it huh?”
“I swear to god – just put it in and – mnh!” He’s shoved your thighs again, staring at the drool slipping down your hole, moaning at the sight of it, the way it winks right at him, arousal pouring. “Satoru!”
“So needy, so bratty, tsk…” He leans back down, tongue swiping from your messy hole to your twitchy clit, coating his tastebuds in you. “Mmm, I’m gonna take my time miss – it’s only once.”
You both know you’re full of it.
When Satoru’s mouth devours you he drinks you up, desperate and rutting the bed, grinding his aching cock with every gulp of your messy cunt, smacking it with a loud echo and your sharp gasp. He grins at the sight, smacking it again, looking up at you and licking his lips, hitting right over your clit.
“You love it, slutty professor,” he hums and smacks it again, before spitting right on it, watching it slip between those lips onto your little clit, you jerk at it.
“It’s wet enough!?”
“I know,” he spits again, swirling it all around with those long fingers, pressing back in as he watches you.
“Freak,” his lips curve as he crookes his fingers, massaging your inner walls, pressure building in your core, he leans over you now.
“I spit in your mouth our first date, remember?”
“Th-that wasn’t a date, you j-just… oh my god…” He’s tilting his head, eyes flicking down to your mouth, his free hand gripping your chin.
“Rude, that was our first date, remember? I got you your favorite coffee,” he talks casual as he slips his thumb between your lips, his other hand fucking your hole faster, the squelching obscene as you get so wet you pour and drip down your bed. “Then we read Poe, then I took you home. Hah, romantic wasn’t it?”
“Mmm,” your eyes roll back, he gently smacks your cheek, earning your cute little glare.
“Eyes on me,” his words are desperate, but he can’t help it, not when he’s got you where he’s wanted, and he’s determined to never let you go. “All mine, gonna stay mine, aren’t you? Let me fuck your pretty holes any time, just get on my knees and lick you under your desk every day.”
“Mnh,” he’s going faster now, you’re trying to focus, hands gripping the sheets tightly. “Toru…”
“Aw, a nickname? I love that, baby…” You’re so close, so achingly close to cumming, struggling as you try to keep eye contact with him, so intense the way he studies you, watches you, the wet sounds echoing even louder. “You only cum for me, hmm? Say yes, be a good girl.”
“Y-yes,” fuck you want to have some sense about you, but the obsessive way he stares, talks, works you? It’s pushing you even closer, breasts heaving up and down as the sounds get louder, messier. “Please.”
“You’re so pretty like this, beggin’ to cum,” he kisses you again, smiling against your lips when your walls clamp down on him. “Go ahead, you’ve been so good sweetheart. Cum.”
“Ngh!” You scream out when the orgasm washes over you, pleasure shooting out from that core, drooling from your cunt and your mouth as he works you faster, clicking sounds as his fingers rush through your wetness.
“That’s it, make a mess,” he’s fingering you through it, leaning down between your thighs to flick his tongue over your clit. “Cum again, then I’ll give you my cock, all my cum, pump you so full. What you deserve, bein’ s’good.”
Satoru’s words slur when he latches to your clit and sucks the tiny little thing in his mouth, humming then, you’re pushed over again, cumming so quickly it’s almost embarrassing – cumming so much it should be mortifying, but not when he’s slurping it all up, filthy gulps as his mouth catches every bit that gushes down. He moans as he drinks you up, lashes fluttering shut with pleasure.
“In me, in me,” you tug at his head, so oversensitive you’re shaking, struggling to cling to any sense of reality when he finally unlatches his mouth, chin coated in you and glistening. He hovers over you and he doesn’t even have to ask you.
You open your mouth.
Tongue out like a good girl.
He spits your release with a filthy little trail of gossamer, landing on your little outstretched tongue, when you swallow he moans audibly, pulling back to tug down his slacks, unhooking his belt with a little click. Your shaky fingers unzip him, tugging his boxer briefs down, showing that cock so thick, and leaking precum that you spread over the tip with your thumb.
“So eager, aren’t you? Thought this was once?” He taunts, slacks not even all the way off, he can’t wait anymore to be inside you.
“Shut up and fuck me,” he smirks, toying with his tip down your slit, bumping your clit and coating it with sticky pre. “Mnh!”
“You’re so needy, so cute tellin’ me what to do, hah…” Satoru keeps dragging it between your soppy folds, the sound of wetness and his cock moving through it even filthier. He braces an arm on one side, snatching up your thigh and dragging you down as he sinks inside. “Oh fuck… You’re so tight, shit…”
It’s hard not to bust the moment he sinks into your cunt, with those quivering aftershocks she feels even better than she did the first time, you’re so pretty underneath him with your hair splayed out, your nipples peppled and areolas all puckered for him. He cups a tit, you gasp out, whining.
“Sensitive?” You nod, he smirks then, pulling out ever so slowly, already coated in your slick, he moans at the sight, pressing back in, watching your lashes tremble. “You’re ovulating.”
“Shh,” you try to glare, but you utterly fail.
“It’s good, it means you’ll take my cum, won’t you? Get cute and pregnant, god just imagine it,” Satoru slides his cock all the way inside, bottoming out until his balls hit your soaked ass with a loud thwack, heavy with his seed. “Oh sweetheart it’s perfect, think birth control will stop this? Nah… I’ll fuck a baby into you even with it.”
“Psy- psy - nghh!” You’re done for, when he begins to move, you’re so close you almost cum with a few strokes, tears filling your eyes.
“Pretty when you cry, aren’t you? Pretty all the fuckin’ time,” he slams his cock now, the smacks of his pelvis against you loud, the white stubble right over his cock hitting your sensitive clit. “When aren’t you? Reading, studying, acting like you’re not dying to get filled by me.”
There’s no protest – you want this, want him, deep inside, so deep you can’t tell where you begin and he ends, all him. As he mumbles that ‘all me, all me’ you already know it’s true, when his rhythm kicks up and his cock is wrecking your hole, stretching you out on it and making you cry from it, tears streaming down your cheeks in glittery trails, so full.
“That’s it, so full of me, huh?” You sniffle and nod as he leans back, thumb brushing your clit, your thighs clamp down on his hips as his eyes trail, his pink, glossy lips parted, looking down between your bodies. "Look at that."
You follow his gaze, blinking the fuzz out of your eyes and you see it, the distinct outline of his cock pressing against your stomach with every thrust. The sight makes you clench around him, nails desperately gripping those blankets again.
“Are the blankets fucking you, sweets?” You can’t think, not when you see that, blushing and whining out when his thumb presses harder and you clench around his thick length. “Answer.”
“N-no,” he hums and starts moving now, just a little faster, smirking at you. “Close, close.”
“Greedy professor wants to cum again so soon?” He chuckles, cock gliding in and out of your now messy hole even faster. “Put those nails on me.”
You cling to him instead of the blankets, leaving crescent moons in his biceps as he moans from the pain, your cunt milking him when he just started. Your second orgasm crashes through you, even more intense than the first, so goddamn pretty for him to watch you fall apart underneath him – cryin’ out his name as your body convulses, nails digging into his back as he continues to fuck you through it.
“That’s it, slutty teacher takin’ cock like she’s made for it,” he shoves your thighs then, folding you in half and grinning. “This is my lesson. Today, we learn what a mating press is.”
“Satoru Gojo I swear you’re…” You can’t finish, not when your thighs are against your breasts, and he’s slamming his cock bruisingly, your head falls back as a weak little whimper escapes, him fucking you harder, faster, balls smacking as he hits that puffy cervix over and over. “You’re… Toru!”
“God that name,” he moans and grabs your face, using his body weight and his forearms to pin you down. “So goddamn deep, you feel me everywhere, don’t you baby? Say it, say it, all me. All me.”
“Y-you,” you’re drooling again, his thumbs collect it as his huge hands overtake your face, you weren’t even sure you could bend that damn way, but here you are, lost in his batshit crazy eyes, his desperate look, as he says your name like it’s a mantra, thick cock splitting you in half. “S’all you.”
“That’s it, all me, just me, only me,” he kisses you and moans desperately, slamming his cock even deeper, every stroke making his tip drag on your spot before it slams you so deep, your cries are weak and hoarse, body shaking with the effort of taking him – nine inches wrecking you. “You’re mine, gonna be mine, only me, never f-fuckin’ leave me.”
He kisses you instead of letting you speak, before leaning up and putting his bruising grip on your thighs, knees parallel to the bed as he fucks you so hard the goddamn headboard bashes your wall. His balls heavier, so full and ready to pump inside, and you’re just babbling nonsense, little pink tongue out, mouth wide open with every gasp.
Satoru uses it to spit in your mouth again, he doesn’t even have to ask.
You swallow.
You want every part of him, fucked out from him, drunk as he is off you, his cock twitching deep inside your walls as he uses you, his chest glistening with his sweat from the exertion, biting down on his lower lip and whimpering when he buries himself deep. He pushes in like that and you scream out.
“So deep! S’much I j-just… Toru y-you, ngghh.” You’re crying more, trying to take him like this, but you want to.
“You’ll take my cum perfect like this,” he whispers, whimpering again when he leans over you, soft white hair falling over his brow. “All my cum, take it sweetheart, fill your cunt up until you drip me.
You just gasp out when you feel it, the way it pulses, your eyes locking with his when he kisses you again – almost gentle for the way his cock is ruining your hole, for the way he has you bent in half. “Mnh…”
“Say you want it inside, tell me pretty professor, that you want my cum slipping out of your slutty hole in class. Don’t you?”
You shake your head and he smirks.
“Even now, trying, god it’s cute,” he sucks in a breath, so sensitive as he stares at your fucked out face. “Say you want it, deep inside, filling you up. Don’t you?”
“Inside me, please,” you finally whisper, he kisses you now, moaning into your open mouth when he cums, flooding your cunt with warmth you’ve never felt, so much it’s pushing you to cum again, and you’re not able to form a damn syllable.
It’s all a jumbled mess – just moaning his name as he whispers yours, kissing you over and over, sucking in a breath when he pulls back.
"Fuck," he breathes, the word a tickle of air against your swollen lips. "Look at that. Took every last drop. Such a good girl, you’re gonna be so round with me soon, hmm?”
“N-no,” he laughs softly, kissing your nose like he’s not actively trying to fuck babies into you and end your career.
“Precious, cute little professor,” Satoru is so in love with you when he eases out of your snug cunt, you whine out at the loss, but he needs to eye that cunt. He moans softly when he sees the white just pourin’ out of that hole, all abused and fluttering. “Oh she took it all, too.”
He’s dripping down your bed in strings of cum, when he uses two fingers to scoop up the mixture of his cum and your slick dripping from your entrance, pushing it back in your sore little hole, you whine out, the white sticky mess shoved back in your walls.
“Sensitive!”
“I know sweetheart, but we can't waste any of it," he grins, white teeth glinting in the dark lighting of your room. “You took so much, god you’re perfect. I already knew it, but you’re meant to take it, know my shape, get filled and pumped full. Fuck you deserve it all, pretty little teacher.”
He’s lost it, officially, as if Satoru ever was sane, you’re not sure that’s true, not when he eases his fingers out and sucks his own cum off them, moaning and fluttering his eyes shut. You let out your own soft moan at the sight, his seed trickling out of you, as everything starts to hit.
What do you want?
You love teaching, right? You love independence…
Right?
But you also love this psychotic, six foot four millionaire who’s tasting his own cum, who’s kissing you and letting your tongue be coated in it, the man whose white ropes are dripping out of your hole, abused and sore. Every muscle hurts from him, bruises forming on your thighs, hickies on your neck, all while he somehow manages to be cute.
How the fuck were you going to just do this once.
How would you have a career if you want your student to fill you up every fucking day? When you almost want to skip a damn pill, to let him have what he wants. His obsession is shaping everything, pushing your own obsession with him to the forefront of your mind.
Haven’t you always been enamored by him?
“Mmm, are you all right?” He asks almost gently then, choking you up just a bit when he brushes your damp hair back. “Too rough? You’re small down there.”
“Sore,” you admit softly, he frowns a bit, brows lowering. “Just alot.”
“Then let me take care of you,” you shake your head and go to protest, but it’s not long before Satoru is in the bath with you, too intimate, and you almost let treacherous words spill, lucking it’s also not long that you’re riding him in the tub, warm water splashing around you both.
“J-just one more,” he smirks lazily, watching his cute teacher – and future mother to his six children – bounce up and down his cock, sucking your puffy nipples into his mouth and guiding you to take more of him.
“Sure, professor,” he cums inside you again, then again when he lays you down for bed, this time he has your ass arched in the air, fucking you into your matress until your tears and mascara left on streak your pillow. He makes sure to empty his balls and drain them in your hole, until you’re snoring, all cute.
Satoru goes to grab water and Fluffy is purring, when you’re fast asleep, he sips the cool drink and picks Fluffy up, letting her purr.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be living in my penthouse before ya know it, hah… gonna have a way better view, and then you’ll have kids to play with and everything.”
Fluffy purrs.
Satoru smiles.
You’re going to be all his.
fluffy and Satoru teaming up LMAO - comments/rbs enjoyed if you liked this one!!!
ʚ🩷ɞ Viking Suguru Geto fucking the shit out of you ʚ🩷ɞ
(18+) based on this art
You had always wanted to leave this town.
Not in the dramatic way people whispered about like running in the night, fleeing with a lover but in the quieter, more dangerous way. Wanting more. Wanting elsewhere. Wanting a life that didn’t end exactly where it began.
So when the horns sounded and the elders shouted and people ran, something in you didn’t. Something in you stood still, heart racing not with fear but with a sharp, illicit thrill.
The Vikings came like a storm that knew exactly where to strike. They didn’t burn everything. Not like the stories said. They took what they wanted. Food, livestock, weapons and then they took people. Strong backs. Skilled hands. And women.
You were caught with twenty others, wrists bound loosely enough to remind you this wasn’t slaughter but claiming. That word passed from mouth to mouth like a secret prayer.
Claimed.
By dusk, you were marched into a hall so massive it swallowed sound. Warmth hit you first. The firelight, bodies, breath. Cattle were tethered near one wall, steaming softly. Elderly villagers sat guarded but unharmed, wrapped in furs the Vikings had draped over them without ceremony. Smoke curled upward into beams blackened by years of feasting and war.
The Vikings themselves were everywhere. They wore leather and wool, belts heavy with metal, boots caked in mud and salt. Hair braided or loose, beards thick, eyes sharp. They laughed loudly, drank deeply, moved with the ease of people who had never learned to make themselves small.
You were given water. Bread. Time. That surprised you most.
Girls around you murmured. Some were shaking, some curious, some already calculating. Duties were assigned not like punishments but placements. Kitchen hands. Bathhouse attendants. Laundry. Sweepers. Order within conquest.
A girl with tired eyes and a knowing mouth helped untie your wrists. “I’m Shoko,” she said, like this was any other day. “You’ll want to listen when they call names for that”
You asked her questions in a whisper…too many actually , too fast. She answered calmly, as if fear had already burned itself out of her.
“They won’t force you,” she said. “Not like you think. You can refuse. Work instead. Most do.”
You nodded. That should have been comforting.
It wasn’t.
Because they entered. A small group, distinct not because they were louder but because the room shifted around them. Conversations dipped. Eyes followed. Respect, immediate and unquestioned.
Your gaze snagged on him before you meant it to. Suguru Geto didn’t look like the others…not exactly. He was tall, broad-shouldered, built like a man who knew what his body could do and trusted it completely. His hair was long, dark, worn loose in a way that looked deliberate in its wildness. Where others were rough, he was… composed and had beautiful shiny hair.
Dangerously so…
He wore layered leathers, a fur-lined mantle draped back from his shoulders, and at his throat—just visible—a carved pendant tied with dark cord. When he moved, people parted. When he spoke, they listened.
You realized you were staring only when Shoko nudged you. “That’s him,” she said quietly.
You didn’t ask who she meant. He lifted a hand and pulled free the tie holding part of his hair back, letting it fall fully loose. The gesture was unhurried. Intimate, almost. As if he were shedding a version of himself he no longer needed.
And then like a blade finding its mark his eyes lifted.
Straight to you.
The moment stretched. You felt it settle into your chest, warm and dangerous. You didn’t look away. Neither did he. Around you, girls whispered. Some leaned forward. Some smoothed their hair. Some already knew this ritual, the unspoken language of attention and desire.
You leaned toward Shoko. “Who are they?” She smiled faintly. “The ones who claimed this town.”
Your eyes never left him. “And him?”
Her voice dropped. “The one they follow.”
You watched as a few girls were called forward, laughter and nerves tangling together as they were guided toward the camps beyond the hall. You asked where they were going, already knowing the answer in the way your pulse answered before your mind did.
Shoko didn’t judge you. She never did. “Girls die to be chosen,” she said. “Especially by him.”
You swallowed. “And if I don’t want that?”
“Then you say no. You work. You live.” A pause. “But many hope to be underneath them”. You told yourself you were only curious. That this was fascination, not hunger. That the heat curling low in your stomach meant nothing.
Later, when a name was spoken—your name—and a guard gestured you forward, you understood how thin those lies were. You stood outside a particular camp as the firelight flickered and the night breathed around you. The air smelled of smoke, leather, and something metallic and alive.
Shoko squeezed your hand once before stepping back. “Be careful,” she said softly.
You lifted the tent flap.
You stepped into his camp, the firelight flickering against the canvas walls, casting long, dancing shadows. The ground beneath your feet was uneven, warm from the embers outside, and the air inside the tent was thick with heat… and him.
“Do you know why you’re here?” His voice cut through the warmth, low and sharp.
“Yes. I’m aware,” you said, though your chest felt tight.
“Have you done this before?” His eyes searched yours, probing, almost testing.
You nodded once.
“With?”
“With a guy,” you said quietly, feeling a strange mix of pride and shame. “I liked it.”
He didn’t answer right away. He just stepped closer, closing the space between you until it was almost suffocating. You could feel the weight of him before his shadow fell over you.
“You’re bold,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His touch lingered, deliberate, but distant, like he was both here and somewhere else entirely. You were wearing a frilly white dress, almost like you had nothing on. You were known for your striking beauty and long wavy hair. And as his eyes drunk your frame - he was on top of you.
45 minutes in and one of Suguru’s hand braced beside your head, the other at your neck chocking you. “Nghhh-fuck-GOD-yes” you screamed, practically aware that the entire town could hear you.
His mouth was open as he breathed on your mouth and you could smell him, raw and heavy, a mix of smoke and sweat. Your lips hovered near his, almost touching, but he didn’t kiss you. Instead, he let the tension—the closeness—speak.
“Feel me?” he whispered as his big hands pressed on your belly.
“Yes,” you breathed, though your words sounded small in the large, warm space of the tent.
He pounded into you harder, his rugged breath brushing your face. Sweat glistened at his brow, dripping down, tracing a line to your cheek. His eyes were half-lidded, dark and demanding, yet somehow detached, like he was measuring you, testing boundaries you didn’t want to cross.
“You’re so small,” he said quietly. “So fragile under me.”
You shivered. Tall, strong, commanding—he was everything you were not, and yet you felt yourself drawn to him, aching to belong to him even if he didn’t fully belong to you. He adjusted one of your leg on his shoulder, angled his 9 inch girth better and rigorously hit at that exact spot that could make you moan dripped in lust and drool.
“Do you like it?” he asked, almost casual, but there was an edge to it, a teasing that cut through you.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Fuck yes- want this. I want you inside me like this.”
He paused, letting that sink in. “Do you know what that means?”
“That I want to be yours,” you said, steady, though your stomach twisted.
And then he moved closer, pressing over you fully. One hand on your neck, the other tangling in your hair. “You wanted this,” he said almost to himself. “Didn’t you?”
“Yes,” you admitted, heart racing.
“I could do this all night,” he murmured, voice low, possessive, yet strangely hollow. “Never get bored of fucking you. I’d keep you here. Make you mine.”
The bed beneath you felt warm, soft, but distant somehow, like the heat was between your bodies but not your hearts. The firelight flickered across the tent walls, highlighting him and you in a frame of shadow and desire.
“God- you feel that?” he asked again. Obscene sounds filled the room. The entire makeshift bed was covered in your slick.
“Yes,” you breathed. “I do….Fuck..right there” tears pricked your eyes.
“You’re mine,” he said firmly, yet his eyes drifted elsewhere for just a second, like part of him wasn’t entirely here. “No one touches you but me.”
“No one,” you whispered, trying to ground yourself in him, though a pang of longing and fear settled deep in your chest.
He leaned down, teeth grazing your ear. “I could hear you all night,” he said, voice rough. “I feel so pussy drunk.”
“Hahh,” you giggled, and yet, in that yes, there was a little tremor of doubt.
He pressed closer, the heat of his body consuming you, but somehow there was distance in the way he moved—intentional, measured. “I’m so jealous of whoever got to claim you before me. I’ll probably look for him and kill him huh?”
“You’re mad,” you whispered, though part of you enjoyed this madness.
When he finally eased back slightly, he didn’t leave. He traced his way to your face, eyes locking with yours for a heartbeat that stretched too long. “Open,” he said.
You obeyed.
He paused just long enough to brush his cock against your lips, moved his dick like he was applying chapstick on you. Your lips are soft,” he murmured, and the warmth of his words didn’t quite reach the cold distance in his gaze.
You closed them slightly, instinctively. He watched the way the color bloomed there. “Good girl,” he said, low and approving. “Just like that.” he groaned and fucked your throat till you were a drooling mess.
Even as he emptied his balls on your tongue, you felt the sting of disconnection, the way desire mingled with an emptiness you couldn’t name. You wanted him, needed him, yet he seemed untouchable, a force of nature you could never fully claim.
You slurp him good. Make sure you don’t waste even a drop of his oh so precious seed. He takes his cock out and slaps it on your cheeks and calls you beautiful.
Your stomach flipped at that and yet you wanted more. More of his hands on you, more of his hot-needy mouth. More of his width ripping you open. More passion. You LOVED deep-throating him. Loved his balls slapping your chin. Loved the tears that travelled till your neck.
He puts you in a matting press and starts bullying your pussy again. You realised he likes it wet snd messy. He got off on the feeling of eating you out like the viking he was, on spitting on your clit, watching your slick travel south with his narrow eyes. Loved fucking the living shit out of you while he could feel how wet you got for him.
You smell entirely of him, and that's how he wanted it. He has all both your hands on the top of your head. He picks up his hair tie from the side of the pillow and ties your hands with his hair tie, a gesture that screamed that now you were his.
He groans while nibbling at your throat. “Don't move”. He squeezes your boobs with his big strong hands, slaps them, spits on them and sucks them better. Sucks them so much that they start hurting. Just as this wasn’t enough. You got turned to your stomach and were now head-locked and manhandled in prone bone. His large frame covering your little one. He rams into you again.
“Fuck, that’s the sluttiest hole I’ve ever filled”. He fucks you even faster, as if it was possible.. His thumb now pressing on your clit, tucking it low.
Then he comes again, kissing your cheek and your eyelashes. He starts marking you then—not hurried, not frantic, but intentional. From just behind your ear, his mouth lingers, warm and claiming, before trailing downward in a slow, deliberate path. Each place he touches feels chosen. Meant. His presence follows the line of your body like he’s memorizing it, leaving behind heat, pressure, reminders.
He pauses between your breaths, presses closer, bites just enough to make you gasp—and then returns to your ear.
“Mine,” he says softly.
The word settles into you deeper than anything else.
You realize, somewhere between one breath and the next, that he likes the mess of it—the heat, the intensity, the way everything blurs together. He takes without hesitation, without pause, as if that’s the only way he knows how to exist. He keeps taking, and you let him, because part of you wants to be emptied out by him, wants to be needed that badly.
Time stretches. You lose track of it completely.
When it finally slows, he collapses over you, heavy and warm, his weight pinning you there. His hand traces over you absently, here and there, like he’s grounding himself again. He exhales against your skin, long and spent, and for a moment just a moment—it almost feels intimate.
He lifts his head, studies you with a look you can’t read, and taps your cheek lightly.
“You did good,” he says.
You don’t understand what just happened. Not fully. All you know is the ache in your chest, the greedy pull toward him, the sudden, overwhelming need to belong to him completely—even as something inside you knows that you never truly will.
He shifts, drawing away, collecting himself with practiced ease. As he steadies his breath, he reaches for his robe and slips it on like armor, like a return to something untouchable. By the time he stands, the distance between you feels wider than the tent itself.
He turns as he reaches the entrance.
“My wife will see you out.”
…
Your heart stutters. The man you were just beginning to fall for—the one who felt consuming, overwhelming, impossible has a life you were never meant to touch.
You gather yourself slowly, hands trembling as you stand. He returns briefly, almost as an afterthought, tying your dress back into place with careful fingers. His touch is gentle now, detached. He strokes your cheek once, presses a brief kiss to your temple.
Then he leaves the tent.
And you’re left there alone, surrounded by fading heat, lingering scent, and the echo of a word that still burns in your chest:
Mine.
Not as a promise.
As a wound.
Sorry!
A little new year’s eve gift 🎁 because I keep going off of this app lol.
You're in between degrees (you just can't decide!) and working at a coffee shop, living with your boyfriend when just a week before Christmas he leaves you and kicks you out! Stuck staying at the coffee shop, rich Satoru Gojo - a regular - just so happens to have his poolhouse for rent, and offers to help you out. He couldn't be the reason you're kicked out and need him, right? Your car didn't go out because of him, and your shitty boyfriend didn't leave you because of his threats - no, it's just a hallmark Christmas miracle!
pairings - yandere! Gojo x barista! reader
warnings - stalking, manipulation, soft yandere (he wants what is best for you!) videoing without consent, masturbation, oral sex, tons of sexual tension, p in v sex, tying you up w/Christmas lights, creampie, size kink like a mf, Toru has a hell of a breed kink hehe, lil cute oblivious reader, honestly this fic is oddly cozy for a smut fic. 8.2k WC
A/N - Merry Christmas angels, have a smutty gift from me hehe <3
art is by @hunnismokah!
Your luck for Christmas is terrible.
Imagine, a few days before your boyfriend just breaks up with you, and worse than that, you live with him. Out of nowhere, you go from cuddling in his bed, to him telling you he just doesn’t feel anything anymore. Staying at your boss’s coffee shop for a couple nights was just humiliating, but she was nice enough to give you an advance to help you find somewhere.
Yet this was so not what you were thinking this holiday would be like – having no family really you clung to your boyfriend a lot. You thought maybe you’d even get engaged this year, you spent all your extra money on nonrefundable tickets for him too, so it left you completely screwed.
The snow is beautiful and all, but you’re not feeling very ‘merry’ not even with Mariah Carey blaring in your ear in the soft atmosphere of the coffee shop, yawning with the shitty sleep you got last night on the office couch. Your boss hasn’t kicked you out but you of course want to get out of her hair, she’s kind enough to you to help you out as much as she has.
The bell jingles as one of your regulars walks in – every morning like clockwork he’s here to order the sweetest, most sugary thing on the menu. He’s devastatingly handsome, something you’ve been avoiding admitting to yourself while with your man, but now? You can’t help but feel your heart race when his pretty blue eyes lock on yours, and he shakes off droplets of melting snow from silvery locks.
His smile is easy and bright, he’s all wrapped up in an expensive black overcoat today, boots swiped on the rug so as not to make a mess of the hardwood floors. Almost no one comes in quite this early, so it’s just him and a couple people who are in line in front of him.
Gojo is his name.
Always sweet, always tips too much, always ready for that caramel frappe with far too many pumps of vanilla. You already are getting it going when he gets up there, hands in his pockets. Fuck he’s so tall he towers over everyone in the damn coffee shop, you’re not sure he’d even have fit in your little apartment ceilings without dipping his head.
You nervously look down when you feel his baby blues on you – you haven’t even showered in a couple days, you bet you look terrible. You hope he doesn’t notice the eye bags, either, or the dark circles, but he’s already carefully assessing your face, frowning just a bit.
“Everything okay?” He asks softly, you sigh a bit now, almost breaking down from the question.
“Um… shit, I’m sorry,” you swipe at your eyes now, snow is falling all around the coffee shop from the outside in a gusty wind, already several inches piled up, plattering on the glass like you’re in a little snow globe. “I shouldn’t get like this.”
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? No smile like usual…” He murmurs, as if he doesn’t know.
As if he hasn’t had his eye on you for weeks since he first walked in and saw you clinging to that shitty little boyfriend you had. He knew at that moment – you had to be his, but even so he tried to maintain a bit of distance, to learn more about you, study everything there was to know. He was patient, he could wait for you.
Until he saw him with some other girl – well that sure the fuck wouldn’t do. Who would cheat on you when they had you?
Satoru had paid him a ‘nice’ little trip after that, and threatened him so much he’d pissed his pants. Satoru had chuckled at just how pathetic that boy was, but really you were much better off without a cheating asshole. Even though he knew you were currently staying at this coffee shop – your car hasn’t left it – he did all this for your own good, really.
It was way past time for him to have you for Christmas, filled with his pretty white cum, he’d give you so much of it too, in all your holes. He’d decorate you in Christmas lights and tie you up, make sure you never left – why would you though, when you finally were his? You’d never have to work this shitty job again, he would keep you so full of cum you’d have trouble walking anyway.
The thoughts alone make his cock twitch underneath his slacks – he really should feel just a bit sick and depraved for his thoughts, but weren’t they sort of pure? Didn’t he just want to give you a perfect white Christmas?
“What’s wrong?” He asks, feigning confusion but not concern.
Of course he was upset you were hurting, even though you’ll be so much better off soon. God don’t you deserve it?
“Bad breakup ugh, I think I’m not getting enough sleep,” you mumble, handing him his warm coffee cup then, steam rising in a puffy little cloud. “Please take this free, for me just sobbing like this.”
“No way,” his fingers brush yours now, you gasp just a bit at the connection, before blushing right under his gaze.
Fuck you’re pretty.
“Are you okay honey?” Your boss comes to you, a hand on your back, you nod quickly, swiping tears. “She’s just having a rough Christmas.”
“How so?” Satoru asks, leaning on the counter, elbows propped up on the glass, setting his cup down.
“Please you don’t have to listen to my fucked ass life lately, I’m sure you have work to get to.”
“I run my own company, sweetheart,” you and your boss swoon at his little smile. “So I have time.”
“Why don’t you get a coffee with him?” Your boss nudges you just a bit, you frown at her.
“Are you sure?”
“Go ahead, sit for a bit,” she makes you a cup. “I’ll take over.”
“You’re too good to me,” you murmur, she just pats your back, and you nervously look at Satoru, clearing your throat now. “Do you wanna sit for a few?”
“Of course, I have time, Christmas is dead at the corp.”
“You do marketing, right?”
“Mhm, thrilling shit,” you giggle a bit, melting him like the snow that’s left little wet drops on his coat. Your cute, puffy eyes and nose just a little rubbed raw clearly, he can tell you’ve been crying over that trash.
He can’t wait to make you feel so good.
“No one wants to buy anything so things are slow, it’s kind of just hanging out at the office right now,” he leans back, sipping the drink, letting the sweetness hit his tongue and moaning. “You make the best coffee.”
“No way!”
“Mhm, it’s why I come, also…” he trails off with a little smile.
“Also what?”
“Pretty baristas make my morning better.”
“Oh, not me right now,” you’re a flustered mess, brushing back your hair now, sighing. “You’re sweet though.”
“Am I?” He certainly isn’t thinking anything sweet, no he’s imagining if your cum tastes as good as this cream in his coffee.
“Very, ah where do I begin?”
“I guess why you’re crying, I’m a good listener,” his knees brush against yours under the little table, you look out at the snow for a moment, sighing.
“I may have gotten kicked out and broken up with.”
“Ouch, on Christmas?”
“Yeah,” you grimace, sipping your coffee, feeling the bitter beans coat your mouth in warmth, looking back at Satoru’s handsome face. “It’s like some shitty hallmark movie, I’m staying here till I get a new place.”
“At the coffee shop?” He blinks just a bit, you frown, nodding. “Well, then I have a Christmas gift.”
“What’s that?” you set the cup down, he pulls out his phone now, showing you a picture with a little smile. “Is this…”
“My pool house, I was just putting it up for rent. My friend lived there for a bit and moved out, so I was gonna see if anyone wanted to rent it out, it’s three bedrooms and fully furnished.”
So his poolhouse was bigger than your apartment – three times as big as you flipped through the photos.
“This is just your poolhouse?”
“Yeah, this is my house,” he swipes right to a literal fucking manor. “Pretentious, I know, the family home blah blah.”
“No it’s beautiful,” you hand him back the phone, frowning a bit then. “The thing is, I spent all my damn money on this guy, I do have an advance, but no way I could afford that.”
You were getting a whole different degree after over five years of college, and you’re another two years in. You feel you’re the only twenty five year old starting all over, but you just hated what you majored in – thus the barista job. You’re literally a walking cliche, and here is this rich CEO being way too sweet.
“Maybe like when I graduate I could afford-”
“I’ll give you crazy cheap rent,” he wouldn’t charge you a fucking dollar. “Like just whatever you can pay comfortably.”
“What?” You blink now, gasping. “Why?”
“Why not help out? I wanna be on the nice list and all,” he smirks just a bit, far too charming, fucking you up with that look. “It’s Christmas, you shouldn’t be staying in a coffee shop.”
“I don’t know how I’ll repay you, though.” You blink back tears now, Satoru’s hand brushes one aside gently, a cool touch on a heated cheek.
God he could think of many ways, you on your knees for him, the weight of his cock on your tongue, sliding in and out of that pretty, perfect mouth. You bent over his desk, letting him pump his loads into you, before he fingers them right back in your cunt, making sure to keep it in, breeding your perfect pussy.
“You can make me coffee at my place every morning,” he says softly, snowy lashes flickering just a bit across your face. “Maybe cook me a real Christmas Dinner, I haven’t had one in a long time.”
“I can absolutely do that!” You smile all big and pretty – Satoru will send the cooks away for a bit, just to see your cute little ass in the kitchen.
God, imagine when you’re round with his babies, you’ll be so perfect.
“Then it’s set, I’ll help you move your things tonight.”
“It’s not much,” you admit, frowning now. “Like clothes, laptop, a couple things… I can just um… bring em in my car.”
“Whatever’s easier, I’ll meet you there at five, here’s the address,” he jots it down on one of the napkins, handing it to you with his number on it.
“I don’t know how to thank you enough.”
“Just consider it a Christmas gift, mmkay?” He stands now, and you eagerly get up, hugging him before you can stop yourself, feeling his hard body against yours, his heart racing in his chest underneath your cheek. His hand comes to your back.
He smirks.
Things are working perfectly.
*****
“You don’t have to do all this,” you get emotional that night, when Satoru shows up with the cutest Christmas decorations.
The first night there was him showing you around, he was so sweet when he came to you with a huge tote, covered in lights and little ornaments and even a little mini tree. He’s got this cute little santa hat perched on one side of his head, he’s changed into this soft sweater and dark jeans after work instead of the suit you usually see him in.
You’d never guess that he was bringing you little things to spy on you.
“Nonsense,” he says, setting up the little tree and giving you a devastatingly attractive smile. “A place needs a little Christmas spirit, also I have so much just sitting, really.”
You help Satoru meticulously place each ornament, shoulders brushing each other, making you heat up a bit from the nerves. The pool house is warm, there are soft cinnamon candles he had the maids bring over and light when they cleaned the place just for you today.
This shit can’t be real – maybe you’ve hit your head watching a dumb Christmas Rom Com and so happened to dream him up. He smiles over at you, his eyes a myriad of blues, flickering candles reflecting in his pupils, lighting them up and making it so intense you can hardly breathe. Both of your hands reach for the same decoration, making you pause and pull back.
He picks up a delicate, hand painted crystal decoration, holding it up just a little bit. “That’s like a Tiffany!”
“Mmm, I guess,” he shrugs, not realizing all these damn ornaments are just insanely expensive. “This one can go right here. I have a few others too. Look, this is Frosty.”
Your eyes light up so pretty when he shows you the cute plush little snowman, you take it and smile, brushing your fingers across the soft white fur. “He’s so adorable, oh my god.”
“You can put him in your room if you want,” he mentions casually. “Or we can put him on one of the shelves.”
“No way, he’s too cuddly,” you hug him tightly, smiling at Satoru then. “Ah, thank you so much!”
“You can keep him too,” you’re looking right at that little camera in the snowman’s black eyes, oblivious, working perfectly to his plan.
Imagine getting to watch you touch yourself.
He’s got another little Santa, another camera, it’s like everything lined up so perfectly – you and him.
He walked over to a small shelf on the wall, putting that Santa right there, smiling and feeling your gaze penetrate his back. You’re sitting on the arm of the couch when he turns back around, legs crossed at the ankles, hugging on to the little snowman closely.
You’re so perfect like that.
It takes a lot to play a slow game, to make you need him, to make sure he takes his time even with you here. But not sinking to his knees and worshipping you seems almost a cruel joke – isn’t it what you deserve? Instead he walks over to you, tilting your chin up just a bit.
“How are you doing?” He asks softly.
“This morning I was crying my eyes out, sleeping on a couch, now I’m here. It feels like a dream.”
“Good dream?” You smile at that, his fingers feel too good on your skin, you almost hate it when they drop.
“Very, but I guess I am really nervous. How to pay-”
“Don’t say pay me back, please,” you bite down on your lower lip, as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, goosebumps rise from just that, your body reacting to his little ghosts of touches.
“You should get some rest, you went through a lot today.”
“Yeah, that bed looks so comfy oh my god,” he chuckles just a bit.
“You’re so cute.”
“Nah. Maybe after a good night’s rest and a good bath.”
“Well feel free to anything, I’m right over there if you need me, yeah?” You nod, he leans down and for some insane moment you wonder if he’ll kiss you, but instead he just stands and smiles. “Good night Sweetheart.”
“Night, Gojo.
He leaves quietly without another word, the front door clicking shut, you hug that little snowman tightly to you. Even after you bathe and dry your hair, you can’t help but hold on to him, peering at the phone now, you look up your ex’s socials out of a morbid curiosity – just to find him taking Christmas pictures with another girl.
You glare at that screen.
He just broke up with you, how is he in matching pajamas? Unless… unless he had her the whole time.
“Shit.” You turn off your phone, you’ve cried so much there aren’t any more tears now, just burying your face against this cute snowman Gojo gave you.
Satoru Gojo, the man who’s literally like some Christmas Miracle, just who was he, and why was he so kind?
*****
The next morning, you remember Satoru bringing up making his favorite drinks and meals, so you cross the snow-dusted lawn to the main house. It was even more beautiful in the daylight, bright and modern, so big it’s insane to think he’s all alone in there, but you suppose that’s just what he’s used to. You find the key under the mat where he’d said it would be, nervously letting yourself in.
You feel a bit like some intruder, but you’d love to surprise him as a thank you, tomorrow was Christmas Eve and you didn’t exactly have anything to give your new… landlord? Is that what he was?
What was Satoru really?
You take in the bright, ridiculously clean home and shut the door behind you, leaving the chill outside, walking towards the kitchen. That alone was a chef’s dream, all marble counters and stainless steel, he has three fucking ovens – what do you even do with three ovens.
“Holy…” You trail off a bit, taking in your surroundings, peeking around each pretty white cabinet to find coffee. You feel even more like a damn intruder, ransacking his things, but he had said ‘make yourself at home’. Oh, he said sweetheart too, as if to wreck your ovaries.
You think Satoru threw you from depression into ovulation with that little tilt of your chin last night.
You grind up expensive coffee beans you find in the pantry, the scent making you feel like you’re right back at work. Sighing at how good it smells, you get to work making him the perfect cup. Then you get hungry, and find an almost empty fridge – he has a full deep freezer of various ice cream cones and flavors but hardly any real food.
How does he keep a body like this when all you proceed to find is candy and junk food all over?
It’s almost endearing, as put together as he seems, it’s a little hint of a bachelor pad, but you do find eggs and pancake mix.
“That’ll work…” You start whipping up fluffy pancakes when he comes out, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, staring right at your pretty little ass in those leggings.
You, in his kitchen.
Making him breakfast?
He bets that loser never appreciated something this sweet, but he sure the fuck did, watching in awe almost as you whip your little arm around, the pan already sizzling with oil.
“Well, well,” you turn and then gasp, he smiles over at you, shirtless with just soft sweats on, your eyes drift down before you stop yourself. “What do we have here, are you makin’ pancakes?”
You felt a blush heating up your cheeks – god his body was perfect, hair a little messy from his sleep, his eyes lidded with a lazy smile. “I hope you don’t mind me like… breaking in? I wanted to thank you for everything, so I thought I’d at least make you breakfast.”
He walks over to you, saunters is the word, those v cuts on his hips and that silvery happy trail fucking you up, you swallow nervously as he comes to stand right in front of you.
“Do you like pancakes?” You manage to ask, he smiles, leaning down a bit.
“I do,” he reaches down, his thumb brushing a smudge of batter from the corner of your lip, making you gasp. He brings his thumb to his own mouth, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly licks it clean, smirking at you. “Delicious.”
Fuck.
Fuck was that!?
Your breath catches in your throat, you swipe a now clean corner of your mouth where you’d tasted the chocolate chip batter, feeling that gaze ruining you. He’s so close you feel the warmth of his body, your heart hammering in your chest so violently it feels like it’ll burst out. His hand falls now, seeing the pancake turning golden in the cast iron pan.
“Oh!” You quickly flip it, exhaling in relief that it’s not burnt. “I made that coffee too for you!”
“Looks perfect,” he smiles and takes the cup, blowing on it for a moment all casual, as if that moment was something normal.
Licking his thumb making you think of the most obscene, lewd things.
“Thank you sweetheart, I could get used to this treatment,” you smile back at him, trying to act normal.
“Well I’ll gladly do it every morning, not like I wasn’t for… much less deserving people,” you grumble now, he frowns at that. “You don’t need to hear my bullshit.”
“I have a few before work,” he sips his drink and sits as you put a pancake and a bunch of syrup all over it. “God, they’re so good.”
“Oh thank you!” You sit next to him now, settling in the chair and sipping your own drink.
“No thank you,” he laps at his lower lip with a long pink tongue you just shouldn’t fucking look at really, clearing your throat with a little smile. “Did he contact you?”
He better fucking not have.
Satoru paid him off well enough.
“No, no, he’s got these fucking matching pj pics on IG, the little shit,” Satoru grimaces.
“Well that’s just shitty, I’m sorry…”
“I’m just glad I did end up leaving,” you swipe a little syrup dripping on his chin now, licking it, watching his eyes dilate. “Mmm, yum.”
Fuck. Are you trying to ruin him?
“Tomorrow I have friends coming over for Christmas Eve,” he says then, gripping your wrist now, thumb trailing the underside of it. “I’d love you to come over too.”
“Oh but won’t it be so weird?”
“Not at all, they’re kind of my family.” You blush once more, looking down. “I’m guessing yours is distant?”
“Yeah, they are…” Satoru already knows. No dad, your mom seems to have nothing to do with you, and no siblings he could find anything on.
Satoru will give you a family though, he thinks it as his gaze drifts to your stomach, smiling just a bit imagining how pretty it will be round.
“I’d love to come over.”
“Perfect.”
That night after work back in the pool house – you couldn’t sleep. The memory of his touch, of the look in his pretty blue eyes, that damn tongue licking his thumb that way? It was fucking you up in all sorts of ways, every casual touch or close proximity to Satoru was sucking your breath away, until you couldn’t even remember how you got here.
Your ex wasn’t even in your mind whatsoever, not right now, no it was just Satoru flitting through your head, images of him, feelings and touches. Tonight he made sure you ate dinner with him, in his immaculate house that just smells like him, hints of that expensive cologne, something soft and sandalwood that you can’t quite place.
That cologne is in your senses too, you can practically smell Satoru on everything somehow, even this soft weighted blanket he’s got you, the image of his shirtless frame was burned into your mind. Your cunt is wet when you think about it too long, it’s been a while since you had cum.
But here, thinking of him?
You feel so wrong doing it, but you’re already aching and needy, imagining more – his fingers inside of you, fuck they’re long. His lips… just all over your skin. That tongue…
You slip your hand beneath the waistband of your pajama bottoms, your fingers finding the slick heat of your own cunt, touching a clit already pulsing and gasping out at it. You close your eyes, imagining it was his hand, his long, thick fingers brushing your clit right now, making you jolt, the blankets slipping off of you, as you’re overheated.
You feel it, warmth spreading all over, running circles on your swollen clit and whining out, it’s not enough, eyes fluttering shut now, picturing his face hovering right over you. Hadn’t you always found Satoru devastatingly attractive? So much so you avoided looking too long at those piercing blue eyes before, always looking down quickly.
The way he looked at you.
Was it all in your imagination, was it just him and no interest in you? He probably just wanted to help, to be a kind person, give back or some shit – and you’re shoving two fingers in your own gummy walls, contracting and squishing so tight.
“Ah!” You want longer ones, that hit your spot you’re trying so hard to, palm grinding on your clit, remembering the way his tongue had swept across his thumb. “Mnh!”
You’re pumping faster now, arching your hips, your other hand gripping those sheets beneath you, soft gasp escaping your lips as you press up on that little spot in your hole, the pressure building in your tummy. You shouldn’t be thinking of his cock and how big it must be, shouldn’t be cumming to him in his own poolhouse, but you can’t stop yourself.
Satoru smirks.
You’ve been such a good girl for him, your snowman right on the dresser facing you so perfectly, as he watches you in the darkness of his home office, sitting back in his leather chair, watching the scene unfold. On one of his three monitors, you were displayed in high definition, lying on the bed with your legs spread wide, so he had a perfect view.
“That’s it,” he coaches you quietly, undoing his sweats with a tug at the draw string, revealing his leaky cock that slaps his soft black shirt. “Got me leakin’ already, baby, fuck.”
He tugs up that shirt, letting his cock instead rest on his abdomen, moaning softly as his huge hand encircles his cock, stroking up and down carefully, his head falling back for a moment. God, imagine your little hand trying to cover him? Your mouth, the one crying out so wanton and lewd, full of him?
He’d fuck your throat so good your voice wouldn’t work.
He leans back forward, blinking you into view, watching as your back arches, your pathetic little fingers working between your legs. He knows you need him, it’s so hard not to give you it yet, listening to your whimpers, your little soft, desperate pants, clearly having a hard time making yourself cum.
“I’ll help you soon, pretty,” he whispers, his own hand stroking himself in time with the rhythm of your hand, matching it and exhaling, spitting right on his reddened tip. “What you do to me.”
Should he feel bad, watching you? No, you’re his after all, and he wants to know what you like when he does touch you, pay attention to your clearly needy little clit, how your thighs clamp down. He’ll make sure to keep them spread, keep you folded in half, it’s all he can think as he bucks up into his hand, smeared with spit and precum, the snow falling against the office window in the dark.
His pretty, perfect Christmas gift, just waiting to be unwrapped all for him. “Good girl,” he murmurs to the screen softly, voice breaking in the middle, veins just pulsing as he pumps more precum. “Prepping my gift f’me.”
Satoru hungrily watches you hit your peak, hips bucking up into your little hand, head sinking into the pillows as you moan.
His name.
Fuck you’re moaning his name.
He strokes himself faster, whispering yours as he cums ropes down his hand, messy streaks that run warm, picturing pumping it all inside of that hole you’re slipping your fingers out of. You’re softly moaning, shaking just a bit, your clean hand brushing your own hair back, covering your cute little face.
He bets it’s warm to the touch, in the prettiest blush.
Satoru exhales and cleans up, his eyes never leaving the screen, especially when you stand up and lean to look at yourself in the mirror, he’s already sensitive from cumming, but he’s pulsing and throbbing watching you. Leaned over and fixing now messy hair, looking all flushed and embarrassed.
“Don’t be,” he chuckles and touches the cool screen, right where your face is, as you pick up the snowman and his show is over. He keeps you on though, since he can hear your gentle breathing as you sleep. “Soon, sweetheart.”
*****
Satoru’s friends are amazing, but you can’t stop the awkwardness, the feeling of knowing you came screaming his name was overwhelming. You don’t even know how to fucking face him in the morning, when your dumb ass car won’t start.
“I swear it was fine…”
“I got you on a ride, don’t worry,” you’d ended up next to him in that sleek sports car, horribly embarrassed.
“I don’t wanna depend so much on you, already you’re doing too much,” his hand had come to your thigh as you both sat in front of that coffee shop, leaning low and looking at you behind his dark circle shades.
Too close, he’s too close.
His fingers are near your slick warmth, trickling down your inner thigh from how close he is, how his fingers press higher, squeezing your thigh so tightly it squishes in his grip. You’re trembling, so nervous then, wondering if you’re brave enough to lean forward, to kiss him.
But he’s gone as soon as he’s there, leaned back now, smiling. “Don’t worry your pretty head about that, we’ll fix that car soon. Probably after Christmas though.”
“I feel I’m putting you out.”
“Not at all,” you had sighed then.
“You’re too sweet to me, you really are.” He had just smirked at you, this look that sent an ache through you, as close as he is you can almost taste the sweetness on his breath, as it ghosts on your lips.
You can hardly breathe in that car, the heat blaring, Gojo so close.
“Sweet, hmm? Maybe I’m not as sweet as you think,” you’d just giggled at that, shaking your head.
You have no clue he unhooked your alternator, you’re so cute.
He’d of course had to pick you up too, the more you need him, the better.
It’s Christmas eve of course, Satoru makes sure to get you the perfect gift, a pretty necklace he can’t wait to tug and choke you with as he fucks you from the back – the chain is more than thick enough, just begging for your neck. He bought you a dress that you’re now wearing, looking so pretty in it he can hardly stand it, sitting there and talking to his friends.
You fit right in, but why wouldn’t you? It’s clear to all of them that Satoru is obsessed, they know their friend and when he’s in love he’s in love, hopeless and desperate, but even they’ve never seen him like this. He can’t take his eyes hardly off you, even when he’s laughing, when they’re all reminiscing, it’s like his gaze follows you across the room.
Everyone can practically feel how badly Satoru wants you – except you, of course, oblivious and cute, just enjoying the company, feeling so homey.
Shoko is hilarious, Nanami has this dry humor, Suguru is the yin to Satoru’s yang, like the exact opposite of him, but they fit so well. Seeing them on such a night makes you feel far too much like you’re at home, and not just staying in Satoru’s pool house for a time.
It feels too good, so good you get up to give them time alone, when he quickly stops you, a hand on your wrist, leaning low.
“Sweetheart, where are you going?” He asks quietly, possessive in how he holds your wrist, looking down your pretty neck.
God he can’t wait to tie you up, choke you until you can’t breathe, fuck you until it’s just all him.
“I want to give you time, I’ve already intruded so much,” you look down and fidget a bit with one of the buttons of his dress shirt, he tenses, tightening his hold. “You’ve been amazing to me, but I don’t want to take over your time.”
“I invited you,” he exhales now, stepping too close, leaning low. “You wanna go be alone tonight?”
“Um…” you blink tears suddenly.
Alone, you’re alone there, and here you’re with someone you want far too much, you’re far too comfortable, as if your ex meant fucking nothing the moment Gojo smiled at you. Part of you should feel bad, another part wants to sink to your knees and show him how much you appreciate him, that thought spreading to your core, with hot need.
How much would you have to touch yourself to even be okay? It’s like every moment near Satoru Gojo makes it worse.
“I got a gift for you,” you gasp. “It’s nothing really, but I want you to wait for gifts so I can give it. Please?”
“Of course,” you smile tremulously then. “Um, I also got you something, but it’s really not much of anything.”
“Please, anything you get me is perfect,” he kisses your temple, his lips lingering, your lashes flutter shut, leaning forward.
Too perfect in his arms.
You just are, he can practically smell how turned on you are for him, he wonders what panties you’re wearing underneath this pretty red dress he got you – were they soaked already? God he’d drink your cunt from them, bury his face, his hands lingering on your hips too long, lips still sitting there, the two of you breathless for a moment.
He wants to reassure you, but you just need to be a little needier, so he spends the next couple hours completely normal, waiting for his friends to leave, hugging them all good bye. You come help clean up, quiet and easy next to him, your gift sitting unopened still.
“You don’t have to clean, the maids will, sweets.”
“Still! No need to leave them much,” you start rinsing plates, when he comes behind you, turning off the water, hard body pressing against the curve of your spine.
You whimper.
Fuck, fuck.
He halts just a bit, you don’t see his satisfied fucking smile, as the snow starts whirling and the fire is crackling in the living room, like you’re in this perfect cozy nook of Satoru’s world. You bite your lip, hating the sound that came out of your mouth suddenly, looking back at him, hands still dripping wet from water.
“I’m so fucking sorry, um… wine and… been a bit? And you’re very…”
“Shh,” he cups your face, wrapping and arm around you, hand splaying your stomach, warm as it presses, and you can’t stop the next soft cry. “Oh yeah? Just been a while, that’s why you’re like this?”
“I… um…” His hand slips lower, cupping you over the red silk, your head falls back now against his chest, body arching.
“Are you tellin’ the truth, sweets? That’s why you’re so hot here, burning my fucking hand? A long time? Did he not make you cum, baby?” His voice isn’t the sweet one from the coffee shop, it’s darker now, his eyes black when you look back at them, a smirk on his lips.
You’re pulsing around air, aching for him, lost for words.
“I asked ya a question,” his hand starts to slide up that material soft against the creamy skin on your thighs. “Answer me, sweets. Be good f’me.”
“God…” you’re arching for more, feeling a thick, heavy length press on your lower back now. “I um… no, that’s not all.”
“Then what is it, why are you so wet? Hmm?” You bite down on a trembling lip, overwhelmed by the tall, buff white haired man toying with you, lost in his dark eyes and plush pink lips, parted, baring just a hint of sharp teeth.
“I’m wet for you, Gojo,” he moans then, slipping the material even higher, you’re so overheated from his body and the fire you feel beads of sweat trailing across your collarbone. “For you.”
“Satoru,” he corrects, his cock leaking and sticking to his boxers, so ready to bury himself inside you. “Say my name.”
“Satoru.”
He captures your lips as soon as you say it, mouth crashing down on yours brutally. It’s not the gentle, sweet kiss you might have expected from his lingering one on your temple, it’s not gentle, no – it’s hungry, devouring you, tongue plunging between the seam of your lips, taking you over.
You helplessly open for him, as if mentally you can fucking hear his voice murmuring ‘good girl’. The soft sounds of that christmas music are mixing with the fire, the heavy wind, his soft husky breaths, you’re so far gone you could cum from a kiss and your cunt exposed to the warm air as he tugs that dress high.
His other hand moves from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair and just tugging until it hurts, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding into the warm recesses of your mouth, drinking you. That’s what it is, he’s drinking you up, owning you, you’re desperately meeting his kiss, pressing your little tongue against his, whining out into his mouth.
He pulls back for a moment, a string of saliva just dissolving between you both, you’re shaking in his hold, lingering on his lips like wine, so perfect and sweet. Your eyes are already fucked out, a hand gripping his wrist where he’s so close to slipping his fingers in.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” you gasp then, eyes shooting up to him in shock. “You don’t even know, do you? Oblivious, my sweet girl, but don’t worry, you won’t need to think.”
“I w-won’t?” You’re so cute to him then, he smirks just a bit, caressing your jaw delicately.
“Not at all, not when you’re all mine sweetheart, just let me fuck you until you forget everything.”
He should be concerning, right? The shit he’s saying, but you don’t want to think anymore, you want him to take over, to take all the pain and loneliness, and pump you all full of him instead. It’s insanity, the way you trust this man you barely know, how you want him inside you, on you, everywhere.
“Say the word and I’ll fuck every thought from that pretty head, you’ll just be my perfect fuck toy, won’t you?”
God, are you really gonna say yes?
You nod, lips parted then, as he smiles, kissing you once more, messy and desperate. “You sure?”
“I want to be.”
“Good, good girl,” you melt against him at that, the plates forgotten in the sink when he turns you to him, your hands coming up to grip the front of his shirt, as he presses you against that counter. “So long baby.”
“So long, what do you-”
“Shh, no thinking,” he’s kissing down your neck, hands gripping your ass, sighing as his thigh presses between yours, soaking wet. “I’ve been wondering all night, if those pretty little panties are already ruined for me. What do you think, sweetheart? Should I check?”
A whimper escapes your throat, so nervous suddenly, you’re literally stuck to your panties, slipped up puffy folds with how wet you are. You nod quickly in a jerky little motion, unable to form words as he kisses down the side of your neck, your cunt pulsing even more wetness out.
“You’re too precious, can’t talk already? I haven’t even touched you yet,” he whispers those words in your ear, fingers finally finding ruined lace, and that’s when he can hardly hold back anymore.
“Mnh! Satoru…”
“God, you sayin’ my name like that,” he groans, pressing up, his snowy lashes fluttering shut as he toys with your sticky panties, making you moan softly. “Soaked. All f’me, aren’t you?”
You nod again, sucking in a breath as he pulls back to look into your eyes, tugging a thigh over his hip, a thick finger directly over your clit, rubbing it in mean little circles over the thin fabric. You almost cum from that you’re so sensitive and needy, crying out and arching for more, head falling back.
“Eyes on me,” you manage to focus when he grips your chin, pressing that cotton even more flush against you, you’re desperately shaking for more. “That’s it, look at me, pretty girl. All your attention. Me.”
He keeps fucking whispering it as he touches you, until the ruined panties are nothing but this thin, messy barrier you want gone, slipping his fingers over them almost in you instead of moving them. Torturing and teasing until you cry out, your hips bucking up against his hand.
“Please, Satoru…”
“All this time, you’ve been sitting there with my friends, smiling and laughing, while this pretty little cunt was just aching to be touched. Weren’t you, huh? Slutty pussy, god…”
“Y-yes,” that’s all you manage to get out, he’s too much, but he’s also edging you, teasing you, the friction of that damp lace now cool against your needy, puffy little clit, that’s just twitching for him. “Satoru…”
“What do you need, baby?” He murmurs, pulling your panties to the side, slipping two fingers down your slit. “This?”
“More, fuck… please, more,” you have no sense of shame or embarrassment, grinding on him shameless, he pulls back those fingers, leaving your thighs shaking. “Satoru…”
“Mmm,” his fingers are soaking wet and glossy, he puts two to his mouth and sucks, the motion filthy as his mouth wraps it, smirking. “If we do this, you’re all mine sweetheart.”
“But you… don’t even know me? And…” He’s slipping your juices in your mouth now, fingers coated in your cunt and his spit, you moan.
“Suck,” you obediently do, his eyes are black then, a feral look on his pretty face, watching you bob your head. “You’re mine. Just mine.”
You barely know what the fuck happens, or how you end up tied up with a string of pretty white christmas lights, Satoru’s insane ass grin as he ropes your arms shibari style, pushing your tits out as he ropes them. He’s hungrily sucking on your perky nipples, moaning on each one, you’re on all fours on this soft rug in front of the fireplace, lit up for him.
“God, that’s perfect,” he murmurs when he’s done, and your ass is in the air, pussy soaked and dripping, your ripped panties next to that pretty dress tossed aside on the floor. “Cunt is soaked, she needs me, hmm?”
“Please,” you should be scared, ask yourself why you’re tied up with Christmas lights on Satoru Gojo’s floor, but when you see his body, his thick, girthy cock leaking pre, you instead eagerly suck on your knees.
“That’s it, such a good girl, god I knew it,” he whispers desperately, cock heavy and hot in your mouth, the tip leaking pre against your uvula. Spit is drippin down his heavy balls, making it a mess, glossy with your spit as he rocks his hips, tugging at your hair. “Throat is only gonna know my shape, just mine, hmm?”
Your answer is a moan around his cock, pussy so needy and empty you’re dying for him inside, but you also desperately want to please him. Every fuck into your tight throat, every stretch and burn has you soaking wet, dripping down your slit onto that very rug beneath you, gasping for a breath as he shoves his cock as deep as you can even take it.
Satoru’s lost in how pretty you look like this, arms bound and lit up, his perfect Christmas gift that he can’t wait to fill up.
“Suckin’ me s’good, f-fuck…” He’s whimpering then, the sound shooting straight to your core, fucking your throat faster, pulling your hair until mascara trails down your cheeks with your tears. “I’ll give you anything, baby, yeah? Anything.”
You’re drooling when he pulls back, tilting your chin up to spit in your open mouth, you swallow so good, tasting saliva and pre, when he turns you to face the fireplace, pressing you down between your shoulder blades. He slides two fingers deep in your hole, you’re wriggling around, clenching him so tight, making his cock leak more pre, moaning.
“So tight,” he whispers in wonder, he wants to give you more prep but he can’t handle another moment without your cunt milking him. He bends down, pulling your ass up and licking a strip from your clit to your ass. “Mmm, the taste.”
“Satoru! Mnh!” The way his huge tongue just licks you clean, filthy stripes that are for his pleasure, messy and not hitting your spots, just scooping in as his moans vibrate, and his hands grip your ass bruisingly. “Please, please. In me…”
“Mmm, one more,” he can’t help but drink just a little more of your juices, they’re dripping in rivulets down his chin, he grins as you’re twitching, spreading your cute hole to spit in it. “Arch f’me.”
You eagerly do, the green cord digging into your thighs, when Satoru lines up his leaky pink tip and finally fucks you. But he doesn’t inch in, no he bottoms the fuck out in one mean stroke. You’re gasping out, desperately clutching the fur underneath you, so full you can’t take it, belly bulging and making the lights press in even more painfully than before.
Deep, punishing strokes that wreck your cunt, gliding easier and easier with the mess you are becoming, the slickness and your trembling walls accommodating his size. Every bit of pain just makes the filthy pleasure even better, the sounds of his moans, the smacking of skin, your squelching cunt all echoing in your ears.
He shoves so deep you scream then, so deep you feel him everywhere, in your tummy, fuck in your throat, gasping for air.
“Satoru, so much! Too much!” You’re shaking, he’s laughing softly, breath caught when you clamp down on him, looking at how huge his cock is compared to your tiny little pussy as he pulls back.
“God, look at that,” he watches that stream of slick pour down his cock as he pulls out then pushes back in, watching her stretch around him. “So much bigger than you, aww, she can hardly even take him.”
He’s dying over the size difference, the way your little hole is trying its best, the way his huge hand takes over your ass when it smacks down, the huge handprints spreading to your thighs. He’s not gentle, no, he’s fucking you like he wants to make sure you never leave, never even think of anything again.
“That’s it, takin’ my cock like you’re made for it,” he whispers, fucking you harder and harder, you’re gasping desperately, so full, his balls smacking your needy, twitchy clit with filthy fwaps, as you drip everywhere. “Makin’ a mess of that rug, hah, oh sweetheart you need me, huh?”
“N-need you – nghhh!” You’re done when he loses his control, bruising grip, fucking you senseless, strokes so messy.
“Gonna stuff you so full of white,” he chuckles, psychotic blue eyes glinting, prone over you, making everything dig in and leave its mark, cupping your face and looking down at you. “Aww, you want that? My Christmas present. My perfect fucking present. Mine.”
He keeps repeating it – mine, mine, mine – cock pulsing and thickening, pressing into your cervix, sending you over the edge, blinded when that orgasm rips through you. Your cunt clamps down on him so tight, pulsing and milking him for all the white he’s promising, earning his groan, his tensing.
“Gonna fill you up, next Christmas you’ll have all my babies,” you really should be scared, confused, but you’re still reeling from it, his hips slamming into you, railing your cunt until it is all his. “You want it, don’t you? Say it baby, please.”
“W-want it… ah!”
“Fuck, m’gonna give you so much, all you deserve sweetheart, all for you,” you feel him pulse inside you when he slams in to the hilt, hips snug on your ass now, a hot, thick flood of his white cum filling you up. “That’s it, take all of it, s’all yours.”
Satoru’s barely able to hold himself up when he busts inside you, coating your quivering walls, it’s so much it starts to leak out around his cock, mixing with your own slick and dripping down your thighs. He pumps a few more times, shakily taking breaths, hands holding you tightly, moans escaping.
“Took so much, god you’re perfect,” he whispers, pulling out to watch that creamy mix push out of your abused hole. “God you’re so good.”
The lights left their mark, but he’s massaging your skin after, cleans you up with his tongue, kisses every mark the lights left. He’s got you in his bed when Christmas strikes, smiling as you snore soundly against his chest, you’re wearing one of his shirts that swallows you, his cum still dripping from your pretty pussy.
He can’t wait until next year, when you’ll have your first baby for him, and he’ll already have another put in you next Christmas. You wake up sometime in the night, looking at him, blinking a bit.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Go back to sleep.”
“Merry Christmas, Satoru,” you whisper, snug in his arms, wondering just what luck you have to be there.
Was it luck, some Christmas miracle? Or was it Satoru Gojo making sure he got his perfect gift?
heheh I hope ya'll enjoyed - idea was from my bb @strychnynegirl
mdni. suguru volunteers to models for your art class and you didn’t expect him to have such a perfect dick.
you fidget with the edge of your sketchbook in the empty studio. the room smells like turpentine and charcoal, familiar and safe, but right now your stomach is doing flips.
suguru leans against the table across from you, arms crossed, long black hair loose over one shoulder. he’s wearing a loose white shirt and gray sweats that hang low on his hips, and even fully clothed he looks like something you’d spend hours trying (and failing) to draw right.
“so,” he says. “you need a model for anatomy homework?”
you nod too fast, cheeks already warm. “yeah. um. life drawing. nude. if—if that’s okay. i mean, you can totally say no, it’s super weird to ask your friend to just—”
“relax,” he cuts in gently, pushing off the table. “i said yes, didn’t i?”
you swallow. he did say yes, casually, over coffee yesterday, like it was nothing. but now that it’s real, your heart is hammering.
he steps onto the low platform in the center of the room, kicks off his slides, and grabs the hem of his shirt. you’re supposed to be professional—this is art school, you’ve seen naked models before—but this is suguru. your suguru. the one who sits beside you in figure drawing, who shares his fancy pencils when yours break, who always smells faintly of sandalwood and clove cigarettes.
he pulls the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, tosses it aside. the light hits his chest perfectly—lean muscle, defined but not bulky, the long line of his torso tapering to narrow hips. a thin happy trail disappears under the waistband of his sweats. your mouth goes dry.
he hooks his thumbs in the waistband and pauses, one brow raised. “you sure you’re good? you’re already blushing.”
“i’m fine,” you lie. you flip open your sketchbook too fast, pages flapping. he smirks, but doesn’t call you out. instead he pushes the sweats down, steps out of them, and straightens.
oh god.
he’s… perfect. long legs, strong thighs, the sharp cut of his hipbones. and between them—jesus—he’s half-hard already, thick and heavy, curving slightly up against his stomach. it’s big. stupidly big. you’ve never seen one that size in real life, and definitely not on someone you’ve been low-key crushing on for months.
you force your eyes up to his face. he’s watching you with that half-lidded look he gets when he knows exactly what he’s doing to someone.
“where do you want me?” he asks, voice velvet.
you gesture weakly at the stool. “uh. seated? one leg up, arm on your knee? classic contrapposto but… sitting.”
he settles onto the stool, one foot on the floor, the other knee drawn up. his arm drapes over it, hand hanging loose. the pose opens his hips just enough that his cock rests against his thigh, thick and impossible to ignore. the head is flushed darker, a bead of moisture already gathering.
you pick up your charcoal with shaky fingers and start blocking in the big shapes. shoulder line, ribcage, the long curve of his thigh. but your eyes keep drifting. every time you look up he’s staring right at you, calm, unashamed, like being naked in front of you is the most natural thing in the world.
after ten minutes your face feels like it’s on fire. you’re breathing shallow, thighs pressed together under the easel. you can feel how wet you are—embarrassingly wet—just from looking at him.
he shifts slightly, making his cock bob against his leg. “you okay over there? you’re breathing kinda fast.”
“fine,” you squeak. “just—just concentrating.”
“mm.” he tilts his head. “your ears are red. and your neck. actually your whole chest is flushed.” his gaze drops deliberately to where your thin tank top clings. “cute.”
you press your lips together, trying to focus on the shadow under his pec, but your hand trembles and the line wobbles.
he chuckles softly. “you know, most models don’t get this kind of reaction. you’re making me feel special.”
“shut up!”
he stretches, rolling his shoulders so every muscle shifts under golden skin. his cock lifts with the movement, fully hard now, curving up toward his navel. the bead at the tip trails down the underside.
you make a tiny, involuntary sound.
his eyes darken. “getting hot over these, artist?”
you bite your lip, charcoal smudging on your fingers. “you’re… distracting.”
“am i?” he sounds innocent, but the way he spreads his thighs a fraction wider is anything but. “thought you needed accurate anatomy.”
“i do,” you whisper.
he leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees now, cock hanging heavy between his legs. “then look closer. don’t be shy.”
you can’t help it. your gaze drops, lingers on the thick vein running along the underside, the way his balls draw up tight, the faint sheen of sweat at the base. when you drag your eyes back up he’s smiling.
“you’re soaked, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “bet those little shorts are ruined.”
your charcoal snaps in your hand.
he laughs. “don’t worry. i won’t tell anyone our prim little art student gets wet drawing her friend’s dick.”
you drop the broken charcoal, hands shaking. “suguru—”
“you’re shaking,” he says, voice low, almost rough. “can’t draw like that.”
he shifts on the stool, thighs spreading a little wider, and wraps one big hand around the base of his cock. it’s fully hard now and a fresh bead of precum wells up as his fingers close around it.
“think i need to get rid of some tension before we keep going,” he murmurs, giving himself one slow stroke from root to crown. his thumb swipes over the head, spreading the slick, and his abs flex when he exhales. “that okay with you? you can watch. or look away if it’s too much.”
“yeah,” you whisper. “it’s… okay.”
he hums, pleased, and starts moving his hand properly—slow, deliberate pulls that make his cock glide through his fist. the wet sound of it fills the room. his grip twists a little on every upstroke, just under the head, and his hips rock forward like he can’t help it.
“been like this since you asked me to strip,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “watching you stare and try not to was fucking killing me.”
you swallow hard. your nipples are tight against your tank top, and you know he can see it. heat is pooling low in your belly, slick soaking into your panties. you shift your weight and he notices—of course he does. “touch yourself if you want,” he says casually, like he’s offering you a pencil.
you shake your head, too embarrassed, but your hands won’t move from where they’re clenched at your sides. watching is already too much.
he speeds up a fraction, breath hitching. “fuck, you’re cute when you’re all worked up.” his free hand slides up his own stomach, fingers tracing the lines of muscle, pinching one nipple hard enough to make him groan. his strokes get firmer, louder—skin on skin. precum drips over his knuckles now, making everything shiny.
“look at that,” he mutters, tilting his wrist so you can see the way his cockhead bulges through his fist on every pass. “all because you couldn’t stop staring.”
he’s breathing harder, chest rising and falling, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. his balls are drawn up tight, heavy, and every time his hand drops low they shift like they’re aching.
“close,” he warns, voice rougher now. “gonna make a mess. you sure you’re good watching?”
you nod frantically. “please.”
that does it. his head tips back, throat exposed, a low groan dragging out of him as his hips jerk. thick ropes of cum shoot across his fist, splattering his stomach, one stripe hitting high enough to catch on his chest. he keeps stroking through it, slower, milking every last drop until it’s dripping down his shaft and over his fingers.
the sight punches the air out of your lungs. you’re throbbing, soaked, dizzy with it.
he finally lets go, cock still half-hard and glistening, cum cooling on his skin. he looks at you through the fall of his hair. “better,” he says, voice husky. “think you can focus now?”
you shake your head honestly.
he laughs, soft and filthy. “yeah. didn’t think so.”
he wipes his hand on his discarded shirt, then stands, closing the distance in two steps. he’s still naked, still smeared with himself, and towering over you.
“your turn,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “or we can skip drawing altogether.”
Suguru has been holed up for a long time, only going out with his two daughters, and occasionally his best friend - their 'uncle gojo' - and that works for him, he has a happy enough life. Success. Yet... when he meets the pretty new neighbor across the street, everything changes. His lack of inspo turns into a burst of inspiration - and his biggest fan - but he's scared, and so are you, both trying to overcome difficult pasts and move on - can you make beautiful art together?
pairings - famous artist! Suguru x art lover! reader
contents/warnings- Suguru is 32, reader is 28 - fluffy/sweet, emotional, light angst, they're down bad- both have had tragedies in their past, mentions of loss, he's a single dad to the twins. Cozy fall vibes, them finding love again, finding his muse and inspo in you, sexual tension like a mf, 'paint me like one of your french girls' getting painted naked, phone sex, masturbation, panty stealing, Sugu is so tortured artist, fingering, masturbation, talking you through it, oral (f receiving) creampie, p in v sex - oneshot 11.1k wc
this is a commission for my DAY ONE girlie @nanasukii28 ! Ty for always supporting me, even when I had like 10 followers aha, it means sm <3 ILY
The movers are finishing unpacking your things to your new home when you see him for the first time – dark hair slipped half up in a bun, half flowing down his shoulders, two teenagers taking pictures of him on their phone as he tries to shove them off playfully. He looks too young to have them, maybe early thirties at best, but he’s clearly their father.
He smiles curiously at you, waving and walking over, the two of them close by, giggling behind their hands. You smile back curiously, shaking his proffered hand and telling him your name – and that’s when it happens.
You blush from a fucking handshake.
What is it, how big they are, how long his fingers were? Little specks of paint dancing along the back of them, raised veins pressing up from the back of his hand under tanned skin. Your heart races and you just stand there, not even moving your hand up and down like you should, no it just rests as you pause, and the girls next to him giggle.
“Kiss her hand,” Mimiko teases.
“Be a gentleman, dad,” Nanako says. Now it’s Suguru Geto’s turn to blush just a bit, looking down at your hand. “Maybe she’s old school.”
“Or shy.”
“You’re cute,” Nanako says, while you stand there awkwardly, both of you looking at each other. “Isn’t she dad?”
“Girls,” he chides quietly, as the two of you just stare at each other, it’s almost thanksgiving so the leaves are scattered and swirling around both of your feet, while you try to get your hand back. He’s not pulling back though, and neither are you, it’s embarrassing whatever effect this is.
You were ovulating and he is gorgeous, but surely you can fucking get it together!? The man has teenage children, he could be married, he could-
“I’m sorry,” you murmur then, blinking a bit, and Suguru gets a good look at your pretty face from this angle, taking in the shade your cheeks turn, wondering if he could ever capture that with paint. “I’m so…”
“No, no,” the girls are literally talking shit via text about their awkward dad with an even more awkward neighbor, when Suguru pulls your hand up, brushing his lips across your knuckles, smiling just a bit. “Nice to meet you.”
Oh fuck.
He kissed your hand!? Who kisses hands? And he might as well have kissed your throat, your collar bone, your lips, the intimacy of such a little act so foreign to the modern world wrecking you. Your lips are parted, searching for anything to say – you’re not like this, not so shy and awkward and a damn mess.
You take a breath, realizing he’s still holding your hand, and the two of you are in your front yard, movers walking in and out of a big white moving truck, carrying in your things. It just felt like you and him, meeting in some damn movie the way his silken locks fall, how charming he is but at the same time something…
Mysterious. That’s the word.
“Thank you,” you say then, never wanting to wash the damn spot his lips pressed like some lovesick teenager. You clear your throat and smile, tilting your head a bit, pressing a kiss on his, making him chuckle. “I figure this is our greeting.”
“I guess it is,” he murmurs, your lips leave a glossy little mark on his skin, and he can only imagine how it would feel to kiss you as your hands fall. He realizes his daughters are going to embarrass him to hell for acting like this, but he can’t really explain…
Something about you just makes his pulse race, his palms are even sweaty – him, Suguru Geto, an experienced man. He wasn’t Gojo for instance, his best friend who he’d had to coach in the ways of women, he was the one doing the coaching. At this moment though, his damn friend even would laugh at him, if the girls weren’t already texting ‘uncle gojo’ over his folly.
“Do you need help?” He asks then, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater, and fuck him for those forearms, your weakness, you can’t speak again.
“This is hilarious,” Mimiko whispers, and Suguru glares back at her, only to be met with her snapping another pic and grinning.
“Girls, introduce yourselves properly.”
“Yes dad,” they say that at the same time, you smile at the two pretty young ladies, who are just adorable.
“It’s so good to meet all of you, I don’t know anyone here really, I moved to do a new position out of state,” you murmur softly, while Suguru studies the way the sun peeking from the cloudy sky illuminates your pretty face, stunned again at the lights and shadows.
Suguru Geto is an artist, and he loves beauty, never more so than what’s right in front of him. Your sweater falls off a shoulder, revealing the smooth skin and gentle curve of your neck, he could almost feel his brush stroking against the canvas, imagining just how beautiful an art piece you would be, while you’re talking to him.
“Huh?”
He blinks, and Mimiko nudges him. “She said she’ll buy us all pizza and bake cookies if we help!”
“And she’ll buy you wine,” Nanako finishes.
“Oh…” How’d he not hear that, he watched that pretty mouth move… but his thoughts were not about pizza or food. Not at all. “You don’t have to get us anything, we’d love to help.”
“No, really, please let me. It’ll be nice to make friends.”
You turn away then, leaving the three of them staring after you, Suguru’s gaze locked on your swaying hips underneath leggings that cup your ass far too perfectly. He clears his throat and forces his gaze to the moving truck, wondering how bad it is that he wants to get to know his new neighbor so damn well when he’s a complete loner damn near in the neighborhood.
Wants to know you too well.
Suguru’s divorce was brutal and since then he’s really holed up, Gojo has been trying to get him out but he’s quite the hermit, staying in his art room aside from when he takes the girls places, or has events. She hurt him pretty terribly, and Suguru already had issues from losing one of his best friends when he was young.
He still has the painting of her – Riko – the sweet girl him and Gojo had gotten so close to once upon a time, hanging up in his living room. He thinks that’s when he threw himself into art, and getting with the girls’ mom very young left him a young father, and eventually a young single parent.
He doesn’t even know where she went off to, some other country maybe, but honestly that was better for the girls. She was not involved, and his girls deserved the world. Amidst the loss and pain, Suguru was holed up almost completely, quite different from the carefree, laughing young man he used to be.
Something about you though, made him feel just a little lighter, when you smile over a shoulder at him. “You coming? I’ll get all kinds of pizza.”
Suguru chuckles softly and runs up after you, letting his gaze linger on you again as you gesture at a bookshelf. “Holy shit, how many do you have?”
“I have a romance novel addiction,” you admit shyly, the boxes of books are a ridiculous amount. “I’ll do all that, if you could just help me put it together?”
“Of course…” The four of you all help put things in its place as the movers start to finish up.
Suguru would help you move all day if it meant he got to watch you bend over in front of him, that’s so fucked and he feels like such a pervert but his goddamn eyes won’t leave your ass. He is an ass man, but this is ridiculous. He eyes your kitchen table as he helps make sure the screws are tight and can’t help but imagine you bent over it, your legs just dangling.
It’s the perfect height for-
What’s wrong with him!?
He’s glad when pizza arrives later, and the movers are gone, the living room is nice and cozy with Mimiko and Nanako nibbling on their slices and lounging on your couch. Suguru is pulling out a painting that you ask so sweetly to go on top of your fireplace, when he pauses. It’s a large abstract piece he knows intimately, his own brushstrokes, his fingers touch where his initials are.
S.G.
You have his painting!?
He looks and you have multiple works of his, you must have been quite an art connoisseur because these are all originals of his. His heart races when you come near him, smiling at the piece. “It’s beautiful huh? He’s my favorite artist.”
Mimiko and Nanako look at the piece, then look at him, just smiling, not saying a thing. “Yeah, is he?”
That’s all he asks, as he adjusts it – his own painting in the pretty new neighbor’s house was surreal. He brushes his hands off and Nanako hands him a slice of pepperoni pizza. He takes a bite, leaning against the ladder, eyes flitting between you and his work, wondering how you found this piece… It was sold years ago to an art gallery owner.
You notice him staring at it thoughtfully, before his gaze flits back on you, holding out napkins and handing him one. “You like it?” you ask softly. Suguru just nods. “It’s one of my favorites… got it at an auction last year.”
“Is that what you do for work?” He asks curiously.
“I do work at a gallery, yes! But the one here in town is the best, so I relocated,” you notice the girls are yawning a bit. “Hey, want the cookies?”
“Yes!”
Suguru looks back at the collection of his own art, then to a picture of you that you have face down on the mantle of the little fireplace. Your home is set up the exact same style as his own. He sees you with what looks maybe like a partner, a man hugging you from behind, but he just sets it back down, making no mention.
You appear to be single, but he can’t assume.
And why is he wondering? Why is he jealous already at the thought of someone being with you – he just met you.
After sending the girls home with cookies, it’s just you and him in the quiet of your kitchen, you pull out a bottle of wine and grin. “It’s my favorite kind.”
“Oh?” He eyes the bottle curiously, before uncorking it and inhaling the scent, mixing with whatever your fragrance is, it is more intoxicating than your wine. “And you’re sharing with me?”
“Of course! I appreciate you so much, have at least a glass before you go home,” you offer softly, before sorting through your box of dishes. “Aha!”
He chuckles a bit at how cute you are, washing the glasses for the two of you, handing him one now, your fingers brushing. Goosebumps rise on your skin from just that, and you both pause once more. You can’t figure out what that is, sure watching him almost shirtless earlier and his muscles bunching and moving has you a little too excited.
Yet it’s different.
“Your daughters are beautiful,” you manage to say then, softly, pouring him a glass of a pretty pinot. “They’re so sweet too.”
“They’re brats, don’t let them fool you,” you laugh and sit next to him, sipping your wine carefully, hands wrapping the stem of your glass, your fingertips stroking it. Your hair is messy, you’re all sweaty and disheveled, baby hairs slipping around your brow.
You look so beautiful.
He swallows the wine quickly, the last thing he wants to be is your creepy obsessed neighbor, but you are already talking. “This may seem rude but you look too young too have teenagers?”
“Ah,” he clears his throat, smiling at you. “I was young. Like… eighteen.”
“Oh! Goodness, that’s so impressive that you’ve done such an amazing job, it must have been difficult.” Your words melt him more and more, it takes a lot not to lean over and kiss you then and there, practically a stranger.
He holds himself back, never a man to just jump on instinct, especially after his past relationship, but it takes a lot not to at least cup your cheek. “Thank you, it was pretty hard honestly, but we are very close.”
“And… their mom? Is that invasive?” Your brows draw together.
“She’s not in their life,” his tone is harsh for a moment, and you feel horrible for him then, sensing the pain he doesn’t say out loud. “Not for years.”
“Oh, well…” You sigh, shaking your head. “She’s missing out, hmm?”
Suguru smiles at you, a little relief in his gaze, sipping the wine and letting a little drip fall, you catch it with your thumb before you can think better, making him pause. The air around you both makes it difficult to breathe or move, Suguru’s hand gently touching yours then, before you pull back and look down nervously.
“She is,” he finally says, clearing his throat. “Is anyone moving in with you?”
“Oh, no, it’s been years for me too…” You murmur, sighing now, eyes fluttering shut. “I had a pretty serious relationship, but he passed away a few years ago. So I haven’t… dated since.”
“Oh…” fuck, the pain on your face says it all, and it’s one he has from losing his friend so young, your eyes glimmering, the prettiest jewels glossy with tears. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“It was a long time now but I guess I haven’t put myself out there,” you admit softly. “Just shook me up, even though it was not too long of a relationship. He was still very special.”
“Losing someone like that will fuck you up,” he murmurs, brushing a messy lock of your hair back. “I understand.”
“I wish you didn’t,” you say softly. “I thought a fresh start in a new place may help, and so did my family. So the opportunity presenting itself? It seemed a little like fate telling me to go.”
Suguru smiles softly, his cologne and the lingering scent of the perspiration filling your senses as he leans close. “Fate, do you believe in that?”
“To an extent? Yes. See, some handsome strong man just saw me move in and offered to help,” you poke at a broad shoulder playfully, watching him laugh and shake his head. “And you? You got pizza and wine. Fate.”
“Fated pizza, huh?”
“Mhm,” you giggle and sip your glass.
It’s too comfortable, the silence even.
Soon you walk him over to your door, and the cool breeze from the night air works overtime to chill heated skin. “Thank you so much for making my first day here amazing, I was so nervous.”
“Of course, you feel free to come over any time. I’ll buy pizza next,” he says, as you two awkwardly sort of stand there again, him taking your hand. “This is our greeting so I suppose it’ll be our goodbye too.”
He places a cute kiss on your knuckles, hand swallowing yours with how huge it was, you giggle again, kissing the back of his rough knuckles. “Good night, Suguru.”
“Good night.”
Suguru can’t help but sketch you from memory that night, like a madness in his art room, peering over at your bedroom window. It was a cruel joke to have them facing each other, where he could see your silhouette behind your blinds, your window left just a little open, so there are hints of your frame.
He’d not drawn a thing in a month, not anything worthy of not being thrown out, frustratingly unmotivated. He had a good savings from how much he’s made with his art so it’s not like he had to work, but to not do what he loved felt so cruel, truly, like a piece of him had been missing.
Now charcoal flies right over the paper, the figure of you with those glittery eyes, a swipe or two of dust on your clothes from moving, that tremulous little smile. He sketches the curve of your waist, the jut of your hips hiding under that sweater, and it may be the first thing he hasn’t wanted to throw out in months.
Fate, did that exist?
Was his muse his brand new neighbor?
******
“Geto!” You greet your neighbor at the art gallery that weekend, surprised to see him there, looking far too attractive in a three piece suit. The man had no right to look that good. “I didn't know you enjoyed art!”
He flushes across those high cheekbones just a bit, clearing his throat with a little smile. “You could say I enjoy it. You… work here?”
“I do,” Geto procures two drinks from one of the trays, handing a little glass of pinot. “Thank you, where are the girls?”
“They are at a sleepover, they're growing up on me.”
“Aww, no don't worry, they adore you,” you touch his shoulder, making his heart hammers.
God you look pretty.
This little black dress is just clinging to your form in all the right places, tantalizing and tempting him in too many ways. In one way, he wants to paint you, in another he wants to drop to his knees and sip you up like the wine on his tongue.
Suguru was not someone to get nervous, to get affected like this. No he focused on his art, on his daughters – too busy and too choosy of who he lets in his life to have much interest in someone. Of course he appreciated beauty, he loved pleasure, but it's not often he's left speechless like this.
You're sweet, giggling and pointing at his own painting. Making him so nervous as you assess it, while he assesses you, the way the light hits the curve of your neck, how that red lipstick just makes your skin look so pretty. Everything about you standing in front of him makes it hard to concentrate.
“Are you all right?” You ask softly, Suguru clears his throat and smiles, focusing on what you're saying.
“I'm sorry, yes. You said…”
“This is my favorite piece,” you look at it almost lovingly. Fuck if you looked at him like that? He'd fucking drop to his knees, he almost does when you walk up to it. Fingers hovering an inch over the brush strokes raised on canvas. “I love this artist so much.”
“Yeah, do you?” You nod and grin all pretty, sipping your drink once more. “Why's that?”
“The emotion and… there's such a darkness,” your words are soft, contemplative. “A sadness they express so beautifully.”
“Ah, Mr. Geto!” Your boss comes up now, the owner of the gallery, shaking Suguru’s hand as you watch curiously. “We are so glad you could make it!”
“Of course,” amethyst eyes lock onto yours, his lips curving up, blush reddening his tanned skin. “I'm really glad you all wanted to display this one.”
You blink now.
Suguru is…
Your favorite artist!?
Your boss says your name and you snap out of it, feeling the cool rush of air while the doors open, barely brushing against your skin that’s far too warm, as more people walk in to admire the tall, dark haired man’s art. Suguru seems a little unused to the attention, rubbing the back of his neck and just smiling a little bit when more people come up to him.
How’d you not put two and two together? The fancy, scrawled S.G, that’s etched into the night sky in between the swirls of clouds. You had noticed some paint on his hands before but sort of assumed he was just doing touch ups to his home, if anything. It doesn’t help the crush you already have on your neighbor, the insane feelings making you tremble even now.
“Thanks,” he mumbles the answer while they are swarming around, girls giggling and giving you just a prick of jealousy. You don’t know why, either, you hardly know him – and of course he’s attractive and clearly talented. Yet his eyes meet yours over his glass, signaling almost for you to save him.
“Mr. Geto,” you cut in a little bit, and he says your name, his lips curving up. “Maybe you’d like to see some of my favorite work here?”
“I’d love that, excuse me,” Suguru takes the out you give him, and exhales in relief when you get him out of the throng of people, looking at you gratefully. “Thank you, love.”
Love.
Fuck he shouldn’t call you that.
“You want a little air?” You ask softly.
“Please, I’m not… good with attention,” you smile at just how cute he is in that moment, yes he’s tall, broad, handsome, but in that moment he’s just…
Shy.
Suguru Geto is a little shy.
You both step out into the gardens, where they have more art pieces put up on easels, the two of you so close your shoulder brushes against his arm, the suit material soft against your skin. Goosebumps rise at the proximity, Suguru pauses and turns to look down at you, taking off his jacket.
“You don’t have to!” You flush when he places it over your bare shoulders, you get an eye full of his dress shirt stretching around his broad chest, he rolls up his sleeves just a bit to taunt you with those veiny forearms and artist’s fingers. “Aren’t you gonna be cold?”
“Nah, feels amazing,” you look so pretty in his jacket, practically swallowing you when you hold it tightly, smiling gratefully. “Looks better on you anyway.”
“Me?” You giggle now, shaking your head. “I don’t think so.”
He can’t help but picture laying you on it, sprawling your hair out on the soft inner satin, and looking at how gorgeous you would be, underneath him. Would he paint you before or after he licked every inch of your body, explored all of that smooth skin with his fingertips?
The thoughts are maddening, he of course found you pretty when he saw you move in, but they’re getting worse by the moment. He’s scared to just… say it though, you seem lovely and sweet, but who knows your life? If you’d want to date him, when you don’t really know him.
The darkness comment was true – Suguru has been through tough times, and aside from the girls and his best friends he’s scared to open up again.
“I feel so silly right now, not knowing it was you!” Your words bring him out of his thoughts now. Suguru chuckles, brushing his fingers across the strands of your hair, they gently tickle your skin.
“No, don't at all.”
“You're like a famous artist!”
“I'm kind of niche and obscure,” Suguru shrugs a broad shoulder, while the wind starts whipping around the two of you, he tugs it close to your body.
“Thank you, Geto.”
“Suguru,” you flush at his words, looking down shyly. “Please call me that.”
“If you're okay with it?” He nods a bit, the moon is glowing softly and reflecting on the angles of his face.
He was a little too handsome.
“Suguru,” your words make him fucking ache, he bites back a moan. “I'd love to see any of your work you want to show me any time. No pressure though please! I'm fangirling right now."
Suguru chuckles, shaking his head at you. “Yeah artists don't really get ‘fangirls’ so this is new for me.”
“Well you have one now,” your eyes lower to the cleft in his chin, aching to press a kiss on it. “Your art is so beautiful Suguru.”
Suguru.
God every time you say it, it almost ruins him. Spilling from lips that are a faded red now, you're so beautiful he can’t stop the words from coming out.
“I need a subject,” he murmurs softly, bringing your attention to him. “For my art, a study of… anatomy.”
“Oh?” You look down at your heeled feet as the moonlight glows around you both, illuminating everything, casting a soft cool light.
“Yeah it's been a bit since I've taken on the female form,” he curses internally. “I sound so corny, asking this.”
You blink a bit and look back up at him. “Asking what?”
“Let me paint you,” he sighs and takes in your blush. “Like one of my French girls.”
You burst into laughter with him, shaking your head and sighing. “A titanic reference?”
“Mhmm,” Suguru is dying of thinking of just that, you naked on your side right on his couch. The curves of you right in front of him, bare for his gaze. “You wouldn't have to get naked though of course, just… anything you'd want to wear.”
“Are you serious or flattering me?” You tease. “You really would paint me? Oh my god I’m excited.”
“You are!?”
You grin now, nodding. “Let's do it.”
“Shit, yeah?” You nod and he slips his hand in yours. “I swear it's not just a hit on. It'll be beautiful to paint you.”
“Will you hang me in a gallery?” You ask softly, lashes lowering just a bit. But it makes his head spin.
How could he show anyone that body really?
“In my private gallery,” you giggle and finish the wine, inclining your head. “I’ll show you that some time too.”
“Then… let’s dip out early? Or do you want to wait?”
“Did you drive or…”
“No, just rode here.”
“Then come with me, we’ll sneak around the front.”
***
You’ve seen Suguru’s place so often but you’ve never been inside it before, and everything in it screams eccentric artist, boho chic would be the best term to describe it, messy in a way that’s not unclean. No, things are very clean, but intentional little things all over, tubes of acrylics, brushes across the counter, the chaise itself that you’ll get painted on is vintage, purple suede and gold.
Your fingers brush upon the edge of it, soft scents of cedar and hints of vanilla mixing together. He lights a couple candles, trying to organize a few things with a little smile. You see hints of the girls all over, their backpacks hanging on the hooks, pictures of them across his walls.
The way he loves them is so clear, and so beautiful.
“All right, ready for the nonsense?”
“Nonsense?”
“My art room,” he teases, you grin then. “Don’t get so excited, it’s a fucking mess. I haven’t had much inspo until…”
Until you.
You tilt your head curiously, and silence hangs thick in the air, but he falters just looking down at your pretty face, before clearing his throat, holding a hand out. “When you moved in I started drawing again.”
“Oh my god, am I like some really cool, edgy muse?” You make him laugh, nodding a bit. “Oh hell yeah, art girl’s dream.”
“Come on,” Suguru leads you into one of the rooms up the stairs, and you see several canvases stacked against the walls, many of them half finished or bare. Along the walls are beautiful portraits, many you’ve never seen. “The ones that just stay with me. Some special, some look like shit.”
“Oh, nothing you do looks bad,” you say, shaking your head, studying the ones lined along the walls curiously. “God, it’s like my dream.”
“You dream of a weird, introverted artist and his messy art room?”
“Fuck yes I do,” Suguru smiles, god you make him just feel so good, like he never wants it to end.
Nonsense, right? It’s too soon, it’s too new it’s…
You’re everything he’s ever wanted, personified in a pretty body, with an even prettier energy. No one sees this but the girls and his best friend, but he’s so comfortable now, watching you take each and every one in. Some are people, angels, demons with haunting eyes – others are landscapes, surreal or abstract. All a range but it all feels just like him.
Like Suguru.
It’s intimate im here with him now, he’s so quiet right behind you, walls covered in framed sketches. One drawing catches your eye – two young boys laughing, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. Clearly one is Suguru – and a cute, sweet little girl right next to them throwing up a peace sign.
“That’s Riko,” Suguru says quietly, noticing your gaze. “We grew up together.”
“She’s adorable, this is you, right? Is this… uncle Gojo they called him?” You ask, he nods and his lips curve up.
“That’s Satoru all right, he’s still my best friend, even if he’s annoying.”
You laugh, shaking your head then sobering up. “And Riko?”
Suguru’s eyes darken a bit, his lips pressing together. You put a hand to his chest, feeling his heart racing, stepping close to him then. “She’s… gone.”
You just tiptoe and hug him.
You hug him.
He’s frozen for a moment as you do, before he wraps arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug. Your tears are sticky against his chest, and he exhales, feeling his own emotions hit. “It’s all right, it was a long time ago.”
“It still hurts,” you whisper, he leans back and cups your face, a thumb tracing your lower lip then. “I know it does.”
“It does,” he agrees softly, then smiles at you, eyes lidded, those dark lashes casting shadows. “I do miss her, like I’m sure you miss…”
“Yeah,” he swipes a tear now. “I feel like you get it. If that makes sense. But I hate that you do.”
“I hate that you do,” he murmurs, before resting his head on yours. “Tonight, let’s just enjoy this.”
“Let’s.”
He guides you out of the room, hand entwined in yours, feeling far roo good. “You can get undressed right here,” he murmurs, gesturing to his bathroom. “Like I said, keep on whatever you want. I’ll go get the paint.”
“And more wine?” He chuckles.
“Of course more, white or red?”
“White please,” he sets his jacket down on the arm of the couch, and you nervously walk into the bathroom, glancing at the mirror and feeling your heart hammer in your chest.
Suguru Geto was going to paint you.
You slip down the straps of your dress as Suguru nervously and frantically tries to pick up a bit of the crap the girls have everywhere, it’s not too bad but he’s hoping to get the couch presentable for you. He’s drawn and painted naked women before back in his art school days, it’s just anatomy he learned then, but something about the thought of what you’d come out in drove him to distraction.
His always steady hands tremble just a bit, grabbing the easel, the paint brushes, putting down a cloth underneath it all to keep it clean. Would you wear something lacy, something simple? Either way he’d love it, imagining how good you’d look for him, in any stage of undress.
What he doesn’t expect is you to walk out naked.
His lips part, you’re a little nervously hugging yourself, cheeks a little flushed, one arm over your tits and one hand over that pussy snug between the plush of your thighs. That’s when Suguru Geto leaks so much pre it sticks to his slacks, looking at how fucking perfect you are.
He can’t say anything, his eyes wide, making you blush even more, clearing your throat and walking up to him carefully. “It’s insane but if my favorite artist is going to draw me Rose from Titanic style? I’ve gotta go all out.”
Your panties are on Suguru’s bathroom counter, next to your bra and your dress, neatly folded up, and you’re bare in his living room. He still can’t speak or summon up a damn thing, he just gently touches your hand covering your pretty breasts, watching your eyes dilate with the movement, guiding it down so that those tits gently sway, making him almost moan.
The rise and fall with your quick breaths, fingers dancing along your arm, gently pulling your hand off that cunt that makes him salivate as he looks down.
“This is crazy, isn’t it?”
He just blinks for a moment, before exhaling, stepping back to slip his gaze down your body, tracing the skin an inch away – not touching you, but the air near you, electric sparks just humming around his touch. He steps around you carefully, brushing your hair to the front, so it rests along your shoulders, fingertips barely touching your sensitive neck.
“You’re not saying anything, so I’m gonna ramble, and I’m freaking out. And-”
“Shh,” he’s back in front of you now, taking one of your hands in his own, so big it swallows yours, long lashes lowering over his purple irises. “You’re perfect.”
Perfect.
You aren’t un confident, but to hear that from him, while he gazes into your eyes rather than at your tits, your body, it’s too much. You’re trembling with need, embarrassing wetness dripping out of your hole, you almost moan just being so close to his proximity.
“You’re sweet,” you murmur, but he touches your lips to shush you.
“You’re going to be a beautiful fucking painting, I promise.” His words have you aching, wishing he could drag you against his body, kiss you, touch you. Yet he’s gentle as he guides you on his couch, gently laying you down. “Can I touch you to move you where I need?”
“Of course,” when he does you have to bite back a whimper, his big hands just a little rough from years of holding paint brushes. He takes your thigh, slipping it across the other and bending it at the knee, catching a glimpse of your pretty cunt and almost faltering. “Are you all right, love?”
“Mhm, just nervous, I need a sip.” He chuckles, a little nervous himself now, handing you the glass to sip on your side.
“I may use it, paint it in there,” he muses softly, your fingers touching each other. “Can you lean up on an elbow?”
“Y-yes…” You do just that, sipping some of the wine for courage. There was something so sensual about this moment, Suguru Geto positioning you where he needs you at, before he undoes the little row of buttons on his own shirt.
Your cunt throbs when you see him down to that thin little white undershirt, his muscles bunching underneath that skin pulled taut. You shift a little bit, thighs brushing against each other, core tightening as you sip the wine out of your glass, feeling his gaze drift along your body like a physical touch.
“Are you comfortable?” He asks, voice husky, he clears his throat a bit, grabbing the brush in his hands now. “Do you want some music on?”
You nod, so fucking gorgeous laying there it’s difficult not to stare, but he tries to keep it somewhat professional, putting on some soft music so it’s not just the sound of your breaths in the home. Though he loves that sound, loves the way you laugh, loves your energy in the room.
He sits down on the seat across from you and leans forward, that smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners, dipping the brush in the paint, swiping it across the canvas, doing a black line in the curve of your body. Hips he’d love to grab, waist he’d love to grip, puffy nipples he’d love to suck on.
You clearly are interested, the way your pupils dilate, the way you look right back at him, yet he’s just so nervous around you. The girls tease it’s been too long since he’s been out there – maybe it has, but then again maybe it’s just you that does it.
It’s a comfortable quiet as your beautiful body lays on the soft purple suede of his setté, you stay as still as you can, but you can’t help but move just a bit, hips arching, your glass slipping to your lips. Suguru’s strokes of something close to the pretty color of your skin work gently, dabbing in the areas where there is just a bit of shade, a bit of lighting, a soft glow.
“Am I being still enough?” You ask nervously, his lips curve up at the corners, leaning over to take a sip of his wine now.
“You’re doing amazing, the prettiest subject,” your blush dances on your cheeks, he decides to add a hint of that color to the picture. “Is that too bold of me?”
“Bold, I’m naked on your couch, famous artist.”
“God,” he shakes his head as you giggle a little, his gaze catching the base of your neck, where you can feel your pulse fluttering. “I’m not famous...”
“You are in the art world, I assure you,” you’ve moved just a bit, he puts down his brush with a quiet click, standing and drinking from his glass. He tilts his head to capture the light in your eyes, picking it back up.
He works on those lines, capturing the gentle swell of your breast, the dip of your waist, admiring every inch in front of him and on the canvas. It’s a comfortable silence between you both, broken only by the hitch in your breathing whenever his stare lingers too long, a certain part of your body that reacts immediately.
He continues until he pauses for a moment, tilting his head, you look down nervously then. “Did I move too much?”
“Just a bit,” Suguru kneels to reposition your bent knee, his breath ghosting over the inside of your thigh just a bit, you gasp out and your eyes lock. “I’m sorry, I should have asked again.”
“No, no…” You bite down on your lip, as your leg falls open a little wider than he’d intended, revealing the glistening puffy folds between them. His eyes linger for a heartbeat too long, pupils swallowing the violet of his irises, before he drags his gaze up to yours.
The heat in his look makes your nipples peak tighter, his fingers slipping up to brush a lock of hair behind your ear, you suck in a breath at how good it feels. You don’t want to be desperate, to beg for more, but everything about the situation and his breath on your skin is too much.
"Lift your chin," you do just as he asks, moving your chin up a bit, he looks down at you, lips far, far too close. “Perfect.”
“I’m feeling very pretty right now,” you murmur, a hand gripping his wrist when he goes to move his hand. “I may need… more repositioning.”
“Yeah?” He teases, chuckling softly, your thumb is brushing his inner wrist delicately.
“I’m not a good subject, too fidgety,” he eyes your lips, then lower, where your thighs spread just a bit again. “See? Entirely fidgety.”
“I see,” he touches your thigh and hears your sharp intake of breath, some of that dark hair falling down and brushing against your skin, to see your slick glittering on your thigh. His thumb sweeps the dampness from your inner thigh, your hand grips him tightly, a soft little cry escaping your throat. “You are moving too much, is there something I can do to help? Interfering with the painting.”
“Oh no…”
“Bratty art piece,” he teases, but he’s aching now, slipping that slicked finger and dragging it across your lips like a gloss, making you taste yourself. “How can I help you listen better, hmm?”
You lick your own slick off your mouth and lean up on your elbow, breasts brushing against his hard chest. “Maybe you could pin me down, make sure I stay where you need me?”
“Yeah?” Your intent is clear, when he leans ever closer, his breath mingling with yours, fingers finding your cunt, making him groan. “You’re soaked, love. Gonna make a mess of my couch.”
“Oh no,” your foreheads rest together, hips arching when the rough pads of his fingers drag through your syrupy folds, finding your little clit. “Mnh!”
“How do you taste?” He whispers, pulling his fingers back and sucking you off him, leaving you aching, watching his cheeks hollow. “Fuck…”
Suguru’s kissing you then, and everything shifts in that moment – he’s felt desire, but he’s never felt whatever connecting his lips with you is like. He moans against them, a hand entangling in your hair at the nape of your neck, your hands grip his broad shoulders, hips arching for more of him.
“Please,” your desperate little whisper almost does him in, your heart hammering under your pretty breasts, fluttering against his chest, his fingers slipping up again. Your head falls back, his lips brushing across your throat, fingers running circles on your clit, which jumps in response, your cunt drooling. “Suguru…”
He drinks in your moans, tongue sweeping inside the hot recesses of your mouth, pulling back for just a moment, a trail of saliva dripping from between your lips now. “I’m being unprofessional, huh?”
“Very,” you tease, but the laugh turns into a needy little whine, more pressure on that clit, your slick pouring down his fingers. He moans as he feels it, hot and wet, slipping just the finger tip down and in your gummy walls.
“So tight,” he whispers in wonder, thick finger stretching you, pulling back to let more slick pour out. “How should I keep you still then? Do you need to cum?”
You’re eagerly nodding, Suguru’s finger slipping all the way inside your hole, when the phone starts ringing. You tense and he curses a bit, eyeing it and then pausing.
“I have to take this one,” he eyes you carefully. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, of course,” you’re trying to gather yourself a bit when he picks up the phone.
“Girls, what is it this late?” He’s quiet, and you realize who it is, exhaling just a bit, gathering yourself. You’re too lost in that moment, in everything about Suguru Geto, down to the fact that he’s just that amazing of a parent too.
He’s quiet for a moment, then sighs, laughing a little. “All right, I’ll come get you then, but you owe me. Dishes all week.”
You laugh softly in the background, he comes back over and you’re already hastily getting dressed.
“I’m so sorry,” he says then, you’re just a little nervous anyway, what was that between you both? “We can finish the painting another night?”
“Of course we can,” you whisper, leaning up and kissing his lips, which still taste like you. He carefully adjusts the straps of your pretty dress, a kiss drifting on your forehead. “The girls come first.”
“They do, but I love that you… that it doesn’t bother you.”
“Never would,” you nervously shift a bit where you stand, eyes locking on his then. “Next time you could paint me at… my place?”
“I can, soon I hope,” he doesn’t know what to say or do, just a little awkward at that moment. “I'll walk you back.”
After reluctantly dropping you off with another heated kiss, Suguru heads in to get his keys, seeing black lace panties on his bathroom floor. He should return them to you, but instead puts them in his room for… artistic reasons.
*****
Sure.
Totally not to jerk it to with them buried against his face, putting it in his mouth like a gag to keep quiet that night, as he strokes his cock that’s aching. And of course, right as he’s working his cock up and down with his fist, whispering your name in his mind while your sweetness coats his tongue, the phone rings again.
“Fuck me…” He grumbles, but then he sees it’s you. “Shit… shit, shit, shit…”
Suguru’s already leaking pre from his pretty tip, this light tan that’s now drenched in streams of white, a hand reaching for the phone and putting you on speaker.
“Suguru, hey…” you bite nervously on your lip, still trembling from his touch. “Is this too clingy, to call you after?”
“No, no,” Suguru hardly bites back a moan. Is he filthy to keep stroking his cock, hearing your cute little sigh? “Are you all right, princess? I mean… shit…”
“Princess?” You almost fucking squeal, pressing your thighs together in need.
“Sorry, I-”
“I like it,” your voice is so sexy then, making Suguru moan out loud. You blink a bit then blush. “Are you um…”
“It's been a long time and you were right on my tongue,” He's so pathetic and desperate for you, but how can he not be? “I'll stop-”
“No, don't stop,” you lay back on your bed, fingers slipping down your body. “Let me hear you.”
Suguru Geto is in love.
“Hah – so you’re not the sweet little thing I thought,” he manages to whisper into the phone, stroking his cock again, hearing your little desperate gasp. “You’re touching that pretty pussy?”
“Is that t-terrible?” You gasp out the words, he shuts his eyes then, shaking his head even though you can’t see, spitting on his cock in a bubbly trail, letting it hit that thickened cockhead.
“No, princess,” you moan softly. “I wanted to do so much more before I had to leave.”
“Tell me what you wanted to do,” Suguru takes your panties now and strokes the lace on his cock, your half painted picture was sitting right in his room, half of the curves of that body were enough to destroy him. “I mean, if you want!?”
He chuckles – a broken little sound, stroking his cock faster with the silk, feeling so filthy yet everything about it was perfect. Your arousal lingering on his lips, your art hanging up right in front of him, your voice right in his ear when he takes you off the speaker, lips near the phone.
“Are you touching that little clit, or your tight pretty hole?” You’re soaked at his husky words, surprising you as much as they make you ache, make you throb. “I mean is that too-”
“Fuck keep going,” you’re lost, arching your hips and rolling your finger in little circles on your clit. “Mnh!”
“The sounds you make,” he huffs out softly, the sound of him stroking his cock filling the bedroom – he’s very thankful to be up on the loft floor all alone, far away so no one hears such debauchery.
Yet he couldn’t keep you quiet, no he’s sure of it.
“Can hear how wet she is on the phone,” he murmurs, as your fingers slip in your hole, nothing like his. “I wanted to make you cum all over my fingers to start – then I wanted to bury my face and drown in your cunt.”
“Oh my g-god…” You’ve never been talked to like that, trembling thighs clamping down on your own hand, already pulsing as Suguru leaks white sticky ropes against your once perfect, now ruined, panties. “You wanted to um… l-lick it?”
“Not lick it princess, hah -” his skin is coated in just a thin little sheen of perspiration. He’s moaning, stroking faster and faster – the fwap fwap fwap sounds so filthy and mixing with the squelch and click of your fingers on your cunt. “I want to suck on your little clit, feel you drool on m’face.”
“Suguru!” You’re lost in his words, in the images of his long dark hair against your skin. “You’re… I… you do?”
“You’re so fucking cute,” he exhales, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes, I want you to ride my face and spill all over it, soak me.”
“Ride your face?” You’re just a little inexperienced in that you’ve never ridden a face, blushing so furiously.
“Hmm, haven’t done it? Don’t worry, I’ll have your thighs on either side of me…” You cry out softly, hips jerking up, fingers curling deep inside yourself. “Are you imagining me?”
“Y-yes… I am, mnh!” Your eyes roll back, clit twitching, cunt slippery.
“Cum f’me, princess, picture my mouth right there.”
Suguru Geto was shy.
Suguru Geto was reserved.
Suguru Geto was freaky.
You cum so hard your fingers feel your own pulsing, touching that spot just enough to push you over that edge. Suguru groans when he hears it, your pretty whimpers while you’re cumming on the phone. “Your messy, pretty cunt… it’s so loud.”
You’re too lost to blush, or you would, as he hears the wet sloppy sounds your messy hole makes, spurting and gushing. His amethyst eyes flutter shut then, he’s so close now after hearing you, stroking faster and faster, panting your name in a desperate little whisper.
Suguru’s ragged breath rings out with your name on his lips over and over like a devotion, the painting just a bit blurry as his eyes fades. The phone is muffled against his cheek as he spills hot stripes across your panties – once a pristine black lace, now a sticky fucking mess of white.
“F-fuck…” he’s never done this, over the phone, a sweaty mess as his cock jerks with all of those aftershocks. “Oh my god.”
“Mnh…” you’re running your fingers through your slick as your heavy breaths fill each other’s ears over the phone.
“I can picture you,” he murmurs, running a thumb across his tip and exhaling.
“Can you?” you ask, fucked out alreadt, shifting on tangled sheets, your fingers slipping from your swollen clit that’s so sensitive you hiss.
“Mhm, skin shining, gripped those sheets with one hand,” you let that go and laugh, breathless. “Cunt is all puffy too.”
“You’re insane,” he laughs too, wiping a hand across his face. "Suguru?"
"Yeah," his voice is a little hoarse, you hear fabric rustle, picturing him wiping up his pretty cock. “I’m the creepy neighbor now, who was jerking it to you.”
“Never, I was already…”
“Yeah?”
“Shh,” he laughs again. "I... really liked hearing you."
"You did?”
“Oh yes,” you’re a trembling mess, slipping your shorts up, cunt just aching for all of him. “I’ve never done that.”
“Want a secret?”
“Yes.”
Suguru sighs, cleaning up his hands now. “I haven’t done that either. It’s been… a long time since I’ve done anything.”
“Really?” You sound a bit surprised. “You’re so gorgeous though.”
“Tch,” he sighs now, shaking his head, walking over to that half finished painting and brushing his fingers across it. “You’re gorgeous.”
“Oh, Sugu… I mean Suguru!”
“I like that,” he murmurs. "Your voice when you came, how wet you sounded, I need to really hear it, see it.”
Your breath catches, heart hammering in your chest.
“Is it too much?”
“No, no… Suguru I called for…” You wrack your addled brain, fucked out by just his voice. “A date tomorrow. My place, we... finish the painting.”
"Your place," he murmurs slowly. "What time? I’ll make sure the girls are… not gonna call again.”
You laugh softly. “They will always be the most important, that doesn’t bother me one bit.”
“I know,” he adores you already, so much affection and obsession it scares him just a bit. “I still want an entire night with you.”
His insinuation is clear, his voice smooth like honey, making you pulse with aftershocks. “Mnh…”
“God, how you sound,” he’s fucking getting hard again. “What time, you didn’t tell me?”
"Six work for you?”
"Gonna be torture, princess,"
“What?” You laugh nervously.
“That long.”
“Oh… you’re excited?”
Suguru chuckles, shaking his head and looking in the mirror for a moment, just as you do in your room, seeing both of your dilated eyes. “Yeah, I’m excited.”
“Then I’ll have dinner ready.”
All Suguru Geto wants to eat is you.
*****
“Have fun, best buddy,” Satoru Gojo has brought the limo to make sure the girls are good for the night. They love his mansion and the ridiculous, extravagant shit he buys them, already bouncing up and hugging him.
“Uncle Gojo!” They’re met with tousles of their hair and his chuckle, as he eyes you across the street then.
“Ooh, is that her?” He asks, lowering his sunglasses to study you, you wave all friendly and cute, earning a low whistle. “If it doesn’t work out for you-”
“Gojo, I swear to god,” Suguru glares and Satoru just flutters his fingers at you, before getting unceremoniously shoved into his own limo. “Bye now.”
“Seriously, no introductions!?” He is appalled, the girls are giggling. “Ya worried she’d like me too?”
Suguru rolls his eyes, the girls hug and kiss him good bye. “Good luck, old man.”
“I’m not even old, Nanako, god,” she just waves and hops in the obstentatious limo. Mimiko kisses his cheek.
“You’ll do great, just act like yourself.” Suguru’s heart melts at his daughter, he playfully tugs her pig tail then.
“Love you girls.”
“What about me!?” Satoru demands, crossing his arms and glaring as you walk up now. “No thank you? No I love you? No kiss?”
“For fucks sake, Satoru,” Suguru grumbles and lets his best friend hug him so tightly his damn back cracks. “I love you too, now go.”
“Aww, you’re in wuv with her,” Suguru finally gets Satoru’s lanky ass in the limo, waving goodbye.
“Aw, you should have introduced me,” you said when he walked over finally, his art supplies in his arms. “I’d love to meet your best friend.”
“Another time, he… had to go.”
“Oh! Okay, come on in, I made-” Suguru wastes no fucking time, after he sets the supplies down, kissing your lips. “Mnh!”
“Fuck,” he whispers, breath hot, cupping your face with his huge hands then that take you over. “Sorry.”
“N-no,” you tug at his sweater, bringing him down close to you then, exhaling and looking at him with your lidded gaze. “Don’t apologize, please.”
“I can’t even think of anything but fucking filling you up,” you’re kissing once more, as Suguru loses any tentative control he has, after jerking it till he was raw last night, already throbbing when he shuts the door behind you both. “God, you look beautiful.”
“Ah!” Suguru’s teeth sink against the delicate curve of your neck, his big arms around your waist, tugging you so close. He shocks you then, as you both stumble into the kitchen, his hands everywhere, your hands slip up his chest as you stumble back against your counter, the coolness against your back.
“Sorry, shit,” he tries to pull back, seeing the pretty meal you have all ready on top of the stove, salivating for an entirely different reason.
“Aren’t you hungry?” You manage to ask weakly, voice trembling, Suguru chuckles and lifts you up on that counter, spreading your thighs wide and shoving that dress up over the curve of your hips.
“Starving,” he answers, kneeling for you then. Suguru Geto on his knees, eyeing your pretty cunt and moaning. “No panties?”
“My last came up missing with you,” you tease, biting down on your lower lip as he gets a perfect view of your cunt that’s just winking and pulsing for his view, parting your puffy lips and spreading your folds wide. “Suguru you’re… you’re so in there!?”
“I sure am,” your cunt is spread wide for his artistic gaze, earning his moan when he sees inside you. “I can’t wait to fill it with white.”
You’re a flustered mess, spread wide on your kitchen counters in your brand new home for your neighbor across the street, hands gripping his raven locks and tightening, a whine escaping your throat. Thighs tremble on either side of his head, legs on each broad shoulder, letting him slip his tongue all the way inside like it’s fucking you, the wet muscle curling right up.
“Suguru! Ngh!” Just once delicious fuck of his tongue in your hole fucking destroys you, his amethyst eyes so dark you can barely see a ring of color, your pussy drooling down his tongue, down his mouth, you’re spasming around him, nose bumping your twitchy clit, eliciting another desperate little moan.
Your hands entangle in his dark locks, silky strands carding through your fingers, your hips arching up so that your cunt is right in his face, Suguru drinks you up like he’s a starved man, fingers dimpling the plush of your thighs. He’s lost in your pleasure, eyeing your pretty face that falls back, hair tumbling down your shoulders, thighs trembling with pleasure.
His tongue flicks up higher, teasing your clit, drinking up all your arousal with that long pink tongue that had just been shoved in your snug hole. He holds your hood up to watch it jump, tiny little thing that makes him smirk, eyeing you under dark lashes as he flicks it again, cock so hard he has to rub it over his jeans, gasping out at the need for friction.
But not until you came for him.
“Sugu…” That little name with your breathy cry is his undoing, he’s close to cumming from how you say it, how your thighs press against his face, your cunt slick and drooling down his mouth with every movement of your hips. “S’good, there, there!”
You’re arching and fucking his face, much to his fucking delight, coating him in your slick that just makes a mess of him. Suguru’s tongue is flicking over and over on your clit while two fingers swirl in your wetness, pressing in and stretching that tight hole out. Tacky, textured walls grip those calloused fingers so tightly he can only imagine the moment you milk his cock.
He’d give it all to you.
Suguru doesn’t ‘hook up’ at all, he doesn’t sink to his knees and bury his face for some random girl, or even a fling – no, you were special. Your juices coating his tongue and the way your heat consumes him is merely a fraction of everything he wants and needs from you, that spasming cunt spurting juices down his fingers, his hand, his wrist, slippery and messy.
“Mmph,” he barely is able to speak with his mouth so full of your juices, pulling back with a dripping mouth, eyeing your pretty face with those fucking heart eyes. “Gonna cum on m’face Princess?”
Your answer is a jerky nod, a soft desperate whine, when you shatter for him – food untouched, wine uncorked – just your cunt squirting ever so slightly, coating his face and surprising him. He almost busts then and there as it happens, as your hole spasms and spurts so much he’s coated. The orgasm has you rolling your eyes back, head smacking on that counter.
“S-Sugu…” He groans, lapping up a stripe that has your whole body trembling, so overwhelmed with how much he’d made you cum, made you shatter. “Nghhh! F-fuckkk…”
Suguru’s standing up and lifting you now, thighs straddling his hips while he kisses you, coated in your pussy, your tongues swapping the sweetness. Your arms cling to him even as you’re shaking – boneless and weak, so dizzy it’s hard to cling to him like this, the way he consumes you, the way your core has spread that heat.
You both barely make it to your couch, the one he plans on painting you on later, but for now all he can do is rut his cock against your cunt, thickness pressing and making your core tighten. You’re clinging to him with your nails pressing in his shoulders when he leans up, slipping your dress even higher, until it’s slipped right off over your head, leaving you bare.
“Tell me to slow down,” he murmurs desperately. “To take my time, to-”
“No,” you cut him off, hastily slipping off that sweater, gasping when you trail your fingers down the tattoos curving across his abdomen, watching the tense muscles flex underneath your touch. “I want this, I want you.”
“Fuck I want you, so much,” he’s hoarse and damn near whimpering when he frees his cock, smacking it against your puffy lips, glossy from his spit and your arousal, the sight of him pressing the tip into your hole almost his undoing. “Look at her, so tiny, gonna fucking fill you.”
He does just that, tugging a thigh up, cock sliding half way in and stretching your tight cunt then and there, a filthy squelch of your greedy hole sucking him in. “Mnh! S-so much…”
“Hah,” he leans forward, cupping your face with one hand, long dark strands slipping against your skin while he looks down at you.
Lovingly.
Suguru loves you.
There’s no sense to the timing, there’s fear there, but he can’t fucking deny it anymore.
“I love you,” he murmurs, you gasp, eyes widening. “You don’t have to say it back, I know it’s f-fucking… insane, yeah?”
You want to say it back then and there but he captures your throat with one hand, gently choking while his cock slides deep, and you can’t speak. Your nails pressing into the hot skin and strong muscles are your only answer, gasps and little weak whimpers mixing with your messy cunt. Suguru’s taking you over, seeing the way your tummy moves with him.
It ruins him even more, how your small little hole accommodates him, even as you struggle, as you whine out. “I know,” he huffs softly, leaning low over you and hiking your leg up. “Big stretch, hmm?”
You nod jerkily, tears of pleasure slipping from your eyes, letting him bury his cock to the hilt. Suguru has to pause to study your beauty underneath him, something to keep in mind for his art, before he works his cock in and out of your hole. Faster, deeper, folding you damn near in half as your body is buried against your own couch, sinking into the cushions.
“That’s it princess,” he praises you, you’re drooling from your mouth and your cunt as he moves, thrusting in and out, tip leaky on your cervix, you scream out in pleasure, body writhing underneath him. “Gonna cum f’me, all over me, yeah?”
You nod weakly, you’re already close – sensitive from his mouth, his tongue, his teeth.
“Then go ahead,” he whispers softly, lips brushing your nose in a cute little kiss. “Let it all out for me.”
You’re done, when those words sink in, when his lips capture yours, all you can do is orgasm all around his thick length, shattering and crying out. Suguru swallows your screams with his hot open mouth on yours, fucking you right through your orgasm, his tip dragging on the little spot in your walls.
He pulls every bit of pleasure out of you, shoving in deep and letting it drag one more time, making you a twitchy little fucking mess, dizzy and lost in him. Rain starts pattering outside – a rare thing this time of year, mixing in with your desperate little moans, your breaths, body weak.
“Good girl,” he says this shit to ruin you – you swear, when he starts thrusting again, this time so lazy and slow, each drag of his cock along your walls making you shake with overstimulation. Your legs tighten around his hips reflexively as he holds you close, hands tracing over your hips like he’s using his paint brush.
You feel like art underneath him, the way he studies you so quietly, but you didn’t need the words, just feeling everything. Your eyes flutter shut for just a moment when he kisses you, losing his rhythm now, he can feel his cock throbbing, about to bust deep inside you.
Every movement of his curved cock in your gummy walls is loud, messy, so good you're blinded. Eyes rolling back in your skull just for him to gently order you to open them. To see that pretty face hovering over you, his lips glossy, cock pulsing and impossibly thickening. Sweat drips from his slick skin to yours. Fingers tightening on a thigh to sink deeper.
“Want me to fill you up, princess?” He murmurs softly, breaking the heated silence, the rain pounding now on your windows, lightning illuminating the form over you.
“Yes.”
It’s so quick of an answer he blinks, slowing his movements inside you, groaning out when he feels you fluttering around his cock, pulsing pre. He lifts your legs higher around his hips, his hands taking over your breasts, lips trailing hot as they descend, his strokes lazy, pushing you over that limit again.
“Perfect,” his hot breath tickles your breasts, his tongue flicking lightly against your nipple, taut and sensitive, you gasp out while his wicked tongue swirls around your nipple before, drawing it gently between his teeth. “Mmm… s’fucking pretty. Can you take it all?
You nod breathlessly, your fingernails digging into his back and leaving crescent moons in his skin as he fucks you hard, leaned back shoving your thighs up high. Your hips jerk when that sharp pleasure shoots through you, when he bottoms out with his huge, veiny cock so deep.
“Gonna fill you s’good, pretty girl,” he busts so much it floods your cunt, you’re arching so that your tits are perfectly there for his bent frame to suck on, arching his back and holding you with huge hands, groaning. “F-fuckk…”
Suguru’s cumming so much it’s already pouring out, but he makes sure to shove it all back inside you, picturing how much his kids need a little sister or brother – insane thoughts overtake him. Yet, they have been since he laid eyes on you.
Drawing you.
Jerking his cock to you.
Stealing your panties.
Suguru needs you. You look up now, taking a shaky breath, eyes lowering to his lips, cupping his face then. “Suguru…”
“You don’t have to say it back, it’s okay princess,” he murmurs, but you’re blinking back tears. “Too intense?”
“Intense yeah but,” you lean up on your elbows, hair falling down behind you as a storm pounds outside. “I love you Suguru Geto.”
You’re met with a desperate, needy kiss, as the world around you both fades, leaving you covered in sheens of sweat, coated in each other. Soon Suguru lays you like you were just last night, but he makes sure to clean that cum that has slipped down your lips off with his tongue, to paint you while you’re both completely naked.
He’s moving the brush on the canvas, not able to really capture how fucked out your pretty eyes are, just sighing as his paint starts to form the silhouette of the girl he’s in love with. You’re still trembling, cum pouring from your hole that he hasn’t cleaned out completely yet.
“Suguru…” You murmur softly, he eyes you then. “Your art subject is… sticky.”
He chuckles then, putting the brush down, and walking to you, tilting your chin up as he kneels. “I can’t have my subject in such a state.” He sits you up, making you gasp when he spreads your thighs. “I’ll just have to clean her up more, won’t I?”
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As a young girl, you did a love spell - nonsense, really. He'll have amethyst eyes, long dark hair... but it never happened for you. Cursed truly - the moment you date someone they just find their true love and it's never you. Giving up on that, and living in your quaint little town as the resident witch when you run into a set of adorable twins and their dad living across the street. That's when you see him - Suguru Geto - is he the man you summoned all those years ago!? If so... will he fall into the same curse?
pairings - Girl dad! Suguru x witch! reader
warnings- rom com vibes, sweet little cozy autumn story, reader falls bad, Sugu is a girl dad, reader sucks at being a witch, the twins are matchmaking. tension and teasing, finding love again, so sweet it's tooth rotting hehe, explicit sex - fingering, oral, p in v sex, masturbation, love confessions, them being cute. - oneshot - 11.2k
This was a commission from one of my amazing supporters, based on the movie Practical Magic! I so appreciate you love and thank you so much
Some might call you a witch.
Maybe you are – cursed they all say, some old family tales of the women in your line never finding true love. Always some disaster befalls you, and you start to think it was real, think that you must be truly cursed. Dabbling in some spells in your youth, you shied away from them after every love spell just seemed to turn into them falling in love with someone else.
Friends of yours called you ‘magic’ because every guy you met and cared for seemed to fall for someone else. You suppose you’re happy for them in your own way, that you bring everyone else love and happiness, even if you’re alone you're okay with it.
You’re living a peaceful life, running your own little shop, it’s a small town – so small that you’ve known everyone your whole life.
It’s odd to get anyone new, but you know that even if it happens, that there’s no chance really, a few weeks or months of fleeting fun, before they move on. You also are just a really bad witch, you suck at every spell, clumsy in life and in witchcraft, you never excelled like your sister - the most you can ever manage are some healing herbs and tinctures.
Your love spells are really only for finding everyone else’s love, never you.
It's a quaint little life, but you find a lot of peace in it, even if you do get a little bored at times, you’re used to it. It’s home after all, the home where everyone knows you, from the owner of every little store in town, down to every neighbor you walk by.
They say your name with a curious, friendly smile as you walk by in your cardigans and jeans through the fall weather, some of them curious, others a little apprehensive.
Everyone knows your family are witches, and you're the last one left here, your old home is damn near a Halloween attraction.
It's the week before Halloween too, you love to get dressed in your ‘witch gear’ and hand out candy, so the kids can run and tell all their friends - they met the town witch!
The leaves are crunching beneath your heeled boots this time of year, shivers of the chill air slipping through the soft fleece sweater. You carry a bag of little herbs you’ve gathered in your hand when you pause by the home that’s been empty for months. An old home, many assume are ‘haunted’ and they weren’t wrong, it was indeed a haunted home but you were used to that sort of thing.
At least the spirits there were pretty cool, every now and then they say hi to you.
God no wonder men run for the hills, saying you see ghosts is definitely not a topic for a hot date, now is it?
Curse or it's you ugh.
Curious who bought the old three story manor, you can’t help but walk a little closer, observing the dusty old windows, bending over at the waist to peer at just who is inside. You hear giggling of what sounds like two little girls, who run right past you as you stand awkwardly in the yard, pausing as they see you.
A little blond girl and a little brunette with matching bangs and ponytails grin happily, sucking on lollipops happily in the chilled air, each grabbing your hand now and tugging. “Hi there!”
You smile at them, they speak at the same time as if in sync, cute little girls that are tugging at your affection even just meeting them. “I’m Mimiko!”
“I’m Nanako!”
“Oh hello,” you smile at them both, as they eagerly tug you along. “Where are you taking me?”
“To meet dad!”
“You’ve gotta say hi!”
“You're pretty!”
“Oh, thank you…” You can’t help but smile curiously as they drag you inside, but when you see him you pause, faltering just a bit.
The man that's turned with his back to you is massive. He’s got a blueprint laid out on a desk, still dusty and old – left over from long ago. You see a bare back then, muscled and chiseled, hunched over slightly with his hand in his dark, silky locks, scribbling away.
Your heart races in its chest, remembering the silly spell you made as a little kid in your herb garden.
‘A tall man, long dark hair, amethyst eyes, he’ll be quiet and kind, oh and he’ll want children, he’ll want family. He’ll be strong and smart, and just a little on the eccentric side – we can’t have him too boring.’
Your sister had giggled at you, when you had picked up purple petals that you imagined of his eye color, grinning as your sister ran over.
‘Amethyst, that’s such a crazy color!’ She'd said, touching the petals with you.
‘Well, he’s not real so – he can be as beautiful as I imagine.’
It’s just long black hair you tell yourself, you're being ridiculous! So he's tall, okay… that’s the only similarities.
Your heart is racing just a bit in your chest, nervously shifting as the girls tug you along even closer, into the living room just dusted a bit from drywall and sawdust.
“Papa, papa!”
He’ll have a deep, husky voice.
“Girls,” he turns around then, and you pause in your tracks, thighs trembling, breaths quickening just a bit.
His eyes.
They’ll be amethyst.
You’d said it dreamily as a little girl underneath the full blood moon, but even then you never thought, never imagined that maybe it could be real. It can’t be surely, even if his eyes are amethyst, even if his dark silky hair falls a bit over his shoulders, and you see his bare chest, chiseled and cut, your eyes trail down it before you can stop yourself, flushing hotly.
He pauses as he eyes you, seeing the heat on your cheeks, something about you making him – Suguru Geto – falter just a moment, a man never lost for words and completely at ease, paused.
You’re dressed casually, soft and cozy, smelling like the autumn itself, hints of the apple orchard and cinnamon, but mostly, it’s how you just look at him like that.
Who are you?
Suguru long ago gave up on women, he had love once long ago, to the mom of these two little girls, and he couldn’t help but focus solely on them. She was lost so tragically.
Not that he doesn't see women as beautiful – especially you. He loves beauty, after all, yet nothing has stopped him in his tracks like this.
How can he pinpoint it? You're beautiful but it's not that… it's something around you, real and tangible, making his fingers twitch with the need to just touch your skin.
Mimiko is giggling and tugs you down to whisper in your ear - “Papa must think you're pretty.”
You blush even more, clearing your throat a bit, finally taking a breath and holding out your hand. “Hey new neighbor, I'm the witch next door.”
He chuckles then, a sound he's hardly made in ages it feels like, aside from when the girls do something too adorable. Little troublemakers that have him wrapped around their little fingers, always batting their lashes and looking too adorable to punish.
But to chuckle from someone else?
He sobers a bit then, realizing how easy that had been, how pretty your necklace sits between your collacollarbone. Some pendant he can't quite place, tilting his head a bit to study it, before realizing his attention was right on your breasts.
The girls run around now giggling and you smile just a bit, leaning over and touching the necklace ever so delicately. “Do you like it?”
“A witch talisman, huh?” He smirks a little and then turns, snatching up a sweater and sliding it over his head, abs flexing when he moves it across his chest. You heat up at the action, managing to stay casual instead.
“Of course it is,” you tease. Yet it was indeed just that – rose quartz, glittering a soft pink. “So your name?”
“Suguru Geto,” he's trying to be friendly, holding out a hand for you to shake, yours rests in his now, biting down on your lower lip and staring. His hand overtakes yours, swallowing it in his calloused grip.
Something about the touch lingers in his mind that night after you leave. He can't help but toss and turn, looking out the window after pacing around his room for a while. In the quiet he thinks too much, sighing and pressing aside the blinds, just to see you under the glittering light of the almost full moon in your garden.
“Hmm,” he tilts his head, sighing when you look over toward him, as if you can see the crack in the blinds. You smile just a little, turning in a little circle before bouncing back in. “Maybe she is a witch.”
****
You may or may not dress just a little sexier with hot dad neighbor across the street - it certainly isn’t intentional at all!
It’s also just coincidental that you put a little charm spell on yourself to look just a bit more ‘enchanting’ if you will. That you bat your lashes that have a little bit of mascara on them lately when you borrow a cup of sugar, or come over with extra donuts for the girls.
It’s just to be a friendly neighbor! It has nothing to do with the fact that Suguru Geto is the epitome of that love spell you made when you were a little girl, down to the smirk and how his eyes get just a bit lidded in amusement when you show up. The house is progressively coming together more and more every day you walk by, Suguru seems to be quite the handy man.
Aside from some workers most of the restoration seems to be done by his own hands, and you sure can’t complain while sitting on the front porch in your little swing after work and sipping your favorite tea.
It may or may not be a little magical brew of your own – you’re not that good at witchcraft but this one is to attract… wealth or something of course!?
Not that man putting a coat of paint on his outer wall, with leafs fluttering around him, he smiles back at you for just a friendly moment and you wave, going back to pretending to read. Then you eye him again, when his attention is off you, and the girls are laughing and running around in the leaves, crunching all underneath their feet.
You can’t help but move your fingers a bit, making the leaves swirl for them, they’re clapping and giggling as they move in the air, and your finger moves in a circle motion. Suguru peeks over at the girls and his smile melts your heart, chuckling a bit and watching curiously as they keep swirling in a figure eight motion.
He eyes you on that porch, your finger moving with them.
You’re not really a witch, are you?
Your eyes meet his and widen, then the leaves stop swirling, instead scattering all across the girls, who are jumping up and down excitedly. You hastily look back at your book, your hair falling a bit in front of your shoulders, looking so pretty in that white swing, like you need him right next to you.
Suguru wonders if you’re casting some spell on him, but he knows the moment he locked eyes with you there was clear desire, but the affection that builds every time you come by is hard to ignore. The girls adore you, frequently running over to your house to bake something with you or help you mix up herbs for your shop, shit they want you more than him sometimes.
He notices your cute little dresses and your boots, like you are the town witch how you carry on, something magical about you that’s hard to ignore. But he does ignore it a bit, because he has to focus on the girls, on getting the house together, on his business. He doesn’t have time to fall for cute little witches next door, even when they start to make him ache at night.
Even when he’s jerking his cock remembering you bending over in front of him in some little dress that’s way too little clothing for this weather earlier that week, he can remember the smooth expanse of your thighs, the curve of your ass. The hint of your black panties that had peeked right between them, made him long to grip your hips and drag you against him.
He’s peeking out that window even as he starts stroking his cock under the covers, sucking in a breath. Suguru hasn’t been with a woman in a long time, not that he couldn’t but he’s picky, and you’re this particular brand that’s driving him insane. Cute and giggly where he’s serious and quiet, warm and soft where he was a bit colder and hard to read.
Suguru wasn’t always this way, but it’s how it went, and now he’s desperately stroking his veiny length thinking of slipping his cock inside you, his cute little witchy neighbor. Bending you over and making you arch for him, a hand slammed over your mouth to keep your moans quiet when he bottomed out, stretching your perfect little cunt out.
He’s so sure it’s perfect.
All of you must be.
You’re in your room which is directly across from his, doing some little dance – surely some other spell of yours – as you get undressed, just your silhouette alone has him leaking pre. He sits up and exhales, spitting on his cock and watching the saliva drip down his tip, mixing with the pearly pre that’s coming out of his tip in spurts, making him suck in a breath.
He should feel like a pervert, watching you slip on a baggy tee shirt, the curves of your body suddenly hidden by it, when you walk over towards the window to flick off the lights, and he swears he sees the curtain move for a moment, as if you were peering at him. You flick them off and it’s dark then, his pretty show gone, but his eyes slam shut and he pictures everything.
Stroking faster he murmurs your name softly under his breath, groaning as his big hand strokes up and down faster until he busts at the thought of fucking you in a baggy shirt in your bed, shoving it up your hips and using it to yank you down his length. White ropes spill all across his hand, his eyes rolling back, breaths coming too quickly, trying to calm himself down.
You’re just pretty, he’s just being a whole pervert, he can control himself better than this.
Surely he doesn’t jerk off again that night.
****
The next morning he’s knocking on your door, he has to look at you and know he jerked himself off to you, stammering almost with a little flush on his cheeks that you’ve never seen, across the bridge of his nose and his high cheekbones as he stands there in front of you, business suit on making him look far too attractive, black and sleek following the sharp lines of his body.
You’ve seen him in one before, but this close to him makes you blush yourself, eyes flitting down his starch white dress shirt he’s still tucking into his belted waist, as if he’s in a rush. His hair’s down falling across his face rather than thrown up in his typical pony tail, making him look like he’d just jumped out of some fucking romance novel cover.
“Hi!” Your voice literally squeaks, you try to compose yourself, wrapping your cardigan around your shirt and shorts you’re wearing, the girls hug each of your thighs and you laugh softly. “Hi girls.”
“We’re coming to play!”
“You’re babysitting us!”
“Huh?” You’re laughing softly, looking over at Suguru curiously, who rubs the back of his neck, smiling a bit.
“Hey there, girls,” he admonishes, they pout all cutely. “We haven’t even asked her if she can yet.”
“Sorry!” they're pouting as they speak in unison, too cute to ever be mad at.
“You’re fine, pretty girls,” you pat their heads as they just run into your house then. “Um, come in?”
“Sorry,” he sighs. “Girls! Manners!”
They’re already familiar with your home so they’re running around and sitting on your cozy couch, Suguru hasn’t been inside your home just yet though. He eyes it carefully as you shut the door behind him, seeing a cauldron on your kitchen counter, a kitchen that has original seventies counter tops and cabinets mind you.
“You are really into this witch thing.”
“It’s for my shop! Aha…” You’re standing in front of it, waving your arms as Suguru smirks a little, hands in his pockets, looking at the old wooden cabinets.
“Have you ever considered renovating?” He walks up and touches the old press wood that is close to falling apart, humming to himself. “Some updates would really open it up.”
“I haven’t no, my parents left me this place and I’m afraid I didn’t do a thing to it,” you touch the old formica countertops that are peeling. “Haven’t even taken down the old wallpaper.”
“Well I can help if you get the materials,” he offers, the girls are climbing up onto the tall chairs, swirling around the mixture in the cauldron as he assesses the kitchen with a sharp eye. “I actually have a good buyer if you want me to order them for you.”
“How much would you charge to put it all in?” You ask, trying to see in your mind if your budget will allow.
You are doing a wealth spell tonight with the new moon though, so maybe it’ll manifest itself just like Suguru did, those amethyst eyes looking at you again, flashing back to that vivid memory. You keep telling yourself that you’re looking too much into it, that it’s nonsense.
But it’s hard to even breathe when he’s near.
“How about you help me out and watch the girls a couple times a week, and I’ll gladly put it all in for free? Fix this place all up.”
“Oh! Of course I can…” they’re giggling and talking amongst themselves, petting your cat who slinks by and jumps up on the counter, purring. “Is it okay if I bring them to the shop? I do go in a couple hours on the weekends.”
“Perfectly fine, I do most of my work at home but I have to go to a bunch of meetings the next couple weeks,” he sighs, snatching a band off his wrist and tying his hair up as he speaks. “It would help me out so much, just on the weekends if you could, the week will be fine because they have school but if you could let them hang out a little bit if I’m not here?”
“It’s no worry at all,” Suguru watches you light up as Mimiko shows you a drawing she’s done. “Oh it’s beautiful!”
The way you are with the girls makes him falter, the affection tearing at him, something he never knew he could feel. Of course he was aware of the fact that they loved you already but he’s never seen them like this. Usually his little ‘troublemaker twins’ as he called them – would chase away any nanny, any babysitter in the world. Yet they adore you.
“Will you be good for her?” He asks them now, leaning down to their level and narrowing his eyes, they nod and giggle behind their hands. “No crossing your fingers.”
“We’re not!” Mimiko says.
“No way!” That's Nanako, he rolls his eyes at them.
“Yeah you are,” he snatches their hands playfully, and they sigh. “Be good for her or I’ll get a mean babysitter instead.”
“No, no we love her!” Mimiko says, eyeing you and holding your hand. “She’s a witch!”
“Girls…”
“No, I am,” you shrug a shoulder and raise a brow now. “And I’ll put a spell to turn you both into frogs if you’re bad!”
They just laugh at you, as does Suguru, standing and realizing how close you are, when they run off, already making themselves at home. You turn to him and smile just a bit, realizing you’re still just in a tank and shorts, and your cardigan has fallen open, soft and tan against your skin.
Suguru’s eyes lower before he can stop himself, seeing your nipples perked up and pressing against the fabric, his heart races in his chest at the sight. He can even see the curve of each breast under the thin cotton, his hands twitch just slightly with the need to grip them, to mold them to his palms.
You seem to notice, they rise and fall, your breaths quicker and quicker, Suguru clears his throat and flushes more, looking back up into your eyes, faltering. “Shit, I’m sorry…”
“No, no I am wearing nothing and it’s cold,” you murmur, but you don’t close the sweater, you bite down on your lower lip instead, stepping a little closer. “It’s cold in here, isn’t it?”
“A little,” he murmurs, looking back at your old counters and touching them, trying not to act like he doesn’t want to brush those nipples with his fingers. “Thank you so much for this, really.”
“Of course, I’d love some help around here-”
Crash.
“Shit…” Suguru grimaces, as the girls crash a face, gasping out simultaneously. “I’ll buy you a new one!”
“It’s all right,” you walk over and sigh, you’ll have to try to fix it with magic a little later, you can’t scare Suguru off when he’s finally coming over. “No worries, just be careful okay?”
****
The girls were not careful.
As adorable as they are, they’re breaking and crashing anything and everything, to the point you do start trying to piece them together with your rusty magic, but you can’t even keep up with them. The cat is even joining in and scratching your old wicker furniture instead of his scratching post, being a little menace to society right along with the girls.
They’re truly exhausting even for you, but they’re so freaking cute it’s hard to stay mad, you instead try to divert their energy with the enticement of a spell.
“What kind of spell!?” Mimiko asks excitedly, while you take them out to your greenhouse, letting them run around and explore the many, many herbs that grow here.
“We’ll do a love spell!” Nanako chimes in, giggling and touching a petal.
“A love spell, hmm?” You ask, gathering some of the mugwort carefully, praying they don’t crash all of your plant pots too. “You have a crush, Nanako?”
“No, yuck!” You smile in relief. “But for dad… he really needs a push.”
“He does,” Mimiko agrees, giggling and then looking at you. “Do you like dad?”
“I mean,” you blush now, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I don’t know him very well. I’d… like to?”
“We’ll help!”
*
It’s the evening when Suguru comes back, looking a little exhausted and leaning in your doorway, smiling just a bit before he sees the mess the kids have made of your kitchen. “Oh god, how bad is it?”
“I mean… they’re rambunctious?”
“Girls!”
“No, no,” you tug him inside now, shaking your head and putting a finger to your lips. “They’re finally calming down, we’re cooking dinner.”
“Oh…” the scents hit him then, some stew that makes his tummy grumble. “Fuck, I didn’t eat.”
“What, not all day? Come on please, it's almost done!”
“Are you sure?” You just nod and take him by the hand, leading him into your cozy little dining room.
Suguru’s not sure anything you own is newer than the eighties, truly, you must love thrifting or have kept everything original.
Though something is so homey and comfortable about it all, it's still a shame to look at as a man who literally has spent years building homes.
“It’s no imposition, the girls wanted to eat dinner here too. One less thing you have to do today, hmm?”
Suguru’s stunned for a moment, just a small gesture of help is more than he’s had in… as long as he can remember since he’s had the girls on his own. What exactly are you doing to his mind?
It's cozy, the four of you in the outdated kitchen as you scoop another helping of stew into his bowl. The way the girls devour your meal makes him wonder if he's ordering out too much, it's hard sometimes being a single father.
On days he works Suguru barely sees the girls sometimes, and he's tired some days for their boundless energy.
With you they almost seem a little calmer, showing some actual table manners which surprises him, before they start to yawn and look a little sleepy. “You two can watch a show while we clean up,” he says softly, eyeing the bottle of wine you've pulled out.
“One glass?” You tease, after they get snuggled up under one of your afghans, it looks like you had a crochet habit judging off all the little balls of yarn and hooks on your living room table.
“I'd love one, what kind you got?”
“A nice cabernet,” you pour him a glass slowly, letting dark red liquid half way fill up the glass you hand him. “It's a little strong.”
You put the crystal wine glass to your lips, you’re flushing just a bit as he watches you sip it, hands around the stem of the glass, sipping it and letting the rich flavor dance along your tastebuds. It’s quiet in the kitchen, the girls are already yawning and snuggling when Suguru stands, sipping his wine and coming a little closer.
“Thank you so much for today,” he murmurs, tense a bit when you look up at him under your lashes. Fuck you’re pretty. “They love you.”
“I love them too, I mean… is that totally weird to say? I feel like they’re my little nieces or something already,” you say affectionately, tugging at his heart then. “Please know I don’t mean to overstep.”
“No, that makes me happy.” He smiles and picks up his bowl then. “Let me help you with dishes.”
“Oh you don’t have to!”
“You have witch magic for them?” You smile and giggle behind your glass, grabbing your bowl as well and carrying it in with him.
“I do, look…” You pop open the dishwasher. “Tada!”
Suguru snorts and laughs, the sound so pleasing to your ears you melt just a bit more for him, looking back over your shoulder and smiling. “I’ll grab the girls’ bowls.”
It’s quiet aside from the running water and the gentle clicking of the dishes as you rinse them, taking little sips while Suguru helps you pop them in the dishwasher, you shut it and start it, leaning against the counter and brushing your fingertips across the counter. It feels perfect having them in your home, you can’t really describe it.
You don’t want to scare him away completely, so you temper it a bit. “I loved having you over for dinner.”
“Yeah?” You nod shyly, the breeze from your little kitchen window blows in gently, tousling your hair around your face.
“You three are welcome any time, truly I get a little lonely since my sister moved out.”
“Where’d she move to?” Suguru brushes a little tendril back, fingers accidentally brushing your skin, you gasp out, teeth sinking into your lower lip to bite back an embarrassing noise. He falters, clearing his throat. “Was in your face, m’sorry.”
“No, no,” his hand falls and he takes a gulp nervously. “Don’t apologize, um she found her true love and moved out of state.”
“That’s cute.”
“I dated him.”
“Huh?” Suguru blinks in confusion, and you sigh, sipping a little more wine and eyeing the two sleeping little girls on the couch snuggling. “You dated him?”
“Everyone I date, they find their ‘true love’. It’s some curse, but don’t worry – even being near me means you’ll find it.”
Suguru laughs then and you glare. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” your lips pout now, looking down and sighing. “It really is true, she’ll fall right into your lap.”
“You’re not cursed,” he shakes his head a bit now. “You’re still young.”
“Twenty five and never dated longer than two weeks, that’s usually the magic number. They find their loves, don’t laugh!”
“That’s nonsense, how much of this curse do you believe?” He finishes his drink and takes both of your glasses, eyeing your pretty lip print on the glass, rinsing it and washing it for you.
“It’s all factual, I assure you, just wait.”
Suguru just laughs at you, and you wish it wasn’t real, but you’re absolutely sure some pretty girl will end up on his doorstep tomorrow.
You carry Mimiko as he carries Nanako over to his home once they’re tuckered out, she’s snuggling to your neck all cute and precious, when Suguru looks over at you in the moonlight you’re so pretty in that moment. All smiling against Nanako’s hair, the soft white light illuminating your skin, when he quietly shows you up to their room.
The entire house looks beautiful, all redone from the new vinyl plank to the soft gray paint on fresh drywall. The girls room is everything you’d dream of as a girl, so pretty and done up with their beds, both sides of the room have their own unique little touches too. Mimiko’s has darker colors, blacks and blues with plushies, Nanako’s room is brighter and sunnier, pastels and sunny yellows.
“Suguru it’s so pretty,” you whisper, eyeing the fairy lights dancing across their ceiling, it’s beautiful and swathed in color. Suguru beams with pride and it’s adorable, as he brushes back their hair and kisses their foreheads. “I want to live here.”
“I’ll make your place just as nice,” he promises, walking out of their room and shutting the door behind him with a quiet click, the hallway is dark, still smelling of fresh paint. “You pick a color scheme and I’ll work with it.”
“You really don’t have to,” you murmur, as he’s suddenly too close to you, and you inhale his scent - fresh with just a hint of musk. “It’s not a problem to watch them, I enjoy them coming over.”
“Your kitchen is going to be a work of charity, it’s that bad.”
“Hey!” You playfully shove him by his chest “They aren’t that horrible!”
“Mhm,” his hands rest on your shoulders now, you’re trembling a bit. “You’re living fifty years in the past like a little time bubble.”
“Well maybe I like the seventies,” you tease, the wine warming your bloodstream and making your cheeks flush by his proximity. “It’s retro.”
“Ancient,” he corrects, tapping your nose then, making it scrunch just a bit, his breaths slowing down then, eyes drifting to your lips. “Does your nose twitch side to side too?”
“And you’re hating on retro…” you twitch it all cutely then, making him chuckle, as he brushes his thumb across your lips without thinking.
You’re too cute, your body so warm he can feel it with his fingertips burning through the softness of your sweater with his other hand. He swallows nervously – it’s been a long time since Suguru has been with someone, and he has vivid memories of stroking it to you last night, that ache worse in your presence.
You both just stand there, eyeing each other in the darkness of the hallway, your heart hammering in your ears, pulse racing in his neck, the two of you unsure of what to do, how to move. Him, nervous after years of being alone – you terrified that the moment you kiss him, he’ll be on his merry little way with a pretty new neighbor.
Was it a curse?
Was he the one you summoned that night?
You step a little closer, his hand slides to your waist, briefly brushing across the curve of your breast, your nipples press up aching and needy underneath that top, as he steps closer to you. He’s so tall your head falls back, his shadow overtaking yours when his lips are just a breath away, tickling your own and shooting hot desire from his big hand cupping your cheek.
You feel so small next to him, the feeling is heady, making you even more needy, but all the same so scared.
Your lips part for him now, as he starts descending, your eyes flutter shut – imagining a first kiss, only for one of the girls to cry out suddenly. Suguru panics, pulling back and opening the door. You see Mimiko has had a bad dream, up hugging her knees then calling your name too.
“Oh,” you come to her and sit on the bed, Suguru watches carefully as you soothe her back to sleep. “It’s all right, sweetheart.”
He has never felt this.
Their mom passed a very long time ago, when they were born, so he hasn’t even seen someone with them, especially like you, making him long to capture that moment forever. Your gentle smile as if you’ve cast a spell of calm, he’d almost believe all of it if he wasn’t such a skeptic, that you calmed the very energy all around you all.
You look back and ease up finally, letting him walk you down the stairs to his door, opening it for you, letting the breeze sweep in over both of your overheated bodies, all flustered by the sensations of what had almost been a kiss. “Suguru… I’m not sure my budget on things-”
“I get great deals, I’ll just buy the materials.”
You blink then, shaking your head. “No, no that’s far too much for just some babysitting!”
“Really to see them like that? I…” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes so vibrant in that moment that you drown in their depths. “Worth anything.”
“Suguru…”
God, the way you say his name.
For every bit of him that wants to drag you up to his room and spread your thighs, bury himself in your cunt, another part of him is terrified to take it that far, too ruin something beautiful you have with his girls already. So he hesitates, instead kissing your forehead as sweetly as he does the girls, you let your eyes flutter shut, leaning in close to him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, we’ll go over some options,” he says then, pulling back and brushing your tendrils back one more time. “Thank you for tonight.”
“Of course…”
You walk home and he watches you, waiting for you to wave at him, smiling and giggling when you walk inside, leaning back against the door.
Fuck you really, really like your neighbor, it’s past like really, a word you’re too terrified to think but that keeps echoing in your ears.
True love.
Love spell, amethyst eyes, dark hair, the smile – was Suguru Geto the man you conjured up as a little girl?
****
Suguru coming over every day almost to work on your house was far too attractive, shirtless and sweaty, while you dress the most skimpy you can, bouncing around and giggling. He acts nonchalant like he doesn’t notice, even when the girls are at school and he’s over, and you’ll lean and bend over to grab a tool for him, or a cold beer at the end of the day.
It’s easy being near you, that’s all Suguru keeps thinking, amusedly watching as you just accidentally let a strap slip off your shoulder, and he’ll adjust it right back for you, letting his fingers brush just a bit against your skin. You’d pout all cute, never directly saying what you want, though you make him jerk it every night to you like it’s just what he does now.
A routing, remembering every time you brush against him, as he starts to tear out your old ugly cabinets, replacing them piece by piece when he gets time – until it all starts to come together. What was an ugly yellow kitchen was now becoming a beautiful modern creation.
Suguru is great with his hands.
So great you can’t help but wonder how they’d feel against you, how those fingers feel inside your cunt, the thoughts alone make you touch yourself all night, knowing it’s hopeless, no matter what you try he just kisses your forehead, pats your head like you’re a little puppy.
He’s sweet, he’s caring and fun, the days blend into something that almost feels like family, the girls over constantly during the renovations, and you three get even closer than before. Showing them little healing potions and protection charms you all make for Suguru, it’s like they become more than neighbors.
They’re everything to you now.
In the span of a few months it’s become what you look forward to the most, quiet dinners after Suguru works so hard, the little talks as you catch glimpses of his life before he moved to this tiny town. A little vague and mysterious, he eventually shares more, so much more every day with you.
His wife that passed away, some of the pain he felt, a new love it was really snatched too soon. How hard it’s been alone with the girls, but how they have him wrapped around their fingers.
Yet you don’t realize one thing, because Suguru doesn’t show you yet.
You’ve got him under your spell, too.
Every time he grabs Boba for the girls, he grabs you one too, every time he gets some pretty little piece of jewelry they ask for, he makes sure to find something for you. Tiger’s eye, rose quartz, amethyst just like his eyes, wrapped in some expensive gold you know isn’t just casual.
Yet he doesn’t say it, not out loud, stopping himself every time he’d watch the girls hug you, so scared to ruin that for them.
Suguru’s not a perfect person, what if he messes up, what if you two end up done, and the girls suffer?
Yet how can he keep going on acting like he’s unbothered, like he doesn’t constantly think of you, intoxicated by your very presence, by the energy surrounding you just as much as he is your beauty, your humour, the determination as you pass by every day with your little herbs in your bag.
“Daddy, can we stay again for dinner!” Mimiko asks once things are complete almost in your kitchen – just a couple touch ups of paint to go.
“Well we don’t want to keep making-”
“Nonsense,” you bend down, hands on your knees as you get to eye level with the twins, smiling at each of them. “You all are welcome any time.”
Your eyes meet Suguru’s over the girls’ heads, smiling carefully, wondering if you should just stop trying. This isn’t some rom com, there’s no fix to your ‘curse’ truly, he may not have found a love yet, but he would.
You have to enjoy him while he’s here.
When Suguru eats with you all that night, he can hardly take his eyes off you, prompting Nanako to run up to you and whisper in your ear –
“That spell worked, dad is in love.” You laugh softly, entertaining her and whispering conspiratorily back.
“You and Mimiko are witches!"
She giggles with delight, and you feel his gaze, wondering just how long you have until he moves on, as the curse goes.
But that night as a kid keeps replaying in your head, picking those petals.
Amethyst eyes.
*****
“It’s all done,” Suguru says a couple of weeks later, nothing has happened since that night alone, when you two had been so close to kissing.
Was it the curse in action?
You panic a bit knowing he may not come over much anymore, plastering on a smile you don’t really feel. “It is all done! Suguru, how could I ever repay you, really? It’s all so beautiful…”
“No need to thank me, you’ve done so much for the girls,” he looks over to where they’re sleeping on your couch again, snuggled up all cute. “They love it here a little too much, huh?”
“I love them here too much,” you look up then, taking a breath for courage. “I love you all here too much.”
It’s quiet, then.
Suguru’s eyes lock on yours, wearing one of those thin little dresses and your big open sweater, he can see your nipples press up through that thin material, making him ache to suck them, to feel them. He’s barely able to keep his sanity, to keep his control anymore, so afraid to open up again…
That he may lose this chance, a chance at you.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, shaking your head and looking down at the sweet tea glass set on the table, condensation cooly dripping. The fan overhead does nothing to cool you down, neither does the sip of that golden iced tea, even if it’s cool outside – you’re burning up. “That’s too far.”
Suguru steps closer as you back a bit, into the kitchen, hidden in the darkness so that his shadow’s cast over yours along the wall. He cups your face carefully, like you’re special, like you’re so delicate, while his other hand grips a hip, his chest rising and falling with his nerves.
“I haven’t felt this in a long time… I haven’t ever felt this,” his words make you melt, your eyes blinking back tears while he gently speaks, his voice just a breathy whisper. “I want to break your ‘curse’ you think you have, okay?”
“The ‘never finding love’ curse?” He nods, smiling just a bit, you inhale his musky scent and let it fill your senses, his body heat seeping against yours.
Every breath, every movement, every look is special to him.
It’s you.
“But what if now that we… fall in love… you find your-”
Suguru kisses you quiet.
The first uninterrupted kiss from Suguru Geto was the sweetest thing you’ve ever had in your life.
It tastes of that sweet tea you’d brewed him, mixed with something distinctly Suguru. Like velvet against your tongue, your hands slipping up over his chest, slipping around his neck – fingers entwining in those silky locks. Your lips part, gasping as he slips his tongue in your mouth, slowly exploring the depths of it.
His kiss is slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world with you, not something that shocked you though, no, everything about that first kiss felt perfect, the warmth spreading through your body slowly, burning through your veins. The ache in your tummy was sweet and building, like the sugar on his lips from the drink, still just a little cool.
His hand comes to press on the small of your back, tugging you closer as Suguru loses himself in that moment, in this kiss. He’s moaning softly, pressing you against that table now, long fingers cupping your face while his head tilts, and the kiss gets hungry. You’re desperately arching, craving friction as his thigh presses up between your swollen folds, making your clit twitch as you start dripping.
He moans out softly, lifting you so quickly you gasp out, biting down on your lower lip to try to keep your noise down. His lidded eyes gaze down at you, your swollen lips and dilated pupils meeting his. “Should we slow down?”
“God no, I mean!?” He laughs softly, his hands slipping up the sides of your thighs and dimpling the skin under his touch, lips pressing over and over as you roll your hips, thighs now on either side of his. “Mmm, don’t slow down.”
“I’m not gonna stop if we keep going,” he whispers hoarsely, a hand behind you on that table, the cool wood pressed against your skin. “Been wanting you for too long.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you,” his lips press a hot trail down your neck, moaning softly against your neck, grinding you against his length underneath his jeans, watching your pretty eyes roll back. “Of course it’s you.”
Suguru’s kissing you again, sucking down your every bit of saliva like he’s thirsty for it, tongues dancing together with that deliberate slowness, his cock leaking and waiting to press up inside you, fill you. He’s aching to taste you everywhere, taste your sweet skin, your pretty cunt, the roundness of your breasts and those nipples pressing against his chest..
“This slutty little dress,” he murmurs then, shocking you for a moment at the change of tone. Your breath catches when he leans back, slipping the straps down your bare shoulders, the thin nylon flimsy as it falls. “You wear them to torture me, huh princess?”
“Princess,” you whisper softly, kissing him again when he lifts you in his arms like you’re nothing, walking you carefully towards your room, the door shutting behind you quietly, only for him to press you against it.
“Mhm…” He pulls back, holding you by your ass, your cunt dripping and needy. “Princess.”
“I’m more of a witch than a princess.”
Suguru chuckles and brushes your hair back ever so gently, leisurely, like he wants to savor every moment. Even as you arch and wriggle, craving his nearness, his touch, Suguru teases you with calloused fingers, rough from how he works with those hands across your skin. His fingers grip your hips, thumbs pressing your pelvis, your back against the door.
“A witch, hmm?” You giggle softly, looking up at him under your lashes, he lifts your dress up your hips now, slipping a finger inside your panties. “Well, little witch, you're just soaked."
“Mnh… you should know one thing about me,” you gasp as he laps his tongue against your neck, tracing the curve delicately. “Before we…”
“What is it?” You tremble as he presses you closer against him, carrying you over to your bed, unmade with so many pillows he has to shove them off, earning your soft breathy laugh. “Besides the fact you have a messy little room.”
“I didn’t know you’d be up here,” his lips trail across your collar bone, your hands entangle in his silky locks that are falling against your skin, caressing it while his fingers tug down your dress.
“Wearing the most easy little dresses to mess with me,” he slips it off in one motion, leaving you in just panties, exhaling when he sees your body. You should feel a little nervous but instead you’re arching for him, breasts begging for attention, as he studies you. “What do I need to know, hmm? Before I have you cumming so hard you fall apart for me?”
“Oh… mnh!” Suguru’s gripping those panties now, easing them down your trembling thighs, savoring every inch of your body with his darkened gaze. “Well… I may have made a love spell and… I think it was you.”
You expect him to laugh, but you’ve already woven so much magic in his life, he leans back, slipping off that soft sweater to show his body to you, those thick arms with bands tattooed around the biceps, flat brown nipples with those chest muscles pressing up. You suck in a breath when his gaze hits your cunt, watching it drip.
“You made a love spell, little witch?” He asks, stepping closer and undoing his belt, the clink echoing, opening it to reveal a hint of that dark patch of hair right above his cock. “What kind of spell?”
“I was young,” you sit up, a hand slipping down every rippling abdomen, hearing his soft moan in response as you trace every one, your hand tugging his zipper, looking up at him under his lashes. “Amethyst eyes. Dark hair. And a laugh, soft and deep. He’ll be loving and caring, want a family.”
Suguru halts then, his cock straining as you lower his boxers, he lets you watch it spring free, falling heavy and thick, leaking pretty pearly spurts. He sucks in a breath as you stroke him, leaning over and lapping some of it up with your tongue as he stands before you, hands entangling in your hair.
“A spell, I knew it,” he murmurs, while you wrap his tip with your lips and he tries not to bust then and there, moaning softly at the warmth of your mouth. “As addicted to you as I am.”
You pull back, saliva dripping down your lips now. “Addicted?”
His answer is pressing you down on that bed, hovering over you, big hands taking over every inch of your body. “You think I don’t notice every little thing you do? Hah…” he laughs softly, shaking his head, scooching you up your bed so that he can lay between your thighs, his body laying hot over you. “Show me a little spell then, let me see.”
“Yeah? You sure you won’t get spooked?” you raise a brow, he shakes his head. “I’m not the best witch but…”
You see flowers by your bed, the ones the girls had picked and brought over because he thought they were pretty. You lean up on your elbows, concentrating and moving your fingers, Suguru watches as you make them swirl up.
“Oh shit,” he watches in wonder, he’d had a feeling you were the one doing the leaves, but this just confirms it all, you let them fall gently, grinning over at him now. “You got impossibly sexier.”
You giggle but it’s cut off when he’s all over you, your bare cunt soaking his abdomen in need, making it slick. Suguru’s whispering your name mixed with – little witch – mouth trailing kisses down the valley between your breasts, mouth bolder, hands kneading the soft flesh of your tits. You arch and whimper out, just how good he feels, descending lower and lower.
Those raven tresses brush against your bare thighs, hand pressing on your tummy where there’s so much pressure, until he’s nestled his shoulders between your spread thighs, breath ghosting your clit. It jumps at attention when he parts your lips with two fingers, watching that drool just pool out of your little hole now.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs, your thighs are shaking, breaths coming in little pants while your hands clench his shoulders – nails pressing into his skin. “Look at you.”
“Sugu what are – ah!” He’s pressed a filthy kiss right on your hood, tongue dipping in a tease just to gather some of that slick, you’re gripping his shoulders so hard they leave marks, body trembling underneath him in need.
“I’m gonna taste your pretty cunt,” he murmurs, cooing almost and smirking as he strokes your folds with his two fingers, the backs of them brushing up and down your slit. “See how many times you cum, but…”
He puts your hand on your mouth, and you nod.
“Stay a little quiet for me this time, but as soon as I have you alone? You’ll scream so much you can’t even talk.”
Fuck.
You’re soaking wet and hot when his fingers tease up that slit again, making you jerk with the touch, your free hand grips his hair, hips arching up. “Yeah, you want it princess? My mouth?”
“Please…” You whisper then, gasping and covering your mouth once more when he makes his first filthy lick, from your drooling hole to your teeny little clit, groaning out at your taste.
“Fuck, sweeter than anything,” he’s sinking two fingers inside you, and he curls them just right, while his tongue flicks that clit, making stars explode behind your eyelids.
"Fuck," you whimper right back, barely able to keep it down, biting on your lower lip and looking at the amethyst eyes you’ve dreamed of, already pussy drunk off a couple sips of your messy cunt. “Ngh…”
“S’tight, f-fuck…” Suguru’s losing his calm, lazy demeanor, pumping your cunt up and down with so much pressure you can’t take it. “That’s it, you’re taking them so well, even though it’s such a stretch.”
“Mhm!” Your answer is a jerky little nod, as you writhe underneath him, body covered in a thin sheen of sweat while he sucks your clit in his hot mouth, juices just pouring down his pretty face.
“Too tight,” he whispers, your cunt gripping his fingers like a vise, he eases the strokes, flicking his tongue up and down your clit over and over, pushing you over the brink, you cling to the blankets to try to stay stable.
“It’s… been a while,” you admit breathlessly, arching into his touch, hearing the embarrassing squelching of your cunt just echoing in your quiet room, his eyes lock with yours then, his fingers curling as he speaks – methodical, knowing just where to press inside you.
“For me too,” he admits, you’re surprised then, lips opening and closing like you just don’t know what to say. “You’re worth waiting for, would fucking drown in it, die just like this.”
“Sugu…” He pauses at the nickname, the affection tearing at his chest before he dives back down, lifting your ass up and dragging you even higher as his mouth descends, sealing over your clit with ruthless suction – slurping sounds obscene.
You’re slamming a hand down on your mouth, back arching, your tits bouncing as he watches you under dark lashes, mouth ruining you right with his thick fingers. Your cunt spasms around them as you’re closer and closer, and he can simply feel it, you don’t have to say the words.
Suguru knows you’re cumming.
He pulls back for a quick breath with strings of saliva and your arousal dripping between your cunt and his swollen mouth, eyeing you fucking hungrily while his cock presses against your matress, just aching for release. Suguru works you relentlessly, knowing every part of you like he’s the magical one, and you’re barely able to keep in any way quiet.
Your hips shift and move side to side so much he pins them, your thighs on his shoulders while his tongue moves in broad, flat strokes up your slit and then quick flicks on your clit, mixing with a sharp little nip of his teeth that makes your eyes roll back in your skull. Your toes curl and press into the soft blankets as that tension tightens in your tummy, pushing you right over the edge.
“Cum,” he orders softly, and how can’t you, when he adds his fingers back inside you – three now with one just barely inside at the fingertip, thickness just stretching you obscenely right along with his tongue relentless on your clit.
Of course you cum, of course you shatter.
You have to cling to him with one hand – nails pressing in and leaving crescent moons on his skin, as those fingers fuck you right with his tongue’s rhythm, your eyes shut as the release rocks you, and Suguru drinks it all up, lapping every squirt of arousal gushing as you scream into your palm.
It’s so hot, like the room is suddenly a humid summer afternoon, with the sweat dripping as it rushes through your veins. He presses every bit of that orgasm out of you, greedy and smirking when he finally pulls back just a bit, watching you twitch and whine out, your cunt still shooting up his forearm with those spasms.
“One,” you gasp out.
“One!?”
“Need more, so much fuckin’ more,” your eyes roll back once more as his mouth is lapping at your now messy, sloppy cunt. "Look at me."
The order, soft and lazy like his previous kisses makes you snap your eyes open quickly. Hair damp with sweat clings just a bit in strands to your brow, as he watches the little mess he’s made you, dying to fuck into you.
But he wants that first stroke for you to cum right around him, to milk his cock – he can’t wait to put so much cum deep inside you.
“Wanna see those pretty eyes when they roll back f'me,” he’s back down, fingers scissoring now past the point of overstimulation while his tongue keeps flicking faster and faster. “Mmm…”
He can’t help but almost cum just from your sweetness, like your cunt is just as magical as all of you, heady and addictive. His fingers and tongue along your already sensitive and swollen clit is too much, you barely remember to hold back your cries as your back arches off the bed, and Suguru Geto is drinking your squirting release like a man dying of thirst.
He finally lets go of his suction, seeing the weak and boneless mess he’s made of you and relishing in it, kisses just a little softer and easier now, his soft laugh making you jerk. “Need something, little witch?”
“Inside me,” you gasp out then, he languidly kisses your inner thighs, teasing and ghosting his breath and relishing in how you react. “Please, f-fuck…”
“Needy witch,” he leans up finally, face embarrassingly coated in you, arms on either side while his fingers ease out with a messy pop. He puts those fingers to his mouth, not wasting a single drop of your perfect cunt, as you watch him, lips parted, cunt spurting out even more as you eye his pretty, thick cock again. “Need my cock inside, three fingers not enough?”
Your answer is to yank at him, tugging him up your body, and kissing him deep and messy, not the ease he takes kissing you – no.
You’re frantic, desperate, never having felt anything like the pleasure he’s just brought you, tasting yourself on his tongue as he drools right in your mouth and moans out. His cock is heavy and hot against your inner thigh, decorating your skin in pretty little patterns, spurts of white trailing down as your fingers slip down his body.
You grip his cock in your little hand, earning his choked out breath, moving them up and down as he moans, losing control at the feeling of your fist. He lets you position it against your slick cunt, rubbing it up and down that messy slit that just echoes with every movement.
“Want me to cum inside you, huh?” He asks, husky and deep, his eyes gone black and narrowed lazily, while his fingers are digging into the meat of your hips. “I won’t leave that perfect little cunt once I’m in there.”
“I want it,” you say – even as you’re blushing in the dark. “Fuck me Sugu, please.”
Your little plea ruins him.
He lines himself up, kissing you again slow and gently, as he presses that thick head against your soaked hole – even so wet and ready it’s tight and gripping him so good he almost busts inside. He curses quietly, just holding there, no amount of jerking his cock to you prepared him for this, for the way your cunt grips him with that tight ring of muscles.
“Fuck you’re perfect,” he says hoarsely, and pushes in slowly, stretching you wide and deeper than even his thick fingers could ever manage. Suguru is thick, and far bigger than you’ve had.
You cry into his mouth and try to take him, feeling that fullness from just an inch or two, pretty blushed tip just leaking and pressing on that spongy spot in your walls. “Ah!”
“Shh, relax f’me,” he orders, as your legs are locking around his hips, trembling. “Relax, princess.”
“Witch,” you tease, managaing to laugh ever so softly, when he pulls back and smirks.
“Be a good witch,” he taunts softly – then he fills you completely, inch by thick inch buried inside your cunt so deep. “And take all of me. Can you?”
You nod even as you’re completely unsure, your cunt milking him instantly for all he’s got, as he pulls back and lifts your hips up, moaning at the sight of your tummy just bulging with him. “Fuck,” he groans out at the sight. “Look at us.”
You do just that, heating up at the sight and gasping out, watching it move when his cock just drags along your inner walls, the ones that spasm as hips snap forward sharply.
“Mnhh!”
“That’s it,” he murmurs as he bottoms out, grinding his hips so that he’s leaned back over you, hairs tickling and pressing your twitchy, oversensitive clit. You try to breathe, to take him, nails sinking into his well muscled back and scratching. “Can you take me really fucking you?”
“I can… I can…” He teases more, just rolling his hips, letting you adjust to his sheer massive size, smirking a bit as you wriggle – finally gasping out – “Move, please. W-want you to.”
“Anything for my pretty witch,” he whispers, as he pulls out slowly, dragging himself against your spot, making you whine at the loss before slamming back in hard. “Feel you takin’ me, s’good….”
“Ngh!” Your pornographic moan rips from your throat when he lifts your thighs, his dark hair falling across your breasts, eyes locking.
You take his breath away.
He takes your breath away.
There’s this moment, this perfect moment where your eyes meet, and everything that’s ever not made sense does.
His hands press up your thighs, leaning over you and giving you the sweetest kiss, as if he realizes it to.
Then…
“Gonna fuckin’ ruin you, princess, gonna be my little witch,” his words barely make it to your ringing ears when he begins to really move.
Suguru Geto is no longer lazy and teasing - no he’s fucking into you at a brutal pace, thrusts fast and hard and just filthy as you’re so wet it’s mesys, it’s damn near embarassing. Sliding in easier and easier with each push, balls slapping on your ass harder and harder, the smacking and squelching sounds mixing with your muffled little cries, his lips swallowing them as he folds you in half.
You’re whining out desperately into his lips, already close to shattering again underneath him, when he moans your name and pauses, biting your neck and letting your thighs fall to the side. “Turn over.”
You’re eager to obey, turning around and pressing your ass up in the air for him, pretty cunt already pushing out his milky cum, earning his desperate moan as he runs his fingers up and down your slit.
“That’s it, been fuckin’ dreamin’ about you,” Suguru says, all needy now as he grabs your hips, bringing your ass against him. “Use that pillow, you’re gonna need it like this.”
You take his hand and he obeys, shoving you into those pillows and beginning to fuck you from the back – so deep it’s painful, your cries muffled against the bed while his cock works, slamming inside of you and bruising your cervix. His leaky tip is just pouring spurts onto your cervix as he leans over you, prone position.
“Need to see your face,” he murmurs, studying you with his thumb slipped inside your mouth to keep you hushed. “Pretty little witch, gonna take all this cum?”
“Y-yes, yes - ngh!” He slams his mouth on yours to drink your cries, your orgasm wrecking you, blackness making you dizzy as he starts stuttering his hips, murmuring your name over and over.
“Take all of it, hah - can you?”
You’re nodding, biting down on his fist he offers as he slams into you one last time, burying himself against your snug cervix, hot white ropes just flooding you, hot and thick. You clench around him in response, pushing your own pleasure over the edge, both of you falling off it.
“S-Sugu…” You’re trembling, your cunt still milking every drop, you’re breathless, dizzy, when he collapses on top of you, still buried deep inside, his breath tickling your neck in hot little pants.
“Fuck…” He’s kissing across your shoulder, teeth nipping teasingly, hands roaming your body greedy, like he wants to remember every moment. “Good girl.”
You giggle and blush, as you both pant against each other’s skin. His lips find yours again in a slow, lazy kiss, tasting of sweat and sex.
“I mean good witch,” he murmurs against your mouth, he tugs you to him on your side now. Studying you as you both come down. “I actually believe you now.”
“I told you, but I'm like… diet witch? Witch lite?” He chuckles and shakes his head, your hand rests over his chest, feeling his heart beat beneath your palm. He's still embarrassingly sliding out of your hole slowly, dripping onto his thigh.
“I want to break your curse,” Suguru Geto says lovingly, holding you close against him while his hands move soothingly up and down your back. You look up at him, tremulously smiling, tears swimming and making your vision blur.
“You do?” You ask, leaning up to kiss that cleft on his chin, your own hands pressed on his chest.
“I do, your little spell more than worked,” you giggle, feeling blissful in his arms, sticky hot cum dripping down your thighs, you’re languid as he pulls you so close, feeling so safe and right with him. “Got me bad, too.”
“Mimiko and Nanako helped,” you admit, giggling again. “They did another spell for us.”
“I’m raising witches?” His brow rises and he observes your grin. “So I’ll have a family full of witches then?”
“Call it a coven,” you whisper, kissing his hand and taking it, pressing it against your chest. “You’ve already got a witch's heart.”
“Three witches with me wrapped around their fingers,” you’re crying then, he swipes a tear with his fingertips, studying you and sighing now. “I didn’t think I’d ever find…” He trails off.
“Love.” You finish, carefully, quietly.
He nods, swallowing nervously now, before pressing you on your back, hand sliding up the curvature of your frame achingly slow. You’re sore and throbbing from him, as he brushes your cunt again, feeling your cunt twitch around him and smirking now.
“I do love you, little witch,” he whispers against your ear, lips tickling the shell of it. “Fallen in love from your spell.”
“Well I summoned you,” he laughs softly, shaking his head. “I did!”
“I kind of believe you…” He leans up and tilts your chin with two fingers, tears slip from the corners of your eyes.
“I love you, Suguru Geto. I want you and them to stay… for as long as you ever want to.”
“Oh my pretty witch,” he leans up and presses against you again, cock coated in your entrance, it spasms – already fucked out and sore, but needy for more. “I’m never letting you go.”
As he enters you achingly slow, and you lose yourself under his heavy weight, you realize that curse wasn’t a curse at all.
You were just meant to wait for him –
for the boy with amethyst eyes.
I hope you all enjoyed thisss !!
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