Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, superhero!JJK men, Venom, slight tentacIes, sIight bréeding, aphrodísiacs, rough s, spítting, chokíng, p sIapping, p talking, manhandIing, HEADLOCKS, matíng presses, enemies-to-Iovers (Geto), handcuffs, pIot, REACTIONS, paparazzi, x-ray vision, super strength, heightened senses, true form!Sukuna, four arms, POWERS, ínappropriate use of powers, making superheroes BREAK, creampíes, cúmpIay, pet names, swéaring.
A/N. Mwahahaha…
♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Venom.
“So…let me get this straight-” Temples throbbing—you’re unsure whether that was from just how many times your boyfriend’s had to explain his particular…conundrum to you, or from the conundrum itself.
And Toji sits in front of you with his hands clutched on top of the table- almost in a pleading motion. He looks around warily at the other people in this bustling café - why on Earth he decided to choose such a public place for such a confession was inconceivable to you.
It was a wonder in and of itself when you don’t burst into hysterics, “You were in your lab working on some experiments you should definitely not have been working on-” Shooting him a look that receives you a sheepish grin. “-and ended up getting infected by some…parasite?”
“Symbiote.”
“Right. Symbiote.” You correct tightly, “And this symbiote can talk, think, and even make itself known through you?”
“Ah- pretty much.” Toji shrugs.
“And this symbiote wants to see me why-”
“You’re ovulating.”
The café seems to come to a standstill around you.
Servers, customers, even the new intern that’d been blatantly dozing off at the counter jerks his head up and throws a glance at your table—or more accurately to figure out the utterly inhuman voice that’d erupted from your table.
It was deep. It was gravelly.
It sounded like - in its alien desperation to assimilate to this society - it’d meshed together as many human voices as it could possibly make, and in the end had come up with something that sounded like everything but.
And, of course, that voice had come from your boyfriend of three years.
Toji Fushiguro.
Though he was either ignorant or uncaring - knowing Toji, it was likely both - to the stares that were being thrown his way. He was far too busy fussing around this…symbiote and its separate thoughts and voices, batting around his head as though shooing away a particularly annoying fly. But you’d seen it—fuck, for the briefest second, you’d seen it…the way that this black, murky substance not quite of Earth-like matter had flickered over Toji’s handsome face for a second.
Slime-like skin.
Haunting white eyes.
A long, loooooooong tongue.
You shudder just imagining it.
“Sorry ‘bout that, doll.” Toji grits out- “His name’s Venom and he’s a real pain in the ass.”
You’re barely thinking twice before you utter, “And…how can we fix this?”
Voice nothing more than a whisper. Though perhaps owing to those suddenly-honed senses of his, Toji can hear you perfectly. “According to my hypothesis, there should be one way in which once the symbiote is completely satiated of its more…base needs, then it parts peacefully with the host. But this is still unfounded- besides, I’d never fuckin’ ask you to-”
“I’ll do it.”
Toji pauses.
“Eh?”
And you’re meeting his shocked expression with one of pure steel, “I’ll do it.”
.
.
.
In almost no time, you’re back in Toji’s laboratory and bent over his desk—what had meant to be a trail run- what had meant to be a simple discussion with the symbiote to test Toji’s hypothesis had ended up with the most looooong, lecherous thrusts being pumped into the back of your cunt.
Your thighs clench together, moans echoing out and hitting the four corners of the walls.
Just the simplest plaps! of Toji’s ravenous hips comin’ down onto yours was enough to send your heels skittering- forced to stand up a little straighter. He’s cleanly lifting you off a few inches just with the probin’ thrusts of his cock—and as Toji bottoms out once more, he’s rushing you straight into your nth high of the night.
Peak after peak.
Thrust after thrust.
The seventh round that you were feeling his thick, throbbing cock piston you through—though according to Toji, they were called trials.
Trials during which those waves of bliss shred through your core n’ straight up to your muddled head- one that’s immediately getting bombarded by that same gravely tone from before.
“Mmm, you smell sweeter when you cum.”
You startle, “Wh-what was that?”
“Fucked so stupid you can’t hear? Humans are so interesting…” As you’re tentatively turning your head over your shoulder, you’re seeing that Toji’s figure was suddenly taller…towering…covered in that black, goo-like substance from earlier—his face splits from cheek to cheek with a sharp-toothed smile, and suddenly he’s letting escape the most bone-chilling laugh. “I wonder how much sweeter you shall smell when I plant you with my seed-”
“Okay, that’s enough-” Toji’s struggling to gain dominance of the symbiote- though you still weren’t sure how exactly the system worked. You’d determined that it was a dual rule, of sorts, in which one could ‘fight’ the other for control of the body.
And right now, your boyfriend was the clear winner.
Groaning as he’s winning back control—and with the regaining of his body, he’s bombarded with the sudden sensations of your hot cunt enclosing around his shaft. Sucking. Slurping. Just so thick and throbbing to be even deeper inside you- you’re unsure whether this was just your overstimulated brain talking, but you could’ve sworn that Toji felt even bigger than usual-
“You’re welcome for that, heh.”
You jump, “Wh-what was that?”
“You’re fuckin’ welcome.” The symbiote in Toji’s body utters, and you’re shivering at the sensation of Venom’s looooong lavish tongue dripping down the side of your throat. Licking. “Venom can change shape however we like, we can make ourselves bigger…”
And you can’t fucking give a response to that—you can’t. Because just then that mazin’ tip of Toji’s cock is expanding far beyond what you’re used to.
He’s shovelling in even more inches than you knew he possibly had- he’s thrashing against your cervix and digging in as though he’d probe even deeper if he could- he’s swelling up so much inside your tight walls that it honestly feels as though you’re about to be split down the middle—
“Mmmm, became even sweeter. Heh, you liked that.” Those honed teeth of his graze over your neck, easy enough for him to tear through. “How about curved?”
Immediately bendin’ in such a delicious curve- one that strikes the end of his shaft directly against your g-spot. He doesn’t even have to try.
Your thighs quake as you feel his flared mushroom tip swabbing n’ stirring and messing up your insides with such an extreme shape. Plunging. Prodding around. The degrees of his curvature bent juuuuuust the right amount that it’d hit most of your tender spots-
“Or what about tentacles-”
“Wait-”
“That fuckin’ jerk.” Soon enough, Toji’s interrupting whatever lecherous plan the alien had for you, and instead using his original cock to pinpoint your insides.
Though Venom might have had the ability to change his shape- absolutely nothing could match Toji. Nothing could match the way he’d already memorized the locations of your sweetest bundles of nerves n’ how exactly you liked them stimulated—whether it was the quick, rapid strokes of just his very flared tip, or the achingly long strokes that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.
Your back arches, and your moans crescendo louder than ever as your boyfriend reaches down to twiddle with your sensitive nub. “Right?”
Attempting to look back at him through your sobs, “Wh-what was that, baby?”
“I said—” Toji seethes out between haaaard strokes of his rugged cock- absolutely vicious. He wasn’t taking his time with you today, he was poundin’ your poor cervix raw with his tunneling tip. “Wasn’t he a fuckin’ jerk? Thinking that he’d be able to fuck my girl…”
“Y-yeah…” You’re acutely aware of the fact that Venom was hearing every single word being said. Likely simmering beneath. Likely attempting to regain control and make you spill the truth-
“Uh-huh?” But Toji was on a roll now. As the words spat between his scarred mouth grow faster, so do the ministrations on your pulsing clit. “Wasn’t he just delusional? Thinking that you’d like that alien cock- heh.”
Pathetically nodding along—unsure whether that was for the question or for just how good it felt. “Yeah, mmmm- fuck.”
“Right? And wasn’t he wrong?”
“Yeah-”
“Wasn’t he useless?”
“Y-yeah…”
“Wasn’t this pussy missin’ me?”
“Fuck, yes.”
And what you’re faced with next wasn’t a question, an insult to Venom, or anything else that you might have expected- it was a sudden spank!
Right on top of your clit.
Right before Toji’s already-elongated cock swivels a few inches deeper than you remember him being able to before. Thicker. Meaner. The top of his shaft was swelling into a fatter circumference, and you swear you can hear the squelches of orifices you’ve never known being opened up—
His sharp canines gnaw down on the shell of your ear, and shivers run down your spine at the guttural tone of his voice. “Then why are you so fuckin’ wet, my little liar?”
“O-oh.”
Shit, he’d known.
He’d been able to hear you, too.
And now you were paying the price: you were feeling Toji’s relentless cadence but with Venom’s ability to bend and prolong his shaft as much as he wanted to. His tendrils of symbiote substance glissade down his cock and stretch out your walls just a bit more—wrapped just around where Toji’s already-massive length was.
And if you thought that that wasn’t enough- you’re damn near losing your mind at the feeling of those fingers twiddlin’ at your clit starting to tingle. Starting to transform.
Before you know it, they feel strangely…tentacle-like. They reminded you of Venom’s own tendrils, though with a sultry suctioning sensation to it that made your body wrack with pleasure- “Oh my god—fuck, Toji, how are you even-”
“You forget that Venom is a part of me now.” He murmurs through a grin, hips only accelerating. Cock only lengthening- fingers only suckling. “And you’re not getting out of this any time soon, doll. At least, not until we have our hypothesis.”
“Shit…”
“Hypothesis schmipothesis. I get to breed her after.”
♡ NANAMI KENTO - Superman.
“My love…” Just the way that Nanami uttered your sweet, sweet pet name…it was anything but. As though he was a man that’d worshipped every name, statue, and deity in the world—and the only one to answer his wretched prayers was you.
He whispers your name.
Lightning strikes.
Nanami was silhouetted against the tall floor-to-ceiling window of your apartment; his red-clad feet hovering just a few inches off the ground, chest emblazoning the famous ‘S’ of which you could only see the ghost-like outline. Like a faint memory. That long cape of his drapes behind his broad shoulders, flowing in a breezeless wind. His head was bowed. His face utterly expressionless.
Moonlight falls upon him like a knighthood, but something more untoward.
The night was dark and so had been the day of fighting crime—or so you’d assumed. Usually, when your boyfriend arrived home it was with kisses to your cheek and bouquets of flowers.
You had no idea what happened today, but…he doesn’t respond to a single one of your calls. Not a single one of your pleas.
The only thing you can do is take a step forward-
And he jerks as though he’d just been shot by several of the lightning flares outside. A thousand bolts of electricity and even more, more, and more. Even though he had his gaze turned downwards, Nanami doesn’t need to see to sense you-
He already knew.
“My love.” He repeats, as though a broken CD. There was a wisp of something so carnal in his tone, something dark and drenched in…a desire that you couldn’t put your finger on. It was something that made shivers cascade across your body, however. “My love, don’t-”
“Don’t what, Kento?” You’re insisting, even though you fight yourself not to take another step forward as per his wishes. “I need to know what happened, baby.”
“You need to know.” He repeats once more—was he even capable of anything else? You’re starting to grow even more concerned and reconsider your internal pledge when- “I was injured.”
Concern pours over you like a bucket of cold water, “Injured? Where-”
“Not physically.” Nanami spits out through clenched teeth, every syllable difficult for him to enunciate as though coated in glue n’ sticking to the roof of his tongue. In the pale moonlight you could see that his skin was covered in a sort of perspiration - something almost feverish and flushed. “It’s- fuck, I need you to know-”
“Kento, I’m scared for-”
“I need to fuck you.”
And as he finally rushes out the confession, large exhales seep out of him like every bit of his remaining sanity—a weight had been lifted off. But little did he seem to realize that that weight was a keystone for a dam.
And now he felt like he was about to fucking burst-
“Lex Luthor- latest invention—fuck.” Interrupting his own explanation with a rugged groan - not one that was quite pained, but not…not either. “None taken, no casualties.” Something crossed between rage and ecstasy. How very like Nanami to utter of other before himself- “But I was injected with- fuck—”
You take a step forward, “Kento-”
“-aphrodisiac.”
“Oh.” Heart stopping. Without even thinking, you’re taking a quick scan of his figure to make sure that he wasn’t bluffing about no physical wounds, and when all seems clear on his upper half, your eyes can’t help but drop to the area between Nanami’s chiselled legs - and your sweet boyfriend’s Superman outfit had always been particularly flattering on his body, but this—he looked about nine inches straight through his tight latex and throbbing. Aching.
You can speak no longer, and him barely enough- “Stay away.”
Another step. “Kento.”
“Darling, I’m going to ruin you.”
And another. “I don’t mind.”
There isn’t the burst and then the frenzy of lips on lips, skin on skin, as you might’ve expected at first. No, not at all. Your words linger in the bedroom for a few more seconds - tight and tempting, just when you think that the tension in the air is going to stretch so taut that it might never snap—Nanami moves.
Just the slightest action: he stops hovering. Setting his feet down on the windowsill for the first time - and it hits you just then why he hadn’t been touching any bit of your apartment for so long.
Because the moment that Nanami came in contact with any - any - part of you, he was going to go fucking insane. That is, if he didn’t have your pretty pussy to take it out on—in almost no time, you’re finding yourself pressed flat against your king-sized mattress and having your boyfriend’s thickened tip swirlin’ your insides.
He was just so hot and needy.
Perhaps even greater in girth than you remember him - there was a vein down the middle of his length that stood out n’ massaged every inch of your insides. Throb-throb-throbbing away inside of you as the crowned edge of his shaft bottomed out- fuck, he doesn’t even spend the long, sensual hours of foreplay as he usually would.
Nanami merely throws your legs over his half-uniformed shoulder, merely clasps onto one side of your hips, merely tunnels his angry cock in and out—
In and out. In and out. You’re feeling him glide his handsome nosebridge down the column of your throat- stopping just where you were most sensitive, he’s twitchin’ in-between your puffy folds as he takes in your pheromones. Groaning, you swear you feel him grow even bigger inside of you—“My love—”
It’s that absolutely broken tone of his that makes you jerk your head in response. Blinking up tearily at the blond man, “K-Kento?”
His shaggy, golden bangs were curtained over his eyes n’ covering most of his gaze now - and you’re unsure whether you should be thankful or concerned that you couldn’t measure the sheer primal desire in them anymore. It was obscured from you—and all you’re getting revealed of him are the constant grunts whenever his ruddied cockhead hits the back of your pussy, his shivering hips, his mantra of your name. “I need to know…my love, I need to- fuck, are you okay?”
“I am—” Strangely enough, it made your cunt grow even wetter to know that he’s caring so much about you even when he was in the depths of the effects of the aphrodisiac-
His mind was wiped clean of anything but his base needs- and yet, there was always a part of him that knew you were what’s most important. And the superhero reaches one roughened hand down to sweetly cup your face, dragging the tip of his thumb down to wipe away any beads of sweat- “Are you s-sure? I need you to be sure-”
“I am sure, Kento.” Insisting. And though you feel just a little awful for interrupting his well-meaning pleas—you also needed to feel his thick, textured cock hitting eeeeevery single inch of you. And though you’re at his complete and utter mercy, you can’t help but squirm your hips around to swivel more of his solid inches inside. “Please- fuck, I need more of you. Don’t hold back-”
“Fuh-fuuuuuuck—” A zig-zagging vein pops out on his forehead, freckled with sweat. “Don’t say that-”
“But I am saying that.” Wrangling your legs off of his sculptured shoulders- or at least, you’re attempting to. But Nanami only needs to drift a single hand up to keep you pliably in place—he’s locking both ankles behind his neck with one hand, long fingers holding them gently yet sternly. It’s all he needs to halt your restless hips as he hits a sensitive spot and ploughs iiiiiiin.
Thrust after thrust.
Again and again.
Every single one of them locates that cute target of your nerves- instantly, it was almost like magic. That deliciously curved end of his shaft manages to maze his way inside, spreadin’ apart your gluey walls and heading straight for that area—all he has to do is follow the channel of your cunt until he’s led straight to that spot he bashes nicely.
Sloppily.
“Darling, you’re close.”
“I-I am?” Eyes shooting wide open- fuck, he’s right. It takes only one more thrust of his vein-covered cock for you to register the thrills of adrenaline shooting up your spine. You’re arching straight into his chiselled chest, “Oh, shit…I am.”
“My love didn’t know?” Nanami nearly titters. “S’okay…your Kento’s going to fuh-fuck you through it. Your Kento’s going to make you feel so good—ngh.”
And as he utters this, his cadence only grows sloppier.
“May I…” Just so cautious of the way you’re being jostled to n’ fro - of the way you’re nearly hitting the headboard, and the roundness of his balls smack! against your cunt. Nanami has enough clarity to feel almost…sheepish about the way that you’re clearly dumbed down on his cock. His greedy, greedy cock. “May I make you cum- oh, may I go…just a little harder?”
“Kento—” You’re pouting, “I want you to go harder-”
“I-”
“I want you to go the hardest.” And as he’s still half-uniformed, you’re able to reach up and twist your fist in the smooth fabric. Tugging him down, you snarl- “If you want me to cum, Kento, then you better not hold back.”
And Nanami doesn’t answer. He doesn’t utter a single syllable.
He’s merely slowing his hips down and reeling his hips back, back, backwards—he lets the rounded tip of his cock circle your hole for a few seconds. Just the slightest few seconds, before that pulsing length of his shoves deep inside- not even stopping at your g-spot, he’s heading straight for your womb.
That soft, sopping womb of yours- “My love…” Just the last thing you’re hearing before you’re cumming, “My love, it’s going to take now.”
Blabbering, “Wh-what—”
“It’s going to take.”
And a thick, ropey warmth floods you deeeep from your core- spreadin’ into every nook, cranny, and crevice until you’re feeling a little lightheaded. “Did you really mean…” As your voice murmurs out in pure disbelief, those clingy wads of his cum get pinpointed into even the tiniest sweet spots inside of you—places that you weren’t even sure you had. He’s pressing his thickened tip against the sides of your walls and watching as your sweet, sweet juices get sprayed out. “You- you really didn’t mean…”
Nanami utters nothing but a few raspy groans, eyes locked on the forefront of your core as he shovels inside. Inside and inside. “I did.”
There was an intensity in his eyes that you swear you’re feeling against your skin- and you did. It burned. “Did it seriously—”
“It did.” And his round, reddened tip ends up sticking straight against your womb - fucking you through your own high, fucking you through his drivelling wads of seed. A final swat. “It did, my loves.”
And you’re noting the change of your pet name.
Because you already knew what he meant- it had taken. Nanami Kento was using his superhuman sight to peer through you, watching as his cum trickles into the deepest depths of your womb—and his mouth quirks up into a handsome grin as he notes that it’ll be…
A daughter.
.
.
.
“Congratulations”
You gape at the screen.
And a quick glance at Nanami reveals that he was doing the very same- though perhaps in not such an outward manner. As soon as possible, you’re staring right back at the screen that showed a little bean of something your doctor was pointing towards and explaining—something that flows in one ear and out the other.
You were still registering that there was a little bean of something.
You don’t know when - it might be second, it might be minutes, it might be days later - but Nanami speaks. Something silent and barely-there, a breathless whisper as though he was afraid that it’d shatter the mirage shown on screen, “A-and…the…?”
He can’t complete his sentence. Though Dr. Shoko Ieri is a professional, and she picks up on what your husband means quite quickly.
He clasps your hand - newly-minuted gold wedding ring cold against your skin - and waits as she peers at the screen once more. Because he knows this—he knows this. He’s seen this with his superhuman vision.
He’d told you a few months ago just then…
And yet, Nanami’s heart flips.
She smiles warmly at the two of you, “It’s a girl.”
♡ GETO SUGURU - Batman.
“It’s you.” Geto chuckles, “Why did I know that it would be you?”
The sound of his low, throaty laugh is enough to send shivers down your spine—-and…perhaps even lower. Though that’s not something you wanted to unpack right about now.
You had to remember where you were: the mansion of Geto Suguru, billionaire, playboy, mysterious down to the core. The mansion had been as expectedly gaudy and gilded as most rich people loved their homes, but what had drawn you to it the most had been the safe room, of course.
And so here you were standing with a couple gold bricks in your bag and a few more to be packed up- that shouldn’t take long, you assume. And with a careless sigh, you’re ignoring the man himself and getting back to loading them back in—“So? Happy to see me?”
“Oh, less than.” Geto replies.
“Don’t lie~” Purring, the skin-tight latex of your suit twinkles underneath the rich yellow lighting as you’re turning back to him. You shoot a flirtatious wink his way, “I know this is going to be the source of your wet dreams for years after.”
“Nightmares, more like.” He hobbles a step closer. It puts you on edge.
“Then how about we keep some distance from our nightmares, hm?” You’re gathering up your large loot—much heavier than an average person would be able to carry, though you’re holding it daintily between your fingers with ease. “I come to rob you, you catch me robbing you, you let me go—it’s a win-win for everybody. I really wouldn’t want to use force…”
“And I wouldn’t want to use force either.” Geto smiles so pleasantly, “I don’t really care about the gold- but there’s a pearl necklace in there that used to belong to my mother. How about you leave that and be on your merry way, hm?”
You pout, “But I liked the pearl necklace.”
And his gaze grows just a little sharper, “I’m afraid that can’t happen, kitty.”
“Oh, I loooove it when you call me that~” Fluttering your lashes at him.
He takes a step closer, “I know your games, Catwoman.”
“And yet you fall for them every time, Batman.”
Did you forget to mention that Geto Suguru - billionaire, playboy, mysterious and also perhaps the most attractive man you’ve ever set your eyes on - was also Batman? Despite that, you still had the most infamous crime-fighting vigilante wrapped around your finger as though he was nothing but a low-grade thief.
And he was trapped in your web now (what was the cat version of that, anyway?)
Leagues below you. He’s biting down on his plush, pretty lip to hold back a whimper as you’re reeling your hips aaaaaall the way back to squeeze his blushin’ tip—holding it there for a few seconds before you give the superhero a good bounce.
Making him throw his head back with a groan- Geto lets out a slew of swears once you’re starting up the sloppiest cadence. Back and forth. “D-don’t get ahead of yourself, kitty…”
“What was that—?” Pretending to gasp, you’re teasingly leaning your body forwards in a mocking attempt to hear him better. “What was that, Bat? I didn’t hear you- was that a stutter I heard?”
“Fuck off-” Spitting between clenched teeth. Geto’s clasping onto either side of your naked hips, using that strength of his you loooooved being manhandled by to roll your hips in figure-eight motions - just drag-drag-dragging the outline of his cock along your sweet insides. You could feel every ridge n’ crevice of his veins decorating your walls, massaging them into something even softer he loved to fuck up into.
The two of you were sitting - barely - on the luxurious armchair he had in his safe room. Creaking and ricketing with age every time that Geto arched his hips backwards and gave you a thorough probe—inside. And though you couldn’t say that you planned to end up here, you didn’t quite deny that you had plans to end up in his master bedroom - why else would you have gotten caught?
The both of you knew that if you’d actually wanted to steal something, then you would’ve been out of this damn mansion hours ago.
Gritting his pearly white canines, Geto crushes your hips further down into his and ruts up into you—“Sh-shit….”
“What was that about stuttering, gorgeous?”
“Fuck off—”
“I’m fucking you, actually.” He spits between clenched teeth, gyrating your hips around so that the cute nub of your clit rubs up against his fuzzy base. It’s such a carnal feeling to have those curls of jet-black massaging where you were most sensitive, getting more n’ more drenched by the second. By the motions of your dripping wet pussy. He’s snarling, “That’s fuckin’ right- wipe that smug look off of your face. I already know what you’re thinking.”
“Oh?” And you’re just barely managing to scrounge up whatever’s left of your sanity together to respond. “And what is that, Monsieur Bat?”
“C’est l’homme chauve-souris.” Geto rolls his amethyst eyes, “And it’s that you think you have me- fuck, underneath your kitty toes.”
“Kinky~”
However, he’s learned not to entertain you with yet another outburst—instead, Geto’s pulling all his energy into inching his hips backwards and planting another thorough thrust deep into the depths of your cunt. So hard that you think he might just have left a mark.
So accomplished in his grin that you think he might’ve been aiming for it
You wouldn’t have been surprised to know that billionaire playboy Geto Suguru liked to let everyone know that he was fucking you- especially you. The hottest cat burglar in all of Gotham.
The same one he’s been infatuated with since the first time he saw you.
But he was fucking you like he hated you.
The sweetest thing he’s doing yet is cascading a hand down your front- left fingertip teasingly pressing your pussylips apart. It doesn’t take him long - not long at all - to find your pretty clit and draw a few circular motions on top of it—watching as you buck and whine straight into his hands.
And the meanest thing he’s done yet is reach his other hand behind you.
Because suddenly you’re feeling something cold and metallic click! into place.
You gasp.
You should’ve known that crime-fighting vigilantes often worked from the shadows; from a darkness of which even your feline eyes cannot piece through. You didn’t have eyes in the back of your head, did you? Although perhaps Batman had a gadget for that, too…
And although you already know that you’re fucked- it’s not until the jingle of handcuffs emanates from behind you that you’re really letting the situation sink in. It’s not that you’re afraid of Geto or anything he could do to you, but…it’s just that you’re afraid of what you might do given this forced proximity.
Something stupid like- like admit your feelings to the ever-elusive hero or something. Disgusting.
On top of that, you’re unable to motion your hips as you were doing so previously. Stuck pathetically grinding back into thrusts that he was already planting onto your cunt, the fatness of his girth sending you to the edge-
You’re whimpering are you can’t do anything you’d usually do like clasp onto his pretty throat or shove your fingers down his mouth. “Sugu…aw, c’mon—”
“Now I’m Sugu?” Geto snickers, “What happened to Bat? Or loser? Or fuck off? Or I never-want-to-see-you-again?”
Fluttering your lashes innocently, “You know I jest.” To no avail, you’re attempting to slip out of those handcuffs as you’d have done with any other normal ones - but you knew better than to underestimate Batman. As you expected, no matter how much you’re squeezing and molding your hands against that metal, it keeps on adjusting to your shape and restraining you. Keeping you hostage. Only one look at him and you already know that Geto’d spent a fortune creating these…perhaps just for you. “C’mon, baby, let me out of these~”
“No can do, kitty.” He chuckles. And the audacity of this man- he’s straying his right hand down your spine and groping your ass—“Next time we’re keeping the suit on because I wanna pull your tail.”
You scoff.
And he raises one dark brow. Thumb pressing down even harder on your clit, “What was that?”
“N-nothing…” You whimper, entire body wracking with shivers. It’s a few more sloppy thrusts before you can thrust yourself to speak without your voice cracking again—you didn’t want to give more ammunition for his entertainment. “Oh, Geto Suguru, when I get out of these handcuffs I’m going to fucking-”
“Kill me?” He smirks, “We can see you try.”
“You think I can’t?”
Geto shakes his head. “No, I expect it. Just make sure you kiss me first.”
And you can’t deny - neither to yourself or him - that that’s leaving you even wetter than you’d anticipated. The sheen of your arousal dripping through his dark happy trail, leading down to that perfectly chiselled six-pack of his.
He merely cracks a grin and plants his right hand on one side of your waist—drilling into you even harder than before.
“You know I love you, Bat.” You’re grumbling out almost reluctantly past the clogged mess of whines and moans and tears in your throat.
“Mmm, love you, too, kitty.”
.
.
.
“Mister Geto, I have collected those crime reports that you requested me to-” Miguel’s deep tone halts immediately at the sight before him. He’s standing by the edge of Geto Suguru’s sprawling master bedroom - the subject of countless features in architectural magazines, and the dreams of high-society alike - eyes widening at the dual figures of you and his employer, bundled up and clearly unclothed beneath the covers.
Clinging onto one another.
The crime-fighting vigilante and his criminal lover.
Though it wasn’t necessarily a secret around these parts that no matter how many women and men Geto Suguru meets, there will always be a certain cat-eared crime-lover he goes back to…Geto himself wouldn’t appreciate it if such word spread now, would he? This wasn’t the first time he’d crawled right back to you and this won’t be the last- hold on.
Were his sunglasses deceiving him or was his cold, uptight employer actually smiling in his sleep? Heavens above, this might just be the last time.
This might just.
Miguel settles for the thought that he’d tease the billionaire about it over dinner—very, very late dinner by the looks of it.
He leaves the report on the nearest desk - of which there were many, because this is Geto Suguru that we’re speaking about - and heads towards the door.
Taking one last peak.
Yeah, this might just be the last time. He trusts his intuition, that he’ll be walking into this scene more often than not in the coming years.
Yeah, this might just be for good.
♡ CHOSO KAMO - Nightwing.
“Who knew that the Nightwing…” You’re purring—smiling like the cat that’s got the cream - or more like the hero that’s just caught her rival. “-sex symbol of Gotham, hottest man of the year, wanted by men and women and everyone in-between…”
And Choso merely bucks weakly beneath you - his hips stutterin’ with every single fucking milimeter that he’s shovelling inside of you.
Choso was red and furiously hot between your legs—thick. Throbbing even harder as he feels his ruddied, red tip scrape the bottom of your pussy; his fat cock twitches there a few times as he registers the soft, spongy platform he was feeling—this was…Those beautiful, brown eyes of his widen as it sinks in. Gasping. Shaking.
And it takes merely two - two - seconds of being stuffed inside you for the famed hero to throw his head back and cum.
And you’re finally finishing your sentence, “-a virgin.”
How had this all happened? How did you end up here?
You could blame it all on the spiked punch, you could blame it all on the lavish ceremony - the highs and lows of the red carpet, ah, they always did tend to make you feel a little more reckless than usual—what’s that saying about all publicity is good publicity? Or perhaps it was the fault of the Hero Awards altogether.
Gathered here with the most elite of the elite, the best heroes from around the world; where they patted one another on their backs and paraded in designer. Reporters starved for the attention of the saviours as much as any competent villain.
Though you couldn’t say too much about them - you yourself were here, too.
But you told yourself that you were here solely for one award—and one award only. All those about best costume, best comeback during a fight, best fancam, best fistfight didn’t matter (though that wasn’t to say that you weren’t grateful, it’d been sweeping wins for all of which you’d teared up).
You were here for Best Hero of the Year.
The best.
The strongest.
The most battle-savvy.
The most competent.
The best of the best.
Once that nomination letter had arrived, you’d held it to your chest - in pure disbelief - for a long hour afterwards. It was an honor to be nominated—the greatest honor.
To win this award a panel of seasoned heroes would tally up all of your fights for this year, then grade them based on a variety of aspects such as difficulty, saves, assists, honor; the total would contribute towards a count that determined the winner. And though you’d been cautious about not winning - there were many other wonderful, more experienced heroes nominated - you just didn’t expect for the announcer to open up the golden cue card and read…
Fucking Nightwing.
Which is why you’d cornered him at the after-party - for a congratulations between you two that’d turned into passive aggressiveness, and passive-aggressiveness that’d turned into a proper argument you’re sure the reporters caught wind of, and an argument that ended up with you and Choso tangled up in your hotel room.
Pressing him down with your hips- you’re trembling at the feeling of his warm sap gushing out of you. It’s creating an ivory sheen down the inner sides of your thighs, smearin’ down Choso’s chiselled hips in a way that was just so lewd—and you’re more than happy to make an even bigger mess.
To throw your head back and grind your hips down onto his.
Choso hiccups, his upper half attempting to surge upwards- only for you to press one pretty finger down on his shoulder. And just the softest push has him tumbling back into the plush pillows, “Shit- y-you can’t just…do that to me.”
“Do what, baby?” You smirk down at him.
And right as he opens those cute, trembling lips of his to answer—you’re tightenin’ your thighs around his waist and jerking your hips even harder against his. His prominent v-lines massage where you were situated, and Choso groans as his blushin’ cocktip manages to push and pinpoint even the tiniest orifices inside you.
He’s still drooling out beads of cum, pooling at the base of his cock. So much of it- shit, was he still cumming?
Or was he cumming…again?
Unsure of what you were feeling, you’re veering your gaze down and attempting to get a better look. And sure as day- not only was it your translucent slick n’ his precum that was flooding you from the inside, but Choso’s ivory cum sprays out and and mixes into something so lewd-
“Fuck- fuck…” Your mouth waters at the feeling of being stuffed to the brim - so much of it that you’re wondering just how overworked his hefty balls must be. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, “You’re cumming again, Cho—”
“Th-this is exactly what I mean.” Choso sobs out, eyes glittering with tears, “You can’t just do that to me- you can’t make me feel so…stupid when you fuck me.”
Amused, “Stupid, huh? I don’t know if I have to try-”
“See, m’so gone that I’d agree—” That soft whine of his makes you so much wetter. Peering up at you with his half-lidded gaze - boring his dilated pupils into yours, hanging his jaw maddeningly. He presses a simple jerk of his ruddied cockhead into the deepest depths of your cunt - dead fucking serious. “I’d agree that m’stupid. I’d agree that m’pathetic.”
“Awwww…” Arching your back, he’s attempting this cute attempt at ruttin’ into you that you’re indulging in. You let him thrash his needy cockhead again and again and again-
“I-I’m nothing but a fuckin’ ngh, virgin that doesn’t deserve to fuck a pussy like this.” His lips wobble out- and you might have said something about him being too hard on himself…you might.
But the dirtier that Choso was speaking - the harder he was on himself - the harder he was getting.
Longer. Girthier—and his thorough thrusts were spearheading even faster by his tip. Taking out the tension in everything he was saying by ramming straight into your cervix - hard and fast. It twitches right at the very back of your spongy womb…and you’re swearing that a grin grows across Choso’s face as he registers that displeased expression on your face- who did he think he was to try and gain control over you?
“Now now—” You’re pressing both palms on top of his sweaty chest, and you can’t deny that they felt so toned and muscular underneath your touch. “Trying to be a big boy, Nightwing?”
“Only for you.” He croons.
“Cute.” You wrinkle your nose, “But that’d be a lot more smooth if you weren’t cumming- again.”
“Fuh-fuck.”
When was this? The third time? The fourth? Either way, all Choso knows is that he can’t stop those furious zaps of pleasure from coursing through his entire body—every inch and vessel and atom. It’s collecting at the mushroomy tip of his cock, red and swollen, then dribbling out as cum.
Not even.
Choso barely manages a few pearly white droplets before he’s shooting fucking blanks-
Head throwing back. Gasps echoing out of him. Chest heaving and heaving as you’re riding his overstimulated cock craaaaaazy-
“What was that about Year’s Best Hero?” You’re tittering out, staring into Choso’s utterly pretty face as he’s cumming through tears. Spark upon spark. Strong enough to make his toes curl, and you’re ruthless in the way you’re wrapping your warm pussy around him and milking him dry-
His pinkish lips wobble, “Wh-what was that…”
“How’re you gonna fight crime if you can’t even- ngh, handle a pussy?”
“W-well, I didn’t expect to be facing such a…formidable foe.” Blabbing out - utter nonsense at this point. He was pussydrunk—if only those at the Hero Award could see him like this. “You could take on a second job as a villain…j-just with that pussy…and also just f’me…”
“I take that as a…compliment?”
“You’re welcome—ngh.” Choso whimpers out- before there’s a sudden twitch at the crown of his swollen shaft. And those brown brows of his furrow, “B-but don’t be nice to me, however, it’s gonna make me cum- again. Mmm.”
“Oh, Choso…”
.
.
.
The glitz. The glamour. The fans begging you to sign their tits.
At the very next Hero Awards, there’s a buzz like never before.
For several reasons, of course: first of all, the matching outfits between you and the famously handsome Nightwing (though you’d argue that yours is the one that looked better, secondly because some drama-lovers anticipated a rerun of the infamous fight between you and aforementioned handsome hero, and last but not least—because of the new category of awards you’d been nominated for.
Most Inspirational Hero Couple.
And it was no surprise that Choso had won this one, but at least this time—you’d won it, too.
♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Hulk.
It happened not when he was angry, or excited, or panicked.
The results of a top-secret experiment funded by The University of Tokyo, intended to create human super-soldiers: it had been a failure. And Dr. Ryomen Sukuna had known better than to get his hopes up for such a volatile test subject—he was an expert in the field, 7 PhDs in a variety of sciences from biochemistry to radiophysics, he knew that it could take months, years, even decades before they observed even a mere anomaly similar to what they’d been hoping for.
But fuck- Sukuna had really thought he’d done it. He’d made humans immune to gamma radiation.
At least, he’d thought he did.
Ryomen Sukuna blinked his eyes open after the sudden explosion of radiation, and at most he’d expected to see his laboratory wrecked, his data completely wiped. At most.
He didn’t expect to be seeing it from eight feet high.
He didn’t expect to be seeing it with four eyes.
He didn’t expect to wield four massive arms in an attempt to find any shattered piece of glass from which he may see himself from-
Two mouths let out simultaneous gasps.
One of them slashed across his muscular stomach.
He was a monster.
It didn’t take a single one of his PhDs for Sukuna to know to flee the scene- not just the building, but Tokyo itself. Sirens loomed in the distance, and the acrid smell of radiation left him in waves- bystanders running to the rubble without realizing the danger. He knew you’d be alerted soon—you.
How could he ever face you like this?
Lo and behold he’d ended up at a squat village in Aogashima island; 358km away from Tokyo with only 160 residents. It was here, tucked behind sprawling mountainsides, that Sukuna had come to discover the little intricacies of his…condition. Through trial and error, through testing upon himself and attempting to control that four-armed version of him. Attempting.
And so the question: what made him transform?
He discovered that this monstrous state - which he dubbed to be a Curse state - was triggered by sudden increases of his heartbeat. Rarely anger, or excitement, or panic. What else might possibly raise the disgraced scientist’s heartrate well over 200 bpm?
Arousal.
Which is exactly what he’d been learning to control through his breathing techniques, his meditation, and his celibacy- not that he’d want anyone but you. But fuck…the dreams he’d have of you.
Nightmares, when he wakes up as the monstrous King of Curses.
Heaven, when the exact source of his nightmares - and wettest dreams - comes knocking at his shunted door one sunny summer day. A furrow between your brows. A furious word or two slipping out at the first sight of him.
Fuck.
.
.
.
One year, two months, and a few days since…the incident and you’d finally located where your ex-boyfriend (and former colleague) had disappeared.
And you’d expected him to have sunken into his work in one way or another.
You’d expected him to have holed himself away in some rural town—as he’d confessed to wanting to do on some nights, just with you. You’d even have expected him to have been working on some strange new project after the failure of his last one- he was the type to take it to heart. A little dramatic, but you expected this.
You just didn’t expect…his transformation.
Right before your very eyes.
Four arms. Four eyes. Two cocks that’d stayed twitchin’ in his baggy pants for a mere few minutes of your conversation- before you had your face pushed into pillows that smelled like him, legs struggling to keep you up, begging for more as Sukuna digs those two ruddied cockheads between your pussylips and sliiiiides in-
Just a few inches.
Just a few.
Before the resistance of your tight entrance gets too much- and Sukuna’s leaning back a bit to allow his cursed second mouth to spit down on your pussy. Hard.
The impact makes you shiver, sticky substance gluing your pussylips together. You swear you hear his second mouth snicker as he swabs that cloying texture with his cockheads, and uses his hands to manhandle you into pliable position - one hand cupping your abdomen and pulling you up- the other digging into the left side of your hips- the other reachin’ down to thumb apart your swollen folds and help him fuck his lengths inside. Thick and throbbing.
In short, slow semi-thrusts. He was just trying to fit inside. “Kuna—” Breathing out open-mouthed against the pillows. Needy.
“Needy brat.”
“Kuna.”
“Sh-shit.” And he wasn’t doing a single bit better than you. Sukuna was letting his head drop into the clammy crook of your neck, gnarled canines grazing on top of your skin- you feel the scowl across his face stretch even more as he pull-pull-puuuuuulls those hot erections backwards.
And then probes aaaaaaall the way back in - languidly.
“Fuck-” You’re gasping out—seeing pure white behind your eyelids. You almost couldn’t believe it. Sukuna was already sizable- but in this form?
He had his round, reddened tips just barely lodging between your swollen folds. Just so big. Pulsing. Pushing apart your slick walls with his circumferences, throbbing away inside you. Rubbing back and forth a few times to savor the squeeze of your hole - like heaven - before he’s stuffin’ every single nook, cranny, and crevice like never before.
And the carnal burn between your legs was only made sweeter by the way that Sukuna himself trembled on top of you. He’s letting out a coarse grunt-
Gasping.
“Fuck—fuck, is this okay?”
And a part of you melts at the utter tenderness in his tone - mixing with a hint of fear. Of disbelief. Ryomen Sukuna was never the type to be vulnerable, not even when the two of you had been dating—but as you look over your shoulder right now, you see that those devilish red eyes of his were observing every minute expression as though searching for a hint of rejection. Of disgust.
A hint that he’d been right about his changed form.
He was inhuman in his physique now, and…and he understands if you’d been scared away at any point-
But you’re only arching your spine and veering your hips back into him- cutting off whatever whirlwind of thoughts was bound to consume him. You’re picking up the pace that he’d been unsurely slowly down, bouncin’ down onto those slick-glossed shafts. They filled you up deliciously. “You don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easily again, are you?”
“I-”
“I’m more than okay, Kuna.”
“And yet-”
“And yet, why won’t you fuck me even harder—” Huffing, you’re managing to get up onto your elbows and gain a bit more leverage. “Spent so long looking for you, y’know…”
“Tch.” The scientist grumbles, but you could feel the way those rotund tips of his twitch just a lil’ inside of you. “Should’ve known-” He’s matching your pace with his own, slamming the lines of his toned abs against the globes of your ass cheeks. “-that you’d be an utter slut for monster cock.”
“Cocks.” You correct.
Just then, the wetness of his second tongue trickles down your pussylips. Gathering up every wad of honeyed slick you were leaking out- he was glissading his tastebuds along every inch of you he could reach: your inner thighs, your cute ass, nearly reaching around to fuck your pretty pussy. “Don’t forget the tongue, too, girlie.”
“I c-could never…” You’re keening out.
“Oh?”
And with a grin, Sukuna second-guesses no longer—before he’s leaning his chiselled front over yours. The hard ridges and lines of his muscles massaging your back, he hooks his fourth muscular arm around your neck and pulls you into a damn headlock-
“Fuh-fuck-” Sukuna hisses through his canines - honed and longer and ready to bite. He ruts into you like a damn animal—“Shit, how I missed this…”
“Shouldn’t have run away then-”
“From the fuckin’ freak?”
Just the slightest press against your throbbing g-spot - it’s like a trigger for the sweet, sweet squeeze of your walls- so warm n’ hungry for his cocks. And Sukuna jerks into urgent attention,
And now he wasn’t fucking you slow- he wasn’t taking his time.
Ryomen Sukuna had his muscular hips arched n’ reluctant to part from yours. Probin’ those girthy inches of his inside—
You’re attempting to claw at the headboard for dear life- but his keen eyes immediately catch the sliver of action, and Sukuna wastes no time before tightening his headlock ‘round you until his biceps bulge against your throat, hauling you back into his vicious ploughs. “What?” He breathes, scalding hot against the side of your cheek. “Where are we going, girlie?”
“We?”
“We. I could never forget her.” He’s rasping out against your skin, sending vibrations across every axiom of you. “Always thought of her—”
“A-and what did you think about?” You’re whimpering.
He doesn’t answer for a few seconds. And you’re disappointed as you feel Sukuna take as much time as his heart desires, pulling out of your pussy with a cute pop! Before he swirls his ruddied tips to soften up your entrance once more, and gives you a thorough thrash- going even deeper than prior. He’s making the eyes roll to the back of your head- he’s finally bottoming out. “I thought about how she might take every inch of me…”
“Oh.”
The tip of his second tongue dips out as though to fuck your cunt simultaneously.
.
.
.
When you’re accompanying Sukuna back to Tokyo, it’s hand-in-hand.
Large and warm against yours. There were more callouses on his fingers than you remember there being - not those of laboratory test tubes, and flasks, and flipping on centrifuges; but the hardship from the year you didn’t have him—and he didn’t have himself, either.
But you’re tugging him into the airport, now.
Two tickets booked and a meeting at The University of Tokyo already planned - the two of you didn’t plan to let anyone know of his transformative abilities for now. Perhaps never.
There were things that the two of you hadn’t sorted out yet: like how would Sukuna explain away his disappearance to the science board? How would you both stay in your cramped Tokyo apartment when he turned into his Curse mode? How would you manage to work on controlling it when…
But you knew the two of you would find a way - you always do.
As you’re standing at the terminal to your flight, the ones at the farthest end of the line, you’re turning around to a lilting voice calling out both your names. Your full names. Who knew such a thing…Faced with a grinning woman in a jet-black suit, tinted sunglasses, and the most accomplished grin across her face. She introduces herself as Tony- or as you may know her: Iron Woman.
And would you and your hulking boyfriend perhaps be interested in a little something called—
Sukuna’s breath hitches.
—The Avengers?
♡ INO TAKUMA - Flash.
“Mr. Flash- Mr. Flash! Just one more question, please…”
“Mr. Flash?” Ino gets a sheepish expression across his face at the esteemed title- one that makes the rest of his team roll their eyes. And he’s turning to the reporter that wastes no time shoving his mic in his face; camera already rolling, news headlines running.
All part of the job—it’s already been an hour since they’ve saved the city (yet again) and they’re still being interviewed, with no sign of it stopping anytime soon.
And so Ino plasters his camera-ready smile on - the rest of the team might not be as savvy as he was with the media, but he was one of the most popular up-and-coming heroes for a reason. Hah. The people loved him, and he loved the people. He takes the mic from the reporter faster than he can blink, and the man startles out a laugh.
“Woah, did you get that?” He turns uncertainly to the cameraman, who nods though he himself wasn’t too sure. Turning back to the red-clad hero- “You sure are fast. Tell us, Mr. Flash, does this speed affect you in your normal life, too?”
Ino answers, “Well-”
“And what about in the more…intimate aspects?”
He’s somewhat taken aback, “What do you-”
“What about in bed?”
Ino’s jaw has never dropped faster—ironic, isn’t it?
And that reporter leans in with a smile that’s turned wicked - one that said he’s going to get paid a lot of money for this particular clip. “Tell us, Mr. Flash, do you last nothing but a flash in bed?” Those beady eyes then turn to you—not too far away and interviewing another one of his team - ever since the two of you started dating, you’d been careful to not let anything slip about it, going so far as to avoid interviewing him as you once did as a hero reporter.
Though you suppose that some whispers did let slip.
For the man was staring at you, though he asked the question from Ino. “Or perhaps there’s a certain…someone that might know the answer to this question?”
That clip of him open-mouthed and gaping takes over social media within a few minutes - it garnered some strange frenzy of amusement and morbid curiosity. Some defended him fervently against the intrusive reporter, some argued that if one was a hero then they should expect strange questions, others condemned such questions all together- where were the boundaries?
Everyone else argued back.
But most…oh, you could’ve already guessed that most couldn’t help but speculate the real answers for both questions: the bed situation and the ‘certain someone’.
Ino, of course, was bemoaning his haste.
Or at least he would-
But right now he had you splayed-out underneath him and letting him fuck you maddened—the slender length of his cock pistoning in and out of you at a frenzied pace.
“Fuh-fuck-” That pretty, pinkened mouth of his droops open with a wet gasp—and Ino shudders as the ruddied tip of his cock swerves around your insides. Stars burst behind his teary eyelids as he’s sprinklin’ out yet another few droplets of him, trickling it deeeep into the back of your womb as he’s fucking your wet channel through it.
He’s shuddering his hips forwards and locking his knots of seed against the softness of your womb- “Fuck, you’re making me c-cum again, pretty…” And it’s about the fifth time in the past hour that he’s repeating this, “B-but I’m really not a flash in bed, right…?”
Such doe-like eyes stare at you, those long lashes of his glittered in tears. And you can’t help but say, “Mhmmmm—you’re really not, Taku.”
“But then why do you sound like you’re making fun of me?” Those trembling fingertips of his take purchase upon either side of your hips, and Ino’s mahogany brows furrows as he concentrates. “This round- this round, m’gonna prove it to you.”
“Taku, baby, you’re pussydrunk-”
“Even better.”
It’s been hours.
Fucking hours.
And Ino hasn’t stopped ruttin’ himself into the warm wetness of your pussy- he can’t stop himself.
It’s been too long - at this point he wouldn’t even be able to give you a number - since you’d successfully steered him away from that reporter and accompanied him to his penthouse. Since you’d reassured him that he totally wasn’t too fast in bed and that you definitely did think the sex lasted long enough.
But still.
He didn’t last a flash in bed.
He really, really didn’t—which is why a young dawn was filtering through the curtains- but Ino Takuma still had his cock lodged thoroughly inside you and was showing no signs of stopping any time soon. He’s reaching down to wrap both your legs around his toned waist, folding you in half n’ kissing your sweaty forehead with his.
But his point was getting harder and harder to prove with every round that he’s fuckin’ you through - bottoming out deeply at the back of your womb, and letting out the prettiest shivers as he feels you clench. “Fuh…oh, fuck.” Uttering mere minutes after he’s started this round, “I-I think m’gonna…”
“What’s that, baby?” You’re reaching up to loop your arms around his neck, tugging the beautiful boy towards you.
“Nothing.”
Batting your lashes up at him, “Awwww, c’mon- you know you can tell me anything, Taku.”
“I-it’s really nothing.” He insists.
“Hmmm, alright then…” But you knew- oh, you already knew. The more rounds that Ino was plunging you through, the more n’ more pussydrunk that he was growing—the shorter he lasted. Which wasn’t entirely anything bad- you honestly found it cute how it’d only take a few sweet slides down your tight pussy’s channel for Ino to utterly fall apart.
But he’s soon feeling that prickly sensation of his high, and he only starts tunneling between your sopping pussylips even harder. Brows knitting. Fingers digging into your flesh. “M’not gonna cum, sweetness-” He hiccups, “I-I’m not gonna cum, promise-”
“Mhm, I trust you.” You’re coaxing him, “I know you’re gonna last, baby.”
There’s a breathless note in his voice. He looks up at you in surprise, “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, I know you can handle it- hah.”
Fervently nodding, “Yeah- yeah, and m’gonna make you cum—”
“Mhm—” Lewdly smiling up at him. He’s just so entranced by that sinful expression upon your face that he doesn’t notice the way you’ve planted your feet firmly on the damp mattress- suddenly rolling your hips up into his own. “So why don’t I…help you, my hero?”
“H-help—oh.” Stunned. Cutting himself off with a groan.
Ino’s eyes squeeze firmly shut, and he’s shaking viscerally at the sudden plap! of your skin hitting against his own. It’s a different kind of burn when it’s you who’s taking control - and even though he’s on top of you, it feels like he’s the one that should be squirmin’ and gasping.
It feels like he should be the one who’s cumming first-
“No—” Ino’s gritting out through clenched canines - there’s a low trundle of something in his tone that sounds like desperation. Before you know it, he’s increasing the speed of his hips—plap! plap! Plap!
That rounded, red tip of his finds the spot of your nerves just perfectly- and Ino doesn’t waste a single second before he’s starting to bludgeon it with his thrusts. So many times that it starts to feel a bit raw.
Pinning you down using the weight of his lower half, Ino digs his right hand instantly between your two trembly thighs. Brushin’ apart your pussylips with a singular swipe of his thumb- your head explodes in so many bursts of pleasure as he starts twiddlin’ with your pretty, plump clit. “No, no, no- don’t think that I don’t know what you’re hck! doing, sweetness.”
Fluttering your lashes innocently, “And what’s that, Taku?”
“D-don’t think that I don’t know you’re trying to make me—” Pausing to let his crowned shaft push into your womb with a resounding squelch! “-cum first.”
“So what if I am, hm?” You counter, “I just really, really love the way it feels when you’re filling me up-”
“I know what you’re doing there, too—” He’s snarling down at you- just so gone on your pussy by now that he likely doesn’t even realize he’s drooling. Those dilated pupils of his bore straight into your own as he angles his hips to constantly bash your poor g-spot, circlin’ every sensitive orifice. “I know what you’re doing- fuck, I know what you’re doing…”
And you can only squeal as the sheer pressure of his cadence increases-
“And I know what I’m doing, too.”
Because if you thought that was fast- then you weren’t ready for just how rapidly Ino’s fingers could make you fall apart. They were just so loooong and pretty, flexible enough to twist your nub in constant circular motions, flexible enough to make you sob.
It doesn’t matter how badly you’re attempting to buck away - Ino keeps his fingers firmly into the wettened crevice between your legs. Twisting his wrist into aaaall sorts of degrees just to see which one made you scream the most-
“Please—” You’re bawling out after only a few minutes of this, legs shaking. “P-please, that’s unfair-”
“How so?” One amused brow raises. Perspired.
“B-because you’re gonna make me cum-” And to anyone else that would’ve sounded like a petulant complaint, it would’ve even sounded like a sore loser that couldn’t take on the challenge—but Ino knew. And you knew, too. “-using your powers—”
And the superhero can only grin, “So?”
Thrust after thrust.
Roll after sloppy roll of his glued fingertips - they were running your body taut. Without much effort, Ino’s able to make his blushin’ divot massage against your pussy at a rate where his hips almost looked like a blur—not even half of the Flash’s top speed.
And the fact that he was going easy on you made you huff in complaint.
Without thinking much of it, you’re back to ruttin’ up into him - definitely unable to meet his cadence, but you knew you didn’t have to.
You already had him wrapped around your little finger.
It takes only a few needy slams of your treacly pussy against his cock - all the way down to his thickened bottom - for Ino to throw his head back and groan. “You’re gonna…fuck, you’re gonna kill me, girl.‘
“Huh? But I didn’t do anything?” In a mock-innocent tone, “I certainly don’t have any powers to use.”
“Did you forget p-pussy power?”
You smirk.
And as he’s increasing his pace, you only have to whimper out his name for Ino to falter- for him to shake his head and continue. And as you’re attempting to gain the upper hand, he only has to buzz your throbbing nub with his electric speed for you to lose your mind.
Eventually—you think you’re about to cum.
And before you can accept the thought of losing, you’re grabbin’ Ino by his pretty throat and dragging him down to kiss his lips. “C-cum inside me, Taku.”
It’s a tie.
You’re crashing into your high, and Ino’s crashing into his.
Both the steaming hot pleasure of your orgasm flooding your core- and the few droplets that his overworked cock manages out. Creamy white sap. Thinner than usual—he was fighting not to merely cum blanks. Whimpering. Bucking. Fucking you like a damn animal…You’ve both experienced so many throughout the night that your current waves of bliss rip through you hard and fast.
Though Ino himself wastes no time bumpin’ his crowned cock into every tiny ridge of your wet channel. Scrape-scrape-scraping down the spots where you were most sensitive, and dragging it out for as long as he can.
You’re gasping as it leaves you numb from your toes, pulling his sweat chest against yours. “F-fuck, that feels so good…”
“Yes—fuck, yes.” And as the shudders of your high pass, you feel Ino’s cock grow just a little more limp inside of you- well…for a mere few seconds, that is.
“T-tie-breaker?” He whines.
.
.
.
The next time the two of you are spotted out together, it’s for an interview. Of course.
In which you’d ‘cornered’ global superhero Flash after yet another one of his successful missions - before any of the other reporters could manage to get their claws on him - with the question they’ve all been asking—“Do you really last as quick as a flash in bed?”
You’re hearing the shocked gasps around you from the other reporters and bystanders. None had dared ask this question so directly since that clip had gone viral - and in the peripheries of your vision you could see that interviewer from before gnawing his teeth at the fact that you’d stolen his limelight. Surely thinking you’d have about as much luck as him, however…
But of course, Ino already knew you were about to ask this.
His grin stretches underneath his mask as he turns to you, cameras rolling. “I should be asking you that, pretty. Dinner at 7?”
“There you have it, folks.”
♡ GOJO SATORU - Spider-Man.
“S-so I guess what I’m trying to say is…” The masked intruder starts, his voice stuttering adorably through his lines. Though adorable as he may be, that doesn’t make you forget the fact that he was a man…tall…well-built…and clearly a crazed fanatic of the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man who’d broken into your dorm—“Uh…I come in peace?”
You’re raising the frying pan in your hands even higher, “I know how to hide a body-”
“O—okay, woah-” He’s immediately taking a few steps back, which you suppose you wouldn’t expect from a dangerous intruder. But then again, maybe he was just new to the job?
If so, he should probably have his pay docked - he was utterly failing at being intimidating. For he’s flattening himself against the window from which he’d entered just a few minutes ago, hands raised in surrender and the whites of his masked eyes widening. Damn, that costume was pretty good…
“I come in peace. I swear I come in peace- I’d just been running from a bad guy, and your dorm just happened to be…the first one I saw? Either way, I promise I’m no danger and I’ll just be on my way now so-” He immediately hastens, “Put…the frying pan…down.”
“Make me.” Raising it even higher, he flinches.
“Okay- oh my god, okay—” It really didn’t take much to make the man surrender at all, immediately giving up on any peace-keeping. He scrambles around the room and you’re worrying that he’s looking for something to challenge your frying pan with- but it seems that he’d just been brainstorming how best to go about with…whatever this is. Because in no time, you’re practically seeing a light bulb go off beside his head, and the man raises his palms as though to brace you.
And you can’t deny it, you found yourself a bit interested. “Um, yes?”
“Get ready- look—” He utters through the web-patterned mask covering his face. “Don’t faint but…”
“But?”
“I’m…Spider-Man.”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
You’re assessing the man from head-to-toe—or at least what you could make out of him from the most elaborate cosplay of Spider-Man you’ve ever seen. It could honestly have been impressive if it wasn’t for the fact that he was in your fucking dorm.
But you digress.
“Okay, so do you want the frying pan- or I’ve also got a rolling pin-”
“What? No—no, listen.” The man insists, “I really am Spider-Man- it’s true! You’ve gotta believe me-” Though your deadpan expression gave away just about how much you believed the words that were falling from his masked mouth. And so he’s groaning in frustration, “Look- look, if I just showed you a few tricks would that work? Would that finally prove to you that I’m Spider-Man?”
Unimpressed, you cross your arms. “Go on, then.”
And then the first thing he does is shoot a clingy web from one hand, it launches at an incredible speed and sticks to your ceiling. That’s going to be hell to get out…
“Hm…” You narrow your eyes at him, “Impressive. But I’ve seen better at Party City.”
“That’s not fucking Party Cit- anyways.” He runs a hand down his weary face—or at least what you expect his face to look like beneath that mask. And as soon as you blink, you’re finding this…intruder(?) climbing up your walls. Literally.
All hands on there, glued to it with an invisible adhesive.
You gape, “That’s not…”
“And how about this? This is even better—” Before you can refute that previous trick, too, this man jerks his head up (or was it considered down? You weren’t quite sure given the way he’d crawled all the way to your ceiling by this point) and basks in the silence for a split-second.
You wondered whether he was actually sensing something or just pulling your leg-
“My spider senses say that your vibrator’s plugged in but it isn’t charging.”
You almost want to throw the frying pan at him. However, you’re managing to tamper down the urge long enough to walk silently to your room and back—fuck it, he’d been completely right. You still sort of want to throw the frying pan at him.
But as though he’d sensed that, too, Spider-Man raises his hands up to cover his head.
So you’re setting it down on your table with a defeated sigh, “Alright, I believe you…Spider-Man. What’re you doing here?”
“Like I said-” He finally lets go of the ceiling and stands in front of you normally now, “-bad guy had been chasing me. That one was just a little…above my paygrade so I had to stall until Iron Woman could get here- which was about five minutes ago. The fight’s still going on, however, and I should probably lay low for now.”
Awkwardly shuffling, “So then…”
“So then if I could just stay here until then, um…”
“Um, sure.”
“Sure.” He twiddles his thumbs, “So- is there anything you’ve wanted to know in particular about Spider-Man?”
You smirk.
.
.
.
“Always wanted to know how—hah, big it is.” Biting down on your lower lip, you’re managing to hold back a pitchy whine as his solid tip enters your hole.
Puckered and plump.
Just the cutest pink- he was the perfect girth and size.
Big enough to make your entrance quiver just feeling him kiss up against you, slender n’ smooth enough that he’s already starting to eagerly ease inside of you. And as you’re lowering yourself down on him, the superhero grabs onto either side of your ravenous hips like a lifeline—letting out a few ragged swears as he jerks his hips up and thrusts-
“Y-you should know…” He’s wincing at the feeling of your cunt - so hot and wet. Wasn’t this just heaven?
Turning around to look at him- he’s rather glad you’d chosen a reverse cowgirl position. Because at least then you wouldn’t have seen the way he wiped away fucking tears—sobbing at just the feeling of being inside your wet pussy. “Mhm, spidey?”
“You should know that this is my first time.”
“Oh.”
And with that being said, he’s thumpin’ out the most thorough hit at the very bottom of your pussy. He doesn’t have the experience of just eeeeasing in his incredible length- he’s chasing the back of your cunt like a man starved.
Like a man in unbearable pain every second he isn’t feeling the hotness of your cervix, the globes of your ass, the sensation of your walls squeezing around him like an embrace. So hot and wet. So sweet. So addictive-
“Addictive?” You’re giggling back at him, “Pussy talking already, huh?”
“I-I don’t even know what that is…” He’s babbling out, voice thicker than before.
And you can’t help but glide your palms down the smoothness of his exposed thighs, feeling every curve and divot of the corded muscle beneath. His body was just to die for - toned but not overly muscular. More like a sleeper build.
And you’re having soooo much fun moving your hips ‘round in all sorts of ways that made his muscles bulge—
“Fuck- fuck.” He’s stupid after just a few strokes. Bucking. Moaning. Hands tugging on the edge of the mask that found itself firmly upon his face, he’s attempting to loosen it and gasping for air-
“You should take that off, too.” You’re turning around and huffing at the sole scrap of fabric that kept you from seeing - what you assumed to be - Spider-Man’s pretty face. The only thing you could see of him were those stray curls of…white? Perhaps they were a super platinum blond? They wrapped around the nape of his neck and slightly leaned towards his jawline, drenched in sweat and flushed right down to his tone pecs.
The way that he’s squirmin’ and letting out the most unfairly erotic grunts every time you’re swallowing him up only left you so much more impatient. So much more impatient. “I s-swear I won’t tell anyone about who you are…fuck, and isn’t it getting super hot in there?”
“It is…” He murmurs, more to himself than anything. “But, what if—”
Peering back at him as he trails off, “What?”
“What if I don’t look how you expect?”
“It’s the personality that matters.” Nodding in conviction, and then a sly smile stretches across your face at the way that makes his cockhead throb-throb-throb harder inside you. You’re wasting no time before increasing the speed of your hips until your hamstrings scream—“And the cock…heh.”
“S-so filthy.” The hero mutters, “But what if I’m…not your type?”
“Ugh—” Almost rolling your eyes- it was cute just how shy he was, really. But the first thing you’d wanted to do upon finding out that he was the real Spider-Man was to fuck him - so how much of a hint could you really give? “Baby, my type is loser heroes, and I think you fit the bill.”
“Thank y- hey.”
Just a few more sloppy thrusts - just a few more - and the man beneath you finds himself completely n’ utterly gone from the force of your hips. The sweetness of your cunt.
The way you’d tighten your legs around him any time he swabbed near your sweetest spots. And he was chasing that particular bundle of nerves with such fervour- he was gasping as he feels himself veering even soooo much closer to the throbbing of your deepest walls- he was reddening the skin ‘round his pelvis through sheer impact.
And just as he thinks that he couldn’t get even more drunk on the texture of your pussy…
You’re whimpering out a sweet lil’ echo of his hero name—
And the superhero beneath you lets his head loll behind into the pillows with a groooooan- mouth falling open at the feeling of your cunt surrounding him. Clenching.
Clamping down, you’re holding him hostage better than any villain ever could.
His heavy balls were nearly full enough to burst- and he’s thinking that he’s gonna cum just as soon as he rams his blushin’ tip almost straight into the target of—
And then his spider senses tell him that your fingers are thinking of reaching for his mask.
But before you can even let the thought come into proper fruition in your mind, he’s taking nothing but a single split second to web your pretty wrists together and flip the two of you over. Just because he’s pussydrunk doesn’t mean he isn’t one of the world’s best superheroes, hm?
Now fucking you with your face smushed into the pillows, your knees bracing on the mattress. His cock pounding out a single thrust between those sweet, sap-covered pussylips of yours- the hero hits your g-spot instantly.
And that’s all it takes for you to topple right into your high.
Pleasure rushing through your body in waves. Fingertips clenching at the sheer force of it. You’re seeing stars behind your eyes at the sensation- “Sh-shiiiiit—” Perhaps one of the best orgasms you’ve ever had in your life- and not only was it wound up by a virgin, but the virgin was none other than Spider-Man?!
Jaw dropping open—though it was in slight shock, he’s taking the opportunity to lean and spit.
Making you moan as the gluey wad skids down your tastebuds, “Ohhh, you’re a secret freak, huh?” And though you’d meant it as a half-joke, the hero is leaning his chiselled body dooooown to whisper into the side of your ear.
“Maybe.”
Then there’s the rustling of fabric.
Of masks being removed, perhaps? It takes your mind a few more moments of him slammin’ his rugged cock inside you to realize…
And then the white-hot feeling of your orgasm coursing through your veins is suddenly overtaken by the realization that Spider-Man - maskless and exposed - was right behind you. Looming. Looking for your reaction, you suppose…you feel a jolt go through your body as you realize that he was waiting for you to turn—bearing all of this for you.
And you wondered what he would look like.
Pretty, sure.
Slightly nerdy—perhaps, he never struck you as the jock type.
Someone sweet. Someone kind.
Maybe that was just your wishful thinking.
You turn around and there he is - Gojo Satoru. You fucking knew him—he went to your university. The white-haired ace of the Physics Department; always roaming around campus with his textbooks or camera, always with his head buried and rarely meeting anyone’s eyes, always in the library to the extent that he might as well have been part of the furniture.
Always with his camera lens pointed at you, though he doesn’t think you saw him enough to notice.
But of course, you saw him.
Of course, you saw him.
He’s the boy you’ve had a crush on since freshman year.
Gojo doesn’t meet your eyes now, either. He’s without his thick-rimmed glasses and has to squint just a little bit, looking self-consciously down at himself and fuck- you have to resist the urge to beg for missionary then and there just so that you can stare into his deep, azure eyes as he fucks you.
Instead, you just say- “Did you know that nerds are also my type?”
He beams brighter than the sun.
.
.
.
The next time you’re beside Gojo Satoru, it’s hand-in-hand and entering your next lecture.
You could feel the stares, the gasps, the whispers.
The nerd of the physics department, and one of the most popular girls on campus- or at least, that’s what Gojo claimed. Professor Yaga himself lets his bushy brows raise just the slightest inch once he spots the two of you—and it makes your nerdy boyfriend blush right now to his ivory roots.
“Sweetheart—” He’s whispering to you, “How about we swing around the city today? Promise I’d never let you drop.”
You smile, “I’d love to, Toru.”
Oh, you can imagine that the Daily Bugle is going to go into haywire.
♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Daredevil.
“Do you trust me, angel?”
You can’t keep the smile off of your face, “Who would I trust if not the best lawyer in Tokyo? Maybe even the world?”
“Why only maybe?” Higuruma smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges—just barely visible past the frames of his sunglasses. Your boyfriend was just so handsome when he was in his work clothes: one amongst the many crisp suits he often wore to court, hair slicked back n’ not a single strand out of place, his cane by his side. But he continues, “You know how I’m a…lawyer of sorts?”
“Oh really? I had no idea.” You jest.
“How about we try something tonight, my angel…” And as you’re peering down at him in curiosity, Higuruma starts to loosen his tie just the slightest bit—and you’re suddenly understanding what he means. “How about a simulation of this aspect, though in a far lighter tone?”
Your jaw drops, “R-roleplay?”
.
.
.
“Denied.”
“Hiromi, baby—”
“The court finds you guilty on all counts of seduction.” Higuruma’s deep baritone rasps down at you, punctured only by the slamming of his gavel on his desk. Bang! Bang! Bang! Those pressurized vibrations send shockwaves down your own body, and the lawyer’s grin stretches as he watches you affected by such a thing.
How cute…he couldn’t stop but let your orgasm edge for the nth time tonight.
Edging you.
It’s later into the night, you’re spread out across Higuruma’s neat work desk- your back against the frigid texture of the mahogany, your front arching into his own. He presses his suit-clad front against your naked tits—the harsh texture of his heroic suit - as per your request - rubbin’ against your nipples n’ sending you into an absolute frenzy.
He was such a tease.
Grinning as though he knew exactly what he was doing- even though the tone of his voice speaks of nothing but faux innocent. The lawyer speaks, “You’re moving around so much- something wrong, sugar?”
“A-absolutely nothing.” You’re managing to echo out.
“Good.” Higuruma utters, pure devilish desire in his tone. And he doesn’t need to say his next words for you to already know where this was heading- after all, one of his hands reaches for where his gavel was upon the table - using his radar sense - and the other presses down on your hips.
Right above where his thickened length was pressed between your pussylips—Higuruma feels his hand down upon your stomach as he sinks himself inside. The throbbing, cylindrical intrusion of his cock glissading inside- “Because we’re having a retrail.”
And then the gavel comes down right on top of the wooden desk.
It creaks and nearly splinters—but all you can think of is the way that Higuruma was fuckin’ his rotund tip into you as though there was no tomorrow. He wasn’t wasting a single second.
Court time was precious, y’know?
So you best believe that Higuruma had your hips pinned down with his own powerful ones, the scritch-scratching of his tufted happy trail rendering you stupid. Fucking you in hard, purposeful thrusts - each one aimed precisely for where you were most sensitive.
His swabbin’ thrusts didn’t just hit deeeeep into the back of your pussy, but your boyfriend was ending up pressing against your sweetest orifices, your soft roof, the door to your womb—dragging his thumb down the knob of your clit.
With those honed senses of his, you’re lasting barely two pumps of his accurate cock before he’s locating your g-spot—fuck.
And giving it the most merciless strike ever.
He knew where it was from the slurping sounds of your cunt - the way they’d grow just a little damper as he headed for that one spot, he knew where it was from the counts of your breathing - how you’d let them grow a bit more ragged as he veered his cocktip even closer, he knew where it was from the smell of your cloying slick—growing even wetter n’ more drenched in honey as you’d find yourself spearheaded by him.
Rough.
“State your name.”
And so the trail commences.
You’re doing so as he says- a monumental task given the way that Higuruma’s greedy hips don’t stop taking you for a single second. In fact, he’s kissin’ your g-spot at a constant pace and seeming to only ask you questions when he knows you’ll be affected by the sudden bursts of pleasure.
“State your age.”
Your mouth opens. But instead of your age, comes out a jumbled mess of pleads and his name—because just then, Higuruma had reached his dominant hand down and pinched your pretty, puffy clit. So needy that you’re trickling out wads of slick from between your pussylips.
Your hole’s clenching so thoroughly around him that he almost has to falter, too. “Now, now…” Tutting - and you knew that that was never a good sign when it comes to lawyers, but especially Higuruma. “Is that a refusal to testify? I’m afraid this won’t help your case, my angel.”
“I-it’s not…” Hot tears run down your cheeks - and in response, he’s only squeezing your poor clit even harder. “Promise I’ll tell you.”
And it’s only after you’re finishing your response - syllable after syllable - that Higuruma finally lets go of your sensitive nub. That too with such a level of reluctance—if you hadn’t known any better, then you’d have said that that was a sullen pout slashed across his lips as Higuruma lets go of that sultry appendage.
His fingers instead slide uuuuuup and down your wettened crevice- the perfect feeling of where his throbbing cock kept on pumping in n’ out. Higuruma’s lips slightly part as he touches upon the sheer difference in girth, in the way that your cunt was struggling to keep all of him bulging inside of you and yet you were still yearning for more. “Hmmm, state your crimes now.”
“I-”
“Not you.” Higuruma interrupts, “I’m calling up another witness.”
And yet, there was no other witness - at least not that you could see. And surely you weren’t that dumbified yet that you couldn’t conjure up the vision of someone else here when—there was clearly no one else here.
None but you, your boyfriend, and…your pussy.
Higuruma Hiromi - the best lawyer in Tokyo - had his head leaned lovingly down and his brows furrowed as he listened to the precious sounds of your pussy. As if he was deeeeep in the middle of the conversation, understanding every single slurp, squelch, and the most sultry gulps as yet another inch of him is being swallowed.
All of it reaches his ears like music. And he hums as he feels the sound of it send shivers through his very being- “Ahhh, I see…” Straightening up, he leers down at you. “My witness states that your crime is seduction.”
“G-guilty…or wait- no.”
“Guilty?” Higuruma questions in faint amusement, “Do you admit to the charged and- hah, forfeit your right to an orgasm?”
“No—” Whining out needily, “No, please- I need to cu-”
“Objection, hearsay.” He cuts through you coolly - through his cock was rutting into you in a way that was anything but. “You do not need an orgasm, angel. But does the defendant believe that she deserves one?”
“Y-yes.” You shamefully admit.
“Does the defendant believe that she is guilty of the crimes of seduction?”
“Yes-”
“Does the defendant believe that she is worthy of a second chance, however?”
Arching your back into his. “Of course.”
“Hm…we might have to settle this with a jury.“ Those dark brows of his furrow, between them a perspired bead of sweat tracks down his forehead. And it doesn’t take long for your smart boyfriend to know just whom to ask—before you know it, he’s veering his head down and using his super-heightened senses to listen to every single sound of your pussy.
To listen to your arousal.
To smell it- just so sweet.
To let his brain come to a conclusion—“The jury has come to a unanimous decision.”
Your heart jumps to your throat.
“All counts- not guilty.” And then with a few more fervent rolls on top of your throbbing clit, Higuruma drags you all the way to the precipice of your high and—and this time - just this time - he actually lets you topple over the edge.
Straight over it.
White-hot flashes. Warmth filling you up like a flood.
It starts from the tips of your toes and then shoots all the way up to your poor, sparking brain. The superhero grins as tears track down your cheeks at the final release that you’re been waiting so long for, and he grins as you’re shaking through wave after wave of your high. “Good-” You’re gurgling out cutely, “S-so good-”
Head dropping back against the pillows.
The rounded edge of his cock shovels in as he’s bursting your high through you wildly—
“What can I say?” He hums, “I’m a really good lawyer.”
A/N. Confession time: Higu and Kuna’s ones were the hardest to do because I’ve never watched Hulk or Daredevil WHOOPS-
Synopsis. Every specimen: the hot nerd that tutors you, his punk best friend, the pink-haired frat president, the sensible history professor, the emo boy with 11 inches, the buff campus security! They have only one thing in common—bréeding you.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader, Geto Suguru x Reader, Ryomen Sukuna x Reader, Nanami Kento x Reader, Choso Kamo x Reader, Toji Fushiguro x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, college AU, nerd!Gojo, punk!Geto, frat boy!Sukuna, professor!Nanami, emo boy!Choso, security guard!Toji, ALL of the JJK men (at once), f/m/m/m/m/m/m, ovuIation, BRÉEDING, mentions of having kids, oraI (fem + maIe rec.) handj’s, fíngering, manhandIing, HEADLOCKS, biiig stretches, spítting, chokíng, p talking, rough s, restraints, they’re FÉRAL, Geto with piercings, Choso with piercings, making Gojo whímper, first times (Gojo), everyone penetrates at some point, D descriptions, big D’s. dírty taIk, voyéurism, running from it, bickering during it, EiffeI tower, DP, DÚMBlFICATlON, MAJOR overstím, anaI pIay, matíng presses, fuIl neIsons, cervíx kíssing, lessons, waIked in on, SLOPPY s, slight exhíbitíonism, creampíes (like a lot), cúmpIay, cúmfIation, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 20.4k
A/N. Happy new year!!
“—thus, during this stage of ovulation it is natural to experience a surge in the luteinizing hormone (LH), which heightens the desire to…” Gojo trails off.
You’re looking up from your notes, just in time to catch him pushing his glasses up his ruddied face. Hands shaking. Breaths heavy. You tilt your head in confusion, “Which heightens the desire to what, Satoru?”
“You know…”
You’re shaking your head with a laugh, “Isn’t that why I begged you to become my tutor?”
“It increases the desire for ah…an interplay of intimacy from which…blossoms the natural by-product of a…um—” His voice cracks. And seeing your look of concern, Gojo lets out a stabilizing breath and tries again, “The…the birds and the bees?”
“Ah!” Stifling a giggle, “You mean it heightens the desire to get pregnant.”
And you take your sweet, sweet time jotting it down in your notes - long enough that Gojo Satoru hopefully calms down-
“…Do you feel it?”
“What?”
“Do you feel the desire to get pregnant?”
The pen clatters out of your hand.
“W-wait, I’ll get it!” Gojo stammers out, disappearing beneath the long library table before you can say anything. His head of angelic white hair contrasts against the sleek mahogany, so at odds with the devilish question that’d just left his mouth - so perhaps it was only so fitting that when Gojo sunk in to get your pen…you could feel his soft hair graaaaaze against your thigh-
You shiver- sweeping a look around at the bored university students to make sure that nobody saw. Or overheard.
And in the next second, he’s coming back up.
“I believe this is yours.” Gojo’s lips tremble in shyness, flushed as if you’d just thrown him into a furnace. He holds the pen out gingerly towards you, which you take - along with a moment to inspect him. Admire him, more like.
Gojo Satoru.
Human Calculator.
A++ being the lowest grade he’d ever gotten.
Pigs would fly before he didn’t take the #1 spot on the Dean’s List.
It didn’t need to be said that Gojo Satoru was one of the sharpest minds on campus - yes, perhaps even amongst the professors. For you’d seen Yaga hold him back after class on more than one occasion to become marvelled by his physics thesis.
But that wasn’t where the problem lay.
The problem lay in the fact that not only was Gojo one of the smartest men you’ve ever met - but he was one of the cutest, too. That snow-white hair and ice-blue eyes made it impossible not to spot him amongst a crowd - always a few heads taller than everyone else, always crushing some textbook to his chest.
Thick glasses. Fast steps.
He nervously avoided eye contact in the hallways, and it’d taken you multiple tries to successfully tap at his shoulder and get his attention. Earlier in the semester, you’d pleaded your case to Gojo about how you’d been getting absolutely abysmal grades in Yaga’s class lately. After that it’d only taken you a little poking and prodding (‘do it for the love of science!’) to successfully convince the nerdy boy to tutor you once a week.
Though he was blushing and fidgeting throughout the entire interaction…
The tutoring became a routine. The routine became a rhythm. The rhythm became a relationship that you’d honestly consider to be good friends.
Through these sessions you discovered that Gojo became rather talkative when he wanted to be, rather sweet, rather funny. And you weren’t blind to his good looks either, of course…In less than a semester’s time, you reached one of the top five spots in Yaga’s class. Despite that, the two of you continued your little tutoring sessions in your back corner of the library every week like normal.
Well, normal except for right now-
“Thank you.” You’re belatedly saying, gesturing at the pen.
To which Gojo scratches behind his neck sheepishly, “It’s no problem, of course!” He flushes even deeper the moment you turn your eyes towards him, looking as though he wished to sink into the light blue ocean of his sweater. “And about what I said earlier-” His pale brows scrunch together in a way that made him look adorably pleading. “-forget about it. Forget I ever asked something so-”
“I do.”
He snaps his azure eyes towards you at your interruption, twinkling behind his glasses. “P-pardon?”
“What you asked me.” You’re leaning over the table, the neckline of your shirt dipping juuust a tad—and you watch as Gojo gulps when his eyes flicker down. Unable to help himself. “I do feel the desire to get fucked pregnant sometimes.”
Gojo flinches at the way you’d worded it, prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. “Sometimes?”
“Sometimes when I ovulate. Sometimes just in general on those late nights, I guess.” Your eyes hone in on the squirming man, “Though that depends on who I’m thinking of at the time.”
“Thinking of who’d be the-”
“The father, yes.”
Pushing his glasses up with jittery hands. “And have you ever thought of…” His question trails off, voice sounding as parched as if he’d just run several marathons in the scorching heat. And he was burning up just as much.
You cock your head to the side, “You?” He jolts at the mere word.
Only nodding.
“Would you be upset if I said yes?”
Only shaking his head.
And then Gojo mutters something underneath this breath that you don’t quite pick up on.
“What was that, Satoru?”
When Gojo looks at you once more, you notice that his eyes are blown wide. Dazed. Daydreaming. Beads of perspiration form on his upper lip as he stutters, voice oddly high. “I said- you’re set to ovulate in about t-two to three days from now.” Your mouth drops a little—didn’t that lil’ app on your phone say the same thing just yesterday? How did he know? Under the table, Gojo’s knuckles were pure white and gripping his knees. “I ah- one time you were late to a session because of your cramps. And ever since then I always sort of…kept track, you see.”
Your eyes widen- so that was how Gojo always somehow knew to sneak your favorite sugary treats into the library on the days of your period. You did begin to wonder…
“I…I see.”
“You see.”
You cock your head at him, “And do men feel the same desire?”
He whispers, “Depending on the person…”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” Like the most sinful confession.
Without a word you’re reaching out and tugging his notebook towards you. His breath hitches as he watches you flip between pages of neat handwriting - lessons curated just for you - before pausing at the very end of it.
You’re biting back a smile at the way he’d scribbled your name over and over on the last page, hearts doodled around each one. You write—-The pregnancy list.
1. Gojo Satoru.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
“Every good experiment has an apparatus list.” You’re looking up at Gojo with a sly smile, “You taught me that.”
Certainly not like this. “I did, but-” He looks around as though someone in the library would walk by and see what you’re writing.
“And every good experiment has material considerations, too, right?”
“W-well, yes, but…”
You continue to write.
1. Gojo Satoru.
Super cute
Probably a big D
Secret freak (tracked ovulation!??)
However has no experience (not quite a con?) and no place to fuck in (single bed + has a roommate, Geto)
“Hmm, how do you feel about being the independent variable?” You tap your pen on your chin.
Gojo whips his confused blue eyes towards you, a tiny furrow between his white brows. “What do you…”
“The independent variable.” Just in time, you’re looking up to catch the sight of a certain black-haired man entering the library. And you know who it is instantly - there was no man quite as pretty as him on campus. Handsome, sure. But this pretty? It was your best friend, someone you’d met in your first year and knew even before you knew Gojo. “Just like you’re tutoring me now, Satoru, haven’t you ever thought of someone-” His silver piercings glinting in the daylight. His stylishly tattered Sex Pistols t-shirt showing off toned skin. His lips stretching into a feline grin as he spots the two of you. “-tutoring you?”
Something electric runs down Gojo’s body, and he’s just about to turn and look behind when-
Geto Suguru throws an arm over his best friend’s shoulders and tackles him into a headlock, winking at you. “Hard at work, gorgeous?”
You nod, because the one thing about lists was that when you started one—you just wanted to keep on adding to it.
2. Geto Suguru.
Fucking PRETTY
Rings
In a band
Already super close friends. Two in one go??
.
.
.
SUGONDEEZNUTS created a groupchat.
SUGONDEEZNUTS added Gojo Satoru.
SUGONDEEZNUTS added you.
SUGONDEEZNUTS named the groupchat ‘Juno, y’know?’
SUGONDEEZNUTS: Yo, sorted a place big enough for us~
SUGONDEEZNUTS: 8PM.
SUGONDEEZNUTS added RyomenTheK!ng.
.
.
.
“C-could you keep your panties on, sweetheart?” Gojo blushes as he stutters out the words. He’s looking down between your legs and slidin’ a thumb between your pussylips, collecting the slick syrup gathered on top of your light blue underwear.
You raise a brow, “I didn’t think you’d be the type to have a panty fetish, Satoru.” Maybe you were right about him secretly being a freak…
“It’s just- they’re the same color as my eyes.” Those very same blue irises peak out at you above the rim of his glasses, partially fogged with condensation. “M-makes me think that we’re having…a boy in nine months or something like that. Maybe twins. A boy and a girl?”
Your jaw drops, “Oh-”
And it’s the only noise you’re managing to get out before Gojo slots his pretty pink cockhead between your legs. Just letting the thick curvature of it press aside your pussy’s folds before he’s rutting—like an animal.
Gojo was just painfully hard already, swollen with need, bursting out in bouts of precum that left your thighs all wet. He was just so excited—he’d damn near cried once he managed to get you sprawled out on a bed that wasn’t yours. One of his doughy pink thumbs swipin’ your underwear to the side and getting a goooood long look at that pussy of yours-
“N-ngh—” His eyes fall shut, entire body shuddering at the sensation of your pussy throb-throb-throbbing away beneath him. Erection sliding down your front. Sandwiched by your cunt. Gojo Satoru - always so eloquent, always so intelligent with his words - can only heave his body forward and whimper- “S-scientifically, the presence of your panties won’t be a haaah- limitation in me breeding your pussy, right?”
“What are you even asking…” You’re blinking up at him, “Satoru, you’re not seriously that pussydrunk, are y-”
“Oh look…” Gojo’s eyes widen as he watches a webbed line of his own precum slide down your slit, and that only leaves his sharp mind racing. “Scientifically, can your pussy talk, sweetheart? Because your unica mucosa vaginae is sounding like she wants me already.”
And then follows the utterly sloppiest squelch as Gojo pushes his thickened tip at your sensitive hole and starts to puuuush—
Your cute tutor had been the first one to take off his boxers - and it really was true what they say about nerdy boys being…bigger.
He was about nine entire inches, and the most adorable rosy pink at his tip - one that matched the blush on his face. Only growing more and more, thicker and thicker, every time he was swipin’ his velvety shaft between your folds and trying to fit inside.
Pushing and pushing.
Stretching out your quivering orifice.
Gojo was just so sensitive—you’d asked him earlier whether this was his first time, and the nerdy boy had only blushed and mumbled something incoherent. Though his cap of precum that just kept on pouring out told you everything you needed to know - even now he was squeezing just the barest inch of his tip into your hole and groaning. Twitching.
“O-oh—” His pre-glossed tip slips out of your hole and slides-slides down the middle of your pussylips, “Fuck- I need at least the urethral meatus inside to successfully breed you, sweetheart. N-need to be inside your pussy…”
“You really wanna knock me up, huh?” You’re whining out.
“So badly.” Almost shyly. Gojo can only let a dopey smile stretch across his lips at the notion, sounding out-of-breath already. He’s keeping his thumb hooked on your panties, urging his hips closer with the most sinful sounds. “S-soooo fucking badly.”
Just draaaaawling out his agonizing groan as he shovels his thickened shaft between your pussylips. Without warning, he’s then pressing both hands upon either side of your legs, pushing them even wider open.
You yelp, “Satoru-”
And then with you pinned down to the mattress, Gojo reels his slender hips back to thrust and thrust his raging hot cock into your pussy. “Gonna fuck you now…” The globular red edge of his shaft kisses your entrance and starts stretching the first resistance of your hole. Starts bending his curvaceous inches inside you. “Gonna fill the introitus- fill her up with my cock.” Starts making your walls immediately clench at the sudden intrusion.
His jaw falls slightly apart at the feeling of being sucked inside by you, your slick orifice plugged up with his length. “Gonna fill her up with my kid—” Just letting his furious cock get one taste.
One of his inches pushed inside your cunt.
Just one.
Before Gojo’s throwing his head back with a cracked wh-whimper.
Before his entire body shudders.
Before his entire cock seems to zap with a carnal electricity.
And you’re feeling the hot sensation of something slatherin’ at your pussylips, raising onto your elbows to look between your legs. And the sight you’re seeing- fuck, it’s a pure white mess at your core and puddling onto the expensive silk sheets below.
He was cumming.
Just from that.
Your eyes widen, “Satoru, you’re already-”
“Fuck.” Gojo breathes out, head now pushing into the crook of your neck. Something warm and wet falls on top of your skin- and only then do you realize that Gojo Satoru was sobbing at the mere feeling of your pussy surrounding his cock. “F-fuck, I can’t believe…”
His creamy cum was spilling out in surges, drawing vertical lines between the crevice of your pussy in some lecherous pattern. Incessantly. Hotly. He’s webbing up your puffy folds and thumpin’ his rotund tip between your cunt to smear them. Lines upon lines. Layers upon layers.
Like he couldn’t stop himself no matter how urgently he’s reaching a hand up to squeeze at his thickened base. “Sh-shit, s’not stopping.” The nerdy man babbles away, white-knuckling at his swollen cock in order to try and plug himself up - but it doesn’t work. He’s even pulling back a bit to move his thumb on top of his leaky divot. And he’s still not stopping. “Shit, I can’t control myself. Your tunica mucosa- your pussy just feels too good.”
“You’re s-still cumming…” You whine.
“Too good.”
He’s just dribbling out hot cum, creating an ivory gloss over your folds that drips around your thighs.
Gojo feels the wetness of it seep into his abs and pulls away from your neck, looking up at you with his teary gaze. He snaps his eyes down to the white sap that smears out of you and moans. Voice cracking at the back of his throat any time he’s shoving his honed hips between yours. “C-can I go again to your womb this time, my girl?”
You’re just about to open your mouth to answer when-
“Now now, Satoru…”
“Yer fucked if you think you’re getting her all night.” A familiar, gruff tone spits. “Especially after that embarrassment of a performance.”
You’re turning your head to the side of the bed - to the two men that watched from chairs facing the bed.
Geto Suguru.
Ryomen Sukuna.
3. Ryomen Sukuna.
Frat boy™ (leader of Curses Epsilon)
Probably REALLY good in bed
On his way to become a pro wrestler (headlocks omg??)
Might be rough…
Ryomen Sukuna had just gotten off from practice when Geto had called him.
And he can’t lie - he hadn’t exactly felt like answering the phone then. The two weren’t exactly what you’d consider friends, but neither were they not friends. Sukuna kept his circle close, you see—only his brother, his nephew.
Though recently there had been the development of a certain little someone. Sukuna had noticed you at one of his wrestling matches by chance, and ever since then it seems that he couldn’t stop noticing you. At his parties. At their fundraisers. At lecture halls that Sukuna purposefully took the long route to pass by - just to get a glimpse of you.
And he’d been considering asking you to be Curses Epsilon’s sweetheart, but that was neither here nor there!
Geto Suguru wasn’t someone that Sukuna would dub himself acquainted with to even that extent. His rock band sometimes performed at the infamous parties Sukuna threw, and it wasn’t really usual for him to call Sukuna outside of this.
But fuck was he glad he’d picked up the phone that day.
Because that was what got him here with you.
Snuck into his frat house. Laid out on his king-sized bed.
Your eyes locked with his—
Sukuna’s cock throbs between his legs at the ruined expression on your face, and he’s immediately feeling a rush of jealousy at the white-haired man. Snapping his narrowed gaze to the other, “Such a pretty gal begging for you ta breed her and you embarrass yerself like this?”
“Sh-she just feels too good.” Gojo lovingly gazes at your overspilling cunt. Before looking at the frat president again, “You wouldn’t understand.”
Sukuna hates this man even more.
“O—okay, how about we don’t look like we’re gonna beat each other up, hm?” Geto’s silky tone breaks through the saturated air, and you’re squirming at the way his rings glint in the dim lighting.
He’s noticing the slight movement instantly, gaze flicking between you and his fingers. Realization splashes across his face, and the next time he speaks it’s with his voice dipped just a bit. “Oh, you’re a naughty girl, aren’t you? But you want that pussy to be treated like a princess?”
Gojo gapes as you nod, “M-maybe…”
“No need to be shy, gorgeous.” Geto hums, drawing even closer to you. “We’re all friends here.”
The mattress dips just a little bit as he sits down on the edge of the bed, his ringed fingers reaching out and dragging across the sheen of white covering your calves by now.
Geto lets the slick coating form on his fingers, smearing it on the tips of his digits. “Mmm, what a waste. Don’t you know that a princess is supposed to orgasm before she’s pumped full of cum, Satoru?” Tutting.
Somehow, you always did think that your closest friend would be the type to drag sex out for hours. To drive you numb with pleasure, to be so sweet—at least, his words were.
And even Gojo seemed to be quietening down his grumbling to listen, the only other sounds in the air being the plapping! of him still trying to rover his blushin’ cocktip even deeper. “W-well…”
“And don’t you know that a princess is supposed to be teased before she’s fucked?” His amethyst eyes seem to glow with amusement, and something else. Something…darker. “You’ve gotta make her cry first.”
Oh.
A primal shudder rips right through you.
Not sweet. Definitely not sweet.
You’re whining after his elongated syllables, “Please-” Tears spurting up to your eyes when Geto forcefully grabs ahold of Gojo’s slender hips and bodily pulls him backwards. Both hands positioned on the other man’s hips, keeping his throbbing cock warming inside your walls for a few seconds before puuuuuushing inside you again. He manages to fill you up in a way like you’ve never been before, his smooth shaft filling your every orifice. “P-please, Satoru-”
“Like that.” Geto hums, “Hard. Long.”
And Gojo gapes at the way you seem absolutely ruined beneath him, “I didn’t even realize…”
“Mhmm, at this rate we’re never getting her pregnant.” Geto rolls his murky eyes, nails digging into Gojo’s hips once more. “Now more.”
“What?”
“Move.”
Your lashes flutter open at the way the long-haired man commands the other.
Geto’s tone was just so steely, and all it takes is a single word to make Gojo Satoru pull out of you. His long cock bobbing between his meaty thighs, tuggin’ out with the most lecherous squelch!
A wadded up web of cum follows him as he does so, connecting his irritated tip to your cunt still. Just red-hot and drippin’ with your slick syrup. At the sight of it, Gojo looks as if he already regrets his decision - but moves over to let Geto take his place anyway.
And both roughened hands - much, much rougher than Gojo’s, with so many years of training those fingers in his punk-rock band - press-press-preeeeeess your jittery thighs open. Firm. Unyielding, even as you whine at the stretch. Geto’s throwing his silky hair over his shoulder, sinking onto the carpeted floor at the foot of the bed.
His knees hit it with two loud thuds!
“And what’d you think you’re doing up there, hm?” In an almost bored tone, Geto raises a brow at his best friend seated still on the bed. In a split-second, he’s grabbing onto the back of Gojo’s flushed neck and dragging him down onto the floor as well.
Side by side.
Gojo yelps as he’s brought ever-closer to your open legs. “What do you think you’re-”
“Teaching you how to eat a pussy properly, duh.” As if it should be obvious, Geto rolls his eyes. “This pretty princess deserves better than your sloppy self.”
With your elbows resting on the springy mattress, you peer over at the two men who nudged their faces closer to your drippin’ wet pussy. Both their eyes gleaming in excitement the nearer they were- it’s almost as if they were fighting for purchase between there.
Each one lightly shoving the other-
“Spit on her pussy, Satoru.” Geto’s sing-song voice was dark.
Gojo’s eyes widen, “Wh-what do you-”
“Spit. On. Her. Pussy.” Geto throws his long locks over his shoulder and smiles, “Right into her pretty hole- but if you make a mess that’s even better.”
“Why would I wanna make a mess?” Gojo huffs, nose crinkling cutely.
“Virgin.” Geto titters.
The blue-eyed man looks up to meet your eyes- and flushes. Puckering his lips up nervously, they tremble just a little as he somehow drips out a line of slick on top of your cunt.
And Geto only looks down to appraise the mess he’s made, his chunkily ringed fingers swirlin’ the glaze with the front of his thumb. “Mm, I could’ve done better.”
They were both so fucking hard.
Geto turns back to you now, eagerly waiting. “See this tongue, gorgeous?” Unhinging his jaw, he lets his loooong and lavish tastebuds stick out for you to see. Slicked with watery saliva. Studded with a silver tongue piercing in the middle of it. “See it? S’what I’m gonna ruin you with- watch and learn, Satoru. Watch and learn…”
And you’re hearing it before you’re feeling it. Seeing it.
The slurp of Geto’s slick tongue shoving between your sultry folds - just lengthy lines licked back and forth on your slit. He doesn’t speed up. He doesn’t act ravenous. Lingering his orbed piercing against every spot he can reach inside of you- no matter how much you’re restlessly squirming above him, he doesn’t go harder. Just light and fleeting.
Rubbing his ridged tastebuds against every orifice, sucking up Gojo’s ivory sap, letting his tongue juuuuust fill up your tight hole before fishing out-
Making the other man balk, “H-hey!” His best friend was just making a mess of you, with his tongue lappin’ over the coats of cum that he’d poured out on your cunt. “That’s not fair- the seminal fluid is supposed to go inside the vaginal canal in order for internal fertilization to-”
Geto lazily cracks open an eye at him.
Before grabbing Gojo by the back of his throat and shoving him nose-deep into your cunt as well.
“Then do something about it.” He smiles.
Both of them had their greedy mouths open against your pussy.
Tongues flopping out and thrashin’ maddeningly against your cunt - Gojo’s a little longer than Geto’s, but Geto’s with his frigid piercing in the middle that scraped into your every orifice. It’s as if you were suddenly surrounded by the ridged texture of their tastebuds, until you couldn’t tell which one was which. Every sweet spot. Every fold. Dual tips aching to claim every inch of you.
And while Geto slipped against your clit, Gojo was just craving to stuff his tongue inside your hole-
“Ngh—” His nose crinkles cutely a little as he whimpers, “D-don’t take up too much space now, Suguru.”
“You’re in my space, Satoru.” As if to prove his point, he presses the cold knob of his piercing right against your clit. “Don’t forget who knew her first. Now stop moving those lips and focus on- hers.”
Gojo glares but doesn’t say anything more, only nudging the other man by his shoulder for more space. There’s a slight battle in the space between your legs- only drawing both men closer n’ closer to your cunt.
Gojo had his mouth plastered to your sopping cunt, lavishly licking into every orifice. And Geto- oh, Geto was doing the exact opposite.
Because while the nerdy boy was giving you everything that you wanted, Geto was pinching meanly at your clit and draaaaagging your cute nub until you felt like crying. Neglecting your clit when it felt like you were enjoying it too much.
They were sliding over each other and making out messily with your pussy—and each other.
“Tch- gay as hell.” Sukuna’s grumbling tone echoes, closer than you remember it. The sudden volume of it makes you look up with a jolt- only to realize that he was looming at the head of the bed. Looming right where you were.
Gojo spits out into your pussy, “Erm- bi, actually.”
“Does it look like I give a fuck?”
Ryomen Sukuna has had enough.
He takes in the way that Geto and Gojo were shoved between your legs rabidly. Barely even paying attention to him. Barely even breathing- and he admits his mouth waters just a little imagining just how sweet your cunt tasted…
But he’s instead focusing his attention on another pair of lips.
“I didn’t come here ta get fuckin’ cucked.” Sukuna rumbles, his meaty thighs resting on the space of mattress beside your head. The sole reason that Geto and Gojo had chosen Sukuna’s room in the first place was because of his king-sized bed. And you were damn lucky that it could fit all four of you. “So…”
You flinch.
“No need to be scared, mama, s’just me.” He’s patting his overlarge palm on top of your head, smoothing down your sweaty scalp. “And my ah- ‘friends’ here told me that a pretty gal like you wanted to be bred, hm? S’that true?”
You’re nodding through your tears, body twitching any time Gojo’s tongue curved just right. “Mhm- yes, fuck yes.”
“Bred by me you mean.” Gojo sputters out, drunken eyes turning up at Sukuna.
“Fuckin’ loser.” Sukuna sniffs, his prominent nose crinkling in distaste at the white-haired man.
But he’s setting his crimson sights back on you, smirk only seeming to grow at the awe on your face - ogling just how large the other man was. He was on a scholarship for wrestling, or so you’d heard…“So s’true, huh? Ya came here to be bred? What a filthy fuckin’ giiiiirl—”
Squirming restlessly, Geto was now starting to circle the nub of your clit with his ringed fingers and it was leaving your body in a tizzy. Every wadded ounce of cum that Geto was licking out of you, Gojo was shoving back in with his flexible tip. Refusing to let any of his seed go to waste- they were just so sloppy. Kissin’ you open-mouthed. Again and again. Both nose tips bustling against your puffy clit, their tongues slickly sliding against each other and shoving in alternating paces. Gojo’s hard and fast. Geto’s agonizingly thorough.
You whine, “Was just- hck! needy-”
“Oh I know all about how needy you are, woman.” Sukuna’s hands drop to the drawstrings of his sweatpants. “But do you even know my name?”
“Of course I do.” Your brows furrow, “You’re Ryomen Sukun—mmpf.”
Before Sukuna’s tugging down on the cottony hem of his pants and letting his raging erection smack! against his firm abs. Thick length. Drivelling tip. If you thought that Gojo was big, then Sukuna was just as big if not bigger…
An even more sultry number of veins that were overtaking the sides of his shaft - and now your mouth. He fits inside. He was so fucking hard that you could count each ravenous ba-dump! of his pulsations, shovelling and shoveling away-
“M-mmmpf—” You’re letting out muffled moans at the rough use of your mouth. Sukuna’s length seemed like it was never-ending. The tannish crown of his shaft finds the cute orifice of your mouth and opens away at your lips, wider and wider with every inch. Hips moving in solid, mean thrusts-
He snickers,“No, my name is Ryomen Sukuna. You don’t even know that, mama?”
“Mmm—” Letting out sinful noises at the feeling of his fat ball sack smacking against the side of your face with each of his movements, just so full with need for you. “Please-” You sob out - the only thing you can seem to sob out. “P-please-”
“Nuh uh, not that either.” He was having way too much fun with this. Plunging his thickened erection out and using the length to spank each side of your face. “Try again.”
“Ryo- oh.” But just as you’re trying to speak, Sukuna’s flooding your hot cavern with his salty tip once more. Almost as if he was chasing the vibrations of your voice, almost as if he was waiting for you to speak just so he can watch your pretty sentences break on his cock.
He grins from above, head cocking to the side to take in the lovely sight. “Tryyyy again—”
“Ryo- mmpf.” You’re gulping down his swollen inches - fuck, Sukuna was even thicker than he looked. Somehow filling up every orifice inside your mouth, it felt as if he was reaching for the dangly lil’ thing in the back of your throat and then even further.
Just slurp after slurp of his vicious hips movin’ back and forth.
He’s tightening his grip on the back of your head and humming. “Breathe with your nose, mama. Breathe with your nose.” The audacity to even act like he cares when he swabs the very back of your neck aggressively, “Relax that pretty throat f’me. Heh.” Just waiting until your airway was fully free, just waiting until you’d somewhat calmed down- before he’s arching his hips and slamming his puckered red tip inside. “Now that your voicebox knows me- try to say my name? Do you know my name?”
“R-Ryooo—” You’re gurgling through your spit and tears, “Ryo- ngh- men. Sukuna.”
“Atta girl.”
“Sukuna?” Gojo flinches as if he’d just been struck by lightning.
“Hm?” Geto peeks his eyes open as well, only to find that the pink-haired man had very much made himself at home pumpin’ away into your mouth. His velvety length stuffing your small cavern open. “It seems, Satoru, that we have some competition.”
Gojo growls, nipping at your folds meanly in his possessiveness. “Oi…who the fuck do you think you are blocking her cute air tract with your nasty fucking-”
But Geto only smiles with your slick glistening on his lips, “May the best man get to breed her cunt first.”
And you’re confused for only a split-second before there’s a sudden spike of pressure - from both ends.
From Gojo and Geto who were thrusting their tongues inside your cunt, from Sukuna who was never one to back down from a challenge. And he’s looking over at the two men who were bickering but suddenly united, and plastering both paws on top of your scalp to thrust inwards.
Letting his slick, drivellin’ tip hit the roof of your mouth and make you moan—
“Suguru-” Gojo hisses.
But Geto was already on it- Geto was already fiddling with his chunky metal rings to transfer them all onto his right hand. “Mmm, don’t you worry now, Satoru. I’ll teach you.” With his goal finally accomplished, he’s hooking his fingers against your folds and pryin’ them apart. “First, you’ve gotta tease the princess.”
He’s spitting inside your hole and thrusting his middle finger inwards.
Swirlin’ around your velvety channel for a few seconds before pulling back out when you start clenching- “S-Suguru…” Your voice echoes from above, and both men look towards you with primal eyes.
Geto cocks his head at Gojo, “See?”
“I-I see.” The other man looks as if he was on the verge of writing this all down.
“Then you’ve gotta- hah, take your time. Like this.”
“Like—oh.” You’re cut off by him sticking his finger back in. Letting his wet muscle expand and circle around your walls, his rings pokin’ away, a few times before edging back out.
“See?” Geto rasps, one of his thumbs pushin’ aside your folds to show your entrance off to the other man. “Look how she’s- hah, clenching like she wants to suck me back. You’ve gotta make her want it badly- s’fun to tease a pussy.”
Gojo nods eagerly.
“And for my last trick-” Oh, by the way he says it you already know that it doesn’t bode well for your sanity. The thickness of two fingers were now stretching your hole out wiiiiidely before running back out, thrusting in and out. In and out. In and out.
Probin’ with his silver rings near sweet spots that you didn’t even realize you had before.
At the same time, Geto runs his straight nose bridge down the line of your slit and ends up pressing on your clit. Just not enough pressure to satiate you, just enough pressure to make you sob out—“Fuck, stop teasing, Suguru.”
“And that’s how you treat a princess.”
Meanly.
“Let me.” Gojo gulps. His mouth waters at the milky display of your slick and his cum around Geto’s mouth, he shoves Geto aside with a muscular shoulder. “Let me.”
And it’s the last thing you’re seeing - that look of utter greed on Gojo’s face - before the white-haired man leans himself in reaaaaal close to your pussy. He’s nudging his straight nose bridge between your plump folds and ending up pressing down on your clit, letting his watery tastebuds swing out and-
And then Gojo Satoru was eating you out like a madman.
Geto had scooped out the wads of his best friend’s cum, and Gojo’s moaning at the mess that gushes around his mouth and onto his pinkish tastebuds. Blue irises sprinting to the back of his skull, raw lips falling agape. Geto’s breath hitches as he notices the change immediately- “Wait, Satoru, you’re going to-”
“M’going to breed her again.” Gojo spits out, “S’gonna be me not him-”
He was going to say that Gojo was going to forget how to breathe if he went on like this - but he gets the feeling that his best friend doesn’t even want to breathe right now…
Doesn’t want to do anything but grab onto either side of your thighs and shove himself even deeper. His fat tongue slipping out and smacking! against your pussy, his tastebuds searching any and every corner for a taste of you, his pussy-muddled brain not even knowing what he’s doing as he’s thrusting and thrusting.
Face pushing until the rim of his glasses pressed up against your pussy and he didn’t even see to realize—
“O-oh, fuck.” You’re gurgling out in a shrill tone, and Geto looks on at your pretty expressions in interest. “S’going in so deep. Satoru, you’re just so needy-”
Sukuna raises a brow, “Heeeeh?”
“Yeah, so fuckin’ needy, Satoru.” Geto repeats in his smoky tone, eyeing both of your feverish motions with interest. Gojo was face-down in your pussy and lapping at your cunt with a primal wildness, pinning down your squirming hips. Any time that your restless body tries to move away, he’s draaaagging you down to drag across his pretty face, he sticks his tongue so rapidly in and out of you that his tongue is nothing but a pinkish blur.
Completely the opposite of Geto’s mean, torturous methods.
And, well, he can’t fall behind now, can he?
Without warning, the dark-haired man reaches his hand to shove not one- not two- but three of his ringed fingers down your tight channel.
Gojo startles at the intrusion and moves-
“Ah ah.” Geto murmurs, grabbing him by the back of the neck and shoving him into your wet cunt once more. “Stay.”
His nose glidin’ down your slit, furiously rubbing and rubbing his textured tastebuds against it until you’re opening up more for Geto. Inside it. Anywhere and everywhere.
Geto was absolutely pummelling your cunt with his fingers now, while Gojo moved onto sucking your clit as if it was his favorite candy. “Mmm—-Sug…Satoru.” Moans meshing into one, as if you didn’t even know what to utter. “It feels so- oh.”
“So what?” Sukuna scoffs, reaching down to smack your right tit. “Don’t test me now, mama. Don’t make me- hngh, shut you up proper with my cock.”
He’s grabbing one of your hardened nipples and pinching at the peak in a way that makes you whine- “Kuna- Kuna- Kuna-”
“Yeahhh, that’s more like it. Keep saying my name- until you memorize it. Until you memorize my fuckin’ cock.”
“Suguru, do something.” Poor, inexperienced Gojo can merely watch as his pretty girl’s taken over by the pink-haired man once more. He’s flicking furiously at your bundle of nerves- and yet you couldn’t do anything but out muffled whimpers with Sukuna’s hot cock shoved into your mouth. “My girl’s been- ngh, won over-”
“Your girl?” Geto raises one brow, but looks up at you anyways.
Fuck, this angle between your legs was just perfect - he could see the way that your throat expanded and outlined the sheer thickness of Sukuna’s girth. Just so massive that every thrust had his cylindrical intrusion bulging against your neck. Again and again.
And he can’t help but catch Sukuna’s red eyes, cocking his head over. He gestures—straddle her.
A signal that the other men understands instantly.
A sinful smile spreads across Sukuna’s lips, “I like the way you think, punk-rock.”
And Gojo can only watch, slack-jawed, as the wrestler pulls his fat cock out of your mouth and tap-tap-taps the tip on your tongue a few times. Letting your pretty lips water just a bit - just enough to wet your tastebuds enough - before he’s moving over your head in one fluid motion until. Before he’s behind your head completely.
Before his rude hips plummet his inches between your lips.
You’re moaning so loud-
The vibrations zipping up from his honed cockhead and up his spine. “Fuck- didn’t know such a sweet mouth could even make a sound like that.” Sukuna’s grumbling underneath his breath, fucking gnawing down on his bottom lip to keep from making too many noises himself. “Now I get why those two bastards are obsessed with you, ma.”
Thrusting away wildly, Gojo pulls away with a gasp. “Suguru, you traitor-”
“Easy there, easy there.” The other man breezes, giggling at the cutesy way your body lurches back and forth with Sukuna’s jackhammers.
You flinch as you feel something metallic and cold plunge into your deepest, deepest depths—hitting almost near your g-spot. Geto hums, “And that goes for you, too, gorgeous.” He gives you a vulgar few strokes of his fingertips, reaching for your sweet spot every time. And yet- still not reaching it, he was teasing you until you wanted to sob. “Did you know that I play bass?”
“I did know- I do.” You cry out.
“Then, you probably know…” A final thrust - all the way from the curvaceous edge of his middle, his index, his ring finger and doooown to each ringed base - that sets your teeth on edge. “-that I’m real good with the g-spot. Whoops, I mean-”
Somehow between Sukuna’s vicious thrusts you manage out, “S-Suguru—” Because just then, he’s shoving your velvety walls apart to push against your softest spot in an instant.
“-yeah no. I meant g-spot.”
“Heeeeeh…” Sukuna whistles, “You’re good.” Watching as the dark-haired man then utterly ruins you with a mere few movements of his fingers, they’re finding each tender spot inside you perfectly. Rings being used to mark exactly where and when Geto was thrusting away - but no matter what, he always ended with his frigid rings pushed against your g-spot. Purposefully glidin’ those geometrical edges of his rings against your sensitive nerves- “But I’m better.”
“Kuna, oh my god—” You babble out as he uses both hands to grab onto your tits now, his long fingers pinching your nipples and rolling them between each padded digit.
It was just insanity.
Geto with his globular fingertips finding your g-spot again and again, Sukuna with his hot cock filling you up again and again- and Gojo. Oh…Gojo was just gluing his pouty lips against your entrance.
Geto’s tongue meeting his in an open-mouthed kiss, the white-haired man pulls away- only to latch onto that pretty perky clit above your hole. “S-say my name, too, sweetheart.” You can just barely hear Gojo’s plead over the cacophony of other sultry noises filling up the room, “Say my name-”
You can just barely feel the sharp spark of pleasure coming from Gojo finding your clit and sucking. Like his life depended on it. “Say my name while you cum.” His pale brows furrow, and every luxurious lick at your cunt was all that he ever needed in life, all that made him glide his glasses down your front pussy. All that it took to make you mooooan straight into Sukuna’s cock. “Say m-my name while you cum, please?” At least he had manners still.
Before your entire body erupts in a high so sudden and strong that you don’t even realize it’s taken over until after Gojo himself comments on it- “She’s cumming.” He breathes out, almost in disbelief. Gojo feels his cock twitch at the way you’re cumming on his tongue- and reaches his free hand down to fist it angrily. “She’s cumming she’s—mmpf.”
“If she’s cumming then fuck her through her orgasm instead of running yer big mouth.” Geto grabs the back of his best friend’s neck and shoves him in again - which Gojo was glad to indulge in. Glad to gnaw on the knob of your little clit, until his lips felt so raw that they might as well fall off.
And while Gojo made out with your pussy, Geto was fingering you crazily. His honed fingertips plucked at your bliss, hitting your g-spot precisely at every peak. Again and again.
“L-like this, Suguru?” Gojo gurgles out.
“Mhm, faster.”
They’re speeding up- Gojo letting go of his cock just to delve in even deeper, and Geto has to be the one to pump his best friend’s length.
You sob, “Satoru—mmmpf.”
“Shit, maybe you two bastards aren’t half-bad.” Sukuna muses, a pinkish brow raising at just how much you moaned and thrashed underneath the two men. His hips only grew faster.
All three men were absolutely ravishing you through your high, those little sparks of pleasure going up from your pummeled cunt to your pummeled throat. “Mmm—” Just about the only thing that you’re ever going to be able to get out at this rate, “Feels- good- ngh- good-”
“Yeah, but which one’s yer favorite, mama?” Sukuna spits. Nestling his heavy balls against your face while he shoves his cockhead lung-deep-
“At least let her finish her orgasm first.” Gojo seethes, his glasses completely fogged by now.
“Yer too fucking nice.” Sukuna bites back, “She likes being all roughed up, doesn’t she?”
“No, she likes indulgent-”
And they’re both speeding up their ministrations, Gojo going craaaaazy with the heart patterns he was drawing on your clit while Sukuna twisted his fingers even harder over your nipples. You’re practically held hostage by the pleasure.
And the only thing you can do is ride out wave after wave of your bliss, still being absolutely demolished from all angles by the three men when it’s finally starting to peter out.
You twitch, “S-Suguru—”
Because you knew that the pierced man would be the only one much too happy to stop you from getting what you need - but you’re surprised to find…that Geto merely shrugs you off with a grin. The one overstimulating you with his fingers until you’re crying-
“Keh…” Sukuna eyes the sobs you’re heaving out, though he doesn’t stop himself. He’s pumping out a few wads of creamy white, before pressing a thumb on top of his shaft to stop himself from releasing too much before he actually got to breed you. “Don’t make her tap out just yet.”
“Suguru…”
But he doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t even slow down until you’re being probed by his sultry fingertips all the way until a second orgasm. It flashes through you like a sudden fever, your entire body breaking out in a cold sweat.
Jaw dropping.
Back arching off of the mattress.
You’re so sensitive by this point that even the lightest graze of Gojo’s canines against your clit makes you whimper n’ whine. Great heaving tears making their way down your cheeks, you’re nothing against the three sets of strong arms that hold you down so they could properly eloooongate your zapping pleasure.
And Geto Suguru doesn’t stop until he’s well and thoroughly fucked you through each mountain of your electrified high, and perhaps even all the way into a third-
“Aaaaand that’s enough outta you.”
“Yeah-” Gojo huffs, his pout pretty on his lips. “-you don’t get to hog her orgasms all for yourself, Suguru.”
Geto gives a final long liiiiiick with his pierced tongue.
Your brain is all muddled and stupid by the time that Geto with his love for overstimulating you is pulled off. You’re pushed further up the sweat-dampened mattress, sandwiched between Gojo and Sukuna from either side.
“So…” Sukuna asks, “Who won?”
“Me- she moaned my name-” Gojo grumbles up at the man. You whine at the way both their toned cores surround you, it’s as if you were a ragdoll they wanted to play around with.
“Yeah right, you had first dibs.” Sukuna scowls, eyes narrowing into slits. “And ya ruined it. Now I get to fuck her pretty pussy-”
“How about me, gorgeous?” Geto wasn’t waiting around to argue with his friends - he was cupping your dazed face and asking you directly. But you were so damn far gone that you couldn’t even begin to formulate a coherent response before-
“No, Suguru.”
“Fuck no.”
.
.
.
You were right about Ryomen Sukuna being rough.
Because he was fucking you rough. And hard. And fast.
And ruthless.
It seems that the winner of last round’s ‘challenge’ had been none other than Gojo Satoru - based on the fact that his name had been the first one you’d moaned during your first orgasm. Perhaps his accolades as president of the debate club wasn’t just in name…
They’d unanimously decided that Geto Suguru, the traitor, wasn’t deserving of fucking you after that little stunt he’d pulled earlier. Overstimulating you until tears—how could he! Without both of them, of course…
And so Gojo had left you in your stupidly fucked state.
Merely hovering over you- the tips of his ears red, the head of his cock dripping wet already. He’d pressed just about half of his swollen shaft between your pussylips before - expectedly - cumming again in less than two strokes.
He just couldn’t handle the feeling of your hot cunt. Just the sensation of you throbbin’ away around him like that was too much for the bespectacled nerd to handle, his entire body shaking as he spurted his white seed all over your pussylips. Hot and syrupy, it dripped all over you and down onto the sheets below. Pink lips jutted out when he felt himself reach his high again, “I…I did it again, sweetheart.” He’d told you, shamefully.
And you’d barely gotten two comforting words out- “It’s alright, Toru—”
Before Sukuna had shoved him over.
“My fuckin’ turn.”
And now you were laid out against Sukuna’s chiselled back, feeling each ripped muscle move n’ flex against your own. Vicious. Vulgar. He was heaving after each thrust, he was hitting the very spongy end of your cervix, he was bending your back against his front—a hand scouring down your front to feel his cylindrical length impale you-
A full fucking nelson.
By none other than the wrestling star himself.
“A star player—fuck.” Sukuna’s raspy voice whispers into your ear, hooking his pointed chin at your shoulder and preventing you from moving a single inch away from him. Thud-thud-thud, his rotund tip could be felt all the way against your scratchy throat. And you swear you could taste the salty flavor of his gooey liquids. “M’gonna fuck a s-star athlete into you, woman- the best junior wrestling champion this world has ever seen.”
Gojo surges up from his chair in the corner - the one Geto and Sukuna had been sitting in earlier in the night. “She hasn’t even taken yet-”
“Ah ah- what’s that?” Sukuna interrupts between thrust after thrust. He looks around as if he’d just heard an indistinguishable noise from somewhere in the room, “What- oh.”
And you’re watching speechlessly when Sukuna’s honed fingertips slither down your front to squeeze your clit.
“It’s this pussy begging me to get her pregnant-” His pinkish brow raises, “Oh- the best Olympic wrestler this world has ever seen? How ambitious, mama.”
Gojo spits, “Fucker-”
“You hear something?” And Sukuna was taunting him - Sukuna was playing right in Gojo’s face. His big beefy arms looping underneath your thighs and giving them a forceful tug- he’s spreading your limbs out as far as they’d go.
Making your soppin’ wet pussylips smeaaaar wide open and making the other two men throw envious looks your way. “Sounds like a little bitc-”
“Oh, please—” You’re bucking through your sobs. A particularly aggressive stroke has you damn near jumping out of his arms- but Sukuna’s only tightening his grip and bringing you riiiight back down to feel his cock.
You weren’t escaping any time soon.
“C’mere, woman.” His tone was almost a warning, speaking down to you as if you were dumbified on his cock already—and you were close. Oh, were you close. The wrestler’s cock was just so thiiiick that his veins massage your tiniest orifices without even trying. Long glides. Hard throbs. “How m’I going to- heh, fuck you pregnant if you keep trying to run?”
“Well…”
He continues, “In the first place, you don’t think you can run from a wrestler, can you?”
Blinking your wide teary eyes up at him, “I can’t…?”
And it was almost too cute how stupid you were on his pistoning hips already, mouth splashing out saliva every time he was hittin’ a gooood spot inside you. Sukuna chuckles, “No, you can’t.” As if to prove his point, he holds you down to his glissading abs and swabs your wettened cervix. “But ya sure can fuckin’ try- ya won’t make two steps before I have you on my cock again.”
“Well that’s just n-not fair—” You’re trilling out at the way he bends you just a liiiiittle further against him. Both hands gripped primally onto your hips and not letting you get too far.
Not letting you get far at all, actually. You can barely even breathe without Sukuna bouncing your body right back and knockin’ the wind out of your lungs with his puckered tip. “Ya can’t handle it if I bend you a little like thiiiiiis—”
“F-fuck!” Sobbing at the way he further spreads your legs, bringing them up until the caps of your knees were striking your tits.
“And then just a little like thiiiiiis—” Sukuna arches his hips lightly off the dampened sheets to rover his cocktip inside. Arching you against him.
Ryomen Sukuna loved manhandling you.
“Oh my g-god-” It’s just about the only thing you can blubber out, your sentences hitching in your throat. “Shit, I didn’t even know I could bend like this…”
“Why’re you crying, mama?” Sukuna coos, though there was something decidedly dangerous in his tone. Almost as if in alarm, your pussy starts throbbing harder and he snickers as he feels it- one of his roughened thumbs come to wipe away at your tears.
“It’s j-just-”
“It’s j-j-just the entire future of wrestling that depends on this pussy right here.” He’s mocking you. He’s teasing you. Not in the same way that Geto would - Sukuna had you immobile and was bullying you with both his mouth and his rugged, roverin’ tip.
His plump cockhead gapes out your cute hole, ending up in your deepest depths. He manages to leave you jolting after the pressure of each one. And after that bulbous intrusion then his inches just seem to go on and on and on—“S’a biiiig deal, mama. So you understand why I hafta fuck you a little ngh- rough, riiiight? So you understand why I hafta wrestle you a little, riiiight?”
Until you can feel Sukuna bash away even at your throat-
So hard that your eardrums almost pop- “It just feels so-”
Only to get overshadowed by the slurping squelches of your own cunt. Which only makes the pink-haired man grin, “There. It’s been decided then.”
“What are you…” Your dazed eyes widen, looking up into his rouge ones for an answer.
But the only answer he’s listening to? The background music of your pussy.
Sukuna’s nodding in agreement with the slick wet sounds that escape you, even more of it increasing in volume once he lets his precum fill you up to the very brim. Dripping past your pussylips, “Now now-” For only a few split-seconds before one set of Sukuna’s rugged fingertips swipe the syrup back in. “-none of that. That’s at least a couple million yen you’re losing there, girl. If m’fuckin’ it inside ya then keep it inside ya.”
You quiver, zaps of electricity floating through you when he reaches down and pinches your throbbing clit. “And i-if I can’t…?”
“As my son’s manager, I can’t have that.”
He was picking and choosing management opportunities already?!
You see, the King of the Ring was hellbent on fucking you right - on getting his seed to be the one that took inside your sopping wet walls.
He was fucking you like he meant it - he was going to complete that mission one way or the other. He was drilling into you with a primal cadence, bulbous tip press-press-pressing inside to swab away at your every single orifice—
You’re jerking on top of him at the pleasure, and Sukuna’s immediately putting you in a headlock.
Gojo surges up to his feet in outrage.
But the fraternity president wasn’t paying the other men a single ounce of attention- merely tightening his bulging biceps around your neck. Leaving you nothing but a limp ragdoll for him to pump his inches into, thick and hot at the thought of impregnating you. “And as his father-” Sukuna shoots you a cocky smirk that the other two can see, “-m’not letting you walk out of this bedroom without carrying my child.”
He throbs inside you and you whimper.
“Suguru, I can’t stand this-” Gojo’s taking a step closer, chair damn near clattering to the ground.
He was donning his boxers for now, though his best friend was naked and proudly pumping his cock at the sight of Sukuna fucking you like a crazed man. Hard and fast. Hard and fast.
Soft pants leave the bassist’s mouth, throwing his head back with a grown as he watches Sukuna reach down and pinch your clit. He’s peeking ahead at the sight with a partially-cracked lid, “Satoru, give me my phone.”
Gojo’s brows raise, “What?”
“Give me my phone.”
It’s in quick, jerky movements that the white-haired man does. He tries not to stare too long at the moving couple in the bed but…fuck, he, too, was so damn hard at this point that he was dripping precum through his boxers.
Gojo practically shoves the phone into Geto’s arms.
He unlocks it with a chuckle and heads straight to the-
“You’re recording-”
“Shhhh…” Geto chortles, raising his camera up. “We’ve talked about it before, she’s said it’s alright. Now shut up, it’s getting to the best part.”
It really was. The video captures the scene perfectly: you’re still being manhandled in this full nelson. Draaaagged back and forth every time that Sukuna’s cock glides inside you, hitting a spot particularly delicate.
He was just so muscular, with his cock plumpened up so much that Gojo almost wondered how you were taking all of him. Your cervix must be completely bruised by him now, and the camera manages to record how the skin ‘round his pelvis was burning red.
Again and again and again.
The two of them were practically hypnotized by the rough way you were being fucked. Pounded, more like. The musician zooms in on the vision of your puckered lips, swollen with prolonged contact with Sukuna’s massive balls. Gooey puddles of Gojo’s cum from earlier dripping all around them. Smack-smack-smack!
It takes just a few more of those and a final pinch on your clit to make you shatter- your orgasm taking over you like a tidal wave.
White flashing behind your eyelids.
Spine arching into the perfect curvature on top of him.
Sukuna’s muscular front provides the best cushy surface for you to get lost in your high, one that leaves you limp and boneless on top of him. “P-please, Kuna…” Geto damn hopes that the audio managed to pick up your ravaged whines. “Cumming—”
“You don’t think that I don’t know that?” He hums, and you notice that his voice sounds so much more ragged than before. “Yer feeling like fuckin’ waterpark down there, woman.”
“O-oh…” Your maw drops, as if you just now realize how wet with arousal you were. Leaking all over his scruffy pink happy trail-
“Orgasm left you stupid already, huh?”
You can only mindlessly nod.
All three men find their achin’ erections throbbing - the pink-haired man most of all with his swirlin’ tip tortured by the clenches of your orgasm. It almost pained him to pull out, even if it was to savagely thrust back in again.
And again. And again and again and again-
Geto whistles as the last few seconds of the recording capture the way that a sudden ring of white froths at your entrance. Sukuna pumping in his cum with a drawn-out groan—
The sharp tone of the video ending echoes out in the bedroom. Though you certainly couldn’t hear with the way your eardrums were popped with the pressure of his thrusts.
And Geto? Geto worked silently, as Gojo gawked behind him.
“S-send me that recording…”
“Mhm.”
SUGONDEEZNUTS sent an attachment to ‘Juno, y’know?’
SUGONDEEZNUTS added Prof. Nanami Kento.
He clicks off the phone and enjoys the show.
“A star wrestler-” Sukuna’s spitting between his gritted canines, the edges of his lips squirking up into a vicious grin. He flattens one of his hands down on top of your core - right above where his thickened tip was plummeting into your womb.
Pushing down and you could already feel the glutinous layers of his cum start to slide around you, sploshin’ out of your hole. It leaks out of you and he wonders just how much that much was able to fit inside because fuck—he’s cumming more than he ever has in his entire life. “Look at thaaaaat- we’re gonna have a star wrestler, mama. Better get ready, girlie, because m’gonna fuck an entire team of Olympians into you.”
“Please-” You yelp as his headlock on you tightens.
Flexing his incredible muscles against your neck, “And are you gonna run away?” It blocks every ounce of air from escaping.
“N-no…”
“Are you gonna tap out?”
“No-”
“Mmm—then how about we start thinking of the baby names-”
“Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves, shall we?” Geto’s breezy voice soothes out into the saturated air. It’s not too long before you’re hearing footsteps headed to where you lay utterly muddled. “After all, there’s more of us waiting.”
You shiver.
.
.
.
Nanami Kento wasn’t having a particularly good day, no.
For starters, he’d just been informed by one of his freshman students that half the campus thought he was in his thirties already—he was a damn TA in the first place! He wasn’t even an official professor (though he did plan to be one, so perhaps they were right on that note…)
And then his morning class slept through a particularly riveting presentation on the Kamakura period, then his (totally not favorite…alright perhaps favorite) student didn’t show up for your allotted office time with him, and now he was stuck grading papers of students who couldn’t care less about shogunate lifestyles.
Or at least he was.
He was grading papers of students who couldn’t care less about shogunate lifestyles.
That’s until he got the text.
With none other than said favorite student, you, featured front and center in its contents.
Now he was walking as fast as his long legs could take him to the most infamous fraternity house on all of campus: Curses Epsilon.
And let it be known that Professor Nanami Kento has never clocked out of the history department earlier in his entire life-
“Oh, fuh-fuck—” You’re blabbering out stupidly, tears cascading your eyes at incredible volumes. The three men inside this room just had you ruined on their cocks - Gojo hadn’t been given a chance again after his last two mishaps, Sukuna had just finished rubbin’ your pussy walls raw, and now it was Geto’s chance. Finally.
You were on all fours - bawling face pushed into Sukuna’s pillows, your ass raised high in the air.
The bassist had his index and middle fingers pulled into two honed tips, pressin’ away at your g-spot like it was a treasure trove he was uncovering. Push-push-pushing, Geto managed to force your tired body into one more orgasm, two more orgasms, three more org-
And that was when Professor Nanami Kento had arrived.
First, he’d knocked. Sharp and sensible - the frat house door had been unlocked, you see.
And it’d been none other than Geto himself who pulled his fingers cleanly out of your cunt and walked to the door. Slurping away at the treacly mess you’d left on his fingers- “You’re late, Kento.”
With a gasp, you’re pulling the sheets up to your chest- but Gojo had stopped you in your tracks—“But I wanna stare at your pretty cunt while she leaks, sweetheart…”
“Fuckin’ needy.” Geto had thrown his silky locks over his shoulder, rolling his eyes at his best friend’s antics. Then he turns back to the blond man who was trying hard not to stare at you on the bed—but he couldn’t help the way his eyes roamed. Fuck, he was only a man after all. “You know we almost thought you weren’t coming.”
Nanami gulps at the way Geto very obviously suckles the candied glaze of your juices from his fingers. One by one.
You whimper at the display.
“Clearly.” Nanami’s eyes then shift slowly from the man before him to you on the bed, your eyes dazed with your high, your legs clenched together. But not even that can stop the constant overflow of creamy white leaking from between them. Overspilling. “Is that why none of you have fucked her properly yet?”
Geto’s dark brows raise in amusement, “Excuse me?”
“If you’re going to get her pregnant, then do it properly.”
Everyone’s jaws drop a little at the statement the professor is giving, and Nanami only soundlessly steps inside. Letting the door close behind him.
He has only one target and one target only - you.
The blond-haired man steps towards you with purpose, starting to shrug off that formal jacket that fit him so well—
“Hello, my darling.” Nanami sighs, “On your back now.”
4. Nanami Kento.
The HOTTEST prof/ TA this campus has ever seen
Such a gentleman (opens doors, eye contact even when wearing skimpy tops, reads feminist books omg)
Mature
Some think he’d be dry in bed tho…
Nanami Kento was not dry in bed. Nanami Kento was not dry in bed.
Oh, how many times have you dreamed of this day? Wearing your shortest skirts to Professor Nanami’s lectures, daydreaming away just how it might feel to have him bend you over his sleek mahogany desk.
Though in no time what he was bending were really your legs.
Right over his broad shoulders, they were folding just so pliably—he’s patting upon each side of your wobbly limbs with a hum. “Not too hard for you now, is it, my love?” You’re shaking your head, growing wetter at the nickname- and Gojo groans as he watches you.
Nanami smiles, “Mmmm, good.” Then he’s reaching an arm out towards the headboard and grabbing one of Sukuna’s pillows.
“Wha’s that for, Nanami?” You’re blurting out stupidly.
“This?” He’s cooing down at you in a soft tone, one that’s so sweet that it makes your entire body heat up. Especially your cunt. Deciding that it would be much easier for your muddled mind to be shown instead- Nanami slides the puffy pillow underneath your hips to raise them a little. “This is for helpin’ that cute cunt of yours actually keep all the cum she’s been given. Does that make sense?”
You nod. He was just so gentle-
“You’re going to address me as ‘sir’, alright?” Fuck—you were mistaken. How did you not notice the steely look in Nanami’s eyes? How did you forget that he was known not only as the most handsome professor on campus - but also the most strict. “Now, does that make sense?”
Just barely managing to breathe, “Y-yes, sir.”
“Good girl.”
Shit, it makes your orifice geyser out in more impossible wads of slick. And your back’s arching instantly the moment he tugs down his pants, and you feel Nanami’s large reddish tip enter between your legs. “Fuck, that feels so good, Ken—sir.”
“Good girl- good girl.” He’s hushing out your tiny cries, placing a soothing hand on top of your sweaty scalp. Which you thought was nice, which you thought was sweet- but you’re realizing that that gesture was actually to push down on your body and keep you from jerking away every time he was lightly plunging his cock in. Nanami presses down on your head, “We have a lot to learn now, don’t we?”
“Y-yess—oh.” Your voice cracks embarrassingly at the thick shaft that Nanami was sinking in.
You didn’t get quite as good of a look at him, but you could tell that his entire length was just a little bigger than Geto’s. Not quite as long as Gojo, but with even more veins and the prettiest tuft of golden hair on his base.
Somehow, what was special about Nanami was just how perfectly he was curved.
Just a few sultry degrees to the side. He’s managing to drag-drag-draaaaag the puckered end of his cock down your walls. Pinkish and puckered, kissin’ all at the ridges down your sides- headed straaaaaight towards your sweet spots as if he already knew where they were. “Have you done your homework, my darling?”
“H-homework?” You cry out.
“Mhm—” Nanami was easing inside your pussy with languid thrusts - and though he seemed to calm and collected on the surface, you could spot the furrow between his brows. The line of perspiration that ran down his forehead. The way his heavy balls seemed to tighten the more he slipped inside- “Have you researched the conditions best for- hah, pregnancy?”
“I…well…” You’re shyly looking away - you admit that you had done some, you hadn’t gone into this entire thing unaware. But having your history professor look at you like this just left you speechless, as though he was looking straight through you.
He’s smiling down fondly at you, “If only you spent a little longer studying instead of- mmm—” Pounding out a particularly hard thrust that leaves you seeing stars, “-instead of daydreaming about fucking me, hm?”
You gasp, “How did you-”
“Why, you’ve been dressing like a slut in my class for the entire semester, my love- how could I not know?”
And the only thing you can do is moan out like the slut he believes you were - your legs spread high on his shoulders, your pussy letting out the most filthy slurps and squelches as he’s easing inside.
Hard and thorough, Nanami’s fucking himself inside you in slashes- just grazing his honed tip against your sweetest spots. Before pulling away when you start to twitch for more, more more—
“So close-” You blubber out, “S-so close, Nana-”
“Excuse me?”
“Sir.” Correcting yourself in a single second.
It’s then that Nanami’s leaning in reeeeal close, and you’re looking up at the handsome man through your lashes. “Good girl.” What you’re presented with is a splat! of his saliva being spat down, Nanami holding open your jaw to let it slide all the way towards the back of your throat. “Now that’s to fix that dirty mouth of yours- better not make that mistake again, alright?”
Nodding, “Y-yes sir…”
“Good. Now let’s see if you did your research- let’s see if you can answer my questions, and we’ll see if you deserve to have a baby fucked into you, alright?”
“Yes, s—oh.” You’re barely even given the time to compute his sentence before your sinful examination starts. And Nanami folds you deeper in on yourself, easily rubbin’ his scorching hot tip against the very back of your cervix-
You start to shake at the feeling of his primal stretch and whine—“Now now, quiet during an examination. Or are you fucked too stupid to not even remember that, hm?” It just made you so dizzy how Nanami Kento was so stoic, sensible, sweet - and yet he had these moments where something predatory slipped beneath the cracks and left you speechless. “First question, who was it that fucked you first?”
Your head slips to the side of your pillow, locking eyes with a certain white-haired man that’d slipped his hand beneath his boxers. Lightly pumping- almost reluctantly but he just couldn’t help himself. “Satoru…”
“Hm…” Nanami inclines his head at the man, blond locks plastering on his head. “And who was it that fucked you the hardest?”
“Sukuna—” Teary eyes blinking at the fraternity president, the way his crimson eyes narrowed at the sight. “K-Kuna did.”
“And I assume that Geto Suguru was the one who was the fuckin’ filthiest?” As the other man speaks, Geto’s giggle echoes out over the question. “True or false?”
“T-True—”
“Three correct in a row, that’s a hatrick.” His rugged thumb reaches down and glides between your pussylips, collecting the dewdrops of syrup drivelling out of you. “Well done- you deserve a little- hah, reward for that, don’t you agree?” The professor doesn’t even wait for your response before that very same digit of his presses down on your clit like a button. “Does that feel good, my love?”
And you’re so sensitive by the constant sultry assaults on your cunt, “Y-yes, so good—”
Only for Nanami’s tantalizing rolls over your clit to turn into a pinch—
“Wrong answer, darling.”
You scream out at the maddening answer, “Wh-what do you-” Head snapping up in surprise, before it’s suddenly falling back into the pillows at the surge of pleasure. You saw the look in his eyes. “I mean sir—yes, sir.”
“I fear your time is up, my love.”
“What- oh.”
And it’s the last thing you’re able to get out before-
Before Nanami shoves both your thighs up until they’re ruthlessly hitting your tits. Before Nanami’s bending you into such a pliable shape beneath him. Before Nanami plummets straight to the deepest end of your channel to strike your cervix.
Fucking you firm. Hard. He’s mapped out every inch of you with only a few animalistic swabs, “Three out of four, that’s 75%—you did better than I could’ve hah-hoped, darling.” Blond brows raising, “Though you did make a careless mistake-”
“I’m sorry—” You’re botching out through the husky cries in your throat, “I’m sorry, sir-”
“So your final grade should come down to…” The professor trails off, his vulgar strokes thumpin’ away at your womb. Nanami shows no mercy for the bruises of his circumference he’s sure to be forming there, Nanami shows no signs of stopping- “-a fail.”
Your eyes snap wide open—“N-no please, isn’t there something else I can do to make up for it-” Fluttering your lashes in just the way you knew he liked - the same one you used all those times when you stayed behind his classes for something stupid. “-sir?”
Nanami’s biting down on his stern lower lip with a shiver, “You’re lucky you’re my favorite.”
And then with no trouble, he’s placing a direct thump to the sweetest spot on the side of your channel that makes you scream. Just the sweetest speck that he’s pushing in on.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
The blond-haired man leans down till the strands of his slicked hair tickle your forehead, panting into your open mouth. “Then how about another assignment, hm? Extra credit?”
You nod fervently, sure that some rational part of you knew that this won’t actually affect your semester’s grades. And yet there was some other part of you that just wanted to please him, to jerk your hips up into his with the cutest whimpers. “Please- please, I’d be so grateful, sir.”
“I need you…” You’re awaiting the rest of his sentence eagerly—but Nanami Kento takes his looooong lecherous time pumping his cock into you in the meantime. Push after push. Breath after breath against the shell of your ear, “-to get pregnant by me.”
That was your assignment?
That was your assignment?
It sends your mind into a tizzy, and you’re just about opening your mouth to answer-
When the bed dips beside you.
You’re looking up into the murky peripherals of Geto Suguru, his smile almost feline on his beautiful face. He looks between your shocked expression and Nanami’s furrowed brows, throwing his locks over his shoulder. “What? I thought class was in session?”
Nanami grumbles, “Don’t push it…”
“You don’t expect more than one student at a time?” He’s humming, milky thighs now splayed out on the mattress. You’re gulping as you watch him cup his thickened base with one hand, giving his red-hot length a few pumps. “It’s alright, I’ll just sit alllll the way at the very back-”
And you gasp at the feeling of him pressing his veiny shaft into your open palm. Curling his ringed fingers around your smaller ones to give his erection a drag—
“-you won’t even- hck! know m’here.”
“Tch-” Nanami clicks his tongue, channeling the tension at having the other man use your pretty self- into none other than your cunt. Into none other than thwacking! his heavy shaft deeper, harder, into you.
You’re starting to get pushed up to the headboard, doing your very best to keep a constant rhythm on Geto’s handjob. “Please- ngh, please m’not gonna last long-”
“I can’t bear it either.” Gojo’s shaky tone rings out.
He’s taking just one step before Nanami sternly barks- “Another step and I bribe all your professors into failing you this semester.”
The blue-eyed man slouches in and grumbles.
All as the other two ruin you-
“Then here’s a mini-quiz for you, gorgeous.” Geto hums, and Nanami glares at the other man. He continues as if he doesn’t see, “Who’s going to cum first- A). You…” And it sure was heading in that direction, if the way that Nanami was hitting your g-spot dead-on was anything to go by - you didn’t even know how he managed to spot it so precisely. The ratios of it being molded into your very cunt by his cock- “B). Professor Nanami Kento, here.”
His ruby tip twitches deep against the gummy depths of your walls, spurting out a wad of promising white pre.
“Or C). Me.”
And despite being you who was asked the question, it’s Nanami who’s speaking up. “I don’t care what it is.” He runs a free hand down the front of your stomach, “As long as my daughter’s healthy.”
When he’d first walked through those fraternity doors, you’d expected Nanami to have been the restrained one. Perhaps the one that was more put-together than the other, perhaps the one that wouldn’t have been as affected by the little ongoing challenge to get you pregnant.
And yet, you’re realizing that perhaps your professor was a family man after all.
In no time he’s dragging his cock out with a groan, letting the golden curls down his front scrape your skin carnally. Before with a final thrust- you’re cumming. Again.
“Shit-” Head growing airy at the feeling of him bruisin’ your bundle of nerves again and again and again. “How are you s-so good at hitting- that- spot-”
“Fuck, look at the way she’s dripping.” Gojo’s awed tone breaks across your synchronized moans.
At the same time, both men on top of you were burstin’ out into their own white-hot high. And from the edge of the room, the other two could see the coating of pure white around Nanami’s lengthy cock as he fucks his miry ribbons inside.
Spraying your insides like a flood. Hot and wet.
It’s a constant wave of creamy white overtaking the spots inside your walls, thoroughly glazing you from the inside. Gluing your thighs together. Feeling the salty aftertaste at your throat. “Sh-shit, oh my god.” And not a single drop was wasted because of the pillow he’d smartly kept underneath you- “I feel so full, sir.”
“Sir? How kinky.” Geto’s panting out, thighs falling open. It only takes you a few slippery pumps to realize that he was pourin’ out his orgasm as well. Down your wrist. Splattering onto your face.
Gliding uuuuup and down, uuuuup and down in an unsteady rhythm- shit, he has to admit that even those little jerks you give when Nanami smacks his hips onto yours felt good. Geto starts rutting up into you, his fuzzy black happy trail scratching your skin.
Soaking with his cum.
Nanami’s nose crinkles when Geto dips a hand down to swipe at his treacly syrup and smear it all over your lips. “You, Suguru…” As if to say that your lips belonged to him, as if daring the other man to kiss you this way.
“What about me?”
“If you thought that would stop me…”
Your professor’s placing his lips onto yours instantly, murmuring-
“How could I not kiss the future mother of my kids? Congratulations on completing my assignment, darling.” He reaches a hand down to thumb inside your hole, just a few slick remnants that he had to take care of. “And congratulations on my daughter-”
“Th-thank you, sir.”
You could barely even breathe- just so much of Nanami’s and the others’ stuffing you from the inside.
“It seems the answer was D)...” Geto rasps out, voice unsteady with the waves of bliss he was still riding out on your pretty palm. “All of the above.”
“That’s it- get off, my turn.” Gojo’s familiar tone bites out from nearby - though you were much too exhausted by this point to actually turn your head and look.
Sukuna hums too, “I’ve never been more excited to do an assignment in my- heh, entire fuckin’ life.”
Nanami sighs, as if the other men were wearing on him already. He doesn’t look at them as he sticks his hand out, “My tie.”
They pause, for just a little- before Gojo’s the one to actually spot the professor’s usual tie. Handing it to him with a confused look…a confused look that slowly melts into sensual agony once the blond-haired man ties the slip of fabric around your wrists.
Tight.
Restraining you to him—he’s using his makeshift handcuffs to draaaag you to him like a ragdoll. “Now, you better behave while we breed you, my love.”
“Yes, sir.”
.
.
.
It’s one more round with Nanami and a sloppy makeout with Geto later that you find yourself being pummeled by Sukuna…and Gojo?
They’d shifted you to lay on top of the wrestler’s toned body, your maw droolin’ a wet sheen down his prominent pecs. He provided the perfect cushioning for you while drilling into you like a madman—again and again reclaiming the depths of your cunt as his.
While Gojo was pistoning his cock hurriedly into you from behind.
Of course, he’d reached his high with a groan the moment he’d slid his furious cockhead into your second entrance. Furiously pushin’ his sappy wads inside-
“Sh-shit…” The nerdy man shivers as he feels you clench your velvety insides, glasses slippin’ down his nosebridge. He could feel the outline of Sukuna’s thick cock sliiiiiiding against his- and he has to bite back a shudder at the fact. “Your dick’s so small, it’s depressing to feel it through my girl’s pretty anorectal junction-”
“You think I like feeling yours, two-pump chump?” Sukuna bites back. “M’trying to breed my woman here, how am I supposed to that when-”
“Wait wait wait- your woman?”
“Your girl?”
“Can you guys just sh-shut up and—fuck me—?” You’re trilling out stupidly, having had enough of the two men bickering above you.
They more they argued, the harder they were fucking your two holes - each vein, ridge, and dimple plastering against your walls. It was just an incredible sensation, mind growing blanker by the thrust. By the ruuuuuub of their matching paces furiously filling in, splurging out pre, smearin’ the slick mess. Not a single spot was left unturned as you were being stretched out on both ends, having both cylindrical intrusions claim you-
“As you wish, sweetheart.”
“You said it, mama.”
Neither of them would admit that having the other felt good for them, too…
It’s then that there’s—no, there’s no knock on the door.
Because you have to understand that most fraternity brothers have seen all there is to see, which meant that basic manners were rather…forgotten whenever they were inside the house. Not that it ever revealed anything jaw-dropping during times like this, and most would just assume that a brother would lock the door if they’re ever having…time to themselves.
And you also have to understand that Ryomen Sukuna hated locking the door.
So it opens just a crack with a foreboding creeeeeeak—! and in walks the emo sex dream on campus.
5. Choso Kamo.
In Geto’s band.
Wears eyeliner on a daily basis.
Always quiet and walking around campus with nothing but his headphones and sketchbook (artsy ooo~)
Wanna make him whimper!!
The very same man who, last semester, had shyly asked to draw you for his art exhibition - and ended up creating the most beautiful portrait humanly possible. It was one you couldn’t believe was of a person of this realm, let alone you. And when you’d told half-joking told Choso that, he’d replied—
“But of course it’s of someone from this realm.” His sweet doey eyes had scrunched in a way that was so genuinely confused, “It’s of you. Do you not see yourself like I see you?”
You had to admit that you’d carried a little hallway crush on him since then.
And there he was—not a step made inside Sukuna’s room before you’d dragged him to the bed yourself.
In almost no time, you’d made Choso sit in the middle of the dampened bed- your legs somehow straddling his waist, your back arching, your moans filtering into the sticky air as you rode his cock with such hunger.
“I-I just came to deliver Sukuna his baggie-”
Sukuna grunts, “Oh yeah, thanks.”
“-and y-you’re saying that—ngh.” You never imagined that Choso Kamo would be the type that couldn’t control his mewls, but right now every time your walls squeezed him just a tad too tight he was makin’ the cutest noises. “You’re saying that the goal is to- hck! g-get you pregnant, baby?”
“Yes, so good, Cho.” You’re blabbering out, your eyes practically turned into hearts.
Somehow…Choso was the largest size of them all- perhaps not the thickest, but his length was just increeeeeedible. Long and lucious, with the prettiest blushing tip. He was long enough that he was bashin’ at your gooey cervix without even being all the way inside, he was long enough that he pumped all the way deeply against your womb and you got the distinct feeling that he’d go even deeper if he could-
“Eleven inches.” Gojo’s awestruck whisper breaks through your frenzied mind, “I swear that guy’s eleven inches-”
And the worst (or perhaps best) part was the silver Prince Albert’s piercing that he proudly donned on his mushroomy tip. Cold metal contrasting with the feverish heat of his cock—making your irises swirl in the white of your eyes.
Geto whistles, “See the amount of cum pourin’ out of her? He might as well have undid all our hard work-”
“Why that emo little-”
“That only means we get to go again.” Sukuna hums with a smirk. Not waiting for the others’ reactions before he’s siddling up behind you, kissing aaaaaall the way down the line of your spine before reachin’ a hand between your legs.
And you jolt as you feel the sudden spikes of pleasure taking over your cunt, Sukuna’s thick fingertips pryin’ aside your pussylips to latch onto your clit. He’s toyin’ with your clit while you ride Choso, “F—fuck, keep going like that, it feels too good-”
“And so you mean to say- we can g-get you pregnant…?” Though Choso’s mind remained fixated on only one thing, and his voice quivered in disbelief. “We can really get you pregnant? Really, really get you preg-”
“For fucks’ sake-”
“You can, baby.” You’re cutting off Sukuna’s rumble- making the other man huff and continue to roll his thumb against your knobbly clit. His erection rutting into you ravenously from behind, “You can cum inside me-”
Choso’s beautiful brown eyes widen, “Cum inside-” He bucks at just the words leaving your mouth.
“And fuck it inside all you want.” You don’t think you’ve felt this much power since you made Gojo cum just with a single touch of your pussy. And Choso was easily the same type to get utterly pussydrunk after only a few glides of his veiny cock.
Just babbling and babbling away with the clenches of your cunt whenever you felt his pierced tip. He’s striking his painfully hard tip on top of your g-spot and letting the tears flow until you wondered who was feeling the sensation-
“Are you alright, baby?” You’re pushing back his sweaty bangs, staring into those eyes of his that were smudged with eyeliner.
Sukuna leans over, “Yer never that nice to me, woman-”
“Shush before I ban you from the bed.” You huff.
“My own bed?”
But the King of the Ring quietens down anyways, watching down as the man being ridden manages to string together a few coherent words - he couldn’t blame his frat brother. After all, he’d already felt the filthy heaven that was your pussy, and it almost made him lose his mind as well…And by now Choso was far beyond ruined—“So let me get this…get this straight-”
“Go on, baby.” You’re noticing that the man below you was so shattered that his mere body was jolting at the mention of anything to do with a baby.
Even that cutesy nickname for him made him spurt out in a steam of miry pre, clinging onto your insides. He gasps, “You’re saying that you want to- to have…my baby?”
Gojo pipes up from somewhere across the edge of the room, “And mine!”
“Mine first~” Geto follows.
A heated huff behind you. “Heh, good fuckin’ luck because it’s gonna be mine.”
“That is unless it’s not mine.” Nanami pushes up his glasses, “Which will be impossible.”
Choso’s growing more and more dazed the more and more they speak—or perhaps he was just reacting to the speeding up of your hips. The way you’re leaning in so close with a sultry smile and saying, “It can be yours, too, Cho—”
And that’s all that it takes to make the poor man cum.
He didn’t expect it- he didn’t even think that it was on its way judging by the sudden jolt that wracks through him. Choso throws his head into the crook of your shoulder, jaw dropping open with little sobs as he furiously fucks himself through his high.
Again and again.
Wave after wave.
You think that Sukuna’s ministrations might have you hitting one of yours, as well - but by now, you were far too gone to actually feel anything but tender zaps of pleasure.
Too caught up in the way that the brown-haired man was poooouring out as many droplets of cum as his balls could hold. Every single one. “You’re saying- you’re saying that m’gonna be the one to breed you—?” He’s rasping out against the side of your neck, and Sukuna claims your other side with a possessive growl. “You’re saying that I’m gonna fuck you all f-full and glowing?”
Arching into the two toned men that sandwiched your, “Yes, please-”
“I’m gonna feed this cunt with all the- ngh, cum she wants.” All the wants and more—it was drippin’ out of you, a milky sheen that coats all three sets of your thighs, Choso’s own, and Sukuna’s. “And then she’s gonna turn it into a baby that’s mine?”
Gojo scoffs, “Erm, actually-”
“And she’s gonna be as beautiful as you-” Choso doesn’t even seem to notice the interruption, doesn’t even seem to notice that he wasn’t breathing. Wasn’t doing anything but moving his plump tip inside of you and bashing every orifice with his puckered, pierced tip- “And she’s gonna have your smile, my eyes, your laugh, my hair—fuck, she’s gonna be just as beautiful as you.”
It seems that he’s tapered out the miry white cum that’d been seeping into you, and the man finds himself reclining back on Sukuna’s bed.
Holding onto either side of your hips now, you’re shocked at the sudden claim that overcomes him once Choso bucks his hips of the bedsprings and starts rutting inside you- “Gonna be so fucking beautiful- gonna be so fucking mine.” Tip bulging. Piercing slick.
“P-pleeeease, Cho—” Your head throws back, body starting to lean against Sukuna’s for support.
When the other man swats away Sukuna’s hand with no fear and starts toyin’ hearts on top of your clit himself. The chipped black of his nail polish marking out exactly where his fingers were moving in a frenzy.
The wrestler raises a brow, “Oi…”
But Choso’s paying no heed, “Gonna fuck- fuck my baby into ya, baby.” His dark lashes quiver with tears, just so big and pretty and sensitive. “Gonna have everyone look at you and see what I did-” Gojo gets up with a growl, and Choso only spreads apart your pussylips with his fingers so that he can see better. The way you were dripping in his cum.
“Gonna have everyone see you walking down the street and know that I got you pregnant.” It was just so surprising the sheer intensity he was fucking you with—you’re crash-landing into yet another high of the night. And the emo boy was fucking you perfectly through it, letting his bulbous piercing scraaape your dewy insides. “Gonna have everyone see you buying baby clothes and let them know that’s for my baby.” Balls tightening, “Gonna have these fuckers see her in nine months and see me, me, me—”
Choso’s fucked himself into oblivion against your cunt, inside your sopping wet walls - until he’s pushing into his second high of the night.
And the more he’s pushing those clingy white wads inside, the more pussydrunk he seems to be getting. “Gonna—-pregnant.” Only broken fragments of his thoughts and words echoing out, Choso was rubbin’ his reddened tip raw on your pussy. “Get you—ngh, mine—baby…”
Again and again, he was emptying his aching balls inside of you. Twitching after each white-hot pour of his syrup that left you flooded.
And it’s only after he’s done with his wave of euphoria that your jaw drops at his state. Utterly ruined.
“Are you o-okay, Cho?” Genuinely asking.
But the pierced man only looks up at you with tears in his eyes, “Baby, am- am I pregnant?”
Your jaw drops—fuck. Fuck, he was that pussydrunk.
But Sukuna only cackles from behind you, “The fuck did you ask?” He looks over his shoulder at the three other men who were just hypnotized by the sight, “Oi! D’you fuckers hear that?”
“It’s certainly an interesting idea.” Geto hums, drawing nearer.
“And yet, mostly implausible.” Nanami replies.
“If there’s anyone here that she’s going to get pregnant first- then it’s going to be me.” Gojo stabs a thumb at himself, and you all turn to look at him. Slightly abashed at the sudden attention, he pushes his glasses up his nose with a blush. “B-but of course, I know that’s impossible with the considerations of a lack of seminiferous tubules and even if there was a vans deferens the considerations of a male womb…” Trailing off.
You’re so fucked that you almost don’t realize that all five men were on the bed in mere moments.
Surrounding you.
Gojo and Nanami’s cocks being guided to your sweaty hands, they themselves starting to move your palms down their needy lengths. Choso perking his hips up still as if unstoppable, as if it doesn’t even matter how sensitive he was if he could just fill you up once more—
“H-hold on-” You’re gasping down at the brown-haired man, “Hold on, Cho, are you sure you can-”
“Hold on?” Choso chokes out, “Hold on.”
Before tunneling straight into your womb with no apology-
“M’trying to f-fuck you till you’re pregnant and dripping with my seed and you want me to hold on- never say that again, baby.” He leans in closer and whispers, “Never.”
Before your mouth’s plugged up with Sukuna’s cock.
.
.
.
Where the others were possessive, Geto was just downright filthy.
You hadn’t even allowed your brain to register the feeling of Choso’s plummy, split-ended tip pulling out of you with a plop! Just the sheer length of it singed into your walls- “Sh-shit.” You’re shivering sensitively, “What now—oh.”
And you don’t have to ask before you’re feeling it again.
Him.
Geto Suguru with his muscular front against your back, taking Sukuna’s position behind you on the mattress. “A full nelson, huh, Ryomen?” His breathy voice echoes out behind you. “You know, that might just work- c’mere, Satoru.”
Gojo perks up where he’d been sulking in his chair, “Me?”
“You.” All laid behind Geto now, you were just so far gone that you barely even feel it once he spreads apart your jittery legs. With a single swipe of his ringed fingers, he’s baring your cream-covered cunt for everyone to see. All gooey and wet with the wads of cum trickling out of you. “C’mere and eat her out while I fuck her.”
“I thought you were going to let me fuck her- out of the kindness of your heart.” Gojo huffs, but gets down before you two anyways.
“What heart?”
And it’s the last thing you’re hearing before Geto’s incredibly hardcockhead is mazing between your walls. He’d waited all this time since the beginning of the night, through the new additions to the bedroom, and now was his time. Now he was not waiting a single second for you to get used to his primal size. Not waiting a single second even feeling apologetic-
“S’because I have no heart that m’reaching for hers~”
Gojo might have been the longer out of the two, but Geto was most certainly the thickest. An incredible girth that might just be one of the thickest you’ve encountered this entire night, his entire tannish tip covered in a few squiggly veins that perfectly outlined your cunt.
And the thing was—
Geto lived up to be just as good as his mouth was - he lived up to all the talk. He was leaving you stupid with only a few swabs of his puckered red tip, dribblin’ out gooey pre ‘round your entrance and then pushing then pushing each ounce iiiiiiinwards.
Again and again.
2. Geto Suguru.
Fucking PRETTY
Rings
In a band
Already super close friends. Two in one go??
You met him at one of his gigs on campus, and you admit you’d been struck by the music- but also the singer himself. Rather accosting him after the show, it was a fast track to becoming friends.
And Geto Suguru was…Geto Suguru.
Anyone else might have gone a little slower in the beginning, anyone else might have let you at least get used to his incredible length before utterly ruining you - but Geto Suguru had your pussylips split upon his cock and was reaching in ravenously. Hard. Quick strikes. Not waiting a single second before plapping! at the very back of your spongy cervix and glidin’ back down, not waiting a single second after he’s making everyone’s cum pour out of you-
And Geto doesn’t even speak to you from behind until he’s sure he’s made your pretty pussy surge into your orgasm at least twice like his.
Carefully movin’ about the rude red tip of his shaft, he spanks a bruise onto your g-spot a few times and watches as you shatter as if made of porcelain-
“So how about it, gorgeous?” Geto’s gasping voice from behind you, the curtain of his long inky hair tickling your sensitive skin. He had you pinned against his back with a single pale arm, “Decided on which one of us you want to make your- hngh, baby daddy yet?”
“F-fuck, I’m not quite…” Your sentence trails off with pleasure.
“Yeah? Not quite yet?” He continues from behind you, acting for all the world as if he wasn’t just singlehandedly ruining you on his velvety shaft. And you could practically hear the pout in his purring voice, “Well, you’re going to have to- mmm, decide soon if you really wanna baby, y’know?”
Back arching, “Yes—yes-”
“Oh, who am I kidding?” And the waves of your bliss were roaring in your ears, leaving your friend’s sing-song voice sound as if almost from a distance.
He doesn’t say anything before reaching his roughened-up hands down between your tits, sloooowly - almost as if he was attempting not to scare off his prey. “There’s someone- heh, better I can ask about that…”
“What are you…” You’re choking on so many of your whines as he reaches down and presses the slender tips of his fingers on top of your stomach, slightly bloated with sopping cum. And it just makes you guuuuush- “Shit shit sh-shit, Suguru, what are you—oh.”
“Whoops, was that me?” Geto’s purring out from behind you, ignoring the protests that erupt from every corner of the room. “Silly me~ I didn’t realize she was leaking this fucking much- we might just hafta fuck her like this all over again boys.”
“I mean, I would gladly.” Sukuna rumbles.
“Shit, same.” The white-haired man gulps from below, it was here that he could get the perfect vision of the ivory sap flowing out of you. Hotly melting between your pussylips and reachin’ the curled tip of his tongue, “Shit, what are you even doing to her, Suguru-”
“Hmmmm—?” Because none of them had ever fucked you like this.
While the other men had their goals of breeding you until you were all roooound and glowing, Geto had a slightly altered goal of doing that in the way that would most leave your pussy crying. Leave you crying.
They could see it right now, the way that the bassist would speed his slender hips until they were almost nothing but a blur between your legs. Roughly mazin’ the crown edge of his shaft until it felt like you were twitching from pleasure- until it felt like you were just a liiiiittle too close to reaching your high. And the only thing that Geto Suguru could do then is slow down.
Achingly so, until you’re left sobbing for more—
“Too fucking filthy.” Sukuna’s whistling, bulging biceps crossed. He cocks his head at the nerdy man, “So are ya gonna eat her out or just stare- because I could do a right job of it-”
“Shut up.”
And Gojo Satoru was never one to not catch up.
He lets his slick tongue flop out, gulping at the ivory sap flowing out of you. It’s like a hot melt between your swollen pussylips- “Mmm—” So fucking filthy. Too fucking filthy. And yet, he didn’t know if he was the filthier one for then reaching out and letting his tongue across your folds, dipping just a little lower…“Mmmpf- Suguru, did she say which one of us she wanted as the- hngh, baby’s father yet?”
“Tha’s exactly what I’m asking her, Satoru.” Geto responds.
And in no time you’re feeling his fingertips push down on your womb once again, making it hard for you not to shatter into yet another one of your highs - but you were so overstimulated by this point that even that felt like a mere few tingles. “Let’s seeeee—” His breathy tone was in your ear, lookin’ down at the other man between your legs. “I think m’hearing ‘Suguru’, gorgeous…”
“Where the fuck are you-” Gojo himself is interrupted by a particularly loud splosh of sap trickling out from between your pussylips. And he can’t lie, he’s listening to the noise himself as if it was human words. “She did not fucking say that, don’t put words in my girl’s mouth- pussy.”
Geto arches a brow, “Then what did she say?”
“She said ‘Satoru’.” Stubbornly replying from below.
Geto’s snapping his hips up viciously at the feeling of his best friend’s tongue licking at your hole, parts of his textured tongue gliding down his own shaft. “Mmm, you fucking wish- just listen to her.” Making the echoing slurps grow louder and louder.
“Nuh-uh, fucking listen to this-” With the other man’s tongue slippin’ between your folds and dragging out just as many noises.
“Heh, yeah right—”
You didn’t even know which one of them was being louder at this point, because whenever you thought that it might be Geto then Gojo was tuggin’ on your clit with his teeth and making you moan- and whenever you thought that it might be Gojo then Geto was planting his hand down on your tummy and making you leak out. Making you formulate a puddle of slick that both men were just addicted to—
“P-please…” As if this was nothing but your little mantra, and it kept echoing out of you like a broken record player. You didn’t know what exactly you were begging for - for more, for mercy, for your life-
“I know.” Geto hisses from behind you, his sharp canines starting to dig into the side of your neck. “How about we ask her, Satoru?”
Gojo’s eyes snap above his foggy glasses, “Good idea- sweetheart, isn’t it me that your womb’s begging for?”
“Isn’t it me you’ve been dreaming of getting pregnant by?” Geto speaks out as well.
And you’re following the two men like a tennis match, with your stupidly dazed eyes bouncing between the rude pumps that Geto was placing on your cunt, the way that Gojo’s tongue somehow forked into all the right places.
Driving you wild.
“I-is it me, sweetheart-”
“It’s me, isn’t it, gorgeous-”
And when it seemed as though you were far too stupid on their movements to answer, Geto was reaching his hand down and pinching your clit—the very same that Gojo was surging up to and suckling. Both of them are fighting for purchase on you. Both of them ending up only making your pleasure ebb even deeper- and your nth high of the night crashing through your body.
“B-both—!” You’re calling out, getting the lewd attention of everyone watching. You buck and thrash on top of him, “Want both, Suguru- Satoru- fuck, I want both of you-”
“Then it’s settled.”
The bulbous end of his cock pulses away inside you, dragging back and forth along your walls in a way that was frenzied. He smears aside your legs even further and furrows his brows, “Then it’s settled-” Geto’s pants making the skin on the side of your neck perspire, his slender hips arching up into you in a way that you weren’t even sure was possible. Just the best angles hittin’ each throbbing spot inside you until you gasp, ”-that our baby’s gonna have two daddies, huh?”
And it’s almost as if that was enough to make Geto Suguru crash into his own high, like he couldn’t control himself at the image - he couldn’t stop himself at the thought of you being fucked by him and his best friend. In no time, his high was shooting straight through him and ending up smeared against the wetness of your cervix.
Right at the very back, it’s splattering out in a distinct warmth that you note. He doesn’t move a single inch as he pumps you through the shivers of his high. Pump after pump. Push after push that leaves you primally speechless. “Oh my god—” Your mouth waters as you’re filled up with wad after wad of gooey white-
“Suguru’s just fine, gorgeous.” He hums from beneath you, thrusts loooooong and thorough pushing in every single ribbony white excess. “Or maybe even- the future father of your kids.”
“I-I’d like that…” Twitching through the way he was fucking you like an animal. And just below, Gojo was much the same- just lickin’ and lickin’ away between your legs while Geto fucked you stupid. You’re filled up to the brim, until it was almost too much to keep inside—
And Gojo thinks he might just cream himself just from the very vision- “Don’t tell me you’re gonna cum already, Satoru?”
“Fuck off, Suguru.”
.
.
Toji Fushiguro doesn’t get fucking paid enough.
Being the security guard on a college campus isn’t exactly the most lucrative job in the first place, but it was made worse by the fact that he had to deal with that—college kids. Toji himself was about ten years past his own college day, though that was not to say that his experience as a security guard didn’t hone him to handle all clientele. He could handle awkward high schoolers. He didn’t care about screaming middle schoolers.
Hell- even the pre-schoolers seemed to have just a bit more sense than some twenty-somethings with too much alcohol and too little self-preservation on their hands.
Which is why he was answering a call at 3AM.
Perfect, those never bode well.
The complaint had come from the resident of some nearby dorm who’d happened to pass by the Curses Epsilon frat house (god, Toji fucking hated frats) and heard some…strange noises. It was far too loud and far too many voices for them to discern, apparently. And though they’d rung the bell, it seems that no one had been home.
Except for the strange noises, that is!
Looking up at the sprawling mansion from here, Toji could see just one light in the entire building turned on. It seems there was someone home - though likely only the resident of this particular room.
And Toji didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out that this was likely some frat dudebro (god, Toji fucking hated dudebros) who had a bad trip or far too much to drink. This fraternity in particular was always infamous for their ragers, ones that Toji himself has had to shut down many times.
So he’s announcing his presence before trying the door hand and—ah, and it opens. Just as he expected (god, did he say he fucking hated frats?)
Entering through the dimly-lit living space, the noises only got louder the closer he got to a certain resident’s room.
The closer he got to—
“What the-” Toji’s flinging open the door to Ryomen Sukuna’s room, breath catching at the sight (cock twitching). “-fuck.”
You.
You, you, you, you.
Toji Fushiguro has wanted to fuck you since the moment he saw you.
Ever since last semester when you’d bribed him - oh, the sweet audacity - into letting you and your friends throw a party by bringing him a bottle of fine whiskey. He’d laughed in your face, of course, before ultimately taking the spoils and grumbling that you could (‘but only until 1AM’ he’d said).
That night he sipped on his whiskey, wondering if the pretty pussy underneath that thin skirt of yours was just as sweet. Just as addictive.
And here you were now—laid across Ryomen Sukuna’s bed and being filled by five men in all of your holes.
And, well, did Toji mention that he didn’t get paid enough?
6. Toji Fushiguro.
That HOT campus security omg (someone should put his face on the campus magazine and the applications would fill in)
BUFFFFFFFFFFFFF X5
Gruff but lowkey has a soft spot
Rumor says he’s a DILF (hmmm?)
He’s starting to tug off his uniform immediately, “Don’tcha worry, doll-” Toji snickers at the shocked look on your face, looming closer to you. To where you were sprawled on the bed and getting pinned by one set of Sukuna’s hands. “-I don’t snitch.”
And the long-haired one in a band - Geto, he believes his name was - grins. “Welcome to the club.”
The rickety bedsprings creak as he joins you all on the bed. “This bed’s gonna fuckin’ break.” Sukuna rolls his eyes.
“Shut up, brat.” And only the older man was the only one here who would possibly talk to Ryomen Sukuna that way. Toji shoos away the other men to meet you in the middle of his dampened sheets, brows raising at the sheer amount of white sap pourin’ out of you. He’d overheard some of the things that’d been said before he came but…fuck. “Damn, they really did a number on you, hm?”
You can only nod, “Mhm—”
“And you don’t regret a single thing.”
“W-well…” You look away, unsure what to say.
“No no, s’good.” Toji coos—almost. His tone was far too mean for that, “A girl like you should enjoy yourself during your college years.”
You’re jolting at the inkling of something dangerous in his tone- as do some of the others. But you don’t get to think too long about it before Toji has one roughened hand flipping you over. The other shoving your head down into the pillows- “But let me show you how a real man breeds ya now.”
You can only nod.
He tugs down - merely tugs down - his pants until the thick reddened tip of his cock hits your pussylips. Smearin’ down the crevice of your cunt, watching as you drivel a wet glaze down Toji’s length—he wastes no fucking time before edging his hips upwards and shoving—“Y’know, I’ve always wondered whether these college boys were fuckin’ you right.”
“N-ngh, fuck—” Your eyes roll to the back of your skull. Toji was just so thick - thicker than anyone here, with more veins than your feverish mind could even count by now.
“Yeah? I’ve always wondered whether they could- ngh, satiate this pretty pussy like she deserves-” Toji snickers, watching as you shake beneath him. “-the way I could do it.”
“H-hey! I think we did a good job-” Toji sends Gojo one look his way and he shuts up.
The older man glides his calloused fingertips down your spine, drawing sensual hearts that make you shiver. “Because unlike these damn college boys, y’know it takes a reeeeal hard earner ta know the feeling of wantin’ to provide.” He’s gruffing out, hips hitting yours in half-ruts. “A real family man.”
“Oh fuck off, old man.” Sukuna rolls his eyes, “You’re looking at the future of wrestling right here-”
“And a future Nobel Prize winner!” Gojo pipes up, but hides behind the pink-haired man anyway.
Nanami chimes in as well, “I fear I simply do not see the point you are trying to make, Mr. Fushiguro.”
They were in an uproar.
But to everyone’s surprise…Toji Fushiguro isn’t getting angry. Toji Fushiguro is smiling- “Hehhhh, fear you don’t see the point m’trying to make, huh? Let’s just put it this way then…” Almost muttering to himself, before he’s grabbing onto either side of your waist and funneling your womb with all his girthy seven inches. “-we’re about to make my son a big brother tonight.”
Their jaws drop.
Oh.
Oh.
They were well-aware that the security guard was single, all by his lonesome, according to gossiping admirers who had the courage to ask - but no one could have ever guessed that the man had a son.
And right now he was fucking you like he wanted to make a second-
“I’ve always wanted to show her- fuck, to show this pussy that even older men can fuck you gooooood, honey.” Just as he promises, he’s reaching for your g-spot faster than anyone else before him. Harder. Scourin’ your honeyed walls and making sure that Toji’s cock was thoroughly etched against your pussy, “So how about it? Got a thing for DILFs?”
“Yes—” Your velvety walls are squeezing his length and Toji holds onto you so tight that his nail marks take home on your skin. “Yes fuck, how did you know-”
“Because everyone’s gotta thing for DILFs.” He’s snickering from above you, abs glissading faster down your back. Your mouth drops ajar at the way that Toji reaches down and squeezes your clit with no hesitation. “But whaddaya feel about becoming a MILF?”
“Sh-she was mine first.” Gojo growls out from your side, holding onto your arm as if to tug you away.
But Toji only glances over like he just realized the other man was there, lazily looking him up and down. “Natural selection, kid. I’m gonna be the one to make her a momma.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Keeeep talking.”
Toji Fushiguro’s fucking you like an animal - short, rapid bucks and ruts of his hips just to fit inside. Just to manage to stretch out your walls to his girth, and then draaaaag all the way back out again to repeat. “Heh, s’a big stretch- I know.” Almost as if he was out of control. And with his meanness, he didn’t mind being so sloppy with it that after a few thrusts his cockhead would slip out of your hole. Ending up slidin’ between your lips and grazing his flared slit along your most sensitive spots. Toji holds onto the base of his cock and shovels in even more ruthlessly than before.
Just to make you whine a bit more—
“Handle it.” He gruffs out from behind you, shaggy black bangs tickling the back of your neck. And Toji’s pistoning into you at a pace that leaves you dizzy, “I said fucking- hah, handle it. Yer gonna have an even bigger of a stretch down there in nine months- heh.”
“You’re just so mean.” You huff.
“Me?” Toji coos in amusement, “Aw, doll, you haven’t seen mean yet.”
You’re holding onto his pale pillows for dear life as he fills you up once more, “Ohhh, feels so good, Toji-” Again. And again.
“Oh yeah? Oh yeah?” And he sounds fucking ecstatic at the fact. He grips onto the back of your throat with one hand, “You see- when ya get to my age you just don’t have time for the- hah, nonsense.” Fucking you hard and fast.
And purposeful.
It felt like Toji’s rounded tip was hitting every spot he wanted it to, and even the slightest rub of his zig-zagging veins left you speechless. You weren’t even sure whether you were shaking because of the sheer stimulation or because he was just that good- “Just needa find a niiiice girl ta settle down with.” His rumbling tone continues, “Treat her all nice, get her everything she wants- heh, then pump her full with a kid or two—get all of them everything they want.”
“Shit-” You gasp out, trying to buck against the creaky mattress. “Fuck, m’just so sensitive-”
“And what is it that you want, momma?”
The only thing that you can cry out now, “T-to cum—”
His fingers twist on your clit even harder, “Anything for the mother of my kid.” He speeds up, heavy balls hitting you in light spanks. “Anything-” He snarls, your cunt was just dangerously fluttering around him. “Goooood, right? Goooood?”
“Good-” You hiccup- “So good-”
“Nuh uh, doll- s’it so goooood?”
Toji might have been teasing you, but you still manage to find yourself repeating. “S-so gooooood-”
“Soooo good?”
Completely dumbified by now that you weren’t even sure what you were saying, the tell-tale twitches at the base of your stomach tells you that you’re close. “So, sooooo good.”
“Heh, how cute. So dumb on my cock.” He hums, “And can ya say Mrs. Toji Fushiguro?”
“Mrs. Toji—oh.”
And the next thing you’re actually seeing with your own two eyes…the bulging erection of Gojo Satoru. His pale thighs spread wide open in front of you, his puckered red tip being tapped on your lips. He wasn’t going to let you finish that particular sentence any time soon - or ever, really. “Open wide f’me, sweetheart? Let me see that cavum oris…”
“S-Satoru—” You whine, letting your jaw unfasten for him.
And it’s as if the moment they’re seeing their inexperienced friend take initiative, the rest of them were just rushing at you. Because Gojo’s slickly smooth tip thrusts between your lips- and then you have Geto and Sukuna’s hands dragging both of yours to their cocks.
Nanami’s even snaking his hands underneath to massage your sore tits.
Toji’s hands the only thing keeping your body held up- “Fuckin’ animals.” He’s hissing between gritted teeth, nose crinkling in a look of primal need. “Go easy on ‘er- she’s the momma of my future kid.”
“No, mine.” Nanami’s the first to speak.
“Mine.”
“Mine~”
Choso blinks, “M-mine?”
“N-no, mmm—” Gojo’s head falls back at the slide of your textured tongue underneath the line of his mushroom tip, “-mine.”
And when Toji finally cums it’s with all five other men still with their hands on you.
Pumping his seed in primal, rapid half-thrusts in and out.
Massaging your elastic hole. Caressing your deepest insides with all his puffy veins.
Your face is being pushed up against Gojo’s toned v-line and there’s nothing you can do about it, your nose scratching on his sultry ivory hairs. Toji’s length just felt so perfect - you could feel the curve of his cockhead piston gluey webs against your very throat with how hard he was pumping himself into you.
In and out, in and out, in and out until he could feel that sweet, sweet resistance of your hole and he’s forced to ease back out. He was reluctant to pull out even when he could feel the recoil of your cervix begging him to move- to fuck his ivory syrup deep inside.
So much of it—
All of it mixing into one making you feel so full-
“Ay ay- stop fucking into her mouth so hard, how m’I supposed to breed her like this?” Toji tuts at Gojo.
“Can you blame me?” He, too, was milking his length on your heavenly body. Overflowing with a line of cum that streams out from his pretty strawberry divot and down to your throat- Gojo watches it all disappear between your lips and shivers.
Until Toji roughens out an incredibly hard jackhammer that has you spilling a few strings out of your mouth. “Heh, whoops-”
“Fuck you-”
“Fuck you-”
“I thought we were fucking her.” Geto’s humming through the argument, tilting his head down at you. “How about me next, gorgeous?” And you wished you had the rationality at this point to let him know that you were just barely getting through your nth high of the night-
Waves of tender bliss flowing through you.
You think you might pass out.
“Don’t you fucking dare.” Gojo hisses, and you’re just letting of Toji’s cock with a pop! and a few more sultry sounds of cum gushing out of you. Before he’s crushing you to his front, staring them all down. “It’s my turn again.”
“You fuckin’ wish-”
“Satoru-”
“How crude-”
“Well…”
“She’s mine.”
1. Gojo Satoru.
Super cute
Probably a big D
Secret freak (tracked ovulation!??)
However has no experience (not quite a con?) and no place to fuck in (single bed + has a roommate, Geto)
2. Geto Suguru.
Fucking PRETTY
Rings
In a band
Already super close friends. Two in one go??
3. Ryomen Sukuna.
Frat boy™ (leader of Curses Epsilon)
Probably REALLY good in bed
On his way to become a pro wrestler (headlocks omg??)
Might be rough…
4. Nanami Kento.
The HOTTEST prof/ TA this campus has ever seen
Such a gentleman (opens doors, eye contact even when wearing skimpy tops, reads feminist books omg)
Mature
Some think he’d be dry in bed tho…
5. Choso Kamo.
In Geto’s band.
Wears eyeliner on a daily basis.
Always quiet and walking around campus with nothing but his headphones and sketchbook (artsy ooo~)
Wanna make him whimper!!
6. Toji Fushiguro.
That HOT campus security omg (someone should put his face on the campus magazine and the applications would fill in)
BUFFFFFFFFFFFFF X5
Gruff but lowkey has a soft spot
Rumor says he’s a DILF (hmmm?)
“Seems we have quite the conundrum on our hands.” Geto’s the one to hum above the squabbling, and as he turns to you, so does everyone else - all six of them.
Looking at you.
“So?” Gojo urges. “Which one of us will it be?”
A/N. The way I didn’t even KNOW how to tag this after I was done erm-
corporate damage control can’t stop me from riding it
pairing — rock star satoru x pop star reader
synopsis : satoru gojo is currently performing a masterclass in silent, theatrical suffering, and the soundtrack is your chart-topping new single. he wrote you a bleeding-heart ballad; you wrote him a three-minute restraining order set to a pop beat. now he’s trapped in a self-inflicted auditory torture chamber, replaying your music video on a loop while his bandmates document his descent for what sukuna calls 'profoundly marketable art.' he tells everyone it's 'research,' but what he's really looking for is a crack in your perfect pop-princess facade—a single sign that you're lying, and that he's not, in fact, the world's most famous delusional fanboy.
wc — 31.6k ࣪ ִֶָ☾. tags -> f!reader, porn with plot, satoru has a big dick and a dick piercing, secret relationships, public humiliation via synth-pop, miscommunication, light angst with a happy ending, so much yearning and pining, satoru gojo is a dramatic idiot, humor, angry sex, makeup sex, rough sex, nipple play, fingering, edging, orgasm denial, brat taming, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, dacryphilia, humiliation kink, spanking, hair pulling, light choking, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dumbification, breeding kink, creampie, emotional hurt/comfort, aftercare, fluff, domestic fluff, confessions, getting together, happy ending.
athy says, it's finally here! thank you so much for being patient with this monster. i'm not gonna lie the porn-to-plot ratio got a little out of hand, my bad. i've stared at this for so long i'm convinced it's underwhelming but i'm hoping that's just my overthinking ass talking. anyway, i hope you enjoy this absolute filth of a fic <3
what, in the grand, cosmic scheme of things, is a man supposed to do when the woman he has willingly, foolishly, and perhaps terminally written a love song for responds not with a tear-stained text, or a late-night call full of whispered confessions, but with three minutes and forty-seven seconds of the most exquisitely produced, aggressively catchy, bubblegum-pop denial ever to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting public?
the answer, apparently, is this.
satoru gojo, lead guitarist for a band so globally recognized they have their own line of ironically terrible merchandise, is currently performing a masterclass in silent, theatrical suffering. he isn’t so much sitting on the ridiculously expensive black leather couch in their practice studio as he is being absorbed by it, a long-limbed puddle of designer despair.
he’s a kicked puppy, yes, but a puppy wearing four-thousand-dollar balenciaga boots that now feel less like a fashion statement and more like exorbitantly priced shackles.
on the massive wall in front of him, your music video is playing on a loop, projected to a scale that feels both epic and deeply, personally insulting.
the visuals are a weaponized assault of softness: sun-drenched fields, lens flares that bloom like ethereal flowers, and a color palette of sickly sweet pinks and baby blues that clash so violently with the gaping, slasher-film wound where his heart used to be, it’s a miracle he hasn’t broken out in hives.
his expression is a carefully curated mask of “i’m fine,” but it’s the kind of “i’m fine” a man says moments after walking into a glass door, dazed and concussed but determined to maintain a shred of dignity.
the song plays again. and again. and again. this is loop number… seventeen? eighteen? he lost count around twelve, when the synth intro started to feel less like music and more like the clinical, beeping prelude to his own emotional flatlining.
he has it connected to the studio’s main speakers via bluetooth, a self-inflicted auditory torture chamber. his thumb, a traitorous digit with a mind of its own, hovers over the replay button on his phone with the unshakable dedication of a monk performing a sacred, agonizing penance.
“it’s for research,” he claims, his voice a weak, papery thing, when he feels suguru’s gaze boring into the side of his skull. “i’m... deconstructing the melodic architecture of my own public execution. it’s fascinating, really. the use of the dominant seventh in the pre-chorus is a particularly vicious choice.”
no one believes him. the air in the room is thick with a secondhand embarrassment so potent it could be bottled and sold as a fragrance. least of all does he believe himself. he’s not researching. he’s searching. searching for a flaw, a crack in your perfect pop-princess facade, a flicker in your eye that says ’i’m lying.’ he hasn’t found one yet.
three minutes and forty-seven seconds. he’s counted every single, torturous second. he has memorized every beat drop that feels like a physical blow, every flawless vocal run that winds around his ribs and squeezes, every perfectly crafted moment where your voice dips into that honey-thick, late-night register that used to whisper his name in the dark like a secret, a promise, a prayer. now it just whispers, ’subscriber count: one less.’
“you’re a masochist,” sukuna states, his voice a monotone of detached amusement. he’s perched on a nearby amplifier, phone held aloft, the red dot of the ‘record’ button a malevolent, unblinking eye. he’s documenting this, naturally, in pristine, cinematic 4k.
“don’t look at me,” he instructs, like a seasoned director. “keep your gaze on the screen. yes, that’s it. let the manufactured light of her indifference wash over you. this is art. tragic, beautiful, profoundly marketable art. i’m thinking of titling it, ‘gojo satoru: the yearning years.’”
nanami doesn’t speak. speech would require an energy he simply does not possess in the face of this much concentrated foolishness.
instead, he just runs a hand down his entire face, a slow, weary gesture that suggests he has aged a full decade in the past hour. he looks like a man watching his dearest friend attempt to teach himself to swim by leaping into the deep end of a pool filled with piranhas, all while the lifeguard station is not only in full view, but is also on fire.
satoru, oblivious to his role as the subject of an indie tragedy, leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, his focus narrowing on the screen. on you. you’re twirling across the screen now, in that cream silk slip dress that seems to have been spun from moonlight and his own personal tears.
it catches the manufactured golden-hour light like liquid sunshine, the fabric moving like a second skin, a whisper against your body. it’s paired with a few delicate, layered gold necklaces that glitter and flash as you gesture dismissively at the camera—no, not the camera. at him. he knows it. it’s a gesture you’ve used a thousand times, a little flick of the wrist that says ’oh, you.’ only now it says ’oh, you poor, delusional fool.’
your smile is a masterpiece of modern dentistry and practiced innocence, the kind that belongs on magazine covers and in the tormented dreams of men who should have known better.
“she’s so pretty,” he says, and the tone is all wrong for a band meeting. it’s the hollow, reverent tone one uses at a funeral, contemplating the beautiful, cruel finality of it all. his voice cracks, just slightly, on the word ‘pretty,’ as if the very act of acknowledging your beauty while it’s being used as a weapon against him is physically painful. “why is she so pretty while systematically dismantling my public image and my private will to live? it feels disproportionate. there should be a law.”
suguru, who had been attempting a state of meditative transcendence in the far corner, finally cracks. a long, beleaguered sigh escapes him, the sound of a man whose patience has been stretched, frayed, and finally snapped. he bites down on what might be a laugh, or might be a scream of profound concern.
“because, satoru,” he says, his voice dripping with the weary wisdom of a man who has seen this exact train wreck happen in slow motion for months, “the universe has a wickedly dark sense of humor, and you, my friend, are the punchline. you’re the whole damn joke.”
the scene in the music video changes. this is the part he hates the most. the part that feels like swallowing glass. you’re sitting at a ridiculously quaint outdoor café, a single perfect rose in a tiny vase on the table.
you’re stirring sugar into a demitasse of coffee with one perfectly manicured finger, your nails painted a soft, innocent pink. and you’re maintaining direct, unwavering, almost obscenely intimate eye contact with the camera.
it’s a simple shot, innocent enough on the surface, until you pause, lift your gaze ever so slightly, and offer the camera a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug.
the shrug. the goddamn shrug.
it’s a gesture that holds years of history. it was the shrug you gave him across a crowded green room that meant, ’your move, hotshot.’ it was the shrug you offered during a painfully boring press junket that meant, ’let’s ditch this and get ramen.’ it was your silent, secret language, a dare wrapped in nonchalance.
now, it’s been co-opted, sanitized for public consumption, and repurposed into the universal symbol for ’denied.’ ’next caller.’ ’thank you for your interest, but the position has been filled.’
satoru lets out a sound that is a truly unholy fusion of a chuckle and a dying breath, a wheezing, hiccupping noise that speaks of a spirit that has not only been broken but has been stomped on for good measure. his head falls back against the couch with a soft thud, as if gravity, after a long vacation, has suddenly remembered he exists and has decided to exact its revenge.
god.
he wrote a song for you. not just a song. the song. the one that musicians are supposedly only given once in a lifetime, the one that falls out of the sky fully formed, a divine and terrible gift.
it was the first time he’d ever written something that didn’t have a protective layer of irony or a wink-and-a-nudge bravado. it was just… his. raw, terrifyingly sincere, and now, apparently, the catalyst for his public execution via synth-pop.
and you… you wrote this back. a three-minute and forty-seven-second masterpiece of plausible deniability. a bop. an undeniable, chart-topping, soul-crushing bop.
he remembers the night he wrote it with a searing, high-definition clarity. the kind of memory that feels less like a memory and more like a scene he can step back into at any time, a ghost-filled diorama of his own undoing.
it was a thick, humid tokyo night in late july, the kind where the air itself feels heavy and charged with secrets. his apartment, a sterile glass box high above the glittering, sprawling chaos of the city, was his sanctuary.
the windows were thrown open, and the distant, sleepless hum of shinjuku drifted in, a constant, low-level thrum against the silence. the neon glow from a thousand billboards across the skyline painted his walls in fleeting, watercolor strokes of magenta and electric blue, making the whole room feel like it was underwater.
his guitar, a battered telecaster that was more an extension of his own nervous system than an instrument, was balanced on his lap like an old, patient lover. but the melody that was taking shape under his fingers wasn’t coming from the guitar— it was coming from the echo of your laugh, a sound from a video call that had ended hours ago but refused to fade.
it had taken up residence in the hollow space in his chest, a second, phantom heartbeat that was completely out of sync with his own.
you’d been wearing his hoodie.
the gray one. the one with the faded, cracked print of tour dates from their first big arena tour, a relic he rarely wore anymore. on him, it was fitted— on you, it was a cavernous, cozy tent. it swallowed your frame whole, the sleeves falling so far past your fingertips that you looked like a child playing dress-up in her father’s clothes.
the sight of you, so small and lost in something that was so unequivocally his, had done something fundamental and probably irreversible to his brain chemistry. it was an act of quiet, domestic claiming, and it made his heart do a series of stupid, frantic backflips.
you’d spent the call pretending to be deeply, profoundly bored by the whole process, feigning dramatic, put-upon sighs. “satoru, is this really necessary? some of us have eight-step celebrity skincare routines to attend to. we can’t all stay up until four am serenading inanimate wooden objects.”
but he could see the bright, engaged spark in your eyes, and he knew, with a certainty that made his stomach swoop, that you were secretly screen-recording the chord progressions.
then he played the bridge. the part that felt less like he’d written it and more like he’d opened a vein and let it bleed out onto the fretboard. the melody spilled out of him, raw and a little unsteady, full of unresolved chords and a yearning so potent it felt flammable.
on the other end of the line, you went quiet. he watched your small, pixelated form on his screen as you pulled the ridiculously large hood over your head, burrowing into the worn gray cotton until only the tip of your nose was visible. a long, charged silence stretched between tokyo and wherever you were in the world. when you finally spoke, your voice was soft, stripped of all its playful armor.
“play it again,” you’d said, your voice a sleepy, muffled thing from inside the hoodie cocoon. “the bridge… it’s pretty.”
pretty.
you called the exposed, frayed wiring of his soul pretty. and in that singular, universe-altering moment, he had felt like he could levitate. he felt like he could conquer countries, write symphonies, solve cold fusion, all fueled by the quiet, devastating power of that one, simple word from you. he was a god, and his gospel was a g-major chord progression.
he’d been so, so stupid. a beautiful, glorious, once-in-a-lifetime kind of stupid.
he was love-struck, a terminal condition for which the only cure seemed to be a public humiliation set to a catchy beat. he was drunk off the tinny, digitized sound of your voice and the intoxicating sight of you wearing his name on a piece of faded cotton, claiming space in his life so naturally, so effortlessly, it felt like you had always been there.
suguru and the others had known, of course. they had seen the train coming down the tracks from a mile away, and they knew he was standing there, smiling, waiting to be hit. they had been exchanging loaded, weary glances across the studio for weeks, a silent, three-part harmony of concern, watching him stumble over easy chord changes because his brain was no longer in the room— it was on a facetime call, completely mesmerized by the way you hummed along, slightly off-key, to their demos.
“that bridge, satoru,” suguru had said one afternoon, his voice gentle but firm, like a doctor about to deliver some very bad news. “that’s not a song bridge. that’s a ‘i would burn my entire multi-million dollar career to the ground for her’ bridge. you are so far past whipped you’re in a different dimension of whipped. you’re a smoothie.”
“nah,” satoru had grinned, a dopey, besotted expression he was sure was deeply unattractive but was physically incapable of stopping. his fingers had danced across the frets, the notes spelling out your name in a language only they understood. “i’m just honest.”
honest. what a fucking joke. looking back, it wasn’t honesty. it was a complete and total systems failure of his self-preservation instincts.
the song, once it was unleashed upon the world, was a soft-rock confession. it was satoru gojo, the hot himbo guitarist who was famous for his thirst-trap instagram stories and chaotic interview energy, suddenly standing emotionally naked in the middle of times square.
it was so jarringly sincere, so devoid of his usual brand of flirty detachment, that it was impossible to ignore.
the fans went absolutely apoplectic. they were used to songs about summer nights and fast cars, not… feelings. they took the raw, bleeding vulnerability he’d served up and immediately put it under a microscope.
they became a global army of forensic analysts, dissecting metaphors and melodies with the precision of surgeons. they cross-referenced his lyrics with your old interviews, a grainy video of you from three years ago mentioning you liked the rain, the one time you’d both been spotted by paparazzi outside the same sushi restaurant (a full eight minutes apart).
there were twitter threads longer than most doctoral theses, complete with footnotes and annotated bibliographies. there were tiktoks where girls with perfect eyeliner broke down the guitar solo note by painful note, claiming they could “hear his tears in the string bends.” youtube video essays with dramatic thumbnails and titles like “the gojo satoru confession: how a pop princess broke our favorite himbo (with receipts)” garnered millions of views.
the comments sections were a digital warzone, a chaotic symphony of parasocial projection and stan-on-stan violence.
“he’s obsessed, this is actually creepy. she needs a restraining order.”
“he’s a walking red flag but the song is a banger so i’m conflicted.”
“she’s way too clean for his image. remember when sukuna set that reporter’s car on fire? she can’t be associated with that mess.”
“is no one going to talk about the brand shift?? where did our chaotic, slutty golden retriever go?? who is this sad poet??”
“he is so down bad it’s almost romantic. i respect the sheer audacity of this level of public pining.”
“this is what desperation sounds like with a million-dollar production budget and zero shame.”
satoru, ever the professional performer, pretended not to see any of it. he played the part. he shrugged off the deeply personal questions in interviews with a wink and a well-rehearsed one-liner. he acted like this raw, exposed nerve of a song was just another track, just another piece of art, not a page ripped bleeding from his diary.
he played it cool, treating his very public heartbreak like it was just another fashion accessory he wore exceptionally well, like a vintage watch or a particularly good leather jacket. he spun his vulnerability into a punchline, his pain into a brand.
but in the quiet moments, the ones without cameras or an audience, the truth was a suffocating, lead-lined blanket.
in the hollow, echoing silence of a venue between soundcheck and doors, surrounded by the ghosts of past performances and rows of empty seats. in the ringing aftermath of an encore, when the adrenaline had evaporated and all that was left was a buzzing in his ears and a cavernous, aching emptiness in his chest. under the slow, cooling haze of the stage lights, his sweat turning cold on his skin like a fever finally, mercifully breaking.
in those moments, he clung to the memory of writing the song. to the sincerity of it. to the terrifying, unvarnished softness he had only ever shown to you, the parts of himself he’d guarded his whole life with jokes and charm and a blindingly bright smile, and then handed over to you like a set of house keys, trusting, with a fool’s faith, that you wouldn’t be the one to rob him blind.
until you dropped your song.
it arrived without warning. no pre-save campaign he was aware of, no cryptic tweets hinting at a new era. just a sudden, cataclysmic shift in the digital landscape.
one moment he was scrolling through instagram, admiring a particularly good thirst edit of himself from the last tour, and the next, his phone was vibrating with a text from suguru. it was just a link. a single, solitary link to spotify, followed by a single, solitary skull emoji.
his heart plummeted into his designer boots.
your response wasn’t a diss track. it wasn’t vicious or angry or full of the fiery, passionate emotion he had secretly, pathetically, been hoping for. anger would have meant he mattered enough to be angry at.
no, this was worse. so, so much worse.
it was polite. it was breezy. it was dismissive. it was a three-minute and forty-seven-second, perfectly executed, condescending pat on the head, set to a beat so infectious, so diabolically catchy, it immediately became the global soundtrack to his public humiliation.
the first thirty seconds were a masterclass in sugarcoated denial. a shimmering synth intro, like spun sugar and broken glass, bubbled up before a clean, crisp beat dropped in. and then, your voice. laced in silk and a certainty so absolute it could move mountains, it danced over a production so clean, so precise, it could have performed open-heart surgery.
in the video, you looked directly into the camera. you weren’t angry. you weren’t sad. you just looked… knowing. you were wearing a simple, pale yellow sundress, your hair clipped back loosely, looking like the girl next door if the girl next door was a multi-platinum recording artist with a team of lawyers on speed dial.
you tilted your head, just enough to catch the soft, golden light, and gave the lens an expression he knew all too well. it was the look that said, ’nice try, but no.’
the full track? a doctoral thesis in saying nothing while saying absolutely everything.
you never confirmed. you never denied. you just sang around the satoru-shaped hole in the narrative like he was a particularly inconvenient pothole you’d gracefully learned to navigate on your morning commute.
the lyrics were a weaponized form of cotton candy, all innocent confusion and wide-eyed, ‘who, me?’ energy. they spoke of “stories people tell themselves,” and “building castles in the air from a single, stolen glance,” and “sometimes a whisper is just a whisper, not a promise you can keep.”
you didn’t call him a liar. you just gently, sweetly, and with a voice like honey, implied he was completely, utterly delusional.
you turned his grand, romantic gesture, his bleeding-heart ballad, into a reddit thread he couldn’t possibly win. you reframed his love song as a slightly unhinged fan theory, a fever dream he’d wake up from eventually if he just tried hard enough, maybe drank some water and touched some grass.
and everyone knew.
oh, god, everyone knew.
the fans who had been there from day one, the ones who had built entire timelines of your ‘friendship,’ the ones who remembered when you used to like his instagram posts at 3 a.m. and comment on his stories with inside jokes that no one else understood—they knew.
they were now furiously deleting their old shipping threads, their mood boards, their compilation videos, all in a mad scramble to get on the right side of this new, devastating narrative.
the casual listeners, the ones who just showed up for the drama, ate it up with a spoon. it was the celebrity gossip equivalent of a royal wedding and a public execution happening at the same time.
the radio hosts, with their fake, concerned voices and the barely contained glee dancing in their eyes, played the two songs back to back, dissecting the “he said, she said” of it all for their morning drive-time audiences.
you never said his name. you didn’t have to. your lyrical evasion was a work of art, gps-precise in its ability to navigate around any direct accusation while still making it perfectly, painfully clear who you were talking about. your voice, so soft and sweet, was a guided missile aimed directly at his credibility.
it was vague enough for your lawyers to defend, but specific enough to leave him completely, utterly exposed. checkmate.
and the worst part? the truly soul-crushing, existentially horrifying part that made him want to crawl into a hole and cease to exist?
it was good.
like, disgustingly, chart-toppingly, “this is my official anthem for summer and i will be singing it into a hairbrush while subtweeting my ex” good. the hook was an earworm, a parasite that burrowed into your brain and refused to leave. the production was immaculate. his own bandmates were probably, secretly, adding it to their gym playlists as they spoke.
it was the kind of good that made you hate yourself for humming along under your breath while you were supposed to be stewing in your own misery.
and he heard it everywhere. it became the inescapable soundtrack to his life.
he was in a twenty-four-hour grocery store at midnight, trying to buy cereal in peace, when your voice cascaded from the ceiling speaker system, serenading him in the dairy aisle about how he’d built a “castle from a grain of sand.”
he was in his favorite, painfully hip coffee shop, and the barista, a girl with pink hair and a septum piercing, was singing your chorus at the top of her lungs while steaming his oat milk latte into a sad, lopsided heart.
he got into an uber, and the driver, a cheerful man in his fifties, immediately turned up the radio. “you heard this new track?” he’d asked, beaming. “it’s my daughter’s favorite. it’s a real vibe!” and satoru had to sit there for a twelve-minute drive, dying a slow, silent death in the backseat, bathed in the sound of his own romantic incompetence.
he was put on hold with his credit card company, and the hold music was a tinny, instrumental, elevator-music version of your song. that was a new low. that was a fresh, unexplored circle of hell.
he even caught suguru humming the pre-chorus in the shower one morning at the studio. when satoru confronted him, pounding on the door like a madman, suguru didn’t even have the decency to sound guilty.
he’d poked his head out, a towel wrapped around his hair, and said, with the deadpan seriousness of a cult leader, “it’s a reverse exorcism, satoru. i have to flood my brain with the melody to neutralize its power. it’s about fighting fire with fire, purging the demon of her catchy hook through repetition and vocal mimicry. i’m doing this for my own sanity.”
“it’s not even a bad song, objectively,” nanami admitted one evening, looking up from his ipad, his voice as flat and clinical as if he were delivering a quarterly financial report. “the production is clean. the hook is effective from a commercial standpoint. the lyrical content is simply… professionally humiliating for you, specifically, when one is aware of the context.”
“when one is aware,” satoru echoed dramatically, the words catching in his throat. he collapsed backward onto the leather couch, a boneless heap of despair, as if gravity had finally remembered how much he deserved to suffer.
his wrist flopped against his forehead with all the limp, tragic grace of a victorian woman succumbing to the vapors. “i can’t live like this,” he wailed to the ceiling. “i’m becoming a cryptid. a cautionary tale they tell young, emotionally vulnerable musicians around the campfire. ‘don’t be like satoru, kids—he wrote his feelings into a melody and got metaphorically murdered by a pop princess with a team of swedish super-producers and a heart made of stone.’”
the music video played again. was this the nineteenth loop? the twentieth? he wasn’t sure. time had dissolved into a meaningless, syrupy cocktail of synth-pop and artistic betrayal. on the giant projected screen, the scenery shifted. gone was the quaint café of condescension, replaced by a sun-drenched, windswept beach that looked suspiciously like the private cove in malibu you’d dragged him to one weekend.
the screen was a kaleidoscope of neon filters and manufactured summer heat. there were rooftop shots where the wind, a paid actor in its own right, caught your hair in a way that looked both accidental and perfectly choreographed by a team of meteorologists.
you were dancing at the water’s edge, barefoot, wearing a ridiculously cute and deceptively simple white linen two-piece set that hinted at the long, tan lines of your legs and the curve of your stomach.
it was the kind of outfit that was both adorable and devastatingly sexy, a combination you had weaponized with terrifying precision. he knew, with a certainty that made his stomach ache, that you weren’t wearing anything underneath. you never did at the beach.
you danced like you were teasing someone specific. your movements weren’t for a faceless audience— they were intimate, playful, a series of inside jokes set to music. the little hip sway you did when you were trying to distract him from his guitar. the way you’d bite your lip and look over your shoulder, a silent dare.
it was all calculated casualness, an effortless perfection that had probably taken forty-seven takes, a team of professionals, and a small army of assistants holding reflectors.
and it was all for him. obviously. it was always, somehow, infuriatingly, for him, even when it was a public declaration that it absolutely was not.
a low, guttural groan escaped his throat. he snatched a decorative velvet pillow from the couch and slammed it over his face, muffling the sharp, boyish sound of pure, unadulterated heartbreak that clawed its way out of his chest.
it wasn’t just that you were breaking his heart— it was that you looked so damn good doing it. it was an insult to his suffering.
“she’s lying,” he muttered from beneath the pillow, his voice soft and muffled, like a prayer spoken underwater. the words were a desperate mantra, a flimsy shield against the tidal wave of evidence on screen. “i know she is. we—i mean, there were… things. real things. moments that weren’t for cameras or fans or anyone else but us.”
and his mind, a traitorous archive of his own happiest moments, started playing a highlight reel.
late-night phone calls that stretched until the tokyo skyline began to blush with the first hints of sunrise, your voice growing thick and sleepy until you’d fall asleep mid-sentence, and he’d stay on the line for twenty minutes just listening to the soft, even rhythm of you breathing, a sound more calming than any song he’d ever written.
the way you’d steal his hoodies, not just for airport paparazzi shots, but for lazy sundays spent tangled up in his sheets, the worn cotton smelling more like your skin and your perfume than his own cologne. the memory of waking up to you in his bed, a small, warm lump wearing his faded tour shirt and nothing else, made a fresh, sharp ache bloom in his chest.
inside jokes whispered on red carpets that made interviewers deeply uncomfortable, a secret language spoken in glances and tiny, imperceptible shifts in expression.
the kind of sizzling, undeniable chemistry that launched a thousand fan compilation videos and sparked conspiracy theories so elaborate they involved secret marriages and hidden love children.
he remembered the warmth of your skin under his hands, the specific, infuriatingly perfect way your body fit against his, the sound of your laugh—the real one, not the polite one for the cameras—when he’d kiss that sensitive spot just below your ear. those things weren’t fan behavior. they weren’t a fever dream.
“clearly not things she wants to be public knowledge,” suguru said, his voice dry as a desert. he wasn’t even looking at the screen anymore, just scrolling through his phone, his tone carrying the immense weight of a man who had held back his judgment with both hands for months and was starting to get a serious workout.
satoru threw the pillow aside with a surge of frustrated energy and shot upright. his hair, already a mess, now stood on end as if he’d been electrocuted by his own turbulent emotions. his eyes, usually so bright and clear, were rimmed with the tell-tale red of exhaustion and wounded pride.
“i thought we had something, man,” he said, his voice cracking with a genuine, pathetic bewilderment. “a connection. chemistry. that goddamn soulmate shit you read about in books, the kind that’s supposed to transcend corporate contracts and carefully crafted pr strategies. and now? now i’m a trending topic for being the world’s most publicly delusional boyfriend-who-wasn’t-a-boyfriend.”
“you sent her voice memos of your unfinished lyrics at two in the morning,” nanami said without looking up from his phone, his voice carrying the calm, patient tone of a saint and the quiet, crushing judgment of a deeply disappointed father. “you rhymed the word ‘forever’ with the word ‘whatever’ and expected to be lauded as the next shakespeare.”
“that line was vulnerable,” satoru hissed, genuinely offended by the artistic criticism. it was one thing to have his heart broken, it was another to have his songwriting questioned. “the raw, emotional inflection on the word ‘whatever’? heartbreaking. i put my whole chest into that ‘whatever’—it was a symphony of dismissive pain, of casual devastation. that’s advanced songwriting, nanami. it’s called nuance.”
suguru snorted, a sharp, ungracious sound. he finally looked up from his iced americano, a glint of something that looked suspiciously like amusement in his eyes. “and now you’re the internet’s favorite sad boy meme. congratulations. in the span of one week, you’ve managed to out-brood me and completely steal my entire aesthetic. my brand is in shambles.”
“i’m beautiful while suffering,” satoru proclaimed, his performer instincts kicking in. he pressed a hand dramatically to his chest, as if pledging allegiance to his own personal tragedy. “like a greek statue, but with better hair. if euripides had an electric guitar and an instagram account, i would be headlining the athens festival of emotional destruction.”
“you’re emotionally constipated,” sukuna called from across the room, his eyes still glued to the screen of his laptop, where he was no doubt editing the footage of satoru’s breakdown into a viral tiktok. “and it’s starting to affect the brand. seriously. your thirst edits are becoming yearning edits. the comments sections are starting to look like online support groups. it’s killing the ‘hot himbo’ vibe you worked so hard to cultivate.”
it was true. and that, somehow, might have been the worst part of it all. sukuna wasn’t just being an asshole for the sake of it— he was delivering a depressingly accurate brand analysis.
somewhere in the chaotic, humiliating gulf between his song release and the current moment, satoru’s carefully cultivated online presence had undergone a seismic, deeply unwelcome shift. his brand, once a reliable engine of “chaotic hot guitarist energy,” had sputtered, stalled, and morphed into something else entirely.
he was no longer the flirty, untouchable rock god with a penchant for expensive sunglasses and questionable life choices. he was now “sad boy who needs a hug and possibly intensive, long-term therapy.”
the ecosystem of his own fandom had turned on him. fan accounts that used to post supercuts of his most egregious thirst traps—close-ups of his hands on the guitar neck, slow-motion shots of him sweating on stage, compilations of his most chaotic interview moments—had pivoted.
now, they were creating soft-focus, aesthetic mood boards of his most melancholy expressions, usually overlaid with lyrics from a bon iver song.
the tiktoks. my god, the tiktoks. what was once a steady stream of edits celebrating his himbo energy, set to hyper-pop songs about being hot and reckless, had become a series of amateur film studies theses.
girls with names like @gojosgirl were now analyzing his “wounded artist era” with the somber, intellectual dedication of film students dissecting tarkovsky. they’d slow down footage from recent concerts, drawing red circles around the “micro-expressions of pain” on his face as he sang the bridge.
one particularly brutal compilation, titled “the evolution of a man’s heartbreak (a visual journey),” had managed to get three million views in twelve hours. it started with old clips of him looking at you with undisguised adoration during joint interviews and ended with recent paparazzi shots of him looking like his dog had just died. the comment section was a sea of virtual pity.
a tweet from a popular fan account, @satruthereal, had gone viral: “he’s not serving slut anymore he’s serving profound, bone-deep sadness and somehow it’s worse for my mental health.” it was accompanied by a string of seventeen crying emojis.
his own spotify wrapped, he imagined, probably looked like a suicide hotline’s weekly report. his most played song was, without a doubt, your song. followed closely by his own song. followed by a lot of the national and old, sad taylor swift albums. it was a playlist of self-destruction.
“this is character development,” he announced to the room, suddenly sitting up straighter, as if struck by a bolt of divine, delusional inspiration. he adopted the posture of a man about to deliver a ted talk. “i’m becoming multidimensional. complex. i’m moving beyond the simple archetypes the public has assigned me. shakespeare wishes he could write this kind of arc.”
“shakespeare’s dead,” nanami pointed out helpfully, his voice utterly devoid of inflection.
satoru waved a dismissive hand. “so is my dignity, but you don’t see me complaining about it.”
“that,” nanami said, finally looking up from his ipad, his eyes flat and weary, “is literally all you have done for the past three weeks.”
and the tour. the goddamn tour continued its relentless march across the country, a traveling circus with him as the main, miserable attraction. his descent into madness wasn’t just happening in the privacy of the studio—it was happening every night, on stage, in front of twenty thousand people. each show had become a public autopsy of his emotional state.
the press coverage turned vulture-hungry. headlines no longer focused on the music, but on the melodrama. they dissected his every pained facial expression like they were tea leaves, predicting the future of his career from the slump of his shoulders.
“gojo satoru’s heartbreak tour: art or exploitation?” asked one magazine. “why satoru gojo’s public pain is our collective gain,” pondered a popular blog. a late-night news program even ran a segment titled, “pop princess breaks rock star’s guitar… and his heart: more at eleven.”
every venue sold out within hours. fans were clawing for front-row seats, not just to hear the music, but to witness his unraveling in real time. his pain had become a commodity. his public breakdown was a marketing goldmine, and the ticket sales had never been better.
and that verse—the one he had carved from the softest part of his ribs, the one he’d written for you in a moment of pure, stupid, unfiltered honesty—refused to leave his throat intact.
every single night, he’d get to it, the lights would dim, a single spotlight would find him, and the words would catch. his voice would crack on the same line, every time, like a promise he couldn’t keep, like a prayer spoken in a dead language no one else could understand.
the music editors called it raw. the internet called it art. satoru called it hell, but with better lighting and a live audience providing the soundtrack of his own screams back at him.
your face, your voice, your song—they haunted him like a beautiful, relentless ghost. you were on every screen he tried to avoid. spotify ads featuring your smiling face would pop up while he was trying to listen to angry german metal.
youtube pre-roll ads for your perfume would play before he could watch a tutorial on how to fix a faulty guitar pedal. a times square billboard of you, sixty feet tall and impossibly gorgeous, made him want to never leave his apartment again.
you’d smile in slow motion on tiktoks that appeared on his ‘for you’ page, videos he never liked but somehow still ended up saved to his phone, usually at 3 a.m. when his impulse control was at its weakest and the hollow ache in his chest was at its loudest.
even the damn gas station down the road from the studio was a hostile territory. he’d gone in to buy a questionable amount of energy drinks and shame-purchased junk food, and your voice was on a constant, cheerful loop over the store’s speakers.
the cashier, a pimply teenager who couldn’t have been older than seventeen, was humming your chorus while scanning his items, completely oblivious to the fact that he was serving the very man being lyrically eviscerated.
satoru had even caught himself, in a moment of pure, horrifying muscle memory, singing along under his breath. your lyrics, your polite, smiling denials, curling off his tongue as naturally as if they were a song he’d written himself. it was a new, exquisitely tailored form of psychological torture.
it made him sick.
the constant, low-grade thrum of your voice in the background of his life, the way his own brain had memorized the lyrics designed to dismantle him. it was a slow-acting poison, and he was willingly, pathologically, taking a dose every single day.
but it wasn’t sick enough to make him stop. not yet. he was still a masochist in the research phase of his own destruction, picking at the wound just to see if it still hurt. it did. every time.
and then came the festival. the one that would forever be known in fan lore and his own personal hall of shame as the great emotional immolation of satoru gojo.
the morning after, he woke up not to the gentle california sunlight streaming through his hotel window, but to the apocalyptic buzzing of his phone on the nightstand. it sounded less like a notification and more like a swarm of angry, digital hornets.
a quick, blurry-eyed glance confirmed his worst fears. seventeen missed calls from his manager, each one presumably more frantic than the last. forty-three text messages from suguru, a journey in itself, starting with a concerned, “you good?” and escalating to a mildly threatening, “if you don’t answer this phone i will hire a skywriter to broadcast your therapist’s home address.”
and then, the final nail in the coffin: a twitter notification informing him that his name was the number one trend in north america. right alongside “public meltdown,” “career suicide,” and, for some reason, “#gojosatoruisoverparty.”
he’d seen you backstage. that’s where it all went wrong.
it wasn’t some planned, dramatic encounter. it was just a moment of terrible, beautiful serendipity. he’d been walking from his trailer to the stage for soundcheck, a cloud of his own melancholic angst trailing behind him, when he saw you.
you, standing in a patch of that perfect, golden-hour california sunlight, looking like a champagne-soaked dream. you were dressed in a sparkling, sequined crop top the shade of pale rosé, paired with a tiny pleated skirt that swished around your thighs like it had been made to catch the light. rhinestone barrettes pinned back your hair in loose, glossy waves, and glitter dusted your cheekbones so every tilt of your head sent a thousand flecks of gold scattering into the air.
you looked like a festival poster come to life—sugar-sweet, dangerous in the way only the truly beautiful can be, the kind of girl who could wreck a man with nothing more than a laugh. you were talking to someone on your team, hands flying in that animated, passionate way you did, your layered charm bracelets chiming like little bells every time you gestured.
you looked every inch the pop star—glittering, untouchable, the kind of dazzling that belonged on a jumbotron and not within arm’s reach. but then you laughed at something your assistant said, quick and bright and so achingly familiar that for a split second he thought he’d imagined it. it wasn’t the glossy, camera-ready smile the world knew— it was yours, the one that had once been his private treasure.
for one stupid, treacherous moment, he swore the stage lights dimmed and the festival noise fell away, leaving only that smile and the memory of what it used to mean. his heart, that battered and bruised organ, performed a series of dazzling acrobatic routines.
hope, that stubborn, idiotic weed, bloomed in his chest like it had been watered by sunlight itself—reckless, impossible, a hallucination he couldn’t stop believing in.
and then you saw him. your conversation faltered. your smile tightened just a fraction. and you started walking towards him.
you approached him during his soundcheck, moving with a purpose that made your own team part like the red sea. you dodged a roadie carrying a tangle of cables and sidestepped a harried-looking assistant with the practiced, nimble skill of someone who had been navigating these chaotic backstage environments their entire life.
he watched you get closer, and he noticed something else. there was a flicker of what looked like genuine nervousness in your movements. your fingers were playing with the delicate hem of your dress, twisting the fabric. your teeth were catching your bottom lip, a nervous habit he knew meant you were thinking too hard, running a thousand different scenarios in your head at once.
“satoru,” you’d said, your voice so quiet he could barely hear it over the distant thud of a kick drum being tested. your voice, saying his name. it was the first time he’d heard it live, not from a speaker, in weeks. it hit him like a physical blow. “can we—”
“don’t.”
the word shot out of him, colder and harsher than he’d intended. it was a shard of ice, sharp enough to cut through the festival noise, and it sliced right through the fragile, hopeful expression on your face.
he saw you flinch. it wasn’t a big, dramatic movement, but it was there. a slight, almost imperceptible recoiling, as if he’d physically struck you. he watched, in what felt like agonizing slow motion, as the hope in your eyes flickered and died, instantly replaced by a carefully constructed, professionally blank mask. your face went from open to closed in a split second.
“just... don’t, okay?” he continued, his own wounded pride a roaring, ugly beast in his ears, drowning out every rational thought. “whatever publicity stunt this is, whatever your team told you to do for the cameras, i’m not interested.”
you stared at him, your mouth slightly parted in disbelief. your hand, which had been reaching out as if to touch his arm, froze mid-gesture. “satoru, it’s not—”
“save it,” he’d cut in, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “save it for someone who still believes in fairy tales.” he turned away then, a sharp, jerky movement, because he couldn’t bear to see the full extent of the damage his words had caused reflected in your eyes.
he’d walked away. he had actually, physically turned his back and walked away from you. from the one conversation he had been dreaming about, obsessing over, for weeks. all because his pride, his stupid, shredded, pathetic pride, was apparently more important than his own sanity.
it took a full twenty minutes for the adrenaline to fade and for the cold, horrifying reality of what he’d just done to settle in his gut like a stone.
by the time he’d spun around, his heart pounding with a sudden, desperate need to take it all back, you were gone. and he was left alone on the dusty backstage asphalt with nothing but the echoing sound of his own monumental stupidity and a growing, sickening certainty that he’d just ruined the only thing that had ever truly mattered.
the videos surfaced within hours. of course they did.
grainy, shaky phone footage from a dozen different angles, filmed by crew members and other artists’ assistants. the internet’s self-appointed body language experts went to town, dissecting every frame.
“satoru gojo snubs pop princess at sundown festival!!!” screamed the headlines. “he said WHAT to her??? watch the shocking video!” “the audacity of this man is actually breathtaking...”
his notifications became a digital disaster zone, a toxic waste dump of opinions and accusations. comments ranged from his loyal fans defending his “right to set boundaries” to absolutely vicious attacks from your fanbase, who were now calling for his public cancellation.
fans were picking sides like it was a brutal custody hearing, and he was being painted as the villain in a story he hadn’t even understood.
the internet had opinions about his opinions, think pieces about his think pieces, discourse about his discourse, until the original, painful, stupid moment was buried under a mountain of hot takes and hashtags.
but the worst part wasn’t the online backlash. it wasn’t the angry tweets or the think pieces or the trending hashtags.
it was the look on your face.
in every single one of those grainy videos, from every single angle, it was there. that split second of raw, unguarded hurt. the way your entire expression just… crumpled for a moment, like a carefully folded piece of paper suddenly crushed in a fist, before you caught yourself.
before the walls slammed back up, before the mask of professional poise slid back into place. before you walked away with your chin held high and your dignity perfectly intact, while he just stood there, looking like the world’s biggest, cruelest asshole in a pair of four-thousand-dollar boots.
that look. that single, fleeting expression of pain. that’s what haunted his dreams. that, and the sound of your voice saying his name—so soft, so hesitant, almost vulnerable—playing on a continuous, torturous loop in his head like a broken record he couldn’t turn off.
the label, being a soulless corporate entity, had of course noticed his downward spiral. there were a series of increasingly concerned emails from the pr department, all with vaguely threatening subject lines like “a quick check-in regarding brand synergy” and “managing the narrative moving forward.”
his manager had cornered him after the festival disaster, speaking to him in the gentle, placating tones one might use on a spooked horse or a toddler having a tantrum in a crowded supermarket.
but the real intervention, the one that actually mattered, came from his friends. and it came in the form of an ambush.
he’d shuffled into the studio one afternoon, running on three hours of sleep and a litre of iced coffee, to find them all waiting for him. not practicing, just… sitting. watching him. it was deeply unsettling.
suguru was the first to speak. he was leaning against an amp, arms crossed, his usual serene expression replaced with a look of profound, theatrical exasperation. he looked like a disappointed parent who was about to say “i’m not mad, i’m just disappointed,” which was somehow infinitely worse than him just being mad.
“satoru,” he began, his voice dangerously calm. “we need to talk about your brand.”
satoru, who had just collapsed onto the leather couch like a marionette with its strings cut, blinked at him. “my… brand?”
“yes. or should i say, my brand,” suguru said, pushing off the amp. “the one you seem to be systematically stealing, piece by pathetic, heartbroken piece.” he began to pace, the very picture of aggrieved artistry. “i have a very specific role in this band’s ecosystem, satoru. i am the dark, mysterious one. i am the brooding intellectual who writes cryptic lyrics about the duality of man. my fans expect a certain level of melancholic aesthetic from me. it’s a delicate balance.”
he stopped and gestured wildly at satoru. “and then you come along. you, mister ‘sunshine and chaos,’ mr. ‘i’ve never had a thought i haven’t immediately posted on instagram.’ and you’ve not only dipped your toe into my pool of existential angst, you’ve done a cannonball and splashed all the water out.”
sukuna, from his corner, snickered into his phone. “he’s not wrong. the sad boy market is oversaturated now. you’ve created a bubble.”
suguru shot sukuna a glare before continuing. “the edits, satoru. the fan edits are a disaster. my fan accounts—accounts that are supposed to be dedicated to artful, black-and-white photos of my side profile—are now posting split screens. me, looking pensive, next to you, looking like a kicked puppy in slow motion. they’re putting lana del rey songs over footage of your guitar solos. you have completely disrupted the delicate symbiotic relationship between our respective fandoms. it’s chaos.”
“i’m not trying to be sad,” satoru mumbled into a cushion, his voice thick with a misery that was, unfortunately, one hundred percent authentic. “i just am.”
“we know, man,” nanami said, and his voice was surprisingly gentle. he put his phone down, a sign of true seriousness. “that’s the problem. this isn’t an act for you right now, and it’s… getting a little scary.”
“scary?” satoru pushed himself up, looking between them. “what’s scary? i’m fine. i’m just… evolving.”
“evolution is for darwin. you’re not evolving, you’re spiraling,” suguru said, his frustration finally softening into something that looked a lot like genuine concern. “you look like you haven’t slept in a week. you’re living off gas station coffee and your own tears. and on stage… you’re somewhere else entirely.”
he was right. the tour had become a blur of sold-out arenas and hollow, echoing hotel rooms. his public pain had become a bizarre, marketable commodity, but the person underneath it all was starting to fray at the edges.
“the internet thinks it’s some kind of tragic, romantic performance art,” nanami added, his tone flat but not unkind. “we know it’s just you being a fucking idiot and breaking your own heart in public every night.”
“my point,” suguru cut in, re-railing the conversation back to the most important issue at hand, “is that this ‘fallen angel’ era of yours is deeply infringing on my carefully curated brand identity. but also,” he sighed, the fight going out of him, “we’re worried about you, you dumbass.”
“your thirst edits have officially become yearning edits,” sukuna chimed in, not looking up from his phone. “and frankly, the secondhand embarrassment is becoming overwhelming. you need to get a grip. for all our sakes.”
before satoru could even begin to mount a defense—a flimsy, transparent shield of excuses he didn’t even believe himself—a cheery, pastel-colored envelope was unceremoniously slapped into his hands. it felt less like a gift and more like a beautifully packaged restraining order from his own life.
vacation time! the cover proclaimed in a swirly, offensively cheerful font. mandatory rest and relaxation!
satoru stared at it, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and deep, personal offense. “what is this?” he asked, his voice flat.
“it’s a one-way ticket to okinawa,” nanami stated, his voice devoid of inflection. “the label has ‘graciously suggested’ you take two weeks off at your villa. it is, and i quote the email, ‘an opportunity to disconnect, recalibrate, and rediscover your core brand values.’”
his villa. the words landed like a stone in his gut. not some faceless corporate retreat, but his place. your place. the one he’d bought two years ago under a shell corporation, a sun-drenched, secluded hideaway tucked into a private cove where the cicadas sang louder than the world and time always seemed to move slower. his escape. your escape. where the walls were so saturated with your ghosts he ought to start charging them rent.
“you’re being exiled,” sukuna clarified helpfully. “to the scene of the crime, no less. deliciously ironic.”
“it’s not an exile, it’s a strategic retreat,” suguru said, his voice softening into something almost brotherly. he clapped a hand on satoru’s shoulder. “look, man. we cancelled everything for the next two weeks. go somewhere familiar. lick your wounds. try to remember who you were before you decided to publicly detonate your own heart.”
he squeezed his shoulder. “go to the beach. get some sun. go yell at the ocean. just, for the love of god,” he leaned in closer, “don’t check her social media.” a pause. “and don’t livestream your crying.”
with that, he turned and walked away, the air of a man who had successfully completed his good deed for the day.
satoru, of course, posted about it immediately. his phone was in his hand before the studio door had even swung shut.
an instagram story. a stark, black screen with simple, lowercase white text: gone fishing. don’t text unless you’re a mermaid or carrying good news about my emotional stability.
the caption on the follow-up post—a blurry, deeply melancholic picture of his designer suitcases by the door—read: sometimes healing looks like running away to a beach house and pretending your problems can’t swim. the lie tasted like ash in his mouth. he wasn’t running away to heal—he was running directly into the heart of the hurricane.
he packed like a man preparing for his own haunting. he shoved expensive, designer clothes and a mountain of emotional baggage into his suitcases with equal, chaotic disregard. oversized sunglasses to hide the exhaustion in his eyes.
a collection of ridiculously soft hoodies to disappear into, including the gray one. the gray one. he packed it with the reverence of a holy relic. and his guitar, because he was a masochist of the highest order, bringing the very instrument of his own destruction along to the crime scene.
his toiletry bag was a cry for help—half a pharmacy’s worth of hangover cures and the other half dedicated to various over-the-counter sleep aids, because consciousness had become a liability and his dreams were too dangerous, too full of you, to be trusted.
within five minutes of posting, it had two million views. by the time he reached the airport, a fan cam of him looking utterly miserable at baggage claim was already circulating on twitter, tragically set to a slowed-down, reverb-heavy version of chappell roan's “the subway.”
he turned his notifications off.
he told himself this was a good thing. exposure therapy. confronting the ghosts head-on. becoming the man he was before you’d turned his life into a chart-topping pop song and his heart into a trending topic.
he repeated it to himself like a mantra, a desperate, flimsy prayer. during the long, transatlantic flight. during the silent, humid taxi ride from the airport, a ride he'd taken with you sleeping on his shoulder more times than he could count.
but healing was a scam, and satoru gojo was a hypocrite of the highest, most spectacular order.
how did the bridge of your song go again? the part that twisted the knife with a polite, dismissive smile?
you replay my laughter like your favorite show, turned three little words to the gospel you know, drowning in a crush you refuse to outgrow, that’s not normal, just so you know
damn right.
it starts, as most of his worst decisions and best nights always have, with whiskey.
the good stuff. the hibiki, aged twenty-one years, a bottle he saves for either a celebration or a funeral. tonight, it’s both. he is mourning the death of his own heart, and celebrating his commitment to giving it the most lavish, expensive wake imaginable.
he’s three days deep into his okinawan exile, his glorious, sun-drenched prison of memories, and his entire existence has been distilled into a pathetic, repeating, and deeply luxurious loop.
wake up, stare at the ocean until its endless blue starts to feel like a personal accusation, drink whiskey that costs more than most people’s rent, and eventually, pass out. rinse, repeat.
he’s a mess. a beautiful, exquisitely tailored mess, but a mess nonetheless. a fine, pale layer of stubble is beginning to artfully obscure the sharp, arrogant line of his jaw, softening his edges, making him look less like a world-famous rockstar and more like a disgraced poet-aristocrat who has been banished to his country estate.
he’s living in the gray hoodie. it smells like stale, expensive whiskey and old heartbreak now, but underneath it all, buried deep in the worn cotton, is the faint, lingering ghost of you. it is, at once, the most comforting and most torturous garment he owns.
tonight’s special activity in this prison of memories he built for himself is a new, particularly exquisite form of self-punishment.
he’s sitting on the edge of the sprawling wooden deck, the one where he once watched you dance in the moonlight, his bare feet dangling over the edge, the warm, humid night air doing absolutely nothing to sober him.
his phone, a sleek black mirror of his own misery, is propped up against the now half-empty bottle of hibiki, and from its small, tinny speakers, a sad, reedy voice is singing your song.
it’s a cover. some kid on youtube with a cheap acoustic guitar, a condenser mic, and a palpable sense of secondhand angst.
he’s stripped away all the shimmering, bubbly, fuck-you-very-much production of your version, leaving only the raw, brutal architecture of your lyrics.
and satoru, in his drunken, masochistic haze, is forced to admit that the chord progression is actually quite clever. a devastatingly effective use of a minor-to-major key shift in the chorus that makes the denial sound almost triumphant. he hates it. he’s listened to it five times in a row.
this is his pathetic paradise. it was once your shared paradise, their secret, but he’s single-handedly turned it into a high-end emotional prison, where every grain of sand on the private beach below, every gust of sea-salted air, is a ghost of you.
he takes another long, slow pull from the bottle, the whiskey burning a familiar, welcome path down his throat, a controlled demolition.
and then, a sound.
it’s a buzz. a sharp, intrusive, offensively electronic noise that cuts through the sad acoustic melody and the gentle, rhythmic shushing of the waves. the intercom at the front gate.
satoru freezes, the bottle halfway to his lips. his entire body goes rigid. no one knows he’s here. not really. the label knows, his band knows, but no one else. it’s not a delivery person— it’s nearly midnight. his drunk, celebrity-addled brain, a finely tuned instrument of paranoia and melodrama, leaps to the one and only logical, cinematic conclusion.
it’s a sasaeng. a crazy fan. someone has found him. someone has breached the invisible walls of his secret, sacred hideaway. a tiny, shameful, deeply bored part of him is a little bit thrilled by the drama. it’s a welcome distraction from the main feature of his own suffering.
he stumbles to his feet, a low, animalistic growl rumbling in his chest. he fumbles for his phone, the sad acoustic cover still playing from its tinny speakers, and stabs at the screen to stop it. the sudden silence feels almost as oppressive as the music had. he shoves the phone into the pocket of his sweatpants and grabs the bottle of whiskey—his only weapon and his closest confidant—before making his way unsteadily through the dark, cavernous living room to the video intercom panel by the door. he stabs at the screen with his thumb, his movements clumsy.
the camera feed flickers to life, a grainy, stark black-and-white image of the front gate. and there, standing under the single, weak security light, is a figure.
it’s a person, he can tell that much. but they’re wearing the most ridiculously, conspicuously conspicuous outfit he has ever seen in his life.
a giant, floppy straw hat, the kind a wealthy widow would wear to a garden party, so wide it obscures their entire head and shoulders like a personal, portable awning. massive, dark sunglasses, the jackie o kind that cover half the face, even though it is the dead of night. and, most bizarrely of all, a full-length, beige trench coat, buttoned all the way up to the collar, an item of clothing so profoundly out of place in the thick, humid okinawan heat that it borders on performance art.
this is not a fan. this is a cryptid. a fashion-conscious mothman.
he presses the talk button. his voice comes out as a low, whiskey-soaked, and he hopes, intimidating slur. “yeah?”
a voice crackles back through the speaker. it’s muffled, high-pitched, and so obviously fake it’s genuinely insulting to his intelligence. “is this the residence of gojo satoru?”
definitely a fan. the tiny spark of thrill evaporates, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated annoyance. his private pity party had a strict “no uninvited guests” policy.
“nope,” he says, leaning his tired forehead against the cool, smooth wall beside the panel. he decides to lean into the absurdity of the situation. it’s more fun than being sad. “sorry, private property. satoru’s not here.” he straightens up, a spark of drunken, chaotic genius igniting in his brain. “he’s… in antarctica. for research. important research. about… penguins. you know.”
there’s a long, charged pause on the other end. then, the squeaky, fake voice again, now laced with an audible thread of deep, simmering frustration. “open the gate, satoru.”
the sound of his name, even in that stupid, cartoonish voice, sends a strange, unwelcome signal down his spine. it’s a frequency he knows, buried under layers of bad audio and bad decisions. she’s good. she’s committed to the bit. but he’s not falling for it.
“look, i don’t know who you are, but you need to leave before i call the police,” he says, trying to sound menacing and probably just sounding drunk and tired. “i’m not kidding. they take trespassing very seriously here. especially by poorly disguised cryptids.”
“i’m not leaving until you open this damn gate!” the voice shrieks, losing some of its artificial squeakiness and gaining a familiar, fiery, and deeply unsettling edge that sends a confusing jolt through his system.
that’s it. he’s had enough. his privacy has been violated, his meticulously planned evening of drunken self-reflection has been interrupted, and his sanity is hanging on by a single, frayed, whiskey-soaked thread. he’s going to go out there and confront this… this trench-coated menace in person.
he takes one last fortifying swig from the whiskey bottle, and yanks the heavy front door open, letting it slam against the interior wall behind him with a satisfying thud. he stumbles out into the warm, salty night, the sharp gravel of the long driveway crunching unpleasantly under his bare feet.
the walk to the gate feels like a mile. the single security light illuminates the bizarre figure, and as he gets closer, he can see the way the thick fabric of the trench coat is already starting to look damp and heavy in the humidity. a small, dark part of him hopes they’re suffering in there.
“alright, show’s over,” he slurs, stopping a few feet from the tall, wrought iron gate. he holds up the whiskey bottle like a makeshift club. “i’m giving you ten seconds to get off my property before i call the cops and have you arrested for trespassing and for crimes against fashion, because what even is that coat? are you a detective from a 1940s film noir?”
the figure just stands there for a second, a statue of pure, vibrating frustration. and then, with a sudden, violent movement of pure exasperation, you rip the giant, floppy hat off your head, sending it sailing to the gravel with a soft, defeated rustle. you follow it with the oversized sunglasses, yanking them off with such force that they almost fly from your hand.
and it’s you.
it’s. you.
you look furious. your hair is a mess, flattened by the hat and sticking to your skin, which is flushed a deep, angry pink and gleaming with a thin layer of sweat from the ridiculous, suffocating coat. you are breathing heavily, your chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged movements, and you look absolutely, incandescently, nothing like a crazy fan.
you look like his own personal ghost, his most beautiful and terrible haunting, come back to torment him in the flesh.
satoru’s brain does a full, catastrophic system crash. it’s a blue screen of death, a fatal error, a complete and total shutdown of all cognitive function.
the whiskey, the exhaustion, the weeks of unrelenting misery, and the sheer, unadulterated shock of seeing you standing right there, in front of him, creates a perfect storm of cognitive dissonance.
he can see you, his eyes are taking in the information, but his brain is flatly refusing to process it. is he hallucinating? is this a whiskey-fueled mirage? has he finally, officially, gone completely and irrevocably insane?
the silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the chirping of cicadas and the distant, mocking sound of the waves. he just stands there, whiskey bottle dangling forgotten from his hand, his mouth hanging slightly open like a fool.
and before he can form a single, coherent, romantic thought—before he can say your name, or “i miss you,” or “what the fuck are you doing here?”—you unleash.
but you’re not crying. you’re not there to apologize. you are radiating a fury so pure, so potent, it feels like it’s raising the temperature of the air around you. your opening line is not “i miss you.” it is delivered with the sharp, cutting edge of a woman who has been profoundly, personally, and absurdly scorned.
“you didn’t recognize me.”
your voice is low, seething with a rage that seems completely disconnected from the situation at hand. you stare at him through the bars of the gate, your hands clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists at your sides.
satoru is baffled. his drunk brain is trying to catch up, but it’s like trying to catch a bullet train on a tricycle. “what?” he manages, the word a stupid, confused puff of air.
“you didn’t recognize me!” you repeat, your voice rising in volume and sheer, theatrical disbelief. you take a step closer to the gate, your knuckles bone-white where you’re gripping the cool iron bars. “you promised me, satoru. right here, on this property, probably on that very deck. you promised.”
he has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. he’s still stuck on the fact that you are physically here, in okinawa, at his gate, looking like you want to both kiss him and kill him.
“you said,” you continue, your voice now trembling with a rage that is so much more terrifying than sadness, so much more confusing, “you said, and i quote, ‘i would know it was you even if you were a worm.’ a literal, dirt-eating, slimy little worm! you said you would see a worm wriggling on the sidewalk after a rainstorm and you would just know, in your soul, that it was me! but you can’t recognize me in a stupid fucking hat? was the worm thing a lie, satoru?! was it just another one of your pretty, empty, poetic lines that you feed to girls?”
and there it is. the central, catastrophic conflict. it is not your public, lyrical betrayal of his heart. it is not the weeks of radio silence and public misery.
it is his failure to live up to a ridiculous, probably-drunken, and deeply sincere worm-related promise he doesn’t even remember making. the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it is so you, and so him, and so you and him, that for a split second, a hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat.
but then his own bruised ego, his own deep, festering well of hurt, finally catches up. his brain reboots, and the confusion curdles into a hot, indignant, and deeply satisfying sulk. oh, no. he’s not just going to let you steamroll him with this… this invertebrate-based accusation. not after everything.
he straightens up, a slow, deliberate movement, and a dark, humorless smirk curls his lips. he takes a slow, deliberate sip from the whiskey bottle, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent, theatrical pause.
“a worm, huh?” he says, his voice a low, dangerous purr that’s dripping with sarcasm. “that’s a high bar.” he lowers the bottle, his smirk widening into a full, sharp-edged grin. “you released a song that is essentially a three-minute restraining order set to a pop beat, a song that has been the soundtrack to my own personal, waking hell for three weeks, and you show up here, at my private, secret hideaway, dressed like carmen sandiego’s depressed, heat-stroked cousin, and you’re mad—you’re mad—that i didn’t immediately recognize you because of some bullshit promise about a worm?”
“it wasn’t bullshit!” you shoot back, rattling the gate in your frustration, the sound sharp and angry in the night. “it was a metaphor for unconditional recognition! a literary concept you clearly don’t understand because you’re too busy being a himbo!”
“oh, i understand recognition,” he says, taking a step closer to the gate, his voice dropping, the sound of it a low, intimate growl. “i recognize the girl who wrote a chart-topping song implying i’m a delusional, obsessive stalker. that girl, i recognize perfectly.”
“i had to!” you shout, and for the first time, a crack appears in your furious facade. a flicker of something desperate and real and deeply hurt flashes in your eyes. “i had no choice!”
“a choice?” he laughs, a short, ugly, humorless sound that scrapes his own throat. “you always have a choice. you could have called. you could have texted. you could have sent a fucking carrier pigeon.”
“with what phone?!” you scream, your frustration boiling over. you finally find the keypad on the gate post and punch in the code—the code you still remember, his birthday, 1-2-0-7—and the gate clicks open with a soft, final buzz.
you storm through, shoving past him without a glance, the ridiculous trench coat flapping around you like the wings of a large, angry bird. “you think this is what i wanted? you think i enjoyed any of this?”
he follows you as you march up the long, gravel driveway, his angry, stomping footsteps a stark contrast to the quiet of the night. he can’t help but watch the sway of your hips, even when you’re furious. “i don’t know what you wanted! you made that pretty clear in your little hit single!”
you spin around to face him in the middle of the driveway, your face illuminated by the warm, golden light spilling from the open front door of the villa. “satoru, your song was… it was the most charming, reckless, stupidly romantic thing anyone has ever done. and it forced my agency’s hand!”
you take a step towards him, your voice lowering, becoming more intense. “they see ‘gojo satoru’ and they see ryomen sukuna setting a reporter’s car on fire. they see him getting into bar fights in foreign countries. they see him as ‘brand kryptonite’ for a pop princess whose biggest controversy to date is wearing mismatched socks. your song put a giant, glittering, neon sign on ‘us,’ a thing they didn’t even know existed, and they panicked, satoru! they went into full crisis mode.”
he just stares at you, the whiskey buzzing in his veins, your words finally, slowly, starting to penetrate the thick fog of his own self-pity.
“that’s why i came to the festival,” you continue, your voice cracking slightly, the anger finally giving way to the hurt underneath. “they took my phone, they had a ‘handler’ following me everywhere. it was my only chance to find you, to try and explain anything before they forced me into a recording studio to sing that… that corporate, soulless, pr statement of a song. and you… you looked right through me and told me to save it for a fairy tale.”
the blow lands. right in the center of his chest, a clean, sharp, and deeply deserved hit. the memory of your crumpled face flashes in his mind, and for the first time in weeks, the anger he feels is directed entirely at himself..
but he’s hurt. and he’s drunk. and he is absolutely, categorically not ready to surrender the moral high ground he has been so miserably occupying for the past three weeks.
your explanation, as logical and painful as it sounds, is an inconvenient truth that his pride is refusing to process. it’s easier to be the victim. it’s easier to be the one who was wronged.
he just stares at you for a long, heavy moment. the air in the driveway is thick with the ghosts of your shouted words and the scent of the sea. your face, illuminated by the warm light spilling from the villa, is a mask of exhausted frustration, your eyes pleading with him to just, for once, understand.
a part of him, the sober, rational part that is currently locked in the basement of his skull, knows you’re telling the truth. but the rest of him, the part that’s been marinating in hibiki and self-pity, just sees the woman who broke his heart on the radio.
“so that’s it?” he finally says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. he takes a step towards you, closing the space you’d put between you, forcing you to tilt your head back to look at him. “you just expect me to say ‘oh, okay, that makes sense,’ and just… what? forget the past months? forget the song? forget the fact that you turned my heart into a international pop anthem about how i’m a delusional clinger?”
“i’m not asking you to forget it, satoru,” you say, your voice weary. you don’t back down, don’t flinch from his proximity. “i’m asking you to listen for five seconds without making this entire thing about your wounded pride. i missed you. i was scared. and i was completely alone.”
the words “i missed you” hang in the air between you, a fragile, shimmering thing. they should be a balm, a key, the thing that ends this. but his pride is a fortress, and he’s not ready to lower the gates.
“you don’t get to say that,” he whispers, the words sharp and cruel. “not now. not after you stood by and let them do it.”
he turns away from you then, a sharp, jerky movement, and stalks into the house, leaving you standing alone in the driveway. he needs to move, needs to pace, the restless, angry energy in his veins too much to contain.
you follow him in, closing the door softly behind you. the sound clicks with a quiet finality. your anger has momentarily cooled, replaced by a deep, aching sadness as you take in the state of the room. it’s a mess. his mess. empty ramen cups on the expensive coffee table, a discarded shirt slung over a chair, the half-empty bottle of whiskey standing sentinel on the floor.
it’s the physical manifestation of his heartbreak, and it makes your own chest ache with a fresh wave of guilt and longing.
“satoru, stop,” you say, your voice soft now, pleading. “just stop and listen to me.”
“i’ve been listening!” he snaps, spinning around to face you. he’s pacing now, a caged tiger in his own home, gesturing wildly around the room, at the mess, at the ghosts, at the empty space beside him on the couch. “i’ve been doing nothing but listening! to your song, on the radio, in grocery stores, in my own fucking nightmares! what more do you want me to listen to?”
“to me! the real me, not the version my label wrote a press release for!” you take a step closer, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “i told you, i tried to talk to you at the festival—”
“oh, the festival!” he laughs, a short, ugly, humorless sound. “yeah, let’s talk about that. what did you expect me to do? you think i didn’t see the cameras? the phones? everyone from crew members to other artists had a video of that little moment. of me snubbing you. you know what would have happened if i’d let you ‘explain’ right there? it would have been career suicide. for you.”
he stops pacing and faces you, his expression a twisted mask of self-righteous fury and genuine pain. “your song was the biggest hit of the summer. a song all about how you don’t know me, how i’m some delusional fan. for you to turn around a week later and say ‘just kidding’? you would have looked like the world’s biggest hypocrite. i did the right thing. i saved your precious fucking career for you.”
“don’t you dare,” you say, your voice dangerously quiet. you close the distance between you until you’re only a few feet apart, the air crackling with everything unsaid. “don’t you dare pretend that was for me. that was for your pride. that was you, hurt and angry, and lashing out because it was easier than listening.”
you take another step, close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him. “i get it,” you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. “i do. i know what my song did. i know it hurt. but it hurt me too. and you don’t get to decide what’s best for me or my career. you just get to decide whether or not you’ll listen when i’m standing right in front of you, trying to tell you the truth.”
your words land like a clean punch. he’s got nothing. no sarcastic retort, no angry denial. he just looks at you, his jaw tight, his beautiful face a mess of conflicting emotions. he knows you’re right. he’s lost the argument, and the sudden loss of his righteous anger leaves him feeling raw and exposed.
his brain, a frantic and unreliable narrator fueled by alcohol and pain, casts about for a new grievance, a new anchor. it needs to find some ground, any ground, where he can be right, where he isn’t the asshole.
and then, his wild, desperate eyes land on the open door to the master bathroom. and in its infinite, irrational wisdom, his brain finds it. the perfect, petty, indestructible piece of driftwood.
“you know what?” he says, his voice dropping, a sudden, bizarre shift in tone. “this is just typical. this is what you do.”
you stare at him, your expression a perfect mask of utter bafflement. the whiplash from the conversation is almost audible. “what are you talking about?”
“you just waltz in here,” he continues, taking a step towards you, his voice rising with a new, completely unhinged wave of indignation, “back into my life, into my—our—house, and you just expect everything to be exactly how you want it. you don’t think. you just do.”
“satoru, you’re not making any sense,” you say, taking a cautious step back, looking at him like he might have actually, finally, lost his mind.
“oh, it makes sense,” he says, and he points a long, accusatory, and slightly trembling finger towards the bathroom. “it makes perfect sense. because you’re the same person. you’re the same person who never, not once, puts the cap back on the toothpaste!”
the accusation hangs in the air, so profoundly, wonderfully stupid it feels like a physical object.
for a moment, you just stare at him, your mouth slightly agape. the sheer, unadulterated audacity of the pivot is almost impressive. you look from his wild, accusing eyes to the bathroom and back again.
and then, a slow, dangerous smile spreads across your face.
“the toothpaste cap?” you say, your voice a low, incredulous purr. you cross your arms over your chest, a gesture of pure, familiar defiance. “you want to talk about the toothpaste cap, satoru? after everything, after weeks of silence and public humiliation, that’s the hill you want to die on?” you don’t wait for an answer. “fine. let’s talk about it. and while we’re at it, let’s talk about how you squeeze it from the middle like a goddamn barbarian.”
his eyes narrow. “i do not—”
“you absolutely do! and you leave your contact case open on the counter with the solution evaporating, and you use my expensive face wash as body soap!” you take a deliberate step forward. “the one that costs more than your stupid designer socks that you leave everywhere like some kind of textile breadcrumb trail!”
“those socks cost eight hundred dollars!” he yells back.
“then maybe don’t treat them like disposable napkins!” you shout, throwing your hands up. “there’s probably one fossilized under that couch cushion from march! and don’t get me started on how you eat cereal—who the hell puts the milk in first?!”
“it prevents splashing!”
“it’s psychotic behavior, satoru! and you leave exactly one sip of coffee in the pot every morning like you’re marking territory!”
“i was saving it for you!”
“for three hours while it turned into battery acid!” you’re pacing now, and he’s mirroring you, both of you circling like wolves. “and you reorganize my spotify playlists! without asking! i had my shower songs in a very specific order!”
“your shower songs made no sense! you can’t go from chopin to cardi b!”
“it’s called range!”
you’re close now, close enough that your chests are almost touching. he can smell your perfume mixed with travel and fury. you can see the gold flecks in his impossibly blue eyes.
and then, the shouting stops.
his eyes drop from yours to your mouth, still parted from yelling at him about cereal protocol. and you know, with a terrifying, primal certainty that starts as a low thrum deep in your belly, what’s about to happen.
satoru doesn’t know who moves first. it doesn’t matter. one moment you’re locked in a standoff, and the next, in a surge of pure, frustrated energy, you shove him. both your hands flat against his chest, a futile, desperate attempt to create space, to regain some semblance of control.
it’s like pushing against a marble statue. he doesn’t budge an inch, just absorbs the impact with a low, dark chuckle that vibrates through his chest and into your palms.
and then he’s the one moving.
he flips it, the dynamic shifting so fast it steals the breath from your lungs. one of his large, warm hands tangles in your hair, gripping the strands at the nape of your neck, not painfully, but with an absolute, undeniable ownership that makes your knees feel weak.
his other arm snakes around your waist, yanking you flush against the hard, unyielding length of him. and he’s crashing his mouth down on yours.
it is less a kiss and more a collision. it’s angry, and messy, and full of teeth. there is too much tongue, a slick, hot invasion that seeks to dominate, to silence, to consume. it tastes like expensive whiskey and the salt on your skin and weeks of pent-up, unspoken frustration.
he walks you backwards, his steps sure and deliberate, while yours are a clumsy, stumbling retreat. your back hits the cool, smooth surface of the wall with a soft thud, the sound swallowed by the wet, open-mouthed chaos of the kiss. he cages you in, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle in front of you, his size, his sheer presence, filling your entire world, your entire vision.
your hands, of their own accord, fist in the soft, worn fabric of his gray hoodie, pulling him closer, as if that were even possible. you’re both panting into each other’s mouths, the fight not over, just changed.
“you have no idea…” he growls against your lips, the words a rough, broken thing.
“…what you put me through,” you manage to gasp back, your insult lost as he bites, gently but firmly, at your bottom lip, pulling a low, involuntary moan from your throat.
the warmth of his palm lands first, a heavy, possessive brand on your thigh, just above the knee. you feel the distinct, rough texture of his callouses, a geography you know by heart, as he begins a lazy, torturous crawl upwards.
it’s the touch he’s been fantasizing about for weeks, and the reality of your skin, warm and real under his hand, makes a shudder run through his entire body.
your breath hitches, a tiny, involuntary sound you can’t hold back, and he feels it against his mouth, a silent gasp that tastes like victory. he watches your eyes flutter shut as his hand finally settles high on your leg, his thumb pressing into the sensitive crease where your thigh meets your hip.
his fingers find the lapel of your ridiculous trench coat, and for a moment, he just toys with the fabric, his cerulean eyes, dark with whiskey and something much more potent, fixed on yours. then he starts on the buttons.
you feel the clumsy, frustrated pressure of his large fingers against your stomach, a stark contrast to the usual grace you know he possesses. a low, frustrated growl rumbles in his chest, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours, making your stomach flip with a dizzying mix of anticipation and dread.
“get this thing off,” he mutters, his voice a rough, gravelly thing against your mouth. he gives up on the buttons, his patience snapping. he grabs the coat on either side and yanks it open, the force of it making you stumble a step closer, your body colliding with his.
you let out a soft ‘oof’ as you land against the hard wall of his chest, your hands coming up to brace yourself against his shoulders. he shrugs the heavy, sweat-dampened fabric off you, letting it fall in a heap on the floor behind you, a discarded skin.
and then he sees you. really sees you. not on a screen, not in a memory, but here. real. just you in a dress, now wrinkled from your journey.
he lets out a low, appreciative sound, a sound of pure, unadulterated want, his eyes raking over you, a slow, possessive inventory. this is the image he’s been replaying in his head in the darkest hours of the night, and the reality of you is a thousand times more potent.
his hand comes back to you, this time to the delicate strap of your dress. he doesn’t slide it down. he hooks his finger under it, his gaze locked on yours, and pulls. the sound is a short, sharp, satisfying rip, and you jolt, a shocked little gasp escaping your lips. the sound, your sound, makes his grin turn feral. he does the same to the other strap, spurred on by your reaction.
he shoves the ruined bodice of the dress down, bunching the fabric around your waist, freeing your breasts to the cool air of the room. your nipples pebble instantly, a betrayal your body offers up without your consent.
his mouth detaches from yours with a wet, sticky sound and follows the path of his hands, his tongue a hot, wet brand against the swell of your breast. he laves the peak, the rough texture of his tongue sending a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure straight to your core.
he draws it into his mouth, his teeth gently scraping, and a full-body shudder wracks through you. your head falls back against the wall with a soft thud as a low, helpless moan escapes your lips. your fingers, which were braced against his shoulders, fist in the thick fabric of his gray hoodie, pulling him impossibly closer, a silent, desperate plea for more.
that’s the sound he’s been waiting for. that’s the sound he’s been imagining.a low, triumphant growl vibrates in his chest, and his other hand finds your thigh, his thumb drawing slow, lazy circles on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he lifts your leg, hooking it around his narrow hip, granting himself the access he so clearly craves.
you gasp as the cool air hits your wet, exposed skin, your thighs clenching involuntarily. his mouth is on yours again, deeper this time, wetter, a frantic, desperate thing. his tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting of whiskey and himself and the desperation he can now taste on you. he pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath hot and ragged against your lips.
“you know,” he begins, his voice a low, conversational purr, as if you were just chatting over coffee. his hand, which had been on your thigh, slides inwards. he lets his fingers brush lightly over the thin, damp fabric of your underwear. you flinch, a tiny, involuntary jerk of your hips. he smirks. “for a girl who wrote a whole, chart-topping song about me being a delusional clinger…”
his fingers press down, just slightly, and he feels it. the undeniable, shameless proof of how wet you are. his smirk widens into a full, sharp-edged, triumphant grin.
“…this is a little inconvenient for your narrative, isn’t it?” he asks, his voice dripping with playful, condescending victory. he chuckles, a low, dark sound against your throat. “funny. the lyrics didn’t mention anything about this part.”
he hooks a finger under the elastic of your underwear, not to pull them off, but just to feel the wet, slick heat of you directly. “i’ve heard enough of your singing voice on the radio for a lifetime. let’s hear what you really sound like when you’re being honest.”
he hooks his fingers into the side of your underwear and rips them away, the sound another satisfying tear in the quiet of the room. and then his fingers, bare and slick with your own wetness, are on you.
the reality of you, slick and hot under his hands, is a thousand times better than the memory he’s been clinging to for months. one finger at first, then two, slipping inside you with an easy, familiar glide.
the feeling of him stretching you, filling you, makes another low moan rumble in your chest, and you press yourself down onto his hand, a silent, shameless offering. he groans at the feeling, the feeling he’s been chasing in his own hand for weeks.
he starts to move, and at the same time, he starts to grind against you. his erection, thick and hard and straining against the thin fabric of his sweatpants, presses against your thigh, a steady, rhythmic friction that makes your head spin.
you can feel the heat of him, the sheer size of him, and the promise of it makes a low, needy whine escape your throat. every time you whine, every little desperate sound you make, he grinds a little harder, his fingers moving a little faster, a cruel, perfect feedback loop of pleasure.
his fingers move with an impossible, dizzying speed, a frantic, desperate rhythm that mirrors the chaos in his head. he finds that perfect spot inside you, the one that makes your toes curl, and he starts to work it, a relentless, focused assault. he adds his thumb to the mix, a rough, calloused pressure against your clit, and the combination is devastating.
your hips start to buck against his hand, actively trying to fuck his fingers, to grind your clit raw against the rough pad of his thumb. the pleasure is too much, a sharp, white-hot wire coiling tight and low in your belly, making your legs tremble uncontrollably.
a constant, broken stream of noise is torn from your throat—high, needy whines and choked, sob-like gasps of his name, “satoru, satoru, fuck—” the sounds are ugly, shameless, and a flash of mortification cuts through the haze. your free hand flies up, slapping over your mouth to stifle the next pathetic cry.
but his reflexes are faster. he snatches your wrist, his grip like a steel manacle, and yanks your hand away from your face, pinning it flat to the wall beside your head.
“no,” he growls, his voice a low, guttural command that vibrates through the wall and into your skull. he leans in, his hot breath ghosting over your ear. “you don’t get to hide from me. i want to hear every fucking ugly sound you make. i’ve been jerking off to the memory of these sounds for months.”
a sharp, shocked gasp is torn from your throat. your hips slam down hard onto his hand, a single, involuntary thrust, and your inner walls give a deep, fluttering pulse against his knuckles.
he feels it. a low, dark chuckle rumbles in his chest, the sound of pure, smug victory. “oh, you like that?” he murmurs, his thumb, which had been part of the frantic rhythm, suddenly slowing, pressing and grinding against your clit in a single, deliberate, torturous circle. “my needy little mess. getting all hot and bothered hearing about how i use you in my head. it’s not enough, though. the memories aren’t the real thing.”
his fingers inside you shift. instead of pumping, they press upwards, his knuckles finding that sensitive, swollen spot deep inside you and just holding, a firm, unwavering pressure that sends a dizzying shockwave through your entire system. a high, broken whine is torn from your throat.
“you know what’s even better than the memories?” he asks, his voice a low, filthy secret against your ear, while his thumb continues its relentless, circular assault. “your music video. yeah, that one. the one where you’re systematically dismantling my heart on a global scale.”
your whole body tenses, a wave of pure, exquisite humiliation washing over you.
“the part on the beach,” he continues, his voice a rough purr. “in that little white linen thing.” he pauses, and you can feel the smirk in his voice as he presses his knuckles just a little bit harder. “i was so fucking pissed watching it. and so fucking hard. you weren’t wearing anything underneath, were you? you never do at the beach.”
the intimate, secret detail, spoken aloud while he holds you pinned on the edge of a climax, is what finally makes you break. your entire body convulses, a choked, sob-like sound ripping from your throat as your hips start to move again, a desperate, mindless rocking against his unmoving hand, trying to create your own friction. you’re completely lost to it.
“that’s it,” he growls, his own control fraying. his hand finally starts to move again, a new, brutal rhythm. his fingers scissor inside you, stretching you, opening you up in a way that’s a completely different kind of overwhelming pleasure, while his thumb never leaves its relentless, circular assault on your clit. your moans get louder, higher, more desperate, shameless sounds of pure need.
and then he stops.
his fingers, buried to the knuckles inside your soaking cunt, go dead still. your inner walls, already spasming in anticipation, clench down hard around his motionless fingers. a raw, frustrated whine rips from the back of your throat. your eyes snap open, glaring, a petulant fire flashing in their depths before clouding over with that pathetic, desperate need he loves so much.
a slow, soft, fucking smirk touches his lips. his free hand comes up, his thumb gently stroking the tear track on your cheek, the pad of it coming away wet.
“what was that, princess?” his voice is a low, intimate purr. his other thumb, still slick with your fluid and pressed hard against your throbbing clit, makes a single, slow, deliberate circle. a sharp, broken gasp parts your lips on a silent plea. your hips buck hard against the tiny movement. “you want something? use your words for me. i need to hear you.”
“you’re a pervert,” you breathe, the accusation completely lacking any real heat, just a shaky, breathless statement of fact. “thinking about… that. while you watched my video.”
a slow, smug, triumphant grin spreads across his face. he doesn’t deny it. he revels in it. “am i?” he purrs, his voice a low, intimate rumble. “i’m not the one who’s completely falling apart right now.” to prove his point, his thumb grinds another slow, deliberate circle into your clit, and another gush of your slick leaks around his fingers, hot and thick, your body betraying you completely. “look at this mess. all because you found out a little secret.”
his tongue darts out, tracing the delicate shell of your ear, and a violent shiver wracks your whole body. his voice drops to a whisper, his hot breath ghosting against your skin. “you love it. you love knowing you make me this pathetic. now stop being a brat and earn it. beg for my fingers, right here, inside your cunt. ask me nicely.”
your jaw clenches so tight a muscle jumps under your skin. he knows exactly what to do. his fingers hook inside you, and at the same time, his thumb grinds a hard circle into your clit. a tiny, brutal movement that makes your body break.
a loud, shameless sob of a moan is torn from your throat, your eyes squeezing shut. there it is. the sweet little sound of his brat giving in.
“please,” you sob, the word thick with spit and desperation. “please, satoru. please, i need to… please…”
his smirk widens softly, almost fond. his own breath hitches. fuck, he missed this. “good girl,” he whispers, the words a rough, awestruck sound. his hand is a fucking blur. a punishing, piston-like rhythm begins.
two fingers pumping in and out, brutal and deep, while his thumb grinds your clit into a raw, throbbing nub. his hips start grinding against your thigh, his own thick, hard cock a constant, torturous promise against your leg.
your back arches off the wall as he pushes you harder, right to that dizzying edge. your voice cracks, degrading into a series of broken, pathetic mewls, his name a constant, breathy noise ripped from your throat.
a fresh gush of your slick soaks his hand, so much that it drips down his wrist. your inner muscles start to flutter around his knuckles. you’re about to come all over his hand.
and then he stops again.
the stillness is even more brutal this time. your body, already convulsing, seizes up. a choked, frustrated cry rips from your throat.
your hips keep trying to buck against his motionless hand, a frantic, mindless rhythm your body can’t stop, but his other hand clamps down on your hip bone, a firm, unyielding anchor pinning you to the wall, holding you still for his torment. hot tears stream down your face. he gently thumbs them away, his eyes fixed on your mouth, now open and slack.
“not yet,” he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing caress against your cheek. he’s panting now, his own cock aching in his pants. “i’m not done looking at you like this.” he leans in, his whisper a hot caress against your ear. “your pretty little cunt spasming around my fingers, trying to milk me. so greedy for it. now, use your words for me. you know what to do.”
a raw, frustrated, and deeply petulant sound rips from your throat. “i did!” you whine, the words a thick, angry sob. “i already said please! what more do you want from me?!”
a slow, condescending, and utterly delighted smirk touches his lips. he loves this. he loves when you try to fight him, even when you’re this far gone. he leans in again, his voice a low, patient purr, as if explaining a very simple rule to a very stupid, very pretty pet.
“‘please’?” he echoes, his thumb making a single, slow, deliberate circle against your clit that makes your hips give a violent, involuntary jerk against his restraining hand. “princess, ‘please’ is for asking for another glass of water. it’s not for this.” he looks you right in the eye, his gaze dark and intense. “i don’t want you to be polite. i want you to be a fucking mess. you know the word i need. the ugly one. the one that tells me you’re not just asking, you’re completely falling apart for it. say the word, baby.”
your mind scrambles, trying to find one last shred of defiance, one last smart-ass comment to throw at him. “what word…?” you manage, your voice a thin, reedy thing. “pretty please?”
a slow, dark, fucking dangerous smirk touches his lips. that was a mistake. his fingers inside you, which had been still, suddenly hook, and he drags them once, a slow, brutal scrape against that raw, swollen, perfect spot deep inside you.
it’s not pleasure. it’s a full-body, electric shock that short-circuits your brain and shatters your last bit of resistance into a million pieces. a loud, shameless sob is torn from your throat, your entire body going rigid for a second before completely breaking.
“please—fuck, satoru, it hurts, please just let me—” you sob, the words a jumbled, broken mess. “i need to come, i need it, please just fuck my cunt with your fingers, please i’m begging you, i’ll do anything…”
his grin is feral, but his eyes are soft with a deep, possessive fondness. he loves this. he loves you like this. “i know,” he says, and the two words are a promise and a threat, a confirmation that he heard your surrender and is about to reward you for it.
your thighs shake against his arm, the muscles quivering so uncontrollably it’s a miracle you’re still standing. his hand is a blur, a punishing, piston-like rhythm that feels less like pleasure and more like a frantic, desperate attempt to erase the last few weeks from existence. .
he hooks his fingers deeper, drags your g-spot directly across his knuckles with every brutal pump, while his thumb grinds your clit into a raw, throbbing, oversensitive nub. the pleasure is so sharp it’s almost pain, a white-hot wire coiling tight and low in your belly, making you see stars behind your closed eyelids.
your voice, which had been a series of pathetic mewls, finally gives out completely. the sound degrades into a thin, reedy keen, a high-pitched, hopeless noise that’s not quite a scream, not quite a sob, just the pure, unfiltered sound of a body being pushed past its absolute limit.
another gush of your slick, so much that it runs hot and thick down your own thigh, soaks his hand, his wrist. he feels your cunt contract violently around his knuckles, a frantic, desperate, pulsing rhythm that signals you’re right there, on the precipice of a climax so powerful you’re not sure you’ll survive it. this is it. he promised.
and for the third, and most brutal time, he freezes.
this time, the silence is a physical blow. you don’t even have the energy to whine in protest. a single, ragged, broken sob is torn from your throat as your body gives a violent, full-body twitch. your hips give a few weak, mindless rocks against his motionless hand, a pathetic, instinctual attempt to find the friction that has vanished. hot, silent tears stream down your face, not from sadness, but from pure, devastating frustration and sensory overload.
he leans his forehead against yours, his own breathing harsh and unsteady, the muscles in his jaw tight with the strain of his own denial. he watches as your pupils, blown wide and black, slowly, painfully, try to focus on him. you look completely undone. empty.
“look at you,” he whispers, and his voice is full of a strange, possessive reverence, the sound of a man witnessing a miracle of his own creation. “so fucking beautiful like this.” his thumb comes up, gently stroking the wet track of a tear on your cheek. “this is the real you, isn’t it? not the girl on the posters. this messy, crying, completely shameless girl who falls apart for me. this is the one i get.”
he closes the tiny space between you, his lips brushing yours, so close but not kissing you, another small, perfect cruelty. “your voice…” he continues, his voice a low, intimate murmur against your mouth. “everyone in the world pays millions to hear you sing those pretty, perfect words. but this sound…”
he pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in, his gaze devouring you. “this ugly, broken little keen you were just making? that’s mine. that’s the sound no one else will ever hear. that’s the price of admission for breaking my heart, baby. i get this part of you. forever.”
a tiny, broken sound escapes your lips, a pathetic, desperate plea. “please…”
that’s all he needs. the sound of that single, shattered word is his final permission. he gives you a final, brutal push, a punishing, piston-like rhythm designed to shatter you, his own breath coming in harsh gasps. he works you over, his fingers a relentless assault, until your body is convulsing again, the violent spasm of your orgasm finally, truly beginning to take you.
your inner walls clench and unclench around his knuckles in a frantic, desperate rhythm. a long, keening note of pure, unrestrained pleasure builds in your throat, a hopeless, reedy sound threatening to shatter.
and right as that first true wave of pleasure hits, he rips his fingers out of you.
the sound is a wet, slick pop that echoes in the sudden, shocking silence. the climax is stolen, a brutal theft that leaves a hollow, aching void where the light was about to break.
your back slams against the wall as your body convulses around nothing. your hips keep bucking, a frantic, pathetic, mindless rhythm, chasing the ghost of his touch, your cunt spasming on empty air. a raw, animalistic keen is torn from your throat—not a sound of protest, but of pure, thwarted instinct, the sound of a creature whose very soul has been denied.
“look at me,” he commands, his voice a low, rough growl.
you force your heavy eyelids open, your vision blurry with tears of pure frustration. he’s fumbling with the drawstring of his sweatpants, his eyes never leaving yours, a desperate, hungry look on his face. he pushes them down, just enough, and he’s free. the dim light catches the glint of metal first—a familiar, brutalist glint of polished titanium.
he is, as you remembered with a sharp, visceral pang, big. so thick and long and impossibly, beautifully, him, made even more intimidating by the barbell that pierces him vertically, a deliberate, beautiful weapon you know all too well.
he doesn’t wait. he doesn’t ask. your hips give another pathetic, involuntary twitch, and that’s all the invitation he needs. he positions himself at your entrance, the blunt, hot tip of him pressing against your slick, throbbing folds.
and he pushes into you. all at once.
the initial invasion is a deep, soul-shattering stretch that fills you completely, but it’s the second, more subtle impact that detonates you. as he drives in, the small, cool, heavy bead of metal at the base of his cockhead slides past your g-spot, a specific, targeted pressure that your body remembers on a cellular level. the feeling of being so completely, utterly filled by him, punctuated by that perfect, brutal little point of contact after being denied for so long, is what does it.
your orgasm hits you like a lightning strike. a hot, flooding gush of your own slick erupts from you, not a leak but a shameless, undeniable fountain that soaks his cock, his thighs, the floor beneath you.
your whole body seizes, your inner muscles clamping down on him and the cool, unyielding metal in a series of violent, exquisite spasms, a greedy, desperate fist milking him dry before he’s even started. a long, keening moan is torn from your throat, your voice cracking on his name, degrading into a series of helpless, breathy whimpers.
it’s the sound he’s been chasing in his dreams for weeks, and the reality of it, coupled with the hot, slick feeling of your body coming apart and gushing all over him, is a thousand times more potent.
he groans, a low, guttural sound torn from the depths of his chest, his own control strained to its absolute limit. he hadn’t even started moving yet. a fresh wave of dark, possessive pride washes over him, so potent it makes his head spin.
“fuck,” he breathes against your temple, his voice a rough, reverent whisper, full of awe and dark pride. he nuzzles into your hair, inhaling your scent. “that little metal bastard still does the trick, huh?” he murmurs, his tone a mix of smug satisfaction and genuine wonder. “didn’t even last a second. just gushed all over my cock the moment i was home.” he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your skin, right where a tear track is still damp. “wrote a whole song about how you didn’t want me, and you fall apart the second you feel me inside you. my perfect, needy girl.”
he expects you to go limp, to ride out the aftershocks.
but you don’t.
your body is still trembling, your inner muscles fluttering weakly around the length of him, but it’s not enough. you’re not done. a low, needy whine escapes your throat, and your hips begin to move. it’s sloppy, a desperate rock against him, a mindless, greedy attempt to get that perfect pressure again. your body, on pure instinct, is already chasing the next orgasm, even as the last one still shudders through you.
a slow, dark, fucking triumphant grin spreads across his face.
“look at you,” he murmurs, the words a low, reverent growl. he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a hot, filthy secret. “no self-control at all when it comes to this, do you? my perfect, greedy girl.”
his hands clamp down hard on your hips, anchoring you. he pulls back, just an inch, the thick head of his cock and the cool weight of the metal dragging with an obscene, delicious friction along your swollen, hypersensitive inner walls, before thrusting back in.
“we’re just getting started,” he promises against your mouth, his lips finding yours again in a slow, deep kiss that’s less about passion and more about branding you as his.
and then he starts to move.
it’s a frantic, needy, unfinished rhythm. every punishing thrust is a word he couldn’t say. he lifts you higher against the wall, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, and the sound of your wet, slick bodies slapping against each other is a brutal, obscene rhythm in the quiet of the house.
with every deep plunge, the top bead of the apadravya creates an entirely separate, maddening friction against your clit, a constant, dizzying buzz of pleasure that layers on top of the overwhelming fullness.
you meet every one of his thrusts with a desperate, hungry tilt of your own hips, chasing the feeling, trying to grind yourself raw against the metal. he pulls back, his cock almost slipping out of you, and you cry out in protest, your hips chasing him. he grins, a feral, wicked thing, before slamming back into you, all the way to the hilt, burying the piercing so deep you feel it nudge your cervix.
“like that?” he growls in your ear, his voice a low, rough purr. “want me to go deeper?”
you can only manage a sobbed “yes,” the word a broken, shameless thing.
he’s about to lose it. the pleasure is a hot, tight coil in his gut, but he’s not ready. not yet. he pulls back again, his hand coming to rest on your stomach, his thumb pressing down lightly, right over your womb. “you on the pill?” he asks, his voice a low, serious rumble.
he watches your eyes, wide and hazy with pleasure, as you give a breathless, eager shake of your head.
a dark, dangerous look flashes in his eyes, a look of profound, unholy purpose. “good,” he says, his voice a low, possessive growl. the rhythm changes completely. he drives into you with a punishing depth, every thrust a clear, unhinged attempt to ram his cock and the hard bead of metal so deep inside you that he touches your soul.
the thought of breeding you, of filling you with his child, of leaving a mark on you that no song or contract could ever erase, sends a fresh wave of adrenaline through him.
the intensity pushes him over. his balls tighten, an agonizing, familiar warning that he’s close. but he won’t. not yet.
he grits his teeth, a low snarl escaping his lips as he forces a new, torturous rhythm. he pulls out of you slowly, almost all the way, the thick head of his cock and the cool metal dragging with an obscene friction along your swollen, sensitive inner walls. you whimper, a high, pathetic sound, and try to chase him with your hips.
he just grins, a feral, wicked thing, before pushing back in, inch by agonizing inch. “fuck,” he groans against your throat, the sound half-laugh, half-snarl. his hips roll slow, cruel, the thick drag of him inside you just enough to make your head spin. “feel that? the way you clench around the metal? keep doing that and i swear you’ll have me stamped on your insides.”
you whimper, and he stills just to hear it. “oh, that’s pretty. you want me to come? you want me to fill you up so bad it leaks down your thighs?” he pulls back a fraction, then slams back to the hilt in one punishing snap. “too bad. i like you desperate. i’ll keep you right here—messy, brainless, mine—until you can’t even say your own name without choking on it.”
with that promise hanging in the air, he starts again. he finds that perfect angle, that spot deep inside you that the piercing hits just right, and he starts hammering it. the pace is punishing, relentless, his powerful thighs slamming against yours, your head thumping against the wall. he watches your face, completely wrecked, your eyes rolled back, your mouth open on a continuous, broken moan.
the build comes again, stronger this time, a hot, unstoppable wave. he gives in, letting the feeling consume him completely. his own hips become frantic, uncontrolled, slamming into you with a desperate, final urgency, driving the piercing into you over and over again.
a low, guttural groan is torn from the depths of his chest as the first pulse of his orgasm hits him. he keeps fucking you, harder, faster, pounding into you as his climax rips through him. he feels the first hot, thick jet of his come shoot deep inside you, coating your cervix
you moan as your own orgasm finally crashes over you, triggered by the dual, overwhelming sensation of the piercing hammering your g-spot while he floods your womb. he keeps pounding, driving his softening cock into your spasming inner walls, pushing his seed in deeper with every last, desperate thrust until he’s completely, utterly empty inside you.
he collapses against you, his forehead pressed to yours, his entire body trembling with the force of his release. he stays buried deep inside you, his cock still twitching, the sticky heat of his come pooling in your womb, the faint, cool pressure of the metal bead a final, possessive brand against your cervix.
he pulls out of you with a wet, reluctant pop. the sudden emptiness makes your knees buckle, your whole body going slack. he catches you before you can slide down the wall, his arms strong and sure around you, scooping you up into his chest.
a soft, exhausted sound escapes your lips, a broken little sigh of pure, boneless surrender. you bury your face in the crook of his neck, your entire frame trembling with the lingering aftershocks of your release, inhaling the familiar, intoxicating scent of his skin and his sweat. he carries you, his steps sure and steady, across the living room to the huge, plush sofa.
he gently lowers you onto the soft cushions, letting you sink into them, your body a boneless, quivering mess. he stays standing, towering over you for a moment, his presence a solid, possessive shadow in the dim light. the air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat and his come, a primal, intimate perfume that fills the entire room.
he reaches up, hooks two fingers into the collar of his gray hoodie—the hoodie—and pulls it over his head in one smooth, powerful motion, tossing it aside with a careless grace.
and you just stare. your breath catches.
he’s shirtless now, his skin gleaming in the dim light. and the art that covers the left side of his torso is a sprawling, breathtaking masterpiece, a river of black ink and vibrant, almost violent red. you’ve seen it a thousand times, traced it with your fingertips until you fell asleep, but seeing it now, after everything, makes your chest ache with a fresh, sharp pang of longing.
a magnificent, serpentine dragon, its scales a thousand tiny, intricate strokes of black and grey ink, coils possessively over his shoulder and across the hard plane of his pectoral. woven through and around the fierce beast are three enormous peonies, exploding in soft, decadent blooms of rich, feverish red. and hidden there, tucked away in the delicate, overlapping veins of a single peony petal, right over his heart, is your initial. a tiny, secret brand he wears over his heart.
your eyes trace the familiar path down his body, following the dragon’s tail as it disappears, and then find the second piece. a cascade of black and blood-red characters runs vertically down the hard, chiseled lines of his obliques. it’s not a neat, precise script— it’s calligraphy, painted onto his skin with a wild, deliberate energy.
“you tore my dress,” you mumble, your voice hoarse and raw, your eyes still lost in the ink on his skin.
“yeah,” he says, his voice a low, cocky rumble. he kneels on the floor in front of you then, bringing his face level with yours. he presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone, his stubble a delicious, rough scrape against your sensitive skin. “i’ll buy you ten,” he murmurs against your skin, his hands finding the ruined straps of your dress. “but this one’s done.”
his touch is completely different now. there’s no frantic, angry tearing. his movements are slow, deliberate, almost worshipful. his calloused fingertips brush against your shoulders as he gently pushes the shredded fabric down your arms. the dress bunches at your waist, and his hands follow, his palms warm against your skin as he pushes the ruined garment down over the curve of your hips, down your trembling thighs, until it pools in a sad, silky heap at your ankles. he kicks it away with his foot.
you’re completely naked now, exposed to him in the dim, forgiving light of the villa. he just stays there, kneeling, his eyes roaming over you, a slow, possessive inventory. his expression is unreadable, his eyes dark and hungry, and you can see his cock, already hard again, thick and heavy against the fabric of his sweatpants.
you reach out, your hand closing around his bicep, and pull. it’s a weak, pathetic tug, your body still a boneless, quivering mess, but it’s enough. it’s an invitation. he lets you guide him, allows you to pull him down to sit on the sofa beside you, the heat of his bare, inked skin a searing, welcome brand against your own.
he leans in, and the kiss is different this time. the raw, punishing anger that had driven the earlier ones is gone, melted into something slower, deeper, almost reverent.
his mouth moves over yours with a languid hunger, lips soft but insistent, parting you open with an ease that feels both tender and obscene. his tongue slips past your lips, unhurried but thorough, sweeping through your mouth like he’s savoring every inch.
his hands wander restlessly, unable to stay still. one slides up your spine, broad palm flattening against the small of your back to hold you closer, pressing you flush against the hard planes of his body.
the other roams lower, fingers tracing the dip of your waist before curling possessively over the swell of your hip, thumb stroking the sensitive ridge of bone there as though he’s memorizing it all over again. he squeezes, not rough, but firm enough to leave the ghost of his grip behind, grounding you in the reality of his touch.
he kisses you like he’s starving, like air is secondary, and when he finally tilts his head to deepen the angle, your breath catches, a dizzy rush flooding your chest. the wet heat of his mouth, the slow, filthy drag of his tongue against yours, the faint nip of his teeth at your lower lip before he soothes it with another open-mouthed slide—every second pulls you deeper into him, leaves you weak and shuddering, leaves you tasting nothing but him.
it’s a long, consuming kiss—loving in its slowness, filthy in its thoroughness—that leaves you lightheaded, lips bruised, chest heaving, and utterly wrecked in the best way.
he lets you, his body pliant under yours, his hands resting loosely at his sides. he’s giving you the illusion of control, and you both know it. it’s a game you’ve played a thousand times.
you brace your hands on his broad, hard chest, feeling the solid muscle flex under your palms. his skin is hot and slick with a thin sheen of sweat. slowly, with an agonizing lack of haste, you lower yourself onto his waiting cock.
it’s a familiar terror, a delicious, breathtaking moment you know by heart. you feel the blunt, heavy head of him stretch you open first, a deep, overwhelming pressure that makes you gasp. it’s the sheer, soul-stealing fullness of him, the feeling of your body making way for his size. and then, as you sink lower, comes the secondary shock: the single, sharp point of pressure as the bottom bead of his apadravya finds your clit, followed by the slow, brutal slide of the top bead past your g-spot. a helpless, broken moan escapes your lips at the dual sensation.
a low, guttural groan is torn from his throat, a sound of profound, soul-deep relief. he fills you completely, stretching you in a way that is both a sweet, familiar ache and an exquisite, overwhelming pleasure. his head falls back against the sofa cushions, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment, surrendering to the sensation of being so completely enveloped by you, of feeling your inner walls clenching not just on metal, but on the thick, hard shaft of him.
you set a slow, deliberate rhythm. it’s a complex, two-part motion you know he loves: a deep, downward press to take every last inch of his length, feeling the stretch and the overwhelming fullness, followed by a slow, circular grind of your hips designed to drag the top bead across that perfect, swollen spot deep inside you. you milk a soft groan from him with every roll. you watch his face, a work of art in the dim light. his ocean eyes are heavy-idded and dark with a lust so potent it’s almost black, fixed on yours. a muscle feathers in his jaw as he fights for control.
his hands come up with a touch surprisingly gentle as they find your breasts. he cups the heavy, sensitive flesh, his thumbs stroking your already-aching nipples into hard, tight points. he leans forward, his hot breath ghosting over your skin a second before his mouth closes over one nipple. he suckles, a gentle, rhythmic pull that sends a bright, sharp jolt of pleasure straight from your breast to your core, where your inner muscles clench around the entire thick circumference of him.
“ah—fuck,” he groans against your skin, the vibration of his voice a delicious buzz against your chest. he knows exactly what that felt like.
you arch into him, a silent offering, your rhythm becoming a little deeper, a little more purposeful. he gets the message. his suckling becomes more insistent, his other hand coming up to mirror the action, gently pinching and rolling your other nipple between his thumb and forefinger. the combination is dizzying, a sweet, overwhelming torture that has a low, continuous whine building in the back of your throat.
this is it. this is the intimacy. him, completely focused, completely devoted to your pleasure, while you hold all the power.
you lean down, letting your hair fall forward, creating a soft, private curtain around your faces. you look him right in the eye, your hips still grinding down, feeling the deep, perfect pressure of both him and his piercing. a slow, wicked, and deeply fond smile touches your lips.
“look at you,” you whisper, the words a low, mocking, teasing purr, meant to be an endearment. “so completely focused. it's adorable. someone's a little obsessed with me, aren't they?”
it’s the wrong word.
it works like a switch being flipped, plunging the room into a sudden, dangerous darkness.
his mouth releases you with a soft, wet pop. his head snaps up, his eyes flying open to lock with yours. the heavy-lidded haze is gone, replaced by a look of sharp, dangerous clarity. his hands, which had been so gentle, suddenly clamp down on your hips, his grip firm, possessive, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. he’s pinning you in place, still buried to the hilt inside you, but the lazy game is over.
“yeah,” he moans, the word a raw, guttural thing. his hips buck up once, a single, involuntary, punishing thrust that drives his entire thick cock deeper, the piercing a final, brutal punctuation mark that steals a shocked gasp from your lips. he stares at you, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive fire that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. “so what.”
a deep, hot flush immediately floods your skin, starting in your chest and creeping up your neck to the tips of your ears. your breath hitches in your throat.
he reaches for his phone. the movement is casual, almost lazy, but it shifts the entire atmosphere. his cock is still buried deep inside you, the sheer size of him a thick, hot anchor, but his attention is suddenly elsewhere. he unlocks it with his thumb, the cool, clinical light of the screen casting his face in sharp, alien angles.
“what are you doing?” you breathe, your lazy, rolling hips faltering for a second. a thrill, dark and dangerous, snakes down your spine. you know that look in his eye.
“research,” he says, his voice a low, smug purr that vibrates from his chest, through your hands, and into your bones. he opens instagram. his thumb scrolls with a practiced, deliberate slowness, and you feel a strange, hot flush of humiliation and excitement knowing he’s about to bring the whole ugly world into this secret, sacred space. he finds what he’s looking for.
he reads it out loud, his voice a low, mocking drawl, savoring each syllable. his eyes, sharp and impossibly blue, flick up from the screen to meet yours. you’re still moving on him, a slow, defiant grind, your chin tilted up, but a nervous blush is creeping up your neck.
“am i being pathetic, princess?” he asks, his voice soft, almost conversational. “is this embarrassing for you?” he doesn’t wait for an answer. his free hand comes up, fast and sure, and smacks your ass. hard.
the sound is a loud, sharp crack that echoes in the quiet room, brutally loud against the soft sounds of your fucking. a white-hot sting explodes across your skin. your rhythm shatters. a sharp, broken gasp is torn from your throat as your whole body jolts, your hips slamming down on him involuntarily. you lose your balance for a second, your upper body collapsing forward, your forehead bumping against his shoulder as your inner muscles seize around his cock, the pressure of the piercing a sudden, sharp shock deep inside you.
he groans, a deep, guttural sound of pure, possessive satisfaction torn from the depths of his chest, his own hips bucking up once against his will. a slow, triumphant, and utterly condescending grin spreads across his face. he looks down at you, a crumpled, gasping mess, and his voice is a low, smug purr, laced with honey and poison.
“funny,” he murmurs, lifting his hand—the one that just struck you—to gently, almost patronizingly, trace the line of your jaw. “the internet thinks i’m pathetic, but your cunt just tried to swallow me whole.” he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “doesn’t seem so embarrassing from down here, does it, baby?”
his thumb is already scrolling. he finds another comment. “someone needs to put a leash on him. spank him, maybe.”
he looks at you, a wicked glint in his eye. you can see the anticipation on his face, and your own body betrays you with a visible flinch, your hips stuttering in their renewed, shaky rhythm. he sees it. he loves it. “what do you think? do i need a leash? or do you?”
he doesn’t wait for your answer. he does it again. another hard, stinging smack, right on the soft, fleshy part of your other cheek, perfectly symmetrical. this time, you’re ready for it, and the sound you make is different—a high, helpless whine that’s equal parts pain and pleasure. your rhythm doesn’t break, but it becomes messy, uncoordinated, your hips moving in a sloppy, desperate circle that tells him you’re losing control.
“keep moving, baby,” he says, his voice a low, rough command. his gaze isn't on the phone anymore— it's fixed, with a hot, possessive intensity, on your flushed, tear-streaked face. “you’re in charge, remember? fuck yourself on my cock while i read.” he leans in, his voice dropping to a low, smug purr. “i bet you’re already turning red for me back there. let’s see if we can make your face match.”
you obey, not because you want to, but because your body has no other choice. your hips find a new, faster rhythm, a desperate, hungry pace as you chase the building pleasure, grinding yourself down on his thick cock, the piercing a constant, perfect point of pressure deep inside you. he finds another comment. “lmao he’s probably crying into a pillow rn writing another sad song about her.”
he chuckles, a low, dark sound that vibrates deep in his chest. “am i crying into a pillow?” he asks, his free hand coming up to your breast, his long fingers cool against your flushed skin. he doesn’t caress it. his fingers close around your nipple, just between his thumb and forefinger, and pinch, a sharp, electric sting that makes you cry out, a surprised, breathy sound. “no. but you are, aren’t you?”
your eyes are wet, you realize, a single hot tear spilling over and tracing a path down your temple. his other hand comes up, the rough pad of his thumb gently, almost reverently, brushing it away, his touch a shocking, tender contrast to the sharp pain still radiating from your breast.
“that’s it,” he whispers, his voice a strange, intoxicating mix of condescending praise and genuine awe. “the whole world wants to see you smile. me? i think you’re prettiest when you’re a fucking wreck for me. keep moving.”
the dizzying whiplash of it all makes your head swim. you start to move again, faster this time, your inner walls clenching and unclenching around him with every deep, downward thrust.
he finds another comment. “he’s so soft for her, a total simp.”
a slow, amused smirk touches his lips. “soft?” he echoes, the word a purr of pure disbelief. his hand returns to your breast, this time closing around the entire soft weight of it, squeezing, just a little too hard. your hips falter. then, his thumb and forefinger find your other nipple and give it a sharp, punishing twist. a shocked, helpless cry is torn from your lips as your body freezes for a second, completely overwhelmed.
“doesn’t feel very soft from where i’m sitting,” he whispers, his voice a low, satisfied growl. “feels like you’re the one falling apart.” he watches another tear trace a path down your face before wiping it away. “look at you, leaking for me. from your eyes, from your cunt. all for me. fuck yourself stupid for me. now.”
he finds another comment. “she would never. she’s too clean for him. a good girl.”
he laughs. a genuine, sharp, delighted sound. “clean? a good girl?” he asks, his gaze dropping to where you’re joined, to the wet, slick mess you’ve made of his lap. “doesn’t look very clean from here, princess. looks like a fucking mess. my mess.”
his hand, the one that had been on your breast, slides down your stomach, his long fingers tracing a line of fire over your skin. he doesn’t go for your clit. instead, they find the sensitive, quivering muscles of your inner thigh, right where it meets your hip, and he digs his fingertips in, a sharp, almost painful pressure.
you gasp, the unexpected sensation making you try to pull away, a futile gesture while he’s buried deep inside you.
“doesn’t feel very good, either. feels like you’re exactly where you belong.” he punctuates the last word with another hard, open-palmed smack to your already-reddened ass, the sound a sharp crack in the room. the combination of the sharp pressure in your thigh and the sting on your ass is too much. your controlled rhythm breaks completely, degrading into a frantic, mindless bucking on his cock.
“fuck,” he groans, his own hips bucking up hard to meet yours. “just like that. again.”
he keeps going, a relentless, beautiful, brutal assault. he reads another comment, something about you being an “untainted angel,” and his only response is to reach up with both hands, his fingers tangling in your hair at the scalp, twisting until he has a firm grip, and yanking your head back.
the sharp pull forces a cry from you, your back arching, the long column of your throat completely exposed to him. at the exact same time, he thrusts his hips up, a single, brutal, punishing movement that feels like it’s going to split you in two, the piercing a final, devastating blow deep inside.
“break for me, angel,” he whispers, his voice a low, rough command against your exposed throat.
you come apart on his cock, a long, keening, shuddering climax. there’s no scream, just a high, broken moan that cracks and dissolves into a series of helpless, breathy sobs. your body seizes, your inner walls spasming violently around him, milking him with a desperate, greedy rhythm. your head is still thrown back, held in his tight grip, your back arched off his lap, your body a taut, trembling bow being played by a master.
he just holds you there, his hips still, letting you convulse on his cock, watching your wrecked, beautiful expression with a look of pure, possessive victory.
when the last tremor finally subsides, he lets go of your hair and kisses the tears from your face. “good girl,” he whispers. “that was a good start.”
you don’t think you can move. your body is a boneless, quivering mess. you try to collapse against his chest, to hide, but he just waits, his cock still hard and buried deep inside you. you’re not done. he’s not done.
“come on, baby,” he coos, his voice a low, soft murmur against the shell of your ear, a sweet poison that bypasses thought and goes straight to your nerves. “don’t stop now. just a little more for me.” slowly, shakily, you start to move again, your rhythm sloppy and weak, a pathetic little rock on his lap.
he finds another comment. “he’s probably got a whole folder of her pics he jerks off to every night.”
he grins, a feral, sharp-edged thing. he leans in close, his lips brushing against your ear. “a folder?” he asks, his voice a low, intimate growl that sends a fresh shiver down your spine. “why would i need a cheap copy when i’ve got the masterpiece right here, on my cock, crying and falling apart for me? this is better than a picture, isn’t it?”
he doesn’t wait for an answer. his hand finds your ass again, another hard slap that makes you cry out and clench around him. “isn’t it?” he insists.
“yes,” you sob, the word a broken, shameless admission.
“good,” he says. he brings you to another, even more intense orgasm, his fingers and his words a relentless battery on your senses. you’re crying, not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming, humiliating pleasure of it all. your body is so sensitive that even the brush of his thumb against your hip is enough to send a fresh shockwave through you.
you try to collapse, to stop, to find an end to the endless pleasure, but he won’t let you. “you’re not done yet,” he says, his voice a low, non-negotiable command. “one more for me. make it pretty.”
you can barely move, your legs trembling so hard they can’t support you. you manage a few weak, pathetic thrusts on his cock, your body completely spent. it’s not enough for him. not even close.
he reaches up, his large hand closing around the soft flesh of your throat. his grip is firm, not enough to choke, but enough to own. his thumb presses against the frantic, fluttering pulse at the base of your neck. he watches your eyes widen, a flicker of fear and excitement in their hazy depths.
“i said, make it pretty,” he growls, his voice a low, dangerous command. he uses his grip on your throat as a handle, his other hand clamping down hard on your hip, anchoring you to him. and then he starts to move, using his own powerful hips and his grip on you to lift your body up and slam you back down onto his cock.
the motion is brutal, a deliberate, punishing bounce. it’s not you riding him anymore— he is riding you on his cock. with every downward slam, he feels the thick head of his cock smash into you, the piercing a merciless, perfect weapon against your g-spot. he feels you stretch, feels you clench, feels the wet, slick heat of you envelop him. the sound is a wet, obscene slap of skin on skin, a rhythm he dictates completely.
he watches your face. he watches the shock melt into a dazed, mindless pleasure. he watches your eyes lose focus completely, the pupils blown wide and black, staring at nothing. he watches your mouth fall open on a silent, broken o, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips as you pant. you are completely his, a doll he is fucking into oblivion, and the sight is the most beautiful, intoxicating thing he has ever seen.
he starts slow, a deep, deliberate plunge that makes you whimper, then he quickens the pace. he starts hammering into you, his hips a relentless, powerful piston, bouncing you on his cock harder and faster. he feels your thighs, trembling and weak, start to fail. he just tightens his grip on your hip, holding you in place, forcing you to take it.
“that’s it, baby,” he grunts, his own control starting to fray. the feeling of your cunt, so hot and wet, clenching around his cock with every forced bounce is pushing him closer to the edge. “so good for me. take it. take all of it.”
he watches the exact moment the pleasure becomes too much for you. your back arches like a bow, your breasts pushed out, your nipples hard, aching points. a long, keening cry is torn from your throat, a beautiful, broken sound of pure, unrestrained release. and he feels it. he feels your inner walls spasm violently around his cock, a frantic, desperate, pulsing grip that milks him, threatening to pull his own orgasm from him.
his own control is a frayed rope, his cock aching and ready to burst, but he holds on, gritting his teeth. he wants to watch you. he wants to feel every last tremor of your climax while he’s still hard and deep inside you. he keeps up the steady, punishing rhythm, fucking you right through your orgasm, pushing you even higher.
only when the last violent tremor has faded from your body, when your inner muscles are just a weak, fluttering memory around his cock, does he finally let go of your throat.
your legs finally give out completely, your entire body going limp. you collapse onto his chest, a boneless, sobbing, quivering mess, completely and utterly spent.
the stillness settles not like peace, but like a physical weight. the only sounds in the cavernous living room are your broken, hiccupping sobs and the harsh rasp of satoru’s breathing slowly evening out beneath you.
satoru’s brain is doing something catastrophic. the adrenaline high, the whiskey-fueled rage, the triumphant, sadistic haze—it’s all dissolving like sugar in water, leaving behind a cold, sick clarity that coils in his gut. he can feel the damp heat of your tears soaking his chest. he can see, from the corner of his eye, the faint, perfect bruises his fingers left on your hips, the angry red handprints blooming across your ass like twin blossoms of his loss of control.
your breathing is a shattered, uneven thing, and you’re clinging to him with a desperation that feels less like post-orgasm bliss and more like you’re drowning and he’s the only solid thing in a storm.
oh god. oh fuck. what did he do?
his heart gives a violent, arrhythmic lurch in his chest. this wasn’t just their usual brand of rough play. something about your tears, the raw, heartbroken sound of them, feels different. like he didn’t just break your composure—he broke something essential.
“hey,” he whispers, and his voice is nothing like the commanding growl from before. it’s hesitant, raspy with exhaustion and a growing, sick fear. his hand, the one that had held you pinned, comes up to stroke your hair, the gesture so gentle it’s almost reverent. his fingers are trembling slightly. “hey, baby, are you okay? did i hurt you? fuck, i’m sorry. i went too far, didn’t i?”
you shake your head against his neck, but the movement is weak, barely perceptible, and your sobs only get thicker, more desperate in response. he takes this as confirmation of his worst fears. a cold, sharp panic claws up his throat like a living thing.
“okay, okay, i’m sorry,” he breathes, his voice cracking, the sound of it small and lost in the big, empty room. “i’m such a fucking asshole. i just… i lost my head. the comments, and the anger, and you were there, and i…” he trails off, because there’s no excuse. there’s no justification for using your body as the anvil on which he hammered out his own emotional breakdown, no matter how much you seemed to want it. his hands are shaking now as they stroke your hair, your back, anywhere he can touch to try and soothe you. “talk to me, please. tell me what i can do. tell me how to fix this.”
“it’s not… that…” you finally manage to choke out, the words muffled and thick against his skin. you pull your head back just enough to look at him, and the sight of your face makes something inside his chest fracture. you’re a complete wreck—eyes swollen and red, cheeks streaked with tears, your lips puffy and bruised from his kisses. but it’s the expression in your eyes that hollows him out. it’s a raw, desolate heartbreak that mirrors the one he’s been living with for weeks.
“i just…” you sob, your voice cracking on every word, “i missed you so much, satoru. so fucking much.” you push yourself up slightly, your hands bracing on his chest, your own eyes wide and pleading. “i thought i’d never get to touch you again, never get to be like this with you, and i was so scared when they wouldn’t let me call you, and that fucking song was everywhere, and i saw the comments about how pathetic you looked, and i saw you at the festival and you looked right through me like i was nothing, like i was just another stanger, and i…”
your voice dissolves into another wave of tears, your whole body shaking with the force of it. “i’ve been so alone. and i missed you. i missed you so much it felt like dying every single day.”
satoru just stares at you, his brain completely short-circuiting. the relief that crashes over him is so intense it’s almost violent, stealing the air from his lungs. a sound escapes him that’s half laugh, half sob, a breathless, disbelieving noise that makes you hiccup mid-cry. his expression crumples, the arrogant mask completely gone, leaving only a raw, aching vulnerability that breaks your heart all over again.
“oh, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick with an emotion so profound it’s almost reverent. he surges up, pulling you flush against him, crushing you in a hug that feels like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together permanently. he buries his face in your hair, pressing desperate, messy kisses to your scalp, your temple, anywhere he can reach. his own eyes are burning now, hot and prickly with unshed tears. “i’m sorry. god, i’m so sorry. not for this—never for this—but for everything else. for the festival, for being so goddamn stubborn, for not fighting harder to get to you, for letting my stupid pride get in the way of—”
“don’t leave,” you mumble against his chest, your arms tightening around his neck with what little strength you have left. your voice is small and broken and so achingly vulnerable it makes his chest physically hurt. “please don’t leave me again. i can’t do it again, satoru. i can’t lose you again.”
“never,” he promises immediately, fiercely, his arms tightening around you until you can barely breathe. his voice is a low, guttural vow against your hair. “never again. you’re stuck with me now, you got that? i’m not going anywhere. they’d have to kill me first.”
he means it. every word. the thought of being separated from you again makes him feel genuinely nauseous.
his brain kicks into high gear, switching into full provider mode. he needs to take care of you. needs to fix this, fix everything. “okay, you need a bath,” he says, his voice still rough but gaining a frantic, purposeful edge. he tries to shift you gently, to see your face properly. “and water. lots of water. and food—when’s the last time you ate something? you’re probably dehydrated. jesus, i’m a terrible host. let me get you—”
“no.” your arms tighten around him like a vice, weak but absolutely immovable. your head shakes against his chest, a sharp, stubborn movement. “no bath. no moving. no leaving. just… sleep. right here. with you.” your voice cracks on the last word, and you burrow deeper into his chest like you’re trying to crawl inside his ribcage and live there. “don’t go anywhere. please. i just need you to stay.”
and that, more than anything else, is what finally convinces him that you’re going to be okay. the desperate way you’re clinging to him isn’t trauma—it’s love. pure, stubborn, ridiculous love.
“okay,” he murmurs, his whole body relaxing as he settles back against the couch cushions with you still draped across his chest. he shifts, adjusting your weight until you’re more comfortable, his movements all slow, gentle grace. “okay, we’ll sleep right here. i’m not going anywhere.”
he reaches for the gray hoodie he’d discarded earlier—the one that started this whole mess, the one that still smells like both of you and better times—and pulls it over your naked, shivering frame like the world’s most emotionally significant blanket. the soft cotton settles over your shoulders, and you make a small, contented sound that goes straight to his heart.
he doesn’t bother finding clothes for himself. nothing matters except the weight of you in his arms and the steady, reassuring rhythm of your breathing against his skin. he can feel the exact moment your muscles fully relax, when exhaustion finally wins over adrenaline and your body goes limp and trusting against his.
your breathing evens out first, becoming deep and steady and peaceful in a way he hasn’t heard in months. he stays awake longer, one hand stroking your hair in long, soothing motions, the other tracing lazy, meaningless patterns on your back through the soft hoodie.
every few minutes, you make small sounds in your sleep—little sighs and mumbles that sound almost like his name. each one makes his chest tight with a happiness so intense it’s almost painful. you’re here. you’re safe. you’re his.
it’s the first real sleep either of you has had in weeks.
satoru wakes up to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and a headache that feels like sukuna is using his skull as a drum kit. the okinawan sun is merciless, bright and warm and completely at odds with the whiskey-and-adrenaline hangover currently trying to kill him from the inside out.
his mouth tastes like something died in it. his back aches from sleeping on the couch. his left arm is completely numb from being trapped under your weight all night. he’s never been happier to wake up anywhere in his entire life.
you’re still asleep, curled up on his chest like a cat, your face soft and peaceful in a way he hasn’t seen in months. sometime during the night, you’d shifted so that your head is tucked under his chin and your legs are tangled with his, claiming every inch of contact you can get even unconsciously. his hoodie has ridden up slightly, and he can see the faint marks he left on your skin—nothing serious, just the ghost of his hands, evidence of what happened between you.
instead of the possessive pride he might have felt before, he’s hit with a wave of fierce protectiveness. you look so small like this, so trusting. the fact that you fell asleep on him, stayed asleep on him, chose him as your safe place even after everything—it does something to his chest that feels dangerously close to cardiac arrest.
he needs to take care of you. properly this time.
he carefully extracts himself from beneath you, moving slowly so as not to wake you. you make a small, discontented sound and reach for him in your sleep, and he has to physically resist the urge to climb back in with you and never leave this couch again.
instead, he finds one of his clean t-shirts—the softest one he owns, worn thin from years of wear—and gently works it over your head and arms, covering you properly. you don’t wake up, but you smile in your sleep when the familiar scent of his detergent surrounds you, and the sight nearly kills him on the spot.
the kitchen is a disaster zone. there are empty takeout containers scattered across the counters, a suspicious stain on the floor that might be soy sauce, and his coffee maker looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the paleozoic era. normally, the mess would make his eye twitch—he likes his spaces clean, organized, perfect. today, he doesn’t care about any of it. he has more important things to worry about.
coffee first. the good stuff, the expensive beans he saves for special occasions. he grinds them fresh, measures everything precisely despite his shaking hands and pounding head. you’re going to need caffeine when you wake up, and more importantly, you deserve the best he can give you.
while the coffee brews, he assesses his breakfast options. his fridge is embarrassingly bare—some leftover takeout, energy drinks, a container of strawberries that are only slightly past their prime. his pantry isn’t much better, but he finds a box of pancake mix shoved behind a bottle of expensive whiskey he definitely doesn’t want to look at right now.
pancakes. he can make pancakes. how hard can it be?
he reads the instructions on the box three times, then reads them again for good measure. his hands are still shaking—from the hangover, from nerves, from the emotional whiplash of the past twelve hours. he measures out the mix, cracks eggs with the careful precision of a man defusing a bomb.
the first batch is a disaster of epic proportions. he misjudges the heat, and they burn almost instantly, setting off his smoke alarm and filling the kitchen with acrid smoke. he frantically waves a dish towel at the detector, praying the sound doesn’t wake you up. the last thing you need is to wake up to him burning down his own kitchen like some kind of domestic terrorist.
he scrapes the charcoal remains into the trash and starts over. the second batch is better—still lopsided and a little too thick, but golden brown and actually resembling food rather than modern art. he arranges them on a plate with the strawberries, adds a small bowl of syrup, pours the coffee into your favorite mug (the one you left here months ago, the one he’s been too stubborn to put away).
the whole process takes him nearly two hours, partly because he’s moving like he’s underwater, but mostly because he keeps stopping to check on you. every few minutes, he pokes his head around the corner to make sure you’re still there, still breathing, still real. each time, the sight of you curled up in his clothes on his couch makes his heart do something acrobatic and painful.
when everything is ready, he arranges it all on a tray like he’s seen in movies. it’s not perfect—the pancakes are still questionably shaped, and he’s pretty sure he used salt instead of sugar in the strawberries—but it’s made with love and desperation and the kind of devotion that would probably worry a therapist.
you wake up to the smell of burnt batter and expensive coffee, tangled in his sheets with his oversized t-shirt twisted around your waist. the fabric is soft against your skin, worn and comfortable and smelling like his detergent and something uniquely him. for a moment, you just lie there, breathing it in, letting yourself believe this is real.
you open your eyes slowly, blinking in the bright sunlight, and see him standing next to the couch looking like death warmed over.
his white hair is sticking up in seventeen different directions, defying both gravity and logic. there are dark circles under his eyes that make him look like he got in a fight with a raccoon and lost. his skin has a grayish tinge that suggests his hangover is actively trying to murder him from the inside. he’s wearing nothing but his sweatpants from last night, hanging low on his hips, and he’s holding a tray with what might generously be called breakfast.
the pancakes are tragically lopsided and vaguely pancake-adjacent, accompanied by strawberries that look like they’ve seen better days and coffee that smells strong enough to dissolve metal. it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
your heart does something stupid and acrobatic in your chest. he looks awful. he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week and got hit by a truck. and he’s standing there with homemade breakfast like he’s trying to audition for the world’s most devoted boyfriend award.
“morning, beautiful,” he says, his voice rough with sleep and too much whiskey. he sets the tray down on the coffee table with the careful precision of someone whose hands aren’t entirely steady, then perches on the edge of the couch next to you. his movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s afraid of startling you. “i made… food. sort of. the first batch was more of a fire hazard than actual breakfast, but these ones are probably edible. maybe.”
you push yourself up into a sitting position, your whole body aching in a dull, pleasant way. he immediately reaches out to help steady you, his hands gentle on your shoulders, and the simple touch sends warmth flooding through your chest. you accept the mug of coffee he holds out to you. it’s perfect. exactly how you like it—two sugars, just enough cream to turn it the color of caramel. even hungover and barely functional, he remembered.
“you didn’t have to do all this,” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.
“yes, i did,” he says, and there’s something fierce in his voice despite how rough he sounds, his gaze soft as it roams your face. “i absolutely did. you passed out on my couch after… after everything, and the least i can do is feed you properly. even if ‘properly’ is a relative term when it comes to my cooking skills.”
you take a sip of coffee and make a small, appreciative sound that makes his whole face brighten like you’ve just told him he hung the moon. “satoru, these look…” you pause, looking at the pancakes. they really are quite tragic—one is roughly the shape of australia, another looks like it might be an abstract representation of existential dread. “…like you tried very hard.”
he laughs, a real laugh that transforms his whole face, makes the corners of his eyes crinkle in the way that always makes your stomach flip. “they’re terrible, aren’t they? i burned the first batch so badly i’m pretty sure i created a new form of carbon. but they’re made with love and spite and approximately seventeen cups of coffee, so that has to count for something.”
you cut off a piece of pancake and try it. it’s… actually not bad. a little dense, maybe, and you’re pretty sure he confused salt for sugar on the strawberries, but it’s warm and sweet and made by his hands specifically for you. “it’s perfect,” you tell him, your voice soft and sincere as you meet his hopeful, anxious gaze.
something in his expression softens at that, goes warm and tender in a way that makes your chest tight. he settles in next to you properly, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “liar,” he says fondly, stealing a strawberry off your plate. “but thank you for saying it anyway.”
for a few minutes, you eat in comfortable silence, sharing the tragic breakfast and letting the normalcy of it sink into your bones. this is what you’ve been missing. not just the sex or the drama or the grand romantic gestures, but this—domestic and silly and real. satoru stealing food off your plate and making faces at his own cooking. the easy intimacy of sharing space, sharing air, sharing a morning that belongs to no one but the two of you.
“so,” he says eventually, poking at a particularly misshapen pancake with his fork, his expression turning serious. he puts his own plate down, turning to face you fully. “that song of yours… i’m guessing you’re open to a remix?”
the question should be casual, but you can see the vulnerability in his eyes, the careful way he’s holding himself like he’s bracing for another rejection. your chest goes tight with affection and guilt in equal measure.
“satoru,” you start, setting down your coffee so you can give him your full attention, your own expression softening. “i need you to know something first. about the song, about all of it.”
he goes very still, his fork freezing halfway to his mouth, his blue eyes fixed on yours, waiting.
“i didn’t want to write it,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. “they made me. my team, my management, the label executives—they all panicked when your song came out. they saw the way the fans were connecting dots, saw the speculation about us, and they completely lost their minds.”
you take a shaky breath, remembering the conference room full of suits telling you exactly how this was going to go whether you liked it or not. “they had three different versions of a response song written before yours even hit number one. mine was the nicest one. the other options were… worse. much worse.”
satoru’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering along the sharp line of it. you see something dangerous flash in his eyes. “what kind of worse?” he asks, his voice dangerously quiet.
“the kind that would have destroyed your reputation instead of just denying everything,” you say, your own voice trembling slightly at the memory. “they wanted to make you look predatory, obsessive. turn you into a cautionary tale about male entitlement in the industry.”
the silence that follows is deafening. when satoru finally speaks, his voice is laced with a cold fury. “and you stopped them?”
“i fought for the version we ended up with,” you say, your hands twisting in the hem of his t-shirt. “spent three days in meetings arguing for every single lyric. it was the best i could do without…” you trail off, because the rest of it is still too raw to say out loud.
“without what?” he presses gently, his hand coming to rest on your knee, his touch a warm, grounding weight.
“without them dropping me entirely and releasing one of the worse versions anyway,” you admit, your voice cracking. “my contract has clauses, satoru. morality clauses, image clauses, behavioral expectations. being publicly involved with you—with your band, with sukuna’s reputation—it violates about seventeen different sections. they could have sued me into bankruptcy and still released a song calling you a stalker.”
the weight of it settles between you like a physical presence. all those weeks of silence, of watching him suffer through the aftermath of your song, knowing you were the cause but unable to explain, unable to fix it.
“i wanted to call you,” you whisper, tears starting to burn behind your eyes again. you look up at him, your own eyes pleading for him to understand. “every single day, i wanted to call you and explain everything. but they took my phone, assigned handlers to watch me, made sure i couldn’t contact you or anyone else without supervision.”
satoru is quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles on your knee. when he finally looks at you, his expression is soft and sad and full of a profound understanding. “that’s why you came to the festival. it was your only chance.”
you nod, a single tear spilling over and tracing a hot path down your cheek.
“and i told you to save it for someone who still believes in fairy tales.” his voice cracks slightly on the words, and he drops his head into his hands, a low, pained groan rumbling in his chest. “jesus christ, i’m such an asshole.”
“you didn’t know,” you say quickly, reaching out to touch his arm. “you couldn’t have known. i couldn’t tell you without making everything worse.”
“i should have trusted you,” he says, looking up at you with red-rimmed eyes. “i should have known you wouldn’t do that to me without a reason. but i was so hurt, and my ego was so bruised, and i just…”
“wanted to hurt me back,” you finish quietly, your voice thick with unshed tears of your own.
he nods, looking miserable. “i’m so sorry, baby. for all of it. for not fighting harder to get to you, for being too proud to look past the surface, for last night—”
“last night was perfect,” you interrupt, and mean it. “last night was you finally listening to me, finally letting me close enough to explain. it was rough, yeah, but it was real. it was us.”
something in his posture relaxes at that, the guilt-ridden tension in his shoulders easing slightly.
“but the rest of it,” you continue, “the situation with my label, with the public perception—that’s not going to just go away because we’ve figured our shit out.”
satoru is quiet for a moment, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head. when he looks at you again, there’s something sharp and determined in his eyes that makes your pulse quicken.
“what if it didn’t have to be your problem anymore?” he asks slowly, his gaze intense.
“what do you mean?” you ask, your brow furrowing in confusion.
“i mean, what if you didn’t have to stay trapped in their cage? what if you could just… leave?”
you blink at him. “satoru, it’s not that simple. the contract penalties alone would—”
“fuck the contract penalties,” he says, and there’s steel in his voice now, the same tone he uses when he’s about to do something spectacularly stupid and brilliant. he leans forward, his whole body thrumming with a new, dangerous energy. “my label—our label—is owned by a parent company that makes a goddamn hobby out of poaching talent from shitty, restrictive contracts. they live for that kind of drama. hostile takeovers, legal warfare, public battles over artistic freedom—it’s like christmas morning for them.”
you stare at him, something that might be hope beginning to flutter in your chest.
“what if we didn’t have to sneak around?” he continues, his eyes bright with possibility. “what if we could go nuclear? burn their whole fucking system down and build something better?”
“metaphorically,” he adds quickly, seeing the look on your face. “sukuna would handle the literal arson if we asked nicely, but that’s probably overkill for this situation.”
despite everything, you laugh. a real laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep in your chest. “you’re insane.”
“crazy in love,” he corrects, grinning at you with that crooked smile that first made you fall for him years ago. “but also completely serious. they’ve kept you locked up, controlled, miserable for months. made you write songs you hated, forced you to deny feelings you actually have, threatened your career over who you choose to love. that’s not okay, baby. none of it is okay.”
the hope in your chest is growing stronger, spreading warmth through your limbs. “you really think they’d take me on? even with all the baggage, all the potential drama?”
“are you kidding me?” he scoffs, his whole demeanor shifting to one of absolute confidence. “you’re a multi-platinum artist with a built-in fanbase and a story about label oppression that would generate headlines for months. they’d probably fight each other for the chance to sign you.”
something shifts in the air between you then. the energy is different—not just romantic anymore, but conspiratorial. you’re not just lovers figuring out your relationship— you’re partners in crime, allies with a common enemy.
“it would be a war,” you warn him, your voice gaining a new strength. “legal battles, media circus, industry blacklisting. they’ll try to destroy both of us.”
satoru’s grin turns sharp and wicked. “let them try. they have lawyers and pr teams and corporate backing. we have something better.”
“what’s that?” you ask, a small smile playing on your own lips.
“the truth,” he says simply. “and really, really good lawyers of our own. plus sukuna, who’s been looking for an excuse to commit corporate espionage for months.”
you stare at him—this beautiful, chaotic, impossibly devoted man who just spent two hours making you terrible pancakes with a hangover that could kill a horse, who’s now offering to help you burn down your entire professional life just so you can be together properly.
“so what do you say?” he asks, reaching out to trace a finger along your jaw, his touch gentle and reverent. “ready to cause some trouble?”
you lean into his touch, feeling that familiar electricity spark between you. for the first time in months, the future doesn’t look like a cage. it looks like freedom, like possibility, like the two of you against the world.
“with you?” you murmur, turning your head to press a kiss to his palm. “always.”
he kisses you then, soft and sweet and tasting like coffee and strawberries and new beginnings. it’s different from last night—less desperate, more certain. a promise instead of a question.
when you break apart, you’re both grinning like idiots.
“just to be clear though,” he says, his voice dropping to that teasing purr you love, “the worm thing was complete bullshit, right? because i’m pretty sure i would have recognized you even in that ridiculous trench coat if i’d been sober.”
you laugh, bright and loud and completely free, and kiss him again. deeper this time, full of promise and mischief and all the trouble you’re about to cause together.
“wait,” you say, pulling back slightly, your hands still fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt. your expression turns serious, though there’s still a playful glint in your eyes. “before we burn down the music industry and commit corporate warfare, can we maybe… talk about what we actually are? because i’ve spent the last six months not knowing if you were my boyfriend, my situationship, or my extremely talented booty call with feelings.”
satoru blinks at you, his expression shifting from revolutionary fervor to something that looks suspiciously like a deer caught in headlights. “oh. that’s… yeah. we should probably figure that out before we start signing contracts together.”
the silence stretches for exactly three seconds before you both burst into laughter, the kind of slightly hysterical giggling that happens when you realize you’ve been conducting psychological warfare over a relationship status you never actually defined.
“this is so stupid,” you wheeze, wiping tears from your eyes. “we wrote entire songs about each other. i literally just let you—,” you gesture vaguely at your current state of undress, “—and we don’t even know what to call each other.”
“to be fair,” satoru says, his grin crooked and absolutely devastating, “the last time we had the ‘what are we’ conversation, you disappeared for three months to go on a world tour. i developed trust issues.”
“that’s valid,” you admit, then pause. “wait, when did we have that conversation? because i remember a lot of really good sex and you stealing my room service, but i don’t remember actually talking about… this.”
satoru’s expression goes thoughtful, then slightly panicked. “oh my god. we never actually had that conversation, did we? we just started acting like a couple and assumed the other person got the memo.”
“jesus christ, we’re both idiots.” you drop your head into your hands, partly from embarrassment and partly because you’re laughing too hard to sit up straight. “no wonder everything got so fucked up. we’ve been in an unlabeled relationship for two years.”
“two years of the most intense situationship in human history,” satoru agrees solemnly, then breaks character to snort with laughter. “sukuna’s going to have a field day with this. he’s been making bets on when we’d finally have this conversation.”
“nanami’s going to die of secondhand embarrassment when he finds out we nearly destroyed our careers over a relationship status we were both too emotionally constipated to discuss,” you add, which sends both of you into fresh peals of laughter.
when you finally calm down enough to breathe properly, satoru reaches out and takes your hands in his, his thumbs tracing gentle circles over your knuckles. the gesture is so tender, so naturally intimate, it makes your heart skip several important beats.
“okay,” he says, his voice soft but steady, his blue eyes so sincere they steal your breath. “let’s do this properly. hi, i’m gojo satoru. i’m stupidly, embarrassingly, completely in love with you. like, write terrible songs and make terrible pancakes and probably commit white-collar crimes for you in love with you.”
your heart does something acrobatic and possibly illegal in your chest. “you love me?” you whisper, the words feeling fragile and momentous.
“so much it’s medically concerning,” he says, completely serious. “i love your terrible morning hair and the way you steal my hoodies and how you sing in the shower even though you’re completely tone-deaf before coffee. i love that you put pineapple on pizza like a complete psychopath, and i love that you cry during pixar movies even though you try to hide it. i love your brain and your talent and your stupid jokes and the face you make when you’re concentrating on writing lyrics.”
he pauses, his thumbs still doing those maddening circles on your skin. “i love that you fought for me even when your entire team was against it. i love that you’re brave enough to burn everything down just to be authentic. and i really, really love that you showed up at my gate in the middle of the night wearing the world’s most ridiculous disguise just to yell at me about worms.”
by the time he’s finished, you’re crying again, but these are completely different tears. these are the good kind, the kind that happen when someone sees every weird, flawed, ridiculous part of you and decides to love it all anyway.
“your turn,” he says gently, and there’s something vulnerable in his eyes that makes you want to protect him from everything bad in the world.
“i’m in love with you too, you absolute disaster of a human being,” you manage through your tears, your voice thick with emotion. “i’m in love with your stupid confidence and your terrible cooking and the way you play guitar like you’re making love to the instrument. i love that you remember how i take my coffee and that you let me win when we play video games even though you think i don’t notice.”
you take a shaky breath, trying to get through this without completely dissolving. “i love your dumb jokes and your pretty face and how you always smell like that ridiculously expensive cologne. i love that you’re talented enough to make me jealous and sweet enough to make me pancakes when you’re dying of a hangover. i love that you wrote me a love song so beautiful it made me cry, and i love that you’re crazy enough to help me commit career suicide just so we can be together.”
“and,” you add, because this part is important, “i love that you’re mine. officially, finally, completely mine.”
“so we’re doing this?” he asks, and his voice is soft and wondering like he can’t quite believe this is real. “we’re actually going to be a real couple? with labels and everything?”
“boyfriend and girlfriend,” you confirm, testing out the words. they feel strange and new and absolutely perfect. “partners in crime. ride or die. whatever you want to call it, as long as everyone knows you’re mine and i’m yours.”
the smile that spreads across his face is so bright it could probably power a small city. “boyfriend and girlfriend,” he repeats, like he’s savoring the words. “i like the sound of that. very official. very adult. very ‘we have our shit together.’”
“we absolutely do not have our shit together,” you point out, laughing. “we’re about to start a legal war with my record label and we just figured out we’ve been in love for two years without actually saying it.”
“details,” satoru waves a dismissive hand. “we’re in love and we have a plan and we make terrible pancakes together. that’s basically a successful adult relationship right there.”
he leans in and kisses you again, soft and sweet and tasting like forever. when you break apart, you’re both grinning like absolute fools.
“so, boyfriend,” you say, enjoying the way the word makes his eyes light up, “what’s our first official act as a couple?”
“well, girlfriend,” he replies, the word dripping with fond satisfaction, “i was thinking we could start with a shower, since we both smell like sex and poor life choices. then maybe we could work on that duet you mentioned. something that tells our side of the story.”
“a shower together?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
“purely practical,” he says with completely fake innocence. “water conservation is very important. we’re being environmentally responsible.”
“right,” you deadpan. “because you’re known for your commitment to environmental causes.”
“i’m a changed man,” he declares solemnly. “love has made me want to be better. greener. more… wet.”
you stare at him for exactly three seconds before dissolving into laughter again. “that was the worst line you’ve ever delivered, and that’s saying something.”
“but did it work?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.
“unfortunately, yes,” you admit, letting him pull you to your feet. “but only because you’re cute and i’m still running on post-orgasmic endorphins.”
“i’ll take it,” he says, scooping you up bridal style with embarrassing ease. “now come on, girlfriend. let’s go be environmentally responsible together.”
as he carries you toward his ridiculously fancy bathroom, you can’t stop smiling. you’re still going to have to deal with lawyers and contracts and the inevitable media circus. your career is still hanging in the balance, and there’s a very real chance this whole thing could blow up in your faces.
but right now, wrapped in satoru’s arms with the okinawan sun streaming through the windows and the promise of a shared future stretching out in front of you, everything feels possible. you’re in love, and you’re together, and you’re about to take the longest, most environmentally irresponsible shower of your lives.
except the shower, as it turns out, is actually pretty responsible. mostly because halfway through soaping each other up, satoru gets distracted by the way water droplets cling to your eyelashes and spends ten minutes just staring at you like you’re some kind of maritime miracle. and you get distracted by the way his stupid perfect abs look under the rainfall showerhead, so really, very little actual washing happens.
“we’re terrible at this,” you inform him, standing on your tiptoes to work shampoo through his ridiculous hair. it’s even more unmanageable when wet, defying every law of physics as it sticks up in soap-sudded spikes.
“speak for yourself,” he replies, his hands sliding down to your waist. “i’m great at this. this is exactly what showers are for.”
“cleaning?” you suggest innocently.
“admiring my incredibly beautiful girlfriend while she’s naked and wet,” he corrects, pressing a kiss to your temple. “much better use of time and water.”
by the time you finally emerge, clean and pruned and laughing, the sun is already climbing higher in the sky. satoru wraps you in a towel that’s probably worth more than most people’s cars, and you watch him get dressed in the kind of casual beach clothes that somehow still look like they belong in a magazine spread.
linen pants that sit perfectly on his hips. a white button-up that he leaves mostly unbuttoned because he’s apparently committed to being a walking thirst trap even during domestic moments. sunglasses that probably cost more than your last car payment pushed up on top of his damp hair.
“you’re staring,” he informs you, not looking up from where he’s rummaging through his dresser.
“can you blame me?” you shoot back, pulling on one of his t-shirts over your bikini. it’s soft and worn and smells like him, and it hits you mid-thigh like the world’s most comfortable dress. “you look like a vacation instagram post came to life.”
he tosses you a pair of his sunglasses—designer, naturally. “we’re going to the beach,” he announces, like this is breaking news instead of stating the obvious. “proper beach date. with sand and everything.”
“the beach is literally twenty feet from your back door,” you point out.
“exactly. no paparazzi, no crowds, no one to interrupt when i inevitably do something embarrassing like trip over my own feet trying to impress you.”
“you’re going to try to impress me?” you ask, grinning. “we literally just had shower sex. i think i’m already adequately impressed by your… capabilities.”
he goes slightly pink, which is adorable on someone who looks like a calvin klein model. “that’s different. this is… romantic. wholesome. the kind of thing boyfriends do for their girlfriends.”
“oh, we’re going full boyfriend mode now?”
“maximum boyfriend,” he confirms solemnly. “prepare to be courted so hard you forget your own name.”
the beach behind his villa is exactly as private and perfect as you remembered. white sand that’s soft as powder, crystal clear water that shifts from turquoise to deep blue, and absolutely no one around for miles. it’s the kind of place that exists in travel brochures and rich people’s instagram stories, and somehow it’s just… his backyard.
satoru spreads out a blanket that’s definitely too nice to be used on sand, then immediately ruins the aesthetic by flopping down on it with all the grace of a dying giraffe. “ta-da,” he says, gesturing grandly at the setup. “romance.”
“you’re an idiot,” you tell him fondly, settling down next to him.
“your idiot,” he corrects, looking pleased with himself.
for a while, you just exist together in the sunshine. satoru lies on his back with his arm thrown over his eyes, looking like a very content starfish. you sit cross-legged next to him, tracing lazy patterns on his chest and watching the waves roll in. it’s peaceful in a way that feels almost foreign after months of chaos and uncertainty.
“this is nice,” you murmur, your finger following the lines of his dragon tattoo. the ink looks even more vibrant in the natural light, the reds deeper and richer against his skin.
“mm,” he hums in agreement, not moving. “could do this forever.”
“what, lie around half-naked on expensive blankets while i use you as a human coloring book?”
“sounds perfect to me.”
you’re quiet for a moment, just enjoying the sun and the sound of the waves and the steady rise and fall of his breathing under your hand. then, because you’re apparently incapable of leaving well enough alone, you say, “so what happens now?”
“now?” satoru lifts his arm to look at you, squinting in the bright light. “now we work on our tans and pretend the real world doesn’t exist for a few more hours.”
“i mean after that,” you persist. “when we go back to tokyo. when we have to deal with everything.”
he’s quiet for a long moment, and you can practically see him thinking. when he finally speaks, his voice is thoughtful, serious in a way that’s rare for him.
“we figure it out together,” he says simply. “whatever happens, we do it as a team this time. no more secrets, no more assuming the other person knows what we’re thinking. we talk about everything, even the scary stuff.”
“even when you’re being a stubborn ass?”
“especially when i’m being a stubborn ass,” he agrees. “though i reserve the right to pout about it.”
“deal,” you laugh, leaning down to kiss him. it’s meant to be quick, just a soft press of lips, but somehow it turns into something longer and sweeter, the kind of kiss that tastes like promises and new beginnings.
when you pull apart, satoru’s eyes are soft and fond and completely unguarded. “i love you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. like he’s not still getting used to being allowed to say it out loud.
“i love you too,” you reply, and marvel at how natural it feels now that you’ve finally said it. “even when you make terrible pancakes and leave your socks everywhere.”
“those are designer socks,” he protests. “they’re supposed to be everywhere. it’s called ‘casual luxury.’”
“it’s called ‘being a slob,’ but sure, let’s go with casual luxury.”
he pulls you down on top of him, laughing, and you shriek as he threatens to roll you both right off the blanket and into the sand. you end up tangled together, your legs intertwined with his, your head on his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you.
“this is definitely better than sitting in a studio listening to sukuna plot arson,” he murmurs into your hair.
“is that what you guys do when i’m not around? plot crimes?”
“mostly we just talk about you,” he admits, sounding slightly embarrassed. “well, i talk about you. sukuna threatens to set things on fire if i don’t shut up. nanami just looks like he’s contemplating the sweet release of death.”
“you talk about me?” you ask, lifting your head to look at him.
“constantly. embarrassingly. in great detail about how much i missed you and how stupid i was for letting you go.” his cheeks are definitely pink now, which is frankly adorable. “they started charging me a fee every time i mentioned your name. i owe them like three thousand dollars.”
“three thousand dollars?” you stare at him. “how often were you talking about me?”
“apparently too much,” he says sheepishly. “but in my defense, you’re very interesting. lots to discuss.”
“such as?”
“such as the way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking. and how you always steal the last bite of dessert but pretend you’re not interested. and the face you make when you’re writing lyrics—like you’re solving the mysteries of the universe one rhyme at a time.”
your heart does that stupid fluttering thing again. “you notice all that?”
“i notice everything about you,” he says, his voice going soft and sincere. “always have. probably always will. it’s become sort of a hobby.”
you kiss him again, because what else are you supposed to do with that kind of declaration? this one is deeper, slower, the kind that makes your toes curl and your brain go fuzzy around the edges.
“we should probably eat something,” you murmur against his lips when you finally come up for air. “actual food. not just coffee and questionable pancakes.”
“there’s a little place in town that makes the best ramen,” satoru says, his hands still tangled in your hair. “we could go later. make it a real date.”
“a real date,” you repeat, testing the words. “in public. where people might see us.”
“where people will definitely see us,” he corrects. “where i can hold your hand and buy you dinner and be disgustingly obvious about how gone i am for you.”
the thought should be terrifying. after months of secrecy and careful distance, the idea of being openly together feels almost surreal. but looking at satoru, seeing the soft certainty in his eyes, it just feels right.
“okay,” you say, and mean it completely. “let’s go on a real date.”
his smile is so bright it could probably be seen from space. “yeah?”
“yeah. but first, more beach time. i haven’t properly appreciated your ridiculous abs in natural lighting yet.”
“well,” he says, settling back down on the blanket with a grin, “we can’t have that. take all the time you need. i’m not going anywhere.”
and as you curl back up against his side, listening to the waves and feeling the sun on your skin and the steady beat of his heart under your cheek, you believe him completely. he’s not going anywhere, and neither are you.
the war with your label is still coming. there will be lawyers and contracts and probably a media circus that makes your last scandal look like a minor inconvenience. but right now, wrapped up in expensive blankets on a private beach with the man you love, all of that feels very far away.
right now, there’s just this: sunshine and saltwater and the promise of forever stretching out in front of you like an endless summer day.
synopsis : satoru gojo’s life is a meticulously curated empire of protein shakes, gym selfies, and the unwavering adoration of six million followers. he’s got it all down to a science, a perfect balance of macros and influence that’s starting to feel just a little empty. but when a late-night scroll leads him to your quiet corner of the internet, everything changes. it’s not about your face—he’s never seen it. it’s about your hands, steady and dusted with flour, and your voice, a warm, patient hum that makes him forget all about his post-workout cardio. suddenly, the man who prides himself on control finds himself completely obsessed with a baker who offers something sweeter and far more dangerous than any cheat meal: a little bit of peace.
or: he could break the internet with a single photo, but he’s about to risk it all for a girl who accidentally liked his post one time.
wc ࣪— 39k ִֶָ☾. tags -> f!reader, plot with porn, influencer au, modern setting, fluff, humor, banter, slow burn, food as a love language, mutual pining, eventual smut, sexual tension, making out, food play, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, praise kink, marking, satoru goes feral, unsafe sex, rough sex, size kink, it won’t fit trope, breeding kink, creampie, aftercare, domestic fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, marriage proposal, wedding fluff, happy ending
athy says, hi my lovies, i'm looking at my follower count and i genuinely can't believe we've hit 9k before this little blog of mine is even six months old. thank you, from the bottom of my heart. this fic has been simmering away in my drafts for what feels like an eternity, and i wanted to dedicate it to all of you as a thank you. it's super soft, a little cheesy, and hopefully the perfect thing to curl up with. i hope you all enjoy it!! ♡(ӦvӦ。)
satoru gojo has never needed hashtags to break the internet.
he knows this the same way he knows his post-workout selfies could fund a small country’s economy, the same way he knows that the gym mirror loves him more than his own mother ever did.
so when he drops his phone against his sweat-dampened chest and angles it just right—shadows cutting across the landscape of muscle he’s carved with religious devotion, that mess of hair catching the fluorescent light like spun moonlight, eyes the color of winter storms narrowed in that signature smirk—he doesn’t bother with captions longer than “cardio day.”
six million followers don’t need context. they need salvation, and apparently, he’s their god.
the likes pour in before he’s even toweled off. comments that would make his grandmother clutch her pearls, fire emojis that could melt antarctica, marriage proposals in seven languages. satoru scrolls through them with the bored satisfaction of someone who’s never had to wonder if he’s attractive, clocking the trending status of his latest flex, watching the numbers climb.
after a few minutes of basking in the chaos he just unleashed—thousands of girls twisting in their sheets, thirsting themselves half to death—he flicks over to reels. it’s a casual, almost lazy motion, like a king turning away from the adoration of his court once he’s had his fill.
his reels are the usual rotation: endless loops of protein shake hacks, questionable “science-backed” mobility drills, and gym bros flexing in worse lighting than his bathroom mirror. sometimes a cooking video sneaks in—grilled chicken recipes that look like punishment meals, pre-workout snacks no sane person would enjoy, the occasional steak sizzling on cast iron just enough to hold his attention. mindless fuel, background noise for someone who already knows he looks better than half the influencers trying to sell him their macros.
but then, the algorithm, in its infinite, mysterious wisdom, does that thing where it thinks it knows him better than he knows himself, and suddenly his screen fills with something entirely different. no thirst, no desperation, no familiar symphony of validation.
just hands.
soft, capable hands dusted with flour, moving with the kind of precision that makes his chest do something weird and unfamiliar. the voice accompanying them flows like honey over warm bread, explaining the mysteries of chocolate tempering with the patience of someone who actually gives a damn about their craft.
“temperature control is everything,” you’re saying, and satoru finds himself leaning closer to his phone screen like an idiot. your hands work magic he doesn’t understand—folding, smoothing, creating something beautiful from nothing. there’s flour scattered across your black apron like stars, and he realizes he’s been holding his breath. “too hot and you’ll seize the chocolate. too cold and it won’t temper properly. you want that perfect balance.”
perfect balance. right. satoru gojo, who can bench twice his body weight and has never met a macronutrient he couldn’t calculate in his sleep, suddenly feels like he doesn’t understand balance at all.
he’s three videos deep before his brain catches up to his thumbs. your username—why.en_bakes—sits at the top of each video like a riddle he wants to solve. faceless content creator, obviously skilled, voice that could talk him through a panic attack or into one, depending on the circumstances.
his trainer would have an aneurysm if he knew satoru was mentally calculating the caloric content of buttercream roses at eleven pm.
his trainer doesn’t have to know.
meanwhile, you’re having your own crisis three hundred miles away, curled up in bed with your phone balanced precariously on your chest. you’ve been mindlessly scrolling through instagram, the kind of late-night brain rot that makes you question your life choices and wonder why you’re not asleep like a normal person.
the dm notification pops up from @squatoru—and there’s that little blue checkmark that makes your stomach drop because verified accounts usually mean one of two things: actual celebrities or influencers hunting for free stuff.
squatoru: hey, your hands are so steady, i’m pretty sure you could perform surgery. on my heart, maybe? kidding. mostly. anyway, the real question: do you take custom orders, or am i doomed to just drool over your perfect pastries through ig reels tutorials forever? my cardio needs a reward ;)
you frown, tapping on his profile with the kind of skepticism reserved for men who slide into dms and politicians. probably another influencer looking for free pastries in exchange for exposure. you’ve seen this song and dance before, and your content is specifically designed to avoid this—just your hands, your voice, and your pastries. no face, no personal details, no invitation for this kind of attention.
except his profile loads, and the image that fills your screen is so utterly, aggressively stunning that your breath hitches. your eyes go wide, wider than any pastry plate you’ve ever presented, and you feel a ridiculous, old-fashioned flush creep up your neck. like a victorian gentleman accidentally stumbling upon an exposed ankle, but instead of an ankle, it’s an eight-pack, a smirk, and eyes that could unravel your very soul.
you swallow, hard, your mind temporarily short-circuiting at the sheer, unapologetic perfection. the phone, balanced precariously on your chest, finally loses its grip as your hands instinctively clench in shock, and it falls. with a sickening thud, it smacks directly into your face, the impact rattling your teeth and, far worse, triggering an accidental double-tap right on his latest thirst trap. specifically, right on his absurdly defined abs.
because @squatoru isn’t just any influencer.
he’s all sharp angles and casual arrogance, the kind of beautiful that makes you question whether humans are supposed to look like that or if someone’s been editing reality behind your back. his hair defies every law of physics and good sense, standing up in ways that should look ridiculous but instead look like he’s been personally blessed by some very attractive gods. and his eyes—they’re not just blue, they’re the kind of blue that makes you forget other colors exist, like someone liquefied lightning and poured it into his irises just to see what would happen.
the worst part? he knows exactly what he looks like.
every photo is a carefully constructed masterpiece of casual perfection. gym selfies that belong in museums, mirror shots that probably crash servers, candid photos that are about as candid as a hollywood red carpet. he’s the kind of beautiful that makes normal people feel like potatoes, and he’s just casually sliding into your dms like it’s tuesday.
the little heart icon fills with red, mocking you. you immediately know you’ve made a mistake of astronomical proportions, a digital crime scene of embarrassment. you don’t even look at this kind of content. your algorithm is carefully curated chaos of baking tutorials, cat videos, and the occasional pottery reel.
you wouldn’t know a thirst trap if it personally introduced itself and asked for your number. but apparently, it just did, and you just liked it.
your phone buzzes almost instantly.
squatoru: oh, saw that 😉 figured you wouldn’t be able to resist. it’s okay, my content’s usually pretty captivating. consider yourself caught admiring the view.
you scramble upright, nearly launching your phone across the room in your panic. your heart is doing something between a tango and a cardiac episode, and you’re pretty sure you’re about to die of embarrassment in your own bed, which seems like a particularly pathetic way to go. you wince, rubbing your nose where the phone left a red mark.
why.en_bakes: it was an accident. my phone slipped. literally. it just smacked me.
the response comes back quicker than you’d like, quicker than gives you time to construct proper emotional barriers or remember how to breathe like a normal person.
squatoru: suuuure it did. 😉 a very convenient slip. but hey, thanks for the unintentional validation. speaking of irresistible things... i’ve actually been genuinely obsessed with your videos. that chocolate work? absolutely insane. like, i’m genuinely curious about trying your stuff in person. my cheat day budget just went up.
he’s been watching your videos. this man, human equivalent of a renaissance sculpture, is obsessed with your chocolate work? you, who usually only gets comments from sweet grandmas and fellow bakers, are suddenly being eyed by the thirst trap god himself. you stare at the message until the words blur together, trying to process this information like a computer that’s been asked to run software from the future.
why.en_bakes: well, the cafe info is on my profile if you’re actually serious. we’re open from 8-6 tuesday to saturday. no freebies.
because you’re not about to make this easy for him. you’ve built a whole business on not making things easy, on the radical concept that good pastries require effort and patience and maybe a little suffering. if this man wants to waltz into your world with his perfect face and his ridiculous hair, he can follow the same rules as everyone else.
squatoru: oh, trust me, cupcake. i’m serious about good desserts. and good conversation. and maybe a few other things. consider me booked. see you soon.
cupcake.
he called you cupcake, and something in your stomach does a little flip that has absolutely nothing to do with the leftover anxiety from accidentally liking his photo and everything to do with the way that familiar, sweet word, usually piped with buttercream and sold by the dozen, suddenly tasted personal, a secret, delicious indulgence meant just for you.
satoru, meanwhile, is having his own moment of amused contemplation in his ridiculously expensive apartment, a smirk playing on his lips as he stares at his phone. because here’s the thing that’s currently piquing his interest in a way almost nothing else does: you don’t know who he is.
not in the way everyone else does, anyway. you’re not sliding into his dms with marriage proposals or asking him to promote your skincare routine. you’re not breathless with excitement or falling over yourself to impress him. you claimed you liked his photo by accident—a blatant, adorable fib, if your mortified response was anything to go by. you immediately tried to take it back like it was a mistake, but satoru knew better. people didn’t accidentally double-tap his abs. they just got shy when they were caught.
when was the last time someone feigned indifference to his attention?
he can’t remember, and that bothers him more than it should. he’s so used to being wanted, expected, demanded, that your casual dismissal, even if it was just an act of shyness, feels like a puzzle he needs to solve. you’re talented and professional and seemingly unimpressed by the fact that he exists, and something about that makes him want to try harder than he’s tried at anything that didn’t involve weights or protein shakes.
plus, there’s your voice. that soft, warm tone that guided him through chocolate tempering like you were sharing secrets, like you actually cared whether he understood the difference between seeding and tabling methods.
that night, he replayed your videos more times than he’d admit to anyone, and each time he notices something new—the careful way you handle delicate pastry, the little satisfied hum when something turns out perfectly, the genuine enthusiasm when you explain why certain techniques matter.
which is how satoru gojo, influencer extraordinaire and professional beautiful person, finds himself googling the address of a bakery at midnight like some kind of carb-obsessed stalker.
your cafe isn’t far from his gym. isn’t that convenient.
he screenshots the address and adds it to his calendar with the kind of focus usually reserved for competition prep, already planning his route and calculating what time he’ll need to leave to avoid the morning rush but still catch you during business hours.
because apparently, satoru gojo has stumbled upon a new obsession—someone who makes croissants for a living and couldn’t care less about his follower count, pretending she didn't just like his gym selfie.
his trainer is definitely going to have that aneurysm.
he timed it perfectly—after the morning rush had thinned and the café’s cheerful hum had settled into something softer. strategic timing, really. fewer distractions meant more of your attention, and satoru gojo had never been one to settle for scraps when he could have the whole meal.
the bell above the door chimed, small and unassuming, almost absurdly inadequate for the entrance that followed. satoru filled the doorway like gravity had personally rearranged itself around him, a quality white tee draping effortlessly over shoulders that looked like they’d been carved by someone with a personal vendetta against moderation, hinting at the landscape of muscle beneath. well-cut dark cargo pants, practical yet stylish, hung casually on powerful legs that could probably crush watermelons, and his hair—that impossible mess of silver-white strands—caught the morning light like it was showing off.
he walked in with the kind of confidence that made people forget what they were saying mid-sentence. calculated but effortless, the way predators moved when they weren’t particularly hungry but enjoyed the hunt anyway.
you recognized him instantly, and the mortifying memory of that accidental double-tap crashed through your mind like a wrecking ball made of pure embarrassment. heat threatened to crawl up your neck, but you shoved it down with the kind of ruthless efficiency that came from years of dealing with difficult customers and even more difficult ovens.
“welcome to flour & sugar,” you said, voice carefully steady as you finished wiping down the espresso machine. your movements were precise, controlled, the kind of calm that came from having your hands busy while your brain short-circuited. he caught the swift dart of your eyes, the way they met his for a fraction of a second before skittering away, and a slow, knowing amusement bloomed in his chest. oh, you were definitely lying. “what can i get for you today?”
but satoru wasn’t listening to your carefully rehearsed greeting. he was too busy having what could only be described as a religious experience with your display case.
“jesus christ,” he breathed, and those storm-glass eyes went wide as they tracked across the pastries like he was cataloging treasures. his hands pressed against the cool glass, long fingers splaying as he leaned in closer. “is that—are those pain au chocolat actually laminated properly or are you just trying to make me cry?”
the croissants sat in perfect golden rows, their surfaces glossy and flaked to mathematical precision. next to them, danish pastries spiraled with fruit preserves that caught the light like stained glass windows. chocolate éclairs lined up like soldiers, their choux pastry shells piped so perfectly they looked machine-made, topped with ganache so mirror-smooth it reflected the café’s warm lighting.
“showing off, obviously,” you replied, corners of your mouth threatening to betray you with something dangerously close to a smile. your fingers found the edge of your flour-dusted black apron, smoothing it down in a gesture that was becoming embarrassingly predictable. “we just brush regular croissants with chocolate syrup and hope no one notices.”
that earned you a bark of laughter, bright and genuine and so unexpected it made something flutter in your chest like a bird trying to escape. his whole face transformed when he laughed—the careful perfection cracking open to reveal something warmer underneath.
“oh, you’re trouble,” he said, grinning as he straightened up from the display case. ran one hand through that gravity-defying hair, messing it up in a way that somehow made it look better. the motion caused the soft fabric of the white tee to subtly shift and stretch over his chest and shoulder, a brief, undeniable testament to the power beneath, and he noticed you noticed. his grin widened almost imperceptibly. yeah, you definitely hadn’t liked his photo by ‘accident’. “i can tell already. so what’s your best ‘i’m definitely going to regret this later but it’ll be worth every minute’ option today?”
“the chocolate tart is popular,” you said, gesturing toward where it sat in solitary splendor—a perfect circle of temptation with ganache so dark it looked like liquid sin. “our kouign-amann sells out by noon.” you pointed to the golden, layered pastries that looked like edible architecture. “and if you’re feeling particularly self-destructive, the salted caramel éclair has a cult following.”
“dangerous recommendations,” he mused, those impossible eyes still cataloging every curve and swirl of your handiwork. his gaze lingered on the fruit tarts, their pastry cream bases topped with berries arranged like tiny works of art, then moved to the cinnamon rolls that spiraled with mathematical precision, their surfaces glazed to perfection.
he was quiet for a moment, just looking, and something in his expression shifted. softer somehow, like he was seeing more than just pastries behind the glass.
“what about you?” he asked finally, those winter-storm eyes finding yours. “what would you eat if calories didn’t exist and your trainer wasn’t going to lecture you about macros tomorrow?”
the question caught you completely off guard. most customers just wanted their order taken, not actual conversation, not genuine curiosity about your preferences. your hands stilled on the apron, suddenly aware of how he was looking at you—really looking, like your answer mattered.
“oh, definitely the chocolate tart,” you said, and a sudden, unexpected spark lit up in your eyes. you leaned forward just a fraction, your voice gaining a soft, enthusiastic edge. “it’s not just chocolate, you know? we use a blend of valrhona guanaja for that deep, almost bitter cocoa base, but then there’s a hint of madagascar vanilla bean in the custard, just enough to bring out the sweetness without making it cloying. and the crust—it’s a sable breton, a really buttery, shortbread-like texture that just crumbles perfectly. it’s about the balance, the way the intensity of the chocolate plays with the richness of the butter and the delicate snap of the shell. it’s… everything.”
you finished with a quiet, almost breathless sigh, a small flush on your cheeks from the sheer passion of your explanation. you hadn’t even realized you were practically lecturing him until you saw the look on his face.
something flickered across his face then, a slow dawning of satisfaction mixed with a captivating curiosity. his eyes, usually so sharp and teasing, were softened, fixed entirely on you. he hadn’t understood half the technical terms, but he’d understood the passion, the genuine love that radiated from you when you talked about your craft. that, he realized, was even more intoxicating than the thought of the tart itself.
“sold,” he declared, his voice a low, pleased rumble. “one chocolate tart for me. and—” he paused, head tilting as he studied the menu board behind you. “matcha latte. extra sweet, if you don’t mind. gotta balance out all that virtue somehow.”
the way he said it, low and curious, made your pulse skip in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine. “mr. gojo—”
“just satoru,” he interrupted, and that easy smile turned softer somehow, more genuine. leaned against the counter on his forearms, bringing himself closer to your eye level. the sleeve of his white tee shifted, briefly revealing the impressive curve of his powerful biceps, practically begging for your gaze, and you felt that familiar, involuntary tightening in your throat again. he was far too aware of the space between you, of the way the air thrummed with unspoken things. “i’d prefer it if you called me satoru. ‘mr. gojo’ makes me sound like my father, and trust me, that’s not the vibe we’re going for here.”
heat crept up your neck despite every attempt at professional composure. he was close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and expensive that probably cost more than your monthly ingredient budget—mixed with the faintest hint of lingering workout endorphins.
“satoru, then,” you managed, fingers finding the register keys with muscle memory while your brain tried to process the way he smiled when you said his name. “find a seat anywhere you’d like. i’ll call you when it’s ready.”
he pushed back from the counter with fluid grace, all loose-limbed confidence and predatory satisfaction. chose the corner table by the window—of course he did—prime real estate for people-watching and and, more importantly, you-watching. settled into the chair like he owned not just the seat but the entire building, phone out but screen dark, attention fixed entirely on your workspace.
you tried to ignore the weight of his stare as you moved through your routine, but it was like trying to ignore sunlight streaming through windows. persistent, warm, impossible to escape. steamed milk for his matcha latte, the bright green powder swirling into pale foam like liquid jade, sweetened just enough to match his request for extra sugar.
selected his tart from the display case with the reverence it deserved, the chocolate ganache mirror-smooth and perfect, reflecting the café’s warm lighting like dark water.
“order for satoru,” you called, and watched him unfold from the chair with that fluid grace that made ordinary movements look choreographed.
“that was fast,” he said, accepting the small plate and cup. his fingers brushed yours for just a moment—warm, callused from whatever weights he threw around when he wasn’t terrorizing bakeries. “efficient.”
“i try not to keep people waiting.” the words came out steadier than you felt, professional smile firmly in place even as your skin tingled where he’d touched it.
“and here i was hoping you’d take your time,” he replied, that insufferable smirk back in full force. tilted his head just enough to catch your eye, silver hair falling across his forehead in a way that should’ve looked accidental but absolutely wasn’t. “guess i’ll just have to savor this extra slowly to make up for it.”
back at his table, satoru lifted the fork like he was about to perform delicate surgery. cut into the tart with surgical precision, watched the ganache yield to reveal the perfect custard beneath, dark chocolate giving way to pale cream in a contrast that made his mouth water before he’d even tasted it.
the first bite rewired something fundamental in his brain.
it wasn’t just the flavor—though that was devastating enough, rich and balanced and absolutely perfect. it was the memory that came with it, sudden and overwhelming. his grandmother’s kitchen on sunday mornings, flour handprints on her faded apron, the smell of butter and vanilla thick in the air like incense in a church dedicated to sugar and love.
he’d been a chubby kid back then, all round cheeks and soft edges before growth spurts and gym obsessions carved him into something else entirely. back when sweetness meant safety, when dessert wasn’t the enemy but the reward for scraped knees and hard days and just existing in a world that sometimes felt too big and too scary.
this tart tasted like coming home to a place he’d forgotten existed.
he tried to eat it slowly, really tried. wanted to analyze the flavor profile, identify the techniques, make it last. but his body had other plans entirely. each bite melted on his tongue like a prayer answered, and before he knew it the plate was empty and he was staring at the evidence of his complete lack of self-control.
worth every single burpee he’d have to do tomorrow. worth twice that many.
he pulled out his phone, angled it to catch the crumb-scattered plate in afternoon light. typed out “found heaven” with thumbs that were steadier than they had any right to be, tagged the location, posted it to his story without a second thought.
let his trainer try to explain that one.
when he looked up, you were watching him from behind the counter, expression carefully neutral but eyes curious. caught in the act of caring whether he’d enjoyed it, whether your work had lived up to whatever expectations he’d built in his head.
“verdict?” you called across the space between you, voice carrying just the tiniest hint of genuine interest beneath the professional politeness.
“devastating,” he called back, not bothering to hide his grin or the way he gestured to the empty plate like it was evidence in a criminal trial. “absolutely devastating. i’m going to have to come back tomorrow just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”
“tomorrow’s monday. we’re closed.” the correction came automatically, but there was something softer in your voice now, the professional mask slipping just enough to let real personality peek through.
“then tuesday,” he said without missing a beat, standing up with that fluid grace and reaching for his wallet. “and probably wednesday. thursday’s looking pretty likely too.”
you ducked your head, but not before he caught the small smile you were trying to hide. watched you wipe your hands on that flour-dusted apron in the nervous gesture he was already learning to catalog alongside all your other tells.
“same time tuesday, then,” you said, like you were discussing the weather instead of planning his return to the scene of his carbohydrate crime.
“wouldn’t miss it, cupcake,” he replied, dropping a twenty on the counter for a twelve-dollar order and heading for the door before you could argue about the change.
he walked out into afternoon sunshine already calculating how many extra miles he’d need to run to justify coming back in two days.
spoiler alert: he was coming back regardless, and you both knew it.
the cafe, which once felt like a carefully controlled universe of flour and sugar, now had a new gravitational pull. satoru gojo had become a regular. not just a customer, but a fixture, like the espresso machine or the perpetually overflowing tips jar.
except this fixture came with perfectly tousled hair and a smile that could probably power half the city.
tuesday morning, 10:47 am. the bell chimed and there he was, silver hair catching the morning light like he’d been personally blessed by some very aesthetic gods. today’s ensemble: a loose knit sweater that somehow managed to look both cozy and criminally expensive, draped across shoulders that belonged in a renaissance sculpture exhibit.
he approached the counter with that easy confidence, long fingers already drumming against the glass as those winter-storm eyes conducted some kind of pastry reconnaissance mission.
“just making sure the integrity of your laminated dough hasn’t... suffered since yesterday, cupcake,” he said, leaning against the counter like he’d been doing it his whole life. the casual way he invaded your space should have been annoying. instead, it made something flutter stupidly in your chest.
you barely suppressed an eye roll, busying yourself with restocking napkins because your hands needed something to do that wasn’t embarrassing. “my laminated dough is doing just fine, satoru.”
“is it though?” he tilted his head, hair falling across his forehead in a way that was definitely not accidental, studying a pain au chocolat like it held state secrets. “because that one right there looks criminally perfect. almost offensive, really. i might have to do something about it.”
the way he said it, all mock seriousness with those ridiculous blue eyes sparkling with mischief, made your lips twitch despite your best efforts. “such a hardship for you.”
“devastating,” he agreed, pressing a hand to his chest like he was physically wounded. then that grin broke through, the one that made him look less like a fitness god and more like a kid who’d found the cookie jar. “i’ll take two. and one of those.” he pointed to a lemon meringue tart, its peak of toasted meringue golden and proud. “for balance.”
you reached for the pastries, trying to ignore how he watched your every movement like he was memorizing the choreography. “balance?”
“very important nutritional concept. sweet, then tart, then back to sweet. it’s basically science.”
“that’s not how nutrition works.”
“says who? my trainer?” he waved a dismissive hand, the gesture fluid and careless. “he thinks protein powder counts as a food group. clearly not a reliable source.”
wednesday brought a different satoru—button-down with sleeves rolled just so, revealing forearms that should probably be illegal in most countries. he ordered three chocolate éclairs this time, each one a perfect torpedo of choux pastry and dark ganache.
“consistency test?” you repeated, watching him pull out that expensive wallet like he was performing surgery.
“scientific method, cupcake. very important.” he peeled off crisp hundreds with the casual air of someone who’d never met a price tag he couldn’t ignore. the bills looked fresh from the bank, and you briefly wondered if he requested new ones specifically for pastry purchases. “can’t make proper recommendations without thorough research.”
your fingers found the edge of your apron, smoothing down imaginary wrinkles. “recommendations to who?”
“my trainer, obviously. gotta give him fair warning about what’s destroying his careful work.” that laugh again, bright and completely unrepentant, the sound warming something deep in your chest. “speaking of which, what’s the caloric damage on these beauties?”
“you don’t want to know.”
“try me.” he leaned forward slightly, chin tilting in challenge, and you caught yourself staring at the way his collar bone disappeared beneath the cotton of his shirt.
“about three hundred each.”
he paused, éclair halfway to his mouth, and you watched something flicker across his face. not regret exactly, but the quick mental calculation of someone who’d spent years thinking in macros and meal plans. then he shrugged, a movement that somehow made his shoulders look even broader, and took a bite that was pure bliss.
his eyes actually fluttered closed for a second, and the small sound he made was borderline indecent. you busied yourself with the register before your brain could process the implications.
“worth every burpee,” he declared, and the conviction in his voice made something warm unfurl in your stomach. this wasn’t just politeness or customer service charm. he meant it.
thursday he showed up in a perfectly fitted black tee that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and your professionalism took a brief vacation. the fabric clung to every angle and curve like it had been painted on, and you spent an embarrassing amount of time pretending to organize the already-organized pastry display.
he ordered what could only be described as half your case. two kouign-amann, a slice of blood orange tart, three of your dark chocolate cookies, and a danish that had been sitting there looking particularly photogenic.
“research again?” you asked, voice carefully light while your eyes decidedly did not linger on the way his shirt stretched when he reached for his wallet.
“training day,” he said, and there was that subtle flex again, the movement so casual it might have been accidental if not for the way his lips quirked slightly. he knew exactly what he was doing. “need the fuel.”
you handed him his order, fingers brushing his for just a moment. warm, slightly callused from whatever torture routine he put himself through daily. “for what, exactly?”
“deadlifts. squats. the usual punishment for having a sweet tooth the size of tokyo.” he examined the danish like he was conducting a forensic investigation, head tilted just so. “my trainer keeps threatening to fire me, but joke’s on him—i’d just find someone who appreciates the finer things in life.”
the mental image of satoru gojo interviewing personal trainers based on their pastry tolerance made you duck your head to hide a smile. “how much extra cardio are we talking here?”
“for this haul? probably an extra hour. maybe two.” he bit into the danish with the kind of focus usually reserved for important life decisions, and you watched his expression melt into something approaching reverence. “but look at this thing. the way you’ve layered that fruit, how the glaze catches the light... that’s art, cupcake. you can’t put a price on art.”
heat crept up your neck at the genuine appreciation in his voice. “apparently you can. it’s twelve dollars.”
“cheap for a masterpiece.”
the compliment hit different when it came wrapped in that soft tone, without any of his usual performative charm. just honest appreciation, and it made your chest feel tight in ways you didn’t want to examine.
by friday, you’d started doing something incredibly stupid. anticipating his visits with the kind of precision usually reserved for oven timers and proofing schedules. you knew his patterns now—tart first, then creamy, then something with crunch. complex flavors that demanded attention, just like everything else about him.
so when he walked in wearing a cream-colored sweater that made his hair look like spun moonlight, you’d already committed the crime of setting aside a perfect almond croissant and a slice of your new cardamom pear tart. just sitting there on a small plate behind the counter, waiting like evidence of your growing soft spot.
he stopped short when he saw them, and something shifted in his expression. softer somehow, like you’d surprised him in the best possible way. “you read my mind, cupcake.”
“just good service,” you mumbled, but your hands betrayed you, finding your apron and smoothing the flour-dusted fabric with nervous fingers.
“is it though?” he leaned forward, elbows finding the counter, bringing himself into your space in a way that made your pulse skip. up close, you could see the faint freckle near his left temple, the way his ridiculously long eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. “because this feels suspiciously like you’ve been paying attention to my very sophisticated palate.”
the teasing lilt in his voice made your stomach do something acrobatic. “your very expensive palate, you mean.”
“that too.” those eyes were studying you now with the same intensity he usually reserved for pastries, curious and warm and entirely too perceptive. “so what made you choose these? professional instinct or...”
“or what?”
“or maybe you’re starting to like having me around.”
the question hung between you like sugar dust in afternoon light, sweet and impossible to ignore. your cheeks felt warm, but you kept your voice steady through sheer stubborn will. “you’re a good customer.”
“just good?” he tilted his head, hair falling across his forehead in that way that made your fingers itch to brush it back.
“you tip well.”
“ah.” he straightened up with fluid grace, grinning like he’d just solved a particularly entertaining puzzle. “so it is about the money.”
the lie sat bitter on your tongue, but you’d rather eat raw flour than admit the truth. that you looked forward to his visits. that you’d started timing your baking schedule around his usual arrival. that the ridiculous tips were just an excuse to let yourself enjoy his company without feeling guilty about it.
“everything’s about money, satoru.”
“everything?” that voice dropped lower, softer, and you felt it in places that had absolutely nothing to do with business. “what about the art? the passion? the pure, unadulterated joy of creation?”
your breath caught slightly at the way he said ‘passion,’ like the word meant something more than flour and butter and sugar. “rent doesn’t pay itself with passion.”
“fair point.” he took a bite of the almond croissant, and you watched his entire face transform. the careful composure melted away, replaced by something raw and genuine and absolutely devastating. “jesus. okay, this is... this is stupid good.”
pride bloomed warm in your chest, the kind that came from watching someone truly appreciate your work. “just stupid good?”
“life-changing. earth-shattering. the kind of good that makes me question every life choice that led to me discovering it this late.” he took another bite, slower this time, actually savoring it like it deserved. watching him eat something you’d made with such obvious pleasure did dangerous things to your equilibrium. “where did you learn to do this?”
the question caught you off guard. not his usual surface-level compliments, but genuine curiosity about you, about your story. you found yourself answering before you could think better of it.
“culinary school. then a few years working under other people before i saved enough to open this place.” you gestured around the café, at the warm lighting and carefully chosen décor that had taken months of planning and every penny you’d managed to scrape together.
“other people?”
“a french pastry chef who made gordon ramsay look like a teddy bear. learned more in six months with him than i did in two years of school.” the memory still made you wince slightly, even wrapped in gratitude for everything it had taught you.
satoru’s eyebrows rose, and something shifted in his expression. less playful, more attentive. “sounds intense.”
“he once made me remake the same batch of croissants seventeen times because the lamination wasn’t perfect.” the words came easier now, maybe because he was listening with such focused attention. “i cried in the walk-in cooler.”
“and the eighteenth time?”
“eighteenth time was perfect.” you surprised yourself with how much warmth crept into your voice. “finally understood what he meant about respecting the process. about not cutting corners just because you think you know better.”
“and now?”
“now i can make them in my sleep.” you gestured toward the display case where your croissants sat in golden, flaky perfection, evidence of countless hours and stubborn determination. “muscle memory and spite, mostly.”
that drew a laugh from him, rich and genuine. “deadly combination.”
he was looking at you differently now, those impossible eyes softer somehow. like he was seeing past the professional politeness to something more real. it should have been unsettling. instead, it made you want to keep talking, keep sharing pieces of yourself you usually kept locked away.
“so this chocolate work you do—the tempering, the ganache—that all came from drill sergeant pastry chef too?”
you found yourself actually wanting to explain it, to share the thing you loved most about your craft. “some of it. but chocolate is... different. more temperamental. you can’t bully it into submission like dough. you have to coax it, understand what it needs.”
he leaned closer, genuinely interested, and you caught a whiff of his cologne mixed with the lingering sweetness from the pastries. clean and expensive and entirely too distracting. “what does it need?”
“patience. the right temperature. respect for the process.” you pulled out your phone almost without thinking, scrolling to a video you’d posted last week. “see this? the way the chocolate looks when it’s properly tempered versus when it’s not?”
he moved around the counter—when had you said he could do that?—to look at your screen. close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, see the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. “show me the difference.”
your fingers were definitely not steady as you pointed to the glossy, perfectly smooth chocolate in the video. “this one. snappy, shiny, stable. versus this.” another clip, chocolate that looked dull and streaky. “seized because someone got impatient and tried to rush the cooling process.”
“someone like me, you mean.”
the self-awareness in his voice made you look up, and suddenly you were much too close to those winter-storm eyes. “someone exactly like you.”
“ouch.” but he was smiling, that soft genuine smile that made your pulse forget its rhythm. “so you’re saying i need to learn patience.”
“i’m saying chocolate will teach you patience whether you want to learn or not.”
“and if i wanted to learn? hypothetically speaking.”
the question settled between you like powdered sugar, sweet and impossible to brush away. your heart did something complicated against your ribs. “hypothetically?”
“completely hypothetical. just curious about the... educational process.”
you studied his face, looking for the usual playful smirk, but found something more sincere instead. something that made your chest feel tight and warm and terrified. “it’s not easy. takes time. messy. lots of failures before you get it right.”
“i’m not afraid of messy.” his voice was softer now, and you realized you were still standing much too close, could see the faint gold flecks in his impossibly blue eyes.
“no,” you said quietly, taking in his perfectly styled hair, his carefully chosen outfit, the way he carried himself like problems were just puzzles waiting to be solved. “i don’t think you are.”
he stayed longer that day, nursing his matcha latte and working through the cardamom pear tart with the kind of focus usually reserved for meditation or very important life decisions. every so often he’d look up and catch you watching him, and instead of that cocky smirk you’d grown dangerously fond of, he’d give you something softer. more real.
when he finally left, he paused at the door, hand on the frame, looking back like he wanted to say something else.
“same time monday?”
“we’re closed mondays.”
“tuesday, then.” that smile again, the one that made your knees forget their primary function.
“tuesday works.”
he pushed through the door into afternoon sunshine, and you watched him pull out his phone to photograph the empty plate he’d left behind. the story that went up an hour later was just the image with no caption, but your café’s location tagged like a promise.
your phone buzzed, not with an explosion, but with another steady pulse in what had become a low, constant hum of new activity over the past few days. each time he’d posted and tagged you, a new wave of curious followers would wash over your small page—a few hundred more likes, a dozen more comments asking who you were. this post felt different, though. more potent.
it felt less like a ripple and more like the tide starting to turn. you stared at your phone screen, watching the new notifications roll in, a knot of anticipation tightening in your stomach. you realized you were in trouble. the kind of trouble that was only partly about the looming threat of viral fame, and everything to do with the way your heart had started keeping time to the rhythm of a certain someone’s visits.
the cafe visits had become routine, but so had something else entirely. late-night video binges. satoru, tucked into the ridiculously expensive italian leather couch in his penthouse, would scroll through your youtube channel like it was late-night cable, airpods in, the city lights a distant hum.
your voice, a warm honey he’d once only associated with chocolate tempering, now filled his ears, a constant, comforting presence. it was oddly intimate, an exclusive soundtrack to his solitary evenings. he’d watch you explain the subtle art of a perfectly proofed brioche, the meticulous fold of a puff pastry. and as he watched, as your gentle explanations filled the quiet of his apartment, he started associating sweetness with more than just taste.
it was in the warmth of your voice, the patient way you corrected a common baking mistake in a tutorial, the quiet dedication in your hands as they measured flour. sweetness became patience. sweetness became quiet strength. sweetness became you.
he’d drift off to sleep with the soft cadence of your voice in his ears, and that’s when the dreams started. not about gym glory or brand deals, but about pastries that didn’t exist yet. wild, impossible creations: a lavender-infused crème brûlée that shimmered like moonlight, a pistachio and rosewater financier that smelled like spring, a miso-caramel tart with a delicate sesame crust. he’d wake up, confused and disoriented, craving flavors you hadn’t invented yet, a strange, persistent ache in his chest.
and then, the texting began.
it started innocently enough, a playful jab after a particularly indulgent visit.
squatoru: seriously, that pain au chocolat today? should come with a warning label. my trainer cried.
why.en-bakes: glad to be of service 😃
but then, the messages started appearing at odd hours. 1 am, 2 am. sometimes a simple, nonsensical emoji. sometimes a flurry of half-baked ideas.
squatoru: what about a churro croissant? is that legal? asking for a friend. (the friend is my sweet tooth).
you’d wake up to the ping, groggy and annoyed, but then you’d read his absurd suggestions, and a small smile would tug at your lips. sometimes, inexplicably, they were good ideas. too good.
your fingers would hover over your phone, considering the absurdity, then find themselves scrolling through your pantry. a few days later, a churro croissant would appear as tomorrow’s special, flaky and cinnamon-sugared, a tangible reply to his late-night musings.
he’d walk in the next day, a triumphant grin on his face. “i knew it,” he’d say, leaning against the counter, eyes sparkling. “you’re secretly taking commissions from my dreams, aren’t you, cupcake?”
you’d just shrug, a faint flush on your cheeks. “just a good baker with good ideas, satoru.”
he began to wonder if this was what inspiration felt like, this constant buzz in his brain, these unexpected surges of creativity that always, always, revolved around you and your world. it was foreign, intoxicating.
the teasing messages started to shift, to soften. the playful jabs giving way to something more sincere, more vulnerable.
squatoru: that apple crumble changed my life, no joke. thought i peaked, then tasted that. turns out i can still be surprised.
a message like that would arrive late at night, catching you off guard. you’d be scrolling through a supplier catalog, exhausted, and then his words would bloom on the screen, a quiet warmth spreading through your chest.
squatoru: didn’t know honey could taste like that. your honey cake. it’s something else.
you’d stare at your phone screen, a strange mixture of fluster and genuine pleasure unfurling inside you. these weren't compliments about his abs or his follower count—they were about your work, your taste, your ability to create something beautiful. when you thought no one was looking, usually tucked under your covers or in the quiet pre-dawn hours of the cafe, you’d screenshot them. little digital keepsakes of his quiet adoration.
squatoru: you made winter feel kind today. the lemon tart. tasted like sunshine.
you didn't know what to do with messages like that. they weren't flirting, not exactly. they were… observations. gentle, heartfelt observations that chipped away at your professional armor, one sweet, unassuming word at a time.
back in the gleaming, sterile environment of his gym, satoru’s performance was, to put it mildly, suffering. his focus, once laser-sharp, now drifted like dandelion fluff on the wind.
he dropped weights mid-set, the heavy clatter echoing through the gym, startling the other lifters. he’d be thinking about the impossibly smooth texture of your lemon curd, the delicate balance of your custard. the way it melted on the tongue. the exact shade of the toasted meringue.
his trainer, a no-nonsense man named masaru who believed in pain and protein above all else, crossed his arms, a vein throbbing faintly in his temple. “satoru. you’ve dropped that sixty-kilo bell three times this week. you sleeping enough?”
satoru grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel, his mind still halfway back in your cafe. “yeah, fine. just… distracted.”
“distracted by what? another brand deal?” masaru eyed him skeptically. “you’re hitting your protein, right? macros are still on point?”
“yeah, yeah. all fine.” satoru lied, easily, smoothly. he hadn’t logged his macros properly in days. he hadn’t done his usual post-workout cardio in favor of replaying your new almond croissant tutorial. he wasn’t fine. not in the way masaru meant.
he was falling. falling faster and harder than any deadlift he’d ever attempted. and the landing, he suspected, was going to be deliciously, terrifyingly sweet.
satoru’s multiple story posts tagging humble your café’s location, each one a testament to your baking prowess and his insatiable sweet tooth, had brought chaos. glorious, sugary chaos.
by the next morning, tuesday, there was a line winding around the block of flour & sugar—a serpent of eager customers stretching down the street, smartphones out, food bloggers scribbling furiously into notebooks, and a worrying number of local influencers trying (and failing) to recreate satoru’s “found heaven” aesthetic shots outside your unassuming facade.
you opened the doors at seven, expecting your usual tuesday hum. instead, you were hit with a tidal wave. your tiny cafe, usually a haven of quiet contemplation for pastry lovers, became a buzzing hive of anticipation.
by 9 am, the display case was utterly, tragically barren. empty shelves stared back at you, pristine and devoid of life. you were sold out, completely overwhelmed by the sudden, unprecedented influx of customers, all asking for “whatever satoru gojo ordered.”
you’d spent the last hour politely explaining that satoru gojo had a different order every day and, no, you couldn’t just whip up a fresh batch of everything right now. the exhaustion was real, but so was the faint, bewildered pride.
when he showed up at his usual, leisurely time, strolling in at 10:47 like he owned the sunshine outside, he stopped short. the bell above the door gave its usual chime, but for once, satoru’s fluid confidence faltered. his storm-glass eyes, usually so sharp and discerning, widened, then slowly swept across the utterly desolate display case.
the devastation on his face was almost comical—like someone had just told him christmas was cancelled, forever, and replaced it with a mandatory kale cleanse. his impossible silver hair seemed to droop slightly, mirroring the sudden collapse of his shoulders.
you, wiping down the already spotless counter, saw his expression crumble, the playful mischief in his eyes replaced by a profound, almost childlike grief. a genuine wave of apology washed over you.
“i’m so sorry,” you started, stepping closer to the counter, your voice softer than intended. his gaze flickered to you, briefly losing focus on the tragedy before him. “we… we sold out early today. there were just… a lot of new customers.” you gestured vaguely towards the lingering stragglers outside, still hopeful.
he ignored them. his eyes were fixed on the barren shelves, staring at the empty spaces where his beloved pain au chocolat and lemon meringue tarts usually sat in gleaming rows, like they had personally betrayed him. his perfect posture, usually so effortlessly arrogant, sagged just a fraction. “all of it?”
you nodded, a small, sympathetic frown creasing your brow. “all of it. the pain au chocolat, the kouign-amann, even the cinnamon rolls. everything.” you watched him process this profound tragedy, the quick flicker of shock, then disbelief, then a truly dramatic despair. a strange, soft tug pulled at your chest. it was ridiculous, of course, but also… kind of sweet.
you couldn’t help it. his absolute, unadulterated heartbreak over a lack of pastries was surprisingly endearing. “but… i could make you something?” you offered, the words tumbling out before you could fully censor them. “fresh? if you don’t mind waiting.”
his head snapped up, those storm-glass eyes widening again, now alight with a sudden, improbable hope. it was like you’d just offered him the moon, gift-wrapped and topped with ganache. “you’d do that?”
“well,” you said, trying to ignore how his entire face lit up, a blinding sunrise of relief and joy. you felt a blush creeping up your neck. “can’t have you wasting away to nothing, satoru. i imagine your trainer would send me a very strongly worded email.” you added, a small, wry smile touching your lips.
what you didn’t say: that you’d already set aside ingredients for his usual favorites—an almond croissant, a chocolate tart, a couple of those irresistible dark chocolate cookies—before the morning rush hit, carefully hidden in the back like a secret stash, just in case. just in case he showed up, heartbroken, and needed a little private magic.
he seemed to take this as a cue, a permission granted. a wide, relieved grin spread across his face, lighting up the entire cafe. “you’re a lifesaver, cupcake. a literal, delicious lifesaver.” he pushed off the counter, moving with renewed purpose towards his usual corner table, settling in with the patience of a cat waiting for milk. “anything you make will be perfect. take your time. i’m in no rush.”
you ducked your head, a smile finally escaping, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the espresso machine. the cafe was empty of customers, but suddenly, it felt very, very full.
you disappeared into the back, the familiar rhythm of your kitchen a welcome balm after the morning’s chaos. pulling out the pre-portioned ingredients, you began to work, your hands moving with skilled precision. you rolled the pastry for his almond croissant, its buttery layers promising flaky perfection, then assembled a miniature chocolate tart, ensuring the ganache was extra smooth, the sable crust extra crisp. the aroma of warm butter and dark chocolate began to waft through the now quiet cafe, a comforting, familiar scent that promised indulgence.
satoru, at his table, watched the kitchen door, an expectant, almost puppy-like eagerness in his posture. when you finally emerged, a small plate held carefully in your hands, he practically vibrated with anticipation.
“almond croissant and a chocolate tart, fresh out of the oven,” you announced, placing the plate gently before him. the croissant gleamed, its toasted almonds a fragrant crown, and the chocolate tart was a miniature masterpiece, its surface still faintly warm. “and a fresh matcha latte, extra sweet, just like you like it.”
he stared at the plate, then up at you, his impossible eyes wide with genuine awe. “you… you made this? just for me?”
you felt a blush spread across your cheeks. “it’s part of the job, satoru. making people happy with pastries.”
“you’re doing a very good job,” he said, his gaze lingering on your face for a beat longer than strictly necessary. he reached for the croissant first, breaking off a piece with careful precision. the warm, buttery scent filled the air around him. his eyes fluttered closed for a second, a soft, appreciative hum escaping him as he chewed slowly, savoring every flaky, almond-laced bite.
this wasn't just a pastry. this was a personalized act of kindness from the one person who seemed utterly immune to his usual charms. and it tasted like pure, unadulterated happiness.
he devoured the croissant, then moved to the chocolate tart, taking a huge, satisfying bite. the warmth of the chocolate, the sweetness of the ganache, the unexpected crunch of the crust—it was pure bliss. he ate it with the focus of a man who’d been starving for days, yet somehow also with a deliberate slowness, trying to make the moment last.
when he finished, the plates were impeccably clean, as if licked. he pulled out his wallet again, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “i’m going to need the damage report, cupcake. and i have a feeling this kind of bespoke service warrants… extra compensation.” he placed two crisp hundred-dollar bills on the counter, pushing them towards you. “for the trouble. and for the extra miles i’ll have to run tomorrow.”
you stared at the money, then at him, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “satoru, this is ridiculous. it’s twelve dollars. the ingredients were already here.”
“nonsense. that was a private showing of artisanal genius. worth every penny. consider it a down payment for future emergencies.” he grinned, then stood, stretching with a languid grace that drew your eyes to the way his t-shirt draped over his chest. “so. tuesday, then? same time?”
you watched him, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the oven. “tuesday. we’ll try to save some for you.”
“no need,” he said, a playful wink accompanying his words as he headed for the door. “i have a feeling you’ll make something special just for me.”
and as the bell chimed, marking his departure, you couldn’t help but smile, already thinking about what new creation you could conjure up for his next visit. he was right. you probably would.
the cafe had always run on rhythm. espresso machine hissing, ceramic clatter, quiet conversation hum. but lately, that rhythm had acquired a distinct satoru-shaped beat that threw off your entire carefully orchestrated world.
he’d been coming in daily now, not just tuesday through saturday, but every moment the doors were open. his excuses were increasingly transparent, delivered with charming smirks that you almost bought—would have bought, if you weren’t becoming dangerously familiar with the way his mouth curved when he was particularly pleased with himself.
“needed caffeine,” he’d declare one morning, striding through the bell’s familiar jingle with the kind of confidence that made gravity seem negotiable. never mind that his penthouse probably housed equipment worth more than your monthly rent. he’d stretch deliberately, quality fabric pulling across shoulders that belonged in renaissance sculptures, while storm-glass eyes swept the display case like he was conducting some kind of sacred inventory.
another day brought, “had a meeting nearby.” vague gesturing down the street with long fingers that moved like they were conducting invisible symphonies, as if his presence wasn’t the actual purpose. he’d unwrap an éclair before fully paying, chocolate scent momentarily masking cologne that probably cost more than your weekly flour budget.
then came the most audacious: “thought i smelled something burning.”
perfectly straight face, not even a twitch in those ridiculous cheekbones. dramatic air-sniffing that somehow made him look like a very expensive bloodhound. you’d given him your flattest look, the one usually reserved for customers who asked if your croissants were “really” made fresh daily.
there was, of course, no burning anything. just your patience, slowly crumbling like overbaked cookies.
today was thursday. he walked in wearing a dark long-sleeved shirt that committed actual crimes against your ability to concentrate and cargo pants that somehow looked effortlessly expensive on legs that went on for geological ages. ordered his usual—chocolate tart, almond croissant, extra-sweet matcha latte that matched his ridiculous sweet tooth—but bypassed his customary corner table.
instead, he chose a small two-person spot against the wall. direct, unobstructed view of your main workspace. the audacity was breathtaking, really.
you felt his attention immediately, warm weight settling between your shoulder blades like a cat claiming ownership. moved to the prep station where vanilla cupcakes waited for rosettes, your hands usually surgeon-steady despite the early morning rush. but under his unwavering focus, fingers felt clumsy, disconnected from your brain. delicate buttercream swirls wobbled slightly, and you bit back the urge to hum—your usual working soundtrack felt too intimate with him watching.
annoyance mixed with growing heat that had nothing to do with the ovens. furious blush threatened to betray every professional instinct you’d cultivated.
during a lull, you glanced up, and immediately regretted it. his table sat maybe six feet away but felt impossibly close, like he’d somehow bent space around himself. no pretense today—phone abandoned beside his matcha, screen dark as those winter-storm eyes. just watching. chin propped on palm, elbow on table, head tilted with languid grace that suggested he had all the time in the world to study your every movement.
his expression was soft, unguarded. usual playful glint replaced by something direct, seeing. it made your chest tighten strangely, breath catching like you’d forgotten how to process oxygen properly. awareness jolted through you like touching a live wire.
“you’re staring,” you called across the space, voice steadier than your pulse deserved. the words came out sharper than intended, defensive armor against the way he was looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in his very curated world.
he smiled slowly, easy stretch reaching those impossible eyes. blue depths softened, losing glacial edge for warmth that made something flutter stupidly behind your ribs. lifted his matcha with deliberate grace, sipped without breaking eye contact. the movement was calculated casualness, performative in its confidence.
“just appreciating the artistry, cupcake.” his voice carried new weight today, rougher around the edges. more honest than his usual smooth control, like he’d forgotten to put on his public persona along with that perfectly fitted shirt.
“the artistry of cupcakes?” you countered, fingers tightening around the piping bag until plastic creaked in protest. forced attention back to swirling white frosting, but your mind kept circling back to how his gaze felt like warm spotlight, illuminating corners of yourself you usually kept professionally dim.
he chuckled, low and private, the sound meant for your ears alone despite the public space. head tilted again, silver hair falling across his forehead in a way that should have looked messy but instead made him look like some expensive magazine’s idea of casual perfection. storm-glass eyes held yours, reflective depth replacing sharp teasing.
“the artistry of you making them.” the words fell between you like powdered sugar, sweet and impossible to brush away.
this compliment rewired something fundamental in your chest. bypassed professional pride entirely, sailed straight past the fluster you’d been fighting, and landed somewhere dangerous. settled like comfortable weight against your ribs, warm and persistent. wasn’t about pastries anymore, or technical skill. about you.
the quiet passion, focused dedication you poured into everything you made. like he’d reached past counter, past flour-dusted apron, past practiced customer service smile, and seen something essential you rarely let anyone witness.
heat crept up your neck in a slow burn, spread across cheeks like spilled cinnamon. you ducked your head, suddenly exposed in ways that made your skin feel too tight. terrifying and exhilarating simultaneously, like standing at the edge of something vast and unnamed.
foolish joy blossomed behind your ribs anyway. he really sees it. sees you.
“well, thank you, satoru,” you managed, voice softer than intended, betraying the carefully constructed composure you wore like armor. squeezed the piping bag, and a perfect rosette bloomed—slightly lopsided but charming in its imperfection. “it takes a lot of practice. years, actually.”
your fingers trembled slightly as you set the cupcake aside, reached for another. started humming under your breath without thinking, a soft melody that always accompanied your work. caught yourself, stopped abruptly.
he made a thoughtful sound, those long fingers drumming against ceramic in a rhythm that somehow matched the song you’d been humming. like he’d been listening, filing away even your unconscious habits. “years, huh? that’s...” he paused, rolling the word around like he was tasting it. “dedication.”
something almost wistful colored his tone, like he was trying to imagine that kind of sustained commitment to anything that wasn’t maintaining his ridiculous physical perfection. his thumb traced the rim of his cup, absent gesture that drew your attention to hands that were probably softer than yours despite all his gym time.
“some people think it’s obsessive,” you admitted, surprising yourself with the honesty. smoothed your apron with nervous fingers, flour transferring to already-dusty fabric. you’d heard it before—friends who didn’t understand the 4am starts, the burned fingers, the endless pursuit of perfect crumb structure.
“obsessive?” he repeated, eyebrows rising toward that impossible hairline. familiar smirk tugged at lips that were unfairly well-defined, but gentler somehow. less performative. “coming from someone who’s memorized your operating schedule and has been conducting what could generously be called ‘pastry surveillance’ for months?”
the self-awareness in his voice, paired with that slight flush across sharp cheekbones, made something warm bubble up in your chest. despite yourself, you snorted. actual snorted. like an undignified, very unprofessional sound that would have mortified you with any other customer.
his grin widened into something brilliant, transforming his entire face. less magazine-perfect, more genuinely beautiful. the kind of smile that made you forget he was probably genetically engineered for maximum visual impact.
“touché,” you murmured, ducking your head to hide your answering smile. started humming again, softer this time, the melody weaving between words. “though i’d hardly call buying excessive amounts of baked goods ‘surveillance.’”
“excessive?” he pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, the gesture making his shirt pull across torso that defied reasonable proportions. leaned back in his chair with fluid grace, all long lines and casual power. “i prefer ‘thorough research methodology.’”
“is that what we’re calling it?” the question came out teasing despite your best efforts, fingers moving in familiar patterns as buttercream spiraled into perfect peaks.
“absolutely. very scientific.” he took another sip of matcha, eyes sparkling with mischief that made him look younger, less untouchable. “can’t make proper assessments without comprehensive data collection.”
you paused in your piping, tilted your head in challenge. “and what exactly are you assessing?”
something shifted in his expression then, playful mask slipping slightly. “everything,” he said simply, voice dropping to something more intimate. “the way you move when you think no one’s watching. how you hum when you’re concentrating. the fact that you always check the oven timer twice, even though you could probably bake blindfolded by now.”
the observation sent warmth spiraling through your chest. he had been watching, really watching. not just appreciating the view but memorizing details, cataloging habits you thought were invisible.
“speaking of which,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, elbows finding the table. closer now, close enough that you could see the way his lashes cast shadows on those ridiculous cheekbones. “how does one even begin to learn something like this? hypothetically speaking.”
the question caught you off guard, made you pause with piping bag hovering over another cupcake. something in his tone had shifted—less flirtatious banter, more genuine curiosity. like he was actually interested in your answer rather than just enjoying the conversation.
“hypothetically?” you echoed carefully, studying his face for signs of his usual performative charm. found something more sincere instead, vulnerability creeping around the edges of his confidence.
“completely hypothetical,” he assured, but that flush across his cheekbones deepened slightly. fingers stilled against his cup, waiting for your response with the kind of focus he usually reserved for gym routines or camera angles.
you considered this, set down the piping bag to give him your full attention. “well, hypothetically... most people start with basics. measuring, following recipes exactly. learning to fail gracefully.”
“fail gracefully?” curiosity brightened those storm-glass eyes, head tilting like he was genuinely trying to understand a foreign concept.
“burned cookies, collapsed cakes, chocolate that seizes because you got impatient.” you shrugged, began humming again as you arranged finished cupcakes on a tiered stand. the melody helped organize your thoughts, made the explanation flow easier. “it’s part of the process. you mess up, figure out why, try again.”
he was quiet for a moment, processing this with the kind of intense focus that probably made his personal trainer weep with joy. thumb traced patterns against ceramic, unconscious gesture that somehow made him seem more human.
“sounds like it requires patience.” something rueful colored his voice, like he was recognizing his own shortcomings.
“tons of it. and thick skin. and the ability to get up at ungodly hours because bread waits for no one.” you glanced up, caught something almost vulnerable in his expression. like he was actually considering this impossible scenario, measuring himself against requirements he’d never had to meet.
“ungodly hours,” he repeated thoughtfully, hair falling across his forehead as he leaned closer. “like how ungodly are we talking?”
“four am, sometimes earlier during busy seasons.” you watched him wince dramatically, all sharp angles and exaggerated horror. the reaction was so genuine it made you laugh, soft sound that seemed to catch his attention like a hook. “different kind of brutal than your workout schedule.”
“definitely different,” he agreed, then found yourself adding, voice softer, “but worth it. when everything comes together perfectly, when you create something that makes people happy...” you trailed off, humming resuming as you lost yourself in the thought. “there’s nothing quite like it.”
the way you said it, gentle and genuine and completely unguarded, made something shift in his expression. that performative confidence melted away entirely, replaced by raw curiosity and something that looked dangerously like longing.
“you really love it,” he observed quietly. not a question, more like a realization. like he was seeing you—really seeing you—for the first time.
“yeah,” you admitted, suddenly shy under his intense focus. smoothed your apron again, nervous gesture that left more flour streaks across the fabric. “i really do.”
silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. charged instead, humming with possibilities and the weight of his attention. you could feel something shifting in the space between counter and table, subtle but significant. like tectonic plates moving, rearranging the landscape of whatever this was becoming.
and maybe, just maybe, you were starting to see him too. past the perfect exterior and calculated charm, to something more genuine underneath. something worth the risk of letting your guard down.
“well,” he said finally, voice softer than usual, that vulnerability still threading through his tone. straightened in his chair but somehow seemed less distant. “hypothetically speaking, that sounds like something worth learning about.”
you met his gaze, heart doing complicated acrobatics against your ribs. started humming again, melody filling the space between words. “hypothetically.”
“of course.” that slow smile returned, different now. less performative, more real. like sunlight breaking through carefully constructed clouds. “purely theoretical interest.”
“naturally,” you agreed, trying to ignore how your pulse had shifted into overtime.
but as you watched him settle back in his chair, something had definitely changed. the air between you felt thicker, more charged with possibility. and for the first time since this whole thing started, you weren’t entirely sure who was in control of this particular game anymore.
not that you minded being a little lost, especially when the alternative was finding your way back to the safety of professional distance. some risks were worth taking, even if they came wrapped in designer clothing and impossible blue eyes.
two months in, satoru gojo’s meticulously structured life had quietly reorganized itself around flour & sugar’s operating hours. his calendar, once a rigid grid of training blocks and sponsorship meetings, now had soft, flexible pockets of time carved out for “research.”
his trainer, masaru, had progressed from exasperated sighs to leaving passive-aggressive notes about “dietary consistency” taped to his gym locker. one simply read: “carbs are not your friend, satoru.” satoru had crumpled it up with a grin.
his friends had progressed from gentle ribbing about his "carb phase" to outright intervention attempts.
“dude, you know there are other bakeries in the city, right?” his roommate had asked last tuesday, watching satoru check the time for the third time in ten minutes, a nervous energy thrumming under his skin. “ones that don’t require you to rearrange your entire geopolitical schedule?”
satoru had just shrugged, eyes fixed on the clock. “the lighting’s better at this one.”
but they didn’t understand. couldn’t understand. because somewhere between that first accidental like and now, somewhere in the quiet hum of your cafe and the warm scent of your pastries, this had stopped being about the pastries entirely.
wednesday morning found him arriving at his usual time—10:47 am, after the morning rush but before lunch prep fully consumed your attention.
he’d timed it perfectly over weeks of careful observation, memorizing the rhythm of your day like scripture. the bell announced his entrance with a familiar chime, and he felt that stupid, predictable flutter in his chest when you looked up from behind the counter, a small, knowing smile touching your lips.
you were piping something delicate onto petit fours, tiny, jewel-like cakes arranged in neat rows. your movements were precise, economical, each squeeze of the pastry bag adding perfect, miniature rosettes of buttercream. but it was the soft humming that got him—a barely audible, contented melody that seemed to flow from some deep, quiet place inside you. he’d started cataloging these details without meaning to.
“morning, cupcake,” he said, his voice a low, familiar rumble as he settled into his usual spot by the window. the endearment had become natural, automatic, though he wasn’t sure when that had happened. it just… fit.
“morning, satoru.” your voice carried a warmth that made something dangerous and hopeful bloom in his chest. you finished the petit four with a final, delicate flourish, set down the piping bag, and he watched you wipe your hands on your flour-dusted black apron—the same gesture he’d seen hundreds of times now, but it still made him want to memorize the movement. “the usual?”
the usual. like he was a regular fixture, a predictable part of your day, which he supposed he was. chocolate tart, almond croissant, matcha latte with extra sweetness because you’d noticed his ridiculous sweet tooth weeks ago and started accommodating it without him ever having to ask.
“you know me so well,” he said, and the words held more weight than he’d intended.
something flickered across your face—pleasure, maybe, or a quiet satisfaction at being seen as perceptive. you moved through the preparation with a practiced efficiency, but he caught the way you selected his chocolate tart from the back row, where you’d obviously set aside the most perfectly formed one. he noticed how you added just a touch more syrup to his matcha without measuring, your muscle memory perfectly calibrated to his preferences.
these small kindnesses shouldn't have meant so much. but they did. they felt like secrets, quiet acknowledgements of this strange, unspoken thing growing between you.
“here we go,” you said, setting his order down with a quiet care. your fingers brushed his as you handed over the matcha, a contact so brief it was barely there, but so electric it sent a jolt straight up his arm. “perfect timing, too—that tart just came out of the case.”
“perfect timing,” he agreed, his voice a little rough, though he was talking about more than pastries. every visit felt like perfect timing now, like the universe had conspired to place him in this specific seat at this specific moment, watching you create magic from flour and butter and impossible patience.
he settled in, but the cafe felt different today. quieter. the lull between rushes seemed to stretch longer, leaving just the two of you in the warm, sweet-scented space. he ate slowly, deliberately, making the experience last. he’d finish a bite of the rich, decadent tart, then take a sip of the sweet, earthy matcha, his eyes constantly drifting back to you as you worked.
you were arranging the petit fours now, a focused intensity in your movements. you felt his gaze on you, a familiar, warm weight. but it wasn't just observation anymore—it felt like a presence, a quiet companionship that filled the empty spaces in the cafe.
“those look almost too pretty to eat,” he called over, his voice a low, appreciative murmur.
you glanced up, a small, genuine smile touching your lips. “almost,” you agreed. “that’s the goal. make people hesitate for at least a full second before they destroy your hard work.”
he chuckled, a rich sound that made your chest feel warm. “a full second? that’s ambitious. for me, it’s more like half a second of quiet reverence, followed by total annihilation.” he gestured to his now-empty plate as evidence.
the conversation fell into a comfortable silence. he finished his latte, but he didn't move. he didn’t pull out his phone, didn’t start gathering his things. he just sat there, watching you, a soft, unguarded expression on his face. the hesitation was palpable, a quiet reluctance to break the spell of the morning. you felt your own heart beating a little faster. he was waiting. waiting for what, you weren't sure. maybe for you to tell him to leave.
but you didn’t want him to.
your hands stilled on the counter. you took a breath, a small, shaky thing. this was new territory, a step beyond the safety of your professional boundaries. “so,” you started, your voice a little softer than you intended. “i was, uh, working on something new this morning.”
his head tilted, a spark of genuine curiosity lighting up his storm-glass eyes. he leaned forward slightly, all his attention focused on you. “oh yeah? a new instrument of torture for my trainer?”
the familiar banter was a lifeline, and you grabbed it. “something like that,” you said, a real smile breaking through. you ducked into the kitchen for a moment, the hum in your throat picking up a nervous, excited tempo. when you returned, you were holding a small, pristine white plate. on it sat a single, perfect creation.
it was a small, dome-shaped mousse cake, glazed with a mirror finish so pale blue it was almost white, the exact shade of his eyes on a clear winter day. delicate, crystalline sugar work spun around its base like fractured ice, and on top, a single, perfect white chocolate feather rested, reminiscent of his impossible hair, dusted with the finest silver powder. it looked like him. it looked like a feeling you were terrified to name.
you placed it on the counter between you, a silent, trembling offering.
satoru stared at it, his usual playful smirk gone, replaced by an expression of genuine, stunned awe. his eyes, so often a similar shade of impossible blue, widened as he took in the delicate details. the color. the single white feather. the resemblance was subtle, artful, but undeniably there. he knew, instantly, what—or rather, who—he was looking at. “cupcake,” he breathed, the word soft, reverent, barely a whisper. “what is this?”
“i’m not sure what to call it yet,” you admitted, your fingers finding the familiar comfort of your apron, twisting the fabric. “it’s a white chocolate and blueberry mousse. with a yuzu curd center. i was trying to capture a feeling, more than just a flavor.” your eyes were fixed on the cake, unable to meet his.
he looked from the cake to you, his gaze intense, searching, his heart hammering against his ribs. he understood. oh, he understood completely. “what feeling?”
you felt a blush heat your cheeks, a slow, deep burn. you risked a glance up, and the raw vulnerability in his expression made your breath catch. “i don’t know… quiet. calm.” you gestured vaguely at the peaceful cafe around you, a weak attempt at deflection. “like… the feeling you get when you finally perfect something. that moment of peace.” your lie was thin as spun sugar.
he was silent for a long moment, just looking at you, a universe of unspoken understanding passing between your locked gazes. then, his eyes met yours, and there was a raw honesty in them you’d never seen before. “can i…?”
“i was hoping you would,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “i need an honest opinion. from a professional researcher.”
that earned you a slow, breathtaking smile. it wasn't his usual cocky grin—it was softer, more genuine, and it reached all the way to his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. “my services are at your disposal.”
he moved from his table to the counter, taking the seat opposite you. the shift was significant. he was no longer a customer in your space—he was a guest, an invited participant. he picked up the small fork you’d provided, his long, callused fingers surprisingly delicate.
he took the first bite with the focus of a bomb disposal expert. you watched, holding your breath, as his expression shifted. his eyes widened slightly, then fluttered closed for a brief, blissful moment. a soft, involuntary sigh escaped his lips.
he chewed slowly, thoughtfully. you saw the surprise as the bright, tart yuzu hit his palate, cutting through the creamy sweetness of the white chocolate and the subtle fruitiness of the blueberry.
when he opened his eyes, they were dark, intense. “cupcake,” he said again, his voice rough with emotion. “that’s… that’s not a pastry. that’s a poem.” he looked from the half-eaten cake back to you, a question in his eyes. a silent asking. is this for me?
pride, warm and overwhelming, bloomed in your chest. “so… it’s okay?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly.
he laughed, a real, incredulous sound. “okay? it’s… perfect.” he took another bite, slower this time, savoring it. “it tastes exactly like you said. like a quiet morning. like… peace.” he looked at you then, and the weight of his gaze was enough to make your knees feel weak. “like finding something you didn't even know you were looking for.”
“i try,” you whispered, your heart doing a wild, joyful dance against your ribs.
he finished the entire cake in a reverent silence. when he was done, he set the fork down gently, a thoughtful, almost sad expression on his face. “the only problem,” he said, looking at the empty plate, “is that it’s over.”
his gaze lifted to yours, and in that moment, in the quiet of the empty cafe, with the ghost of a perfect pastry between you, you both knew he wasn't just talking about the cake anymore.
he was in trouble. deep, irreversible trouble.
and as you looked back at him, a soft, shy smile touching your lips, you realized with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty… so were you.
thursday passed like a held breath.
you found yourself checking the clock obsessively—10:30, 10:45, 10:47. each minute that ticked by without the familiar chime of the entrance bell felt heavier than the last. by 11 am, you’d reorganized the display case twice. by noon, you’d deep-cleaned the espresso machine that was already spotless. by 2 pm, you were fighting the urge to text him, though you didn’t even have his number.
the rational part of your mind supplied perfectly reasonable explanations. content creation. gym sessions. life. but the irrational part—the part that had spent last night dreaming about storm-glass eyes and the way he’d said “perfect” like a prayer—whispered crueler possibilities.
maybe he’d finally realized how far he’d drifted from his carefully curated routine. maybe masaru had staged a successful intervention. maybe yesterday’s cake had been too much, too obvious, too vulnerable.
maybe he’d finally gotten tired of your little bakery.
the lunch rush came and went in a blur of mechanical smiles and automated responses. customers complimented your strawberry danish, your matcha cookies, your perfectly crafted lattes, but their praise felt muted, like hearing music through water. you caught yourself glancing toward his usual table—table three by the window—every few minutes, each time hoping to see white hair catching the afternoon light.
instead, you saw empty chairs and the golden dust motes dancing in the space he usually occupied.
masako, your part-time helper, noticed your distraction during the afternoon lull. “you seem off today,” she said, wiping down the counter with characteristic directness. at sixty-two, she had no patience for subtlety. “waiting for someone?”
“no,” you lied, your voice a little too bright. “just tired.”
she hummed, unconvinced, but left you to your melancholy. you spent the rest of the afternoon perfecting a new recipe for honey lavender madeleines, throwing yourself into the familiar comfort of precise measurements and careful timing. baking had always been your meditation, your way of quieting the noise in your head. but today, even the methodical ritual couldn’t quite drown out the disappointed whisper in your chest.
by 6 pm, you’d accepted the truth. he wasn’t coming.
you began your closing routine with a heavy heart, moving through the familiar motions on autopilot. wiping down tables, washing the last of the display cases, counting the till. the evening light slanted golden through your windows, painting everything in warm honey tones that should have felt cozy but instead felt lonely.
you were just reaching for the door lock, keys jingling softly against your wrist, when you heard it—the soft tap of knuckles against glass.
your heart performed some impossible acrobatics as you turned, and there he was. satoru gojo, looking uncharacteristically nervous in the fading daylight, one hand raised in a small wave, the other clutching something behind his back. his usual confident smirk was nowhere to be found; instead, his expression held a tentative quality that made your chest ache with sudden, overwhelming relief. even anxious, he was devastating—the way his white hair caught the golden hour light like spun silk, how his broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorframe despite the uncertain set to them.
you fumbled with the lock, your hands trembling slightly as you let him in. “satoru,” you breathed, his name carrying more emotion than you’d intended, your fingers still wrapped around the cool metal of your keys. “i thought—”
“i know,” he said quickly, stepping inside and bringing with him the familiar scent of clean soap and something indefinably him. his free hand found the back of his neck, rubbing in a gesture you’d never seen before, vulnerability written in the uncertain tilt of his mouth. “i’m sorry. i had… things to take care of.” a pause, where he seemed to gather courage from somewhere deep. “i was going to come this morning, but then i realized i needed to do this properly.”
“do what properly?” you asked, your pulse hammering against your throat. the question came out softer than intended, curiosity and hope threading through your voice as you unconsciously stepped closer.
instead of answering, he brought his hidden hand forward, revealing a small bouquet that made your breath snag. white camellias, maybe a dozen of them, their petals perfect and pristine as fresh snow. in japan, you knew their meaning: you’re adorable. my destiny. in love with you. the message was clear, vulnerable, impossibly sweet.
satoru’s cheeks flushed the faintest pink as he watched your expression shift, the color spreading across his sculpted features like watercolor on paper. “i spent three hours at five different flower shops,” he admitted, his voice carrying that rare uncertainty that made him seem younger, more human. “the florist at the last one had to explain the meanings because apparently i’m hopeless at this.” his storm-glass eyes met yours, earnest and a little scared, the usual playful glint replaced by something raw and real. “but these… these felt right. they reminded me of yesterday. of that cake. of the way you looked at me when i said it was perfect.”
you took the bouquet with reverent hands, your fingertips brushing his in the transfer—a contact so brief it barely registered but electric enough to send warmth spiraling up your arms. the delicate petals felt like silk against your skin as you brought them closer, breathing in their subtle fragrance. “satoru,” you whispered, and the name came out like a sigh, like gratitude made sound. “they’re beautiful.”
relief flooded his features like sunlight breaking through clouds, and a hint of his usual confidence crept back into the curve of his mouth. those impossibly long lashes fluttered as he blinked, and when he smiled—really smiled, not the practiced grin from his instagram posts—it transformed his entire face. “i was hoping you’d say that. because i have a question to ask you, and i figured flowers might help my case.”
you looked up at him expectantly, your heart doing that familiar flutter-dance, clutching the camellias like an anchor.
“would you…” he started, then stopped, that hand finding his hair again, fingers raking through the white strands and leaving them slightly mussed. you’d never seen him this flustered, and it was endearing beyond words, the way his carefully maintained composure cracked to reveal something beautifully nervous underneath. “god, why is this harder than my first brand partnership pitch?” he muttered to himself, making you laugh despite your nerves.
the sound seemed to center him. “satoru,” you said gently, setting the flowers carefully on the counter, your movements deliberate and soft. “just ask.”
he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath his fitted black sweater, shoulders squaring as he found his resolve. “would you like to have dinner with me? tonight? there’s this place…” his voice gained momentum, words tumbling out like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. “it’s small, nothing fancy, but they make the best karaage in shibuya, and their ramen is…” he trailed off, shaking his head with a self-deprecating smile that made your stomach flip. “i’m selling this terribly. what i’m trying to say is, it’s my favorite place. where i go when i need to feel grounded. and i want to share it with you.”
the vulnerability in his voice, the way he was offering you a piece of his private world, made your chest feel too small for your heart. you pressed your palms against the counter for stability, the cool surface grounding you as you processed the magnitude of what he was asking. “i’d love to,” you said simply, and watched his entire body relax with relief, tension melting from his shoulders like snow in spring.
“yeah?” he asked, that devastating smile breaking across his face like sunrise, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made you want to memorize every detail.
“yeah,” you confirmed, grinning back at him, your own smile feeling bright enough to power the whole cafe. “just let me grab my things.”
you found a small ceramic vase in your supply closet and arranged the camellias carefully, their white petals catching the last of the evening light. they looked perfect on your counter, a promise of something beautiful beginning. after gathering your cardigan and bag, locking up the cafe with hands that trembled only slightly, you turned to find satoru watching you with soft eyes, his gaze following your movements like he was cataloguing them for later.
“ready?” he asked, offering you his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman, the gesture somehow both casual and reverent.
“ready,” you replied, slipping your hand through the crook of his elbow and trying not to think about how perfectly you fit against his side, how solid and warm he felt beneath the soft fabric of his sweater.
the walk to his favorite restaurant took fifteen minutes through the bustling streets of shibuya. he guided you away from the main tourist areas, down narrow side streets where locals hurried past small family-owned shops and the air smelled like yakitori and car exhaust and the particular energy of tokyo at dinnertime. his free hand occasionally gestured as he talked, painting pictures in the air, and you found yourself watching the elegant line of his wrists, the way his long fingers moved with unconscious grace.
“nervous?” he asked as you walked, and you realized you’d been quieter than usual, too busy cataloguing the way his presence beside you made the familiar streets feel brand new.
“a little,” you admitted, your fingers tightening slightly on his arm. “good nervous, though.”
“me too,” he confessed, and the honesty in his voice made you look up at him in surprise. up close, you could see the faint freckles scattered across his nose, barely visible unless you were really looking. “i haven’t done this in a while. the whole… proper date thing.”
“what do you usually do?” you asked, then immediately regretted the question, your cheeks warming. “sorry, that’s none of my business.”
“no, it’s okay,” he said, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your arm where your hand rested, the touch absent and soothing. “honestly? usually nothing this meaningful. protein bars in my apartment while editing content isn’t exactly romantic dinner material.” his laugh carried a note of self-deprecation that made you want to argue with him about his worth.
you laughed, the sound bright in the evening air, and felt him relax beside you. “well, you’re setting the bar pretty low for yourself.”
“exactly,” he grinned, and there was that practiced charm again, but softer somehow, more genuine. “smart strategy. exceed expectations by actually trying.”
the restaurant he led you to was tucked between a small bookshop and a traditional tea house, so narrow you almost missed it. the wooden sign above the door was weathered and simple: “momiji.” no english, no tourist-friendly decorations, just the kind of place locals protected fiercely from guidebook discovery.
inside was warm and cramped in the best possible way. maybe ten tables total, most occupied by older couples and small groups of friends talking quietly over steaming bowls. the air was rich with the smell of soy and garlic and chicken fat, and your stomach rumbled appreciatively, the sound making satoru’s mouth quirk with amusement.
“gojo-kun!” called out an elderly woman from behind the counter, her face lighting up with genuine affection that transformed her weathered features into something beautiful.
“evening, chiyo-san,” satoru replied, bowing slightly, and you watched his whole demeanor shift into something warmer, more relaxed. the careful influencer polish melted away, replaced by genuine fondness. “i brought someone special tonight.”
the woman’s eyes immediately shifted to you, taking in your simple cream-colored dress with the tiny floral print and the way satoru’s hand had found the small of your back as he guided you inside, his palm warm even through the fabric. her smile grew knowing, delighted, the expression of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. “ah, i see. the usual table?”
“please,” he said, and she led you to a small booth in the back corner, quieter and more intimate than the rest of the dining room.
as you settled across from each other, the worn wooden bench soft beneath you, you realized how different this felt from your morning encounters at the cafe. there, you’d had the safety of routine, the professional distance of counter service. here, with nothing between you but a small wooden table scarred with years of use and the soft glow of paper lanterns, the connection felt immediate, electric.
“so,” you said, glancing around the cozy space, your fingers playing with the hem of your dress, “how did you find this place?”
his expression grew thoughtful, a little nostalgic, and he leaned back against the booth. even relaxed, there was something elegant about the way he occupied space, long limbs arranged with unconscious grace. “my first year trying to make it as a competitive swimmer, i was broke. like, eating convenience store onigiri for every meal broke.” his fingers drummed against the table, a nervous habit you’d never noticed before. “but i’d just started posting gym content online—mostly because i was bored and thought my workout routines were decent enough to share. turns out people really liked watching me lift heavy things.” his grin turned almost smug, and you could see a hint of that cocky influencer confidence bleeding through. “went from the chubby kid getting laughed at in middle school to having people leave fire emojis on everything i posted. not gonna lie, the ego boost was incredible.”
you nearly choked on your own spit. “you were chubby?” the question came out before you could stop it, eyes widening as you tried to reconcile this information with the man sitting across from you—all sharp angles and lean muscle and the kind of physique that probably broke instagram servers on a regular basis.
his laugh was rich, genuinely amused by your shock. “hard to believe, right? but yeah, i was this round little kid who lived on baa-chan’s pastries and had absolutely zero athletic ability. got picked on pretty relentlessly for it too.” his expression grew more serious for a moment. “kids can be brutal about that stuff.”
“i can’t even imagine,” you said, still staring at him like he’d just revealed he used to be a completely different person. “you’re so…” you gestured vaguely at all of him, “you know.”
“devastatingly handsome?” he supplied with a grin that was pure mischief.
you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “i was going to say fit, but your ego doesn’t need any more help.”
“my ego is perfectly calibrated, thank you very much,” he said, taking another bite with obvious satisfaction. “six million followers can’t be wrong.”
“six million?” you nearly choked on your tea, your eyes widening in genuine shock. you’d known he was popular—the blue checkmark, the sudden influx of customers at your cafe—but that number was astronomical. you hadn't even looked when you’d first clicked on his profile, too stunned by the… scenery.
a flicker of confusion crossed his features, quickly replaced by a slow, amused smirk. he leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, those storm-glass eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “wait a minute,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing drawl. “you’re telling me you stalked my entire profile, ‘accidentally’ liked my abs, and you didn’t even clock the follower count?” his eyebrows rose in mock disbelief. “cupcake, were you that mesmerized?”
heat flooded your cheeks, a furious, mortifying blush. “it was an accident!” you insisted, your voice a little too high. “my phone slipped! literally! it fell on my face!”
he just laughed, a rich, delighted sound that made chiyo-san glance over with a fond smile. “sure it did. a very convenient, gravity-induced slip right onto the like button of my most recent thirst trap.” he leaned back, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “it’s okay to admit it. my content is very… engaging.”
“it was an accident,” you repeated through gritted teeth, though the corner of your mouth was twitching with a smile you were desperately trying to suppress. “i barely even noticed.”
“you noticed enough to get flustered when i walked into your cafe the next day,” he countered, his grin widening. “don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” he winked, a quick, devastatingly charming gesture.
you sighed in dramatic, feigned defeat, shaking your head in amused disbelief. here he was, this successful influencer with millions of people thirsting over his content, sitting in a tiny restaurant getting excited about karaage and still finding the time to relentlessly tease you about a two-month-old instagram mishap.
he gestured around the small restaurant with obvious affection, his smile softening, the teasing glint in his eyes receding as he switched back to the more serious topic. “anyway… that first real brand deal came through when i had a lot fewer followers than i do now. i wandered around for hours after i got the email, just buzzing, until i smelled chiyo-san’s karaage and… followed my nose. she fed me for about half what anywhere else would have charged, and when i tried to tip her, she refused. said young athletes needed to save their money for important things.”
“like what?” you asked, charmed by the story, by the way his whole face animated as he spoke.
“protein powder, apparently,” he laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “she’s been trying to fatten me up ever since. every time i come in, she adds extra portions and pretends not to notice.” his expression shifted, became more thoughtful. “funny thing is, she reminds me of my grandmother. same stubborn kindness, same inability to let people leave hungry.”
something in his voice made you lean forward slightly, sensing a story. “your grandmother?”
“baa-chan,” he said, and the childhood nickname made him look younger somehow, vulnerability flickering across his features like candlelight. “she lived with us when i was little. made the most incredible pastries—mont blanc, cream puffs, these little butter cookies shaped like flowers.” his fingers moved as he spoke, sketching shapes in the air. “i was… well, let’s just say i was a chubby kid with zero self-control around her baking.”
the admission came with a self-conscious laugh, and you watched him duck his head slightly, white hair falling across his forehead in a way that made your fingers itch to brush it back. “i probably ate my weight in cream puffs every week. my parents were horrified—kept talking about discipline and proper nutrition—but baa-chan would just smile and make me another batch.”
“what happened?” you asked softly, sensing the weight beneath his words.
“she died when i was twelve,” he said simply, but you caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, the old grief still tender. “that’s actually when i got serious about swimming. needed something to prove, you know? the chubby kid who got picked on suddenly had abs and could out-swim anyone.” his laugh held a note of old satisfaction. “worked pretty well too, until my shoulder decided otherwise at nineteen.” he shrugged, and there was something almost casual about it, like he’d made peace with that disappointment long ago. “funny thing though—turns out all that discipline translated perfectly to social media. and honestly? after years of being called names, having people thirst over my workout videos was… pretty addictive.”
the parallel wasn’t lost on you—him finding your bakery, the way he’d gravitated toward your humming, your pastries, your quiet care. your throat felt tight with understanding. “she sounds wonderful,” you managed, your voice softer than intended.
“she would have loved you,” he said, and the certainty in his voice made warmth bloom in your chest. “would have probably tried to steal all your recipes and then pretend she’d invented them herself.”
a soft, watery laugh escaped you at the image, a sound thick with an emotion you couldn't quite name. you reached across the small table, your fingers gently covering his where they rested on the wood. his own smile softened in response, and he turned his hand over to tangle his fingers with yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. “i think i would have liked her too,” you said, your voice a little shaky. “even with the threat of culinary espionage.”
as if summoned by your shared laughter, chiyo-san appeared at your table with a pot of jasmine tea and a knowing smile, her approach breaking the tender moment. “the usual for you, gojo-kun?”
“the usual sounds perfect,” he confirmed, then turned to you with a slightly sheepish expression, running his hand through his hair in that nervous gesture. “i hope you don’t mind me ordering for both of us. she knows what i like, and trust me, you want what i’m having.”
“i trust you,” you said, and something in his eyes flickered with pleasure at the words, his whole posture straightening slightly.
chiyo-san bustled away, and you found yourselves alone again in the warm bubble of the corner booth. the awkwardness you’d expected on a first date was nowhere to be found—instead, conversation flowed as easily as it did in your cafe, maybe easier without the professional barriers.
“so,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on the table, “tell me something i don’t know about you.”
you considered this, idly tracing patterns on the wooden table with your finger, the surface smooth from years of use. “i didn’t always want to run a bakery,” you admitted, glancing up to find his attention completely focused on you, those storm-glass eyes intent and curious. “i went to university for literature. thought i’d be a translator, maybe work in publishing.”
“what changed your mind?” his question came with that particular quality of attention he gave you—like you were the only person in the world worth listening to.
“my grandmother,” you said, and your smile carried the warmth of a thousand memories. “she taught me to bake when i was little. not recipes from books, but the kind of knowledge that lives in your hands. how to tell when dough is ready by feel, how to adjust for humidity, all those little secrets that make the difference between good and extraordinary.”
you paused as chiyo-san returned with plates of food—golden karaage chicken that smelled like heaven, perfectly chewy ramen with rich, cloudy broth, gyoza with crispy bottoms and tender tops, and several small dishes you didn’t recognize but immediately wanted to try. the portions were generous enough to feed a small army.
“this looks incredible,” you breathed, the savory aroma making your mouth water.
“chiyo-san’s love language is overfeeding people,” satoru explained, already reaching for his chopsticks with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this countless times. “but finish your story. about your grandmother.”
you took a tentative bite of the karaage and nearly made an embarrassing sound of pleasure at the perfect balance of crispy exterior and juicy interior, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. “oh my god, this is amazing.”
“right?” his smile was proud, like he’d made it himself, and you caught the way he watched you taste everything, cataloguing your reactions with obvious satisfaction. “best in the city. now keep talking.”
“well,” you continued between bites, your chopsticks moving with less grace than his but no less enthusiasm, “when she got sick, i took leave from my job to take care of her. we spent months baking together, and she made me promise to keep her recipes alive. not just the techniques, but the feeling behind them. the idea that food can be comfort, celebration, love made tangible.”
your voice grew softer, more vulnerable, and you found yourself looking down at your bowl. “she died two weeks before i was supposed to start my master’s program. instead of going back to school for my master's, i realized what i really wanted. i used my savings for culinary school instead, and then opened flour & sugar. some days i think she’d be proud. other days i wonder if i gave up too easily on my original dreams.”
satoru’s chopsticks stilled in his bowl, and when you looked up, his expression was gentle, understanding written in the soft set of his features. “you didn’t give up,” he said quietly, and there was conviction in his voice that made your chest tight. “you just found a different way to tell stories. every pastry you make, every customer you welcome—that’s narrative too. connection. meaning.”
the simple validation made your throat tight with emotion, and you had to blink back the sudden threat of tears. “you think so?”
“i know so,” he said firmly, leaning forward slightly, his intensity focused entirely on you. “because i’ve been living that story for two months now. every morning at 10:47, getting to be part of whatever magic you create in that little space.”
you felt heat bloom in your cheeks, partly from his words and partly from a sudden realization that had been nagging at you all evening. “satoru,” you started hesitantly, your fingers tightening around your chopsticks, “can i ask you something?”
“anything,” he said, then caught your serious tone and set down his chopsticks entirely, giving you his complete attention.
“your routine,” you said carefully, worrying your lower lip between your teeth, “your content schedule, your training… am i messing that up for you? because if masaru is angry, or if coming to the cafe is interfering with your workouts…”
he was quiet for a long moment, considering his response, and you watched emotions flicker across his face—surprise, thoughtfulness, something that might have been relief. when he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, honest.
“yes,” he said simply, and your heart sank until he continued, his mouth quirking into a rueful smile. “you’ve completely destroyed my routine. i used to plan content three weeks in advance. i had optimal posting times calculated to the minute. i scheduled my life in fifteen-minute increments for maximum engagement.”
“satoru—” you started, distress clear in your voice.
“let me finish,” he said gently, and there was something in his expression that made you settle back, though worry still thrummed beneath your skin. “you’ve ruined all of that. and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
you stared at him, confusion clear in your expression, your head tilting slightly in that way you had when you were trying to puzzle something out.
“for three years, since swimming didn’t work out, i’ve been pretty happy with what i built,” he continued, his hands gesturing as he spoke, and you found yourself watching the elegant movement of his fingers. “good content, solid following, enough brand deals to live comfortably. got to turn all that training discipline into something that actually pays the bills.” his smile was easy, confident. “and honestly? i was enjoying it. liked the routine, liked the control, liked seeing the numbers go up.”
he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours where they rested beside your ramen bowl, and the touch sent electricity racing up your arm. “but then i found your cafe, and suddenly i had something to look forward to that wasn’t about hitting my macros or optimal posting times. something that was just… nice. simple good. like that first bite of your chocolate tart, or the way you hum when you’re concentrating, or how you remember exactly how i like my matcha without me having to ask.”
his thumb traced across your knuckles, the touch feather-light but grounding, and you found yourself holding your breath. “masaru thinks i’ve gotten distracted, and he’s probably right. but honestly? i’m not complaining. life’s been pretty good to me, but this…” he gestured vaguely between you both, “this is something different. something better.”
the weight of his confession settled between you like a shared secret, and around you, the restaurant hummed with quiet conversation and clinking chopsticks, but you felt suspended in this moment, in the warm golden light and the earnestness in his eyes.
“so no,” he said, his voice dropping to something warm, genuine, meant only for you, “you’re not messing anything up. if anything, you’re making everything more interesting.”
you felt warmth bloom in your chest—relief, happiness, something sweet and uncomplicated swelling until you could barely contain your smile. “that’s either the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” you managed, your voice slightly wobbly as you turned your hand palm-up beneath his, fingers intertwining, “or you’re really good at making excuses for carb addiction.”
he threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich and delighted and completely unguarded, and the momentary emotional intensity dissolved into warmth, comfort, the easy joy of sharing a meal with someone who understood the shape of your heart.
“probably both,” he admitted, grinning as he brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that made your entire body feel warm. “masaru keeps leaving increasingly desperate notes in my gym locker. yesterday’s just said ‘vegetables exist, satoru.’”
“he’s not wrong,” you said, gesturing at the mountain of fried chicken between you with your free hand, though you made no move to let go of his. “this is not exactly influencer food.”
“which is why,” he said, reaching for another piece of karaage with his chopsticks, absolutely no shame in his expression, “we’re going to enjoy every single bite, and tomorrow i’ll do an extra workout. balance.”
you spent the next hour working through chiyo-san’s generous spread, talking about everything and nothing. he told you about growing up in a family that expected perfection, about the pressure of competition, about the crushing disappointment when his swimming career ended with a shoulder injury at nineteen. you shared stories about the early days of the cafe, the learning curve of small business ownership, the quiet satisfaction of creating something with your own hands.
the conversation flowed like you’d known each other for years instead of months, punctuated by his groans of appreciation for the food and your laughter at his increasingly dramatic descriptions of masaru’s passive-aggressive campaign to restore his “macro discipline.”
“he’s started leaving printed meal plans in my gym bag,” satoru confessed, twirling ramen noodles around his chopsticks with practiced ease, his expression one of amused exasperation. “like a nutrition-focused fairy, but more judgmental and with better organizational skills.”
“maybe you should introduce him to my neighbor,” you suggested, dabbing at a drop of broth on your chin with your napkin. “she leaves notes about proper composting technique on everyone’s door. they could bond over their shared love of unsolicited improvement projects.”
“god, can you imagine?” he grinned, his eyes crinkling with genuine mirth. “they’d have the most organized, health-conscious children in tokyo.”
by the time chiyo-san brought you perfectly ripe persimmons and more jasmine tea, the restaurant had begun to empty out. you’d somehow made it through most of the food—a feat that seemed impossible when the plates first arrived—and you felt full in the best possible way, warm and content and slightly drowsy from good food and better company.
“i should probably get you home,” satoru said eventually, though his tone suggested he’d rather do anything else, his thumb still tracing absent patterns across your knuckles. “it’s getting late, and you have to open tomorrow.”
“unfortunately,” you agreed, though you made no move to gather your things, reluctant to break the spell of the evening.
he signaled chiyo-san for the check, waving off your attempts to pay with a firm shake of his head that left no room for argument. “this was my idea,” he said, his voice carrying that quiet authority that probably served him well in business negotiations. “besides, you make me breakfast five days a week. it’s the least i can do.”
“that’s different,” you protested, your cheeks warming. “that’s business.”
“is it?” he asked, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your pulse skip, the question loaded with weeks of careful circling around each other. “because it hasn’t felt like business for a while now.”
heat bloomed in your cheeks, and you looked down at your hands, still tangled with his. “no,” you admitted quietly, the word barely above a whisper. “it hasn’t.”
he settled the bill with chiyo-san, who sent you off with a paper bag of extra gyoza “for tomorrow’s lunch” and promises that you were welcome back anytime, her knowing smile making it clear she approved of satoru’s choice. the night air was cool against your skin as you stepped outside, a pleasant contrast to the warm restaurant, and you pulled your cardigan closer around your shoulders.
“which direction?” satoru asked, offering his arm again, the gesture now familiar and comforting.
you pointed toward the quieter residential area a few blocks away, and he fell into step beside you, matching his longer stride to yours with the easy consideration that seemed to come naturally to him. the streets were less crowded now, mostly couples heading home from dinners and workers catching late trains.
“thank you,” you said as you walked, your hand warm in the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid strength of his arm beneath the soft fabric of his sweater. “for tonight. for the flowers. for… all of it.”
“thank you,” he replied, and there was something wondering in his voice, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck, “for saying yes. and for making that cake yesterday. i know it was for me.”
you felt a flutter of nervousness in your stomach, your steps faltering slightly. “was it that obvious?”
“the white chocolate feather was a dead giveaway,” he teased gently, his voice warm with affection, but then his expression grew more serious. “but even without that, i would have known. you put yourself into everything you create. it’s one of the things i…” he trailed off, suddenly uncertain.
“one of the things you what?” you prompted, though your heart was already beating faster, hope and fear warring in your chest.
just as he was about to answer, his phone buzzed sharply, shattering the quiet between you. he flinched, annoyance flashing across his face as he pulled it out. you caught masaru’s name before he silenced the call with a jab and shoved the phone back, sighing.
the fragile thread of his confession snapped. he looked away, jaw tight, then met your gaze again—this time not raw, but steadier, warmer, as though he’d chosen a safer honesty.
he stopped walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a street lamp, the light casting golden highlights in his impossible hair. his hands found yours, warm and slightly callused and infinitely gentle, and the touch grounded you even as it sent your pulse racing. “
i had a really good time tonight,” he said quietly, his storm-glass eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “like, really good. better than good.”
the words hung in the air between you, warm and honest and making your heart do that familiar flutter-dance in your chest. you felt your breath catch, your entire world narrowing to this moment, this quiet confession, the way he was looking at you like you were something wonderful and unexpected.
“me too,” you whispered, your voice full of wonder and possibility.
he looked like he wanted to kiss you then. you could see it in the way his eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, the slight parting of his own. you wanted him to. you wanted it more than you’d wanted anything in a long time. but the moment stretched, suspended and fragile, and neither of you moved. the spell broke when a car passed, its headlights momentarily blinding you both, and the chance was gone.
he cleared his throat, a faint flush on his cheeks, and let go of one of your hands. “we should… get you home.”
the rest of the walk passed in a charged, comfortable silence. the unspoken moment from the streetlamp hung between you, electric and full of promise.
“this is me,” you said as you reached the small apartment building where you lived above a quiet bookshop, the familiar sight made new by his presence beside you. the white camellias waiting in your cafe felt like they were calling to you, a promise of sweet tomorrows.
he stopped at the entrance, his hands finding the pockets of his cargo pants. “well… goodnight, cupcake.” there was a touch of awkwardness in his posture, a reluctance to leave that was both sweet and agonizing.
“goodnight, satoru.”
he lingered for a beat longer, his storm-glass eyes holding yours. you knew if you didn’t do something now, the night would end on this note of sweet, unresolved tension. and that simply wouldn’t do.
before you could lose your nerve, you reached up, your fingers finding the soft collar of his sweater. he looked down at you, surprise widening his eyes. with a soft tug, you pulled his head down towards you. even then, with his six-foot-plus frame bent, you still had to rise up on your tiptoes, stretching to reach him.
it wasn’t his lips you found. it was his cheek. you pressed a soft, quick, deliberate kiss to the spot just beside his mouth, your own lips lingering for just a fraction of a second against his skin. it was warm, smooth, and felt impossibly intimate.
“bye,” you whispered against his cheek, then you pulled back, let go of his sweater, and practically fled—turning and rushing up the steps to your building’s entrance without a backward glance, your cheeks absolutely on fire.
satoru stood frozen on the sidewalk for a full minute after your door clicked shut, stunned into immobility. slowly, his fingers came up to touch the spot on his cheek where your lips had been. a slow, genuine, devastatingly happy smile spread across his face, unguarded and brilliant under the streetlight.
inside, you leaned your back against the cool wood of your apartment door, your heart hammering against your ribs. you brought a trembling hand up to your own lips, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up in your chest. a mix of pure terror and giddy exhilaration coursed through you. what did you just do?
a moment later, your phone buzzed in your bag with a familiar notification sound. you fumbled for it, your hands still shaking, and saw the instagram icon on your screen. it was him. a new message.
squatoru: you missed 😉 but thank you. see you tomorrow, cupcake.
you stared at the screen, a wide, foolish grin spreading across your face. the teasing emoji, the playful admonishment through the same app where this all started, the sweet promise of “tomorrow”—it was perfect. it was everything.
your heart did complicated acrobatics as you typed back a simple, breathless reply. tomorrow, you decided as you got ready for bed, still smiling at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you were going to make him something even better than that cake. something that tasted like jasmine tea and stolen kisses and the beginning of something beautiful.
after all, you had a story to tell. and now you had someone who wanted to read every chapter, someone who understood that the best stories weren’t the ones you planned, but the ones that found you when you were busy making other, smaller plans. and you couldn't wait to see what happened in the next chapter.
the weeks following your first date settled into a new, delicious rhythm. satoru’s visits were no longer just a feature of your mornings—they were the anchor around which the day pivoted. his excuses grew bolder, more ridiculous, delivered with a playful glint in his eyes that dared you to call his bluff. “my coffee machine is staging a protest,” he’d declared one monday, looking deeply offended. “it refuses to respect my caffeine requirements.” another time, he’d claimed he was performing a “long-term atmospheric study” of the cafe.
the tentative space between you had warmed, filled with inside jokes murmured over the counter and a steady stream of late-night texts that ranged from his profound thoughts on protein-to-carb ratios to blurry photos of his cat sleeping on his face. yet, for all the new intimacy, an invisible line remained, drawn somewhere between a shared laugh and the memory of a soft, hesitant kiss on a quiet street corner. the air between you hummed with a constant, unspoken question.
which brought you to this thursday.
the afternoon had bled into soft golden-hour evening, the last loyal customers drifting out into cooling air, leaving behind lingering coffee scent and quiet refrigerator hum.
you were twenty minutes from closing, moving through your end-of-day routine with practiced, meditative rhythm. wiping down the gleaming stainless steel counters, the sharp sanitizer scent cutting through the day’s symphony of sugar and butter. humming a soft, unidentifiable tune that filled the empty space like invisible thread weaving through silence.
he was still there. satoru. at his usual table, fortress of one, half-empty matcha latte sweating onto a coaster. he was pretending to work on his sleek, expensive laptop that seemed alien in the cozy analog warmth of your café. but the screen had been dark for ten minutes, its black surface reflecting the warm, buttery pendant light glow.
he was just watching you. watching you move through your closing routine with the kind of quiet, unwavering attention usually reserved for things you never want to forget. his focus was a tangible weight between your shoulder blades.
“you know,” he says suddenly, his voice a low, unexpected rumble that cuts through the comfortable silence, startling you from your rhythmic wiping. those long fingers drummed a restless, silent rhythm against the closed laptop—a nervous tell you’d never seen from satoru gojo before. the man who moved through the world like he owned it was nervous. the realization sent a warm, unfamiliar jolt through you.
you paused, cloth in hand, leaning a hip against the counter. the setting sun slanted through the large front window, catching the silver strands of his hair, turning them to spun gold. “what’s that? wondering if i’m ever going to kick you out so i can finally go home?”
he smiled, a slow, easy stretch that didn’t quite reach his storm-glass eyes. there was something different there today, a depth you hadn’t seen before. “something like that,” he admitted, his voice softer. he closed the laptop with a quiet click, the sound definitive, final. “how long does it actually take to learn? to do what you do?”
this wasn’t his casual, playful curiosity from before. not banter about his “research methodology.” this was deeper. vulnerable. it made your breath catch in ways that had nothing to do with flour dust.
“depends what you want to learn,” you said carefully, your voice quiet in the empty café, sensing the delicate shift in the air between you. you placed the cleaning cloth on the counter, giving him your full attention.
“everything.” the word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. he stood, unfolding from his chair with fluid grace that was at odds with the tension in his shoulders. all that easy, performative confidence had been stripped away, replaced by something raw and honest. “i want to understand it all. the whole process. from scratch.”
you turned to look at him properly, taking in the way he watched you with those impossible eyes, the slight tension in his jaw like he was bracing for rejection. “from scratch?” you echoed, a faint disbelieving hum in your throat. “satoru, that’s... that would take a while. it’s not just following recipes. it’s feel. touch. intuition you build over years.”
“i know,” he said, his gaze unwavering. he took a step closer, then another, until he was leaning against the counter opposite you, the broad stainless steel expanse the only separation. the space felt charged, intimate. “i’ve been watching you. it’s different. the way you work. there’s patience to it. respect for the ingredients.” his voice dropped lower, more intimate. “i want to understand what it feels like to create something like you do. not just consume it.”
the confession, earnest and stripped of his usual charm, rewired something fundamental in your chest. he wasn’t just talking about baking. he was talking about meaning, purpose—things you never would have associated with the man who posted thirst traps for a living.
“that would take months, maybe longer,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.
“i’ve got time,” he said immediately, the words a quiet, fervent promise. he pushed off the counter, moving around it until he was standing in your workspace, in your world. he was close enough that you could smell the faint clean scent of his cologne, the subtle matcha sweetness on his breath. “we could start tonight. if you want. something simple.”
your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in your chest. you realized what he was really asking for. not just lessons. not just a hobby. your time, your space, a piece of your world. he was asking for you.
“it’s almost closing time, satoru,” you managed, the words a weak protest against the overwhelming tide of his sincerity.
“i know.” another step closer. his storm-glass eyes were dark, intense, searching yours. “perfect timing, actually. no interruptions.”
you hesitated, suddenly acutely aware of how empty the café felt, how the golden late-afternoon light streaming through the windows made everything feel dreamlike and charged. you could hear the soft refrigerator hum, the quiet clock ticking, the frantic thumping of your own heart. he saw your pause, the flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, and something shifted in his expression—doubt maybe, disappointment that made your chest ache.
“unless you’re too tired,” he started, his voice suddenly losing its confident edge, “or you have plans, or this is a stupid idea, or—”
“no!” the word came out too enthusiastic, cutting him off. you felt a mortifying blush creep up your neck. you cleared your throat, trying to regain some composure. “i mean, yes. we could do that. tonight.”
the smile that spread across his face was different from any you’d seen before. not his usual cocky smirk, nor the playful teasing grin. this one was softer, more genuine, tinged with profound relief and something that looked dangerously like joy. it transformed his entire face, made him look younger, more vulnerable. utterly beautiful.
“yeah?” he breathed, the single word full of hopeful, boyish charm that completely undid you.
“yeah,” you confirmed, a real, unguarded smile finally breaking through your professional facade. “but you’re on dish duty.”
he laughed, a bright, relieved sound that echoed in the quiet café, and in that moment something fragile and beautiful and terrifying was born between you.
you settled on chocolate soufflé. it felt appropriate—impressive enough to justify the extended after-hours lesson, but delicate enough to require real technique and timing. a challenge worthy of his newfound sincerity.
you flipped the sign to ‘closed’, the soft lock click echoing in the silence. you dimmed the front lights, leaving just the warm, focused glow of the kitchen workspace, creating an intimate golden bubble just for the two of you.
“soufflé?” he raised an eyebrow as you pulled out ramekins, his voice a low, amused rumble. he was leaning against the prep counter, watching with an intensity that made your skin prickle. he’d shed his expensive long-sleeved shirt, revealing a plain black t-shirt that clung to every powerful line of his torso. no designer labels, no carefully tousled hair. he looked simpler. more real. and almost nervous, a faint tension in his broad shoulders that you found ridiculously endearing. “isn’t that supposed to be impossible? the final boss of desserts?”
“only if you don’t understand the science,” you said, gathering your hair with practiced efficiency, tying it back. you felt his eyes on the nape of your neck, a warm focused heat. you started humming under your breath, a soft melody that always accompanied your more delicate work. “it’s all about incorporating air properly, then not letting it collapse. it’s very... temperamental.”
the word hung suspended in the chocolate-scented air, heavy with obvious double meaning. his storm-glass eyes darkened slightly, a slow knowing smile touching his lips.
“first, we make the base,” you explained, your voice slightly breathy as you turned to face him. you showed him how to melt dark chocolate with butter in a double boiler, the rich intoxicating scent starting to fill the air. “low and slow. you can’t rush it, or everything seizes up. gets bitter.”
he stood beside you, closer than necessary, watching intently as you stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon, the chocolate melting into a glossy dark pool. when you handed the spoon over, his fingers brushed yours, a brief electric touch that sent a jolt up your arm.
“like this?” his voice was a low murmur as he mimicked your gentle circular motions. his focus was absolute, his usual playful energy replaced by quiet, earnest concentration that made something warm bloom in your chest.
“perfect. keep that rhythm.” when he started stirring just a little too fast, a little too aggressively, he moved behind you to adjust the motion. his broad chest pressed against your back as he covered your hand with his much larger one, and you went completely still. the solid wall of muscle behind you made thinking suddenly impossible. you could feel every shift of his torso, the way his breathing had gotten slightly unsteady, the heat radiating through his thin t-shirt. “feel how it’s getting smoother? the proteins are relaxing. you have to be gentle,” you managed, voice breathless and unsteady.
“sorry, cupcake,” he murmured against the top of your head, voice soft and slightly shaky. “i’m... not usually this nervous about stirring things.” there was wonder in his tone, like he couldn’t quite believe he was here, doing this with you.
his voice was a low, rough growl when he answered. “kind of hard to focus with you pressed against me like this, cupcake.”
but the real intimacy, the real danger, came with the egg whites. you separated them with practiced grace, the yolks and whites parting cleanly. when you handed him the large copper bowl and the whisk, he looked genuinely intimidated, like you’d just handed him a live grenade.
“this is the make-or-break moment,” you told him, your voice soft but firm. you showed him the copper bowl, the clear viscous whites shimmering within. “the whites need to be perfect—not under-whisked, not over-whisked. just right. perfect stiff peaks.”
he started whisking, and it was all wrong. too aggressive, too fast, his powerful shoulders putting way too much force into it. the whites started foaming unevenly, large sloppy bubbles forming instead of the fine consistent foam you needed.
“no, no,” you said, looking up at his technique with barely contained laughter. “gentle at first, then build up. like this. it’s not about strength—it’s about rhythm.”
he stepped behind you with obvious reluctance, like he wasn’t quite sure this was a good idea either. “show me,” he said, voice slightly strained. his much larger hands covered yours on the whisk handle, his chest pressed against your back as he leaned over your shoulder to watch the bowl. the solid wall of muscle behind you made your pulse stutter, and you could tell from his uneven breathing that he was just as affected. “this is... harder than it looks,” he murmured, clearly talking about more than whisking.
“slow circles first,” you managed, acutely aware of how he was bracketing you, the clean scent of his cologne mixing with lingering chocolate. you started the motion, and he followed your rhythm with careful precision, his hands slightly unsteady over yours. you felt him lean down, his breath warm against your ear, and you had to bite back a nervous giggle at how ridiculous this all was. “feel the resistance change? now we can go faster.”
“this is torture,” he said softly, but there was fondness in his voice, like he was amazed by his own predicament. when you sped up the whisking motion, his body moved with yours, and he let out a soft, almost helpless sound that made you want to turn around and kiss the dazed expression you knew was on his face.
“they’re getting stiff,” he said, his voice rough, strained.
“perfect stiff peaks,” you agreed, your own voice shaky, though you were definitely talking about more than egg whites now. the air was thick with unspoken things, with the scent of chocolate and the clean masculine smell of him. “now comes the tricky part.”
“but first,” you said, reaching for the small container of flour from a nearby shelf, “let me just...” you dipped your fingers into the white powder, then without warning, dabbed it across his cheek, leaving a pale streak across his sharp cheekbone.
he went completely still, his storm-glass eyes widening in surprise. “did you just—”
“oops,” you said innocently, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “occupational hazard. flour gets everywhere in real kitchens.”
a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. “is that so?” he reached for the flour container, dipped his own fingers. before you could react, he’d brushed powder across your nose, a gentle touch that made your breath catch. “seems like you’re right. very hazardous.”
what followed was gentle chaos. a playful flour fight that had you both laughing breathlessly, white powder dusting your hair and clothes and every surface within reach. he was careful not to be too aggressive, but his competitive streak showed when he managed to get a handful down the back of your apron.
“satoru!” you squeaked, arching away from the cold powder, which only pressed you closer against his chest. he was grinning down at you, flour in his silver hair making him look younger, more carefree than you’d ever seen him.
“what? you started it, cupcake.” his voice was warm with laughter, his hands settling on your waist to steady you. “just evening the playing field.”
“we’re supposed to be baking,” you protested weakly, but you were smiling too hard to sound stern. you hummed a soft laugh that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“we are baking,” he said solemnly, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. “this is... technique development. very important for proper soufflé preparation.”
“technique development,” you repeated skeptically.
“absolutely. building trust between chef and... sous chef.” his fingers tightened slightly on your waist. “can’t make good food without trust, right?”
something in his voice made you look up at him properly. you were both flour-streaked and disheveled, hair messed and clothes dusty, but his expression was soft, genuine. like he was asking about more than just cooking.
“right,” you agreed quietly. “trust is... essential.”
the moment stretched between you, charged with possibility, until the timer on your phone chimed a reminder about the chocolate base.
“folding is an art,” you told him after you’d both brushed off the worst of the flour, your voice a low murmur as you spooned a third of the whipped egg whites into the chocolate base. you started humming again, a soft tune that helped organize your movements. “too rough, and you’ll knock out all the air we just built up. too gentle, and it won’t incorporate properly.”
you demonstrated the motion—a gentle lift up from the bottom, a turn of the spoon, a clean cut down through the mixture. it was graceful, practiced, almost hypnotic. a quiet ballet of the hands.
“your turn,” you said, handing him the spoon, your eyes locking with his over the bowl. his were dark, almost black, pupils blown wide.
his first attempts were clumsy, awkward. he was trying to stir, not fold, and you could see the frustration building in the tense set of his shoulders.
“here,” you murmured, gesturing for him to step behind you again. “it’s easier if you can see the motion properly.” this time when he moved to stand behind you, his positioning was more natural but no less distracting—his height allowing him to look over your shoulder easily, though he seemed to be having trouble concentrating on anything but the way you fit against his chest.
you demonstrated the folding motion with him watching intently, his breath tickling your ear. “lift... turn... cut down,” you guided softly, trying to ignore how his hands trembled slightly when they covered yours. “it’s all about the wrist action. gentle but firm.”
the double entendre hung in the air, and you felt him go completely still behind you, then let out a quiet, slightly hysterical laugh. “you’re killing me here, cupcake,” he said, voice strained but fond. “i’m trying to be a gentleman.”
“like that?” he asked when you guided him through the motion, voice breathless and wondering, like he couldn’t quite believe he was here doing this with you.
“exactly like that,” you whispered back, your own voice soft with affection and barely contained laughter at how completely gone you both were. “you’re a natural.”
the confession, so simple and true, settled between you like flour in still air, impossible to take back. you didn’t step away this time. you couldn’t. instead, your hands tightened over his on the spoon, a silent mutual acknowledgment that this had stopped being about baking.
“satoru,” you whispered, his name a soft questioning sound against his skin.
he turned in your arms, the movement slow, deliberate, until you were pressed between his warm solid chest and the cool unyielding edge of the counter. the spoon was forgotten, clattering onto the prep surface as his hands, large and warm and sure, found your waist.
what started as one soft, hesitant kiss, a question asked and answered, became something hungrier, deeper. your hands fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded by lifting you easily, effortlessly, onto the prep counter, his strength making you feel cherished and utterly safe.
“we should... put the soufflés in the oven,” you breathed against his mouth, your mind vaguely aware of the prepared ramekins sitting nearby, waiting.
“in a minute,” he murmured back, his hands spanning your waist, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin under your ribs, sending shivers through you. “i like you messy, cupcake. flour suits you.”
his mouth trailed down your throat, a hot open-mouthed path that made you arch into him, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him impossibly closer. he groaned softly at the contact, the sound a deep guttural vibration against your collarbone that made your entire body hum with want.
“they’ll collapse if we wait too long,” you tried again, halfheartedly, your fingers tangling in the soft silver strands of his hair.
“then we’ll make new ones,” he said against your skin, his voice a low possessive growl. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his storm-glass eyes dark with a want so profound it stole the air from your lungs. “but i’ve been thinking about this for weeks, cupcake. thinking about you. about what it would feel like to have you in my arms, in my kitchen.”
his mouth found yours again, a deep, possessive kiss that spoke of weeks of pent-up longing, restraint finally shattering. it felt like surrender, a point of no return—until your eyes fluttered open and caught on the copper bowl behind him. the glossy egg whites, the soul of the soufflé, were already softening. the baker in you screamed in silent protest.
your palms pressed to his chest, firm but trembling. “satoru, wait,” you breathed, lips brushing his. “the soufflé—the egg whites will collapse.”
he groaned, burying his face in your neck for one tortured beat before pulling back. the panic in your eyes softened his frustration into something fonder, and a wicked smile tugged at his lips.
“can’t have that,” he murmured. “a collapsed soufflé on my first lesson? my record would be ruined.” he stole one last hard kiss. “okay, chef. lead the way.”
the shift back to the task was electric. the air was thick with what almost happened, and what was definitely going to happen later. with trembling legs, you slid off the counter, your body buzzing with unspent energy.
somehow, between shaking hands and the distraction of his solid presence behind you, you managed to get the soufflé mixture into the ramekins and slide them into the preheated oven. your movements were less precise than usual, some ramekins fuller than others, your usual perfectionist tendencies completely derailed by the heat radiating from his body every time he leaned close.
“and now we wait,” you said, stepping back from the oven and immediately missing the warmth of him behind you.
“twelve minutes,” he repeated, voice rough around the edges. he ran a hand through his silver hair, leaving it more disheveled than usual. “what do we do for twelve minutes?”
“try not to think about them,” you managed, wiping your flour-dusted hands on your apron with nervous energy. “soufflés can sense anxiety.”
“well, that explains a lot,” he said, that crooked smile making your pulse skip. “i’m the human embodiment of anxiety right now.”
the twelve minutes crawled by with painful slowness. you cleaned up together, hyperaware of every accidental brush of fingers, every time he had to reach around you for something. the domesticity of it was strange and intoxicating—him washing dishes while you wiped surfaces, both stealing glances at each other and the oven door.
when the timer finally shrieked, you both jumped like guilty teenagers.
you opened the oven door with trembling hands, and a cloud of warm, chocolate-scented air enveloped you. your heart did a little flip. they’d risen, yes, but unevenly—some tall and proud, others slightly lopsided, one that had clearly gotten too much mixture and was threatening to spill over its ramekin in a delicious, molten wave. they were messy. they were imperfect. they were theirs.
“oh,” satoru said softly from beside you, and you could hear the genuine disappointment creeping into his voice as he took in the imperfect results. his broad shoulders slumped just a fraction, a quiet admission of his high expectations meeting a messy reality.
you turned to face him, a gentle, reassuring smile on your lips as you caught the slight downturn of his mouth. it was an expression you’d never seen on him before—not arrogance, not charm, but a boyish, sulky pout that was ridiculously endearing.
“hey,” you said softly, nudging his arm with your shoulder. “it’s your first time making one of the most notoriously difficult pastries in the world. and,” you added, your voice dropping to a warmer, more intimate tone, “they’re made with love. that’s what really matters, right?”
he looked down at you with those storm-glass eyes, something soft and vulnerable flickering there. “but yours are always perfect,” he retorted, his voice a low, almost mournful grumble. “everything you make is always perfect and made with love. it’s not fair.”
heat crept up your neck at the raw sincerity in his voice, the way he was looking at you like you’d hung the moon and personally arranged the stars. the compliment, born from his own momentary failure, felt more potent than any of his previous praise. “satoru…”
“what? it’s true.” a hint of his usual confidence returned as he grabbed two spoons from the drawer, his movements decisive. he handed you one, but his expression was still earnest. “you need to taste it. for science. to confirm that my love-infused-but-lopsided soufflé is still edible.”
the first bite was molten chocolate heaven, rich and airy despite the uneven appearance. you made a soft, involuntary sound of appreciation, your eyes fluttering closed for just a second. when you opened them, he was watching you, a hopeful, almost anxious look on his face.
“good?” he asked, taking his own first, tentative spoonful.
instead of answering with words, you scooped up another bite from the messy, overflowing ramekin—his ramekin. you held it out to him, surprising yourself with the easy intimacy of the gesture. “you tell me.”
his eyes went wide for a moment before a slow, devastating smile spread across his face. he leaned forward, his lips closing around the spoon you offered in a way that made your pulse stutter. the soft, pleased sound he made, his own eyes fluttering closed in bliss, sent a wave of heat spiraling through your chest.
“incredible,” he breathed, his gaze locking with yours, dark and full of a wonder that had nothing to do with the chocolate. then, a mischievous glint returned. he scooped up some of his own. “your turn.”
you leaned forward to accept the bite he offered, hyperaware of how his gaze tracked the movement of your lips around the spoon. the chocolate was perfect—rich and warm and somehow tasting even better when he was the one feeding it to you.
“this is ridiculous,” you murmured, but you were smiling, caught up in the sweetness of the moment.
“ridiculously perfect,” he agreed, then leaned closer, eyes dark with intent. “you’ve got chocolate...”
instead of telling you where, he kissed you, slow and sweet and tasting of molten chocolate and something like joy. when he pulled back just enough to speak, his lips barely brushing yours, you were both breathing unsteadily.
“found it,” he murmured against your mouth, then kissed you again, deeper this time.
the spoons clattered forgotten to the counter as his hands found your waist, lifting you easily onto the prep surface. your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as his mouth moved against yours with increasing hunger.
“satoru,” you gasped between kisses, your hands fisting in his t-shirt.
“been thinking about this,” he confessed against your throat, his voice rough with want. “been thinking about you. for weeks.”
his mouth trailed soft kisses along your jaw, your neck, finding that sensitive spot that made you gasp and laugh at the same time. “been thinking about this,” he confessed against your throat, voice full of wonder like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. “been thinking about you. driving myself crazy for weeks.”
your fingers tangled in his silver hair, and he practically melted into the touch, letting out a soft, almost reverent sigh. “you’re ridiculous,” you murmured fondly, then squeaked when he found that particularly sensitive spot again. “and apparently very good at distracting people from baking.”
“i’m a man of many talents,” he said against your skin, then pulled back to look at you with that boyish grin that made your heart do stupid things. “though i have to say, this is my new favorite.”
what started as one soft, hesitant kiss, a question asked and answered, became something hungrier, deeper. your hands fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded by lifting you easily, effortlessly, onto the prep counter, his strength making you feel small and cherished and utterly safe.
he groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound of surrender. his hands, large and sure, span your waist before sliding down, gripping your hips with a possessive strength that makes your breath catch. with an effortless display of power, he lifts you, settling you back onto the cool, flour-dusted prep counter without breaking the kiss. you are surrounded by him, pinned between his hard body and the solid surface, the intoxicating scent of him—clean soap, expensive cologne, and a faint, sweet hint of matcha—filling your senses.
he breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at you, his storm-glass eyes dark with a want so profound it makes you dizzy. his breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily. he rests his forehead against yours for a moment, a quiet beat in the rising storm, as if to center himself.
“been wanting to do that,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough growl, “since the first time i saw you wipe flour on your apron.” his thumbs trace slow, hypnotic circles on your hips. “weeks, cupcake. i’ve been going out of my mind.”
the raw honesty in his voice, stripped of all its usual playful charm, makes your heart hammer against your ribs. you can only nod, your fingers still tangled in the soft fabric of his shirt.
he straightens up slightly, his gaze dropping to the simple, practical dress you wear for work. a slow, wicked smirk begins to curve his lips. “this has got to go,” he decides, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. he reaches for the small zipper at the back of your neck, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “can’t properly appreciate the artistry with all this… fabric in the way.”
a wave of shyness washes over you, and your hands instinctively move to cover his. “satoru, wait…”
he pauses, his large, warm hand gently covering yours. he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, his storm-glass eyes holding yours, suddenly tender. “hey,” he whispers. “it’s just me. just us. i want to see you. all of you.” the sincerity in his voice, the quiet plea in his eyes, melts your resistance. you slowly, hesitantly, release his hand.
with a triumphant but gentle smile, he unzips your dress, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. he peels the fabric from your shoulders with a reverence that makes you feel cherished, not exposed. he lets the dress pool around your waist, revealing the simple cotton bra and bloomers you wear for comfort during long hours on your feet. he unhooks your bra with practiced ease, his fingers deft and sure, letting it fall away.
his breath hitches. “fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, his gaze sweeping over you with an almost worshipful intensity. his eyes, so often a playful, teasing blue, are now dark with a raw, unadulterated awe. he reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breast, as if memorizing your shape. “so perfect.”
he breaks away for a moment, and you hear the soft hiss of a canister. he returns with the whipped cream you’d left out from the cupcake prep, a playful, predatory glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a frantic flip.
“what are you doing?” you whisper, your voice shaky, a nervous laugh bubbling up in your throat.
“you make perfect things all day,” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble, as he steps back between your legs. “so sweet. so delicious.” his hand slides up your thigh, his touch warm and sure. “it’s only fair i get to make you my pastry for once.” he shakes the can, the sound a playful rattle. “for research, of course.”
you watch, a mixture of terror and fascination, as he aims the nozzle. “satoru, that’s going to be… cold,” you manage, a faint note of protest in your voice.
“i’ll warm you up,” he promises, his eyes dark with intent.
he doesn't start where you expect. he sprays a small, perfect dollop of whipped cream on your inner thigh, right above your knee. the cold shock makes you gasp, your legs instinctively trying to close. he just chuckles, a low, pleased sound, and holds them gently in place. he leans down, his silver hair brushing against your leg like spun silk, and licks the cream away in one slow, deliberate swipe. his eyes flutter closed as he savors the taste. his gaze lifts to meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded. “delicious.”
he moves up, a slow, methodical artist at work. he sprays a delicate swirl on your hip, another on the sensitive skin of your stomach, just above your navel, each cold touch followed by the hot, wet warmth of his mouth. he’s decorating you, his movements precise and artful. his final touches are the most deliberate: two perfect, delicate rosettes piped directly onto your nipples. the intense cold makes them pebble instantly, and you cry out, a sharp, surprised sound.
“look at that,” he breathes, admiring his handiwork, his voice thick with a possessive pride. “my perfect little cupcake. so pretty.” he leans in and devours his creation, his tongue tracing the swirl on one nipple before he takes the entire hardened peak into his mouth, licking and sucking the sweet cream away until you’re writhing on the counter, your fingers fisting in his hair. he gives the other nipple the same reverent, all-consuming attention, his praise a constant, filthy murmur against your skin. “so sweet… knew you would be… perfect for me…”
his attention then moves lower, his mouth trailing a hot, wet path down your stomach, licking away every last trace of cream. his hands find the waistband of your bloomers, then the delicate lace of your panties beneath. he doesn't remove them. instead, he hooks his fingers in the elastic, pulling the fabric taut, creating a perfect frame for the sight of you. you’re already dripping for him, the thin lace dark and damp with your arousal. he groans, a low, satisfied sound against your skin. “look at how wet you are, pretty girl. already melting for me.”
he doesn't push the fabric aside. he presses his mouth right against the damp lace, the slightly rough texture an immediate, shocking friction against your sensitive flesh. his tongue darts out, tracing the outline of your folds through the material, mapping you. the friction is maddening, a delicious, textured pleasure that makes you cry out, your hips lifting instinctively from the counter. he laps at you, teases you, soaking the lace until it clings to you like a second skin.
“so sweet,” he pants against you. “i can taste you right through your panties. fuck, that’s so hot.” his praise is relentless, a filthy, hypnotic mantra. “that’s it, let it go for me… soak yourself for me… i’m going to taste every drop…”
then, the teasing stops. he positions his mouth directly over the heart of you, and with a low groan, he pushes the tip of his tongue firmly against the lace, right over your entrance. he doesn't just lick, he fucks. he presses his tongue into you, a firm, insistent pressure that mimics the head of a cock, working his way into your channel through the thin barrier of fabric. the sensation is overwhelming, a dull, deep friction that sends shockwaves straight to your core.
he moves with a steady, relentless rhythm, his entire focus narrowed on this single, filthy act—fucking you through your own panties. you can feel the lace stretching, rubbing, a maddeningly indirect stimulation that is somehow more intense than direct contact. he works you like this for long, torturous moments, his breath hot and ragged, until your mind goes blank with overwhelming pleasure.
with a choked sob, you come, your body convulsing on the counter, your inner muscles clenching with a helpless, shattering release.
he stays there, lapping up the fresh wave of your release through the lace, until the last of your shudders subside. then, and only then, does he pull back, a triumphant, proprietary smirk on his lips. he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your soaked panties and bloomers, pulling them down your legs with a slow, deliberate motion, tossing them aside.
“oh, pretty girl,” he says, his voice a low, teasing drawl as he looks at the damp, glistening evidence of your pleasure on the counter beneath you. “you made a mess.” he tuts playfully, shaking his head. “we can’t have that. health hazard, you know. very unprofessional.”
before you can respond, a mortified blush heating your cheeks, he’s leaning in, his tongue darting out to clean you up, licking the sticky wetness from the cool stainless steel. his thoroughness is both humiliating and unbelievably arousing.
when he’s finished, he looks up at you, his eyes dark and hungry. “all clean,” he purrs. “but i think i missed a spot.”
he reaches for the whipped cream canister again. your eyes widen. “satoru, no…” you breathe, a weak, helpless laugh escaping you.
“satoru, yes,” he corrects, his grin wicked.
this time, he sprays a single, perfect, generous dollop right onto your swollen, hyper-sensitive clit. the cold shock makes you gasp, your hips lifting off the counter, a sound that is half protest, half plea.
he watches the cream start to melt against your heat, a slow, decadent drip. “now, for the final, most important detail,” he whispers, his voice thick with anticipation.
this time, there is no barrier, just his mouth and tongue and teeth, a relentless, worshipful assault. he licks away the cream with slow, languid strokes, savoring the taste of it mixed with your own unique sweetness. his tongue is an instrument of pure pleasure, tracing circles, flicking, dipping inside you.
his praise starts again, a low, constant murmur against your most sensitive flesh as he works. “fuck, you taste so good… my favorite flavor… so responsive for me, pretty girl… that’s it, let me hear you… scream for me this time…”
he finds your rhythm, his tongue a merciless, perfect piston against your clit. the pleasure is sharper this time, more intense, building with a speed that terrifies and excites you.
you feel the pressure coiling low in your belly, a tight, frantic knot. he senses it, his ministrations becoming more insistent, his fingers gripping your thighs to hold you still. he is determined to wring another orgasm from you, to leave you completely, utterly wrecked.
you come apart for him again, the climax even more intense than the first, a shattering, vocal scream that echoes in the quiet kitchen as he swallows every last drop with a deep, possessive groan.
he pulled back, mouth slick with your taste, a triumphant smirk curving his lips. you were a beautiful, dazed mess on his counter, boneless beneath his gaze.
then, unexpectedly, tenderness welled in him. he kissed you again—softer this time, slow and languid, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. his hands slid from your thighs to brush your hair back, careful, hesitant. he was trying to be good.
but you were wrecked. your body still trembling from back-to-back orgasms, raw with sensitivity, high on his filthy praise—and now achingly empty. his gentleness only stoked the hunger. you craved the strength he leashed, the overwhelming power you knew he held. you needed more.
“satoru,” you whisper, your voice shaky but threaded with a raw, undeniable determination. your hands, which had been limply resting in your lap, come up to fist in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. his gentle caresses aren’t enough. “don’t… don’t be so gentle.”
his hands still in your hair. he pulls back slightly, his storm-glass eyes searching yours, a flicker of genuine surprise momentarily clearing the haze of lust. he sees the pleading in your gaze, the desperate want, and something darker, more primal, begins to stir in their depths. the carefully constructed dam of his control begins to crack.
“you sure, pretty girl?” his voice is a low, dangerous growl, a stark contrast to his previous soft praises. the air crackles with a new, sharper tension. “i’ve been trying really hard to be good for you. but if you ask me not to be…”
you just shake your head, a single. your legs, which had been lying limp, tighten around his waist, hooking your ankles behind him, trapping him. “i don’t want you to be good,” you breathe, the confession a spark in the charged air, an open invitation to the freak you know is lurking just beneath the surface. “i want you.”
that’s it. that’s the only permission he needs. his control shatters into a million pieces. the last vestiges of softness in his expression vanish, replaced by a raw, possessive hunger that makes a shiver of fear and excitement race down your spine. his eyes darken, pupils blown wide, and the grip on your thighs becomes bruising, possessive.
“then you better hold on tight,” he growls, his voice a guttural promise of what’s to come.
“not here,” he says, his voice rough, a surprising, almost feral nod to the hygiene of your workspace, a last remnant of his respect for your craft. he glances around at the flour-dusted surfaces, at the cooling soufflés, then back at you. “i’m going to ruin you, and i want to see your face when i do it.”
before you can respond, he’s lifting you from the counter like you weigh nothing, your legs locked tight around his waist. his stride is long, purposeful, carrying you out of the warm kitchen into the dark back office. the door slams shut behind him, the echo sealing you off from the world. he drops you onto the worn couch, the springs groaning under the impact.
he looms in the dim light, a towering silhouette of unrestrained want—a predator finally given leave to hunt. his fingers fumble at his cargo pants, grace traded for frantic urgency, the rasp of his zipper loud in the silence.
then he’s free. your breath stutters, eyes widening as the faint glow catches on him—thick, heavy, impossibly long. he’s big. so big. a sharp, sweet edge of fear slices through the haze of your arousal.
“so pretty for me,” he pants, his eyes dark and wild as he moves over you. “all wrecked and wanting it.” he pins your wrists to the couch cushions above your head with one large, strong hand, his grip firm but not painful, a gesture of absolute domination. with his other hand, he parts your slick folds, his thumb stroking your clit in a way that makes you gasp.
he guides himself to your entrance. you’re soaked, still leaking from your last orgasms, but even so, the thick, blunt head of his cock just nudges against you, a solid, unyielding pressure. it’s too much. it won’t fit.
“satoru,” you gasp, your eyes wide, a real note of panic in your voice as you feel the impossible pressure. your hips instinctively try to shift away. “i don’t… i don’t think i can.”
“shhh,” he soothes, his voice a low, ragged rumble, though his eyes are blazing with intensity. he doesn't pull back. instead, he leans down, his mouth brushing against your ear. “yes, you can, pretty girl. you were made for this.” a possessive growl underlines his words. “and i’m going to make it fit.”
he demonstrates a restraint that is almost terrifying. he doesn't push. instead, he begins a slow, torturous tease. he rocks his hips, fucking you with just the very tip, the wide, smooth head of his cock stretching you, parting your slick folds, making you impossibly wetter.
he moves in and out of just that first inch, a maddening, relentless rhythm that feels like both heaven and hell. his control is absolute, his powerful body held perfectly in check.
“that’s it…” he groans, his own control fraying, sweat beading on his temples. “feel how much i want you? just the tip, and you’re already so tight… so good… gripping me…” every word is a praise, a promise. he watches your face, watches your eyes screw shut as you bite your lip, lost in the overwhelming sensation of being slowly, deliberately claimed.
you’re whining now, desperate and needy as your hips buck instinctively, trying to take more of him. the initial fear has been replaced by an all-consuming need to be filled by him, completely and utterly.
“eager for me, huh?” he chuckles, a dark, pleased sound. his hips stutter, a sign of his own fracturing control. “good. that’s so good, pretty girl. now, take me. all of me.”
he shifts his angle slightly, and then, with a slow, deliberate, powerful push, he begins to fill you. it’s a gradual invasion, an inch-by-inch claiming of your body. it’s an overwhelming, gut-rearranging fullness, a delicious, burning stretch that makes you cry out, your back arching off the couch.
he keeps going, slowly, steadily, until he’s buried to the hilt, and you feel a profound, soul-deep stretch as he bottoms out against your cervix. he fills you completely, impossibly.
he stays there for a long moment, buried to the hilt inside you, letting you feel the sheer, overwhelming size of him. he pants above you, his forehead beaded with sweat, his eyes closed as he just savors the feeling of being completely, perfectly sheathed inside you.
“fuck,” he breathes, the word a reverent sigh. “perfect fit.”
he shifts his hips just a fraction, a slow, deliberate grind that draws a whimper from your throat, and a satisfied smirk touches his lips. he opens his eyes, their storm-blue depths dark and intense.
when he finally begins to move, it’s with an agonizing, deliberate slowness. he pulls back almost all the way, the sensation of him retreating making you whine in protest, your hips lifting off the couch to chase him. he chuckles, a low, dark sound. “uh-uh, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his free hand coming down to press your hip firmly into the couch cushions, pinning you in place. “i’m in charge now. you’ll take what i give you.”
he thrusts back in, slowly, every inch a rediscovery, a fresh wave of overwhelming fullness. he establishes a deep, hypnotic rhythm—a slow, complete withdrawal followed by an even slower, deeper return. with every inward stroke, he presses deep, his powerful hips rolling, grinding the head of his cock against your cervix in a way that makes you see stars.
“feel that?” he groans, his voice a low, rough rasp by your ear. “that’s all for you. all of it.”
you can only nod, your own breath coming in ragged gasps, your mind starting to short-circuit. the dual stimulation is too much, your senses overloaded. you’re trapped, pinned by his hand on your hip and his other hand holding your wrists, completely at the mercy of his slow, deliberate torture.
“use your words, pretty girl,” he demands, his rhythm faltering for just a second. “i need to hear it. tell me how it feels.”
“it’s… so much,” you gasp, tears of pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes. “satoru, please…”
“please what?” he presses, his hips resuming that slow, torturous grind. he knows exactly what he’s doing, drawing out the pleasure, pushing you closer and closer to the edge only to pull you back. “tell me what you want.”
“i want… more,” you sob, the admission torn from you. “faster.”
a dark, possessive grin spreads across his face. “not yet,” he breathes, leaning down to kiss you, a deep, bruising kiss that tastes of salt and want. “not until you’re begging for it.”
he continues his slow, deep, punishing rhythm for what feels like an eternity. he talks to you the entire time, a constant stream of filthy praise and possessive commands that unravels you completely. “so good… gripping me so tight… look at you, taking all of me without even a single complaint… you were made for this, made for me…”
he’s right. you were. the initial overwhelming stretch has melted into a deep, profound ache of pleasure. your body, which you thought couldn't possibly take him, has molded around him, welcoming him.
finally, just as you feel like you’re about to shatter from the tension, he changes the rhythm. his thrusts become shorter, faster, focused on that one spot deep inside you that he seems to have memorized. your own hips start to buck against his hand, a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm.
“there it is,” he pants, his own control starting to fray. “that’s what i wanted to see.”
his head dips down. as a particularly deep, powerful thrust makes you cry out his name in a sob of pure pleasure, his mouth finds the soft flesh of your shoulder, just above the collarbone. he bites down. it’s not enough to break the skin, but it’s a sharp, possessive pressure that leaves a clear, red mark. a brand. he licks over it immediately, the rough swipe of his tongue soothing the sting.
“gotta leave a little reminder for you,” he rasps, his voice a possessive growl against your skin, his thrusts becoming frantic now, slamming into you. “so you don’t forget who you belong to. so everyone knows.”
the mark, his possessive words, the overwhelming fullness, the shift to a desperate, frantic pace… it all sends you spiraling. your mind goes white with sensation, and you come with a choked scream, your body convulsing around his thick cock, your inner muscles clenching and milking him with a helpless, frantic rhythm.
your orgasm only makes him harder, his own release held back by a thread of sheer, iron will. the feeling of your inner muscles convulsing around him, milking him, sends a shudder through his powerful frame. he groans, a low, guttural sound of a man right on the edge. but he’s not done with you yet. not even close.
he pulls out of you with a wet, obscene slap that makes you whine in protest at the sudden emptiness. but he doesn't give you a moment to recover. before you can even process the lingering tremors of your climax, he’s pulling you up from the couch, onto your feet.
“turn around,” he commands, his voice a low, rough growl, thick with unshed lust. you’re pliant in his hands, dazed and completely his to command. you obey without question, letting him guide you the few steps to the small, cluttered wooden desk. he positions you, turning you so you can plant your hands on the edge of it, your ass pushed out for him, a perfect, vulnerable offering.
he presses his hard, sweat-slick body against your back, caging you in, the heat of him a stark contrast to the cool wood beneath your palms. “look at you,” he rasps, his voice a low growl right by your ear as he admires the sight of you, bent over and waiting for him. “so good. so obedient for me.”
one powerful arm snakes around your front, his forearm pressing with deliberate, firm pressure against your throat. it doesn’t hurt, not yet, but it’s a clear, undeniable act of control. your breath hitches, a jolt of pure, primal fear mixing with a sharp spike of arousal.
his hold tilts your head back into the crook of his shoulder, exposing the long, pale line of your neck to him. his mouth is right there, at your ear, at your throat, his hot breath ghosting over your skin. his other hand grips your hip, thumb pressing into the soft flesh, holding you steady, claiming you. you are completely, utterly his to manhandle.
he thrusts into you from behind in a single, powerful motion. the angle is impossibly deep, hitting a spot that bypasses thought and sends a bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure straight to your brain. a scream tears from your throat, but as it does, the pressure on your windpipe increases. not enough to truly choke you, but enough to cut the sound off, turning your scream into a pathetic, breathy whimper.
the world begins to swim at the edges, your head light and floaty from the lack of air. it’s terrifying. it’s perfect. the combination of overwhelming fullness and oxygen deprivation sends you spiraling, your mind going blessedly blank.
his thrusts are deep, powerful, slamming into you with a relentless, animalistic rhythm. with the pressure on your throat, every frantic gasp for air, every choked moan, is a sound of pure, helpless submission that seems to drive him wilder.
his mouth finds the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, and as he fucks you, he latches on, sucking hard. you feel the sting, the pull, and you know, with a dizzying thrill, that he’s leaving a dark, undeniable hickey. another mark. a claim for all to see.
he’s not pulling out. this is the final, undeniable act of possession. “i’m going to come inside you, pretty girl,” he groans into your ear, his hips slamming into you, each word a percussive beat against your senses. “i’m going to fill you up… make you mine.”
the combination of his filthy, possessive words, the choking pressure making your head spin, the new, stinging mark on your neck, and the overwhelming, gut-rearranging fullness is what sends you over the edge one last time.
your fourth, and most intense, orgasm hits like a lightning strike, a complete system overload. your mind whites out, your body convulsing violently around him, and the helpless, breathy sounds spilling from your lips are his undoing.
with a final, desperate groan that’s more roar than word, he thrusts deep one last time and floods you with his release, the hot, thick seed a shocking, intimate brand deep inside you, coating your womb, claiming you from the inside out.
he collapses against you, his entire weight a comforting, solid presence. his arm immediately loosens from your throat, allowing you to drag in a ragged, desperate lungful of air. your vision clears, the world snapping back into sharp focus. his breathing is harsh, ragged against your ear, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your back. for a long moment, you just stand there, tangled together, held up only by the desk and his strength, the aftermath of the storm washing over you in slow, trembling waves.
he doesn't let you go. after a minute, when his breathing has started to even out, he shifts. his movements are gentle now, a stark, beautiful contrast to the ferocity of moments before. he pulls you back against his chest, his arms wrapping around your middle in a secure, protective embrace. he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, then another to the dark, angry-looking mark on your neck. his lips are soft, almost apologetic, yet deeply possessive.
“come on,” he whispers, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. he helps you gather your discarded clothes—the dress, the bra, the panties—not with any sense of shame, but with a quiet, domestic tenderness. he guides you back to the couch, sitting you down gently before finding a clean dish towel from a nearby hook and wetting it with a bottle of water from your desk. he kneels before you and carefully, tenderly, cleans you up. every soft swipe of the cloth is an act of worship, an apology, a promise.
when you’re clean, he helps you dress again, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he zips up your dress, his fingers brushing against your skin. he pulls you into his lap, cradling you against his chest, his arms a safe haven. you’re exhausted, boneless, and completely content.
and in the beautiful, comfortable wreckage he’d so lovingly made of you, you felt safer and more cherished than ever before. you were, unequivocally, his.
consciousness crept in slowly, warm and hazy and completely disorienting. your bed felt softer than usual, sunlight streaming through curtains that you definitely remembered closing last night. you were wearing your favorite sleep shirt—the oversized one with tiny croissants printed all over it—and had absolutely no memory of changing into it.
blinking up at your ceiling, pieces of the previous evening started filtering back. the baking lesson. satoru’s hands over yours. flour everywhere. the soufflés rising unevenly. kissing him until your lips felt swollen and your heart hammered like it was trying to escape your chest. everything after that was a haze of heat and breathless whispers and the way he’d touched you like you were something precious and breakable and his.
but how did you get home?
you sat up slowly, running hands through thoroughly disheveled hair, trying to piece together the gap in your memory. the last clear thing you remembered was being wrapped around satoru on your office couch, both of you breathless and covered in flour, the cafe dark except for the warm glow from the kitchen.
your phone sat on the nightstand, and when you grabbed it to check the time, your heart nearly stopped.
9:47 am.
wait, that couldn’t be right. you shot up from bed like you’d been electrocuted, panic flooding your system. if it was 9:47 in the morning, that meant— “shit, shit, shit!” the cafe should have opened an hour and forty-seven minutes ago. customers would have been lined up. your regulars, your weekend rush. they’d be confused, probably annoyed. your perfect attendance record, your reputation, everything—
that’s when you smelled it. coffee. real coffee, not the instant stuff you kept in your apartment for emergencies. and was that… bacon?
you stumbled toward your bedroom door, still half-panicked and completely confused. the soft sounds of someone moving around your kitchen, the quiet sizzle of something in a pan, and—was that humming? a low, familiar melody that made your chest flutter with recognition.
padding barefoot down the hallway, you stopped short in your kitchen doorway.
satoru stood at your stove, wearing his jeans from last night and nothing else except one of your aprons tied around his narrow waist. the soft pink fabric with tiny cupcakes printed on it looked absolutely ridiculous stretched across his broad shoulders, the ties barely meeting around his back. his silver hair was still sleep-mussed, sticking up in several directions, and he was humming while orchestrating what looked like a feast designed to feed a small army.
the counter was covered with an impressive spread that belonged in a five-star brunch restaurant. thick, fluffy japanese pancakes stacked impossibly high, their surfaces golden and perfect. fresh strawberries and blueberries arranged in artful clusters, some cut into delicate fan shapes. crispy strips of bacon laid out in precise rows alongside what appeared to be perfectly seasoned breakfast potatoes, golden and herb-crusted. scrambled eggs that looked like silk, probably made with cream and patience.
a small bowl of homemade whipped cream sat next to another containing what could only be maple butter. and was that hollandaise sauce? actual hollandaise sauce, made from scratch in your tiny kitchen, keeping warm in a makeshift double boiler.
“morning, beautiful,” he said without turning around, shoulders shifting as he adjusted the heat under a pan. his voice carried that particular roughness that came from a night of use, and the sound sent warmth spiraling through your chest as memories crashed back in vivid detail. “hope you don’t mind me raiding your kitchen. and your spice cabinet. and possibly your entire pantry.”
you stared at the spread, then at him, brain still trying to catch up to this alternate reality where satoru gojo had transformed your modest kitchen into a professional-grade brunch operation. “that’s my apron,” you managed, voice scratchy with sleep and something else entirely. your fingers unconsciously smoothed down your croissant-printed pajama shirt, suddenly very aware of how rumpled you probably looked.
he glanced down at the pink fabric with its cheerful cupcake pattern, then back at you with that boyish grin that made your knees forget their structural integrity. those impossible blue eyes held warmth and mischief and something deeper that made your pulse stutter. “looks better on you, obviously, but i didn’t want to get hollandaise on myself.” he gestured toward the elaborate spread with his spatula, movements confident and practiced, like he’d been cooking in your kitchen for years instead of hours. “thought you might be hungry after… well, after everything.”
the way he said ‘everything’ with that slight pause, that knowing look, sent heat creeping up your neck. memories flickered behind your eyelids—his hands, his mouth, the way he’d whispered your name like a prayer.
heat crept up your neck at the implication, memories flickering like film strips behind your eyelids. “satoru, what time is it? the cafe—i need to open, people are probably waiting outside wondering where—”
“relax, cupcake.” he turned fully now, and you caught sight of the feast he’d created on your small dining table. those long fingers gestured toward your phone on the counter, his expression gentle but firm. “it’s friday morning, yes. but look at yourself.”
you glanced down at your croissant pajamas, then caught sight of yourself in the microwave’s reflection. disheveled didn’t begin to cover it. you looked like you’d been thoroughly—well, exactly like someone who’d spent the night being completely and utterly ruined in the best possible way.
“when’s the last time you took a real day off?” he continued, leaning against the counter with those muscled arms crossed, the ridiculous apron making him look both domestic and absolutely edible. “and i mean a real day off, not just sunday afternoons when you meal prep for the week.”
“i don’t need—”
“you fell asleep mid-sentence last night,” he interrupted, storm-glass eyes serious now. “completely dead to the world. that’s not normal tired, sweetheart. that’s your body shutting down because you’ve been running on fumes for months.”
the endearment made something flutter in your chest, but you fought against the warmth. “people depend on their morning coffee. their pastries. i can’t just—”
“the world will survive one day without your croissants.” he pushed off the counter, moving toward you with that predatory grace that made your pulse skip. “but will you survive if you keep pushing yourself like this?”
you opened your mouth to argue, but he continued, voice dropping to something softer, more vulnerable. “i carried you home last night. you weighed nothing, and you were so exhausted you didn’t even stir when i changed your clothes or when the car hit every pothole between the cafe and here.” his hands found your shoulders, thumbs brushing over your collarbone through the soft cotton. “when’s the last time someone took care of you?”
the question settled between you like flour in still air, impossible to brush away. you stared up at him, taking in the genuine concern in those impossible eyes, the way his hair stuck up in seventeen different directions, the careful way he was touching you like you might break.
“i already put a sign on the door,” he admitted quietly. “professional-looking thing. ‘temporarily closed for equipment maintenance, reopening tomorrow with fresh selections.’ even laminated it.”
“you…” you blinked at him, torn between exasperation and something dangerously close to affection. “you laminated a sign?”
“seemed like something you’d appreciate.” that boyish grin made its appearance, but it was softer now, less performative. “besides, gives us the whole day to figure this out.”
“figure what out?”
“this.” he gestured between you with one hand, the other still resting on your shoulder. “us. whatever this is becoming.”
his own cheeks pinked slightly, and he ran a hand through his already-messy hair, the gesture making those silver strands stick up even more ridiculously. the movement drew attention to the lean muscles of his arm, the way his bicep flexed under unmarked skin. he was beautiful in the morning light, all sharp angles and soft edges, looking nothing like the polished influencer and everything like the man who’d whispered praise against your skin in the dark.
“right, about that. you were completely dead to the world, so i…” he paused, shoulders shifting as he turned to face you fully, and the careful way he moved suggested he was reading your reaction, making sure you were okay with this conversation. “i may have carried you.” the admission came out like he was confessing to a crime, storm-glass eyes searching your face for any sign of discomfort.
you were quiet for a long moment, processing this while your fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of your pajama shirt. the image of satoru gojo, internet famous fitness influencer, carrying your unconscious form through the streets while digging through your purse for house keys should have been embarrassing. instead, it felt like being cherished. “called a car, had to dig through your bag for your keys—sorry about that, by the way. total invasion of privacy but you were unconscious and i couldn’t exactly leave you on the couch all night.”
“and the clothes?” you asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper as you gestured to your croissant pajamas. your cheeks felt warm, not from embarrassment but from something softer, more vulnerable.
his flush deepened, spreading down his neck to disappear beneath the ridiculous cupcake apron, and he focused very intently on arranging the berries in perfect little clusters. his long fingers moved with surprising delicacy, the same hands that had mapped every inch of your skin now handling strawberries like they were made of glass. “you were… well, you couldn’t sleep in your work clothes. they were all flour-dusted and…” he cleared his throat, voice dropping to something rough and honest. “i was very respectful about it. found your pajamas in the top drawer, got you changed as quickly as possible.”
the careful way he said it, like he was worried you’d be upset, made something warm unfurl in your chest. after everything that had happened between you—the way he’d touched you, tasted you, made you completely his—the tenderness of him taking care of you when you were completely vulnerable felt more intimate than anything else. your heart did something complicated against your ribs, affection and gratitude tangling together.
“thank you,” you said softly, the words carrying more weight than they should. “for taking care of me.”
his shoulders relaxed slightly, and that devastating smile returned. “anytime, cupcake. literally anytime.” he moved back toward the stove, checking on something in a pan. “now come on, let me feed you properly. all this cooking and no one to appreciate it is making me feel like a very attractive housewife with an absentee spouse.”
despite everything, you snorted. “did you just compare yourself to a housewife?”
“a very attractive housewife,” he corrected solemnly. “the apron really brings out my eyes.”
you perched on one of your barstools, finally allowing yourself to really take in the spread he’d created. it was magnificent—restaurant-quality food that had obviously taken hours to prepare. “satoru, this is… how long have you been awake?”
“since about six.” he shrugged like it was nothing, plating the eggs with practiced precision. “i’m used to early mornings. besides, i wanted everything to be perfect when you woke up.”
something warm and dangerous bloomed in your chest at the casual way he said it, like making you elaborate breakfasts was just another tuesday for him.
he set a plate in front of you that could have fed three people. the pancakes were impossibly fluffy, stacked four high and dusted with powdered sugar. the eggs looked like silk, probably made with cream and the kind of patience you rarely had time for. the breakfast potatoes were golden and herb-crusted, the bacon perfectly crispy, and everything was arranged with an artistry that rivaled your own pastry displays.
“this is…” you took a bite of the pancakes, and flavor exploded across your tongue. light, airy, with just the right amount of sweetness and a hint of vanilla that made your eyes flutter closed. “holy shit, satoru. this is incredible.”
he beamed like you’d just told him he’d won the lottery, settling across from you with his own overfilled plate. “really? basic, but edible,” he said with obvious false modesty, but you could see the genuine pride in his eyes.
“basic?” you laughed, taking another bite, then another, suddenly ravenous in a way that had nothing to do with skipping dinner and everything to do with working up quite an appetite. “satoru, this is restaurant-quality. where did you learn to cook like this?”
you ate with the same focused intensity he’d seen you bring to your baking, that complete attention to flavor and texture that made him fall for you in the first place. watching you devour his cooking with such obvious pleasure made something warm and possessive bloom in his chest. he found himself memorizing the way you closed your eyes when you tasted the hollandaise, the soft sound you made when you tried the potatoes, the fact that you cleaned your plate completely before even pausing to breathe.
“years of meal prep,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady while watching you lick hollandaise off your fork with the same precision you used for piping buttercream. “when you’re trying to build muscle without destroying your body, you learn to make healthy food that doesn’t taste like punishment.” he gestured with his own fork, grinning. “though i’ll admit, i may have gotten a little carried away trying to impress you.”
“mission accomplished,” you said around another bite, then paused to really look at the spread. “seriously, satoru, this is restaurant-quality. why aren’t you doing this professionally?”
his cheeks pinked slightly, that boyish flush that made him look younger, more vulnerable. “because watching people enjoy things i make feels…” he paused, searching for words. “it feels like this. like watching you eat my food with the same appreciation i have for your pastries. makes me understand why you do what you do.”
you finished the last bite and sat back with a satisfied sigh, feeling more full and content than you had in months. the plate was completely clean—you’d devoured every single thing he’d made with the same focused intensity you brought to your own work.
“that was incredible. i mean it,” you said, then caught his expression. he was watching you with something like wonder, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
“actually,” he said suddenly, setting down his fork and running a hand through his silver hair. “can we… can we talk about something?”
your stomach dropped slightly. here it came—the regret, the awkwardness, the ‘this was fun but we should probably pretend it didn’t happen’ conversation. you set down your coffee cup carefully, trying to keep your expression neutral. “okay.”
he pushed back from the table abruptly, starting to pace behind the kitchen island like a caged animal. his movements were agitated, nervous energy radiating from every line of his body. “i’ve been thinking,” he said, voice strained. “and i realized i did everything completely backwards last night.”
you blinked at him, confusion replacing dread. “backwards?”
“i should have told you how i feel first.” he stopped pacing long enough to gesture vaguely toward your bedroom, cheeks going properly pink now. “before we… god, your neighbors probably hate me. i didn’t even tell you i love you first and i just…” his voice cracked slightly. “i mean, i really went at it, didn’t i?”
the confession crashed over you like warm honey, sweet and overwhelming. your heart stuttered against your ribs. “you love me?”
he stopped pacing entirely, those impossible eyes meeting yours with devastating sincerity. his hands were shaking slightly as he ran them through his hair again, making it stick up in seventeen different directions. “are you kidding? i’ve been completely gone for you since that first chocolate tart. i rearranged my entire life around your operating hours. masaru thinks i’ve lost my mind.”
“you love me,” you repeated, softer this time, like you were testing how the words tasted on your tongue.
“embarrassingly much,” he admitted, voice rough with vulnerability. he resumed his pacing, gesticulating wildly now. “which is why i feel terrible that i didn’t say it before i… before we…” he trailed off, looking genuinely distressed. “i’m not usually the type to put the cart before the horse, you know? but you make me forget how to think straight.”
something about his genuine distress, the way he was beating himself up over the order of operations, struck you as absolutely ridiculous. a giggle escaped before you could stop it. then another. soon you were laughing so hard tears pricked your eyes, shoulders shaking with the force of it.
“what’s funny?” he asked, stopping mid-pace to stare at you, looking wounded and confused.
“satoru,” you managed between giggles, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “you’ve been courting me for months. bringing me ridiculously large tips. asking me to teach you to bake. memorizing my coffee preferences. learning my schedule by heart.” you stood up, still laughing softly. “if that’s not love, i don’t know what is.”
his expression shifted from wounded to hopeful, like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. “so… you’re not upset that i did it backwards?”
“the only thing i’m upset about,” you said, moving around the island toward him, “is that you beat me to saying it first.”
his face transformed into that brilliant smile you’d grown to love, the one that made him look younger and completely unguarded. “so what does this make us then? officially?”
“well,” you said, reaching up to smooth down his ridiculous bedhead, fingers tangling in the soft silver strands. “you’ve basically moved into my cafe. you know my coffee preferences better than i do. and you just made me breakfast while wearing an apron that’s two sizes too small.”
he glanced down at the ridiculous cupcake-printed fabric stretched across his broad chest, then back at you with that boyish grin. “very domesticated of me.”
“extremely domesticated,” you agreed, hands still buried in his hair. “practically husband material.”
the word hung in the air between you, and you both froze slightly. too much, too fast, too honest for a morning after conversation.
“too fast?” you asked quickly, suddenly uncertain.
“definitely too fast,” he agreed, then that devastating smile returned full force. “but i like the sound of it anyway.”
you stretched up on your toes to kiss him, tasting coffee and maple syrup and morning possibilities on his lips. when you pulled back, both of you were breathing a little unsteadily.
“so… boyfriend then? for now?” you whispered against his mouth.
“boyfriend who’s completely obsessed with his girlfriend,” he confirmed, arms wrapping around your waist to pull you impossibly closer. “and plans to continue being your most devoted customer.”
“what about your trainer? your social media following? the whole influencer thing?”
“masaru can learn to live with disappointment. some things are more important than macros.” he pulled back just enough to look at you seriously, those storm-glass eyes soft with affection. “like making sure the woman i love gets proper breakfast when she’s too tired to make it herself.”
warmth bloomed in your chest at the casual way he said ‘the woman i love,’ like it was the most natural thing in the world. “satoru gojo, are you offering to be my personal breakfast chef?”
“i’m offering to be whatever you need me to be,” he said simply, honestly, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your waist through the thin cotton of your pajama shirt. “starting with the guy who makes you eggs and tells you he loves you every morning.”
your heart did something complicated and wonderful behind your ribs. “i love you too,” you whispered, the words feeling both new and inevitable. “even if you did steal my apron.”
“our apron,” he corrected with a grin, then lifted you off your feet and spun you around your tiny kitchen, both of you laughing like teenagers who’d discovered something wonderful and secret. your hands fisted in the ridiculous cupcake fabric as he spun you, the world blurring except for his face, his smile, the way he was looking at you like you were everything he’d ever wanted.
when he finally set you back down, he kept his arms around you, both of you still giggling and breathless. “we’re domestic now, remember?” he said, pressing his forehead against yours.
and standing there in your sunny kitchen, wearing croissant pajamas while satoru gojo held you close in your stolen apron, you thought maybe the best relationships really did come from a little bit of chaos, a lot of patience, and the perfect amount of sweetness.
seven months of official dating had settled into something sweeter than any confection you’d ever crafted. what started as satoru’s carefully timed visits to flour & sugar had evolved into something that had the internet completely obsessed and your little bakery busier than you’d ever dreamed possible.
it had started innocently enough—his social media transformation had been gradual, so subtle that his followers might have missed it if they weren’t paying attention. but the comments sections told a different story.
“bro where are the gym thirst traps”
“who is she and what did she do with our protein daddy”
“NOT HIM POSTING COUPLE RECIPES”
“the way this man went from ‘rate my deadlift’ to ‘rate our sourdough starter’ is sending me”
his instagram had become a love letter written in pixels and captions, a soft-focus documentary of domestic bliss that had somehow captured the internet’s collective heart. gone were the carefully staged shots of his abs and dramatic gym poses. instead, his feed had filled with your hands—piping delicate rosettes onto cupcakes, kneading dough with flour up to your elbows, writing recipe modifications in your careful script on index cards. blurry morning photos of you both tangled in the sheets above the bakery, sharing a croissant and coffee, your hair catching the golden morning light and his eyes soft with sleep and adoration.
“she said the croissants needed to be tested for quality control. who am i to argue with an expert? #worthit #carbsarelife”
the gym content that remained had evolved too. videos of him teaching you proper deadlift form while you corrected his piping technique, both of you collapsing into giggles when he inevitably got buttercream on the barbell. couple workouts that ended with you both on yoga mats, breathless and laughing, sharing post-workout protein smoothies that you’d somehow made taste like birthday cake.
his captions had gotten impossibly sappier, much to his trainer’s horror and his followers’ secret delight.
“strongest thing about me is how hard i fell for her” under a photo of you both covered in flour after an epic food fight that had started as a serious recipe test and devolved into full-scale warfare.
“she lifts my spirits, i lift heavy things. perfect partnership #relationshipgoals #sheputsupwithme”
“plot twist: the real gains were the pastries we made along the way” posted with a picture of a particularly elaborate croquembouche you’d attempted together, which had collapsed spectacularly but tasted like heaven.
but it was the video that really sent everything viral. he’d filmed you teaching him how to make croissants at 4 am, both of you in matching flour-dusted aprons, your voice gentle and patient as you guided his hands through the delicate lamination process. the video caught the moment when he’d finally gotten the fold right, the way your face had lit up with pride, how he’d spun you around the kitchen in celebration, both of you laughing breathlessly in the pre-dawn quiet.
“month 6 of pastry school with the best teacher in the world. still can’t believe she hasn’t fired me yet #luckiestman #sheputsupwitheverything”
the video had exploded overnight. suddenly everyone wanted to try the bakery where the internet’s new favorite couple had fallen in love. the hashtag #flourandsugar started trending, with people posting their own attempts at your recipes and sharing photos of their visits to the little bakery that had stolen the internet’s heart.
which was how you’d found yourself six months later, standing in what used to be the cramped storage room behind your original space, now transformed into a sun-drenched new kitchen three times the size of your old one. the success had been overwhelming in the best possible way—the new space was a baker’s dream, with warm butcher block counters instead of cold steel and creamy subway tiles that caught the light. it was professional, yes, but it still felt like your kitchen.
that warmth extended upstairs, where you’d expanded into a proper second floor with big, beautiful windows that flooded the space with light, now filled with mismatched armchairs you’d found at flea markets, their plush velvet cushions in shades of dusty rose and sage green inviting people to linger for hours. you’d added low bookshelves filled with old novels and cookbooks, making it feel more like a cozy, lived-in library than a cafe.
and outside, you’d finally built the outdoor garden patio you’d always dreamed of. it was a hidden city oasis, where climbing jasmine and wisteria wove through rustic wooden trellises, their sweet scent mixing with the aroma of fresh baking. warm, rounded wooden tables were nestled amongst potted lavender and herbs that you used in your recipes, and in the evenings, the entire space was lit by hundreds of soft, twinkling fairy lights, making it feel like a secret garden straight from a storybook. a small, charmingly weathered stage was tucked into a corner, where local musicians played soft acoustic sets on friday nights.
satoru had insisted on being involved in every aspect of the renovation, showing up in a hard hat that was completely unnecessary but made him look adorable, asking the contractors a million questions and somehow charming them into letting him help with the purely decorative elements. he’d painted the entire garden fence himself, claiming it was “functional exercise” when masaru complained about his training schedule.
and somewhere in the midst of expansion plans and permit applications and the beautiful chaos of success, he’d also become your unofficial apprentice.
every morning, he’d show up before opening hours, hair still messy from sleep and eyes still soft with dreams, pressing coffee into your hands and tying on the custom apron you’d made him—black with “sous chef (in training)” embroidered in white thread.
he was surprisingly good at it, once you got past his tendency to treat everything like a chemistry experiment that required his complete focus and undivided attention. his hands, so used to precise movements in the gym, had adapted quickly to the delicate work of pastry. he could pipe perfectly uniform rosettes now, roll pasta thin enough to read through, and his bread kneading technique was flawless—all that upper body strength put to decidedly more domestic use.
the only problem was how clingy he got during work hours, like a cat who’d decided you were the only warm spot in the house.
“focus,” you’d murmur when you caught him staring at you instead of watching his custard, which was definitely about to curdle if he didn’t pay attention, your own concentration wavering under the weight of his gaze.
“i am focused,” he’d protest, those storm-glass eyes never leaving your face, his head tilting in that way that made his hair fall across his forehead just so. “just not on the custard.”
he had a habit of finding excuses to be close to you—reaching over you for ingredients he could easily grab from the other side, his chest brushing against your shoulder as he moved with unnecessary slowness, pressing himself against your back to “check your technique” when you were demonstrating something he’d watched you do a hundred times, his breath warm against your neck as he murmured questions he already knew the answers to. stealing kisses between timer intervals that left you both breathless and your kitchen staff rolling their eyes so hard they risked permanent damage.
“you know,” your assistant manager had said one particularly busy morning, watching satoru follow you around like a lovesick puppy with separation anxiety, “most people don’t let their boyfriends work in their restaurants because it’s unprofessional.”
“good thing he’s not just my boyfriend,” you’d replied, not looking up from the wedding cake sketch you were working on, your cheeks warm with the kind of happiness that made everything else fade to background noise. “he’s my best student too.”
and he was. beneath all the playful clinginess and shameless flirting, he’d thrown himself into learning your craft with the same intensity he brought to everything else. he studied cookbooks like training manuals, practiced piping techniques until his hands cramped, and had somehow memorized the temperature preferences of every regular customer without being asked.
tonight felt different, though. there was an energy humming beneath his skin as he helped you test a new recipe—a delicate honey lavender cake that had been giving you trouble for weeks. the kind of nervous energy that made him move too precisely, like he was afraid his hands might betray him. he’d been unusually quiet, focused with an intensity that went beyond even his usual dedication to perfection. his hands, normally so confident and sure, had trembled slightly as he held the mixing bowl steady while you folded in the final ingredients, his knuckles white with tension.
you’d caught him checking his phone more than usual, running his fingers through his hair in that telltale sign of nerves that made the white strands stick up at odd angles.
the new kitchen was empty except for the two of you, the dinner rush long over and your staff gone home. upstairs, you could hear the soft sounds of the last few customers settling their bills and heading out into the night. soon it would be just the two of you in your expanded little empire, testing recipes and stealing kisses between batches like you had every night for months.
“perfect,” you murmured, running the offset spatula around the bowl’s edge to catch the last bit of batter, satisfaction curling warm in your chest. “finally got the lavender balance right. not too floral, not too—”
“marry me.”
the words fell between you like flour from a torn bag, sudden and everywhere at once. your spatula froze mid-swipe, batter clinging to its edge, and the kitchen went so quiet you could hear the soft hum of the new industrial refrigerators, the distant tick of the timer counting down on the oven, the rapid flutter of your own heartbeat.
you turned slowly, your heart doing something acrobatic and terrifying in your chest, like it was trying to escape through your ribs.
satoru was standing by the three-basin sink, soap bubbles still clinging to his forearms from washing the mixing bowls, his storm-glass eyes wide and vulnerable in a way that made the air catch in your lungs. his usually perfect posture had crumbled slightly, shoulders curved inward like he was bracing for impact. in his damp hands—hands that could deadlift twice his body weight but now shook like autumn leaves—he held a ring.
it was simple. classic. a single diamond set in white gold, understated and elegant and so perfectly you that your throat closed with emotion. it caught the warm led lighting of your new kitchen and threw tiny rainbows across the stainless steel counter between you, each facet a promise you weren’t sure you were brave enough to believe.
“i—” he started, then stopped, running his free hand through his impossible white hair until it stood up in anxious spikes. his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and you could see the flush creeping up his neck above the collar of his black henley. “i had a whole speech planned. been practicing in the mirror like an idiot for weeks. masaru kept finding me in the gym storage room rehearsing it to the resistance bands. hell, i even practiced on the contractors during the renovation, and they all said it was solid gold. but standing here, watching you perfect something for the hundredth time just because you refuse to settle for anything less than beautiful, i just… i can’t wait anymore.”
you set the spatula down with trembling fingers, your mouth slightly parted in shock, your eyes never leaving his face. there was something raw there, something that made your chest feel too small to contain your heart. the way he was looking at you—like you were the answer to a question he’d been asking his whole life without knowing it.
“i know we’ve technically only been together seven months,” he continued, words tumbling out faster now, like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. his free hand gestured wildly, flour still dusting his knuckles. “but i’ve been reorganizing my whole life around you for almost a year now, and it doesn’t feel fast. it feels like… like i’ve been waiting my whole life to find someone who makes me want to be better. who makes me want to learn the difference between brown sugar and turbinado sugar because it matters to them. who makes me want to wake up at 4 am just to watch them create magic from flour and butter and impossible patience.”
tears blurred your vision, but you couldn’t look away from him. couldn’t breathe. couldn’t do anything but stand there in your flour-dusted apron with your heart trying to climb out of your throat.
“you turned me from a guy whose idea of cooking was protein powder and water into someone who knows seventeen different ways to fold dough,” he said, his voice dropping to that soft, rough register that made your knees feel unsteady. “you made me trade my supplement-covered bathroom counter for skincare products and fancy soaps that smell like vanilla and cardamom. you let me reorganize your spice cabinet by color and didn’t even laugh when i alphabetized the sprinkles. you taught me that there’s a difference between vanilla extract and vanilla paste, and somehow made me care about it enough to argue with the supplier about quality.”
he was rambling now, the speech he’d practiced forgotten in favor of raw honesty, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
“you make me want to be the kind of man who deserves a woman who puts that much love into everything she touches,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. “and i know i’m not there yet, but i want to spend the rest of my life trying. if you’ll let me. if you’ll have me, with all my terrible habits and my tendency to leave protein powder rings on your pristine counters and my complete inability to remember which spoon is for tasting and which is for mixing even though you’ve told me a thousand times—”
“yes,” you breathed, the word escaping like a prayer, like something that had been building inside you for months and finally found its way out. your hands flew to your mouth, tears spilling over your cheeks. then louder, clearer, with a certainty that surprised you both: “yes. yes, of course, yes. you beautiful, ridiculous man, yes.”
relief crashed over his features like sunrise after the longest night, his shoulders sagging as the tension finally left his body. suddenly he was moving, crossing the spacious new kitchen in three quick strides, his long legs eating up the distance between you. he scooped you up, lifting you clean off the ground and spinning you around despite the flour that would definitely transfer to his black henley.
you laughed—bright, joyous, disbelieving—the sound echoing off the stainless steel surfaces as he set you down gently, his hands framing your face like you were something precious and fragile.
he took your left hand with reverent care, his fingers steady now, and the ring slipped onto your finger like it had been waiting there all along, a perfect fit that made your heart stutter. you stared down at it through tears, this small, shining promise that caught the light and threw it back in brilliant fragments.
“it was my grandmother’s,” he said softly, his thumb tracing over your knuckles, his voice thick with emotion. “she would have loved you. probably would have spent hours teaching you her secret recipes and conspiring against my diet with homemade cookies and guilt trips about being too skinny.”
you looked up at him, this beautiful, impossible man who’d learned to love the quiet corners of your world, and felt something click into place deep in your chest, like the final piece of a puzzle you hadn’t known you were solving. “she raised someone pretty wonderful,” you whispered, your voice watery with happiness.
he cupped your face in his flour-dusted hands and kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like promises and the lingering sweetness of cake batter. when you finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed like he was trying to memorize the moment.
“so,” he said, that familiar playful edge creeping back into his voice, though it was rougher now, weighted with emotion. “think we should celebrate with cake?”
you laughed, the sound bubbling up from some deep, happy place inside you, your hands fisting in the soft cotton of his shirt. “the honey lavender isn’t ready yet.”
“then i guess,” he said, pressing another kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there, “we’ll just have to make do with each other.”
and in the warm, sweet-scented sanctuary of your expanded kitchen, with an engagement ring catching the light and his arms around you, you thought you’d never tasted anything sweeter.
the next few weeks passed in a blur of congratulations and wedding planning that somehow felt like the most natural thing in the world, like every decision was just another recipe to perfect together. your expanded bakery had become an even bigger destination after satoru posted a photo of your engagement ring next to a perfectly plated slice of the honey lavender cake, captioned simply: “she said yes. tastes even sweeter than it looks. #luckiestman #sheputsupwitheverything #futurewife”
the internet had collectively lost its mind with joy, his comments section turning into a virtual celebration that lasted for days.
but the real magic happened in the quiet moments between the public celebrations. like the evening you’d spent sprawled on the living room floor of the apartment above the bakery—your apartment, officially both of yours now, his name on the lease and his terrible reality tv preferences integrated into your netflix algorithm—surrounded by wedding magazines and cake flavor combinations scribbled on index cards.
“okay,” you said, shuffling through your notes with the same methodical precision you brought to everything, your engagement ring catching the lamplight as you moved. “we’ve narrowed it down to seven flavors. one for each month we’ve been together.”
“our love story in cake form,” he agreed, lying on his stomach with his chin propped on his hands, looking at you like you’d personally hung every star in the sky. his eyes were soft and dreamy, the way they got when he was completely, utterly content. “very us.”
“so the bottom layer,” you continued, consulting your carefully organized list, your brow furrowed in that adorable way it did when you were concentrating, “vanilla bean with salted caramel. for that first day you came in and i thought you were just another pretty face with a sweet tooth.”
“just another pretty face?” he gasped in mock offense, rolling onto his back and pressing his hand to his chest like you’d wounded him mortally. his hair fanned out against the hardwood floor like a halo, and you had the sudden, overwhelming urge to run your fingers through it. “i’ll have you know this pretty face was already planning our future together after that first smile.”
“mmm,” you hummed, trying to look stern but failing spectacularly as warmth bloomed in your chest, “the second layer is dark chocolate with raspberry. rich and a little tart, like how i felt when i realized you were actually going to be a problem for my carefully ordered life.”
“a problem?” he sat up, scooting closer until he could nuzzle into your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “i prefer ‘best thing that ever happened to you.’”
“that’s layer seven,” you said softly, your voice going tender in a way that made his heart do somersaults. “honey lavender. sweet and unexpected and perfect.”
he went quiet then, understanding the weight of what you were saying, his arms tightening around you. “and the layers in between?”
“lemon with strawberry buttercream for the first time you made me laugh until my sides hurt—that morning you tried to help me make croissants and somehow got butter in your hair.” you were smiling now, lost in the memory, your fingers absently playing with the hem of his shirt. “coffee cake with brown butter frosting for all those early mornings you started showing up before we opened, just to spend time with me. vanilla rose for the day you told me you loved me. and…” you blushed, consulting your notes, “brown butter cake with cinnamon cream cheese frosting for the first time you stayed the night and i woke up to you making breakfast. the most chaotic breakfast, but the gesture was perfect.”
“hey,” he protested, pulling back to look at you with wounded dignity, his lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout, “that french toast was a masterpiece.”
“baby,” you said, reaching up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the sharp line of his cheekbone, “you used hamburger buns because i was out of regular bread.”
“innovation,” he said solemnly, leaning into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. “that’s what separates the great chefs from the merely good ones.”
you’d spent that night planning every detail, from the sugar flowers you’d craft by hand to the way you’d display each layer so guests could see the beautiful cross-section of your love story. he’d been unusually quiet as you worked, and you’d found him later at your kitchen table at two in the morning, surrounded by crumpled papers and wearing the ridiculous “kiss the cook” apron you’d gotten him as a joke, his shoulders curved in defeat.
“baby?” you’d whispered, padding over in your pajamas and his oversized gym shirt, your heart clenching at the sight of him looking so lost. “what are you doing?”
“trying to write my vows,” he’d said, voice rough with exhaustion and emotion, his hands buried in his hair. “but i can’t get it right. how do you put into words the moment someone becomes your whole world? how do you explain that you didn’t even know you were incomplete until they showed up and made everything make sense? how do you tell someone that they turned you from a man who thought love was a distraction into someone who can’t imagine existing without them?”
you’d climbed into his lap then, right there in the kitchen chair, your arms winding around his neck as you pressed soft kisses to his temple. together, you’d found the words. together, the way you did everything now.
the cake tasting had turned into an event in itself. you’d closed the bakery early on a tuesday afternoon, transforming the main floor into a private testing kitchen with the kind of nervous excitement you usually reserved for new recipe launches. your wedding cake, all seven layers of your love story, sat on the counter in individual slices, each layer labeled with a small card explaining its significance in your careful script.
“okay,” you’d said, suddenly nervous as you watched him approach the display, your hands smoothing down your flour-dusted apron for the hundredth time. “remember, these are just samples. the actual wedding cake will be much prettier, and the proportions will be better, and—”
“cupcake,” he’d interrupted gently, taking your flour-dusted hands in his, his thumbs stroking over your knuckles in that soothing way that never failed to calm your racing thoughts. “breathe. it’s perfect because you made it.”
the way he said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like perfection was just a natural byproduct of your touch, made your chest tight with emotion.
he’d insisted on tasting each layer separately, giving you detailed feedback like the world’s most devoted food critic, his expressions shifting from anticipation to bliss with each bite. the vanilla bean and salted caramel had made him close his eyes and hum appreciatively, a sound that sent heat curling through your stomach. the chocolate raspberry had earned a low whistle of approval that made your cheeks flush.
but you were just as gone for him, watching the way his face lit up with each taste, the way he’d pause and consider flavors with the same intensity he brought to everything else, the way his eyes would find yours after each bite like he needed to share the experience with you. when he reached for your hand during the coffee layer, threading your fingers together like he couldn’t bear not to be touching you, your heart did something ridiculous and fluttery in your chest.
“this one,” he’d said after trying the vanilla rose, his voice slightly rough, “tastes like that morning when you told me you loved me back. all sunshine and possibility.”
“you remember what i was wearing?” you’d asked, moving closer without really meaning to, drawn in by the softness in his expression.
“that yellow sundress with the little buttons,” he’d said immediately, his free hand coming up to trace the air where the buttons would have been. “you had flour in your hair and you kept fidgeting with the ties on your apron.”
the fact that he remembered those details, that he’d cataloged them like they mattered, made your breath catch.
but it was the honey lavender that had undone him completely. his whole body had gone still after the first bite, eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment you’d worried something was wrong. then his shoulders had started shaking slightly, and you’d realized with a start that he was crying.
“that’s it,” he’d said finally, his voice thick with emotion, eyes still closed like he was afraid to break the spell. “that’s the one.”
“which one?” you’d whispered, though part of you already knew.
“the feeling. the one you were trying to capture when you made it for me that first time.” he’d opened his eyes then, and they were bright with unshed tears that made your own eyes prickle in response. “it tastes like the moment i realized i was completely, hopelessly, forever in love with you.”
“satoru,” you’d breathed, and then you were kissing him, tasting honey and lavender and promises on his lips, both of you crying a little as you held each other in your expanded bakery surrounded by the evidence of how far you’d come.
“marry me tomorrow,” he’d mumbled against your lips, his hands fisting in the fabric of your dress like he was afraid you might disappear.
“we already have a date picked,” you’d laughed, but your voice was shaky with emotion.
“marry me right now then,” he’d said, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes wild and bright. “i don’t care about the dress or the flowers or any of it. i just want to be yours officially.”
the months leading up to the wedding had been a whirlwind of planning and preparation, but also of quiet domestic moments that felt like the real celebration
. mornings spent teaching him increasingly complex techniques, watching his confidence grow as he mastered croissant lamination and sugar work and the precise art of tempering chocolate, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration in a way that made your heart flutter.
afternoons working side by side, his playlist mixing with yours over the bakery’s sound system, creating the soundtrack to your shared life. evenings curled up on the couch, him reading nutrition labels to you while you sketched cake designs on his chest, both of you laughing at how perfectly your weird little habits complemented each other.
his social media had documented the whole journey, turning your followers into invested participants in your love story. posts about cake testing sessions and venue scouting, videos of him practicing his piping technique with the focused intensity he usually reserved for deadlifts, photos of you both covered in flour and grinning like idiots after successful experiments.
“wedding cake testing day 3: she’s perfect, the cakes are perfect, life is perfect #blessed #luckiestman #cakefortifiedgroom”
“month 12 of pastry school and she still hasn’t kicked me out. pretty sure that means i’m stuck with her forever #keeper #futurewife #sheputsupwitheverything”
the night before the wedding, he’d found you in the bakery’s kitchen at midnight, putting the finishing touches on the seven-layer masterpiece that would serve as the centerpiece of your reception. you’d been working for hours, crafting delicate sugar flowers by hand, each petal formed with the kind of patience and precision that had first caught his attention all those months ago.
“shouldn’t you be at your bachelor party?” you’d asked without looking up, your brow furrowed in concentration as you focused on attaching a particularly delicate rose to the top tier.
“nah,” he’d said, settling onto a stool at the work counter, his chin propped on his hands as he watched you work. “masaru and the guys went to some sports bar. figured they could celebrate my last night of freedom without me. i’d rather spend it watching you create magic.”
“it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” you’d protested halfheartedly, but you were smiling as you worked, warmth spreading through your chest at his presence.
“pretty sure that’s just about the dress,” he’d said, his voice soft with adoration as he watched your steady hands. “besides, i’ve been watching you create beautiful things every day for over a year. why would i want to stop now?”
you’d worked in comfortable silence, him occasionally handing you tools or holding delicate pieces steady while you attached them, his presence calming in the way it always was. when you’d finally stepped back to admire the finished cake—seven layers of love story rising in perfect, elegant tiers—he’d let out a low whistle of appreciation that made your cheeks warm.
“damn, cupcake. that’s not a wedding cake. that’s art.”
“it’s us,” you’d said simply, wiping your hands on your apron, and somehow that had said everything.
standing at the altar the next day in his perfectly tailored tux, satoru felt like his heart might actually burst from his chest. the ceremony was perfect—intimate and personal, held in the garden behind flour & sugar with your closest friends and family gathered under fairy lights and white flowers, the lingering scent of the bakery’s ovens mixing with the evening air.
the space had been transformed, but it still felt like home. like you. white flowers and trailing greenery wound around the fence he’d painted himself, and small tables scattered throughout the garden held miniature versions of pastries from your menu, little bites of your love story for guests to enjoy.
his hands were shaking again, the same way they had the night he’d proposed, and he had to flex his fingers to keep them steady. his best man kept shooting him concerned looks, and masaru had actually brought smelling salts, tucked discretely in his jacket pocket, after satoru had nearly fainted during the rehearsal.
but none of his nerves mattered when the music started—an acoustic version of the song he’d learned to play for you, performed by a local musician you’d hired for the garden’s friday night performances. none of his anxiety mattered when the small crowd rose to their feet, turning toward the bakery’s back door with expectant smiles.
and then you appeared, and the whole world stopped.
you emerged from the bakery like something from a fairy tale, like every perfect thing he’d ever dreamed of and several he’d never been brave enough to imagine. your dress was ivory silk and lace, simple and elegant and perfectly you, flowing around you like spun sugar as you walked down the short aisle between chairs draped with white fabric and scattered with rose petals—roses that matched the sugar flowers crowning your wedding cake.
but it was your smile that completely undid him—radiant and bright and aimed directly at him like he was the only person in the world worth looking at. your eyes were sparkling with tears and joy and so much love that he had to blink rapidly to keep from sobbing right there in front of everyone. the way you looked at him, like he was worth waiting for, like he was worth choosing, every single day.
his knees went weak, and his best man steadied him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
when your father placed your hand in his, satoru had to take a shuddering breath because the moment felt too precious, too perfect to be real. your skin was soft and familiar, and he could feel the slight tremor in your fingers that matched his own nervous energy.
“hi,” you whispered, just for him, your voice slightly breathless, eyes sparkling with mischief and adoration.
“hi, beautiful,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your knuckles where his grandmother’s ring caught the golden hour light. “you ready to be stuck with me forever?”
“i’ve been ready since you demolished that first chocolate tart,” you said, your smile widening as you spoke, and he had to bite back a laugh because of course you’d make him smile even now, when his heart was trying to escape through his throat.
the ceremony passed in a blur of tears and laughter and promises that felt too big for words but somehow perfectly right. when the officiant finally said “you may kiss the bride,” satoru cupped your face like you were made of spun glass and kissed you like it was the first time and the last time and every time in between, pouring seven months of morning coffees and shared recipes and quiet domestic happiness into the moment.
the reception flowed seamlessly from ceremony to celebration, guests moving from the ceremony space to tables scattered throughout the garden and up onto the second floor of the bakery, which had been opened up and decorated with more fairy lights and flowing white fabric. the seven-layer cake stood in the center of it all, a tower of love story and sugar art that had guests stopping to take photos and marvel at the delicate details.
“ladies and gentlemen,” the musician announced as the sun set over your little empire, “the couple would like to cut their cake and share the story behind this incredible creation.”
you and satoru stood before the masterpiece, his hand warm and steady over yours on the knife handle, his chest pressed against your back as he murmured sweet nonsense in your ear that made you giggle. “ready?” you asked, looking up at him with eyes bright with happiness, your cheeks flushed with joy and champagne.
“been ready my whole life,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, and meant it.
together, you cut into the bottom layer, the vanilla bean and salted caramel that represented that first day, that first moment when his world had tilted on its axis. the cake was perfect—moist and flavorful and beautiful in cross-section, each layer visible and distinct, a rainbow of your love story made edible.
he lifted the first piece to your lips with hands that finally weren’t shaking, watching as you bit into it with a soft hum of approval, your eyes fluttering closed in pleasure. a tiny dot of frosting stuck to the corner of your mouth, and without thinking, he leaned in and kissed it away, slow and sweet, tasting sugar and promises and forever on your lips.
“best cheat day of my life,” he whispered against your temple, his lips curving into a smile against your skin, making you laugh—that bright, joyous sound that had become the soundtrack to his happiness.
you looked up at him, your husband, this beautiful impossible man who’d learned to love the quiet corners of your world and filled them with light and laughter and more joy than you’d ever thought possible, and felt your heart swell with so much love you thought it might actually burst.
“we’re just getting started,” you said, and kissed him again, sweet enough to rot his teeth, perfect enough to last forever.
as the night wound down and the last guests filtered out into the summer evening, you found yourselves back in the kitchen where it had all started, still in your wedding clothes but with bare feet and sleeves rolled up, sharing leftover cake and feeding each other bites while recounting the best moments of the day.
“i think,” satoru said, sitting on the floor with his back against the cabinets, you curled up between his legs with your head on his shoulder, his bow tie undone and hanging loose around his neck, “this might actually be better than my first chocolate tart.”
you gasped in mock offense, turning to look at him with wide eyes, your hand pressed dramatically to your chest. “better than the pastry that started it all? that’s basically blasphemy.”
“nah,” he said, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your ring finger, right over the simple gold band that now sat beside his grandmother’s engagement ring. “the chocolate tart was just the beginning. this is the happily ever after.”
you looked at him, this man who’d stumbled into your carefully ordered world and turned it into something sweeter, richer, more alive than you’d ever imagined possible, and knew with absolute certainty that this was what love looked like. not the dramatic, movie-perfect romance you’d once imagined, but this: wedding cake and bare feet and quiet promises made in kitchen light, surrounded by the beautiful life you’d built together from flour and sugar and impossible patience.
tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me @ilovebeansyay @ethereal-moonlit @anathemaspeaks @fancypeacepersona @scryarchives @chieeeeeee @snowsilver2000 @k-kkiana
but you were desperate. truly desperate. broke to your bones, barely scraping by on instant noodles and tap water. you had holes in your socks, a phone with a shattered screen, and a wallet so empty it echoed. the idea of splurging on a sex toy? laughable. you couldn’t even afford a second-hand toothbrush. so when the sign-up form for "assistant tester" promised fast money with zero qualifications, you didn’t hesitate. clicked agree. no reading. no questions.
and now?
you’re strapped to a glossy, too-clean chair in a sterile lab with your legs spread wide, bound in place. and between them, humming softly with unholy precision, is a goddamn vibrator from the future.
silver, contoured, sleek—latched in place by soft restraints, the head of it resting firm and perfectly angled against your clit. it’s warm from its internal thermal sync, fitted with pressure-reactive gel pads and frequency mapping. you hadn’t even known vibrators could do this. it’s more machine than toy. and you are its first test subject.
“no offense,” satoru drawls, voice impossibly casual as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “but you’re twitching like a virgin in a wind tunnel. and this is literally the lowest setting.”
he grins around the end of a candy stick he’s been chewing for the last ten minutes, bright blue eyes tracking the shivers running down your body. his lab coat hangs off one shoulder like he forgot it halfway through putting it on, and his black compression shirt clings tight to his lean frame beneath it. his pants ride low on his hips where he’s slouched, thighs spread, casual in posture but intent in gaze. the goggles meant for "serious" testing sit uselessly on his forehead, pushing back his mess of white hair, strands sticking out in static waves.
his eyes flicker with amusement, mouth quirking as he watches your body react, fascinated. “don’t tell me,” he says, spinning slightly in his chair with a nudge of his heel. “you’ve never used a toy before.”
you jerk when the vibrator pulses, and your breath shudders. your thighs tremble as you try to close your legs on instinct—only to be kept wide open by the straps. your brows knit, lips parting in a soundless gasp, skin flushed from your cheeks to your collarbones. “i... haven’t,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
satoru blinks. then brightens. “what? oh my god. you’re serious?”
his grin widens—vicious and delighted.
“holy shit, this is even better than i thought. you signed up for high-grade prototype testing and your poor little pussy’s never even met a toothbrush’s vibration mode?”
“satoru!” you cry, humiliated, squirming against the relentless buzz between your legs. your hips twitch with every pass, toes curling in their restraints, spine arching slightly as the pleasure sneaks up your nerves.
he laughs like this is the best thing that’s happened all week. “nah, this is so good. write that down,” he mock-mumbles, pretending to scribble on his tablet. “subject is hopelessly inexperienced. results? extremely promising.”
he rolls his stool closer, the wheels creaking as he leans in. his breath fans across your thigh. he moves with lazy confidence, legs spreading slightly wider, hands loosely folded over his knees.
“can you even tell what part is making you moan like that? is it the pulses? the heat setting? or is it just the fact that someone’s finally paying attention to that sad little clit of yours?”
your hands grip the armrests harder, knuckles white. your face twists with the effort to stay composed, but another whimper escapes, and your lashes flutter from the building sensation. every hum of the vibrator sends your hips bucking.
“stop staring,” you choke, voice breaking from the mix of shame and pleasure.
he snorts. “what, you shy now? sweetheart, you’re on my table, strapped open, soaking my tech. i’m doing you a favor.”
he flicks a finger against the side of the vibrator casually. it twitches in response.
you gasp, whole body jolting. your eyes fly open wide, lips quivering as your muscles lock up for a moment.
he watches your back arch, eyes sharp and entirely too smug. “god, that’s adorable. you really don’t know what to do with it. how long you been walking around with a cunt that’s never been spoiled?”
beep.
he taps the tablet.
the vibration intensifies.
your whole body jumps, a startled moan ripping from your throat. your eyes squeeze shut, face contorting as your chest heaves in shallow gasps.
“ohhhh yeah,” he says, eyes gleaming. “now that’s the sound i needed on record. keep goin’, princess.”
you shake your head furiously, tears pricking at your eyes. your shoulders twitch with every wave of stimulation. “satoru—i c-can’t—”
“you can,” he says, nudging your thigh with his foot. “that’s literally the point. now stop whining and let the tech do its job. unless you want to redo all the calibration logs.”
he leans forward suddenly, forearms on either side of your thighs. he’s close now, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, the sharpness in his gaze as he watches you break apart. “you’re already crying and we haven’t even hit auto-rhythm. wanna see what happens when we let it pick the pattern it thinks you like best?”
“no—!”
beep.
too late.
he watches you twitch and writhe, cheeks flushed, lips trembling from overstimulation. your cunt is soaked. the toy hums louder. your jaw slackens as you pant, barely holding onto your sense of self.
“god,” he mutters, not even trying to hide the awe in his voice, “you’re gonna short-circuit the sensors with how wet you are. is this what happens when broke girls finally get some tech between their legs?”
you let out a strangled sound—half moan, half sob—as your body twists against the restraints, chest heaving in shallow bursts. your head tosses to the side, hair clinging damply to your temple, strands sticking from the sheen of sweat along your brow.
satoru tilts his head, one white brow arching lazily as if he’s genuinely puzzled. his lip tugs up in amusement, eyes gleaming with mischief under the fringe of silver bangs. “what’s wrong? you wanna stop?”
your voice breaks on a whisper, barely audible through your trembling breath. “yes,” you whimper, eyes glassy, lashes wet.
he flashes a grin—wide and obnoxiously bright, the corner of his mouth dimpling as he leans back on his stool, spine stretching in a casual roll like he’s just lounging at a bar, not orchestrating your unraveling. “too bad. you signed a full-cycle clause. twenty minutes minimum.”
his wrist lifts casually, tablet tilted toward him with a flick of his fingers. his thumb scrolls the screen like he’s checking a grocery list. “we’re only at seven.”
“satoru, please—” your voice cracks on the plea, lip quivering as your hips instinctively try to shy away from the overstimulation.
he doesn’t even blink. “oh now you’re begging. yeah, that’s goin’ in the notes.” he mutters it more to himself than you, tapping something in lazily, though his eyes never leave the way your body squirms.
his hand comes down slow, deliberate, resting lightly on your hipbone. the heat of his palm spreads through the thin fabric of the gown they’d given you, and his fingers flex slightly, just enough to feel the way your muscles tremble beneath his touch. you flinch—just barely—but he catches it, and his lashes lower in interest.
“try to keep your voice down, though,” he says, tapping your thigh twice like it’s nothing. “walls are thin. or don’t. up to you.”
then he leans back again, reclining just slightly in his seat, one knee bouncing idly, clipboard resting across it. the corner of his smile twitches as he watches your face twist again, eyes fluttering shut. “science is beautiful, huh?”
Mini canvas editions!!! M thinking of putting these on sale cause they r just too adorable!!!! Price - 200 per piece.. I am planning to make twin mini canvas too which hopefully I'll post soon. But till then !!!! #art #artist #artistsoninstagram #canvaspainting #canvas #minicanvas #artonsale https://www.instagram.com/p/Cp-Bei6BrRT/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
Made a simple month aesthetic art in my art journal. M thinking of making one for every month. Idk should I? #art #artistsoninstagram #artjournal #journal #march https://www.instagram.com/p/CpwTqNrBokh/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
it makes me so sad to see so many creators talking in the tags about how they’re not creating as much because less and less people are interacting. this is proof that interaction is vital. this is proof that a lack of interaction leads to discouraged creators and leads to less creations. liking—and only liking—does not encourage creators.
and that’s because (1) the purpose of this website is to share things that bring us joy and (2) likes don’t share things or ensure something is seen by more people, not like they do on other sites. so, when so many people decide to only like a post and not share it (i.e. not reblog it), that tells the creator that those people didn’t think their hard work was worth sharing with others. that’s discouraging.
and the creator isn’t the only one that gets something out of that. you get something, too. you get the joy of sharing something you like; that’s a meaningful experience for both you and for the creator. and that experience—that interaction—encourages the creator to create more, and so there’s more joy to be had for both you and the creator.
long story short, interaction (i.e., reblogging, which is interaction in its simplest form on this site) brings joy. it’s literally all about the joy, people. the joy in discovering and sharing and appreciating and marveling at creations. so please reblog—for everyone’s sake, including your own.
Just another random doodle inspired by the book ikigai. It's a great book I loved reading it!! #ikigai #bookstagram #art #artofinstagram #asthetic #doodleart #doodle #random #japan #japanese #sakura #cherryblossom #music #flora #plants #flowers https://www.instagram.com/p/Ch5XWonBMBx/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
Day 1 of making bookmarks. M thinking of selling a few where u guys can tell me the colour scheme or words which I should write on them. Should I? Would u guys buy it?? #art #aesthetic #artofinstagram #bookmarks #bookstagram #brushpens https://www.instagram.com/p/ChssTX4BaYz/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
Storm came tonight n me being the storm lover I am went out to click some photos... Let's say I just got lucky hehe.... . . . . #storm #rain #mood #weather https://www.instagram.com/p/Ce18C82BuBp/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
I entered an anime tattoo making contest in my college and made this. The discription is in next slide!! https://www.instagram.com/p/Cdh43TsBxc9/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
Wishing you all a happy and prosperous life in this cherry blossom season!! 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 #art #artofinstagram #cherryblossom #japan #japanese #goodlife https://www.instagram.com/p/CdX09ZBh5oQ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
warnings: bondage, reader is the one getting tied up, dirty talk, teasing, spanking for ayato, male receiving oral for zhongli, exhibitionism for xiao, slight choking for childe, edging for itto