﹙🌙﹚ .despite the sun-kissed halo practically imprinted on her hair and the specks of gold pooling in her eyes, the smooth-skinned maiden belongs to none other than the moon, a stake claimed long before the brightness could begin to enamour her [ .. ] as charcoal eats at her skin, staining up from the tips of her fingers, the mirage of constricting shadows fluctuating below the archway [ .. ]
he teases her by making her ask 4 what she wants btw. makes her red in the face & everything, kissing her jaw then down her neck murmuring soft pleas 4 her to spit it out till she finally manages a meek squeak, which leads to him rewarding her immensely ❝ i’m so proud of u hon. u deserve a treat 4 that, don’t u think ? ❞
you'd both known what this arrangement was from the beginning—a mutually beneficial relationship strictly for sex (and well-cultivated cannabis).
satoru doesn't do commitment, and you never cared for more than a good, no strings attached fuck occasionally with how your schedule is set up. your dealer (who could maybe classed as a friend if you squinted) offered that and good weed? how could you possibly say no!
the scent of smoke hangs in the air, thick and cloying, joint burning steadily. a singular gram seemed like more than enough to pass between you two, and satoru's always so inclined to share with you free of charge these days. the filter end is held in an easy grip between his thumb and index, free hand warming your naked hip.
this hadn't been your plan for tonight, really. unwinding by smoking with the man had been, yes... just not half-naked with your shirt shoved above your bra-clad tits, practically cockwarming him. you'd only come over here to leech off of him—for free weed from a familiar face.
his gaze locks on yours, cherry glowing red in the dim light as he takes a long drag, exhaling a white, wispy cloud out of the direct path of your face. then he's taking yet another one, free hand sliding up from your hip to hold your face in an easy grip, fingers pressing in to squish your cheeks, head tilting toward yours. the smoke he exhales this time travels in a slow, deliberate stream. it's warm and earthy as it rolls along your tongue, clinging to your taste buds, settling at the back of your throat. you lips press together, holding it for a few seconds just to feel that slight burn in your lungs, body already beginning to hum as the high settles even deeper. "mm.." you exhale with a low sigh, smoke a cloudy puff that obscures his face momentarily.
"good?" he questions, thumb tracing the gentle slope of your cupid's bow, smoothing over the dip before his hand falls away again. the loss has you squirming just a little, trying to get some sort of attention in your hazy state—which he quickly puts an end to, hand heavy and solid as it closes against the curve of your hip.
"nuh uh," he hums, barely biting back a smug grin, not even giving you a second glance. "you’re good where you are. don’t be greedy."
"huh?" you stare him down, a little dumbfounded. he's the picture of perfect nonchalance, thumb drawing shapes on your flesh, taking yet another hit—all languid like he's not literally buried inches deep inside of you. "but 'm not good where I am," you argue, voice carrying that slightly breathless cadence, the one it always gets when you're all wound up.
"really? I think you are." lidded eyes fix on yours, teeth flashing in a small smile. he doesn't make any move to give you what you so clearly want, just shifts his wrist to turn the joint so the burning end is facing him, other end to you. common sense tells you it's to take a hit, so your lips part, closing around the tip when he places it close enough.
"atta girl," he murmurs, pulling back when you inhale sufficiently, mouth close enough that you can return the favor from earlier. he steals the secondhand breath of smoke like he's owed something, pecking your lips after like it's the most casual thing to do between... well, whatever you two would be classed as at this point.
"are you really not letting me move?"
"you're catching on quickly." his head falls onto the backing of the couch, lengthy digits flexing on your hip when you shift again. "I said to stop doing that."
"why not?" you ask, trying to sound casual, but it damn near sounds like you're whining, voice thin and reedy with your building need. "why are you torturing me? aren't we friends?"
"of course we are, pretty." his thumb circles your hip bone, gaze on you not one you analyze too closely. "but you can't move because.." he says it slowly, like he's making sure there's no room for you to misunderstand. like high-you only has a few working brain cells. "..you came here to smoke."
...that's it? he's so stuck on the fact that you came here to smoke with him that he disregards you half-naked in his lap and making a mess on his cock? "…okay? so what?"
"so what?" he gasps like you'd said something scandalous, pulling back to fix you with an incredulous look. "weren't you the one on the phone saying 'i'm not coming over to fuck this time, satoru'? you were."
his imitation of you is all high and pitchy, near insultingly inaccurate. your narrowed eyes are a clear glimpse into your building annoyance.
"so we're not doing that. we're smoking because that's what you came here for. so," both hands keep you firmly planted, hips shifting ever so slightly, "do your part and stay still."
"what the hell was the point in letting me sit on it then?" you bite, squirming again, trying to angle his blushing tip somewhere sensitive—but he stops you cold with a single, stinging slap to your ass that only serves to sink you deeper into your building arousal.
satoru pretends to think for a moment, softly 'hmm'-ing under his breath in his contemplation. "for fun?" he says simply, large hand gently massaging your stinging flesh, squeezing it in his palm. "what’s the issue?"
"well, since you’re asking—"
"you didn’t say you wanted to fuck. you said you needed to 'chill.'" his tone dips lower in a way that makes your stomach turn over, shoulders lifting in a shrug. "doesn't this seem chill enough?"
"you're really, really fucking insufferable, you know that?" you huff, fingers digging into the top of his shoulders and biting into flesh, wriggling a little in his hold. just enough to finally drag his bulbous head against that spot where he's settled far too deep, mouth slackening. "mmf—fuck you, seriously."
"oh, i'm sure you'd like that." he tuts at your clear, too-obvious attempt at fucking yourself on his cock yet again, hand sliding up to your waist since holding you elsewhere doesn't seem to be working out too well. not that he's trying too hard at this point. "maybe next time."
you wish you could just grab him by that pretty, slender neck and wring it for playing with you like this. he's the one that’d kissed you when you’d gotten here, all nasty with his tongue in your mouth, hands on your ass. he's the one that'd gotten you mostly out of your damn clothes and perched on his cock—but, what? now he's oh-so set on respecting your 'no sex this time' comment?
your head drops down into the crook of his neck instead, long suffering groan warming his skin. "you're the worst person on earth and I seriously hate you."
oh, how he loves when you pretend you can't stand him.
"mm, I'm sure you do, baby." a hand drags up your spine, warm and lazy, like a reward for actually keeping still. the worst part about getting this close is that it’s easier for his scent to start filling your nose, clinging to your senses like it’s trying to brand itself there. smoke and soap, that heady cologne forgone today—but he still smells so good. "maybe make your intentions clear and you'll get what you want next time."
"this was not my intention."
"oh?" and just to be an ass, just to fuck with you, the hands on your waist ease you up, letting gravity do all the work as you fall right back down into his lap, fat of your ass smacking against his thighs. it punches a strained sound right out of your throat, hands grabbing at him, core throbbing around where you’re connected. it's somehow worse with how long you'd been sat with zero friction, every inch hitting somewhere deeper.
his mouth eases closer to your ear, lips brushing against the soft slope. "well, that's too bad then, isn't it?"
an arm bands around your lower back to inch you forward, tits crushed against his chest as you press into him, arms finding themselves draped across his shoulders. all the shifting isn't doing you any favors, but at least with his hand not keeping you down, you can move your hips in the tiniest bounces, tip pressing into that one spot he’s usually loves targeting.
"mm, satoru.." you moan into his neck, hands grabbing at the back of the back of the couch for more leverage, hips starting to rise higher and fall faster. "just—ugh, please? just fuck me already."
"you’re so easy to mess with," he snorts, bringing the joint back to his mouth and between his lips again. it's hard to pretend to be unaffected when you're quite literally bouncing in his lap unrestrained, just begging him to give you something to feel better. to just fuck you already.
so he obliges, of course, free hand moving to your ass to lift you just high enough. enough to unseat himself, precum slick head just barely nudging your folds. your hands grip at his shoulders like you don't trust yourself—or his single hand—to keep you balanced, head pulling out of his neck to look down at him. "'mm, what are you d—"
then he brings you right back down with a solid motion till your thighs press to his, burying himself in one firm stroke. once, twice, a third time—back-to-back lifting and dropping you, letting just his tip press against your fluttering entrance before he's sinking back home, refamiliarizing himself with the rhythm of fucking you.
"oh..oh fuck—oh fuck, keep doing that." your breathing gets shakier with every pass, every slow stroke in and out of your soaked cunt. satoru's watching you now, eyes flicking down to where you're taking him, watching your body try to keep him tightly in place every time he pulls even an inch out.
it’s a sudden change in pace from not moving, feet suddenly planted, hips driving up into you at a pace that forces the air right out your lungs. satoru snubs the burning end of the blunt out and abandons it, both hands a firm weight on the curve of your ass. spreading, gripping to bounce you on the length of his cock. obscene wet sounds fill the room, slick mixture built up between you two smearing down his shaft with every withdrawal and hilting.
your nails claw at his shoulders for purchase, head lifting out of his neck to pant against his cheek, mouth moving further east till he’s crushing his against yours again. he swallows every sound you make and fucks up into you harder. his kiss is all tongue and teeth, your hands scratching his undercut, sliding into pale locks—his guiding your movements with more urgency than before. you hadn't been the only one affected, clearly. the taste of him is all sweet and smokey on your tongue, practically chasing his mouth as he pulls back, lips kiss-swollen. "ah-haah, satoru...feels so good."
one hand slides up your back to undo your bra clasp in a single practiced motion. the straps go slack, hand instantly finding one of your freed breasts—squeezing, tugging at your stiff bud. your body jolts from the impact of him driving into you, tit bouncing in his palm.
"always so soft and pliant when you're high," he coos, gaze lifting just to see your expression crumple when he fucks you full again, relishing in all the whines and cries pouring out of you.
"what happened to not fucking, hm?"
author's note :: 𑣲⋆ edited repost from previous account ˙ᵕ˙ likes and reblogs appreciated, thanks for reading!
satoru knows you hear him when he cums. you know he does.
you’d been as good about this whole thing as one could be. after all, it's not like he does it day in day out, just occasionally throughout the week.
you’d have your headphones in to pretend that you’re immersed in one of your shows, volume low. acting like you don’t already have the sound of satoru's moans burned into your memory, like you can’t hear him getting himself off down the hall. trying your hardest to not let it affect you. which works well enough.
usually, at least.
sometimes it gets to be too much. your soft bottom lip ends up caught between your teeth, thighs pressed together like that'll do anything for the incessant throbbing down south. it unfortunately lasts maybe 5 minutes before you cave, weak enough to let a hand slide down the front of your shorts to ease the growing ache building in your abdomen. sliding two fingers deep and pretending they're longer, slightly thicker. able to curl in a way yours can't. palming your breast under your cami and imagining that it's a slightly larger, warmer hand working you up like this.
pretending that it isn’t your roommate’s moans alone that's causing this stubborn arousal. hoping you’d time his orgasm just right so you’d finish with him.
hell, maybe you’re just as bad as satoru is, just not as loud.
he’s always ridiculously shameless about it too—deep groans, breathless curses, the wet drag of his fist as he strokes his cock. one you've pictured a shameful number of times. little praises choked out like there’s someone else there making him feel good.
“you’re so wet,” you’d once heard him murmur, voice edging off into a deep, toe curling moan, “feels so good, baby…”
it’s like he wants you to hear him.
which you do. every. single. fucking time without fail.
once is mistake, twice is a coincidence? but 3 times? and the various instances after those? satoru gojo is ruining your fucking life. your sanity.
not a coincidence, but pattern. sheer pattern. he has to know. if the knowing glint in his pale eyes when morning came meant anything, his chirpy little ‘sleep well, roomie?’ that has the tips of your ears heating because no, obviously fucking not! grade a asshole, that’s what he is. it’s already a struggle to fight the building attraction–he’s annoying as hell when he wants to be, but a sweetheart of a friend. fixes stuff around the apartment without you even having to ask, makes you breakfast here and there, stays up at ridiculous hours with you when you can't sleep...among other things.
but now you know exactly how he sounds when he makes himself cum, how whiny he gets, and it just makes that fickle restraint falter even more.
aside from the whole ‘noisy jerker’ thing…he isn’t bad at all. you’d gotten lucky in the roommate lottery, you suppose. he at least handles his shit with the door closed (the singular saving grace).
tonight’s different though. you’d stepped out for a quarter of an hour at best to run to the convenience store—he’d been to one to offer up his card to restock the snacks in the communal cupboard, letting you go with a simple ‘get the good stuff, yeah?’
he’d been given a clear time frame so there’s no good reason why his door is cracked when you get back in, fucking up into his fist with gentle strokes and zero urgency at all.
"oh fuck…just like that.”
you halt mid step, frozen—card in your hold, heart clawing its way right up into your throat.
the sight is much more than you’d expected. he’s a much prettier sight than your imagination could've ever conjured up.
sweats pushed low and bunched on his thighs, muscled chest bare. his lashes rest against the flush dusting his cheeks, snowy strands mussed with a few damp ones sticking to his forehead. your eyes drop lower, you can't help it. to his happy trail, neatly groomed hairs that do match the drapes leading all the way down to his cock. it's shameful how fast blood rushes to your face. it's a pretty, flushed pink, a bead of precum welling at the tip as he strokes up and down, grip twisting near—
maybe…maybe you’d just wait till he finished. silently slip back into your room like you'd seen nothing at all, keeping the card till he finished. he wouldn’t mind. you shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t even be looking.
he’s jerking off and you’re just stood there like a peeping tom. gosh, you feel like a bigger pervert than he is. getting off to the sound of him is bad enough, now this?
“are you just gonna stand there?” the words come out of no where, startling you. it’s lazy sounding, a syrupy drawl tinged with amusement. like this is a normal, everyday conversation that you two have. the card slackens in your hold and your breathing ceases momentarily, mouth parting to get an excuse out, a ramble of apologies perhaps.
“you’re—oh fuck,” and he doesn’t even stop, eyes closed, head tipped to the ceiling now. his lips part around a moan, squeezing at the base of his cock on his downstroke to ebb his pleasure. pearly cream smears near the pretty bulb with he strokes upward again, thumb brushing over a vein at the side. “—fine. you’re fine! come in, I was just thinking about you.”
you do, you’re not sure why you do. maybe it’s your body working faster than your mind is, one saying yes, other saying no type thing. clear betrayal of every sensible instinct you have. your limbs are moving before the words can even settle. he grins like he knew you’d do just that, shifting floorboards giving you away.
you try not to look, you really do but it’s right there. hefty cock held in a light grip, flushed head all soft and rosy. veins pulsing proudly under flushed, shiny flesh. a cock you’ve tried (you really have) to not imagine too often. glistening with what looks like either pre or saliva (maybe both). it's stiff and heavy looking in his hand—the kind of pretty that causes a near physical ache in your chest and somewhere lower, dampness between your thighs soaking through your panties.
“you’re gonna cum to it anyway,” he murmurs, “might as well get you in here to let you see the real thing, right?” your eyes follow another pearlescent dribble from his head, eyes growing glossy. you will the dampness pooling between your thighs away, trying to focus on anything but him while actively ogling at his cock. you’re stood there like a deer in headlights, his words registering late. when they finally do, you’re all hot in the face as you glance up at his face, stumbling over words about only being here to give him his card. “huh? I don’t even…satoru, I promise you it’s not like that at all.”
“it’s not?” and then he laughs, all deep and rich, not at all helping with your situation currently.
“you just happen to play with yourself exactly when i’m getting myself off? the walls are thin, pretty. I don’t think the pillows muffle those vibrations too well.” you wonder if there’s a quick way to dig a hole to just jump into. maybe if you fake a fainting spell, he’d be nice enough to drop it so you could escape? shitty fucking amazon vibrator – the reviews were all lies.
a low, strangled noise leaves you - half startled, half mortified. trying to get a rebuttal out but your lips won’t cooperate.
satoru’s eyes open slowly, lids heavy like he’s already drunk on the pleasure. fuck, he loves this. loves the look on your face – lips parted, all stunned, no words to say to explain yourself. “haah—you’re not coming?” and god, he says it so breathily, you can’t help the instinctual clench of your thighs, nor the bob of your throat with how harsh you swallow.
“a little watching got you all needy?” he notices. of course he does. “why don’t we help each other out, hm? take your panties off. let me see how wet you got for me.”
that gives you a pause, panties in question uncomfortably damp. hot in the face with..embarrassment? arousal? most definitely arousal. maybe that more than the former. your hands are shaky as they graze the soft edges of your shorts, hooking under the elastic band of your panties.
you don’t know why you’re just listening to him. blindly following his instructions like it's law. "I...I really came to give you back the card." walking out of here and pretending this didn’t happen would be just as easy as walking in had been. but you don’t – you’ve been wanting to at least touch him for ages, depriving yourself right now wouldn’t do either of you any favors. "I was about to leave."
the plain pale gray, now turned smoky at the center falls, string of arousal connecting the fabric and your core briefly before snapping. it hits the floor in a heap with your shorts, and you press his card onto the closest surface to free both hands up.
"mm, i'm sure you were." his gaze drops and he groans at the clear glistening between your thighs, thumb swiping over his tip, hips twitching slightly as he slows his strokes.
“perfect. now c’mere, pretty.” he says again, softer this time. voice something warm and inviting.
you take a step, then a few more till you’re at the edge of the bed. his legs spread a little wider, chin angling down in a simple gesture. his strokes somehow get slower, lazier. teasing now, dragging out every wet sound, every twist of his wrist that has dribbles of his pre spilling over his knuckles. you sink down to your knees so you’re settled between his thighs, fingertips biting into the hardwood. the ache between your thighs that you'd been managing well enough makes itself known with a harsh throb, looking up at him through your lashes.
“there you are.” he croons, bringing his free hand back from gripping the sheets to brush stray hairs out your face, tipping your chin up. the pad of his thumb traces your bottom lip, slow, pressing in just slightly at the center.
“say ahh, roomie.”
a/n: another one for my fellow satogooners (¬ ͜ ͡¬) 𖹭.ᐟ -- edited repost! ˙ᵕ˙
thank you for reading! likes, reblogs and feedback very appreciated!
˚ . જ⁀➴ . 𝒟oe 💌 so im lowkenuineky on a semi—hiatus .. ive been working on my drafts for weeks tho. HOWEVER my throat feels like ive rubbed it raw w sandpaper + my cramps rn suck ass so itll take a while for me to post again. im sorry, im trying my best to come back guys #trust
as a lil apology tho, here’s a sneak—peak of my more important drafts (the descriptions ノtags are still subject to change)
﹙❕﹚ . ON MY SOFT!TOJI AGENDA :: going back to my roots bc he was lowk the reason i started my blog :: FLUFF :: omg so soft!! so much fluff!! maybe hints of angst? :: mentions of (hinted at) abuse (f u ze’nin clan) :: childhood friends to lovers :: established relationship ig(?) :: i luv him guys
if toji fushiguro were to be described in two words, plain and simple, they would be touch and starved. no, those aren’t quite right.
he’s been touched before. left bloodied enough times to be littered in scars that have mostly faded. some are even layered amongst one another. it kills you to see them; to think of his pain.
touch isn’t something he was depraved of. affection, however..
you first noticed it long before the lines between platonic and romantic blurred.
soft charcoal tuffs looked warm beneath the dimming sunlight, the bulky man sitting on the grass on a blanket at some park you’d wanted to meet up at. his skin is smooth despite the jagged scars you know are run across his torso just beneath the fabric of his clothes, calloused palms placed above spiky grass.
you were both much younger than now, somewhere into your high school years; back when you were still so unsure of why your chest swelled at just the sight of him.
you were so shy back then too— it’d taken hours of mental preparation just to be able to look at yourself in the mirror whilst thinking of asking him to hang out. it’s embarrassing now, thinking back to it, but back then you couldn’t imagine just blurting it out randomly. no, you’d planned it all. and of course, it had gotten derailed within the first hour.
some mutual friends had shown up, and one thing led to another— wouldn’t you know, three and a half hours and five intense rounds of freeze—tag—hide—and—seek—floor—is—lava later, you were much more than beat. never mind what you’d initially wanted to do, which for the record you couldn’t even remember— you could barely hold yourself upright!
and that much became apparent to toji when you’d slumped down beside him when your parents finally came to pick you up because embarrassingly enough you still couldn’t drive :c and with your cheeks tinted rosy and still out of breath, your head promptly fell on his shoulder, lashes fluttering shut. you hadn’t the mind at the time to ponder on why he’d stiffened before it gradually eased out, but thinking back on it now— well, it’d been quite obvious.
another painfully obvious instance happened not so long after, the summer just before your senior year.
you can’t even remember what the circumstances had been at the time, only that you’d been asking him to do you a favor, peering up at him through your lashes with the biggest, widest puppy eyes you could manage— and somewhere between dragging out the honeyed pleeeaaase you were giving him and the curl of your shimmery glossed lips— a pout— without thinking you’d sort of clasped his hands between your palms.
you hadn’t missed the shudder than ran through him, nor the burning rush of warmth that flushed even the tips of his ears an adorable pink— but even stiff and staring at you with a mixture of deer—in—headlights & god—given—solace, he didn’t pull back. didn’t try to wretch his hands out or wipe them off. you’d seen him countless other times back early in middle school when personal space was a boundary still being cemented and cooties weren’t quite yet planted into your minds— he’d never been one to hesitate to jerk away from unwanted contact.
in fact, as you both grew, girls shamelessly drooled all over themselves because he was so unashamedly reserved and ultimately untouchable.
still, there he stood with your hands— your soft, smooth palms— over his, breath caught and with a boulder lodged at his throat, he refused to move away.
when he’d caved, it wasn’t reluctance you’d found yourself met with, but something much softer and gentler; something that had your heart speeding, pounding with fluster you tried to hide.
even now, years later, he’s still so hesitant to touch you at times— late nights when he waits for you to be curled up with your eyes closed before settling with his head against your chest; knuckles brushing against yours almost asking for permission before his fingers wrap around yours when you’re out and about.
but you let him take his time regardless of how long the wait, wanting him to feel comfortable when he inevitably melts into your gentle arms.
﹙❕﹚ . ON MY SOFT!TOJI AGENDA :: going back to my roots bc he was lowk the reason i started my blog :: FLUFF :: omg so soft!! so much fluff!! maybe hints of angst? :: mentions of (hinted at) abuse (f u ze’nin clan) :: childhood friends to lovers :: established relationship ig(?) :: i luv him guys
if toji fushiguro were to be described in two words, plain and simple, they would be touch and starved. no, those aren’t quite right.
he’s been touched before. left bloodied enough times to be littered in scars that have mostly faded. some are even layered amongst one another. it kills you to see them; to think of his pain.
touch isn’t something he was depraved of. affection, however..
you first noticed it long before the lines between platonic and romantic blurred.
soft charcoal tuffs looked warm beneath the dimming sunlight, the bulky man sitting on the grass on a blanket at some park you’d wanted to meet up at. his skin is smooth despite the jagged scars you know are run across his torso just beneath the fabric of his clothes, calloused palms placed above spiky grass.
you were both much younger than now, somewhere into your high school years; back when you were still so unsure of why your chest swelled at just the sight of him.
you were so shy back then too— it’d taken hours of mental preparation just to be able to look at yourself in the mirror whilst thinking of asking him to hang out. it’s embarrassing now, thinking back to it, but back then you couldn’t imagine just blurting it out randomly. no, you’d planned it all. and of course, it had gotten derailed within the first hour.
some mutual friends had shown up, and one thing led to another— wouldn’t you know, three and a half hours and five intense rounds of freeze—tag—hide—and—seek—floor—is—lava later, you were much more than beat. never mind what you’d initially wanted to do, which for the record you couldn’t even remember— you could barely hold yourself upright!
and that much became apparent to toji when you’d slumped down beside him when your parents finally came to pick you up because embarrassingly enough you still couldn’t drive :c and with your cheeks tinted rosy and still out of breath, your head promptly fell on his shoulder, lashes fluttering shut. you hadn’t the mind at the time to ponder on why he’d stiffened before it gradually eased out, but thinking back on it now— well, it’d been quite obvious.
another painfully obvious instance happened not so long after, the summer just before your senior year.
you can’t even remember what the circumstances had been at the time, only that you’d been asking him to do you a favor, peering up at him through your lashes with the biggest, widest puppy eyes you could manage— and somewhere between dragging out the honeyed pleeeaaase you were giving him and the curl of your shimmery glossed lips— a pout— without thinking you’d sort of clasped his hands between your palms.
you hadn’t missed the shudder than ran through him, nor the burning rush of warmth that flushed even the tips of his ears an adorable pink— but even stiff and staring at you with a mixture of deer—in—headlights & god—given—solace, he didn’t pull back. didn’t try to wretch his hands out or wipe them off. you’d seen him countless other times back early in middle school when personal space was a boundary still being cemented and cooties weren’t quite yet planted into your minds— he’d never been one to hesitate to jerk away from unwanted contact.
in fact, as you both grew, girls shamelessly drooled all over themselves because he was so unashamedly reserved and ultimately untouchable.
still, there he stood with your hands— your soft, smooth palms— over his, breath caught and with a boulder lodged at his throat, he refused to move away.
when he’d caved, it wasn’t reluctance you’d found yourself met with, but something much softer and gentler; something that had your heart speeding, pounding with fluster you tried to hide.
even now, years later, he’s still so hesitant to touch you at times— late nights when he waits for you to be curled up with your eyes closed before settling with his head against your chest; knuckles brushing against yours almost asking for permission before his fingers wrap around yours when you’re out and about.
but you let him take his time regardless of how long the wait, wanting him to feel comfortable when he inevitably melts into your gentle arms.
my sweet darling when will we be blessed w. your writing once again? imy #toxic ex level neediness
awh im so sorry to keep u waiting angel ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა my writing muse has been low for a while & ive been quite busy (sadly)
HOWEVER im spoiling u w this: my next work published will either be older professor!gojo, soft bf!toji, OR (the one getting most luv rn n my favorite one) childhood bsf!kuna but reader is satoru’s lil sister hehee ໒꒰ྀི∩˃ ᵕ ˂∩꒱ྀི১
#trust that i’ll be posting smth soon, hopefully end of the month/beginning of june
angel all ur hybrid works have me thinking of mean puppy!toru who teases sweet bunny!femreader ‘cause he can’t cope with liking her, & behind closed doors he takes it out on her by fucking her unconscious ❤︎
❝ you’re a bunny, don’t say you can’t take it ❞ ❝ awh, how does the saying go again? to ‘fuck like bunnies’ ? ❞ ❝ speak up hon. i can’t understand if you don’t use your words properly ❞ && he since refuses to admit how all ur (cute) whimpers and how well u r taking him makes him feel fuzzy inside, he js goes even rougher. u can’t even tell he’s the one whining (into ur neck) ‘cause u r too fucked out, but it doesn’t matter since all u really wanted in the first place was his attention („𖦹﹏𖦹„)
oh. mm. gee. ૮꒰ ྀི◜๑◝ ꒱ა i’m literally obsessed with the way you think— i js started conjuring up a lil’ smth 4 this since i love puppy! gojo. ( too underrated ) + likely may combine with a college au. . . if i reach a flo state like i’ve been in hehe
𝜗ৎ a/n. ── ( short + unproofread ) fell 4 the propaganda + wrote about my cutie pie tiger boy ᵎᵎ
𝓎our delicate heart, once splintered and rotted bitter from a sordid, unforeseen heartache many nostalgic years ago, was now swollen with potent, fragile emotion. lust.
because your ex-boyfriend, who had left you to shatter after disappearing, currently has you meanly bent, staining your frilly white pillow with fat, crystalline globules of ugly tears as he tongues at your chubby cunt’s drooling hole— you overstimulated and adorably gushing.
“nuh, uh,” yuji sweetly admonishes, plump lips flushed in your dripping, lewd slick— nipping at your sensitive, puffy nub once he sees your brain’s cogs feverishly, anxiously, churning. “don’t think, doll. focus on me, ‘kay?”
“‘kayyy!-” you mewl. soft. hazy, distant eyes, bubbling over again with salty, gluttonous waterworks, fixating on the strawberry pink and rouge-haired boy whose pretty pearly canines are now teething at your inner thighs ‘til pungent sanguine beaded at the raw, gnawed flesh for him to kitten-lick— alongside your crude essence.
you’re beautifully disheveled. boneless. nude aside for a skimpy bra and panties. lithe, quivering appendages gently yet tightly constricted in cream lace ribbon— thin, strewn fabric an obsessional reminder of possession— but moreso as in a parasitic, selfish dread you’d vanish on him, since you’re again entrapped in his self-cannibal spiderweb.
when you really shouldn’t be. honestly.
you should hurt him as much as he had hurt you.
yet here you are instead, feebly struggling, squeamish, against his thinly-woven restraints from blatant pleasure— supple fingers aching to drag across his ethereal, cryptic scars blemishing his sinews and boyishly handsome face, and tug affectionately at his metaphorical puppy ears.
aren’t you so stupid?
“love you s’much, yuu- ngh!” your head’s unadulterated mush. fuzzy. slipping mascara pricking like rose thorns at the warm, dewy skin of your sheepishly flushed cheeks.
“love you more, baby.”
taut jaw smeared in your cloying blood and wetness, he languidly peels your sticky-sheer cotton underwear to slap back over your numb cunt, halfheartedly veiling your tight, puckered hole to bully his bulbous, mushroomy, mauve-pink tip through the damp material.
“please,” you airily breathe. needy. shuddering. lower bleeding lip wobbly and pouty. “w-wanna feel you. . .”
◌ you’re fucked silly with satoru’s “lollipop” ╱ 18+
𓏵 ft. food play oral bondage mock sympathy tummy bulge dacryphilia cowgirl Ი𐑼
𝓎ou didn’t think much of it. him and his vampiric, milk white canines teething at the spit-glossed, candied-dense globe of a cherry blow pop— like a puppy to a bone— dyed tongue suckling the chemically saccharine, viscous syrup which dribbled out onto his pink lips.
of course, not like it should’ve mattered even if you had thought about it; you knew satoru enjoyed a little facile sweet treat, something rotten and purely sucrose— likely cavity-inducing— which he’ll frivolously re-word as “brain-stimulating” since it sounds fancy. less juvenile.
but, sometimes, there’s a silly ulterior motive. ‘cos candy alone can’t always satiate a sweet tooth.
“don’t you hate that kind?” you tut, facetiously coy.
your brows furrowed cutely quizzical at the boy gnawing tenaciously to reach the lolli’s enshrouded bubblegum, like he didn’t prefer dum-dums, and as if there wasn’t a pooling, sore ache in your own tummy from you staring at his pretty mouth— crude, sticky slick dampening the scant gusset of your cotton panties.
he smiles. fangs too cheshire and kittenishly bonny for a boy who’s killed. “yeah- but i’ll manage.”
and, of course, he does. that is, if “managing” meant impromptu, or languidly pumping your tight, little pussy with the lolli’s bulbous head, marbled raspberry-mauve sphere ignominiously squeezing in-n’-out your velvet hole— gummy walls sensitive and bruising being rubbed flush against the calloused crystalline sugarcoating.
it’s nauseatingly tawdry. but repulsively erotic in a way where your spine is soon arched like a needy, jumpy cat— skimpy pleated uniform miniskirt bunched up, wrinkled, at the plush of your waist— lace-frilled cotton panties peeled halfheartedly aside. knees near either clavicle with tender knuckles quivering against the back of either leg. acrylics drawing mean crescents in the flesh.
“sooo skittish, baby,” he purrs, puerile. sardonic. nibbling and puppy-licking at your puffy, tender clit— doe baby blues engrossed by your greedy, drooling cunt slobbering up the rotund candy to its plastic stick. “would’ya- hah-scamper away if it’s just the tip?”
gagged by his eye veil, your soft mewls of retort are pacified into adorable, mousy huffs, which he faux-croons at, pouty, before slipping the sleek-wet blow pop back into his maw— sugary, artificial flavor now amalgamated with your pungent, honeyed essence— an easily favorite, cloying tang of his. salaciously numbing. addicting.
better than any sugar rush.
“aww. oops.” candy lolled wantonly in his mouth, he guides your shuddering hips— dripping, winking hole beautifully exhibited— to tease feathery-light kisses right upon his cock’s mushroomy, prodding tip, your drowsy gaze unfocused and mollified. “forgot you can’t talk.”
“‘toruu- mph!” delicate, shaky hands feebly anchoring on his sinewy, porcelain abs, you’re bullied, or impaled, upon his blushed girth, shimmying to ease the burning stretch as salty, lemony waterworks soil your lower lash line.
“you crying, bunny?” you’re flustered. dizzy. vision whitening at its sheer, kaleidoscope edges. beaded saliva caked lewdly against his obsidian cloth’s thin, knotted fabric. “m’sorry—”
“sh-hut up,” you quietly mumble, muffled. vexed.
it’s almost comically sordid— being so stuffed full there’s a salient bulge in your lower abdomen— spongy, wet walls fluttering around him; yet, you still sink to straddle him more anyways, bouncing up-n’-down virtuosically.
paralyzed. he’s wholeheartedly mesmerized by you.
dilated pupils seemingly morphing into cookie-cutter, squeamish hearts, your sorcerer boyfriend’s blown bubble, nearly translucent due to its unadulterated volume, bursts as he cums hard, tacky, gluey residue staining— akin to smeared lipstick— his taut jaw. trailing down grotesquely enticing to his bobbing adam’s apple.
“i love you. can we please do sweetart ropes next?”
𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ you spend three years convinced your academic rival sukuna hates you back, only to find out he’s been hopelessly in love with you the entire time.
✿ ◞◟) ryomen sukuna 𝓍 gn!reader
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 fluff, college!au, secretly soft!sukuna, academic rivals to lovers, forced proximity (paired final project), sukuna wears glasses, miscommunication is the villain, competition as flirting, first kiss, oblivious idiots in love.
the thing about hating ryomen sukuna was that it had never been a conscious decision.
you couldn't point to a specific day, a singular moment where you looked at him and thought, yes, this is it. this is the person i will dedicate a concerning amount of my emotional energy to despising. it just happened, the way moss creeps over stones or rust eats into metal — it happened slowly, quietly, and then all at once.
maybe it was because you were always neck-and-neck for the top of every class, your names sitting side by side on ranked assignment lists like they were married to each other against both of your wills. maybe it was because sukuna had this infuriating habit of leaning against your shared locker bank every morning, arms crossed, watching you approach with that half-lidded expression that managed to convey how utterly beneath him he found you without him having to say a single word. maybe it was because sukuna never let you win at anything — not group projects, not debate club, not even the stupid karaoke contest at utahime's birthday party last semester where he absolutely butchered a journey song and still somehow got a higher score than you.
whatever it was, the hatred was there. it lived in your chest like a second heartbeat, hot and familiar, something you could always count on when everything else felt uncertain.
you hated ryomen sukuna.
and you were pretty sure he hated you too.
this was simply the natural order of things, as stable and predictable as gravity — you walked into a room, sukuna was there, the air got thicker, you glared at each other, and the universe continued spinning.
it had been like this since freshman orientation when you accidentally took the last chocolate chip muffin from the dining hall cart and sukuna had been reaching for it at the exact same time; your fingers had brushed, and sukuna had looked at you like you'd personally insulted every single of his ancestors, and then he'd muttered something under his breath about how he 'should have known'.
from that day forward, you were locked in.
so when your professor announced the paired final project for advanced literary theory — a fifteen-page analysis of narrative unreliability that would make up forty percent of your grade — and then proceeded to assign partners alphabetically, you felt the universe's cosmic joke land squarely on your shoulders.
"aizawa is with burnham, carlson is with davis... nakamura is with park, and (l/n) is with sukuna."
the room didn't go silent, but you wouldn't have heard it if it had. all you could hear was the rushing of blood in your ears as you turned your head, slow and dreadful, like a defendant watching the jury file back in.
sukuna was already looking at you.
he sat two rows over, sprawled in his chair like he'd been poured into it, all sharp angles and lazy menace. his pink hair fell across his forehead in that careless way that made you want to push it out of his face just so you could see him scowl more clearly. his jaw was set, his mouth a flat line, and his eyes — those stupid, arresting eyes that shifted color depending on the light, red one moment and almost brown the next — were fixed on you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
you glared at him.
sukuna raised one eyebrow, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to be annoyed with you.
"great," you muttered, slumping in your seat. "just great."
the thing you didn't know — the thing you couldn't know, because nobody tells you these things, because love doesn't announce itself with trumpets and flashing signs — was that ryomen sukuna had been in love with you for three years, two months, and approximately eleven days.
it had started with the muffin.
not because of the muffin, exactly, but because of the way you'd looked at him when your fingers touched. everyone else in the dining hall flinched away from sukuna — he knew how he came across, all sharp edges and sharper tongue, the kind of person who looked like they'd bite if you got too close. but you hadn't flinched. you'd looked at him, and there had been something in your expression that wasn't fear or deference or any of the other things he was used to seeing.
you'd simply looked at him like… he was just some guy who wanted a muffin.
and then you'd taken it anyway, which was either deeply stupid or deeply brave, and sukuna hadn't been able to decide which, but he'd known, suddenly and completely, that he needed to figure it out.
so he'd started showing up at your locker, not because he wanted to intimidate you but because sukuna wanted to see if you'd look at him like that again. he'd started competing with you for grades not because he wanted to beat you but because sukuna wanted you to notice how hard he was willing to try, how he sharpened himself against you like a blade against a whetstone. he'd challenged you to the karaoke contest because you'd laughed at something utahime said — a real laugh, the kind that crinkled your nose — and sukuna had wanted to be the reason you made that sound, even if it was because he was singing badly on purpose.
none of it had worked the way he wanted.
somewhere along the way, the wires had gotten crossed so completely that sukuna didn't even know how the hell to untangle them anymore; his attention had curdled into something you perceived as hostility. his proximity had become a threat instead of a hope.
and ryomen sukuna, who had never been good at explaining himself, who had spent his whole life building walls instead of bridges, had no idea how to tell you that every time you glared at him, he felt like he was swallowing glass.
so he didn't tell you.
sukuna just kept showing up, he just kept competing, he just kept finding reasons to be near you, and let you believe whatever you wanted to believe.
it was easier that way. really, it was easier than admitting that he thought about you constantly, that he had a folder on his phone full of screenshots of your discussion board posts because he liked the way you structured arguments, that he'd memorized your coffee order from watching you get it so many times (oat milk latte, extra shot, cinnamon on top, which was objectively an incorrect way to drink coffee but he loved that about you anyway).
it was easier than saying; i don't hate you. i never have. i think i would burn the world down if you asked me to, and that terrifies me more than anything else ever has.
so when professor okamoto announced your pairing, sukuna's heart did something violent in his chest, and he had to physically stop himself from smiling. he raised one eyebrow instead, giving you his most unreadable look, and watched your face crumple with displeasure.
god, you were beautiful when you were annoyed.
yeah… sukuna was so, so fucked.
you agreed to meet in the library on tuesday afternoon, mostly because you wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. the sooner you started, the sooner you'd be done, and the sooner you could go back to pretending ryomen sukuna didn't exist at all.
he was already there when you arrived.
this was infuriating because you were fifteen minutes early, specifically to avoid this exact scenario — walking in to find him already settled, already comfortable, already looking like he belonged in a way that made you feel like an intruder in your own study space.
sukuna had claimed the corner table by the window, the good one with the natural light and the extra outlets, and he was bent over a laptop with his reading glasses on.
you stopped dead.
sukuna wore glasses.
you had never seen this before, you had no idea sukuna even needed them, and the sight of them — wire frames, simple and unexpectedly kind against the boy’s sharp face — made something in your chest do a strange little flip.
he looked way softer like this, less intimidating, and you hated that you noticed. you hated that you noticed that the sleeves of sukuna’s sweater were pushed up to his elbows, exposing the lean lines of his forearms. you hated that you noticed the way his hair fell when he was concentrating, how he kept pushing it back with an absent hand.
you hated that you noticed anything about him at all.
"you're staring," sukuna said without looking up.
you bristled.
"i'm not staring. i'm assessing the enemy's territory."
now sukuna looked up, and the glasses made him seem almost approachable for half a second before his expression settled into its usual mask of mild disdain.
"the library is not enemy territory. it's simply a library. with books. which we both really need for this project we're both required to complete."
"don't sound so excited about it."
"i'm not excited about anything involving you."
that stung more than you wanted it to.
you told yourself it was because you were proud, because you hated being dismissed, because sukuna's opinion shouldn't matter to you but it did, it always had, in the same way a splinter mattered — small and sharp and impossible to ignore.
you dropped your bag on the table with more force than necessary and sat down across from him, pulling out your laptop and notebook and pens with aggressive efficiency.
"let's just get this over with."
"eager to escape my company?"
"desperately."
something flickered across his face, there and gone so fast you couldn't name it. he looked back at his screen.
"okamoto wants us to focus on unreliable narration in gothic literature. i've pulled some secondary sources. there's a reading list in the shared document i started."
"you started a shared document already?"
"i'm not an idiot."
"i never said you were."
"you were thinking it."
you opened your mouth to argue, then closed it because he wasn't wrong, and also because there was something in his tone that didn't sound like his usual condescension. it sounded almost... tired. like he was exhausted by this dance you two did, even though he was the one who kept leading.
the silence stretched between you, strange and unfamiliar.
you'd never spent this much time alone with sukuna before; your interactions were always in crowded hallways or full classrooms, always brief and barbed, always with an audience. now it was just the two of you and the soft sounds of the library — pages turning, keyboards clicking, someone's phone buzzing somewhere in the stacks.
you could smell his cologne; something woodsy and warm, nothing like the sharp, cold scent you'd imagined he'd wear. it made him seem closer than he actually was.
"so," you said, because you had to say something, "gothic literature. fun."
sukuna looked at you over the top of his glasses.
"is that a genuine statement or are you being sarcastic?"
"do i ever not sound sarcastic?"
"no," sukuna said, and then, quieter, "i know."
you didn't know what that meant, and you didn't ask.
the first week of working together was exactly as miserable as you'd expected.
you disagreed about everything — thesis statements, source selection, whether or not to use first-person in the analysis, the correct way to cite a multi-volume work.
sukuna was methodical to the point of obsession, wanting to outline every paragraph before writing a single word, while you preferred to write freely and shape the chaos into something structured later. he thought your approach was inefficient. you thought his approach was suffocating.
"you can't just write without knowing where you're going," he said on thursday, staring at your laptop screen like it had personally offended him. "that's how you end up with a directionless argument."
"it's not directionless, it's exploratory. there's a difference."
"there isn't."
"there is if you have any imagination at all."
sukuna’s jaw tightened. "i have imagination."
"huh. could've fooled me."
the words came out sharper than you intended, and you saw something shutter behind sukuna’s eyes. he looked away first, which he never did, and when he spoke again his voice was carefully, deliberately flat.
"just write the outline. we can argue about methodology later."
you wanted to push. you wanted to know why he looked like you'd actually hurt his feelings, which was ridiculous because ryomen sukuna didn't have feelings, not ones that could be hurt by the likes of you. but something about the set of his shoulders stopped you, something about the way he'd gone very still, like he was bracing for impact.
so you wrote the outline.
and sukuna was right, which made it worse.
by the end of the second week, something had shifted.
you couldn't point to exactly when the hell it happened, but somewhere between arguing about the reliability of jane eyre's narration and debating whether rochester was a gothic hero or just a guy with too many secrets, the edges of your interactions had started to soften.
you still bickered constantly, but it felt less like warfare and more like... a game. a familiar rhythm you'd both fallen into without meaning to.
sukuna started bringing you coffee.
not every day, and not in an obvious way either; he'd just show up to your library sessions with two cups from the campus cafe, one black for himself and one that smelled like cinnamon and oat milk, and he'd set yours on your side of the table without a single comment.
the first time it happened, you stared at the cup like it might explode at any moment;
"what is this?"
"coffee. it's a beverage. people drink it to stay awake when they're doing academic work."
"i know what coffee is. i meant—why did you get me one?"
sukuna shrugged, not meeting your eyes. "you always look like you haven't slept. figured you needed it."
it was such a strangely considerate thing to say, so unlike the person you thought you knew, that you didn't know how to respond. you just wrapped your hands around the cup and let the warmth seep into your palms, watching sukuna over the rim as he settled into his chair and opened his laptop like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
the coffee was perfect, exactly how you liked it.
you didn't think about what that meant.
you definitely didn't think about how sukuna would have had to pay attention to know your order, how sukuna would have had to remember, how sukuna would have had to deliberately choose to get it for you even though you'd never asked and never thanked him properly.
you just drank the coffee and tried to ignore the way your heart was beating.
on the third week, you caught sukuna staring at you.
not the usual staring — the kind where he was waiting for you to finish a thought or watching your face for a reaction during an argument. this was different; this was soft, this was the way people looked at things they wanted to keep.
you'd been reading a passage from wuthering heights aloud, doing the voices for the different characters because you were a huge nerd and because it made sukuna's lip twitch in a way that was almost — almost — a smile. you were in the middle of heathcliff's "i cannot live without my soul" speech, and you'd gotten dramatic with it, leaning forward with your hand pressed to your chest, and when you looked up to gauge his reaction, sukuna was just... looking at you.
not at the book, not at the table, but at you.
sukuna’s expression was naked in a way you'd never seen before. all the usual armor was completely gone — the sneer, the boredom, the casual cruelty he wielded like a shield.
instead he looked almost... awed. like you'd done something miraculous just by existing in his general vicinity.
your voice caught in your throat.
"sukuna?"
he blinked, and the mask slammed back into place so fast you almost believed you'd imagined the moment before.
"what?"
"you were staring."
"no, i was just listening."
"you looked—"
you stopped, not sure what you'd been about to say. you looked like you loved me, maybe, but that couldn't be right because ryomen sukuna didn't love anything, certainly not you, certainly not like that.
"you looked weird."
"i always look weird."
"you don't," you said, before you could stop yourself. "you look, you know, normal? i mean, not weird. usually."
sukuna's eyebrows went up.
for a long moment, neither of you spoke. the library's heating system kicked on with a low rumble, and somewhere across the room, someone laughed quietly, and you were acutely aware of every single inch of space between you, of how easy it would be to reach across the table and touch sukuna’s hand, of how badly you wanted to.
you didn't. of course you didn't. but you wanted to, and that was new, and that was terrifying.
"finish the passage," sukuna said finally, his voice rougher than usual. "you were at 'i cannot live without my soul'."
you looked down at the book, at heathcliff's desperate words, and felt heat rise to your cheeks.
"right. yeah. okay."
you finished the passage, but you couldn't look at sukuna while you did it.
the confession happened on a thursday, and it happened because of a paper cut.
you were both hunched over a stack of printouts, cross-referencing quotes, and you were tired — the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from too many late nights and too much caffeine and the slow, creeping realization that you didn't actually hate the person sitting across from you, that maybe you'd never hated him at all, that maybe you'd been wrong about everything for three entire years.
you reached for a page at the same time sukuna did, your fingers brushing against his, and you both froze.
his hands were warm.
you'd expected them to be cold, because everything about sukuna seemed cold, but no, they weren't. his hands were warm and broad and surprisingly gentle when he pulled back like you'd burned him.
"sorry," you said, and meant it.
"don't be sorry for touching me," sukuna said, and his voice was strange, tight, like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep. "i don't—i don't mind."
you looked at him.
really looked, the way you hadn't let yourself look in years; his hair was messy from running his hands through it, his glasses were slightly crooked, and there was a tension in his jaw that you'd always read as anger but now seemed like something else entirely. something held back, something waiting.
"you always mind," you said quietly. "you always mind when i'm near you."
sukuna's breath caught, and you saw it, the way his chest stopped moving for just a second, the way his fingers curled into fists on the table.
"is that what you think?" he asked. "that i mind?"
"you act like you do. you've always acted like—"
"i know how i act." sukuna cut you off, and there was something raw in his voice now, something that made your stomach drop. "i know exactly how i act. do you think i don't know? do you think i haven't noticed that you flinch every time i walk into a room, that you tense up when i stand too close, that you look at me like i'm something you stepped in?"
you opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
"i know," he continued, and now he wasn't looking at you anymore, he was looking at the table, at his hands, at anything but your face. "i know you hate me. i've known for years. and i don't—i don't blame you. i'm not good at this. i'm not good at people. i don't know how to be anything other than what i am, and what i am is someone who makes you uncomfortable, apparently, which was never—"
his voice actually cracked, and you felt something splinter inside your chest.
"that was never what i wanted."
"sukuna—"
"just let me finish."
sukuna pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice was muffled.
"i need to say this. i've been trying to say this for three whole years, and i just keep messing it up, and i don't care if you hate me after, i just really need you to know so i can stop—so i can stop pretending—"
he dropped his hands and looked at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed and bright, and all the air left your lungs.
"i don't hate you," sukuna said. "i have never hated you. not once. not even when you took the last muffin at orientation, which was a crime against humanity and i'm still not over it. not when you argued with me about romantic poetry in sophomore lit. not when you told professor tanaka that my interpretation of frankenstein was 'reductive and borderline misogynistic', which, for the record, it wasn't. i don't hate you. i've never hated you. i—"
sukuna stopped, swallowed, and looked at you like you were the scariest thing he'd ever seen.
"i love you," he said, and the words came out small, almost bewildered, like he was discovering the truth of them in real time. "i love you so much it's embarrassing. i love your laugh and the way you argue and how you do the voices when you read out loud even though you think nobody notices. i love that you're competitive and stubborn and terrible at asking for help and you always push your hair behind your ear when you're thinking. i love that you took that muffin even though you knew i wanted it because you don't back down from anything, including me, especially me, and i—"
his voice broke again, and he laughed, a short, helpless sound.
"i've been in love with you since freshman orientation. i've been in love with you for three years, and i've been so busy trying to get your attention that i didn't notice i was just making you hate me. and that's—that's on me. that's entirely on me. but i needed you to know. before we finish this project and you never have to talk to me again. i needed you to know that none of it was hate. not on my side. it was never hate."
the library was silent.
you could hear your own heartbeat, loud and unsteady, you could feel the blood rushing to your face, your hands, every part of you that had suddenly come alive.
sukuna was looking at you like a man awaiting execution, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands shaking slightly where they rested on the table.
you thought about three years of mornings at your locker. three years of competitive grading. three years of him finding reasons to be in your orbit, even when you made it clear he wasn't welcome at all.
you thought about the coffee, the glasses, the way he knew your reading voice and your coffee order and the fact that you pushed your hair behind your ear when you were thinking.
you thought about how you'd actually never hated him either; at least, not the way real hatred felt cold and dead. your feelings for sukuna had always been hot, always been alive, always been demanding your attention when you wanted to focus on anything else.
you thought about the muffin.
"you're an idiot," you said.
sukuna blinked. "what?"
"you're an idiot," you repeated, and your voice was shaking, and you couldn't stop the smile that was spreading across your face, wide and disbelieving and probably ridiculous. "three years. three years of fighting over grades and arguing about literature and competing in karaoke contests, and the whole time you were just trying to get me to look at you?"
"to be fair, it worked. you looked at me constantly. just—not in the way i wanted."
"because i thought you hated me!"
"yeah, i know! i realize that! i'm aware that my communication skills are—"
"abysmal?"
"i was going to say 'deeply flawed', but yes, abysmal works."
you laughed.
you couldn't help it; it bubbled up from somewhere deep, somewhere that had been wound too tight for too long, and suddenly you were laughing so hard that tears were streaming down your face, and sukuna was staring at you like you'd lost your mind, which honestly you might have.
"i don't hate you either," you managed, between gasps. "i never hated you. i thought i did, but i don't think i know what hatred feels like anymore because every time i tried to hate you, i just—i just kept noticing things. like the way you tap your fingers when you're reading. and how you always hold the door for people even though you pretend not to. and you helped that freshman find their classroom last week even though you were late to your own class. and you look at me like—"
you stopped, swallowed, and looked at him.
"you look at me like i matter," you said softly. "and i didn't know what to do with that, so i called it hatred. because it was easier than admitting that maybe i wanted you to look at me forever."
sukuna made a sound, something wounded and hopeful all at once, and then he was moving — not dramatically, not the way they do in movies, but slowly, carefully, like the boy was approaching something that might spook.
he reached across the table and took your hand, his fingers sliding between yours, and you both looked down at where you were connected like it was the most incredible thing either of you had ever seen.
"so," sukuna said, and his voice was unsteady, "just to be clear. we both wasted three years being convinced the other person hated them, when actually—"
"when actually you have the emotional intelligence of a brick and i'm apparently blind."
"i was going to say we're both complete idiots, but yes, that's also very accurate."
you squeezed sukuna’s hand, and he squeezed back, and the smile he gave you was nothing like the ones you'd seen before; this one was real, this one reached his eyes, softened all his sharp edges, and made him look so sweet and so hopeful and so terrifyingly beautiful.
"what now?" you asked.
sukuna looked at your joined hands, then at your face, then back at your hands.
"well. i have a fifteen-page paper due in two weeks, and my partner is very distracting."
"your partner is sitting right here."
"i know." sukuna lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, feather-light, his eyes never leaving yours. "trust me. i know."
you spent the rest of the afternoon in the library, but you didn't get any work done.
you talked instead — really talked, for the first time in three years. you told him about the muffin, how you'd only taken it because you'd seen him reach for it and wanted an excuse to touch his hand, how you'd spent the rest of the day convinced you'd imagined the whole thing. he told you about the karaoke contest, how he'd picked journey specifically because he'd overheard you say it was your guilty pleasure, how he'd sung badly on purpose because he wanted to see you smile.
"i can't believe you can actually sing," you said, propping your chin on your hand. "and all this time i thought you were just terrible at music."
"i have many hidden talents."
"like secretly being in love with me for three years?"
sukuna’s ears went pink.
"that's not a talent. that's a crisis."
you reached across the table and touched his face, just because you could now, just because he was yours to touch. his stubble was rough against your fingertips, and he closed his eyes when you traced the line of his jaw, leaning into your palm like a cat seeking warmth.
"i'm sorry," you said quietly. "for all the times i was mean to you. for assuming the worst."
"don't be." sukuna turned his head and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm. "you gave as good as you got. it's one of the things i like about you."
"one of the things?"
sukuna slowly opened his eyes, and the look in them made your chest ache.
"i could give you a long list. it would take a while. we might need to order dinner."
"we're still in the library."
"the library has a cafe."
you laughed, and he smiled, and when he kissed you for the first time — soft and slow and a little awkward, both of you smiling too much to do it properly — you tasted coffee and cinnamon and something that felt like coming home.
the thing about loving ryomen sukuna was that it had never been a conscious decision either.
it just happened — it happened the way spring follows winter, the way flowers naturally turn toward the sun, the way your hand found his under the library table and held on like you'd been doing it your whole life.
Why does your new professor sound just like the guy you touch yourself to every night?
ASMRStreamerProf!Gojo x FanStudent!reader
cw: fem!reader, SMUT, loooots of dirty talk (its kinda his job), college student reader, professor gojo, older gojo(maybe like late 20s and reader is early 20s), masturbation, teasing, degrading/praising, JOI (hihi), lots of whimpering groaning moaning, cursing, blackmail (gone wrong), noot proofread
"My pretty girl, I've missed you."
A deep male voice flooded your ears, headphones turned up to the max volume.
Your favourite ASMR streamer was live again at the same time every other day. Like clockwork.
You joined the stream, the screen blank with a small watermark at the bottom
sexeyes
Get it? sexeyes instead of sixeyes, yeah? okay.
You don't know why, but this was more addictive and at least ten times more pleasurable than watching regular porn.
His voice felt like he was right there, guiding you to a perfect orgasm- we haven't gotten to that yet.
After a long day of sitting in hour-long lectures and stressing about assignments... You were finally tucked under your covers, buried in pillows with the lights turned off. Your phone was lying on the one beside you while you lay flat on your back, eyes shut, while imagining the perfect man speaking to you.
You were gnawing on your bottom lip already, impatiently waiting for him to start the good part.
"I bet you've had a tiring day, hmm?"
"It's okay... i'm here now. Want me to take care of you, baby?"
You couldn't help but nod your head, fingers already slipping underneath your shirt, tracing soft swirls on your stomach.
"Such a naughty girl, I bet you're already thinking about touching yourself."
Your breath hitched, it was as if he were speaking to you and you alone, not to the thousands of listeners. And he somehow read the minds of all of them.
"Alright then... be a good girl and start with your pretty nipples. You can do that for me, yeah? I want you to play with them, make them nice and sensitive."
You obeyed with no thought, hands trailing up from your stomach to your ribs, finally reaching your tits- fingers rubbing at the flaccid buds.
You let out a small whimper, feeling them harden from the touch.
"You're being so good... a good little slut, yeah? Don't be shy, let me hear your sweet sounds."
You swore you could hear fabric shifting, as if he was either pushing his own clothes up or down to reveal skin. This was your favourite part, getting to listen to the streamer masturbate together with you.
His breathing had gotten a bit more laboured. Or maybe you were imagining things.
"Mmhmm... feels good? Be good and guide a hand down... down... dooowwnn... You know where it should be."
Down it went, one still playing with your own nipple while the other reached down between your thighs, your palm pressing over your needy cunt. The feeling of a wet spot forming on the cotton fabric of your panties made your fingers tremble.
"Wet already?"
You could hear him quietly chuckling, shifting a bit closer to the microphone.
"Touch yourself through your cute panties. I know you want to, sweetheart."
You did exactly that, fingers pressing riggght where you knew your clit was. Your hips shifted from the pressure already, eyelids squeezing shut.
"That's it, suuuch a good girl for me."
"Let me take care of you, listen to my voice, yeah?"
You followed his instructions, quietly moaning once he told you to tease yourself and push a finger inside.
"I bet if they were mine, it'd feel much better. I'd love to play with you, angel."
"Just the thought is making me hard... want me to do it together with you?"
You nodded your head again, sinking the finger deeper, all the way down to the knuckle. "Yes... please." You didn't mean to say it out loud.
"Cmon, add another, my sweet girl. Your pretty pussy can take it, yeah?"
You whined, starting to push a second finger inside.
The sound of him heavily breathing and the shlick shlick sound of him starting to jerk off spurred you even more.
"So pretty... all mine, right? You'd never let anyone else talk to you like this, hm?"
"Feels sooo good. I have my hand wrapped around my dick... going at the same pace as you, baby."
"In... out... in... haah... out..."
Your hand moved at his guidance, your chest heaving a bit, and your skin was warmer, that knot in your stomach starting to tighten.
"Gonna cum, my pretty girl?"
"Cmon, cum for me. Be a good girl... let me hear you."
"Shit- I'm so close... let's do it together, okay?"
Your eyes behind your eyelids tried to roll back, fingers curling up against a mushy spot that made your pussy flutter and pulse around them.
A loud grunt and moans fell from his lips, and into your headphones, the wet sound of him spreading his cum over his cock was the last thing you heard before the stream ended.
You didn't even bother washing your hand or cleaning up the mess between your thighs.
You'd just take a shower in the morning.
You were sitting in your usual seat, in the second row from the front. Yes, you were one of those students.
You were talking with some friends, discussing what tung tung tung sahur would sound like in bed- but the lecture hall got quiet for some reason, making you shut up.
The doors had opened and a white-haired, well-dressed, in some expensive suit and tie, new professor had came in. He looked young, definitely hiding a shit ton of muscle underneath those clothes…
Your attention went to his eyes, and that cocky grin he wore while walking down to the desk, turning on the projector, and setting up a laptop to start teaching.
“Goood morning, I’m this course's new prof!” He beamed with a bit too much energy for 9 in the morning.
Hold on.
You felt like you had heard him somewhere. Huh. Maybe he had one of those study YouTube channels where he made guides, and you had watched one…
“My name is Satoru Gojo, but you can call me Mr. Gojo.”
Mr. Gojo, my ass.
The lesson droned on, he wasn’t bad at teaching, but for some reason, you really couldn’t focus. At all.
You tried to write down notes, but your gaze kept flicking to him leaning against the desk while waving a hand around to explain a slide.
There was something about his voice that was making you falter.
You hadn’t even noticed how bad your cunt was aching, too busy trying to focus.
Wait.
Satoru said something familiar.
“Okay, so let’s all do this together, yeah?”
That did it.
Your face heated up, your thighs gravitated together. The pencil in your hand almost snapped.
SEXEYES? THE MAN YOU’VE BEEN CUMMING TOGETHER WITH?
oh god
oh dear god
You started to hear it clearly, that teasing tone. His voice. It all clicked.
And you were lost.
Your lips were agape like a fish’s, eyes big and pupils blown wide while staring at him from your seat.
“Miss, are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Satoru smiled at you from the desk, standing up straight.
The people and your friends around you chuckled. You fixed your face and shook your head, quickly looking down and scribbling in your notebook.
A week had passed like this. A tortorous week.
You were unable to concentrate in classes. You felt too worked up to even try to write what was in the slides.
At home, it was worse, unable to even look through the study guides.
His streams. You needed to listen to all the videos, clips- you could attach the voice to his face.
Satoru. It was him. You could see it so clearly in your imagination. His moans, how he spoke to you, what he'd look like jerking off.
Safe to say, when you had your first exam in his class.
You flunked it.
You did the only thing you could think of to fix this.
It was after hours, Satoru was in his office, looking trough what he had to do for tomorrows students.
knock knock knock !
"Yes, come in." His voice called. It made you shiver.
The door creaked open and you stepped inside, looking determined.
Gojo lit up, giving you a small grin before leaning back into the leather rolly chair. "Ah, my star student. Are you here about that grade? i promise, everything is alright and the next one will go bet-"
"No, i know the next one will go better. " You pouted a bit, standing in front of his desk, placing your phone down on it.
Your screen was opened on a specific website. His account's homepage open.
sexeyes.
Satoru faltered a bit, looking at what you were showing him.
But he just softly laughed, lightly sliding the device back over to you.
"I see, is this why you have troubles focusing in my class, sweetheart?"
You could feel the tips of your ears turning red, snatching it back.
"What? No! I know that that's you- i want a good score for the next exam!"
He tilted his head, blue irises almost mocking you while tilting his head.
"Is that all you want?"
You don't know who was more stupid. You asking to join him on a livestream. Or him agreeing and taking a student to his apartment.
You were all shy now, the attempted blackmailing hadn't even scared him one bit.
Now you were sat on the corner of his lush bed, watching your new professor set up a few microphones around it, tie loose and white shirt already unbuttoned and a small smile on his pretty lips.
"Don't be nervous. You've probably listened to me do this hundreds of times." He teased, leaning down and brushing some hair out of your eyes.
Stream: start
"Welcome back, my angels. Today we have a guest. Isn't that right, sweetheart?"
You were sat on his thighs, back flush against his chest, hands already running up and down your sides.
Something hard was already settling underneath you.
"Cmon, you're a big girl. Say hello." he encouraged you by grinding his thigh up, shifting so it was slotted between yours. The sound you made was pitiful.
"Hi..." You murmured.
You were glad he never filmed but only recorded.
But you could see the chat flowing past on the corner of one monitor. The audience getting excited for this.
It was just like listening to his voice... but now he was touching you the same way too.
Describing everything to the audience.
"If i touch you here... aww, it's okay. No need to shake so much, baby."
"Look at you... riding my thigh so pretty. Does it feel better if i do thisss?"
"Such a sweet pussy, look at it. It's all wet because of me. Want me to finger you, darling?"
"Such a sweetheart, drooling all over my fingers. Cmon, keep sucking."
"Lean back for me, yeah... that's it, such a pretty little slut."
"Look how big i am... is it even going to fit? You look scared. Come here, i'll help you calm down. Open your mouth again."
"You take me so well... do you feel how deep inside i am, my angel?"
You barely spoke, too worried about how you'd sound. But he got you to make the lewdest sounds just with a few words.
The sound of his hips driving into yours and skin meeting skin was picked up by the microphones.
The wet squelch of his fat cock bullying your drooly pussy and the groans of him sucking on you nipple were all recorded.
Not to mention the whimper and deep groan from you both at the end when two releases mixed inside of a stuffed, very happy pussy.
The livestream had the most views he had ever received.
And you got the highest grade in the course.
No need to spend your nights listening to his voice through headphones anymore when you could just ask for another credit boost and a cameo.
Yoon's notes: EEKKK
For my mistress: @liahcharms I HOPE YOU LIKE ITTT <333
hii i literally have been reading through every one of your works and i’m so addicted !! i love your writing so freaking much 💞💞 i was wondering if it would be okay if i could be added to your gojo and geto tag list ? thank youu <33
hihi! ❤︎
oh my god i could’ve sworn i’d answered this i’m so sorry ಥ﹏ಥ i’ll add you rn, of course you can be ❕ i’m literally blushing so hard rn, i’m so glad you like my writing ❤︎
I need you to do more first person writing! You're so good at it
UGH STOPP babygirl ily (๑>◡<๑)
i’ll send you more when i have somee ❕ive written some stuff 3rd person pov, i’ll send you it soon, &. i have this idea i reeeaaalllyyy wanna share w you i think youll like sooo expect a yap session soon mwah. ❤︎
