You were friends with him from birth - the boy across the street, Satoru Gojo. However, you lose touch in college, but finally you're going to the same school! You have a love letter written, but you find Satoru - the football captain - is dating the top cheerleader. And she hates you. You're the girl who doesn't really get noticed, the girl in the bleachers playing the clarinet, watching Satoru score a touchdown and kiss his girlfriend. It hurts, but you try to stay uninvolved, but you're watching the boy you knew hurt. Can the two of you have a friendship anymore, and does he feel the same way as you?
pairings - football star! gojo x band geek! reader
warnings - angsty, emotional, hurt comfort, smutty - this chap - cute, fluffy, a first date with Satoru, lots of tension, kissing, dry humping, oral (m receiving) fingering, panty fucking, the two of them being all fucking cute and in love bc I need it.
based on the T Swift song! Part of @indiewritesxoxo series event! I missed this one and wanted to dive back in hehe <3
art by @/Jan on X!
<<<part four
part five
The scent of your pretty perfume is in the air as you give yourself one last spritz, across your collarbones, turning this way and that as you look at your reflection in the mirror. Satoru’s favorite scent on you, the one you’ve worn since he’s met you damn near.
God, it’s been a long time.
Doubts abound in your mind today prepping for your date – no matter how much pep talk you’ve gotten from Nanami, Utahime, Shoko and Suguru, there was the lingering doubt that perhaps Satoru was just rebounding. That it was way too fucking soon since Sarah destroyed him, his confidence was clearly lacking, and you didn’t want to be a rebound.
Yet you wanted to be there for Gojo, wanted to be with him – wanted to belong to him, and him to belong to you. As it always was in your mind, yet for years Satoru never saw you as more than the ‘best friend’. So your mind couldn’t stop racing, remembering the shitty words Sarah had said in your ear.
She thought Satoru was all hers – and he was, for some time, until you came. In a way you feel every bit this terrible woman who came and stole her man, but on the other side of that, you can’t imagine not taking the chance with the boy you’ve loved as long as you could remember. The one who lost the light in his eyes due to just how terrible Sarah was.
Sarah didn’t get Satoru.
She didn’t understand him, she wanted him to be a perfect Gojo, not the nerdy Satoru deep down, and how she broke him? You can’t ever accept it, but it didn’t stop the nagging doubts as you touch up some lipstick.
You didn’t dress glamorous like Sarah, but you were trying to look pretty. The dress you chose for tonight is simple and cute, a pretty pink silk that cinched right in the waist with a cute little bow. It’s something you didn’t know you’d ever actually wear, the girl who always tends to be casual, you can’t help but tug at it this way in that, making sure it looks pretty on you.
Your phone buzzes on your nightstand, making your heart race – cheeks heating right up as you pick it up and see his name.
Toru: I’m outside, sweetheart.
“Sweetheart,” you murmur, biting your lip and almost giggling with how fucking excited you were.
He always called you that as kids, but after last week when he’d buried his face in between your thighs, came in your hand, kissed you?
It felt different.
You grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder, wondering just why you were so nervous. You’ve known Satoru Gojo your whole life and he’s seen you bare faced, wearing sweats, bathing suits in the summer, you’re more comfortable with him than almost anyone. So why now, was it so different?
It was a date. That’s why.
You take a steadying breath, eyes shutting for a moment to calm yourself, before opening the door, down the stairs and in front of the dorm building in a few moments, seeing Satoru leaning against his car. Legs crossed at the ankle, the setting sun reflecting and shimmering on his form, just enhancing how good he looks.
It’s a pair of dark blue jeans and a black t-shirt, simple, sure, but you know Satoru Gojo – and you just know that shit costs thousands. He loves a good material, and that shirt and those jeans fit him perfectly. He looks up from the phone, smiling all cute right at you, melting your fucking heart, which hammers as his gaze slips across your body carefully.
“Well, fuck,” he breathes out those words as you walk over to him now, pretty blue eyes studying you slowly, lingering on the pretty curve of your tits in that dress, you can feel it like he’s actually touching you. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“What? No way,” you giggle, your voice just a breathy whisper as you bite down on your lower lip, and he takes you by your hands, holding your arms out a bit to tilt his head.
“I don’t even think I’ve seen you in a dress since like prom,” he murmurs, you blush under his gaze, letting him spin you around. “Fuck it’s cute on you.”
“I just wanted to look nice for our date,” you look down shyly, unused to so much attention, Satoru tilts your chin up, letting your hair fall back.
“Nice? No, beautiful is what you look like.”
“Toru…” he cups your face, leaning down, his breath ghosting sweetly over your lips. “Thank you. You look so good-”
He doesn’t wait for you to finish your sentence, he just dips his head and captures your lips with a soft kiss, one that has you melting in his embrace. Your lips part, letting his tongue sweep inside the hot recesses of your mouth, gliding against yours in a slow, teasing motion that has you aching for more.
Your arms wrap his neck, tip toeing to hold on to him, his hand warm against your lower back, pressing you even closer against the hard lines of his body, you can already feel his length behind those damn jeans, pressing against your stomach. The memories of him whimpering as you stroked him hit hard.
He promised the next date you’d get to suck him.
You swear you’re so worried you’ll do a terrible job, you tried to research via porn and couldn’t figure out how these girls were so talented. Satoru was huge.
But the thought of sucking it?
It has you arching, gasping for a breath as he takes you over, his other hand entangling in your hair, turning so you’re pressed against his pretty sports car. He lifts one of those thighs, pressing harder, and you can’t help but eagerly arch, rolling your hips and crying out.
“Toru,” you whine those words out, pulling back with saliva dissolving between your mouths, when he finally pulls back, whispering your name right back in an octave that fucking ruins you. “Someone will see!”
“Let ‘em see,” he chuckles just a bit, this psychotic look in the normally sweet blue eyes that fucks you up more. “They should know who you belong to now, who I belong to, shouldn’t they?”
“You have no clue what that means, for you to…” You trail off now, letting his cool thumb stroke your cheek.
People were walking back and forth, in and out of the dormitory, and some did peek over – Sarah and Satoru were the ‘golden couple’ and you surely looked like the very ‘rebound’ you were afraid to. You swallow down the nerves, hands clutching and unclutching his soft jacket he had slung over that dress shirt, his letterman’s jacket that not long ago was slung over Sarah’s shoulders.
Why are you still so jealous!?
You hate it – you hate how worried you are for her revenge, how cruel she was not just to you, but to Satoru. The hurt she could cause.
“Sweets,” he tilts your chin up, feeling you tremble. “I’m going too fast-”
“No! No, please I want it all… It’s just that I’m so worried,” you whisper, eyes shutting a bit, before opening back to focus on the boy you love.
Things have been said – but not that.
“About her?”
“Her, the friends she has, hurting you somehow… your reputation. It could hurt and I’d feel terrible.”
“Let me worry about all,” he kisses you once more, easing your thigh down, the gentle breeze rushing across your skin, making you tremble even more. “They can say what they want about me, I really am tired of caring, sweetheart.”
“I bet you are,” you blink just a bit, kissing his chin, resting your brow on it. “It feels too easy in your arms and it’s terrifying me.”
“I kind of know what you mean,” he hugs you tightly, feeling not just the eyes of everyone around you both, but how scared you are.
It is scary, though, truly to have had this forever one way, and then to cross that boundary, one he never even dreamed of doing. Every time Satoru thought he would tell you his feelings, he had to hold it all back, so worried of losing you forever, not knowing the entire time you could have felt like that for him.
A part of him felt guilty, moving on from Sarah like this – he knows she’ll hate him more for it, but another part of him can’t fucking care. After the shit she pulled, the things she said, the way she acted? He couldn’t believe he’d let it go on for as long as he had, really, if it wasn’t for you he’s not sure he would have come out of it.
Would he have married her, like his parents’ wanted, and lived the cozy life that she desired, being a kept woman, which Satoru didn’t even mind. He would love to take care of the girl he marries so she doesn’t have to worry about anything, he wants kids some day, too. None of that was the issue – it was her.
Imagining the life he damn near almost had and how hollow it would feel had him sick to his stomach if he lingered on it for too long.
So he doesn’t.
He looks down at the way the pinks and golds in the sky are setting behind you, and just how fucking pretty you look like this, your eyes so nervous and glimmery, your cheeks hot to the touch. Your pretty lips all parted, slightly swollen from his very kisses, his kisses.
His.
You were his.
Or, you would be – there was not one world where Satoru would let this go, would let you go from him.
“Are you ready for our date, pretty?” He asks now, trying to lighten the slightly heavy mood, the lingering tension of a girl who should be gone from your mind, but one who is clearly still there.
He can read you like a book, it’s insanity to think he never could read the fact that you liked him back.
Like wasn’t really the word for what he felt, not even close.
“I am so excited,” you admit, giggling and kissing him again, Satoru opens the car door for you, but his hand lingers on your lower back as you slide in, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip through the soft material.
“God your ass in this - I mean!?”
“Satoru Gojo!” You smack at him and he blushes, looking rightfully abashed. “You pervert!”
“Fuck it’s like my mouth just said it without my brain connecting,” he grimaces and shakes his head as you snort, rolling your eyes and letting him slide in beside you, a hand on your thigh. “Forgive me, pretty?”
“The dinner better be good.”
“Mhm, of course it will be.”
A date with Satoru Gojo – the inner youth in you is fucking flipping out, right along with current you.
*****
Satoru’s hand is on your thigh so casually as the two of you sit next to each other in the little booth, his thumb stroking little circles on your skin that inch higher and higher, just to dart right back down. Maddening, like a second nature as the two of you peer at the menu, though you can’t focus on a goddamn thing.
Every time you shift in the plush bench, you feel the friction of the seat against your twitchy lil clit, already craving him so damn bad, the memories of the way he flicked his tongue on it swirling through your head. He looks at you as you move again, hips shifting, this smirk on his lips.
“You keep shifting like that and we’re not gonna make it to dinner,” he murmurs softly, leaning low. You gasp.
“You’d have me not eat!?”
“I’d be the one eating,” he teases, you exhale, a breathy little laugh escaping your lips as he moves his hand higher, teasing that skin there, you damn near press his hand between your thighs you clench up so tight. “Oh, you like that idea?”
“You know I do, bratty boy,” his fingers press firmly against your panty clad cunt for a brief moment, and you barely fucking bite back a moan, burying your face against the crook of his neck, hoping no one could hear your little gasp. “Toru….”
“Fuck, you’re already soaking through these panties, hmm?” You just nod, your face burning as you shift once more, his fingertips brushing over where you’re swollen and needy. “All from thinking of me?”
“You’re teasin’ me, meanie,” he laughs softly, shaking his head as you nip his neck with your teeth, earning his own little soft moan. “Revenge.”
“Revenge, hmm?”
“Mhm…” The waitress comes, having you both separate, she is bright and bubbly as she damn near gives Satoru her number, just for him to politely ignore her advances.
The audacity of people never serves to blow you away.
Yet in that very moment, you know all the attention is right on you, even as his damn phone goes off – it’s on vibrate as you’re both sipping on wine, nibbling on appetizers together. Yet it keeps buzzing on the table, moving in little circles it’s vibrating so fucking hard – Satoru glances at it, his jaw tightening a bit visibly.
“Wanna check?”
“No.”
“Toru it could be your parents, Suguru…” He sighs at that, picking up the phone and peeking at it, frowning, shoving it into his pocket with a hasty little gesture.
“Not them.”
Ah.
“Sarah?” you ask softly, unsure of just how to bring it up, he’s clearly frustrated at her incessant calling.
“She clearly can’t stand the thought of me not being at her beck and call anymore,” Satoru sighs and looks at you, forking a bite of food in your mouth. “Open up now.”
“You can’t say that,” he laughs softly, clearly trying to ease the tension, as you chew thoughtfully. “Mmm, it’s yummy.”
“It is,” you laugh again, when he reaches his hand over to you, his fingertips brushing against the corner of your mouth, where a little drop fell. The contact alone has your pulse just racing. “Very yummy.”
“Will I be finding out tonight?” You tease, then gasp. “Oh my god, I said that!?”
“Yeah you did,” he’s damn near snorting as you playfully shove him, feeling that blush rush across your cheeks, especially when his fingertips slide down the side of your neck, tracing the line of your collarbone, leaving goosebumps everywhere as the tension builds even deeper.
God it’s hard not to slide on his lap.
You’ve never felt this, and it’s terrifying.
The only thing that breaks up the tension is when that phone starts ringing again, buzzing in his pocket, he peers at it and glares.
“Toru…”
“She can fuck right off. I’m busy with you,” your lips tremble a bit, he grabs his fork and feeds you more. “Very busy.”
“Good,” you answer softly. “I’d get jealous.”
“Oh yeah?” He raises a brow and you nod, making him chuckle. “You’re fucking adorable.”
“Adorable, I’m serious!”
“I won’t make you jealous, ever…” He leans close, cupping your face once more. “All my undivided attention is here, okay?”
“I do?” He hums and nods, capturing your mouth in another sweet kiss, one that lingers and feels you so full, you can’t help but sigh and lean into it.
“I’m all yours tonight,” he grins, letting you feel the lines of his teeth. “Sounds slutty, doesn’t it?”
“It does a bit,” you’re so nervous now – Satoru is absolutely the more experienced one, and you won’t know what you’re doing when you try to please him. But damned if that will stop you from trying. “All mine?”
“Mhm.”
*****
The tension is damn near unbearable when the two of you get back in the car, and the two glasses of pinot are rushing through your veins, making you dizzy.
“I had so much fun,” you say softly as he pulls out of the parking lot, his hand right back on your thigh, possessive, so fucking warm. It’s not teasing like at the restaurant, it’s firmly sitting there, squeezing almost too hard. “Did you?”
“I did,” you hear his sigh. “Too much fucking fun.”
“It was! I can’t believe we went on a date,” he’s laughing again softly at how cute you are, with the lights shining in the car as he drives through the nearly empty streets at night, his fingertips trailing up towards that heat.
“We went on a date,” he slips his fingers past the hem of your dress, pushing aside the soaked fabric of your panties to find your slick, swollen folds, eliciting a filthy little whine from your throat. “Fuck… you’re even wetter…”
“All your fault,” you mumble, arching your hips, leaning closer. “Had me thinking of your promise.”
“Oh?” He feels how soaked you are, groaning out at it – his eyes flicking between you and the road, as he glides a lengthy finger through your wet, puffy folds, so hot he can’t imagine how good it’d feel around him. “All this thinking of sucking my cock, really?”
“Yes… ah! W-wanna…” Your head falls back against the seat as he finds your clit now, circling it with a practiced ease that has you petty and jealous as fuck that Sarah got it, you shove it right out of your mind, knowing it’s nonsense.
You wish it was only ever you two and that’s fucking ridiculous, what this boy makes you feel, as you’re rolling your hips against his hand, craving even more.
“Wanna what, hmm? Can’t talk?”
“Tease,” you moan in frustration when he pulls his fingers off, sucking one and making you gasp. “Toru… could I try now?”
“Sucking my cock driving!?!”
“Yes?” His eyes widen, fingers falling from his lips as you start panicking just a bit at your bold ass words. “I mean… no? I mean…. Yes.”
“Fuck…”
Is he in a dream?
“You really wanna?” He’s almost nervous, yes he’s done that a lot with Sarah, but this was you – sweet, innocent, band geek girl who he’s played alongside since the damn sandbox at the playground.
What if he hurt your mouth?
What if he gagged you?
What if you hit some speedbump and you bit it on accident, if you-
“I do want to try um, only if you want,” you whisper, he can hardly hold his thoughts together, mind swirling with every thought ever as you look at him all pretty in the night, your scent clinging to him, taste ruining his senses. “I wanna please you like you did.”
“Anything you do will,” he murmurs, leaning back as you all hit a red light and nervously fumbling with his zipper like it’s his damn first time, the metallic rasp of it echoing in the car, mixing with the quiet him. You bite down on your lip, undoing your seatbelt to lean over, a strap falling down your shoulder to reveal some of your pretty collarbone. “God, look at you.”
He frees his cock with a pathetic little whine, and it slaps hard against his stomach, thick and heavy, just leaking pre-cum right down that swollen tip, reddened with how badly he needs you. “Toru… you’re hard from…”
“Touching you? God, yes,” you lean forward, ever trusting, as he takes your hand and wraps it around him, exhaling, the light turns green and he very reluctantly starts driving, his hand leaving yours now, slipping up the back of your hair on your neck and entangling there as you kneel. “Feel what you do to me, pretty girl? Feel how hard I am for you?”
“Yes,” it’s heady, knowing you have this effect on him, as you stroke him carefully, your thumb swiping over the slick head, swirling that pre right around, earning his little groan, his head tilting back against the seat for just a moment. “Should I put my mouth around you?”
“God, please,” he laughs now. “Got me pathetic.”
“No, Toru,” you lap your tongue to gather it, climbing so you’re right on your knees with your ass up as he drives, his hand tightening when you wrap your mouth around his fat tip and suck. “Mnnh…”
“Fuckin’ perfect, shit,” he’s having trouble with just the tip in your mouth, that’s how fucked you have him as you suck, and he can’t stop the sounds escaping his mouth, ones Sarah would have made fun of if she could have ever even gotten them from him.
You’re so different.
You moan at his whimpers, you arch higher, soft and sweet how you suck, like you’re worried to hurt him – each bump on the road knocking his cock deeper in your throat. Stretching it, burning it, making him suck in a breath – whispering your name in a way that has you slick when he finds you over your panties.
“Oh sweetheart, you’re even wetter,” he runs his fingers underneath your panties, right along your bare, dripping folds, finding your hole and plunging right inside.
After teasing it all damn evening, his fingertip that pulls out and drags against your sensitive clit is almost too much, you’re drooling down his cock, taking him even deeper. “Mnh!”
“Like that?” he asks softly, his voice husky and deep – so fucking low it hits some part of you that makes you clench around him, as you swallow around his cock, slurping up every bit of pre that spurts out. “You’re doing so good, that’s it – don’t even have to tell you what to do.”
The praise fucks you up furthher, as he’s dragging his shaft through your wet mouth, his fingers pumping in and out of your slick pussy, she sucks two fingers in far easier than last time, so full with those callouses inside you the sensation is too hard to articulate. Your brain is all addled as you take more, until you’re choking on him, spit falling right around.
“Oh my…” He’s at another red light, hand pulling hard at your hair, his hips bucking up. “You takin’ cock like that? Choking just for me?”
“Mhm,” is your only response, your hands gripping his thighs, the denim rough underneath your skin as your head starts moving with his guidance. He’s bucking his hips up in a desperate, needy little rhythm as your lashes flutter shut, the noises just urging you on.
“Are you okay, baby?” He pauses when you gag, you pull back, looking at him with dazed eyes and dripping lips, nodding. “You sure?”
“I like choking on it…”
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Satoru knows he doesn’t have much longer, so fucking drunk off your mouth that he doesn’t notice the green lights, the horns behind you both, your mouth landing right back on his length. He hits another speed bump, shoving his cock so deep he feels your tiny throat stretching, his fingers landing back in your hair to try to tug you up, leaving your pussy empty.
“Sorry, shit, I…”
“No,” you murmur now, your tongue focusing on his tip, hand stroking his spit soaked cock as he drives. “Please, I like it.”
“Can’t take it,” he pulls right in front of your dorm now, dragging you on his lap, completely and utterly done for when he kisses the white off your mouth, tongue lavishing alongside yours as he drags your bare cunt against him, your thighs trembling on either side of him once he’s in park. “I need to feel her.”
“Toru I…”
“Won’t take your first time like this baby,” he reassures you immediately, gliding his tip through your swollen folds, hearing your every little sigh and whine as the steering wheel presses against.”
“What if I want it?” He pauses, cursing and resting his head against your chest, sighing.
“Not gonna fuck you in the car for the first, sorry,” he sighs at your cute little pout. “Didn’t you wanna wait a bit?”
“Not now.”
Satoru chuckles, grinding against you once more, watching your head fall back as he kisses up your throat. “Oh? Now you’re so ready, hmm?”
“Very,”, the friction is unbearably sweet, each jerk of his hips and drag of his cock against your clit shooting hot need right through you. The purring hum of his car is filled with the wet, slick sounds of your cunt on him, with the light whir of that air conditioner blowing on your skin. “I want it.”
“I want you,” he murmurs now, leaning back to tug your panties aside and slip his seat back, his eyes darting right to where you’re gliding and making a mess on him, watching his cock disappear and reappear from between your folds, picturing how good it’ll look when it’s in your stomach. “You’re so fucking wet for me, hmm? Making such a mess.”
He grabs your ass now, firmer than before – his long fingers digging into the soft flesh of it as he takes control of the pace, rutting even faster, kissing up your collarbone as your head falls to the side.
“Toru, in me…”
“Wanna lose it on the first date, baby? Tsk,” you shove at him playfully, making his eyes light up, and you pause.
Even if it’s filthy straddling Satoru Gojo like this, even if he’s leaking pre against your twitchy, needy clit, his eyes lighting up in the dark?
It’s so sweet.
It’s what you missed the most about him since he endured Sarah, the light you’d give anything to see again, right here, as he’s moving you up and down, fucking your panties when they slip back. His tip presses in and out, stretching the cotton, making it completely soaked and nearly transparent with the mix of fluids.
All while you peek at him under your lashes, so much left unsaid between the two of you.
“What is it? Hmm?” He is teasing you now grinding against your cunt, the rough denim of his jeans brushing against your inner thighs in a way that makes you even wetter. You can feel the pressure inside you building up so tight, this burning hot need in your stomach as you moan out, kissing him and rolling your hips right with his guidance.
“Your eyes,” you whisper, nose nuzzling his for just a moment as he pauses. “They're so happy right now.”
He can't stop the grin on his damn face.
“That's because of you,” you melt, kissing him messier now. “Got me all corny.”
“I like …. It, Toru… I’m…” you can barely form the words you need anymore, your body trembling as he lifts and drags you down, every kiss stealing your breath. “Gonna c-cum, I…”
“Me too, sweetheart,” he whispers out the words, his voice a hot breath against your lips. “Cum with me, yeah? Let me feel you soak my cock with all that pretty slick, please? Just for me.”
His words and his jerky motions are your undoing, the way he asks is so damn cute as if he's not this close to slamming you down on his cock. His tip hits your clit one more time, and you shatter over him, blinding pleasure so intense you see white hot stars behind your closed eyes.
“Look at me,” you try to obey, gasping out as you squirt right on him, your cunt clenching and pulsing around nothing as you gush. “Good girl. Fuck… good… girl…”
He's kissing you as he feels your slickness rushing down him, making the glide even easier, pushing him right over with you.
“Good girl…” he murmurs again, having you tremble from aftershocks and cling tightly to his shoulders, cursing when he finally cums right on you.
You gasp when you feel it – those hot, thick puffy ropes of white cum spurting against your cunt, so much some sticks to your stomach and pussy, coating your skin in a warm, sticky mess. He keeps grinding against you even after, even as he is so clearly desperate and needy, drawing out both of your pleasure orgasm as he pulses and twitches.
“God,” he groans out, the sound muffled against your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin as he bucks up a few more times, until you're both twitchy, oversensitive little messes.
For a moment, you both just breathe together and kiss softly, the only sounds in the now steamed up sports car are those, the whines, the whimpers, the hasty little murmurs of your names.
You can feel the frantic thrumming of your pulse, making you dizzy as you fall against him, whole body weak from pleasure.
If that's what just dry humping or panty fucking was, what was sex?
How would you take that!?
“Fuck I never thought I would feel this,” he finally whispers, after he catches his breath a bit, pressing soft, lingering little kisses along the curve of your shoulder, his hands coming up to stroke your back in little circles, easing back to study you.
God he is pretty like this.
“You okay. Baby, too much?”
You nod quickly, still so shy you hug him tightly, your face buried in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent as you gather yourself. “Mhm.”
“You sure?” You nod again, too overwhelmed to speak with the sensation of still feeling his cum against your skin, feeling the intimacy.
“I am. Promise, just was… too good?”
He chuckles softly. “Yeah it was, I think I blacked out for a second there.”
You lift your head and giggle, a shy smile playing on your lips, brushing some of his hair back from his damp forehead, seeing just how affected he is too. “No way?”
“Yeah I really did.”
In the reflection of his dark, glassy eyes. you're just the mirror image of him. Fucked out and…
In love.
He looks utterly wrecked, just like you, and a part of you can't help but love it – love that you did that to him.
He reaches up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, sighing as he studies you. “You’re so pretty, look at you.”
You blush at the praise, biting your lip. “You are.”
“Am I. Hmm?” He smirks lazily.
“Very, conceited boy, you already know…”
You are so in love it hurts.
Satoru is achingly gentle as he shifts you, eyeing the mess between you, his cum splattered across your stomach and the delicate silk of your dress, making him blush to the tips of his ears, seeing the crinkled material.
“Shit. I ruined your dress!”
You glance down and laugh softly, shaking your head.“It’s just a dress, it'll wash. It was so worth it.”
“Was it?” You giggle all cute again, ruining him. “Well, good… but, still, just lemme clean you up, yeah?”
Satoru is sweet and gentle as he carefully wipes the sticky fluid from your skin, that blush on his cheeks even redder as he sees just how much he came, his gaze still flickering back and forth between your eyes and the white on your skin.
“You were messy too,” you tease, he can’t help but grin as he kisses across your neck once more, wiping you carefully and easing your soaked cunt off him reluctantly.
“Very… there,” Satoru smooths your dress down over your soft thighs, his hands lingering on your hips and pressing in, despite the wrinkling of the fabric, you still looked so fucking pretty in it.
“All better?”
“Mhm, just perfect...”
He just holds you for a while after that on his lap, the sweetest hug after you are coming down from your high, back rubbed gently by his big hand, so soothing you feel yourself almost falling asleep.
It feels perfect with your head resting on his strong chest, his arms wrapped tightly around you, as the two of you match each other’s breathing, so much left to say that the silence is deafening.
Yet, it’s so new to you.
And he’s been hurt.
So for now, you both just snuggle, even as his phone buzzes again from his pocket, a persistent little fucking reminder that Sarah wasn’t just going to give up – despite treating Satoru like shit. The thoughts have your tummy flipping.
“Should you at least tell her to stop?”
“No, I won’t acknowledge her damn existence,” he says, taking the phone and putting it off vibrate now, grimacing and the amount of nasty ass texts and calls.
“What did she say?”
“Dumb shit that doesn’t matter,” he deletes the entire conversation, cupping your face once he sets down the phone. “Right now, this is all that matters, okay? You and me.”
You tilt your head back to look at him, your heart swelling. “Satoru… I…”
You swallow nervously, the words at the very tip of your tongue – It's too fast, even if you have known him forever. Satoru needs time to heal.
So for now, you just cup his face right back, letting him nuzzle and kiss your palm so cute your heart breaks.
The boy you always loved, you’re in his arms.
“I loved tonight, so much,” he grins again at that, bright white teeth against his face at your words. “I love the smile on your face tonight, and how your eyes are lit up so bright.”
“I feel the same looking at you,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Me too, so much. I can't wait for the formal.”
“Oh my god, me too!”
He walks you back up after a little bit, lingering in your doorway, unable to stop kissing you over and over, almost having to literally tear himself off since he has football God awful early.
But it's damn near impossible not to beg to sleep next to you.
“Good night, sweets,” he says finally, after a million little kisses, seeing just how sleepy you are.
“I’ll be at your practice tomorrow!”
“No, you’re so tired…”
“I wanna go,” you yawn again, hugging him tightly. “I wanna be at every practice for you.”
His heart is melting as he kisses the top of your head.
“Then I’ll be here to pick you up, okay?”
“Mhm,” you sigh, never wanting to leave his embrace as sleep already tugs at you. “G’night Toru.”
He keeps ignoring that phone after he leaves you and heads back, only for Sarah to lose her shit – glaring as she paces back and forth, before she looks up your dorm information, smiling.
She'd have to just pay you a visit in the morning, to make sure you knew your place.
*****
You expect it to be Satoru when you yawn and open up the door, the love note in your hand – but it’s not him.
It’s Sarah.
Your heart races in your chest when she smiles all mean and jacks it right out of your hand, laughing.
Summary - You bribe your best friend Satoru Gojo with Digimon Merch into pretending to date you for your sister's wedding. In order to get your parents off your back about being a loner, you feel they'd buy it - you've been friends forever, after all. You all go full out, fake kisses, and sharing a bed - problem is that you both have feelings that are far too real.
Warnings - fluffy and cute, idiots in love, thigh riding, a fk ton of sexual tension, Toru being sweet, nerdjo mention. Oral ( f receiving) reader is a virgin, so first time with Toru (yay!) girl on top hehe, fingering, teasing, creampie, multiple orgasms, talking you through it -happy end of course! Oneshot - wc- 13k
This won the poll for the 25k event! thank you all so much for following me and being so amazing <3 got a girl blushing!
“Come on, please?” You tug at Satoru Gojo’s dark blue jacket, pouting up at him, he just rolls his pretty blue eyes.
“Don’t you make that face, I won’t give in this time.”
“I’ll buy you so much Digimon merch!” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Toru!”
“Don’t you ‘Toru’ me,” he crosses his arms, leaning back in the seat – the two of you are in a little cafe together, the one you meet up at once a month. It used to be once a week, but life has gotten ahold of you all pretty good, now that you are twenty three and out of college, both so busy it’s hard.
Satoru’s been your best friend for as long as you can remember, and you never want to lose him.
“Toru…”
“Stop using that to your advantage,” he looks at you again, pouting with those glossy lips of his. “You know I always do anything when you give the puppy eyes.”
“Pretty please,” you bat your lashes, so cute Satoru can’t say no. He was going to relent anyway, but he loves to get you going.
“Oh fine.”
“Yay!” You hug him tightly, that way you always do that makes it difficult to hug you back, you’re too close, pressed against him, making him feel too much.
Satoru’s been close to you forever, he can’t lose you because you’re just so pretty, you smell so good. Can’t lose you because your touch makes him ache more and more over the years. All of that, bad ideas, especially when you’re one of the closest people to him. His hand comes to the small of your back, inhaling the sweetness of your shampoo, letting it fill his senses.
“Are you sniffing me?”
“Huh, what? No.” Satoru so was, you pull back and giggle all cute, eyes lit up when you kiss his cheek. His hands tense, shoving you playfully. “Yuck.”
“Oh what, I still have cooties?” You raise a brow at him, he shivers in feigned disgust.
“Worse than ever now.”
“Psh,” you sip your drink, his thigh is brushing against yours, and you don’t move away like you should. Satoru’s body feels far too good against yours.
Your parents seem to think you’re hopeless, since you really haven’t ever dated, but how can you, when Satoru exists? It’s a hopeless state of affairs, loving someone you’re so close to, literally in the damn sandbox together. Even if you crossed that line – Satoru’s never shown any interest.
How embarrassing would that be?
“Maybe it will be fun, you think of that?” You tease, trying to feign a little more ease than you have.
“You just wanna lay in bed with me,” Satoru brushes his hair back and winks, grinning when you glare at him. “Admit it.”
“Yeah, never happening - but we will have to share the room to make it believable for sure.”
“Are they really on your case that bad?” You wrap your lips around your straw, addling Satoru’s senses so badly he can’t even look at you.
The feelings just grow more and more, and pretending to date you would just make him want what he shouldn’t. “They are on my case, they think I’m just wasting away and gonna be a cat lady.”
“You do give cat lady energy.”
“Hey!”
He’s chuckling now, sipping on his own drink, you watch how the sunlight filters in through the window, casting shadows across the hard planes of his face.
Sometimes Satoru is just too handsome for his own good.
“Did you hear me?” He waves a hand in front of your face, and you realize you spaced out looking at his lips too long.
“Sorry, what?”
“How much Digimon merch?” You laugh, shaking your head just a bit.
“However much you want, but you’ll have to be very convincing, you’ll have to kiss me and everything,” you tease, smacking your lips at him, he tenses a bit then, picturing his lips all over his best friend. “Will it be that bad?”
“The worst,” his voice is soft, hoarse with desire that he almost lets spill from his lips. “Bet you suck at it.”
“Bet I’m better than you,” you lean close, far too close, a hand on his chest then, looking up at him under your lashes, his heart races just a bit even as he puts on a casual smirk. “Wanna practice?”
“I’ll require so much merch, in fact you’ll have to come to the con with me – all dressed up as one – if you want a kiss before I have to.”
“You’re so bratty, Satoru Gojo,” he exhales when you pull back, realizing he’s now throbbing under his damn jeans in a coffee shop with his best friend. “Fine, we’ll wait until we have to.”
“We’re staying three days, right?”
“Yes, mom and dad love you anyway.”
“How will you break it to them when they find out it’s not real?” You wrack your brain, sighing then.
“I’ll think of something, but at least for this wedding, I'll be in your debt forever.”
“That’s tempting, I can’t wait to take advantage.” You both laugh, and Satoru tries to figure out just how he’s going to handle ‘pretending’ with you.
*****
“I’m never letting you drive again.”
“I wasn’t that bad!” Satoru pouts at you, damn near running out of the car when you all step out.
“Horrible, god how’d you get a licence,” you glare, and he snatches your keys up, holding them high. “Hah! Can’t reach?”
“Who can, you giant!” You’re hopping while he laughs, but then your tits just bounce too much, so he falters, letting you tug his arm down. “Got 'em!”
Satoru tries not to focus on that, quickly looking away and rubbing the back of his neck, the last thing he needs to do is let his gaze linger longer than it should. “You really almost killed me, I’m driving back.”
“That’s fine, eight hours sucked anyway,” you stretch just a bit, and so does he, turning and avoiding how your shirt lifts just a bit. “Are you ready for this?”
You walk up next to him, he’s snatched up your bags on one shoulder, you hold his other hand, feeling it tense in your grip. He pauses, looking down at you then, gripping your hand just a little tighter, memories flashing of all the times he’d snatched your hand and run out of class when you were younger. Why does it feel so different now that you’re both older?
“Make it look real, remember? I have the merch all picked out,” you wave your phone around just a bit, earning him squeezing your hands just a bit. “There you go, we got this yeah?”
“Yeah…” You both walk up and are greeted with your very surprised parents, the house just full of your entire family, all bustling and fussing over your sister and all the planning. “Hey there.”
“Satoru Gojo!” Your mom tugs him in for a hug, your dad snatches the bags and sets them down in the living room. “Look at you, you’re taller!?”
“I know,” he laughs a bit, slipping up his black shades to rest on those snowy locks, while your dad hugs him too. “Hey pops. Ah, hey sis.”
Your sister comes out, hugging you tightly, then peeking over at Satoru. “Gojo, you finally admitted you’re in love huh?”
“What!?” He pulls back, your dad and mom are laughing behind their hands, and you mouth to Satoru silently.
Remember!?
Digimon!
“Oh, hah – yeah I guess we really have been in love,” he snatches you up, arm wrapping around your shoulders, smacking a kiss on your cheek. He feels it warm under his lips quickly, the little breath catching in his ears. “Aren’t we, pookie?”
Pookie, huh?
You wanna laugh at that, but you instead put a hand on his chest and tiptoe, giving him a kiss on his chin. You wonder if you’re imagining the blush that decorates his cheeks for just a moment, but it’s distracted by all the commotion.
“You’re finally dating someone!”
“Mom!?”
“I’m just so happy baby,” you want to fall into a hole, as aunts, uncles and cousins all come to just express their surprise. Satoru’s snickering so you decide to ‘accidentally’ stomp his foot, earning your six foot four friend hopping one one foot.
“Oops, sorry baby.” Satoru’s so gonna get revenge later on you, with your bratty little smile.
“It’s fine, sweet sugar bear!” You almost snort out loud, he smacks a kiss on your cheek and damn near slobbers on you.
It’s a flurry of action while everyone sinks their teeth into Satoru and you, all nosy and curious, many of them making comments like you’re an old maid when you’re still young. Your family is a little too traditional, and they’re all in love with Satoru so much you’re damn near ignored, he eats up the attention like he always does at these sort of things.
You can’t say anything about it, Satoru’s parents have been so distant his entire life, you actually love that your family is so close to him.
“Do you wanna freshen up before dinner?” Your mom asks, you nod gratefully. “Perfect, we set up a room for you two.”
“Um… one room?” You ask, seeing Satoru chuckling, slinging an arm around your neck.
“Show us the room, mama.”
“Of course Toru!” You roll your eyes a bit, no one loves Satoru as much as your mom does – aside from you.
But you can’t admit that.
A part of you starts enjoying just how easy it would be to make this a part of your life, at least this aspect, your family, and likely all of your friends. Yet you know fully that it’s a bit of a show, yet it makes your mind drift off – imagining too much, so much so you almost bump right into his back when you all come to a stop in front of the stairs.
“Oof!”
“Clumsy,” he teases, catching you before you tumble back with ease, one arm shooting up and wrapping around you. “Clumsy little pookiekins.”
Oh jesus.
Does he have to feel this good?
Your mom leads you up the stairs, their new house is still a little unfamiliar, you’ve only been there a couple of times since they moved. It’s a pretty room you’ve slept in before when you stayed, cream colored walls and perfectly clean, even the little throw pillows are all arranged. “Do you need extra pillows, Satoru?”
“No, that’s perfect, I appreciate it.” Your mom doesn’t ask you if you need anything, but then she’s always loved Satoru – you joke that it’s more than she loves you all the time.
“The shower is right in there,” she points to where the room connects to a little bathroom. “Get washed up for dinner, I’m ordering your favorite Satoru.”
“Um, hi? What about me?” Satoru is snorting practically.
“Honey, you know I’m just excited, I haven’t seen Satoru in a year!”
“I see how it is.” You narrow your eyes, earning your mom kissing you on the cheek.
“I will order your favorite dessert.”
“I’m an afterthought.” She laughs and shuts the door, leaving the two of you alone, Satoru sobering up just a bit as he sits on the bed, you turn and look at him then, suddenly feeling so nervous.
He’d spent plenty of nights on the floor or couch at your childhood home, but not in the same bed, taking it over when he lays down, crossing one ankle over the other. “Nap time.”
“Nap time, huh?” You sigh and scooch his big body over, lying down next to him, yawning just a bit when you snuggle against the pillow. “I’m tired too.”
“Are you?” You nod, eyes fluttering shut, leaving Satoru to study you carefully. “You think they bought it?”
“With ease,” you snuggle a little too close to him, making his heart race in his chest, fingers itching to caress your cheek. You look at him with sleepy eyes, breath right against him, tickling his neck. “They were convinced I had a crush on you when we were younger, sis tortured me about it.”
“Aww, that’s because I’m so pretty,” Satoru bats his long snowy lashes, you snort a bit, whacking him with one of the pillows. “What, not gonna admit it?”
“You’re conceited is what you are,” he smacks you with a pillow hard then, you gasp, getting on your knees and whacking him back. “You’re also the biggest brat to exist.”
“That’s you! Hah, and you’re weak.” Satoru yanks the pillow from your grip, tossing it on the floor and then smacking you with one again. “Can’t win against me, can you?”
“Don’t count me out, ruining my nap!” You hop down on the floor, grabbing it and hitting him right in his pretty face. “I’ll make your face prettier.”
“Swear to god-” You pounce on him, the bed springs creak just a bit, while you smack him again, only for him to yank you down and start tickling you. “Hah, I know all your spots.”
“Stop, stop!” You’re trying to get out of his grip, the tickles on your waist too much, you can’t stop laughing, wriggling until somehow…
You land right on top of him.
Satoru’s laughing softly, before he realizes it, that you’re straddling his lap, thighs pressed on either side, and your heat is against him. You’re still giggling, his fingers pausing then, looking down nervously and swallowing. “What is it, my turn?”
You lean over and begin to run your fingertips teasingly over his lower abdomen, he’s always ticklish there, but he just grips your hands in his hold, not making a sound. You blink a bit in confusion, breathless from the battle – one you both frequently had as kids – until you feel it.
You follow his suddenly intense gaze down, to where he’s pressed against you, hard and thickening by the moment, your breaths come even quicker, hands still in his grip as you feel him. Your eyes both lock then, his dilated in a way you’ve never seen, lips parted just so, and it’s not like he’s ever looked at you.
You should get up, you should move right? Yet you’re stuck there, unable to do more than blink rapidly and open your lips to say something, anything at all, but both of you don’t speak. The silly laughter has quit spilling from your lips, left with hot desire clenching your tummy at the sensation – at just how good Satoru feels against your cunt, aching for more.
You try not to roll your hips, you try not to shift, when he lets go of your wrists, and his hands slide down, across to your hips, an exhale escaping his mouth. You watch his chest rise and fall with his breaths, his fingers curling around the curve of each hip, and you realize you’re soaking wet embarrassingly fast.
“Satoru, I’m sorry…” You shift to move, earning a little moan from his throat, cock leaking pre against his boxers as his cock insistently nudges between your lips, just your panties as a barrier.
“Fuck, don’t… don’t move,” he whispers then, you tense, struggling to just stay still. “You’re making it worse.”
“Making… what worse?” He sighs, leaning up on his elbows, your breaths both mingling together, in a way that makes you question everything.
Could Satoru feel the same?
He doesn’t speak, instead he gently presses you down, watching your eyelashes flutter, your hands gripping his shirt so tightly the material is balling up in your grip. You move your hips just a bit, making him groan again, ever so softly, noses touching, foreheads resting together. You swallow, throat gone dry at what you feel, the nerves, the desire, the worry for ruining the most important relationship you have.
“Toru, um- ah!” You jump when your sister just opens the fucking door, and you fall right off the bed with a thud since Satoru jumps too, like two kids caught.
“We were… talking!?” Satoru covers his bulge with a pillow, and your sister just bursts out laughing, wearing a tiara and a sash that says bride to be.
“Get out!” You throw a pillow at her, knocking her tiara clean off, Satoru would laugh but he’s still throbbing and it fucking hurts.
How would he ‘pretend’ to kiss you!?
“Rude, it’s my wedding you know.”
“Why are you barging in?”
“I wanna see my sis and her pookie,” she’s giggling, while you start shoving her out the door. “Don’t you miss me?”
“Not really, annoying little sisters still suck, even when they get married.” She winks over at Satoru now, laughter still coming out and making you heat up in embarrassment.
“Looks like you two are next, I could feel the tension!”
“Out!” You shove her unceremoniously, resting your back and the door and huffing, you’re far too cute like that, and doing nothing for his situation. Your eyes meet his, before you look down a bit, pushing off the door to stand. “Sorry, she’s as much of a menace as ever.”
“She certainly is,” he teases, smiling a bit at you and feigning ease. “Um… I’m sorry that…”
“No, no it’s cool, um… it’s just a normal reaction for a guy, right?” You’re so clueless you wouldn’t even know. “Aren’t you experienced?”
“Callin’ me a slut?” He raises a brow.
“Not a virgin, is all.”
“You’re… are you…” You blush furiously, this whole thing is more embarrassing every freaking second. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” You sink down and cover your face, Satoru wills his damn cock to fully go down so he can get up, but he’s toxic and thinking of having you first.
Stop that, stop it, go down.
Down boy.
He finally just adjusts it up into his waistband and comes up to you, sitting right on the plush carpet and wrapping an arm around you. “Why be embarrassed, what’s wrong if you’re picky?”
“I’m twenty three, that’s what’s wrong,” you peek at him then, and he just looks too good in that moment, your body still throbbing from sitting on him. “I’m the forty year old virgin.”
“You are not,” he’s snorting in laughter, playfully pulling you close, tilting two fingers under your chin. “I could fix that for you.”
You pause just a moment, lips parted, eyes wide.
“What!?”
“I was kidding,” he lets your chin go, before raising a brow. “Unless?”
“You’re annoying!” He gets shoved away, laughing at himself like he’s just so funny, but all he does is embarrass you more, confuse you more.
What dumb idea was this?
“Do we need to practice kissing too?”
“I’ve kissed, you know.” Why are Satoru’s lips so glossy?
“Plant one on me, rockstar,” he taps his lips with that annoying smirk of his. “Don't want the first to be in front of them, what if they know?”
“Oh fine, you brat,” Satoru smooches his lips all dramatically, when you get on your knees, hands on his shoulders. “Pucker up then.”
“I'm scared!?” You both laugh then, you've always been so comfortable with each other, until your lips land on his.
You both pull back, his hand slipping up your back. Your lips tingle, this little shock you can't explain, looking down at glossy lips. “There, I kissed you.”
“You did, a little peck. That's all you know?”
“You're an ass,” he chuckles, trying to ease the tension, but you felt too good. “I can kiss.”
“Lemme see, bet I'm better.”
“You always think you're the best at everything,” you roll your eyes, then your little hands are on either side of his face, kissing him deeply. He exhales, tongue slipping against the seam of your lips, you damn near squeak, pulling back quickly with a gasp. “What're you doing?”
“Kissing you,” he captures your lips again, hungry as he pours all of the desire he's had into it, tilting his head to the side to dive deeper. You’re trembling, hands gripping in fists at your sides, struggling to collect yourself. Your tongue moves back against his, lashes fluttering shut, letting him drink up your little sighs.
His hand entangles in your hair, tongue dancing along your teeth, his taste so sweet it’s intoxicating. Slipping closer, a hand on his thigh, letting him overtake you completely, gripping his thigh and clinging for some sense of normalcy. Whatever you’ve imagined this kiss would be like over the years couldn’t have prepared you – your heart hammering, desire clenching your tummy.
He pulls back a bit, just as lost as you it seems, but only a moment – then it’s a little smirk and a raised brow. “Mmm. That's how you kiss.”
“Not in front of people you don't,” you stare up at him, dazed, seeing a blush form on his own cheeks. “You wanna have your tongue in my throat in front of them?”
“What!? No… I was showing you for… later.”
“Later.”
“Mmm,” he brushes the air next to your cheek before he gets up quickly, clearing his throat. “I need um… a shower.”
“Right, go ahead,” he darts to the bathroom, leaving your legs trembling, your lips tingling from him. Just what was that!?
****
“So, when did you two know you were in love?” Satoru almost spits out his drink the same time you do, simultaneously panicking and looking at each other.
“We didn’t figure out a story!” You whisper in his ear, trying to look like you’re being loving, a hand on his thigh driving him to insanity.
“Well, she confessed her love to me,” you scowl, Satoru holds your hand with a devious grin, keeping it on a well muscled thigh that’s fucking your sense. “She told me she’d loved me since… let’s see, kindergarten!”
“Called that,” your sister says, snuggling up to her fiance while she sips on champagne. “She said you were - the cutest boy she ever- hey!?”
“That’s quite enough,” you mumble, launching a little garlic knot at her head, Satoru’s snickering and it’s hard to pretend you don’t wanna punch him. “So yeah, kindergarten, but he’s the one who confessed first.”
“I did?” You stomp his foot, he hisses and scowls. “Oh yeah, I did… I told her I love how mean she is.”
“That’s an odd love confession,” your mom says, looking between you both with an amused expression. Satoru kicks you back under the table and you yelp. “Are you two… good?”
“So good mom! Aren’t we Toru?” You nuzzle his cheek but that little act makes his heart race, his stomach tense from just how good it feels. “Answer.”
Your whisper reminds him of the goal here, he smiles and turns then, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, and the two of you freeze. You’d practiced in the room, he was curious if it was the nerves of the first time together, but nothing felt like that, like the sweetness of your lips under his, eyes looking right at him in shock when he wraps an arm around you.
“Aw!” They’re all cooing over you both, Satoru pulls back and you both fail to compose yourselves for just a moment, before Satoru grins.
“We are good, aren’t we pookie?” He murmurs, you shake yourself out of it, remembering what you’re doing here.
“Yes, for sure. When is the rehearsal dinner?” You ask, looking at your sister now, who launches a garlic knot back at you. “Hey!”
“You started it,” you both stick your tongues out at each other. Satoru snatches the flung knot and pops it in his mouth, sighing.
“Yummy.”
You giggle at that, but he licks the buttery garlic off his lips and fucks up your head instead. You’re trembling just a bit at his tongue rushing across his lips, yeah it affected you before – you’ve had it bad for Satoru for a long time, but now it was even worse than before.
“Want a bite, little shnookums?” Satoru teases, forking the spaghetti and swirling it around. You go to say no when he raises his brows.
“Oh, of course pookiekins!” He snorts just a bit in laughter, but when your lips wrap it and you take it in your mouth?
Fuck.
You have just a little sauce on the corner of your lips – Satoru wipes it without thinking, making your eyes dart up to his contact. “You’re messy, sugar shnookums.”
“Thank you, pookie bear.” You murmur teasingly, ignoring how good his fingers feel on your face.
“Oh you two are disgustingly in love,” your sister makes a face, Satoru just feeds you another fork full. “When are you gonna pop the question?”
“It’s new!?” You say in between bites – at this point Satoru is feeding you. Your aunt and uncle start going on and on about how much they love him – who doesn’t love Satoru?
The plan is working perfectly, they aren’t bothering you about dating someone, and they buy the friends to lovers story easily. Overall, it’s already a big success, which Satoru can’t help but gloat about when you step into the room, wearing your pajamas, which are just a shirt of Satoru’s you stole and a little pair of shorts.
He pauses as you step out of that bathroom, running a brush through your hair, the lights soft from behind you, making your skin look that much prettier, every inch revealed where that shirt hits mid thigh glowing. Your nipples are pressed against the thin, soft material, he struggles to rip his eyes off them.
You can’t get your eyes off him either, just wearing a pair of sweats with little digimon all over them and nothing else - chest bare. You’re used to that, his chiseled frame and narrow torso, however right now it makes you press your thighs together just a bit, tension so thick in the air it’s hard to even breathe.
Act normal.
This isn’t real.
“You stole my shirt?” He breaks that silence, raising a thin brow at you, you manage an eye roll, heading over to the bed and lifting the cover.
“Of course I did,” it makes you feel close to him, god it smells like him. “I love your bougie ass shirts, so comfy.”
“Tch,” you giggle, looking far too cute when you snuggle, and Satoru hesitates just a bit. “You want me to sleep on the ground?”
“No, no that’d be so rude, we can share right?” He eyes the bed again, sighing at how narrow it is.
He’d be pressed against you if he turned one wrong way.
Satoru slips in under the blankets next to you, laying on his back, studying your face carefully before flicking off the lamp on the bedside. “Think they bought it?”
You look at him, yawning a bit. “I do, pookiekins.”
Satoru snorts in laughter, ruffling your hair annoyingly, you smack at his hand and sit up a bit. “What’s the plan when you have to tell them the truth?”
You frown a bit then, brows drawing together. “I haven’t thought that far, I hope it won’t hurt them…”
“Can’t pretend forever, y’know,” you nod a bit, turning back to your side now, ass damn near touching him, making his heart thrum in his chest. “We can just tell them we’d rather stay friends?”
“We could,” your fingers trace the sheets in front of you, contemplative while the soft cotton runs under your fingers. “Don’t worry I won’t make you keep doing this or anything, I know it’s already annoying.”
“It’s…” not annoying. “I actually…” love this too much. “It’s not a big deal, you’d do the same for me.”
You look back with a pretty little smile – almost a sad one, making him contemplate that expression far too much. “Of course I’d be your fake girlfriend.”
“Aww, we’re bonding,” he rests on his side, grinning at you, making something in your heart flip before you turn back around. “What if I kick you off the bed by accident?”
“Psh, wouldn’t be an accident, you’re evil,” Satoru chuckles, feigning an ease he no longer feels, when your shoulders gently move up and down, falling asleep quickly. “Night Toru.”
“G’night…”
He slips the covers over your shoulders as you fade out.
One bed.
You’re both sleeping in the same bed.
Satoru can inhale your scent, feel the heat of your body when you're so close, hear your light little snore, and everything in him aches to tug you closer, to feel you against him. How would it feel to hold you in his arms? It’s like you belong there, truly, he can’t imagine how you’re not then, how he restraints himself.
Life moved on for you both, once inseparable, but you both always made time for each other, whereas when he’s had break ups, it was done for good. Satoru can’t risk losing you just because he can’t hold back anymore, he has to remember you just wanted to get your parents off your back, and that the kisses were just for show.
Everything changed when your lips met.
His fingers hover just a couple inches away from where the blanket covers your skin, tracing the curve of your hip, where he'd love to tug you against him, wrap his arm, before he lets it fall and turns to face the other side.
It's impossible to fall asleep next to you and not hold you.
*****
You wake up with Satoru Gojo’s heavy arm and thigh wrapped around you like a monkey, trapping you down with his heavy weight. You wriggle just a bit, blinking sleep out of your eyes while soft light filters in through the slots of the blinds.
Turning, you see his Adam's apple, his chin, pulling back to look up at him, far too pretty to exist. His snowy lashes are long and lush, the sharp plane of his jaw illuminated by the sun, his plump lips just the tiniest bit parted. He shifts just a bit when you try to disentangle yourself, a hand pressing on your lower tummy and tugging you against him.
That’s then his thigh comes between yours, and the hard muscles press against your cunt, you gasp and wriggle again, only enhancing how fucking good he feels. Satoru murmurs your name softly, you worry he’s awake - but he’s still knocked out, while you’re drooling down his bare skin.
Fuck.
You push at his big ass arms, ignoring how good those biceps feel underneath your fingertips, but Satoru just increases how tightly he’s squeezing you, burying his face against your neck like you’re a body pillow. You’d laugh if you weren’t stupidly wet against your best friend in the world.
“Satoru, wake up,” you manage to murmur, despite him squeezing you so tightly you can’t breathe damn near. You take several breaths, shutting your eyes and trying to ignore how good it feels here. This was your idea – to fake date, to put yourself in a position like this, acting as if your feelings were gone.
They’re clearly more prevalent than ever.
He shifts once more, his scent enwrapping you just like his long limbs do, steady thrum of his heart and his deep breaths against your back moving ever so slowly, pressing his thigh higher. At this point it feels so good you can’t help but flutter your eyes shut, just stuck with him, biting your lip to try to hold back a filthy little moan when your slit drags against him.
Fuck, stop moving!
“Hmm,” he’s humming in his sleep, hand slipping up now until one grips your breast. “So soft.”
“Satoru!” You smack at his hand, hissing damn near when he squishes it in his grip, just making you wetter. “Get off!”
Satoru finally stirs away, realizing just how compromised your position was, blinking sleep out of his eyes and leaning up, feeling your soft breast in his hand, your heat against his thigh. He’s already throbbing just waking up, but then he feels you dripping against him? He sucks in a breath, frozen behind you, hand no longer gripping but not moving.
“Shit,” he grumbles, pulling his hand off reluctantly, ignoring the fact that your nipple grazed his palm like it did. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re suffocating me,” you shove his arm off you, but his leg stays, and you heat up when you realize how wet you got, embarrassingly so and there was no denying it. “I um… you’re… it’s…”
“Natural,” he murmurs softly, sleep making his voice raspy, making the situation a million times worse between your thighs. “I must have just wrapped around you, I usually hug like three pillows.”
“Yeah,” you can’t say anything else, his hand hovers over your hip, not touching but sitting there. He pulls back a bit, eliciting a whimper from your throat before you can stop yourself, covering your mouth and shutting your eyes. “Let the earth fucking swallow me now.”
He laughs just a bit, hand finally settling on your thigh, pressing it up against his hard muscles again, pressing right up between your folds. You look back at him with a glare, his smirk widening. “Need some help?”
“I swear I’ll beat you,” your lashes flutter when he moves again. “I didn’t make fun of you yesterday.”
“You were wet then too,” you glare now, just looking far too pretty. “Do you need me to take care of you?”
“Take care of… you’re Satoru and… fuck stop that!” You’re whining out again, slamming a hand on your mouth again, when his hand drags you on your thigh. “This is mortifying.”
“Been a while?” He’s acting like he’s not dying, leaking so much pre his shorts are stuck to him, an easy grin on his face.
“You’re a dick,” you sigh, burying your face in your hand now. “Your fake boyfriend skills do not need to extend to this.”
“I see, you don’t need any help at all,” he brushes his thigh up again, pushing down on your hip so you’re grinding on him now, you’re trembling, wanting to punch him as much as you want to hump his leg. “You could use me while I’m here.”
“Use you?” You look back at him, shifting your hips and watching his pupils widen, the only sign he’s affected at all.
“Mmm, could be a perk of the fake dating.”
“Fake orgasms?” You tease, then he leans low, lips almost brushing yours. Your heart hammers in your chest, you know he’s teasing you, but it’s impossible to maintain any calm right now.
“No, they’d be very real,” Satoru’s fingers slip up a bare thigh under the blanket that’s all askew and half kicked off, keeping that smirk on even though if he touches your pussy he’ll probably just cum. “I can show you how and everything, what are friends for?”
“You think I don’t masturbate because I’m a virgin?” It’s his turn to barely be able to form a sentence. “Just because no one has gotten me off doesn’t mean I don’t.”
“Ah,” the thought of you touching your pretty pussy is enough to make him bust and leak out all over that ass nestled against him. “So you’re good then, no need for my best friend services?”
“You joke too much!” You turn and shove him, until he flops off the bed, scowling up at you, you just giggle, trying to forget the fact that you humped his leg damn near. “Stop playing.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he stays on the floor, just leaned back on his hands, legs crossed at the ankles, studying you, suddenly quiet.
“What is it?”
Satoru opens his lips, then shuts them, then opens again. “It’s just that… I didn’t agree to this for-”
“Who’s ready for a shopping trip!?” Your sister annoyingly bangs on the door, you roll your eyes and shake your head, getting up and walking over to open it before looking over at Gojo.
“What was it, Toru?” You ask softly, he stands then, looking far too good when you study his muscled back, making you ache in ways you can’t admit.
Satoru was going to tell you he didn’t agree to this for ‘merch’ or just because you two were best friends.
He wants more, he wants this to be real. Fitting in with your family like a glove, feeling loved from you and them, the closeness you two share that leaves a void any time he ever tries to date. What you don’t realize is he has been dying to get the courage to ask you out, but he’s always hit one road block.
Losing this forever.
Best friends can get through anything, but relationships scatter, they fall apart – they drift away, and he can’t imagine not having you near.
“What is it?” You’re smiling curiously, but he just shakes his head.
“It’s nothing,” he pats your head with a sad little smile, making the inner workings of your brain fire off in a myriad of signals. “Better get that.”
“Right,” your sister soon drags you out to shop, bombarding you about Satoru while he relaxes at home with your parents.
“Should we get lingerie?”
“Oh god,” you’re grumbling when you two pass a lingerie store, the mannequins up front wearing the most delicate lace that covers nothing. “No way.”
“Don’t you two…” You’re a flustered mess, your sister’s brows raising. “You’re not fucking yet?”
“Shut up!?” You cover her mouth, embarrassingly looking around to see who is within ear shot, she’s laughing against your palm.
“He must be a gentleman, well I’ll get you the sluttiest-”
“We’re here for you, not me, I already have my dress.”
“I’m the bride,” you roll your eyes at her. “What I say goes. Ooh! That screams - fuck me daddy.”
“I’m so done with you,” you’re laughing though, your sister is anything if not a fucking trip, younger and more experienced, a free bird truly. “Fine, one outfit.”
“Yay!”
*****
“Make a toast!” Everyone is urging you that afternoon at the rehearsal dinner. As the maid of honor you absolutely had to do just that, prepare the first toast.
You look over at Satoru, who’s sipping on champagne while you all sit around the banquet table, his Adam's apple bobs with his swallowing of the bubbly, fruity concoction. You smile at him, earning his little wink that just didn’t feel fake at all, a hand squeezing above your knee gently.
How could you separate what’s for show, what’s friendship, and what could be…
More?
Shaking that off, you focus on the bride and groom to be instead, who are both nuzzling each other’s noses. They’re sickeningly cute, naturally doing the things you and Satoru are pretending to, the longing fills you then and you despise it. You should be happy for her, not envious because you’re scared you’ll ever get that.
Not when Satoru exists.
“I’d like to toast to our soon to be newlyweds. To the two lovebirds, who have shown us all what it means to love someone unconditionally, and who have had the nerve to make it look easy,” your sister gets a little teared up then. “I don’t know how you deal with her crazy ass – but you do it well.”
“Hey!” They’re all laughing a bit, you smile over at her.
“I love you, and I love to see your relationship blossom,” a little more serious again, everyone settles in. “You both make me want that love.”
Satoru’s heart hammers in his chest while he watches you, in that pretty pink dress you’re wearing, the same shade as the blossoms decorated along the white tablecloth. You’re soft like this, usually so feisty and cracking jokes – this is a more serious side of you, the side that’s always pulled him in and intrigued him.
He’s avidly listening to every word that lingers from your lips, lost in how much he wishes they were for him, about him. He puts on a perfunctory laugh when he has to, mingling in with your family, trying to ignore how perfect and easy it all feels, but everything was easy with you, it always had been.
It was terrifying, how easy it was to hold you in his arms.
“How’d I do?” You whisper, leaning close – too close.
He gives you that easy grin, leaning over to press a kiss on your cheek, feeling it warm under his lips. “You did great sugar plum.”
You snort at the nickname, but all you can think is one thing –
You should have taken him up on his offer.
Soon the dance instructor is guiding all of the bridesmaids and groomsmen, along with your sister and her groom, but they of course set their sights right on you and Satoru. You could swear your sister was part demon – how could she at one moment shove you both together, then the other quite literally cockblock, you’ll never know.
“Dance you two,” your sister practically shoves you and Satoru to the wide space in the banquet hall, and the instructor steps up. “They don’t know how to dance, can you give them the basics?”
“Says who!?” You and Satoru demand at the same time, she snickers a bit.
“Says me seeing you two awkwardly shuffle every school dance.” You and Satoru flush then, he clears his throat a bit when the dancer takes his hand.
“One on her waist,” he murmurs, all seductive with some french accent that makes this all the more intimate. “And one on her hand, like this. Ah, so romantic!”
Satoru looks at your entwined fingers for a moment, how his hand swallows yours with his long, thick fingers, before he looks down into your eyes, seeing how dark they’ve gotten. Your heart races so quickly he can feel it when the instructor presses you both close together, his fingers squeezing your waist just a bit, feeling your skin burning underneath your dress.
“Ah, that is young love,” he blinks back tears, you’re so embarrassed then, even emotional when your mom is almost crying. You start to feel terrible for this little game, knowing it will hurt them.
You were so selfish, dragging Satoru in this too, who’s looking at you with those blue eyes that you could never figure out the shade of, holding your hand in his while pressing you against his firm, hard frame. You’re hardly able to form a word or a typical joke you two usually share, not like this, not when you believe this dance instructor’s flowery words.
Love.
You’ve loved Satoru for so long in so many ways, as a friend, as damn near family, as a confidant. Yet the love keeps changing, shifting and just growing with every moment you exist next to him, drinking up every bit of what Satoru Gojo had to offer – which was so much, too much.
Over the years watching him date, you tried your best to remain detached, and he never let your friendship go. You have been a priority to him since you both made friends on that playground back in first grade, he makes you feel so…
Special, seen, heard.
Even when he’s joking, teasing or annoying you, he’s been there to hold you when you cry, to distract you from your low times, whether he helped you study or he just sat there next to you in the quiet. Yet he never crossed the line, never even touched you like he has this week, in your little game that feels too perfect, making you realize that you’ll never have this with someone.
How could you feel this, the length of time you’ve known each other, the comfortability even as you’re physically on edge. The familiarity when he spins you on the floor tentatively, you misstep just a bit, yet he catches you with ease. He always has caught you in your clumsy bouts, usually teasing or making fun, but when his arm wraps your waist?
He’s too stunned to think.
You already look too pretty in that dress, you’re so serious tonight – not the goofy girl he usually spends his days with. That flush that spreads across your cheeks and nose, the lights dancing across your bare skin in that dress, he avoids looking too fucking long at it, at the pretty necklace resting between your collarbones.
He wants to trail his lips across them – then lower, to the pretty breasts he had in his hand this morning, the mere memory almost makes him misstep, narrowly catching himself beforehand. You look up at him as if you’ll say something, the eyes of the entire rehearsal dinner on you, before you look back down at his chest, worrying your lower lip with your teeth.
“Am I a good partner, sugar bear?” He teases, lightening the mood then, you sigh and plaster on a smile and a nod, but it feels fake.
This is fake.
Why are you so absorbed, so lost in the cerulean depths that look down at you, twinkling just a bit with playfulness, yet when they briefly sweep down across your chest, you heat up under their gaze. Satoru spins you as instructed, bringing your back against him, hands joined while you look at each other, ending the dance.
Everyone is clapping, earning the slight embarrassment of the two of you, but it’s worse when your mom pulls you aside, hugging you tightly. “I’m so happy for you, to see you both so in love.”
Ouch.
You’re gonna hurt her.
You’re gonna hurt yourself.
You and Satoru sit through the rest of that dinner with ease, his arm casually thrown over your chair, leaning close to pull off the roll that will be done soon. You don’t want this to end, the way he treats you, looks at you – as if he truly does feel the way he’s merely pretending to.
“Everything all right?” You look at him then, concern on his features. At your little nod his lips press together, eyes narrowing. “No you’re not.”
He knows you too fucking well.
“I’m good, promise!” You put a hand on his thigh and squeeze just a bit, smiling brightly up at him.
He doesn’t buy it of course.
*****
Later that night back at home your family is still enjoying drinks and talking, you two are thoroughly exhausted. Satoru is setting up blankets and pillows on the floor, you guiltily sit in the bed, tugging the covers up to cover your chest and sitting up. It’s probably fucking better he does lay on the floor for your own sanity, yet you can’t stand the thought of not enjoying him in your bed for this short amount of time.
“Satoru, I can take the floor.”
“No way I let you do that,” he looks up at you, shirtless and wearing his pajama pants only, the way that makes you ache. “I clearly in my sleep grab your tits and cling like a monkey.”
“Yes you do,” you laugh a bit, and so does he, self deprecating as always, then a quietness settles in the room. “We could put a pillow between us?”
“I’ll probably still attack,” he’s teasing, eyes glittering with humor. “Should probably keep me on the floor.
You want him in bed.
You want him to ‘help’ you, as he called it just this morning, taunting and teasing you until you almost begged him. Yet you can’t just blurt that out – what part had been kidding, and what was serious? What crossed the line with the two of you anymore, could things just be at some ‘friendship’ level truly? Or would it just ruin everything to have a taste of him?
“Is it because I was so wet?” The word almost makes him whimper, eyeing you with those baby blues gone round.
“Is it… huh!?”
You press your legs together, looking away nervously. “Wet, I was soaking wet on you this morning.”
He swallows then – as if he needed a fucking reminder, as if he didn’t desperately run his finger down his own thigh and lap your juices clean off it the moment he was away. Sucking it so desperately and pathetically it was damn near laughable, just how badly he wanted you.
Why do you have to look so pretty on that damn bed?
“No, no that didn’t bother me at all,” he rubs the back of his neck, cursing the way you make him feel like that nerdy little boy he was the first time he ever tried to kiss you, way back during junior prom. The sweaty palms, the shaky hands, the awkward shifting of his feet. “I promise.”
You exhale, shutting your eyes. “I am making things all so weird.”
“You’re not,” you cover your face then, wincing a little bit at yourself. “Hey, promise you aren’t.”
The bed sinks underneath his weight, Satoru sits next to you – brushing your hair back softly, before grabbing your wrists and lowering your hands, making you meet his gaze. It’s quiet, so quiet you could hear your heartbeat in your ears, the gentle sound of his breathing mingling with your own.
“Your offer to help, is that off the table?” Satoru almost cums at the mere thought of touching you, but he’s so in shock he just stares, mouth wide open, until you feel so embarrassed. “Shit, forget I said that…”
“What do you need help with?” His voice is hoarse, just a bit scratchy, he clears his throat, still holding your hand, thumb brushing across your knuckles.
“Won’t it make it awkward, weird? I don’t want to fuck our friendship up, ever Satoru. It’s important to me.”
He cups your face gently. “Tell me what you want,” his raspy command almost destroys your resolve. “I’ll give you it.
You almost say – ‘fuck me please’ – Almost.
“Some relief you have so graciously offered,” you tease him a little, hand slipping up and down his chest. “I could return it.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He’s staring at your mouth now, picturing it wrapping his cock for a moment, then he pictures busting inside your mouth in one fucking second. He quickly shoves that idea out the window, he damn sure wasn’t gonna waste the moment he’s been waiting for since high school being embarrassed.
Your lips would feel so good. He shakes that off, pushing your back down on the bed and spreading your thighs before you can think. You gasp, his arms on either side of you, silky white locks falling over a brow, so close you feel his heart thrumming against your breasts, feel his heavy weight, touch burning your thighs, fingers pressing in.
“Satoru?” You manage a whisper, his hands slip up under his own shirt you stole, biting back a gasp when he realizes.
“Nothing under this?” You flush, looking down now. “Look at me.”
Fuck.
You just follow what he says when he’s like this, all the years of sweet nerdy best friend Satoru culminate in the man before you – still every bit Satoru Gojo – but this side of him you have never seen. A side you imagined so often, but nothing even prepared you for his fingers gliding up your thighs, causing them to tremble, slick dripping from your cunt from just the proximity.
“I’ll never not be here for you,” he whispers softly, as if sensing your every fear. “If you want to have a little experience with me, I’ll gladly give it and expect nothing in return.”
Your throat goes dry. “But why?”
“Why?” He reveals your cunt then, bare and glistening for his view, failing to control his hands from gripping you so tight you wince, from exhaling at how pretty it is. “Fuck… why what?”
“Why would you?”
“Hah, why would I?” He doesn’t even know where to begin to answer your nonsense.
“You’re looking at it!”
He laughs softly, nodding then, eyes affixed to how pretty your pussy is, touch trailing along your inner thigh, at the apex of it. “You want me to stop?”
“No.”
Your eyes are locked, his fingers grazing little trails up and down smooth skin, until he almost touches your core, teasing but not fully, making you throb with need. “Then tell me what you want me to do.”
“Make me cum – oh my god I just said that! Out loud!?” You cover your mouth and he almost bursts into laughter, even as he’s pressing his cock against the bed for friction, at how cute you are, instead his lips quirk up.
“Shh, want your parents to know I’ve got you spread wide?” His words are too much, the way he says them, the way he moves lower, so low you tug at his hair. “Do you not want that?”
“You’re… down there… and…”
“It’s so pretty.”
You ease a bit at those words, eyes shutting in relief, Satoru sees the tension ease just a bit. “It is?”
“God, yes.”
You swallow nervously, breaths coming in little pants. “We will always be in each other’s lives, this won’t fuck it all up, will it?”
Satoru kisses your thigh then, tongue flicking up to lap up a little of the slick that’s dripped down, a sensual mark of his saliva glittering when he pulls back. “I’d never let you out of my life. You think I’d not be your friend?”
“Just can’t lose you,” you whisper, before moaning softly, the sound so sensual Satoru almost can’t handle it. “I thought you could um… finger me?”
“I can do that too,” he kisses even higher, breathy moans escaping his lips. “But I am very, very fucking good at this.”
“The best at everything, hmm?” You manage to tease, acting like his nose brushing up your folds wasn’t almost enough to end you, your fingers gripping the sheets underneath you.
“I am the best at everything, it’s true,” he smiles all devious and cute, while your hands slip up his shoulders, feeling the muscles tense underneath your touch. “Wouldn’t I be the best friend in the world if you came on my mouth?”
Your own mouth goes dry, your answer lifting and spreading your thighs for him, he inhales your scent still looking at you. “I want you to, please.”
Satoru uses this as the permission to do something he’s been dying to for as long as he’s known what it is – to lick your pussy, the prettiest one, the yummiest one, a stripe straight up your slit. He maintains eye contact, you’re struggling to keep them open, his tongue soaking up the juices that start pouring then, until the tip of his tongue flicks your little clit.
“Ah!” He shushes you with a little shh that tickles you more, your teeth grip your lip, watching your best friend start lapping at your cunt. “Oh my god…”
“Mmm,” Satoru’s tongue is filthy as it runs up and down your slit, collecting every drop like it’s precious – and it is to him. The taste of you on his thigh hadn’t come close to this, to just how sweet you were going down his throat. He eyes you, parting your folds, watching your face screw up in pleasure, brows drawing together.
Best friends just don’t eat pussy like this.
He’s fucking you with that tongue, nose bumping your clit that’s aching for more, twitching in response, and you know this is so dumb, you know there’s no coming back from having those blue eyes look at you like that. Signing your death sentence – your cat lady sentence – with three more flicks, until the wet muscle is gripped by your gummy walls.
“Satoru,” you’re whispering out his name, struggling to hold back all the moans that threaten, instead releasing them in little shaky spurts under your breath. Your core is tightening with every fuck of his tongue, gasps escaping your lips when he shoves your thighs up, smiling down at you for a moment.
“Hold ‘em up f’me.”
You’re so exposed, holding your thighs as he orders, opening up even more for him, he moans at the sight, pressing messy kisses to your clit now, over and over in little circles, causing your hips to jerk. He smacks your cunt, looking down at you under those snowy lashes, lips coated in your gloss.
“Stay still,” he swirls two fingers in that arousal that’s pouring, running them up and down your slit ever so slowly, inching them and stretching you out. “Fuck, you’re so tight…”
“Mnh…” You are gripping him too much, he eases his fingers out with a wet sound that echoes, spreading you wide again and spitting right on your cunt, using that to sink his fingers back in.
“Better?” He murmurs, you nod quickly, eyes rolling back in your skull. Fingers pressing up on that soft spot over and over, earning your weak little mewl as a response, he smirks down at you. “That’s a yes, I take it.”
You nod again, words escape you, how can you talk when he’s flicking his tongue over your clit and moaning against your skin?
He’s so focused, so intense, his blue eyes never leaving yours, even as his mouth works you over with a hunger you never knew he had, one he’s just held back. You’re mad anyone ever got this. Stupid thoughts, selfish and greedy, your fingers now entangling and tugging at his hair, just making his moans vibrate on your little clit again, sending jolts of pleasure up your body.
Satoru’s thick fingers slide in and out with greater ease despite how fucking long they are, curling inside you, pressing that spot that makes you want to scream out – barely muffling it with teeth that are sinking into your lower lip. His tongue is relentless, swirling around your clit, then flattening to give it a firm lick that almost undoes you completely.
“Taste so good, fuck,” he whispers then he fucking just dives back down.
The ecstasy makes you weak while the pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, your thighs start to tremble while you hold them up and he adds a third finger, stretching you even more, filling you up until you can’t take it anymore. You arch your back, your hands tightening their grip on your thighs as you open more for him, gasping out.
“You’re close, huh sweetheart?” The way that word feels, the way he’s watching you, fingers still pumping in and out.
“Please, Toru,” Satoru almost cums at that little plea, so sweet and pliant, holding your thighs up like a good girl. He presses a kiss on one of them, rutting his cock against the mattress for any pressure.
“Mmm, then cum for me.”
Like some obeyed command it hits, your pussy clamps down on his fingers, pulsing around them as you ride it out, screaming into your palm, white hot stars behind your eyelids. You’re barely able to contain those pornographic little moans, so sensitive you’re jerking when he pulls those fingers out.
He doesn’t stop, though, continuing to lick and suck you hungrily, desperately, drawing out every last bit of your climax until you’re a writhing mess, twitching underneath him, clinging to his hair to pull him off. Satoru’s so drunk off your taste, your scent - you.
He almost can’t unlatch his mouth until he realizes how overstimulated you are, your aftershocks die down but he slips a finger back in just to feel you pulse, moaning softly before he finally slips it back out, plush lips giving your clit one last gentle kiss before sitting back and sliding up.
“So, how amazing am I, hmm?” He drags out those words, chin coated in your slick, you swipe some of it off just for him to nip at your thumb.
“Fuck… you are amazing at it,” you earn his dopey grin, he licks the rest of you off his lips, making you flush. “Don’t get so cocky.”
“I knew you’d admit it,” he eases your shirt down, your fingers trail across his abdomen, watching the muscles tense, tentatively touching him. He grips your wrist then, shaking his head. “You don’t have to do all that.”
“Don’t you want me to?” You ask curiously, his gaze zones in on your mouth again, picturing just brushing his tip on it and cumming.
“In what world wouldn’t I? But I don’t want to overwhelm you, you’re a cute little virgin you know,” he taps your nose, chuckling at your glare. “Pussy is perfect, in case you ever worry.”
“Oh,” you snuggle up to him while he wraps an arm around you. “Thank you, that was insane…”
“I’m at your service.”
“More figures incoming.”
He chuckles, hugging you tightly, you feel so good in his embrace, as you both feign an ease you don’t feel. “Are you all right with what happened?”
“Yes, very,” you look back and smile sleepily. “Are you?”
“Mmhmm,” he can’t very well say he’d die to be inside you, he doesn’t want to push this too far, unsure of where you all stand. “I’ll miss this weekend.”
It’s quiet, save for your breaths.
You shift a bit, hand running up and down his veiny forearm, tracing a few of them, hearing the hitch in his rhythm. “I’ll miss it too.”
Satoru just holds you tightly, inhaling your scent in his lungs and sighing. “Are you excited for the wedding?”
“Very, they’re so happy, you know?” You yawn a bit, it’s too comfy here, so comfy you wonder if you’ll ever sleep good again, knowing he’s here.
“They are,” he leaves it quiet, scared and unsure what to say, aside from murmuring - “Good night.”
“Night, Toru.”
Satoru can hardly sleep, remembering the way you felt underneath him, it takes a while to let himself drift, when he knows that he won’t get you in his arms again, and he just wants to savor every moment. You’re lightly snoring, turning to face him, slinging an arm around his waist, your cheek against his chest.
He just holds you close, studying a face too precious, wishing he wasn’t so afraid to just admit what he feels.
*****
You woke up in Satoru’s arms again this morning, and it felt far, far too good to be there.
You’re not even sure where you stand with him, exactly what last night was for you both, but you know it wasn’t normal to feel that way. It went beyond any pleasure or skill, the way you fucking felt when that man looked at you was inexplicable. Not just a product of beautiful eyes, no there was something in the way you felt last night that’s lingering.
You heat up with the memory even now, you’re both at your sister’s reception – the game is almost over, the show is almost done. You’re struggling to keep it together when you watch your sister dance with your dad, when you watch your new brother in law dance with your mom, then with each other.
Love.
You love your best friend, Satoru Gojo, and you knew going into this how bad it would hurt, yet you set yourself up like a glutton for punishment. This morning he’d smiled so sweet, teasing you and joking before you all were basically summoned with the sheer insane amount of things that had to be done before this wedding began.
It was too perfect being held by him, as much as you loved him licking you, you loved him holding you, grinning against your skin. He was in full ‘fake boyfriend’ mode, full best friend mode, just being Satoru Gojo, the boy you’ve always known. Yet now there was more shared between you both, more than you can even comprehend and it fucking scares you.
A boy from your childhood strikes up a conversation while many of your old friends go talk to Gojo, a part of growing up together meant you both knew almost everyone here. The boy asks you to dance, holding out his hand then, you hesitate though, looking over at Gojo, who’s watching you while he sips on his drink.
What were you two?
You’re overthinking it, maybe it was just fun for him, maybe it was curiosity that had him worshipping you like that. You eye his glossy lips across the elegant ballroom, him in this sleek black suit looking far too handsome, so handsome he takes your fucking breath away.
You can’t do this.
You can’t stand to see a girl’s hand on his shoulder, something you’ve seen plenty of times before, but now it was different. Now it didn’t feel okay, it didn’t feel right, and you know it’s foolish. You smile and let the boy lead you out, trying to remember that this was all ending tomorrow night, and would just be a memory.
Satoru can’t stand to see you in someone’s arms.
He almost crushes the glass in his hand before he sets it down, catching your gaze when the boy is stumbling damn near, probably due to how pretty you are. And god you’re beautiful under these lights, glimmering off your hair that’s all done up, the dress molding to your body in soft, shimmery satin, making him want to fucking rip it off you then and there.
Last night meant too much – was it just experimental for you, just that you trusted him to be your first in that way, comfortability? He was overthinking it, he knows that when he is dancing right across from you, hand on a waist he doesn’t want, other hand entwined with a hand that’s not yours.
It fucking hurts.
He got a taste of what could be his, and he’ll play it off like it’s fine, like you two are just the best friends in the world and he wasn’t hopelessly in love.
You look up at your sister dancing, she’s getting bent over her new husband’s arm, giggling and waving at you. You smile at her, wanting to feel more joy and not this envy, before your eyes lock back to Gojo’s seeing him spin her in his arms. You don’t expect it to hurt like it does in that moment, to see his arm around someone else’s waist.
He’s looking at you over her shoulder, blue eyes lowering just a bit.
Your heart shatters.
Your mom comes up to you, smiling and cupping your face then, “I feel soon we will be planning your wedding.”
You pause, mouth opening then shutting, tears burning the back of your eyes, when you realize you’ll have to hurt her. You’ll have to hurt them all, because you’re so fucking selfish, and mostly you’ve hurt yourself. Getting a taste of what it would mean to have the boy you’ve loved for as long as you can remember, being greedy with all of those tastes.
Satoru would move on from this, live his life, but you’re not sure you can, how do you get over him, over his touches, his kisses? How he held you, how he looked down into your eyes? Even now, he’s watching you, like he’d rather dance with you in his arms – utter nonsense in your fucking head.
You’re mistaking it all.
“Honey, are you crying?” Your mom frowns, brushing her fingers up and down your cheek, and you realize you are.
“The wedding, it got me so emotional, um…” You’re lying through your fucking teeth right now. “Can I have some air?”
“Of course,” she looks at you concerned when you run out. Satoru excuses himself and rushes to her curiously. “I think this wedding is making her a little emotional, Satoru.”
“Yeah, I’ll go check on her, okay?” He touches her shoulder affectionately, she nods and he rushes out, seeing it’s drizzling out – looking at your retreating form in that frilly pink dress just standing against the lit gazebo, head resting on one of the wooden pillars. “You’re gonna get sick out here, it’s gonna downpour soon.”
“I’m fine,” your voice is weak and hoarse, and Satoru swallows down the pain he feels when you look at him. “Go have fun, this is almost over, you don’t have to ruin opportunities.”
“Ruin what now?” His teeth clench together, the rain spattering gently over the two of you, dripping down his hair as it pummels you. “You danced with someone too.”
“Yeah, I did, that’s what we should do. Right?” Satoru’s hands come to grip your shoulders, chilled from the night air, the lights from the gazebo dancing across your skin.
“Is it what we should do? Is it what you want?”
“It’s what you want.”
“You don’t even know what I want,” he presses your back against that wood pillar now, a hand against it braced, taking the pummeling rain on his dress coat to protect you, making you cry even more. “Was last night the only time?”
“Was it… you want to do it again?” You’re heated up, looking down shyly. “I thought you regretted it.”
“Regretted? Hah,” Satoru tilts your chin up now, making your eyes meet his, brushing a thumb over your lip. “All I regretted last night was not sinking my cock inside you.”
“Satoru…” You blink tears down your cheeks, a hand coming to his chest, he takes it and holds it close, while your body responds. “But it means too much, I can’t just do that as a… friend.”
“So be more,” he lifts you before you can blink, holding you with one arm around your hips like it’s nothing, carrying you up those steps. “And stop getting soaked, unless it’s from me touching you.”
“Fuck,” you grip his face, kissing him deeply, he sets you down, walking you back until the backs of your legs brush against the bench. “Toru…”
“I love you, okay?” Satoru’s voice is muffled by the pounding rain on the gazebo that shelters you both, droplets of water slipping down his skin, you’re sobbing then, so overwhelmed. “I have loved you.”
“I love you, so fucking much, it’s why I’ve never…” You trail off, he’s leaning down and cupping your face, studying you with eyes glassy with emotion. “There is no one for me when you exist.”
He kisses you deeply at that, you shiver as he slips your straps down, eyeing the pretty white lace and exhaling. “You’re wearing that underneath this?”
You say nothing, speechless as Satoru tugs your sopping wet dress down your chest, pulling out a pretty tit and moaning. You gasp out when he sits down, pulling you to straddle him, sucking one nipple hungrily in his mouth. Hands entangle in damp white locks, heat building, that heat that’s pressed against his thick cock, pressing so insistently.
“Wanna bury myself inside you,” he murmurs, looking drunk off you, sucking on the other nipple, his hands slipping across your hips. “I want her to know my shape only.”
“Satoru,” you kiss him again, he’s hastily slipping that dress up over your hips, sinking two fingers in with ease. “Ah!”
“Soaked,” he whispers in wonder, curling them up and looking up at you the way only he does. “Stop me before I fuck you the first time in this gazebo.”
“I don’t want to stop,” your whisper is met with a sharp whine, fingers curling in your messy hole. “Want more.”
“Want me to eat you out again?” He whispers, pumping those fingers while you hastily undo his zipper. “Fuck, you need more prep, don’t pull him out, I’ll fucking shove it so deep.”
“Good, do it,” he’s whimpering when you touch him, stroking your hand up and down, finding that pre and swirling your finger. “He’s so pretty.”
“Don’t praise me too,” he huffs, you manage a little giggle, and in that moment – you all are still best friends, every bit of the comfortability – but there’s more. So much more. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“You would never,” he pulls out his fingers, sucking them and moaning out at your taste, before kissing you again.
“You wanna take me?”
You’re a flustered mess now, overheated and damp from the rain, chest rising and falling while lightning flashes all around you both. “The first time?”
“I’ll help you,” he grips his cock at the base, running that velvety tip against your soaking wet cunt, moaning. “You can take as much as you want of me this way, I won’t hurt you.”
You’re emotional again, how much he cares. You’re kissing him while tears fall, rocking against his tip while he whispers your name. “Ah!”
You’re barely taking the tip, stretching your cunt out so good, the burn something you’ve never felt. You pull back to look down at him, his hands are gripping your hips under your dress, thumbs pressing into your pelvis, the sweet ache and pressure building, he eases you up a bit, then down, sucking in a few inches of him, your head falls back, scream echoing quietly in the rain.
“You all right, sweetheart?” He kisses up your collarbone, cock wrapped by your tiny little cunt, already milking him.
“Need help getting… it in…” He exhales, lifting you again, pressing the tip back in, then further, this time it burns less – but the pressure. “So much… too much…”
“Relax baby,” he’s calling you baby. You blink rapidly, letting him guide you up again. “Sit down on it, take what’s yours.”
Your hands grip his shoulders, fingers grabbing the soaking wet material of his jacket, eyes locked while you take more, his gaze lidded and dilated. “That’s it, look how fucking pretty you are.”
You feel so pretty, working up and down again, whining out at how full you are, how deep he’s getting, cunt leaking more and more arousal to accomodate. You feel him everywhere, so deep in your tummy, he’s kissing your chest, your throat, lapping up the rain from your skin, whining out softly under his breath when you roll your hips.
“Is that good? I…”
“It’s perfect, god,” he guides you again, his lashes fluttering shut at the ecstasy of your cunt rocking up and down. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart.”
“Mnh!” You’re taking more, easier every time, your thighs tensing with each thrust, taking more and more until you bottom out, screaming.
“Fuck,” he rests his forehead on yours, hands slipping to grip your ass, a cheek in each of his big hands. “Can’t hold back.”
“Don’t.”
Satoru moans, kissing you again, pulling you towards his chest and leaning back on that bench, starting to fuck up into you now, slamming your cervix. He’s whispering your name while he’s got you stuffed, stretched out on his thick length, he’s just as lost in it as you are, whining out right with you against your lips. Hands pressing in bruisingly while he drags you down.
“Using you like my pretty toy, you like that baby?” He’s completely done for when your eyes get wide, lips parted while you whisper a little yes. “Feel her stretching out?”
“Y-yes,” you gasp again when Satoru slams you down hard. “Toru!”
“Hold on t’me,” you do just that, clinging to Satoru when he flips you to your back on the plush cushion of the bench, tie hovering over your skin so silky. You tug it, bringing his lips to yours. He lifts a leg, sinking back inside you, you’re taking me easier and easier, messy cunt opening for him. “Want you to cum, can you sweetheart?”
Your nod is his answer, he exhales, already close with how tight you are, trying to hold out so you can chase that high, because he wants to see it, wants to feel it. Satoru shoves in deep, rolling his hips just so, when the pressure is too much, fucking unbearable. You shatter underneath him, pleasure rolling over your body even more intense than his mouth had given you.
Violently shaking, you’re drunk off him like he is off you, kisses and mumbles, while his cock works you, wrecks you with every stroke, slower and more calculated, letting you ride that orgasm out. And fuck you’re beautiful underneath him, damp hair splayed, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks, exposed breasts all littlered with marks from him.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispers, kissing you again, softer strokes slowing down and feeling those aftershocks grip his cock. “Mnh, baby m’close.”
“Cum inside me,” he needs no further fucking invitation, Satoru does just that, whining out your name against your ear when he buries his face against your neck, shoving in deep. “Ngh!”
Cum coats those slick walls in white, so hot and so much, you can feel him pulsing and thickening, pouring more cum deep. You try to catch a breath, but his leaky cock and the warmth spilling from your sensitive cunt have to cumming again, a little smaller but more sensitive, gripping him tightly.
Satoru eases back, your name on his lips, running his fingertips across your cheek and sighing, cock still snug inside you. “I never pictured this, in all the ways I’ve imagined taking you over the years.”
“Oh, how many ways?” You tease, hand entangling in his damp locks, while he presses kisses along your jaw.
“I’ll show you them all on one condition,” you blink now, a little sleepy, the rain slowly dying down. “You’re not my ‘fake girlfriend’ anymore.”
“Real?”
“Real,” you blink back tears, kissing Satoru again, when he pulls out of you and moans at the loss, sighing and studying you. “I still want that merch though.”
“You’re such a jerk!” You shove at him, he’s laughing and the sound melts your heart, the boy you’ve always loved resting on top of you, soothing kisses like little apologies. “Fine, I’ll get you anything you want.”
“Right now, I just want to kiss you some more.” He does just that, and soon your ‘fake boyfriend’ becomes entirely real.
Thank the 25k of you SO MUCH again for always hyping my ass up and motivating me to put these out :') I rly love yall and hope you enjoyed this fluff hehe <3
you meet by chance at a baseball game, so he asks you to be his plus one for a wedding. the catch? pretending to be his girlfriend for a whole weekend. what happens when you actually start to like him?
pairing: seungmin x fem!reader
genre: fluff, smut
content: ft. mina and sana from twice, fake dating, one bed, kissing after a couple drinks, drama! but not that much, explicit smut, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex (p in v), creampie, happy ending
word count: 5.2k
a/n: this is my last fic for the event and i’m kinda sad it’s almost over!! thank you for all the love and support from the past month, we’ve really appreciated it! absolutely not proofread <3
♡ m.list
a wet hot skz summer event masterlist ☼ schedule
The stadium is sweltering hot, the crowd is screeching between innings, and if one more guy spills beer on you, you might actually lose it. You usually love baseball games, and have so much fun shouting for your favorite team and eyeballing the hot players in their tight pants. Usually.
Maybe you just haven’t had enough to drink. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be having fun with your friends, leaning into them and whispering about the game, or more commonly, the players you have a massive crush on.
Or maybe you’re sitting there thinking about your date from last night, the guy who talked way too much and didn’t ask a single question about you. You didn’t even want to go, he was a friend of a friend, and you owed her a favor, and he was kind of cute, so you figured, why not? Big mistake.
You haven’t sworn off dating, but your recent string of bad dates has become particularly exhausting. You love your friends, but there’s a part of you that wants to go to these games with somebody else. A partner. Preferably in a romantic capacity.
There’s a group of guys on the right of you, and Mina keeps leaning forward, trying to make jokes with them. They laugh and joke back, and you try your best to laugh and play along. You catch a few of their faces when you glance over, and Jesus fuck, they’re all good-looking.
Your friends are on the other side of you, definitely drunk, and having the time of their lives. You resort to actually watching the game, trying to focus on something to drown out the chaos around you. A batter on the other team strikes out, so terribly that you almost feel bad for them.
“Ouch…that’s embarrassing," you mutter under your breath.
“It’s one strikeout,” a voice from next to you says, almost annoyed. “There’s plenty of game left to play.”
You whip your head to see the man sitting next to you, smirking as he sips his beer. There’s a Giants hat on his head, which makes you laugh. They’re losing pretty badly right now.
“Giants fan?” you ask, as if it isn’t obvious.
“I take it you’re not,” he observes.
“I don’t really have a favorite,” you say honestly. “But there’s at least 5 more teams I’d pick before the Giants.”
He scoffs at that, but you catch a faint hint of a smile as he turns back to watch the game. He’s really, really handsome. You turn to your friends to hide your smile as you sip your drink.
You make snide comments as the game goes on, and he dishes them right back at you. One of the players on your team drops a ball, and you let out a groan.
“That’s your guy?” the man whispers next to you.
“Hush,” you say back, because it’s the only thing you can think of without making prolonged eye contact and stuttering over your words. You try to hide your smirk but can’t deny the flirty edge that the conversation has.
You’re only half listening to Sana drone on about how she hates her new boss when the giant screen above you flashes pink. Bold words appear on screen.
KISS CAM.
The camera bounces around from couple to couple, a series of cheers echoing throughout the crowd. Sometimes it’s cute, like when the people on screen are obviously dating, but half the time it looks so awkward when random strangers pucker up just because of a little attention from the camera.
It takes a second to register when your face pops up on the screen.
Your face. And the man next to you. The man you met today, the man whose name you don’t even know.
“Do it!” you hear your friends laughing beside you, egging you on.
You turn and see his friends doing the same, patting him on the back and hollering at him. You make eye contact with him and can’t help but laugh.
You give him a shrug. “Why not?” you say. It’s harmless. Plus, he’s stupid hot, and you’d be dumb to turn down a kiss from a hot stranger, even if it is in front of thousands of people.
“Ah, what the hell.” He sighs, smiling, and leans forward.
Your lips connect, and you hear the crowd erupt around you. You feel the sound vibrate through your seat more than you can hear it. His lips are so warm and soft, and everything fades away for a moment. It’s tender, surprisingly so.
You break the kiss first after a few seconds. Four seconds? Or ten? You lost count, honestly. You pull back in time to see his eyes flutter open. He smiles at you, warm and genuine. God, he is really handsome.
The crackle of the announcer over the loudspeakers catches your attention, and you remember where you are all at once. You feel your chest tighten, suddenly very aware of what had just transpired.
“I’m Seungmin,” he says, and you snap out of the panic you were about to enter.
You introduce yourself. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“That’s one hell of an icebreaker,” he jokes. You both laugh, turning your eyes towards the field before the embarrassment sets in again.
You find it increasingly hard to keep your eyes off Seungmin as the game continues. He bumps your elbow every time he leaps out of his seat to cheer on his team, and you have to pretend you don’t notice. You smell his cologne when he leans in too close to make a snide comment, and you have to roll your eyes to avoid making eye contact with him. Trying to act cool, like he doesn’t do anything to you, is pure torture.
The game ends 6-5. You didn’t pay too much attention to the score, just enough to tease Seungmin when the Giants slipped behind. It didn’t matter though, they ended up pulling through and winning tonight.
“I never doubted them for a second,” he says smugly.
“You probably should have,” you say back, laughing.
Your friends get up to leave, and you turn to follow them, collecting your empty drink cup as you walk out. Just then, you feel a tug on your wrist.
“Wait! Uh…can I get your number?” Seungmin asks, rubbing the back of his neck.
Your eyes light up as you look back at him and nod. The two of you exchange numbers, ignoring the way both of your friend groups snicker and tease behind you, before going your separate ways.
The whole walk back to the train, your friends talk about the day, their plans, and their lives, but you’re not really listening. It’s hard to when your mind is full of the handsome stranger you’d just met minutes ago. And you especially can’t stop thinking about the kiss.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Mina says, nudging your shoulder.
You shrug your shoulders and turn to stare out the window. “Just tired. We had a long day.”
She doesn’t buy it, leaning closer into your space to get a better look at your face.
“Are you thinking about the Giants guy?” she says, definitely teasing you. You shoot her a glare and roll your eyes, but you feel your face grow warm and hope it doesn’t show.
You get home, you shower, eat some leftover pasta that’s been marinating in your fridge, and collapse into bed. By this point, you’ve mostly convinced yourself that today was a one-off. A funny story to bring up at dinner. “Remember that one time…” your friends will say. That’s just what happens. You meet someone fun at an event, and then life takes over.
But as soon as your head hits the pillow, your phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Unknown: giants won btw. in case you needed a reminder.
You roll your eyes before saving the contact and typing a reply, smiling to yourself like an idiot.
You: a whole text JUST to brag?
Seungmin: just making sure you knew
Y: I was THERE
S: yeah but did you watch or were you distracted
Y: no idea what you’re talking about
S: mhm…
Y: congrats on the win, don’t let it get to your head!
You find yourself checking your phone more than you’d like to admit over the next few days. Your heart skips a beat every time you get a notification on your phone. Sometimes, he says good morning and asks about your day. Sometimes he just sends a dumb meme with absolutely no context. Or provides commentary for whatever game is on that night.
Today’s message from him starts differently than usual.
Seungmin: hypothetically
You: hypothetically…
S: if I needed a date for a wedding
Y: okay…
S: would you go with me?
Y: what’s in it for me?
S: you get to feel REALLY GOOD about yourself for doing a favor for little old me
S: and a free trip to Jeju…
Your eyes go wide at that.
Y: it’s in JEJU!?
S: yeah my cousin’s loaded or something
Y: hypothetically it would be a yes
S: okay great!
S: another hypothetical…
Y: mhm
S: ….i told my mom i was bringing my girlfriend?
Y: you have a girlfriend?
S: NO no no i don’t have a girlfriend, that’s the problem
Y: i see…
S: so uh would you also hypothetically pretend to be my girlfriend?
Y: you can’t tell your mom you were lying?
S: it’s…complicated. i’d rather not be lectured or have her try and set me up with all of the bridesmaids
You’d also prefer that, but you don’t mention it.
Y: hmm…hypothetically one weekend wouldn’t kill me
S: oh my god you’re a lifesaver
Y: hypothetically?
S: super not hypothetically. very realistically actually
Y: okay fine. when is it?
S: next weekend
Y: you’re good at planning things
S: please?
Y: if i say yes too fast does it make me look like a loser for not having any plans already
S: if you say yes too fast it makes you look like an absolute saint for saving my ass
Y: would you look at that! i’m free
You close your eyes, excited for the upcoming weekend. But not too excited. That would be too obvious.
The airport is crowded and much too noisy for this early in the morning. Seungmin finds you easily, waving you down by the check-in counters. He’s taller than you remembered, cleaned up nicely, but definitely sleepy.
“Hi, stranger,” you say as you walk up to him. He greets you with a sleepy smile, and you notice how cute he looks bundled up in a hoodie and his tousled hair.
“Ready to lie to my whole family?” he says, laughing, like he can’t believe he’s about to do exactly that.
To be honest, you’re not sure. You hardly know this man, but if there’s a chance you continue seeing him, the last thing you want to do is put on a false persona or lie about your guys’ history.
By the time you settled into your seats, Seungmin insisted on getting the window seat, and you had a couple of hours to get your story straight.
“How long have we been dating?” you ask as the plane steadies after takeoff.
“Sorry?”
“In your hypothetical world that you told your family about. How long have we been together? Where did we meet? We need to get our story straight!”
“Ahh okay. So, we’ve been together four months.”
“Specific, believable, I like it. How did we meet?”
“The truth. Baseball game kiss cam. I literally couldn’t make it up if I tried,” he laughs.
“Okay, fair.”
You talk about his family and what to expect for the rest of the flight. Every family has its drama, quirky relatives, and secrets. The flight wasn’t long enough to cover everything, but you feel confident you know who to avoid and who’s safe to talk to.
The plane lands, and you find yourself hoping they like you. Hoping that after all this, Seungmin still likes you too.
The hotel is massive, spewing bright neutral colors and modern accents. You’re still marveling at the lobby, looking at the ginormous chandelier above you, when Seungmin waves a keycard in front of your face.
“C’mon, I want to shower before dinner.”
And the room is just as nice as the lobby. It’s large, with a balcony facing the ocean attached. You’re high up enough where the noise from the street won’t bother you when you try to sleep, which you’re grateful for. The giant king bed sits in the center, surrounded by beautiful artwork.
Giant king bed.
One bed. Singular.
You set your stuff down, frowning at the arrangement. “It’s a little soon to share a bed, don’t you think?” You try to come off as playful, but your heart is beating faster at the thought of sleeping next to a man you hardly know.
“I know, I’m sorry. I should’ve mentioned that.” His apology is sincere, and you can tell this weekend is already stressing him out.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m just joking. I guess they wouldn’t really have believed us if you asked for separate rooms anyway, right?”
He relaxes his shoulders at your comment, nodding in agreement and putting down his stuff. He disappears into the bathroom, and you take the time to flop down onto the bed.
Everything’s going to be fine. People share beds all the time. Sana has slept in your bed more times than you can count after a night out, and you’re perfectly fine with her crowding your space or snoring in your ear.
You’re still thinking about a thousand different ways this weekend could go wrong when Seungmin comes out of the bathroom, showered and dressed.
“We have a couple of hours to kill. Wanna go for a walk?”
And so you slip your shoes back on and head back down to the lobby.
The fresh air feels nice and warm with a hint of sea salt. The two of you make your way down to the beach and start to walk along the shoreline. Seungmin kicks off his shoes and rolls up his pantlegs before heading closer to the water.
You follow suit, slipping off your sandals and skipping towards the water. You flick a bit of water up with your toes, and it lands on him.
“Hey!” he shouts, laughing, flicking it back at you. You squeal and run, holding your pants up to keep from dragging them through the water.
The wet sand sticks to your feet as you pretend to run, only getting a couple of yards away before two arms wrap around you to stop you in your tracks. Your shrieks turn into laughter as you twist in his grip, trying to get away. Your feet kick in the air as he lifts you a couple of inches off the ground.
“Put me down!” you cry out. He carries you a couple of steps before putting you down. You playfully push him, both of you still laughing. You notice the wrinkles around his eyes as he smiles, and your heart swells with joy. Just joking around like this just feels so comfortable with him.
The two of you keep walking down the beach, commenting on the beautiful view or the temperature of the water.
“Thank you for coming,” he says after a while. “I know it’s weird and we barely know each other and—”
“Seungmin.”
“Uh…yeah?”
“Hush. I’m having fun.”
He nods, shoving his hands in his pockets and keeps walking, and you watch his worried face disappear into a smile.
The sun starts to set before he suggests you head back to change into clothes for dinner. You agree, and he loosely wraps his arm around you as you walk back to the hotel.
The rehearsal dinner is held in a banquet room just off the hotel’s main lobby. The room is draped in white fabric and well lit, the kind of setup that would cost at least three or four times your rent. You hardly have any time to admire it before you’re shuffled through conversations, meeting Seungmin’s relatives.
“This is my girlfriend,” he says about a dozen times before you have to remind yourself that that’s not actually true. You feel your heart flutter every time a relative comments on how cute the two of you are, though.
His aunt whispers something in his ear that makes his ears go red. His uncle tries to get the two of you to take shots with him before Seungmin eventually whisks you away from the conversation.
There are a few toasts, most of which drone on forever, with Seungmin fidgeting in his seat. You want to ask if he’s okay, but you have a feeling that he isn’t up to talking about whatever family-related issues are causing his stress.
“Almost done, I promise,” he says low in your ear as he guides you to what you’re hoping is the last group of people.
There’s a woman in a long white dress, not quite a wedding dress, standing at the front of the room towards the podium, accompanied by a tall man in a suit. You’re guessing the bride and groom.
“Seungmin!” The bride says warmly. “I’m so glad you came!”
“Hi, Yuri. Congratulations.” His voice is flatter than you’ve ever heard it before.
“Cousin!” his cousin exclaims as he pats him on the back. Seungmin introduces him as Jiho, his mother’s sister’s son.
“You must be the girlfriend! I’ve heard about you,” Yuri says. She flicks her eyes up and down, as if she’s assessing you. You’ve gotten it from most of his family members, but she’s been the most obvious one to do it tonight. Probably bride confidence, or one too many glasses of champagne.
“All good things, I hope,” you say, sipping on your glass of wine.
“We’ll let you get back to it,” Seungmin says quickly, leaving you almost no time to wish them a good evening before he guides you out of the room and to the elevators.
“Are you okay?” you ask. He’s noticeably stiffer, adjusting his clothes like they’re too uncomfortable now.
He makes eye contact with you and seems to realize that he’s sending a million different distress signals. “I’m fine, sorry. It’s just family stuff.”
You nod your head in understanding, not wanting to push it further. The elevator dings and you step into it, feeling the warmth of his hand on the small of your back.
“Do you think they suspected anything?” you ask as he unlocks the door to your room, trying to be lighthearted.
“Never, you did perfect,” he says, with a genuine smile you haven’t seen since earlier on the beach.
You sit on the bed, letting Seungmin use the bathroom to shower and change into pajamas first. This is possibly the strangest first date you’ve ever been on, if you can even call it that. You text your friends back, updating them on the day, and lock your phone before they can barrage you with questions you don’t feel like answering.
“All yours,” he says, stepping out of the steamy bathroom. He’s drying his damp hair with a towel, fully in his pjs, but he looks so handsome like this. You stop yourself from staring too hard before you take your turn getting unready from the day.
By the time you come out of the bathroom, Seungmin’s not in the room. You notice the balcony door is slightly open and see a figure standing outside, leaning against the rail. You slide the glass door open and join him outside.
“All good out here?” you ask.
“Yeah, just…thinking.”
“About?”
“I’m really glad you came with me.” He turns to look at you, sincerity written all over his face. He gently grabs your arm and pulls you in for a hug.
He smells so nice. You get a whiff of his shampoo mixed with his laundry detergent, but then catch something else underneath it all. It’s just Seungmin. A man you hardly know who has managed to weave his way through your every thought in just a few weeks.
You pull back a moment, offering a smile, and he tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear. Your pulse quickens, the way it always does when he looks at you like that.
“Can I…?” he starts, tipping his head down slightly, and you know what he’s asking.
You answer by closing the gap yourself.
It’s soft, much softer than the first. There’s no crowd counting down, no friends drunkenly cheering you on–just you and Seungmin, under the moonlight in a quiet moment. He wraps one arm around you to pull you tight against him, and you snake your hands around his neck to ground yourself. The ocean’s waves crash in the background faintly, and you feel the nerves from before fall away. It’s more comfortable than you were expecting, not that you were expecting anything.
When he finally pulls back, he keeps his forehead against yours. If he loosens his grip on you, you might fall over. You hope he doesn’t.
“Ready to lie to more people tomorrow?” he laughs sheepishly.
You laugh, kissing him again in response. If there’s something still unsaid between you, it can wait until tomorrow.
The morning is a bit of a blur. You get dressed and make your way over to the venue, a beautiful building that seems like it was made just for weddings. Seungmin is antsy the whole time, holding your hand through it all like letting go would mean certain death. The ceremony is beautiful, and you sit right beside him through it all. It’s been a lovely weekend being a plus one at a wedding for people you just met yesterday.
At the reception, you’re standing near the edge of the dance floor waiting for Seungmin to come back from the bar when Yuri comes over to you.
“Hi!” she says brightly.
“Congratulations again,” you say. “The ceremony was beautiful.”
“Thank you so much.” She glances around, maybe looking for someone. “It must be so weird for you to be here.”
“Yeah, maybe a little,” you shrug. “I don’t know many people, but Seungmin’s been the best at introducing me to everyone.”
She takes a sip of her champagne. “You’re brave for showing up to your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend’s wedding. I don’t know if I’d be able to handle it.”
Her voice replays in your head. Your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend's wedding.
Your head tilts sideways, and your heart sinks to the floor. Maybe you misunderstood her. “Sorry, what?”
Yuri’s face flickers with surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry. He must not have told you…”
Your heart feels like it’s going to fall out of your ass. You excuse yourself, setting your glass on the nearest surface and high-tailing it out of there. You pass the bar on the way and catch Seungmin’s surprised face when you don’t stop.
The elevator doors close, and you realize how fast your heart is beating. Who cares if the bride is his ex-girlfriend? You certainly don’t have room to be jealous, he isn’t actually yours to be jealous over. Still, it would have been nice to get a heads-up.
You throw your shoes off when you get into the room and head straight for the balcony. Your stomach starts brewing something nasty, and you feel like you might throw up if you don’t get your breathing under control soon. The breeze feels nice against your face, and the ocean serves as calming white noise as you take deep breaths.
The balcony door opens behind you, and you hear slow footsteps behind you. You don’t turn around.
“You could have told me,” you say, trying not to cry.
“I know,” Seungmin says as he approaches the railing next to you. “I’m sorry.”
“Why? Why are you even here?”
“I’m here for my cousin, and my mother would have thrown a fit if I didn’t come.” You scoff. “But still, I should have told you. I just didn’t know how.”
You stay silent for a moment. “I get why you didn’t.” The words surprise you as they come out of your mouth. But it’s the truth. You do get it. “It still would’ve been nice to know.”
“That’s fair. I really am sorry.”
You both fall quiet for a moment before you break the silence again. “She’s marrying your cousin?”
He laughs for a moment and nods his head. “Yeah. Like I said, family drama.”
“I’m really sorry, that’s a lot to handle.”
“It’s fine. It was years ago. We dated in college, they got together after we broke up. I’m pretty sure there was some overlap, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Do you…,” you start to ask a question, but hesitate. You’re not afraid of the answer, per se. You’re afraid of the insecure girl bottled up deep inside, afraid that revealing her means showing your true feelings. Leaving everything out in the open, vulnerable.
“Do you still love her?”
“No.” He answers quickly and without hesitation. It eases the butterflies in your stomach, but now he knows. He knows that you’d been thinking about it, that you care.
You nod slowly, accepting his answer. He takes a step closer, grabbing a hold of your hand as it dangles by your side. The air on the balcony shifts as he takes a step closer, dragging his hand up your arm before resting it on your cheek.
“Let me show you.” It’s a request that you gladly accept with a nod as he leans in to kiss you. It’s gentle yet passionate, showing you he means what he says.
He walks you backwards back into the hotel room, sliding the glass door behind you as he guides you back into the room. The lamp lights are on, and your shawl and heels are kicked to the corner as you try not to trip on them. The fan humming does little to mask the noise of your heavy breathing between kisses.
Seungmin’s hands are everywhere. Cupping your face, sliding down your neck, gripping your waist, making good on his word. He kisses you deeper, tongue sliding against yours as he backs you further into the room.
He guides you down gently on the bed, and you can feel how hard he is through his dress pants. It makes the heat between your thighs grow, your mind suddenly filled with nothing but want. He snakes a hand behind you to unzip your dress and pull it down.
“You look so beautiful tonight,” he says, kissing down your body. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it before. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”
You’re left in your lace bra and panties, and his mouth comes down hot against your body as he leaves open-mouthed kisses all the way down. His hands cup your breasts, and you let out a moan when his thumbs brush against your nipples.
“Seungmin, please,” you breathe out as you pull him closer.
He unhooks your bra and drops it to the floor. His mouth closes around your nipple, sucking and flicking his tongue around it. You tug at his hair in response, basking in the feeling.
Your hands fight with his shirt buttons as he crawls back up your body to kiss you again. He takes off his dress shirt and peels off his undershirt, exposing his lean torso. He looks so hot all disheveled like this.
You reach for his pants next. “Off,” you demand. He sheds the rest of his clothes quickly, cock springing free. It’s hard and bright red, already glistening at the tip. You reach down between you to give him a couple of strokes, and he lets out a deep moan at your touch.
He hooks his fingers into your panties and rips them off next, grabbing at your thighs to spread them wide. You’re soaked, you can feel it. He stares in awe.
“So fucking perfect,” he mutters before situating himself between your thighs.
He places a kiss on your inner thigh before dipping between your folds, licking at your entrance. He works his way around your sopping cunt, and you feel the heat in your belly grow.
“Fuck, that feels so good,” you moan as he moves to pay attention to your clit.
He hums against you in response, sending shockwaves through your whole body. He finds a rhythm that makes your head spin and your muscles tighten as you head barreling towards your peak.
“I’m gonna—fuck, Seungmin!” You cry out, hips bucking and shaking against him as you come in his mouth. Your body is trembling, and he slowly works you through your orgasm.
You pull him back up once your body stops shaking and taste yourself on his lips. You kiss him sloppily, not bothering to stop for a breath. “Need you, right now.”
He positions himself at your entrance, pausing for a breath. “Ready?” he asks. You nod, feeling like you’re going to explode if he waits another second.
He pushes in slowly, keeping eye contact with you the entire time. You feel the stretch inch by inch, feeling so perfectly full as he bottoms out. He drops his forehead against yours when he’s fully buried inside you.
“I could stay here all fucking night,” he moans. “You feel so fucking good already.”
“Seungmin, please move.”
He starts with slow, steady thrusts that quickly turn rough and passionate. The bed creaks below you in time with his movements. You wrap his legs around him, making him hit deep inside. You let your nails rake at his back, and he lets out a deep moan.
As soon as he angles his hips and hits the sensitive spot inside you, you’re seeing stars. His movements quicken, and the room is filled with the slapping of skin against skin. You feel the heat come back, about to bubble over once again.
One of his hands slips between you, thumb making circles around your clit in time with his thrusts. You feel your body squeeze around him, cunt pulsing, and your vision whites out.
“Holy shit, Seungmin!” you cry out his name over and over as he fucks you through another orgasm.
He follows moments later, the feeling of you clenching around his cock throwing him into his own orgasm. His hips stutter as he buries himself deep inside you, choking out your name as he comes. He collapses over you, and both of you try to catch your breath.
After a minute, he rolls over next to you and pulls you close, tracing circles on your back. Your skin is slick with sweat, and you feel sticky, but it all feels so right.
“Please stay,” he whispers against your hair. “After this weekend. I want to take you out. Properly.”
You nuzzle your face deeper into the crook of his neck. The balcony door is still cracked open, letting in a gentle breeze that cools your warm skin.
“I’d like that,” you say, looking up to give him a gentle kiss.
It may have been a weird weekend, but you have no regrets. Not when it brought you here, on an island in the middle of the ocean, in the arms of a ridiculously dorky, handsome man.
a/n: thank you all so much for your support! sorry again if this feels rushed, i had so much fun writing it i've just been SO busy!!
Buried deep in the guts of a grueling engine overhaul, Sukuna has lost all sense of time. Right now, he's wedged halfway under a lifted sedan, sprawled out on a rolling creeper with only his massive boots jutting out from beneath the bumper. Low, gravelly curses rumble from somewhere under the car as he wrestles with a bolt so rusted it might as well be welded in place.
Easing through the side door, you catch it with your hip, making sure it shuts quietly behind you, unwilling to tip off your husband just yet. One hand clutches a brown paper bag heavy with takeout from his favorite burger place, while the other grips an ice-cold drink that beads condensation onto your fingers. Without a word, you tuck both out of sight on the bottom shelf of a rolling tool cart, careful not to let even the smallest sound give you away.
Showing up in your nice clothes was never an option. You know him far too well for that. If you’d walked in wearing something fresh, his stubborn streak would have kicked in, and he’d have spent the whole visit keeping his hands to himself, too worried about getting grease on your outfit. So you planned ahead, pulling on a pair of faded, soft sweatpants and one of his old, oversized graphic tees that had long since been retired from his wardrobe. The message couldn't be any clearer if you'd said it out loud.
Navigating the concrete floor as quietly as you can, you weave past stacks of heavy tires and loose equipment until you reach the front of the sedan. Dropping into a low crouch beside the front wheel well, you lean down to peer beneath the chassis, trying to catch a glimpse of him.
"Need a hand down there, mechanic?" you call out, grinning with way too much energy.
At the sound of your voice cutting through the space, the frantic scraping of his wrench stops cold. A socket clatters onto the concrete somewhere beneath the car, and with a sharp, impatient shove of his boots, Sukuna rolls out from beneath the car and sits up, eyes already searching for you.
His heavy canvas coveralls are peeled down to his waist, with the sleeves knotted carelessly in front, a concession to the thick summer heat. What's left is just a dark ribbed tank top clinging to his broad chest, leaving the ink across his arms and shoulders on full display. Sweat beads along his skin, catching the light, while grease smears his forearms and a bold streak of grime slices across the sharp line of his jaw.
The moment his eyes find your face, every trace of irritation from that stubborn bolt disappears. A wide grin splits his mouth, and his gaze immediately drops to the soft collar of his old shirt slipping off your shoulder before settling on your sweats. As he takes you in, he realizes exactly what you've done, and his smirk turns wicked, thoroughly pleased.
Without hesitation or bothering to wipe his hands clean, he catches you by the waist in one effortless, powerful sweep of his arms. Grease-stained fingers dig into your sweats, rough and insistent, and with a sudden, needy tug, he pulls you straight down to him. A startled gasp escapes as you tumble, landing hard and ungraceful, sprawled right across his lap.
"Sukuna!" you laugh, swatting at his bare shoulder, though you instantly wrap your arms around his neck anyway.
His grip on your waist tightens, drawing you in until his racing heartbeat hammers against your ribs. He leans in, crashing his mouth into yours in a kiss that leaves you breathless and reeling. Rough stubble scrapes your jaw as he tilts your head, deepening the kiss and holding you as if he’s been starved for weeks. His large, calloused hand slips beneath your shirt, tracing a slow path up your spine until it settles warm and heavy against the nape of your neck.
“Didn't know you were coming, angel," he rasps after he finally pulls back, just barely, a helpless grin tugging at his mouth as his thumb traces a streak of black grease along your collarbone. “Fuck—needed this," he murmurs, closing the distance again to peck your lips before letting his forehead rest against yours.
You laugh brightly, eyes crinkling as you tip your head back, fingertips absently gliding over the tattooed circles on Sukuna’s right shoulder as you settle comfortably across his lap, letting him feel every bit of your joy.
His eyes drop to where his arm has shoved the hem of your shirt up, leaving a broad strip of your waist bare, and a low, drawn-out groan rumbles from deep in his chest at the sight.
"Ruined your shirt, by the way," he purrs, not even bothering to lift his gaze from your exposed skin.
"It's your shirt," you point out, fingers of your free hand toying with the ends of his hair as you shake your head at your hopeless husband. "And I wore it on purpose."
Another quiet, utterly pleased sound rumbles low in his chest as his free hand wanders lower, slipping beneath your shirt from the other side, his thumb absently brushing along your waist.
Only then does he finally drag his eyes back to your face, and whatever smug amusement had been there melts away. His chest rises with a slow, shaky breath as he just stares at your smiling face, completely undone by you wearing his old clothes just so he wouldn't have to think twice about wrapping his grimy hands around you.
His grip on your waist tightens, but then his eyes drift past your shoulder, catching sight of the brown paper bag and the drink resting on the bottom shelf of the cart. A loud, dramatic groan escapes him as his head falls back against the sedan's front wheel well, gratitude written all over his face.
"Tell me that's food," he groans, his stomach growling on cue. "Please tell me you brought me something. I haven't had a damn second to eat all day. I'm about five minutes away from eating a customer."
"Yeah, I figured," you laugh. "You're impossible when you're hungry."
Sukuna stretches out one long arm, tearing eagerly into the top of the paper bag. The scent of burgers hits the air, but then he catches sight of his own hands—palms nearly black, grease caked under his fingernails and smeared across his knuckles. He lets out a defeated, annoyed sigh, tossing the crumpled top of the bag back onto the cart. His hands drift back to your waist, giving you one last firm squeeze before he gets ready to hoist you to your feet.
"Hold up a sec, angel," he mutters, slouching in exhaustion. "Gotta wash this shit off before I get it all over the food."
"No, you don't," you cut in with a knowing smile, batting his hands away from your hips before he can push you off his lap.
Surprise flickers across Sukuna's face as you twist to the side and your clean hands dive into the bag, fishing out his massive double smashburger. Peeling back the last layer of paper, you fold it neatly beneath your fingers and hold the hot, juicy burger well out of reach of his dirty hands before offering it to his mouth.
"Bite," you command softly, unable to hide your triumphant grin.
For a moment, Sukuna just stares, crimson eyes going wide before a slow, helpless grin tugs at his mouth. The deep, gravelly chuckle that follows rumbles straight through your lap, shaking you with its force, rich with affection as he lets you take care of him. For once, he doesn’t argue or posture—he just leans in, jaws closing around the burger as he takes a massive bite, satisfaction written all over his face.
Chewing, he wraps those thick arms loosely around your waist, settling you more comfortably against him. A deep, contented hum vibrates against your neck, his whole body melting under your hands.
While he works through that bite, you pull a few hot, salty fries from the bag and pop them into his mouth one by one. Sukuna takes them eagerly, his rough tongue grazing your fingertips as his gaze locks on yours, the heat making your chest ache and swell all at once.
One of his hands reluctantly leaves your waist to reach for the drink on the cart, and he takes a long, slow sip, his throat working as he swallows.
"You're too damn good to me," he mumbles against your fingers, voice going all soft as he sets the cup back down. "Seriously."
"Oh, I know," you say with a tiny, pleased smile, reaching into the bottom of the bag to pull out your own burger and peel back the wrapper. "I wasn't going to make you eat alone."
A low, deeply contented rumble escapes Sukuna as he waits patiently for you to offer up his next bite. The radio hums somewhere in the background, the shop floor still as dirty as ever, but neither of you pays it any mind. Sitting in the middle of the bay, sharing burgers and fries while tucked comfortably in his lap, feels so wonderfully, perfectly normal that neither of you has any intention of moving anytime soon.
a/n: so, this is a little thank you drabble for @aenn00 for supporting me from the start <3 thank you so, so much!
Moments like these made you feel vulnerable in a way you couldn’t explain, sitting under him, bare, it was unlike anything you had ever experienced. “You okay, pretty girl?” Suguru’s voice drowned out that small one nagging you inside of your head. “Yeah… yeah I’m good.”
You had intimacy with Suguru before, each time he had held you in his arms and cradled you in such a way that can only be described as limerence. His violet eyes bore into yours, holding your gaze as he worshipped every inch of your skin. Yet, for some reason, tonight his usual affectionate gaze made you feel small, tightening your chest.
His gentle touches ignited fire atop your clammy skin in an unfamiliar manner. His mouth was hot on your skin but it didn’t feel right. The usual care felt suffocating. Not because of him, no, something deeper. Your lungs felt tight, throat running dry as you tried to breathe.
“Sugu stop, I don’t think I want to…” Your voice trailed off, your words felt heavier, as if a lump had settled in your throat. “Yeah? That’s okay, it’s okay we can stop.” In seconds he was off from on top of you, “Do you want my shirt, some shorts?” You shook your head, dragging him into bed next to you.
Suguru pulled the covers over you both before tugging you closer to him. He smelled nice, something floral hidden under those earthy scents he always wore. His cascading hair occasionally tickled your neck whenever he would lean in to kiss you. Soft, plump lips gently dancing over your cheeks.
“Have I ever told you that you are the prettiest woman I have ever laid eyes on?” The softness of his voice soothed you, like melodies playing into your ears. “I think you tell me that a lot, Sugu.” You giggled, hand coming up to brush his bang out of his eye.
His hand intertwined with yours, bringing it up to his lips to place a tender kiss on your flesh, “Not enough, never enough.” The action was so innocent, so sweet; it truly felt as if, for once in your life, maybe you were seen.
Your clammy skin stuck to his as he pulled you closer, legs intertwining and lips brushing your earlobe with every sweet nothing he mumbled. “I believe I would find you in every life because you truly are the one for me, sweetheart.” Each word settled warm beneath your ribs, sweet enough to make your chest ache.
Before you knew it, hot tears were slipping from your eyes and onto the pillow below. “Sweet girl, what’s the matter?” His words were as tender as his actions, large hands cupping your damp cheek in an attempt to get you to look at him. “I love you so much, so much.” Your voice wavered, hands curling around his neck to bring yourself impossibly closer to him.
Suguru brought his hand to your hair, gently cooing until your tears subsided. You felt him press a lingering kiss on your forehead, “I love you more than you could ever know.” His words were mumbled into your skin, etching themselves into your brain.
Bare torsos pressed flush together, no barrier between your bodies and yet you felt nothing but warmth and comfort. You lay naked next to your lover, vulnerable in the most intimate way and somehow this is where you felt safest.
Love isn’t always grand declarations or sensual touches. Sometimes, love was something warm, that bittersweet feeling of not knowing how to express yourself while somehow being completely understood by the one you held dearest.
a/n: somewhat based on true events (it’s so eh I want able to convey the emotions I felt while writing this)
SYNOPSIS — Helping the quiet TA, who shrinks himself down to avoid taking too much space, come out of his shell. You’re slowly understanding why he thrives in an environment where he’s told what to do — and he shows you why he’s hesitant to be in charge.
TAGS — MDNI (18 + only) nsfw. work contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. Gentle Giant!Choso, Dork!choso, overly freaked out!reader. Nerd!choso, SIZE KINK, sub to top(M), Switchy. rough. making out. couch sex. lifting. mutual masturbation. Changing positions. Missiònary. excessive use of sexual innuendos, dacryphilla, inconsistent writing (?). Choso will do anything you ask. PWP. Teasing, Degradation (both). pet names. crack.fluff. reader is nice to him obv. but freaked out.
WC: 14k — art by k4eny on twt
a/n: Hello blog, IM VERY HAPPY W THIS ONE and i promise to not leave u high and dry! this is highly inspired by an augustinthewinter audio (im a #freak) — Also what if I release my drabbles HEH
75%
The score read on your last mock test for your Historiography class. Your worst subject for the semester by far. Next week was going to be your midterm. Now, since your professor, Mr. Gojo, knows his students a little too well, he facilitated a surprise mock test to see how much you all understood the lessons.
A chorus of curses and groans start filling up the classroom with each student receiving their results as they’re handed out.
“…Now I can assure you, if you guys are worried about scoring higher than each other, it won’t matter because theoretically almost all of you failed.”
Another set of groans and a little bit of laughter comes from the class. You’re back to looking down on your paper, flipping through the pages to check every question and each correction out of habit, noting down what you have to improve on. Then you stumble upon the last page with the words;
Feel free to ask for help :) You smile, knowing exactly who wrote this without them being in the room. You look up to double check and you’re right, it was just your prof still going on about Khaldun or something — you tune him out to make way for the giddy feeling rushing through your stomach.
Usually you’d hate for people to offer help when you’re forced to do something you were unprepared for, taking the sentiment as a passive aggressive version of getting called incompetent but this time, you ponder while rereading the sweet little note in green ink— of course he used green ink to avoid students from being discouraged — and it's one of those times your stupidity has done you some good.
It’s an hour and a half later when class ends, people filing up to leave the doors of the lecture hall when a voice calls out to you.
You smile at your professor, a little strained, but it’s okay, you tell yourself, you expected it. You walk up to him, bag on your shoulder, unzipped because you rushed down. You’re still smiling when you’re there, already preparing for what he has to say.
The smile falls and you sigh, “I know that look.”
He’s standing with his arms crossed, dark shades balanced on his straight nose, looking down at you with nothing short of paternal disappointment. “Yes, and you shouldn’t be too familiar with it either. Seventy-five? really? I thought we were talking recommendation letters last week, turns out you’re barely passing my class?”
You swallow back, not really knowing what to do so you kinda just stand there awkwardly, waiting for him to air out his worries. “I know it's like, a little weird to put this much pressure on you but c’mon kid, you’re looking at being the next assistant after Choso to help your resumé right?”
You nod, still not saying anything, but you can’t deny how you perk up when you heard his name.
Your professor pauses briefly mid rant after spotting how you only met his eyes when he mentioned his current TA’s name, a light bulb flickers on in his head.
He squints, “You’ve been familiar with each other, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” You’re quick to reply, stopping yourself from physically gulping out of nervousness.
“He been showing you the ropes bit by bit?” he mutters, uncrossing his arms and leaning over the desk.
“Bit by bit, yes.” You echo, unable to reply without being scared of saying the wrong thing to tick him off.
“And…” He feigned thinking about it, fidgeting with he pen in his hand and tapping the butt end of it on a thick stack of paper. “…He’s also helping with lessons to keep your grades up?”
You say nothing, keeping your mouth flat and shut. You peer up at him, and shake your head slowly, “No sir.”
He tsks, standing up to his full height. “It’s not necessary but you’re aware there’s an average for you to keep up just to become a TA right? We wouldn’t want students biting off more than they could chew.”
You nod once more, though this time, a lot more fervently. “I—yes, sorry. I’ll-“
“Get to it, yeah.” He finished for you, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He waits for you to move, watching how you’re still standing there and waiting for him to also tell you to move. You’re so alike, he thinks.
He nods upwards, dismissing you. You thank him while you’re already turned your back, eagerly making your way to your next mission.
Gojo watches the door swing inwards from the impact of your departure, a smile in his tone when he mutters to no one, “That’ll give her some motivation.”
You’re rushing to your next class now, given the fifteen minute grace period you were granted had now been shaved down to ten, no thanks to your professor, forcing you to take two steps at a time when making your way to the other side of the building.
You’re looking down at your phone, deleting and retyping a message in your instagram dms. It’s when you pass the stairway that an unexpected force uncontrollably comes on to you. You thud against it, breath caught, hand tightly clutching at your phone. You stumble on your steps, holding onto the closest thing you feel for. You don’t fall, you don’t even come close to the ground, but your knees certainly felt like they couldn’t carry you.
Because here you stood against a very worried, very tightly holding you, Choso Kamo. Your mind blanks, your class just a few doors away, forgotten. Unintentionally, a small smile spreads on your face.
“Hey, I was—“ He laughs nervously, “I was looking for you.” His hands wrap around your nearly limp arms, almost covering the expanse of it, yet held at a respectable position.
“You okay?” He tilts his head down to meet your eyes, a look of concern etching back on his terribly handsome face, he swallows thickly and you watch his adam’s apple bob decorating his thick neck.
He takes a second to peer back at the stairs, then back to you before he realizes how his grip still clutched on you. “I’m sorry.” He pulls his hands down at his sides, unsure of what to do with them. “I was about to-“
“-Me too actually.” Cutting him off, you couldn’t help but smile even wider, uncaring if you looked too excited. You raised your phone, “Was about to send a dm but I got class in like,” You flip the screen to face you, “two minutes.” A pinch of apprehension makes its way to you but you push it back.
His eyes widen behind his rectangular frames, lenses making them appear bigger than they actually are.
“Really? Shit, “ He cursed, regretful, “I don’t have class anymore so I could just wait out—”
“Sit in with me?” It comes out of you before you could stop it. “—or not.” You quickly add, retreating. “I could just go and email you.”
“No—I mean, Of course. Yes. Me, I’ll go.” He smiled with a toothy grin, ignoring how you said email instead of your socials in hopes you won’t bring up how he stuttered over his words. You’re caught off guard and before you know it, he’s already making his way to the door without even being sure which class it was.
He’s reaching for the handle when you stop him, “Oh, next door, please.” He nods bashfully, adjusting the strap of his comically small backpack on himself and apologizes under his breath. He follows you inside, you push, prying the door open. His palm flat against the wood, effortlessly holding it for you both.
Luckily your professor hadn’t been in class yet, so you weren’t spotted as the only late comer (technically no, with company, you weren’t.) The class was sparsely filled as it was only part of your minor and this schedule wasn’t as popular, so you could basically sit anywhere. You scan over the room, and you spot some seats at the very front. You’re about to take a step forward when you realize you’re being a little rude.
“Where d’ya wanna sit?” You ask, head tilted up with a smile. You try to ignore the gleefulness that comes with the idea you’re gonna be seated next to him. Again, you push this feeling down, knowing it’s completely unprofessional and straight up childish. Though conversely, what you feel for him is not in the slightest, childish.
“Back, definitely.” He answers a little too fast, blinking to check with you. “If you want.” He adds.
He’s so polite, you could just die.
You find comfortable seating by the right side of the class, second to last row and close to the back per request. This classroom was a little smaller, so distance from the whiteboard wasn’t really an issue.
You’re listening to your elderly professor repeat instructions about a future assignment and knowing he’s just going to be posting the guidelines, you just tune him out again, distracted. You have to learn to stop doing that.
But you’re shamelessly peeking at the side, Choso’s writing something down, you watch his face as he continues without a care in the world, back hunched down to get closer to the papers maybe, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in focus. You look down at what he’s writing when he flips the sheet over, the sound of the paper is quiet amongst the loud hum of the air conditioner.
He’s checking something, a test again? You wonder if yours is there. Something catches your eye, he’s even writing down notes in the side for each correction. Maybe he’s also writing notes of encouragement for others. You don’t wanna wanna act all sensitive but something in your chest dampens. A lick of disappointment knowing you weren’t just given a little extra effort.
You shift in your seat, suddenly aware that you completely distracted yourself again and let your overactive imagination take over. You bite your cheek, brushing off the disappointment and sit properly on your seat. It moves the entire table though, you moved a little too roughly. Choso backs up in his chair, the commotion throwing off your professor in his fruitless discussion.
You gasp before immediately turning to check on your hard of hearing professor. He mumbles some incoherent complaint but you don’t wait to think and just apologize, “Sorry,” and it’s hopefully enough to divert the attention from you both.
Choso grunts, “No—sorry, my chair was too loud.” He pulls the long, shared desk back with one pull of his hand, before hunching to go back to work. There’s already a furrow in your brows at the apology, and you’re staring at the side of his face, his hand behind his full, overgrown hair, expression mirroring your own except towards his papers.
You adjust back, only this time you’re a bit farther, scared he’ll probably sense you’re being a little invasive. So you keep your eyes up at the projected screen and let the silence pass, the light sound of the ballpoint scratching paper on the smooth surface of the table and your teacher murmuring mix behind the stupid thoughts interfering and prodding at your composure.
You made this unnecessarily awkward, eyes looking back down on the paper without trying. You’re still kinda curious what he’s writing down. He’s writing down notes to the side, red pen and all— red pen and all?
You do a double take, your uncontrollable, imposing, borderline deluded thoughts returning back to their place in your hopeless brain. Did he use a red pen for everyone or green? He used green earlier, definitely. What the hell? Why does it matter?
“Can I help you?” The inner monologue in your head ceases at the question. You glance up at him, a crooked smile on his face, dimple gracing his features. He waits for you to say something, you process how it's a little close to a tease. You’re unable to say something and end up nodding.
He smiles, achingly sweet and sincere, still waiting for a response. You blank out, unable to think of a proper fake answer in time.
A last flick of your gaze at the paper outs your thoughts, he looks down at them. “If you’re looking for any of your own, this isn’t your section’s.” He assures, trying to fill in the silence you were so talented in bringing out in your conversations.
You giggle out of pure giddiness, unable to hold it in as you act like a school girl and not a college student. It’s probably so strange to him that you’re acting this way — internally reprimanding yourself is your only avenue for self control at these moments. You hope he doesn’t think the same way. “No um, you’re so focused on writing nice notes for everyone and marking every point.“
He smiles wider, eyes turning into pretty crescents. He shakes his head once, sitting back on his chair, and finally not slouching. Your stomach flips noting how he occupies more than half the seat. He scratches his neck, eyes flicking back at the papers for a moment before meeting yours, then averting again.
“I don’t think…” He leaned over to read the name on the paper, “…Inumaki, T. thinks my detailed corrections, or rather critiques are very nice, nor the rest of section Z26.” he mumbled the last part, adjusting the collar of his pull over.
“critiques?” You inquire, unconsciously leaning to his side of the desk, closer so you could read them too. Choso hopes you can’t feel the warmth on his cheeks radiating right now.
He nods his head a little too quickly, despite not being able to see him from where you were. He’s dizzy with the scent of your floral shampoo under his nose, heady and pulling. “Yes, just to help with,” he falters again, your bare arm brushing against his own, clothed one when you point at a certain part of the paper while reading, knees hitting under the table when you’re closely looking down on the sheet. “With the, the uh, future tests yeah-”
Choso watches your lips move but he doesn’t hear what comes out. Right now, he’s pushing away such un-utterable, uncalled for thoughts when his view is your head over what would be is his lap, only being separated by this rickety table. It only gets worse when you shift your eyes at him, wide and up at his tired onyx ones, only now his are a little wider too, something past friendly reflecting in your before averting back down the white sheet.
You’re still reading the paper, taking in the info for each question. “Oh,”
He snaps out of his daze, immediately taking notice of your blank tone. “What’s wrong?”
You’re processing the words on the essay type test he’s checking and you realize you’ve never seen this kind of test before. “Y’know, now that I’m reading this, I don’t think we’ve answered this activity yet.” A beat, and Choso flips the paper down.
“Right, that’s probably not good,“ He places a spread out hand over the papers, sheets mix on top of each other, disheveled and disorganized, one nearly falling off the narrow table.
You’re already laughing, “You’re so clumsy,” your hand stopping one of them from flying out of place.
“No, you probably shouldn’t look at that too-“
“Relax, I don’t have the photographic memory to copy each answer. As much as I wish I did.” You mumble the last part, tucking the papers into an organized pile, facing outwards. “See? No cheating for me.”
Choso fights the smirk that inches his way under the skin of his cheeks, nodding to you. “I appreciate your integrity.” You return the look on his face except with the stack in your grasp right now, it reflects its white canvas like a soft light on your skin, a sweet warmth overcomes him. “I never told you why I was looking for you.”
You place the sheets separate from his pile of unfinished work. Pursing your lips, you make a noise of acknowledgment. “Oh, I was thinking the same thing. I didn’t know how to approach you ‘cause it was kinda embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing how?”
For a while, you contemplate how to make yourself sound less pathetic, trying to amp up how to sound flirtier without breaching whatever boundary of the title you held to him. You wanted to play safe, for now.
“Like to ask for help, I bet it's as funny as someone asking a stupid question since you probably didn’t have to do any of that when you were in my year.” You don’t have to confirm with him whether or not it’s true, Choso’s going straight to a master’s after graduating this year. You’ve been hyping yourself up to ask him out for a while, knowing that he’ll most likely drift from you as a friend with the work that comes with finishing one.
You truly weren’t looking for any kind of college relationship or even a fling, knowing such places bring unnatural levels of attraction to people who lack self identity, and if you’re being honest, college made you question that part of yourself when you first began.
Ergo, you focused on yourself for your first year to second. Now, you’re in your third year’s second semester and people are thinking about their thesis and fellowships. And here you were only starting to make career moves for your future in your third year.
But you digress, circling back to how all that led you to meet Choso. Someone you’ve made acquaintances with last year during an exhibit at the school’s anthropology museum. Yes, you had an anthropology museum — Jjk technical college was not cheap.
His hair was a tad shorter back then, guiding a bunch of first years through the new exhibit, excitedly discussing some bones and energy. The glint in his eyes was bright and he was wholly unfiltered, charmingly gauche. You had tried to pose a question at the time, wanting to entertain him out of definitely just pure curiosity for Bioarcheology, but second guessed yourself and never approached him again.
Until, it was that same year you found out he had been the TA for the professor you were aiming for next year (as a second year college student), and you found out he was resigning as the teacher’s assistant from a friend of a friend, and how Gojo had been already looking for a new one early on because Choso was that competent.
You want to say that maybe you joined just because professor Gojo was someone you highly look up to in the field of history research and will grant you a killer recommendation for a future career — which you know he will— there’s an underlying feeling where you also can’t deny that the idea of how it brings you closer to Choso made the position all the more appealing.
So this year, when Gojo read your CV and decided to accept you out of the many (3 applicants, one was an irregular student, the other a nepo baby), and encouraged Choso to start training you by now, it was like fate realigned itself to bring you closer to him.
Sort of.
Now he was in front of you- beside you, and casually replying with, “ I don’t mind spending my free time with you—tutoring and stuff.” He offers, completely unaware how he gets your stomachs in knots and your heart feels like it's trying to rip out of your ribcage.
“Really?” You ask too eagerly, he nods for extra reassurance. “It’s just, Historiography just isn’t something I’m good at but I’m also I find it interesting but it’s also really hard but— I also want this.” You size him up, towards his side of the table. “Y’know, this.”
He‘s about to point at himself, before looking at the papers and something clicks in place. “Checking papers on top of your thesis, dropping them off at Gojo’s office at 8 am, and getting death stares when I come across his students?”
You nod, almost even more eager, “Absolutely.”
“You’re perfect then.” He says, no hesitation whatsoever. You were eating it up and he was completely unaware. You giggle, heat rushing to your face.
You almost forgot how talking came easy with Choso. It was refreshing to meet someone you could hold a conversation with without feeling like you had to perform all the time, or wonder what to amp up or tone down. He had his intimidating moments at first, like being overqualified for a TA and the unmistakable height, or when you’re overthinking how to impress him and you don’t truly act yourself — but those impressions crumble effortlessly when you recognize him for his sincerity and obsession with the academe.
Choso can’t help but let a chuckle bubble in his throat, smooth and rich like a creamy cup of strong coffee. He’s analyzing your face, the apples of your cheeks are out with how wide you smile, he made you smile like that. The fact sits comfortably in his chest. He’s staring at your lips, maybe he can get away with it as him just looking down to your height, the few times he feels his own acted as an advantage for him.
“…any reason you use green?… Choso?” He blinks, and he’s back in the classroom and you’re now holding your own head with your palm, waiting for him to answer.
The back of his neck is hot with the thought you could probably notice him zoning out. “I like,” he searches your eyes, hesitating, and then, “I like green, so.” He nods, trying to rationalize his plain answer to himself.
You’re squinting, “Cool,” nothing behind your tone, just the air that still manages to sit awkwardly between you two, suddenly the old scribbles in the storage part of the desk was so interesting—
“And it's good for not like…” He swallows back his nerves, heart pounding in his ears. “I didn’t wanna discourage students.”
The admittance runs like oil down your back and you feel like you’ve hit him dead center in what you wanted to hear. “Right,” You look around, a false pretense of thinking in your expression, “So… why the red?” You ask curiously, pen in your hand scratching off the old paint under the desk in anticipation.
He paused like a deer caught in headlights, licking the dryness of his lips. Staring down the sheet of paper, yes it’s red indeed, he thinks. His lips part, you watch the smooth, glossy sheen of it move against the light. “I guess I have a favorite class.” He coughs, feigning the ease he was currently lacking with each word he carefully chose to speak.
Despite the urge to egg him on, you leave it at that, your bravery for the day already expended. You know if you continued you might say something a little irrational, and you’re also afraid to jump his bones too quickly. Though you’re pretty sure he could still hold you up if you tried.
Class ends anti-climactically, your professor waving your class off with a less than interested parting. You’re out of the classroom, Choso following behind when, “So, when do you wanna start? I’m free after class tomorrow and it’s the weekend. I don’t mind staying longer.”
You’re following his pace as you walk through the hallways of your building, aiming for the exit but you’re thinking about what happens after. You’re not fully sure where you’ll end up once you part. Do you just go? He stayed with you the entire boring class, (obviously the only reason why you want to stay longer and none other in particular) surely there must be something you have to do in return.
You’re nearing the exit and you can’t help but feel like you’re letting something slip if you go past the doors without making your thoughts known, “I have this thing with my best friend tomorrow, this is not a very good look for me— I promised I’d do this qualitative interview and—“
He’s quick to reply, “Oh yeah, I totally understand—“
Shit, okay you were not seizing the moment correctly. “You should come with me.” You turn over to him, unable to stop yourself.
Choso all but freezes, “What?”
Okay, no going back now, smacking your lips together before going for the kill. “—With me. Yeah, we could hang out and,” Could you still back out? No.
“Just, maybe study after? like we could study like… for the,” So much for not wanting to jump his bones, “…whole night.” You can’t look at him any longer, eyes scanning back the outside that now surrounds you. The noises of campus and the lamp posts are bright, projecting a warm white over you. But all this is not enough to comfort you from the trepidation finally shaking your brain.
You watch as Choso’s pale cheeks start to tinge into a flushy pink, eyebrows raising behind his glasses.
“Oh, okay, yes. Okay!” He nods taughtly, though willing.
You pause, “Okay?” trying to check if he’s serious.
“Sure.” You’re both standing opposite his body, shocked with what you’re hearing from the other as much as you were shocked from the words leaving yourselves.
A beat passes, leaves rustle, and amidst that you’re silently hoping it won't matter how you didn’t think this through fully. “Five o’clock sound good?”
***
It was a steady, calm-ish afternoon, your best friend Miwa was sat in front of you, laptops laid out on the table. She’s writing down notes and closing up her recording software and you’ve been fixing up your hair, clothes, and picking lint off it. You find a loose thread on your shirt when, “Hey,” You look up, alert. Miwa’s squinting at you, blue hair cast in a warm yellow from the mid-afternoon sun. “You good?”
You’re finger quits picking at yourself, “What? Yeah,” eyes flitting back to the pesky string sticking out of the hem of your top.
There’s a hum coming from in front of you, “You sure? You’ve been so fidgety this entire time.”
“I am not fidgety.” You say, fidgeting. A sigh comes out of you, and you lean back on your chair, hands coming on top of the arm rests. “You really okay with me bringing Choso?”
At this, Miwa’s lips curl into a smirk. “I knew it.”
Your eyes flick over to the side in thought, then back at her sly expression. “What do you know?”
She’s sitting up from her hunched posture over her laptop, and drinking from her cup of her almost lukewarm coffee, shrugging with her eyes still locked on yours.
Your thumbs come up from the arm rests, “What is it?”
She clears her throat, placing the mug on a coaster. She looks back up, a smirk still planted on her face. “Just that I didn’t know that he was your crush,” she expects you to reply, but you’re still waiting for her to elaborate. “Y’know, Choso.”
“I don’t have a crush on him!”
She squints, “Okay so we’re lying today.”
“It’s merely admiration— and some attraction at most.”
“That’s literally what a crush is based on.”
You’re blinking at her, feeling caught. You bite your tongue, knowing that your best friend out of anyone should be able to catch you in a lie. Or even a truth you lie to yourself about. You speak up, “Well?”
“Y’know I love you.” She starts.
“Oh no.” Dread seeps into your stomach, and you know if she starts somewhere along the lines of sugar coating, the following was about to be some bland truth coated around maybe an even bitter core inside.
“I like Choso! He’s been your friend for a while and I’ve never talked to him but he sounds really devoted to his work, maybe goodlooking, he’s smart, and he’s nice—“
“What would Muta think…?”
She chuckles, softening at the thought of her own boyfriend. “No, I just wanted to keep an eye out for you too when I say this.” She pauses, trying to find a way to word this as pleasantly as possible. “Cause you know how girls talk…”
You latch onto that last part, stomach churning in suspense. “Not really, I don’t.”
She stops herself from cackling at your nervous expression, “I just heard he’s always…nice.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Like too nice? I guess…it’s really hard to explain babe,“ She cuts herself off, sensing your growing apprehension. She observed how your hands are rubbing on the expanse of your cup, and bringing it to your lips to avoid saying something. She quiets down her tone, now kinda shy about mentioning it. She leans a bit towards you, “Like… in bed, y’know?”
You sputter in your mug, feeling unwelcome liquid scratch your throat. Miwa’s eyes widen when she watches you cough, eyes turning watery. “Ooh gag reflex, that’s not coming in handy.“
“Fucking shut up-“ You’re coughing still and she’s laughing uncontrollably now. “—I did not expect that.”
She’s wiping the corner of her corneas with a finger, “I—I’m sorry I just had to bring it up.”
You’re more composed now, eyes looking up at the clock, it’s ten minutes to five, and you’re trying to relax.
You don’t exchange looks with Miwa until a short moment passes for you to think.
“So have you thought about what it would be like?” You’re back to meeting her eyes, a silent exchange between you both. Miwa smiles at you, lowering her voice and putting a finger up to her ear like an agent, “Then I’m glad to relay information.” She’s giggling when you throw a tissue at her.
You’re already standing out of your seat and making your way to sit beside her. She motions her hand for you to come nearer, both turning your heads when the door chime rings and someone enters, calming down when it’s just some delivery person. You relax, side eyeing her.
Miwa inches closer, “Okay so I’m friends with this senior from my org and she had a friend who was seeing Choso, sort of? Anyways I mentioned once that you were replacing him and that you’re a little into him, sorry.” You’re beckoning her to continue, not caring much for the last part and nodding along.
“Anyways, it was like a one night stand thing and — don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to spread rumors or judge,” Another pause, and you’re already on the edge of your seat.
“Well? Go on,” You pull her in, arms tangled and clutching her, knee jittering.
“I heard he was kinda scared in bed? Like maybe he has a phobia or something.” Your knee stops, and you’re now confused, “It’s just kinda odd ‘cause the guys like a unit, right?” a crease forms between your brows. “Maybe he’s like… a power bottom?” she whispered, tone serious.
You’re nodding, taking in the information with actual consideration. “Possibly,” You’re fully facing her now, “Y’know…he is a TA.”
It’s Miwa’s turn to be confused, struggling to find the correlation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You fight the expression trying to pull on your lips, you nibble on the skin then let go, “I’d say he’s good at being told what to do.”
Miwa’s eyes widened, before adding, “Tell me when you find out.” A second where you’re both quiet and then you’re being shook by the shoulders, both of you squealing and chortling in your corner. It would be no surprise if you’ve caught the attention of other customers with your commotion.
She quits with the shaking, now smoothing over the fabric over your shoulders for messing up your top. “So what are you gonna do about it?”
You can’t help but entertain your imagination, “I mean I think I’m too conscious to be playing around too much.” Your friend nods along, supportive. Past these exciting thoughts, it was all a front for the feelings you struggled to word out, “I really like him, Miwa.”
She parts her lips but as if on cue, another chime from the door rings once more. He stood by the entrance for a brief moment, barely scanning the vicinity when he locked eyes on you, a cheeky grin lighting up his face.
***
“—I think they never made any real contact.”
“No, that’s definitely up for debate.”
Miwa watches your back and forth, pen in hand. Choso decided to be part of her research sample as well, given that he’s already here, he should make use of his time. And he didn’t mind, he liked helping out.
If only he could actually speak and answer the questions without you guys debating every time one of you made an opinion on something vaguely related to Miwa’s research topic. At first it was good, your opinions can be added too but now she’s running out of space in her storage with how long this unintentional joint interview was going.
“Okay guys, the interview questions are about historical revisionism. While I do see the correlation, how did we end up in Egypt and…?”
“Ancient Mesopotamia.” Both of you say, completing her sentence.
“I can elaborate.” Choso suggests, clearly unable to read between the lines of Miwa’s inquiry.
She stretches in her seat, her legs feeling cramped up with the lack of movement all this time. “Y’know what, I’ll hold you two to that. But first, let’s take a break!” It’s not even a minute until she’s out of both your and Choso’s sights, on the way to the restroom, pen and recorder left on the table.
“Y’know, I don’t think she likes me that much. I also think she’s too nice to tell me that.” You’re in the middle of cracking your neck until you’re moving your attention to him.
“Don’t worry too much about it, I think she just isn’t up for hearing any more strong opinions on exported textiles.”
“That’s if they were truly exported—“ You shove his arm, and he’s laughing at your face, not even moved from the push. He’s pretending to rubbing his bicep in feigned hurt, lifting his arm in the process, almost flexing. You try to ignore how they felt so hard under your fingertips. You check him out unintentionally, taking notice of how the hem of his layered shirt hangs enough to show the lower part of his stomach. Out of respect, you look the other way.
You swallow thickly, ears hot. “I think I’ll get another snack. Want anything to eat?” You’re already standing up and off the chair, limbs wobbly from the long period of time you spent sitting on the deep arm chair.
There’s a sudden burst of noise coming from the entrance of the café, very loud and boisterous. You can’t help but let your jittery self get distracted, there stood an entire group of men, looking like they just got off practice. You’re wondering why one of them looks vaguely familiar, but there’s a body blocking your view out of nowhere with what you realize is Choso’s chest.
There’s an odd, slightly frantic look in his eyes you haven’t seen on someone as easygoing as him. “Um, how about I go with you?”
You’re looking up at him, a little skeptical on why the sudden change of tone, but agree anyways.
You’re in the short line along the display and point out pastries that you could try when a voice calls out to the person beside you. “Cho!”
It’s easier for you to check where it’s coming from as Choso was in front of said voice. You recognize the pink hair from the group coming in earlier. He’s about 2 inches away from being as tall as Choso, hair damp like he just came from a shower, and a sports bag was strapped across him.
A pat on his shoulder signals your dark haired companion to turn, seeing a sight he’d been trying to avoid earlier. Of course he had to be the one ordering for his group.
“Hey man,” Choso greets, strained, a guard visibly coming up around him.
“What’s up, you don’t say hi to family anymore?” The sentiment, although on paper sounded sweet, in reality was like a taunt. Something you don’t wanna dissect to avoid reading into it too much. “Who’s this?”
You peer over at both of them, their attention now on you. Still unable to read the room, you focus on Choso to see how he wants this to play out. He steps in for you, “You know her, I mentioned the TA thing like a while back. She’s a friend, though she is replacing me.”
He gestures to the pinkette’s side, introducing him.
“My brother by the way. Same year though.”
Sukuna nods at that and smiles, canines showing. He reaches out with his hand, and you meet it halfway. “Ryomen Sukuna.” Huh, he’s not a Kamo.
“Pleasure,” You’re squinting your eyes, there’s something a little unsettling about him that you can’t place, but you’re not trying to jump into that.
“I didn’t know Choso had any siblings — ones on campus, no less.”
You let go of his large, callous hands, moving an inch closer to the cashier when the customer before you has their turn to order. “Have 2 terms to catch up with and I don’t really see this one around either ‘cause I did training camp in Barcelona last semester.”
You nod in acknowledgement. Silently, you’re comparing them, unknowingly looking back and forth between him and Choso a little too obviously.
“We don’t look related do we?”
Before you could defend yourself, a dry chuckle beats you to it. “We get that a lot.” He squeezed where his hand was planted on Choso, who visibly tenses. “Different mom, same dad. He doesn’t take after him though, if you’re worried—“
“Alright, I don’t think she wants to know about that.”
“Speak for yourself,” You laugh nervously, trying to ease the tension you could feel multiplying tenfold. He pats Choso’s shoulder before bringing his hand down to the side, not before looking at the side of his brother's face as he semi-whispered, “At least one of you doesn't have their panties in a twist.”
“I would if I were wearing mine.” A very long, awkward silence overcomes all three of you. That is until a nearly genuine smile breaks out of Sukuna’s angular features.
“Ha, what the fuck,” He mutters in amusement, “You’re both weird, that’s cute.” A dry chuckle eases the anxiousness you were struggling to place the source of. Though at the cost of your own dignity.
The line to the cashier moves, it’s yours and Choso’s turn now. He’s first to leave his brother’s side, not even bidding him a glance as he moves past you. “Nice meeting you,” you voice out, still on edge, Sukuna just nods in acknowledgement.
***
It’s around 6:40pm when Choso walks you to your apartment outside of campus. There’s a slight tension in the air that you’re struggling to bring up, it’s been there for the remainder of your meet up, not having said a word since you’ve left the café. You’ve been trying to make a move and talk to him but he’s had his eyes on the ground this entire time, rarely up, and definitely never on you.
He was about to walk in the pedestrian lane when you tug on his backpack. He’s caught in the pull, looking up to the red walking signal reflecting on the road. He walks back to stand next to you, still not saying a word. “What’re you thinking so hard on?”
For a moment he turned his head to you, a little too quick to not look like he wasn’t anticipating you to bring it up yourself. He looks ahead once more when you’re walking now. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
You start to feel a little guilty for not clarifying sooner, wondering if this entire time he thought he should’ve apologized for something he couldn’t control.
“It’s alright, it wasn’t unpleasant for me.”
He almost laughs at that, “Right, and I was jumping for joy.”
The air shifts, it’s not so tense anymore, just between that and uncertainty directed at something else entirely. “I felt really dumb earlier.” He adds, looking back down on the pavement. “I couldn’t say anything to make him leave us alone.”
You’re a few blocks nearby to your place, walking a little ahead of him so he could follow you now.
“Again, it wasn’t that bad. You don’t have to apologize.” Once more, silence fills the space between you both and it feels like you’re unable to remove this weight you feel affecting your interaction.
Now you’re both looking at your feet as you wait for cars to pass the street you’re crossing and for the timer to finally get to zero. Your foot is stepping over a dry leaf to fill in the lack of communication, the sound crunching in the quiet in a loud, distant manner.
“I just kinda get made fun of for acting like this—weak.” You crane your neck up to meet his eyes, and you’re right to think he’s still looking down. “It’s just annoying how even until now it’s expected of me to bite back on others ‘cause I look like I should.”
There’s a furrow in his brows, and he’s tightly clutching on the strap of his bag. “Like I’ve accepted that, sort of. I’m already conscious of it— but maybe people like to pick on me when it's obvious I’m not gonna do anything.”
You’re making another turn together, he’s leading with the path he’s familiar with and you follow, his words don’t falter. “Maybe ‘cause it makes them feel less small or some shit — I don’t know.”
After processing the words that left him, it brought you back to your conversation with Miwa. How you laughed about his past history with women and how you basically gossiped about his insecurities. Guilt swirls in your stomach, realizing this might just be a little worse than you treated it to be. You keep quiet, deep in your own thoughts, letting him say what he needs to.
“And of course my own brother is like that too.” He rants, tracing back to the behavior he displayed earlier. “He’s my brother and I love him, yes. But frat guys could be such dicks, y’know? I was like his first practice hazing dummy lite…in a way.”
You nod, acknowledging him. “Right, right.” You’re turning to the street ahead of yours, just about a block away now.
“It’s hard to not let those insecurities take over.” He groans, “I spent so much of my life trying to make my best first impressions, and I feel like it backfires on me with the wrong people—I hate that.” He’s scratching the back of his head. “Sometimes I just wish I looked normal. That way I wouldn’t literally feel like the elephant in the room.”
At that, you turn almost as if you’d heard the worst take in your life, brows scrunching. “Normal?”
He shakes his head, “Yes, normal. Like I can wear normal shoes and sit on couches normally.”
“I like that you’re not.” You say, insensitively. “I mean you’re not not normal. But I like…it.” You slow down, trying to backtrack on what you just let slip.
He’s blinking down on you, a look of surprise etched on his slowly flushing face. “…Why?”
Your breath is caught in your throat, not knowing how else to explain it. No going back. Remember?
“I feel safe, even if you don’t…bite back. And on top of that you’re kind. I think that matters a lot.”
Choso stares at you like you just grew a tree on your head, but in truth, he’s just trying to tone down his elation. “Really?” He asks dumbly, already cursing himself in his head for looking like he wants to hear you call him that again. Safe.
You dip your head, agreeing once more. “I’m a girl so I may be a little biased but if I were also a little taller, I wouldn’t have to deal with some idiot guys trying something on me, and I could also defend myself easier.”
“Oh yeah—Yes, that's totally different from my problems.” He clarified, trying to catch himself from sounding ungrateful. You watch the way his expressions shifts from blank to stressed and bite back a smile. “There’s obviously people with worse problems than being bigger than a doorway.” He’s looking down and pushing his glasses up, almost ashamed.
You turn to the road leading up to your street, your apartment just at the end of it. “Is that like 6’3 or…”
“Huh?” He meets your inquisitive eyes, “Uh, just a little more.” He replied, shying away from your stare. You’re thinking about all the objects that could possibly match up to Choso’s figure.
“Those chillers they got in 7’11?”
“Hm, nope. Like 2 inches more, maybe.”
Your stomach does a flip you had to ignore, “You’re lying. Six foot six?”
“Without shoes, yes.” He nodded, met with you side-eyeing him. “Well you’re free to go with me to my annual checkups and see.” He defends, a smile finally appearing on his face at your skepticism.
You squint, stopping yourself from looking too excited with the many, unbecoming thoughts storming your brain. “I’ll hold onto that.”
Shortly after, you find yourself standing in front of the building to your apartment. “I’m sorry about dumping all that on you, It was a lot.” He looks around before letting out a barely there sigh, “I’ll get going now—“
“Are you forgetting?” You look back and Choso’s standing stiffly, feet planted on the ground. “We’re…studying, remember?”
Choso’s throat bobs at your sly tone, convincing himself there is nothing behind it. “You did a lot today I just thought we were tired—“
“We don’t have to study then.” You’re looking around and thinking to yourself before landing back on his face, “I mean you came all the way here, you could come up and have some tea?”
The notion has his chest puffing out to regulate the way his heart started beating like its pounding from behind his sternum. He doesn’t say anything, his eyebrows raise behind his glasses, his usually sleepy eyes now wide. He nodded and let out a strained, “Okay.”
***
The door to your apartment swings open with a loud creak. The lights switch on, a warm white cascades from the ceilings.
Your keys make a clinking noise against the ceramic jewelry tray you leave on the dresser by the entrance. The door is wide open, you feel Choso trailing behind a couple steps away.
He’s standing kinda stiffly, “Do I take my shoes off or—“
You’re shaking your head, stepping aside to let him in. “My neighbors are kinda sticklers for people who leave their shoes outside in the halls.” He walks past the doorway, head craned down. It’s supposed to look like he was trying to avoid getting hit by the frame of it, though he’s only finding a way to hide his face naturally.
He picked his head up when he heard clanking from the kitchen which meant that you were inside. “I hope you’re not allergic to pollen? I like to put honey in mine.” You ask, your voice still clear as the space isn’t big at all, but in his head it’s distant. He’s trying to calm himself down, taking in your apartment.
It’s small, kitchen tight and you’ve no space for a table. You use the counter as one, your bed, desk, and sofa all in the same space. However, the lack of furniture made it wide, the “living room” taking the least space with just a little coffee table and the tv on the floor as the only decor.
“You didn’t say anything so I didn’t add any honey.” He finds himself turning on his feet when he’s met by your figure, coming from the kitchen with two— red and yellow —mugs. You hand him the yellow one, he takes it with a ‘thanks’. You make a move to sit on the couch, trying to get cozy. Choso’s still standing, sipping on his cup awkwardly.
“You can sit if you want.” Choso’s eyes flick over to you. You realize he had shed his bag on the entrance, still it looks like something is weighing on him.
“I’m okay, I might launch you out of it—“
“Sit with me.” You pat the spot beside you on the couch, your fawn-like eyes up at him.
It turns his legs into jelly. Thoroughly convinced, he sits beside you, trying to be as careful as he can so the side of the couch doesn’t sink to his weight too much.
He winced at the audible sound of the springs under the cushions, “Sorry.”
Quietly, you assess him. How stiffly he sat, how much of the seat he took up despite keeping himself at the edge of it. If he sat back, would his knee brush against yours? Though you feel a little bad for taking advantage of his reactiveness towards you. However, something deep inside you is undeniably excited with the thought.
On the other hand, Choso feels like he’s watching himself act in third person, deliberating what part of his body he should move next to not look too obnoxious or stiff. He doesn’t know if he should just let the silence pass till he runs out of tea, or maybe till it turns lukewarm. You shift in your seat, he feels your gaze heavy on him. You don’t say anything, you just stare at the side of his face. His throat bobs.
He looks over to you for a split second and meets your eyes, you raise your brows at him, a smirk growing on your sweet face.
An anxious laugh bubbles from his throat, the tips of his ears tinging red. “I think you’re aware of how you’re making me nervous.”
You couldn’t stop the way the smirk spreads into a wide smile. “I was thinking of how to get you to talk, is all.” You tilt your head to the side, checking out how the light from your room lamp makes his jaw seem sharper. His hair nearly fell on his shoulders, built and perched with his elbows on his knees, posture a little hunched, but he still sat taller than you. Nothing short of tempting in your eyes.
He follows your gaze, “What?”
“You’re also thinking of something.”
His brows pinch, he hates how good you are at prodding at him when he clearly doesn’t know what to say. “I’m always thinking.”
You nod, “And still, you haven’t said anything since we went up.”
Choso pauses his already stiff self. You place your mug down, crossing your legs on the couch. He brings his attention back to you but you’re already intently looking at him. He flinches back.
Sighing, “What do you think I’m thinking about?” You purse your lips, shrugging at his question. He shakes his head, a smile fighting its way on his face.
“Then I’m happy you only brought me here to drink some tea.” A roll of his eyes comes out of sarcasm, reaching for his own mug on the table, stretching his arm out.
He’s about to pull his hand back when your smaller one lands on top of his. The contact would have made him drop the glass into little pieces if it weren’t for the coffee table underneath. He lets down the cup, missing the coaster you laid out.
“That’s my mug….” You point at the red cup in his grasp, yours. You let the words linger like the pads of your fingers on the back of his hand, “Hm, you’re really warm.”
He blinks, unable to ground himself back to reality because maybe, maybe you’re trying to make a move on him. He’s unable to look into your eyes,
“Uh,” He falters, the warmth on his cheeks multiply and spread out when you inch closer, the warmth of your own body makes him feel like he’s overheating.
“How else could I get you to go up with me?” You say, goading another reaction out of him.
“I-I mean you could just ask and…I wouldn’t say no,“ You’re closer to his face now—too close. But you’re still not looking at eye level — not close enough.
“I think I’ve done a lot just to be around you, Cho.” He almost melts at how the stupid nickname his brother calls him sounded so good coming from your honeyed lips. Choso gulps, audible and embarrassing in the silence of your apartment.
He started off this conversation on the edge of the couch, somehow it feels like you’ve backed him into it.
“Y’know, the TA stuff, asking to study—do we look like we’re studying now?” Your arm skates over his hand, up his arm, the touch leaving goosebumps in their wake.
You watch how his jaw all but clenches at the feeling, a newfound confidence makes you unbelievably giddy, driving you to push more. “But what I wanna know is,”
He feels like he’s running out of breath before he could utter a word when your palm lands up on his hard chest, feeling for the erratic thumping of his heartbeat underneath the fabric of his shirt.
Your head is craned up, lashes bat at him, “What are you willing to do…?”
He’s looking deeply into your eyes, searching for the answer to your question, not realizing how his neck is craning down at your height in return. Several beats pass — he feels a tug on his shirt and then he’s closing the distance between your lips.
He whines on the soft, wet skin, sucking gently, eyes falling shut. His hand finds your cheek, the other reaching for your side when you tangle your arms around his neck. The pace is hungry yet fervent, tugging and melting against the other. You pull away slowly, lips parting from each other wetly. You’re smacking your own lips before smiling up at Choso, giggling.
His eyes are hazy, glasses crooked out of place. His hands are covering your back and smoothing over your clothes, “I can do anything— whatever you want.”
If you weren’t already grinning wide enough, now you’re fully Cheshire-like. Pushing yourself closer towards him, “Anything?” He nods eagerly, you’re pulling him in, hungry.
His hand is on the back of your neck now, holding. There’s something about his touch that feels like it’s keeping you together without feeling too possessive. Caring with a dash of hesitance. One you’re looking to break through tonight.
Your lips travel down his neck, leaving hot, lingering kisses along his throat. “Oh, mmh-“ He bites his lip immediately after nearly letting out the low noise from chest, eyes shutting when you find the particularly sensitive spot on his neck. You feel his fingers dig rougher on your hips, you’re on your knees now, determined to cover every inch of him in your touch. Your weight falls on him when he tugs you, the hands planted on his shoulders squeeze out of instinct.
“You good? I-I didn’t mean to, ah—“ He tried to move his head away from your persistent lips, but a shiver that runs through him stops his actions. You’re sucking on his skin, humming proudly, undettered from your little slip. His hands brush down your sides, they plant themselves lower on your waist.
You plant kisses all the way back to his chin then meet his lips again. You’re eye level, a sinister glint in your eyes. You stick your tongue out, half lidded gaze and staring right at him — brushing the wet, pink muscle along Choso’s bottom lip, teasing. Heat rushes on his face, blood rushes on his crotch. You’re killing him.
You suck on the pink flesh, tugging then letting go, he’s pulling you in closer by the back of your neck. He wants you on him, mind unable to decide how — just everywhere is fine. You drop your palm down between your bodies and on the garter of Choso’s sweats, feeling for the hardness underneath.
He hissed as your fingers brushed what would be his shaft, “Um, sorry, can we make out a little I think…” He holds your head closer to his face, breaths mingling as you catch them. “I’ll get less hard— nervous, I think. Sorry,” You hummed in agreement before landing back on the flushed skin of his mouth, quieting him down with your lips.
You giggle against him, chasing as he squirms, palms settling on his shoulders. You pull off him with a peck, feet planting back on the carpeted floors. Choso now sat far into the couch, slacked with legs spread. His mouth parts as you start undressing, stripping off into your underwear.
He sizes you up and down, taking in your soft, bare skin, your strapless bra and cotton panties under the warm lights of your apartment. It elicits a heavy throb under his pants. Choso’s breathing feels uneven and the air grows thinner when you settle back on the couch, only now between his spread out legs.
You’re steadying yourself, his hands find a place on your warm, now bare skin. You smooth over the wide expanse of his chest, then land on his neck, even warmer than you. “This okay?” You ask, to which he only replies with a nod.
You’re about to lean into him when he reaches for his glasses, but you stop him before he tries to pry the piece of metal off. “They stay on.”
His breath catches in his throat, stomach dipping. A part of him he’s not quite sure whether he wanted to acknowledge, liked when you tell him what to do.
He lets his hand fall, you adjust the rims on the bridge of his nose. “You’re so pretty.” You’re holding his face with both hands, tilting it upwards to you. A lopsided grin appears on his face at the comment, eyes shying away and down from your face and to the body on him.
“Thanks- Thank you,” He replied poorly. His palm skated from your waist and to your back, laying above the clip of your bra. His lips are caught between his teeth as he takes in the feel of your skin against him, he looks up. “You’re awfully pretty as well.”
He was never good at expressing himself,only with what he was sure of. But this was new, you pushing, him taking, it was all new. But he meant every word he said to you. He leaned in to catch your lips against his. Fuck, if only you could tell how much he meant it.
He’s slotting his tongue in between your parted mouth, leaning further in and you’re falling back, but he’s catching you — keeping you to him. You work together smoothly, as smooth as silks rubbing against each other. You clutch on to him tightly as if he’ll slip if you don’t. You taste like jasmine tea and he’s wondering if the sweet taste is from the honey or just you. He’s holding you by the neck and pushing your back into him.
You finally move to settle on his lap, the kiss unwavering so you’re first to pull away, “Choso—“ He catches the sound of his name in your mouth, chasing, taking, and taking. There isn’t any place on your body that isn’t covered by him, your arms, your back, your legs in between his that caged you. You moan at the thought against his greedy tongue, entirely consumed. But you’re impatient and already wet, the fabric of your panties has been riding up for the last 10 minutes. So you squeeze his arms weakly, but it’s enough for him to let air flow between you.
“Shit, Sorry—” He’s frantic and searching your eyes, but he’s met with your hazed out ones and your swollen, drooly lips. He wiped the corner of it, chest heaving. “I need to— you’re driving me insane,” He chuckles, deep and uncertain with how true the fact felt. He’s brushing your hair back gently, “I’m sorry,” he lets go of you as you’re pulling away.
You’re upright now, letting your feet back down. You’re bending over to his lap, palms resting on his spread out limbs, “You need to make it up to me,” You’re once again reaching for his sweats, the imprint of his shaft taking form at the side. He gently lays his hand on your wrist.
“Are you sure?” His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, the frames of his glasses are now on the tip of his nose bridge. But there’s a wave of genuine uncertainty blanketing his expression.
You’re blinking up at him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
It’s a tangled knot in his chest, one bundled in embarrassing moments and unsuccessful hook-ups. He stuttered over his words,
“Just that before I’ve-“ he pondered if he should risk you laughing at him, but you’re expectantly looking into his eyes, and your hands are already on his lap, a little more and you’d be right where he’s aching for you. “I’m scared of making it…unpleasant?”
His hand rubs up and down your arms, you’re tuning him out and thinking of how you should go about sitting on him. He continued to ramble on, “Um, like I’ve been told it was…“
“Too big?” You ask, attention now on him. Externally you’re collected, stating it like a remark. But internally you know it’s a fact. You feel a little bad thinking about it but now you’re piecing together your earlier conversation on what Miwa’s friend’s friend might’ve been complaining about.
Choso all but nods, eyes scanning your room as if that would keep yours away from him. “I could just help you, y’know. We don’t have to—“
You’re turning over and maneuvering his hand out of his lap, sitting on his thigh. For a moment, you’re a little hesitant, hovering. “I mean I’d like it if we did, but I’m also…” His words trail off, holding your hip and securing you on his lap, unbothered as your weight settles on one thigh. He clears his throat, “I’m okay with, um, anything.”
You’re leaning into him, on your side, hand trailing underneath the hem of his shirt, grazing his clenched abdomen. He jolts, causing you to jump in your seat. Your eyes widen for a moment before relaxing, hand skating lower under the garter of his sweats with a simpering grin on your face. You’re kissing his cheek, gentle and slow as your hand palms over his hard, covered cock.
He’s watching your move under the fabric of his gray sweats, feeling your smaller fingers squeezing and rubbing the base of it. It hurts, he thinks. In a way that something stings and feels good at the same time. You’re squeezing at his tip when he throws his head back on the couch, groaning loudly. You take the opportunity to mouth on his neck again.
“Can you please— Can I please take it off?” He asks politely, but the grip on your hip feels anything but. You hum, still licking at the expanse of his neck.
You’re pulling his pants down with his help—mostly him just taking it off himself, desperate and aching. He’s bare from the waist down now when you settle back on his thigh, sweats and boxers discarded on the floor.
You’re now shamelessly gawking at his erection bouncing against stomach, slapping against it. The warmth of your hand catches him off guard, finally making contact skin to skin. You tug on the shaft, immediately taking notice of how your fingers struggle to close around it and were squeezing on accident.
“F—oh, god. ” He rests his head on your shoulder, sweat building on his forehead. You start moving your hand up and down, already slippery from how he’d been oozing in his boxers the entire time. He’s quiet behind you, save for the heavy breathing on your skin. You go faster. “Your hand’s so tight,” it comes out in a whimper. A wet, mouthing sensation can be felt on your shoulder, he’s biting your skin to muffle himself. But It doesn’t work, his throat lets loose with each reaction.
His eyes roll up from your shoulder when he feels you lean forwards and away from his chest, cock twitching when a wet glob of spit drips on him from your tongue.
You’re both watching your hand work up and down, bringing both onto the shaft, he’s cursing as you go faster.
You’re throwing your other leg over his thigh, straddling him in reverse, before resting back on him. Choso's hands come up to hold you under your knees, keeping your legs apart. He watched as the movement stretched the fabric, pussy still clad in underwear, drenched and barely covering it. But he can’t help but peek lower, your hands exclusively paying attention to his erection.
You joke, “It’s like I'm jerking myself off.”
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, the vibrations thrum against your back and you turn them into moans as you suddenly go faster. “Sucks though, I can’t feel it.”
You’re unable to see his expression behind you, but you can hear how his moans are muffled between his teeth, “You’re s-so eager.”
You reveled at how shaky he’d sounded. “One of us has to be.”
And then a strange noise akin to the tearing of fibers can be heard from below. You gasp as it happens in front of you, hands slowing its ministrations. You realize you’re watching him rip your underwear, exposing your wet, shiny pussy. “Hey—“
He’s adjusting himself from under you, bringing his other hand under your thigh, your legs tugged higher as he starts rubbing right on your clit.
He’s rough and accurate on where he wants to touch you, deliberate in his movements. He’s quick but he isn’t rushing either, his only motive was to get you to falter in his stead as you were doing just the same.
Your voice shrinks into breathy pants, the slick sound from your poor clit syncing in with each, “Ah, ah, Cho—“
“You’re making me so, so hard, baby—” You’re both an obscene sight to behold, playing with each other, spread out, grunting or whimpering. Both sloppily still trying to let your lips tangle with each other despite the inconvenient position. Both a mess, your tits spilling out of your bra, and his glasses all fogged up.
You grind into him, “Feels so good,” rubbing your juices on the cock you’re jerking with now one hand, coating his chubby length. Your body felt like it was on overdrive, moving your hips up and down as you clenched on nothing, gushing freely.
You’re biting your lip as your hips grow erratic, brows pinching and your abdomen clenches on itself. “I-I’m close.”
Choso lets a groan escape,“Fuck, really?” realizing he’s making you come first. It’s a miracle he’s held off this long, he wonders if he’ll hold up if you let him inside. The thought makes him move your hips on his cock, assisting you as you use him to get yourself off.
He doesn’t know if he’s breathing so hard because he’s getting tired or because he knows getting your clit rubbed nudges you a little closer to the edge when you start to get louder. He breathes against your ear, “Come on me, please.” He’s mumbling now, less at you and more to himself. “I wanna see you cum on me, please, please—”
Your legs begin to shake in his hold, fighting to shut close but the grip under your knees forces you to come with your legs spread wide, pussy making a show of spasming against Choso’s cock, voice breaking as you whimper. “That’s it baby, that’s it,”
Choso is completely enamored, the sounds of your high pitched whines in the air was like music to him, the way you writhe against his body was this entrapping dance. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.
He notes how you were still in your bra, he whispers something about it, but you’re just nodding your head with your eyes shut, riding it out. Then he’s unclipping the strap with one hand, the fabric falling off and releasing your perfect tits.
You then relax your back to him, twitching still. But then he’s thrusting his erect cock up between your folds, the stimulation starting to make you wetter again, your breath can only catch up so fast. You’re attempting to lift your hips with a squirm.”Gi-give me a sec—”
Choso quickly lets your legs fall to the side and pauses, sitting up and moving your head to face him. “Shit- we can stop here,” he assured, breathy and worried. “I didn’t mean to, I was just looking at you. You looked-” So fucked out, “I’m sorry.“
“Sh-shut up,” You look away and Choso stiffens under you. Was he too rough? Before he could even utter another apology, you spoke, “I’m fine, I just need to— breathe.“
He watches you quiet down from underneath you, he’s rubbing your thighs comfortingly. “I am sorry,” The silence lingers, only getting tenser with each beat that passes.
And then you start chuckling — at nothing in particular. Your breathing slows down, and you look back to check on him. He looked so worried, brows pinched and his lip jutted out. A lazy smile breaks into your features, leaning down to catch him in a chaste kiss so he wouldn't see the expression on your face. “I liked it, okay?”
His breath hitched in his throat when you spoke against his lips, “Yeah?”
You’re nodding, smile now exposed. You kiss him again, powerless against his sweet lips. He relaxes, hand coming up to the back of your head. “I wanna-“ A kiss, “Fuck you now,” A slower kiss, “Please.”
He’s backing up to read your face, reassessing. Within the silence, something passes between you two. Amidst the air that smells of sex and vaguely of tea, there’s this mix of warmth and uncertainty—and whether or not to dive in it — that lingers in between.
He’s nervous under your gaze, once again, looking for a way out of your eyes that traps him so effectively like no other. He’s looking down at his still, very much, erect self. “I don’t have a condom.”
You’re thinking to yourself before you reach for the side table of your couch, scrambling for a box you kept there in case.
Choso’s scrambling to rip the plastic off before fishing for one packet. “I’m not really sure if it would fit so, maybe just try it,” You remark as you’re being maneuvered out of his lap and on the side of the couch. He fumbled with the rubber a couple times, pulling it down before it snapped a little too tightly on his girth. He tugs it down on him until a tear starts spreading on the side of the translucent material.
“I’m sor—“ He hissed as it snapped against his skin, “See I can’t even fucking…I don’t think this is quite right—” He’s cursing to himself, obviously a little sexually frustrated. For someone his size he still managed to look somewhat like a defeated puppy.
You’re tugging the broken thing off, relief blooming in his chest but it’s short lived as he’s reminded of how he might not even have sex with you anymore. “But no, we really don’t have to.” He says, discouraged.
“You can fuck me raw, I’m on the pill.” He internally groaned, pulled back out of his head. You just had a way with your words.
He does a complete 180, eyes widening, shifting from beaten to optimistic. He reminds himself to curb his excitement though, slowing down. “You can be on top—set the pace?” You’re already moving to sit on his lap.
He’s nodding his head at you, and finally rips his shirt off himself, now completely naked. You’re staring down at him, licking your lips at the sight of his milky skin and toned chest. He pulls you out of your thoughts, voice small and distant.
“I’ll pull out, yeah?” He’s swallowed back thickly, more of reminding himself to do that. “Just be slow okay? I didn’t prepare you that wel—um,"
His voice trails off when you’re already lining yourself up with his reddened tip. “A little at a time—Oh,” You’re already sinking down, unrepressed.
The stretch is long and constant, to the point it feels like you’re rethinking how fast you jumped on this, except you remember you’re already lowering yourself very carefully.
Your jaw hangs open in a silent scream when you get past the head, sinking lower, your walls throb against his member. You’re bracing yourself with a palm, Choso’s chest is covered in sweat and heaving. “You’re so—‘s really tight, oh fuck you’re so warm,” He whined out, unable to complete a sentence.
He’s leaving a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses on your neck and then back on your lips to keep your mewls at bay. You’re kissing back, he’s only half way in when you start moving. Choso’s breaths turn ragged against yours, pulling you closer to him. You catch your breath, “It’s stretching me out so much, Choo-” You whine, slowly rolling your hips.
He’s squeezing your waist before trailing his hands down your ass, “You’re doing good, you’re doing really good.”
He’s looking down at your progress, struggling to tell where you ended and he begun, now nearer to the base of his cock. He throbs inside you. “Fuck, a-are you okay?” He’s looking back up at your face, taking in your lips, bitten and swollen under your teeth.
He lets out a shaky whimper, “You’re taking so much.” His eyes finding their way back to your hole swallowing him. “So good, baby.”
You tuck your feet over his thighs for leverage, pulling off his cock slowly then sinking back down, and back up. You repeat the motions, torturously slow, your slick creating this lewd noise from each rock of your hips as you go deeper. Choso’s hands are on your thighs, weighing you down but he’s really holding back from actively pushing — still you’re sinking, taking more.
You start to bounce, struggling to hold yourself up with your palm on his chest, the slight sting of the stretch dulling out to a deep pressure. It’s a lot easier now, you go even faster with the help of your growing arousal slicking up his cock. Every touch you leave on each other now feels highly sensitive, your tits pressed against Choso’s hard chest, his hands squeezing on your ass for dear life. You’re left unable to keep up conversations or teases to each other now, heads completely in a different space. You're left babbling incoherencies as your tingling nerves derail your focus, the only thing clear was to go after what felt good.
But you falter, your knees slowing as they start to ache but you push yourself further, desperate, taking even more of Choso’s length. You find yourself losing balance and lean over, panting. You lift your hips, then let your ass fall back into his lap, a strained mewl leaving your throat, “I-I need help. I need you, Cho—need you t’a fuck my pussy,”
He groans out at how high your voice got, fresh from its suppressed whines. “Okay I’ll help,” He’s quick with his hands, holding you by the globes of your ass, and pulls you up. He bites back a noise, hearing and feeling your tight pussy gush and clamp on him as he lifts until it’s just the tip. “s’ okay if I thrust a little?” He whispers against your ear, growing desperate as his cock pulses in anticipation. You nod fervently in his neck, arms circled around him. “Okay baby, I’m gonna. I’m gonna help this pussy- fuckkk”
It’s noisier now, from your skin, sticky and slapping against each other, to your gasps turning into moans against each other’s open mouths. Choso’s now taking all the work, lifting your ass and bringing it down to meet his aching cock even faster than you could have. He starts meeting your pussy half way, thrusting up wards and it knocks the wind out of you.
Moans spill out of you with each thrust up, breaking and then bursting out of you. You’re clinging to him, bodies impossibly close, skin rubbed up against skin. “You’re so fucking loud, honey—do you like it?” His groans turn into grunts with how he’s physically exerting his body, on a mission to see you break apart on top of him.
You reply with a noise of acknowledgment, barely audible amongst the slapping and heavy breathing. You’re body feels hot all over, from inside and out. He’s deep enough inside you in places you didn’t even know was possible to go that far in, and the best worst part is you haven’t even reached the base of him yet. A new objective makes itself known in the part of your brain that still functioned, a dimly flickering idea.
“Ch-choso can you, ngh—“ You’re bringing your face out of his neck to face him, but he’s still busying himself with his thrusts, “I want you deeper, c-could you do that f’me?”
He’s letting out a high pitched whine he when lets you down, about to throw his head back when you catch his lips in yours, tugging on his hair and pulling roughly. “You’re stronger than me Cho, c’mon. Make me cum on your big cock—“
He groans, planting his feet on the ground, before you know it you’re up in the air, now standing. You cut yourself off with a moan, both of you do —sighing out when he lifts your ass up before dropping you on his painfully hard cock. “You’re so filthy when you talk, y’know that?”
It feels like he's all the way to your lungs when he finally bottoms out in you, which would make sense since it feels like you aren’t breathing anymore. You cry out once more, wiling your eyes and muffling the noises in his neck, biting down. “Are you crying?” He asks, concern prodding between his excitement, but the thought manages to make it’s way to his cock, fucking you on him rhytmically slow and deep. You let out a choked sob, “Fuck you’re crying—not even going that fast.”
“Then g-go faster,” You managed to voice out between moans, your hips wiggling in his grasp. He groans in response, kneading your ass to stop you from getting ahead of him.
“You tell me if it’s too much- just, you have to tell me a-alright?” You’re clenching on him, still trying to bounce. “Shit, Okay.”
The slower sounds of your skin slapping each other turn into rapid, sharp sounds. Choso grunting from each thrust, now fully unrepressed. In seconds, the image you’ve crafted of him as this shy, hesitant boy, crumbles. You’re fully moaning out now, his cock nudging deeper and repeatedly in that spot that triggers your insides. “I’m so full, fuck-“
He’s hiccuping his moans out, turning into whimpers as he pumps you up and down even faster, his nails digging into the meat of your ass. “You’re taking me so good baby,” He’s thrusting up when he lets you fall on his cock midway, his muscles forgetting to strain. “Fuck, take it, take it—“
He dives in against your lips, tongue invading your whimpering mouth. You try your best to kiss back, eyes nearly closing while he’s drowning you in him. You’re clenching on his cock a lot tighter now, his balls drenched in your arousal, slapping against your other hole from the impact of his motions.
“I think I—I’m gonna cum-“ You pull away from Choso who lets out a breathy moan, licking your lips to chase yours. You’re falling limp against him, hips rendered useless when he’s already fucking you on a pace outside of your own stamina.
Your insides are pulsing around his member, your moans growing even louder. Choso’s deep enough into you when he feels his cock twitch, “I need to pull out—“ You’re immediately protesting, letting out noises of disapproval. “No, no baby I’m gonna cum if you—“
“I don’t care.“ Fuck. Choso holds himself back, his pre-cum oozing out makes your sopping hole even more slippery at the thought of filling you up to the brim. He’s thinking of ways to keep himself from cumming right this very second when you’re already so fucked out and desperate, high up in your own head.
His dick twitches again and he’s biting his lip, slowing his carry on your body til you’re stopping altogether. Before you could say anything else, he’s pulling out and placing you on the couch, lying down. You’re complaining, spreading your legs as much as the cushions on your side could let you.
Choso’s holding his cock, squeezing at the base to calm himself down but he opens his eyes to your gaping, hungry hole, presented to him like an offer, “C-cum inside me, Cho,”
His resolve breaks within a blink of an eye, already laying above you and wrapping your legs around his waist. You feel like crying out of joy when he finally makes his way inside, thrusting slowly and hissing from how tight you still are. “I need to be on top of you, I need to—“ He mumbled, eyes already hazed out and clambering for satiation.
He topples over you as he finds his balance, now setting a newer pace from earlier, caging you with his body while his thrusts grow even faster.
The sensation is much more different now, a stretch added with the forces of his thrusts now fully landing on you.
He’s watching every twist of your face and moan spill out. Scanning your body downwards while he lays a palm on your lower abdomen, “If I cum inside you’re gonna bulge right h-here, d’ ya want that?”
You’re squealing against him when he presses down, his cock nudging where he’s digging his fingers from the outside. Your walls flutter against his member, sucking him in and pulsing wetly. Choso’s grunting against you, hips growing faster as he watches your eyes get even more hazy and your face twisted.
Your eyes are rolling back when he starts rubbing on your clit, already impatient with wanting to feel your pussy tighten impossibly around him.
He’s whispering incoherencies to you, face on your neck when he pulls back his hips and pushes back in deeply as he continues rubbing you.
You cry out, shuddering against Choso as the coil in you snaps, holding onto his wrist as your legs secured against his ribs.
He lets out a shaky moan, pumping faster when he chases his orgasm while you ride yours out on him, bodies grinding up against each other intimately.
A curse lets you know that he’s finally reached his climax, thrusts growing slow and deep while pumping you full of his sticky cum. Your eyes are glossed over, your throat sore from your own voice when he’s riding out his high, panting and leaving kisses all over your face.
Your chests are pumping against each other, both catching your breaths. Your hand finds its way to his face, turning it so he could look back at you. His cheeks are red and his glasses were no longer on him, probably losing them from how much you’d been switching positions.
You’re brushing his hair from his face, tucking a long strand onto his ear. Your body still feels like it’s on fire but it doesn’t compare to how even after all that, his stare on you still makes your heart skip a beat. You let out a breath, gathering yourself.
“What do you think?” His eyes scans over your face, “Better than coming up to study?”
Choso shifts on his elbows as he’s laying on top of you.“Yeah that was…” He takes a moment to think of a better way to describe it, a smile spreading on his face. “Really good.” He settles with honesty instead.
He’s thumbing over your shoulder, a hundred thoughts trying to materialize themselves in his still mushed up brain. “I’ve never done it like that, before I mean.“
He’s looking up to meet your eyes, and you’ve got a glow emitting from you, drawing him in. He hesitates for a moment but then, “And you? How’d you feel?”
You huff out a soft chuckle, realizing how ironic this all was. How you’ve still managed to not destroy the awkwardness that came with affections even when you’ve skipped over to, well sex. Choso waits for your answer, something swirls tight in his chest, uneasy but still patient.
You’re brushing back the hair on his scalp, taking in how much less guarded he looks without glasses. “Yeah, I feel…safe.”
He smiles, that knot in his chest untangling. To no surprise, he finds the thread it’s bundled from may be connected to you. “Yeah?”
Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and you’re already steeling yourself for the usual routine: a sky-high bill, too much time wasted, and a mechanic who barely looks up. Instead, you get Sukuna, who’s so offended by your previous mechanic's scams that he takes it upon himself to teach you enough to make sure it never happens again. Unfortunately for him, fixing your car is a breeze, but getting you out of his head? Not so much.
cw: mechanic!sukuna x f!reader, mostly sukuna pov, sukuna has a crush, yearning sukuna, pining sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, kinda slow burn
wc: 10.4k, one shot
notes: based on these two asks: first and second! thank you nonnie for the idea <3
main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah
It's barely past dawn, and as Sukuna drags the shutters up, the ungodly morning air hits him with a brisk, damp chill, cooling the coffee in his hand. He’s banking on a quiet hour to sort through the mess of inventory, maybe even enjoy the silence, before the first scheduled appointment pulls him away.
Down the road, maybe a hundred meters away, hazard lights blink through the gray mist. A hatchback sits stranded on the shoulder with its hood open. You’re there beside it, looking entirely defeated, with your shoulders hunched as you rub your arms against the biting chill that cuts straight through your jacket. You're pacing in small circles, your breath blooming in white puffs that vanish into the fog.
Taking a long sip of his coffee, Sukuna watches the scene for a beat. It’s obvious that this mess is about to become somebody's problem, and with how close you are to his driveway, that somebody's him. He lets out a resigned grunt, sets the mug aside, and starts the slow, reluctant walk down the slick, dark stretch of asphalt.
By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.
"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.
You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.
Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.
"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."
He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”
You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.
"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.
"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.
Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."
True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.
Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."
He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.
None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.
"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"
Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”
"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."
Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.
"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"
"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."
Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.
Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.
"You know what those other things were?"
You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."
That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.
"And you paid anyway."
It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.
Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”
"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"
After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."
The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.
"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"
A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"
A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"
You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.
"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."
His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.
"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."
—
The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.
At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.
He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.
"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."
You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.
Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.
“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."
There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.
You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.
"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"
Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."
"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."
Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."
"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."
"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."
He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.
——
Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.
Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.
"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.
"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."
Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.
"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."
"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."
For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.
"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."
While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.
When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.
"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."
Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.
"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."
A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.
A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.
"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"
"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.
"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."
Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.
"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."
Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”
You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"
He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.
Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.
"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."
"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."
Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.
Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.
This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.
The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.
All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.
You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.
For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.
Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.
For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.
Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.
The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.
At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.
The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.
"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."
Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."
"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."
"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."
"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."
Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.
"Goodnight, Sukuna."
"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.
The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.
"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.
Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.
He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?
The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.
Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.
His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.
Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.
But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.
—
Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.
Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.
He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.
Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.
“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.
"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"
Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.
Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.
By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.
He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.
Bzzzt.
The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.
Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.
[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!
OH THANK FUCK.
Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.
Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.
[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.
He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.
The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?
By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.
With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.
Hey, you free this weekend?
He glares at the five words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.
Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.
"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.
With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.
Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.
Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.
His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.
Make sure you check your oil this week.
He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement.
"What the fuck am I doing?"
He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.
Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.
I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.
He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.
"No. That's fucking creepy."
He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.
A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.
“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.
Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.
Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.
"For fuck's sake."
By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.
Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.
I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.
He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.
With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.
Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone.
[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)
Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic even to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.
Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.
A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.
Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.
Food. You’re asking about bringing food.
For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.
Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.
Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.
[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?
He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.
A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.
—
Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.
He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.
Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.
“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.
"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"
Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."
He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.
"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."
You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."
"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."
Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.
"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."
He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.
"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."
For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.
When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.
All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.
A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.
"Pizza's here,” he rasps.
He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.
"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."
Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."
The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."
For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.
After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.
Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.
Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.
You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.
Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.
Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.
Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.
He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.
And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?
He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.
"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.
You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"
Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.
For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.
Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.
“Never mind.”
You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.
"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.
"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.
It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.
"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."
Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.
But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.
A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.
"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.
Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.
His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.
"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."
He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.
The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.
Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.
Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.
Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.
Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.
That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.
Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.
Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.
For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.
A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.
“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”
Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."
His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.
"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.
You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.
notes:
> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman
> sukuna: she baked me a pie
> sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind
A loud knock jolts you from your focus, your stationery practically shakes from the force. You murmur to yourself, “What now?” Irritation evident in your voice as you push yourself out of your seat at your desk and head towards your dorm door.
You’re met with a very groggy, very out-of-it Satoru.
“Satoru? What are you doing here — why have you got gauze in your mouth?”
He pushed past you with a groan and flopped down onto your bed as if he owned it. “Just got my wisdom teeth removed, sweets.” His words were slurred, almost incoherent. You stared at him, pondering why on earth your fuck buddy was coming to your dorm out of all places after just having his teeth extracted.
“Aren't you going to cuddle me?”
You snorted at his garbled words, the idea being so foreign that the only reasonable reaction was to laugh. “Satoru, we never cuddle after you visit, we high five and one of us leaves after getting dressed.” The white-haired man’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets at your words, “But… why would I not want to cuddle my girlfriend?”
Hold on, girlfriend?
How many painkillers was this guy on?
You moved closer to him, sitting at the edge of the bed and rubbing your hand up and down his shin. “We aren’t dating, Toru. We just hook up sometimes, remember?” You tried to sound as kind as possible, lowering your voice so as not to embarrass him. Satoru however just shook his head, drool slipping from the sides of his mouth as he sat up.
“Nuh uh, we are dating because I’m sooo in love with you, pretty girl.” He tried to smirk but his cotton-stuffed mouth prevented that, instead, he ended up looking a tiny bit lopsided.
You froze, eyes wide, mouth agape at his confession. “You don’t mean that, you’re practically high from how many meds you’re on.” You tried to get up but he grabbed your hand and pulled you back onto the bed with him. “No, I love you.” He repeated in a sing-song voice, nuzzling his head into your hand.
“My girlfriend, let me love you...” You felt him starting to fall limp against your hand, eyes wavering as he fought a drug-induced sleep. You signed, leaning closer in to press a soft kiss to his damp forehead. “We can talk about whatever that was tomorrow, Toru.”
“Let me love you… don’t you give up, nah-nah-nah…”
“You listen to Justin Bieber?”
“Suguru played it in the car, told me to serenade you…”
➥ Idiots in Love, Secret (Mutual) Crush, Fluffy Sexy
➥ Contains: Just down bad Bartender!Chris railing you flat on a pool table after hours because my brain is R O T T I N G, a somewhat cute twist on the overused porn trope "I don't have money, how about I suck your dick?"
➥ You challenge the stupid hot bartender to a game of pool to get out of paying the gigantic bill your entourage racked up.
*a/n: Just one of the 971003 fics you will surely see about these pictures. And y'all are bad frens for not telling me about them as soon as they were out.
“Come ON, man! It’s Chae’s birthday, and we’ve been your regulars since THE DAY you opened this place!” you protest vehemently, pointing at your very inebriated group of friends waiting for their Ubers out front.
“And thank you for your continued patronage,” Chris responds flatly. “Was there a point?”
“I may or may not have said I’d pick up the tab as a birthday gift,” you grimace, then bat your eyelashes at him like a cartoon bunny. “Can’t tonight be on you just this once?”
“You want me to gift you a night for thirty people?” he snorts. “You guys dried out my entire inventory!”
“It’s good manners, and you haven’t even wished her a happy birthday,” you fake a pout.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHAEEE~!” Chris yells towards the entrance with a big smile, and she waves back at him with childlike joy, making hearts with her hands. He then looks back at you with murderous intent, sliding the bill across the counter like he wants gambling debts to be paid off. “Manners went out the window when you decided to trash my bar. In addition to your friends’ sailor drinking, you’ll be paying for the damages.”
“IT SAYS I OWE YOU LIKE TWO GRAND HERE, WHAT THE FUCK?!” you scream when you see the grand total of four digits.
“The pinball machine is broken, the toilet is overflowing, the wall needs to be plastered and repainted because your frat-ass himbos poked holes all over it with the missed darts, the darts weren’t the only things they couldn’t aim, AND they emptied the entire condom machine in the restroom,” he cites all the charges against you. “You’re lucky I’m not getting your house foreclosed.”
“Ugh, FINE, can I at least split it into four cards?”
“Can’t. The POS terminal doesn’t work.”
“I’ll pay you tomorrow then.”
“Oh, you’re not fucking going anywhere without paying me,” he sternly denies your motion.
“Where am I gonna find this much cash at this hour?!”
You look outside and watch your dear, dear friends wave you goodbye with dumb smiles as they get into their Ubers. As Chris wholesomely smiles at them all, the pool table at the back of the now-empty bar steals your attention.
“I’ll play you for it,” you propose.
“‘Scuse me?”
“I’ll play you for the damages,” you lean into the counter. “One hand. If I win, you clear the tab.”
“And when I win, you’ll still owe me money,” he scoffs. “What do I get out of this?”
“I don’t know, figure something out!” you raise your voice. “Just make it doable.”
You make it too easy for him sometimes. Chris bites his smile to keep the mask intact and declares his bet.
“Fine,” he crosses his arms against his chest. “You lose, you flash me.”
“Flash y— What?”
“You flash me,” he repeats. “Doable enough, yeah?”
“You can’t be serious,” you look at him blankly.
“I didn’t ask to fondle your tits. I just wanna look,” he says seriously, but is clearly trying to suppress a smirk. “All your friends saw it when you were playing truth or dare. Why shouldn’t the guy who served you the entire night?”
“Fine,” you grit your teeth as you extend your hand, shaking his like you want to break it rather than make an agreement.
Ultra content with your end of the bargain, Chris locks the front door and turns the sign on it to ‘Closed’ while you rack up the table. Ever the gentleman, he lets you go first and only lasts two turns before he starts dissing your skills.
“There is no way you’re gonna win like this, just saying,” he reaches for the chalk. “You’re making a few crucial mistakes.”
“Yeah, Cue-ristopher? ENLIGHTEN me, please,” you deride.
Chris takes that to mean ‘Legit give me a tutorial on how to properly play pool’. He gets behind you and practically hugs you, moving your arms like a puppeteer.
Meanwhile, you’re trying to think of ways to not die.
Not only is this the first time you’re alone together with the unofficial Chrome Hearts ambassador, but you have never stood in a proximity from each other that’s not at least a bar counter’s length apart. Now add the fact that you would suck this man’s soul out of him if you ever got him alone. Which is… right now… kinda sorta…
Fucking crazy he still hasn’t figured out why you’re forcing your entourage to hang out at that bar every goddamn night.
“See how the ball is too close to the pocket?” he points at your target. “If your bridge is this short, you’ll hit with too much force and send the cue ball right into the pocket. Longer bridge, slower speed, more control, yeah?” He then checks your grip and adjusts your posture. “Relax your wrist. Arm 90 degrees to the table. Don’t hold the very end of the cue.”
He holds your hand and slowly slides it a few inches up. You know you’re reading too much into this, but the way he moves is too reminiscent of… something else.
“Move up…” he softly instructs into your ear, “right here.”
HOW ABOUT HE MOVES UP RIGHT INSIDE YOUR PUSSY, THOUGH?!
“Now your front hand,” he leans forward and places his hand on yours. “Hook your index finger over the shaft.”
Is he picking these words on purpose, like…?! Since when is pool filled with innuendo for terminology? And more importantly, why is his body a million degrees behind you? Why is he taking deep breaths?
Is this a preview of what it would feel like to feel his body weight on you?
“That’s right,” he approves and gives you your final order. “Now hit that.”
You hit with remarkable accuracy, sending the cue ball to the very edge of the pocket, but it doesn’t fall into it. You can’t care less. You’re trying to brainstorm more ways to feel Chris closer. It’s going to look super tacky if you just said, “Fine, I quit,” right now and flash him, especially right after he’s shown you how to hit like a sniper. Will he think you’re just trying to get out of paying if you made a move on him right now? Will it make you look easy? Does he even find you attractive, or is the “Try this cocktail I’m experimenting with” thing something he does for a lot of people?
In the middle of your spiral, you feel a whisper in your ear, and it’s so soft that it makes you shudder. Nevertheless, you can swear you felt a little throb on your hips just now as he quietly speaks the words with a huge grin.
“Good girl.”
AAAND you snap.
You slowly turn around, resting the butt of the cue on the floor, and lean against the table. Your eyes narrow as if to scan him because something doesn’t make sense here.
“All the things you could ask from me, yet you asked me to flash you,” you recount the terms of your bet. “Why?”
“Can’t a man just want to enjoy a good view?” he retorts.
“He can,” you acknowledge, “but you’re an ass man.”
“How would you know?”
“When I’m by the bar, you never slip no matter how much of a low cut I wear, but you always check me out when I leave the stool,” you touché the crap out of him. “So spill.”
He feels so busted, breaking into a big smile as he averts his eyes from you. Now that it’s out in the open, he sees no harm in being more direct. He rests his hands on the table on either side of you and cages you under him.
“Maybe I was building up to something else,” he responds.
“Why not just go ahead and ask to fuck me then?”
“And you would agree?”
“If you can persuade me.”
He looks down at your chest and lightly brushes the back of his fingers from your exposed collarbone down to your cleavage. You gasp when you suddenly find yourself in the air in his arms, and he makes you sit on the table. He hooks his fingers into the belt hoops of your jeans and pulls you a bit closer, slowly undoing the button.
“So if I just… got on my knees for you right now,” he drags the zipper down, “gave you a nice, sloppy head…”
He slips a hand inside, gently caressing your soaked folds with two fingers. Then he removes them and spreads his fingers apart, licking his lips at the sight of the slick between them. You can’t help how thickly you gulp when he looks right into your soul as he licks them clean.
“...would that be persuasive enough to let me fuck you on this table?”
“What a freak,” you chuckle. “First time getting physical, and you want a threesome with the table?”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he tsks. “It’ll be awkward between me and the table tomorrow since we work together.”
You burst into laughter, and he joins you. You feel like you can breathe again, but it’s short-lived. When the laughter dies down, the air immediately starts thickening again.
“You know,” you pull him closer from his collar, “your experimental cocktails have too much pineapple juice in them.”
“If you don’t like it, then stop drinking them,” he counters.
“Then stop feeding them to me.”
“Then stop accepting it.”
“Then stop acting like you’re not trying to get me to taste better,” you hold up his damp fingers. “Did it work, at least?”
“That’s a myth. I figured if you bought into it, you would start associating me with cum,” he replies with a smirk. “You taste so fucking delicious as it is, I should make a cocktail out of you.”
Yeah, you throb between your legs a little bit, and what about it?
“So if I just… paid a one-off service fee instead,” you slide your hands down his chest, “can we just call it even?”
“Just so you know, gratuity is not included,” he informs you before he leans in for a kiss.
His lips are impossibly soft, moving within yours with such a memorized rhythm as if you’ve already been kissing each other for years. His hands move to peel your pants off of you, and he drags them down to your ankles, spreading your legs while kneeling before you. You don’t get a heads-up before he dives right in, hands wrapped around your thighs as he drags his tongue all over your slick folds.
You can’t believe you have actually manifested your most frequented wank session material into existence.
“There is no way you’re gonna make me cum like this, just saying,” you lie your ass off for the sake of snark. “You’re making a few crucial mistakes.”
“Enlighten me, please,” he slurps into your entrance.
“Get your fingers wet,” you instruct him as you spread your lips. “Then wrap your lips around my clit.”
He follows your orders to perfection, and you move his hand towards your entrance.
“Now hit that,” you urge him.
And man, does he hit.
It has nothing to do with pace. Chris doesn’t rush. He sticks his tongue out, relaxes it, and presses it against your clit, moving his head in a circular motion and occasionally closing his mouth on your pussy. His middle and ring fingers keep working you as he eats, stimulating a delicious spot inside you in an almost languid rhythm. Yet it works so well that the slick you’re oozing is dripping down his wrist.
“Don’t–Don’t stop…” you moan, your eyes rolling back. You need something to grab onto and squeeze, but there’s nothing around you other than him. “So wet, god, Chris, you’re fucking killing me…”
He chuckles into your pussy so softly that something shoots up from your crotch and hits the ceiling of your head. When he notices how your legs shake, he starts moaning into you more, quiet but deep, and it sounds so lewd as if you’re the one satisfying him. You hold his head in place and ride his tongue, trying your hardest not to go insane while listening to his sounds of pleasure, and when he starts slurping on your clit, you snap.
Chris doesn’t remember ever witnessing something so obscene and so beautiful in the same breath.
He gets back up on his feet, and you almost lose your mind seeing half his face covered with you. He seems proud of it. He seems like he wants a reward for it. A kiss, a compliment, a flash of your tits…
He unbuckles his belt and takes his cock out, his tip flushed dark pink with how hard he is. It’s so mouthwatering that your hands move on instinct to feel him, tracing the bulging veins with your thumb.
“Any mistakes here I need to be aware of?” he asks, aligning himself with your entrance.
“Just hit that,” you hold onto his shoulders with a fucked out smile.
A deep groan rips from his throat as he disappears into you. You lick your palm, reaching under to cup his balls, and he starts smiling to himself with his eyes closed like he’s getting high. His girth makes you feel so full, and your mind goes more blank with every thrust, unable to form a single thought. Before it becomes a full white space inside your head, your end of the bargain knocks on the door of your consciousness, and you peel your top off, pressing your breasts together while pinching your nipples a little bit. His face contorts at the sight, and he leans in to suck on them, his pace suddenly turning erratic.
“Lie down for me, beautiful, I’m gonna cum on them,” he requests. “Play with those for me, yeah?”
You lie on your back and get your fingers wet, looking right into his eyes as you rub your nipples. He feels incredible being buried deep inside you, all swollen and wet for him, but the way he makes your tits bounce just makes him wanna hit that harder.
“Oh, fuck, you’re so hot. Yeah, like that. Like that. Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum. I’m gonna cum so hard for you, baby, clench. Clench harder. Harder, yes. Yes. FUCK!”
The warm, thick strings of his seed land on your breasts, and it feels so strangely satisfying. You smear it all over your skin like your bespoke moisturizer, and even though he’s just cum, Chris loses it a little bit. You hold onto his hands and pull yourself up, kissing him through his faded euphoria.
“For your information, I was just trying to be a gentleman,” he holds your face, “I’m also a tits man.”
“You don’t say,” you narrow your eyes, joining his silly giggles, and as you put your clothes back on, your phone goes off with a notification.
Chaerry Blossom
say thank you to chris again for the gift <3 he’s the best
also hit that already before someone else does smh
“Um… Efren Reyes, yes, hello,” you snap your fingers in front of Chris’ face. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”
“About what?”
“What does Chae mean with ‘gift’?” you show him the screen.
Chris reads the text, then fashions a response template for you. “Tell her I said, ‘Anytime, and happy birthday’.” He buttons his pants back on and fixes your hair. “The mention of hitting that is up to you, but if you do, a five-star review of my performance would be appreciated.”
“What are you saying?” you furrow your brows.
“Oh, come on, it was her birthday today. Wouldn’t be good manners to take money,” he explains with the most vexing smile. “Consider it a gift from me.”
“So… we didn’t have to do this shit at all,” you purse your lips, brows knit so tightly with the realization of being hustled that a valley forms between them. “In very camp porn fashion, you were already planning to fuck me for the tab.”
“I never opened a tab for you guys tonight.”
Your mouth parts open, and all that comes out for a while is ceaseless stammering. What does he mean he didn’t open a tab? What does he mean consider it a gift from him?
“What the heck was that whole production then?!” you eventually yell at his face.
“Wanted to shoot my shot. I was prepared for you to cuss me out, and if that happened, I was just gonna say I was messing with you,” Chris shrugs. “Which, I technically was.”
“You freaked me out just for the LOLs?”
“I freaked you out for a chance to finally get you alone so I can ask you out,” he confesses.
Your flabbers are gasted, your dumbs are founded, and your thunders are struck. You don’t know what to say to him for a while, much less when you realize some things you’ve been carrying around for the longest time might not have been one-sided at all.
“We’re… literally here every night,” you state the obvious.
“Yet every night you come in together with your friends, too busy chatting it up at your booth, then leave together,” he gives an executive summary of your nightly routine. “Even when you guys go to the restroom, you move in flocks, like what’s up with that?”
“We’re not rampant alcoholics, dumbo. Why would we hang out here every night?” you emphasize once again.
Chris takes a moment to process your words, then his dimples start to deepen. It’s like a yawn effect—every time you see him smile, you inadvertently smile, too.
“Well, at least we were able to test how sturdy the pool table is,” you caress the green surface, then look at him with a smirk that’s up to no good. “Wanna go test how sturdy my bed is?”
“I can tell you the results up front; it’s so failing the test,” he melts into your lips again.
❥ Reblog & drop your feedback to make Chris hit that.
⤷ part of the weight of love: eight ways to STAY series
[ ▸ ] — you and minho have spent years loving your son from separate homes, pretending the distance between you stopped hurting a long time ago. he has always loved quietly, and you have always needed something louder. but when jiho begins a school project about family, the life you thought minho let go of starts finding its way back to you.
[ ✐ ] — 12k
[ ⌗ ] — architect!minho x interior designer!reader coparenting slow burn angst hurt / comfort second chances graphic & detailed smut oral ( f receiving )
[ ✉︎ ] — cannot believe we are 7/8 done with with this series! ahhh! also loved how i got to watch the kNOw way while editing this <3 changbin's part will be a little tricky to post so i'll let you guys know how/when that will posted later. a wet hot skz summer is coming too guys! joy and i are so excited for you guys to read everything we've been cooking for the past three months! anyways, as always hunnies, enjoy, and please—if you do, like, reblog, and comment <3 love to see you guys' thoughts and feedback!
You have learned, over the years, that there are different kinds of quiet.
There is the quiet of an unfinished house before the flooring goes in, when every room carries the hollow echo of possibility and dust hangs in the air, waiting to settle. There is the quiet of an office after midnight, when your monitor glows over half-finished renders and your coffee has gone cold beside the keyboard. There is the quiet of a child finally asleep after fighting bedtime, one foot sticking out from under the blanket, one hand curled around a plush animal he claimed he no longer needed.
Then there is Minho’s quiet. That one has always been harder to name.
Years ago, you mistook it for safety. For steadiness. For love that did not need to be dressed up to be real. When you were twenty-something and stupidly certain that wanting the same future meant you would understand each other forever, Minho’s quiet felt like something solid beneath your feet. He did not say much, but he showed up. He fixed things. He remembered things. He stood beside you without making a ceremony of it, and for a long time, that felt like enough.
Then Jiho was born and enough became harder to measure.
The first year of your son’s life unraveled both of you in different ways. You remember it in fragments now: tiny socks in the washing machine, bottles lined up near the sink, Minho asleep upright on the couch with Jiho against his chest, your own reflection in the bathroom mirror looking less like you every morning. You remember the exhaustion most clearly, the kind that burrowed under your skin and made every unspoken thing feel louder than it was.
Minho loved Jiho. That had never been in question. He loved him in careful hands and warmed milk and the way he learned every small cry by sound. He loved him in clean laundry folded at two in the morning, in doctor’s appointments never forgotten, in the rocking chair he assembled before you were discharged from the hospital because he said the old one made a noise that would irritate you.
He loved you too, you think now.
Back then, you were not so sure.
Back then, all you knew was that he came home, kissed Jiho’s head, washed bottles, asked if you had eaten, and moved through your life with the controlled steadiness of a man doing everything right except reaching for you when you needed him to.
You were twenty-seven when you left. Jiho was nearly two. There had been no screaming. No affair. No single terrible night that split your life cleanly in two. Just one conversation after too many lonely months.
You told Minho you did not think you wanted the same life anymore.
He looked at you for a long time. Then he said, “Is that what you want?”
You wanted him to say no. You wanted him to say your name like losing you would ruin him. You wanted him to fight you, just once, with something louder than care carefully hidden inside chores and errands and practical concern.
Instead, you heard yourself say, “I think so.”
Minho’s eyes lowered to Jiho asleep between you on the couch, his cheek smushed against a blue blanket, his little mouth open around soft breaths.
Then Minho said, “Okay.”
Okay.
Not stay.
Not don’t go.
Not I love you.
Okay.
Six years later, Jiho is eight, and he does not remember the two of you together.
He knows Mom’s place and Dad’s place. He knows which drawer at each home holds his pajamas, which parent is more likely to let him have cereal after dinner, which couch has the better blanket, which pantry hides the snacks he is not supposed to know about. He knows school drop-offs and alternating weekends, birthdays spent with both of you at the same table, parent-teacher conferences where Minho sits with his arms crossed and listens so closely the teacher usually starts speaking to him like he might be grading her.
To Jiho, this is not broken. It’s just family.
Maybe that is why it’s easy to pretend you have all adjusted.
Your phone vibrates while you’re standing in the middle of your design studio, a stack of fabric swatches balanced against your hip and a sample book spread open across the consultation table. Across from you, your client flips through upholstery options, pausing every few seconds to hold one up against the mood board you’ve spent weeks building together. Afternoon sunlight pours through the front windows, catching on brass fixtures and illuminating the organized chaos of sketches, material samples, and half-finished concepts scattered throughout the space.
You glance at the screen.
Minho.
His name still does something inconvenient to your chest. Less dramatic than it used to be, maybe, but no less real. A small internal pause. An old room opening somewhere.
“Sorry,” you tell your client. “I should take this. It might be about my son.”
She smiles politely, and you step into the hallway.
“Hey,” you answer.
“Jiho left his science notebook in my car.”
You close your eyes. “Again?”
“He says it wasn’t again because last time was his math folder.”
“Of course he does.”
“He asked me to tell you the distinction matters.”
You can hear him walking, keys faintly shifting in the background. His voice is low and even, familiar enough to hurt if you let yourself listen too closely.
“I can pick it up after work,” you say. “I’m not too far from your office.”
“I’m near your studio. I’ll drop it off.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
You look down at the samples in your hand. White oak. Ash. Walnut. Three kinds of wood pretending not to hold different moods.
“Minho,” you say.
“What?”
“I can get it.”
“And I can bring it.”
There is no sharpness or impatience in his voice. Just that same quiet certainty that always makes arguing with him feel like trying to move a wall.
You sigh. “Fine. Thank you.”
“Have you eaten?”
You glance toward the living room, where your client is now squinting at wallpaper. “Not yet.”
“It’s almost two.”
“I am aware of the time.”
“Awareness isn’t lunch.”
You press your lips together, the beginning of a smile tugging there before you can stop it. “Did you call to scold me?”
“I called because your son has the organizational habits of a tornado.”
“My son?”
“He gets that from you.”
“Um, no, he absolutely gets that from you. You have six separate folders labeled ‘miscellaneous.’”
“They are different kinds of miscellaneous.”
“That sentence alone should make you ashamed.”
A quiet breath comes through the phone. “I’ll be at your studio in twenty,” he says.
“Okay.”
A pause. “Eat something.”
“You’re very bossy for someone delivering a notebook.”
“You’re very bad at lunch for someone who needs food to be alive.”
You roll your eyes, but your voice softens. “Drive safe.”
He is quiet for half a second. Then, “See you soon.”
The call ends.
You stand in the hallway longer than necessary, phone still in your hand, staring down at the dark screen.
It would be easier if Minho were colder.
You have thought that more times than you can count. It would be easier if he forgot things, if he showed up late, if he spoke to you with indifference, if shared custody had turned him into a polite stranger. It would be easier if the man who broke your heart had at least done you the courtesy of becoming someone else afterward.
Instead, he remains exactly who he has always been.
Twenty-four minutes later, your receptionist calls to say Jiho’s father is downstairs.
You find Minho in the lobby of your studio with Jiho’s notebook under one arm and a paper bag in his other hand. He is wearing a black coat over work clothes, hair neat but wind-touched, glasses sitting low on his nose.
He looks up before you say his name.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hey.”
For a second, neither of you moves. Then he holds out the notebook. You take it carefully. “Thanks.”
Minho lifts the paper bag next.
You look at it. “Notebook came with a side quest?”
“You didn’t eat.”
“I said not yet.”
“You always say ‘not yet’.”
You take the bag because refusing it would only make him stand there longer, and standing near him already pulls at too many seams. Inside is a wrapped sandwich from the café around the corner, fruit, and an iced coffee. Your order. Exact down to the extra shot and light ice.
Your fingers tighten around the handles.
“You remembered.”
Minho frowns slightly, as if the statement itself is strange. “You’ve ordered the same thing for four years.”
“People forget things.”
“I don’t.”
He says it without emphasis. Simple fact.
“Thank you,” you say, quieter.
His gaze moves over your face. “You look tired.”
“You say that like it’s helpful.”
“It’s true.”
“Truth and helpfulness are not the same thing.”
His mouth tilts. Barely. “You’re wearing two different earrings.”
You reach up quickly, touching one ear, then the other. One small pearl. One gold stud.
“Oh my god.”
“It works.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It looks intentional if you don’t panic.”
You glare at him, but there is no real heat in it. “How long were you going to let me walk around like this?”
“I just got here.”
“You noticed immediately.”
“Yes, well you design interiors. Maybe people thought it was a concept.”
A laugh escapes you and his eyes soften when he hears it.
Your phone buzzes. A text lights the screen.
Seungmin: Dinner Friday still good?
You turn the screen down too late.
Minho’s gaze flicks to it, then away. He says nothing, but something in his expression folds inward, a shutter drawn almost silently.
“It’s just dinner,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Minho looks at you.
You don't know why you said it. Maybe because the change in his face still has the power to make you explain yourself. Maybe because some terrible part of you wants him to care.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says.
“I know.”
A beat.
“Good.”
The word is polite. Flat. Perfectly reasonable.
It lands like a bruise.
You look down at Jiho’s notebook. “I should get back.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll see you Saturday for his game?”
“I’ll see you then.”
Minho never misses Jiho’s games. He stands along the fence with his hands in his pockets, saying very little, watching everything. When Jiho runs toward him afterward, sweaty and flushed and asking if he saw his almost-goal, Minho always says, “I saw.” And Jiho always beams like his father shouted across the field.
Maybe for him, it’s equivalent.
“Okay,” you say.
Minho nods once and turns to leave.
You wait until he is through the glass doors before you let yourself breathe.
On Saturday morning, Jiho’s soccer game takes place under a gray sky that keeps threatening rain and then losing interest. Parents gather along the sidelines with folding chairs and travel mugs, their conversations drifting above the field in soft bursts. You arrive ten minutes before kickoff with Jiho’s water bottle, an extra hoodie, and a packet of orange slices because you forgot it was your snack week until midnight and had to peel and separate them while half-asleep.
Minho stands near the fence in a navy sweatshirt and black joggers, arms crossed, expression neutral as he watches Jiho warm up. A paper cup of coffee sits on the grass by his shoe. Beside it is a second cup.
You approach slowly.
His eyes flick toward you. “You’re late.”
“I’m early.”
“Barely.”
“Good morning to you too.”
He bends and picks up the second cup, holding it out.
You stare at it.
“You’re predictable,” he says.
You take it. It’s warm through the cardboard. “That’s your explanation?”
“You like coffee when it’s lukewarm.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It’s a thing.”
Minho’s gaze moves back to the field.
You stand beside him, close enough that your sleeves nearly touch, both of you watching Jiho chase a ball with more determination than coordination. He is not the best player on the team, not even close, but he plays with his whole face, brows drawn together in concentration, mouth open as he runs. When he spots you, he waves so enthusiastically he almost misses the ball rolling past him.
Minho cups one hand near his mouth. “Jiho. Ball first.”
Jiho gives him a thumbs-up, then promptly trips over his own feet.
You wince. Minho doesn’t move, but his shoulders tense until Jiho pops back up.
Across the field, Jiho scores a goal by sheer chaos: the ball bounces off another kid’s shin, rolls toward him, and he kicks it with such surprise that everyone reacts half a second late. It goes in.
Jiho freezes, then turns toward both of you, face bright with disbelief.
You cheer immediately. Minho claps, once, twice, controlled but unmistakable. When Jiho keeps looking, Minho lifts both hands and gives him a small, firm nod and a smile.
Jiho’s smile widens.
“He’s going to talk about this for a week,” you say.
“Two.”
“Minimum.”
“He’ll ask me to build a trophy shelf.”
“You would.”
Minho takes a sip of his coffee. “Of course.”
You glance at him, and there it is again, the ache disguised as fondness.
After the game, Jiho runs over with muddy knees and grass on his sleeve, cheeks pink from the cold.
“Did you see?”
“Yes,” you say, crouching as he throws himself into you. “I saw.”
“I scored.”
“You did.”
“It was kind of an accident, but not fully.”
Minho crouches too, reaching to untie one of Jiho’s cleats before he tracks mud everywhere. “A goal is a goal.”
Jiho beams at him. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Can we get tteokbokki?”
You laugh. “That was fast.”
“I used a lot of energy.” Jiho looks between you with interest. “So can we get tteokbokki?”
Jiho pumps both fists, then immediately turns to you. “Are you coming too?”
The question hangs there.
Minho looks down at Jiho’s muddy cleats.
You look at Minho.
This is the kind of moment you have gotten good at stepping around. The harmless invitations from your son, the ones he asks because he doesn’t remember a time when you and Minho were anything but separate and therefore sees no reason why separate cannot still sit at the same table. To him, family is not one house. It is two adults who show up.
You should say you have work, which is technically true—you do have work.
Instead, Minho says, “Your mom might be busy.” An opening.
You look at him. His expression is calm, but he will not meet your eyes.
“I can come for a little,” you say.
Jiho grins. “Okay. Dad, you’re paying because you said no first.”
Minho stands with the cleats in one hand. “That makes no sense.”
“It does if you think about it.”
“I did. It doesn’t.”
You laugh softly as Jiho starts explaining his logic, all tangled reasoning and absolute confidence, while Minho pretends not to listen and opens the car door for him anyway.
Lunch is not uncomfortable. It should be awkward, sitting across from Minho in a small restaurant with Jiho between you, steam rising from a shared pan of tteokbokki, rain finally tapping against the front windows. It should feel like pretending.
Instead, it feels dangerously easy.
Jiho talks through half the meal, recounting his goal with increasing embellishment. By the third version, he has “dodged two defenders,” though you both watched the ball bounce directly to him. Minho lets him have it until Jiho claims he planned the angle.
“You did not plan the angle,” Minho says.
“I planned to kick.”
“That is completely different.”
“Angles are part of kicking.”
“You didn’t even know where your other foot was.”
Jiho considers this. “That’s true.”
You laugh, reaching over to wipe sauce from the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Jiho ducks away with an offended noise, but leans back in when Minho gives him a look.
After lunch, Jiho falls asleep in the backseat of Minho’s car before you even leave the parking lot. You stand beside your own car, rain misting through the air, holding the leftover container Minho insisted you take.
“Thanks for lunch,” you say after a moment.
Minho’s hands rest in his coat pockets. “Of course.”
A small smile tugs at your mouth. Minho looks at it, then away.
You shift the container in your hands. “Jiho’s happy when we do things together.”
“He is.”
“It doesn’t confuse him?”
Minho looks toward the car, where Jiho sleeps with his forehead pressed to the window, mouth slightly open. “He’s used to us.”
That should comfort you. It does, mostly, but something inside you twists anyway.
“He doesn’t remember,” you say.
Minho’s gaze returns to you.
“When we were together,” you clarify. “He doesn’t remember that.”
“No.”
“Sometimes I wonder if that made it easier for him.”
Minho is quiet for a moment. Rain beads on his dark hair, tiny silver points in the gray afternoon. Then he says, “Maybe.”
You wait.
He adds, “Or maybe he just knows we both love him.”
You look away because that is too simple and too much.
“He does know that,” you say.
Minho’s voice softens. “Good.”
You nod, but the word follows you home.
Good.
Always good. Never enough.
The family project begins the next Wednesday.
Jiho announces it at your dining table while eating noodles and arranging cucumber slices in order from smallest to largest.
“Ms. Park says we have to make something about our family.”
You look up from your laptop. “Something?”
“A project.”
“What kind of project?”
“Any kind.”
“That is very broad.”
“I know. It’s bad.”
You close your laptop halfway. “Did she give examples?”
Jiho nods. “A family tree. A poster. A drawing. A scrapbook. Junho is making his family as Pokémon.”
“That sounds fun.”
Jiho pokes at a cucumber slice. “I don’t want to do a family tree.”
“Why not?”
“Trees are boring.”
“Trees are cool. They provide oxygen.”
“My project doesn’t need oxygen.”
You concede with a nod. “Fair.”
He eats a noodle, thinking. His hair is still damp from his shower, sticking slightly to his forehead. Sometimes, in the soft light of the apartment, he looks so much like Minho it startles you. Not only the eyes or the set of his mouth, but the focus. The way he goes still when he is sorting through an idea.
“Can I make our family a house?” he asks.
Your hands pause on the laptop. “A house?”
“Yeah.”
“Why a house?”
He looks at you as if the answer is obvious. “Because you make houses nice inside, and Dad makes houses stand up.”
You stare at him for a moment.
Then you smile. “That’s one way to put it.”
Jiho looks pleased with himself and reaches for another cucumber. “So can I?”
“Of course you can.”
“Can I make two doors?”
“Sure.”
“One for your house and one for Dad’s?”
The question is simple. Practical. Unloaded by adult grief because Jiho doesn’t carry your history. Still, it presses somewhere tender.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Two doors works.”
Jiho nods and begins sketching on the back of an old grocery list, tongue poking into his cheek. You watch him draw a rectangle, then a slanted roof, then three uneven figures in the doorway.
“Why are we all in one house if there are two doors?” you ask gently.
He shrugs. “It’s a project, Mom.”
You huff a laugh. “Right. My mistake.”
He looks up. “Also because it’s our family.”
Then he returns to his drawing, leaving you sitting there with the soft devastation of being corrected by someone who has never known your life any other way.
That weekend is Minho’s.
Jiho packs the project instructions into his backpack, along with two shirts, his math workbook, and a rock named Mr. Bite that you have been instructed not to call just a rock because that is apparently disrespectful.
At drop-off, Minho opens the door before you knock twice.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
Jiho pushes past you. “Dad, don’t step on Mr. Bite. He’s in the front pocket.”
Minho looks at you.
You lift your hands. “I don’t ask questions anymore.”
Minho crouches to unzip the front pocket of Jiho’s backpack, carefully removes the rock, and sets it on the narrow entry table beside his keys.
“Welcome back,” he tells it dryly.
Jiho beams. “See? Dad respects him.”
Minho just gives you a look. You press your lips together to keep from smiling.
Jiho kicks off his shoes and runs toward the living room. “I have a project!”
“I know, Mom told me,” Minho calls after him. “Take your socks off the floor.”
“They’re not on the floor.”
“They’re on the floor, I can see them.”
Jiho groans but returns to gather the socks.
You remain near the doorway, fingers curled around the strap of your bag. Minho notices. He always notices when you are preparing to leave, just as he notices when you linger.
“Busy weekend?” he asks.
“A little. Client meeting tomorrow morning.”
“And dinner?”
The question is even, too even.
You look at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Minho.”
His gaze drops to the keys on the table. “You said you had dinner Friday.”
“That was last week.”
“I know.”
You study his face, the careful blankness there. “Are you asking if I’m seeing him again?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m asking if Jiho needs to know anything.”
“Jiho doesn’t know about Seungmin.”
His eyes lift at the name. You wish you hadn’t said it.
“He doesn’t need to,” you add. “It’s not serious.”
Minho nods once. Something about that nod makes you tired. “You can say whatever you’re thinking.”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“Lie a little better.”
His jaw moves slightly. For a second, you think he might actually say it. Something real. Something sharp enough to cut through the polite arrangements and shared calendars and careful handoffs.
But then, from the living room, Jiho yells, “Dad! Do you have giant paper?”
Minho’s gaze remains on you for a beat longer.
Then he turns his head. “How giant?”
“Like architect giant.”
Minho looks back at you, and whatever had nearly surfaced between you sinks again.
“I should go,” you say.
He nods. “I’ll bring him back Sunday at six.”
“Okay.”
You almost step away, then pause. “Make sure he does his reading log.”
“He will.”
“And no cereal for dinner.”
“It was one time.”
“It was three times.”
“Across several years.”
“Minho.”
He looks at you calmly. “I’ll feed him real food.”
“Thank you.”
You turn to go. Behind you, Minho says your name.
You stop.
He is still by the door, one hand resting against the frame. “Drive carefully.”
It’s such a small thing, and yet it still feels like love.
At Minho’s apartment, Jiho finds the storage tubes by accident.
He’s looking for paper, apparently unsatisfied by the large sketchpad Minho has already given him because it is ‘not building-y enough’. Minho lets him wander the edge of the office under supervision, watching as his son inspects shelves with the solemn curiosity of someone touring a museum dedicated entirely to boring adult objects.
“What’s that?” Jiho asks, pointing at the cluster of long cardboard tubes leaning in the corner.
“Old drawings.”
“Can I use one?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re old drawings.”
“Are they important?”
Minho looks at them. He should say yes and move on. Instead, he stands very still.
The tubes have followed him through two apartments, an office move, one breakup, and six years of telling himself that keeping things doesn’t mean waiting. He kept old project sketches from university, early firm work, competition drafts he never submitted. He kept things because architects are part archivist, part fool. The past piles up in paper if you let it.
But one tube is different.
He knows it without looking at the label. The label itself has faded, but he remembers his own handwriting.
house - personal
Jiho taps the tube lightly. “Dad?”
Minho blinks. “What?”
“Can I see?”
Minho’s first instinct is no. His second is no, more softly. His third is the thing that gets him into trouble: Jiho is looking at him with curiosity, not suspicion. To him, these are just papers. Lines. Rooms. Maybe something useful for a family project.
Minho pulls the tube free, dust clinging to the cardboard. He wipes it with his sleeve, then removes the cap.
The first sheet slides out with a sound that reaches farther back than he expects. Graphite lines. Measurements. Notes. The outline of a house that never stood anywhere except in his hands and your voice.
He sees your handwriting first, a small note near the kitchen.
not too cold! warm light here
He remembers you saying it, seven months pregnant, sitting cross-legged on the floor despite his repeated warnings that getting up would become a entire event. You had eaten half a bowl of strawberries and told him kitchens should not feel like showrooms because people were supposed to live messy lives in them.
He had told you that was not a design specification.
You had said, “Make it one.”
So he did.
“Dad?” Jiho asks.
Minho looks down at him. His son is waiting.
Minho should put it away. Instead, he hears himself say, “You can use this one.”
Jiho’s face lights. “Really?”
“Don’t rip it.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t draw over the notes.”
Jiho peers at the paper. “There are notes?”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
Minho’s hand rests lightly on the edge of the sheet. “Mine. And your mom’s.”
Jiho looks up. “Mom helped?”
“Yes.”
“With a building?”
“With a house.”
“Whose house?”
Minho is quiet. Jiho waits, but not anxiously. Just curious.
Minho rolls the sheet carefully and hands it to him. “Ours,” he says.
Jiho accepts this with the easy adaptability of a child. “Cool.”
Then he runs off to draw over Minho’s ghost.
For the next two weeks, the project moves between homes.
It comes to your apartment rolled in a tube almost too big for Jiho’s backpack and returns to Minho’s with new marker streaks, colored pencil shading, uneven labels, and smudges from Jiho resting his wrist in the wrong place while coloring. You don’t see the full sheet at first. Jiho works on sections, guarding the main part with the seriousness of an artist preparing for a gallery opening.
You catch glimpses—a yellow window, a red front door, a backyard labeled maybe turtle?, and a square marked mom’s work room.
You help him choose colors for the interior, biting back the instinct to correct his proportions when he draws a sofa larger than the kitchen island.
“It’s a very big sofa,” you say.
“It’s for family movie night.”
Your pencil pauses. “Family movie night?”
“Yeah. At Dad’s, the couch is too small if we all spread out with our feet up.”
“We don’t usually all sit there together.”
“But if we did.”
He says it easily and keeps coloring.
You say nothing, stunned into silence.
Minho drops Jiho off one Wednesday evening with the project tube under one arm and a grocery bag in his hand.
“What’s that?” you ask.
“Jiho said your smoke detector was beeping.”
You stare at him. “So you brought groceries?”
“Battery is in the bag.”
“You brought a battery in a grocery bag?”
“There are also groceries.”
“Why?”
“Your fridge looked almost empty last week.”
Your mouth opens, then closes.
Minho steps past you before you can decide whether to argue, removing his shoes automatically. Jiho runs straight to his room, project tube clutched to his chest, yelling something about not looking because it’s not finished.
You follow Minho into the kitchen, where he sets the bag on your counter and begins unpacking as if he still lives there.
Eggs. Strawberries. Tofu. Rice cakes. The tea you like. Jiho’s yogurt drinks. A pack of batteries.
“Minho,” you say slowly.
“What?”
“You can’t keep buying my groceries.”
“I don’t.”
“You just did.”
“Some of these are for Jiho.”
“Some?”
He puts the strawberries in your fridge. “Most.”
“You bought my tea.”
“You get headaches when you work late.”
You turn away, pretending to inspect the smoke detector in the hallway. “I can take care of myself, Min.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Minho stills. The words sit between you, sharper than you intended.
You turn back. His face is calm, but there is something guarded beneath it now. “I didn’t mean you couldn’t.”
“I know,” you say, softening. “I just…”
You stop because you don’t know how to finish.
I just don’t know what to do when you still take care of me.
I just don’t know why you do it.
I just don’t know why you can do all this and still not tell me what it means.
Minho looks at you for a long moment. Then he reaches into the bag, takes out the batteries, and holds them up. “Where’s the ladder?”
You let out a tired laugh because of course that is where he goes. Back to the fixable thing. Back to the beep in the ceiling. Back to something with a beginning, a task, an end.
“In the closet.”
He nods and goes to get it.
That night, after Minho leaves and Jiho is in bed, you find a small container of sliced apples in the fridge.
Thin slices. Too thin for Jiho, who prefers wedges because they’re crunchier.
You stand there with the refrigerator light spilling over your bare feet, staring at apples cut exactly the way you like them, and feel something inside you slowly, painfully rearrange itself.
The project is due on Friday.
On Thursday evening, Jiho spreads it across your dining table for final touches.
“Don’t look too much,” he says, placing both hands over the center of the paper.
“I’m helping you glue cotton clouds.”
He allows you a corner.
You sit beside him with glue on your fingers while he narrates the layout, explaining which room belongs to whom, which window gets the best sun, where Mr. Bite would live if rocks needed bedrooms. You laugh when appropriate, ask questions when he wants you to, and try not to overstep.
Then Jiho reaches for a green pencil, and his sleeve drags across the paper.
For the first time, the center is fully visible.
You stop breathing.
Under Jiho’s bright marker house are lines you know with a familiarity that frightens you. Because your body remembers them before your mind catches up.
The angle of the staircase. The wide kitchen. The eastern-facing room marked for the nursery. The window seat tucked beneath the stairs because you once said every home needed a place to hide without actually hiding.
Your hand rises to your mouth.
There, beneath Jiho’s uneven blue shading, is Minho’s handwriting.
nursery morning light
Near the kitchen:
wide island for mama’s samples
Near the living room:
built-ins here? she wanted storage but not ugly storage
You aren’t aware you’ve made a sound until Jiho looks up.
“Mom?”
You try to answer. Nothing comes out.
He follows your gaze to the paper. “Did I mess it up?”
“No.” You say it too quickly, reaching for him. “No, baby. You didn’t.”
“You look weird.”
You let out an unsteady breath. “I just recognize this.”
“The house?”
You nod, fingers hovering over the notes. You don’t touch them. Some foolish part of you worries the pencil will vanish if you do.
“Dad said you helped,” Jiho says.
You look at him. “He told you that?”
“Yeah. He said not to cover the writing because it was important.”
Your throat tightens. “Did he say anything else?”
Jiho thinks, tapping the green pencil against his chin. “He said it was from before I was born.”
You close your eyes.
The house had started as a joke, then a fantasy, then something close to a plan. Minho drew it during the last trimester, when you were swollen and restless and unable to sleep. You would sit beside him at the low table in your old apartment and point at inspiration photos while he complained about impractical layouts and drew them anyway.
You had forgotten how much of yourself was in it.
No—that’s not true. You had tried to forget.
“Mom?” Jiho says.
You open your eyes.
He is watching you carefully, his small face drawn with concern. “Are you mad Dad gave it to me?”
“No,” you say. “I’m not mad.”
“Because I can ask him for different paper. It’ll take forever to redo but it’s okay.”
“No, Jiho.” You pull him close and kiss the side of his head. “This paper is perfect.”
He relaxes against you, warm and solid and still small enough to lean without thinking.
After a moment, he says, “Dad keeps important stuff.”
You stare at the paper. “What do you mean?”
“He has a box.”
“A box?”
“Not a box. A tube. And boxes.” Jiho frowns, trying to categorize the storage system. “He said some stuff is not for playing.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Pictures. Old papers. Baby stuff.” Jiho shrugs. “I saw my tiny hospital hat once. It was ugly.”
You laugh through the tightness in your chest. “It was not ugly.”
“It was kind of ugly.”
“It was adorable.”
“It was wrinkly.”
“You were wrinkly.”
He gasps. “Rude.”
You smile and smooth his hair.
He looks back down at the project, then reaches for the green pencil again. “Dad doesn’t throw away important stuff.”
You barely sleep.
Instead, you lie awake thinking about a cardboard tube in Minho’s apartment. About your notes in the margins. About the fact that he had kept the house for eight years. Not the final plan of a completed building, or a professional project worth archiving.
A dream. An unfinished future.
The next morning, you and Minho attend Jiho’s school presentation.
You arrive separately, which is how you arrive everywhere now. You get there first, sitting in one of the small chairs near the back of the classroom with your knees awkwardly angled and your tote bag tucked between your feet. The walls are covered in student work, paper planets, vocabulary words, and drawings of spring flowers. The room smells like crayons, pencil shavings, and whatever cleaner schools use that always reminds you of childhood.
Minho slips in five minutes later and spots you immediately. You lift a hand slightly as he comes over and sits beside you, leaving a polite amount of space between your chairs.
“You made it,” you say quietly.
“I said I would.”
“I know.”
He glances at you, and you feel the old ache again, the ache of things said plainly that still carry more weight than they should.
Jiho sees you both from the front of the room and waves with one hand, the other holding his rolled project. His smile is nervous but proud.
You wave back and Minho gives him a small nod and smile.
Jiho visibly straightens.
Ms. Park starts the presentations. A family tree. A poster about grandparents. A shoebox diorama with cotton-ball clouds. Copycat.
Jiho is fourth.
When his name is called, he carries his project to the front and unrolls it across the board with Ms. Park’s help. The paper is almost too large, curling at the edges despite the tape.
You feel Minho go still beside you.
For the first time, he sees what Jiho has done with it.
The dream house is almost hidden beneath color now, transformed by an eight-year-old’s imagination. The lines are still there, faint beneath marker and label and glue, but Jiho has made it his own. Flowers along the walkway. A huge sofa in the living room. A backyard. Three figures near the front door, their hands connected by one long line.
Jiho clears his throat. “My project is my family as a house,” he begins, reading from an index card he has clearly bent in half several times. “My mom designs inside places, and my dad designs buildings. So I thought a house made sense because houses need both or else they are either boring or falling down.”
A few parents chuckle. Minho exhales softly through his nose. You press your fingers to your lips.
Jiho continues, gaining confidence. “This is my room. This is Mom’s work room because she has a lot of samples and says they’re not trash even though they might be trash. This is Dad’s table because he draws buildings and says rulers disappear when you need them.”
Minho mutters, very quietly, “They do.”
Jiho points to the three figures. “This is us. We don’t live in one house, but we’re still family. Ms. Park said family can be people who take care of you.”
He glances toward you, then Minho. Then he looks back at the class.
“My mom says things a lot. Like, good job, and I love you, and please don’t talk to me from upstairs.” A ripple of laughter moves through the room, and Jiho smiles shyly. “My dad doesn’t say as much, but he remembers stuff. Like my cleats and snacks and when Mom likes apples cut thin.”
Your cheeks burn. Beside you, Minho taps his foot nervously.
Jiho shrugs, small and natural, one shoulder lifting. “Dad is just quiet. But I know he loves both of us.”
The room softens. However, this is still a third-grade classroom. A boy in the front row is picking at the rubber sole of his shoe, Ms. Park smiles with wet eyes she is trying to hide, and a baby cries from the back row.
But for you, everything narrows to Minho’s hand resting on his knee, fingers curled tightly into his palm.
Jiho finishes with, “That’s my family. Also, I want a turtle, but my parents said no.”
Jiho bows because apparently someone told him presentations require flair, then carries his project back to his desk with his ears bright red.
For the rest of the morning, you barely hear anything.
After the presentations, parents gather around the displays. Jiho drags both of you to his desk and shows you details he already explained, because pride requires repetition. Minho listens closely, asking small questions that make Jiho glow. Why this window? Why this room? Why is the turtle area larger than the kitchen?
“Because turtles need enrichment,” Jiho says.
“How do you know that word?”
“YouTube.”
Minho looks at you. You lift your hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
For a moment, it feels almost normal. Then Jiho runs off to show his friend where he drew Mr. Bite in the garden, and you are left standing beside Minho with the project between you.
You look at the old notes beneath the colors.
Minho looks at you. “I didn’t know he would say all that,” he says.
You nod. “I know.”
“I didn’t tell him to.”
“I know.”
A pause. Then you say, “But he’s right.”
The classroom noise swells around you, bright and busy, children calling for parents, chairs scraping, paper rustling. You should not have this conversation here, between desks and glue sticks and a bulletin board about fractions.
Minho seems to understand that too. He looks down at the project. “Can we talk later?”
Your heart starts beating too hard. You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
That evening, Jiho goes to Minho’s parents’.
You spend the rest of the day working badly. You choose the wrong rug for a client deck, attach the wrong file to an email, and stare at one fabric sample for ten full minutes without registering the color. By five, you give up and close your laptop.
Minho texts at six-thirty.
Minho: Jiho is finishing homework. I can meet after dropping him off if you still want to talk.
You read the message three times.
Then reply—
You: My place?
His answer comes quickly.
Minho: Okay
At eight-forty, there is a knock at your door.
When you open it, Minho stands in the hallway wearing a black coat, hands in his pockets, face calm enough that only someone who knows him would notice the tension at the corners of his mouth.
You step aside and he enters quietly, removing his shoes. The old familiarity of it catches you off guard. He has always moved through your home carefully, even after it stopped being his. Never assuming too much. Never forgetting where things are.
“Tea?” you ask.
“No.”
“Water?”
“No.”
Despite everything, you smile a little. “Same old Minho.”
He looks relieved, though only for a second.
You walk to the dining table where Jiho’s project rests, rolled loosely. Minho’s gaze follows it. “I know I should have asked before giving it to him,” he says.
You turn. “That’s not why I wanted to talk.”
“I didn’t think.”
“I don’t believe that.”
His mouth tightens.
“You always think,” you say. “Sometimes too much.”
He looks down.
You touch the edge of the paper. “You kept it.”
“Yes.”
“All this time.”
“Yes.”
The same simple answer. The same unbearable calm.
You unroll the project carefully, smoothing the curling edge with your palm. Jiho’s colorful house fills the table, bright and sweet and imperfect. Beneath it, the pencil lines remain.
Your fingers hover over the note near the kitchen.
wide island for mama’s samples
“You remembered everything I wanted,” you say.
Minho stands across from you, hands still in his pockets. “Not everything.”
“Enough.”
His eyes lower to the paper.
You take a breath that does not quite steady you. “Jiho said you kept important things.”
Minho’s expression closes slightly.
“What else did you keep?”
He is quiet for so long that you think he will not answer. Then he softly says, “A lot.”
Your chest tightens. “Like what?”
“The first sketches.” His voice is low. “The paint samples you liked. The magazine pages you tore out. Ultrasound photos. Jiho’s hospital bracelet. Yours too.”
You press a hand to your mouth.
Minho looks away, jaw tense. “I know.”
“Know what?”
“That it’s strange.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“It’s not,” you repeat, firmer now.
He looks at you then, and the guardedness in his face hurts more than anger would have.
“Why?” you ask. The word comes out barely above a whisper.
Minho’s gaze drops to the project. For a moment, he is silent, thoughtful. And then he breaks it by saying, “Because it was ours.”
Your eyes close. It’s so Minho of him—plain, honest, and devastating without trying to be.
“I didn’t keep it because I thought we’d get back together,” he continues. “I didn’t let myself think that.”
You open your eyes.
He swallows. “But throwing it away felt like saying it didn’t matter.”
The first tear slips before you can stop it. Minho sees it immediately. His hand shifts at his side, instinct pulling him toward you, restraint holding him back.
You hate it. You hate that he no longer knows whether he is allowed to comfort you.
“It mattered,” you say.
“I know.”
“No.” Your voice cracks. “I don’t think you do. It mattered so much that when I thought you didn’t want it anymore, I didn’t know how to stay.” You wipe at your cheek, frustrated by the tears now that they have started. “I thought you fell out of love with me.”
His features tighten. For once, the silence that follows is not unreadable. It’s wounded. “You thought what?”
“You never said anything.”
His brows draw together, pain moving through the restraint. “I was there.”
“I know.”
“I came home to you every night.”
“I know.”
“I took care of you.”
“I know, Minho.” The words come out broken. “That’s what made it so confusing.”
He looks like he doesn’t understand. Or maybe like he’s beginning to.
You press your fingers against the table, grounding yourself beside the house you never built. “You did everything. You changed diapers and warmed bottles and made sure I ate and fixed every broken thing in that apartment. But after a while, I couldn’t tell if you were doing it because you loved me or because you were responsible.”
Minho says nothing.
“You were so quiet,” you continue. “And I was so tired. I kept waiting for you to tell me you were happy. That you wanted us. That you still wanted me, not just Jiho, not just the life we accidentally made around him.”
His eyes shine. “I wanted you,” he says. The words come out rough. “I wanted all of it,” he continues. “I thought you knew.”
You laugh once, softly, sadly. “I didn’t.”
His gaze drops. “I thought staying was saying it,” he says.
You look at him through tears. He lifts his eyes again, and this time, there is no distance left to hide behind. “I was wrong.”
The words settle between you. Not enough to erase years. But real.
You wipe your cheek. “When I told you I thought we didn’t want the same life, you said okay.”
Minho’s jaw tightens. “Because I thought you were telling me you wanted to leave.”
“I was asking you not to let me.”
Pain crosses his face. Quiet, but unmistakable. “I didn’t know how to fight without making it worse,” he says. “You were exhausted. You looked sad all the time. I thought if I asked you to stay, I would be asking you to keep being unhappy. So I said okay,” he continues. “And I hated myself for it.”
The room goes quiet. Outside, life continues with insulting indifference while you stand in front of the man you have loved for years and realize you were both lonely in the same house.
You look down at Jiho’s project. “He doesn’t remember us together,” you say.
“No.”
“He still drew us that way.”
Minho’s eyes move to the three figures by the front door, hands connected by one long crayon line. “He drew his family,” he says.
You reach for the back of a chair, but Minho steps around the table before you can fully steady yourself.
“Can I?” he asks.
It takes you a moment to understand what he means. Then you nod. “Please.”
And when his hand touches your arm, careful and warm, you fold toward him with a sound you wish you could keep inside.
Minho holds you. Not like a co-parent fulfilling some emergency comfort role. No, he holds you like someone who has known the shape of you for years and never forgot where his hands belonged. One arm wraps around your back, the other hand settling at the back of your head, his palm firm and familiar.
You cry into his chest, and his chin lowers near your temple.
“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s so quiet you almost miss it. Then again, stronger, “I’m sorry.”
Your fingers curl into his coat. “I’m sorry too.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“Yes, I do.” You pull back enough to look at him. “I should have told you what I needed. I should have said it instead of testing you with silence.”
His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping a tear with such care it hurts. “You were tired.”
“So were you.”
“I should have told you anyway.”
You let out a shaky breath. “You’re telling me now.”
His eyes hold yours for a moment, deciding how much to confess. Then he says it. “I never stopped loving you.”
A breath escapes your parted lips, eyes welling.
Minho’s hand remains at your cheek, warm and steady. “I tried to stop. I thought I had to, especially when I saw you with someone else.” His mouth tightens faintly. “I was bad at it.”
A laugh breaks through your tears, fragile and wet. “At stopping?”
“At being normal.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’ve never been normal.”
“I know.”
There’s that warmth again.
Then he grows serious.
“I love you,” he says. “I loved you then. I love you now. I was a fool for thinking you could hear it if I never said it.”
Your face crumples. “I was a fool for doubting you.”
“No,” he says immediately. “Don’t make it yours.”
“It’s ours,” you whisper.
He looks at you for a long moment before nodding once. “Ours.”
You lift your hand to his wrist, holding him there. “I never stopped loving you either.”
Minho closes his eyes. The breath he releases is unsteady, and that, more than anything, breaks your heart open. All this time, you thought his calm meant he had survived you. You never thought it might mean he was holding himself together.
When he opens his eyes again, they are damp.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks.
You almost laugh because after everything, after a child, a breakup, six years of shared custody, the question feels tender enough to undo you. “Yes.”
Minho kisses you carefully at first. Softly. Then your hand slides into his hair and his breath catches, and the carefulness thins into something deeper. He kisses you like he never stopped knowing how to. His fingers cradle your jaw, his other arm tightening at your waist, and when he tilts his head to kiss you again, you feel years of longing break loose all at once.
It’s not perfect.
There are tears. A shaky laugh against his mouth. When you finally pull back, his forehead rests against yours.
“I love you,” he says again.
You smile through the tears. “Practicing?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His mouth curves. “Bossy.”
“You need repetition.”
“I’m learning.”
Your heart softens. From your phone on the table, a notification buzzes, but neither of you looks at it.
Minho’s thumb moves slowly along your cheek. “What about Seungmin?”
You lean back enough to see him. “There isn’t a Seungmin.”
His brow lifts slightly.
“There was dinner,” you clarify. “Twice. And coffee once, which you apparently think is worse.”
“It is.”
“It wasn’t serious.”
Minho looks down, almost embarrassed by his own relief.
You touch his cheek. “I think I was trying to prove I could move on.”
His eyes return to yours. “And?”
You shake your head. “I was bad at it.”
The smallest smile appears.
“Good,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “That was smug.”
“No.”
“It was.”
“A little.”
You laugh, and this time, when he looks at you, he doesn’t look away. And then he turns and leads you down the hallway toward your bedroom and your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat.
“Minho—” you start, but he stops walking, turns, cups your face between both palms.
“I meant it,” he says, and his voice is low, rough around the edges, nothing like the careful, polite tone he used during those first awful years of shared custody. This is the voice he used to use when he’d wake you up in the middle of the night, mouth already finding your neck. “Every word. And I’m going to show you. If you’ll let me.”
You nod. It’s all you can do.
The bedroom door clicks shut behind you both, and the sound of it—that soft, final sound—sends a pulse straight between your thighs. The curtains are still open, late afternoon sunlight pooling gold across the rumpled duvet you didn’t bother making this morning. You didn’t know he was coming over. You didn’t know any of this was going to happen.
Minho turns you around slowly, hands settling on your shoulders. His thumbs trace the curve of your collarbone through the thin fabric of your t-shirt, and you watch his face in the dresser mirror across the room—the way his jaw tightens, the way his tongue wets his bottom lip.
“I’ve thought about this, about you,” he murmurs, “for six years.”
His fingers find the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t pull it up right away—just tucks his fingertips underneath, brushes them against the skin of your waist, and the contact is so light it makes your stomach clench.
Then he lifts your shirt.
The fabric slides up over your ribs, your breasts, and you raise your arms automatically, letting him pull it over your head. It falls to the floor somewhere, and you’re standing in front of him in your worn-in bra, the one with the stretched elastic and the faded color, and suddenly you’re acutely, painfully aware of every change in your body since the last time he saw you like this. Your arms twitch, instinct telling you to cover yourself.
“Don’t,” Minho breathes.
He catches your wrists and brings them back down to your sides.
“Don’t you dare hide from me.”
His gaze moves over you—your shoulders, the swell of your breasts, the softness of your belly that wasn’t there before. You feel exposed. Raw. But the way he’s looking at you—fuck, the way he’s looking at you—it’s like he’s staring at something holy.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “I mean it. Look at you. Look at how gorgeous you are.”
His hands move to your waist, palms sliding up your ribcage, thumbs hooking just beneath the underwire of your bra.
“I think about you,” he says. “Your skin. The way you smell. The sounds you make when I—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. “I’m going to take my time tonight. I’m going to worship every single inch of you until you understand how much I’ve missed you.”
He unclasps your bra with one hand—still remembers the trick of it, the way the hooks catch and release—and the straps slide down your arms. The fabric falls away, and your nipples tighten in the cool air of the bedroom.
Minho makes a sound low in his throat.
“Stunning,” he whispers. “Absolutely stunning.”
He leans in, and his mouth finds the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. The kiss is slow, open-mouthed, his tongue tracing a wet line along your skin. You shudder, and he feels it—you know he does—because his grip on your waist tightens.
“I’m going to kiss every part of you,” he says against your throat. “Every fucking part. Starting here.” His mouth moves down. Along your collarbone now, lips dragging, tongue flicking out to taste the hollow at the base of your throat. Your hands find his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt because you need something to hold onto.
“Minho.”
He groans and sinks lower. His mouth finds the swell of your left breast, and he kisses the curve of it, his stubble scraping your sensitive skin, making your hips jerk involuntarily.
“I love these,” he murmurs, cupping your breast in his palm, thumb brushing over the peaked nipple. “I love how responsive they are. How hard they get when I barely touch you.”
He lowers his head and takes your nipple into his mouth.
The heat of it—the wet, sucking heat—makes your back arch. His tongue circles, slow and deliberate, and he watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. When he grazes his teeth over the sensitive peak, you gasp, and your fingers twist in his shirt.
“That’s it.” His voice is muffled against your skin. “Let me hear you.” He switches to the other breast, giving it the same attention, laving and sucking until you’re squirming, until your thighs are pressing together and there’s a damp heat building between them that’s becoming impossible to ignore.
But he’s not done.
Minho continues his path downward. His mouth traces the valley between your breasts, then lower—over your sternum, your ribs, the soft plane of your belly. He pauses at your waistband, pressing a kiss just above the button of your jeans.
“I remember every curve,” he says. “Every spot that makes you gasp. But I want to learn you again. All of you.”
He unbuttons your jeans with careful, deliberate movements, and the denim slides down your thighs. You step out of them, and then you’re standing in nothing but your panties—simple cotton ones, because you weren’t expecting anyone to see them—and Minho is kneeling in front of you.
Kneeling.
“You’re breathtaking,” he says, looking up at you, and the word comes out so sincere it makes your chest ache. “Every part of you. Your thighs—fuck, I dream about these thighs wrapped around my head.”
He presses a kiss to your left hip bone, then your right.
“These hips. The way they fit in my hands.”
His palms curl around your hip bones, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the elastic of your panties.
“I’m going to take these off now,” he says, fingers hooking into the waistband. “And then I’m going to put my mouth on you until you come. And I’m going to watch you the whole time, because there’s nothing—nothing—sexier than watching you fall apart for me.”
The panties slide down your legs. You step out of them, and then you’re completely bare, standing in the afternoon sunlight while he stares at you like you’re the most exquisite thing he’s ever seen.
“On the bed for me, baby,” he says, and his voice has gone rough, ragged.
You move backward until your calves hit the edge of the mattress. He follows, still on his knees, crawling toward you in a way that’s almost predatory. When the backs of your thighs hit the duvet, he guides you down onto the mattress, spreading your legs with careful, gentle hands.
“So pretty,” he murmurs, settling between your thighs. His shoulders press against the inside of your legs, spreading you wider. “Look at you. So wet already, and I’ve barely touched you.”
His breath ghosts over your center, and your hips buck upward involuntarily.
“Minho, please—”
“Please what?” His eyes flick up to meet yours, and there’s a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”
“Your mouth. Please.”
He doesn’t make you wait. His tongue drags through your folds, broad and flat, and the sensation rips a moan from your throat that you didn’t know you were holding. He groans against you—groans, like the taste of you is the best thing he’s ever had in his mouth—and the vibration of it sends sparks up your spine.
“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to speak. “You taste even better than I remember. I could stay here for hours.”
He dives back in. His tongue traces patterns against your clit—circles, then figure-eights, then a steady, pulsing rhythm that has your fingers twisting in the duvet. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s always known.
“Remember this?” He licks a slow stripe up the center of you. “Remember how I used to make you scream?”
You can’t answer. You can barely even breathe.
His mouth is relentless. Tongue flicking, lips sucking, the occasional scrape of teeth that makes you jerk and gasp. He’s watching you—you can feel his gaze burning into you—and every time your eyes flutter open, he’s there, dark and intent and so fucking aroused it’s written all over his face.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your clit. “Let go. I want to feel you come apart on my tongue.”
Two fingers slide inside you, curling upward, finding that spot he always knew how to hit. Your back arches off the mattress.
“Fuck—Minho—fuck—”
“Yeah,” he growls. “Say my name. Scream it.”
His fingers pump in and out, his mouth working your clit with obscene, wet sounds that fill the room. The pressure builds, coiling low and tight, and you’re so close now, right on the edge, thighs trembling, hands fisting in his hair.
“I’m—I’m going to—”
“Do it,” he says, and his voice is raw, wrecked. “Come for me. I want to feel it. I want to watch your face—I want to see how fucking gorgeous you look when you shatter.”
The orgasm hits you like a wave—no, not a wave, something sharper, something that whites out your vision and wrenches a scream from somewhere deep in your chest. Your thighs clamp around his head, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, just rides you through it with his mouth and his fingers and his low, rumbling groans that vibrate straight through your clit.
You come down trembling, gasping, and he’s still kissing you—softer now, gentler—pressing his lips to the inside of your thigh, your hip, your belly.
“Beautiful,” he’s murmuring. “So fucking beautiful. Wish you could see yourself. Feel good?”
You can only nod, chest heaving.
He rises up onto his knees, still between your thighs, and tugs his shirt over his head. You watch the fabric fly off to reveal his chest and your breath catches.
His shirt hits the floor. His hands move to his belt, and you watch him unbuckle it, unbutton his jeans, shove them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free—thick and heavy, the tip already glistening—and your mouth goes dry.
Fuck. You remember him being big, but you’d forgotten just how much he fills your hand. How much he stretches your pussy.
He strokes himself once, twice, his eyes locked on yours. “I need to be inside you. Please, baby. I can’t wait anymore.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “Now. Please.”
He settles between your thighs, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, and it feels like coming home. His hips slot against yours, and you can feel the hot, hard length of him sliding through your wet folds—not pushing in yet, just rocking, coating himself in your slick.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do.
He pushes in. The stretch is breathtaking—literally, you forget how to inhale for a moment—and Minho groans, a long, shuddering sound that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest. His forehead drops to yours.
“Fuck,” he grinds out. “So tight. So wet. You feel—fuck—you feel incredible.”
He sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried all the way inside you. He stays there, motionless, letting you adjust, and you cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
“Okay?” he breathes.
“More than okay. Move. Please.”
He pulls out slowly—agonizingly slowly—and thrusts back in with a roll of his hips that hits exactly the right angle. You gasp, and he does it again. And again. A rhythm builds, slow and deep, the kind of fucking that feels less like sex and more like a whole experience.
His hips roll, grinding against your clit, and your moan turns into a cry.
“Yeah, that’s it. That’s the sound I’ve been missing. Scream for me, baby. Let everyone hear how good I’m making you feel.”
The bed creaks beneath you, a steady, rhythmic counterpoint to the slap of skin against skin. He’s hitting that spot inside you with every thrust now, the one that makes your vision blur and your toes curl, and you can feel another orgasm building, building, building—
“You’re getting close again,” he growls. “I can feel it. Your pussy’s squeezing me so tight, baby. Come on my cock. Please. Wanna feel you come on my cock.”
His thumb finds your clit, pressing down in tight circles, and that’s all it takes.
The orgasm tears through you, sharper than the first one, and you scream his name, your nails raking down his back as your body clenches around him. He fucks you through it, groaning, his rhythm stuttering as he chases his own release.
“Gonna come,” he grits out. “Gonna fill you up—fuck—is that okay? Can I come inside you?”
“Yes. Yes.”
His hips snap forward once, twice, and then he buries himself deep with a sound that’s almost animalistic—a growl that rumbles through his chest and vibrates against your skin.
“Mine,” he grinds out, pulsing inside you. “Mine.”
You feel every spurt of his release, hot and wet, and he stays there, still buried deep, as his hips give one final, shuddering thrust.
Minho doesn’t pull out. He stays inside you, his weight pressed against you, his face buried in your neck. He whispers sweet nothings, kisses your skin softly before eventually rolling off you to clean you up.
He doesn’t stay the night—not that night.
It would be easy to let the moment swallow everything, to pretend one confession has rearranged all the years between you neatly enough for morning. But you are both older now. Softer in some places, more careful in others. There is Jiho to think about, and yourselves too, the versions of you that loved badly despite loving deeply.
So Minho leaves after midnight with your kiss still on his mouth and one of your hands caught in his until the last possible second.
At the door, he turns back.
“I’ll call tomorrow,” he says.
You lean against the frame. “Will you?”
His eyes soften at the question beneath the question. “Yes.”
“Okay.”
He takes a breath. “I love you.”
You smile. “I love you too.”
He nods once, like he is storing the answer somewhere permanent, smiles softly, then walks to his car.
The next weeks don’t become a fairytale—they become something better. They become deliberate.
Minho calls when he says he will. Sometimes the conversations are short, practical things about Jiho’s schedule or school forms, but he no longer lets them end there. He asks about your work. He tells you when a meeting went badly. He sends you a photo of Jiho asleep on his couch with Mr. Bite balanced on his chest.
He starts saying what he means before silence can do the damage for him.
I missed you today.
I wanted to tell you this earlier.
I’m not upset. I’m thinking.
You try too.
When fear rises, you name it instead of burying it. When you need reassurance, you ask, even when it makes you feel exposed. When Minho reaches for you in quiet ways, you let yourself see them without expecting them to replace words entirely.
Jiho notices, of course.
One Saturday morning, three weeks after the presentation, you go to Minho’s apartment for breakfast because Jiho has been lobbying for family pancakes. You arrive with strawberries and whipped cream, and Minho opens the door wearing a black T-shirt dusted with flour.
You stare at him.
He looks down. “Don’t ask.”
You laugh and step inside, pressing a kiss to his lips that he returns eagerly.
Breakfast is chaotic in the ordinary way of real homes. Jiho drops a strawberry then steps on it while trying to pick it up. You burn the first pancake because you are distracted by Minho standing too close behind you to reach the spatula, his hand settling briefly at your waist as he passes. Jiho talks through the entire meal about school, turtles, and everything else that pops into his brain.
Halfway through his second pancake, he looks between you and Minho. “You guys are being different.”
You freeze. Minho doesn’t, though his gaze shifts to you before returning to Jiho. “Different how?”
Jiho shrugs. “Just different.”
“Good different?” you ask carefully.
He thinks about it while chewing, then nods. “Less awkward.”
Minho huffs softly. You hide your smile behind your coffee.
Jiho points his fork at Minho. “You say stuff more, Dad.”
Minho’s ears turn faintly pink. You look at him, delighted.
“Do I?” Minho asks, voice even.
“Yes.” Jiho spears a strawberry. “You told Mom you missed her on the phone.”
Your eyes widen. Minho looks at you slowly.
You whisper, “Speakerphone?”
“I didn’t know he was listening,” Minho mutters.
“You also said something about coming, but then Mom never showed up,” Jiho says thoughtfully.
“Okay! I am never using my phone around you. Ever,” Minho says, pressing his palms to the table, ears red.
Jiho laughs, pointing to his dad’s obvious embarrassment.
You face palm yourself, cheeks flushed, but you can’t hide the laugh that slips out.
Minho reaches for his coffee, but his other hand brushes yours beneath the table. His fingers hook lightly around yours, hidden from Jiho’s view.
Jiho keeps eating, satisfied with whatever conclusion he has drawn. Then he says, “I like it.”
You look at him in question.
“Pancakes?” Minho asks.
Jiho rolls his eyes in the exact way Minho does, which is frankly unsettling. “Noooo. You guys.”
You feel your face soften, reaching over to wipe a bit of cream from Jiho’s cheek. “We like it too.”
Jiho nods once. “Good.”
Minho murmurs, “Bossy.”
“He gets it from you,” you say.
Jiho smiles around his fork. “I get my intelligence from myself.”
Minho rolls his eyes. “Finish your breakfast.”
Later, after the plates are cleared and Jiho disappears to the living room to introduce Mr. Bite to a new rock named Mrs. Chew, you stand at Minho’s sink rinsing mugs while he dries beside you.
His apartment is bright in the morning, sunlight touching the edges of the counter, the table, the project Jiho insisted on bringing home after it was graded. It is spread carefully near the window now, the vibrant house glowing over old pencil lines.
Minho follows your gaze. “I want to frame it,” he says.
You turn to him. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Where would you put it?”
He looks at the project, then at you. “Wherever we decide.”
The word moves through you slowly. We.
You lean against the counter. “That sounds like a big conversation.”
“It is.”
“Are you ready for that?”
Minho dries the mug in his hands carefully, then sets it down. He doesn’t answer right away, and once, that silence would have scared you. Now, you wait.
When he looks at you, his face is open. “I don’t want to rush Jiho,” he says. “Or you.”
You nod.
“But I want that life,” he continues. “The one I didn’t tell you I wanted clearly enough.” He turns to face you fully. “I want breakfast with you. I want your samples all over the table even though you call it organized and it isn’t. I want Jiho’s shoes in the wrong place and your tea in my cabinets and arguments about paint colors that are all white.”
A laugh breaks softly from your chest.
Minho steps closer. “I want the house,” he says. “Whatever it looks like.”
Your eyes burn again, but this time, the tears come with something warmer beneath them. You reach for his hand. “I want that too.” His fingers close around yours.
For a moment, you stand there in the kitchen with sunlight on the floor and your son’s laughter coming from upstairs, the future no longer a perfect drawing kept in a tube, but something alive and imperfect and waiting to be built carefully.
Minho lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
Then, because he is learning, because quiet love is still love but not the only kind you need, he says it.
“I love you.”
You smile. “I know.”
His brows lift in mock offense.
Laughing softly, you lean across the small space between you and catch his mouth with yours.
It starts briefly, meant to be teasing, but Minho’s hand slides to your jaw and suddenly he’s kissing you back, slow and familiar. The kind of kiss built from years of knowing each other. The kind that says everything neither of you has ever been particularly good at putting into words.
When you finally pull away, his eyes are warm.
You squeeze his hand and add, “I love you too.”
From the living room, Jiho calls, “Can Mrs. Chew come to Mom’s house?”
The moment shatters instantly.
Minho sighs, rubbing his eyes. “And there it is.”
You laugh. “Is Mrs. Chew another rock?” you call back.
A pause. Then Jiho says, “She’s family.”
Minho looks at you. You look at him. And in the bright, ordinary quiet that follows, the two of you begin again.
꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!
꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎
꒰ authors note ꒱ hi cuties! this is a commission piece, and it is about 12k total. this first part is just shy of 6k and the second part will be out next week. i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)
"Oi. Boss lady."
“No.”
One problem at a time, and the spreadsheet in front of you wins by default. Because Column F is wrong. It’s been wrong for forty fucking minutes, and if it stays wrong for forty seconds longer, you may actually die here at your desk — hunched over, half-blind, and found by Shoko on a Monday morning with your face pressed into a pivot table like a cautionary tale.
"But… you don't even know what I was gonna—"
"—the answer is no, Satoru."
Unlike the human embodiment of a headache currently lingering on the other side of your desk, the spreadsheet in front of you is at least pretending to be important.
The chair beneath him creaks, and then comes the silence you know too well. It’s the one that comes right before he decides to be a problem on purpose. Attention is gasoline and Satoru is, structurally, a fire hazard. Still, your eyes flick up, and—
"No fair…” he huffs, that ridiculous pout tugging at his lips. “You didn't even let me finish the question."
Your eyes roll back down.
“Mhm.”
"And it was such a good question.”
You turn a page. "Really?”
“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”
You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."
It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.
It had not.
Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—
…
Wait.
Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?
Fucking great.
“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”
You narrow your eyes.
“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”
Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?
With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby. But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.
He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…
Oh.
That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.
Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”
It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.
“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"
“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.
But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.
“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”
Lips parting, you blink.
…why is he so observant?!
For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.
You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”
His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”
Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.
Oh.
Way too observant.
Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.
His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”
Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”
You blink.
Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.
Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.
After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?
Last month, you still answered her phone calls.
Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.
Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
“Oh—uh, hi mom!”
Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.
“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”
“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.
Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”
“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"
"—have you booked your flight yet?"
Your mouth flattened.
Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.
“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”
“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”
A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.
Every week is a crazy week?
Yeah. No shit.
Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.
You’re the one people relied on.
Just… never the one people chose.
“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”
“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”
…
Keep forgetting?
She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?
How convenient that she forgot that.
The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”
"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”
Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.
No thanks.
“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”
“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”
Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.
Shit.
“I-I—I didn’t say—"
“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”
“—Mom, I—"
“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”
Love?!
Who has time for that?
And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!
“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”
And she was off.
Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.
“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”
Click!
And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.
‘We’ve been so worried.’
…
If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?
Funny how that works.
Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.
“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”
Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.
The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.
But…
None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?
“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”
“Huh?”
Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.
“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”
“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”
For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.
But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"
“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”
And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.
"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"
“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”
Why does he sound… bitter?
No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.
You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"
He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"
Your lips purse.
What does he care? He’s not your mother.
“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”
“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”
You frown.
What the fuck are you supposed to say!?
Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.
Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.
“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”
“But I—”
“Drop it.”
He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.
“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”
The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.
God.
Of all the places to hit.
“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.
He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"
“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”
Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.
His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.
Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”
“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”
Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.
“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"
“Oh, finally.”
Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.
Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.
"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"
You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.
Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.
Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.
You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.
It doesn’t.
And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.
Un-fucking-believable.
He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.
…
He could fire Kento.
Should he fire Kento?
As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.
'Grow up, Satoru.'
'Apply yourself, Satoru.'
'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'
Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.
Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!
He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.
The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.
It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.
“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”
There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”
His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”
The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”
"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”
“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”
…
Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?
Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.
“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”
"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"
"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."
He’s been her intern for that long.
That’s the question, right?
"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”
He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.
“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”
Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.
"…sorry. Who is thi—"
“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"
Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:
📞 Mom
Oh.
Oh, shit.
This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—
"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"
"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”
"Stop. I-I really think—"
“—Satoru, what are you doing?’
His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.
Oh, fuck.
“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.
He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.
“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"
"Mom."
"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"
"I'm at work. Gotta go."
"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"
Click!
The phone sits in your hand like evidence.
And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.
“Sooo… funny story…”
“—what did you do?!”
Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.
Great. Fucking great.
You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.
But cry?
Never.
And this had his fingerprints all over it.
"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"
"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"
Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.
God. How fucking humiliating.
"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."
“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”
Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.
God. Stop it.
Stop it stop it stop it.
Think.
Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.
But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.
…what look will she give you when you show up alone?
"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"
Single.
The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.
And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.
"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"
You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”
"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.
"Huh… okay."
Okay what?
You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."
No biggie?
Your mouth dropped.
That wasn’t even an option, was it?
…is he crazy?
“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."
You stared at him. Genuinely stared.
Oh. He wasn’t kidding.
Yup. He’s crazy.
"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."
“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"
He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.
"…that is not the point."
“Mm… feels a little like the point."
He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."
He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.
…
His family’s in Japan too?
You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.
But…
"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."
Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.
"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."
"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"
Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.
“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”
He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?
Shit…
That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖
in which the men turn to the AITA subreddit for opinions on their relationship disputes. the comments aren't always the most...supportive
warnings: just fluff and crack, some cursing, some sexual language, prob not the most accurate depiction of reddit (I am not familiar with the platform so I did my best lol), non curse au mostly, NOT PROOFREAD (this was a pain to edit you don't even know so I don't want to hear it)
featuring: Gojo, Geto, Choso, Toji, Nanami, Sukuna
SYNOPSIS: sukuna's looking for someone to handle a delicate piercing, and you're the only piercer he trusts with the job. you both struggle to keep your interactions professional during his numerous appointments- but who's to say what will happen when it's all healed and done?
18+ mdni - WARNINGS: just 10k of porn with plot, unprofessional workplace environment, dick piercings, needles!, oral m!receiving, face fucking, degradation, praise, impact play (face, tit, & ass smacking), teasing, humping, riding, standing sex, multiple orgasms, power play, alternating power dynamics— switch kuna and switch reader, pet names, slight edging, pain kink, slight mention of blood, heavy sexual tension, nipple play, choking, creampie, sloppy makeouts, some ass play
A/N: first long one shot that im reposting from my old blog. thank you again for 1k and thank u peps for the title :p
Working in a piercing shop in a big city meant you got a mixed bag of clients. High school kids coming in with their parents for their first nose piercing, college girls getting their bellies pierced together, guys getting their eyebrows done. And you even did the piercings that other professionals sometimes strayed away from due to their… delicate nature.
But whether it was a simple lobe piercing or clitoral hood— you did them all.
The first time you saw Sukuna, he'd come to your shop for an appointment with one of your colleagues to get some tattoos done.
Well, some was an understatement.
He'd come by in the morning every time and wouldn't leave til the shop closed, booking out the entire day. Give or take a year and he looked completely different.
Head to toe, there were thick, onyx bands decorating his chiseled form in a way that was near mesmerizing with each movement, each ripple of his muscles.
It's not like he changed. Even before the ink he was big, burly— certainly larger than any man you'd ever met before. And from the bits and pieces of conversation you'd picked up on, he was rough around the edges.
Always barking out a sharp laugh, voice low and booming. Everything about him commanded attention in such an effortless way, something that most other men wished for.
So no, he didn't really change (apart from his looks) it was actually like he became more himself.
You'd expected that if he ever came back to the shop, it would be for touch ups, maybe to even add more to his collection of designs.
But what you didn't expect, was for him to come back asking for you.
"Where's that girl? The one that does the piercings," his voice rings out through the shop, distinct and gravelly. You know it's him before you even see him.
You poke your head out from the back of the shop, where your room is, your eyes landing on the broad, hulking figure at the end of the hall. Your waiting room isn't small by any means, but it certainly seems that way with him standing in the middle of it.
"You have an appointment?" you question, racking your brain because you can't remember seeing anyone on your calendar at this time— and you'd remember if Sukuna had signed up.
He responds quickly to the sound of your voice, crimson stare finding you immediately. "Nah, not yet," he starts, long legs carrying him towards you with confident strides, "I wanna make one though."
"Oh yeah, of course." You beckon him into your studio, gesturing for him to sit down. And you have to stifle a laugh at the look on his face when he sees the little wooden chairs you have lined up against the wall.
You'd thrifted them a while ago for clients that like to bring a friend or family member with them, but it's a little comedic seeing someone of Sukuna's stature taking a seat in one. For someone so large he was sure moving gingerly, expression suspicious as he carefully dropped his full weight onto the vintage piece.
"Don't worry, it won't break," you assure him, but the wood creaking right after makes you doubt yourself a little.
"You sure 'bout that?" he questions, tone flat but laced with something akin to amusement.
"Well, I guess we'll see," you shrug. "Anyways, you said you wanted to make an appointment?"
He grunts in lieu of a 'yeah'. "Wanna get a piercing done and heard you'd be the best for it."
You hum softly, resting a hip on the side of your counter, your arms crossing in front of you as you look over him. You're curious as to what he's planning to get done. There's plenty of talented piercers in your city, but if he's convinced that you're the one for the job then it must be…
"I wanna pierce my dick." Yep.
He waits, eyes scanning your face for any evidence of shock, maybe a little look of approval to feed his ego. He tries not to care when he gets nothing, just you nodding your head indifferently as you reach for your ipad to pull up an appointment form.
"You know what kind of piercing you want?" you ask, gaze cutting back up to his once you get the form set up.
"Jacob's ladder," he replies smoothly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
That gets a reaction from you.
The slightest ghost of a smile graces your lips and he can feel his chest swelling with pride. He shouldn't really care, he doesn't even know you, but ultimately, he's a confident man who likes to get what he wants. And from the first time he saw you in the shop— tight tank top clinging to your chest, leading away some client who was following you like a lost puppy— he wanted you.
And Sukuna knows he's better than the other losers you pierce, probably just asking you for something basic, something you do every week. He knows from your coworker how often they ask you out, thinking that they have a chance, just for you to politely turn them down and complain about it later. They never had a chance, but Sukuna? He knows he has a chance.
That much was obvious with the way you'd curiously peek in during his appointments, eyes slowly raking over his figure each time, drinking in the sight of him before asking how it was going.
"Good choice?" he asks, standing and crossing over to you as you keep scribbling on the ipad with your stylus.
"They're not too common," you muse, shifting to face him. You ignore the flush creeping up into your cheeks when you see just how close he is now. "But they're a personal favorite so… I'd say yes."
Sukuna's grin widens. "Personal favorite, huh? Favorite to pierce—" his voice drops as he leans down, hovering over you as your lower back presses into the counter, "or to look at?"
Your breath hitches in your throat at the warm feeling of his breath fanning close to your face, and you pray he didn't catch it. But he did. His tongue darts out quickly to wet his lips as his gaze flicks between your eyes and your cleavage.
Recovering quickly, you set the ipad aside, hands coming to rest behind you on the counter. You pretend you don't know what you're doing— pushing your chest out towards him, head craning back slightly to look up at him with that innocent look on your face. You flash him another smile of your own. "Both."
You know it's not professional. But was it so bad to indulge every once in a while? Sukuna was attractive, very much your type, and very much into you.
Your mind flashes through memories of lame dates and unsatisfying hookups, a montage of your depressing sex life as you look over him once more. Every muscle is defined, like they want to show you that they're right where they need to be, his body practically radiating heat. You take in the way his compression shirt sticks to him like a second skin, the way his shorts bunch up ever so slightly around his crotch because his thighs are just that big. Not to mention his voice— the timbre, the way each word rolls so smoothly off his tongue.
Everything about him oozes sex appeal, and you can't help but feel like you'd be crazy not to capitalize on his interest in you.
"Oi, my eyes are up here."
Your head snaps up to see a shit-eating grin on Sukuna's face. That seems to be his signature expression. "Huh?"
"You were starin' at my dick. Not very professional," he tuts.
You roll your eyes, heat pricking just beneath the surface of your skin as you realize that you were just staring at his dick. "Well i'm gonna be piercing it, aren't I? Just checking it out for the job, y'know?"
Sukuna nods slowly. "Right, right," he affirms sarcastically.
"Shut up," you mumble, turning back around so you don't have to see him anymore, worried that your face might betray you even more. "Anyways, it's probably going to be a few sessions—"
You're cut off when a large hand comes to rest beside yours on the counter top. You don't have to see him to know the way he's looming over you again, nearly caging you in.
"Go on," he urges, other hand coming up to scratch his chin as he listens, like he's not being the world's greatest distraction.
"It's easier on the healing process if we just do a few barbells at a time, but there's some wiggle room there with exactly how many you want to do each session," you explain, mentioning that the first appointment can be used as a trial run. He can gauge the pain level and see how many he can handle at a time. After that, you'll determine roughly how many more appointments to schedule.
"So how long's this whole thing gonna take?" he asks gruffly.
"Well… with a couple months between each appointment it could take around a year give or take— but it all depends."
"Alright, think i can do that," he hums, "anything different about the healing process that I should know about?"
You reiterate the basics that he probably already knows, given the jewelry adorning his face already. "… Other than that, it's just no sex for a while."
Sukuna freezes. He didn't think that part through. He'd been so focused on the aftermath— of what it'd be like to have sex once he got it done— that he completely forgot about the whole time during the piercing process.
"How long is a while?" he questions, quieter than his usual self, making you chuckle.
"Well ideally you'd wait until they're all healed," you start, neck craning to see the disappointed look on his face, "but if you're certain that the ones you already have done are healed before your next appointment, obviously I can't stop you. I would still recommend wearing a condom to keep it drier though, and be sure to clean them after."
"Oh, thank god. Okay."
Your eyes narrow. "Don't go sleeping around if they're not ready just because you can't keep it in your pants, Sukuna."
Sukuna shoots you a look of feigned scandalization, free hand coming up to his chest. "Sleep around? Who do you think I am?"
"I think you're someone who likes to sleep around."
That pulls a laugh from him, a low, rumbling sound that makes your stomach flip. "Maybe. But don't worry, I wouldn't wanna mess up your work."
"Better not," you mutter, poking him with the stylus. "Now sign here."
After ironing out a few more details, Sukuna's first appointment was set for a week out. He paid the deposit and made for the door, the bell chiming softly above his head as he left, flashing you a quick wink over his shoulder.
You're behind the counter when Sukuna returns. The glass door sliding open, a wave of heat rolling in with him as he steps out of the summer sun and into the air conditioned waiting room. You glance up from where you were scrolling on your phone, pretending to be busy but more-so just trying to distract yourself from the anticipation of seeing the tattooed man again.
You aren't really one to get nervous before appointments, but you can't help the swirling feeling low in your gut. It has less to do with the thought of actually piercing him, and more to do with the thought of being confined in that small room with him again— this time with his dick out.
Your spine straightens, standing taller as Sukuna strides over to you. Large hands rest on the glass display case between you both, fingers drumming on the top.
"Long time no see," he grins, gaze hungrily trailing over you, just as it does every time he sees you. He lingers on your chest, lips twitching at the sight of your cleavage in the low-cut top you decided to wear today.
All you can do is hope that it's not too obvious the effect he's having on you as you mutter a sarcastic "funny."
"I try," Sukuna shrugs, always cocky. He shifts, coming down to rest on his forearms, the thick limbs stretched out towards you.
Veins litter his tanned skin, running up perpendicular to the nicely healed tattoos, the dark ink a complement to the black painted on his nails. You instinctively shift closer, hips near pressing against the counter, against his fingers that are much too close. They twitch, drifting towards you just enough to brush along the hem of your shirt, soft enough where he could play it off as an accident. But you know better.
You ignore it. You ignore the way that when you don't react, it only spurs him on to tug the fabric lightly between his fingers, playing with it as you ask him about the jewelry he wants. "Silver or gold?"
Sukuna hums like he needs a moment to think about it— like all the metal already planted in his face isn't silver. He just wants an excuse to stay there a moment longer. Until you clear your throat, arms crossing in front of your chest as you look at him expectantly. "Silver's good."
"Finally," you grumble, but it lacks any real bite. "Follow me."
He lets go and you lead him to the back, the heavy weight of his gaze bringing goosebumps to your skin. You don't need to see him to know he's staring right at your ass. It's not like it's his fault, he reasons silently, maybe if you weren't sauntering away, hips swaying side to side with each step, he wouldn't be ogling so hard.
You point to the table as you walk in, not bothering to check if he's watching you— you already know he is, "sit."
"Yes ma'am," he practically purrs as he seats himself on the cushioned top, propping himself up on his arms behind him.
You shoot him a deadpan look, one that you hope hides the fact that his words and the tone of his voice all have your stomach tying in knots. You turn back around to rummage through your drawers and cabinets, pulling out everything you'll need and a singular silver barbell.
"Just one?" Sukuna asks, both skepticism and offense in his tone. Did you really think he wouldn't be able to do more than one piercing in a session? The same man who'd easily sat through multiple tattoo sessions that lasted several hours?
"We'll see how you're feeling afterwards. If you're up for it, I'll just grab some more."
"I'll be up for it."
You sigh— he's stubborn, that's for sure. But if it'll give him peace of mind then whatever. You retreat to grab two more barbells before swiveling back over to him in your little chair. "Happy now?"
He grins, "I sure am, baby."
"Baby? That's new," you muse, pulling on your gloves with a snap.
"You like it?" he teases, shifting in his seat, his legs falling further apart.
"Maybe. I'll answer that after you've pulled your pants down," you shoot back.
Keeping your eyes fixed on what you're doing, you get everything organized on your tray so that each piercing can be as swift as possible. As tempted as you are to let your gaze slide up, trailing over his muscled thighs to the apex of his shorts— you're not giving in that easy.
He wants your attention, that's obvious. And he's already got it actually, but you find that you like toying with him since he seems like he doesn't know that. You like making him work a little harder than he's probably ever had to before, making him think that you're not quite there with him yet.
Sukuna huffs out a laugh, confident and smooth. "Just say the word."
"Whenever you're ready, we can get this over with."
He rolls his eyes, fingers hooking into his waistband as he's muttering to himself, "well don't act too excited."
Only now do you let your gaze drift down to his crotch and— is he hard right now? You don't realize the way you've tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, breath baited in anticipation, but Sukuna does. And the look on your face is enough to have even more blood rushing down between his thighs.
His hips lift up, just enough to slide his shorts and briefs down over his ass. The waistbands catch on the tip of his dick, tugging it along with them as he drags the garments down further. You can see the way the head of his cock slides along the fabric as it fights to return to its upright position, little by little, until it's freed and the full length slaps up against his abdomen.
Your mouth feels dry. Tongue heavy, it sits against the roof of your mouth, feeling like it's filling the entire cavern. You could have guessed he was big. The way he carries himself is a tell-tale sign. He has that kind of confidence that you just know is well-founded, not something used to compensate. But still— "damn."
"You wanna give me that answer now, baby?" Sukuna teases, enjoying your reaction.
"Shut up, Sukuna," you snap, eyes still fixated on the distraction in front of you. He's big, pretty, even. Veins trail up the thick shaft, acting as a guide for your eyes, leading your gaze up to the red tip, all flushed and swollen. Your core feels hot, the initial dryness in your mouth being replaced with a rush of saliva.
"You stare at all your clients' dicks like this?" Sukuna goads, hands coming back behind him so he can recline, putting himself on display for you. He knows that you definitely don't look at all your clients this way, and that you usually are very professional— but nothing about your relationship with him has ever been.
"We might end up needing another appointment or two." You finally tug your gaze away from his cock. His eyes are dark, pupils swallowing the red of his irises as he looks down at you situated between his knees.
"And why's that?"
"Because we're gonna need more barbells than I thought," you explain.
You're convinced you can literally see the man's ego growing at your words and it makes you want to take them back. But you really do still have to be upfront with him, so he knows what to expect throughout this process. "Or if you can handle one more each session then we might not need to drag this out. We'll see."
You grab your marker, mentally preparing yourself for the inevitable— when you'll have to touch his dick. Reaching forward gingerly, you glance up at him once more, silently searching his expression for any hesitation. When you find nothing but a cocky grin, you wrap your fingers delicately around the middle of the shaft to stabilize him and hold his length up straight.
It's warm through the nitrile gloves, heavy in a way as it rests in your grasp. Sukuna shifts lightly, sucking in the smallest breath at the feeling of your fingers wrapped around his most sensitive body part.
As much as he loves flirting with you, Sukuna is trying to keep his thoughts and urges at bay.
A part of Sukuna wants to just say fuck the whole appointment, wants to roll his hips and rut into your fist, tell you to take the gloves off and let him feel you skin to skin. Part of him wishes he could make a move on you now, a real move, instead of just dancing around the obvious tension in the room.
But the stronger part of him knows that he can't.
He's wanted these piercings for a long time now, and he'd regret it more if he never got them done just because he couldn't keep it in his pants for a few measly hours.
So, Sukuna wills himself to think of something, anything, but the feeling of your pretty hand wrapped around his cock.
Still, by the time you finish marking up the piercing spots, he's tense as ever. Jaw tight, his signature smirk is gone as he stares down at you through lidded eyes. You clear your throat, quickly looking away and busying yourself with capping the marker and setting it aside. Then you grab a small hand-held mirror and offer it to him. "Wanna check that they look alright?"
He shrugs, snatching the mirror and holding it out between his legs, the sight of his own cock reflected back to him. Only now, there's little purple dots lining the underside of the shaft— where the barbells will be lined up over the next months.
He gives a rumbling hum of approval, handing the mirror back to you. "Yeah, that's good, baby."
And the only thing you see reflected back in the glass is your piss-poor attempt to control your facial expression when those words reach your ears. There's a burning heat spreading across your cheeks as you pick up the hollow needle and barbell from your tray before turning back to Sukuna.
"Ready?" you check in once more, holding the needle and jewelry up.
He bares his teeth in a quick smile as he nods, "'course I am."
You line up the needle at the base, stabilizing it with your pinky. "Deep breath in," you wait until you hear him inhale, doing the same yourself, "aaand breathe out." You press the needle under the skin when he does, swiftly pushing it through and immediately following with the barbell.
Sukuna hisses through his teeth, fingers digging into the plush table beneath him. Pain sears through him, from the piercing site to the tip of his cock, a sharp sting that fades into a dull throbbing.
You sit back, giving him a moment when you see the furrow in his brow, the way his eyes are shut and his chest is heaving. "You can let me know if you'd like a longer break between them," you offer gently.
His eyelids flutter open, heavy as his gaze slides down to you. There's a faint pink dusting his cheeks, his bottom lip swollen from when you didn't even realize he was biting back a sound he wouldn't dare let out. His expression gives you pause, an unexpected intensity simmering just beneath the surface.Then he shakes his head lightly before jutting his chin out at you and muttering a "jus' keep goin'."
If you thought the tension was bad before, it's near suffocating now. You feel dwarfed in your position sitting before him, right between his thighs, with your face inches from his cock. He's towering above you, body broad overhead as he looks down at you intently. The space between your own legs feels as hot as your cheeks, realization dawning on you that you'd mistaken his expression for discomfort, when what he was feeling was far from it.
Swallowing loudly, you nod. You're wiggling awkwardly in your seat as you position yourself once more, trying to ignore the way you can feel your underwear starting to stick to your skin.
You get through two more before stopping, not wanting to do more than three piercings in one session. Normally you'd stop at two, but since he really had no issues with the pain, you figured it was alright. Not to mention he had the space for them.
While you clean up, Sukuna's still sitting on the table, shorts around his thighs as he admires your handiwork in the mirror again. With him distracted, ogling himself, you can finally take a deep breath and try to quell the aching in your core.
You've had attractive clients before, but there's something about Sukuna. The mutual desire is palpable, and you're going to have to figure out a way to keep yourself in check during the next appointments or he might never get all these piercings done.
"You like them so far?"
Sukuna doesn't even look up, eyes still locked on his own dick, "fuck yeah."
You chuckle, amused at how entranced he is by three new additions to his shaft. "Alright, Sukuna, you can keep staring at your dick when you get home—"
"'m not staring, I'm lookin'," he interrupts, handing the mirror back to you.
"Whatever, just put your pants back on."
"You sure you want me to?" he teases, but his hands still reach for his waistband.
"Trust me, I'm sure," you mumble, thankful for the fact that your voice didn't waver, fearful of giving away how much of an effect Sukuna has on you.
"So mean, baby- ah shit!" he cuts himself off, flinching at the feeling of his briefs pressed snug around his swollen cock. "Shoulda worn boxers," he grumbles as he finally gets situated.
You're ringing him up at the front again, giggling quietly under your breath whenever you catch him wincing and adjusting himself out of the corner of your eye. "Aw, doesn't feel so good now?" you coo, eyes running over over his figure and lingering on the slight bulge that remains in his shorts.
Sukuna grumbles something incoherent, ears tinted pink and eyes averting to look at something very interesting on the wall.
"So you know the basics, keep it clean, keep it dry—" you're running over the aftercare with him as you two walk out to the parking lot together. "And don't fucking touch them. I'm serious," you add sternly, jabbing a finger into his bicep which he swats away weakly.
"Yeah, yeah, I got it woman, y'said that shit twice already."
You raise an eyebrow at his tone, pulling a long sigh from him which you take as an apology— it's probably the best you'll get from the stubborn oaf.
Since the beginning, there had been banter between you and Sukuna, though you can't help but think about how much you feel like your relationship has evolved in such a short period alone with him. The few hours that you've gotten to spend cooped up together in your little studio have you two acting like old friends as you part ways now— bickering back and forth, laughing lightly.
There's a slight discomfort in your chest when you think about how you likely won't see the pink haired man for the next six months.
And you experience that same feeling at the end of each appointment.
Every few months you'll double, triple check that your schedule is clear of all but one client. You'll wear those tank tops that you know Sukuna likes and pretend it was all you had left in your closet as you relish in the way that he can't stop his eyes from drifting downwards. You'll lead him back to your room and have him plop himself back onto your table then pull his pants down.
And each time, you're left speechless for a few moments. Like over the months your understanding of his size was diminished, the concept of him was warped with the passage of time to where it feels as though you're seeing him for the first time again.
And he fucking loves it.
That stupid smirk on his face as he lounges like a king, presenting himself before you, his gaze resting lazily on your face— a misrepresentation of how much of his attention you actually have. Because the truth is, you have all of it.
The truth is that Sukuna is just as affected by you as you are by him. Only, both of you are too stubborn to address the tension outright.
But you can feel it starting to bubble over. Like when the room feels too hot to be in despite the air conditioning being on. You can feel it in the silence that followed the first time you pulled his pants down to find Sukuna not only hard, as he always was, but leaking.
Swollen tip sitting stiff and pretty before you and right on the slit it was there— that pearly, translucent bead of precum.
You can feel it in the way your stomach tightens now when your fingers remain wrapped around his cock just moments longer than they need to be, nerve endings firing with each subtle twitch beneath your finger pads.
You can feel the attraction starting to bubble over when you finish the very last piercing, leaning back to see each silver rung decorating his shaft— each one there because you were the only one Sukuna trusted with the delicate task.
The two of you are quieter than usual when you head back to the front counter to take Sukuna's final payment. The weight of a million things unsaid fills the silence between you, but neither of you feels the need to speak them aloud. Instead, you offer him a free check up appointment six months from now. An appointment you rarely set up in advance with other clients, but one you strongly urge him to make.
You just want to make sure that everything heals properly, that's all!
And he eagerly agrees, ever the dutiful client. He wouldn't want all your hard work to go to waste because of poor piercing maintenance!
So, it's really best that he comes back in six months, say… around 6:00 pm when your coworkers have long gone home. Just to make sure everything's looking good, of course.
And those six months were by far the worst. The lingering implications of what your next appointment entailed hanging over both of your heads, leaving you and Sukuna restless. But the waiting was worth it.
It was worth it for the feeling of your body practically buzzing with anticipation as you open your studio this Friday at 5:30. You poke your head around, searching for your coworkers. There weren't any cars in the parking lot when you arrived, but sometimes they've been known to take public transport and you want to double check.
You're scurrying around the shop when you hear the bell chime. The soft scrape of the metal door against the floor as it's pushed open. The familiar gruff voice.
"Oi— damn, it's cold in here—"
You still in the hallway as your eyes find crimson. Sukuna lets the door shut behind him, his gaze raking over you as it always does. Only it's slower now, like he's deliberately taking his time, re-memorizing each feature, each curve of your figure.
"Long time no see," you break the brief silence.
"Hey, baby," Sukuna rasps. He's not meeting your eyes yet, still trailing up around your hips, your stomach, your chest. You cross your arms, your signature move when you're feeling impatient with him.
Finally, he looks at you.
Sukuna crosses the room with steady strides to where you're waiting. You can feel your heart rate picking up at the closeness, neck craning slightly to look up at him as he stands before you now.
You forgot how tall he is.
Leaning forward, a finger hooks under your chin, tilting your head up further. "Miss me?"
You scoff like he's out of line for even asking that. Like your face isn't burning up at the single touch of his skin against yours. "Not even a little bit," you lie, turning your head to the side.
He brings his hand to his chest, pouting at you as he straightens up. "Well now you're breakin' my heart."
"Something tells me you'll be just fine, Kuna," you reassure him with a pat on the shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the way your little nickname punched every retort straight out of his head. "C'mon."
Sukuna's hesitant when he walks in after you, like he's not sure what to do with himself. This isn't an actual appointment so he doesn't know if he should sit on the table, or a chair, or maybe he should just stand? He's never found himself in a situation where he felt so out of place, especially after having been in this exact location several times before with you.
You can tell he's unsure, the sight bringing a soft smile to your lips. The ever cocky Ryomen Sukuna is suddenly feeling nervous? Who would have thought.
"How's it been feeling?" you ask, partially as a way to give him something to talk about, and partially because, well, you do want to know.
Sukuna shuffles toward the counter next to you, hip resting against it as he hums, "'s been fine. Got used to the healing process after the first appointment so, wasn't too bad."
"You taking care of them like I told you?" you don't really have any doubts, but figure you should ask anyways.
He scoffs, "course I am, been keepin' 'em squeaky clean."
"Good boy," you coo, biting back a laugh at the way he turns beet red, grumbling under his breath about how you're an "insufferable woman." He's never been with someone so forward, or even dominant with him.
Your hands reach forward, grazing along his waist, fingers dipping slightly beneath the hem of his shorts. You grip the fabric as you push him, guiding him until his lower back is pressing into the counter. "I've still gotta check…" you dip your fingers further, tugging down gently til you see the elastic of his briefs, "make sure you're telling the truth."
Sukuna's hands come to grip the counter, knuckles white. You're looking up at him with wide eyes, bullshit innocent look on your face as you sink to your knees, dragging his shorts down with you.
"How you planning on checkin'?" he breathes, so much of his blood rushing south from mere words and touches, his cock feeling like it has a heartbeat of its own.
You bring a hand up between his legs, resting over the tent in his underwear. Humming like you're mulling over your answer, you palm at his bulge making him exhale a shaky breath. "You're a smart guy, I think you know already."
Taking your time, you stretch the fabric away from his hips, finally freeing his stiff cock. You're licking your lips at the way it hangs heavy before your face as you pull his briefs down to his shorts. From where you're perched on your knees, you have a perfect view of the underside of his shaft— still veiny and now glinting, light reflecting off the new silver jewelry adorning it.
"Fuck, you really made the best choice." The compliment comes easy, rolling off your tongue without needing to think about it because just the sight of him has you rubbing your thighs together, heat starting to pool between them.
"You think so?" Sukuna grins, tongue darting out to swipe across his teeth. He brings a hand to your head, patting it twice. "Go on then, baby, show me ya mean it."
You spit into your palm before reaching for the base, his balls twitching when your warm hand finally wraps around it. Sliding up slowly and back down, you smear your spit around the top of his shaft, the tips of your fingers grazing the edge each barbell along the way. Sukuna's hand weighs heavy atop your head, stroking lightly, a form of nonverbal praise when your tongue lolls out to swipe up the underside of his cock.
"Seem healed?" Sukuna grits out through clenched teeth.
Your lips press a chaste kiss to his tip before parting, lowering, and enveloping the head. You hum in response, making him groan from the vibrations paired with the feeling of your tongue flicking against his slit, lapping up his precum. The sound is deep, rumbling in his chest so loud you think it's the cause of the buzzing in your core.
You pull off of him with a soft pop, a string of saliva connecting your mouth to his tip which you break with a swipe of your tongue across your lips. "Feel any pain?" you ask, eyes locked on his as you drag your tongue up one side of his shaft, cool metal balls rolling under the slippery muscle.
Sukuna sucks in a breath, fingers digging slightly into your scalp as he shakes his head. You shift and run your tongue back down the other side of the ladder, the taste of metal lingering even when you pull away. "What about there? Does that hurt?"
"Nah— feels good," he grunts, pressing down, urging you to return your mouth to him.
"Didn't think those were mutually exclusive for you," you respond with a smile. Sukuna huffs out a short laugh at that because you're not wrong. He doesn't need to confirm it either— at least not with his words.
You lap at the barbell closest to the base, flicking at it with your tongue before drawing it between your teeth and tugging gently. He hisses, his cock twitching in your grasp at the slight sting, and the moan that follows is enough confirmation of his little kink.
Pulling on each rung as your tongue climbs back up his ladder, you revel in all the sounds you're able to pull from Sukuna along the way. You note the way his gruff moans turn pitchier, louder with the harder you tug. But you're tired of teasing him, wanting to get a real taste of him when your lips part and wrap around his head once more.
"Keep goin' this time— think you can take all of me?" his voice is deep and strained as you start to sink down onto his length, your hot mouth swallowing him inch by inch. Your tongue stays flat along the bottom, running over the jewelry as you force yourself to take him deeper.
You continue pushing him further into your throat, ignoring the way tears are starting to well in your waterline and your jaw is already aching from having to accommodate not just his length but his girth.
"That's it, almost there baby," Sukuna reassures you when you start to gag. The tip of his cock is nudging against the back of your throat, saliva pooling in your mouth but you're determined to take him all.
You slide back off of him until just the head rests on your tongue before sinking down once more. Repeating the motions over and over, you're bobbing steadily, taking more of Sukuna's cock each time until the salty droplets slip past your lashes and drool starts to trickle out of the corners of your mouth.
Soon, you feel the hair at the base of his cock prickling your nose when you finally manage to stuff his entire length into your tight throat.
"Knew you could do it. Such a good girl, deep throatin' my cock like a slut," Sukuna smirks, the degrading praise reaching your ears like a sweet melody that has your cunt clenching around nothing as slick starts to stain the gusset of your panties. "Now suck," he grunts before snapping his hips and thrusting harshly into your mouth.
A muffled whine vibrates around his length as your eyes stare up at him, all watery and desperate as he uses you. Your hands fly to his thighs, nails digging into the skin and making him grit his teeth, the pain and pleasure taking him higher.
"Mouth feels— fuck— fuckin' amazing," Sukuna groans, fucking your face faster, harder, despite the way your tears are streaming steadily down your cheeks as you gag and sputter around him. He doesn't slow, taking no pity on you because still, each time he looks down past your needy gaze, he can see the way your knees are rubbing together trying to create a friction you're craving. "God, you love being used like this, huh?"
You try to nod, try to moan. But all that you can manage is a pathetic, strangled whimper that gets drowned out by the wet sounds of your mouth slurping around Sukuna's cock when you hollow your cheeks.
He chuckles, low and mean, sharp canines flashing at you. "Come on, baby— shit- why don't ya use your words," Sukuna coos, only grinning wider when your glassy eyes narrow at him. "Aw, c'mon, don' look at me like th—aah fuck-"
A moan is ripped from his lips, interrupting his sentence, when you let your teeth ever so slightly graze along the top of his shaft. His whole body is buzzing, the wet heat of your mouth contrasting with the sharp sting of your teeth. You're successfully able to shut him up, save for a slew of curses which continue falling from his lips.
You bring a hand to cup his balls, rolling and tugging on his scrotum, and it's not long before you can feel his cock pulsing on your tongue. You hear his breathing turn ragged, his voice strained and choppy and prepare for him to cum, salty and warm on your tongue. Only he doesn't.
A large hand wraps around your nape, fingers squeezing painfully tight as Sukuna yanks you off of him in one abrupt movement.
You're coughing and rubbing your lips, drying your cheeks with the back of your hand as Sukuna stares down at you. Now his cock is aching, throbbing from being denied its orgasm but he needs to feel your cunt stretched around him.
Your eyes are glued on one another, the both of you panting haggardly as you sit in silence and catch your breath for just a moment before Sukuna pulls you towards him. He's tugging you hard by the back of your neck until you're collapsing into him. Hands splayed across his chest, your lips meet in a messy kiss.
Normally, he would have taken his time. Kissed you slow and explored what you liked while his mouth moved with yours— but he can't be bothered. You can't be bothered either.
Pure hunger fuels your actions as your teeth clash, tongues swiping at each others lips, twirling around one another. Sukuna sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down and tugging away before letting it snap back in place. He gauges your reaction, smiling wide and cocky against your mouth when your hands grip his shirt and yank him back down to you.
You return the favor, biting hard on his lip, sucking it harshly into your mouth before finally letting go and leaving it red and swollen. You're moaning into each others mouths, what was already a sloppy make out deteriorating further into a slippery mess of saliva and tongue.
Your fingers tighten around the fabric in your grasp as you step backwards, guiding him with you. You're stumbling blind, trying to lead him to your chair even though you're not really sure what way to go. You're too addicted to the feeling of his soft lips and the taste of his groans to break away even for a second, and he can't either.
Sukuna doesn't need to think as he lets you drag him around, just focusing on ravishing you while you figure out what to do with him.
And then you feel the tip of your foot nudging against one of the wheels on your chair, prompting you to spin the two of you around. Only then do you separate from Sukuna with one last kiss before you shove him backwards, making him fall into your chair with a thud.
Sukuna's looking up at you now, eyes wide and pupils blown. His hair is a mess and his lips are bruised and glossy, coated in a mix of your spit and his. You can see the flush on his cheeks get darker, his eyelids heavier as you strip before him.
Your fingers grip the hem of your shirt before pulling it over your head and tossing it off to the side. You do the same with your pants. Sukuna mimics you, taking off his last article of clothing by discarding his shirt next to yours.
You can't hide the way you're even more entranced by him fully naked now. His abdomen is toned, bulky, his shoulders broad. Dark hair sprouts from his chest, a complement to the untrimmed happy trail that leads your eyes back down to his bush which sits around the cock that's now half covered by his hand.
He's stroking himself languidly as your eyes rake over him, a mirror image to the way he's looking at you as you slip your soiled panties down your hips. You can feel the stickiness as the fabric is peeled away, goosebumps peppering your skin when the cool air hits your sex for the first time. Kicking the garment away, you bring your hands behind your back to fiddle with the clasp on your bra before that too is forgotten on the floor.
"Fuck," Sukuna rasps, hand squeezing himself tighter at the sight of you fully naked before him. Every inch, every curve is perfect, his eyes thirstily drinking up all of you as you strut towards him.
He spreads his legs wider, both hands reaching out to settle on your waist the second you're in reach. And now he sees them— your own glinting modifications. A simple belly ring catches his attention first, his thumbs rubbing along your skin, massaging your hips as he looks over you.
"When'd ya get these?" he purrs, fingers sliding up your waist as his hands move to cup your breasts. You let out a sigh as he paws at them, groping lightly and you arch into his touch. "Fuck, they look good— perfect fuckin' tits."
"Got 'em a while a-ah— ago…" Calloused fingertips pinch your nipples, rolling them gently. Your eyes flutter shut as you move to straddle Sukuna, needing to be closer to him, to feel the heat radiating off of his body. His cock is resting against your stomach, settled between your torsos as your legs rest on either side of his.
"Yeah?" Sukuna asks and you wrap your arms around his neck as you nod in reply. "Good." One of his hands comes down hard against your tit, landing across the flesh with a hard smack!
"Fuck! Kuna," you whine, rolling your hips. His shaft is settled between your folds, your arousal smearing around it and your clit catching on each piercing as you grind down on his lap.
His other hand comes down fast, slapping your other tit. Guess he's learned a little something about you too.
Each hit, each pinch that's a little too harsh, has you getting his cock even wetter and humping him even faster. And those sounds— the pretty little moans that fall from your lips— they're even sweeter whenever the rough palm of his hand collides against your supple skin.
"All of you's just perfect, ain't that right?"
The hand still on your ass creeps inward, your body shuddering when you feel a fingertip circling the rim of your asshole. You arch into his touch, whimpering and distracted until—
Smack!
You fall forward to bite down on Sukuna's shoulder to muffle your cry after he lands another hit to your chest, that one much harder than the last two.
"Asked ya a question. 's rude not to answer," he scolds you, hands rubbing soothingly over your breasts, working to ease some of the pain that's prickling under the skin. "Said ain't that right?"
You're nodding fervently, face flushed and beginning to sweat. "Y-you're right," you mumble into his neck, exhaling long and slow when he tugs a nipple piercing between his fingertips again.
"Good girl," he whispers, head leaning against yours as you kiss down the column of his neck once more. "C'mon," he pats the side of his thigh, "needa feel that pussy, you're leakin' all over me."
You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, a little glint in your eyes that he can't quite place. And then you shake your head, bottom lip tugged between your teeth. "Hmm, no."
Sukuna's brows furrow and he tilts his head at you. "The fuck you mean 'no'?"
"So rude," you pout, bringing a hand to his cheek, your thumb stroking it lightly. "Ask nicely and I might."
"Excuse me?" he seethes, eyes narrowing. But you feel the way his cock twitches against your clit, nerves being set alight.
You smack him lightly across his cheek— a warning and a test— your eyes scanning his face for a reaction. The tips of his ears are pink, his chest rising and falling deeply beneath you. "Beg me, Kuna. If you want me to fuck you."
You can see the conflict simmering beneath the surface of a blend of arousal and embarrassment. He's mulling over his words, choosing the right action. The silence is starting to stretch and you're getting impatient so you roll your hips again, pressing hard along his length.
"Please let me fuck you," Sukuna mumbles, avoiding yours gaze.
"You can do better than that," you roll your eyes, hips still moving. You can tell his restraint is slipping and you're close to getting what you want. Just a few more grinds, a few more cascades of your fingers through his hair with a pout on your lips and he's folding.
"Fucking- please, baby. Please fuck me, I need you so badly— wanna feel that pussy wrapped 'round my cock," he rasps, desperation swimming in his irises.
You squeeze his jaw, forcing his lips apart as you gather your saliva and spit directly into his mouth. The glob hits his tongue, warm and mildly salty, a lingering taste of his own pre.
"Good boy," you praise, rewarding him with a couple rough pats on his cheek.
"Shut up," Sukuna grumbles, hands returning to your waist and picking you up. He maneuvers you until you're sitting over his dick, the tip prodding at your dripping entrance. Your hands perch on his chest for stability as you lower your hips down onto him with a loud sigh. "Oh god, you're tight, loosen up f'me."
"'m tryin'," you whine, wiggling your hips. You're trying to get used to the feeling of his jacob's ladder rubbing against your walls, adding even more to the sensation of him stretching you out.
You're so close to taking all of him, almost sitting with your thighs atop his, but he can't wait any longer. Sukuna's hips snap upwards and in one fluid motion he slams your own down onto him, fully sheathing himself inside you. "F-fuck! Kuna, oh my god—"
"Sorry," he grunts— he doesn't mean it— "couldn't wait, needed to feel this cunt cryin' on me— so fucking wet."
Your eyebrows knit together in mock irritation. But the truth is, it feels so fucking good to finally be full of him, to finally feel him buried inside you. Every inch, every ring.
"Just fuckin' sit still," you command, gyrating your hips and rubbing your clit against him. You know he probably wants you to ride him, to lift your hips and smack them back down, fucking yourself onto his cock— but you don't plan on doing that.
You're humping him steadily, each roll of your hips leaving your clit more stimulated, more sensitive. Each roll makes you wetter, soaking his cock as your arousal leaks out onto the base towards his balls.
"Like that?" he whispers, hands finding your ass and kneading the plush fat under his fingers. "Just keep usin' me— make yourself feel good on my cock."
"I-I will," you assure, humping him faster. You can feel your stomach getting tighter, the coil in your gut winding up more with every grind and nudge of your clit against his rough skin. "Doing s'good for me, Kuna."
Your hands paw at his chest, your own fingers pinching at his nipples now. You squeeze them tight, tugging and twisting gently, eliciting a quiet moan from Sukuna. He shifts, his hips coming up slightly off the chair, trying to match your movements as his finger returns to your ass, this time pressing inside. And in an instant your hand comes down across his cheek with a loud crack!
"I told you— shit- to sit still," you snap, both hands now settling around his neck.
Sukuna's eyes are wide from the shock coursing through him, less from the fact that you slapped him and more from the fact that he fucking loved it. He's never been with someone who's done half of the things that you're doing to him, and he would've never expected himself to be so into it. And still, the sharp impact combined with your words and the look on your face— he's entirely ready to submit himself to you. For now.
"I know—" Sukuna starts, words trailing off when your grip tightens around his windpipe.
"But you d-didn't listen."
You're trying to keep your voice steady, but your encroaching orgasm is dangerously close. You're teetering on the edge of your release and fighting to keep it at bay so you can enjoy this moment just a second longer.
Sukuna's face is covered in a sheen of sweat, more than just his cheeks are red now from the lack of oxygen.
You hold on a little more, a little tighter, using his neck to support your body as you chase your high. And then you let go, collapsing into his chest as he breathes deeply once more. He takes the opportunity to pump his finger slowly in and out of your ass, the added pressure making you squirm.
"'m sorry baby," Sukuna chokes out, "cum for me— want you to cum all over my cock, please. You'll do that f'me right?"
His voice is strained, cracked, his throat dry and sore from your hands. But you can still make out the desperation laced within each word and his pleas are too much.
With one last cry you're shaking, your whole body going limp against him as his hands move to your back to hug you into his chest when your orgasm crashes over you.
"There you go… you did so good, baby."
Sukuna's muttering sweet praises into your hair, his hands rubbing gently across your skin as they shift back down to your thighs. You're simmering in a post-orgasm daze, a temporary wave of tiredness coursing through you. The haze makes it so you're not worried, when maybe you should be, about how Sukuna's standing now, still buried deep inside you as he carries your body with him across the room.
You stir when you feel the rough wall pressed up against your back. Your feet are dangling, legs locked in the crooks of Sukuna's arms so your thighs are being pushed into your chest now.
Your eyes find his, being met with a sudden intensity, a sneer on his lips. "Had fun back there?"
Fuck.
You nod meekly.
"Yeah? Had fun smackin' me around and chokin' me out?"
You swallow loudly.
"Say it."
His voice lacks the amusement it usually has, his face set with a flat and unreadable expression. The entire air in the room has shifted and it sets your nerves on fire.
"I d-did, I had fun— aah-Kuna!"
A hand had snaked out from under your leg to rip across your face, the force sending your head snapping to the side. "You like that?" he growls, pinching your cheeks and making you look at him again. "Yeah, you do. This is still fun for you, huh? Pussy's clampin' down around me— dirty girl."
And then he's fucking you down onto him, both hands on your ass as he lifts you up off of his cock before slamming you back down again. The pace that Sukuna sets is nothing short of ruthless, giving you no time to ease back into everything after your first orgasm.
"Sukun-ah! Shit, slow down—" you whine, the abrupt acceleration leaving you overstimulated. You're wiggling your hips, but you're not even sure if you're trying to get away from him or get closer.
It's overwhelming. Each thrust stretching out your gummy walls in a way you haven't felt before, each piercing scraping along the inside of your cunt.
"Nah, fuckin' take it." He slaps you once more, hard and fast before his lips crash down onto yours in a hungry kiss. He's swallowing your whines, moaning into your mouth in response. "This what you wanted? Wanted to piss me off just to get fucked like the slut you are? Could've jus' asked, baby— fuck."
Every part of him is all consuming, the man you had thought you had a hold on suddenly reminding you of exactly how much control you really have.
"God, you know how long I've wanted to see you fall apart on my cock?"
You whimper, shaking your head as tears return to your lash line after a particularly hard thrust.
"Couldn't even jack off n' think about you— y'know how hard that was?"
"mmhm…" you sniffle, head falling back against the wall.
Large, thick fingers splay across your throat, digging into your neck. "No, you don't," he spits, "don't even have your clit pierced. Never had to go months without gettin' off after having a pretty slut handlin' you."
You try to choke out an apology but his grip tightens cutting you off. "Spoiled brat."
Sukuna's voice has a dangerous edge, one that makes your stomach flip and your core burn hot once more. You know he can feel the way your cunt is fluttering around his length, his hips stuttering for just a moment.
And that spurs him on. Every bit of confirmation that you're just as needy, just as depraved as he is leaves him wanting even more from you. His muscles are aching, already pushing himself to his limit and still he finds the energy to move faster. His thrusts feel like a punishment, forcing your cunt to accommodate him each time he splits you open.
He has the energy to make sure that every. single. thrust. has him balls deep, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix.
"O-oh god, oh god, Kuna—" your moans are getting louder, head falling forward now onto his shoulder.
"Gonna fuckin' cum again? Christ, you're greedy," he groans, like he isn't overcome with pride that he's coaxing a second orgasm out of you already.
"S-sorry!" you whine against him, your saliva and tears starting to wet his skin.
"Don' apologize," he grits, both hands back on your ass for leverage as he ruts into you with a carnal desire, "Thank me." He punctuates his command with a merciless smack to one of your cheeks, the pain making you cry out.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" you sob, your climax being ripped from you with an unexpected force. Your teeth sink into his shoulder, the taste of copper starting to trickle into your mouth.
You can hear Sukuna hiss above you, his fingernails digging into your flesh. His pace falters one last time before he slams you back onto him and holds you there, pressing you tight between his body and the wall.
"Fuuuck— you're perfect, baby. My perfect girl."
His cock twitches, pulsing before you feel his seed spurting inside you. Sticky, white ropes of cum paint your poor, abused walls. You're lapping at his shoulder, soft kitten licks to soothe the minor injury you caused as he fills you to the brim.
You don't need to look to know that his release is starting to leak out around his base, a mix of both of your spend seeping onto his balls.
Sukuna's gentle as he handles you now. Cradling you close to his body, the sweat and heat serve as a comfort for you as he sits back down on the chair with you in his lap. He's still plugging you up, just letting you sit there soaking him as his cock starts to soften inside you.
You're pressing kiss after kiss to his neck, collarbones, jaw, cheeks, as he rubs your back and massages your thighs.
"You really are fuckin' perfect," he pants, his exhaustion catching up to him, "I meant that."
"You too, baby," you mumble tiredly, missing the smile that graces his lips at the nickname.
"So… all healed I'm assuming?"
You giggle at that. "You're a fucking idiot."
"And you're mean," he shoots back playfully, "I can't believe I was gonna ask you out after this."
Synopsis. The universe was surely playing a joke on you. Here you were, trapped on a luxury getaway with your - dangerously handsome, extremely obnoxious - ex. Either you were going to kill each other or end up pinned beneath him, split apart on his cóck. You just didn’t know what would come first.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! reader, exes to lovers, unprotected, argument as foreplay, slight enemies to lovers, more like annoyances actually, cunnilingus, oral (male + female), spitting, creampié, one bed trope, rough, Satoru is still EXTREMELY down bad for you, and unfairly hot, forced proximity, cúmplay, pet names (sweetheart), swearing.
Word count. 8.5k
A/N. It’s impossible to not write Satoru without bullying him at least a little bit.
You broke up with Gojo Satoru exactly 5 months, 2 weeks, and 16 hours ago - not that you were keeping count, of course.
So why was he outside of your resort room blasting “Kill Bill” by SZA like he’s auditioning for the world’s most dramatic comeback tour? On what should’ve marked your fourth anniversary, no less.
Well, given you were the one to lock him out, but still - the stubborn bastard could at least have some decorum.
With an exasperated sigh, you throw yourself onto the king-sized bed of your honeymoon suite, trying to will away that annoying, grating voice - not SZA, no, more so Satoru singing along at the top of his lungs to the chorus.
How did you even get here? And with Satoru of all people - your Satoru. Or at least he was this time a little over a year ago.
You first met Satoru when you were in university, back when he wore those pretentious circled sunglasses and waltzed around those halls like he owned the place. And after a single literature assignment together, he wasn’t just your (self-proclaimed) best friend; he was the reluctantly favorite thorn in your side.
Like the rest of him, Satoru’s introduction into your love-life was anything but subtle. It wasn’t like he strolled in, gave a polite nod, and blended into the background. Oh no, he bulldozed his way in and dragged you to dance with him on the tables of some dingy frat party in what you could only assume was some joke from the universe at your expense.
And damn him, you think bitterly, you couldn't resist him that night. Spinning you into a dramatic dip, silver chain brushing your face as his half-lidded eyes bored into yours. You couldn’t not kiss him after the way his hands were just searing into your skin.
God, you’ve never been able to listen to “Gasolina” the same way ever since.
Satoru was in love as he was in the rest of life - a force of nature, and it was too easy to find yourself caught up in him.
That night at the frat party was just the beginning. From then on was a rollercoaster of everything from heated debates over the best flavor of ramen to impromptu road trips where you’d end up under a carpet of stars. Wrapped in each other’s arms and sharing whispered secrets for an unpromised future - oftentimes where Satoru would crack a joke or two about running away to Tokyo with him. To which you’d laugh it off with a “Yeah yeah, I’d leave everything I’ve known behind in a heartbeat for your dumbass, Toru.”
You just didn’t think that it would be the downfall to your relationship. All the empty promises.
Because as those heavenly days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, eventually two years had gone by. The whirlwind romance settled into a comfortable rhythm, but with it came the looming promise of graduation and Satoru moving to work under his family company in Tokyo.
Under pressure, it wasn’t long before the cracks began to show, the arguments more frequent, and the silences more deafening. And as your relationship slowly turned into nothing more than a husk of what it used to be - so did the both of you.
Long story short, graduation was a bittersweet goodbye - and you think both of you knew long before it was actually over. Neither of you attended the afterparty - with Satoru on a flight straight to Tokyo and you at home to stuff your face with chocolate. Hey, at least you could blame your tears on finally leaving university, right?
You had meticulously erased his name from your phone, your social media, and even your dreams - well, almost, the bastard still came around to bother you occasionally. It was messy, painful, and final.
But “final” really didn’t explain your current predicament. Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned about Satoru is that he’s always there - whether you liked it or not. He was there when you needed a partner for that literature assignment, and he was there to turn your world upside down at that dingy frat party.
Hell, he was even there to help you stubbornly chug mountains of ice cream and win that raffle for this five day-long getaway trip to the Maldives. Though, you think he might’ve chugged the ice cream without the promise of a vacation anyway.
But, when ultimately those shiny tickets came in the mail - Satoru wasn’t there. Oh well, it might’ve been a couple’s trip - but you could have a hot girl summer, right? Maybe you could even snag a hottie by the end. You’d almost forgotten that he’d be getting his copy of the tickets as well.
Yet, unfortunately - as the beginning notes of P!nk’s “So What” bursts through the heavy wooden door - you were inevitably reminded of the fact that he was here. Right now. Goading you into coming outside.
You find yourself groaning inwardly (and outwardly) because of course, why wouldn’t he come back even more obnoxious than before? You haven’t seen him in ages, yet here he is, crashing back into your life with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Or - you furrow your brows at his purposefully off-key singing carrying over the sounds of the waves outside - with the subtlety of a manchild with a JBL and a premium account on Spotify.
Rubbing your temples in frustration, you contemplate how much longer of this it would take before you’re both kicked out of this resort. And after you ate so many ice creams to win this getaway trip? No chance.
With a resigned sigh, you rise from the bed, smoothing out the bathing suit you’d just put on before the devil incarnate showed up knocking at your door. Something hot and prickly pools in your stomach as you approach it, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at the sheer absurdity of the situation. So like Satoru.
Taking a deep breath to steel yourself, you shakily reach for the handle. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal actually.
…
What’s the worst that can happen?
Slam!
The door swings open, and there in all his smug glory stands a very shirtless Satoru. Gojo pain-in-your-ass Satoru, the same asshole you’ve blocked on even Gmail.
Except, you’re momentarily struck by how high you have to raise your eyes to meet his. Are growth spurts even a thing anymore? You didn’t have a chance to take a good look last time before slamming the door shut at the first flash of white hair and a smug grin.
But right now, traitorously, your gaze catches on just how broad his shoulders look and…since when was he so chiseled? Damn you, Tokyo - you were doing him too good.
His hair is slightly longer too, curtaining those slightly more mature features, stopping just above that ever-immature grin. One which moves as he hums, “Well, happy fourth anniversary to me, If I knew this came with the suite then I’d have swam here myself.”
You scoff, suddenly feeling strangely self-conscious as he wiggles his brows, striking blue eyes sweeping your figure from head to toe. “I’d prefer if you swam back. What are you doing?”
“Why, just showing up to our room on our lil’ honeymoon, sweetheart.” Satoru sing-songs, leaning against the doorframe to fully prevent you from slamming the door in his (admittedly) pretty face again. “And before you try to break my nose with that door again, I won that ticket here fair and square, y’know. I ate just as much ice cream as you did for it.”
“You ate most of those before you knew about the getaway raffle.” you sigh over his nonchalant shrug, pinching your nose, “And stop calling it our honeymoon, I dumped you five months ago.”
“Well aren’t you just the gift that keeps on giving. Keeping count?”
“No. Don’t be a pest.”
“Always thought you had a thing for pests. After all, you did date me.” As Satoru grins impossibly wider, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. He winks, “And if I’m a pest then you’re an itch that just won’t go away.”
“At least I’m not the itch that shows up uninvited to someone’s honeymoon suite.” you hiss. And with that you start shutting the door ever-so-slowly, delighting in the panic that overtakes Satoru’s features as he reaches out frantically.
“Hey!” he sputters, “I didn’t know you’d be here! And besides this ‘pest’ forgot his slippers all the way in Tokyo and can’t stand on flaming-hot boardwalks for too long so let me in.”
And sure enough, you glance down to see that Satoru isn’t wearing any slippers on the scorching boardwalk. The realization almost brings a smirk to your lips. This idiot.
“Wow.”
“‘Wow’ at my feet or-”
“I should leave you here to rot just for your pure idiocy.” you deadpan, eyes locked on the way he’s burning his soles off yet still has the audacity to flash you a cocky smile.
“But you won’t.” he hums.
A beat passes. One. Two. And Satoru’s grin almost falters, before you finally relent - opening the door just a crack, cursing his entire bloodline under your breath. “You’re incorrigible” you mutter as he saunters inside victoriously, dragging his hefty luggage behind.
“Why change perfection, sweetheart~” he calls out, heading straight for the bedroom, only to let out a delighted “OooOOo” at the sight of the king-sized bed in the middle. The only bed. “How scandalous, maybe you’ll even fall in lov-”
“Don’t. I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a seashell.” you warn, holding up both keycards threateningly, “I get the bed, you take the couch.”
“But-”
“And I’ve got the keys, so slippers or not you’ll be back out on that boardwalk.”
A slight smile tugging at the corners of your lips at the way Satoru looked so dramatically crestfallen, you continue - just to be petty, “And no more ‘Kill Bill’ that’s on my angry ex playlist.”
With a heavy sigh he sulkily makes his way to the bathroom, calling out as he does, “Fine. But I’m showering first.”
As he disappears from sight you throw yourself onto your bed, basking in what little peace and quiet you’ll have because of your unwanted guest. This was going to be a-
“And I’m using all of your body lotions.”
“...”
“I will use one of your body lotions.”
Groaning, you sink into the plush mattress, just wishing it would swallow you whole and spare you from this torment. And this was only Day 1? This was going to be a very long five days.
---
The first night with Satoru, honestly, wasn’t too bad.
You don’t know what you expected exactly - maybe for him to pour hair dye in your shampoo or something. But he actually stuck to his word, slept on the couch after only a bit of taunting, and used only one of your body lotions. Your best-smelling, most expensive one, but one nonetheless.
Feeling slightly more optimistic, you spent most of the second day at the beach, meanwhile he stuck to lounging by the pool. Add in a bit of pretending you didn’t know him by the salad bar at dinner and that made for an almost-perfect hot girl summer.
Well, considering that you were rooming with your insufferable longtime ex - in a honeymoon suite of all places.
The only catch came that night, fully content at the burning soreness from being pushed around by the waves outside. You got ready to splay out on your bed, humming along to the tunes of your playlist and…Satoru’s lamenting?
“I swear my back feels like it’s been run over by a truck. Five of them, and a zoo.” he complains from behind you, dramatically draping himself over the couch - his impromptu bed.
“Good.”
“What if that was my last straw?”
“Even better.”
His exaggerated, disappointed whine is both embarrassing and almost-endearing as you roll your eyes, resisting the urge to suffocate him with a pillow. “Maybe call your chiropractor guy.”
Satoru shot you a pointed look, his expression a mixture of faux innocence and irritation, which you knew too well. “I wish but he’s trekking through the Himalayas. C’mon~ Don’t you think that lovely king-sized bed is too big for just one?”
“No, but the boardwalk sure is. Maybe you should try it out.” you monotone, getting ready to end this conversation once and for all.
But when has Satoru ever let you off easy? He sits up abruptly, a devious smile curling his lips. “Ohh, I get it.” he taunts, batting his long lashes mockingly, “You’re scared to sleep in the same bed with me.”
Huh?
“Out of all the idiotic-” you cut yourself off by whirling around to face his smug grin, “Why would I be scared to sleep in a bed with you. I’ve done that far too many times already.”
“Exactly,” he chuckles. “And all those times you could barely last an hour before without keeping your hands off of me. Scared you’ll end up pinned underneath me and stuffed full like old times, sweetheart?”
You narrow your eyes at him despite the heat burning your face. “The only thing I’m scared of is your icicle feet on my side.”
He laughs, a sound that’s equal parts irritating and endearing, and stands up from where he was slumped on the couch. Making his way slowly, but surely towards you, “Oh, c’mon. For old times’ sake, admit it, you miss me.”
"Yeah, missed the peace and quiet I don’t have because of your big mouth,” you scoff. Finding it hard to meet his twinkling gaze as he comes close enough that you’re toe to toe with him. Your cheeks burn at the proximity - hot enough to match the heat radiating off his body.
Satoru shakes his head, undeterred by your threats. And suddenly you get the overwhelming urge to throw him out the window and straight into the ocean. “You can deny it all you want, but you still have feelings for me.”
Your jaw clenches at his audacity. “You wish. I’d never.”
“Then prove it.”
Damn, he was good.
Which is probably how you found yourself lying in the same bed as Satoru, with a wall of all the pillows in the room erected between you two - and a few extra from room service just in case.
“Sweetheart, this is a king-sized bed. Is the fortress really necessary?”
You wrap your blankets tighter around yourself, trying to ignore the figure radiating warm right next to you. Muttering out a muffled little, “Yeah, so you can keep your mitts off of me.”
Satoru groans dramatically, bed creaking as he shuffles what you can only assume to be closer to you. “You keep your mitts off of me, you lecher.” he quips, voice dripping with sarcasm as he inches closer.
You stiffen at his proximity, feeling his warmth seep through the layers of blankets and pillows as he chuckles softly, the sound sending shivers down your spine, “Oh, come on, don’t be like that. We used to share a bed all the time.”
“That was before,” you interject. God, you didn’t like where this conversation was going.
“Before what?” Satoru presses, his voice low and insistent.
Now, you might’ve let yourself be goaded into sharing a bed but these were old wounds better off left alone. You hiss, tone firm, “Before. Now sleep”
Before when you didn’t have to make a wall of pillows. Before when he would hold you tight and whisper sweet secrets into your ear. That he’d buy you the biggest ring he saw and promise you the world. Before-
“I missed you, y’know.” Satoru breaks the silence barely audible over the sound of your own thoughts. The word pangs through your mind and claws at your chest. And at your silence he continues, tone a little lighter, “And stop hogging all the blankets, I’m gonna freeze to-”
“Boardwalk.”
“My apologies, ma’am. Goodnight, ma’am.”
And he sinks back into his pillow with a huff, you let out a sigh of relief. Something hot coiling in your stomach as you close try to catch as much sleep as you possibly could with the bane of your existence laying right beside you. The suddenly taller, dangerously handsome, still as-obnoxious-as-ever bane of your existence.
You just wonder if he remembered “before”.
Oh, how Satoru remembered “before”. So much so that he had sixteen different playlists dedicated to you even after the breakup.
It’s divine punishment - it has to be. Satoru thinks there’s no reasonable explanation for the series of unfortunate events happening to him other than punishment from his ancestors above for being such a pussy and losing the love of his life.
First he forgets his slippers, then he ends up locked out of his own honeymoon suite by said love of his life. Granted, all thoughts of his poor burnt soles went out the window the moment he caught a glimpse of you in that positively sinful bikini. God, were you glowing. A goddess upon Earth - he could really give the Gojo Satoru of five months ago a good, hard kick.
And now he’s stuck in a - very comfortable - prison with you just inches away, tossing and turning in that way he knows means that you can’t sleep either.
Honestly, very funny universe, the great Gojo Satoru demands a refund. Way to punk’d him into confronting the feelings he’s desperately been trying to bury these past few months - ever since he got on that plane to Tokyo and contemplated faking a heart attack just to get off.
Realizing just then that he lost the love of his life - and the only woman who’d tolerate his karaoke nights. But with that realization came another, more jarring one: he was too late.
Every touch, every laugh, and even every time you rolled your eyes was etched into his very soul, and it felt like a montage from a sappy breakup movie directed by a sadistic screenwriter who had it out for him.
And it really didn’t help that this was the exact suite he was planning once upon a time to propose in. God, how you’d feed him to the crabs if he said anything about that - nevermind the fact that he was actually one that booked this-
But still, some traitorous, annoying part of his heart interrupts, she still hasn’t made you sleep on the boardwalk yet.
Maybe - just maybe - he’ll wake up to a second chance?
…
Ha. As if.
“I can’t sleep.” Satoru groans out loud, more so to drown out his own thoughts than anything.
“Well, I can. Goodnight.”
Ah, his girl was such a lil’ liar. Undeterred, the mattress creaks as he shuffles his weight to excitedly face you, taking a moment to admire how pretty you looked under the dim moonlight. He plows on, “Hey, if you promise not to make me crab food, wanna walk along the beach and watch the stars?”
A beat of silence. One. Two. so deafening and tense that Satoru was half a second away from obnoxiously laughing it off as a joke and pulling out his Emo Times™ playlist.
“Or I can go back to the couch and-”
“Shut up. Let’s watch the stars, Satoru.”
But what do you know - maybe the universe hasn’t given up on him just yet.
And, well, if he woke up the next morning breaching your fortress - your warm breath tickling his neck and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, like the lifeline he never knew he needed - then, neither of you mentioned it.
---
“Hey, Satoru. You think we’ll always be like this?” you hum into your boyfriend’s chest, barely a whisper as the looming fears of, well, everything ring in your mind.
He pulls you close, flashing a mischievous grin before planting a dramatic kiss on the top of your head. “Duh, I’ll always be around to drive you dangerously close to a stroke, sweetheart.”
You roll your eyes, yet bury yourself closer to his warmth anyway.
“Besides, it doesn’t matter if I have to drag you by the leg to Tokyo. Wherever you are is where I belong. ”
---
You’ve come to learn that a resort island is only so big when you’re actively trying to avoid your 6’3 manchild of an ex.
Now that you were rooming with Satoru, sleeping with Satoru (in a literal sense only, of course), and just-so-happening to bump into him at the beach - somehow, talking with him is a little easier, his presence just a bit more exciting than you’d care to admit.
If the you of four days ago could see what had become of you, then she’d probably slap some sense into you faster than you could say “Kill Bill”. Sleeping in the same bed (still only literally), having dinner, watching the stars - with Gojo Satoru? You’ve gone completely off your rocker.
But could you really be blamed? These last few days have you feeling like maybe you’ve been dropped into an alternate universe, where you and Satoru never broke up.
Yet, reality is a persistent little bastard. And with the end of your trip looming dangerously closer, the past you would be cackling mockingly in your face, flashing a large sign in big, red letters reading “I TOLD you so.”
Whatever. Maybe by this time tomorrow both of you could laugh this all off as a silly little adventure and call yourself somewhat begrudging friends. Maybe you’d even end up unblocking him by the end - on Gmail, at least.
At the very least, dinnertime was a solace - both from your thoughts and the smug bastard talking your ear off about how he could “make that spaghetti better than a thousand Italian grandmothers.”
Until the fourth - and final - night, that is. When the resort, deciding that your current torture wasn’t already enough, arranged a special candlelit dinner. A romantic one. By the beach. With Satoru of all people.
Great. Wonderful. Perfect, in fact. Going out with a bang. Was this really part of the all-inclusive package? It was like the universe was playing some twisted joke on you - or some awful version of wingmanning.
You grit your teeth silently as you’re ushered to the beachside table, thoughts barely audible over the waves crashing against the shore and the soft, romantic music drifting from the band nearby.
The complete opposite of Satoru, who was already seated at the table and enjoying himself far too much for your liking. He lounged back in his chair, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he watched you sit opposite him uncomfortably.
You hated to admit it - but God was he dangerously beautiful in that crisp white button-up, one that you knew was from his overpriced collection for special occasions. You found yourself fighting to avoid the amber hues twinkling in his eyes as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting warm shadows that bring out his pretty features.
Pretty? So frighteningly pretty - until he speaks, that is.
“And here I thought our honeymoon couldn’t get any worse. You’re sweating bullets, sweetheart. This your first date with me or something?”
“We’re not on a honeymoon, Satoru. And no, it just brings back memories.” you scoff. Relishing in the way he inches his chair closer to listen, clearly not expecting this sudden sentimentality. “Memories of why I blocked you on every social media.”
All but slamming his head down on the table, Satoru whines out, “Ouch, straight for the jugular. That mouth is still as bitchy as ever, huh? Though I do prefer it choking on my-”
“I’m going to throw you into the ocean.”
“Ooo, kinky~” he hums, swirling his wine glass, “But you know what this reminds me of? That one time we had dinner under the stars.”
You froze, the memories suddenly flashing back to you despite your best efforts to suppress them. “Oh yeah,” you muse. A chuckle leaving your mouth despite yourself, “Wasn’t that where you spilled ketchup all over your shirt and then insisted it was a fashion statement?”
He leans in closer, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Hey! It worked, didn’t it? I got compliments from everyone including you.”
“I was just trying to stop you from bursting into tears.” you roll your eyes, shaking your head at the memory.
“Exactly, sweetheart. Like moths to a flame.”
“More like to a bug-zapper.”
Satoru throws his head back and laughs, loud and unabashed. A sound that echoes across the beach and makes something warm and sticky strum at your heartstrings. And at that moment, that stupid, little part of you didn’t even mind that you were at a special candlelit dinner. A romantic one. By the beach. With Satoru of all people.
And he didn’t even have to goad you into it with SZA this time.
As the orange glow of the setting sun melded into the cool blue of the night, it almost felt like slipping back into an old routine. The food had long since been finished. Jabs and shared memories flowing through the air like the gentle waves lapping at the shore.
The cool air was now thick with contentment and something so unknown yet so familiar that it made your heart race.
“I swear.” you groan over Satoru’s loud cackles, “He tried to charm his way out of the bill by flirting with the waitress. In front of me.”
Satoru doubles over, clutching his stomach as he laughs uproariously. “Classic move! If he’s going to be a cheapskate then he should’ve at least been successful with it.”
Damn, was he eternally grateful for these dim candles. Otherwise you’d surely have caught the rosy flushing tinting his cheeks. How dare you sit there so gorgeous and perfect in front of him. Perfect for him - you haven’t changed one bit.
“Right? She looked ready to fling us both out.” You chuckle, eyes catching on the little dimple just at the corner of his mouth as Satoru shoots you a sly grin. “Mhm, I know if it were me I would’ve charmed us out of the bill successfully.”
You raise a brow, retorting, “Oh please. I’ve had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of that ‘charm’. You’d probably end up charming us into washing dishes in the kitchen.”
Ah, right now, he doesn’t think he wants to be anywhere but here - bickering with you.
“Ouch, you wound me, woman!” Satoru feigns offense, placing a hand over his heart dramatically before leaning down to whisper, low and conspiratorial, “Besides, I doubt you even remember what pleasure feels like since being with me.”
A thrill goes down your spine as you realize the insinuation of his words, steady and searing - matching that of Satoru’s fingers on yours - which had snuck their way across the table, lazily tracing patterns along your skin.
When did they even get there? Sly bastard.
Your mouth drops into a soft oh! at the dangerous glint in his eyes. But you refuse to back down, “Don’t flatter yourself, Satoru. I’ve had other guys make me cum much harder than you have.”
Touch burning. Mapping every curve and dip he’d known so well, and this time - you graze them back. A challenge. God, you missed that warm little flutter in your chest.
That seems to catch him by surprise, as those darkened blue eyes widen. But there’s a dangerous edge to his grin as he purrs, voice low. “Is that so?”
And with that, Satoru’s chair is scraping softly against the sand as he stands up, “C’mon, you’re gonna regret that, sweetheart.”
Oh.
Satoru knows that it’s been 5 months, 4 weeks, and 8 hours since you two lasted an entire dinner civilly - not that he was counting, duh.
So when he begged the resort staff into setting the two of you up on this special candlelit dinner, he was expecting you to drown him in the lobster tank halfway through or at least end the night with a slap.
What he certainly did not expect was to end dinner with you shoved against the closed door of your suite, legs wrapped impossibly tight around his waist, and lips trailing hot, openmouthed kisses down your neck. He angles your neck, body pressing so impossibly close to yours.
Inwardly, you curse his button-up for being so goddamn thin that you could feel his abs rub against you with every little movement. Toned chest rumbling as he groans at your hands tugging at those soft locks - just a tiny revenge, for your body lotion.
“S-Satoru,” you whisper, and he breathes it in with an almost-pained sigh - not wanting to part for even a second. Because fuck it took so long to get you back and he wasn’t going to waste a single moment.
Pulling just a hair’s breadth away, “Tell me what you want. Always knew we’d end up-”
“Just shut up and kiss me, you smug bastard.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
And, well, who was he to deny you? So he does.
His lips are searing on yours, hasty and greedy. With a tinge of something so painfully familiar. Your hands make their way onto his chest, feeling the thundering heartbeat against your fingertips - matching that of yours.
Sweet. You tasted so sweet. Just like honey, and all the dreams where he didn’t leave you behind. Where he didn’t get on that damned plane but instead ran to you all the way from the airport like those sappy romcoms you love.
He licks at the seam of your lips, drinking in your gasps as he intertwines his tongue with yours. Kissing you like he’ll never be able to again. Because, God, knowing his luck - he probably won’t.
One hand cups your cheek so gently - a tenderness that doesn’t translate to his lips as he kisses you deeper. Meanwhile the other wanders the expanse of your body, leaving a burning trail of fire in their wake.
Satoru parts with a playful nip to your bottom lip - and before you realize what’s happening, the zipper hits the ground. He’s ripping your pretty dress off - mumbling something about “buying a new one” before large hands surge forward, groping and kneading your tits.
His mouth waters at the sight of your bra. Light blue - to match his eyes. “You evil, evil woman.” he mutters into the soft valley of your breasts as you giggle delightedly. Oh, how he couldn’t get enough of you.
And if there was ever a moment that Satoru thinks he could cream his pants right there, then this would be at the very top, followed very closely by the sight of that withering glare you shot after opening that suite door to him just a few days ago.
He unhooks your bra with one hand, throwing it blindly across the room as if it killed him to see you clothed.
Immediately, Satoru drops to his knees with the desperation of a madman, coming face-to face with the heavenly sight of your clothed cunt, soaking through your thin panties.
“Didn’t specify where I had to kiss, sweetheart.”
Your gaze pierces through him, as it always did. “What are you-” Your words get choked up in your throat as his tongue darts out. Licking a long, languid stripe over your clothed cunt.
“Shit. So sweet f’me, jus’ like I remember. Just one taste and I feel like m’gonna cum in my pants.” Satoru groans, urgently sliding your wet panties down your quivering legs.
“F-flattery won’t work.” you stammer out as his hot breath fans your quivering entrance as he waits just a second - one, two.
Drinking in the view of your pretty pussy with dazed, half-lidded eyes. Wet - so wet, he almost wants to tease you - just a bit, to see if you’ll get even wetter. Ah, he doesn’t have enough time to take in this view - probably never will. Would it ruin the mood if he took a picture?
“Oh, I’d say it worked pretty well.”
Cock twitching carnally, Satoru needed to taste you now. He immediately surges forward. Breathing you in so sinfully, pooling your juices on his tongue. Eyes rolling to the back of his head as he tips his head back back back to let it slide down his throat.
Shit, if you were the forbidden fruit then he would gladly be cast out of the garden of Eden.
Half-delirious thoughts running through his mind, Satoru flattens his tongue across your swollen folds. Leisurely sliding between them, catching on your throbbing clit up and down up and down up and-
“Oh- hngh, Satoru faster-”
“So bossy.” he hums prettily around your swollen clit, the vibrations stimulating it just right. But of course, what his girl wants, she will get.
Lewd squelches and your mewls of his name ring in the heady room as he speeds up his ministrations. Rolling his tongue harshly along your clit, sucking so sensually. Licking at your sweet cunt, dipping just into your sloppy hole.
You almost miss the long fingers that deftly slide their way up your thigh, spreading your folds with his thumbs. A low groan sounds at the back of his throat as your walls flutter so sinfully around nothing - aching for more friction.
Urgently, Satoru bullies his fingers past your folds, sinking deep into your plushy walls as his tongue continues its abuse. So warm and wet around him. Curling his fingers just right.
“Ah- fuck, Satoru- Feels s’good.” you gasp as he starts thrusting his fingers back and forth. A ruthless pace that has tears stinging your eyes, hitting that spot over and over and-
“Oh yeah? Thought you didn’t like my ‘big mouth’?” he purrs, muffled around your clit, “Look at you, sweetheart, now falling apart cos’ of it.”
You scoff, fingers tangling in his silky hair, pushing him deeper into your dripping pussy - mostly because you needed it, but somewhat because you really needed him to shut up. “Yeah, I like it better when you shut the fuck up.”
And with a dark chuckle, his mouth is back on your cunt. Your slick glossy and dripping down the corner of his mouth as he alternates between sucking unforgivingly on your ravaged clit and fucking into you at the same time as his fingers.
And in the delicious stretch of your cunt, you barely register the metallic clinking of a belt before Satoru presses his clothed erection into you.
Shit. You clench so obscenely around his tongue at the feeling of his clothed, painfully hard and throbbing against your leg. Fuck - as big as you remember. You weren’t gonna be able to walk for a while.
“You like this, huh?” he murmurs, speeding up the rhythm of his fingers. Vibrations sending white-hot jolts of pleasure down your spine.
Cracking an eye open you risk a glance downward. Greedily eyeing the hand wrapped tightly around the base, moving up up up. Pumping in small, jerky movements at the same pace of his fingers fucking into you. “Like the way m’getting off to tonguefucking my girl?”
“Like thinking about how this is what I thought about all those lonely fucking night without you?” You arch into his touch, fingers searing on his scalp and angling Satoru just right to make your knees weak.
He’s so close that you can feel the precum smearing onto your leg. Mouth fucking you in a way you knew he wanted to with his cock right now. Rough and unrelenting.
“Like thinking about how you’re all I can fucking think about.”
“Hngh- Yes, Satoru! Yes-”
You see stars as you cum - or maybe those were the tears in your eyes. Pulling Satoru impossibly closer to your quivering pussy so that you could ride out your high on his pretty face. And he readily accepts it - letting himself be handled roughly with the conviction of a man that wouldn’t mind dying if it was suffocating in-between your pretty thighs.
Your vision is hazy, blood still roaring in your ears as Satoru stands up. Not even bothering to wipe away the wet trail of your slick prettily glossing his lips before capturing yours in a searing kiss.
“Y’know, sweetheart,” he gasps in between heated kisses. “We got a king-sized bed so we better make use of it, hm?”
Your back hits the mattress before you can even react. Reeling from shock and the audacity as you bounce at the sheer force of his throw.
“Next time you do that you’re-”
Whatever insult at the tip of your tongue melts away immediately at the purely pornographic sight of Satoru stalking his way towards you from the foot of the bed. Eyes hooded, cock rock-hard, kiss-bitten lips parted slightly in a way that was so fucked-out.
Unhurriedly approaching you with such a predatory glint in his darkened eyes as he fucks his fist slowly - so agonizingly slowly. Eyes locked on you.
Despite cumming not even minutes before, your pussy jumps in anticipation. Immediately reaching over as soon as he’s close enough - as if in a trance - to replace his hand with yours.
He was big - so mouthwateringly big. Flushed your favorite shade of pink at his leaking tip, pulsing veins glistening in the dim light - every part of Satoru was so unfairly pretty.
So hot and heavy in your hand as you pump him at a steady, methodical pace. Precum smearing on your palm, trailing down your wrist as you pump. Tighter on the base, thumbing teasingly under his slit the way you knew he used to like.
“Oh fuck, sweetheart. Still remember, huh?” he hisses lowly. Ah, the way he still likes.
“Mhm.” you hum absentmindedly, thighs clenching together at the way his hips grind in shallow, mindless little motions into your soft hand. Meeting your strokes as if trying to fuck something so delicious out of him.
And, well, you just couldn’t resist a taste. Bending down in one, fluid motion to delicately lick at his angry, hard head. Slightly salty taste on your tongue as you swipe at the droplets of precum pooling on his tip. Tracing lightly - ever-so-lightly - down his prominent veins.
Satoru groans, low and hoarse with desire, “Shit, hah- you don’ ngh- have to-”
“Shut up, Satoru.”
And with that, you’re shoving down as much as you can of his throbbing erection down your throat. Cunt clenching at the way he hardens impossibly as you choke and gag around him.
“Shit, oh- Oh fuck, m’girl. Yes yes yes-.” Satoru lets out a guttural moan. Fingers threading through your hair as he uses it as leverage to fuck himself slowly, deeper and deeper into your heavenly mouth. Hips stuttering and jerky with pleasure. Yeah, he definitely missed this.
Half-delirious and cock-drunk, you take him all the way till your nose was buried in the tufts of white at his toned pelvis, already so wet with saliva and precum.
Still got it, some smug, utterly debauched part of yourself titters.
It was dizzying, the way he was pulsing in your throat, his heady scent filling your senses. Beginning to move up and down up and down in hasty, desperate bobs of your head. Pulling such lewd gasps and moans from his lips.
You moan around Satoru’s thick cock, clawing at his toned hips for some semblance of stability. Some truly animalistic part of yourself relishing in the neat, red lines down his milky skin. The sight hazy through the tears that spring to your eyes at the way his fat tip hits your abused throat. A relentless, sinful tempo you were steadily losing your mind to.
Messy. It was so fucking messy.
You just wondered if his orgasm would be the same…
But, alas, one can’t always get what they want. Because Satoru pulls you off of his achingly hard cock with a lewd pop! that rings in his ears and makes your cunt twitch.
“Shit, sweetheart. Any longer and I’ll have to start thinking about ol’ Prof. Gakuganji to not cum.” he pants through ragged breaths, flashing you a deceptively innocent grin. “Now, lay back and spread ‘em f’me and let me see if your pretty pussy can still handle me.”
And that you don’t argue with.
It’s almost embarrassing - the way you scramble desperately to sink back into the mattress. Letting Satoru manhandle your legs open so shamefully for him, throwing them over his muscled shoulders. But that’s a problem for the future, not lust-drunk you.
Right now you couldn’t give less of a fuck as his hungry gaze locks on your glistening pussy. Pausing for just a split-second before spitting once. Twice. Thrice onto your waiting cunt. Making you feel more and more like an object as the warm saliva mixes obscenely with your slick, trickling down to form such a sinful pool on the sheets below.
And you liked it.
Almost as much as you loved the way Satoru drags his tip along your swollen folds, catching so maddeningly on your clit. Teasingly pooling your slick on his leaking head. It was so sloppy. And too slow.
“Satoru, I’ve waited five months too long for this. If you’re going to fuck me then fuck me like you mean it.” you grit out, frustration and pure need boiling over within you.
“Oh? So it’s like that, huh?”
And maybe you were a mastermind, maybe you were an idiot - probably both. Because Satoru immediately pushes in one, long thrust into your dripping cunt. Your words catch pathetically in your throat as he loses grip on whatever semblance of restraint he had - or his sanity - whichever one would break you first.
Fuck, it feels so heavenly. Oh, how you missed him.
Bowing his body down down down till his damp forehead met yours. Folding you completely underneath him in the way you’ve found that only the smug bastard, Gojo Satoru can.
You could almost sob at the stretch as he presses in - deliciously painful, borderline insane, and exactly what you’d been trying to deny that you’d been craving all these past five months. Being split apart on his throbbing cock, feeling like you were about to be absolutely devoured underneath him.
It seems Satoru was just as needy for you, hot and throbbing agonizingly inside you, each little bump bump bump against your walls matching that of your heart thundering against your chest.
Or was that Satoru’s? At this point you couldn’t even tell.
“Oh, god yes-, jus’ like that ah shit shit shit-”
“This what you wanted, yeah?” A low growl leaves his throat at how sinfully your walls were milking him as he pulls back. All the way till his leaking tip was just innocently kissing your sloppy hole - only to ram his cock all the way back into your snug cunt. “To be split apart on my cock?”
Shit, he could just about pass out right now with the way your cunt was sucking him in so greedily like she never wanted to part.
Guess she missed him too, he thinks deliriously. Not even having to think about it as he starts fucking into you in shallow, mindless little thrusts. Pushing himself deeper and deeper into your plushy cunt.
“Äh- fuck, yeah. S’all I’ve wanted.” you mewl, feeling so vulnerable and exposed under the hungry eyes boring into yours. A dark gleam in them as he grins, “Then take it back.”
Disoriented, you gasp out a strangled, “What?” before Satoru’s hips become rougher, chasing his high as much as yours.
“What you said at dinner.” your lips fall into a soft oh! as you realize just what he’s talking about, “Admit that no man makes you cum as hard as I do.”
God, you don’t think you could answer even if you wanted to, choking on the harsh, purposeful movements of his hips just to fuck your soul out.
Heavy balls stinging your skin, the lewd sounds of skin-on-skin fills the heady air. Driving you to insanity. An absolutely unforgiving cadence that has the bed creaking in protest. Ah, whatever, he could buy them a new one anyway if this one just so happens to break.
“Take it back yet?” He had to break you first though.
Slick gushes out of your heated cunt, dripping down his length and pooling at his heavy balls, stinging your ass at each merciless thrust. “No.”
A large hand hastily makes its way down to draw rough, frenzied little circles on your throbbing clit. Voice strangled, sweat beading on his forehead, thrusts becoming increasingly sloppier. “How about now?”
“Ah- hngh- oh fuck. Satoru!” You could only moan softly in response, broken whimpers leaving you each time his tip kissed your cervix. Angling his hips just right to expertly brush against that one spot he knew so well would have you keening and bucking up into his cock. Your face almost burns at the sheer familiarity of it all. This bastard knew you too well.
And something about that made such an uncomfortable, prickly feeling pool in your stomach.
Something which you knew would only be sated if you looped your arms around his neck. Nails digging into his sculpted back as you pulled him impossibly closer.
Kissing his flushed cheeks as he murmurs, “Take it back, sweetheart.”
Despite the thick cock splitting you in half till you probably couldn’t walk tomorrow morning, you find it in yourself to huff out a soft laugh at the way Satoru’s tone teetered on just that endearing side of sulky. “Fine. You win, Toru.” you whisper into his lips,
And then you’re cumming. White-hot pleasure flashing behind your eyes and Satoru’s lips gently slotting against yours as he fucked you through your high. Acting as if the fucked-out whimper of his nickname is one he’ll never forget.
As if he couldn’t cum simply from hearing it leave your pretty lips. And he does, shooting thick, hot ropes of cum painting your plushy walls white with a raw groan of your name. It oozes out of your cunt and onto the mess of sheets below as he fucks his seed into you as a lover would. As he would.
It was intoxicating - everything from the way you milked his cock so sinfully, to the arms tight around his shoulders. Pulling him close, running soothingly along his skin as Satoru collapses onto you with a final, fucked-out thrust.
And despite being a lightweight, Satoru’s never been so easily drunk off of something than he was off of you. God how he missed this - how he missed you.
So much so that he can’t put it into words - and probably won’t ever be able to. But it’s alright, because your sticky body snug against his, and Satoru arms tenderly around your waist - but you didn’t mind. Both of you understood.
Satoru traces his fingers lazily along your side, neither of you bothering to tackle the mammoth task of cleaning up for now. Each movement slow and gentle, as if any sudden movement might shatter the delicate balance between you.
All is quiet in your little haven, and you could almost fall asleep. The most contented one you’ve had in a while - 5 months, 3 weeks, and 7 hours ago to be exact.
But, of course, Satoru can’t keep his mouth shut for nothing. You jolt out of your reverie as he hastily tries to stifle the startled laugh that huffs out of him. Your dazed eyes meet his in the dim lighting, raising a brow in question.
“It’s just…” he starts, voice soft, “You still call me Toru. Feels like home.”
Ah.
You find yourself chuckling softly with him. Heat rushing to your cheeks, burying yourself deeper into his warm chest, to hide the embarrassingly flustered smile breaking out across your face if anything.
Chuckling, Satoru shifts closer, touch now feather-light against your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw with his fingertips. Faltering ever-so-slightly as you mutter out, “Happy anniversary, by the way. I didn’t say it earlier because someone was being a public menace.”
“Hey! It’s not my fault that someone locked me out of my own honeymoon suite.” he laughs, drinking in your pretty lil’ smile.
Ah, you were perfect. As you always were. Satoru can’t help but utter out a little, “Hey, if I tell you something absolutely stupid, would you promise not to make me fish food?”
“Absolutely not.”
He knew you’d say that. So he flashes you an easy grin, a hint of nervousness in it that he’s sure you see through - you always do.
“So…” he begins, “First thing’s first, I’m thinking of expanding my father’s company further overseas and it might just so happen that I’m leading the branch development and get to pick where exactly.”
God, you made him feel like such a teenager. At your stunned silence, Satoru could barely raise his eyes to meet yours as he plows on, stumbling so uncharacteristically over his words, “You, I picked where you are.”
You’re breathless, words barely audible as his sinks in. “What? Toru that’s-”
“And don’t be mad but you kinda sorta didn’t-win-the-raffle-so-instead-I-planned-this-getaway-when-we-were-together.”
Any and every trace of breathless euphoria leaves your tone as you narrow your eyes at the very guilty Satoru beside you. Fidgeting under your intense scrutiny. Finally - after what seems like an eternity - you find your senses after his whiplash-inducing information dump.
A hand immediately shoots out to squeeze his side, right where you knew he was dangerously ticklish.
“You sneaky little-” you scold over his laughed out yells of, “Mercy! No murder on our honeymoon!” squirming helplessly beneath you.
“I can’t believe you let me chug all that ice cream.”
“Exactly- hah- help! You w-would’ve been so sad that you ah- didn’t win.” he manages to choke out under your attack.
Finally relenting, only once you’re sure he’ll be feeling the burn of laughter until your flight tomorrow, you release him from your grasp. A satisfied smirk playing on your lips as you lean in close. “You’re lucky I still love you, you smug bastard” you deadpan.
“Aww, you beat me to it.” Satoru whines. Yet he reaches out to cup your cheek, “And I love you,” words hanging in the air like a promise. “With every fiber of my being.”
You let yourself be begrudgingly pulled into his embrace again, hands caressing along your skin like the highest form of worship. Satoru sighs out a contented, “Best honeymoon ever.”
But of course, you couldn’t help but bully your idiotic boyfriend. “This is not a honeymoon, Toru.” you mutter into his heated skin.
He only presses you closer to him. Yeah maybe not, fingers deftly dancing along your left hand. But maybe next time.
“Wanna watch the stars and tell me all about that branch development?”
“Of course, sweetheart, but first can you at least unblock me on Gmail now?”
“...”
You broke up with Gojo Satoru exactly 5 months, 3 weeks, and 12 hours ago. And as for how long it’s been since he won you back - well, you think it might just be one of the few things you didn’t keep count of.
A/N. Based on my vacay at Lily Beach except I didn’t meet my future husband there :0
Synopsis. CASE 143.
Objective: To take care of the problem that is Agent 7:3 [CONFIDENTIAL—Name: Nanami Kento, Age: 27] once and for all. The most feared spy in all of Tokyo’s underbelly, with a conviction rate of 100%. And, this time, he’s probed into your higher-ups far too deeply—to take him out you must go undercover…as his wife.
The problem: You're Wanted, and Nanami Kento wants you. Badly.
Pairing. Nanami Kento x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!assassin!reader, spy!Nanami, Spy x Family AU, married couple, marriage of convenience, secret plots, espíonage, vioIence, you’re attempting to kiII him, he knows and likes it, they’re slightly unhinged, romcom vibes, Yuj cameo, Papamin, domestic, apothecaries, aphrodísiac, he’s GONE, he’s pússydrúnk, handcuffs, heels, pIot, oraI (fem rec.), spítting, chokíng, face-ríding, p worship, body worship, Nanami’s big nose, service Nanami, matíng presses, MlLKING him, he’s here to pIease, markíng, manhandIing, cervíx smooching, DÚMBlFICATION, passionate s, heavy overstím, slight marathon, ínappropríate uses of his tie, making it fit, talking you through it, he just wants to be your real HUSBAND, creampíes, cúmpIay, STUFFING YOU, proposals, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 16.9k (ermmmm)
A/N. CONGRATSSSS Nanami nation for winning The Bachelorette poll mwahaha I told you babygirls there’d be a surprise-
Yet another bead of sweat glides down Nanami’s temple; consequences of tugging and prying at the restraints around his wrists to no avail. Hard metal handcuffs. Coiled snakes of metal - he isn’t sure whether it’s the tightness or the temperature that bites into his skin the most.
Though something else was gnawing at him entirely.
He’s seated in the darkness upon a rickety wooden chair, his hands forcefully held behind him. Golden tresses stick to his forehead- and he’s looking up through them as you close in. Eyes narrowed. Something dark shifting behind them…
His voice rasps out, “You have me.”
And you smile.
Pressing the tip of your golden dagger to his throat, stepping the point of your heels between his legs- “Honey, I’ve always had you.”
And he knows he should be trembling at the thought of finally falling into the Garden’s clutches, at the exposure of his identity, at the breach of his secrets.
But he had another problem.
Nanami Kento has never been harder.
Soon enough, you’re rovering your heel ambly up and down the plane of his thighs, up and down, up and down—in nothing but a mere graze.
The tips of his ears scorch red as he feels his smart, smoothened trousers getting tighter n’ tighter by the second. Nanami fights not to let his gaze dart downwards, he fights—but the slightest sensation of your heel inching closer, and he cracks.
Soon enough, your stare follows.
And you’re letting out a curious hum as you take in the bulge he was embarrassingly sporting.
“Oh? What’s this?” He damn-near flinches at the tone of your voice - so mockingly innocent. Nanami knew better- he knew so much better. “My portfolio never said you were such a pervert, Agent 7:3.”
He spits out, “No-”
“Yes.”
And he’s always loved those jet-black, barrel-black, heels of yours- honestly!
They sat collecting dust in a corner of your half of the closet, and he always did think they contrasted perfectly with his pale-green suits.
Though, he did often wonder when you’d bring them out.
He just never could’ve expected this…
Nanami lets out a pained hiss- letting his head drop backwards ever-so-slightly as you’re stepping down even harder. “Hard?” Your smile widens, feeling him throb and twitch beneath your heel. “Getting even harder? How did we ever get here, hubby—?”
How did you two ever get here, indeed.
.
.
.
Nanami remembers the pre-mission briefing perfectly- he always was told he had a photographic memory. However, the details of this particular day stand out so crystal clear in his brain that it was almost too sharp; like a rusty nail, or the point of your heel.
It’d been a sunny Thursday, even though daylight never pierced the headquarters of JISE (Japanese Intelligence Services’ Eastern-focused division). Nanami - though he wasn’t Nanami Kento, here, he was Agent 7:3 - had done this same song and dance, song and dance, song and dance over a hundred times already. It was routine as he flipped through the thick file that’d been slid over to him.
Agent Corpse [CONFIDENTIAL—Yaga Masamichi] sat with his arms crossed and a grim expression upon him that he wore nearly as much as his sunglasses. He waited patiently as Nanami finished reading through the miniscule blocked typing and looked up at him.
“So…” He started, neatly closing the file. “The mission seems standard, I don’t see why I would have any trouble with it.”
Yaga sighed and pushed his shades up, “It’s not the intelligence-gathering I see you having trouble with, rather it’s the…social aspects.”
Nanami raised a blond brow, “Social?”
“This mission-” Yaga sternly tapped the top of the file, “This isn’t one of your lone wolf operations, 7:3. To get close to the head of the Zenin family, you need to take on more roles than one. A family man. A father. A husband.”
The blond man steeped in his silence as his higher-up continued.
“You need to really live in this role, Kento—” He was startled - Yaga almost never called him that. Through his dark sunglasses, the older man’s eyes twinkled. “You need to believe it.”
“I…”
Without waiting for the rest of his sentence, he flicked open the file to a comprehensive list of potential orphanages and single women around his age in Tokyo: the building blocks to his faux-family. “Two people here will be counting on you to believe in your role.” Yaga spoke low, “And whatever that means for them after this mission is over…” This was always the hardest part. “From now onwards, consider yourself a husband and father before a spy. First and foremost.”
Nanami had never carried out a mission that involved other people.
And there was silence that stretched taut and nearly snapped- before Nanami answered in the only way he knew he could.
He looked at nanami with steely brown eyes, “Respectfully, I am the best spy in all of Japan’s Eastern Division for a reason, sir.”
Yaga slammed the file shut. It resounds louder than it should’ve - and there was the slightest smile twitching at his lips. “Good.”
For the good of the nation.
The days thereafter weren’t what Nanami would consider a blur—rather a list of procedures pertinent to his mission, of which he went through them all step by step, strictly and methodically. An exercise so tried and tired by him that he could do them in his sleep (he always slept with one eye open).
First, he rented out a nice home in suburban Shibuya, a spy’s-distance away from the Zenin ancestral home. It was a cosy cookie-cutter home for the cosy cookie-cutter life that he supposes normal civilians have the privilege to live, with cookie-cutter welcome mats and a patch of green garden from which sprouted a spare sprig that one could never be too sure wasn’t plastic. It had a dog home, too. Not because of any request or seeking from Nanami’s side, but because most families that lived in such a place owned one.
So he went out and adopted a shelter dog to keep up with appearances.
And how to explain the mysterious funds to the nosy neighbors? Well, his cover story of living in Denmark because of his grandfather’s side could only hold up for so long - Nanami got a cover job as a psychiatrist at the nearest affluent hospital. And then…
Then came the slightly difficult part.
Nanami Kento had done research on twenty-one different orphanages in Tokyo and several more outside before he’d finally landed in Sendai. And that was where he met Itadori Yuji.
Name: Itadori Yuji.
Age: 6 [March 20th]
Family: None alive. His parents died shortly after his birth [cause unknown], and he was taken care of by his paternal grandfather - his only living family - until he, too, passed from illness [lung cancer].
Other: Has been rehomed four times in the four-month span that he’s been living at the institution. Gets along well with others, cheerful disposition—is generally a good kid, though he seems to have trouble finding a guardian that can handle his energy. No matter how much they tease and taunt him - in the cruel, unknowingly callous way of children - Itadori still attempts to engage with them day after day, particularly with his tiger toy. He just needs some love.
Nanami’s stern eyes lingered on that last word.
He looked up from the sheet that the caregiver had handed to him. It was the first one that he’d been given- and by the sheer speed at which they had, he assumed that they’d been more than eager to get rid of the pink-haired little boy. Nanami glanced around the cream-colored room; small and cardboard-strong. This was a shady place.
He makes note of its location and organization to pass over to Yaga later.
Under the rim of the paper, he could see two small shoes getting scuffed on the carpet.
And as he puts it down to stare at Itadori, the boy raises his tiger toy upwards. An offering.
Wide chocolate eyes and trembling lips.
He looked as if he was about to cry.
Nanami doesn’t take the offering—though he did crouch down and reach his hand out to clasp one chubby, cotton-stuffed hand, he mimicked shaking hands. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Tiger.” Albeit a little stiffly - Nanami somewhat awkwardly attempted to smooth his features down to something warm as he looked at the boy then. “And who might you be?”
He’s never seen a smile wider.
And thus, everything was going according to plan.
There was the slightest hiccup when it turned out that Itadori Yuji needed tutoring - a lot of tutoring - that Nanami pored and labored over until he was seeing fractions in his nightmares, before he could complete the entrance exam for Jujutsu Academy. But he got in—by some cosmic miracle, Itadori Yuji got in.
He’s never been prouder- as a fake father, of course.
Everything really was going to plan. First came the baby, then came the prestigious school acceptance to get Itadori to form an acquaintance with Fushiguro Megumi, then came the marriage.
A little out of order, he knows.
And then after bumping into you at the local bakery he often frequented, he knew he’d found his future wife.
Not in a romantic way—he swears!
He swears.
“Oh…you dropped this.” You’d caught his attention in that gentle tone of yours.
Dropping down, you’d handed him an embroidered handkerchief he’d dropped during the collision - his favorite item to carry, in addition to the fact that it had a slip of poison stuffed between the folds. One he’d been planning to use on one of the Zenin elders just today…
What would he have done without you?
Similarly crouching before you straightened yourself, Nanami had met your eyes tenderly as he took the poisoned handkerchief from you. “Thank you…and your name?”
You’d looked down shyly as you answered. Venom at your fingertips.
He killed a man that evening and could only think about you the entire time- in the best way.
Name: Well, he’d turned it over and over in his mind until it was practically emblazoned.
Age: You never ask a lady her age.
Occupation: Clerk at Tokyo City Hall.
Family/ friends: None of note.
Looks: Perfect.
And Nanami was never a romantic type of man to begin with - it was always work, work, work, espionage. And after a long, hard day of his duties (spying was surprisingly not as thrilling as the movies made it seem) he rarely had the time to think about anything more than that. Something…beyond just his responsibilities.
Something in the future.
He knew he wanted to retire, some day, but that was in a future he didn’t care to set a date on. Setting a date on it made it seem more real.
A picket-fence. A garden. A dog running around that he pretended to grumble at. The pitter-patter of small feet and the laughing of the one that followed it—all while he watched from the front porch. Flashes of such nonsense have run through his mind; but only in the dead of night when he could pass those off as fever dreams. And pretend to forget them in the morning.
And so Nanami Kento got married.
It was a hasty affair - about a week after he met you. Three dates and one introduction to Itadori later (it was important he liked you…because how else would the ruse of a happy family be believable?) and you were submitting a form of marriage registration to the very City Hall you worked at. New to the neighborhood, you didn’t have a lot of friends nor family to invite, which just made Nanami’s just so much easier.
To your coworkers, however, it had garnered the most amusing reaction.
Nanami had been present for a work function of yours, when you’d mustered up your courage and commented to one of your associates that he wasn’t just your boyfriend, and then you’d showed them the ring. He’s never seen more smug jaws dropped.
It’s then that he’d decided you were actually rather humorous. Humorous enough that perhaps this mission, despite its unknowing collaborators, won’t be too hellish after all…
Perhaps he’d even have a decent time playing pretend.
Before he has to leave it all - the home, the doghouse, the dog and the kid who’d be rehomed with a loving family he handpicks, and you.
.
.
.
One week before the marriage.
“You understand that he will be the most difficult target you’ve yet to encounter?”
“I understand.”
“You understand that he is highly-trained, highly-experienced, and dangerous?”
“I understand.”
The masked higher-up straightens and snarls at your assertiveness, “You understand that your mission is not over until you’ve succeeded in assassinating Nanami Kento?”
“I understand.” But no matter how much they attempt to deter you - you’re keeping your head held as high as ever. Hands behind your back. Dagger cutting through the dim lighting with its malicious glints. After so many years in this profession, you can only grow as miserable and nerve-wracked to an extent before every target simply becomes a job.
More than that; you fume silently as those damn higher-ups at the Garden underestimate you.
The Garden was a group of specially-trained assassins operating predominantly within inner-Tokyo, though you did branch off to other wards when required. And of them all, you were their #1: the best of the best, a kill count that you’d stopped measuring, the one they sent on only the most hazardous missions.
There was a reason you’d been nicknamed The Phantom.
Playboys. Politicians. Athletes and singers—you’ve seen it all. The good and the bad. The deserving and perhaps the undeserving- though you never pondered upon it.
They were all the same faceless, breathless targets to you. And your dagger always hit bullseye.
Sometimes, however…sometimes you did wonder what the bigger ripples of your jobs were. Would anyone search for them? Would anyone notice? Would anyone cry nor care? Was this, perhaps, what stopped you from finally leaving this damn place - were you deserving of such leniency?
Sometimes you did wonder whether you withheld from the simple pleasures in life because you were punishing yourself, in a way. A family. A hearth. A home. But a guilty assassin was no better than one of their own targets - there are more ways to die than just in the physical.
And so you didn’t think about it.
You didn’t do anything but glare at the higher-up that sat behind his desk, his papers, and his smooth white mask. Who were they to undermine you? “I have never failed a mission before, and I will never fail a mission ahead. I will take this job and complete it before you even know what’s happened.”
He lets out a wheezing chuckle- it was abnormal for them to be so flippant about your success rate when it comes to a job. “That’s the spirit.” He throws over a paper-thin file, “You’ll need it.”
You’ve taken down spies before- hell, you’ve even taken down other assassins. To have him act so dubious about this job? Jolting a step towards him, it really made you wonder about the nature of this particular target…
And so you’re flipping through the single page of information the Garden had on him.
Case 143
Codename: Agent 7:3 [rumored to be linked to the target’s impeccable ability to find the weakest points when attacking any building, vault, or person.]
Name: Nanami Kento.
Age: 27
Height: 6’1 - 6’2
Looks: Blond hair. Hazel eyes. Fine features. Broad-shouldered and fairly toned, he is known to be partial to suits and other clean-cut clothes above anything else.
Profession: Secret agent.
Family: Unknown.
Residence: Unknown.
Current mission: Unknown.
Status: Currently active and HIGHLY DANGEROUS.
Those last two words had been underlined twice.
But you were determined.
In the time assigned to you by the higher-ups, you deduced that you’d have about three attempts.
What’s that saying about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer? You wondered whether there was anything in there about marrying them.
.
.
.
First attempt.
Long-distance sniping wasn’t exactly the most comfortable technique.
Then again, perhaps you were just experienced enough to worry about such a thing. You’d be lucky.
You’re laid low on your front; against the slightly-damp rooftop of a building between SHIBUYA SKY and Shibuya Hikarie. The cold, hard floor pushed against your body and lifted you meters overlooking the scramble below—humans, animals, cars, all in a symbiotic collision of which contact never happened.
You’ve been married to Nanami Kento for about a week now.
And in that week you’ve taken note of his routine, his work hours, his favorite stops along the route…home. All under the guise - the guise - of being his considerate wife.
And it’d turned out to be a worthy sacrifice in the end once you’d discovered that the stoic, sensible Agent 7:3 had what you’d never have expected of him: a sweet tooth. Everyday after work, no matter how tired he is, he’d stop by the bakery he met you in—picking out a few treats to bring home to you and Itadori.
It was a cosy establishment squatted on a corner of Shibuya Crossing and next to the apothecary; vines creeping down the sides, wide-open wooden doors, and decorated with luscious baked goods in the window. The only reason you yourself had gone there was to manufacture a meeting with Nanami. But here he was right now, seated in a window booth with a book in his hands. Gold-rimmed glasses on his nosebridge. Legs stretched out beneath the table. Blond brows furrowed just a little as his eyes scanned the page.
He looked almost like something out of a movie. Perhaps he couldn’t have looked more unassuming if he tried.
You’re letting your gaze linger on him through the rifle scope for a few seconds.
And it’s in this brief pocket of time that Nanami sets his book down, takes off his glasses, and looks through the window straight in your direction. Yours.
You startle.
You take perfect aim at his head and shoot.
BANG!
Meanwhile, Nanami Kento is having a quiet relaxation - a rare moment. His ‘job’ as a psychiatrist kept him more busy than he would have expected, on top of using the position to spy on the vast Zenin members that flitted in and out of the hospital sometimes. He was about halfway through the last story of The King in Yellow, marking down notes on the Zenins in its margins, when he straightens up and glances down at his watch.
Humming to himself at the time, Nanami gathers his things and looks up at the sunny sky above. It was a beautiful day.
Thus, in prim, precise movements, he’s getting up - not too fast - and making his way to the counter to tip the serving staff extra.
CRASH!
Nanami’s taken just a single step away from where the bullet surely would have struck him—a honed head of metal that shatters the Tokyo atmosphere at over 1200 meters per second. With a deafening cracking sound, it makes the bakery window burst beneath its pressure, sending shards of glass flickering in his direction; Nanami steadily puts his open book down and lets the fragments hit the leather cover instead of him.
There’s a scream.
And then there’s chaos.
People running. Children crying. Cars stopping on the road. No one was hurt in the least - if anything, it was just that poor book he’d have to replace with a new cover.
But he understands that this line of work meant he was more used to such things than civilians- perhaps more than he should be. And he was a Wanted man - not by the law but by those who think they’re above it. And so he’s calmly walking over to the counter as the rest of the customers inside the bakery evacuate. Placing a large wad of cash on its wooden plane, he’s just about to leave before he looks more suspicious—before turning right back around and plucking out something from the lavish sweet display - your favorite. And then one more loaf of milk bread for Itadori.
Plopping them down in a bag, he makes his way out.
This morning, he’d told Itadori to meet him on the other side of Shibuya Crossing- he steps onto the zebra-patterned road right now and can see the little boy waving frantically from the other side. A ball of sunshine energy and a coat of orange far too big for him, but it’s one that he’d grow into - or at least, that’s the excuse Nanami had made when it’d turned out that he’d picked the wrong size. Damn, he needs to fix that.
For the mission, of course. Nanami shakes his head back into rationality.
Quickly crossing the road, the boy throws his arms around the blond man’s legs.
“Papa—!” He squeals, chubby hands grabbing at his three-piece suit. Itadori’s Spider-Man backpack jostles just a little as he jumps up and down, “What took you so long? It was so scawy waiting here…people are running about.”
“My apologies, Yuji.” Nanami responds, looking behind his small figure. “But I see you brought your friends along for moral support.”
Pink brows frown, “What’s mowal support?”
Behind him, the frames of Kugisaki Nobara and Fushiguro Megumi shuffle about - his (temporary) son’s best friends from school, and it was just as convenient that the black-haired boy was exactly their ticket into siphoning more information about the Zenin family - and Nanami nods at them graciously. “Thank you for walking my son here.”
“Hah, no problem.” Kugisaki crosses her arms smugly, “He was scared so of course we had to-”
“Was not—!”
Fushiguro, meanwhile, just squints at the sky. “There was a strange noise. It sounded like thunder.”
“There was, wasn’t there?” Nanami responds, looking around. The chaos had largely calmed down by now, and as police surrounded the bakery, little by little Shibuya seemed to be getting back to its usual sort of commotion—he looks down at the oblivious starry-eyed boy. “Perhaps that was your mother on her way, I always do say she fell from heaven.”
Itadori frowns, “That sounds like it would hurt.”
Fushiguro scoffs, “That sounds illogical.”
“What’s illogicwal mean?”
Kugisaki squeals, “That sounds romantic-”
“Ewwwww.”
“That’s right.” Nanami tilts his head up and looks in the direction between SHIBUYA SKY and Shibuya Hikarie. Where the shot had come from, he does not need to wonder why. “That is romantic, isn’t it?”
Again, right at you.
And from on top of that rooftop, the long-range rifle drops from your hands.
You hadn’t known that he’d be meeting the three kids afterwards. And perhaps if you’d had an inkling then…
No.
Even as you watched the miniscule shape of Nanami Kento - Agent 7:3 - throw Itadori over his shoulders and clasp both Fushiguro and Kugisaki’s hands as he carefully crossed the bustling road with them, heading in the direction of the sweets’ shop down the road (his second-favorite stop to spoil Itadori), you knew you had a job to do.
And you had to do it, even if it killed you in the process.
That evening, you’re home when he comes back.
“I’m home, darling.” Setting his heavy bags down, as usual. Letting Itadori in before gently clicking the door shut, as usual. Asking you how your day at ‘work’ was before wrapping you in a hug, as usual.
If he suspected you had anything to do with that stray gunshot at the bakery, then he’s made no indication since- you’d seen nothing on the news, either. And by now you’ve convinced yourself that the intensity of his gaze upon you on Shibuya Crossing was a mere fluke. A mere coincidence. Perhaps he was just looking at a strangely-shaped cloud above—
And then he produces the paper bag in his hands.
Looking inside, you gulp.
He’d memorized your order perfectly.
“I got the last one, can you believe it? It seems that the bakery will be undergoing some construction in the following weeks.” Nanami spoke as he shrugs off his coat, looking at you with a slight twinkle in his eyes. “It’s your luck, my love.”
“R-really…?” You didn’t know what to say. Merely holding the bag limply in your hands, as if it would detonate any second now. Just your luck, indeed…
Unsure where to even look- you’re staring after the pink-haired boy that’d rampaged inside, pretending he was Spider-Man.
“Mhm.” Nanami mutters to himself as he walks inside. “I’ll have to learn to make it at home, however…”
.
.
.
Second attempt.
Perhaps you needed some collaborators, too.
It’d been a beautiful summer-drenched Friday when Nanami had suggested taking Itadori and his two best friends out to the aquarium.
It was one of his few days off- which in and of itself was shocking. It seems that Nanami had been working himself to the bone recently, and the office had taken initiative to force the blond man into taking a holiday. You’d perked up in your love seat, a novel in your hands—but between the pages was a leaflet on poison concoctions that you’d been reading through.
“The aquarium?” You’re smiling sweetly up at your handsome husband, running about a hundred different ways you could kill him there. “Why, that sounds wonderful, Kento. I’ll get Yuji from the garden-”
“You just get yourself ready, darling.” Nanami’s voice was deep and warm - it felt like the spread of heat after drinking hot cocoa, the way it starts from the pit of your stomach before eventually ebbing into every one of your fingertips. “I’ll worry about wrangling Yuji into the bath. Take your time.”
Oh—all the assassination plans you could concoct in that time!
Attempting to keep the smile off of your face, you’re leaping up onto your feet and heading in the direction of your shared bedroom to get ready. Making just about one step- two- three…before halting in your tracks and swivelling right back around. Nanami’s keen ears catch onto the difference in the determined cadence of your footsteps and he looks back at you.
Questions ready on his tongue, “What’s wro-”
And for perhaps the first time, the ever-eloquent Nanami Kento is rendered speechless.
Because you’re placing a hand on his shoulder and leaning him towards you with a single tug- pressing your lips against his svelte cheek.
Nanami’s skin is warm against yours - and you know it only makes logical sense, but some part of you had perhaps wondered whether his body was just as cold as his professional demeanor. Despite being married you hadn’t quite…consummated the marriage yet—and he understood, he could wait. He didn’t need something if it wasn’t related to his mission, of course
And you’re trying to convince yourself that this is part of yours- to gain trust, you rationalize.
The kiss lasts less than two seconds, and your heart thump-thump-thumps against your chest as you pull away. Refusing to meet his eyes, his raised brows, his speechlessness, you’re turning heel and speed-walking to the bedroom.
All for the mission.
All for the mission.
All for the mission.
Little did you know that someone else in the house was thinking the same thing.
Nanami stands there unsteadily for a few seconds before heading to the garden to gather Itadori.
Before high noon, you were all ready and had picked up Kugisaki and Fushiguro to go to the aquarium - during which Nanami had been glad to snoop around the Zenin family home as he took the little boy off his guardian’s hands.
The aquarium was an entire ecosystem itself.
The entire world was seeped in blue, and sunlight dazzled from above the largest attractions to create patterns of gold that looked almost unearthly. Parents tugged by children, teenagers tugged by parents; friends and couples that flitted from tank to colorful tank in a near-aqueous way. Laughs and excited gasps—melding in symphony with the honking of clown horns, with the occasional burst of a balloon. It seems that many families - and you use the term because there was none better - had the same idea as yours, and the smell of sticky, sweet strawberry ice cream hits your nose as soon as you enter the area for water exhibits.
Passing by the lively tanks, hand-in-hand with Itadori, your gaze catches on something that sparks an idea in your mind. “Yuji…” You’re dropping down to be eye-level with the pink-haired little boy, “Why don’t you and your friends go and check out the touch tank over there?”
“The touch tank?” He nervously looks over to the lowly-fenced exhibit surrounded by children and a few handlers. It was a well-managed tank, widespread with nooks and crannies and rock masses along the sides, a hand-washing station before it; squeals emerged occasionally where a participant happened to touch something particularly slimy. He kicks the ground, “Hmm.”
Kugisaki wraps her arms around one of his, “Oh- c’mon, idiot.”
“Hey-”
And then she leans in and whispers in something that wasn’t a whisper at all - but what would a six-year-old know about secrets? Adults knew far too much. “Your momma obviously wants to spend some romantic time with your papa, don’t you have common sense?”
You have to bite back a laugh- sure, you wanted to be alone with him.
Though not for any reason they could conjure up.
He sputters, “I-I…” Looking over at Fushiguro for help.
Fushiguro, notably, doesn’t help.
Instead he walks over to an exhibit of sea urchins.
“I want momma and papa to be happy.” Itadori fiddles with his orange overcoat. And your heart clenches—when this is all over you don’t know how you’re going to explain this to him. But you’d be damned if you weren’t allowed to take him for yourself- wait.
You’re shaking your head.
You were thinking nonsense.
And you’re composing yourself just in time for Itadori to look up at Nanami and receive a gentle nod in reassurance - whatever he does, the older man would be content with.
Itadori lets himself be dragged away by the ginger-haired girl- only if that meant he could drag the human version of a disgruntled little sea urchin with him, too. And as the kids have their fun, you’re promising that the two of you won’t be too far away and to definitely call one of you if they need you—before you’re wrapping both arms around one of Nanami’s.
Hugging him to you, you peer into his gold-flecked eyes softly. “I’d really like to see the blue-ringed octopus exhibit, Kento.”
He slightly coughs out his answer, “A-and so we shall, my love.”
And so here was the plan: the venomous creatures were the least-visited. So you’d drag the spy away where one couldn’t see, get him distracted by them, and knock him unconscious with the chloroform-soaked handkerchief you had carefully packaged in one pocket. Dagger in your other pocket. Then you’d finish the job, of course.
Then, outside, was a Discretion Team from the Garden that would discard the evidence, and let you take the kids back home- perhaps even concoct some excuse about ‘a work thing’ coming up at the hospital and causing him to leave.
It was perfect.
It was perfect.
Next to the squid exhibition and the camouflage section, Nanami Kento was completely and utterly entranced by the octopus exhibit. His face paints in a blue light as he watches the alien-like movements of the creatures, so much so that he doesn’t even notice you slipping behind him—digging through your pockets before plastering his face with the damp handkerchief.
Nanami’s hand comes up to touch your wrist, though you’re unmoveable.
He breathes the chloroform in deep.
And then he wavers.
You got him.
Your heart rate spikes, thinking it’s time- fuck, you’ve finally gotten him. Keeping one hand with the chloroform pressed up against him, you’re just about to reach for the dagger snuck into your pocket. He was on the verge of being completely knocked out.
But someone on the verge of being completely knocked out wouldn’t tighten his grip on your wrist, would he?
Your heart runs cold.
Preventing you from grabbing your weapon, you feel Nanami smile beneath the thin fabric. Before imitating a sneeze into the handkerchief- “A—choo! Thank you, my love. How did you know I was allergic to the smell of squid ink?”
“You-” And you’re tugging your hand - and the venomous handkerchief - away from him as though his skin burned.
“Yes?”
But he keeps his fingers intertwined with yours even as you pull away, letting them dangle between you two when you’re stepping into his line of sight once more and assessing every inch of him. His eyes? Clear. His gait? Steady. His expression? Normal (handsome).
No signs of dizziness, fatigue, or the signs of your plan working in motion.
But the chloroform—
Eventually, he lets your hands fall limply to your sides, and you’re looking down at the fabric in shock. Nanami Kento was still standing- and he hums as he turns back to the blue-ringed octopuses; slithering underneath an arch of coral as they, too, went into hiding.
He clasps his hands behind his back and speaks to no one in particular, “Odd, isn’t it? I’m immune to 562 poisons and over a thousand toxic substances, but it’s squid ink that makes my system flare up.”
Your jaw drops. Silently, solemnly, you find yourself standing beside him. “You’re…immune…”
He merely nods, staring through the tank. Gaze on something far away.
“I bet that was difficult.” There was a Poisons Division in the Garden as well, and you’d heard of the sheer torture they had to go through to make themselves immune to such things: one could make the body a scab to all things toxic, but underneath that was still a wound. You yourself knew that all too well. Ultimately, you say. “Must have to do with your work as a psychiatrist.”
Nanami nods, “Must have.”
There’s a shriek then the pitter-patter of small footsteps.
You’re so wound-up and taut that it makes you jump slightly closer to Nanami- and he’s readily steadying you against his side. Arms on your shoulders.
“See, I told you they were being all romantic—!”
Nanami holds back a chuckle, “We should get going.” And unbeknownst to you, his eyes follow…follow…follow a man with dark hair streaked with grey, one that could only ever belong to the Zenin family. Zenin Naobito was lurking in the corners of the aquarium, the most unassuming place for one to conduct secret meetings with contractors that pretended they weren’t here for the same reason.
Because why else would Nanami go on a family outing, right?
Right?
.
.
.
Third (and final) attempt.
“—and don’t forget your second change of clothes.” The only thing preventing Itadori from darting out of the house and into any oncoming cars was your single hand hooked around the handle of his Spider-Man backpack.
The only thing keeping him in one place.
Somewhat.
With the other, you’re attempting to shove down the spare t-shirt and shorts you’d picked out for him. Knowing your son, there wasn’t any sort of trouble, puddle, or cake batter that he wouldn’t somehow find and get into. And you don’t know what sort of house the Zenins ran, but you were determined to be on their good side.
And so you’re huffing and puffing, beads of sweat forming at your forehead, as you attempt to push it down the humble space- honestly, you didn’t understand why they didn’t just make these things a bit bigger. Just the slightest bit.
At this rate, he’s never going to…
“Itadori Yuji.” Your voice comes out deadpan, and the pink-haired boy turns to you with wide, innocent eyes.
Sweetly, “Yes, momma?”
“Why have you packed your entire Hot Wheels collection for a sleepover?”
Whatever he spouts about wanting to show Fushiguro and Kugisaki, whatever explanations he’s giving about moral support (honestly, where did he even learn such a thing?), goes in one ear and out the other.
Because yes—Fushiguro had invited Itadori and Kugisaki over for a sleepover at their home. It was convenient given that the two boys were practically next-door neighbors, and after the success of their aquarium visit you were hesitant to part the trio. Thus, it seems that Fushiguro had all but thrown a tantrum and attempted to run away from home in order to convince his guardian to agree to a sleepover. Which was sweet, of course.
But this was Itadori’s first, and any mother would be nervous about that sort of thing- wait.
But you weren’t a mother…technically. This was all a ruse for your mission, and so you’re shaking your head and pushing the bundled-up clothes deeper into his backpack, perhaps in order to drive that point home.
You’re interrupted by a gentle hand on your shoulder.
“Let me take over, my love.”
You’re shifting aside to let Nanami handle the little issue swiftly—with a firm hand - thick fingers, prominent veins, that wedding ring on his left hand - he tugs Itadori back inside the house. “Now now, sunshine. What have we said about taking our toys out of the house?”
He tilts his head up n’ juts his little bottom lip out, “To take only one.”
Nanami lifts the bag just slightly to the side and takes a glance, “And does this look like only one?”
“No…” Itadori sighs.
Soon, you’re finding just about half the Hot Wheels production line laid out, side-by-side and color-coordinated, on the threshold to your home. It looked like a miniature parking lot of which Itadori grumbled as he pushed the clothes into the newly-presented space inside the bag and zipped it shut. Pouting.
Nanami chuckles gently, crouching down so that he was eye-level with the boy. ”You know momma and papa love you, right, sunshine?”
“I know…”
“And you understand why it would be difficult to take all the cars?”
Itadori takes a second to think, before giving you both a determined nod. “I do.” And you’re feeling something within you soar- but you’re forgoing wondering just what it means to feel so proud for the boy.
“Good.” Your blond husband stands with heave, taking one of Itadori’s arms and turning around to look at you. “Say bye-bye to momma, Yuji.”
He turns with a beaming smile and a chubby arm raised in goodbye. “Bye-bye, momma.”
“I’ll see you in a bit, my love.” Nanami leans in and—presses a sweet, sweet peck to your cheek. Heat seems to sear from where his lips touched, spreading across your chest and all the way down to your toes. You feel your heat batter against your ribcage- fuck.
Was this what he’d felt the other day?
Two seconds; it’s as far as your intimacy as a married couple goes. And in that time Itadori brings his hands up to cover his eyes with a giggled, “Ewwwww—!”
With an amused shake of his head, the father-son duo set off. Since the Zenin household was in the same neighborhood, about a street away, it was only about a five-minute walk to get there.
Which is why you had to act fast.
Nanami Kento would be home in less than ten minutes - he wouldn’t have Itadori to slow down his long strides on the way back. And you’re standing there with the front door ajar as they leave, waving…waving…waving-
The very moment their backs disappear, you’re slamming the door shut and racing to the kitchen.
There, you’re reaching up to the very topmost cabinet: grabbing the new liquorice-flavored cereal you knew that no one in the house would touch. Of course, you’d emptied out the cereal this very morning.
And all that remained in the cardboard box inside was a slim vial you’d bought from the apothecary.
It wasn’t exactly what one would consider menacing, but it was exactly what you needed for your Hail Mary attempt at completing your mission. It was made of a crystal-clear glass, fashioned into a reticello design, with a label containing some information and a stopper of gold that made the contents within seem far more elegant than they were in reality.
Dark brown powder that looked like ground up dirt.
An unassuming little substance you’d rippled with excitement over at the apothecary’s. So much so that you’d damn-near didn’t hear half the things she said- but it’s fine. You were an assassin, right?
And what was an assassin that didn’t know how to use the most powerful poison in the nation?
Material XXX.
You’ve never seen it with your own two eyes. Nanami might have been immune to chloroform, but there was no living person on Earth that could resist this.
Oh—it was beautiful…And it mixed so perfectly with the ground-up coffee you were adding to your coffee maker. One steaming hot cup of coffee had already been made and upon the kitchen counter beside you, it let out hot swirls of heat as you tampered with the other one. Sweetly fragrant.
You smile- he’ll be dead in one sip. And, sure, you might have some explaining to do to Itadori - but doesn’t all good coffee spark conversation?
You’re still running through the list of excuses in your mind once the brewing comes to a stop.
And just in time, the front door clicks! open.
“He was so excited he tripped five times.” Nanami’s deep sigh echoes into the kitchen. You hear the shuffling sounds of him taking his shoes off, shrugging his coat onto the rack, stepping inside. “Though the other two were just the same- could you please make us some coffee, darling, while I get started on dinner?”
“You’ll ruin your dinner, Kento.” You call out to him, “And I already have.”
His handsome head pops out from the door, golden strands slightly tousled from the walk. Nanami breathes in the unmistakable scent of coffee piercing the kitchen air, and smiles. “You’re the best.”
“In many ways.” Leaning back against the counter, you’re handing his freshly-made cup - poured into a large mug that said #1 Papa - to him.
Nanami’s large hands pluck it from yours and he whispers, “Thank you.” Looking down at the scalding concoction that still swirled within, “I really mean it, you know.”
“What?” You’re looking up at him in surprise.
“You’re the best.”
Your fingers grow tighter around your own mug: World’s Best Momma.
“Drink your coffee before it gets cold, Kento.”
He hums through a smile, before blowing on the similarly-fragrant steam. It smelled of jasmine and spring and something like love; but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? It’s almost a tease—watching Nanami swirl the coffee around a bit, watching him affirm his grip, watching him leeeean his stern lips in before-
“Aren’t you going to drink up, my love?” You almost startle - Nanami was staring at you through his blond tresses, brows furrowed in slight concern. “Are you alright? You look a little…tense.”
“I-I’m perfectly alright—” You hasten to explain- if Nanami got suspicious now and refused to drink his coffee, then there was no way you’re completing this mission. Without wasting anymore time, you’re bringing your coffee up to your own lips - though you don’t take a sip just yet. “Just thinking about work, you know how it is…”
He nods. “We’ve both been really busy lately, haven’t we? I apologize if I’ve made you feel a little lonely these days-”
“Not at all-”
“But still.” Nanami was determined. Those molten brown eyes of his seemed to be pinning you down to the tiled kitchen floor, and the heat of your body contrasted with its frigidness. “I apologize. Tonight, let’s just take some time for the two of us—we can watch a show, we can do some puzzles, tell me about your favorite book and we can read it together.”
You’re refusing to meet his eyes- you can’t. “That…that would be lovely.”
“To us.” Your husband - the spy, you have to remind yourself - outreaches his arm and clinks! your two mugs together in a toast.
“To us.” You weakly whisper.
And then you take a sip and watch him do the same.
Immediately, you know something’s wrong.
From the slightly sour- slightly sweet- taste coating your tongue—to the way that Nanami takes a long, deep swig and sighs out in satisfaction. He doesn’t drop dead. He doesn’t grab his throat in agony. He doesn’t even stagger where he’s standing as he loses consciousness-
Nanami sets his coffee mug down and grins.
“Poison working for you, darling?” And your own drops from your hand and shatters. “Oh dear, let me take care of that-”
“Stop.”
In the middle of reaching for the sweeping pan, Nanami halts and looks at you with slightly unfocused, glazed eyes. Heat rising to his cheeks. Breaths coming out in murked pants. Ones that you were sure mirrored your own.
You felt as if you had a fever five times over and someone had still set you on fire—
Your temperature was soaring through the roof and searing through your skin, making your clothes feel clammy and clinging onto your form. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of your temple. But even more than that was the way that- fuck, it was the heat between your damn legs. It was aching. Something deep and primal—something clawing at you from your insides and making you shudder as you lock eyes with Nanami once again.
Before you know it, he’s wrapping an arm around your waist to help steady you. And nothing more- did you want something more?!
You’re boring into his eyes and finding out that he wasn’t any better. Not in the least.
In fact, he’d drunk more of the potioned coffee than you.
Your wettened lips part and out comes the only thing you know how to say right now, “Kento.”
He jolts at the sound of his first name wrapped around your tongue. So sexual.
And his own words come out a gravelly croon, “Didn’t read the label, assassin?” That smile of his looked almost feral in the light you were looking at him right now. “Because I did.”
He attempts to pull away to show the label to you- the vial of powder he’d found.
The plans he’d ruined.
The secrets he’d discovered.
The temperature in the kitchen was near-sizzling.
But the only thing you can think to do is claw your hands outwards and clutch his white shirt with an unfounded ferocity. One of his buttons pop! off and end up on the kitchen floor.
Chuckling, he gives up letting you see the label for yourself. If you won’t let him go, then…without a single warning, Nanami’s leaning in so that his pretty lips graze your ear. The front of his toned chest pushes up against you- and perhaps the only thing that helps you focus is the rapid, ravenous ba-dump! Ba-dump! Ba-dump! of his heart. Pummeling. “Because if you did, then perhaps you’d have seen that Material XXX isn’t supposed to come into contact with caffeine, my love…”
You gasp, hands twisting even deeper into his button-up.
“Because then, it doesn’t become a poison at all.” The long line of his nose glides down your throat, sending shivers skittering across wherever he was in contact with. He stops against a spot you knew was sensitive and softly blooooooows—cold air against hot skin.
You shiver.
And he merely continues in a rasp, “Because then, it becomes a substance that draws out your deepest desires. Amplifying pre-existing needs that the host contains, those that might be hidden due to…other reasons. So consider it an experiment of sorts. Can you recognize what this concoction is for you, darling?”
“A-an aphrodisiac.” Your eyes threaten to flutter shut- the mere breeze of his breath makes your thighs clench.
He nods. “An aphrodisiac.”
“How long have you known?” More honest than ever; the question blurts out of your lips.
Nanami takes the time to think, “Since the sniping in Shibuya is when I knew.” With lewd, lethargic eyes he looks you up and down- up and down…“But to be honest, I’ve always suspected.”
You growl—“So then you know I’m here to kill you-”
“So try me.”
You lunge.
.
.
.
And perhaps that was how he got here.
Nanami feels the very pointed tip of your heel graze his bulging erection- and he bucks. Not enough to finally free himself, but enough that it makes the chair cricket—and you’re looking down at him through your lashes.
He’s forced to stop his head from throwing backwards, bearing his sensitive throat. Maybe it was the pressure, maybe it was the aphrodisiac, maybe it was the fact that he’s wanted you for so fucking long now- but he feels zaps of white-hot pleasure course through his body.
All the way from the in-betweens of his meaty thighs, riveting like snakes into every one of his limbs. Eventually up to his poor brain.
Slow and steady; you’re watching the fabric of Nanami’s trousers darken. Seeping and spreading the more he tried to press his legs together to hide it.
And once you’re roverin’ your foot over his cock- he moans.
Grin spreading, the further you step down on him, the louder those squelches from his puddle of cum were. “Awww, already, Kento? They didn’t have that in your file.”
Somehow through it all, he manages out such a ravenously handsome grin. Blond hairs disarrayed. Tie askew. Shirt unbuttoned down until you could see golden hairs peeking out. “Th-they probably didn’t have a lot of things.”
“True.” You respond, stepping down harder and he gasps- “But remember who’s in charge now.”
Nanami looks at you through unfocused, half-lidded eyes. “Always was you, darling.”
“Flatterer.” Harder.
“Fuh-fuuuuck…” He spits. Head dropping forwards, a thin line of drivel escapes from his parted mouth and adds onto the mess below. You’re watching it glisten underneath the dim lighting of the bedroom - one you’d somehow manage to drag the blond spy into. “Do that again and I’m going to cream my pants once more, my love.”
Your jaw slightly drops at the matter-of-fact way he was phrasing it. The Nanami Kento you’d been married to never uttered a word like this- “Well…”
“Is that what you’d like?” And, suddenly, his eyes are sharper than before. You had your leg raised so that you could step on his most sensitive bits, but you failed to realize that also meant he had access to your own…to rub his cheek against your inner thigh like a cat yearning for the cream. “Is that what you want your husband to do in repentance?”
“W-we’re not even really married-” Taken aback. Heat flaring where his pants fanned you- your dagger trembles where you held it against his throat. Close enough to cut.
And yet he was still craning his face - his mouth - as near as he could get to your cunt. Mouth watering. A crimson bead where your blade was rested-
“But we could be.” And you’re lost for words. Nanami just looked so pathetic beneath you in ways you never could’ve even imagined: eyes blown wide and dazed, mouth permanently unhinged as he inched towards your soaked underwear, breaths getting more n’ more labored the longer you kept pinning his clothed cock down with your heel.
He had his hands cuffed behind him and was aching to get between those legs - and you’re unsure whether you should blame just the aphrodisiac. Desperation seeps into his words, “But we could consummate this marriage.”
Your lips part.
He doesn’t waste a second.
“Seven times over just to make up for the time we’ve lost.” And then he’s tipping his head back and bearing you with a grin, “Fuck my cock raw, my wife.”
And how could you ever say no to that?
You don’t—instead, what you’re doing is taking advantage of the needy way his jaw was unhinged in a soundless prayer. One that you’re answering with a direct spit- lips pursed, you’re letting a glittering glob of saliva paste against his lips.
Purposefully missing the precise target, the lewd translucent liquid splatters against the side of his lips before ultimately trickling inwards. And you’re watching with your jaw dropped as his Adam’s apple bobs- as he swallows.
Perhaps that was the last straw.
The tip of your glinting blade draws a perfect line down Nanami’s middle - just enough pressure to scrape a harmless line of white down his exposed skin. And then you’re slashing those ropes that bound him to the chair.
Metal restraints, you watch him semi-free himself.
And you’re turning around and walking to the bed.
Sitting at the very edge.
Resting your palms behind you.
Your legs spread-spread-spreeeeeead wide enough that he gets a view good enough to make his slightly-teary eyes bulge. Lips parting. Cock twitching. You’re tilting your head casually to the side and beckoning him—“If you want it, come and get it, Nanami Kento.”
Handcuffed and hands behind his back, the famous agent has no other choice than to get on his knees and crawl over to you.
Fucking crawling.
The carpet chafes beneath his knees, the sound echoes as he inches and inches- torturously slow. Body bowed. Chest heaving.
Whilst you don’t move a single degree.
It might have been hours- it might have been fucking eons that are passing by before Nanami reaches the foot of the bed; burning up far more from the fever of wanting you than any aphrodisiac in existence. He honed senses raise into the air - and he’s getting a whiff of that honeyed fragrance from your pussy. Almost singing to him, surely it wasn’t just because of that powder that he thinks it’s the most delicious-smelling thing on Earth.
His stomach nearly growls.
And then Nanami’s between your parted legs and famished.
All good spies deserve a treat, right?
Before you know it, Nanami’s leaned in and having his lips glued to your clothed cunt. Fucking glued. They were puckered and pert—both pairs of lips, and the vibrations of his moan make your back arch as he tastes you for the very first time.
Just the most innocent kiss.
The first time that he’s getting everything he’s fucking dreamed of.
Because whenever you left the house dressed so prettily, whenever you hummed at the taste of your favorite baked good, whenever you bent over to pick up something- you didn’t know it, but…Nanami stared.
Oh, how he stared n’ licked his hungry lips.
Wondering just how sweet your pretty, pretty cunt would taste - just how fucking sooooft and tender your pussylips would feel once he’s finally giving them that nice French kiss they deserved. All up on his tongue.
Despite being such a gentleman to everyone around him—who’d have guessed that Nanami Kento would have the dirtiest thoughts of them all? That whenever he gazed upon you with that ‘ruse’ of affection, he was actually hiding something far…far darker.
The dirtiest thoughts that he was acting upon right now.
With his honed tastebuds swipin’ down your wet slit, Nanami counts every bead of slick that you’re leaking through your panties. Sugary sweet. He’s boring his smoldering gaze into yours as he—with a slurp! lets those pearly translucent droplets collect on the tip of his tongue, and then glide, glide, gliiiiiide deep down to the back of his throat.
Blond lashes flickering his eyes shut at the flavorful taste, Nanami groans.
“C-can I prove it now…?”
You almost don’t recognize his voice.
The tone of it sends fire shooting straight between your legs- and without thinking twice, you lean your weight on your hands and edge even closer. Whining, “Prove what, Kento?”
And he seems almost embarrassed to answer.
Almost shy now—
Though the heat of the aphrodisiac and the globules of slick stuck to his chin were making him more of an honest man by the second. “I need to prove that m’worthy of being your husband, pussy.”
Was he talking to you or…?
Fuck.
Sense coming back to him in bursts and stutters, Nanami shakes his head briefly- “I mean-” A blush rises to the tips of his ears, though his eyes remain as starved as ever—“I need to prove that m’worthy of being a good husband to both you and-” His biceps bulge as he struggles against the handscuffs briefly, pathetically and lovingly nuzzling the hot in-betweens of your folds. “-this girl right here.”
The way he says it…fuck.
He gives off the impression of a man that’s been starved for ages- for eons. There was something almost wolfish imprinted onto his expression, and the whites of his teeth feature an appearance between your legs as Nanami leans in; with knitted brows and a ragged emphasis, he’s asking - begging - once more. “Please-” Mahogany eyes just so earnest, “Marry me?”
Marry him?
Your jaw drops.
Was he so pussydrunk already that he’s genuinely proposing?
Or was it just the aphrodisiac—you’re not waiting to find out.
Readily, Nanami only needs to feel a single shove of your glistenin’ wet pussy against his mouth - before he’s letting his eyes roll to the back of his skull. Farther and farther. Almost blindly, he uses his pointed chin to dig himself even deeper. And he couldn’t spread your pretty thighs apart with his arms, so he’s resorting to fitting his burly body - shoving your legs apart with his broad shoulders - until he gets closer to your core. Your dripping wet core,
Simply soaked.
Just a single strand of blond sticks to his forehead—usually-slicked hair coming out of its neat style now. And Nanami isn’t shy to sliiiide apart your drenched panties with his tongue, then start pressing kiss after open-mouthed kiss.
Wide-mouthed. Gaping.
Just the most teasing, faintish whispers of his tongue. Feverish in speed.
The sopping, smooth edge of his tastebuds lodge inside and slathers itself in all of your syrupy juices. Jaggedly probin’ in and out. “Is this how my wife wants it? Does this, mmm- feel good, my love?”
And you hadn’t even realized that your eyes were closed until you’re fluttering them open—looking through tear-filled lashes at the handsome man between your legs. “Y-yessss…deeper, Kento.”
His eyes suddenly clear in urgency.
Mind befogged with lust - but he’s alert enough to recognize your pretty pleas. And without a single second wasted, the slashes of his tongue scour even deeper inwards. With all his slick inches he’s tunneling into your pussy- and your toes curl at the sensation of him driving into spots unknown. “A-and?” He spits, “Is this good?”
He’s just so eager to please. “Nghhh, yes.” Blabbering out, “Just a bit more to the side now, honey.”
Obediently, he cocks his head and angles his kisses. The layers of his lips smush with your delicate pussy, until it was as if he’s stuck there by adhesive - you don’t think he’s pulling away enough to even breathe…and he wouldn’t mind forgoing his own comfort to make sure you’re feeling your best. “Is this good?” The big, bad spy that has all of Tokyo’s underbelly trembling pleads.
“Yes-”
“And what else?”
“Wh-what…?” Stare widening in surprise.
That cute expression of yours - the way your cunt seems to splash! another wad of your slick onto his ready tastebuds - makes him rattle at his chains. As though to break through. As though to ravish you whole.
But the only thing he’s succeeding in doing is letting gravity stoop his face even lower onto your pulsating pussy. Every throb was just so delicous—and Nanami swears he’s feeling his own heartbeat synchronize with the rapid cadence of it. “What else do you need from your husband? Do you need more tongue?”
Just then, you’re feeling the ridged texture of his tastebuds start drilling even deeper. That cutely pink tip of his tongue starts bludgeoning inside as though reaching for your very cervix.
And he’s hatching out something- something almost delirious. “Do you need it sloppier? Because I can- mmm, do sloppier.” The cacophonous noise from beneath your swollen folds starts growing in both pitch and volume as he increases his speed, thick, ribbony strings of slick coating the edges of his mouth - “I can make it faster. Slower. Sexier.”
You’re straining your hamstrings to push off the springy mattress, “P-please—”
“I can eat you out like a husband should.”
Munch-munching away at everything your pussy had to offer. Everything and anything.
He’s jostling his body so painfully close to yours- skin against skin. Lips against lips. Without the gesticulation of his hands to balance himself, it was rare that he’d find a moment to push up and part from your pussy - and whenever he did, it just meant he wasn’t doing his job well enough.
Nanami chases after even the slightest movements of your restless hips. And there’s a slight crack emanating from his metal handcuffs when the straight top of his nose taps your throbbing clit.
“Tell me, my wife—tell me what you want.”
It feels like you’re being struck by shards of lighting itself, “J-just like that, Kento-”
“Just like that? Or even more- hah.” He pants out in a raspy wheeze. Nanami’s voice was low- lower than you can ever recall it being. “Don’t hafta lie to me, darling. Your husband can give you aaaaanything and everything.”
A shallow moan cracks at the back of your throat by the way he’s emphasizing his words- notably by reeling his thick tongue out and drag-drag-draaaagging it all across the forefront of your cunt. “Th-then…ngh, I want whatever it is that you want, Kento.”
His golden brows shoot up to his hairline, “What’s- hck! that, my love?”
And in a split-second - perhaps it’s your assassin side coming out, perhaps it’s the aphrodisiac that’s dialing every emotion up to the max - you’re grabbing a searing hold of Nanami’s pale tresses. A proper fistful that lets you jerk the strong man off of your cunt and gazing his glistening peripherals up at you.
He’s drawing his mouth away with a wet plop! The jutted-out edge of his lower lip trembles at the thought of not being in contact with your tasty cunt, and you have to tap the side of Nanami’s face to get him to fully focus his attention on you.
It takes a little while for his lava-like eyes to peer up at you. “Y-yes, my wife…?”
Chuckling just a bit at the way he’s lost his train of thought - perhaps every thought he’s ever conjured up once he’s tasting your cunt. “What do you want, Kento? Tell me what you’d like…tha’s gonna please me the most.”
“But I beg to-”
“I know you want it.” And he didn’t forget about those ruthless heels of yours, did he? The broad frame of Nanami Kento shudders at the pointed sensation of your heels gliding up his open thighs. Trouser-covered and cum-drenched, you’re feeling for the bumpy area where his fat cock throbbed- and crushing down on it with the flats of your shoe. “This thing doesn’t lie to me, honey. Just tell me what the little spy wants.”
“I…fuck, this is embarrasing- this is so ungentlemanly-” But that was a ship long sailed. And he finds himself drooping even further into the heavenly in-betweens of your legs.
And you’re witnessing the veins on his beefy forearms pop out, the skin of his forehead perspiring- and it almost feels to you as if the blond man was holding himself back at this very moment. A shiver runs through you as you wonder just what him giving his all would mean for you…
And his swollen mouth cracks open, “Please…” And it’s not you that’s starting to beg…it’s Nanami himself. Deep and guttural wrenched out from his voicebox, he sends rumbles across your body like thunder. “Please push me even d-deeper into your cunt.” Nuzzlin’ your clit with his nose, he murmurs. “Push me so far deep- ride my tongue- use me until my mouth’s raw and I can’t even breathe.”
And you know you’re the one that asked him…but you can’t help but let your jaw hang speechlessly.
“I need you to make you c-cum on my tongue five times before I can call myself your husband.”
The answer takes some time to choke out, and when it finally does you’re feeling embarrassed at the slightly pitchy tone it takes. “Then do it.” With his sweaty strands plastered to your palm, and your heel being used to steady yourself—and push down on his convulsing cock. You give him no warning before pushing him down deeper.
He sputters-
“I’m going to ride your face now, Kento.” And you’re shocked by your ability to keep your words from slurrin’ together now. “Do it- do everything it is that you want to do. But no pulling back to breathe. No cumming until I do.”
And he’s peering up at you with the most loving half-lidded eyes, “Yes, my wife.”
That man was a goner for his wife—you.
“Hngh—mmm- K-Kento!” It’s just about the only thing your spit-drivelled lips can echo right now. The sound travels across the room before bouncin’ into Nanami’s eardrums, and he swears it’s the most beautiful sound he’s heard. Because in a sultry split-second, he’s loosening his body up and letting you pin his face between your legs.
Then veering your hips upwards and upwards.
Frenzied, squelching movements of your hips. Your body was just crashing into his in the most sinful collision, and it was making the skin of his high cheekbones start to redden and sting- Nanami barely has the time to part his lips and take in an inhale—
Before your sopping pussylips are plastering to his mouth once more. And he’s lappin’ his tongue away wilding onto every inch he could reach - all around the hidden crevices of your cunt, before entering through your tight hole.
Nanami’s muscle was just so thick that he made you keen with the intrusion of his tastebuds. Feeling up the hugging walls of your channel, before you’re swearing he’s reaching for that one spot that made your eyes roll.
“Shit-” You’re babbling out, hands shaking where you held him down. “Sh-shiiiiiit, just like that. Does that feel good for you too, baby?”
He’s feeling the flaps of his lips start to swell and his lungs ache for breath- “Yes.” He’s never answered anything truer in his life - and it wasn’t just the aphrodisiac, though it did only seem to be getting stronger by the second. “Fuck—yes, and d-don’t keep doing that with your heel or m’gonna cum.”
“What?” You ask innocently - fully knowing the ministrations you were carrying out beneath your line of sight and his. Your heel was flattened over his massive bulge and smoothing up and down, up and down, up and down—practically jerking Nanami off though more with the pressure you were pitting against him.
The nib of your heel grazes his mushroomy tip and he bucks- “M’gonna cum, my love…”
Almost in agony.
You smile as you reply, “Me too.” Before leaning down just the slightest inch in proximity of him - as though sharing a secret between just the two of you in this world. “But that’s only one of five.”
He grunts.
Fuck- he didn’t want to disappoint his beautiful wife. He can’t. He couldn’t.
And as though crazed, Nanami’s flickering the inches of his tongue through and through that dripping entrance of yours. In and out. Stirrin’ around his lengthy muscle in juuuust the way he knew would hit those pretty orifices that made you cry out so loud, Nanami’s focusing on your g-spot for a few seconds at a time to make sure you’re experiencing as much pleasure as possible with every thrust.
Through it all, his nose remains pressed up against your throbbing clit. “One down, four to go.”
“What do you…” Your toes curl then—because Nanami had predicted it before you had. With a sudden flash behind your eyes, you’re crashing into one wave of pleasure after the other - starting up from the pleasure-riddled area between your legs and climbing up into every cranny of your body afterwards.
Your arms go limp. Your back arches perfectly.
“Sh-shiiiiiit- that feels so good.” Your head tilts backwards as the sudden euphoria overtakes you, and your heartbeat only seems to accelerate by twofold after you take a look down at Nanami himself.
His eyes were rolling to the depths of his skull, until only the whites of them were visible. His mouth was agape and his body was almost moving on autopilot—pure carnal instinct simply lappin’ and lappin’ away at your cunt - sending sparks roaring through your body every time his dexterous nose struck your clit. His cock was twitching away furiously beneath your long heels.
And you’re quite sure that Nanami himself was on the verge of an orgasm- “Don’t cum.” You’re pressing down on his cock.
He jolts ever-so-slightly - though his movements don’t falter for a single second. And he was slightly muffled from his…position, though you do manage to make out a scoff. “Who did you think I was?” Nanami responds in a gravelly tone, “M’your husband, darling. And a husband is always supposed to keep his vows.”
You don’t mention that you technically didn’t have a ceremony with vows and everything.
Because in the next mere moments, Nanami has his tongue thrusted back inside and his chin glued to the bottom of your wet slit. No matter how much you’re bucking and moaning, he’s determined to accomplish that little wish you—he had had.
And with the textured swabs of his tongue, he’s pulling out one more orgasm. Two more. Three more-
You think you’ve lost count by the time you’re all sprawled out and spent on the bed. Throwing your head back, letting your heels hook onto his shoulders and tug him even closer - you’re all but begging for mercy as dopamine leaves stars bursting behind your eyelids.
Your cunt was just so heated and raw at this point - though the aphrodisiac kept your slippery slick coming until it was drenchin’ Nanami all the way down to his collarbones.
His invisible dusting of blond on top of his upper lip glistens with the sap that clings onto it, and Nanami peers up at you with hollow, drunken eyes finally. “How many was that, my love?”
Would he believe it if you said you didn’t fucking know—
Apparently you didn’t have to remain wondering, because those words are leaving your lips mindlessly. They take a few seconds to penetrate Nanami’s own foggy mind- but with something akin to a crooked grin, he raises his head. “S’that so?”
You’re shivering once he pulls his tongue out and presses a loud peck on top of your cunt.
“My poor, poor wife—did your husband go too hard?” And you’re not sure what’s in his intense gaze that makes you gesture out a single nod - an embarrassing nod. But you’re doing so anyway, and you hiss when he presses a final kiss and raises himself up onto his haunches. “But I have kept my end of the deal, darling. Didn’t your husband make you proud?”
“Y-yes—”
“Didn’t your husband make you cum?”
“Yes-”
“Not five times, yet.” And through sheer will and the use of his incredible core strength, the trained spy stands up without breaking a sweat. “There’s one more to go…”
“Oh- let me.” Using whatever strength hasn’t been wrung out of you from the marathon of your highs - barely worrying about your refractory period - you’re surging upwards and reaching behind him. Those handcuffs you’d put him in were professional-grade and used on the job sometimes, nothing like the kinky toys that one might normally prefer.
Though this wasn’t initially supposed to be play at all.
And perhaps it’s the aphrodisiac that’s clouding your judgement- you know you can’t keep blaming it any longer when…But you’re soon looking around the room for the key that you’d dropped.
You think you had a spare in the bedside cabinet but you couldn’t be too sure- but then again, the original must have fallen somewhere on the carpet during the height of your nervous excitement—
“Looking for the key, mm?” Nanami’s deep croon jolts you out of your single-minded mission. And you somewhat jolt as you look up at his impressive height; his handsome face.
Your cunt had pooled slick right down to his clothes- the collar of it noticeably darker than the rest of the fabric, with his buttons shining as though polished a thousand times over. And his trousers were just as ruined.
Blond hair completely unruly now. Pupils blown-out through his glasses.
His lips were all reddened n’ puffy with the prolonged contact with the sweetest dessert he’s ever tasted: you. And he’s wearing your slathered layers of slick like a medal of honor, glistening proudly across his mouth and jawline—evidence of his desperation. He husks, “No need to worry yourself, my sweet wife.” Just then, he’s straining his forearms to pull at the handcuffs with brute force - one vein on his forehead popping, skin flushing an even deeper red.
You don’t think he’s going to do it - no one’s ever escaped you when you used those.
But suddenly there’s a screech of metal and a clink!
Before Nanami Kento’s rubbing at the slight bite of metal upon either of his wrists. His free wrists. His unrestrained wrists.
His unrestrained hunger as he then looms his chiselled body above yours- as you push yourself further and further up to the headboard, Nanami follows. He follows. He follows. He follows until your back hits the wooden panel connected to the wall, and those half-lidded eyes bore down upon you deliciously.
“Can we consummate our marriage now, my love?”
Your words could not be more sheerly needy- “Yes.”
And soon enough you’re helping Nanami out of his button-up, his vest, his trousers. Only his boxers stand in the way now and you’re just impatiently tugging them down—finding your jaw dropping at the sight of him.
Because Nanami was big as far as you’d felt.
But this was…what was that saying about it always being the quiet ones? Nanami’s length laid thick and throbbing between his milky legs; the tip of his shaft flushed an angry red, he’s leaking hot precum in lines down your inner thighs.
Dribbling out from the heavy volumes of his ballsack, and ending up coating his cherry tip in a cute white.
In the saturated air, his cock twitches upwards a few times. Makin’ stray beads gliiiiide along the vein-covered length of his shaft- down and doooooown to soak into his burnt golden curls at the very base. The entire image was just so sexy that you can’t help but let out a moan—
And Nanami chuckles before he turns his tender lovin’ eyes towards you. “Don’t worry. You’re next, darling.”
Your clothes are shed at an even faster rate.
Soon enough, it’s just him sandwichin’ his bulbous tip between your folds. Too big to immediately slide into your cunt, too covered in so many wads of your slick - slippery with your own sap - that he occasionally eases inside and makes you yelp at the stretch. “It just feels so- fuck, I just know s’gonna feel so good.” Your hands claw down Nanami’s broad back, “I need you, Kento. Badly.”
“How badly?” He crouches over you, lips centimeters from yours. “I need to make sure you’re not jus’ talking out of your pussy, my wife.”
“I’m not—” You promise. “I need you- fuck, I need you.”
“Need me to what, however?” Nanami cocks his head and almost meanly asks- he never knew he could make you sputter so much. It was just so fun watching your pretty mouth fall slightly apart as you registered his teasing—it almost made him want to spit between your lips.
He does.
And Nanami continues shoving his expanding erection just between your thighs, “Do you need me to take this pretty pussy like it’s our wedding night? Do you need me to m-make love to this pretty pussy like we’ve been married for years? What is it…?”
You’re mouthing something that his popped eardrums don’t hear.
Leaning in, “What’s that, darling?”
And so you’re repeating - just a little louder than before. “I n-need you to fuck me like you’re trying to prove you’re my husband.”
Just like before.
And that seems to flip a switch in the stern, stoic Nanami Kento.
Just a little.
Because the next time you’re blinking your teary eyes open- it’s to see the harrowed furrow between his brows as Nanami reels his hips back n’ positions his largely flared tip between your legs. Right where he needs to be.
And then he push-pushes inside—
“Fuck-” He spits- strong hand darting out to grip the headboard. You hear it splinter—“Fuck.”
“Please…” Looking up, you’re letting out a soft gasp at the way the muscles on his arm bulge and make themselves clear next to you. The sheer strength. The sheer pressure. The sheer streeeetch between your legs that you’re being fed inch by solid inch.
It’s almost too much - so much more than you ever thought possible to take in one go. Your throat feels clogged with saliva and Nanami’s sheer size as his cockhead thoroughly pierces your channel.
Smearin’ your gluey walls to either side of him, he enters you slowly yet mercilessly. More and more.
Your head falls back against the plush pillow directly beneath you-
“Now now- stay with me, darling.” Nanami’s strict sentence was less of a command and more of a sweet willing for you to open your eyes once more—to let him see those pretty, heart-shaped peripherals as he fucked you long and sweet.
He was burrowed just about halfway in at this point and starting to thrust.
It didn’t matter if he wasn’t completely drenched in your sweetest caverns yet, as long as your thighs were quivering with the utmost pleasure.
And Nanami collapses his rock-hard, chiselled front on top of your body - almost crushing you under the weight of him. Though you admit that the pressure was one so pleasurable that it sends zaps of electricity shooting to your toes—oh, did you mention that he’d kept your heels on, still?
And right now he was hooking his right set of fingers underneath your thigh, pressing your capped knees all the way up to your tits.
You’re mooooaning at the burning stretch of your hamstrings.
And he’s letting you ease into it for a few more moments before throwing both legs over each side of his shoulders. Wet with perspiration, you’re letting your heeled feet slide down his hard muscles before finally managing to loop them around your neck.
“This is a mating press- yeah.” He whispers, “D’you like this, my wife?”
Nodding fervently.
Leaning down to lick off the salty-sweet tears that were streaming down your cheeks, “Good girl.” The nickname slips between Nanami’s pussydrunken mouth before he can stop himself. And when he feels the huggin’ entrance of your cunt grow even wetter at the sound of it…oh.
The tips of his digits damn-near tremble with excitement as the blond-haired man plucks a pillow from one of the many you were laying against. Fluffing it up. Promptly placing it underneath the base of your spine, just where that curve was supposed to start, and raising your hips just a little.
That change of angle made the thump-thump-thumping tip of his cock just slightly press against the roof of your cunt, and you whine. “Sh-shit…”
“D’you know what that’s for, my love?”
“Huh?” You respond hazily, and he gestures towards the pillow. Just so gone- on his cock, on the aphrodisiac, on the primal instincts on the verge of screaming at him to shove even deeper. “Um…”
Nanami leans in and presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, “That’s alright. I’ll teach you later, my love. For now…”
For now, what was that you’d begged for earlier?
Ah…
For now, he was going to fuck you like a loving husband fucks his beloved, beloved wife.
And he was going to prove it to this pussy that he was your husband—is. There were no two ways of going about it- Nanami’s leaning his toned torso backwards and suddenly rammin’ into you with all his strength.
He doesn’t stop until he’s sure he can hear the damn thwack! of his mazin’ tip reaching for your deepest depths. The sensation of your cervix was just so smoooooth and spongy, and it takes you longer than it should’ve to realize that the notorious man had just bottomed out on your tight, tight pussy.
You’re keening at the way your folds can do nothing but quiver n’ take and take. Gulping down those greedy inches that he was funneling over and over again into you—the scruff of his tawny happy trail scrapes your sensitive pussylips and you buck-
“And don’t think that you can run away.” He was amused.
For every millimeter that you were arching off of the mattress due to oversensitivity, Nanami was making up for it with yet another two rugged slams of his hips. He just loved that surprised expression upon your face when you found yourself being dragged right back, being manhandled, with a mere tug of his trained physique.
One hand on the right side of your waist.
One hand bracing his gluttonous base.
He furrows his brows and tightens his jaw as he haaaaauls you right back down- and soon enough, you’re finding that perhaps - perhaps - you’re shifting yourself away just to have him do it all over again.
And he indulges you, of course. Spearing between your glossed-up pussylips from tip to bottom end.
Fat inches that were making themselves at home.
Eventually, Nanami’s hungry gaze pins you down- first. Before the rest of his Herculean sculptured body chooses to rest further on top of you n’ glue your skin, your hips, to his own—preventing you from moving just a centimeter further than he wanted you to. Preventing you from shifting his determined cock around. He’s practically melding your bodies into one—he almost wishes he could.
Before Nanami had finally scoured ‘round your insides and located your g-spot. And he couldn’t have you moving around when his entire mission was to make you numb with pleasure, could he?
The heat between you two crackles in the air, and Nanami fucks you slow and shallow with his flared red tip. Rovering over that one spot-
“O-oh my god, oh my god, Kento—” Words slurring into one. Nearly indiscernible.
And through your tears, you’re making out Nanami’s lips pursing into something gentle. “Shhhhh…” The breeze of his scorching pants waft over you, dialing your own body temperature up into something insatiable. Aphrodisiac or…no, just the two of you. “You’ve got this, my love- fuck, you’ve got this.”
“I…” Eyes scrunching shut. “N-never felt anything like this before, honey.”
“You can take it.”
“I am- I am-”
The way his thrusts were probin’ into you was just indescribable- though Nanami Kento might have been a gentleman to everyone that ever encountered him - and yes, you suppose that even included the targets for his missions - you were briefed and trained to see him as the complete opposite.
Unlike most, you knew Nanami Kento as the agent…the danger…the target for your own mission.
But his cock was drilling into you over and over in sharp, rapid thrusts and you’re thinking that perhaps you hadn’t been so correct about him after all…
Calculated thrusts.
Nanami was making sure that you were wringing out the maximum amount of pleasure from each one of them. Not wasting time between smooching the door to your womb—thud-thud-thud. And between reeling his hips all the way back until your cunt was wet and gaping around where the circumference of his tip was the fattest. The neediest. Red-hot.
And then he’d be sliiiiiiding one of his most prominent veins down the middle along the most tender of your nerves. Kissing it.
Making white-hot bliss burst through your body as he’s managing to hit eeeevery single fucking orifice that made you swoon. Those large arms of his cage you safely, and Nanami already knows by now that you’re drunk on his hips. “Feels good, yeah?” He asks you-
And you almost have the heart to respond with something feisty—well, obviously. But the sincerity in his eyes makes you prattle out, “Feels s-soooo good. Didn’t even know that it could feel this good…”
He smiles proudly, “Yeah? Oh yeah—” Patting your sensitive clit with his abdomen, “And how’s the- haaaaaah, fuuuck, keep squeezing me like that- How’s the speed, my love?”
“P-perfect…” Cockdrunken. Bed creaking.
But Nanami merely nods and licks at the walloping amounts of saliva pouring from one end of your mouth and onto the silken covers of the pillows. “Mhmmmmm…and what else? How’s the angle?”
Your eyes damn-near bulge out of your skull. “The- angle—oh.” Just then, he’s adjusting his hips just the slightest few degrees so that his bludgeoning cock would hit a fresh new target tilted slightly upwards to the roof of your cut. And you’re practically yowling out, “That one- ngh, that’s the one.” Nails possessively claiming his back with countless scratches and indentations of your nails, “P-pleeeeease keep that one, Kento.”
“Like it that much, huh?” He hums to himself, “But of course, m’not gonna change it when s’my wife’s favorite.”
In a small thank-you, you’re craning your head up and attempting to kiss him.
He meets your lips halfway, but don’t think that that’s the only thing his vicious hips could do.
“Now now, don’t tap out…” Nanami grunts n’ shudders to himself—he has to gnaw down on the plushness of his bottom lip to compose himself at least somewhat. “And how about the feeling of my balls- hah- feel how biiiiiig and heavy they are, just for you?”
Struck and feeling his cadence accelerating, you can only nod and nod.
“Feel how rock-hard I am for you?”
Nodding.
“Feel the way I- fuck, the way m’only getting harder?”
Nodding.
“Feel the way your g-spot just throbs whenever I’m near?” His crowned and hungry tip pauses just to prove his point, and you’re dragging your nails down his biceps with a disappointed whine. A call to continue if there was any.
To which he does.
Harder than before- pap-pap-papping—! the front of his hips against yours.
“And feel the way m’pumping out so much- fuck- precum?” Just then - as if on fucking cue - you’re feeling a wet draaaaag of his pre being pushed deeper inside you. Pooling on layers on top of your cervix n’ swirling around every time you’re being moved, “Shit, m’gonna make a mess again. See what you do to me?”
“I do-”
Nanami scoffs, “You know I’d do anything to make you feel good, my love.” Boring those golden eyes into yours- yes, they looked damn golden in this lighting and in the hazy state of your mind. “Anything-”
One of his thick hands scrape down your front- they were the hands of someone that’s trained and worked and fought to get to where he is today. And you’re shivering at the slight callouses that massage you—
Your husband continues, “Never think that you’re- hah, any less loveable- desirable, because of anyone or anything before.” And despite the fact that you two were connected on levels, physical ones, that were the farthest they could go…it still feels the most intimate once he rests his clammy forehead onto yours and whispers. “Because I’m here- fuck.”
Toes curling atop his shoulders - doesn’t matter how much you’re thrashing them out of sheer pleasure at the stretch, he’s taking every bruise head-on. “Yes, yes, yes—mmm, yes…fuck, it shouldn’t feel this good- ngh, legally it shouldn’t feel this good.”
“When have we ever cared about the legal labels?”
Those pearly whites of his gnaw down on your lips n’ drag you into a kiss.
He utters, “Because your Kento’s here.”
Whimpering up at him when all the constant kissin’ at your g-spot almost gets too much to bear. So overstimulated. “A-and why do you say that, Kento?”
He could coo at the cute way you’re asking that question.
With your legs shakily squeezing around his neck, with your lips trembling and threatening to escape a sob. The way your cunt swallowed him up and dragged him to the very depths of your cunt was almost dizzying for him to feel—and he knows his balls were thwacking so hot and headily against the forefront of your cunt. He knows he’s close.
He knows the patterns of his zig-zagging veins were outlining themselves upon either side of your walls- he could feel it.
He knows that these were the pearly gates of heaven themselves. Opened right with your legs.
And Nanami has to force himself to not fucking throw his head back with a thunderous groan—more to hear your sweet, sweet noises than anything. And instead, he nuzzles his sweaty face into the crook of your neck and lets out looooow, trundling whispers. “You’re s-seriously asking me that, my love? Don’t mock me-”
“I’m not-”
“Because the answer should be obvious.” And this is the first and only time that the Nanami Kento would interrupt you on any matter. “S’because I’m fucking made for you, aren’t I?”
And with that being said, it seems his cadence is only growing faster. Harder. Hittin’ your lower half at what, to you, almost feels like the speed of light - his blushin’ tip only grows bigger and concrete-hard as he keeps jutting into the crevices of your cervix.
Running the lines of his veiny shaft down your channel all the while—
Soon enough: your pulsing clit finds home between Nanami’s thumb and index finger.
On his left hand.
Which meant the stark frigidness of his wedding ring was making your body thrust itself into the throes of pleasure - not quite cumming, though considering just how overstimulated you were, you wouldn’t be surprised if you ended up shattering all over him without any warning. Instead, you’re finding your mouth babbling away whatever stupid concoction of words was entering your mind- “A-and how can you say that-”
“That’s because I’m your husband.” He kisses your forehead softly once more, “Forget all those other boys and whoever that came- hah, before me, darling. They’ve never yearned—ached, prayed for this pussy like I have…”
A disbelieving laugh bubbles up at your throat, “Y-yearned—? K-Kento, you can’t be serious.”
His dazed eyes widen, mouth stupidly agape. “Dead fucking serious.”
What’s the word to describe him…enamored? In…love? Pussy-whipped? But in all the best ways.
And he himself didn’t sound like he could compute the words that were falling from his mouth. Escaping, more like. He tut-tuts, “My wife…I fear I don’t even- haaaah, know who I am without this pussy. She’s all I’ve been thinking about these past few days. She’s all I’ve been…hungry for. She’s all I’ve been- fuck, needing to make myself run to the b-bathroom and jerk myself off until I see stars—”
“S-stars-” Repeating breathlessly to yourself. Such words from him of all people…especially when it pertained to you…you just couldn’t believe it.
“Making you feel good as your husband is my only goal, my love.” And he means it so earnestly- from anyone else you would have scoffed and rolled your eyes. But Nanami’s staring into your widely-blown peripherals as though he was exposing every shred and fissure in his soul.
He rolls his thumb over the nub of your clit.
Your voicebox raggedly wrenches out, “All this time you’ve…”
And fuck- he’s so far gone that he can’t hold back the fucking lewd grin as he admits—
“All this time-” Planting one chaste peck on your forehead while he fucks you, “-your husband has been-” Then another one on your right cheek, “-a damn pervert waiting for you to catch him.” In more ways than one. And then a final one on your left cheek.
He pulls away and admires you.
“And how does that make you feel, my wife?”
“It m-makes me feel…” Spit drivels from the leaky orifice of your mouth along with a few whining pleas here and there. And before Nanami’s lust-hazed brain can begin to compute it, you’re reaching outwards and grabbing ahold of yet another fistful of his hair.
Dragging him towards you with a persistent few tugs.
Surprise and arousal flash across his face and steep into his already-agonized expression once you pull him close enough.
You enunciate up at him, “It makes me feel like m’gonna cum, soon…” Eyes flapping shut, chest arching up into his firmly-toned one. You hiccup, “-my husband.”
His hips stutter sloppily.
But you weren’t done just yet—“A-and I know you’re close, too.” Gaze flickering down to the briefest flash of his bulbous, red tip as he pulls out- only to be shoved between your pussylips once more. Again and again. “I want you to not hold back, Kento. No matter how hard it is- ngh, don’t hold back on me.”
He repeats, breathlessly. “Don’t hold back…don’t…” Nodding and nodding.
And then you’re watching the line of his vision sharply stray to something above your head-
To the discarded fabric of his favorite tie.
And do you know how many times spies have been trained to get out of and create restraints? You don’t think it takes Nanami even two heartbeats to swipe the tie somewhere from the headboard and reach behind you to loop around your wrists.
Pinning them together.
Tying them blindly.
Tugging you to him with a flex of his muscles.
You’re being manhandled like so through a few slammin’ stripes down on the innermost layer of your pussy- he seemed to be reaching even deeper with this slight change in position.
“Please-” You can’t catch your breath fast enough—and the sheer sensation of Nanami throwin’ you around like a ragdoll whilst he fucked you like an absolute gentleman was enough to make you stutter out in just a few more moments- “P-please…Kento, m’gonna cum-”
Smack! The skin of his pelvis practically glues against yours. “Cum on your husband’s cock, my dear.”
And with the most sinful, squelching sound of your thighs tightening around his waist- you’re cumming. The fifth time tonight; it sears through every vessel in your body stronger and faster than you remember any previous orgasm being.
A buzzing electricity- turned zapping.
Curdling at the pit of your stomach and making you arch up into Nanami as many times as your limbs could weakly carry you…
Your heels claw ravaged marks down his shoulders, “C-cumming-” Babbling out as stars of pleasure formulate and burst behind your eyes, “Kento—fuck. Fuck, Kento, it feels so good—”
“Fuck.” He grunts himself.
Entire body shaking as the wave of euphoria roars over you.
Flashing and overstimulated.
Then you’re peering up at him with tear-filled eyes, “Kento, I want you to cum, too-”
And that’s when it hits him.
Almost as if his body had been waiting for permission from you this entire time, as though he’d react to you above anything or anyone else. Orders. Though they were ones that his brain would gladly follow- Nanami throws his head back just a little and stammers his hips.
The round curve of his tip plasterin’ against your sweet, spongy cervix and holding there for a few seconds—before he, too, ends up giving into his pleasure.
Making you cum five times and this was the first time he’s cumming inside.
Brows knitting, his strong jaw drops ever-so-slightly ajar as he feels a sensation like never before. No matter how much of his creamy white cum he’s emptying out- your cushy walls were sucking him up for more, more, more…“Sh-shit—you don’t know what you do to me.” And with that said, he’s raising his knee up and setting it where the pillow underneath your hips was, “I think you a-already know what this pillow is for, hm?”
Nodding, “I do I do-” You could’ve guessed either way.
Especially by the way the spurs of his cum were barreling inside- being fucked deep inside. Deep inside. And because of the positioning of your hips, no matter how much you jostle or buck, his hot wads remain webbin’ up every orifice inside.
Glued to your cervix like adhesive.
The pillow only helped if you wanted to…expand the family.
Another toe-curling burst of pleasure runs through him at the mere thought of it, and Nanami turns his head to kiss the pretty side of your calf. Legs still limply wrapped around his head.
He hums, “And does this go against your mission, my assassin?”
You’re shaking your head.
Quite frankly, the only other thing you can think to do is to tug him closer with your lower half.
Nanami’s shaft was thick and throbbing—burnished red at the top and polished with so many layers of cum. Hot puddles of it. He was making sure not to waste a single - not even a single - drop of it as he emptied out inside, though the sheer force of his thrusts did end up frothing some of his powdery-white cum between your trembling legs. So full that you were leaking from your hole.
He spits down on your stuffed pussy, fingers twiddling on your clit. “Then how about trying to kill me by milking me dry next?”
His heavy balls clench.
Your jaw drops.
And it really wasn’t just the aphrodisiac.
You are the one that won’t be making it out of this alive.
.
.
.
“—no…no, it’s not for a lack of resources. No- no one’s threatening me.” Speaking sharply into the receiver of the payphone, the crackle of your elders echoes in your ears. You’re sure that you’re sending the Garden headquarters into an uproar by this point—you’re sure that everyone’s gotten the word.
The Phantom is quitting her line of work.
And though you suppose it wasn’t necessarily against policy to finally quit being an assassin, you just don’t think anyone would have bet that you’d be the next.
And in the booth next to you was Nanami Kento, on the phone with his own higher-ups.
You’re eyeing the handsome man through the translucent screen of plastic in-between, and he’s catching your eyes and shooting you a reassuring smile. He seemed to be having a much easier time with whoever was on his end, meanwhile you…Scoffing at the next accusation they throw out, “No, I’m not drugged or coerced or going to trade secrets with anyone-”
Another higher-up bellows something.
“Look, I’m going to post you my resignation letter and that is that. I just wanted to tell you all personally- think of it as my last duty to you.” And with a sigh you’re beginning to push away from the receiver, “Don’t contact me again, kindly. Or you can—send assassins after me for all you care, we both know how that’s going to go down.”
The phone gets sternly put back in its place.
And you know that they won’t try to mess with you.
You know that.
They didn’t call you The Phantom for nothing - your presence still haunted the Garden when you weren’t there. As you’re making your way out of the booth, you’re realizing that your husband had wrapped up his call and was waiting for you outside.
Hands in his coat pockets. Fingers inching automatically towards yours once you’re outside.
He’d been nagging at you on getting a warmer covering layer recently, and Nanami doesn’t hesitate to shrug off his own jacket and insist upon you wearing it. Though he wasn’t a very loud man, his affection was practically palpable.
And you’re almost feeling shy walking down the street in what was obviously his coat, whilst he stuffed your joined hands into the pocket of your coat - one that he was now wearing.
Eventually, you ask. “I assume your call went well, Kento?”
He sighs something half-fond, “Yeah…” And though it was true that both of you had been wanting out from these careers for some time now, it was still a wistful affair.
It was just last week that Nanami had filed in his report on the Zenin family; revealing some corrupt ties and nonsensical numbers in their business that’d been blown across every news station, magazine, and forum you could think of in the past few days. Zenin Naobito had been arrested, of course, transferring the title of heir to none other than Fushiguro Megumi, your son’s best friend. And though the two of you weren’t working for your organizations anymore, you’d both promised to keep a firm eye on the boy to make sure that he wasn’t being pressured or made to live older than his age anytime soon.
You’re squeezing Nanami’s hand softly, and he looks at you with a smile. Continuing where he’d left off, “They were hesitant, but I think they understood. I think they saw - even before I did - that this was a long time coming.”
“They let you go that easily?”
“Yeah.” He closes his eyes and exhales deeply, “I’m free.”
And you’re doing the same.
You’re both free.
Once you’re opening your eyes, it’s to look at the other side of Shibuya Crossing - where Itadori and his two familiar best friends were standing and waving at the two of you. Furiously. They laughed and bickered about who was waving the hardest. “So romantic—!” You think you hear Kugisaki squeal even from here.
You chuckle as you wait for the light to turn green.
Looking up at the blue, blue sky. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
A/N. No idea how this got so long erm- also Happy Avurudu to anyone that celebrates!!
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🛸── .✦ angst. fluff. comfort. series masterlist! part one part two
After a painful fallout, quiet apologies and lingering feelings blur the line between distance and longing. As they navigate hurt and healing, a fragile second chance unfolds—leading them back to each other in the end.
❛ ━━━━━━･❪skz❫･━━━━━━ ❜
The following days at work felt like walking on eggshells wrapped in professionalism.
Your senior texted: Studio 4-B. Urgent coordination on the final visualizer overlays. Chan is already there.
You went, tablet in hand, keeping your steps measured and your expression neutral.
The studio was quiet, lit only by the glow of the monitors.
Chan sat at the mixing desk, hood pulled up, but he looked up the moment you stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind you, sealing the two of you in.
For a beat, silence stretched between you.
Chan stood up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when nerves crept in. His eyes were tired but unbearably gentle as they settled on you.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Thanks for coming. I… actually asked your senior to send you. I wanted a chance to talk. Just us.”
You hovered near the door, fingers tightening around your tablet. “The overlays need to be checked before tonight’s deadline. We should—”
“Please.” His voice was low, almost pleading, but still so soft it made your chest ache. “Just a few minutes. I need to say this.”
You nodded once, staying rooted by the exit like it was a safety net.
Chan took a careful step closer, then stopped, giving you space. “We heard what Jieun said that day. We had no idea. We thought it was only you losing trust in us… that we weren’t enough to make you believe us.”
He exhaled shakily, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m sorry. For how cold we’ve been. For pushing you away when you were trying so hard to show up for us. We were hurt, scared of being vulnerable again with the fans and the company watching. But we took it out on you. You were carrying all of that alone, and we made it worse.”
His voice dropped even softer, almost a whisper. “Please tell me what happened. All of it. From the beginning. How she got to you. What she did. I want to hear it from you… not just the pieces we overheard.”
You swallowed hard. The gentle invitation in his tone cracked something inside you. After weeks of silence and dismissal, someone was finally asking instead of accusing.
So you told him.
Quietly. Carefully. Voice sometimes shaking, sometimes barely above a whisper.
You explained how Jieun had started small—innocent smiles, “accidental” run-ins, then carefully planted “evidence.” How she knew exactly which insecurities to press: the fear of not being enough for eight idols who already had the world at their feet, the secrecy of your poly relationship, the constant worry that one wrong rumor could destroy everything. How you had let her words sink in deeper and deeper until you were the one doubting, accusing, hurting them with every question. How you never told them the full truth afterward because it felt pointless and because admitting how thoroughly you’d been manipulated felt like another excuse.
When you finished, the studio felt heavier.
Chan listened without interrupting, his expression shifting from regret to quiet anger at Jieun, then back to deep sorrow for you. He looked like he wanted to reach out and pull you into his arms the way he used to, but he held himself back.
You set your tablet down for a moment, then shrugged lightly, forcing a small, tired smile that didn’t reach your eyes.
“Anyway… it’s over now. She’s gone. It already happened, and there’s nothing we can do to change it. What’s done is done. You guys have the comeback to focus on. I’m just here to do my job properly. No big deal.”
You brushed it off like it was just another schedule note—casual, final, protective. Like saying the words out loud had exhausted the last of your courage, and now you needed to tuck the pain away again before it could hurt anyone else.
Chan’s face softened with pain. “Y/N… it is a big deal. You carried that alone for so long. We blamed you for everything when part of it was her poison. You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t still hurt.”
He took one more careful step forward, voice still soft. “We still love you. All of us. It never really went away. We were just too proud and scared to admit it. If you’ll let us… we want to try again. Slowly. Properly this time.”
You looked away, heart twisting painfully. The explanation had lifted some of the weight, but the old fear of hoping only to break again made you pull back.
“It’s okay, Chan,” you murmured, picking the tablet back up and moving toward the monitors like work was the safest shield. “Really. Let’s just finish these overlays before the others need the room. The comeback is what matters right now.”
Chan watched you quietly, the gentle determination in his eyes unwavering even as you kept the wall up. He didn’t push harder in that moment, but the apology and the invitation lingered in the air between you like an open door.
When you eventually left the studio after coordinating everything, the other seven were waiting further down the hallway, pretending to scroll through their phones. They had given Chan the first real chance, but their gazes followed you with quiet hope and regret.
You nodded to them politely and kept walking, brushing everything off once more.
But inside the studio, Chan stayed behind for a moment, staring at the door you’d just walked through.
He whispered to the empty room, “We’re not letting you carry this alone anymore.”
The comeback was only days away, but the real turning point had already begun.
Eight hearts were quietly deciding that pride would no longer win.
Now they just had to prove it to you—one soft conversation, one small gesture, one patient step at a time—until you stopped brushing them off and started believing they truly wanted you back.
And this time, they wouldn’t let Jieun’s shadow or old wounds stop them from fighting for the nine of you.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The days after Chan’s soft conversation in the studio blurred into a careful dance.
Stray Kids had decided, quietly and unanimously in their late-night dorm talks, that it was their turn to protect you now.
They acknowledged everything — the way they had snapped, the cold shoulders, the way they had made you feel small when you were already carrying guilt alone. They saw how deeply Jieun had wounded all of you, and how their pride had only made the cut deeper.
So they started small, but intentional.
Whenever your senior messaged you to check on a member — “Chan needs the revised lyric sheet,” or “Changbin asked for the updated schedule” — one of them would find a quiet moment alone with you.
Minho was first. In the empty dance studio, he rubbed the back of his neck, voice unusually gentle.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you that day. You were just trying to help with my ankle… and I threw everything at you instead.”
You shook your head quickly, offering a small smile. “It’s fine, Minho. Really. Don’t worry about it.”
He opened his mouth to say more, but you were already turning back to your tablet.
Changbin found you in the hallway later that afternoon.
“I shouldn’t have raised my voice when you were trying to talk. I was hurt, but that doesn’t excuse it.”
“It’s okay,” you replied softly, eyes on the floor. “We’re good.”
Felix caught you during a water break, freckled cheeks flushed.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything when the others were… I should’ve spoken up sooner.
You brushed it off with the same gentle deflection. “It’s fine, Lix. Let’s not dwell on it.”
Each apology met the same response — a quiet “it’s fine,” a small shrug, and you slipping away before they could pour out more.
Jeongin would murmur a soft “Morning” and offer you one of the extra strawberry milks he brought.
Seungmin would comment quietly about the new track sounding better than yesterday, glancing your way like he hoped you’d add something.
You kept your promise: giving them space, staying professional, never pushing.
Even as their efforts made your heart ache harder every day.
The title track broke records within hours — views skyrocketing, positive feedback flooding in from fans and critics alike. The boys were buzzing, adrenaline still high as they bowed and thanked the stage, the lights, the screams.
But in the car back to the dorm, in their own rooms, in every shared glance… they all felt the same hollow spot.
They wanted you there.
Not just as staff.
As theirs.
They wanted to pull you into the middle of their group hug, kiss your cheeks until you laughed, let you scold them gently for pushing too hard while secretly loving how you worried.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The celebratory dinner was held at a private restaurant booked by JYP — long tables filled with producers, directors, choreographers, stylists, and all the staff who had poured their hearts into the comeback. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the room. You sat with your coworkers, smiling politely, eating a little, nursing one glass of soju that slowly made your cheeks warm.
You kept your distance from the boys’ table, even when you felt their eyes drifting toward you all night.
As the evening wore on and people began to thin out — some leaving early, others moving to smaller groups — the eight of them approached together.
They surrounded your table quietly, a protective circle of hoodies and soft smiles. Chan spoke first, voice low so only you could hear.
“Y/N… can we talk? Just for a minute?”
The soju had loosened your tongue more than you expected.
You looked up at all eight of them — the faces you had loved so fiercely for two years, the ones you had hurt and been hurt by — and the words tumbled out before you could stop them.
“Why are you acting like this now?” Your voice was small but raw, eyes glassy. “Would you still be chasing after me if you hadn’t overheard Jieun that day? Is this all guilt? Would you still love me if you didn’t know how much I sacrificed by staying quiet? Or is it just because you found out I wasn’t the only one who broke us?”
The table went still.
Chan knelt down beside your chair so he was eye-level with you, the others following suit, crouching or pulling chairs closer until you were surrounded by eight worried, loving gazes.
“No, baby,” Chan said softly, the old endearment slipping out naturally. “It’s not just guilt. Hearing the truth opened our eyes, yes… but we never stopped loving you. Your efforts, the way you kept showing up even when we pushed you away — it reminded us how much we still love you.”
Jisung took your hand gently, thumb brushing your knuckles. “We were idiots. Prideful, scared idiots. We should’ve fought for you instead of protecting ourselves. I’m so sorry for every harsh word.”
“I missed you every single day,” Jeongin whispered, eyes shining. “Even when I told myself I didn’t.”
Hyunjin’s voice trembled. “We want you back. Not out of pity. Because you’re still the one who makes all eight of us feel complete.”
Seungmin nodded fiercely. “We’ll prove it every day. No more pushing you away. No more doubt.”
Each one of them added their own soft apologies, voices overlapping in a warm, earnest chorus — pouring their hearts out, begging to make things right, promising they would protect you this time, that they would never let anyone come between the nine of you again.
Tears slipped down your cheeks. You tried to stand, to leave before it became too much.
“I… I need to go.”
A hand caught yours — Chan’s first, then Minho’s on your other wrist, gentle but firm. The rest crowded closer, not trapping you, but surrounding you with warmth and quiet pleas.
“Please,” Felix begged softly, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “Don’t run. Give us a chance. We’ll go as slow as you need. Just… let us love you again.”
You looked at each of them — at the raw hope and love shining through the exhaustion and relief — and something inside you softened.
Chan’s thumb brushed your knuckles gently.
“We’re asking for a chance. Not to go back exactly to how it was but to build something stronger. Together. All nine of us. We’ll protect this. Protect you. No more letting outsiders in our heads. We promise.”
You stood there, heart pounding, the weight of their words wrapping around the ache you’d carried for so long. Tears pricked your eyes, but this time they felt different — warmer.
Slowly, you nodded.
“Okay.”
The word was quiet, but it landed like sunlight after a long storm.
Relief washed over all eight faces at once.
Bright, beaming smiles broke out — Chan’s dimples deep, Changbin’s eyes crinkling, Hyunjin’s laugh bubbling up as he pulled you into a careful hug. They were glowing, the same joyful energy from the successful comeback now mixed with something deeper, sweeter.
You swayed a little, the soju finally hitting you fully. “The drink… it’s making me dizzy. I need to go home.”
They hesitated, exchanging glances.
They wanted nothing more than to bring you back to the dorm, to wrap you up in blankets and hold you between them like old times.
But they respected the boundary.
Chan nodded gently. “We’ll call you a safe ride. But… can we at least say goodnight properly?”
One by one, they took turns.
Chan hugged you first, arms strong and familiar, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “We’ve got you now,” he whispered. “No more carrying everything alone.”
Minho was next — tight, grounding, his lips brushing your temple. “Sleep well, kitten. We’ll text you tomorrow.”
Felix clung a little longer, freckled cheeks warm against yours, kissing your forehead with a happy little hum. “I love you. We love you.”
Hyunjin cupped your face gently, kissing between your brows. “My muse… we’re never letting go again.”
Changbin’s hug lifted you slightly off the ground, warm and safe, a kiss to the top of your head. “You’re ours. Always.”
Jisung, Seungmin, and Jeongin followed — each hug tender, each forehead kiss full of quiet promises and relief. Soft whispers of “We love you,” “We’re sorry,” and “We’ll make it right.”
When you finally left in the car they arranged, all eight of them stood outside the restaurant, watching until the taillights disappeared.
Then they turned to each other.
Grins split their faces — wide, beaming, eyes sparkling with pure joy.
Chan pulled Felix into a tight hug, laughing. Minho tackled Hyunjin from behind with a happy shout. Changbin lifted Jisung off the ground while Seungmin and Jeongin piled on, all of them laughing and kissing each other’s lips, cheeks, and foreheads in a messy, overlapping celebration.
“She said okay,” Chan murmured against Felix’s hair, voice thick with emotion. “She is giving us a chance.”
“We’re bringing her home,” Minho said, smiling so wide it reached his eyes. “Our girl. All nine of us again.”
They stayed like that for a long moment — eight boys hugging, kissing, beaming under the streetlights — hearts lighter than they had been in over a year.
The comeback had been a massive success.
But this?
This quiet, fluffy second chance under the night sky felt like the real victory.
And tomorrow, they would start proving it to you — slowly, gently, with all the love they had been holding back for so long.
Until the day they could pull you into the middle of this exact pile—safe, loved, and finally home between all eight of them again.
And this time, they would make sure that nothing would come between the nine of you.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The boys didn’t push hard at first. They understood you were still protecting yourself, brushing everything off like old schedule notes. But they started making it up in the quiet ways that mattered most to you.
Chan began leaving small voice memos on your work tablet—soft late-night recordings of him humming new melodies, whispering “This one reminded me of the nights we used to stay up together. Miss hearing you sing along.” No pressure, just gentle reminders that he was thinking of you.
Minho started bringing extra portions of the homemade lunches he prepared for the group, sliding the container toward you during breaks with a quiet “Eat. You skipped lunch again yesterday.” His sharp edges softened; sometimes he’d even sit nearby in silence, just existing in the same space just to be near you.
Changbin took over carrying the heaviest equipment bags when you were on standby. His protective streak came out in small acts—making sure you had a seat during long meetings, quietly telling overly enthusiastic staff to give you space.
Hyunjin left delicate sketches on your desk: soft pencil drawings of nine figures holding hands in a circle, or a single blooming flower with tiny hearts hidden in the petals. One note attached simply said,
You were always part of the picture. I just forgot how to draw you in for a while.
Jisung bombarded the group chat you’d been quietly added back into with silly memes and songs that reminded him of you. He’d also “accidentally” leave his hoodie draped over your chair on cold studio nights, still warm from his body heat.
Felix baked brownies and left them in your office room with a sticky note in his neat handwriting: “For our favorite coordinator. I hope they make your day sweeter.”
Seungmin’s apologies came through actions and quiet words. He started defending your ideas in meetings when others talked over you, and once, after a particularly long day, he softly sang a few lines of an old ballad you used to love while you were organizing files nearby. “Still sounds better when you harmonize,” he murmured.
Jeongin was the shyest but most earnest. He’d bring you iced coffee exactly how you liked them and leave tiny plush keychains on your bag, each one representing something from your shared past: a cat for Minho’s babies, a tiny wolf for Chan’s producing nights.
They promised, over and over, in their own ways.
They kept that promise through the whirlwind months that followed—post-comeback promotions, award shows, late-night practices, and quiet dorm nights when schedules finally eased.
They made time.
Real time.
Movie nights where everyone fought (playfully) over who got to be next to you. Late-night drives with Chan playing unreleased tracks just for your ears. Dance practices where Minho patiently taught you simple steps again, laughing when you stepped on his toes. Cooking sessions that ended in flour fights and Felix’s dramatic screams. Quiet moments where Jisung would braid your hair while Seungmin read aloud, Hyunjin sketching everyone in the soft lamplight.
You slowly let the walls down. The ache eased into something warmer, safer.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
A few months later, the dorm was quiet for once—no schedules, no cameras, just the nine of you.
You had prepared something special.
The living room was dimly lit with fairy lights you’d secretly strung up earlier. On the coffee table sat a large scrapbook you’d worked on in secret during stolen moments: pages filled with old photos from your two years together, new entries with pressed flowers from walks you’d taken alone, handwritten letters from each of them that you’d collected and responded to, and a final page with nine intertwined hands drawn in watercolor.
You stood in front of them, heart pounding but voice steady, eyes misty.
“I spent so long thinking I didn’t deserve a second chance,” you said softly, voice trembling with emotion. “I carried the guilt alone. But you… you kept your promises. Every small act, every late-night talk, every time you chose to stay instead of pushing away. You proved I could trust again. That we could heal together.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks as you opened the scrapbook to the last page—a simple message in your handwriting:
To my eight loves—thank you for making it up to me.
For choosing us again.
This time, we will be stronger. No more running. No more brushing it off.
I love you. All eight of you. Always have.
“I’m ready to let you back in completely. All of me this time.”
The room went still for a heartbeat.
Then they moved.
Chan pulled you into his arms first, burying his face in your hair, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs of relief. “We love you too. So much. Thank you for giving us this chance.”
One by one they surrounded you—warm hands, familiar scents, soft whispers.
When the tears finally slowed and the hugs loosened into comfortable cuddling on the big couch, Jisung couldn’t wait any longer.
He grabbed you first—gentle but eager—cupping your face with both hands and kissing you deeply, pouring months of held-back affection into it. His lips were soft, familiar, tasting faintly of the strawberry candy he’d been nervously eating earlier.
The others immediately whined in playful chaos.
“Ya! Hannie, that’s not fair!” Changbin protested, already reaching for you.
“Han Jisung, save some for the rest of us!” Felix laughed through lingering tears, freckles bright.
Seungmin smirked but his eyes were soft. “Greedy squirrel.”
Chan chuckled, deep and warm. “Alright, alright—share properly this time.”
You laughed breathlessly between kisses, pulling Jisung back in for one more quick peck before turning to the others.
One by one, you gave them each a kiss—soft and lingering, full of everything you’d held back.
Chan’s was steady and deep, like coming home.
Minho’s was teasing at first, then sweetly intense.
Changbin’s lifted you slightly off the ground with his strength.
Hyunjin’s was artistic and slow, like he was savoring every second.
Felix’s was sunshine-warm, his deep voice murmuring “missed this” against your lips.
Seungmin’s was surprisingly soft and shy, ending with a gentle forehead kiss.
Jeongin’s was eager and blushing, making everyone coo.
The dorm filled with laughter, playful shoving, and overlapping voices—“My turn again!” “No, you already had two!” “She kissed me longer!”
Eventually you ended up in the middle of a massive pile of limbs and blankets, all nine of you tangled together on the oversized couch, hearts full and lighter than they’d been in years.
Chan pressed a final kiss to the top of your head. “We’re never losing this again.”
You smiled, content and safe in the warmth of eight bodies and eight hearts that were finally, fully yours once more.
“Promise?” you whispered.
Eight voices answered in perfect, fluffy unison:
“Promise.”
And in the soft glow of the fairy lights, surrounded by the boys who had fought their way back to you, everything felt right. The past scars were still there, but they had become part of a stronger, more beautiful story—one written by all nine of you, together.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
thank u so much all !! this is last part and i hope you all enjoyed the mini series ❤️
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