You love being Satoru Gojo's girlfriend, he dotes on you, takes you on dates, spoils you - just one little problem, you are perpetually ovulating around him! Is wanting your nerdy boyfriend's cock in your mouth really such a bad thing? Satoru wants to wait for the perfect moment for your first time, though! He'll totally wait even when you're wearing that slutty lil dress and grinding on him, right?
pairings - nerd! gojo x girlfriend! reader
warnings - cute and silly, oral over panties/boxers, Satoru edging tf outta us -- reader is horny, Shoko/Hime, Sukuna being a fratboy dick, jealous Toru, rough blow jobs, p in v sex, first time, squirting, teasing, fingering, creampie, consent, breed kink, making your nerdy boyfriend feral and spit in your mouth <3
art creds here!!
this was a comm for my angel @cantarcantar!! ty for understanding that my life was like INSANE - ilysm for being patient <3 wc - 10.1k
It took you almost two years of crushing on Satoru Gojo to actually become his girlfriend, and you’re loving every minute of it. From being too damn shy to admit you like him, to very awkwardly trying to confess and every chance just utterly failing – to then instead becoming the very best of friends.
You two were finally ‘officially together’ as a couple.
Oh, and it was everything, being in his arms, swallowed up by those huge biceps he had hidden underneath his starch white dress shirts. Hearing that little laugh from his lips, all of those sweet little kisses he bestowed upon you – truly, all the feelings blossoming between the two of you in the most beautiful way, especially over the months of truly being his girlfriend.
He’d take you out for all day movie marathons, going to play bumper cars, mini golf, you name it – Satoru was down for it. Every date was a meticulously planned out one too, with little to no down time aside from the drive to and from. Perhaps that’s where you would sneak just the littlest pecks on his neck, hear his sighs as he gripped the gear shift of that fancy sports car.
Satoru adored you – and you adored him.
You were all his. There was no one else in the entire world than the boy who could never quite tie that tie on correctly, always just a little crooked for you to straighten out.
Yet with that came you being unreasonably horny all the fucking time, who wouldn’t be with Satoru though? Those long fingers pressing into your waist, the way that bulge pressed between your thighs, plump lips slipping up your throat. Every time it even got just a little close, maybe you were grinding so good that you were about to cum from that – he paused it.
Wearing a cute, bashful little smile on his face, fogged up, thick rimmed glasses – murmuring sweetheart in a voice that’s designed to make your pussy drip, and you feel like a complete pervert for wanting to beg for more. God, imagining his cock in your throat alone had you desperate and needy, let alone having him filling you, pumping you full, taking you first.
Maybe you are a pervert, truly.
You’ve tried so hard to be patient, you want him to want it as badly as you do, but every time you’re making out with your boyfriend – the top of the dean’s list and ultimate dungeon master for DnD – Satoru Gojo?
Every time his big ass hands grip your waist and he drags you down against his length, before he puts a pause on it?
You can’t even think about it.
You’re pumping your fingers in your needy cunt just thinking about it after every damn date with this boy. Whining out in your bed with your hips bucking up, gasps escaping your lips desperately in your empty room. Pumping faster and faster until you’ve got that sticky release all over your hand.
It’s almost as if you have this sort of ritual now, before you see your boyfriend and right after/.
Your rose toy is probably fucking tired of you.
As if you don’t you ache so damn bad around him it’s painful, hard not to shamelessly hump his thigh till you cum. No, the toy? This takes the edge off just a bit, but even the way you moan his name in your sleep is endlessly hilarious to your poor roommates that have to hear you between the walls of your off campus apartment.
“Still a virgin?” Utahime asked with a laugh when you had woken up this morning, getting ready to see Satoru.
“Not by choice,” you grumble, shaking your head and grabbing a coffee pod from the little rack, popping your favorite inside and pressing the on button. The aroma hits immediately, waking your tired brain.
You’d had the filthiest damn dream of him fucking your tits, cock sliding up and down in messy strokes that had you needing a damn shower right now.
You’re just perpetually ovulating.
Satoru is the perfect boyfriend, truly he is. He’s sweet, he’s a gentleman despite his blue eyes and where they glance too long. Mostly, he cares. You’ve fallen so in love with him so quickly over these past few months, but every time you think that things might progress, Satoru stops it. Gently lifting you up off his lap and sighing, kissing his way up your jaw, his snowy lashes tickling your cheek.
‘Sweetheart, let’s pause this,’ he would murmur those words all sweet and sultry against your skin after almost sucking on those nipples that just stay hard around this man, instead hovering a breath away so it ghosts your tits. Those huge hands brushing just underneath them.
It’s torture, really.
‘Oh, okay Toru,’ you’d whisper back, he’d moan and kiss up your neck, breaths tickling your skin. ‘Mnh…’
‘You’re so beautiful, god look at you.’
It was just wrong to talk to you like that!
“You poor baby. At least you have your toy collection,” Shoko teases, sneaking in and brushing your hair back. “Extensive, too.”
You flip her off, peeking at the phone then and seeing Satoru's name pop up.
Study session?
“Dick session?” She asks, you gasp, as if affronted at such a suggestion.
“I would never assume such a thing!”
You hope so.
*****
It’s not.
No, it’s not a dick session at all.
It really is an actual goddamn study session – both of you were sitting there in Satoru’s living room, his place was far fancier than anywhere, but that came from him being the Dean’s very son. It intimidated you a little at first, but now you’ve grown comfortable, as he made you feel so special.
Today though?
Well, you can’t focus on anything but how badly you’d love to kneel and suck your nerdy boyfriend, his thighs spread wide all slutty.
God his legs are long.
You bet his cock is-
“And this equation?” Satoru teasingly asks you, distracting you from your slutty freaking brain.
You're not even sure what stumbles out of your mouth for an answer, without saying how thick you think the circumference of his cock must be.
That is something you’ve done with your past experiences, and you know you’re good at it. You could easily deep throat a man and you wanted to see his cock so damn bad – could he be a challenge, though?
Your eyes drift down his chest, he peeks at you curiously.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He asks casually, spinning his pen between his fingers and studying you. “Hard question?”
“Um… yeah, a very hard time…”
Stop that! Stop looking at his dick print!
“The question is hard?”
“Uh… the question… yes.” You feel like a damn pervert every time you’re around him, can’t you chill and let things happen when they happen?
He sighs and stands up, stretching his arms up over his head, his abdomen revealed when his dress shirt rides up, showing those little v cuts that make your ovulating brain just a million times worse. It’s like you’re in heat. It's so pathetic right now – maybe you should avoid him till it stops.
“Let’s take a break then.”
“Yeah?”
He chuckles at how eager you are at the thought and comes up to you, leaning down with a hand on each arm of your chair, tilting his head so some of that soft white hair falls over his forehead. You brush a bit of it back and he kisses your palm, lips warm and sweet.
“You’ve been such a good girl, how can I not treat you a bit?” Your heart hammers in your chest, until those next words spill from his lips. “Boba?”
“What? Huh?” You blink as he eases back, pulling up his phone and leaning against the desk. “Boba??”
“Yeah, Boba, I’ll buy you some, I know you love it,” he smiles curiously as you bury your face in your hands. “No Boba? Matcha then?”
“I’m um…” About to cum if he touches you once even. “No, I guess Boba is fine. Thanks Toru.” you manage to say, thighs pressing together, Satoru frowns, kneeling now and gently taking your hands off your face, seeing your blush.
“Are you sick!? You’re all flushed!”
“I’m not-”
“You’re burning,” he touches your cheek in concern, and you almost fucking feel bad – you’re not sick, you’re ovulating. “Baby girl, let’s get you to a doctor right now!"
“No, no I feel fine, I’m not warm because of that,” you shift in your seat and whine out at just that friction. “Promise.”
He frowns and watches you carefully. “You’re hurting, it could be the start of something!”
“Well yeah I hurt,” you sigh as he spreads your thighs and kneels between them, shoving at him. “You’ll make it even worse down there.”
“I’ll make what worse, exactly? Your…” He trails off then, seeing your panties and blushing himself, pink dancing across his high cheekbones and dusting them in that rose. “Y-your… your panties are so… uh… s-soaked and…”
You should freak out at this proximity, at just how much he can finally see of you, but all you can do is whine again, as his eyes shoot back up to yours. “I’m okay, promise.”
“Am I neglecting my pretty girlfriend?” He asks softly, just a little nervous. Satoru has never touched anyone but you, but he’s extensively studied the female anatomy, and how to make you cum.
He just wanted your first time to be perfect.
That’s why he was waiting – the last thing he needed was for you to not enjoy your first time, though he knows you’re a little more experienced than he is – Satoru’s hardly kissed anyone before you. Not because he couldn’t – he just had no interest in that sort of thing until he met you – and even then, he really couldn’t find the damn courage to ask you out forever.
“No I’m being a damn pervert,” you cover your face and he chuckles at that.
“You’re being a what, now?”
You sink into the seat, mumbling. “You heard me.”
He’d been your best friend for so long, thinking there was no chance in the world – always jerking his cock with any article of clothing you’d leave in his room, like a filthy depraved pervert – and you think you were one perverted here?
Does him wanting the timing to be just right making you think that?
Satoru exhales softly, just a hint of what he wants to say slipping from his plump lips.
“What, do you touch your little pussy thinking of me?”
His voice has you lowering your hands, he spreads those thighs and slides up your skirt, making you moan out, head falling back, your hands gripping the arms of the chair even tighter.
“Wha-?” You can’t even finish your damn word.
“Asked you a question, baby.”
“God,” he’s diabolical without knowing – or maybe he does know. You’re trembling as you lean back, letting his thumb brush on your clit and gasping at the touch, already getting slick from a brush on your skin. “What question?”
“Not paying attention, tsk,” he clicks his tongue and his teeth nip your inner thigh, sinking in and making you whine out. “Do you touch her?”
“Y-yes,” he hums a bit, tugging your panties up until your lips are visible, that dark spot growing as slick starts pouring. “Please…”
“Be patient, baby,” he leans back now, smirking at you. “Show me?”
“Are you sure you…”
“Please? I wanna see so bad,” you blush now, you masturbate sure – but not in front of people! “I’ll show you?”
“Show me you um… jerking off?”
“Yeah, I mean… yeah?” You sigh a bit.
“Toru…”
“Mmm?”
“Why don’t I um… suck you?” He is bright red now, he’s almost busting just thinking of your mouth – that won’t do. His first blow job and he busts in one go!? No, Satoru has to jerk it three times before he gets the privilege of fucking your pretty little mouth, of feeling your pink tongue on him.
“Not yet.”
“Not yet? But you’re so hard,” you giggle and tease him with your foot nudging his thigh, he glares and catches it, shoving it wide. “Not yet, then. So you just wanna see me touch myself?”
“God yes, dreamed of that since…” He trails off then, he doesn’t want to admit just how long he’s jerked off to you, because it was before you even knew who Satoru Gojo was. “Lemme see.”
“Okay…” you lean back, running your fingertips over your panties, slipping underneath and leaning your head back, eyes fluttering shut, hearing Satoru’s soft little whine. “Toru…”
“Fuck,” he thought he could handle this, but he’s utterly failing, he can’t even see your pretty pussy and he’s already throbbing, leaking so much pre it hurts, sticking to his brand new digimon boxers. “You’re s’pretty, sweetheart.”
You blush as you look at him with dazed eyes, running little circles right around your puffy clit, coated in hot slick as it dribbles out of your panties. He swipes some of it on his fingers, studying it carefully, his tongue going to lap at it, moaning as the sweetness coats his tongue.
“Oh you’re t-tasting me,” it makes you needier, until you have to plunge two fingers inside your messy, quivering hole, that loud squelch echoing in your ears. He’s gripping your thigh with one hand bruising until you cry out.
“Fuck, so s-sorry… baby I hurt… y-you…”
“No, no, like it,” he moans and puts his hand back on your thigh, squeezing again so hard it aches. He's jerking his cock faster, whining out when he sees your slick fingers pull out of your panties. You press your cum soaked fingers to his lips and he eagerly wraps them around, sucking them off. “Toru…”
“So sweet, my pretty girlfriend,” his glasses fog up when he leans down, licking your inner thigh that is trembling, sliding higher until his tongue is on you – but it's not on your skin, it's on the soaked cotton of your panties.
“Fuck…” he moans as he gets those juices that are spilling through the fabric, his and squeezing his own cock as your thighs sit over his shoulders.
“More, please,” you're tugging at his hair so hard it hurts, bucking up your hips for more. “I need you, please.”
“Such a needy girlfriend,” he murmurs, thumb circling his drooling tip, looking up at you with desperation in his pretty blue eyes. “You want me to lick it more for you?”
Your answer is a little nod, even having him lick you over your panties is more than you've ever had done, and fuck it feels good. Sinful as he trails a long, slow stripe over the fabric, the tip stopping right over your twitchy clit, his moan is muffled against the damp cotton.
“Toru!” He's lost in your scent, in that taste, the little hints of lace decorating your panties rough against his tongue, the sound is fucking filthy.
Satoru tugs those panties up more firmly, strings of gossamer saliva dripping and dissolving, peering up at you with flushed cheeks. “Like that, baby? Is this what you were thinking about instead of studying?”
Your only answer is to nod quickly, a jerky little motion as he sees those puffy lips just swallowing the damp material. He swipes his tongue over and over, the heat and wetness of his mouth making your entire body tremble. You feel it heating up, hearing the messy sounds of his own cock fucking his fist, wishing it were your throat instead.
"Oh god, Toru," you whimper out it so pathetically, your hands tangling in his soft white hair, fluffy and silky underneath your touch, trying to pull him closer, to shove his face where you need it. “Not enough, mnh!”
He chuckles against your puffy cunt, the vibration and the quick lave of his tongue have you on edge. Pulse racing as he had the audacity to tease you, landing a wet smack on your cunt that had you pathetic.
"Ah - ah," he clicks his tongue, catching your wrists in one of his stupidly large hands and pinning them against your waist, smirking at you in a way that's utterly not dirty at all. "No touching yet, sweetheart. I'm taking my time with you."
“Meanie,” he chuckles again, but you love it – feeling that strength as he grips you so tight. “My panties are ruined, Toru.”
“Mmm. Yes they are,” he tugs them again, looking at how wet the material is, just a pathetic little scrap of fabric with your juices pouring.
Instead of showing you mercy and moving them, he just presses them further against you again, tongue shoving that fabric until it's flush with your needy clit, you swear you can feel his tastebuds as that tongue drags through the fabric, pausing everywhere that has you jerking and honing in.
Like this nerdy boy is studying you.
Oh. He is.
He's methodical, almost clinical with his research of your needy, clothed cunt just separated by this pathetic little piece of fabric, his tongue pressing more firmly against your soppy lil hole. She is pulsing around nothing, torturous strokes, pressing his fingers up and down, you're hot and sticky underneath his touch.
“Toru!” Your wrists are still pinned, his cock forgotten even though it's dripping down onto the soft, plush rug below his knees. Satoru finds your clit again and looks up under snowy lashes, you watch the drips of slick connect with that wickedly long tongue.
“Mmm. I bet I could see myself inside you,” he whispers, you suck in a breath at that, as if he is measuring the distance of your entrance to your belly button, easing your wrists to tug up your top, nipping your puffy lips over the fabric. “Scientifically.”
“Then experiment, scientifically.” He chuckles like the little shit he is, finding your clit once more, a hand pressing where he imagines his cock would bulge out.
“You are so needy f'me, s'pretty like this,” his words slur as he wraps his plump lips around your twitchy clit, barely concealed and swollen underneath the cotton material that is dripping wet. He pulls it in his mouth and sucks it hard through your panties, humming against you.
You're aching, cunt filling his hungry mouth as your hands land back on his hair, his movements making you cry out and buck your hips against his mouth for more.
“So sweet right now, god, look at that…”
Satoru is so close to cumming when he grabs his cock at the base again, squeezing so goddamn hard – he could almost bet that if he felt your cunt without the fabric, he'd spurt his white ropes everywhere.
Make a mess of you.
“Mnh. You close, sweetheart?”
Your answer is a jerky little nod, as he keeps torturing you with this fucking barrier, his teeth grazing that tiny clit ever so lightly through the fabric, making you scream out, your head falling back. Your panties are absolutely ruined now, utterly transparent with your slick and his spit coating them, your sweet little cries rushing through his ears.
Satoru? Well, he laps at the mess he's making happily, his tongue coating the entire area in circles that deliberately avoid that spot until you're twitching, tears falling down your cheeks.
"Such a messy girl," he moans out those words, eyes black when they peek up at you, his voice husky as your slick clings to his lips. "Soaking these pretty little panties f’me.”
“Please, Toru… move ‘em please,” he smirks and decides to have mercy on you, tugging them to the side of one of your lips and exhaling, watching the slick drool and spill down. You gasp as the air hits your cunt, already aching and needy, the dampness making it a cool shock.
“Fuck, you're so pretty,” he murmurs, his cock just about to bust without his touch, he glides his tongue from your ass all the way to your clit, looking right up at you. “Is this what you were thinking of, hmm? My tongue inside you?”
“Your cock, too,” he chuckles against you, but just a couple more flicks has you close, as he spreads your cunt wide, studying your every expression.
“Look at that. My slutty little girlfriend.”
Satoru is trying his best to hold it together, but when his tongue glides into your gummy walls and they grip him, he's too far gone, slurping up every bit of the cum that just pours out. You shatter so damn pretty, squirting all over his face, dripping down his chin until it's glossy, his cock starts pulsing right with your hole, imagining her milking him.
“F-fuckk….”
“Toru, mnh! S'good I… please…” You’re overheated, body sensitive, it’s just not enough, even with his tongue lavishing every bit of your pussy.
Not enough.
“Please what, baby? Mnh,” he grips his veiny cock as he cums with his tongue on your clit, more of your mess drenching his throat, his face, his shirt. His white ropes coat his hand, lashes fluttering shut as he savors your jumping clit in his mouth, whining against you.
“Want your cock in my mouth, Toru please…” he exhales, breath making you jolt, looking up at you with a blush.
“I um…” he leans back on his knees and you see the mess, blushing at it.
“I didn't touch you though…”
“Didn't need to,” he's clearly a little embarrassed, you take his cum soaked hand then – dripping white – and wrap your mouth around one of his thick fingers. “Oh fuck…”
You suck him right off, tasting that salty white substance and moaning as it hits your taste buds. Satoru pulls back and laps it off his own fingers, before kissing you right with it, the mess spilling between your mouths and dripping down.
Satoru Gojo – your nerdy boyfriend with an insane Digimon collection was a fucking freak, greedily drinking his own cum off your mouth.
You’re trembling when the door knocks, and you faintly remember that he has ordered you boba. He’s the epitome of a perfect boyfriend after that, considerate, caring, cleaning the little rivulets of your own release from your inner thighs – you’re stuck back on the opposite side of the bed, cuddling him and watching a movie.
Satoru even has the audacity to snore after, heavy body wrapping as you ache to get filled by him – at least the movie was so damn boring you drift off right next to him.
****
“I’m gonna die a virgin,” you mumble to Shoko and Utahime the next weekend, aside from more heated kisses and grinding on Satoru’s thigh after your well planned out dates – nothing.
You’re aching.
How much use could your rose toy really see!? And now you even have two more toys going along with it, though you doubt any of them are getting close to Satoru and how good he must feel. No ‘clit sucker’ could come close to what that nerdy little mouth could do.
“You look like you’re dying, girl, damn…” Utahime earns your glare. “Is it that bad?”
“He finally got me off and…” You blush now, unable to finish your sentence, remembering his tongue drinking up your juices.
“Does he know what a clit is?”
“Very much so, it was so good.”
They look surprised.
“You all have no clue, he really was,” Shoko laughs at that, leaning back and hitting the vape, handing it over to you. “No, no.”
“You need a smoke, sweets,” you grimace, brushing your hair back, pacing back and forth as the two girls watch you, snuggling with each other. “You’re pacing holes in the carpet.”
“I can’t handle this, I just… god I wanna suck his dick, is it so terrible? He hasn’t even let me touch it. I sound like a horny ass man, I hate it. I wanna respect him, I really do.”
“You wanna respect him with his cock in your throat?” Shoko finishes.
“Yes. I mean!? I will respect him without the cock in my mouth! You two are menaces.”
They’re laughing like the brats they are, blowing smoke in each other’s mouths, you damn near moan in frustration. Satoru’s gotten you off that one time, then since then he has gone right back to worshipping you in the sweet way he always did, as if you’ll what – forget about his tongue?
His stupidly long fingers…
The cum on your tongue that you lapped right off!?
The taste.
“Ugh -” you lean back and sink further into the couch. “I really am gonna die.”
“Can’t die, we’ve got that party tonight,” Utahime teases, kissing Shoko’s lips and giggling just a bit, you pout at the two of them.
In public Satoru would kiss your hand at best.
Where on earth even had that freak come from that spit his cum in your mouth last week!? He’s all gone again – the pocket protector wearing Nerd Gojo in his place, like some twin fucking took over for a minute.
“I can’t go to a party and get drunk, I’ll make a fool of myself around him, one drink and my pussy has a mind of its own…” You finally sit down, plopping back into the seat. “I feel like a pervert.”
“You are! Let’s just call you fucking pervy Sage.”
“Hey!” You glare at Utahime, Shoko is inhaling another puff of smoke, you cough just a bit.
“Hah – Sanji from One-”
“Don’t even!? I’m not that bad,” you huff at her, frowning now. “I swear I'm not trying to be pervy. God, what is in this weed?”
“Hmm,” Shoko tugs Utahime on her lap. “I wonder if he's scared you'll like … bite his dick.”
“You're so fucking mean,” you cough a little more, eyes watering as you scowl at the two of them.
“Look slutty, like really slutty,” Shoko walks up now, tilting your chin up and crooking her lips up at the corner. “Something that screams – fuck me.”
“He licked my panties and didn’t even…”
“Really slutty,” Utahime agrees, tapping her chin. “Ooh! I know, I have the perfect outfit in mind, that little black dress of yours.”
“But it’s too small for me now! It’s from like high school, and thanks to you two cooking all the time, my hips-”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what? Oh…”
You trail off now, realizing what everyone knew – that Satoru loves your hips, he grabbed on to them every chance he got, even when he was just a little bit shy.
“Okay…”
They kiss again in front of you, laughing a bit, making you lovesick for your man – your nerdy man who you wish would kiss you in that way, tongues all dripping. It’s not even fair.
“All lovey dovey, fuck you both.”
They’re so hot and rude laughing at you – you decide to just disappear, you don’t need your hot ass best friends making out in front of you when you’re already in pain from the constant edging from Satoru. You are rushing to your room and trying on outfit after outfit, before finally deciding on the exact fucking one they brought up.
You would look as sexy as you could and hopefully get your boyfriend to not be able to resist you.
But also you’ll respect his decision, dammit! You can wait as long as he wants to, even if you were absolutely gonna put your tits and ass out there for him. Looking in the mirror and touching up your lipstick, swiping a finger across your lower lip to smudge it just a tad.
“Oh damn you look hot, Sanji,” Utahime says when you come out.
“I am not Sanji.”
“You are.”
“Fuck you both!”
*****
Satoru can’t keep his damn eyes off you.
Fuck you’re pretty tonight.
That damn little black dress clinging to your skin is fucking ruining Satoru’s mind, brain short circuiting as the two of you navigate the insanely packed frat house, one of his hands on the small of your back protectively. People are all bumping into everyone, stumbling around, absolutely no chance he lets someone hurt you by accident.
Moreso, Satoru Gojo can’t get his fucking hands off you, no, he can feel your warmth right through the thin layer of cotton material, fingers splaying across it. He reminds himself in his head over and over just what a horrible thing it would be to fucking take your first time at a frat party, even as he has to adjust his cock, turning from you to face the wall for a moment.
“Everything okay, Toru?” You ask softly, hand on his back, he laughs, a fake and terrible attempt at being normal, turning right back around to you.
“Me!? Yes, yes. Do you need a drink, babydoll?” He asks.
The music kicks on as he speaks, and all you can see are his plump lips forming words, ringing from how damn loud they’re blaring the worst dance music known to man. “What!!”
“A drink!!”
“Huh?”
“A DRINK-”
The music pauses for just a minute, switching to something else but leaving multiple people to stare at Nerdy Gojo shouting.
You blink a bit at his shouting, he swears he’ll kill Suguru and Nanami for having the audacity to fucking laugh at him and his pain. Them smoking weed earlier and trying to give him every tip known to man on how to bury said tip right against that surely cute little cervix.
As if Satoru hadn’t studied extensively.
“Yes, please,” you smile all pretty, letting him guide you through, he just about loses it from the sheer amount of eyes locked onto you, gripping you just a little too tight, feeling the curve of those breedable hips underneath his fingertips.
Imagine having them bent over, his hands fit so perfect-
No, he can make it another night, a dumb frat party was not the time or place for something so precious as your first time. Even if you smell that good, and you’re dancing all over him, giggling, your ass brushing right against where his cock has tented his dark jeans.
Your drink in one hand, the other in his as he pulls you against him, for a nerdy boy, Gojo can absolutely move his body. You feel so goddamn good against him, with your waist in his grip now, his lips pressed against your ear – he can inhale that sweet scent you just naturally fucking have.
That’s when he realizes he’s about to cum if your ass rubs up on his cock one more damn time with those heels making you tall enough, he could bend you over and slide it right in. God he bets you’re so wet too.
Satoru has to pull back, making you blink just a bit in confusion, he downs the rest of his drink, smiling apologetically.
“Bathroom, sweetheart.”
“Oh, um… okay, want me to-”
Satoru runs the fuck off.
Maybe you’re doing too much, shit… you were absolutely grinding all up on Satoru because you were craving him so bad. You needed to give him more time! If the roles were reversed, you know he would, even if he may want to as badly as you do. Going to pour yourself a shot, you throw it back and let your eyes shut, sighing just a bit as it burns your throat.
You need to ease up and let Satoru take his time, even if you have to press your thighs together to resist the needy urge of rubbing your cunt on anything right now.
Maybe you are fucking Sanji.
*****
Satoru’s leaned back on the door, unzipping his pants and seeing his reddened cockhead, and just how fucking swollen it is. He’s jerking his cock desperately, whimpering out as the door gets knocked on, banged on in fact by fucking Sukuna of all people.
“Gotta take a piss man, stop jerking it.”
“I’m not!? I’m pissing right now – w-wait,” Satoru is jerking it of course, but how dare Sukuna call him out on it. Dickhead fratboy that he is, he’s chuckling outside of the door, but none of it is getting rid of Satoru’s throbbing erection.
He’s just way too needy, too sensitive, he can see his reflection in the mirror – those flushed pink cheeks. Sukuna thankfully fucks off, but Satoru can't even cum with just his hand, not when he knows your little fist would feel so much better, when your mouth and pussy would grip him.
No, Satoru is left tortured.
*****
You are alone for some time, concerned if he was somehow drunk or sick when the leader of the frat – the slutty ass, pink haired jock named Sukuna comes up to you, sipping his cup and flickering his red eyes up and down your face.
“Hmm, Gojo left you all alone?”
“And?” You scoff, rolling your eyes at him now, he smirks just a bit, leaning close. “He’s busy. Okay?”
“Mmm… yeah,” he peeks over his shoulder now, then looks right back down at you. “So.”
“So, what?”
He grins all big. “Wanna play beer pong?”
“Beer pong?”
“Mhm,” he tugs at a little lock of your hair. “Bet I stomp your ass at it. Look like such a good girl.”
“Hah you think I've never been to a party!?”
“Never seen you before aside from with your nerdy lover boy,” he pours you a drink now and inclines his head.
“I've partied, just… usually me and Toru are busy.”
He snorts at that.
So busy your boyfriend is jerking his cock in the bathroom.
“I see, so busy, huh?”
“Yes but…” you curse now, shaking your head. Satoru has been gone fifteen minutes and won't answer a text, a game of beer pong wouldn't hurt. “Fine then.”
It doesn’t take long until there is an entire gathering of people to watch you absolutely annihilate Ryomen Sukuna in beer pong, to the point he is fucking furious. You're landing the pong ball in every cup, decimating the entire frat at a certain point, giggling as you study them, down to the last shot, against Sukuna again.
“Beginners luck or some shit,” he’s fucking furious – you swear you see his vein ticking underneath his jaw.
Satoru is still not here.
You’re worried but you’re also enjoying the cheers, especially when you land that last one, giggling as the frat brothers who were talking all that shit about the nerdy girlfriend of Satoru moments before are now staring in disbelief. With one final, perfect arc, the ball splashes into the last cup.
It really is beginner's luck.
But.
Also, fuck Sukuna.
"Damn, girl!" someone yells, and you take a little bow, rubbing it right in Sukuna’s face now, who is slamming down the rest of his beer.
Surely he drank enough to get annihilated – but somehow still standing just normal, big ass man has some insane tolerance because those eyes look completely aware.
"Guess I'm not such a good girl after all, huh?" you tease Sukuna, who's standing there looking down at you, setting the cup down and crushing it.
“Hmmm,” his red eyes dilate just a bit as he steps closer to you, suddenly making you feel just a bit nervous.
Satoru hates Sukuna.
It’s well known, since high school the two of them have been overcompetitive and absolutely insane against each other. He’d be fucking furious if he saw you anywhere near him at all. You peek and see him across the crowd then, getting a text from Shoko blinging on your phone.
He’s really mad.
He is.
You get another text now from Utahime, biting down on your lower lip.
Make him jealous and maybe you’ll get dicked down, Sanji.
“I’m not Sanji,” Sukuna raises a brow, lips twitching. “I’m not.”
“Sanji? Who the fuck is that?”
“One piece?”
“Nerd – hey, wait,” you’re turning and he grabs your wrist for just a moment. “Shit, I mean… you’re right, you’re not a good girl, huh?”
“I sure beat your ass,” you say, pausing when he reaches out, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they brush a stray piece of hair back from your face, rough knuckles brushing against your cheek for a second too long.
"You did, you're full of surprises, brat.”
“Brat? Whatever…”
You can feel Satoru’s eyes on you – you’d pull back, but part of you wonders if making him jealous would bring that freak out that spit cum in your mouth – maybe you are a brat. You sip your drink, remaining normal.
“I’m dating Satoru, you’re too close.”
“Would nerdy ass Satoru know what to do, how to handle your ass?” He taunts, your eyes narrow, his laugh echoing despite the music as your boyfriend starts shoving his way through. “Show you that digimon collection?”
“I’m very pleased, thank you.”
“You look like you need to get your attitude fucked right out of you,” your fingers itch to slap him now. “If he fucks up, you know where to find me.”
“No thank you, I- Toru!”
Satoru is between you and Sukuna, shoving him off and glaring right at him – perhaps the two tallest men at the party right face to face, Sukuna’s smirk making Satoru want to punch him.
“Why are you so close to my future wife?”
“Wife?” You blush and he glares at you.
“Yes, and baby momma – but you’re being a brat,” he whispers, Sukuna snorts at that.
“She is a brat.”
“You can’t call her that,” he shoves the big ass man and takes your hand now. “She has better shit to do than talk to you.”
“Aw, but we were having fun,” Satoru is dragging you away, you blink just a bit, almost scowling at Sukuna who blows you a kiss.
What a dick.
BUT.
Satoru is fuming, and he’s hot.
You’re so toxic!
“What’s wrong, Toru? I was just playing some beer pong,” you say all innocently, as he drags you past everyone, you’re struggling to keep up with his long strides. “Um… what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong!? Hah,” he’s laughing, psychotic and feral like you turned on a switch in his brain, when he finally starts getting some privacy. “Everything.”
“I don’t get it…”
“He was hitting on you,” Satoru yanks you away in the center of the party, you barely bite back your giggle at how excited you are to see him this way, looking ever so serious when he glares down at you.
Maybe you are evil, loving how mad he is, how jealous he is when he presses you against the hallway wall on the other side of the party, you can feel the music humming through the walls, but not as fast as your heart is racing looking up at your blue eyed boyfriend. Blue eyed angry boyfriend.
This isn't sweet Satoru at all, no – he's completely fucking unhinged, his chest rising and falling with his quickened breaths, cupping your face and jerking your chin to look up at him.
“You think he was?” You ask softly, making him raise a brow. “I thought he was just… being nice?”
You make him laugh without humor now, thumb brushing across your lip. “Are you being bratty, sweetheart? Teasing me, making me jealous?”
“What? No,” you straight up fucking lie to his face, batting your lashes all innocent and cute, but you can tell my that little smirk he doesn’t buy any of it for shit right now.
“No?”
“No, I was just talking, Toru. Isn't that fine?” You trail your hands up his chest, wrapping your fingers around to hook behind his neck, tugging him down to face you. “It’s fine for me to make friends, isn’t it?”
“Not when he's looking at these pretty tits,” he cups one, making you suck in a breath – your needy boyfriend is never this bold. “They're not his to look at.”
“Oh?” You lean forward now, tip toeing as he leans low, thumb brushing over a nipple, making it perk up for his touch. “Are they yours? Yours to look at?”
He’s losing it, his pulse hammering behind his ears, in his wrists, everywhere was hammering, his mouth practically salivating as he cups that tit right where anyone can see, big hand squishing it. You gasp out at the sensation, your lashes fluttering closed, little whines mingling against his lips.
“Yes, mine, every inch of you is mine,” Satoru shakes his head now with a soft laugh. “He thought he could dance with you. Kiss your lips? Lips that are mine.”
“All yours,” you open your eyes and giggle again, earning his scowl. “Sorry you're just so cute like this.”
Satoru blinks.
“Oh, I’m cute?”
You go to press a kiss when he snatches you up in one swoop, you gasp and wrap your arms around his neck now. Thighs trembling as he carries you to some room he finds, stumbling you in and shoving you right against the door.
“You think I'm cute,” he presses his cock against your slick heat, slutty little panties practically ruined for him, grinding his cock until you're gasping out. “Well I think that you're a brat.”
You gasp. “Me?”
Two people calling you that.
Well… maybe you are.
“You are bratty, with those pretty fucking lips,” he's kissing you filthy, tongues dancing, saliva dripping between you both, easing you down so that you slide against his body achingly slow. “Maybe I should shut your bratty mouth up.”
Oh fuck.
“Yes please?” He glares at your big fucking grin.
“On your knees then, sweetheart,” you so eagerly obey, he laughs softly, his heart hammering in his chest, a mix of being utterly furious, nervous about his first time, and dumbstruck by the sight of your heart eyes. “Look at you, bein’ such a good girl – but are you really that desperate to suck me?”
“Please yes,” you have no shame – all you want is Satoru’s cock deep and buried in the back of your throat. “If you want though! C-consent.”
“As if I haven’t wanted this for years,” he shakes his head and tilts your chin up, sighing. “I wanted to do it all perfect, to lick and kiss every inch, worship your body until you were writhing, so fucking needy for it.”
Satoru unclicks his belt, the metallic click hitting your ears. “Mnh… years?”
"Years," he repeats softly, unbuttoning his jeans entirely too slow for you, you go to move your hands and he halts them with a little smack, you bite down on your lip, aching. “Hands on your thighs, you’ll listen to me for once, since you’ve been driving me so fucking crazy.”
“Me, making you crazy, really,” you do as he says though – eagerly – palms on your thighs, he laughs a bit, the sound of his zipper lowering echoing in the room even with the reverberating walls.
“You know every time you drag that messy cunt on me it ruins me, right?” He draws out that word, sighing now. "Every time you wore those little skirts and bent over, every time you'd bite your lip while concentrating…”
Satoru drags a thumb down your lip now, achingly slow against the plumpness that moves underneath it, your teeth nip on his thumb teasingly, and then you let him push your mouth open.
“Open real wide, sweetheart,” you do just that, and he can’t help but whimper as he presses down on your tongue, as if he’s studying the recesses of your open, eager mouth. “Wider, can’t you? For me?”
You listen eagerly, opening wide and fucking obscene, your tongue out for any bit of him he wants to give you, core just aching.
“Fuck, I've imagined this exact moment."
Satoru won’t tell you just how long he has, either, he swallows – just a bit nervous now.
“Suck,” you suck his digits, slurping them and moaning around them, imagining his cock instead, loving how dominant he’s being. “Stop.”
You obey, making him raise a brow.
“You like me tellin’ you what to do? Is that why you got me so fucking mad, so jealous, to have you listen?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, as he shoves his jeans down, and the hard, thick length of his bugle strains against the thin fabric of his boxers. “Pokemon? You traitor!”
“I can’t wait to shut your mouth up tonight,” you giggle at that, Satoru sighs and frowns at them, brushing your hair back a bit. “They were a gift, okay?”
“I’ll buy you digimon ones.”
“God, you’re so perfect,” you’re still giggling, when he gently smacks your face – the lightest little touch that has you almost moaning. “Open up again, yeah? Be a good girl, baby.”
“Mmm, yes,” you nod your head, doing just as he says – the side of freaky Satoru you only saw hints of last week when he’d lavished your panties with his long tongue.
“You got me jealous on purpose, yeah? Wore that slutty outfit to fucking ruin me, wanted cock in your throat that bad? Got me fucking leaking so much… fuck…”
Your answer is to keep that mouth open, leaning forward as you lap your tongue along the damp spot where his pre cum has already soaked through, right over a traitorous yellow pikachu. You’ll make more fun of that later, right now he’s jerking his hips, hissing at the drag of your cute lil tongue on him.
“Fuck…” You’re teasing him just like he did you – licking and sucking his tip over the damp cotton of his boxers. “Act so sweet and you’re evil, shouldn’t feel that good through that… mmm…”
Satoru’s letting you suck around his fat cockhead, slurping every bit of his white cum from it, tongue lolling right along that slit over and over.
“Torturing me back?”
“Yep,” you lick your lips, making him sigh, shaking his head now.
“Go on then, take what’s all yours…" his voice is low, hoarse damn near as he for the very first time pulls his cock out, letting it spring free, slapping against his lower abdomen with a loud, wet smack. “Can you fit all of it?”
You knew he’d be big.
You didn’t know he’d be that big, with his jeans undone all slutty, his pokemon boxers shoved down – his cock is perfect, just the right amount of thick and entirely too fucking long, with a prominent pale blue vein running along the underside. You’re literally drooling as he strokes it right in front of you, the head flushed a deep, pretty pink as it leaks white.
You’re soaked, fucking ruined.
“I can.”
You cannot.
Maybe?
You will try!
“Go on then, sweetheart, lemme see how good you can take all of me,” he chuckles as you lean forward without hesitation, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tip. “Teasin’ me more?”
You lap your tongue up, keeping your hands right where he asked you too, sliding underneath so you hit that frenum. His sharp inhale is met with his huge hand tugging in your hair so hard it hurts, pulling at the hairs on the nape of your neck.
“Fuck… greedy lil mouth,” he’s damn near slurring his words when you swirl your little tongue around the head, lapping up the salty taste of his cock underneath, brushing along that vein. He whimpers out when you wrap your lips around it and suck. “Oh my… f-fuck…”
Satoru loses it the first time you really suck his cock, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head, pushing you down further as his other hand rests on the doorway, beginning to move so that he’s choking you. You’re whining out, aching to touch your cunt so bad you slide your fingers down.
“So desperate,” he tuts his tongue, fucking your throat now, his cock slamming the back of it as tears spill. “B-baby, is this s’okay?”
You pull back as he does, with a wet, filthy pop, grinning. “I want it, all the way deep in my throat, Toru, I can take it.”
“You can take all of it in that tiny lil’ throat? When she’s this tight?” He whispers, your nod makes him glare now. “Have you done this?”
You blink a bit. “Yes?”
“Then I’ll fuck your throat so hard you’ll forget anything but me,” he takes you over now, slamming deep inside, you’re whimpering as one of his feet spread your thighs, and you’re soaking his black boot. “That’s it, rutting on my boot and taking cock like a little slut, hmm?”
“Mnhgh…” you’re done for, this is exactly what you needed, him railing your throat until you can’t think, until you’re gagging and tears are spilling.
“Look at me,” he orders softly, you do just that as he presses deep, sniffling as you try to take all of him, he hisses as he feels his tip stretching that tight throat, his Adam's apple bobbing. “You know I fucking love you? And respect you?”
You giggle around him and he glares.
“You have to know if I’m gonna say all this,” you pull back again, fingers all coated in your slick, gliding it along his sticky tip.
“I know you love me, Toru. I love you…” He sighs, touching your cheek. “I love you talking to me this way, you could be meaner.”
“Oh? Fuck my frustration on your throat?”
“Please?”
“You’re ruining me,” he mumbles, slamming right back inside, now that he knows you’re okay, he can lose control, see how much you can take, as you grind on that shoe, nails now pressing in the muscles of his thighs, jeans slipping down. “Want our first time to really be right against this door? Shove your slutty skirt up and ruin your cunt for fuckin’ anyone?”
God, Satoru’s sexy like this, fogged glasses and all.
Your answer is to take him all the way, your nose brushing against the white hair, the tufts of it tickling your nose, he’s stuttering now, unable to stop himself from fucking faster, harder, the wet sounds mixing with his whines. He doesn’t hold them back, either, every time he does he feels a fresh gush of wetness even over that leather, he can see it shimmering as he pulls back and slaps his cock on your mouth.
“Slutty girl, this all f’me, huh? Not that fucking loser downstairs?”
“All you.”
“Hold that tongue out,” you do just that, and Satoru slaps his tip on your tongue over and over, as you keep grinding on him. “Can’t believe you’re this much of a pretty little whore, god I thought you were a good girl?”
“Toru… please…”
“Please what?” You just keep rubbing. “Desperate, fuck… stand up.”
You can hardly do that when he helps you by tugging you up, spitting directly in your mouth, you swallow it greedily, earning his pathetic moan as he turns you, shoving you against that door. “Mnh!”
“Stop me before I fill all your fucking holes with cum,” he’s kissing down your neck, his glasses cool against your neck, whines escaping his lips as he shoves that slutty lil dress up the gentle curve of your hip. “All of them, I’ll have your cunt drippin’, your throat full, fuck that ass while I’m at it.”
“Mngh, please, please,” it’s all you can do but to arch.
“That needy?” He’s tugging your panties to the side, dragging his tip up and down over and over, moans escaping his lips when he bends down, turning your face to him. “First time in a frat house against a door? You’re so wet do I even need to finger you right now?”
“Already did,” you answered, he laughs, shaking his head and kissing you, rubbing even more, teasing your slit with the fat head of his cock until you’re weak, your thighs shaking. “Please, please….”
“Please what, fuck your cunt for the first time? That’s what you’ve been wanting, me to lose it, huh?”
“Yeah,” he scoffs, teasing even more, mouth messy and mean as he bumps your clit, until you squirt right down his length, dripping all down the carpet.
Sukuna’s carpet – it’s his room you faintly notice, as you see the little pictures on the walls.
You wonder if Satoru meant that.
“Squirting already, haven’t even fucked you yet,” he pulls back and bends down, slamming his cock so deep you scream out, head falling back as he tugs your hair, making your ass arch out as he fills you. “Oh my g-god… baby…”
“Toru,” he lets you adjust to his thickness, the very first time your cunt has ever been filled – and this wasn’t how he wanted to do it.
He wanted to stretch you out – one finger, two, then three – but you’re so soaked you suck him right in. Such a tight, perfect fit he can hardly take it, bending down to press sweet kisses on your bare shoulders, easing back and shoving in again, taking your hand and placing it on your tummy, pressing so you feel it all.
“Feel me here?” He asks softly, desperately – worried for a moment with how tight you are that he’s hurt you, but your answer is to look back at him with those slutty, parted lips and dilated eyes, nodding. “Who’s inside you?”
“You, Toru.” you answer, cunt spasming as she’s already close, his body overtaking you, wrapping and tugging, shoving even deeper.
“Who’s first?”
“You.”
“Who’s gonna make this cunt stretch out?”
“Y-you and… ah!”
“Mine, mine… fuck you’re all mine,” Satoru gave you that minute to adjust, a last mercy before your nerdy boyfriend fucking loses his mind. “Mine, this pretty body, this perfect pussy… you… mine…”
“Yours,” you whisper it over and over as Satoru fucks your messy cunt, even though it’s hard to take, you’re so full it feels perfect, letting his hand wrap your throat, fingers pressing on either side of your windpipe. “Ah!”
“Hah – such a perfect fit, made f’me,” he’s fucking you so deep you feel him everywhere, cock gliding in and out of your sticky, gummy walls, fucking you so goddamn messy it's dripping down between your thighs. “B-babyyy…”
You arch for more when he pulls out of your cunt with a filthy squelch and you whine from the loss. “Back in, please…”
He lifts and carries you to the bed, thighs shoved wide, feral now as he shoves back inside and sees himself moving inside you. Every slick glide smoothing your puffy cervix, until she is bruised and aching, that dress shoved higher, panties tugged firmly to the side. He uses both to move in you, laughing as you gasp out, as your thighs tremble.
“Aw, is it too much, sweetheart? Too deep?”
Feral Satoru is here, mixed with sweet Toru, but his cock is anything but sweet – the way it stretches you out, fucking ruins you, pummels your cunt so deep you’re about to cum all over his length, already sensitive.
“Mhm!”
“Full of me?”
“Nghhhh…”
You don't know how the fuck else to answer, it all is entirely too much, the way he can see his cock print, his insane laugh, those blue eyes glittering with the frames fallen off. So blue it hurts to look at, eyes almost threatening to close.
“Nuh-uh, eyes on me, that's it,” Satoru keeps pumping into your cunt, leaning up to shove your thighs against your tits, smushing them as he fucks you dumb.
He knows it too.
“Can't think?”
“mmm, nnnhhh,” your answer is pathetic and just a babble really, as your nerdy, once virgin boyfriend pummels your messy, needy cunt until she's stuffed so full it hurts. Your nails pressing into biceps, digging in as he stretches your puffy lips on it.
“Can’t even fucking talk – already?” Your eyes roll back in your skull as his cock ruins your pussy, so deep you do feel him all over.
“Gonna pump you so full, hah will you finish college without me breeding your cunt?” Satoru Gojo is batshit insane, as he leans over you, bending you so that you're folded in half under his heavy weight. “What would you do then, hmm? If I breed your slutty cunt? Make you mine.”
“Want it, mmm,” you’re utterly fucking shameless about it, feeling his bruising grip, his cock getting creamy at the base as his heavy balls slap.
“Jerked it in the bathroom, had me so hard,” you bite down on your lip, gasps escaping your throat, eyes locked. “You love that, huh? Driving me insane, slutty dress, pretty body… god…”
He presses your thighs down enough to tug your tits out, gripping them and exhaling, thumbs brushing your nipples until they’re peaks.
"Look at you," he pants, "taking my cock so well, pretty girl. You’re just such a good little slut for me, aren't you?"
You can only moan in response, your body trembling as he hits that spot inside you that makes your vision go white, your answer is to grip his hips with your thighs, letting him cup your face, pumping you so full that you can feel it all over. Warm and hot when he whines out so pathetically in your ringing ears, slutty little moans falling from your lips.
“Takin’ all of it, god…” He kisses you even as you shatter, your cunt spasming all around his veiny length, milking him for every drop. “So fucking greedy. So needy.”
He leans down and captures your lips, spurts of cum still pouring, you can feel him twitching, nails pressing into the strong muscles of his back. “Toru… l-love… toru y-you…”
“Cock drunk, sweetheart?” He teases, like the menace he really is – but he also lovingly caresses your cheek. “You took me like you were made for me.”
“I did?” You’re so damn drunk off him you’re slurring your words, pussy achingly empty, feeling his cum slipping out.
“You did a very good job. Such a good girl.”
“Yay!”
Satoru snorts at you, shaking his head and peppering kisses, leaned up on an arm, his shirt half open, revealing the hard planes of his chest. “You’re s’cute… I wanted to take it easy your first time.”
“I loved it,” you admit, yawning now, peeking around the room. “Mmm, can we go home though?”
“Of course we will,” he kisses down your body though, breath ghosting your thighs, spreading them to watch the filthy mess of his cum pour out, groaning. “You’re wasting it all, baby.”
“Hmm? Ah!” Satoru scoops some of that mess up against his fingertips, shoving it right back inside your quivering hole. You’re gripping him tight, thighs clamping down on his hand, as he smirks. “Toru you’re… crazy…”
“Mmm, you really have no idea what I have wanted to do,” he clicks his tongue, pushing that cum deep again, watching your every expression. “Gonna keep you so full of cum it’ll drip everywhere.”
Satoru does not just fuck you once, no – he makes sure to bend you over in the backseat of his car, fucking cum back inside. Once you're at his house he is pumping ropes of cum on your tits, laughing at how messy you get coated in white, before spreading it all over your body.
Satoru fingers and fucks all that cum inside until you're a trembling mess in his arms, passing out and snoring.
“So funny you started all this but then couldn't keep up, hmm?” He teases softly, cleaning you up, cock sore from how you gripped him, how much he came. But even the sight of milky drops escaping your hole had him damn near twitching back to life, groaning against your skin.
*****
“Good morning,” your nerdy boyfriend is littered in pretty kiss marks, indentions of your teeth all down his neck, a loopy smile on his face as he stands there shirtless, glasses firmly back on.
“Oh! Good morning…” you thought you'd be the one to ruin Satoru Gojo, ride his cock till he whimpered and cried from overstimulation.
You had no clue he'd fuck you so good you couldn't sit up right without his help, cupping your face and leaning down to kiss your lips, tilting your chin up and smirking. You're a mess.
A pretty mess.
Hair fucked up, covered in fingerprints and hickies, taking the coffee he brings and sipping it, sighing as it hits your tongue. “Mmm… good morning.”
“Don't you look pretty in my bed?” He muses, smirking on his features. “I wonder what Sukuna thought of his bed covered in your squirt.”
A blush heats up your cheeks. “I didn't squirt that much!?!?!”
“You really did,” you shove him playfully, giggling then. “My cum too though.”
“You did it on purpose, his room!”
“Me? Never.”
Satoru absolutely did.
That's what Sukuna gets for hitting on his girlfriend, dried up cum all on his blankets – as if he could handle you ❤️
heheh i hope ya'll liked horny reader for a change!!!
SYNOPSIS — You spent most of your time this year shoving that part of your life away, attempting to move on, and at the expense of your own friends. You’re here trying to take this version of yourself back, to look at your friends or your college memories without thinking of him. It’s a lot harder to hangout though when you listen to them look back at it like a funny memory, and you’re both forced to revisit what you pushed back enough to forget, but never fully.
TAGS — MDNI (18 + only) nsfw. work contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. Ex!Sukuna. Ex!Fwb!Sukuna. angst. porn with plot. Secret relationships. hurt/comfort. drinking. slight mentions of drug use. depictions of intoxication. post-college AU. fluff. spit. ráw. rough. soft spanking. degradation. dacryphilia. soft sukuna. spooning position. máting press. unresolved feelings. anger issues. alcohol. slight ooc. kinda toxic. happy ending! first published work.
WC: 11k — art by: @/inaillus on twt
a/n: MY FIRST FIC IM SO HAPPY! My design formatting is heavily influenced by @/spideyyeet’s format. (I’m so worried that I’ll miss cw’s and tags!) Anyways, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING and excuse my spelling and grammatical errors. I’m really trying to explore on my writing styles!
Sukuna and you decided to be civil after your break up. Or whatever civil means to the both of you. It was more than what you could ask for, given his reputation of not having much patience, and being someone who has been on the receiving end of that, this feels almost like a gift.
You wouldn't say you ended on good terms, between the two of you, you felt like the one who held more of a grudge than him. It wasn't a sudden breakup, it happened quietly, kinda like the rest of your relationship.
You look at him from across where you’re seated, a beer in his hand, smirking at the friends you were able to keep around you because you chose to be ‘bigger people’. They were talking about what only adults talked about, settling or something work related probably. Is he seeing someone now? Last you’ve heard of him, he's taking over the family business.
You blink out of your own thoughts and sip on your beer, the malt leaving a creamy texture only someone who's familiar with it could feel. You sigh to yourself as your college friends continue to catch up with one another, loudly passing stories of the lives you no longer share. And here you were still thinking about it quietly. The atmosphere is warm and welcoming, but something within you feels out of place. Or is it you wanting to get out, especially when Gojo mentions something about a drinking game.
Everyone internally groans, some loud yet still somehow he manages to make everyone participate, including quiet Sukuna. You almost chuckle thinking about it, he tries so hard to be serious.
You join in as well, pulling yourself off the minibar, not wanting to look more out of place than you feel. You gather around, the cool air and the bonfire in Geto's wide backyard pair up well in this nostalgic atmosphere. It's also perfect for Shoko who doesn't need to be left out now when she has to smoke outside.
You join her side when everyone forms a circle around, drink in hand. "What's he up to now?" You whisper, looking at how Gojo pulls a reluctant Nanami out of his chair.
She blows smoke out while looking in the opposite direction before looking back to talk to you. She chuckled while tapping the ash off her cig, "Beats me, he's acting like the host but it's not even his house."
"I heard that!" That yell draws attention to both you and Shoko giggling to each other. You look around, suddenly conscious of the eyes on you before the laugh dies in your throat as you meet a pair of all too familiar ones. You look away a little too fast, not even having enough time to curse to yourself quietly.
"First of all, I'd like to thank everyone who came today. I'm glad you all chose to acknowledge the existence of your college friends, I know it must be hard to be sincere-"
"Get on with it!!" Someone, who you're guessing is Geto, exclaimed from behind since Satoru continued to do the opposite.
He goes on about how it's been years (11 months exactly, it’s now June) since the last time you all completely got together. No one says it out loud but you're glad to see every close friend you've made in college here, there was probably an underlying feeling of uncertainty before each one of you arrived.
He continues with how back in your sophomore year of college, you stood in the exact same way on Nanami's birthday but while listing down predictions for you guys after graduation. You were probably too wasted at the time you participated that now there was only a faint memory of the night of Nanami's surprise party, most distinctly remembering the appalled look on his face when he turned on the light. Only to be welcomed by just half of the people he knew invited there and being blasted with a big-ass party popper.
You don't really know where Gojo's going until he pulls out a piece of paper, folded and looking a little creased up. He expected people to beam at it like he's holding a relic except his friends look at him in confusion or indifference.
"Guys! It's the list!" A chorus of sarcastic ah's and oh's emit from you all. He nods in approval of the correct reaction, "And I found some pretty good predictions here. Sooo good that I made a drinking game out of it." Now that peaks your collective interest. How bad could they be?
Hiromi, the ever skeptical heedful man he is, raised his hand and answered without waiting to be called, "Now when did we have time to list all of those ourselves while inebriated? And who's to say you didn't just list down some weird scenarios there if we don't even remember who wrote each? And I doubt we wrote our names next to them."
Gojo smirks looking around you all, you didn't wanna read into it but you felt like he stopped a second longer when he reached you before moving to look at everyone. "Trust me, you'll know who wrote it." He does a double take and raises both his thumbs before he picks up his beer from a stool.
It took so long explaining the rules that Utahime managed to make it in time, surprising you from behind. You greet her as your attention draws away from Gojo, she was your closest friend aside from Shoko within the group. You try to brief her on what's currently happening but ultimately just tune Gojo out as you got the gist of his instructions and focused on her.
Everyone gets back to their steady commotion when he and Suguru go back into the house to bring out trays of straight poison (whatever vile concoction he somehow kept prepared for this.) You lean into Utahimes side, grabbing her arm in excitement as you haven't seen each other in almost a month. You suddenly feel a lot more relaxed when surrounded by two of your best friends.
You catch up, talking about when you'll see each other again, work-life, and pointing fun at Gojo before Utahime asks more about the game so she could also participate. Shoko starts since you tuned out Gojo a little too much earlier that you also don't know all the rules, "So basically we pass around this list and we could choose to read aloud or fold the paper— and we drink if it actually happened to us, or if you’re the reader you can also not read aloud and choose to drink so you can move to the next person"
You huff, "What's the fun in that? you won't even know what was written if they choose not to say and fold it."
Shoko raises her index up, "The catch is, you have to wait for the next person to see it cause they can choose to read it out loud too or choose to fold it!"
"What if it's consecutively bad that they don’t read?"
"Then you’ll just have to pray that the person after you isn't messy, which in our friend group..." She looks at Utahime, then they both look at you.
"Ha ha, okay." You roll your eyes, a smile planted on your lips while you take another swig from the bottle. They giggle and coo at you while you feign your indignation and look away. "Don't worry too much about it, all the stuff there was listed long ago."
Utahime perks up, "Ouhh that list from Nanami's party?" You both nod or make a noise of agreement. And then you pause, before letting your own mouth run without thinking.
"Do you remember what was there?" Your brow raised in question. "Did I put anything in?"
"Shit, I don't remember putting anything either." Shoko whispered, before taking a puff.
At this, Utahime's grin spreads ear to ear, realizing she has an upper hand over you both. Your eyes squint, trying to read her face but you’re left uncertain. She giggles to herself and gives Shoko a knowing look as well. Almost as if she got the message too, Shoko laughs.
You start to feel left out, but not in a way that hurts you, just enough for you to get a little curious. "Wait, please, what is it?"
Utahime smiles just thinking about it, and waves her hand in dismissal. "No, actually it's nothing. It was so long ago already," Shoko can't help but put a hand on your back, as if trying to comfort you and control herself from giggling at the same time to avoid giving you fomo. You look at them pleadingly and she caves, "I mean, it was all during the whole Sukuna spiel, remember?"
Shoko sucks her teeth before continuing, "Yeah of course she does, how could we forget." She rubs your arm and something in you stirs.
Utahime nods, a harmless expression on her face while your insides churn. “Holy— I can’t believe you were fucking around at one point."
Fucking around, yeah. You almost forgot how it was like that, at least to them. Your smile fades into something less, not fake, just less. You straighten yourself and laugh with them, almost to stave off the embarrassment you narrowly missed.
Suddenly you're a little nervous, and your hands start to feel kinda clammy.
Just in time to fill the silence, Satoru walks in with a tray of appletinis looking hella nuclear, and what you're assuming are Jaegermeister shots. You grimace.
Just how many predictions did you all put there?
***
“Satoru hype that shit up way too much.” Shoko comments, voice loud without having to yell. Your brow quirks up when you look down at her, leaning on your shoulder as she slumps onto you.
The game started, and everyone had been reading them first, no one passing up. It got a little rowdier though when everyone started pulling up chairs and taking the shots. It starts mellowing out midway though, less competitive aside from Gojo who is still a lightweight, the air starts getting less tense for you and you find yourself enjoying the sound of everyone sharing a laugh.
You wonder what Satoru was trying to do with bringing this out. Did he want to just fuck around or catch you lacking. If so, it’s his unlucky day because you’re on a roll by the second time you choose to not share something; also second least out of anyone who skipped, by the way.
Your lips folds shut into itself right after the bitter alcohol burns in your throat. You let out a parched noise, “That’s vile.” You clear your throat and try to keep yourself from feeling the effects too soon. The game continues, and more and more does it feel like it’s easier to humor you.
Satoru finally gets financially cut off by his parents before the term ends
Geto gets caught faking results during a drug test
Shoko stops using cigs and starts vaping ‘cause she’s broke
And it goes on.
The game ends up turning into this mixture of just drinking and conversation starters. Everyone seems to have something to say with the level of accuracy events predicted had or if they counted. But this kind of vibe felt nice, like you were lighter now.
Higuruma’s up when he gets the paper, this is the 17th one now, “Ah,” He looks up and chuckles to himself. Even someone as blunt as him started reacting a lot easier now. “Nanami,” He starts, “Nanami graduates top of the class without getting laid throughout college.” He looks up with an expectant grin.
Everyone laughs at that (except the butt of the joke), some already pitching their own theories or coming to his defence.
“That’s impossible, look at him-“
“So what if he’s still a virgin?”
Nanami stands, raising his hand, but low. Everyone turns to him, commotion dying and waiting for him to either bring the tiny shot glass between his fingers to his mouth, or to stand his ground. He raises the glass and opens his mouth before pausing. Then a small smile grows on his lips, “It was the night of graduation-“
“Impossible!” Satoru yells while Nanami’s smile falls just as fast when the blur of white hair from your vision stands up from his seat. The loud commotion grows with a chorus of laughter and a constant complaint of, “That’s not counted! That’s not counted!” Nanami didn’t even try entertaining him, sitting back down on his chair and dusting his slacks.
You leave Shoko by the chair (she drank the most shots currently), before walking over to Utahime who is currently standing nearer to the bonfire. “Is the game supposed to have a winner?”
She turns, making space for you to stand by her side, she shrugs, her eyes looking a little droopier now. You continue. “ ‘cause I feel like there should at least be a loser, like who’s you know, the one most out of it first?” You both look at Satoru trying to re-explain the rules with too much passion. Your laughs stacked on top of each other, your cheeks hurt so badly from how much they stretched into a smile, but it's also numbed by the slight buzz in your system. “I think I’ve had good luck.”
A short silence follows, the cracks of the fireplace and the distant crickets creak in the trees. Utahime rubs her arms, warming herself. ”Well don’t jinx yourself,” She comments while staring at the fire, before turning her head to look at you with a cheeky glint in her eyes.
For a moment you pause, her demeanor now mirrors her early reaction when you first mentioned the list. At first, you’re curious and squinting at her. What isn’t she telling me? Before looking at the sparse number of shots left on the tray, then back at her. You shake your head, “Nah, I’d win.”
The commotion dies down and so does Satoru’s energy, seemingly taking a break when he dramatically lays back on the outdoor lounger.
“We have 4 left to read! and…” Geto looks around, noting how Shoko, Nanami, and Gojo look near done from participating. “5 left of us.” He claims, and no one protests.
The paper opens softly as Geto looks down at the list, then looks up, before looking down and contemplating to himself.
He looks at the person next to him and it’s…Sukuna. Maybe it’s the mix of four different drinks in you or you’re just paranoid and Suguru just looks like that, but his eyes look like they’re smiling for him.
A palm gently lands on your shoulder and you look back at Iori with her phone buzzing in her other hand. “Shit- it’s my boss. I’m gonna take this.” She looks at you then at Suguru, to which he nods to her in acknowledgment. It’s not long till you’re now alone with these three idiots after she leaves your side with a soft squeeze to your arm. You keep your focus back on Suguru.
You purposely keep your attention on just Suguru.
“Four of us then,” You voice out, one of the first things you kind of directed at Sukuna, and with a tighter smile on your lips than normal. Geto beckons for you to come closer and you follow, not wanting to think much of it.
Geto downs his shot quickly and your steps falter slightly on the way to them. It was a short 3 steps away but you wished your hesitation wasn’t noticeable. He’s already handing the paper to Sukuna when you stand a little off to the side, keeping a friendly distance. You didn’t notice it but the other three losers perch up in their seat and inch closer discreetly yet flagrantly watch the interaction.
You weren’t prepared to be this close to him, you realize. You didn’t know what to expect out of today but you showed up anyway. Time does really change your perception of someone, you think to yourself.
It’s weird how you were so used to his presence before, to be able to know who was behind you if your eyes were closed, and to be able to recognize the air that they brought with them. Deep down, something in you feels tight when the realization comes that your body is no longer familiar with him. You feel it in your posture, the stiffness of your spine and muscles.
You’re now gawking at him, and time feels slower than usual. You excuse yourself in your mind for being so shameless, but he looks healthier now. His hair’s still the same, his skin looks a little tanner with a soft tinge of red from the alcohol. His head is craned over at Geto with his side profile facing you, his well trained neck muscles flexing underneath his black henley top. Man, this shit was so unfair.
He’s looking away from you, but it has a purpose. You swallow the obvious disappointment that shouldn’t be there. He hasn’t talked to you today you note, but you also shouldn’t mind. What’s there left to say?
There was a very brief pause as he stared at the piece of paper, a familiar empty look returned on his face.
“At least 2 people will be taken by next year, and/or after graduation.”
It was oddly specific. But it was oddly familiar to you too, a vague memory pieces itself in your head of the words being written on paper. You’re suddenly deep in thought, remembering where you were in that time of your life. That unknown tightness makes itself known in your body once more, except this time you know exactly where it’s coming from.
You remembered the confidence you had back then, the sureness that what you had with him was concrete. The beginning that felt like a slow buildup to a solid relationship. No rush, you agreed and it felt exciting to sneak around at first. You could almost hear the thought said in his voice.
That night, you had a petty fight. He didn’t hold your hand when you tried to and you were drunk so you vented it out on paper, not caring about how stupid it would be to read sober. Or in a few years. The tightness rushed from your stomach and wrapped around your throat.
He looks up, again his eyes find yours immediately. Again, no words were shared. It was all but two seconds, but it was long enough for the last two years of your private relationship to cross the bridge between both your minds.
You note how he doesn’t make a move to take the shot.
Prick.
It was you first who looked away, but you gathered yourself like you always did. Your eyes found Geto’s behind him, ignoring the nosy audience behind you. “That was targeted.” You forced a chuckle out of yourself, the sound came up like a shield, like if you mocked it too it would mean you’re in on the joke.
Your eyes flit over to Sukuna, but whatever vulnerability you let peek through was gone, replaced by a passive, sober guard. You smile at him, an attempt to look friendly but it falls as just that, looks. A look you were able to master in the years of keeping your relationship under wraps. You wonder briefly if he ever realized that. When you face away from him, you don’t get to take in the way his jaw clenched.
The diversion seemed to work when the tension in the air dropped, your friends went back to talking with a distant ‘told you so’ muttered by Gojo before the game picked up again. As a response, you tune your surroundings out — a reward for carrying yourself through this internal humiliation ritual. You don’t spare him another glance though.
It ends with Hiromi and Sukuna as the last ones standing because you decided to sit the second to last round out; a dishonest victory for him, you think bitterly. But stopping in the game doesn’t mean you will stop drinking. You came here to have fun with your actual friends and were sick of letting this guy affect you.
It’s been almost a year already, that should be enough to move on. But it’s the same thought every once in a while. The same mantra you repeat to yourself when you down the last of the leftover appletini shots with Shoko, Utahime, and Gojo.
“Oh you should’ve seen the look on her face, Hime. She just smirked and was all like,” She copies how your head turned, “It was cold as fuck.” Shoko slurred, putting an arm around your shoulders. You roll your eyes with a lazy smile. “Whatever bro.”
“No! Seriously, we thought it was really bad back then but-.” She looks over at you to gauge if you’ll react violently in private but you don’t. Your eyes are hazy and calm, effectively numbed by the alcohol enough for it to be sincere.
Gojo, impatient, completed the sentence. “—Just that we thought you guys were going out forreal.” You hate how that easily sobers you up, again. Even if it's only for a split second, you wanted to stop flinching at even the thought of how embarrassing that experience was. How crazy you had felt back then.
You don’t say anything, you just let out an awkward chuckle. It’s missed by them though, the sound overlaps with your friends talking over it as they’re adding to the joke.
Shortly after, Shoko and Utahime retire upstairs to the room they’ll be crashing at Geto’s house. Its a big enough place with 2 other guest rooms but you really weren’t planning on staying the night despite your lack of ability to walk in a straight line.
Even Gojo settled on the couch back inside while Higuruma was sober enough to drive Nanami off as well. You said your goodbyes to each other despite only talking briefly, then turned to try and help clean up, but a rough hand stops you before you stuff another pizza box into the garbage bag you found.
“I can’t let a guest do the cleaning, go to your room.”Geto smiled, he was evidently more sober than you.
You shake your head, slower than you could earlier. “Nope, gotta compensate ‘cause I won’t be able to hang tomorrow.” He takes the garbage bag still, looking down at you with a jutted lip. Before he asks why, you interrupt. “Have t’a finish some work — Going home.” You smile, nodding your head. He squints at you, not quite understanding. You straighten yourself up and pull out your phone, the loading screen in your app already looking for a driver.
“I’m uh, Uber.”You try reassuring him with another unconvincing smile while tucking the device in your back pocket.
“I don’t know how I feel about you going home at two a.m., alone.” He raised his brows as he emphasized the last word, “It’s definitely not safe and you’re drunk.” It was a short back and forth, you slowly losing interest in explaining and wanting to get into the car of —you open up your phone— Jose who’s 8 minutes away.
When he continues on his rant on safety and not trusting you to call him when you get home, you make a face at him, unable to control yourself. You push again, trying to clarify, “I do this all the time after my office parties-“
“-That’s dumb.”
Your shoulders slump, running out of options to convince him. Before you could help it, “What are you gonna do, drive me?” Suguru scoffed at your words, it was obvious what his answer would be already as he was also struggling to stand upright fully.
A beat passes, his eyes scanning the backyard when he zeroes on a rosette head of hair, bidding his goodbyes by the sliding door to a knocked out Gojo, keys in hand.
***
You were gonna kill Suguru.
Your head scrambled to explain how you allowed yourself to get to this position, but he’s already circling the front to reach the driver’s side. You feel his gaze past the windshield, blatant, intruding.
If worse comes to worst, you’ll throw yourself out of the moving car and roll out of the door if it means saving yourself from real danger.
The thrum of Sukuna’s black Hellcat was unpleasantly familiar. The red interior still looked new, but the passenger seat molded well to your body like a pair of old jeans. But the smell is different now, he used to have this cheap citrusy scented air freshener that hung from the mirror (courtesy of the former owner), obstructing his view. It's now replaced by a light charcoal freshener clipped on a vent.
“You should really get rid of that thing, it’s dangerous y’know?” Of course the first thing you say about his car isn’t a compliment. He rolls his eyes at how typical it was of you.
“Why?” He slides in and shuts the door gently, like second nature, he doesn’t bother with a seatbelt. “Worried I’ll get into an accident?” He asks, left hand finding the wheel.
“Sure, but it’s similarly distracting for the air to smell like 20 fluorescent orange peels.” He laughs lightly followed by a nod, agreeing. He’s generous enough to roll the windows down halfway.
A beat passes, “And yes, you should also be more careful now that you’re driving me home.”
The door shuts, snapping you out of your lingering thoughts, the ticking from the hazard lights cease as he rolls out of the driveway. You’re quick to pull out your phone, head down. At least now you know it's going to be a mix of dry and windy tomorrow.
You know there’s no right way to act and dread is now backing you into a two seater sports car until you confront it. It catches up to you, in the form of the unwavering presence of his body right next to you.
There isn’t possibly enough space in this car for both you and your thoughts. You turn your phone off, internally scoffing at yourself for trying to play non-chalant, opting to just look out the window but it’s hard to see it through your bleary eyes since it’s tinted.
You close them instead, thinking of a place outside of your own consciousness, outside of here. For a moment, you’re able to achieve peace when you’re actively pushing down thoughts of him, nothing but the muted sounds of cars passing by and the faint breeze gently caressing your cheeks. You open your eyes and realize the window has been rolled down for you.
Slowly, your head turns without thinking, he’s still set on the road with both hands tightly on the wheel, you note.
On the highway when you feel the car speed up, your body slightly surges forward when you’re nearing a slower area, your hand instinctively reaching for the glove compartment to brace. He cleared his throat beside you, and you loosen your grip. You look down, realizing you’re holding onto his forearm while his hand is on the gear shift. Stupid manual car.
You’re quick to pull off him and awkwardly put your hands on your lap. “Sorry.” You mutter, your face warm.
He replies, similarly strained, “ ‘s okay.” It’s strange hearing his voice like that. Maybe it’s strange to hear overall since it’s been forever since it’s been directed at you. He had always been the picture of confidence to you, a natural cadence for smooth talking and sureness. You don’t know what to feel. No, scratch that, you know what you’re feeling.
It’s getting harder to swallow your pride when memories and these feelings that you never had the chance to confront felt like bile rising from your throat.
“You really won’t talk to me?”
And there it is, that confidence finding its footing. It makes you sick how it’s so easy for him to take your silence as reluctance, though it actually is. You hate how he doesn’t spare a second to think before acting on his impulse to speak to you when you spend plenty.
A beat, and nothing from you. He scoffed, you can feel him adjust his seating in a more relaxed manner. He’s about to add when, “You cheater.”
You hear the scrunch of his pants on the leather interior pause, “What the fuck?” He muttered, low, offended at your words.
You turn to him, arms crossed over, on guard. “In the game, dumbass.” You deadpanned, matching his vulgarity. His eyes flick to you and then on the road, now one handed as he scratches his jaw, a light stubble growing underneath.
“A year later and that’s all you have to say?” he grunts, thick brows scrunched, his piercing tugged by the movement.
“Yes.” You voice out sternly, a newfound stubbornness arises from your half drunk mind.
“You were always a brat.”
“At least I don’t care what others think of me.” You mumble like a petulant child. He makes a face, gaze flicking on the rear view mirror.
He scoffed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh Ryo I think out of everyone,” He meets your eyes at the nickname, “You would know what I’m talking about.”
Something stirs in him, the way his name sounded coming from you wasn’t new, but it’s now stripped from any warmth that used to always come with it. “You know I had to.”
It’s your turn to scoff, “Yeah even after everything, it just has to go your way.” There’s a shift in the air, the car picks up its speed, accelerating but you don’t flinch.
“You’re not making sense to me right now.” He’s quick when moving the shift to 4th gear. Your eyes flit over to the dashboard 65,66…,70 kilometers per hour, “Sukuna-“
He slows down, moving back to 3rd gear when you’re approaching a new set of traffic, then he breaks early. You jolted forward, his arm coming up to block you by your stomach. Your eyes are wide and piercing at the windshield, “What is wrong with you?!”
He shook his head, unphased by the forces that just came onto your bodies. “You broke up with me,” he emphasized on ‘you’. Like saying that meant it justified how he made you feel after, your face twists in distaste.
“Oh so now we’re talking about it.” You’re looking down at his arm, he’s big, like bigger than it was when you were both in college. It’s a drunk thought you wanna ignore but it’s imposing. You don’t think of it because you’re dissecting how attractive he looks but it’s despite how he could overpower you, how typically you shouldn’t feel safe around a big man with anger issues and a fast car, you aren’t scared. Your safety is regretfully the farthest thing from the thoughts running through your brain right now.
When you pick up your head he’s already looking at you, the red light casts on his face, you can see everything now. The bump of his nose, the fleck of red on his irises, the way his monolids looked slightly hooded.
How can someone draw you in and simultaneously make you want to run far away? He doesn't make a move to detach himself from you. You try to shove him away, looking back at the still red light, then back at him. You push, he doesn’t budge. “Hey-“
“You ran from me, not the other way around.” Your lips part, you think you’re about to say something or scoff, but you can’t bring yourself to utter a sound.
“You don’t get to hold a grudge and make it sound like I was the one that left when you said you didn’t picture us like that.” A chill runs itself on your spine as he repeats verbatim what you said, a cold look on his expression. “Whatever that fucking meant,” He mumbled, arranging himself back on the drivers side, rolling the windows back up.
This was unfair, this was singling you out. But technically, he was right. You broke up with him and you never reached out after. But it wasn’t all your fault, that’s what you wanted to say. Despite everything you agreed to, it was out of how deeply you had felt for him.
You trusted him that he wanted you just as much, but in time, you wanted more. But were you so wrong to want more than to be someone he came home to — without bothering to even so much as say hi to you around others? Were you wrong to not want to look like he just kept you around long enough ‘cause you’re a decent fuck? You swallow the words you couldn’t say, tongue thick in your mouth.
It feels like you could breathe again when he pulled himself off you, but comfort doesn’t return immediately. The car moves forward and you’re back to sinking in your own pool of thoughts, completely disassociating.
Sukuna looks back at you, noting how you’ve completely sunk back to your seat. You, who he remembered as someone so fired up and just earlier was laughing loudly, your presence now damp and the look in your eyes empty with all but 20 minutes alone with him. But he says nothing, his eyes on the road knowing he can never get it quite right when it comes to telling you how he felt.
The road starts to make familiar turns, until the drive ultimately comes to a stop, slowing down in front of your apartment complex. You move around, making sure you have your bag and keys with you. When you held them in your hands, it still felt like you were leaving something behind.
Your fingers ghost over the door lock, knowing if you flicked it open it would mean being obnoxiously loud in the silence. You don’t know how long you sat there, and he doesn’t unlock the door for you either. The thought that he’s letting you decide what comes next puts more pressure on you than you’d like to admit is actually there.
“Were you—” It comes out hoarse with your voice high, your throat feels dry too. “I didn’t break up with you because I didn’t see you in my future.” He shifts, but you don’t even think of moving, tightly clutching your bag on your lap. “I didn’t think you did.”
He’s quiet, allowing you to continue until you choose to let it settle. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Your shoulders sag. This is unbelievable. You unbuckle your seatbelt and gather everything you own. Your throat constricts, “I don’t even know why I’m-“ When your hand finds the lock, it shuts back on its own. “What the fuck?” You turn immediately, hair whipping on your face. “Open it,” You’re tired, it seems to be more obvious to you when you’re pulling on the door the wrong way. “Open it!”
He reaches for your bicep, you’re gonna break the handle. “Hey- Stop it.”
“Let. Me. out!” You smack on the window, you pound heavier with each word, it hurts the side of your fist. “You’re crazy!”
“Oh I’m fucking crazy?!” He pulls you closer, away from doing anything even more damaging to yourself. “Whatever you have to let out, do it to me. Not the fucking car ‘cause it’s fucking pointless.” He spat, you don’t see the concern laced in his pointed eyes because his proximity is torture alone, eyes averted.
Your nostrils flare as you breathe out a long sigh. “You were embarrassed of me.” It doesn’t come out as stern as you’d like it to be, the claim comes out as half a whisper.
His hand loosens on you, but he doesn’t let go. You continue, “It made sense- it was the only reason that made sense when you couldn’t even look at me around our friends.” He finally lets go, hand resting on the back of your headrest.
“You said it was okay-“
Your voice can't help but raise in his wake, your heart beating faster than normal. “Of course I would! Would you have been with me if I pushed you to tell everyone? You couldn’t even do it earlier!”
Sukuna’s hands find themselves planted on the wheel. He’s not even driving, but he feels like it’s the only thing grounding him at this moment.
“You agreed to it! You didn’t say I should change anything, and we just kept going like before anyways—”
“—They knew we were sleeping with each other, I would’ve taken that!” Your voices overlap each other, both your defenses coming up to protect yourselves suddenly. “I would’ve taken being known as part of your body count. At least then I wouldn’t look so desperate. It was humiliating!” You unlock the door, thinking that you were gonna leave it at that. He locks it back, you throw glare at him.
“You don’t think it was embarrassing when you left ‘cause you told me there wasn’t a future for us? How fucking dumb I felt when you never showed up to gatherings and everyone looked at me?” You could’ve sworn a vein was appearing on his forehead, and judging from how he was putting his swear words to a minimum of two, he was definitely holding back.
“Don’t you dare twist this on me,”
“I was never fucking embarrassed of you!”
“You never fought me on it!”
The yell leaves an imprint on the silence that follows.
“I thought if I gave you an ultimatum, you’d back away. So I told you something I wasn’t sure was true myself, until you didn’t fight it. So maybe you were thinking the same and I just stuck with it.” Your words spilled, finally coming out of the confines you’ve kept it all these months.
“I was lying to my friends,” You continued, the words unable to hold in your conscience. “I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. But I also couldn’t talk to you-“ Your voice cracked, “I was alone.” You couldn’t even look at him. You didn’t wanna be faced with any more disappointment.
You wanted him to be distraught, to care that he hurt you, dragged your self worth without knowing, and you fed what was left of it back to yourself. But you weren’t sure if he did care, so you sat stiffly.
“Why didn’t you tell me then?” He asks, hesitant.
You reply without the ability to filter yourself, “ ‘Didn’t wanna look insecure.”
“But you were.” He answers, and it still stings. Of course I was.
“Could you blame me?” You shift in your seat, putting your phone inside your bag, you fish out for your keys you threw back inside during your earlier fit. It takes you longer than you’d like to admit. You find it again but you stay there. Waiting.
You don’t know why you stay longer than you should, no, you do. You steal a glance at him, and his body is still, contemplative. You unlock the car door, and it doesn’t click back to lock. A part of you that you refused to acknowledge still waits for him, but your heart is already heavy with rejection, with the weight of his silence.
You say nothing, the words are lodged in your throat. You’re quick to get out of the car, the crisp air bites your arms and you realize you left your jacket halfway to the entrance of your complex but you keep walking.
Your heels click on the pavement, arms crossed over your chest like you’re holding yourself together. You feel a sting in your eyes — this feels too final. Your lip wobbles but you don’t look back, you’re drawing a line in the sand.
The keys fumble in your hand, your sight gets blurrier and blurrier.
“You’re a fuckin’ baby, you know that?” You stop breathing, fingers caught mid-twist on the door knob. You look up in surprise, your eyes wide and glossy. The sight tugs on Sukuna’s chest.
He raised his hand, your jacket hanging off his fist. “You hate me so much you couldn’t even get back your jacket?”
Your body shivers when a faint gust of wind blows at you, and it feels like that might be enough to take you down like a pile of sticks. “F-fuck you.” Your teeth chatter, and you go back to trying to open your door.
There’s two steps that shuffle behind you, a warmth on your back makes itself known. The keys cease its movement. Your head comes down on the door in a thud, still you don’t look back. “Can you please…” You start, but you aren’t sure what comes after.
Sukuna’s hand wraps around yours on the door knob, he gently pries it off and takes the keys himself. You let him do so, fingers pliant. The touch is warm, intimate — it doesn’t help the twist in your gut.
“I didn’t know how to want you, but I knew how I felt.” He starts, the words coming out hesitant but like release at the same time.
“It felt kinda like nothing would go wrong if I kept it between us. And it didn’t matter to me ‘cause you were,” He hesitated, fiddling with the keys himself till he found the right one. He twists it, the lock clicking. “You’re all I needed.” His breath is on your hair, arms caging you by the doorway.
“I thought if I gave you enough attention, it would be enough to keep you satisfied. And I know now it wasn’t enough. But I didn’t want to lose you then but I’m—yeah, I still did.” He takes a step back, his warmth leaving with him. The door swing opens with a light push of his fingers.
He finds himself in the same position as you, breath stuck, body rigid. You turn around, he looks like he’s holding himself back on something with his fists closed tightly, your keys still between.
“I wasn’t sure what I should’ve done. I never wanted you to be alone.”
The silence that passes is louder than any yell you threw at each other. You both stood there, a step away from each other. The door was now open, but it's for you to go in, not him.
“Is that an apology?” You whisper, he looks down from the ceiling and locks in on you.
“I’m sorry.” He grunts, a foreign word paired with his voice. But it isn’t forced, it’s laid out for you to take if you wanted it. Your heart pounds in your chest, you don’t take your eyes off him. He takes a deep breath and for the first time he looks as uncertain as he actually feels. The words force itself out of him once more, “I’m-“
He blinks and your lips find his. It’s half a second that he doesn't kiss back until he finds your waist and melts into you, eyes shutting. You’re rough, hands coming up his hair and tugging him deeper onto you. Strangely he’s soft, allowing you to pull him in. His hands however are holding onto you like a lifeline. Feeling your body, from your face to your hips, like you’re anchoring him to the ground.
His hand is on the back of your thigh and squeezing, it’s when you gasp as he lifts you when his tongue finds itself in your mouth. Your arms are around his neck when you part from each other.
Sukuna's eyes are half lidded, gazing up at you. Your thumb grazes his cheek, tracing the ink on his face before coming back down to kiss him, you want him closer.
This kiss is different, slow like you’re tasting him. He walks into your apartment while you’re still on his lips. You don’t see the door shut but you hear it. He blindly navigates his way into your apartment like the back of his hand, the only light coming from the dim moonlight cast behind the thin curtains.
He’s on the edge of your bed when you open your eyes, your breaths mingle against each other. You tug at the bottom of his black shirt, palming the expanse of his hard abdomen underneath. You pull off his lips with a whine, “What is it, baby?”
He holds your face, cheeks warm at the nickname. He takes you in when you inch closer, trying to close the distance, your lips puffy and bitten to a flushed red.
Both your brains struggled to connect your thoughts and feelings at this moment. Every graze of his fingers, and squeeze is out of disbelief, making sure that the other is truly there.
You peel your own shirt off, leaving you in nothing but your bra and pants. His throat bobs and you feel him harden underneath your thighs.
You haven’t said anything since you entered your home. Sukuna is searching your face, a little too close to scrutiny. Your brows pinch together, but still you reach for the back of your bra.
Before you let it fall, his hand finds yours that’s keeping your strap from unclasping. He’s waiting for you to say something, trying to get a read on you. You’re doing the same when he pulls you closer, his lips landing on your cheek, your neck, and to the skin above your chest. He picks his head back up, his eyes hazy and dilated.
The hand on your back tightens atop yours, silently urging you to make your discomforts known, if it’s there. He’s patient now but his restraint is hanging by a thread and you, the blade that cuts it clean.
You let go, bringing his hand down from your back to let the piece of garment fall. The weight of his stare is heavy on you, looking down at your soft breasts, nipples stiff and pointed up from the cold. Sukuna stops a groan from escaping his throat.
His head dips, mouth finding your collar bone while his teeth grazes them before biting down. Your hands come up to hold his head, whining as he sucks and licks the spot to soothe. But still, he isn’t dipping down to pay attention to your breasts nor is he squeezing you on the spots you want. Its easy to tell when he’s holding back.
He lets go, a bruise forming above the wet spot of your chest. You’re biting your lip, hands planted on his thighs and you’re leaning forward to balance yourself. It’s getting harder to keep this shit gentle when you’re pressing your tits together for him.
“I don’t,” He swallows hard, “I don’t wanna fuck you.” He says, the words are bitter in his mouth. Liar.
A smirk finds itself on your lips, nodding. You don’t push him. Sukuna watches as you lift yourself off his lap, now standing between his legs. His hands work on their own as they find a place on your bare waist, but he stops the urge to plant your ass back on him.
A gentle thud signals your pants are now at your feet. He scans your body from down up, you feel his eyes on your calves to your thighs. “You don’t wanna touch me?” You poke, stepping out of the pool of fabric.
A hiss comes out of him when squeezed his cock, straining underneath the uncomfortable denim of his jeans. You know he won’t beg you, or plead, but you made a compelling argument.
“Well, I want you.” You continued, looking down when you’re suddenly aware of how you were in nothing but your thin pink underwear. Your hand finds the hem of his shirt, tugging up like you did earlier. “Do you still want me?” The words are half part of the tease, what it could possibly mean lingers in the air.
The way he peers at you isn’t primal, it’s many things you know he won’t be able to tell you. But the answer lands when he takes your hand, guiding you to lay on the bed gently. You land on the pillows, sprawled out while he finally sheds his shirt and jeans off. It’s your turn to gawk, the familiar sight of the thick black bands decorating his skin, still there. It’s still him.
It’s not long until his lips land on yours, hungry and exploring. He kisses down to the skin above your stomach, his tongue sticking out to lick up to your breasts. Your shudder, eyes fluttering shut when his lips latch onto your left nipple and sucking. He’s taking his time before finding the neglected one on the right. Heat builds in your stomach, the fabric of your panties clinging to your folds.
His lips pop off your chest, nose dragging down to your navel, then landing on your underwear. You bite your lip while you’re looking down at him. He steals a glance at you, winking. “You’re an idiot,” The laugh that bubbles dies down into embarrassment when you hear him inhale sharply, taking in your sweet scent.
The deep groan from his chest has your stomach doing flips. Almost immediately, the flimsy fabric of your panties are gone.
The first taste of your pussy has him feeling like he found water after days in the desert. Eyes rolling back underneath his lids, then he sucks on your clit — harsh like he’s trying to get something out of it.
You yelp, your thighs attempt to close around his head but his grip is unyielding as the way he laps at your core hungrily.
It’s taking more effort to stop making so much noise, your own palms coming up to muffle your mewls. Sukuna notices almost immediately, but he doesn’t stop you, instead he takes it as a sign to press his face harder, head moving side to side.
His eyes are wide, a crazed look in them, lips impossibly secured on your cunt. There’s a rough squeeze on your ass, tilting your hips upward to meet his need to go deeper, like devouring you whole isn’t enough.
Sukuna leaves open mouthed kisses on your quivering nub, pulling off it before spitting square on the sensitive flesh. “Y’ gonna keep quiet all night?”
He spreads the fluid on your cunt like butter on his meal, middle finger sinking in while his other hand rubs on your poor clit. Your mouth parts, a shock makes its way through your body, feet twitching. “Ry-ryo, I’m-“
His eyes are glued to how your hole grips around his finger. “No one been fucking this pretty pussy in a while, huh?”
You shake your head, your stomach tightening with each speeding thrust of his thick finger. Your insecurities now forgotten, hands falling to tug on his pink locks. To pull him closer or farther from you, you aren’t sure.
More whimpers spill out of your throat when he adds another digit, fast and unwavering. “I-I can’t—“
He watched you with unbridled attention, mouth parting as you groped your own tits and rode his fingers. “You wanna cum?” He asks, breathless.
The voice you let out is now high and whiney, “Yes, yes, yes—” on the verge of a sob.
The plea runs down like oil on his back, his cock twitching painfully in his boxers, soiled with pre. He goes back to licking up your little clit, lost in the sounds he could emit from you or your body. It’s when he curves his finger upwards, enough to brush the spongey part inside of you, hitting it over and over again, that your legs start to shake. Your hips grow erratic, whimpers spill from you like a damn bursting open. He lets you ride it out, brushing your hair and sweat out of your face as he slows his fingers, your warm body quivering underneath him.
He sits back, watching you heave, legs spread open. You hum, legs shutting before falling to one side, your gaping cunt clenching at nothing, presenting itself to him. A sigh leaves you, “Thanks,” It makes him chuckle, followed by your own. The atmosphere is light for a moment, both of you catching your breaths when you hear clicking at the edge of the bed.
Sukuna’s sitting up on his knees, his presence abundant and just big, you think to yourself when you fix your sights on his cock. Finally free from the confines of his gray boxer shorts, an angry red tip leaking as he jerks his shaft. You realize you’re gawking and your gaze lifts to his.
“Polite as always.” He replied as if he wasn’t jerking his cock in front of you, to you. He’s using the hand he used to play with you earlier, your juices spread on his cock like a personal lubricant.
There’s a tug on your ankle, you’re pulled away from the comfort of your pillows and now close enough that the smooth skin of your ass brushes against his balls. The same hand leads your legs to fold sideways. He hovers above you like a weighted blanket, his lips finding your jaw, then your lips.
“It’s a shame,” he mumbled against you, tip already lining up at the entrance of your drooling pussy. “I’m not as nice.”
You both gasp in each other’s open mouths when he finally sinks in, slowly pushing, inch by inch. His head falls against yours as he holds himself back from bottoming out too fast.
“Oh fuck”
One of you cursed, but you weren’t sure who it came out of. The contents of your head now reduced to something lesser than mush. Unable to comprehend anything beyond sensations. Finally, he bottoms out fully, frothy ring of white developing at the base of his cock with each shallow thrust.
Then he pulls out halfway, before pushing back in all the way. Your breath is caught in your throat, nails digging into his forearms holding your thighs. Slow and deep. Pulling back before plunging himself back to your aching heat.
Again and again.
The pounding resounds in the walls of your apartment, heavy and accompanied by his throaty grunts and your uncontrolled whimpers. He kisses you, tender. A stark difference to the obscene arrangement he’s fucking you in. His balls are hitting your thighs repeatedly, forearm supporting under them and keeping you folded sideways. Every breath that leaves him grazes your skin, directly groaning into your ear.
The room disappears in and out from your vision with each roll of your eyes, each thrust compressing you closer between the sheets and his chest. Each push feels like he’s driving you to the edge, no, insanity.
Because that’s exactly what this is. Seeing your ex on a whim, confronting him drunk, making him plead for forgiveness.
Now he’s flipping you on your back, asking if he could show you how he could fuck inside deeper, and you’re digging your nails into his arms when your knees touch your shoulders.
Yeah, insanity.
A sob eagerly pushes its way out of your throat when he bottoms out in the new angle, the headboard bumping against the wall with the force of his hips. He’s on his knees, thrusting into you with his arms hooked under your legs, palms on the meat of your ass to bring your hips in to fuck on his cock.
Each loud cry prompts him to go even faster, testing how much more you could take, how much more noise he could get out of you.
Noises jolt out of you with each time the blunt head of his cock drives deeper, “H-harder.”
His heart is pounding twice a second but he doesn’t falter, picking up his pace when he feels you clench around him. “Fuck, you’re so fucking gone.”
“I want more, Ryo—”
“don’t-This is more.” Sukuna’s hips stutter, iron grip squeezing your flesh at the request. His tone is concerned, yet strained. Holding back on something you both want. He thumbs your clit, eliciting a cry out of you. But it’s not enough, it doesn’t feel enough. You need to be impossibly closer.
You’re shaking your head, stomach clenched as the heat builds up inside of you, but you don’t want it like this — Sukuna’s thumb rubbing hastily on your sensitive nub. Your desperation grows palpable, hips meeting his after each thrust, thirst still unquenched.
He lets out a frustrated groan that you can only describe as guttural, resolve unravelling as he watches your tits bounce as you eagerly try and take more in. “I’m gonna- I don’t wanna hurt you.” He pants, leaning forward, your legs bending a little more towards you.
“No.” You choke out, “Don’t hold back-” There’s now a hold under your thighs, keeping you from moving out of your position. Your hands are clutching his thick biceps fervently, pulling him down to put his weight on you. Folding yourself in half for him, his hips slowing, thrusts turning deep and languid. “Don’t hold back on me, please.” You gasp out, an earnest request, voice teetering off aroused and closer to pleading.
The air shifts and it’s easy to point when the rest of his resolve releases from the tension in his body.
“Okay, okay baby. Shit.” Throat bobbing before reaching out for you, “C’mere,“ He brings your face to him by the back of your head, lips sloppily meeting each other, tongue prodding past your warm, parted mouth. You’re barely able to kiss back, mewling against him when he pulls back slowly, before bottoming out all the way to your stomach.
It’s not long until he’s picking up the pace, repeating the motion in a fast, unwavering tempo. He’s growing more vocal by the second, and you’re deduced to nothing but a mushy, crying, wet mess underneath him.
“I thought you wanted more?” You don’t—can’t reply, something between whimpers and wet chokes only leave your parted mouth. “I gave you more, now you can’t even thank me?” The sound of his deep chuckle that follows after, reaches all the way to your pussy, getting wetter and wetter around him with each mean tease he sends your way.
Your legs are numb now, the only sensation left is the one building up in your core. The pads of his thumb brush away the stray tears running down the side, you’re biting your lip and pulling him in closer by the arms slung around his neck. “Th-thank you, Ryo.” It comes out as half gasp and a mewl, your breathing uneven and failing to regulate yourself at the stimulation from within. “So good, ’s really—more”
There’s nothing but a deep, guttural noise that returns to you. He feels your thighs struggle to hold yourself with his weight on you, holding himself above you, carrying your hips and letting your legs slacken against your side.
“You’re shaking so much.” Your muscles lessen in tension, heart tugging at the consideration.
But you tuck that nervous, unstable part of you away, not ready to confront these feelings fully. You’re unable to look at him, head falling at the side. His lips fall on your cheek, wetly dragging them across till they’re hovering over your ear,
“Keep acting this nice I might do anything you want me to.”
“Sh-shut up,” You mouth off, tightly shutting your eyes so as to not meet his taunting crimson ones. He can’t help the grin that tugs on his face, watching you get bashful over him mocking you. He remembers how easy it is to get to you, a trait typically bothersome for others, on you it’s wholly endearing. Despite your words though, you’re clenching around him, pulsing, wetter, and wetter still.
He continues to press on, hips slowing down to start driving into you deeper, a dull ache hitting your cervix. “You missed this,” He bends down, closer against your face, smushing you who’s still turned away, pressing against the mattress. Like he’s trying to merge your bodies together. “Admit it, you fucking missed this.” Continuing on his pace, grunting when you clamp down on him, “I can fucking feel you— Say you missed me, c’mon.”
“I-I’m, Oh my,” The words float around your head, unable to connect as a full sentence when he speeds up. You struggle, trying to keep up with both chasing your orgasm and his foolish requests. “Imissedyou, oh shit, I’m so close.“ You’re reaching down with your fingers, aiming for your swollen clit when a much larger, iron clad grip, sticks your hand to the bed. You feel like crying.
“What d’you say? A little clearer for me.” He pushes, unsatisfied with your answer.
“Fuck you!” Your free arm lands on his leg, quads flexing as they’re put to work. Your nails claw into them, the flesh of his hard thigh burning with reddened marks.
Still, he doesn’t let up, “I don’t think you want me to.” He takes carrying your weight for his own advantage, dragging you body down on his shaft, up and down like he’s using you to jerk himself off.
Amidst hot, bursting sensations within, the constant hesitation you seem to bring into everything peeks through.
The words play in your head, and you waver. Your guard coming up, “I-I miss your cock then—fuck!” The curse spills out after a hand comes down on your puffy cunt, your nerves triggering small shocks all the way to your toes. He’s really pushing it out of you. A notch grows between his brows.
You feel so much all at once. Your physical feelings and emotional sentiments clash with one another, making you unable to decipher what you want quickly — your emotions are unpacking at the most inconvenient of times.
A taunt now left feeling a lot more like a weighted decision.
You look for an answer in his stare, he’s already focused on you and maybe equally nervous, reaching to see if you’ll meet him halfway.
Tears prick your eyes at the intensity of it all.
You reach for his face, and it feels like coming back to earth. “I miss you—I-I missed you.” And he’s toppling over, your gravity pulling him in.
He lets out a breath, “F-fuck, I know,” It comes out closer to a snivel than a whisper, tucking himself in your neck and breathing in you scent. It’s grounding enough that he lets out a groan. “I missed you too.”
His hips grow erratic, member throbbing in your walls, pre-cum mixing with the mess of your sopping cunt. He can’t last. The shame that comes with the fact doesn’t reach him though as he’s lost in the persistence of feeling you cum around his cock, rolling his hips, pink tufts on his pelvis rubbing against your mound.
The knot in your core tightens even more, back arching off your bedsheets as his engorged tip rams upwards, grazing your cervix repeatedly. Your orgasm crests over like a thousand shocks, toes curling and twitching as you ride it out. He’s pulling out after, leaving your hole gaping, and hastily pumping up and down on his cock, drenched in your fluids.
Curses spill out of him, watching your chest heave in the dim light, never averting his gaze before he shoots white spurts of his cum all over your stomach with a breathy moan.
Your vision comes and goes afterwards, hardly able to keep your eyes open. One moment he’s wiping on you with his soiled shirt, the next he’s pulling your covers over you and placing his arm around your waist.
Before sleep comes over your consciousness, a peck lands on the side of your head, soft and lingering. He mumbles something to you, you don’t catch it. The world around you already turning black, head quiet.
***
The sun peaks through the blinds, a warm glow casts on your naked back. Sukuna observes, fingers brushing against the yellow and purple blooming on the skin of your waist. There’s a faint buzzing that interrupts his quiet morning, continuous and irritating. He reaches over to your bedside table, careful to not dip your side of the bed too much.
“I knew you weren’t gonna call me last night! I was getting worried he’d drive you off the highway or something.” Before the voice could continue, there’s already another distant, feminine one, muffled and saying something along the lines of ‘Is that her’ or ‘Did you tell her?’
“Yeah! ‘m about to ask!” Sukuna’s face pinched at the clear yell, pulling the phone away from his ear.
It’s early as fuck.
There's a noise on his end, dishes clanking and clothes shuffling. “Since you're done ghosting us, I wanted to check if you were free next week? I promise, I won’t force you in a car with Sukuna’s grump ass agai—“
“Yeah, we’ll see if we can go.” Before Suguru could say anything, the grump hangs up with a furrowed brow, sliding your phone back on top of your drawers.
He sat back on your headboard, contemplating the unfamiliar, light feeling fluctuating in his chest. He finds the culprit, stirring in her sleep, arm reaching out slowly for the warmth that left behind her.
You peel your eyes open. taking in the morning light, blinking. Your hair falls down to your side when you turn, shamelessly gawking when you first take in his bare chest and only then do you peer back at his focused stare.
You tuck a hand underneath your head, challenging his focus.“What?” your voice comes out laced with traces of sleep.
“Geto’s asking if we’re free next week.” There’s a comfortable silence between you two, one that soothes over the warmth in the air. You’re first to blink, a smirk pulls on your lips at the sight of a grin on his.
You were friends with him from birth - the boy across the street, Satoru Gojo. However, you lose touch in college, but finally you're going to the same school! You have a love letter written, but you find Satoru - the football captain - is dating the top cheerleader. And she hates you. You're the girl who doesn't really get noticed, the girl in the bleachers playing the clarinet, watching Satoru score a touchdown and kiss his girlfriend. It hurts, but you try to stay uninvolved, but you're watching the boy you knew hurt. Can the two of you have a friendship anymore, and does he feel the same way as you?
pairings - football star! gojo x band geek! reader
warnings - angsty, emotional, hurt comfort, smutty, Satoru and Suguru kissing all up on reader bc nghhh, oral (f receiving) hand jobs, cum drinking, kissing, fingering, squirting, lil hints of insecurities in Satoru and reader, Shoko being sexy, Suguru being a lil freakkk, Sarah being a hoe. Enjoy!!
this is absolutely based on the T Swift song <3 Part of @indiewritesxoxo series event!
art by @/Jan on X!
<<<part three
part four
“I think I’d need more… kisses from you,” your answer is just a little tease to Satoru – he hates that he’s not the first to claim your pretty mouth, but he can’t help but think he’d be the first to fuck between them.
“Another one, hmm?” You nod, blushing all cute, Satoru moans and captures your lips once more, tongue slipping in all messy, gliding against yours, your tits pressed right against Suguru’s chest.
“Mmm…” he drinks your whines with his mouth, swallowing every cry, lost in everything about you so much he forgets about his damn friend.
“Fuck,” his whisper is husky from his lips, before turning and kissing down the curve of your neck when Suguru captures your lips once more – it is his perfect opportunity to get you and Satoru doing something. But he couldn’t help but at least be a teeny bit involved.
As a best friend to both of you, of course.
He turns your body to face Satoru now, brushing your hair back off your shoulders, his own and sneaking around to lift your top, showing your pretty tits that just bounce right out for Satoru’s view. He swears the man’s eyes almost pop out of their skull when he gets a look at you, his lips parted, damn near drooling.
Suguru chuckles just a bit and kisses down your shoulder, his arms wrapping you and pressing your pretty tits up for Gojo’s hands, feeling you tremble in his hold ever so slightly.
“Should make it up to her, being such a distant little jerk,” Satoru laughs without humor, cupping your breasts and watching your eyes dilate, feeling their weight in his hands. “Shouldn’t you?”
“I really should,” he murmurs, looking up at you under his lashes, leaning down to place a kiss right on your breast, teeth nipping the delicate skin.
“Ah!” Your hand entangles in his silky white locks, you’re still sleepy and trying your best to wake up, breaths coming in shallow little pants, Satoru’s mouth wrapping your nipple, eyes looking under your lashes.
“You like that, princess?” Suguru asks softly, his lips pressing against your ear, tongue slipping across the shell of it, you tremble and nod, leaning your head back to have him kiss you again.
“Y-yes,” his thumb brushes across the side of your breast as Satoru pulls back with a messy pop.
“Like my mouth on your pretty tits?” Satoru asks softly, you bite down on your lip, nodding in a jerky little motion.
“Mnh, I do…”
He’s sucking them again, seeing Suguru cup your other one gently, brushing the areola with his thumb and making it perk right up, the sight about setting him the fuck off. It's not like him and Suguru haven’t shared – they have, but he’s never been more mad about his best friend and how much you seem to enjoy his touch.
You’re arching into it, head falling back against Suguru’s chest, pressing your tits out even more for Gojo to bend down and kiss. He glares when Suguru kisses your mouth again, biting your nipple hard to gain your attention again.
“Mnh – ow, Toru!”
“You weren’t paying me attention,” you giggle, all breathless and dizzy, cupping his face with a shaky hand.
“C’mere then,” you can’t believe you are being this bold, tugging his up a vit and capturing his lips again, the kiss is beyond butterflies, though – it’s intense, making you ache as you sigh into his mouth, melting between the two men.
Satoru’s fingers are slipping down your tummy, feeling it tense underneath that soft touch, you’re whining out into his mouth, the sound muffled, body arching against Suguru again. He moans in response, length pressing against the small of your back, slipping your shorts aside for Satoru’s fingers to graze your slit.
Goosebumps raise on your skin when the cool air of the room hits your overheated pussy, eyes fluttering shut as they take turns kissing and touching your body. “Mnh!”
“You’re soaked,” Satoru murmurs in wonder, slipping his finger through that syrupy mess with a careful little touch, Suguru’s fingers dart down to graze your clit now, making you jolt.
“You are soaked, hmm,” Suguru Geto is just leaking pre, trying to remember very hard that you’re Satoru’s girl, but he can’t help but run his fingertip along your clit, you’re just so needy and cute.
“Ah! S’good I…” His firm patterns are making it twitch, your juices pouring down both their hands as they work you. Satoru kisses you messy and needy, Suguru tugs your face to him, stealing kisses again.
Satoru hates how hot it is to see you like this – but it’s also fucking infuriating.
He has no right to be upset, he should just be fucking thankful he can touch you, kiss you, but he hates that Suguru did first. His thumb circles your nipple slowly, mouth leaving marks across your bare shoulders, toying with your clit right along Suguru, the two of them overstimulating you.
“Ngh! So sensitive I-” Your words are cut off with a little whimper, those soft thighs are trembling as you pull back from kissing Suguru, a trail of saliva dissolving from your lips.
That look you have – the pretty, dazed one? It’s just too much for Suguru – if he doesn’t go he’s absolutely going to cum in his pants, especially when you’re jerking against their hands, spilling even more slick down between the two of them. Those sounds you’re making as your hand entangles in his hair, reaching back to look up at him too fucking pretty?
No he can’t keep going and hear for the rest of his life that he fucked Satoru Gojo’s love.
Suguru pulls back and clears his throat, tilting your chin up to press one more kiss on your lips, you blink a bit dazed and curious, and Satoru? Well he is just scowling right at him, earning his amusement.
“Suguru?”
“I think he’s being all needy, he gets pouty you know,” he brushes your hair back and smiles lazily at you, as it starts clicking in your mind.
You look at a clearly furious Satoru, giggling a little bit at how cute that scowl really is. “He does get pouty, huh?”
“Hey, excuse me!” You heat up as you realize just what Suguru is doing – telling you to go for it with Satoru, despite maybe enjoying those kisses a lot.
“I’ll study another time with you two, I don’t think you’re in the headspace for it,” his eyes can’t help but drift across your body longingly for just a moment before he leans against Satoru, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “Don’t fuck this up, she’s got me and Shoko after her too.”
“I won’t, shit,” he laughs and walks out, leaving you alone with Satoru Gojo – whose eyes are black with need, his hands trembling as they cup your face, kissing you deeper, needier, whimpering when your hands touch his bare chest. “God you’re just so fucking beautiful.”
Your breath catched, lashes lowering. “Toru…”
“Don’t,” he cuts you off, picking you up like it’s nothing, you gasp and hold onto around his neck, thighs on either side of his hips. “Don’t say you’re not, when you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.”
“You can’t mean all that,” you get emotional even as your body responds, and he lays you right back on the bed, kissing down your throat, every inch of your body is on fire, signals flaring to your brain and body.
“I do, and seeing you kiss him? I fucking hated it,” you suck in a breath, he’s leaning right over you. “Even when I was with her, all I could think of was how I wish it were me kissing you, and how it never could be.”
“Satoru…” He kisses you quiet, tugging your shorts down, your thighs tremble when they fall to your ankles, he tosses them right to the floor, taking your fingers and kissing them. “Are you sure you want to… do more?”
“What a fucking question,” he laughs softly, shaking his head and leaning up, his hair falling over his brow. He takes your hand and slips it down until you find your twitchy little clit, you suck in a breath, hips bucking up against both your hands.
“B-but you’re hurt, I don’t want to do this at the wrong t-time – mnh!”
“No sweetheart,” he sighs, shaking his head and kissing you again, guiding your fingertips just a bit. “I feel better than I have in years.”
“Because of me?” You whisper, he nods, sighing and then looking down at where your pretty pussy is.
“Touch yourself f’me, sweetheart, I’ll show you what to do. And not as a ‘friend’.”
You blush so cute then, doing as he asks, he’s kissing across your tummy, teeth nipping at your hip and sinking in, guiding your finger into little circles.
“Not as a friend?”
“No, ‘best friends’ really doesn’t describe how I feel right now,” his teeth sink into the flesh of your thigh, fingers brushing your twitchy clit right with yours.
“Oh g-god, Toru please…”
“Aww, do you like my fingers better?” You nod eagerly, and he damn near cums when he sees your cunt drooling on his hand, his cock thickening and leaking pre against his boxers, he has to rub it with his free hand to relieve some of the ache. “Then make yourself cum, and I’ll use them on you next.”
“Th-this is a very interesting – ah – teaching method,” he chuckles, sighing when he’s down between your thighs, looking at your pretty pussy.
“You’re perfect, s’perfect,” he hums, his breaths coming faster at the sight of you glistening for him, your smaller fingers on your clit. “Keep rubbing it.”
“F-feels so…” Your words are broken off with a moan, you feel your clit just jumping on your fingertips, Satoru’s watching you and almost is your undoing.
“You’re doing such a good job right now,” he whispers, urging you on with a sweet little peck right on the inside of your knee, his snowy lashes lowered as he studies you with black, lust filled eyes. “Keep running little circles, let me see if you can make yourself cum.”
“I’ll try but – mnh!” He parts your plump lips and watches your little hole pulse around nothin’, making him throb and thicken – imagining her around him.
God, imagine taking you first, making you his.
“Toru…”
“Mhmm,” he spits right in your hole and your hips jerk im response. Satoru watches the saliva slip down and out, slipping across your ass, he takes your fingers and slips them down to swirl in the mess. “Put them inside, now.”
“C-can’t,” you’re a blushing mess, he’s studying you so intensely – the boy you’ve dreamed of forever close enough to lick your pussy, you don’t even know if that’s something that’s done aside from hearing things.
Did Satoru do that?
Do you want that?
Of course you do… but would you taste okay!? How’s it all look to him and-
“Breathe f’me,” he orders softly, as if he can see your mind racing, watching you slip your fingers sliding against your own pussy. “That’s it – I’ll replace them with mine once I see you put yours in, you should learn your body.”
“I’m so nervous,” you gasp out when your own fingers press inside your slick, needy hole, looking at Satoru and biting down on your lip. “W-want yours…”
“Want my fingers inside?” You nod weakly, blush dancing across your cheeks brightly, he’s struck with how pretty and sleepy you look in your bed, how your hair falls across that pillow, how your cunt is loud, the squishing echoing in his ears. “Want my tongue inside you?”
“Your t-tongue?” His lips quirk up, guiding your fingers down, the heel of your hand on your clit.
“Know how long I’ve dreamed of this?” You suck in a shaky breath as he spreads your thighs wide. “Fuckin’ woke up leaking precum.”
“You dreamed of me?” You can’t even believe that – it seems too surreal and insane, that Satoru could have ever felt the same. “Toru…”
“You’re close,” he whispers, looking at your body. “I feel your body tensing, feel you shaking. I can see it all over your pretty little face.”
Your head falls back, eyes rolling back in your skull as you sink against your little bed with his weight pressing on your hips, your fingers fucking your own cunt for his hungry eyes. “Ngh! I’m so… it’s too much pressure…”
“You’re about to cum, sweetheart,” he kisses hungrily up your thighs, eyes a devastating blue, his lips glossy from his tongue. “Let go, lemme watch you.”
One more pump and you’re gushing down your own hand, trembling and gasping out, Satoru watches you fall apart with a hungry gaze, moaning at the sight of you shattering for your own little hands. He takes your fingers and slips them into his mouth, sucking them in and hollowing his cheeks, tasting your sweetness and letting his lashes flutter.
“God you taste like that,” Satoru loved to please – but he never ached just to eat pussy – you didn’t have to touch him, he could just cum drinking your sweetness, hearing your little huffs and whines.
“Taste g-good?”
He laughs just a bit at your nervous question, nodding and leaning over you, his own hand trailing up your thigh, finding your slick heat and making your back arch off the bed. “Taste so fuckin’ sweet, god just look at you.”
You gasp as his long fingers explore you with practiced movements, parting your folds and easing one in, the initial stretch way more than two of yours – Satoru’s fingers were thick, long, with slight callouses from years of football. You moan out as that digit moves in and out, your cunt gushing even more liquid down, the stretch from just that delicious.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he knew you would be – but you’re hardly taking one, his fingertip curving up in your gummy walls that are just quiverin’ right around it. “Can you take two of them in your tiny lil cunt?”
Fuck, you never thought Satoru Gojo would be fingering your slick, needy hole, talking like that to you, his lips coated in your juices. Even your dreams couldn’t conjure it up, the way he’d talk to you so filthy, how his finger would be soaked in you, his tongue glossy from your kisses.
You’re sensitive as fuck – those thighs press on either side of his hand as he makes you tremble. “Ngh!”
“Hold those thighs apart f’me,” he orders softly, you spread them – all shaky like your breaths, easing a second one inside now – ever so slowly – the stretch burning in the sweetest way as he studies you with those eyes. “I won’t hurt you, I’ll only have you cum, yeah baby?”
Baby.
He’s calling you that – it is going to fuck with you, the sweet sentiment like honey from his pretty pink lips. You can’t even answer you’re so overwhelmed – him sliding them inside to the first knuckle, just barely inside those slick walls. He’s delving into that syrupy mess as your ceiling fan whirls above your head, doing nothing to ease the heat flooding your skin. Rushing through your body with signals of desire, cunt getting so wet you can hear the squelch as they drag through.
“That feels so, so, s-so – Toru!”
"Yeah, does it feel good, baby?" he asks with a little smirk, curling his fingers just right to hit that spot that makes your vision blur, you suck in a breath through your teeth as the pressure hits so sweetly.
You can only nod, words failing you as pleasure courses through your veins, white hot and blinding. Your entire body is heated up, every nerve ending on fire. His other hand slides up your ribcage, slipping up to grip one of your tits, squishing it in his hand, the peak pressing against his palm as your back arches right off the bed.
How is it possible to feel this good?
“Words, sweetheart.”
Fuck.
“Feels s’good,” you manage to whisper out, Satoru’s lost in how you feel – your scent, how pretty you fucking look, his teeth sinking into your thigh with a sharp bite. “Ah!”
"I've wanted this for so long," he confesses softly, kissing the hood of your clit, groaning when he tastes you. "Wanted to be the one to touch you like this."
"Toru..." You can’t take him talking like that, he’s kissing lower, right over your twitchy clit, making you gasp, your hands flying down to tangle in his soft hair. “Y-you’re… Toru…”
He chuckles softly, the vibrations against you making you throb with need, pulsin’ right around those fingers. "Want me to eat this pretty pussy?”
You nod all quickly, thighs shaking as he shoves them up and pulls his fingers out with a messy pop. “Y-yes I… if you want?”
He snorts at that, shaking his head, dragging you by your hips so your pussy is spread wide for his face. "Do I want to? Sweetheart, I've been waiting for this forever."
“You have?” You’re suddenly trembling violently, heart racing at his words, eyes catching his. “Really?”
“Yes really,” his tongue flicks your clit, just that having you jolt.
Then he dives in, his tongue flattening against your clit and coating the sensitive thing with a wet stroke. Your eyes roll back, a broken moan tearing from your throat. He's not gentle after the first couple of flicks, not when you’re clamping your thighs down, your hips shoving up against his face, sweetness slipping down his throat.
No, Satoru can’t take how badly he wants this, wants impossibly more of you, to be inside of you, on top of you, fuck you in every position he can think. Take you first, feel your innocence slip down his cock, the thoughts are even filthy than his mouth sucking your tiny clit and humming, feeling you tense and tremble.
Satoru starts devouring you like a man starved. His long tongue circles your clit with practiced strokes – so practiced you hate Sarah even more for getting this – petty and terrible of you.
But how can you not want it to just be you, when he’s flicking it mercilessly before sucking it into his mouth again, eliciting filthy little sounds from the back of your throat you’d never think could come from you. Pornographic moans escaping those lips, urging Satoru on more to slurp you right down.
"Oh god, oh god," your hips jolt up against his face, Satoru’s wrapping you with his strong arms, his fingers pressing into the flesh of your thighs as he continues to slurp you down. “Toru! Mnh!”
“Mmnph,” he pulls back and spits a glob of spit right on that cute lil clit, moaning at the sight of it spilling down puffy lips. “Like that, sweetheart?”
“Like isn’t the word…” he chuckles, his tongue dipping lower, swirling around your entrance before pushing inside, those tacky walls just gripping him. “You’re… f-fuck! Mnh!”
You feel your entire body heating up from the sheer onslaught of Satoru’s mouth on your cunt – wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out fill the room, mingling with your desperate cries that just echo in both of your ears.
"Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined," he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak and eye you – pupils blown out, glossy lips parted just so – he’s achingly pretty, sliding his fingers back in and humming, leaning over you to kiss your lips, letting you taste yourself. “So fucking sweet."
Your moan is drank by his lips as he slides two fingers back inside you, curling them to hit that perfect spot, watching your face contort in pleasure, your head resting against the pillows, sinking against them. “Close, close!”
“Again, sweetheart?” You nod quickly, he moans and kisses your lips, nipping your lower, sliding back down your body. “Then make me a mess, squirt all over my face, huh?”
You’re blushing at his words, sucking in a breath as his tongue returns to your clit, flicking against it and working with those fingers till you shatter – oh and it is utterly different from that guided masturbation. Satoru’s fingers have you squirting so much you almost push his damn fingers out, he presses in harder and curves them – pushing you through it and into another.
“Ngh! M’so… Toru…” You’re weak and shaky as they rock through you, eyes rolling back in your skull, cunt dripping down on your blankets. “Fuck… fuck…”
“Mmm,” he pulls his fingers out with a messy squelch, the trail of slick falling from them, slurping up the rest of it, moaning as his tongue runs up and down your slit.
“Sensitive – ah! Too much!” You tug at his hair, pulling it at the roots, Satoru chuckles and leans up, hovering over you, his face embarrassingly coated in your juices. “Oh god I made such a mess.”
“You sure did,” you playfully push his chest, he’s laughing softly, kissing your lips and moaning.
“Taste how sweet you are?” You nod shyly, biting your lower lip as you hold him tightly around the waist, blushing and burying your face. “Hey, look at me.”
“I’m freaking out,” you admit softly, feeling him tense.
“Do you regret it?”
“What!?” You pull back and see how tense he is, his eyes unreadable for a moment. “No, god not at all Satoru! I just meant that it was very intense, and I don’t want to be stupid.”
“Stupid how?” Your lips tremble then, cupping his face and frowning.
“Why on earth would I regret anything with you?”
“I just,” he trails off, and you see it then.
How much fucking damage she did. You've never hated a single human being until Sarah, the way he could ever think this was regrettable shatters your soul. You just want to see Satoru smile again.
“Why’d you forgive me so easily?” He asks, kissing your temple, you exhale and shut your eyes, letting him press his lips on tnose closed eyelids.
“You did nothing wrong.”
“I let my best friend go for a girl, so yeah, I did.”
“It was hard for you, and I feel if anything I messed things up.”
“God no,” he brushes your hair from your brow, just a bit damp from your exertions, kissing it and sighing, his eyes shutting as he inhales your scent. “I should thank you, shit.”
“I think you did thank me,” he chuckles and shakes his head, eyes glittering with a smile – just like the boy you knew.
Your heart aches.
Your Satoru – but… could he be yours? What did any of this really mean?
“This is an odd time to ask but,” he lays on his side, tugging your body against his, you’re utterly naked, but it’s comfortable with him, the way he holds you feels perfectly natural. “Homecoming. Wanna go?”
“She’ll kill me!”
“Nah,” he shakes his head, nuzzling your neck, inhaling you. “Still wear the same body spray, huh?”
“How could you remember that?”
He says nothing.
How could he not remember?
There is still so much he should say – but how far is too far? And was it entirely too soon, would you feel like some rebound when you’re not? But wouldn’t it seem that way to you…
“It’s in a week, we’ll go on a date first – or five,” you giggle now, a hand against his chest, feeling his heart beat thudding against your palm. “Hmm, you think we should?”
“I’d love a date,” your lashes lower, he tilts your chin.
“Look at me,” you do so carefully. “I won’t let her hurt you.”
“I know you’ll try, but you’ll have to see her a lot too,” you shake your head, tears hitting your eyes. “I can’t let her hurt you, take your smile again.”
“She won’t,” you wish you believed it, thumb brushing his lower lip carefully, staying quiet as he tugs you against him closer, a hand on the curve of your ass, he moans when he feels it. “God you gotta ass like that?”
“Deviating the topic!” He sighs and smacks it just a bit, making you squeak all cute as the smack echoes in the room. “Seriously.”
“I swear she can’t affect me,” you frown.
“I saw what she did, in front of that restaurant – what if she kisses someone at the next game, homecoming?”
“I couldn’t care less, I have you – I mean,” he blushes just a bit then, clearing his throat. “I want you.”
“I want you,” he sighs, your hand slips lower, and Satoru barely bites back a moan, capturing your wrist in his huge grip.
“You waited twenty one years to do anything, even kiss…” you nod, a shy little motion. “You sure you’re ready for more?”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to go… fully just yet? But I thought I could make you cum, too?”
“You’re gonna kill me,” he mumbles, your thumb brushes over his tip – white already leaking through his boxers, slipping through the material of the cotton. “Want me to show you how to touch me?”
“Please?”
Satoru is pretty sure he’s still dreaming, and that you’re in his arms fast asleep – in what other world do you look up at him like this, all sweet and needy, naked right next to him? Asking to touch him, your little hand just ever so slightly shaking as it moves, still in his huge grip, he laughs then softly, kissing your lips.
“If you say I kiss better than Suguru I will show you how to stroke my cock, hmm?” He’s smirking – so utterly Satoru again, he’d just not been himself it’s so clear.
“You all three are excellent kissers.”
“Excuse me!?” You laugh now, reaching down to rub him over his boxers, he sucks in a breath, lashes fluttering.
“I love kissing you the most,” you whisper softly, making his heart ache, splitting into fucking pieces with every feeling hitting.
How did he think he loved Sarah, when this existed? It was a friendship, it was a deep friendship, but the love here was as undeniable as the rising sun casting shadows through the slats of blinds, hitting your pretty face in glowy lines.
“Me the most?” He says then, leaning close and nuzzling your nose with his. “I’m the best at it.”
“You really think you’re better than Shoko at kissing?”
“Wow then let her eat you out – wait, you would!?”
You giggle again, touching him and earning his blushed cheeks. “Satoru, I love your mouth very much. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that good.”
“Yeah?” You nod all shy and cute, like you aren’t begging to play with his cock until he busts.
“Yes… now, you said you’d show me?”
He nods and swallows – he’s far from inexperienced, Sarah literally had her mouth on him any time she could get it, but something had him nervous. He’s shaking just a bit when he tugs his boxers down a bit, his cock hitting his belly button, smacking against the white trail of hair underneath his flat belly button, you look down and gasp.
“Oh! It’s so big!?”
“Um,” he is all bright pink now.
“It’s pretty,” he just drags your lips to his, tugging your hand to his cock, little fingers wrapping it – but you couldn’t get them all the way around his thickness. You tentatively tug up, making him groan. “Did I hurt it!?”
“God no,” he’s gonna bust from a palm on his cock – seriously!? “Just stroke it lightly, up and down.”
“Do you want me to use my mouth like you did?”
“Are you trying to kill me?!” You giggle again, biting your lip. “Act all innocent and you’re a little slut, hmm?”
“A slut?”
“You did kiss all my friends,” you sigh now.
“Not all of them.”
“Well don’t!?” You’re stroking him and smiling all cute and innocent. “You really make me crazy.”
“Me? No way,” you suddenly get a little nervous, looking down at his pretty cock, seeing that leaky pink tip, taking your thumb and smearing that pre all over. He jerks it into your hand, groaning out. “Is that sensitive for you?”
“Very,” he’s never shown anyone what to do, but you’re so fucking cute and eager it’s making him harder, knowing it’s him getting this first from you. “Hah – you know it is now, so you’re going for it?”
“Mhm,” you hum just a bit, lazily stroking that tip in little circles, loving the pretty face he makes when he’s feeling good, his cock thickening as you glide it right back down the shaft. “Do you want my mouth on it?”
“Do I want your… fuck, fuck,” you’re stroking him a little too good, Satoru was not about to bust the moment your lips got on him. He needed to jerk off first or something. “Next time– mnh. On our date.”
“Yes,” you stroke him with your little hand as he guides your movements, hand wrapping yours, it's so intimate you can hardly breathe, seeing his lashes fluttering and his pouty pink lips parted. “You're so beautiful, Satoru.”
He falters, you make him feel too much and he's not even sure he deserves your touch right now, deserves any of that. He kisses you instead, letting you drink up all those whimpers as you stroke his cock faster, all that pre adding lubrication, dripping all down his shaft. His hand entangles in your hair, leaving you at full control.
“Don’t need any help,” he mumbles, pink dusting his cheeks as he studies you, hand so big it takes over the back of your neck, fingers pressing against it, eyes lidded like he’s drugged off you. “You’re stroking it like you already know how.”
“N-no,” he laughs softly, hips jolting into your palm – how your hand feels better than any pussy he has confuses the fuck out of him.
“Yeah,” he corrects, lips moving over yours, letting you stroke him faster, the sounds echoing in your ears, your tummy clenched up with how badly you need him. “I’d cum right inside your pretty cunt.”
“Y-you’d what?” He’s lost – too far gone, his pupils dilating, free hand slipping down to grip your ass, tugging you against his thigh and having your slick cunt drool on him.
“Cum inside you, would you like that, sweetheart?” You bite your lip, nodding – as if you really knew what he meant, but whatever the fuck he’s saying is ruining you. “Fill you up till you drip me all day in class.”
“Toru! Mnh,” your lashes flutter, his kisses aren’t easy anymore, they’re desperate for you, dragging you as close as he can get you, smushing your arm as your hand keeps stroking him, he’s thickening when your thumb swirls his tip.
The visions of your tummy full of him are too much – he’s cumming right in your hand now, hot and thick white ropes just spilling over your little fingers and down his length, his body fucking trembling from it.
"Fuck, look at that," he groans out the words, pulling back to look down at the filthy sight of his cum coating your hand in white. He laughs breathlessly, cupping your face and eyeing you. "You made a mess of me."
“I did,” you whisper, still stroking even though he’s sensitive, milking every last drop of that pearly cum from him. Satoru buries his face in your neck, teeth nipping against your skin as he tugs you close, whimpering.
Your thumb is rubbing over his sensitive tip, he feels his body reacting, more cum spurting out as he looks at you now, all dazed and pretty. "Torturing me now.”
“Am I?” You giggle all breathless, letting him kiss you, all tongue and teeth clicking against yours, his hand tightening in your hair.
"I wanted to last longer for you,” he whispers, you shake your head.
"No, It was hot,” you see it then, his worry, making you pause just a bit.
"Yeah? Even though I came in like two seconds?"
“What?” You ease your hand off, seeing the mess he made. "Especially because of that, it means I did a good job.”
Fuck, he’s falling even deeper every second he sees you, the way Sarah would make fun of him when he was sensitive has taken it’s toll. How she’d laugh and then get him hard again, he’d ignored it and just assumed that it was how things were. The times he’s been with other girls were usually drunk encounters, parties where him and Suguru had been a little too tipsy.
Sarah really was his experience, and fuck if he didn’t let that get to him.
“Toru,” you pull back a bit, bringing his white drops to your lips, sucking and moaning. “Mmm…”
“Fuck me,” he groans at the sight, you sucking him greedy, his cock twitches at the sight. “You’re sucking me off those little fingers?”
“Mhm,” you giggle and blush as the salty sweet liquid coats your tongue. Satoru grabs your hand, sucking his own release off them, you throat goes dry at the filthy action, his tongue flicking up and making you ache all over again. “Oh… mngh…”
“Too freaky?” He teases, lapping more of his cum up, he’d held back a lot before, but he feels he just can do what he wishes to with you.
“No it’s even hotter,” you admit, trembling and kissing his cum soaked lips, humming against them.
“God you’re perfect,” you shake your head at his praise, he kisses you carefully, cock resting against your inner thigh, still sticky and dripping on the soft flesh.
“Are you really worried about cumming quick? Isn’t it a compliment?”
“Yeah it is, just I…” he trails off, shaking his head and studying you, thumb running circles on your cheek. “I don’t wanna talk about her.”
“It’s a huge part of your recent life, so it’s okay,” he frowns then. “Did she say bad things when you… um… came quick?”
“Yeah,” he leans up, hand brushing your hair off your shoulders, still messy from your sleep. “She’d make me feel fucking horrible, so I guess I panic thinking I’ll do it again. Sometimes so much I just couldn’t get hard.”
“How fucking mean!?” He shrugs a shoulder, you realize you don’t even know the extent of her damage really. “It is mean.”
“I don’t wanna disappoint you regardless, it’s why I wanna wait on your mouth,” he exhales shakily, kissing your lips again. “Didn’t wanna bust fast right on your first time.”
“I’d like it,” he chuckles and shakes his head, your hands slipping over his shoulders. “Don’t feel like you can’t just be yourself with me. If you um… want to be more?”
“Of course I do, and… I’ll try, sweetheart,” you hate that the smile doesn’t really meet his eyes. “The first time you suck me I really wanna savor it though, take all my time fucking your throat.”
“Mnh…” That’s too much, he’s chuckling when you’re rocking your hips again.
“If we wanna wait I need to pause this,” he murmurs softly, looking down at where his cock is resting on your tummy. “I am this close to fucking your pretty cunt until she knows my shape.”
“Toru,” you bury your face again, trembling just a bit. “Okay, we should probably pause.”
“Mhm,” it’s not long after he’s dressed and hugging you in front of your door, everything is different, the very energy of him and you together, suddenly a little nervous and unsure. “That date, just me and you tomorrow.”
“Yes, I’d love it,” you say softly, he tilts your chin up and smiles. “I’ll see you at the game tomorrow first, before the date?”
“Yes you will, I’ll blow you a kiss and all,” you giggle, shaking your head.
“Sarah will see.”
Fuck, she exists.
“I don’t care,” you take his kisses, falling into them, and when Satoru leaves you can’t help but go grab that letter from forever ago, touching it carefully.
Could Satoru be yours one day?
******
The air is cool that next night, the sun is setting and the bright lights flash on and illuminate the field, Satoru’s front and center – the quarterback is, after all. He’s insanely fast and strong, watching him is so interesting you miss notes on your clarinet, earning a look from your band instructor.
You're supposed to be focusing on the sheet music, but your eyes keep drifting to those big letters – SG – with the number 7 on the field. Each time he completes a pass, the crowd erupts into cheers, and you can’t help but join even though you’re supposed to be playing music.
You cheer too loud, and he glances over at you, a small smile playing on his lips as he sees you all cute with your little marching uniform and hat. He can swear he can see your blush across the damn field, when he tugs up his helmet, chugging gatorade and taking a break, when he sees Sarah hopping off the pyramid and walking over toward the team.
She approaches one of his teammates, he’s brand new, throwing her arms around his neck and tip-toeing right in front of him. She kisses him right in front of everyone who can fucking see, embarassing herself. Your gaze catches it, as Shoko sits next to you, scoffing.
“She’s such a slut,” she mumbles, eyeing you now. “It’s okay, he’s not interested, yeah?”
“But they have a year together,” you murmur, hands trembling slightly as you all take a break before the next song, heading into the third quarter. Satoru turns away from the view, murmurs all over.
"Classy," Nanami mutters under his breath. “What’s with that girl?”
“Lucky she doesn’t try for you next,” Shoko says, he grimaces in disgust, shivering at the thought, eyeing you now.
“Satoru has always had feelings for you, don’t let it bother you,” you nod and smile a bit. “Why don’t you go kiss him?”
“Ohh, Nanami!” Utahime is giggling now. “I didn’t expect that from you!”
“Well that girl annoys me,” Shoko nudges you now too, nodding.
“I say go for it.”
“She’ll kill me!”
“I’ll protect you baby,” Shoko tilts your chin up, you blush when she snaps off your little hat, running her fingertip on the marks it left. “Remember I’m here if Satoru doesn’t work out.”
“Shoko!” You’re blushing and she grins. “You’re always making me truly question if I like girls.”
“She does that,” Hime says, blushing when Shoko looks at her. “I mean!?”
You giggle and head off, rushing to where Satoru and Suguru are talking, Sarah is hanging on one of the players so pathetically. You tap on Satoru’s back, feeling how tense he is, when he turns and looks down at you, exhaling in relief, a smile dancing across his face.
“Hi,” you murmur, he picks you up, making you gasp out, Sarah scowls at the sight, but Suguru is smirking. “Oh!”
“Hi,” he answers, dangling you off the floor, your arms around his neck. “Did you come to give me a good luck kiss?”
“I did,” you feel too good, even with eyes on you all, you melt when he kisses you softly, arm wrapping tighter. You hear Sarah’s huff of indignation, and you’ll worry about what her vindictive ass will do later.
Right now you’re getting kissed by Satoru Gojo.
“Thank you baby,” he murmurs, easing you down, cupping your face, his knuckles busted up, sweat and dirt on his jersey and a bit on his face. Fuck he looks sexy like this. “Can I get one more for good luck?”
“Yes you can,” you kiss him again, moaning softly as the murmurs around you two echo and fall on deaf ears.
It’s just you and Satoru there.
“Can I get one?” Suguru earns Satoru’s scowl, you giggle.
“What? No you got enough.”
“Sure,” Satoru scowls at you now, but you kiss his cheek, giggling a bit when he ruffles your hair in response. “There.”
“Thanks princess,” Suguru winks and Satoru thinks he might tackle him into the dirt, but you turn his face back to you, smacking another kiss on his lips.
“I have to watch him and Shoko,” he grumbles, but he can’t help but smile when he holds you close against him, catching Sarah’s furious gaze burning holes in your fucking back. He tugs you even closer. “I can’t wait for this date.”
“Me too,” you finally pull back when you hear the band music, saying a quick good bye and running off, only to almost smack right into Sarah, who has her hands on her waist.
“You were fucking him behind my back, weren’t you?”
“What!? No, I did nothing while you were together,” she scoffs, fists on her sides clenched, eyeing you with this look in her eyes that makes you sick. “Look, I didn’t take Satoru from you – you chased him off.”
“You don’t know shit,” she is too close, pretending to hug you all ‘kindly’ when her lips press on your ear. “I’ll get him back from you, band geek – think he won’t choose me over you when I play him again?”
“You won’t,” you shove her off, glaring, but she’s got a cruel little smile.
“Game on,” you blink back tears of frustration, rushing back to the band, your heart racing – the way she stares at Satoru like she owns him makes you sick.
Could you… lose him when you just got him?
did you think we were happy? no - also I hope to have the next much sooner than this one hehe, ty for being patient!! <333
Summary: Heartbreak was something Gojo experienced for the first time at age six, when his best friend disappeared without so much as a goodbye. Twenty years later he had to kill his other best friend with his bare hands. No matter how far he travels, shadows from the past keep clinging to him. Imagine his surprise when one day he can feel something beneath one of those shadows.
Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Ten Shadows user!reader
Tags/Content Warnings: mdni/18+ only, alternating POVs, regret, denial, angst, hurt/comfort, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, rebuilding of trust, mentions of killing someone, a shit-ton of flashbacks, mutual masturbation, 69, unprotected P in V sex, breeding kink, creampies (obviously), pussydrunk Gojo, mating press, tummy bulging.
Word Count: 32.3k
A/N: dividers by @/pixopix and @/cafekitsune art by @/_3aem on x. I kinda got the timeline wrong, so I know technically Digimon wasn't a thing yet but details details. Yes I did proofread it, but because it's so big I'm sure I missed some things. Hopefully you guys enjoy because it took me way too long to write this one. 🤍
Leaning against the fence, Gojo’s looking at the kids train—though it’s more like the second-years beating up the first-years.
Snow softly falls from the sky, casting the world in a blanket of white. Little flakes are clinging to his blindfold, hair and attire. He could turn on Infinity, not deal with the cold, wet spots they leave behind, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to feel this—the nostalgic feeling.
It bubbles up somewhere behind his ribcage, that feeling of loneliness. It’s always worse in winter. The snow a cruel, harsh reminder of what happened twice, two decades apart.
The first one being when he was merely six years old, snowflakes never touching his fluffy snow-white hair. He’d been playing outside with you just the day before—you, his best friend, that first love that he didn’t know was love back then, mistaking it for the feeling of the two of you just being close to one another.
He didn’t have anyone else back then, completely hidden from the world because he was the Gojo heir who inherited the Six Eyes. Banished to a life behind locked doors, away from people who might’ve wanted to hurt him.
That is until he found you one day, at merely three years old. You were playing with dolls—ripping off their little limbs and beheading them, giggling at the sight of what you’d done.
When you noticed him, you extended one of your still intact dolls. Didn’t look at him like he was something forbidden to touch. Didn’t scurry away like most of the others in this place—both adults as children alike—just extended a doll because that seemed normal to do.
He didn’t know where your parents were, nor cared to know. He was but three years old himself, but banished to such a lonely life only months after he was born, this seemed normal for him.
So he sat with you and started to play with you. You kept ripping up your dolls, doodling on them with crayons you got from god knows where (there were obvious chunks missing out of the crayons, and he had no doubt you actually ate them), and generally being messy.
Gojo, however, took a completely different route. He brushed the hair of the little dolls with the provided brush. It kept tangling and tugging at the synthetic fibers that was the dolls hair. But he wanted her to look pretty again, so he kept huffing and puffing trying to smooth out the hair. His little tongue sticking out in concentration.
The contrast between the two of you was stark. You were all chaos while he was the calm itself. The dolls a perfect representation.
The playing together was moreso done separately but in close proximity — parallel play is what he found out when he was older, was a term that described it the most. It’s also something he sought after when he was a teenager. The feeling of being alone was absolutely suffocating for him, so he always wanted to be with someone, even if they were doing something else.
After he’d finally untangled the dolls’ hair, he felt something soft and gritty on his arm. Looking down you were drawing on him. Laying on your stomach, little feet swinging in the air, tongue poking out of your mouth—much like his had been doing just moments before.
He’d blinked down at you, his tiny brain not fully computing that you were touching him—well, technically the crayon was, but whatever.
You were in your own world, drawing… what even was that? You had a brown crayon in your hand—his caregiver had praised him to the sky when he was able to correctly identify his colors—and were drawing a circle with little lines around it.
“What’s that?” he’d asked, blue eyes wide. Genuine.
Blinking up at him, you smiled for the first time. Tiny teeth on full display. “‘s the sun, silly!” you’d giggled at him, as if it was funny that he didn’t know.
Gojo’s white brows furrowed together. Confusion written all over his face. “The sun is yellow.” You’d merely shrugged at that, as if it didn’t matter.
“Now it’s green,” you simply said, continuing doodling on his arm as if he was a blank canvas for you to put your art onto.
“It’s not green, it’s brown,” he pointed out, little finger pointing at the—very obvious—brown crayon in your fist. Yes your entire fist is around the crayon.
You’re scowling at him now, like you’re offended by the fact that you were wrong about the color — not about the fact that items are supposed to have set colors — and that he did know it.
“Nuhuh,” you shook your head at him. “Yuhuh,” he countered.
There was a silent stare-off. Then you sneezed. One of those open-mouthed not bringing your hand up to your face to shield it type of sneezes. Wiping your nose with your sleeve you looked at him once more before continuing to doodle on his arm. This time a brown flower.
Well, okay then. Gojo picked up one of the other crayons— a blue one that kind of looked like his eyes, though his eyes had multiple shades of blue swirling in them. Not that his little mind was able to grasp that just yet. He just knew that his eyes were blue and so was this crayon.
He started doodling on your arm, a little dog. (It did not look like a dog.) The room silent except for the heavy breathing of the two of you and the occasional sound of the crayon on skin.
That was, until his caregiver found him—and you—sitting there like that. The gasp that she let out startled the both of you, little crayons making a line on skin that ruined the doodles the two of you were making on each other.
Looking over with wide eyes, both you and Satoru are met with the woman that’s taking care of him—not that you know that—while he’s here at the estate. Her expression turns from shock to confusion to barely contained anger real quick.
Her eyes scanning the room—the ruined dolls, limbs strewn everywhere, the intact dolls, and lastly how both you and Gojo were covered in crayon marks.
She stomps over then, Gojo thinking she was there to drag him back. He did kind of sneak away after all. But instead of going to him, she goes straight to you.
Grabbing you by the arm, she hauls you up to your feet. “You cannot touch the Six Eyes, young lady,” she scolds you. Your eyes welling up with big, fat tears. It’s quite clear you had no idea who Gojo was.
As the lady tries to haul you out of the room—muttering something under her breath about unsupervised children—Gojo tried to stop her. Planting his tiny body in front of the door he crossed his arms. It took the caregiver by surprise.
“What is it, Gojo-sama?” she questions, hand still tightly gripping your arm so you don't run off. Gojo huffs at the sight. He had only known you for approximately fifteen minutes—though it felt like an eternity at that point—but he’d already told himself you were his friend.
“She’ll stay here,” he stubbornly says, his foot stomping onto the tatami floor once for emphasis. You’d looked up at him then, fat tears still streaming down your face, nose running. But your eyes were so hopeful then.
And that’s how the three years of friendship begun, just you offering up your dolls for a stranger.
The two of you were always seen together whenever Gojo didn’t have training. Out in the garden either looking at flowers or stomping into small puddles resulting in the two of you getting scolded for getting yourselves dirty.
He’d learned you weren’t someone from the Gojo clan, but rather from a different, smaller clan. The day the two of you met you were at one of the Gojo estates because your parents were negotiating, but to this day he still hasn’t found out what.
The first winter spent together felt like a fairytale. It was snowing outside, making the entire garden white. You’d giggled at him and told him it was as white as his hair! (Yes, you finally knew your colors. He’d beamed at you when you finally started differentiating them.)
And it did. Pulling you outside the two of you ran around in the garden, the snow crunching under tiny feet, leaving behind small footprints.
At one point you’d collapsed onto your bum, pants getting wet from the melting snow under it. Not that you cared. Breathing hard since you were laughing the entire time.
Gojo sat down next to you, knees pulled up to his chest, staring ahead of him. But when he turned back to you, you were laying on the ground, moving your arms and legs.
“What’re you doin?” he asked, because why would you flail around in the snow? Looking over at him you smiled, “making a snow angel. Mama told me how to.”
Gojo followed soon after—he always did. Wherever you went, he went. Whatever you did, he did. Not always in the same way you did, take the dolls for example, but it was always just being together.
That year he had a lot of firsts. Making his first friend, which became his best friend. Playing—with dolls, toy-cars, just drawing. And making his first snow angel.
Two winters later it was snowing once again. It was his sixth birthday, and at the time he claimed he was aaalll grown up now! (He wasn’t, but he liked to tease you because ‘grown ups are tall, dummy. And since I’m taller than you, that makes me a grown up.’)
The day was filled with sweets, cake, and, of course, making snow angels together. There wasn’t really a birthday party for him—only you, your parents and his caregiver were there—but that didn’t matter to him as long as you were by his side.
You’d given him a Digivice. Maybe not completely suited for a six-year-old but you were only six yourself. Smiling at him, one of your front teeth missing. And you’d never looked more beautiful, but that of course was only because you were his bestest friend—and only, but alas.
Digimon was something you’d introduced him to on one of the play-dates. It was a rare occasion, because he was over at your house. Normally the two of you were at the Gojo estate.
Going up to your room you just had to show him something so cool! It was an manga about little creatures. And oh boy, did Gojo immediately fall in love with Digimon. It’s not like he got to do these types of things back at the estate, for the estate was cold. Everything was focused on him training and keeping away from others.
So you’d gotten him a Digivice. ‘A pet!’ you’d told him when he looked at it quizzically. then you dug around in your own pocket and pulled out a similar looking one. ‘So we can match’ you grinned at him. He grinned right back, two of his own teeth missing.
And you explained to him that he had to keep the pet alive and all the other quirks your mom told you about the little virtual pet.
He’d been so happy. Going to sleep with a smile on his face and the little device tucked right against his chest. That smile, however, vanished the next day.
The two of you had a play-date scheduled, which, honestly, was a daily occurrence at this point. But you never showed up. No call. No letter. No nothing.
When his caregiver rang your mothers phone, it immediately went to voicemail. Though he had frowned and felt sad, he didn’t think anything of it, simply waving it off as a one-time occurrence.
But one day turned into two turned into three turned into weeks, until, eventually, it was months since the last time he saw you. Winter had turned into spring which gradually turned into summer, but he hadn’t seen you even once.
You’d simply… vanished from his life. From the earth, it seemed. He’d thrown a tantrum one evening, missing you greatly. And his caregiver had asked around to see if anyone knew something, but it’s like you simply packed up your life and left.
Your house sat abandoned, neighbors having heard nothing about where you moved to nor were given any other ways of contact.
The only thing Gojo still had from you were a few drawings of the two of you together and his Digivice. He never once let the little pet die. Nurturing it to keep it alive.
Blinking away the snow that have fallen on his lashes, he sees Yuji laughing about something while Nobara is scolding him. A small smile forms on Gojo’s face. At least his kids are happy, that’s all he could ask for.
Feeling around in his pocket, he finds the familiar plastic device. He’d never gotten rid of it; keeping a part of you close to him despite disappearing. It never fails to put a smile on his face.
Winter used to be his favorite season, but he hates it now. Having lost both his best friends in winter. The first one being you, of course. Just disappearing. The second. Well… he swallows once, his eyes flitting to the side of the school.
It’s been only a year. Just one. Where he had to kill his only other friend—best friend.
The thought weighs heavily on his mind. The way Geto’s body just sagged to the side after he… Gojo shakes his head once, he can’t afford to think about it again.
So yeah. Now winter is his least favorite season. He also doesn’t really like summer, because that’s when Riko lost her life to Toji. Just one bullet. One kid. Fated to him.
He should’ve seen it then—the change in Geto. The way he started talking about non-sorcerers after that. But he didn’t, not until it was too late.
Swallowing once, he looks back at the kids. A full-blown snowball fight is going on now. Nobara is targeting Yuji, who runs away with incredible speeds. Toge is cheating by telling Panda to stop. Maki pelts a snowball at Panda at light speed.
Gojo winces when he sees the way Panda’s body gets flung across the courtyard. And Megumi… well Megumi is sitting in the snow, both of his dogs summoned. The black one laying next to him, head on its paws, while the white one is rolling through the snow.
A small, almost indiscernible smile forms on Megumi’s face, though he would deny it if someone brought it up, of course.
Gojo smiles down at the sight. This is how it’s supposed to be, the kids having fun, letting them be kids. Something he didn’t really get after you were gone from his life.
Nobara throws a snowball at Yuji, who dodges. She’s yelling at him to just stand still, not that Yuji would. He’s having too much fun running in laps around her. The white Divine Dog runs after the snowball. An innocent little wolf thing.
It prances toward the treeline. The forest that spans most of the Jujutsu High school. There should be nothing there, the veil from Tengen supposed to reject curses. But right there, a little further into the forest, he sees it—cursed energy.
That doesn’t make sense, though. No one is there. He doesn’t see someone standing. But still, there’s cursed energy right there, in the ground. Blinking, he rubs his eyes once. Maybe the snow is fucking with his sight. Six Eyes malfunctioning or something.
But once he focuses his eyes, it’s still there. It almost looks like someone is in the shadows, looking at him. And as if they can sense his gaze, it darts away, further into the forest.
Pushing himself off the railing he was leaned against, he teleports himself into the forest. There are trees everywhere, ground not fully covered with snow. The branches on the trees blanketed with snow, making shadows everywhere.
Looking around, he sees it, about 200 meters away, someone is running away from him. Hood up, clothes fully black. He quickly closes in on the person, they aren’t that fast after all. (Or maybe it has to do with the fact that he is fast. Eh, whatever.)
Grabbing the person by the shoulder, he tugs them to a stop. They try to wriggle out of his grasp without succession.
“Y’know, unless there’s new faculty I’m not aware of, you are not supposed to be here,” he says, voice still playful, but underneath he’s already calculating the risks. Someone who snuck onto the Jujutsu High grounds without anyone knowing. Hell, if he didn’t have Six Eyes he probably wouldn’t have known there was someone there.
The person doesn’t speak, just tries to get away from his grasp. Tightening his hold on their arm he tugs them back. The stranger stumbles back with a squeak of surprise, arms flailing slightly. It’s then that the hood falls from their face slightly.
Gojo sucks in a breath, because there’s no way. This is just his mind playing tricks on him. It just isn’t possible. A name falls from his lips before his brain even processes it—yours.
It makes the person still, no longer tugging to get away, just standing there, still not looking at him.
Releasing your arm, Gojo takes a step back. He shakes his head. There’s no way. It just simply isn’t possible. He’d searched for you everywhere. Looked into registries, looked if your name or face was somewhere, anywhere.
But you were never admitted to Jujutsu High—neither Tokyo nor Kyoto. Though if you were in Tokyo he would’ve known, obviously. There was no trace of you in the sorcerer world. He’d one day strolled into the headquarters. No one stopped him physically, but there were shouts of confusion. Not that he cared.
Going through the database he sought for you, but it seemed like you never became a sorcerer. All of his searches leading to a dead end. And that’s exactly what he thought you were—dead. Though his heart never wanted to believe it, his mind constantly whispered at him that that was the only logical explanation.
So how are you here, twenty-two years later, standing in front of him?
Does that also mean you never searched for him? Everyone knew who he was, after all. His name a beacon in the sorcerer world. And even if you weren’t in it, you still knew his name. So why is it that you’re only here now, and not earlier—preferably years earlier.
There are so many thoughts running through his mind, but they get cut off when you whisper. “You weren’t supposed to see me.”
That gets a laugh out of him. Surprised. Bitter. Heartbroken. Angry. All these feelings tangling up inside of him to a point he doesn’t know how to differentiate them from one another.
“Weren’t supposed to see you, so what, you just—” he gestures with his hand wildly, “sneak up on people. Watch them from a distance and then leave again?”
You turn your face even further from him, to the point where he’s looking at the back of your head, half of your hair visible, the rest still covered by the hood that’s half up.
“Kinda,” you shrug at him, as if that isn’t weird. Creepy even. Because why would you just watch. God he missed you. Yearned for the moment you would just step back into his life. He would let you in without a second thought.
He remembers the way he would grip his Digivice in his hands at different stages in his life. Always wishing you could be there with him, like you were when the two of you were kids. He missed you in every stage of his life.
When he was a kid, lonely in the Gojo estate. He avoided the rooms the two of you frequently were in, the thought of you not being there with him hurt him too much. Despite that, he still peeked inside, just to see if you really weren’t there. Always clinging to a tiny bit of hope that he’d dreamed you leaving him. But the room always stayed empty.
When he was a teenager, he’d learned to accept that you simply were gone. That didn’t mean he didn’t look at empty places whenever he was with his friends—Geto, Shoko, Nanami and Haibara—just to imagine you were there with him. Laughing at the dumb jokes he made with Geto. Probably annoying the shit out of Nanami.
Because you were chaos. Beautifully destructive in the way only you seemed to be. And he knew that would push Nanami’s buttons.
You’d probably love Haibara in the way one does a little brother or sister. Naturally drawn to the innocent smiles of the guy, only to trip him up when he wasn’t looking. The way you sometimes did when Gojo did something you disliked.
But you were never there with them. In his mind you would always be six years old. A tiny thing compared to how tall he grew up to be. He really did look like an adult with the way he was towering over everyone.
And he’d tease you for your height, because surely you wouldn’t be taller than he was. You’d scowl at him, poke him in the chest. Probably eat all of his sweets just to spite him. He would let you, of course. He always shared his sweets with you when he was younger, even if they were the last ones.
He’d think about how you wouldn’t look at him like he was a god or a weapon, but simply just Gojo Satoru, the boy he was when he was with you. How you wouldn’t abandon him to shoulder all of the responsibilities of the Jujutsu world.
But that’s exactly what you did, didn’t you? You had abandoned him without even a second thought. Didn’t tell him anything, just simply vanished to the point he thought you were dead.
And now here you are, telling him you prefer to look at people from distances in a way that they didn’t even know they were being watched.
“You didn’t notice before—” you start, but he cuts you off.
“Look at me when you talk to me,” he demands. Voice low. No longer playful. And he’s refraining himself from shouting at you. You didn’t notice before. So you have done it before.
He can see you take in a deep breath before turning around. And this time, Gojo can see your entire face. Can see the way you’ve grown from how you looked when you were younger. How the years have shaped you. Sculpted you into who you are right now.
It knocks the breath right out of him. All your baby fat is gone—obviously it is. Still, you look like you. The little kid he remembers.
“You just… didn’t notice before,” you swallow your words at the end. His blue eyes piercing yours, the same ones as when you were younger. It almost seems like he’s trying to stare through your soul.
There are so many questions running rampant in his head. How many times have you spied on him. Why were you just looking at him? Trying to sell information? When did it start? Does this mean you didn’t miss him? Why not just walk up to him?
And he thinks back to all the times he had the feeling that he was being watched. But by the time he turned around, nothing was there. Just now it looked like you were underneath the ground. In the shadows.
…In the shadows. Surely not.
He can feel all the cursed energy signatures from the kids on the field. Can feel the way they’re shaped, when they get used. And more importantly, he can feel one particular Cursed Energy signature. Megumi’s.
The one that uses shadows. The one that produces shikigami from shadows, that can store things in shadows, that can hide in shadows.
But that can’t be. Ten Shadows is a hereditary technique from the Zen’in clan. Neither your mom nor dad are from the clan, so surely it can’t be that.
Still, looking at you, he can see the way your CE flows. Can deduct the way your CT works. And his Eyes don’t lie to him, never have.
His jaw sets before he grabs you by the arm once more. Sees the way your brows furrow. You open your mouth—probably to ask what he’s doing—when Gojo teleports the two of you away.
The room he teleports to is familiar to him, unfortunately. Dimly lit by multiple candles and thousands of talismans spanning the walls of the room. He pushes you onto the chair without a second thought.
“Wait, Satoru what—”
“You have no right to call me that,” he speaks in a low voice. He hates how his heart rate picks up. How it makes his heart skip a beat.
You always called him that when the two of you were younger. Not Gojo. Not Gojo-sama. Just… Satoru. And it had made him happy back then, because you were the only one who called him by his name. Though it was always more of a ‘S’toru’, he didn’t mind.
Oh, and lets not forget when you started calling him ‘Toru just before his sixth birthday. It made his chest constrict in a way it hadn’t before. Made his cheeks warm up—though they did that often when you were around—which made him turn away from you.
Tying the ropes around your arms, he steps back slightly. The snowflakes are now fully melted, dampening the fabrics of his jacket and pants. Walking to the other chair in the room, he hears you struggling against the bindings.
“Seriously, what is this,” you ask now, a bit more agitated. Gojo just hums, pulling the black blindfold out of his pocket and putting it on. A deliberate act on his part.
When the two of you were kids you loved his eyes. Not in the way most people loved it.
You didn’t look at them like they represented power. No you rather just looked at them with the innocence of a kid who likes a color. ‘It’s like watercolor spilled into your eyes!’ you’d giggled at him then, watching the different shades of blue swirl around in his irises.
Always fascinated with his eyes, you, beautifully chaotic you, just grabbed his face and tilted his head in this and that way just so you could examine the colors. Like he was a mere toy you were playing with.
You loved his eyes the way you loved all of him, from the way his hair was white—though most people’s hair was white within the Gojo clan. Not that you cared, you only had eyes for him—to the way his eyes were impossible shades of blue and the way he smiled, even when he started losing some of his baby teeth.
Sitting down onto the chair, Gojo leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. He watched you squirm around a bit.
“Sa— Gojo why did you bring me here?” you ask once again.
He sighs then. “Why are you here?" he asks. And he wants to ask more, of course he does, but that’s not something that’s going to happen right now.
“I- what?” you falter, sitting completely still now.
“Why are you here?” he repeats. And you blink up at him, the same way you did when you were younger. It makes his heart hurt so incredibly much.
“Just wanted to see you,” you mumble, eyes casting off to the side.
The words echo around in his mind. Just wanted to see you; Just wanted to see me??? You had twenty-two years to do so. Gojo scoffs, “sure you did. Just tell the truth. Who sent you?”
Your head whips back to where he’s sitting. “Sent me? No one sent me, Gojo. Why would anyone send me here?”
“Well, why don’t you tell me. You just told me you spy on people from a distance,” he replies, voice growing agitated.
You bite your cheek, swallow once before looking up at him again. “Not a great way to start the conversation, huh?” you whisper.
It isn’t. Definitely isn’t. That is something people who get sent out on missions say. Stalk the person, prey on them, learn their patterns before striking.
Rubbing a hand over his face he stifles a groan. He should let someone else examine you. Knows he’s too close to you to properly do ‘his job’. But what would he even say?
‘Hey my childhood bestfriend was watching me from the shadows. What— ah yeah, guess I never told you guys about her. Anyway I haven’t spoken to her in two decades so it’s shady as fuck that she infiltrated the school.’
Yeah, no, not happening.
So instead he continues, despite the way his heart wants to crawl out of his ribcage. Present itself to you in the way it has yearned to these past few years. Spilling onto the concrete floor along with the feelings he’s held for you for so long.
“Then why are you here now,” he asks once again, in hopes you’d give him a different answer. One that satiates the voice in his mind, whispering that this is all a setup. To lure him in.
“I already told you, I wanted to see you,” you struggle a bit against the ropes binding you to the chair once again. There’s faint desperation creeping into your voice. The same way it did when you were younger. When Gojo accidentally broke something—it happens, the two of you were kids after all—but somehow you always got blamed. No matter how much you tried to convince that it was Satoru who broke it.
“Sure. Okay lets go with that,” he starts, voice full of doubt and mistrust, “why now? Why more than two decades later?”
He sees the way you swallow. Sees the way you can’t quite look him in the eye—well, blindfold. Same thing, really.
“I heard what happened last year,” you whisper. And his heart that was previously beating so fast fucking stops in its tracks. Last year.
Vivid images burn through his retinas before he can stop them. The thousands of curses. The curse users. The people who got wounded. His ‘kids’ almost all dying. The face Geto made before… yeah.
His jaw sets. Grinding his molars together to keep from snapping. To bark out what about last year made you finally want to show up after twenty years. Twenty years of loss, grief, heartbreak and all other sorts of feelings he’s had.
“Just wanted to see if you were doing okay.” you finish. And that, more than anything, pisses him off. If he was doing okay? No, he wasn’t doing ‘okay’, he was far from okay as could be. Both his best friends disappeared out of his life. He’s been lonely for most of it, even if there were people around him.
People could just never understand what he went through. What gets expected of him for simply being born with a trait that gets praised as if he’s a god. They often forget that he’s a human being, with human feelings—that get neglected to hell and back.
He’s no god. He, too, needs sleep like normal people. But alas, the higher-ups send him to missions one after another like he doesn’t need rest. Like he isn’t some guy that sometimes yearns to be understood.
But he does what they ask of him anyway. Goes to every single mission. Loses out on sleep. Loses out on the fact that he doesn’t really have an identity of his own anymore. It’s just molded to fit into the expectations that were placed upon him.
That, however, doesn’t mean he doesn’t try to have something of his own. In a way he adapted your chaotic little self into himself, just a little. It made it easier, not letting people see the side of him that made him feel vulnerable. Stripped down to his bare self, where he looks out over the Tokyo skyline and wishes that he wasn’t Gojo Satoru, even for just a few minutes.
So no, he isn’t doing okay. He hasn’t been. Not since you left. And yes, sure, he thought he was okay when he met Geto. But that, just like everything else in his life, didn’t last long.
Now he just drowns himself in sweets whenever possible. What was once a love for him, back when the two of you were just kids, is now a coping mechanism.
He’d read once, somewhere on a forum, that eating sweets constantly could be due to psychological factors rather than him just having a sweet-tooth. He’d skimmed it briefly, but he remembers enough that counts; The brain craving sweetness because it’s stressed. The fact that foods, especially sugary ones, temporarily raise serotonin and dopamine levels in the brain can make you addicted… or something like that anyway.
“I haven’t been okay,” it comes out harsher than he meant to, a crack starting to form in his composure. You flinch at the tone slightly, eyes downcast.
“Right, yeah no, of course not,” you mumble, still not meeting his eye. He can see the way your fingers are fiddling with each other behind your back, the same, tiny movement you always did when you were younger.
The silence hangs awkwardly in the air. He doesn’t quite know how to continue, and neither do you by the way you sometimes open and close your mouth.
“You know I didn’t want to leave, right?” you whisper, and it sounds true. He wants it to be true, so fucking badly. But how can he believe you when you never reached out even once. You knew he was alive, he is The Strongest after all. His death would be a grand thing within the Jujutsu world. But then again, were you even in that world?
“Then why did you?” he asks, keeping his voice steady to not show any inner turmoil. You look up again, the candles casting soft amber lighting on your face. And you look so earnestly.
“I- where do I even begin?” your hands are still fiddling behind you. And it must be torture, because he know, he knows how expressive you are with them.
Whenever you told stories, you didn’t just tell them with your voice, you used your hands. Like, a lot. Sometimes they added things to the story, visual cues almost, while other times they were just flailing around because you were so happy.
Satoru had to always dodge your hands—having been smacked with them on multiple occasions before he learned that lesson.
“At the start,” he replies. And you laugh at that. A self-deprecating little thing. Swallowing you open your mouth once more.
“The day after your birthday I got woken up by dad,” you begin, and the images immediately flood your mind. You’d clutched your little matching Digivice to your chest when you went to bed. A small smile gracing your face, because ‘Toru was so happy with his gift.'
The dream you had was you and Satoru running around inside the Digimon universe. Little creatures left and right. It was like you were transported into the manga. And god, the smile on Satoru’s face was priceless. His gap showing from where his first baby-tooth had fallen out.
The dream was full of colors and little creatures. Which is why you woke up with a gasp when your father had shaken you awake, voice panicked. He told you that you guys ‘had to go’. There was no further explanation, just him and your mom running around the house, collecting essential items.
You’d gotten out of bed, rubbing your eye with one palm while the other still clutched the Digivice. Your pajama pants had ridden up, one pant leg above your knee while the other was shoved somewhere half over your shin.
“He was in a rush, like pulling me out of bed and telling me to get in the car.”
“What’s going on?” you asked your parents, but neither really had an answer. All you were met with was ‘we just gotta go somewhere else for a little while, sweetie’ and you didn’t understand. Didn’t understand why your dad picked you up and almost sprinted to the car. Didn’t understand why only the essentials were being grabbed.
All you knew was that you had a play-date with Satoru later that day. “Okay. But we’ll be back in time for Satoru, right?”
Your parents had shared a glance between each other. One that you now know said how are we going to explain to her that she won’t get to see her best friend anymore?
“After that we drove off to an airport. Got onto a plane to some foreign country in Europe and completely left behind the life we had built here.”
You’d fallen asleep in the car, the gentle rocking of the car lulling you to sleep quite quick. When you woke up, you were in your dads arms. But more importantly, you weren’t in the car anymore. No you were somewhere crowded.
Suitcases everywhere, overhead speakers crackling to life. Some people panicking while others were sitting and staring ahead of them. There were tiny shops everywhere.
“I didn’t understand at the time,” you smile bitterly thinking back on how child you sat on a plane, looking out the window in awe. You’d whispered to your parents how you wished one day Satoru was able to see the world from above the clouds as well. “That I wouldn’t see you for the next twenty-two years.”
The silence hangs in the air after that. Heavy. Awkward. And you wish you could just sink back into the darkness. Maybe you shouldn’t have come back. It was selfish on your part. While it wasn’t your decision to move away, it was to enter his life again— though obviously this wasn’t your intention.
Gojo looks at you. Really looks. Looks at the way you’re picking at your cuticles behind your back. Arms still tied. At your eyes. At the way you didn’t look away even once. And he doesn’t know what to do with it. Doesn’t know if he should trust you or not.
“So why did you guys leave?” he asks, because that’s something you haven’t told him. Though he could probably guess.
You pull your knees up to your chest. The position is awkward. Knees pulled up to your chest, arms bound behind you. But you don’t care. Biting on your lip you finally look away from his face.
“They found out I was a Zen’in, I guess,” you shrug, as if it’s something normal to say. As if it doesn’t go against everything he believed in since he was three years old.
He remembers your house. It was a normal house. Not one from the Zen’in clan. Your mother and father never saying anything about being a Zen’in, either. He remembers them, too. Your mother with gentle eyes and careful hands while your father was more strict, but never around enough to really know him.
Gojo’s eyes narrow behind his blindfold. “A Zen’in, huh?”
You nod your head. “Yeah, uh… Dad apparently isn’t my biological dad. It was one of the Zen’in clan members. Mom never told me the whole story, but I do know dad killed the guy. So… yeah, I dunno, guess they found us or something.”
That, honestly, doesn’t tell him a lot. But at the same time it explains almost everything. “So that’s why you inherited the technique.”
Your head snaps back toward his, eyes wide with panic. “What?” you whisper, voice trembling slightly. It makes him snort. How do you not realise he knew. “Whole hiding in the shadows was a thing, but in case you forgot, I’m the Six Eyes bearer.”
It’s not a gloat. He’s merely stating a fact. Making you realise what you’re actually dealing with. And before you can even open your mouth, he’s already behind you. Fiddling with the ropes infused with hundreds of talisman.
Maybe he’ll regret this decision, because he still isn’t sure if he can completely trust you, but guess that’s something he’ll find out soon enough.
Letting the ropes fall, he steps back. You immediately begin rolling your wrists, bring them up to your face with a slight scowl. They’re red from where the ropes were cutting into your skin. Huffing you begin rubbing them, soothing motions to get rid of the irritation.
“Well then. c’mon, show me,” Gojo taps his foot against the foot of your chair. A bit of impatience shining through. Because, yeah, he is curious as to what you can do. Swiveling in your chair you look up at him. “Show you what?”
“One of the Shikigami, duh, you have the dogs right? Every user has the dogs,” he says while bringing his hands behind his head. He walks back over to where his chair stands—right across from yours.
You grumble something under your breath, before lifting your hands in that all-too-familiar motion Megumi always makes. Two dogs form from the shadows. One black, the other white. Almost identical to Megumi’s.
The black one sits down, tongue lolling out of its maw. It doesn’t move, just sits there. Golden eyes trained on him, probably to assess if he’s a threat or not. (He isn’t… not really.)
The white one, however, is the one that shocks Gojo a bit more. It immediately runs a lap around your chair. Chaos all around. You snap your fingers once and point toward a spot next to your chair. The dog immediately trots over and just lets itself fall onto the ground.
Then it shifts it’s eyes toward Gojo, and he has to blink. Once. Twice. Because he’s staring right into blue eyes. That isn’t something he’s seen before. Not that he has much experience with Ten Shadows shikigami from the past— he only has Megumi as an example.
Megumi’s divine dogs both had yellow eyes. Your black one does, too. But the white one is… different. The blue eyes almost seem… seem like they have watercolor spilled into them . Like he’s staring at himself in dog form.
“You noticed, huh?” you mumble, hand coming down to card through its fur. The wolf lets out a happy little noise before it rolls onto its side, paws in the air, presenting its tummy toward you. It pulls out a small laugh from you.
And the sound almost makes him want to wrap his arms around you and laugh with you. Or cry. He’s not sure which of the two. He does know you seem less… chaotic like this. Toned down. You were loud as a kid— chaotic, not afraid to express yourself.
“They came to me two weeks after we moved,” your hands are still rubbing the wolfs belly. Its tail making soft swishing sounds on the ground, completely content with how you’re petting it. “The black one just… sat there, as if it was keeping watch. But this little one over here—” you nod toward the white wolf “—trotted up to me and licked my face.”
That gets a small huff out of Gojo, because he can already see it. You sitting on your bed, wide-eyed because you got two wolves in your house, and one just licked your face.
You always had a thing for animals when you were younger. Chasing after butterflies, petting dogs, feeding stray kittens. You once pulled him toward one of the Koi ponds in the Gojo estate, completely happy that they even had one. You sat there for hours on end, just playing with the Koi.
The wolf suddenly stills. Sniffs the air, its black nose twitching and glistening under the amber lighting and then rolls back over, paws underneath it now.
It pushes itself up, stretching, shaking its fur—before walking over to where Gojo is sitting. He stays there, looking into the blue eyes that almost reflect his.
The wolf tilts its head at him, as if it recognizes him. It shouldn’t be able to, since Gojo has never met them before, but something in his chest pulls as the wolf stalks forward, head dipping lower, eyes narrowing in on him.
Gojo instinctively strengthens his infinity. It was already on, it always is, but he has to keep it up with you around. Years of separation apparently do nothing to his heart, whispering to his cursed technique that you’re not dangerous.
The wolf sniffs once more, before it walks back toward you, stands in front of you like some sort of guard dog. And technically it is. But it is clear that right now you’re not commanding the dogs, this is their own free will.
It lowers itself slightly before baring its fangs, glinting in the soft candlelight like a threat. Next comes the growl, a low thing. It comes deep from its chest. Why it decided that Gojo is something to growl at is something he himself questions.
He can see the way you stiffen on your chair, eyes widening in pure disbelief. As if the wolf has never done that before, or maybe it has. Whatever it is, it doesn’t prepare his heart for what comes next.
“Toru stop that,” you scold the wolf. The growl dying out as if you blew out all the candles in the room. The only sound left is breathing and the soft whisper of fire in the air.
Not that Satoru can focus on that. All his mind can focus on is what you just said. Toru stop that. Toru, toru, toru— it loops in his head like a broken record. And it makes his stomach churn, because there is no way you called your shikigami after him.
Not after everything. The twenty-two years of silence; ten years of thinking you were dead. And here you are, with the Ten Shadows technique, telling him your dad isn’t your bio dad, and letting it slip that your shikigami is named after him.
“You named him?” his voice feels thin, like his vocal cords were stretched taut, a moment before snapping. And that’s all he wants to do—snap at you. Tell you you can not do this to him.
He remembers all the times he sat in the dark, looking at his Digivice, and hoping you were thinking about him as well. The soft, blue glow illuminating his face in the dark, casting soft shadows across his face.
He remembers wishing to something—anything—to bring you back to him. To bring back his best friend, because you were his joy. His chaos. His.
You look up from where you’re scolding the dog, who is now looking at you with puppy eyes, whining slightly. The black dog presses its wet, shiny nose into your side. Maybe to stop you from scolding its sibling, maybe to calm you down.
“Not exactly,” you say sheepishly. There’s a faint flush on your cheekbones, as if you’re embarrassed about it. “I uhh, well.. I used to cry at night thinking about you, whispering to myself that I would one day come back to you, and well… I used your name. Like. A lot. I guess the dog heard because every time I whispered your name—just not to forget it—he responded. Well… not to ‘Satoru’ but he would listen to ‘Toru’.”
the entire story makes his chest ache. Makes him realise that you really did not want to leave him behind. And maybe, just maybe, you really are here for him. Not because someone sent you, but because you wanted to be. Because you missed him.
It makes his chest flutter, ascending toward the sky, and it almost feels like he has to grab it and pull it back. It feels like a high after having a low for so long.
“That’s… unusual,” he voices, as if you don’t know that already. As if they aren’t your dogs. Your technique. You nod at him, just once.
“I don’t understand one thing though,” the little thought keeps nagging at the back of his mind, like a little demon whispering in his ear. Do not trust her. She’s not the same. “Why only now if you missed me so much?”
Your eyes change, too many emotions running through them for him to decipher all of them. But there’s one that’s bright and clear. Sadness.
Huffing out a self-deprecating laugh, you look away from him and start carding your fingers through both wolves mane, they lay their heads onto your lap, tails stilling, ears flat against their head. You mumble something under your breath. Something so soft, he can’t hear it.
“What was that?” he leans forward, tugs his blindfold up just a little, as if that can make him hear better. You mumble it again, a bit louder this time. While he still doesn’t catch all of it, he can make up most of it.
“Didn’t think you’d want me around.”
And that, more than anything, breaks his heart. You thought he didn’t want you around? Didn’t mourn his best friend leaving him all alone in that giant, mindless estate to grow up under the scrutiny of every gaze he received.
Of course he would want you around, keep you close to him, so close that you couldn’t leave him again. Couldn’t let his mind fester on all the nasty thoughts that run rampant through his mind once he’s alone—in his office, his apartment, on mission.
No he would keep you close. Pull you in, wanting to let his soul fuse with yours, to make sure you couldn’t leave him again. He’d set up his guest bedroom for you to stay in, just so he knows you’re there. Would talk to you about everything that went down from the moment you left.
He wants to lay his head in your lap, staring up at you while you tell your wild dreams to him the same way you used to—gesturing wildly, eyes bright and shining, carding your fingers through his hair absentmindedly.
Would finally bake sweets with you, the way you two promised to when you were younger. Set up a bakery; Is that still something you want to do?
He remembers it like it was yesterday. The two of you had stolen some sweets from the kitchen, cheeks full, laughs bubbling up in your throats while Satoru grabbed your hand with sticky, powdered fingers and began running.
You laughed at him, telling him to shhhhhh, your other hand coming up to your face, finger pressing over your lips, like you yourself weren’t full on giggling. It was the heist after all. The sweet, sweet promise of mochi was something the two of you couldn’t resist.
He’d overheard it from one of the estate maids, that there was an important meeting between clan-heads later that day. Not that he remembered that part, no his five-year-old self wasn’t quite interested in grown-up business.
His ears perked up when he heard about all the things that would get prepared for it. Most importantly, mochi. It was a delicacy you and Satoru enjoyed all too much, to a point where multiple grown-ups were scolding the two of you for eating so much, too much, of them in one sitting.
The sugar-high the two of you were on after that could only be described as destructive chaos. The maids looking on in horror as you and Satoru almost destroyed the playroom. So yeah, the two of you had been banned from eating sweets.
But when he heard the words self-made mochi fall from the servants lips, he instantly formed a thought in his head. One he was sure you also would enjoy.
So when you came over later that day, he told you about all the things he heard. That the chef would be making mochi along with other things. And the way your eyes lit up made it known to him that his plan was something you’d enjoy as well.
The two of you snuck into the giant kitchen, giggling, tiptoeing and telling the other to be quiet despite not being quiet themselves. And there, right on the counter, was a plate of what felt like a forbidden fruit.
Satoru and you looked around the kitchen once more before both grabbing multiple of the sweets, before stuffing your faces, cheeks bulging with how many the two of you ate at once. You’d pointed and laughed at him, garbling something incoherent.
He giggled as well, liking the way you looked so cute. Like you were a little hamster stuffing your cheeks with food before it burrows itself for the winter. Not that he would say that to you.
And then the two of you heard it—footsteps. They were coming down the corridor, slow and heavy. Not one of the caretakers, but it could very well be one of the chefs, coming to look for the sweets. The giggling instantly stopped. Looking at each other with wide eyes, Satoru grabbed your hand before pulling you with him.
Later, back in the playroom, when the sweets were finally fully eaten you’d flopped onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. Satoru was drawing on your arm again—just like he did the first time the two of you met.
You’d hummed then, head lolling to the side where he was sitting. Your hair falling like a curtain over your eyes. “Hey S’toru?” you asked. He’d hummed, tongue peeking slightly from between his lips while concentrating on the drawing.
“What if we became chefs when we’re older?” That certainly grabbed his attention, crayon stilling on your arm, his eyes finding yours. He thought it over a few times, becoming chefs means you could make aaaanything in the world!
So he quickly nodded his head, the idea sounding sweet in his mind. And you’d smiled at him, nose scrunching up slightly.
“And— and we could be like, chefs that only make sweets!” you exclaim, eyes lighting up at the idea. Because that’s something the both of you absolutely love. Having a sweet-tooth yourself, you always indulged into his cravings.
“I will buy us a house with a big kitchen,” Satoru adds, because that means the two of you could always be together. Not having time limits for playdates anymore, but rather making up your own time. Being able to be together wheneeeverrr he wanted?
That sounded like a dream come true to him. He can already imagine it, a big house with a big kitchen where the two of you are making sweets together, laughing. You’d probably get distracted, the kitchen messy, like a whirlwind went through it.
Blinking the memory away he looks at you. You’re still not looking at him, the flush on your cheeks now going down to your neck. “Of course I would still want you around,” he says, incredulous.
That’s when you finally look at him. Brows furrowing slightly, because you’re not sure if he really means that or if he just says that to be nice. Even though you know he doesn't have any reason to be nice to you. You left him behind twenty-two years ago.
“Really?” it’s barely above a whisper, your heart clinging onto that last small part of hope. Because you want to believe him, really you do, but it’s so hard when you’ve convinced yourself that he didn’t want you in his life. Didn’t need you.
When you were fourteen you begged your parents to go back to Japan. Asked them why you couldn’t just go to Jujutsu High, surely they wouldn’t kill a teenager. But they always told you that they couldn’t do that. Didn’t want to bet on the uncertainties that brought with them.
Because what if the Zen’in clan went after your father for killing a Zen’in. They’re revengeful people your mother had whispered one evening.
What if they didn’t just go after your father, but after your entire family?
What if, god forbid, they would drag you back to the Zen’in clan because you’d inherited the clans’ technique.
So they never went back to Japan, rather staying far, far away from that country. And it made your heart hurt so incredibly much. Because you just wanted to see Satoru, even if he didn’t want to have anything to do with you. You’d take the fact that you could just be close to him as a win.
That’s all you wanted, after all. Get your best friend back. Here, the place that’s now supposed to be home, you have no friends. Never bothered to make any. No one could replace that one boy that had hair like snow and eyes like sea glass.
So you spent your days in isolation, woke up, went to school, got home, did homework, went to sleep. And the cycle repeated. You of course had your dogs to keep you company. Didn’t mind that they drained your cursed energy—it’s not like you used it otherwise anyway.
That’s one thing your parents made very clear to you; under no circumstances would you ever become a sorcerer. While in Japan the sorcerer population was the highest, that didn’t mean that there weren’t any here. There were, just not as many.
That, however, didn’t mean you didn’t tame some more shikigami, even if you never used them. Just having them reassured you to no end. Because god forbid you came across a curse one day that was too high of a grade for your demon dogs to take out and you didn’t have anything else.
Yeah, no. So you tamed other Shikigami. You have almost all of them now, obviously aside from Mahoraga. But you don’t mind that too much, you wouldn’t be able to tame him anyway.
Once you were eighteen you were a legal adult. Moved out of your home, got a job, and started college. The thought of returning to Japan, alone, drifted through your mind more often than you were willing to admit.
But by the time you even had money to visit Japan, you were already twenty-two. And the thoughts started to plague you. What if he didn’t want to see you— or worse, didn’t remember who you were.
All this time you’d been hoping to reunite with your best friend, but what if said best friend didn’t even remember you. What if he would just walk right past you. He’s a busy man after all. Word travels, and even the name of Satoru Gojo was whispered here.
The Strongest. The Six Eyes bearer.
And suddenly you were afraid. What if he did remember you, but resented you for leaving him all those years ago. Condemned to an isolated life away from society just to keep him safe. One you yourself curated because you couldn’t bear the thought of spending your life with someone other than him.
It’s silly, it really is. Holding one to such high regard when the two of you were mere kids. Only knowing each other for 3 years. But you still remember the promises the two of you made. Broken. All of them.
“I pinky promise to never leave you behind.”
“Pinky promise to become chefs.”
“Pinky promise that you’ll always be my best friend!”
So you stayed. Never returned to Japan, even if you wanted to so badly. He was Satoru Gojo after all. You’re sure he has a good life, lots of people around him who cherish him, who didn’t go back on their promises.
Until that one fated night, just after Christmas. Word had somehow traveled in the sorcerer world that more than a thousand curses had been released. Something about a cult leader. And, of course, Gojo’s name falling from everyone's lips like they were praising him.
That’s when you decided to go to Japan, even if it was only for a month. But you didn’t have the necessary funds, so it had to postponed.
“Why wouldn’t I want you around?” he asks, genuinely confused. It makes you swallow, once, twice, before forcing the answer out. “I just thought you didn’t need me anymore. We were only kids back then—”
“So? That doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you almost every day for the past twenty-two years,” he cuts you off.
And it hits you with full force. The fact that he did want you around. That you could’ve came back six years ago. Could’ve searched for him.
“Oh…” you whisper. Because what else can you say? How can you tell the guy that just told you he thought of you almost every day since you left that you wanted to come back earlier. That you had the funds to do so, but thought better of it. Thought he didn’t want you around anymore, so you didn’t come back.
How do you tell someone that it was your own insecurities that held you back from seeing him again.
You don’t have time to think about that, because the white divine dog —Toru—whines and nuzzles more into your palm. His nose wet against the palm of your hand. The cold, wetness snaps you out of your thoughts and make you look down at the two dogs.
Toru was always chaos incarnate. He would steal snacks from counter tops, eat food like he didn’t eat curses for a living—well he was supposed to, anyway. But maybe that was just it. Since you didn’t fight curses, it had an appetite of its own. One that involved sugary snacks and sugar highs a few minutes later.
You’d gotten loads of noise complaints from your neighbors about the dogs being loud—which was quite unfair to the black dog, Kuroo, as you named her. Kuroo was calm, almost lazy. Her golden eyes full of scrutiny, narrowing in on her brother when he, once again, was running around the tiny apartment.
Toru had a habit of knocking things over with its tail when he was running around. You can’t count the countless of items he’d knocked over over the years of living with him. He always looked apologetic when he did so, though, so you couldn’t be too mad at him.
Especially not when he looked at you with those eyes. They weren’t just the classic puppy dog eyes every dog seemed to master. No it was the fact that they were so incredibly blue, it made you think of a certain someone back in Japan. Someone you never seemed to be able to get mad at, no matter what he did.
So each time you sighed, told Toru it was okay and petted his head. Toru, in turn, barked at you, tail wildly swishing on the ground. It always made Kuroo huff out a breath through her nose as if scrutinizing you for once again not scolding her brother.
So yes, Toru was loud and chaos incarnate—and maybe an incarnation of your best friend in shikigami form—while Kuroo was the calm herself. Just laying around, soaking up the sun in her black fur while watching Toru sneak food from you when you weren’t watching.
The noise complaints never stopped. But every time the landlord came over to look at the said dogs, there weren’t any. And you were damn lucky he wasn’t a window, because how else would you explain the dogs that couldn’t be seen by others.
The landlord had told the residents that put in complaints to stop because clearly there weren’t any dogs in your apartment. It caused quite a tiff with you and some of the building residents, because they swear they could sometimes hear dogs bark or run around in your apartment. And it’s true, they did do that, just not normal dogs.
They have been with you all your life, summoned wherever you could; mostly at home. Your mom, at first, said you shouldn’t do that. Back then she hadn’t explained why you even moved to a different country—hell, to a different continent. So you shook your head and told her that you wanted to keep the puppies.
Because they were puppies back then. Small…well, for the dogs that they are now, for your child self they were quite big—yipping in a high pitch that lowered over the years, and tiny paws. They were, quite honestly, adorable.
Your mother told you that you couldn’t afford to raise the puppies. They would need food, and drinks, and to be walked outside every day, multiple times a day, even when you wanted to sleep. Puppies were very high demanding things, after all.
All of that was true, to an extent. If they were real puppies, all those things would’ve applied to them, but they weren’t ‘real’. Shadow constructs were just that. Shadows. Even though they yipped, played and felt real, they weren’t.
Which meant that they didn’t need actual food. Didn’t need to go outside to do their business. Didn’t need to play—though Toru did love to play, running around your room, stealing socks, pants, toys; anything he could get his paws on.
And your six year old self felt pretty smug once you found that out. Almost gloating to her how you didn’t need to do all of that, since the puppies didn’t need it.
You felt less smug a day later, when the puppies disappeared. You had no idea how you called the dogs on in the first place—didn’t even know it was you who summoned the dogs in the first place—so you were confused as to where they had gone.
That’s when your father finally stepped in and told you about a few things of the sorcerer world. Not everything, but just enough so that you didn’t have any more questions. He told you about the dogs, why they were there, and why they were gone.
Six year old you looked up at him with big eyes while he carefully explained the shadow puppies to you and cursed energy. That was something you apparently needed to summon the shadow puppies, which ran out the longer you had them summoned.
It made you quite sad. The puppies did kind of distract you from the fact that your best friend was currently thousands of kilometers away, even if only for a day. But you were happy when you could summon the puppies again a few days later.
So they were always with you, just like how they’re with you now. Toru’s wet nose pressed against your palm and Kuroo simply having her head on your lap.
Satoru is still staring at you like he expects you to say something—anything, probably. You haven’t said anything after your little whispered ‘oh’. So maybe you should say something.
“I thought of you too,” you reply, and it sounds fucking cheesy. It makes you wanna clamp your mouth shut, try to go back in time and say something different. Because what is he gonna do with that information. Probably nothing.
You can’t see his eyes—still hidden by the blindfold—but you can almost feel how his eyes are narrowed. He lets out a sigh and stands up, long limbs stretching out before he jerks his head to the side. “Well, c’mon then.”
Without a word he starts walking to a door—was that always there? He doesn’t look back at you. Doesn’t try to confirm that you’re walking after him. Doesn’t say anything else. Just puts his hands in his pockets, opens the door, fluorescent lights spilling into the room in harsh light that contrasts the soft amber lighting from the candles—the ones that are snuffed out in an instant after the door opened—and walks out.
Standing up you walk after him, dismissing your dogs with a final pat to their head.
After stepping out into the hallway, you have to blink a few times to get your sight adjusted to the harsh lighting. The hallway is a stark contrast to the buildings you saw from the forest. Jujutsu High seemed to have traditional Japanese buildings.
The walls are slightly damp and it’s cold. A shiver running up your spine. The only sounds down here are the footsteps and the buzzing noise from the overhead lights. Rubbing your arms you walk a bit faster, not beside Gojo—you know you don’t deserve to walk beside him as an equal—but two steps behind him.
“Where are we going?” you finally ask him. Gojo doesn’t reply, just walks ahead, up some stairs and finally opens a shoji screen to the outside. Snow blankets as far as the eye can see. Tree tops are white, the black shingles are now nowhere to be seen, the stone paths are buried beneath a thick layer of the powdery substance.
Okay, outside. Maybe he’ll escort you off the property. Send you home. Tell you not to come back. The thought hurts more than you’re willing to admit. Sure, you never meant for him to see you in the first place, but after finally reconnecting you’d hoped he would maybe want to keep you around.
Gojo walks on top of the snow. His feet don’t sink into it. He doesn’t leave behind any boot prints. It’s almost as if he’s hovering over it. You, however, aren’t as lucky. The first step you take almost makes you fall over. Snow is almost up to your knee.
Hearing you yelp, Gojo finally turns around, and the sight almost makes him smile. You’re trying to wade through the thick blanket of snow, having to pull up your legs to sink into the snow yet again. The sight is almost comical.
A huff pulls from his chest when you nearly wipe out, which makes you look up at him. Wrong choice. Because of the sharp movement, you fall straight onto your butt. Wetness starting to seep through your winter coat.
Closing your eyes, you breathe through your nose. Count to three, before pushing yourself up with a pout. “Seriously, why do you get to float like a fairy while I have to—” grunting you take your first step forward again “—tire out my legs like this. Why is there even so much snow to begin with?!”
You’re irritated. almost your entire backside is wet. Snow that wasn’t melted yet is starting to melt. You feel cold, and wet, and sad, and guilty—but mostly mad that the fucker is just standing there, on top of the snow, an amused smile tugging at his lips.
And before you even realise what you’re doing, you bend down and grab a handful of snow. Throwing it at Gojo, it merely bounces off him. Fuck him and his Infinity.
Throwing your hands up in the air you let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh come on,” you whine, the last syllables dragging on. “Lemme at least hit you with some snow if you’re going to be like that.”
Before you can even blink he’s in front of you. With just a little tap to your shoulder you fall backwards, straight onto your ass. Blinking up into the sky, a face comes into view. One blue eye peeking out from under the blindfold, an amused smile on his lips, white strands cascading down. “Oops.”
You glare at him from the snow, still sitting on it. He knows your ass is getting cold—and probably wet—but oh well. And then you reach for his arm, and for a second, just one, he forgets to keep up his infinity. Your hand clamps down on his forearm before you yank him into the snow next to you.
His face is obstructed by white. And he hears you laughing from beside him. And it puts him right back to when the two of you were five years old, playing in the snow, making snow angels and getting into snowball fights. He also remembers you eating a handful of snow and getting scolded for it.
He huffs a breath through his nose before pushing himself up and wiping his face. You’re still laughing, rolling around in the snow, clutching your stomach—not watching him. Which is good. He grabs some snow and throws it straight at you.
It stops you right in your tracks, laughter dying out immediately, replaced by a gasp. “You did not,” you accuse him, voice mock-serious. He only shrugs his shoulders before he’s hit with some snow—straight in the face.
You gasp out. “Shit, sorry I didn’t mean— no. wait! wait!! no please!” you’re scrambling back, hands sinking into the snow while Satoru sloooowly stands up and stalks over to you, a giant heap of white in his hands. You put a hand up while still apologising, “No— Gojo wait! I’m sorry! I didn— oompff.”
You’re cut off when he lets the snow fall—straight onto your face and upper chest. You’re completely buried. It makes him laugh, doubling over. And for just a moment he forgets he is Satoru Gojo and is just ‘S’toru’.
The little fight continues for a while, snow gets thrown around. The two of you keep tripping over in the snow, though you do more so than him—curse him and his long long legs. Until you stop giggling and gasp, eyes wide. “Stop. Stop— wait, just a sec.”
You’re feeling around in your coat pockets and pull out a little device—your Digivice. It makes his heart lurch to his stomach. Did you really keep it all those years—hell, did you keep it on you this entire time? His hand brushes his own pocket, his own Digivice snug in it.
He sees your hand sink into the ground, before you pull it out again, empty-handed. “Didn’t want it getting wet,” you say while looking up at him.
There is a small silence between the two of you, before he clears his throat. “Right, yeah. Okay, well…” he trails off, it suddenly setting in that he isn’t five years old running around in the gardens of the Gojo estate with you, but rather twenty-eight with responsibilities. (Not that he takes any of those seriously, but he does remind himself that the two of you aren’t suddenly best friends again… right?)
He jabs his thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s go.” With that he turns around and starts walking again—this time only after he hears you trail behind him. The walk takes wayyyy too long, what normally would’ve been a fifteen minute walk took you almost thirty. The snow not only making it difficult to navigate through, but also slippery
Satoru can only hope that the kids are still training. It has been some time since he left them to chase after you, after all. Turning the corner he sees Maki absolutely overpower Nobara before they let go. Panda and Inumaki are nowhere in sight, only the three first-years and their upperclassman left.
Clapping his hands once he grabs the attention of the kids. “I’m backkk~” he sing-songs. Megumi mutters a ‘didn’t even know you were gone’ under his breath that Gojo decides to ignore, while Yuji waves. “And I brought a little something with me.”
Stepping aside with a flourish, you come into view to the students. They immediately furrow their brows. Yuji’s hand immediately shoots up “Gojo-sensei, who is that?” Clicking his fingers, Gojo makes finger guns toward the cotton-haired boy.
“Great question, Itadori. This, over here, is your new teacher!” He hooks his arm around your shoulder and tugs you into his side. You look over at him with wide eyes. “Wait— wait wait wait, what? Gojo you can’t just decide that?!”
He pays you no mind, just looking at the three first-years while Maki walks away. She mutters something under her breath, but doesn’t look back. Pushing you to the front slightly, he claps his hands. “So, who wants to spar with her first?”
“She’s wet,” Megumi deadpans, looking over your form. And you are— well it’s more damp now. “And freezing,” Nobara adds, noticing how much you’re shivering.
For just a moment Gojo considers that maybe he should’ve gotten you—and himself—a change of clothes after the snowball fight. Ehhh oh well. Nothing to be done about now. “So spar her faster so she can go warm up inside.”
With a sigh Megumi is the first to take up on the offer, calling on his Divine Dog Totality. You don’t notice though, turning toward Gojo with a frown. “You can’t make me spar with them, look at them! They are teena— eekkk,” the dog lunges at you. Your make a quick hand sign. Hundreds of gray rabbits being summoned at once.
It takes the students aback slightly, all of them eyeing the swarm. Gojo only crosses his arms.
“Dude, Megumi, I thought you summoned your dog,” Yuji says, still in disbelief at the sight of the rabbits. The Divine Dog merely claws its way through the swarm, destroying rabbits at light speed. “I did,” Megumi mutters back, brows furrowed.
Half of the rabbits are gone when you suddenly emerge from behind Megumi. Putting him in a headlock, both Nobara and Yuji turn around, eyes wide. All three of them freeze in place.
Pointing your finger at Satoru you continue, “Like I said, they’re teenagers, you can’t just let them fight me. That’s mean.”
And Satoru? Satoru just smiles at that. Because Yuji and Nobara are whispering to each other, not really discreetly, but you don’t notice because you’re checking over Megumi to see if you hurt him in any way while still scolding Gojo.
And it brings him right back to when you were telling him how to ‘correctly’ play with the dolls. (Which you were wrong about, so, so wrong.)
He walks over to where you and the kids are standing and puts an arm around you—half because he wants to and half because he doesn’t want you to escape, were you planning on it. Ruffling your hair, which is absolutely freezing, he realises, he chuckles.
“Well then, kids meet your new teacher. Now say goodbye while she goes take a long, hot bath and hopefully doesn’t get sick.” Not letting the kids even say goodbye, he teleports the two of you straight to his apartment.
It shocks you a bit, the teleportation making you feel… floaty? for a few seconds, the room spinning slightly, before your feet touch the ground.
When the room stops spinning, and your balance is back, you take note of where you’re standing. The apartment in front of you is huge. It’s a big, open floor plan. The living room has a big L shaped couch, with a wall-mounted flatscreen in front of it.
There are floor to ceiling windows, overlooking the downtown of Tokyo, the city underneath blinking to life like fireflies behind glass.
But that’s not what catches your eye, no, your eyes wander to the massive kitchen. It really does look too big to have for just one person. It brings you right back twenty years, where you said you would become a baker which only made sweets.
While you didn’t become a confectioner, you did learn how to make most sweets you ate when younger. The most important one being mochi, of course.
Though the first time you made a successful batch, you cried. At first they were happy tears, but they turned sad really fast after that, because it made you miss Satoru even more.
Back in your cramped apartment, you didn’t really have the luxury to bake, so this kitchen really brings out something in you, and you wonder if Satoru ever uses it.
Following your gaze, he chuckles slightly. “I don’t really use it,” he says, as if he read your mind. Looking back at him, he’s still looking at the kitchen with a small smile on his face. Nodding your head you look back at the kitchen, and suddenly wonder what your world would’ve looked like if you stayed in Japan when you were younger.
Would you be in the kitchen with him, singing your heart out and yapping about everything and anything while making food together? Well, it’s not like you can go back in time, so that’s a question you don’t dwell too long on.
Gojo puts a hand on your shoulder and steers you to the other side of the apartment—hell, it’s a whole ass penthouse. Rich boy, huh.
“Spare bedroom is over here, there’s a connected bathroom as well. Go take a shower, you’re absolutely freezing,” he’s already turning away from you, presumably to go to his own shower. He did let go of his Infinity during the snowball fight, resulting in him getting wet and cold as well.
Nodding your head you open the door, and freeze for a heartbeat. The bedroom is almost as big as your entire apartment combined. A massive King sized bed stands at the far wall, there are floor to ceiling windows even in this room, and two doors at each side of the room.
Other than the bed, curtains and a nightstand, the room is rather bare. Walking over to the left door you open it, only to find a walk-in closet. Yeah okay, definitely your entire apartment combined.
Walking back out, you open the other door to the bathroom, and that, too, is massive. It has both a bathtub and shower, and your eyes light up at the sight. God, how long has it been since you last had a bath? Too long, that is.
Turning on the faucet, you let the tub fill up, and just pray Satoru wouldn’t mind it too much. You aren’t quite sure what he has in store for you, but given the fact that he just decided that you would be a teacher, you suppose you won’t go home for quite some time.
Stepping into the bath, you’re instantly met with the hot water, skin tingling because you haven’t properly warmed up yet. Ignoring that, you let yourself submerge in the water, let your head lean back against the edge of the tub, and close your eyes.
Maybe it was a mistake coming back after so long, but it’s something you’ll definitely find out along the way.
In the other bathroom, Satoru is standing under the spray of the shower. His head leaning against the tiles of the wall, water cascading down his back and dripping from his hair over the bridge of his nose.
You’re really here. Not an imagination, not a dream, just… really here. And he isn’t sure what to make of it. And maybe he acted too fast, telling the kids you would be their second teacher.
Maybe he shouldn’t have introduced you to the kids, he’s supposed to keep them safe after all. But his heart tugs against his sternum when he thinks back on how you were looking Megumi over after the supposed ‘spar’.
That didn’t seem fake, or maybe you’re just really good at pretending to care. Well, whatever it is, he’ll find out in the next few weeks.
He’s going to keep you close. Keep you in the spare room. Keep you close to him while teaching (though… he doesn’t really teach, so maybe it is smart that he ‘recruited’ you as a second teacher.)
All he can hope is that he didn’t make a mistake keeping you here instead of putting you on the next flight back to wherever you came from.
The first thing Satoru notices when he wakes up is the sound of pans clattering and the low hum of the furnace being turned on. There’s slight humming coming from the kitchen. Utensils scraping against pots, and the faint smell of food wafting through the apartment.
Walking out of his room, he scratches his stomach with one hand while trying to tame his bed hair with the other. Unruly tufts of white visible between the gap of his shirt and sweats.
The kitchen is a flurry of motion, the fridge being opened and closed constantly, the low rhythmic chop chop chop of someone cutting up ingredients on a chopping block. Sounds Satoru isn’t used to, considering he isn’t one to cook, nor has anyone over that does.
So when he walks into the kitchen, he freezes for a second. You’re there, chopping away, occasionally stirring the pot with a wooden ladle—he didn’t even know he owned one, let alone had enough food in the fridge to make something fulfilling—while humming under your breath.
But that isn’t what does him in—though it does slightly, he has dreamed of this many, many times before—no it’s the fact that your cursed energy feels off. It doesn’t feel like you, well rather, it feels like a copy of yours.
It doesn’t flow through you so much as it is you. Your shape is completely filled with cursed energy in a way that he’s never seen before. It’s unsettling, to say the least.
Calling out your name softly, you look up with a small smile on your face. “Goodmorning,” you hum, before resuming your task. The low sizzle of bacon in the pan snaps him out of his stupor.
He watches you for a beat longer. Watches the way you move—nothing out of the ordinary, though he only has yesterday to compare. Watches the way you hum under your breath. It looks correct, the gait, the motion, but there’s something off.
He can feel it in his soul. And his Six Eyes also tell something is wrong with your cursed energy. So he looks around the apartment, just because he can’t shake off this weird feeling of something being wrong.
And when his eyes go toward the hall of the guest room you were occupying, he can see it. Cursed Energy. It’s faint, but it doesn’t escape him.
Furrowing his brows he walks over to the door, steps cautious. Did you have someone over? Is there someone in your room that was supposed to take him out when he had his guard down?
Turning the knob, he opens the door. There in bed is you. Wait, what?
He looks back to the kitchen once more. Yep, definitely you, though that you feels off in a way. Looking back to the you in the bed, he lets his Six Eyes feed the information to him.
Your cursed energy flows like it’s supposed to, like it did yesterday. He can see the way it favors the side of the shadows, crawling back from where the light of the hallway hits the bedsheets in soft yellow light.
You’re asleep. Nose red and runny. Tossing and turning in your bed, sweat on your forehead, hairs plastered flat against your temples.
With a groan your lashes flutter open. Blinking a few times, you look over at the guy that’s standing in the doorway. “‘Mornin’,” you croak out, voice raw and nasally. You cough immediately after. That nasty, nasally type of cough.
Satoru just stands in the doorway for a few more seconds, words failing him in the first time since… well, last year, he supposes. When he finally speaks up, his voice is full of confusion. “You’re here…” he finally says, slowly, like he’s still trying to make sense of the world.
You hum, closing your eyes once more. Wiping some of the sweat from your brow, you cough once more. “Sure am, did you forget you took me home with you yesterday?” the words feel like sandpaper against your sore throat.
The lights spilling in from the hallway—though mostly blocked by the massive frame of Gojo—only hurt your eyes more. You want to tell him to at least close the door if he’s gonna talk to you like this, but then again, you’re a guest and it would be rude to tell him what to do in his house.
Hell, he probably doesn’t even appreciate it that you’re coughing and sweating all over his clean sheets.
“I- no, ‘was surprised, though,” he mumbles the last words under his breath before continuing, “What the hell is in my kitchen right now?”
You rack your brain, trying to find out what he’s talking about. In his kitchen? Did Toru come out without you calling him on again? He does that quite often, little brat that he is.
Then you finally remember. “Oh! ‘s a clone,” you say, as if it’s normal. As if having a literal shadow clone is just a normal Tuesday. Then again, for you it probably is. But Satoru isn’t you, so he stares at you for a few beats.
“A clone,” he starts slowly, “from your technique?” You laugh at that, then immediately cough again. “Yeah, what else would it be?”
Satoru stares at you for a few more seconds. Looks at the way you’re struggling to keep your eyes open, the sweat beating down your neck, the way you keep coughing.
And then he feels someone—or rather something—approach from behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he’s met with you, or well, rather, your shadow clone.
She looks exactly like you, the same little frown between your brows you’ve had since you were little kids and were focusing on something. Hair, eyes, lips, nose—it’s all the same. It’s quite unsettling, honestly.
Your clone is carrying a tray—seriously, where do these things keep popping up from? he didn’t even know he had half the things ‘you’ were using for cooking—with a bowl of soup. Stepping aside, he lets the clone inside the bedroom.
It sits down next to you, and you go to sit in an more upright position. It’s like you don’t even register just how weird all of this is, your own shadow clone is feeding you soup.
“Wait- wait wait wait. Let me get this straight,” he finally manages to gather his thoughts again. “You can make shadow clones, and command them to do what you want?”
You take one more sip of your soup, slightly burning your tongue because you were too impatient to just blow on the hot liquid a few seconds longer, before finally answering Gojo. “Mhmm, well… it’s more like they’re semi-sentient. I just have to tell them how to make soup, and they can get the steps in themselves.”
Gojo’s mouth slowly falls open. That’s… really fucking cool actually, not that he’s gonna voice that, though. He’s still wary of you. If you can just conjure shadow clones from cursed energy, he might actually be fucked.
It makes this so, so much harder. Because that means you can catch him off-guard. Or well, try to catch him off-guard. He can still sense when people are behind him. Six Eyes never lie to him, so he’ll have to rely on them way more than normal, now.
He thinks bout the Ten Shadows technique, tries to recall if there was anything mentioned about shadow clones, but he comes up empty. Megumi hasn’t said anything either about trying to clone himself. And in a way, Satoru is happy about that.
“That’s fucking scary. Kinda cool, but definitely scary,” he finally says, eyeing the two of you. If he didn’t have Six eyes, he would definitely have thought that it was your twin you never told him about. Not like you told him much about yourself, anyway.
Being a Zen’in for one. Though, you also didn’t know about that, so he can’t really blame you for that. But your mother definitely could’ve told him. He was the clan head of the Gojo clan after all! Nevermind the fact that he was a mere six years old back then.
He would’ve protected you whenever needed, told the rest of the members to protect you and him. And he would try to protect you, as well.
You, the chaos to his normal, boring life. The one who kept him sane those three years you were with him. Kept him from doing the mindless, affectionless clan. God he hated it there after you left.
Everyone kept ushering him to do things. Train with those huge dudes who told him ‘again’ and ‘again’ and ‘again’ and not to cry, because he was a Gojo after all. Something you would’ve never told him.
You would’ve probably cried with him, if you were there. Not because you were hurt, or anything of the sorts—though your feelings did get hurt quite easily. So you were a crybaby, buuuuttt then again, you got over it fairly quickly as well. Swiping those small fingers under your eyes and declaring you were ‘all done’ and going back to doing whatever task you were doing previously—but because you didn’t like seeing Satoru sad.
It was something he noticed. He wasn’t sad often in your presence, you were the highlight to his days, after all. But on the rare occasions he was sad, you always immediately tried cheering him up. Tried to tell him everything would be all-right, because you were there!
And it felt like his sadness was suddenly cured—or you were being… well, you. And distracted him from being sad—in your presence once more. Gummy smile returning to his face, only for you to fling your body towards his, tackling him in a happy hug that was more limbs clashing together than a real hug.
Blinking, he looks at you once more. Your bowl of soup slowly getting more empty by the second. Then your eyes find his. “There’s food for you in the kitchen, by the way,” you’re still blowing on the spoon when you tell him.
Furrowing his brows, he pushes himself from the doorpost and makes his way over to the kitchen, where one plate of bacon and an omelette sits. There’s a small ketchup smiley drawn on it, making him smile in turn.
Only for it to be wiped off his face the second after. His eyes flit towards the open bedroom once more. Grabbing another bowl, he quickly fills it. Walking back to the bedroom, he goes to sit down next to you.
You eye his bowl of soup, furrowing your brows slightly. Turning your head away from him, you cough in your elbow, before speaking up. “Omelette not to your liking?”
Gojo hums around the spoonful of soup. “Not a big fan of eggs,” he says dismissively. You just hum and close your eyes once more. The sweat has finally stopped beading down your forehead, though you still feel fucking hot. (ehhhh slayyyy)
Dismissing your clone with a wave of your hand, you grab the tray and put it on the bedside table. There’s still soup in the bowl, but you feel like you’re going to throw up if you eat any more right now, so you’ll keep it for later. There’s always a chance to heat it up again.
Going to lay down again, you burrow yourself under the blanket. “Will sleep a bit more. Wake me if needed,” you slur out slightly, before sleep finally takes you under once again.
Gojo stays seated next to you. Spoon in his bowl, not touched after he’d taken the first sip of soup. Once he confirms you’re asleep—your breathing getting heavy, the occasional snore slipping past your lips, lashes fluttering against your cheekbones—does he move.
Leaning over you, careful not to wake you, he swaps the two bowls around. Eating the rest of your soup, he hums in content. It was very good soup, even though it was made by a clone—something he still can’t wrap his head around.
Sure, he knows you’re sick. He isn’t stupid, he knows you can’t fake it like this. So eating out of your bowl—though he had swapped the spoons around, he’s not that stupid—might not be the smartest plan. But he’d rather get sick than get poisoned or something.
Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? You came back in his life, really came back in his life, after twenty-two years. Half of those were spent thinking you were dead. And now here you are—still—twenty-two years later with a dog that’s named after him and even looks like him, and a shadow clone that can make food and probably do many, many other things.
Leaning back against the headrest, he rubs a hand over his face and sighs out through his nose. This really is going to be harder than he thought would be.
With that, he gets out of the bed and goes to the kitchen. Cleaning the counter while scowling slightly. This is why he hates cooking—well, it’s part of it. He hates the cooking itself as well, though he loves eating.
It’s just something he could never get the hang of. Every time he tried, his thoughts would wander back to a girl that would forever be six years old in his mind, telling him the two of you would live together, making food together, because the two of you liked sweets.
Promising to live off off sweets alone. A true kids dream, if he ever heard one. But still one that wormed its way back into his mind even after all the years you were gone.
With that, he always burned the food because he would zone out trying to picture you next to him being a tornado of chaos. Probably having sugar all over you, even if the recipe didn’t call for sugar. Or eating the ingredients before they went into the dish, leaving the both of you with too little to cook with.
Or he would be irrational with knives—Geto and Shoko having taken away knives waaayyy too often. Not that they could ever hurt him, but still. If he didn’t have Infinity, he would’ve lost all his fingers ten times over already.
So he never cooked, which also meant he never had to do the dishes, though he has a dishwasher, which he’s trying to figure out how to work right now. He mutters faint curses under his breath and things about ‘clones not being able to clean up after themselves’.
When he finally has the dishwasher loaded, he just… stares out over the living room. This really is his life now, huh? Him having to be on guard, even at home, moreso than usual. Normally he has Infinity to protect him against strangers, but you’re no stranger.
Well… his heart certainly doesn’t think so with the way his Infinity automatically gets lowered around you. He has to consciously put it up, because his technique, unfortunately, loses against his heart whispering that you’re no threat.
Yeah, this is going to take a long time before he can get used to this.
The next few days are spent at home. You’re still sick, so you let the clone do everything for you—cleaning, making food, and even doing the laundry. Gojo had asked why you wouldn’t just let him do those things, and with that he means people he hired to do the jobs.
He had to send away his cleaners after his place was spotless before they could even begin. Your clone having done everything already, so there was nothing left for them to do. He still paid them, of course.
And if it wasn’t your clone walking around the place, it would be your dogs. You’d asked him on the third day of you still being sick in bed. Something about letting the dogs ‘out’—when he asked what you meant with ‘out’ you meant out of the shadows because they were getting restless. Which confused him, because as far as he knew, Megumi never said anything about any of the Shikigami while they were not summoned.
He’d agreed. His apartment is big enough, after all. And it’s not like he used the space often. But he quickly came to regret that decision.
Toru is a heap of chaos that only reminds himself of you, only with his aesthetic. The white fur was something he was used to quite easily. But it were the eyes that still unsettled him.
Toru was just him in dog form. On one hand, it absolutely melted his heart, on the other hand it had sent a small pang through it. He thinks about how you probably only had Toru with you while hoping that you could have the actual human next to you that you named the dog after.
Kuroo was at least calm. Letting her body flop in front of the giant windows, soaking up the sun with her black fur, becoming a small furnace. She was judgemental as fuck, though. Always huffing through her nose when her brother did something stupid. Or when Satoru himself did something silly.
It had made him side-eye the dog a few times, checking to see if the dog really was huffing at him and not at her brother. And, yep, the dog was eyeing him again. Raising a brow at the dog, he murmurs a small ‘what?’ only for the dog to turn her back to him.
He’s not sure what he expected the dog to do, but it still sent a small spark of irritation through him when he got ignored by a dog, like helloooo??
Now you’re finally better, sitting next to him on the couch nursing a cup of tea, watching Toru play with one of the dog toys you grabbed from your shadow storage—yes that’s how you called it.
Satoru had laughed the first time you’d pulled out the toys, but the laughter quickly died out in his throat the more you kept pulling from what felt like infinite storage.
At first it was toys—squeaky toys, tug ropes, balls—but it quickly became dog beds, yes you heard that right, dog beds for shadow dogs. Shikigami. With dog beds. And not just one for each, noooo they had multiple.
“Seriously,” he had muttered, eyeing the dog beds that were in the living room now. He’d already spotted two in your room and another two in his home gym. Why they were there, he had no idea, but alas. You’d merely smiled at him, not even trying to defend yourself.
“He really is something,” you murmur, eyes still on the dog. “Sure is,” Gojo agreed, but with a bit more disdain in his voice. If you noticed, you don’t call him out on it, only sip on your tea once more.
“Soooo…” you begin, setting your cup down onto the table. Leaning back once more your eyes find Gojo’s. “What about the kids?”
Right, the kids. Satoru had to tell them he had to stay home to take care of something and that they shouldn’t expect him to be at the school often. Nobara had just walked off, Yuji had grinned and put his thumbs up. Megumi, however, side-eyed him. One that felt fully judgemental.
“She’s sick, isn’t she?” he had asked, not even naming you, but Satoru knew who he was talking about. He’d merely hummed, sticking his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on the ball of his feet. “Maaaybe.”
Megumi had sighed, muttering something about snow and being soaked to the bone in those cold temperatures, but never asked anything further. Just started walking back to the dorms without so much as another glance toward Gojo.
You’d asked Gojo if he didn’t need to be with the kids after he came home not long after that, and he had merely grinned towards you. “Naaahhhh, they can take care of themselves,” he had drawled towards you. Luckily you were too sick to really question it, having gone to bed after that once again.
It kinda fucked with him, though. He had to be on his toes at all times. Whenever you slept, your oh so lovely shadow clone was awake, making food or cleaning up, and it made him paranoid as shit. Constantly checking over what it did, while also checking if you were still asleep.
It’s not like he could tell you to stop doing it—he had done that already, well more like asked… okay fine, he told you you didn’t have to do it, since it was draining your cursed energy. You had just smiled at him and told him it was fine, since you didn’t use it anyway.
When he insisted that you should just let it rest, you’d stubbornly told him that this was the least you could do for being here, in his house. That is something he didn’t miss (he absolutely did), your stubbornness.
He’d honestly forgotten all about how stubborn you used to be. How you could hold onto things without fail, puffing out your cheeks, crossing your arms over your chest, not once looking him the eye, lips forming a small pout.
Yeah, you weren’t just chaos, you were stubborn chaos, which made it so much worse. So he let it go, knowing you weren’t gonna give up on it.
So now he was walking behind a clone for days on end, watching its every move. He was just so so tired. And only when you finally started feeling better did you dismiss the clone, muttering something about doing the chores yourself.
Which, once again, he wanted to argue about. He truly didn’t need you to do all that—plus he still doesn’t trust you, but what can you do about it?
You’re still looking at him, the question hanging in the air. The kids, right. Humming, Gojo leans further back into the couch, which groans under his weight. “Well, Yuji and Nobara have been asking about you. Megumi hasn’t voiced anything, but I know he’s curious as well.”
“I mean, you did tell them I was gonna be their teacher and then I just didn’t show up for a whole week,” you comment, looking him in the eye.
Yeah, that’s something he is regretting telling them. He should’ve just asked Yaga for you to be an assistant at the school—his personal assistant, so he can keep his eye on you, of course. No other reason at all.
But he did tell them, unfortunately. Which means you have to come with him to the school and interact with the kids. The same kids he’s vowed to keep safe ever since the beginning of the school year started.
“Don’t you worry your pretty lil head about it,” he assures you, playing with his blindfold slightly. (slut)
Scowling you look away from him. Reaching over to grab your tea, you down the last of your drink before abruptly standing up, making Toru pause where he was playing with one of the toys. “Well then, I’ll get ready and we can visit the school, I guess.”
You’re already walking away before he can say anything. Staring at your retreating figure, he looks over at Kuroo. “Your mom always like that?” he sighs out, and Kuroo huffs once through her nose, and he swears she rolls her eyes with it a little.
Thirty minutes later the two of you arrive at Jujutsu High. You’d dismissed the dogs with a quick pat on their head, and a belly rub for Toru, before leaving the apartment with Gojo.
The school honestly looks deserted with how massive it is. There’s no student or faculty in sight, though that isn’t that weird, considering it’s snowing outside.
Satoru walks two steps in front of you, deliberately slowing down his pace to match yours, but just a little too quick for you to comfortably stay right beside him.
Snow crunches beneath your boots and white plumes of smoke form in front of your mouth with each exhale. Burrowing your face further into your scarf, you finally speak up. “What are we gonna do today anyways?”
Gojo just hums, eyes hidden by his blindfold once more, hands in pockets. “I want you to spar with Megumi, give him some more tips on the technique.”
Furrowing your brows, you try to recall which of the two is Megumi. When you dub the spiky, black haired boy as Megumi, you hum slightly. “Why him?”
That makes Satoru stop in his tracks, just slightly. “You didn’t see?” When he sees you furrow your brows, he lets out one long, deep sigh. “He also has the Ten Shadows technique. I thought you realised when Totality attacked you—well tried to.”
“That thing was a part of the Ten Shadows technique?” you ask, thinking back that the giant beast that tried to claw your throat out last week. It was massive, even bigger than Kuroo and Toru. “Mhmm, Is when your two lil Demon Dogs get merged.”
“You mean to tell me he lost one of his demon dogs?” Your voice is small, kind of like you’re fearing the answer. Satoru only nods his head once, and a shudder trails up your spine.
Poor guy, being only… fifteen? Sixteen? and losing your first companion like that. You cannot imagine living your life without Kuroo or Toru. God, you would bawl your eyes out if anything happened to either of the two.
In a way you’re glad you never became a sorcerer, because there would be a big chance you would lose one of the dogs if you weren’t careful.
You don’t have much time to think about it, because Satoru steps into one of the buildings, opening the door for you. Bowing slightly—something that feels foreign to you, considering back ‘home’ people didn’t do that, nor did you ever bow towards Gojo whenever the two of you were younger—you walk inside.
Taking off your shoes, you look around the building. You’re met with a spacious common room. Multiple couches are in the space, along with some chairs and a few beanbags. A tall bookshelf spans the entirety of the wall, filled with different manga's.
There are a few students lounging around, some familiar—Yuji with his pink hair and Nobara with her bob—and others not. Your eyes trailing over the students when— hold the fuck up, is that a panda?!
Sure enough the panda waves at you. Nodding your head, you turn towards Satoru with questions written all over your face. Chuckling he leans in closer to you, voice low enough for only you to be heard. “That’s Panda. He’s a cursed corpse. Sentient. Kinda like your shadow clone, but even smarter.”
Right. Okay, sure. Sentient cursed corpses, because why the fuck not, it’s not like sorcery was weird enough already, just add in more bullshit to the mix.
Yuji is already on his feet the moment he spots you and Satoru, a beaming smile on his face. “Hey! You’re finally better. Gojo-sensei told us you got sick, but like— I had soooo many questions before he whisked you away the last time.”
Blinking, you’re looking at the boy. Right, okay, that energy wasn’t there the last time, but then again it was snowing, Gojo had told them to spar you and you had sunk into the ground and put Megumi in a headlock withing three seconds flat.
He kind of reminds you of younger you. You’ve since lost that spark, but it does ignite something in you that makes you want to bounce on the balls of your feet. “Of course you can ask!”
Gojo watches you get tugged into the common room by Yuji, who is already firing off questions, one after another, before you can even try to answer him. Nobara is scolding him for being too excited, and the three third-years are watching you with wary glances.
Exhaling, he lets his shoulders drop a little. Although this isn’t what he wanted, it is nice to see you interact with his kids. With that he walks towards the room he knows a grumpy teenager is in.
Opening the door with a flourish, he throws a thumbs up. “How’s my favorite student?” he all but teases, making Megumi groan into his pillow.
“What do you want,” he scowls over at Gojo, not even trying to hide the disdain in his voice. That’s nothing new,though. Having spent years with the boy, Gojo knows that Megumi loves him. Deeeep deep down. But it’s there …somewhere.
“Your new teach is here, come say hi,” he grins before turning around and walking back to the common room.
Walking back into the common room can only be described as chaos. Yuji is backflipping (why?), Nobara is showing off her nails—the steel ones she uses for her technique, not the keratin ones that are on fingertips—while Panda is punching the air.
Inumaki and Maki are just sitting there watching the chaos unfold while you are trying to divide your attention to all three of the kids that are begging for your attention.
What happened between him going to Megumi’s room and coming back, he’ll probably never know, but he’s here now.
The chaos continues for a while. Every student shows you their technique when you ask, even the second years, though you had some trouble understanding Inumaki at first.
Megumi finally has joined everyone, going to sit down where he deems safest—next to Maki. It’s definitely deliberate on his part, considering Maki is the most calm in this entire group of chaos.
Then questions start flying towards you, about your age, what you did before this, how you did that thing with Megumi last week. Until the final dreaded question comes from no other than Nobara: “So, you haven’t told us your technique yet.”
Swallowing you look over at Gojo, who nods at you. Wringing your hands together you look at the eager expressions of the students, even Megumi seems to perk up a bit at that. You never had to tell anyone your technique—apart from Gojo—and it was drilled into you that you should never reveal it.
But then again, that was because your mother was afraid they would simply kill you if they found out. That’s not gonna happen, you think. Plus Gojo is right beside you, surely he would protect you if something went wrong?
“Ah it’s the Ten Shadows technique.” Silence. Utter and absolute silence fills the room. A few students are blinking, like they’re buffering in real time. “Yeah right,” Maki scoffs, “that’s a hereditary technique, and if you were a Zen’in with the clan’s technique I would’ve known.”
That makes you pause, just a little. “Are you a Zen’in, Maki?”
She only narrows her eyes at you, not confirming nor denying the question. The rest of the group is silent, looking between you and Megumi.
Sighing you summon your demon dogs. Toru immediately licks your hand, while Kuroo just sits in her place, watching every student with a scrutinizing gaze.
There’s a blur of motion when suddenly the tip of a spear is right between your eyes. Maki’s. “Gojo, explain.”
And he does, as best as he can. You fill in some of the gaps, about leaving the country, never becoming a sorcerer, just living a normal, boring life. Neither of you brings up the fact that you and Gojo have known each other since the age of three.
The tension slowly dwindles, Maki lowering her spear while still looking at you with narrowed eyes. Yuji is petting Toru throughout all of it, hands sinking into the fur while Toru wags his tail, making the occasional swish sound on the floor.
You show the kids some of the things that can be achieved with the Ten Shadows technique, starting with the fact that you can completely sink into the shadows, since Yuji asked how you teleported last week. It’s clear that Megumi is taking mental notes of everything you do.
The rest of the day is spent like that, just chatting, occasionally showing off—not just you, the kids do as well—and getting to know one another. It’s quite sweet honestly.
While you didn’t get to spar with Megumi, like Gojo originally wanted you to do, you did show him important things that would definitely help him if ever needed.
The next few days are spent with the kids, sparring, telling them how to better themselves, just watching over them. And then there was the fact that Yaga found out Satoru had ‘hired’ someone without even telling him, let alone consult with him.
You had to watch Gojo get scolded by the principal, and honestly it was funny as fuck. How does a thirty year old let himself get scolded like that? You almost wanted to tell him to stand the fuck up for himself. Embarrassing, really, but then again, that is the Gojo you know.
Though he wasn’t the one that got scolded when the two of you were younger, that one was you. So maybe this is just karma. Ehhh, that isn’t fair on Gojo, though. He always tried to stick up for you, trying to tell the maids it was him that did said thing, but they just brushed him off.
Still a funny sight, and something you’ll probably tease him about until the two of you are all wrinkly and gray.
After that you got introduced to some of the other staff. Nanami was apparently a year younger than Gojo, and definitely over his shit, throwing out a quick ‘good luck’ when he heard that you would spend most of your days with Gojo here at school—no people didn’t know you also ‘lived’ with Gojo.
The next was Shoko, the school’s …nurse? healer? You’re not sure, all you know is that you learned yet another thing about sorcery: RCT. Apparently some people can heal themselves? You knew your deer could heal you, but you didn’t know that some people could also do that.
And lastly there was Ijichi. Nervous guy, eyes constantly flitting everywhere but Gojo while wringing his hands together and bowing a good ninety degrees when he first saw you. He’s an assistant at the school, mostly there to chauffeur people around and put up veils.
Yuji, at one point, had popped up out of nowhere, scaring the shit out of Ijichi. But when he finally saw who it was, he instantly seemed calmer?
You’re not sure what happened between Gojo and Ijichi for him to be so nervous around the guy, but you’re sure to find out one day. Or maybe you’re the anomaly, standing so casually beside The Strongest, but then again Nanami and Shoko weren’t nervous. At all.
After that it was just training the kids, constantly. Gojo would stand off to the side, watching everything go down, and snickering every time the kids would win. Yeah, you’re absolutely shit at hand to hand, never having been taught how to, while these kids train for things like these.
Like right now, you’re sparring with Megumi, who’s absolutely getting one in on you. Gojo can only smile at the sight. You might not be good at hand to hand, but you gave so much valuable information to not only Megumi but also Gojo about the Ten Shadows technique that’s surely handy to know.
There’s a small smile on Gojo’s lips when he sees your feet get sweeped out from under you, only for you to sink into the shadows before your back hits the ground. It’s smart, really. You might not be an experienced fighter, but you’re smart. Adapting to everything that gets thrown your way.
He isn’t sure when Yuji and Nobara creeped up on him—too occupied by watching the spar that just doesn’t seem to end—but they’re absolutely grinning while eyeing each other.
“Soooo,” Nobara begins, only for Yuji to cut her off completely. “How long have you had a crush on the new teacher?” Nobara elbows him with a scowl and mutters something only Yuji can hear.
Gojo blinks a few times behind his blindfold. A crush? On you? No way, he’s just watching you to make sure you’re not up to something. The feelings he had for you when he was younger surely have dwindled by now.
Putting his hands in his pockets he looks down at the two menaces that are still eyeing him with sweet smiles that don’t match their eyes. Fucking gossip vultures is what they are. “I don’t have a thing for your new teacher.”
“Bullshit! You’re always watching her,” Nobara scowls while folding her arms in front of her chest. “It’s been weeks, Gojo-sensei, and you’re always watching her. Even with the blindfold on, we can feel your gaze on her, like a compass trying to find north.”
That… was a weird thing to say, especially coming from Yuji. Gojo’s eyes flick towards the mat once more, just to make sure you can’t hear the three of them. You and Megumi have sat down, all three demon dogs—Toru, Kuroo and Megumi’s black demon dog—playing with each other while you and Megumi are talking.
“Duhhh, I have to make sure the three of you don’t absolutely destroy her in the hand to hand spars,” he retorts. Nobara is already getting her phone out of her pocket, “But you even look at her outside of the spars— here, see! In this picture you’re looking at her even though she’s just talkin—”
The brat really has taken pictures of him without him noticing. He tunes the two of them out, because he already knows that they aren’t gonna stop until he ‘confesses’, which isn’t gonna happen because he isn’t into you.
So why do his cheeks feel so warm when even thinking about nursing a crush on you?
It’s been four months since you came back to Japan. Four months of being back in Satoru’s life. Four months of him constantly hovering behind you, like he’s afraid you’ll leave again if he isn’t watching. You’re not sure if he knows you know he’s checking in on you, but it’s quite sweet, honestly.
The two of you are sitting on the couch, two bowls of strawberry ice cream in front of you, with a plate of mochi on the table—Satoru’s idea, of course.
Gojo had put on a show to watch while eating, but you’re not quite focused on that. The bowl of ice cream forgotten in your lap while you’re hunched over your phone, thumbs flying over the screen to send messages back.
You’re just about to send the text message when an incoming call comes through.
Mom
Shit. Shit shit shit shit. Why now.
Satoru looks over, spoon in his mouth, eyebrow raised while he looks over at your phone. You’re about to decline the call when Satoru reaches over and clicks on the accept call button. Looking over with wide eyes, you mouth a ‘what are you doing?’, and he only shrugs.
It’s then that you hear your mother’s voice come through the line, calling out your name. “Hello, are you there?”
The bastard had put it on speaker as well. Scowling you look back at your phone. “I- yeah. Hi, mom,” you awkwardly say.
Your mom immediately starts berating you, asking you how you could go to Japan without letting anyone know, and for four months at that!
Shoulders pulled up to your ears, cheeks red, you keep opening and closing your mouth, but before you can even get a word out your mother is already speaking again.
“Seriously, Japan? I’ve told you so many times not to go back to that place. And now I have to find out through your work that you’ve been gone for four months already? You said you were going on a two week vacation, not move to another country!”
Right, you did say that. Back when you first got here in December, you’d told your mother that you would take a small vacation to the Maldives—not Japan and definitely not for four months. She’s probably worried sick.
Swallowing you finally speak up. “Things just… didn’t go according to plan—”
“Are you still in Japan in hopes to find that boy? God, how many times have I told you to get over the guy. You two were friends when you were kids. It’s been twenty-two years for goodness sake! He probably doesn’t even remember who you are.”
Well fucking ouch. And how are you going to tell her he’s sitting right beside you? Yes, that’s right, you haven’t even told her that you found Gojo, but then again, you also didn’t tell her you were in Japan out of all places.
She continues her berating. “On that topic, you should start living your life. I found someone for you, he’s sweet, and tall, and a true gentleman—and before you say anything, I don’t care that the only guy you’re willing to marry is Gojo Satoru, that excuse is getting real old.”
You’re spluttering out replies, but all Gojo can focus on is that one sentence. The only guy you’re willing to marry is Gojo Satoru. Only guy. Willing to marry. Gojo Satoru. You. Marry. Him. You want to marry him?
And by your reaction it’s clear that you did say that and it wasn’t something your mother made up on the spot. You’ve talked about wanting to marry him? Despite the two of you not having seen each other for more than two decades?
The information just refuses to compute in his head. Why would you want to marry him? Was it because of the name or wealth that came with it? The protection from the Zen’in clan, maybe? Or was it because you just really liked him when the two of you were younger?
But then again, you haven’t seen him in ages, surely you would’ve found someone else you liked during all of those years.
It just doesn’t make sense in his head.
It would be one thing to not make any new best friends, reserving that spot for him somehow, but it’s a whole other thing to tell your mother you didn’t want to marry anyone other than him.
And from the discussion that’s still going on beside him, it’s clear you’ve talked about him. A lot. And not just when you were younger—that part you did tell him, the fact that you cried over him and manifested a Shikigami that looked like him, the same way he cried over you for all of those years—but also when you were older.
He doesn’t know what to do with the information he just got handed on a silver platter. Sure, he could tease you for it, but that would still not help with his questions that are floating around in his head.
Fuck, you just keep throwing curveballs. From coming back in his life after twenty-two years to showing him that you inherited the Zen’in clan’s technique—and subsequently telling him you’re of Zen’in lineage—to the fact that you manifested a dog that looked identical to him.
Never in his life would he have thought that you coming back into his life would lead to all of this.
But one thing he can say for certain now—and even before, but the logical part of his brain was still on edge. Plus he wasn’t quite ready to forgive you just yet for being gone for so long, and even admitting to the fact that you could’ve came back earlier—is that you’re not here to take him out.
You really came here just to see him. Even if you didn’t know if he would let you back in his life. It was a gamble you took because you missed him the same way he has missed you for all of those years.
Fuck.
He hasn’t even noticed that you hung up the phone. It’s only when you turn to him with wide eyes that he finally looks at you again.
“You shouldn’t believe everything she said, like— yeah, sure I didn’t tell her I was going to Japan, but that’s only because I knew she wouldn’t approve. I tried to when I was a teenager, but she shot that idea down every time, because she was too scared to be recognized by some random Zen’in clan member—”
“You wanted to marry me, huh?” he smirks down at you, because honestly it is adorable, even if it doesn’t make sense.
Putting your hands out in front of you, you wave them around. “It’s not what you think—stop looking at me like that, yes I can feel the way you’re looking at me, Gojo, It doesn’t matter you have a blindfold on. It’s not like I told my mom ‘Heyyyy mom, just so you know, I won’t ever marry someone except for my childhood best friend’, it was just that she kept trying to set me up for dates that I didn’t want to go on.”
Raising his eyebrows he lets the silence sit for a few seconds, just to watch you squirm a little, let it sink in what you’ve just told him, because he’s a dick like that. “So the first thing you came up with is that you wouldn’t date because you wanted to marry me?”
“I- well… I mean,” you trail off before huffing a breath through your nose and crossing your arms over your chest, not daring to look him into the eyes. “You were, like, my only friend ever, so it was the only excuse I had.”
That sends a small pang through his chest. He was your only friend, ever? That’s actually incredibly sad. In a way it reminds him of himself, of all the years he had to stay at the Gojo estate where he was spoken to like an adult and treated like one.
It was incredibly lonely, even if he was constantly surrounded by people. But it wasn’t like they were there to just let him be a child, no. He had to train, to be on his best behaviour, had to learn so many things a child shouldn’t have to learn, only because he was born with the Six Eyes.
Luckily he had Shoko and Geto back when he started high school. They were always there for him, though they weren’t quite you, they were absolute crackheads in their own way. And he loved them for it.
After high school it went quite different, obviously. Losing Geto to his ideals and Shoko being more reserved in nature—sure he could still go to her, but she also changed. A lot. And he just doesn’t want to burden her even further.
So it’s been just him since the second year, too. And yes he can still annoy people—such as Ijichi, Yaga and Nanami—but he never got quite close to anyone, either.
So the fact that you didn’t have any friends either sends a small pang through his chest. Trying to alleviate the mood, he chuckles a bit, “What, like, people didn’t wanna be friends with you because you stole their food and drew on them?”
“No I just… I mean in the beginning I was missing you so incredibly much, I was constantly crying, not even trying to make new friends because, y’know, you were my friend and I had just lost you in a way. After that I kinda became the ‘transfer who cried the whole time’ so people avoided me.”
If he didn’t feel bad before, he certainly does now. He can’t imagine how hard it is to have your life completely turned upside down at the bright age of six, only to not have any friends either.
“Not that it really mattered back then, it’s not like I spoke the language, so even any attempts of having a friend flew out of the window. And after that I just, I dunno, didn’t want any friends, I guess.” You shrug your shoulders, trying to be nonchalant about all of it.
Well that’s fucking sad, isn’t it? Here you are, trauma dumping onto the one person who has offered you a place to stay while you’re in japan—sure he kinda roped you into it by immediately giving you a teachers position, but still—being generous even while he didn’t have to.
“But don’t worry about it, I’m completely fine this way!” you quickly add, hoping that he didn’t feel too sorry for you. That’s not something you want.
Looking down, you see that your ice cream has melted into a sad puddle of pink goo. Standing up, you can see Gojo startle a bit, you reach over to pluck his bowl right out of his lap. He was almost done eating it, so there isn’t much melted ice cream left in his bowl.
“Well, this looks fucking sad, I’ll clean these up!” You practically sprint toward the kitchen to get away from the awkward tension that’s in the air.
Setting the bowls down in the sink with a clank! you close your eyes for just a second. Of course this would happen right where he could hear. He probably thinks you’re a freak for even being like this.
The days after are awkward to say the least. You’ve noticed Gojo hovering less and less around you, often times choosing to actually just do things for himself, instead of watching you.
He hasn’t made any comments on your excessive cleaning, either. You’ve cleaned the kitchen three times in the past two days, and even when you were on your hands and knees, scrubbing the floor, did he only look at you for a second or two before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and going back to whatever he was doing before.
Whenever the two of you go to the school, he also doesn’t watch you spar anymore. He either gets to sparring with one of the students himself, or he bounces off to his office, telling you that he has some paperwork to catch up to.
While you don’t doubt he has paperwork—he definitely has, a lot of it too—he has told you he absolutely hates doing it. Most of the times he would just tell Ijichi to do it for him while he did other stuff. So it’s glaringly obvious that he’s avoiding you.
Gojo, in the meanwhile, can’t get over the conversation the two of you had a few days ago. He really has been your only friend all of your life, and here he was mad at you for abandoning him, and only thinking you were back in his life to off him.
In a way he feels fucking guilty for it. Not trusting you for four months, despite you never giving him any reason not to. The only thing you ever did was move away, but that wasn’t your decision, so why was he so mad at you?
Sure, you could’ve came back earlier—much earlier—but you had been doubting he even wanted you back in his life, which he can understand.
So he has been giving you some space for yourself. Stopped hovering around you constantly, watching your every move. Stopped doubting that you were in his life for bad reasons.
And apparently the students noticed as well, because not ten minutes after he went to sit down in his office chair, the door slams open. A very irritated Nobara and a more enthusiastic Yuji standing beside her in the threshold.
“So you finally realised that you’re in love with her or something?” Nobara asks, while stalking over to claim the only other seat in the office—a big, luxurious chair that swallows her whole.
Yuji calmly closes the door and walks over to where his classmate is sitting. “You’ve been kinda avoiding her these past few days, sensei.”
Seems like his personal business can’t stay personal with these two. He should’ve expected as much, honestly, from the moment they asked if he had a thing for you. Though they never asked him anything about it afterward, he’s sure they still watched him like a hawk.
Rubbing his hands over his face, he lets out a long, suffering sigh. Because what the fuck is he even supposed to say to that? They don’t even know that the two of you are childhood best friends, by his choice, really.
“I’m just trying to find her a birthday gift,” is what he says instead. Which definitely was the wrong thing to say, seeing the way Nobara’s eyes light up. Shit.
“You could’ve just said so, now move—” she plucks the iPad right out of his hands, screen lighting up on the last tab he had open. “—what the fuck, Gojo?”
That certainly attracts Yuji’s attention, looking down at the screen, he furrows his brows. “Why are you trying to buy Tamagotchi’s?”
“It’s a joke gift, you guys wouldn’t understand— gimme it back,” Nobara holds the iPad out of reach, tapping things into the tablet without once looking at Gojo.
“Well, whatever, if you want her to be turned off by your gift, go for it. As for a normal gift, what about this?” She turns the screen back toward Gojo. Looking it over, he sees two dog beds for a ridiculous price, not that he cares much about that, he has more money than he can ever spend, but still.
It’s thoughtful, to be completely honest, and not something he would’ve came up with himself. With the way there are multiple dog beds that are strewn all over his apartment, he would’ve never thought to get you new ones. But when he thinks about the beds, they are quite old, torn in some places, stuffing flat.
“Oh, oh! And maybe you could get like a small gift basket filled with sweets. She likes those right? She’s always snacking on something,” Yuji adds, bouncing slightly in place, faded rose tufts moving with the motion.
Yeah that does sound good. And something you would absolutely love, considering you still have the same sweet-tooth you had when you were younger.
“Okay, okay. I’ll get her that, now go back to whatever the two of you were doing before coming here to lecture me on gifts,” he shoos them out of the door. Just before he closes it, he can hear Nobara yell a ‘Don’t fuck this up’ over her shoulder.
Closing the door, he lets his head rest against it for a few seconds. Yeah, this is absolutely going to be either a fail or an absolute win, and he has no idea which of the two it’s gonna be.
Two weeks later, he's anxiously sitting at the dining table—somewhere he never sits—fiddling with the plastic wrap around the gift basket, the sound of it crinkling is the only sound filling the room other than the dogs their breathing and occasionally shifting.
Toru had been trying to play with him earlier, dropping a ball in front of his feet, only for Satoru to not even notice it. He’s so nervous—and for what? It’s just your birthday. Twenty-nine. No big deal. Not your ‘milestone’ thirty everyone keeps talking about.
So why is he so nervous right now?Maybe it has to do with the fact that this is the first time he’s spending your birthday with you since you turned five. Yes, you were there on his sixth birthday, but you were only five—almost six—back then.
He’s done breathing exercises. Him. Gojo Satoru. The Strongest. Had done breathing exercises because he was nervous to give gifts to his best friend… childhood best friend? just friends? Whatever.
He’s never, and I mean never, been this nervous before. He’s had to face death when he was merely sixteen years old. He had to kill his best friend when he was twenty-eight. But none of those made him as nervous as he is right now.
Bouncing his knee while sitting, trying to sit still until you finally woke up. He’s been sitting here since the bright and early hour of five a.m. Getting the gifts ready for you, but right now he’s regretting that decision, because it means having to wait god knows how long for you to wake up.
It’s ridiculous, really. Trying to keep calm while he still has to actually give you the gifts, and what if you don’t like them? What if you laugh at him? Or maybe scold him?
He’s spiraling, but luckily not for long because a wet nose presses itself against his palm. Looking down, he sees Toru staring at him with narrowed eyes. Scratching him behind the ear, Satoru tries to focus himself on the dog.
He rolls the ball into the living room, the dog prancing after it, nails making soft click click click sounds against the hardwood floors. Coming back, he drops the saliva soaked ball in Satoru’s awaiting hand.
With a grimace he throws the ball once more, wiping his hand on his sweats. The fabric darkening where he wipes off the drool. You’d think for shadow constructs that they wouldn’t have any saliva, but they do, apparently. Which is interesting, because they don’t really have any other ‘normal’ dog things.
They don’t need to eat nor drink—though you insist on feeding them occasionally and putting out water bowls that just… sit there and never get used—nor do they have to be walked. Sure they love to run around, Toru moreso than Kuroo, but that’s something they already do in the apartment.
Speaking of, the black dog stands up, stretching herself, hairs raising slightly. “Oooohhh, biiigg stretch,” the words leave his mouth before he even realises it.
He has to blink a few times when he realises he said that. It’s something you tell the dogs when they stretch out, acting as if they’re actual dogs and not just Shikigami.
Looks like you’re rubbing off on him.
When Satoru finally hears your door open fifteen minutes later, he sits up straight. You’re walking out, one hand in your hair, scratching your scalp slightly while still yawning.
“G’morning,” you mumble, walking directly to the kitchen. But Gojo doesn’t even hear it, because all he can focus on is your pajamas, if you can even call them that.
A tank top that has ridden up dangerously high, so much so it’s bunched around your ribs—something you seem completely unaware of—and the shorts. God, can he even call them shorts? Your ass is nearly hanging out of the thing.
There’s so much skin, which definitely doesn’t help when you bend over to grab a pan from the cupboards. His entire brain just… shuts off. It only seems to turn back on when the pan clanks! onto the furnace.
Clearing his throat he stands up. “Morning. I- you- fucking hell, happy birthday to you!” he almost fucking cheers. You look over at him, eyebrows furrowed, still fiddling with the knob to turn on the furnace. “That’s today?”
That makes him sweat just slightly. Did he remember the date wrong? Fuck, is today even your birthday? He’s sweating over here, trying to figure out if it really is your birthday, while you’re whispering under your breath.
Did you really forget your own birthday? Surely not. Then again, you don’t really celebrate it. Your parents send you a text and come over whenever they can with some gifts, but other than that, you don’t really pay any mind to it.
Patting your shorts, you’re trying to allocate your phone, whichhhh is probably still under your pillow. Giving up on trying to get the furnace to work, you run to the bedroom, trying to find your phone, hand wildly patting underneath your pillow.
When you finally find the thing, you swipe it open, only to be met with two texts from your parents. It is your birthday!
Going back inside, you see Gojo stand a bit awkwardly in the middle of the room. Kuroo brushes her head against your bare leg, the soft strands of her fur tickling you slightly.
“Thank you, Gojo,” you thank him, though it’s slightly awkward after running out of the room after he congratulated you.
“I got you presents.” Stepping to the side, you finally see that there are a few boxes on the table—one massive one, a smaller one, and a basket wrapped in plastic wrap. Blinking, you’re trying to process the fact that Gojo had bought you presents.
Is this why he has been avoiding you? When the two of you were children he was terrible at keeping secrets. Whispering all excitedly to you about what he had gotten you, only to clasp a hand over his mouth, eyes widening, when he finally realised he shouldn’t have told you your present.
It always made you laugh to see those blues widening significantly. You didn’t care much for surprises, as long as you knew the gift came from Gojo, it would be all right.
“You didn’t have to,” you say softly, still eyeing the gifts on the table. Gojo just grins and walks behind you, nudging you slightly. “Go on, open them.”
Looking back at him, he gives you a small encouraging nod. Walking forward, you start with the big gift. Opening it, you’re met with two new, luxurious dog beds. The quality feels like it’s expensive. They’re big enough for the dogs to comfortably sleep in, and the bedding itself is soft as fuck.
Gojo sees you carefully lift one of the beds, turning it this and that way, inspecting it, before putting it on the ground. Toru, of course, prances over and sniffs the bed once before tilting its head your way. When you nod, he lets himself flop onto the bed, white fur splaying out against the gray fabric.
A small smile graces your face. Grabbing the other dog bed, you lay it down for Kuroo, who is a bit more careful. She steps onto the bed, makes a small circle, before finally going to lay down. She doesn’t huff when doing so, which Gojo considers as a win.
Then you go to grab the gift basket. There are multiple snacks in there, along with a few things he’s seen you buy over the months you’ve been living here or have been mentioning. A small bracelet you saw during one of the missions with the kids. Perfume you always wished to have, but never had the money for. Some scrubs he sees you buy from time to time.
Smiling, you rip the plastic away. “This is so sweet, Gojo, thank you,” you smile all cute at him over your shoulder, before looking back down to the gifts. Opening the box with the bracelet, you fucking gasp.
“I can’t accept this, do you know how expensive that thing was?!” you turn around, box still open with the bracelet neatly laid out for you.
“Yes you can, c’mhere,” he murmurs, moving forward to pluck the box right out of your delicate fingers.
Grabbing the bracelet, he angles your wrist down a bit so he can put it on for you. The sunlight hitting the silver pendant just so that it glints. You touch the bracelet with reverent fingers. “Thank you,” you murmur, looking up at Gojo through your lashes.
His throat bobs when he swallows, looking down at you—having to keep his eyes from wandering lower, because he can look riiiight into your top from this angle—stepping back slightly. “You’re welcome.”
After a few more seconds of eye-contact, you sift through the basket again. All the sweets he got you were really what you liked, and not necessarily him. Fuck, it’s really thoughtful.
Opening a box of strawberry mochi, you hold one out for him to grab. His long fingers brushing yours in the process. “Sweets for breakfast?” it’s not like he cares much, shoving the sweet right into his mouth.
Laughing you take a bite for yourself. Dusting your fingers off, you grab some of the snacks and put them on the table. “Be right back.”
He sees you walk to your room, which makes him smile. Sure, you were chaos—and there are times where it shines through even nowadays—but if it’s one thing you did, it was cleaning up your gifts. Whenever you got a gift, you put it in its rightful place before continuing to open the rest of them.
It never made sense to his young mind, but then again, many things you did didn’t.
When you come back, you eye the small gift left on the table. Grabbing it you unbox it, only to be confused. In the box was a tiny egg-like device.
“You got me a Tamagotchi?” you ask him, turning the thing around around a few times to really confirm it is in fact a Tamagotchi. Gojo grins, putting his hands in the pockets of his sweats, rocking on his heels a little. “Mhmmm.”
“Why?” you ask, finally looking at him, and that grin on his face tells you he’s up to no good. “You remember when your mom called you?”
Of course you remember that, she had said some things you’d rather not have Gojo known, but alas, the damage was done already. Nodding your head he continues.
“Well, since you wanted to get married to me sooo bad, I just wanted to make your wish come true!” He pulls out a similar looking device from his pocket, dangling the little keychain from his finger, grin widening and eyes crinkling with the motion.
You stare at him for a few more seconds, completely dumbfounded. “Let me get this straight. You got me a Tamagotchi because you heard my mother say that I had told her that I would only ever marry you—so she would stop setting me up for blind dates—so our little Tamagotchi’s can get married?”
Gojo gins and nods his head, the hairs on his head bouncing with the motion. “Mhmmmm, I just wanted to make your dream come true.”
One second he’s grinning down at you, the next he gets a pillow to the face. When the fuck did you even get a pillow? And one from your bed nonetheless. Blinking disorientated, he looks at you for a few seconds. Then sees Kuroo sitting next to you, her tail wagging onto the ground.
Oh. Oh, it’s so on. A small chuckle escapes him, “Oh sweetheart, you have no idea what you’ve done.”
With that he moves towards you faster than you can even process. Wraps his arms around your waist and carries you to the couch. You keep hitting him with the pillow, over and over and over, squealing slightly while you kick your legs in his grip.
“Satoru Gojo, put me down right now!” you demand, still hitting him with the pillow.
“As you wish!” He all but throws you onto the couch. Bouncing slightly you blink up at him, questioning what he’s even gonna do, when you see his fingers start to creep towards your sides.
“Don’t you dare— Satoru I’m serious,” you warn him while pointing your finger at him.
He thinks it’s adorable, honestly; your little finger wagging in his face like that’s going to stop him from tickling you. It’s one of the weaknesses you’ve had since you were young. Ticklish as fuck, whereas Gojo could be tickled and he would not react. At all.
Your laughter echoes through the apartment, trying to squirm away from his fingers digging into your sides. Gojo chuckles at the fucking torture he’s putting you through, there are tears gathering in your eyes and your sides are starting to hurt.
“Ah- okay okay, enough,” when he still doesn’t stop, you call in for drastic measures. “Kuroo, Toru, attack!”
The dogs immediately ‘attack’ Satoru—Toru biting on the fabric of his sweats, trying to get him away while Kuroo tries to, delicately, grab ahold of Satoru’s wrist to get his hand off you.
The tickling finally stops. Taking greedy gulps of air, Satoru slumping over you, pulling a small groan from your chest. “That’s cheating,” he whines. Then looks over at the dogs and whispers: ‘betrayal, after all I did for you guys’.
Nudging the tall, white-haired guy that’s still half sprawled over your torso like a corpse, you smile at him. “Thanks, for the gifts. And remembering.”
“Always.”
You open Satoru’s bedroom door without knocking. It’s something you really should start learning to do, because if you did, you probably wouldn’t be met with this sight.
You’re not sure what reaches your brain faster, the way Satoru is laid out on his bed, all naked. Fist pumping his ridiculously large cock, with a pretty pink tip and multiple veins running along the shaft. Pre cum is beading out of the head, which he smears down with each pump of his hand. His head is thrown back slightly, teeth sunken into his plush bottom lip, eyes hooded and focused on his phone.
Or the way his phone is cradled in his free hand, screen facing him, the light illuminating everything you can see. The speakers letting the pornographic moans echo through the space.
Satoru looks over at you, still frozen in the doorway, mouth open—not sure if it’s because you’re shocked or because you were on the verge of saying something and the words never made it out.
His hand never stops stroking. up and down, up and down, up and down, up and— stop looking at it. You shake yourself out of your stupor, feeling your cheeks heat up completely.
“Sorry!” you squeak out, ready to turn on your heel and go back to your own room. You feel so stupid.
Should’ve knocked. Should’ve closed the door the moment you saw what was happening. Should’ve just waited until next morning.
You’ve taken one step back when Satoru call out. “Wait. Stay, please?” his voice is breathy, a groan tears from his throat next when he thumbs over his own slit. Looking over your shoulder, you try to keep your eyes on his face.
The way his mouth is slightly parted, chest heaving with every ragged breath he takes. The flush on his face continues all the way down to said chest. Eyebrows furrowed slightly.
Swallowing you take another step back. leave leave leave, just leave. You must’ve heard him wrong. just. leave. Reaching for the door handle, you want to shut the door behind you. Once again Satoru speaks up, eyes still completely fixed on you. “Please?” he pleads.
Chewing on your lip you contemplate it for a second before you step into the room. It feels wrong. It is wrong. This is your friend—your best friend. You shouldn’t do this, having read too many stories about people losing their best friends after hooking up with them.
But… are you hooking up with him? Technically you’re watching him, not that that’s any better. Watch the way his hand slides up and down his shaft, occasionally squeezing at the base. Watch the way his pupils are blown wide with lust.
“Good girl,” Satoru breathes out, and your thighs clench on instinct. Fuck. Never in your wildest dreams would you have thought this would actually happen.
Without realising your hand finds your clit over your sleeping shorts, a small gasp leaving your lips at the contact. Then you freeze, eyes blown wide.
Were you really about to touch yourself while looking at how your best friend is jerking himself off? Fuck you’re a perv.
Gojo groans at the sight, throwing his head back slightly. His hips lift from the matrass, meeting his hands with desperate thrusts. “Fuck, touch yourself for me,” he almost whines the words out, pausing the porn video he was previously watching and throwing his phone somewhere on the bed. He pats the bed next, inviting you in.
Gulping you walk over, tentatively putting a knee on the matrass. Then your other, before you’re seated on the bed on your knees. Feet under your butt, hands laying limp in your lap. Gnawing on your lower lip, you look at Satoru.
From here you can clearly see his face, illuminated by the sliver of moonlight the curtains let through. You can see his eyes fully now. See the way there’s only a small, thin ring of blue left. Pupils completely blown out and focused on you.
His eyes travel from your own face down to your pajamas—a small tank top and shorts that shouldn’t even be able to be classified as shorts—eyes lingering on the way your nipples poke through the top. He licks his lips at the sight, fucking his fist a bit faster. More pre spilling out.
Fuck, how he wishes he could just wrap his lips around them. Teeth grazing the sensitive nubs—have you cry out in pleasure. Another groan leaves his throat.
“C’mon, sweetheart, touch yourself for me,” he repeats. Because god, the way you were about to do it from watching him jerk off, it turned him on so incredibly much more than the amateur porn he was watching on his phone.
He had a bad habit of searching up videos where the girl resembled you. It was the only way he could cum after you came back in his life—he realised that after trying to search for one of his favorite videos, and just couldn’t get hard. At all.
Until he stumbled upon a video where the girl vaguely resembled you. His dick instantly twitched at the sight, reminding him of how embarrassingly hard he got whenever you bent over to grab something from the floor, or the lower cupboards. Or when you’d come out of your room in sleepwear that really shouldn’t be called sleepwear.
Seeing you hesitate makes him speak up again. “Want me to beg? I’ll do it— please touch yourself—fffuckk—for me,” he squeezes his tip, before returning to pumping his shaft. And that snaps you out of it.
You shyly put your legs in front of you, thighs slightly parted. And Gojo can see the small, wet patch starting to form on the crotch of your short’s fabric. Next you shimmy out of them and— “Not wearing any panties? Dirty girl.”
It makes your skin heat up even more, because you never thought that not wearing any panties would lead to this. Putting your middle finger on your clit, you apply slight pressure. Gasping out, your hips lift slightly.
Your finger drops down to your soaked entrance next. You circle it with the pad of your finger, not once daring to dip inside, just circling it, catching your slick on your finger before bringing it back up to your clit.
Circling the sensitive bundle of nerves, you suck in a shaky breath, chest stuttering with it. Your thighs close slightly, before you force them open again. Looking over you can see Gojo’s eyes transfixed on your fingers.
You can feel your hole clench around nothing, more slick gushing out of you. And how you wish it were his fingers on you—on your clit, on your thighs, inside of you. Your free hand travels up to your breast, pinching your nipple through the fabric.
Whining out you throw your head back, before your fingers glide from your clit to your entrance. Sinking one finger in, you bite on your lower lip. Gojo groans at the sight of your finger disappearing into your tiny hole.
How he wishes it was his finger being hugged by your tight, wet, warm, walls. He wishes he could feel them clench on his digits, wish he could scissor you open—make you cry out at how much thicker and longer his fingers were compared to yours.
His hand matches your rhythm, the way you’re thrusting in and out. In and out, in and out, in and out. He can feel his lower stomach starting to contract. Abs tensing up. But he wants to wait for you to cum as well. Wants to cum at the same time.
“Add another finger,” he groans out. And you do just that, adding a second finger with a small gasp falling from your lips. It almost tips him over the edge. The two of you work in tandem, hands and fingers moving in the same speed. Hoping—wishing you could feel the other.
The room fills with sounds—ragged breaths, the shlick shlick shlick from both your fingers plunging into your wet pussy, and from Gojo’s hand pumping its shaft. The knot in your stomach tightening with the seconds, getting warmer and warmer.
The hand that was pinching and rolling your nipple between your fingers falls down to your pussy, circling your clit. “Close,” you gasp out. Gojo doesn’t reply, just moves his hand a bit faster, until finally white spurts of cum dribble down his hands.
You follow him seconds after, eyes rolling to the back of your skull. The knot in your stomach finally snapping, sending you into an blinding orgasm. Legs snapping shut, trapping both your hands between them and your pussy. Thighs trembling.
Coming down from your high, you look over at Satoru, who looks utterly blissed out. There’s cum on his hand, thighs, abs, and even some on the matrass. He’s giving himself a few more strokes, cum dribbling down from his slit with some after spurts.
Removing your fingers from your heat, you look around awkwardly. There’s cum dribbling down your fingers, but you don’t want to just wipe them off on Satoru’s duvet.
Before you can even scoot off the bed to go clean yourself up, Satoru is suddenly in front of you— still in his full, naked glory. Skin flushed and shiny with sweat, still dragging in breaths like he sprinted a full marathon.
You open your mouth to ask him what he’s doing, but the words die out instantly. Satoru wraps his lips around your fingers and suuuucks your juices right off them. His tongue swirling around them. His eyes rolling to the back of his skull while he hums around your digits. You slightly jerk your hand back, before he grabs your wrist to keep them in place.
Once he’s done cleaning your fingers, he licks a broad stripe from your fingers all the way down to your wrist, where slick is dripping down.
You can feel your eyes go wide, mouth parting slightly. The sight is ungodly—or rather godly. The pale moonlight shining on Satoru makes his stark white hair stand out even more, his skin pale skin illuminated by the white light.
Satoru’s eyes find yours—pupils still blown wide, a bit hazy—while he licks one last stripe up your palm, collecting the last of your sweetness. The sight makes you feel parched, swallowing nervously you bite on your lip, unsure of what to do.
Pulling his head from your hand, he winks at you while his tongue swipes over his lips. Your eyes flitting to them like a moth to a flame. And you wonder—not for the first time—what it’s like to feel them on yours. What it would feel like kissing your best friend.
“You taste so sweet,” he rasps out, pulling you from your thoughts. Staring at him with wide eyes you open your mouth to say something—probably something stupid—when he beats you to it. “‘Wonder what it’s like straight from the source.”
You gasp at that, thighs clenching. You feel your pussy throb for him, as if it has a little heartbeat of its own. A fresh wave of sweetness dribbling out at his words. Gojo’s eyes immediately are drawn toward the action, a slow grin forming on his face.
“Oh? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweets,” he’s smug. His pearly whites catching the moonlight, making him even more attractive. Fuck. Yes, you would like that. Have him buried between your legs, staring up at you while he makes you feel good. Have your hands grip his hair. Thighs wrapped around his head.
He sees you nod your head, a shy, quick little thing. Your whole face is burning up from your cheeks to the tips of your ears down your neck toward your chest. It makes him wonder if it continues all the way to your tits, still covered in that damn tank top.
That wouldn’t do now, would it?
Leaning back, he goes to lay down onto his back, still looking at you. “What- what are you doing?” you ask him, voice fully confused. And god, if it doesn’t do things to him.
“Want you to ride my face,” he replies, looking over at you before grabbing your thighs and moving them for you.
You’re straddling his chest, thighs bracketing him, pussy dripping. The sight is absolutely filthy—something he could only ever dream of since you got back into his life.
The only thing that would be better was if that damn top was finally gone. Your pebbled nipples taunting him through the fabric.
Running his hands up and down your thighs, feeling you shiver, he runs his hands up to your waist, fingers brushing the hem. “Off,” he orders.
Gulping you comply with him, pulling it over your head and throwing it somewhere across the room. Your tits bounce with the motion, finally freed of the constricting fabric. A low, guttural groan pulls from Gojo’s throat at the sight. God, aren’t you beautiful. Fully naked on top of him, eyes blown wide looking into his own.
Yeah, he could get used to this. His hands travel up to your breasts, giving them a quick squeeze that has you gasping out, before they travel down and hook onto your thighs once more. He pulls you to hover over his face, your puffy, glistening lips right above his own. His eyes zeroing in on it, unconsciously licking his lips at the sight.
You grab the headboard behind his head, lowering yourself slightly when he nods at you—not fully seated, still hovering, thighs straining slightly. Which is apparently the wrong choice when a firm slap lands on your ass.
“Sit.” There’s no room for debate, no room for you to even stammer out a reply when Satoru pulls you down completely. You arch when you feel his tongue swipe one broad stripe from your fluttering hole all the way to your clit. “F-fuck, Satoru,” you mewl out, grip tightening on the headboard.
Both his hands grip your hips, keeping you slightly in place, before he begins to fully lap at your cunt. He wraps his lips around your bundle of nerves and suuucksss. Your thighs tightening around his head with a small gasp.
Satoru groans out, pressing his tongue into you. Your warm walls clamping down on the muscle immediately. Wriggling his tongue around, he starts slowly tongue-fucking you. The act so filthy, you can’t help but keen out.
One hand leaves the headboard, tangling into his moonlit white hair. It shimmers slightly in the light, making it all that more alluring to grab onto.
His own hand travels up from your hip to the underside of your boobs. His thumb resting there for a moment before continuing upward, fingers finding your hardened peak. Twisting and pulling at it, his tongue leaves your entrance, finding your clit again. He suckles and laps at the nub while still stimulating your nipple.
Your hips grind down onto his face, smearing more of your slick over the lower part of his face. A firm slap to your behind has you gasping out and tightening your hold in his locks. “That’s it, fuck yourself on my tongue. ‘S alll yours,” he mutters into your cunt, blue eyes finding yours.
The vibrations have you moan out. Hips resuming their grind on his face, your other hand joins his hair keeping his face in place for you. Your clit grazes his nose and fuckkkkk. Whimpering you throw your head back.
Closing his eyes, he savors the way you use him. Savors the way you grind down on his face. Savors the way you grip his hair, cock stirring where it’s resting on his stomach, pre beading out slowly, head fully flushed. Savors your taste, a forbidden type of nectar he already knows he won’t get enough of.
His hands grip your ass, encouraging the slow, filthy grinds on his face. So into it, he doesn’t notice one of your hands left his hair until it touches his abs lightly. Opening his eyes he sees you above him; breasts moving with the motion, lip swollen from biting down on it, eyes hazed over.
Then he feels your hand wrap around his cock, giving it a firm tug and he hisses into your mound. The grinds of your hips returning, timing it with the way you’re slowly starting to move your hand on his cock. “Fuck, baby,” he rasps out, hips thrusting up to meet your fist. “Wait—fuck—turn around.”
You still above him before letting go of his shaft and positioning yourself above him once again. Leaning forward you wrap your hand around him again while his tongue finds your clit once more.
Sticking out your tongue, you lick up the pre that’s slowly running down his shaft. From the base allll the way up to his slit. Wrapping your lips around the flushed head, you slowly begin to bob your head, up and down, up and down, fisting what you can’t reach.
Cheeks hollowed out his tip reaches the back of your throat, making you gag. Gojo’s hips lift at the feeling, making you take more of him in. Your throat constricts around him.
Pulling off him, a strand of saliva connects the two of you. Your hips grinding back against his tongue that worms itself into your heat once more. Moaning you go back to your own demonstrations, tongue slowly swirling around his tip, flicking against his frenulum, having him keen out into your cunt.
Taking him down down down, all the way until your lips hit the base, pubes scratching your chin slightly. Breathing through your nose, you keep yourself down there for one, two, three heartbeats before pulling back up again.
Spit gathers at the bottom of his shaft, slowly dribbling down his balls. It’s incredibly messy, your hand getting slicker by the second, jerking him all the way from his base up to his head, swirling your thumb around the slit a few times.
At the same time you feel two thick digits enter you, your hips bucking back on them, pulling a small chuckle from Gojo. “Oh fuckkkk,” you moan out once they start to move inside of you, reaching much further than your own had just minutes earlier.
Temporarily forgetting about the heavy weight in your hand, you begin to grind back, hips moving on their own accord. Never would you have thought you would feel this good from just having fingers inside of you—scissoring you open.
Your eyes roll back when he hits a particular spot inside of you. “There- there, please Gojo,” you all but moan out when he curls his fingers inside of you, trying to find the spot again. Your hips jump a bit when he finds it again, and his arm tightens on your waist draaagging you back down onto his face.
“Where are you going, baby? Can’t even give my cock any attention and you’re trying to run from my fingers?” He all but pulls you down on his face again, having you seated on there, nose nudging his fingers while his buttery soft tongue circles your clit once more, giving it a playful nip while lifting his hips.
It’s then that you remember to go back to your demonstrations, cock heavy and throbbing in your hand. Cheeks hollowing out while the tip prods the back of your throat once more. Your other hand coming down to fondle with his balls, slick with a mix of saliva and pre.
You can feel that familiar pressure start to build up in your lower stomach, chasing that feeling, you begin to suck harder, throating him completely.
“Fuck- oh fuck fuck fuck, thaaat’s it, take it all down that pretty throat of yours, letting me fuck you,” Gojo starts babbling into your cunt, vibrations sending you nearly over the edge.
You force yourself down here, saliva dripping down the sides of your mouth and chin with the effort. Your eyes starting to get all teary, and throat constricting around him.
You’re gushing around his fingers when they hit that spot inside of you once more, sending you over the edge, liquid spraying down his face—which he drinks up with greedy gulps, pulling his fingers out of you only to replace with his lips, catching everything he can.
Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you move your mouth back up until only the tip remains in your mouth, lips stretched around his girth.
And it sends him over the edge, too. Milky seed filling your mouth faster than you can swallow, dribbling down his shaft, in white streaks.
Pulling off him, you cough a few times, cheeks red, a few tears finally running down your cheeks.
Gojo finally removes his lips from your cunt with a pop!, slapping your clit lightly once. “Good girl, did so good for me, c’mhere.”
He turns you around, and his lips find yours, and you want to protest—try to—that there’s still cum on your lips, but it seems like he doesn’t mind—in fact, he’s lapping it all up, tongue tracing your lips.
Fuck, that’s hot.
Parting for air you look at him, look at the way his hair is all messed up from where your hands were tugging at it, the lower part of his face shiny with slick, lips pink and swollen and his eyes completely blown out.
Shifting slightly, you feel it then— “You’re hard again, already??” Gojo just grins, pearly whites catching the faint moonlight that’s bleeding through the curtains. “Can you blame me? Your pretty cunt is addicting, sweets.”
Your hips roll down onto it, once, twice, head catching your clit with each movement. Small gasps leaving your mouth every time it does.
Gojo’s hands move to your hips, not moving you in any way whatsoever, just holds onto them and lets you use him. Have your way with him the way you want to.
Then he turns the two of you around, the sudden movement making you gasp out. Eyes widening while you look up at him. Your hair splayed out on the pillow like a small halo, framing your face so prettily.
He moves his hips a few times, tip catching your entrance once, making you moan out. “You sure you want this?” he breathes out, staring at you. “Mhmmm, want you inside of me s’toru.”
Fuck, that does it for him. Wrapping his hand at the base, he glides his shaft through your puffy lips a few times, before finally starting to push in. The stretch is obscene, even after having him scissor you open. After two orgasms.
Pushing in slowly, he has to stop a few times, forehead dropping to your sternum, letting himself rest there a little. He’s not even all the way inside yet, but the way you keep clenching makes his hips stutter.
Your hands claw at his back, leaving behind angry red lines in their wake. It feels like you’re being split in half with how big he is. You had him in your hand, in your mouth, lips stretched around his girth, in your throat, but it still feels different.
“Are-are you all the way in yet?” you breathe out when he stills, soft strands tickling your throat while he peppers your skin with kisses. “Naaahhh, nowww—” He buries himself to the hilt, hips flush against yours. “—I am.”
Pulling them back, he thrusts forward again. Moans falling from your lips at the feeling. One of your legs wraps itself around his waist, pulling him in even further. Your eyes rolling to the back of your head with the new angle.
Your bracelet clinks softly with each thrust, pendant catching the moonlight. “You feel so good wrapped around my cock, letting me use you.” he groans out, leaning down to wrap his lip around your nipple.
Climax building, you can feel that familiar feeling tightening in your stomach. “Close,” you gasp out, fingers digging into his shoulders.
Without any warning, Satoru grabs both your thighs and presses them aaaalll the way downnn until they’re flushed against your chest. The new angle has you gasping out, his tip constantly hitting your cervix like this.
your hands claw at his arms, trying to find purchase onto something, and he hisses out at the small, red lines your nails leave behind, his grin returning tenfold. “Thaaat’s it, wifey, mark me up, show them I’m yours.”
You blink at him, opening your mouth to ask him what he means when he thrusts in, reaching impossible depths no one has ever explored before, making you moan out instead. Your nails dig into his biceps, forming angry little crescents.
“F-fuck, S’toru, you’re so deep!” you whine, tears springing to your eyes when he finds that spongy spot inside of you, your walls clamping down on him.
He notices, of course he does, his eyes trained on where the two of you are connected and— oh! Following his gaze you can see your belly start to bulge every time he bottoms out, the sight ever so sinful.
“Pretty wife, taking me so good,” every word is accentuated with a thrust, hitting your spongy spot over and over again, making you keen out, the first tears starting to roll down the apple of your cheeks. And it’s like a switch turned on in his head.
Leaning forward, he plants his arms right next to your head, his chest caging you in completely, your thighs are stuck between your bodies, trembling and twitching with each trust.
Sticking his tongue out, he liiiicks up the tears that are collecting just at your jaw. Groaning he speeds up, the sinful sound of skin slapping together mixed with moans and groans fills the room completely.
Without so much as a warning, you come around him when he bottoms out once again, his happy trail grazing your clit so sinfully. Throwing your head back you keen out at the sensation, that knot finally snapping inside of you.
Gojo groans out at the sensation. “Coming for me already? Fuck, you look so pretty like this. So mine.” he growls, never once stopping his demonstrations. It makes you dizzy in the best way possible. He leaves open-mouthed kisses all over the column of your throat before he bites down.
The sensation has you gasping out, walls tightening around him once more. Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head, thrusts growing more sloppy with the second, teetering on his own release. “My wife, my pretty wife, you look so good, mine, mine, my pretty wife—”
He’s officially lost it. Not that you’re registering his words any longer, the overstimulation has you keeping out, trying to grab at whatever you can—his arms, shoulders, back, leaving behind marks you’ll have to look at the following morning.
Nodding your head at his babbling, you moan out when his hand snakes between your bodies, pressing down on the bulge of where his cock is buried inside of you. “Feel me there? Gonna fill you up so good, aaallll the way down here.”
You’re barely aware of the fact that you’re once again cumming, toes curling, tummy tingling at the feeling. But Gojo is, of course he is, he’s aware of everything you do. Aware of the tears that are streaming down your face, aware of the way your thighs are trembling under his chest, aware of your cunt trying to milk him for all he’s worth.
“Fffuuuck, yeahhhh you want that dont’cha? Wanna be filled up by me, pumped so full it’s spilling out hours later,” he groans out.
Nodding your head, you loop your arms around his neck. “Yes, yes, please! Please S’toru, wanna be filled. Cum inside of me, please,” you whimper out.
That does it, the next second he’s spilling inside your velvety walls, coating them white. His, his, allll his. Leaning forward, he connects his mouth with yours, tongue invading your mouth. It’s all teeth and tongue.
His thrusts come to a halt, last few drops of cum beading out of him inside of your walls. It driiips out with the amount he’s filling you with, creating a white ring around the base of his shaft, slowly dripping down your bodies—coating his balls, bedsheets and your ass in white.
Coming down, he can feel you play with his undercut, rubbing soothing circles with the other hand. You smile up at him, eyes red-rimmed from the tears, angry red blotches forming on your neck. You look so pretty like this; so his.
He can feel his cock stirring to life inside of you, and from your reaction, you can too, looking down at where the two of you are connected with wide eyes.
“What, thought we were done?” he grins down at you while he slowly rolls his hips into yours. “Told you I was gonna fill you up, ‘ya think I’ll stop after just one?”
Within a second he has flipped you around, his cock leaving your cunt for a second. You yelp, disoriented. Your cheek finds the pillow, arms holding yourself up while he has grabbed your hips. Ass up face down.
For a second he doesn’t do anything, just watches your hole flutter around nothing while his cum bubbles out of you. Then he slaps your ass before lining himself up once more, bottoming out in one swift thrust that knocks the wind out of your lungs.
The pace he sets is brutal; deep, harsh thrusts that make your whole body inch forward thrust by thrust. Luckily Gojo’s holding onto your hips though, pulling them back to meet his hips every time.
“‘Gonna fill all of your holes, have you leaking all day and night,” he grunts out, watching the way your ass ripples with every thrust, your other hole winking up at him.
Hunching over you, he kisses all over your shoulders before nosing the side of your face. Turning around, your mouth finds his once more.
His balls slap your clit over and over, each powerful thrust having you moan out into his mouth.
Disconnecting his mouth from yours, he leans back, quickening his pace. Looking down at you, seeing the way your hair caught the moonlight that’s slipping through the gap in the curtains, leaving a pale streak across your back.
It makes your skin shimmer slightly when it catches your flushed, sweaty skin. Catches the small marks he left behind, almost as if highlighting them for him.
With a particular thrust you whimper out, “There, there. S’toru, fuckk,” you mewl out, hips moving back to meet his thrusts. He focuses his thrusts to keep hitting that spongy spot inside of you, making him groan out when your slick walls tighten around him.
His hand leaves your hip, snaking up to your throat. Grabbing it he lifts your body, your back flush against his chest, his other hand snaking to the front, rubbing your clit. Your back arches, his hips smack smack smacking yours.
“Gonna make you a mommy, have you all round and full,” he’s babbling now, coaxing you through another climax. Your eyes rooollinggg to the back of your skull, drool escaping from your lips in a small, sinful line.
Satoru groans at the way your walls are spasming around him, creaming down his cock, leaving a small white ring around his base. Thighs shaking.
Your entire body is pliant now, melting into him, into the way his beefy arm is still wrapped around your neck, supporting your entire weight while he keeps trusting, not once letting his pace falter.
“You can do one more for me, can’t you,” he growls, and you’re barely aware of what he’s saying. But you nod your head, a small jerky motion. “Yeaaahhh you can. Knew you could, that’s my wifey.”
His hand snakes up to your breasts, kneading and pulling on the hardened buds. “Just imagine these swelling up with milk. Pretty tits leaking.”
He’s completely gone now, babbling to himself. You’re nodding along with whatever he’s saying, not that you’re hearing it. All you can focus on is the way the overstimulation is creeping in, letting you feel every single thing.
A few more thrusts have you thrown over the edge for the fifth time tonight, and it’s dizzying in the best way possible. Your cunt convulsing around him, clear liquid spraying down the bed, and it has his lashes flutter.
“Fuck- oh fuck. That’s it, milk me wifey. Mine, all mine,” he thrusts a few more times before stilling completely. Hot seed spills inside of you, coating your walls white one last time.
He lets the two of you fall forward, his body swallowing yours whole. Every ridge of his abs could be felt on your back, sticky with sweat.
His thumbs find your sides, small kisses on your shoulder. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, voice full of adoration.
You hum, all sleepy and boneless beneath him. Hissing when he finally pulls out, he watches the way his cum seeps from your swollen folds. Entranced by it, two of his fingers scoop it up and push it back inside.
Yelping, you jerk away from his fingers, pulling a small chuckle from his. “Sorry sorry,” He flips the two of you around, pulling your head onto his chest. He rubs a few circles on your shoulder. There’s a small, awkward silence between the two of you.
“Soooo, wanna talk about… that?” your voice is scratchy by the time it comes out. And he only sighs before kissing your temple, then your cheek, then presses a soft peck onto your lips, before finally sitting up. “Mhmmm, but first…”
He scoops you up in his arms, going to stand, and your body reacts to him, completely boneless and melting into him. Even if you wanted to move, you know it isn’t happening. “Where ‘r we going?”
“To the bathroom to get us cleaned up,” opening the door to the bathroom, he turns on the lights before setting you down onto the cold granite of the sink. The contrast between your hot, sweaty skin and the cold granite makes you moan out.
When his body warmth leaves yours—presumably to either turn on the shower or fill up the bath—you make a noise of protest, pulling a small chuckle from his chest.
He comes back not soon after, bath still filling up behind him. His big hands palm your sore thighs, pulling a groan from your mouth, letting your head fall forward against his chest.
“I feel sticky ‘n gross,” you mumble, words getting muffled by his skin. He kisses the top of your head, not once stopping his thumbs from rubbing circles into your thighs that are coated in both your cum. “I know, baby, the bath is almost ready.”
When the two of you finally step in—well he carried you over and lowers you into the water with him—you fully relax against him. He’s seated behind you, thighs bracketing yours, chest pressed against your back.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then he finally starts working on cleaning you up, small cloth in his hand, dipping between the apex of your thighs, carefully brushing against your skin.
You tense up slightly at the feeling, and he immediately stops, peeking over your shoulder at your face. “You okay?”
“Mhmm, s just sensitive,” you whisper back, trying to get your muscles to relax again. “So, wanna talk about what happened?”
Satoru doesn’t respond for a second, just continues cleaning your skin with reverent touches, completely focused on you, on your skin, trying to get you clean in the most gentle way possible—hell, you didn’t even know he could be this soft.
“Technically I didn’t say anything untrue,” he says, still not looking you in the eye. His touch is starting to get a bit more nervous now, like it’s sinking in what he’s said. “We have been married since we were five years old.”
Your head lolls against his shoulder, so you can look up at him. The words are still processing in your mind. Been his wife since the two of you were five? Did he hit his head? Or maybe he’s still so pussydrunk he’s babbling nonsense.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Satoru,” you ask the white haired man behind you—though he looks more like a boy with the way his bottom lip is jutted out and his eyes, that are finally looking back at you, practically sparkling with the way he’s giving you puppy dog eyes.
“You don’t remember the ring pop?” the way he says it, not quite hurt, but not teasing, either, makes you stop for a second. Then a small chuckle pulls from your chest that soon morphs into full blown laughter, the one that makes your sides hurt. “You- you mean the time you ‘proposed’ to me back when we were kids?”
The two of you were only five years old, playing around in the summer sun, chasing each other. There were a few birds that had been chirping, and you and Satoru had been playing for houuuurs on end already.
Sweat was beading down your flushed skin, the summer rays hot and heavy casting down upon the Gojo estate, where the two of you had been running around. At first the two of you had been inside, but then you’d gasped and told him the two of you could go swim!
Satoru obviously agreed with you, nevermind the fact that there wasn’t a pool in the estate—which, honestly, how does one have such a big estate and not have a pool, but alas—he thought the idea sounded so sweet in his mind.
His body was overheating inside, sweating through his tiny shirt. So the two of you went outside with no particular plan in mind other than ‘we’re going to swim’.
Only to be rudely stopped by his caregiver. She told the two of you couldn’t go swimming—and reminded Satoru he didn’t even know how to swim—and to go play in the garden. Sulking the two of you went to play in the garden.
Half an hour later, the two of you were sitting in the shade, gulping down the cold water the caregiver set out for the two of you, with some candy on the table as well. It was one of the few times the two of you got candy after being banned from eating it.
Among the candy, were two ring pops. Your eyes skimmed over the candy, favoring others that were laid out for you, but Satoru’s eyes were attracted to it, remembering something about people who gave each other rings were married. And being married means staying together forever and ever, and that sounded like such a sweet future with you.
Grabbing the ring pop, he slid it around your finger, and you looked quizzically at it before looking over at him. “What’s this, S’toru?”
“It means we’ll get married when we’re older!” He grinned, big and bright and completely boyish. And you had tilted your head at that. “Married?”
Satoru had nodded his head furiously. “Mhmmm, like… like… Oh! like your parents! It means we would live together and— and we can eat all the candy in the world!”
That was the grasp little Satoru had on marriage, and it wasn’t quite wrong, though it wasn’t quite right either, but alas, the two of you had gotten ‘married’ that day—technically it was the promise to get married, but details details.
A laugh pulls from your chest, rippling the water that was starting to cool down. “I do remember. You put a ring pop on my finger and declared we would get married when we got older so we could live together and eat all the sweets we wanted.”
Satoru’s pout turns into a smile, soft and private. Just for you. His fingers are tracing along your body, no longer cleaning you up, just touching.
“Mhmmm. And our Tamagotchi’s got married as well,” he murmurs down at you. And they did get married. At first you’d scowled at him when he ‘proposed’ the idea of them actually getting married, but soon enough you gave into him.
“Most people get down on one knee with an actual ring to propose, y’know. Plus they have been dating for a while before even thinking of marriage,” you tease him, eyes crinkling with how wide your smile is now.
“You want another proposal? Greedy lil thing, aren’t you,” his lips trail down to capture your own for a moment. Returning the kiss, you shift slightly between his legs, trying to get better access to him, only for him to groan out in your mouth.
Disconnecting his lips from yours, he’s breathing heavily, eyes lidded. “Guess we’re gonna have to go ring shopping soon, but first—” his fingers dip between your folds, having you gasp out, eyes widening slightly. “—we have something to celebrate.”
A/N: never, ever, let me make something this long again 😭 I know the jump from the birthday to the smut was quite drastic (yes there was supposed to be a small shock factor, but still), but I just couldn't make myself write more scenes in between. Like this story drained me in the best way possible 🙂↕️ Anyway, if you've made it this far, congratulations and thank you for reading 🫶🏼🤍
geto suguru is everyone’s first crush. having a crush on him is as hopeless as it is inevitable though your friends quickly disagree that the awe-struck, mouth gaping expression is a strictly you thing, and that he isn't as much of a campus celebrity as you believe he is. regardless, you're determined to put your inability to hold a conversation with him in the past. the solution is simple, you seek out his best friend. if geto suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then gojo satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak.
pairing: frat&icehockey!gojo x reader
content: mdni, idiots in love, oblivious reader, baby’s first kiss + virginity taken by same person (satoru ><), suguru as the wingman, a little angst, mostly fluff + crack !! titjob, a little spitting, p in v, degrading, oral, fingering handjob etc etc 37k+
note: happy belated national arabian horse day! this was meant to come out on the 19th but life got in the way... regardless of the day hit up a friend and start beating a dead horse to celebrate!
Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush.
Your friends insist you’re seeing him through some delusional rose-tinted lens and that he is, in fact, not as much of a campus celebrity as you believe him to be. You reject that notion. One look at him from across the room, other party goers be damned, is all it takes to confirm what you already know.
Geto laughs at something one of his friends says, tipping forward slightly as the alcohol softens his movements. You catch the tail ends of his laughter through the thumping bass, the glint of light reflected off his lip piercings when he smiles wide, his hand running through his untied black hair.
It would be as easy as walking up and saying hi to start a conversation. It would be as easy as smiling for him to turn his head and grace you with a smile of his own.
Oh, what you would give to be bathed in his gaze, for that pretty smile to widen at the sight of you. He’d spot you through the crowd, you’d tuck your hair shyly behind your ear and he’d politely excuse himself from his conversation to walk over to introduce himself to this mysterious beauty from across the room.
Shoko makes a noise like she’s strangling herself but when you turn to save her, she’s staring at your face. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”
“What’s wrong? Did I smudge my liner?”
You pull out your phone to check your makeup using the reflection but between the flashing lights and someone’s elbow jutting from your peripheral, you’re only eighty percent sure you don’t look a mess.
Considering you dragged your roommate out to this party last minute, Shoko sips her drink with commendable patience. “Even if you did, that would be the least of your worries. Look, you really don’t have to overthink this. We didn’t just spend all night planning this for you to end up weirding him out with that look in your eye.”
“Shit, that was the rehearsed deer look I was talking about!
“Rehearsed how?
You decisively ignore her. “I just want to do this right.
Her eyes soften slightly. She’s always been weak to your woes. “You will. He’ll love you. If you don’t believe in yourself, believe in me. I promise you I’ve known this guy for years and you’re exactly the type of person he just eats up.”
You think of all your attempts to enter Geto’s world. There's just something mystifying about him, some kind of aura he emits that has you tripping over your tongue and freezing at the worst moments. Your words become stilted, your humour and wit abandoned at every crucial moment, causing you to simultaneously dread talking to him as much as you wished for it.
Shoko turns you to face her, eyes steady in a way yours isn’t. “Are you ready?
You let out a slow breath and attempt to mimic her determination with a single nod.
“Then go find him.”
When you hesitate to even take a single step forward, Shoko gives you a push and then you’re off, legs moving without another thought. The crowd swallows you, bodies brushing past and jolting your shoulders, knocking you here and there. But none of that matters. Not when your heart is already set. Not when determination is the one thing keeping you upright, guiding you closer and closer to the boy who somehow makes a packed, sweaty houseparty fade into background noise
For too long, you’ve let this intoxicating feeling linger, letting it settle deep in your chest, almost convincing yourself that watching from the sidelines was enough. As if anything short of his eyes on you, perhaps even his lips on yours, could quiet the restless longing twisting in your heart. Limerence is what Shoko diagnoses you with, but the word feels too small for the intensity that surges through you every time his name crosses your mind.
Geto appears like a beacon before you, the crowds having finally parted enough for you to catch a good look. The party music transitions to an angelic choir but admitting that is basically affirming Shoko’s concerns that your infatuation is unhealthy, so you quickly refocus. Your heart clenches, pounds against your ribcage, and you only hope the dim lighting will hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. He’s right there, right within reach. All you have to do is say his name.
All you have to do is make him see you.
You take a step forward, mumble an apology to the girl you bumped shoulders with, take another step towards where he’s laughing with a friend—then veer sharply to the right and slip into the kitchen.
If talking to Geto were really as easy as saying hi, you would have done it months ago.
The kitchen is quieter, the bass reduced to a distant, muffled thump and you can finally breathe as the crowd thins. There’s still chatter though significantly more bearable and your eyes fall onto the small cluster of boys within, standing in the near dark.
Your feet instinctively slow but Shoko’s voice in your head tells you that you’ve done too much to stop now and with a deep breath, you step beyond the threshold.
One by one, the group takes notice of you, their rambunctious laughter quietening into soft chuckles as heads pop up to look. It’s not strange for someone to enter the kitchen at a party so the most you get is a head nod in greeting before they return to their conversation.
You reach for a red cup and then for a jug of some mysterious jungle juice.
Unfortunately, the jug sits behind one of the boys. Even worse, it sits behind who you’re really here at the party looking for.
Leaning lazily against the counter and nursing a red solo cup of something strong no doubt, stands Gojo, Geto’s best friend.
If Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then Gojo Satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak.
You can feel the burn of Gojo’s stare as you get close enough to lift the jug and pour, hands trembling slightly. Before you can help yourself, you steal glances from the side of your eye, landing squarely on his shirt specifically at the crude letting that reads ‘Two Seater’, arrows pointing abashedly toward both his crotch and his face.
You look back up immediately. You don’t want to know.
The punch sloshes into your cup, some of it missing due to your shaky hands and you don’t notice until a sticky trickle runs over your fingers. You hastily stop pouring and lick at the mess.
Before you can figure out how to announce your presence, there’s a rush of footsteps and another frat boy appears. Hikari, you think his name was, stands by the kitchen entrance, hair slightly disheveled from his usual style, loud and demanding as he’s always been.
“Hey!” He calls, scanning the room. “You guys need to come see this.
A chorus of half-drunk “what?” and “see what?” answers him like a herd of seagulls.
“In the living room,” he says. “There's two people on the floor and—” He stops, glancing over his shoulder like the situation might escape him if he looks away for too long. “Just hurry up!
His vague words cause curiousity to spread faster than wildfire. The group of boys begin funnelling out of the kitchen, cups still in hand, voices rising with excitement.
“What is it?
“Is it a fight?
“Please tell me it’s a fight.”
“Did someone break something?”
Hikari doesn’t elaborate, instead turning and leaving the kitchen, confident the herd will follow. One friend, Choso if you remember correctly, looks back at Gojo who remains calmly drinking from his cup, still leaning against the counter beside you
“Aren’t you coming, Satoru?”
Gojo shrugs, tipping back the last of his drink. “Nah. You go on ahead.”
Choso hesitates like he wants to ask why, then seems to think better of it.
“Suit yourself,” he mutters, already backing toward the door as someone behind him shoves past with a whoop.
Within seconds, the kitchen drains of bodies.
You’re deathly aware of the warm presence beside you. You inhale deeply and turn, ready to get this over and done with only to find him shamelessly looking at you.
For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, his expression unreadable as he looks you over before his face splits into a lazy grin. “Hey.”
“Hi,” you squeak, immediately reprimanding yourself at the awkward sound.
His smile only grows. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you looking for someone? Or maybe you missed the exit? It’s down the hall to your right.”
“That’s rude.” You cross your arms in an attempt to place distance between the two of you and to maintain a confidence you don’t feel. “I attend parties.”
Gojo huffs and you feel slightly offended. He straightens and steps closer, close enough that his cologne hits you—sharp, expensive, and entirely too much. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen you at one of these before.” His head tilts, regarding you. “How do you even know Sukuna?
For a moment you blank, wondering why he was asking about Sukuna. It hits you then that this party must be his. “Ah. I came with Shoko.”
He hums. “That makes sense. Shoko always did have a habit of collecting strays.
“Excuse me?”
“Not a stray,” he amends lightly at your glare. “More like her lost puppy.”“Just because you’ve only ever seen me when I’m with Shoko doesn’t mean I’m always with Shoko.”
“I was talking more about how you were holding onto her shirt in the crowds earlier. She didn’t bring a leash for you?
“Don’t project your weird kinks onto me.
“Do you often spend time thinking about what weird kinks I might be into?” Thankfully, Gojo lets the topic go before you really do decide to throw it all away and walk out. “But alright, let’s say I believe you and you’re just here for the party. Why are you here in the kitchen, then?”
“What else do people come to parties for? I’m here to drink. And stuff.” You trail off, clearing your throat.
“Really?” He eyes your untouched cup. “Because that’s just juice. The good stuff’s over here.
He steps into your personal space to reach over you to grab a bottle from the top of the fridge and you’re face to face with the gross words on his top. He retracts his arm, bottle in hand, but doesn’t step back. “Want me to pour you one?”
You think back to the last time you let yourself drink under the unwise judgement of Shoko, and how you can only recall glimpses of light and the vague memory of a toilet bowl “It’s fine, I’ve already had a lot to drink.
“Right,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t believe you for a second.
You watch as Gojo pours himself another drink, sipping leisurely, pointedly ignoring the way you’re staring.
Gojo isn’t exactly a stranger, but it’s an overestimation to call him your friend. In truth, he’s Shoko's friend—which means she occasionally drags him back to your shared dorm before disappearing to do whatever it is best friends do. You catch glimpses of him in passing, fleeting and inconsequential, never quite crossing into ‘introduce-yourself’ territory. Why would he? He’s the kind of guy who turns heads without trying, long-limbed, effortlessly confident, wearing the grin of someone who’s never been told no in his life.
Where Geto is soft-spoken and warm, guiding you through conversation with patient smiles and gentle ease, Gojo is loud and vibrant and reckless. There's a challenge in his eyes, a knowing smirk on his lips, like the world is perpetually entertaining and he’s always in on the joke.
You, on the other hand, are about as normal as it gets.
When the silence draws into something a little less casual and far more awkward, you clear your throat. “I’m Y/N by the way.
“I know who you are.”
“You do?”
“Shoko’s roommate, right? We’ve seen each other before. She’s mentioned you too.” He offers a hand, eyes holding yours like he knows you’ll pull away with anything less. “I’m Gojo. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
You go to echo his words, that of course you knew he was the Gojo Satoru but hesitate, settling instead for shaking his hand. His grip is warm and solid, carrying none of the jitteriness you feel. Hell, maybe you should have accepted a drink after all. What is this, a job interview? Why are you shaking his hand?
When you let go, you become painfully aware of how damp your palms are and curse yourself silently.
Gojo picks up on the silence and moves to lean against the counter, mimicking your earlier pose such that his arms are crossed over his chest, only emphasising his biceps in his sleeveless top. “So, Y/N. If you didn’t come in here for a drink, why are you here?”
His words cause you to still. This was it. Every moment in your dorm, huddled around the whiteboard usually reserved for studying, now littered with far less academic plans, Shoko chiming in her own thinkpieces occasionally. It all accumulated to this moment.
“I was looking for you actually. I wanted to talk to you.” Your voice is barely a whisper and humiliation slowly sinks in when he doesn’t answer immediately. Perhaps he didn’t hear you considering you’re speaking to your shoes.
When you finally look up, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gojo slowly tracks his eyes up and down your figure. Finally, he straightens, head tilted slightly. “Talk to me? Alone?"
You nod, and his face breaks into a broad grin.
“I wasn’t expecting that. Not that I hate it,” he purrs, voice dropping into something smoother as he steps closer and curls a loose lock of your hair around his finger. “What did you want to talk about, princess?"
Your mind vaguely registers the gesture, feeling the dampness of your palms once again. “I don’t really want to say here."
His fingers still, your hair wrapped around it. “Oh?"
You wonder what that look in his eyes meant. “Could we go upstairs?”
Gojo cocks his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His brows knit slightly, but his eyes gleam with amusement as he releases your hair, the strand falling back into place in a soft wave. “You do know I’m Shoko’s friend, right? And you’re her best friend?”
“Why does that matter?”
“Seriously? You don’t think it’ll be awkward?”
Awkward? You blink, trying to make sense of his words. Perhaps Gojo and Shoko had argued recently. Maybe he didn’t want her catching sight of the two of you together else it put you in an awkward position. He’s more considerate than you expected.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with her,” you say carefully. “Whether you or I are friends with Shoko—it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to talk to you.” You smile in satisfaction, relaxing a little at his kindness.
Gojo suddenly laughs, brushing a hand through his hair as he throws his head back like you’ve said the funniest thing. When he looks back down at you, his eyes are shining. “That’s what I’m saying! But every time I joke about it to Shoko, she goes all crazy on me. Looks like we have a lot in common, huh? I guess that makes us compatible.”
You continue to smile, the corners of your lips wavering a little in uncertainty. You’re not entirely sure what he means by that but considering you’re about to ask him for a favour, you appreciate his good mood.
“Well, alright,” he says at last, taking your hand. “I’d love to hear you out. Lead the way.”
Ignoring the little flip of nerves your stomach does as you hold his hand (perhaps he felt too drunk to climb the stairs alone?), you turn and lead him back into the living room and up the stairs to the quieter rooms of the house. The hand holding serves another purpose, you realise, as you weave through the crowds of people and he would surely have lost you had you not held on tighter, practically dragging him onwards.
You feel a tug before your feet can even touch the second floor, like he’s suddenly become immovable. Before you can turn and check on him, you feel the warmth of his chest against your back, his hand slipping from yours to settle at your waist. You’re pulled to a stop, his breath now brushing against your ear, his hair tickling the side of your face. You’re certain he’s leaning over you despite being a step lower, and the faint scent of alcohol and sandalwood fills your senses.
“I didn’t think you’d be so proactive,” he murmurs. You think he might have inhaled, slow and deliberate, but it’s hard to tell over the base vibrating through the floorboards and the frantic pounding of your heart. “What else are you hiding from me, hm?”
He reaches for your hand and turns you slightly so you can watch as he licks your fingers, tasting the sticky residue of your spilt juice. His blue eyes seem to sparkle, mesmerising in a way that makes you freeze. “You taste sweet.”
Your breath hitches and he must have heard because the hand on your waist tightens and pulls you against him, head leaning down to gently nip at your neck. Your stomach does that little flip again, this time accompanied with a hot flush that short-circuits your brain.
“Wait!” He chuckles softly, lips ghosting over a soft spot that makes your knees tremble a little. “Don’t be nervous. You have me right where you want me.”
You freeze, heart hammering, fingers twitching. When his hand slips just barely beneath the hem of your top, the words tumble out of you in a rush.
“I like Geto!”
For a heartbeat, everything goes still, his hand, his lips, his breath. Gojo pauses, lips pulling back from your sweaty neck. In fact, his entire body jerks back, both feet returning to the step beneath you, hand leaving your waist to turn you to face him. His fingers find your chin to tilt your face down, eyes dark as they hold yours.
“What did you just say?”
You swallow, looking him in the eye. “I like Geto.”
He stares at you wordlessly for a few more moments before he frowns, letting go of you completely and stepping down one more step just for good measure. “What the fuck are you doing here with me then?"
You gesture frantically between yourselves, finding the answer quite simple. “To talk? That’s what I said earlier, didn’t I? I wasn’t—I wasn’t insinuating… I wasn’t trying to—you know?”
“You said you wanted to come with me upstairs.”
“Yeah?”
“Alone.”
“Right.”
His frown only deepens at your easy response. “You know how that sounds, right? To get a guy alone upstairs at a party?”
“It sounds like I wanted to talk to you privately?” You try again at his disbelieving expression. “The music was super loud. I didn’t think you’d be able to hear me downstairs and I had to ask you something important so I didn’t want to risk it.”
He lets out a huff, something short and breathy, lips quirked upwards like he finds something amusing, even as his eyes stay locked on you, unmoving. “You’re kidding me, right?”
You hold out your hands as if to say, ‘What can you do?’.
Gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Figures this was too good to be true.” His hand drops from his eyes to cover his mouth as he continues to stare at you. “Nothing about that situation implied you just wanted to talk. And about Suguru, of all things? Seriously, he’s being a cockblock and he isn’t even here.”
“What was that?”
“Forget it.” He drops his hand. “I’m leaving.”
You quickly hold onto his arm before he can completely turn. “Wait!”
Maybe it’s the desperation in your voice, maybe it’s your iron-clad grip on his bicep but he doesn’t attempt to pull away. Instead, he looks back and wrinkles his nose at you, a strangely childish gesture.
“I’m not in the mood to just talk. Not anymore.”
“Come on, please? There’s no one else I can ask!”
“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”
“If you could just please, out of the kindness of your heart, hear me out I would seriously appreciate it!”
He doesn’t budge.
“I won’t tell anyone I rejected you!”
He frowns. “First of all, you didn’t reject me because it was a misunderstanding. Second of all, are you really in a position to blackmail me right now?”
“I won’t tell Shoko you were the reason her favourite candle knocked over and singed a bit of her rug.”
His frown only deepens. Blackmail, you think, is surprisingly effective. “Hold on, how do you even know that?”
“What do you mean? I was literally right there.”
Gojo lets out a deep, long groan. He wriggles out of your hold, sending you a glare. “You know, you really suck at asking for help.”
“You don’t have to agree to helping me just yet. Just at least give me a chance to explain. We’re already here, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, well, I had other plans when we got up here that didn't involve just talking.”
You remind yourself to be patient. Again, you were the one asking for a favour, he’s the only one that can help you with your dilemma, you need him. Don’t call him a disgusting freak and walk away.
Clapping your hands together, you muster your best pleading look and send it his way. “Please, Gojo.”
You’re not really sure what broke through his defenses. For your own ego, you decide it must be because of your puppy dog eyes because he lets out a sigh and gives a reluctant nod.
“Go to the room to the right of the stairs.”
You bite back the instinct to cheer. Halfway through turning around, you look over your shoulder. “You’re coming too, right?”
“Just get up there before I change my mind.”
Wondering if souring his mood like this would backfire on you, you quickly hop up the remaining steps and head to the mentioned room just in case he really does change his mind. It would be beneficial to appease him before you ask for a crazy favour, after all. Therefore, you don’t even try to eavesdrop as Gojo continues to mumble to himself as he follows behind, worrying that somehow he might hear and turn around.
When you both reach the room, he closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest and expression flat in a way that feels very un-Gojo. You’re suddenly struck by the unfairness of it, of how someone with such a careless, teasing exterior can also appear so unreadable when he wants to.
“Five minutes.”
You clear the irrelevant thoughts from your head. “Excuse me?”
“You have five minutes before I’m going back down.”
You take a deep breath. This is it, no backing out now. “Okay. I need your help.”
He huffs, unamused. “So you’ve said. But with what exactly? Calculus? Because spoiler, I’ve been drinking.”
“With Geto.”
You watch in real time as the connection in his brain is made. He straightens off the door slightly. “Wait. Suguru? You want help with Suguru? What kind of help? Love help? You want love help with Suguru?”
Every word from his mouth is like a bullet to your dignity. Through gritted teeth, you hiss, “Yes. Can you be any louder?”
“I can try,” He says with a hint of humour. The smirk returns to his face and a feeling of foreboding looms over you. “This is what you wanted to get me alone to say?”
“Look, I needed someone who’s close with him and you’re–”
“Close? Please, I’m his best friend. I’m practically his wife.”
“Oh. So that makes us competition?”
He wrinkles his nose and looks you up and down. “You want me to help you get him.”
You nod.
“You want to confess to him.”
“Obviously.”
“Date him?”
“That’s the goal."
“Sleep with him?”
You give him a look so incredulous that he laughs, short and amused. “If you want advice just hit up reddit. If you want him to like you back then an etsy witch has you covered for five dollars. I don’t see why you have to bother me.”
“Because,” You say slowly. “He’s surrounded by people. He doesn’t even know me. I need all of that, the advice, the reciprocation, and I need someone who can get me close enough to him where he can notice me. And I feel like getting an etsy witch to manipulate his dreams to include me would cost more than five dollars. And I’m broke. And I’m kind of bad with guys.”
“So, what? You want me to introduce you to him?”
“Sure. And maybe tell me what he likes?"
Gojo looks you up and down again. He leans back against the door but this time, there’s something smug and arrogant about his posture, eyes lazy as he takes up as much space as he can. “You’re not even his type.”
“That’s fine, I’m flexible.”
“That’s something you say at a job interview, not when you’re trying to get a boyfriend.”
“Just shows that I have an adaptable personality.”
“He just came out of a 2 year relationship,” He shoots back.
“I accept and embrace his past.”
“He has a habit of leaving his jackets on the arm rest of couches.”
“I have hands, I can put them away.”
“Where’s your self-respect?”
“With him. I’ll get it back after I get with him.”
Gojo huffs. “He doesn’t even know you.”
“That’s why I’m asking you for help.”
“You know, I think I liked you better when you were just a shy little thing stumbling over your words.”
Again, you can only shrug.
When he only frowns, you decide to use your hidden ace. Before he can open his mouth and surely reject you, you beat him to it, voice overlapping his.
“I’ll tutor you!”
His eyes narrow and when he doesn’t say anything else, you push on.
“I know you’re aiming for that sports scholarship to study abroad next year.”
“How do you even know about that?” He catches on quick with a groan. “Shoko.”
You nod. “And I know that you’re looking for someone to tutor you because you need to get good grades to get accepted. If you help me with this, I promise I can definitely bring your grades up. We both benefit!”
Gojo stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head and you think you’ve lost him when his lips twitch. Then, almost traitorously, one corner lifts higher.
“You,” he says slowly, pointing at you like he’s identifying a rare species, “Are trying to bribe me. You’re trying to bribe me because you can’t get game by yourself.”
“It's not a bribe,” you say stiffly. “I'm just saying there’s something in it for the both of us.”
“It’s a bribe,” he repeats, delighted now. “Holy shit, Shoko's roommate is bribing me. How desperate can you get?”
“I’m offering to give you academic support!”
“With strings attached.”
“Yes,” you sigh. "That's usually how deals work.”
He grins, wide and boyish and every bit infuriating as you’ve ever known him. “You think I can't get a tutor without helping you bag my best friend?”
“Well, you haven’t yet.”
“That's because I don't need one.”
“Right. So I should just forget all the times Shoko has ranted to me about how you keep asking her for help?”
“You know, this conversation has really enlightened me on who my real friends are.” His gaze slides back to you, assessing. “And you’re confident you can help me?”
You straighten your shoulders and give a solemn nod. “I’ve fixed worse than you.”
He studies you, eyes tracking your features down to your shoes and you fight the urge to squirm self consciously. He seems to be recalibrating you, seeing you not as Shoko’s tagalong but as an actual person making a very earnest, albeit very ridiculous, request.
Finally, he sighs, long and dramatic.
“Well, at least you have one thing going for you. Suguru eats this kind of stuff up, hardworking, stubborn, a little pathetic—”
“Hey.”
“—in a cute pet way,” he amends smoothly. “Relax.”
You glare at him anyway but the rational part of your brain reminds you that you need this. He grins back, entirely unrepentant.
“Fine,” he continues, raising a finger, “If I do this, we’re doing it my way. That means we need rules.”
You fight the urge to jump up and down in joy. “I was going to suggest that anyway! How about this, we—”
“Rule one,” he says, face settling into something serious. “You can’t fall in love with me.”
Unable to help yourself, you burst out laughing. “Trust me, that’s not going to be an issue. You're definitely not my type.”
At your laugh he smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Rule two, no complaining. Keep that mouth in check, sweets.”
You giggle. “What's wrong, fragile ego?”
He raises an eyebrow and you mumble irritated curses under your breath. “Sorry.”
“Rule three, if Suguru ends up falling head over heels for you, you owe me big.”
“How big?”
His eyes flick down to your mouth again, then back up, smirk slow and dangerous. “I’ll decide later.”
You catch the movement and swallow, feeling none of the humour from earlier. “Okay, deal. Then, rule four, you take your studying seriously. I don't tutor people who don’t care.”
“I think between the two of us, I want to succeed the most so that’s a given. Any more rules, sweets?”
When you shake your head, he nods. “Then, we’ll start tomorrow.”
“Not today? I mean he’s literally right here,” You quickly clarify. “Not a complaint, just a question!”
“I came here to get drunk and have a good time. I’m going to need at least three drinks to get me back there so be a good girl and wait. I’ll text you tomorrow if you really can’t be patient. Unless, you want to back out already?”
You straighten your shoulders, trying to match his confidence. “I’m not backing out! I just want to make sure you’re not going to ditch me. This isn’t really a normal request.”
“Oh, so you know?”
You roll your eyes at him but have the decency to at least look bashful.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats then jerks his chin toward the door. “Go on, sweets. Before I sober up and regain some self-respect.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“A complaint?”
You bite your lip. “A suggestion.”
“Here’s a real suggestion,” he starts, turning around to open the door. Standing in the doorframe, he gives you one last look. “Next time you ask a guy to go upstairs with you at a party, maybe start with the part about not wanting to make out.”
Your face gets hot instantly, mouth opening to splutter, “I didn’t mean anything by it!”
But he doesn’t stay to hear the end of it, rejoining the masses downstairs without another word. He lifts his hand once as a goodbye and then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the room, half mortified, half exhilarated. Unwilling to give him any sense of victory with his last words, you head back downstairs and find Shoko to tell her the results of the first step of your plan.
It’s a struggle pushing through the thick waves of people but you finally find your roommate off to the side, musing herself in a conversation with someone you don’t recognise.
Instinctively, your eyes search for Geto if only to recall what you’re doing this for. Standing beside him, arm swung over his shoulder is Gojo, already sipping from a cup and laughing into the conversation with a natural ease that reminds you of the gap between who you were and who he is. As if sensing your gaze, he looks over and you flinch as if burnt. Something stirs in your gut and you wonder if your little plan to get with Geto has taken a slightly unpredictable turn.
“You okay?” Shoko asks, noticing your fluster.
You nod, looking away quickly. “Of course. All going to plan, you know?”
“Then I guess you’re up to step two.”
“Right,” Your eyes drift back to Gojo and find him looking at you over the rim of his cup. The feeling in your stomach lurches. “Step two.”
Step two begins with Gojo texting you at the ass crack of dawn. You blink the sleep from your eyes, squinting at the bright light of your screen in mild disbelief and annoyance as he tells you to pull up to his 9am lecture. Despite the lingering feeling that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, you understand that this is necessary.
You know for a fact that you have no classes today and therefore no reason to make the trek to university. a whole day,just gone and tasked with the impossible task of putting up with that infuriating player.
No, you reprimand yourself as you text back your agreement. No complaining. Do it for him, do it for Geto. With those words repeating in your head like a mantra, you pull yourself together and out of bed to get to campus.
It would be helpful, after all, to see where his studies were at if you were going to take this tutoring business seriously.
You get a coffee at the station to combat your sleepiness and the chill of a winter morning before hesitating and getting another. With two coffees, one in each hand, you wait outside his lecture room until the doors swing open.
Spotting him wouldn’t be too hard, you muse, considering Gojo is impossible to miss.
And then, you see him.
His unmistakable frame, hair a messy white halo catching the late morning sun, strides into view. He's mid conversation as he steps out, animated, half-grinning, and you find yourself understanding why so many girls lose their minds over him.
“Gojo!” You call out, voice slightly drowned out by the chatter all around.
You’re about to give him a piece of your mind, him having been the reason why you kept to your phone all of last night like a wife anticipating the return of her war husband, when you freeze. Because when Gojo turns, your mind barely registering the amused look he gives you, the person he was talking to comes into view.
Because of course, where there’s Gojo there is Geto, the yin to his yang.
You weren’t ready for both of them.
Noticing your sudden stiffness, Gojo looks beside him and scoffs. Unimpressed, he starts walking over. You panic, attempting to smooth out your clothes and fix up your appearance though your hands are full of coffee so you end up doing an awkward wiggle.
“Look at you,” Gojo starts when he’s close enough. “Loitering outside my class like a fan. Maybe this is more urgent than I thought, not because you like Suguru but because you really need your self-respect back.”
You open your mouth to respond, to clarify, to deny, to just say something, but Geto catches up beside him and suddenly every possible word tangles up in your throat.
“Oh. Hey,” Geto says, recognition flickering across his face. “You’re Y/N, right?”
You blink, knees feeling weak and mind in shambles that he even knew your name let alone match it to your face. “Uh, yeah! That’s me!”
He smiles, soft and easy, all the charm you’ve seen him use on others now directed to you. “I thought so. You’re in one of Shoko’s tutorials, no? I think I remember her mentioning you.”
“I’m her roommate, actually.” You try for a smile and pray it doesn’t give off the extent of your adoration towards him.
“Right, that would be it. I’m Geto.”
You nod mutely, wishing your brain would reboot to say something, anything that doesn’t make you sound like you’ve never spoken to a human before. Geto, he says, like you didn’t already know his name, like he wasn’t one of the most known people on campus. Still, the fact that he so humbly introduced himself only proves his humility and your heart gives a quiver.
This moment was everything you’ve ever fantasied. His eyes on you, giving you that pretty smile you’ve only seen directed at others. You could have stood there and basked in his attention until the end of time if Gojo didn’t suddenly clap Geto’s shoulder and butt in.
“Great, so glad you’re both acquainted,” he says, ignoring your glare and throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side. “But as much as I’d love to keep standing here and soak in this riveting small talk, I think my very dedicated super fan here needs me for something.”
You shoot him a look. “I am not your super fan.”
“No? And is that not my coffee?”
You look down at your hands as if only remembering now what you were holding. Biting back a remark, you thrust out a coffee. “It is.”
He grins, taking it and letting his fingers brush against yours. “Thought so.”
Geto looks between the two of you. “Oh, I see how it is."
Your eyes fling back to him at the same time Gojo exclaims, “What?”
“Woah, did I touch a nerve there or something?” Geto’s smile quickly turns smug. He returns Gojo’s earlier gesture and thumps him hard on the back twice. “I get it. I’ll get out of your hair then. Be gentle with him, Y/N. He’s actually a pretty sensitive guy.”
It takes you a while to process his words so Gojo reacts first.
“Dude, I’m telling you it’s not like that.”
“Sure,” Geto says in a tone that very much suggests he isn’t convinced at all. “Guess I’ll see you around, yeah? Later, Satoru.”
You only realise seconds after he leaves that you hadn’t said goodbye. In fact, after Gojo’s interruption, you hadn’t managed to say anything more to Geto.
“Huh,” Gojo muses, breaking the silence. “You get like that around him?”
You groan and find the lump in your throat gone. “I stood there like an idiot!”
“You did.”
“He probably thinks I’m a freak!”
“Probably.”
“And you!” You look up to glare at him. “You didn’t have to make it sound so weird!”
“So now it’s suddenly my fault?”
“You caught me off guard by calling me your super fan!”
“Right, like that was the weirdest part of the conversation,” he shoots back, lips curled in dry amusement. “That, and not the super sour face you were making at him. Like a grimace.” He mimics your expression and you properly grimace this time, hoping against all odds that that was not the face you had been making at the person you were actually a super fan for.
Deciding you will only lose if you continue to defend yourself, you choose to change the subject. “You should have told me he’d be here.”
“You never asked. Besides, is it my fault if you didn’t prepare for that to happen?”
You sulkingly mumble a yes and he wags his finger at you, tutting disapprovingly.
“No complaining, remember? Come on, let’s go. We have things to talk about.”
You sigh though relent to fall into step beside him, fingers curling around your own coffee as the crowd thins around you. Now that Geto is gone, the world feels marginally more comfortable, less bright, less sharp, but also less mortifying.
You remember your stuttering self a few minutes ago.
Still a little mortifying but now bearable.
Gojo takes a long sip of his coffee, then glances sideways at you over the rim. “For future reference, I don't like coffee.”
You dig your elbow into his side and he winces but doesn’t remove his arm around your shoulder.
“Where are we going? I was thinking we could go to the library and look over your courses. That way I can pinpoint your weakness and where to target first. We only have a few months into graduation so we’re in a bit of a time crunch but I'm positive I can raise your grades from whatever they may be to… what?”
You trail off when you find Gojo looking down at you in disbelief. He shrugs when your eyes meet and shrugs, though the gesture is a little awkward with his arm over your shoulders.
“I just didn’t think you were serious about the whole tutoring thing.”
“I keep to my promises, Gojo,” you pause. “And I hope you will too.”
He reaches over with his free hand to ruffle your hair, ignoring your squeak. “Desperation isn’t a good look on you, sweets. Relax, relax, I'll get you two together. Trust me.”
You grumble but don’t voice your suspicions, instead letting him drag you in a certain direction. You perk up when you don’t immediately recognise your surroundings.
“Where are we going?”
“I get it, you want to check me out. I'm just taking us somewhere where that can happen.”
“Your studies, not you,” you clarify.
“Yeah, and my studies are mine so you’re checking me out.”
You grimace and he chuckles, turning you around a corner. “The library is too quiet so we’re going back to my place.”
You stop abruptly.
“Your place?”
“Yeah.”
“Your place?”
Gojo cocks his head as if listening to something in the distance. “Did you just hear that echo too?”
“Forgetting the fact that we should clearly just go to the library or somewhere on campus at least, I thought you lived in Sig Kap?”
“Right you are. Wow, I'm really starting to see why you’re the perfect choice as a tutor.”
“But you just said we’re going to your place.”
“Nothing gets past you.”
“Your place as in the Sig Kap house.”
“Look at you go.”
You stare at his side profile, waiting for a punchline that won’t come.
“Gojo.”
“Yeah?”
“I am not going to your frat house.”
“What happened to not complaining? That was the first rule and you’re already breaking it, sweets. I'm starting to dread this whole arrangement,” he continues to tease, looking ever so peaceful.
“I'm sorry, I don't know what you think I'm about but I wouldn't willingly walk into a den full of men named things like Chad. Do you even have furniture?”
“I only had a cot for the majority of first year but now I've upgraded to a mattress on the floor.”
“Great. Let's end this here.”
Gojo hooks his finger in your belt hoop before you can walk away. “First of all, we don’t have a Chad. We do have a Kyle though.”
“You're not doing yourself any favours.”
“Second,” he continues on, pulling you back towards him with his finger. “It’s ten in the morning. Half of them are in class and the other half are probably legally dead.”
You stand your ground. “Library.”
“Sig Kap.”
“Library.”
“Sig Kap.”
“Gojo.”
He leans in suddenly, close enough that you can see the faint crease at the corner of his eyes from squinting in the sun.
“You want Suguru, right?”
Your breath catches and despite yourself, you hear him out. “So? How is that relevant?”
“Because,” he says mildly like he’s talking to a little kid. “Sig Kap is where Suguru hangs out. He's my best friend, you know he’s my best friend that’s why you came to me. Why wouldn’t he be over at mine all the time? If you can’t handle coming over now how are you ever going to fuck him?”
“I am not—” you choke, voice pitching before forcefully lowering your voice when you notice people looking at you. “That is not— I haven't even—”
Gojo hums, watching you with a victorious grin. “So you don’t want to sleep with him?”
You make a startled noise and start walking in a random direction, eager to leave him behind. Life, however, is full of disappointments considering he follows, his arm draping over your shoulder once more.
“So where are we going?”
You give in. “Sig Kap.”
“Wrong way, sweets.”
You groan but follow as he steers you in the opposite direction.
Gojo chatters in your ear the entire walk to where the frat houses are situated on campus, about how his least favourite professor is out to get him, about someone in his frat who set off the fire alarm this morning, about the latest philosophical debate holding the frat hostage: whether cereal is a soup or not. It's a steady stream of nonsense, ridiculous but unbroken because at least he wasn’t talking to you so much as at you.
At some point, you stop responding entirely.
Somehow, his mere presence is enough to change your opinion and you actually feel relief when you finally see the house before you. Sig Kap stands broad and sunlit, paint only mildly chipped, windows open to let in the winter air. There's a couple bikes leaning against the porch railing and there’s an abandoned hoodie on the outdoor chairs.
“Oh thank god,” you mumble under your breath when he finally stops talking.
He lets you go to jog up the steps, opening the door to what you’re positive is about to be an overstimulating nightmare.
Warm air hits you first, carrying the scene of coffee and something oily. Sunlight stretches across worn hardboard floors until Gojo closes the door behind you and the hallway dims. A TV murmurs somewhere deeper into the house and there’s a loud conversation happening upstairs.
“You said everyone would be either in class or dead!” You hiss.
“It was an exaggeration,” he says lightly. "Don't worry, everyone’s harmless. But if you’re worried, you can just stick close to me.”
You ignore his cocky grin and shove him to get him walking. Unfortunately, getting to the stairs meant walking past the living room and you know things won’t be as harmless as he says when a voice calls out.
“Yo!”
Gojo pauses and steps back to poke his head into the living room. “Morning.”
You awkwardly step back to let him, pushing you into view too.
Two heads snap toward you at once. One of them is sprawled across the couch, blanket half-tangled around his legs and a bowl of popcorn balances on his stomach. The other is slouched in an armchair, controller in hand, eyes bloodshot and face pale as if he was still hungover. Considering the state of the party last night, you don’t doubt that he might be. Speaking of the party, you recognise the one on the left as Hikari.
“You’re bringing a girl back in broad daylight?” The controller guy says, no tact whatsoever.
Hikari snaps his fingers in recognition. “Hey, you’re the girl at the party.”
“Damn, back for more?”
Hikari shoves controller guy’s head down at the crude comment.
“She's here to save my GPA,” Gojo explains. “So keep it down, yeah?”
“That's what we should be saying to you,” controller guy smirks.
Unfortunately, Gojo smirks back. “You know they can’t help it. I'm just too good.”
He guides you back towards the stairs as the boys in the living room chuckle, and when you finally think of something to say you’re already standing in the middle of his room. By then, there’s another something to take up your mind and computing power.
Despite the relatively large floor plan, Gojo has decided to use none of it. True to his words, there’s a mattress lying on the floor against one wall, blanket a mess and a single pillow sitting flat at the top. A stack of old textbooks make up a bedside table where there’s a cute small lamp. On the other side sits a couch and a giant flat screen in front of it at a distance that would make optometrists frown.
Maybe that’s why Gojo is sometimes seen wearing sunglasses indoors. Maybe they’re prescription.
“This is what you bring girls back to?”
Gojo drops his bag on the floor and flops down onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come sit.”
You eye the seat in disdain.
“What's with the look?”
“Is that even sanitary?”
He snorts. “Worried you’ll get cooties or something? Relax, I rarely bring anyone back. Usually I go to the girls’ place for that kind of stuff. Fucking on a mattress is pretty harsh on the back, you know. You’re the first girl I've brought back in a while. Lucky you, right?”
You grimace but sit down gingerly. “Can you tell me what courses you’re doing?”
“What's the rush? Let's get to know each other better,” he says but he still reaches over to grab his laptop from his bag, opening it on his lap.
You can picture it so clearly, Gojo coming back from a long day of (skipping) classes to do his assignments and homework like this, slumped over his laptop on this surprisingly comfortable couch. The bare mattress on the floor might be a big contributing factor to his back pain, but you have no doubts that this routine wasn’t doing him any favours. “Here,” he places his laptop on your knees and leans back, pulling out his phone from his pocket. “You look.”
Considering his complete disregard of safety is not your issue, you don’t protest and quickly type in the college website. As if sensing this is not the right time, a prompt pops up to log in again.
“Password?” you ask, tilting the screen to him.
He barely looks up from his phone, one arm behind his head, the other typing away. “Sixeyes69 question mark exclamation mark.”
You pause and type it in. It goes through.
“What's the number?” He asks, disinterested.
You look on the screen. “67.”
He chuckles. “Nice.”
“Are you seriously okay with telling me your password like that?”
He shrugs, screenshotting the multi authenticator screen before hitting enter. The website in front of you loads and opens to his details.
“Tt’s not like there’s anything you can do with that. Are you planning to sneak in and do my assignments for me?”
Finding no fault in his words, you accept it and click through the tabs. Your brows quickly knit together as you read the contents.
“Gojo.”
“Mhm?”
“You’re missing three assignments in this class, you have a midterm for another in two weeks and you’re barely passing first year statistics.”
Gojo looks up at the ceiling in deep concentration before looking down with a smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right, why?”
“This is insane! I'm not a miracle worker!”
“Better find a lamp that grants wishes soon because your love life is on the line,” he points out. “That was the deal, you find a way to get me into that scholarship and I get you and my best friend together. It's not my fault you were weirdly confident and didn’t check to see where I was at before proposing that.”
Flabberghasted, you can only open and close your mouth like a fish. “Look, the midterm in two weeks, I can probably help with. The three assignments? You failing statistics?”
“Pretty sure I passed that last quiz. Maybe check again?”
“51 is just barely passing which is basically a fail.”
“Oh no, it seems like you can’t do this after all. Looks like the deal is over. Hey, by the way, since you’re already here, why don't we—” Gojo sits up and leans in, one hand on your thigh above his laptop.
“I demand another favour.”
He freezes. “You can’t just do that.”
“I can,” you square your shoulders and meet his eyes. “I did this statistics class during my first year so I still have my notes. I can easily alter them and give them to you and if you have any questions, we can meet up and I'll go through the questions with you. There's no way you can submit two of the three missed assessments as late but I can help you write the one that was due last week. There will be a mark reduction but I'll make sure it’s as good as can be. And, like I said, studying for the midterm is possible in two weeks.”
Gojo stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. When he finally moves, it’s only to remove his hand from your knee and slump back into his leather couch. “You’re insane.”
You wonder if he’s sulking.
“But,” you continue on. “If I help you with this then I can add to my condition. Besides, I made it too vague earlier and you’ve helped me see that. So thank you.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me.”
You bite your lip. “Go on a practice date with me.”
He blinks at you, giving you that same incredulous look before bursting into a fit of laughter that does wonders for your ego.
“Hey.”
He keeps laughing, one hand resting on his chest.
“Hey!” You hit his arm and he finally cracks an eye open to look at you.
“You’re kidding,” he chuckles, struggling to catch his breath. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t do dates.”
“Don't refer to yourself in third person.” You smack his bicep one more time for good measure and because he’s weirdly solid under your touch. “It won’t actually be a date. I just need to know how dates work. I can't just go from zero to not-zero without practice!”
His laughter trails off though the smile remains on his face. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re at zero?”
You freeze, feeling like you’ve walked into a trap.
“Define zero.”
“Have you kissed anyone?”
You look away. “Define kissed.”
He laughs again, though mercifully shorter. “That's crazy. Next thing you know, you’re going to ask me to teach you how to—”
“Please!” You say quickly. “It won't be anything serious. I just need to know the mechanics, you know, how dates actually work. What you’re supposed to say, how you sit, when you pay, whether eye contact should be continuous or intermittent—”
“Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re actually a lost cause.”
“Well I've never done one before!” You clamp your mouth shut after, mortified at how loud you just got.
Gojo watches you for a long moment, the amusement still there though dimmed now by something closer to curiousity. Maybe even concern if you squint.
Silence stretches between you, warm sunlight pooling across the floor, distant house noise muffled beyond the door. He looks down at his laptop on your lap then back up to your face.
“...okay.”
Your heart stumbles and you inhale sharply. “Okay?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Really?” Relief overwhelms your system and your shoulders relax.
“Gojo Satoru doesn’t go back on his promises.” He straightens and places a hand over his heart, a mock solemn expression on his face. Before you can poke fun of his use of third person again, he continues. “Besides, I need to figure out where you stand. Let's go on a date tomorrow.”
“Eager much?”
He shrugs. “Rip the bandaid off. Besides, I have no other time this week, I have practice all of this week for the upcoming game.”
Though you were ready to disagree, you find yourself nodding. “Okay, tomorrow.”
“It's a date,” he says sweetly before clapping his hands together once loudly. “So, does that mean I'm off the hook for today? Steam is having this massive sale and I have money to spend.”
You snort. “What makes you think you’re free to go?”
“You got what you wanted,” he points out reasonably. “Practice date secured so mission accomplished, right? Seems like a natural stopping point and the Steam store is calling me.”
He reaches lazily toward the laptop. You smack his hand away without hesitation.
“Well hang up because you’re failing statistics and the submission box for that technical report is waiting for you. I'm afraid you’re going to have to reschedule.”
“You're kidding. I dragged you here and gave you nothing to prepare with, there’s no way you'll have anything to tutor me with.”
You stretch out your arms, fingers interlaced, and listen to the satisfying pop of your joints. “Watch me.”
Night has long since settled by the time you return to your dorm. Despite his perennial sulking throughout the entire tutoring session, lips jutted out when he isn’t whining, eyes drifting from the screen when you’re not giving him your full attention, he still offers to walk you back to the opposite side of the campus where the dorm houses are. Guiding him through the writing assignment was somewhat akin to extracting teeth from a little kid, but he’s surprisingly quiet when you’re talking and only chooses to complain when you’ve stopped.
And by the end of it, you’re proud to announce that he has 500 words on a once empty doc that was almost ready for submission.
Hey, you did mention before that you can’t create miracles.
Still, there’s something bright in his eyes when he reads through his own work, mumbling the words under his breath. So then, when you had reached down to pick up your tote bag and call it a day, he’s on his feet almost instantly, laptop snapping shut as he follows.“I’ll walk you,” he says, like it’s not even a suggestion.
The campus at night feels different, all those late nights in the library had taught you that. It’s quieter, softened at the edges and maybe it's placebo, maybe it isn’t, but the air feels fresher and time seems to slow. Streetlamps cast warm pools of light along the pathways, the winter air crisp enough to bite at your cheeks. Your breath fogs slightly as you walk, footsteps echoing in companionable rhythm.
For once, Gojo isn’t talking.
He makes the occasional comment, something about how dead campus feels after dark, how he hates early morning practices, how someone keeps taking his chocolate milk from the fridge, but for some reason you don’t find it so tolerable. Maybe it’s the way he’s saying it, slower and calm, nothing like before.
You steal a glance at him.
His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed, expression softer than you’re used to seeing. Without the performative grin and constant chatter he looks less like the campus celebrity Everyone knows and more like he’s just some guy. Albeit, very attractive but you digress.
“You didn’t have to walk me,” you say into the silence that he hadn’t immediately rushed to fill after his last anecdote.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
He shrugs. “Just felt weird not to. Besides, it’s late out and your dorm is half a century away. I need you alive to fix my grades, remember?”
You give him a faint chuckle and look forward again.
A few more steps pass in silence, broken only by the shuffle of feet.
“Hey,” he says suddenly.
You look up, watching the light scatter over his side profile.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For today.” He kicks at a pebble on the path, watching as it skitters ahead. “For not giving up on me after the first five minutes.”
You huff softly. “I said I'd help. And Y/N never goes back on her promises.”
He looks over at you and you both share a smile before his expression turns thoughtful. “Yeah, but people say stuff all the time.”
You study him. “Do they?”
He hums and doesn’t elaborate.
The dorm building comes into view ahead, lights glowing warmly through the windows. There's still a couple students drifting in and out, bundled in hoodies and coats and wearing slides, soft laughter spilling into the night.
You slow, suddenly aware that the walk is almost over. You turn to him so you can look at each other.
“You know, you’re not as hopeless as you think,” you say quietly. “I think you’ve just never pushed yourself to seriously try.”
He snorts. “Thanks, real inspirational.”
“I’m serious,” you protest but the corners of your lips quirk up.
He looks at you then, properly looks, eyes searching your face with a small frown. When he can’t find whatever he’s looking for, his brows relax.
“You really think I can pass?”
“Yes.”
Something in his shoulders loosens, tension easing away.
“Okay,” he breathes out. “Then, my grades are in your hands, teacher.”
You make a face. “I think I prefer sweets.”
He laughs and you turn to walk up to the entrance. The automatic doors remain stubbornly closed until you step into the sensor’s range, humming softly as they slide open. Warm air spills out, smelling faintly of old carpet and air freshener.
For some reason your feet slow.
“Hey, Y/N.”
You turn, looking at him as he stands just outside the warm lobby light, hands in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold.
“Yeah?”
He hesitates.
“See you tomorrow."
You bite your lip and nod, repeating his words softly. Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn and walk into the building. The doors close with a soft thud, sealing you inside.
Through the glass, you watch him turn and head down the path, white hair catching the glow of the streetlights. And of course, he doesn’t look back.
Your reflection stares back at you instead, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes a little too bright, heart still beating faster than it should.
Tomorrow, apparently, you’re going on a date, practice or not.
For some reason, Geto pops up in your mind and you tighten your hold on your tote bag, making your way up the stairs. The soft curve of his smile earlier this morning, the way he had said your name like it belonged in his mouth, or maybe that was just wistful thinking. But the warmth in his eyes that had nearly short-circuited your brain was most definitely real and you cling to the image.
Right, this is for him.
Your phone buzzes a little after you settle into bed that night, making you jolt. you roll onto your side and reach for your phone, pulling it free from your charger as you read through your notifications.
gojo: i made it back safe in case you were wondering ><
You get comfortable, tucking your doona under your chin as you type back, your phone the only light source in your dark room.
you: trust i wasn’t worried but thanks ig
gojo: who said anything about being worried?
also don’t flake on me tomorrow
i’m taking this mentorship very seriously so u better asw you: i won’t flake ik i’m already asking sm of u
gojo: oh u know do u?
so ure going to pay for our date tmrw?
you: it’s not a date
gojo: sure it isn’t
you: it’s just practice
gojo: i didn’t say it wasn’t
but if you admitted it was a real date i’d pay yk
you: please
like i’d actually want you to pay for my coffee
not a date, not real, don’t need u to pay for my drinks
gojo: ure a hard girl to please
you: if its from someone like you, its gonna be harder than just hard
try impossible
gojo: harder than hard?
you: ?
gojo: something feels wrong about that sentence for some reason
anyway
is the campus close for you or should we meet up in the city
you: the campus works for me
gojo: ure not just saying that to avoid the date allegations are you
you: no way
gojo: sure sweets i believe u
don’t wear anything boring
first impressions matter yk
you: oh my god stop pushing the date allegations
its just practice !!!!
gojo: okay and you can practice dressing up for me
for suguru
like for practice
you: ?
i know what u meant
but sure
as long as u do too theres no way im embarrassing myself by showing up overdressed if u show up in sweats and a hoodie
gojo: wouldn’t dream of it
see u saturday sweets
You stare at the nickname longer than you should.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before moving.
you: goodnight gojo
The reply bubble appears then disappears before appearing again. Nothing comes of it as it disappears one more time and stays gone.
You swipe off the app and place your phone back on your bedside table, ignoring the pleasant buzz running through you.
You show up early like a super fan.
You’ve been sitting at the little corner table situated at the back of your favourite campus cafe for the past ten minutes now, stirring your drink just to look busy. The cafe hums around you with soft chatter, clinking spoons against teacups and ceramic against ceramic, a mellow playlist faintly playing in the background, but your nerves drown most of it out.
You’ve already gone through three mental checklists as you sit there, waiting. Your fingers curl around your empty cup, feeling the beads of water drip down your fingers and you really hope you won’t need to make an awkward break for the bathroom anytime soon considering he should be here about now.
You tell yourself you’re not nervous but you catch yourself glancing at the door every other second, heart jumping each time it swings open.
The bell chimes again and you look up with a start, eyes immediately locking onto Gojo as he saunters in, lifting his sunglasses so they rest on his head. He’s dressed casually, a white and blue jersey over a pair of blue baggy jeans, but his good looks mold the outfit into something appropriate for a date.
Gojo spots you at his first look around and grins, sliding into the seat across.
“Morning,” he greets, a wide smile on his face. His eyes flicker down once at your empty cup. “Did you wait long?”
“No, not at all!” You remember who you’re talking to and relax a little. “Actually, I got here fifteen minutes early. I guess I got a little anxious.”
“Well, you don’t need to be. You look nice,” he says, tone light. His eyes look you over once to make his words comprehensible and then one more time purely for the love of the game. “Trying to impress me?”
You scoff, trying to recover. “You told me to dress nice.”
“C’mon, sweets. Play along. We’re on a date, you know. Your next lines should be something like,” he suddenly tucks his elbow in, body curving to the side slightly, hand half closed and held delicately over his lips and chin. His eyelashes flutter over his cheek as he looks down and to the side, a faux shyness that makes you want to laugh. “‘Thank you, you look good too’.”
You let yourself laugh, shoulders relaxing. “What the fuck?”
“You give it a try. It always works in anime.”
“No way in hell,” you continue, laughing fading into occasional giggles as his gesture replays in your mind. “Besides, this is a practice date. I'll save that technique for the real deal, thank you very much.”
“And for practice, we’re going to pretend this is a real date.” He leans back into his seat, legs stretching out and bracketing yours under the table. His feet bump against yours lightly. “Let's give it another try. Did I make you wait long?”
You stir the straw inside your drink, pretending to be nonchalant, though your fingers twitch slightly against the glass. “Not long… I guess.” You try a mysterious act, hearing that guys like a woman with secrets. At least, that’s what Shoko told you though a small part of you wonders if you should be taking “how to seduce a guy 101” from a lesbian.
“‘I guess’?” he echoes, tilting his head. “That’s the best you can do? You’re supposed to be charming me, remember? At least try to make it look like I'm not coercing you here.”
“I don’t care if I charm you or not,” you say quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m here to learn and you’re here to teach me.”
He laughs, a low, easy sound that makes your chest tighten. “You know, I'm not exactly made of time. Do you know how many girls and guys would kill to be in your position right now?”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes though don’t stop yourself from making your voice dry. “Oh sure, let’s spend this entire date talking about all the competition I have.”
“We would need at least four more dates to cover it all.”
“I didn’t know getting into a relationship with you would be such an investment.” You snort. “If all five of our dates are just going to be you listing my competition, I'd rather stand you up now and save myself the time. And the money.”
“I did offer to pay for your drinks.” He grins at the back and forth, the sides of his shoes bumping into your ankles lightly. “That’s it, you’re getting into it.”
“For practice.”
“Sure, sweets. Practice. Speaking of,” he says, leaning forward just enough that the sunlight catches his hair. “You should call me Satoru. We’re on a date, remember? I can’t tell if you’re on a date with me or my dad if you call me Gojo.”
You grimace. “Calling you by your first name makes it too real.”
“It is real. That’s what you should tell yourself to get into this.” He juts out his lower lip, drawing his eyebrows inward. “Come on, sweets, let me hear you say my name.”
“When you say it like that, it makes me want to throw a drink in your face.”
“Just once, Y/N.”
You huff and roll your eyes. “Satoru.”
“Oh my god, a girl called me by my first name!” He squeals.
You almost stand to get out of here if it means preventing people from associating you with him. He grabs your hand and drags you back down into your seat before you can properly escape, much to your dismay. “Relax, I’m just playing.”
“Are you here to mess around or help me?”
“Well, you need to tell me so I can help you. What do you even know about him?”
“About Geto?”
“Yeah, unless there’s someone else you want to know more about?” He grins, easy and confident.
You ignore his comment. “Well, I know he… likes books. music. He's kind… thoughtful. Plays the guitar. Ah, specifically electric."
“Are you listing off what’s on his dating profile right now?”
“Shut up,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than intended.
“He isn’t actively on any dating app right now, just for your information.”
“And how would you know this? What are you doing on there?”
“I’m not on hinge, unfortunate for the female population, I know. We just tell each other everything,” he says, leaning back, one elbow resting on the armrest of his chair as he studies you from across the table. “I’m helping you, you know? First rule, don’t just parrot his interests. Though maybe I don't have to worry about that since you’re clearly struggling to even remember them.”
“I wasn’t going to parrot him.”
“I know you were,” he interrupts, wagging a finger. “Last time I checked, liking exactly what he likes does not make you compatible. It makes you predictable. And desperate.”
“Okay, harsh.”
“It's all tough love, sweets.”
You fold your arms, slumping back in your seat, letting gravity do half the work of your sulk. “Fine then, oh wise love guru. What should i say instead? Like, let’s say he asks me what I'm into and my mind goes blank like last time. What then?”
“You're asking like it’s that difficult. Just be honest, tell him what you like regardless if it matches his interests. Do you want to be a groupie or be something more than a friend?”
“I want to be someone he likes.”
“So you're going to play the role of Suguru’s perfect girlfriend? And what after that, genius? Are you just going to pretend forever?”
Gojo looks over to the front counter and smiles at some waitresses standing there already looking in his direction. He turns back as they start giggling and playfully arguing over who should come over to take his order.
“Don’t force yourself to perform for him or curate yourself to be digestible. If the two of you are meant to be then he should want you.”
You look away, picking at nothing on your glass. “That's easy for you to say.”
“It's actually incredibly tiring being this emotionally intelligent all the time,” he says, face neutral.
You snort despite yourself and he looks satisfied.
“And what if I tell him and he doesn’t like it?”
Gojo shrugs, slow and deliberate. “Then he’s not for you.”
You frown. “Wow, you’re terrible at pep talks.”
One of the waitresses finally makes it to your table, an eager smile on her face and a determined look in her eyes. Behind her, you catch the rest of the staff shooting encouraging looks. She clutches her notepad a little too tightly, taking in a deep breath before talking. “Hello, are you, um, both ready to order?”
“Yeah,” Gojo says easily, flashing her a smile. “I’ll just grab a hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”
The woman quickly scribbles his order down. “Of course! one hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”
“And whatever she wants,” he adds, nodding toward you.
You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I already ordered earlier. I'm fine for now, thanks.”
The waitress spares you a glance, eyes flickering briefly over you before returning to Gojo like a magnet snapping back into place. “Not a problem. Is there anything else I can get you started with today?”
“We're good, thank you.”
Her face falls. She nods, but lingers a moment too long, clearly hoping for something, another question, a joke, anything to keep the interaction going.
Gojo’s grin grows just a little bit wider as he obliges.
“Busy today?” He asks casually, tone warm and interested.
Her face lights up and she quickly steps forward again. “A little! It's usually busy in the mornings what with the morning rush and all. Honestly, it’s like nonstop until at least 1pm.”
“That’s brutal,” he sympathises, leaning back in his chair, posture loose and open. “At least you’ve got good coffee to survive on.”
She laughs, a bright and breathy sound that makes it clear she’s not just laughing at the coffee comment alone. “Perks of the job, I suppose. Do you come here often?”
Gojo tilts his head as if the question deserved genuine thought and wasn’t just a throwaway pick up line.
“Not as often as I should,” he decides easily. “But I might start if the service is this friendly.”
Her smile widens, pink creeping into her cheeks. “We try our best.”
“I was talking about you, sweetheart.”
You’ve been listening and watching with apt attention, taking mental notes on the right time to smile, when to tilt your head just so, when to tuck your hair behind your ears and when to employ the double tuck, when his last words make you frown.
You clear your throat, eyes fluttering away when both Gojo and waitress look over at you.
“Well,” the waitress starts suddenly, glancing down at her notepad like she needs to remind herself she’s on the clock, "I'll bring your drink out as soon as it’s ready.”
“Looking forward to it,” Gojo replies, though he hasn’t looked away from you yet.
She lingers half a beat longer, then turns and walks away, shoulders a little straighter than before.
“Done staring?” He teases.
“I was not staring. Don't you have the tact to not flirt with someone else when you’re on a date?”
“Oh, so now it’s a date? Only when it’s convenient for you, huh?”
You reach over for a napkin and crumble it up to throw it at him. It barely makes it halfway across the table before it starts fluttering down.
“It’s only manners,” you insist, cheeks warm. “I didn't know what to do when the two of you were talking.”
He snorts. “You could’ve joined the conversation.”
“And said what? "Hello, I'm also present and this jerk’s date for the day?”
“Hey, I like the sound of that,” he muses.
Your next crumpled up napkin doesn’t get any further than its predecessor. You glare at him, something about that conversation rubbing you the wrong way, echoing unpleasantly in your head in a way that makes you want to peel your skin off.
You clear your throat again.
“You're here to teach me like I taught you statistics, right? Even though one is clearly harder than the other.”
“Right. Getting you to date ready is much more difficult.”
You ignore him to save the life of one napkin. “So, how do I do that? Flirt so effortlessly and not make it cringe?”
“You want to use what I just said with the waitress on Suguru?” He actually laughs out loud. “Do not, he’s going to see right through you. You should have met his last ex. The two of them were absolutely disgusting and— oh wait, should I not talk about that?”
“Yeah, let’s not.”
He hums and changes the subject. “Anyway, just let it happen. Be natural. You talk to me just fine.”
“Yeah, but you’re you. frivolous, class clown, never takes anything seriously, probably never commits to anything,” you start listing, counting them on your fingers.
“I feel like the first thing and the last thing mean the same thing. Put one finger down.”
You refuse, still holding up four fingers. “Sleeps on a mattress on the ground.”
“So does half of Sig Kap. But relax, I get it. So you suck at flirting. Shouldn’t you be happy I gave you a live demonstration of how it’s done?”
That gets you frowning again.
“Do you always call everyone something?”
“What does that even mean?”
“You called her sweetheart.”
“I don't know her name. I wasn't about to call her ‘woman’, that sounds very sexist and I'm a feminist at heart. Thoughts on banning periods?”
“She has a name tag.”
“I don’t look at that area on a woman on the first date,” he pledges.
You continue without thinking.“How is anyone supposed to know when you actually mean it when you give everyone similar nicknames?”
He goes quiet, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?”
Before you can elaborate, or maybe divert and make him look away so you can dig yourself out of the hole you just created, the waitress returns with his drink. She leans over him, placing it down carefully.
“Here you go!”
“Thanks,” he says, polite but no longer quite as engaged. In fact, he hasn’t looked away from you, still giving you that same disbelieving look.
You fiddle with your own drink. Maybe you should have ordered something else if it meant spicing up the number of objects you have in your possession to pass awkward silence with.
The waitress lingers a moment before hesitantly leaving when it’s clear there’s no encore performance.
“I just meant it’s confusing for anyone, hypothetically,” you say in a rush, beating him. “Anyway! Flirting techniques, let’s talk about them!”
He watches you for a moment longer before dropping his head and ruffling his hair. You grimace, eyeing how close his head is to his open drink. When he looks back up, whatever conflict on his face has disappeared.
“Fine, okay. Let's talk. First of all, it’s important where the date takes place. There's unspoken etiquette for every typical date location.”
“Like how you go on a coffee date, you shouldn’t flirt with the waitress.”
Gojo cracks a grin. “You’re getting it. Look, Suguru is kind of an artsy guy. He'd probably take you to an art museum or like a jazz bar for your first date.”
You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I told you, he tells me everything. Focus.” He dismisses your look. “He’s kind of an enjoy-the-moment kind of guy. Probably won’t talk too much while you’re both admiring something together and saves all the talking until after when he leads you to some underground totally underrated dinner spot.”
You wince. “Shit. I kind of like making little jokes in the moment.”
He snaps his fingers, face brightening. “Right? Like when you’re watching a movie in the cinemas!”
“Okay, that is a bit tricky. It depends.”
“Don't Genshin theorycraft me.”
“You're lucky I got that reference.”
Gojo shrugs. “Well, Suguru enjoys just existing with his special someone. Don't get me wrong, he definitely talks when you get him started but I think he’s kinda cool for being able to sit in silence with someone.”
You chew the inside of your cheek. “I’m kind of bad with silences. I end up embarrassing myself just to fill them. Do you think it’s fixable? Should I just not talk?”
“Woah, slow down. It’s fine, he has enough social awareness to fill in the gaps if you’re uncomfortable. But i’m just telling you what he likes,” he studies you. “He doesn’t like petnames, by the way.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “That’s fine, it’s not a dealbreaker,” you mumble.
“I'm just saying. He's a real fan of using your first name. When you two get on that basis, of course.”
“Anything else, Geto expert?”
Gojo hums, taking a long sip of his latte, eyes tracking up. “He likes meaningful stuff like art with a story behind it, long conversations about philosophy. Like yeah he still likes doing things just for fun but there’s a difference between like and love.”
You wince. “But love is meant to be silly, meaningless stuff. Like sending pictures of dogs cuddling because it reminded you of us or whether you’d still love each other if you turned into worms. Like taking the longer way back home just to spend more time together. Or, I don't know, building blanket forts as adults.”
Gojo’s mouth twitches.
You stop, suddenly aware you sound like you’ve been storing these thoughts and they’ve suddenly all gotten loose.
“Stuff that doesn’t matter,” you finish weakly.
He rests his chin on his palm. “Like going to the arcade and getting plushies for each other at the claw machines?”
You laugh, shoulders relaxing. “I'd obviously do better. You look like you have no hand eye coordination.”
“Did you forget I literally play ice hockey?”
“Right, your role as the benchwarmer?”
“My ass has never once graced those benches.”
“I don't know, I swear I remember seeing you on the sidelines.”
“You’ve come to watch me play before?” He grins, cheek slightly smushed from his position.
“Because Shoko went.”
He juts his lower lip out. “Harsh.”
There's a few seconds of silence as the conversation replays and you feel a sudden rush of embarrassment. You look up to see if he clocked your earlier slip up but he only tilts his head more into his hand.
“What?”
“Nothing.” You clear your throat and look down at your drink. It's left behind a ring of water around its base. “How are you two best friends when you’re so different?”
“Because he slows me down,” Gojo says like it’s simple. “And I drag him out of his head. But he doesn’t need another person to do that for him so don’t even think of taking my spot.”
You both share a laugh and it lingers a little longer than the joke deserves, warm and easy, until it naturally tapers off into something softer.
“Why do you even like him?” He suddenly asks, voice soft against the murmur of the cafe.
You slowly slide your gaze out the window as if reliving the moment. You can almost feel the rain on your skin, the warmth of a hoodie not your own, and the residual laughter at the back of your throat that makes you smile.
“Last semester when it was pouring rain, he saw me waiting outside a building without an umbrella and we ended up running through the storm. It’s stupid but it was fun and meaningless and definitely what I needed after my finals.”
Your words make him frown, finger tracing a random shape on the wet surface of his glass absentmindedly. “That doesn’t sound like him.”
“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought?” You offer.
“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s my other half.”
“Again, should I be concerned right now?”
“Are you homophobic?”
“No?”
“Then you’re fine.”
“Wait…”
Gojo glances down at his phone and sighs. “It's getting late, sweets. I'd love to stay longer but I promised the boys we’d go do this carwashing event.”
He pauses and looks up.
“Did you want to come?” he quickly adds on, “You don’t have to come alone, you could bring Shoko along or something.”
You wrinkle your nose. “No thanks. You can imagine that she’s not keen on seeing a bunch of shirtless boys.”
He grins. “Suit yourself. I'll walk you out. It's the least I can do on this date.”
You roll your eyes but stand and follow him out anyway, ducking under his arm as he holds the door open for you. Stepping out, you’re almost blinded by the bright sun and you have to cover your eyes to look up, squinting even with the shade provided by your palm.
He moves to stand in front of you. “Well, I'll see you around.”
Next tutoring session,” you remind him, letting your arm drop to your side. "Don't forget to watch the online lectures before then. And remember to do the weekly quizzes this time. And—”
He reaches over to ruffle your hair fiercely, laughing when your words turn into a startled squeak.
“Yes, yes, I got it,”
He lets you go and watches with a toothy grin as you start fixing your hair, glaring up at him and his audacity to smirk. His face quickly softens.
“Sorry I can’t walk you back to your dorms. I'm already running kind of late.”
“Don't worry about it,” you say when you feel like you look presentable enough. “Um, get there safe?”
“I will,” he starts stepping back. “Text me if you need anything.”
“Okay, make sure to—”
“Relax, sweets, I got it,” He says with a chuckle and a wave, before he turns and starts walking off in your opposite direction.
You watch him go for a little longer before heading back to your dorm.You stare up at your ceiling. your ceiling stares back down at you. You've been staring at your popcorn ceiling for so long that you’ve begun to discern shapes and different shades of what you had previously considered to be beige, plain and simple, but was now warping into the image of Gojo.
Something he had done yesterday clung to you even hours after the date. The ease in which he allowed the waitress’ fingers to brush his as he handed her the menus, the way he easily held onto your hand at the party, the lack of concern as he stood close to you on the walk back. You lift up your hands and slowly interlace your fingers. It's comfortable, familiar. until you start wondering one hand as someone else's.
Before you can doubt yourself, you pull yourself up and gather your phone and keys, heading to the door without another thought. On the way through the dorms, you send a quick text.
you: u free? im coming over
You stand outside Gojo’s door and knock. There's a muffled, incoherent reply before the door is pulled open, revealing Gojo. His hair is slightly damp with stubborn strands clinging to his forehead and he’s brushing his teeth. He's not wearing a shirt.
You stare at his chest.
“One second,” he says around the foam in his mouth. He holds the door open a little wider and ushers you in, letting the door fall to a gentle click behind you. “Sit on the couch.”
Wordlessly, you do, watching his bare back as he heads into his bathroom. The sound of water muffles your racing thoughts until he reappears, still shirtless but at least he’s not brushing his teeth anymore.
“Hey,” he says, irritatingly casual. “I saw your text. You didn’t even wait to see if I was free or not. For the record I am but imagine I wasn't. That would have been an awkward situation and between you and her, I would have picked her.”
You blink away your surprise and look up at him. “Her?”
“It’s a Friday night, Y/N. You’re lucky I don't have someone over.”
You frown a little at that and he continues, heading to his kitchenette to open his fridge, pulling out two beers. He hands you one, pushing it towards you once more when you don’t immediately take up his offer.
“So, what are you doing here?”
“Are you going to put on a shirt?”
He blinks before a wide grin splits across his face. “I was wondering what you were looking at so deep in thought. I didn't want to assume again after you made a fool of me at the party but I guess you do have working eyes after all. Do you want me to put on a shirt?”
You blush, finally looking away. “Obviously.”
He chuckles and places his beer down on the coffee table before going on a hunt to find a clean shirt. “But from the way you were eyeing me it really wasn’t that obvious. Besides, you’re telling me to put on a shirt in my own home?”
“It's common sense when you have a guest over.”
His voice carries over from his room. “You’re not really a guest, more like a pest. A guest implies I invited you over, no?”
“But yesterday you said I could come to you for anything.”
“Right. What was I thinking?” Gojo comes back out and flops next to you, the couch dipping under his sudden weight. He takes the beer from your hands and cracks it open before handing it back and doing the same to his. “So, you finally going to tell me what’s up or are you just here to leech off my dwindling beer supply?”
“I don’t even drink,” you mumble, watching as the water beads down your fingers.
“No, but I do have some manners for my guest.”
“You just said…” you trail off, recognising that you’ll only go round and round in circles if you keep up this conversation. you place the beer on the floor and turn to him. “Forget it. I'm here because I need your help.”
“Figures.” He holds the beer to his lips and takes a deep swig. “What can I do for you today?”
You bite your lip before turning to him. “Can I kiss you?”
Gojo chokes, pulling the beer from his lips with a hack, liquid spitting out onto his no longer clean shirt and sweatpants. He finally manages to get his mouthful of beer down, but he only coughs and hits at his chest. Hesitantly, you reach over and pat his back lightly.
He shrugs your touch away, looking at you in disbelief. “What did you just say?”
“I was wondering if you’d let me kiss you?”
“Just because you’re saying it politer now doesn’t take away how crazy you sound.” He stares at you incredulously. “Look, I know we went on a date yesterday but I thought you of all people knew it was a practice date. I'm sorry but I don't feel the same way. Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships.”
You groan, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t suddenly develop a crush on you, Gojo.”
“Satoru,” he corrects you despite his shock.
“Satoru,” you emphasise. “I don’t like you.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Yesterday just got me thinking. You’re so natural with touching and stuff and I realised that I have literally no experience whatsoever. I know Geto isn’t the type of person to care about whether I'm a virgin or not but I care. I care because I know I'll freeze up if we ever get to that part.”
He stares at you. “When i asked you a few days ago about whether or not you wanted to sleep with him, you told me to shut up.”
“That was a few days ago.” You shuffle closer to him on the couch and watch as his eyes drop to your thighs inching closer, then back up, something like fear on his face. “I know this is a big favour but I thought since you’ve kissed so many girls before and they’ve never meant anything that you might be okay with this? I mean you thought we were going to kiss that time at the party. So is this really that crazy to ask?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “It is. because you like Suguru and I'm his best friend.”
“But this is practice.”
“You can’t just echo what I've said in the past.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking off in the distance before coming back to you. “Suguru isn’t the type of person to rush to things like that. You'd be in good hands.”
“I know but this is for me. So I know what to expect.”
His face is contorted in a way you’ve never seen before. You decide to give another push.
“Just think of me as one of your hookups.”
He exhales softly, eyes staring into yours. “Are you sure? Have you even thought this through?”
“Yes, I have,” you lie. “I mean, there aren’t any cons. I'll lose my first kiss, get experience, and it’s all under practice anyway so it won’t mean anything. And you get a hookup for the night. It's a win win!”
His face only seems to pale more at your words. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet? Fuck, that’s a lot of pressure. And I feel like you have the wrong idea about what a hookup entails.”
You shrug. “Kissing? Making out?”
“Sex.”
You pause. “Well, we won’t go that far. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” He exclaims and you quickly deflect because he’s looking more and more shocked.
“We can start with kissing.” You shift closer, your thigh pressing against his. “Come on, it doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, from the encouraging look in your eyes to the determined line of your lips. He huffs, running another hand through his hair at the absurd change to his Friday night plans. Sure, kissing someone wasn’t a big deal for him, not when he’s tasted the lips of many before, but there was something different about taking someone’s first kiss.
Finally, he sighs, long and hard. “Just a kiss.”
You beam, face lighting up. “Of course!”
He hesitates, cursing under his breath something long but incoherent, before gently reaching out to tilt your chin up. “Tell me if you change your mind. Just shove me away, okay?”
You nod enthusiastically. “What do I have to do?”
“Just let me take the lead for now. And if you feel confident enough to kiss back, go for it.” Again, Gojo mumbles something under his breath, the absurdity of the situation still not lost to him. He leans forward as if to seal the deal before pausing, moving his hand up to caress your cheek tenderly.
Your breath hitches, eyes wide as you curse your own touch-starved form.
“You okay?” He asks, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. “Changed your mind?”
You shake your head slightly.
Gojo huffs and you feel the puff of air against your lips.
When his lips finally press against yours, fitting against yours in a way you’ve only ever seen in movies, you feel… nothing. You squeeze your eyes tighter, trying to dig through the sensations and pick out the one that’s meant to set off fireworks and melt your stomach into goo. Instead, it just feels like there’s someone’s lips touching yours.
Sensing your discomfort, Gojo pulls back, eyes fluttering open to meet your unsure ones. His nose scrunches up a little as he studies your expression.
“Hey,” he starts, voice low. “You're hurting my ego.”
You lick your lips, trying to return your lips to their usual sensation. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.”
“What were you expecting?”
“Butterflies?”
He chuckles, hand still caressing your cheek. “You're kissing me without any feeling. It’s not my fault you’re as stiff as a board. Relax. Imagine Suguru or something.”
Now it’s your turn to make a face. "Wouldn't that hurt your ego more?”
“Just relax,” he repeats and you make the conscious effort to focus on the way he’s stroking your face soothingly. “That’s it. Good girl.”
“Don't call me that, I cringed.”
He laughs, leaning in. “Abandon the part of you that cringes not the part of you that is cringe.”
With that, he brushes his lips against your again, letting you feel the slow movement and determine the pace.
It’s not exactly rocket science, this kissing business, and you start to mimic the motion of parting your lips against his. It takes a few tries for him to hum in approval and deepen the kiss, his free hand sliding up to cup your neck and gently pull you closer to him. You let out a soft squeak and quickly pick up from the momentary break in rhythm on your end.
When his tongue slides against the seam of your lips, you blanch and pull back.
“Okay,” he starts. “That really hurt my feelings.”
“What was that?” You cover your mouth with your hands, the slimy sensation replaying in your mind.
“That was my tongue.”
“Why didn’t it feel good?”
He rolls his eyes at your complaint and slides an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re half on his lap. “Because you’re thinking too hard.”
“I was not thinking at all, actually,” you say, scandalised. “I didn't know I was going to be ambushed.”
“Okay, my bad, I should have given you a heads up.” He pauses and announces solemnly, "I'm going to start using my tongue.”
You make a face and he huffs out a laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. Up close like this, you can feel the vibration of it in his chest, the way his grip tightens just a little like he doesn’t want you getting any bright ideas about you escaping.
“You're doing fine,” he says more softly, thumb brushing slow circles at your waist.
You think briefly that this must be the allure to him that has girls fawning for his attention. You're not immune either, and you sub consciously melt under his touch, relaxing again. Once you’ve done it once, given into his temptation, it’s easy to fall back again.
“Fine doesn’t seem like outstanding status,” you mumble, trying to maintain some resistance.
“For your first time, it wasn’t so bad.” His nose nudges yours, playfully and coaxing and you’re in his web again. “C’mere.”
Gojo doesn’t pull you this time. Instead, he just waits, one arm warm and steady around your hips, hand stroking your hair as he waits for you to come to him. It's a sign of consideration that has you feeling jittery and warm, though there’s a lazy smirk on his lips that suggests he has other ulterior motives that makes it as infuriating as it is attractive.
Your gaze flicks to his mouth then back to his eyes. His lashes lower just slightly, watching you watch him, and something in your stomach flips over completely. Probably your common sense.
“Just… slower,” you mumble.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Slower.”
He still doesn’t move first which is deeply unfair, because now you have to be the brave one.
You lean in. It's clumsy at first, more of a gentle bump of noses and a too-soft press of lips than anything smooth or cinematic like he had kissed you earlier. You almost pull back in embarrassment, ready to admit that maybe he was a better kisser than you had given him credit for if it’ll mean this pathetic peck of yours can end and he can make it good again, when his hand tightens on your hip and he takes over.
His mouth settles properly over yours, angle shifting until the awkwardness disappears, until it stops being baby’s first kiss and starts becoming a warm, steady pressure that has your toes curling. Yhe faint brush of his breath against your cheek, the subtle tilt of his head that fits your mouth together and when he nips at your bottom lip, a soft startled sound escapes before you can stop it.
He swallows it down without hesitation.
His hand tightens reflexively and slides down, cupping your ass as he leans back and guides you onto him, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes to keep you there, not that you had any plans of moving. One moment your body is twisted awkwardly to meet him and the next you’re seated full on his lap, his warmth solid beneath you.
His breath fans across your cheek in uneven bursts, warm and damp, and the faint scrape of his teeth lingers as a tingling awareness.
You realise, distantly, that you’re no longer stiff.
Your hands, which had been braced awkwardly against his shoulders, loosen without permission. One slides up into his hair as you lean into him, damp strands cool at the ends, warm near the scalp, and the sensation grounds you in a way nothing else does. His mouth opens at the sensation and when his tongue sweeps along your lower lip again, you don’t pull away. It isn’t slimy or invasive like last time, in fact you welcome it, mimicking his openness and the kiss deepens.
Your breath mingles, movements syncing up and under the guidance of his lips and tongue, you start getting bolder.
You shift closer, just a fraction, your head moving up and face tilting down to angle yourself deeper when a low sound slips out of him.
Your eyes fly open and you pull away. “Was that—”
“Nope,” he says immediately, eyes darker than when you last checked. He's panting beneath your palms, a slightly warm tint to his face as he stares at you.
You swallow. “You just—”
“I didn’t,” he insists, far too quickly.
When he’s so adamant like that, it’s a little hard to say anything more. Besides, while it’s almost fun to poke the bear, the memory of his mouth on yours has you thinking about something else entirely.
You don’t move from his lap and he doesn’t push you off.
“Think you’re getting it?” he asks, watching you with something unreadable lurking in his eyes.
You don’t hesitate. “No.”
You stare at each other, catching a much needed breath.
“Alright,” he says, voice rough. “One more. and then we have to stop.”
You lean in and he lets out a soft sigh like a man doomed before meeting you halfway.
Gojo doesn’t start slow this time, maybe because he knows if he does, he won’t be able to control himself.
His hand slides more firmly to the back of your neck, guiding you towards him with a kind of impatience, mouth finding yours with confidence, your chest tightening at the gesture. Your fingers clutch at his shirt instinctively and he makes a low noise at the back of his throat, deepening the kiss until you slide your fingers up and into his hair.
A low exhale slips through his nose, almost shaky and he tilts his head in response to your faint tugs.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips.
Emboldened, you tilt your head and slide your tongue into his mouth to taste him. He tastes like beer and minty and something addictive that has you repeating the movement over and over. When he reciprocates, your stomach swoops instead of recoiling.
You shift, suddenly desperate to get closer and settle over his bulge.
Wow.
You both jerk away from each other quickly, your hands leaving his hair and his arm retracting from your waist. The break feels violent in its suddenness, like surfacing too fast in deep water.
Cold air rushes between you where there had only been warmth seconds ago. Your lips tingle, oversensitive, parted as you drag in a shaky breath. Gojo’s chest rises and falls sharply, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen before, pupils blow dark. For once, there is no smirk, no teasing glint, just a raw, stunned awareness, like he’s trying to process several things at once and failing at all of them.
You become acutely aware of exactly where you’re sitting.
Heat floods your face and to the tips of your ears. you scramble backward, knees slipping against the couch cushions, putting space between your bodies even as the loss of his warmth makes your skin prickle.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn't trying to—”
“Don’t,” he groans, slumping back, covering his flushed face with his arm. His other hand reaches down to adjust himself though he doesn’t seem to have any ideas of covering himself so you watch unabashedly. “Just don’t say anything for a second.”
You clamp your mouth shut obediently.
The room feels too small, too quiet, every little sound like the rustle of fabric or the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchenette, even your own uneven breathing, suddenly feels magnified.
Eventually, Gojo pulls himself up, fixing dark eyes on your figure.
“I’m sorry.” You rush to say, though you’re not sure what you’re apologising for.
“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. It wasn't because of you, I guess I've just been pent up,” he runs his hand through his hair and you watch as he pauses, something passing over his face before he abruptly pulls his hand away. “Anyway, it’s normal.”
You nod too fast. “Right, yes. Totally fine. Super normal, nothing weird happened.”
“Right,” he says. “Nothing weird.”
Your shoulders sag a little, tension leaking out now that that’s been cleared up. The adrenaline leaves behind a strange floaty sensation and you try, and fail, to push down the sudden desire to continue, to explore even further.
“We’re definitely stopping the practice today,” he says, crushing your dreams.
You nod again, somewhat grateful that a decision has been made for you considering the conflict thoughts warring in your head. “Okay.”
He suddenly ruffles his hair all messy and stands up with an exaggerated groan that makes you jump. “Okay! That's over. You did good by the way. You’re gonna be trouble when you actually start dating someone.”
You frown. “Why?”
“It's a compliment, sweets, learn to recognise them, yeah?” He starts walking over to his kitchenette. “Want an actual drink?”
Your brain is still somewhere back in that last kiss, struggling to catch up. “Sure. Just water, right?”
He snorts. “I’m not a creep.”
When you lean back against the couch and close your eyes to recenter yourself, he steals a glance and lets out a long exhale. He closes his eyes for a moment like he’s deeply exhausted.
When he opens his eyes again and makes his way to you, his signature smirk is back.
If anyone saw how nervous you look about to text Gojo, they might think you had a crush on him. Which is absurd because you clearly have a crush on Geto.
Your thumb hovers over the send button, chewing the inside of your cheeks as you debate whether this is a good idea or not.
It’s been a week since you first asked Gojo for advice and though his methods weren’t orthodox nor was he incredible help, you still had to give him his merits. Talking to him was relaxing in a way, the constant back and forth familiar and even his judgement didn’t seem to come from a bad place. The physical stuff was a whole other story and did not influence your thoughts on how you felt about him whatsoever.
In summary, Gojo has given you determination that you couldn’t have achieved on your own.
Using this newfound confidence, you take a deep breath and finally hit send.
you: hey are you in class today?
Not even a full minute later, his reply buzzes.
gojo: yeah i am
stalking me, super fan?
you: god this is exactly why i hate texting u
gojo: :(
why whats up though
ur class doesn’t finish until 2 right?
you: yeah how did u know that?
u sure ure not my super fan?
gojo: guilty!
i just know dont ask what u cant handle
so u gonna leave me in suspense or are u gonna tell me
you: well you have class with geto right
The inside of your cheeks starts getting a little tender as you continue to gnaw and bite at the flesh, anxiously waiting as Gojo’s typing bubbles appear and disappear.
gojo: yeah i do
you: can i come see you?
gojo: what
you: like ill come to your class but can you leave after so its just me and him
u were talking about creating these situations on saturday right
so like
wouldnt this be perfect?
gojo: god this conversation isn’t good for my heart
you: ?
gojo: our class ends later than urs
you: that’s fine i can wait !!
gojo: nah i dont feel like it
you: ?????
man what the hell you said you’d help me
gojo: and i did
on saturday
what if i want suguru all to myself today?
you: come on please???
gojo: what if i dont want to see u
you: well i wont be bothering u this time
i just need an excuse to see him
i think whatever magic u casted over me on sat worked im feeling like scarily confident
i want to talk to him before the feeling goes away
like i feel like i can really do it this time you know?
please satoru?
gojo: god u have no idea how evil u are
fine
ill get us to go to the library
you: THANK YOU@!!!!!!
gojo: u owe me
you: YES DEFINITELY
gojo: another date this friday then
you: OKAY!!!
wait what
Waiting at the library is agonising. you attempt to complete some smaller tasks for your courses that you’ve left in lieu of thinking about, well, boys. But just like every time before, your thoughts stray and settle on him. His pretty effortless smiles, his soft laughter, that sparkling glint in his eyes when he looks at you and it’s like the world quietens just to listen too. his long fingers, the mole on his earlobe, his white—
When your phone buzzes again an hour later, you jump up from your seat to find the location of the photo Gojo sent.
You slip into the fifth library floor as quietly as possible, scanning the endless rows of students for the familiar top of someone’s head. It doesn't take long for your eyes to settle on him.
Gojo is impossible to miss, slouched low in a study booth, hood up and drooping over his hair and the bottom pulled up to cover his mouth. His arms are crossed over his chest as he stares at his laptop screen.
And of course, Geto sits across from him.
Taking in a deep breath, you slow your pace into something that might pass as a casual stroll as if you had randomly come upon them by chance and stop by their booth.
“Oh, hi Satoru!”
He doesn’t look up. “Hey.”
Then, after a manual moment, you turn to Geto. “Oh my god! Geto? Wow.” Your voice comes out pitched a little too loud. “What a coincidence!”
Geto looks up with a smile. “Hey, Y/N. What are the chances we ran into each other?”
Gojo snorts and you don’t miss how pointed it is. You take the chance to glare at the side of his face but he only sinks into his hoodie with a grumble. You continue to stare, even narrowing your eyes as if it’ll sharpen your gaze and he finally lets out a loud groan, flipping the hood down to ruffle his hair and sit up.
“Oh no,” he announces into the silence, loud enough to draw a few irritated glances, not that he cares. He checks his phone, staring at his empty notification list. “It looks like my best friend accidentally locked himself out of his dorm.”
Geto pauses. “I'm your best friend.”
You purse your lips, watching as Gojo begins to slowly pack up his things. Granted, he only needed to close his laptop and shove it into his tote bag, without a case mind you. He refuses to look up despite your efforts to catch his gaze.
“Sorry man, duty calls. I can’t help that i’m such a good friend.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. When he passes by, his arm brushing against yours despite the empty space all around, he leans down to whisper, “Good luck.”
You don’t have the time to decipher if it’s sincerity or sarcasm that you detect because he leaves, his lingering cologne the only sign that he was ever there.
You turn back to Geto, offering a small, awkward smile, wondering if he’s caught on.
“What was that about?” You laugh.
Geto chuckles softly. “Sorry about him. You know how he can be sometimes.”
He looks up at you patiently.
“Well, an empty spot has opened up. Are you staying to study?”
You fight the urge to celebrate. You happily erase thoughts of Gojo from your mind, leaving the gruelling task of decoding his strange behaviour for another day. Gojo’s seat is still warm when you take it, pulling out your laptop just for the act. There was no way you were wasting this golden opportunity with actually studying, don’t be silly.
“So,” you begin, picking at the corner of your sleeve. “Any plans this weekend?”
“You didn’t hear? Satoru is having a game this weekend. It’s just a preliminary but he’s been hyped for it. I'm sure he’d love it if you rocked up.”
You almost laugh out loud. “No way. He'd hate that.”
Geto’s brows lift, amused. “Why would he hate it?”
“Because,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “We're not really friends. More like we have a symbiotic relationship. If we didn’t have that, I doubt we’d even talk to each other.”
“I don't think so,” Geto smiles at you but instead of giving you the butterflies, it leaves you feeling unsure. “But you should come. Not by yourself, of course, I'm sure Shoko would come along.”
“If she was going to go, she’d just take Utahime.” You shift in your seat, throwing the idea around in your head. “Even if I wanted to, I don't think I know anyone else who’d want to come with.”
“Do you want to go with me?”
Your brain blanks.
“What?”
“I was planning on going anyway,” he says, tone casual and all your senses tunnel-vision on him. “Besides, I've been curious about the girl who’s been taking up so much of Satoru’s time.”
Your answer is obvious.
“I’d love to!”
It comes out a little too fast, a little too bright, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care. Relief, excitement, disbelief, it all tangles together in your chest until the only discernable thing left is a giddy sort of lightness.
Geto’s smile widens, clearly pleased and you beam back. He hands you his phone.
“Can I have your Insta then?So I can text you the details later.”
Your hands shake as you take it, thumbs clumsy as you type in your username, backspacing more times than you’d like to admit. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything, the way he’s close enough to see your screen, the warmth of his hand where it had just been, the ridiculous desire to go through your own profile but through his eyes settling on your mind. Later, you can already imagine stalking your own profile, scrutinising every photo, every caption, trying to imagine what it would look like to be him scrolling through for the first time.
When he takes his phone back, he doesn’t immediately pocket it. Instead, he actually looks, thumb scrolling down, humming.
Oh god, he’s looking right now.
"Where's that quote from your bio from?” He asks, glancing up briefly. “It sounds familiar.”
“Oh, um. It’s from my favourite novel.” Your eyes flutter across his face as you tell him the title, sneaking in a quick description to try to sell it.
“I’ll have to check it out then,” Geto says, putting his phone away. “Do you read often?”
“Not as much as I want to. You know how it is, with school and everything. Not to mention books are crazy expensive nowadays.”
He nods sympathetically. “There's this small bookshop tucked away near the city. It's actually close by the rink where Satoru’s game is. I could show you after his game on Saturday.”
Your breath catches.
“After the game?” You repeat, trying very hard to sound normal and not out-of-breath.
Geto nods, completely at ease.
“If you’re not in a rush to get back after,” he adds, considerate as ever. “It says open pretty late.”
You stare at him for a second, thoughts scrambling over each other.
He’s inviting you out after a game. That meant walking together, talking more, being alone without the buffer of a crowd screaming over a bunch of men slamming into each other and hitting with their sticks.
You realise you’re meant to give an answer and quickly hurry.
“Yeah, that sounds perfect actually!” You say, a touch too fast, then wince and try again, softer. “I mean—yeah. That sounds really nice.”
“Good,” he says simply, smile deepening. “It's a cozy place. You could get lost in there for hours.”
“That sounds dangerous. I already have a book-buying problem."
“Secondhand prices,” he reminds you. “It's much safer.”
You hum. “That's debateable. Lower prices just means I have to buy more.”
You can’t believe your luck. Not only had Geto basically invited you on a date to Gojo’s game, he’s also asked you to go book shopping together afterward. And somehow, you had just finished a perfectly normal conversation with him without embarrassing yourself beyond recovery.
Could things possibly get any better?
“You know,” he starts up again and you lean in. “Satoru’s doing suspiciously good in his classes recently. Any clue why?”
You freeze, temporarily thrown off guard. “He better be. I don't tutor him for nothing.”
“I knew it was you. Why are you tutoring him? If he’s blackmailing you, I can help,” he says with a straight face.
“No, no! nothing like that!” You rush to explain.
He cracks a smile. “I’m just joking. He's not actually as bad as his reputation makes him out to be. It's all bad rep, you know?”
While you’ve known Gojo through his reputation for as long as you can remember, you’ve never once stopped to consider that might not be everything about him.
“What do you mean?”
“Sig Kap had a frat sweetheart two years ago,” Geto explains, folding his hands loosely on his laptop. “She was nice, really sweet but some of the older guys treated her like shit. When Satoru called some of the boys out for messing with her they weren’t too happy.”
Your brows lift. “So did they kick him out or something?”
“Not that there’s much they could have done considering his family.”
“What about them?”
He glances at you surprised. “You don’t know?”
You shake your head.
“Huh.” His expression softens into something gentler. “Yeah. A lot of people approach him because they want something, connections, favours, you know the deal. He absolutely hates it. Ironically, that influence is also what kept the older guys from pushing back too hard and they couldn’t exactly scare him off so he’s there to stay.”
“And some people still don’t like him?”
“Some still don’t,” Geto confirms. “So they spread all those stupid rumours instead. Probably easier that way since it’s not exactly traceable.”
Your stomach tightens. “What kind of rumours?”
He hesitates, then shrugs. “Stuff about him sleeping around. that he’s messed with every girl on campus, that kind of thing. You don’t have to look so devastated, it doesn’t bother him much. If anything, it gets him more game. But it’s far from the truth. I mean you’re a girl on campus and he hasn’t messed with you.”
Something about the way he says it, calm and matter-of-fact, makes your chest ache.
“He did earn a lot of respect back,” Geto continues, oblivious to your growing distress. “Especially from the younger guys. But some of the older ones never really got over it.”
He falls silent, studying you with that gentle, searching look that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope and the spotlight is shining down on you. Whatever he sees under the lens makes him smile.
“It’s nice,” he says softly. “That you’re so genuine with him. He doesn’t get that very often.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Couldn't he have used a word other than ‘genuine’? Because you aren’t genuine, far from it, and that realisation makes your stomach drop, nausea blooming sharp and sudden and upheaving the contents.
You approached Gojo with a plan just like all those who have approached him with ulterior motives in the past. And you’ve used him for his friendship and his willingness to help, to get closer to the person right in front of you.
You are no better than the people Geto just described. Worse, even.
Heat rushes to your face, then drains away just as quickly, leaving you cold.
You push your chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor.
“Where did Gojo go?” you ask, wincing internally.
Geto blinks up at you, startled by the sudden shift. “Oh, uh.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit. “He said he had to help me—that is, his friend unlock his door. He's probably back in his room now though.”
You nod too quickly, already stuffing your laptop into your bag with fumbling hands, cables tangling as if they’re conspiring against you.
“Are you going after him?” Geto asks gently.
You freeze for a split second.
Are you?Here you are, sitting across from the person you supposedly like, the person you engineered this entire situation to get closer to, and you’re about to abandon the conversation to chase after his best friend. This is your chance, the perfect golden opportunity, and you’re throwing it away. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to completely doubt yourself.
“Yeah,” you say, half a smile hovering on your lips. “I’m so sorry. There’s just something I need to say to him.”
You bite your lip.
“See you at the match though?"
Geto’s surprise melts into an easy grin. "Don't worry about it. Good luck. And Y/N, seriously, take care of him, okay?”
The words prick at your skin with a faint sense of deja vu, but you don’t stop to examine it. Instead, you give Geto one last shaky smile, sling your bag over your shoulder, and hurry toward the exit. Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns everything else.
You knock at what you believe is his door if memory serves correct.
“Go away, I'm jerking it.”
You can’t decide if he’s being serious or just scaring unwanted guests away. Regardless, you clear your throat and talk.
“Sorry for interrupting? Look, it’s me, it’s Y/N. Can I come in?”
No sooner had you said your name, the door flies open, Gojo standing right behind, eyes wide and face flushed.
“Y/N? What are you—I mean, I thought you had that date with Suguru?” He goes to run a hand through his hair but pauses, switching to his other hand.
“Yeah well, clearly I left him to come see you.” You sigh deeply and brush past him into his room. “There’s something I need to say to you and it’s really eating up at me for some reason.”
“No sure, go ahead. Walk right in,” he mumbles but doesn’t try to stop you, instead closing the door gently. “What are you doing here? Because if you’re here to gloat or have a girl talk, Shoko is the one for you.”
You flop onto his couch, staring up at his ceiling. He pauses before following, the couch cushions dipping under his weight as he drops down beside you.
“Gojo, I’m really sorry,” you say, turning to him.
He stares back unamused. “I told you to call me Satoru.”
You blink, momentarily caught off guard before correcting yourself. “Satoru. I'm really sorry.”
“Okay.” His frown lifts and he leans back to look at you. “About what?”
You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly unsure where to even start.
“About everything?” You try weakly.
He raises a brow. “That narrows it down.”
You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Okay, specifically I feel like I've been using you and being annoying and dragging you into my mess. And also I abandoned you in the library which was rude and I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn't and I'm really sorry.”
Gojo blinks at you and you hold your breath for the verdict.
“...that’s it?”
“That’s not ‘it’, that’s a lot,” you argue, pushing yourself up. “You've been helping me this whole time and I'm just barging into your life, asking for unreasonable favors and taking up your time.”
He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, surprise, confusion, maybe even something softer that he quickly buries under a flippant expression.
“That's it?” he repeats, slower this time.
You nod, twisting in your fingers together in your lap, the fight leaving your body as quick as it came. “I mean, it's not nothing. I know I've been a lot. And you didn’t have to help me at all, with any of it, but you did and I…” Your voice falters. “I don't want you to think I was just… using you.”
Silence settles between you, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. The hum of his mini fridge in the corner fills the gaps. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams and laughter echoes faintly before fading.
Gojo exhales through his nose and leans back, head tipping against the couch cushion as he stares up at the ceiling.
“You’re terrible,” he mutters.
He turns his head to look at you properly, blue eyes sharp in a way that makes your chest tighten. Up close like this, without the buffer of banter or crowds or motion, it’s impossible to ignore how intense he can be when he isn’t performing for anyone. You've had the privilege to see this side of him a few times, and the thought that he’s let you in and you’ve only gone and used him fills you with more guilt.
“You didn’t abandon me in the library,” he continues. “I left on my own free will, remember?”
“Yeah but—”
“And you’re not using me,” he adds, voice flattening slightly. “If you were, then you aren’t using me to my full potential.”
You huff a weak laugh. “Thanks?”
“I mean it,” he says, not smiling. “People who use others don’t show up at their door looking like they’re going to throw up from guilt.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “I did not look like that.”
“You did,” he says easily. “Still kind of do.”
You shove his shoulder lightly. He barely moves, solid as ever, but the corner of his mouth lifts and the tension in your chest loosens at the sight.
“So… you’re not mad?” You ask carefully.
He considers that more seriously than you expected. “I was.”
The worry comes back tenfold.
“But not for the reason you think. So stop looking like you’ve aged ten years, sweets, it’s not a good look on you.”
You wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t.
You sigh, unable to keep up with the emotional whiplash and opt to instead throw it all away.
“Okay, well that’s cryptic," you mutter.
He shrugs. “I'm a mysterious guy. It’s all part of the irresistable, untouchable charm.”
“I don’t see how you can be mysterious when you’re so loud.”
“I open up to you and this is what I get?”
“You did not open up.”
He turns his head back toward the ceiling. “And now I'm closing back down.”
You roll your eyes, but the knot in your chest has loosened enough that you can breathe again, you almost miss this back and forth and it seems he does too because he relaxes fully into his couch. Without thinking, you mimic him, shoulder brushing his. This time, neither of you moves away.
The proximity feels different than before. You've been closer to him than this, and you randomly recall being on his lap for some reason unrelated to this specific moment and the charged, quiet atmosphere.
After a moment, he speaks again, softer.
“Did you at least get what you wanted?”
You hesitate, the question knocking you out of orbit. “I think so. I mean he asked me to go to the game with him. and then a bookstore after.”
Gojo goes still beside you.
“My game?” He shakes his head with a scoff. “Figures. Well, good for you.”
You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers, suddenly unsure why that answer feels so unsatisfying.
“Yeah,” you say anyway, forcing brightness into your voice. “It is good.”
He hums noncommittally, eyes still fixed somewhere on the ceiling. For someone who never shuts up, his silence feels louder than anything he could say. You sneak glances at him from the corner of your eye, observing the strong curve of his nose, the harsh bob of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of his chest and his big hands you’ve had the opportunity to feel on your ass.
The quiet stretches, though it is far from quiet inside your head.
Then, before you can stop yourself, you’re already opening your mouth.
“Can I ask you something?”
His gaze slides to you instantly, sharp and attentive as if he was waiting for you to break the silence first. “Not to be that guy but you just did.”
“A real question.” You roll your eyes though his somewhat predictable rage bait helps ease some tension. Still, you hesitate, throat tight. If you say it out loud, it becomes real and no longer a suppressed fantasy. But if you don’t say anything, this feeling in your chest might never go away, tainting every future you might have with Geto.
“How do you know what you’re doing?” You ask.
One white brow lifts. “In what context? I'm good at a lot of things. You're gonna have to narrow it down, sweets.”
You groan softly. “With girls. With… touching. And stuff. Etcetera.”
Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once. You don’t catch the shift in experience because you stare stubbornly at your hands clasp in your lap, heat flooding your face.
“Oh.”
“I just don’t know,” you admit, voice small. “I don't know what I'm doing at all and it’s embarrassing.”
He sits up a little, attention sharpening in a way that makes your skin prickle.
“Y/N.”
You press on before he can interrupt. “I mean, I know theoretically, obviously. That's what bio class is for right? But I know in practice I’ll just freeze. Or overthink or do nothing. And if things ever go further with Geto, I don't want to be useless. You mentioned he’s had exes before, right? But I haven't. And that kind of sucks to think about.”
Then softly. “You're probably the closest thing to experience I have.”
“Useless,” he starts. “Is not the right word I'd use. Suguru would never think that. He’s not a dick.”
You finally look at him. “I don’t want him to regret it. Or think I'm awkward. or that I don't want him.”
He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something he hopes not to find. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
You scoff. “You're not stupid. I mean sure, you almost failed baby’s first statistics but you’re not dumb.”
“No, I guess I'm not, thanks,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But I was kind of hoping maybe I'm still fantasising.”
“You were fantasising before?”
“Let's not go there.”
“It’s a Friday,” you say slowly. "Shouldn't you have a hook up right about now?”
He pouts, looking oddly down. “I wasn't feeling like it.”
“So you had to use your hand.”
“I wasn't jerking off, Y/N.”
Neither of you believe that statement. Here you are, sitting on the couch of campus heartthrob Gojo Satoru, joking around about the lack of a female body against him while you’re upset about being a virgin. Even Gojo, who isn’t admittedly the best at math, shouldn’t struggle with putting two and two together.
“Right, I believe you.” You bite your lip, opening your eyes wider as you plead. “I just hate feeling unprepared. You’ve seen just how bad I freeze. Can’t you help me?”
He chews on his lips aggressively before finally groaning, running a hand down his face. “You have the worst ideas known to man. Fine. I'll help you. But we're stopping if it gets weird.”
“Obviously.”
“Do you even remember how to kiss?”
“Find out for yourself.”
You grab his collar and tug him towards you, smacking your lips against his the second he’s in range. It's not the graceful, fireworks-exploding moment from rom-coms, more like two magnets clashing awkwardly, teeth bumping before you recall the right angle. Gojo chuckles into the kiss, the vibration tickling your mouth, and you pull back just enough to glare at him.
“It hurts that you don’t remember my lessons, sweets,” Gojo purrs, clearly enjoying your fluster.
“Shut up and kiss me properly,” you mutter, snarky even as your cheeks burn.
You dive back in, and this time it clicks, most likely due to his more active participation. Your lips move in sync, his tongue slipping past your teeth. It's surprisingly nice, all heat and shared air, making your stomach flip in a way that’s equal parts nerves and excitement. You didn’t realise how much you were craving this since the last time.
Gojo’s hands stay loose on your waist, respectful but firm, until he deepens the kiss with a low hum. You feel him shift under you, his body reacting before his brain catches up. When you break apart for air, his eyes are darker, pupils blown wide. He adjusts his hips, and there’s no missing the semi-hard bulge straining against his jeans because it nudges insistently against your inner thigh.
You both look down.
“Uh, yeah,” he says, voice a little rough, something like accusation in his eyes as he glares down at Gojo junior. “Guess that means you do remember lesson one after all. Mind if I lose the pants?”
You snort, trying to play it cool despite the heat pooling in your gut. “Not so reluctant now, huh?”
“Game is game.”
He grins, all cock swagger, and pops the buttons off his jeans. They slide down his legs in a heap, leaving him in snug black boxers that do nothing to hide his growing interest. Gojo’s leaner than you’d pegged him for, abs carved from lazy gym sessions, waist dipping in before flaring to solid shoulders. But your eyes zero in lower, where his cock twitches half-hard against the fabric, outlining a decent length that’s got you curiously intrigued rather than intimidated.
When he sits back down, he leans back on his palms and smirks. “You can touch me, you know. I bet it’s better than just looking.”
“Anywhere?”
“I'm practically offering myself up to you on a platter. Yes, Y/N. Everywhere’s fair game.”
You eye him for a little longer. He's not as big as he carried himself around to be.
As if sensing your unspoken realisation, he hurriedly explains, "I'm not completely hard yet.”
You nod, sympathetically. “Right, no I get it.”
“I’m serious, Y/N, stop looking at me like that.”
He grabs your hand and places it on his abs, ignoring your sudden squeak.
“You’re going to have to work to get me there.” He watches as you hesitate, his heartbeat quickening slightly under your touch.
“This seems less like teaching and more like you just wanting someone to get you off.”
“You’re learning.” Despite his teasing tone, he eases you closer to him. “Look, it’s not exactly rocket science and what I tell you probably won’t apply to everyone. But most guys are animals so if you can make them feel good then that’s all that matters. What's meta for most guys though is probably their neck and lower stomach. But you can start anywhere.”
His smirk falters just a tad when you explore, tentatively at first, palms sliding over his ribs and thumbs brushing his nipples until they pebble under your touch. Gojo’s breath hitches, but he keeps it together, murmuring encouragement. “I guess you could try there too. Fuck, this is kind of embarrassing. Can’t you be normal and go at my neck or something?”
“Your neck?” Your fingers slide up to touch him there but he laughs and gently brushes your hand away.
“Okay, don’t strangle me. When I say touch, I don't just mean with your fingers. You can touch your lips too, can’t you?”
You bite your lips and nod, wetting them quickly with your tongue. You lean in closer, your lips finding the pulse point of his neck. It's a quick peck at first, testing, and he just arches a brow, unimpressed.
Fine, challenge accepted.
You brace yourself on his shoulders and lick a slow stripe up the tendon, tasting salt and faint cologne which isn’t the best tasting thing in the world, so you nibble the skin. Gojo hums, head tilting to give you better access, and you dive in, sucking lightly, alternating with kisses that leave faint marks.
It’s heady, this rush of control. His bare chest radiates warmth against your arm, heavy breaths ghosting your ear as he lets you lead.
“Hungry, are you?” Gojo finds his footing against the absurd situation because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s receiving attention from pretty women. If he closes his eyes like so, focusing only on the cute licks against his neck, he can almost ignore the fact that it’s coming from you. “I'd be careful not to leave any marks. Girls get jealous easily, you know?”
You roll your eyes at his very unsexy comment. He's underestimating you, you’re sure he is, and you’re even more determined to prove him wrong.
You kiss down his neck, licking at the column of his neck, and when you find this soft patch of skin, pale under your lips and glimmering with a thin layer of sweat, you do what your instincts roar at you to do and bite him as he’s mid yapping.
“I never really let girls kiss me like this, so be grateful that I—ohfuck!”
Gojo’s reaction is immediate as a downright sinful moan escapes his pretty lips unchecked. His hands tighten in your hips, head dropping forward, panting as he catches his breath from the sudden sharp inhale.
You let go, licking at the mark left behind. “Oh, sorry. You don’t do marks, right?”
“That was…” He trails off, eyes dark as he holds you in his gaze. “Jesus, sweets, where did you even learn that kind of stuff?”
You shrug, letting him hold you back and feeling a little bit like a rabid animal. “It was just something I wanted to do. Was it bad? Did it hurt?”
“No, it was fine. Keep going just… use your hands a bit more too,” he hurries to add on, clearing his throat and loosening his hold on you. “It feels better if you use both your mouth and hands at the same time. Keep going, but don’t forget the rest of me.”
Finding no error in his words, you enthusiastically go back to kissing and sucking on his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. Meanwhile, you slide your hands down his chest, marveling at how smooth he feels despite his muscle.
When you graze your finger tips between the medial line of his abs, you feel him shiver and you detach your lips from his neck to watch his eyes track your every move, hungry and unblinking.
“Atta girl,” he rasps, abs flexing under your palm and he shivers as you slide even further down, hand hovering his stomach. His cock visibly thickens in his boxers as you trace the ridges of his abs.“That’s it. Take your time, sweets. I'm not going anywhere.”
You never considered that Gojo would be so vocal during sex, not that this even counted as sex yet. If anything, that made you even more curious, wondering if he himself knew how much he was talking and how little any of it even meant. In case he didn’t, you didn’t dare talk in case it would break the spell.
Your fingers skim the waistband of his boxers and he sucks in a breath, voice dropping an octave.
“Fuck, yeah. That’s the spot.” The fabric tents fully now, his cock hard and straining, the tip outlined clearly. It's thicker than you expected, pulsing with need, and the sight sends a thrill straight to your core.
Gojo’s eyes flick between your hand and your face, flushed and focused. “See? told you it’d wake up. want to see all of it?”
You nod, eyes trained on his bulge.
He grins, taking your hands to hook your thumbs into the sides of his boxers. He helps you slightly though he lets you do most of the work. Emboldened, you tug the boxers down just enough to free his cock, watching it spring up, thicker now, veins prominent along the shaft, the head flushed and glistening with a bead of precum.
Your first words are, of course, very sexy.
“Oh damn.”
Gojo laughs breathlessly. For my own ego, I'm going to take that as a good thing.”
“It just doesn’t look how I expected it to.”
That makes him frown. He ducks his head to meet your gaze. “Hey. She has feelings too, you know. Don’t imply that she’s ugly, she’ll sag.”
“She?” It's so ridiculous you snort, the nervousness running away to let curiousity fuel your movements once again, fingers curling around his hot, velvety length. He's rock hard under your soft touch, precum slicking your palm as you pump him experimentally. Gojo groans low in his throat, head falling back against the couch.
“Shit, just like—ngh—that,” he grits out, voice wrecked. The sound hits you like a spark, raw and primal, making your thighs clench. “My—my dick has she/her pronouns. It’s 2026 now, get woke.”
Still looking at you, he takes your hand again, wrapping it around his shaft.
“Hold it properly. Feel how hot it is.”
He groans softly as you hold him, guiding your hand up and down in a slow stroke, pressing down where he’s sensitive just the way he likes it. “Squeeze gently and twist your wrist as you move.”
He demonstrates the twist motion, his large hand enveloping yours, precum beading at his tip from both the sight and feel of you.
He lets you go, leaning back on his elbows, enjoying the view of you jacking him off. “You’re a natural, keep going, just like that.”
His breathing becomes heavier, his abdomen tensing. He can’t help but buck slightly into your hand.
Despite his unattractive dirty talk, it doesn’t drive away the power you feel and it doesn’t take away from the sounds, the way his body trembles under your control. It's all so intoxicating, way better than any awkward fumble you’ve imagined with Geto late at night with your hands down your pants.
To shut him up, you squeeze a little tighter and he hisses, pulling you away.
“Slow down,” he pants, catching his breath. He closes his eyes for a moment before locking you in a fierce gaze. “Do you usually shove your finger inside when you’re dry?”
“What?”
“This is why lube exists, woman. God, my poor lady,” He looks up at you, eyes trailing down from your eyes to your lips.
“Please don’t refer to your dick as a lady.”
“I’ve gotten no complaints so far.” Gojo reaches up, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it down slightly. “Have you ever spat on anyone?”
“Excuse me?” You look down at him as if he’s grown another head.
He lets out a strangled groan, hips bucking up under you. “Yeah, keep looking at me like that and spit on my dick. Give her the good old hawk tuah.”
Your grimace only grows and he bites his lip, the corners quirking up. “Please,” he whispers and you’ve lost.
The word hangs between you like a dare, his blue eyes locked on yours, all wide and pleading in a way that clashes hilariously with his usual attitude if the unsure quiver to his lips didn’t wreck you.
Gojo’s cock throbs in your loose grip, the head leaking more precum that drips down the shaft, making your fingers slick without even trying. You hesitate, face heating up at the sheer audacity, but the way his abs tense, the subtle roll of his hips begging for more, chips away at your resistance.
“Fine,” you mutter, rolling your eyes to mask the flutter in your stomach and you must have imagined the way he groans. “But just know I’m judging you the entire time.”
“Even better,” he moans.
You lean over him, one hand steadying on his thick thighs, firm muscle under smooth skin, and purse your lips as you spit on him. It’s awkward as hell, the glop of spit landing off-centre on the underside of his shaft, but you smear it around with your palm.
The glide turns smoother instantly, wet and filthy, your strokes picking up speed as his cock slicks up fully.
Gojo’s reaction is immediate, a deep, rumbling moan spills from his chest, his head knocking back against the couch with a thud, not that he notices. “Fuuuck, yes—that’s it, just like that.”
His hands fist the fabric of the couch on either side of his hips, knuckles white, like he’s fighting not to grab you and take over. But he doesn’t, he lets you work him, hips jerking up in shallow thrusts to meet your rhythm, the tip bumping your palm on every upstroke.
“Keep going, tighter… shit, you’re killing me here.”
The power rush hits you harder now, watching him come undone under your touch. His cock feels massive in your hand, thick and veined, pulsing hotly as you pump from base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit to collect more precum and spread it down. You can feel every ridge, every twitch, and it’s nothing like the vague fantasies you’d spun about Geto. This is real, messy, and way more intense. Your own arousal builds, thighs pressing together as you grind subtly against nothing, the heat between your legs turning insistent.
“Does it… feel good?” You ask, voice breathy and you slow your strokes just to tease, squeezing the base and watching in awe as a fresh bead of precum pearl at the head.
He cracks one eye open, gaze hazy and dark, lips parted in a pant. “Good? Sweets, don’t sell yourself short.”
A grin tugs at his mouth but it falters into a groan when you resume, faster now, the wet schlick of your hand echoing in the room causing you to squirm.
“Don’t stop,” he all but whines. “Gonna cum if you keep this up. Want me to, sweets? Want me to paint your hand or what?”
The crudeness should turn you off, but it doesn’t, it only amps up the thrill, making you bold. You nod, biting your lip as you lean closer, free hand bracing on his chest to feel his heart hammering.
“Yeah, do it. cum for me.”
Gojo’s control snaps like a rubber band. his moans pitch higher, body arching as his cock swells in your grip, veins bulging. “Fuck—fuck, can’t help it, I’m gonna—”
He bucks hard once, twice, and then he’s erupting, thick spurts of cum shooting from the tip to splatter your fingers, his stomach, even a streak across his abs. It's hot, sticky, rope after rope as you milk him through it, not knowing what else to do. You slow your strokes until he’s spent, twitching sensitively in your palm.
He slumps back, chest rising and falling like he ran a marathon, a lazy, disbelieving laugh bubbling out. He runs a hand down his face, groaning softly.
“I am…” He lets out another breathless laugh, head dropping back against the armrest of the couch. “So fucking washed. What the hell was that, sweets?”
You blink, a little dazed yourself. Your hand is still loosely wrapped around him, slick and messy, and only when his eyes flick down do you jolt and snatch your hand back like you’ve been burnt.
“I—I don’t know,” you mumble, gratefully accepting the tissue he hands you, awkwardly deciding to dab at his stomach and abs too, anywhere your eyes can safely land that isn’t his softening cock. “That was… hey, wait a minute. Shouldn’t i be asking you? What the hell was that spitting thing?”
He shrugs, your body moving with the motion as you remain on his lap. “I told you, there’s some things some guys like and some don’t. As a note of reference, maybe don’t spit on Suguru. You’ll kill his ego.”
He has the audacity to smirk at the thought considering the state of him, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, mouth pink and kiss-swollen from all the swearing and groaning.
“You're disgusting,” you accuse weakly, trying not to think about how he’d looked under you a few seconds ago, jaw slack, eyes glazed, like you’d wrung the soul out of him.
“Mmm.” His gaze drags over your face, down the line of your throat, lingering a beat too long at your chest before he drags it back up. “So, how are you feeling after all that?”
“Embarrassed,” you say immediately.
“But kinda turned on, too?” he guesses, just as fast.
Your mouth drops open. “I did not say that.”
“Don’t have to,” he says, maddening. “You’re still sitting on me, you know.”
You freeze. You're still straddling his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs on the couch, hips pressed to his, fingers bunched at his stomach. You'd be so focused on that scrunched up look on his face when he came that you kind of forgot to be mortified about the position.
Now you remember.
“I was busy,” you mutter, shifting like you’re about to climb off.
His hands come up automatically, one at your waist, one braced at your hip, holding you there without quite pulling you back down. “Hey, hey. I didn't say you had to move.”
“But you’re all…” you wave a hand vaguely at his lap, face burning. “Post-nut clarity or whatever. You should be resting or something.”
“That’s hilarious, do you think I’m an old man?” He huffs a laugh. “If my stamina lasted one puny handjob I would never show my face anywhere. Hey, don’t glare at me like that. you know what that does to me. you glaring at me and spitting on my cock while you jerk me off—fuck.”
“Don't say it like that,” you hiss, heat flooding your chest. “You literally told me to.”
“And you did so good,” he croons. “Look at you, all flustered now. You were seconds away from calling me pathetic, you know.”
“How are you turning this on me? You’re the one that liked it,” you shoot back, shoulder tensing.
His fingers flex at your waist, like he’s remembering it. “Yeah. I really, really did.”
The way he says it sends a tiny shiver through you. You feel ridiculously aware of yourself suddenly, of your damp palms on his chest, of the way your thighs are pressed around him, of the restless thrum under your skin you’ve been trying not to notice since he first groaned for you.
You shift again, intending to put some space between you, and hiss as the movement drags you a little too firmly against him, sparking through the ache low in your belly.
You go very still and so does he.
His eyes flicker, dropping for a fraction of a second to the point where your hips meet his. You can feel the change in him, no longer wrecked and loose-limbed, but sharpened like he’s honing in on every tiny flinch.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Feeling something, sweets?”
“Don’t start,” you warn, feeling every urge to catapult yourself off his lap. His hand tightens on your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles, maddeningly casual. “Can you let me go already?”
“But it’s not over yet, are you sure you want to miss the best part? If I said I wanted to make it your turn, would you say no?”
The question hangs between you, heavier than his usual teasing.
“This isn’t… about that.”
“Sure it is,” he whispers, lips curved into a wicked grin. “You wanna learn how to make a guy feel good right? Then you also need to know what you like. If you know what works for you, it’s easier to tell him what works for him.”
Has Gojo always been so reasonable?
“Besides,” he continues when you’re not rushing to sign up to his touch. “I’m being selfless here. You can’t seriously think I'd let you walk out of here without repaying the favour first, right?”
“Way to sound like a douche.” You swat at his chest, a weak attempt to appear levelheaded.
“How else am I supposed to say it?” He laughs softly, catching your wrist but not pushing it away, thumb stroking over your pulse. “I want to touch you. properly. Can I?”
Your stomach swoops.
“Just to know what it feels like?”
“Exactly.” His smile goes crooked at the edges. “Now you’re getting it.”
You stare at him, breathing shallow. Your heart is thudding way too fast. you’re hyperaware of your own body again, of the way your panties stick uncomfortably, of the restless ache that’s only been getting worse, of how easy it would be to fall into his tempting embrace.
“Hey, come back to me,” Gojo murmurs. “We don't have to do anything you don’t want. I promise I'm not a dick. So? What do you want, sweets?”
You look down at where his hands rest, big and warm on your hips, fingers flexing like he’s trying very hard to stay put.
You could say no, you know that. He'd let you hop off, probably make a dumb joke to break the tension, and the both of you can go back to pretending the constant physical touch is driving you up the wall. But you also know your legs are still a little unsteady, and that every time you shift you have to bite back a sound you really don’t want him to hear.
You swallow, hard.
“You have to listen,” you say finally. “If I say stop, you stop. and none of your stupid comments either.”
His expression sobers instantly, hands jumping a little at your hips. “Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”
“I’m telling you, when you say shit like that, everything goes back inside.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you want me quiet. So can I touch you or are you going to keep torturing us both?”
“You deserve the torture,” you grumble, then quieter, “But, yeah. okay.”
He hums. “Not good enough. Say it again?”
You bite back a complaint. “I want you to…touch me.”
It comes out barely more than a whisper, but it hits him like a truck. His eyes darken, lashes lowering as he sucks in a breath. One moment you’re straddling him, the next he’s sat up and turned you around so your back leans against his chest, his breath tickling your neck.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, hands sliding down to your stomach. His fingers play with the hem, nails barely grazing your bare skin. “Can I?”
You shiver, looking down to watch his hands with anticipation. Swallowing, you brace yourself and nod.
“Good girl,” he breathes.
His hand trails under your shirt, fingertips tracing nonsense shapes on your skin. He doesn’t go straight where you know you’re aching for him to go. Instead, he takes his time, mapping out the sensitive spots he finds, where your muscles jump when he squeezes, lowering his hand to where your breath stutters when he drags his knuckles along the inside of your thigh.
“You're wound so tight,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Relax for me, Y/N.”
“Shut up and stop teasing,” you hiss, and then gasp when his hand finally slips higher, brushing over the edge of your waistband.
“Is that a no?” He asks instantly, stilling.
]You want to throttle him. “I’m just… nervous.”
“Of course you are,” he says, voice going stupidly soft in your ear, hands playing with the fabric. “The first time’s always weird. But it doesn’t have to be bad-weird.”
He slowly slips his hand under the band, feeling you go still.
“Hey.” He presses his lips to your hair, mumbling soft words of praise. “You're okay, you’re doing good. Just breathe for me.”
You do, albeit shakily, his fingertips brushing the damp centre of your panties.
“You’re already… Jesus," he says quickly. “I really did a number on you, huh? And without even touching you, too.”
“If you don’t shut up, I'm leaving,” you threaten weakly.
He chuckles, guiding your attention away. Gojo slides your shorts down so you can see exactly where his fingers press against, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks at the sight of his thick fingers prodding against the backdrop of the panties you chose out this morning. If you knew something like this would happen, you would have worn something else.
Gojo thankfully doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he slowly explores, no sudden movements, no overwhelming pressure, just the occasional slide against your clit.
“Okay?” he asks, and you realise you’ve gone silent, holding your breath again.
“Yeah,” you gasp. “Just feel different than—nevermind.”
“Different good?” He prompts, thumb pressing down on your clit and you jolt, an audible inhale escaping you.
You feel his arms tighten around you.
“Oh, there we go,” he mutters, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself. “That got you.”
You don’t dignify that with an answer, not that you have the capacity to because the next moment, he’s moving his fingers with practiced purpose. His thumb circles your swollen clit through the damp fabric, the barrier muffling any sharp pleasure though it helps you wrap your head around the sensation.
When you start lifting your hips to meet his touch, he knows he has you where he wants you.
With his other fingers, he slowly slides your panties to the sides and touches you directly. The effect is immediate, your eyes snap down to watch, body tensing, want like you’ve never known it before shocking you.
The sight of your own arousal makes you wetter and he abandons his touch to touch you directly.
“Look at that,” he coos in your ear, voice breathy with awe and smug satisfaction. “Here you were acting like you wanted to leave when you’re this wet. Thought I wouldn't know, sweets? That I couldn't see you eye my dick all hungry like that?”
He emphasises his words with a harsh pinch of your clit and your head falls back to rest on his shoulders with a filthy moan ripped from your throat, raw and unprocessed.
Gojo takes the chance to kiss your neck.
You should hit him for his words, you really should. But instead, your hand flies up to his forearm, nails digging in when he slides a finger to circle your entrance and the world briefly whites out.
He groans quietly, like your reaction is doing something to him. “That’s—fuck, you’re so cute. Do that again.”
“Don’t tease,” you say again, voice barely there and brain too mushy to think of something original.
And like he knows, Gojo slowly slides a finger into your pussy and the pressure temporarily pushes out all of the pleasure. But then his free hand is playing with your clit and he’s telling you how good you are and how pretty you sound, and it comes back.
He thrusts that finger in and out slowly, letting you adjust to the intrusion and when you’re sighing soft moans and broken demands again, he curls it and doesn’t stop moving. He could easily overpower you, could pin you down and take, take, take, but he doesn’t. Every time you tense like you might pull away, he backs off just enough, murmuring at your ear, though by the time you’re close you haven’t panicked in a while.
He’s the one breathing hard when you start to chase your peak, like he’s the one being touched.
You’re writhing now, his arms having to tighten around you to keep you still as he slides another finger inside.
“That’s it,” he whispers, panting when your thighs clamp around his hand, head tipped back on his shoulders and eyes starting to roll back. “There you go. I've got you. Let go for me, yeah? Doing so good for me, sweets.”
“S-Satoru,” you choke out, the name ripped from somewhere deep.
His whole body jolts behind you and you feel a twitch near your ass.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, like you’ve done something filthy. “Say my name like that again, I swear to god—”
You don’t because suddenly, you’re gone.
His fingers pressed against the spongy spot inside, his thumb circling your clit, and suddenly everything tightens then snaps and you’re tumbling, shaking around the steady anchor of his hand and his arm and his voice in your ear. He doesn’t speed up, letting you ride your orgasm on his hand, mumbling sweet nothings against your sweaty neck.
It’s messy and overwhelming and a little scary for a second, then his palm is flat over your lower stomach, grounding you as waves of sensation roll through your body. His other hand finally gentles and you can breathe again.
When you finally slump back against him boneless, the room feels dimmer. your chest heaves, skin prickling with aftershocks that he guides you through.
He eases his hand away and wipes it on his pants, keeping you steady on his lap.
“Hey,” he says softly, lips brushing your hairline. “You still with me?”
You nod, or at least you try to. “I think so.”
“Yeah?” He presses, smiling against your skin.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath with you. “You did amazing, sweets.”
“You're making me sound like a dog.”
“Well, you were very obedient,” he says lightly, then winces. “Okay, that sounded kinda bad.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re still half-leaning against him. One of his hands comes up, hovering for a second like he isn’t sure if touching you again is allowed, then settles gently at your side.
You catch your breath, stealing a glance. His hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still blown wide but there’s something softer around the edges, so different from his usual cocky composure that it does something strange to your chest.
“You're the worst,” you mumble, just to say something.
“Oh?” his brows lift. “You seemed pretty satisfied with the lesson.”
You keep your mouth shut because there is absolutely no winning that argument.
Silence falls, not heavy nor awkward, but certainly unfamiliar. Without the distraction of movement or adrenaline, your mind starts spinning into the consequences of your actions.
And the fact that you’re still sitting between his thighs.
You stiffen and he notices immediately.
“Uh. Do you… want to—”
“Yes,” you say at the exact same time he says, “We should probably—”
You both stop, voice overlapping as you tell each other to continue then stop again. It’s funny if not awkward and you laugh, startled and breathless.
“Okay,” he says, hands lifting slightly in surrender. “You first.”
“No, you go,” you insist, scrambling upright a little too fast. The room tilts for half a second and you grab his thigh to steady yourself.
His hands hover again, then settle at your waist just in case.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still a little… y’know?”
You straighten and stand away from the couch, legs wobbling in a way you pretend not to notice. The cool air hits your skin and reality comes rushing back in a tidal wave of embarrassment.
Your skirt rests on your thighs but they’re crumpled, and your hair is surely a mess.
Gojo watches, biting his lip hard enough to leave teeth marks. He stands too, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking almost shy as he grabs his discarded shirt and pulls it back on.
For a moment, neither of you know where to look.
You fixate on a crack in the wall and he studies the floor.
“Do you, uh… want me to walk you back?”
The normalcy of the question feels surreal.
“I’m fine with walking,” you say quickly. “The weather’s nice so.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Fresh air. Definitely.”
You grab your bag with fumbling hands, nearly knocking it off the couch in the process. He catches it before it hits the floor, fingers brushing yours again as he hands it over.
Neither of you pull away immediately. Then, you both do at the same time.
“Right,” you say.
“Right,” he echoes.
He opens the door for you, peeking into the hallway first before gesturing.
“You sure you don’t want me to walk you back?”
You almost cry at the visual of a way out. “No, no, I'm fine. It’s not too far anyway.”
Gojo studies your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue or not. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s in on some big secret. He just looks uncertain.
“If you say so,” he mutters, stepping aside.
You slip past him into the hallway, letting out a big sigh of relief when you hear the door close gently behind you with a soft click. Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo follow you out anyway.
Your feet slow. “You don’t have to, I'm really okay.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m just heading in the same direction. That's all. What a coincidence?”
“Uh-huh.”
The staircase is only a few doors down, but the short walk stretches, each step heavy with things unsaid. You can hear voices downstairs, life continuing on, oblivious.
At the top of the stairwell, you stop.
“Are we still going the same way?”
He shakes his head.
“I’ll see you around,” you settle on when the silence stretches.
“See you, Y/N.”
You take one step down, then another. After a third, you glance back.
Gojo is still there, watching. your chest does something uncomfortable as he waits.
“Goodnight, Satoru,” you say softly.
He blinks, like the name catches him off guard every time. Then he smiles, small but warm.
“Night, sweets.”
When you reach the bottom and push out into the night air, it feels shockingly cool against your overheated skin. The campus is quiet, streetlights painting everything gold and shadowed, the distant sound of traffic humming like white noise.
You walk faster than necessary because if you slow down, the thoughts will quickly flood in. And if you start thinking, you might realise that somewhere between asking him for help and leaving his room tonight, something has gone very, very wrong.
You’re not sure why you care so much.
You tell yourself it’s because Geto will be there, because this is a chance to make a real impression, because this is what all of it has been building toward. But as you stand in front of your mirror, turning this way and that, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, adjusting your hair for the third time, checking your reflection from angles no one in real life would ever see, you realise this isn’t normal.
You’ve never put this much thought into a “casual” outing before.
Not the outfit, carefully balanced between cute and effortless, like you didn’t spend forty minutes deciding between two nearly identical tops just for the jersey to cover it anyway. Not the makeup, soft enough to look natural, deliberate enough to feel like armor. Not the way your stomach flips every time you picture stepping into the arena.
You know deep down this isn’t about Geto. That thought alone makes your chest feel tight.
You grab your purse before you can overthink it further and leave.
When you walk into the arena, the roar of the crowd hits you like a physical force, loud and electric, buzzing with anticipation and cheer. It bleeds through the concrete walls, through your bones, and through the floor beneath your shoes.
The game hasn’t officially started yet, you made sure to come before then, but the energy is already at a fever pitch.
Your eyes sweep the rink automatically, searching. And you spot him immediately.
Gojo, in his navy and white jersey, skates across the ice like it belongs to him, like the rink exists solely to accommodate his momentum. It doesn't seem to matter that his helmet obscures most of his face, you’d recognise him anywhere. the easy confidence in the way he moves, the loose, effortless posture, the casual speed that looks like he isn’t even trying—it’s unmistakable.
His hair, damp under his helmet, peeks out in soft white tufts. His cheeks are slightly flushed from exertion, breath fogging faintly in the cold air as he glides past teammates, exchanging easy shoves and taps of sticks. He's the easiest person in the world to look at and the hardest to look away from.
He glances up towards the stands during warm-ups, scanning lazily, and your heart stutters. You freeze, suddenly aware of yourself, of the crowd, of how ridiculous it is to hope he’ll notice you among hundreds of people wearing the same colours.
I mean, all these people? All wearing the team jersey? And you wouldn’t call yourself beautiful, not in the kind of way that makes someone stand out across a packed arena, and certainly not in a way that draws eyes automatically, not—
Gojo turns a little more. and then his eyes meet yours.
The jolt is instantaneous, sharp and electric, like touching a live wire. Your breath catches, lungs forgetting their purpose entirely as a stupid, bright grin spreads across his face.
A strange warmth floods your chest, blooming outward until it feels too big to contain. You bite your lip, trying and failing, to suppress your own giddy smile as you tug lightly at the hem of your jersey, lifting it just enough to show the number at the front and point at it.
06.
If it's even possible, his grin widens. He spins around without hesitation, and easily mind you, skating backward for a few seconds just to show off the back of his own jersey, jabbing a glove thumb at the matching number with pride.
Heat rushes to your face.
It's ridiculous, childish even, but your heart is pounding and the warmth in your chest swells until it’s almost overwhelming.
When warm-ups end, he lifts his stick in your direction in one last, unmistakable acknowledgement before skating toward the bench, where his teammates swarm him instantly. One of them hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him down while another plays bongos on his helmet, elbows digging into his ribs.
From this distance you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you don’t need to. His expression gives everything away, the wide grin and mock protests, and the way he shoves them back half-heartedly while still laughing.
Someone whistles, another bumps his shoulder and one even points toward the stands, toward you. Your stomach flips.
“Y/N?”
You start, tearing your eyes away as if caught doing something incriminating. Geto stands beside you, already holding two drinks, his expression warm and easy.
“Hey,” he says, offering you one. “You made it. I found seats over here, it’s a pretty good view, if I don’t say so myself. We should head over before the game starts.”
You take the cup automatically, fingers brushing his. “Thanks!”
He smiles, guiding you through the rows of people with gentle awareness, making space and steadying you when someone brushes past too close. It's thoughtful and careful and exactly the kind of thing that made you fall for him in the first place.
Once seated, conversation comes easily to him. It’s all polite small talk and soft jokes, quiet observations about the team and season. He fills in the silence like Gojo had predicted, never letting it become uncomfortable. He does all the right things that you could almost tick them off a list. He laughs at your comments like they’re genuinely funny and asks questions that make it clear he’s paying attention.
It should be perfect, it should be everything you’ve ever wanted.
And yet, your eyes drift back to the rink, to the flashes of navy and white.
To the tall figure leaning against the boards, helmet off now, shaking his hair as he listens to a coach, nodding absentmindedly while his gaze flicks upward.
Your pulse jumps when his eyes land on you again. Except this time he doesn’t grin. It might be your imagination but he seemingly looks to Geto beside you, then back, just watching.
You force yourself to look back at Geto, nodding at something he just said, hoping your smile looks natural and not strained.
BUZZWORD
The game starts fast.
Faster than you expected, faster than anything you’ve watched on TV, faster than seems physically possible for men balancing on thin blades over frozen water. The pluck drops and suddenly the rink explodes with motion, bodies colliding, sticks clashing, skates carving violent crescents into the ice.
You lost track of the puck almost immediately.
Geto leans closer, voice raised just enough to carry over the roar of the crowd. “Watch Satoru, he plays center so he’ll usually be in there.”
Your eyes find him easily.
He moves differently from everyone else, you see, loose, flashier, or maybe that’s just you. No, you reject that notion as he accelerates in bursts, gliding between players with impossible precision, stick tapping the ice impatiently when he doesn’t have the puck.
Every time he skates past your side of the rink, your chest tightens and your throat hurts a little more as you try to cheer louder.
The first goal goes to the other team.
Your side of the arena groans as one, a wave of disappointment that rattles through the stands. You feel it too, a sinking drop in your stomach, though you don’t fully understand the play that led to it.
Gojo slams his stick once against the ice in frustration, then shoves off hard, jaw set.
Geto doesn’t seem worried. “They’ll bounce back. Satoru is the best they have, after all.”
Just like he predicted, they do. Midway through the second period, one of Gojo’s teammates manages to slip the puck past the goalie, and the building detonates. People surge to their feet to cheer and you find yourself in that crowd, cheering without thinking, adrenaline crackling through your veins like you personally contributed.
On the ice, Gojo grabs the scorer by the shoulders and shakes him, helmet bumping into helmet, grin blinding even through the cage.
It’s a tie game until it’s not. Another goal to the opposing side which Gojo’s team equalising moments after. Again and again, a tense back and forth that even has Geto inhaling sharply at moments.
By the third period, your nails are dug into the flimsy paper cup in your hand, ice long melted into a yucky watered down version of whatever was in the drink. You barely notice when Geto takes it from you and sets it aside so you don’t crush it completely.
The scoreboard reads 3-3 and the clock tells you there’s two minutes left.
The noise is deafening now, frantic and desperate, every movement on the ice met with gasps or shouts.
Gojo has long since lost the playful edge from earlier. He circles near centre ice, knees bent, weight forward, eyes tracking the puck like it’s the only thing that exists in the world. A defender tries to box him out and he shrugs him off with a brutal shoulder check that makes the crowd howl.
The puck slides loose along the boards, ricocheting off a tangle of skates and sticks like it has a mind of its own. Someone on Gojo’s team snatches it first and fires it forward, a risky pass that slides clean across open ice, and towards him.
Gojo receives it in stride, blade cushioning the impact with effortless control. He doesn’t even glance down. his head is already up, scanning his way forward. A defender lunges for him and he slips past with a sharp pivot, hips twisting, edges biting deep into the ice.
You’re on your feet before you realise you’ve moved.
“Go—!” you scream and like a domino effect, people around you start to cheer.
Gojo fakes a left. The goalie commits.
He snaps right, dragging the puck across his body in one powerful motion, forcing the goalie to witness the outplay. And then he flicks his wrist and a sharp crack echoes across the rink.
The puck lifts, a black blur slicing through air, threading the narrowest gap between glove and shoulder, and slams into the back of the net.
For half a heartbeat, there is silence. Then the buzzer screams and the crowd erupts.
Sound crashes over you in a tidal wave, screaming, stomping, clapping, the metallic rattle of the stands shaking under hundreds of pounding feet. You’re shouting too, throat tearing with it, hands flying to your mouth before dropping again because you need them free to clap and wave, anything to release all this energy exploding out of you.
Down on the ice, Gojo throws his head back and roars, pure exhilaration bursting out of him. His teammates collide with him seconds later, swarming him in a pile of navy and white, shoving his helmet and grabbing his shoulders, almost knocking him over in their celebration.
He's laughing.
Even through the cage, from the distance, you can see it, the wild brightness in his eyes and the way his chest heaves with adrenaline.
They won.
They actually won.
You’re bouncing on your toes without realising, hands clasped in front of your mouth.
Gojo breaks free from the pile just enough to turn and look up into the stands. It's easier finding you this time around when he knows where to look.
His whole face lights up, grin splitting wide and unrestrained, so bright it feels like it could blind you, he lifts his stick and points it straight at you then thumps it once against the ice in a triumphant salute.
Your stomach swoops violently.
You laugh, breathless and giddy, lifting both hands to wave back like an idiot. Your body is already leaning forward, feet shifting as instinct screams for you to move. To go down there, to be closer, to meet him at the glass while he’s still glowing with victory looking as beautiful as you’ve ever seen him, so alive that it radiates off him in waves.
You want to throw your arms around his neck.
You want to tell him that was incredible.
You want—
“Y/N?”
Geto’s voice cuts gently through the chaos, close to your ear.
You blink, tearing your gaze away from the ice to find him watching you with a small, amused smile.
“That was intense,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I forgot how crazy these games get at the end. Makes you glad you came, right?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, though it comes out shaky and raw from all the cheering. “Yeah it was. Definitely.”
Your eyes flick down despite yourself and find Gojo still looking up, smile dimmed.
Geto gestures toward the aisle. “If we leave now, we can beat the post-game crowd. The bookstore’s only a short walk away anyway. We can find Satoru after he comes out.”
The words land heavy in your chest. How could you forget? There was a plan in action, the reason why you came, the person you’re supposed to be focusing on.
“Right,” you say, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears.
On the ice, Gojo’s teammates are tugging him toward the bench, shouting in his ear and shoving him here and there. He goes easily enough, though not without one last glance at you. He tilts his chin, a silent question in your eyes, clear despite the distance.
Are you going?
Your fingers curl into fists at your side.
“Ready?” Geto asks softly.
You swallow. “... yeah.”
But as you turn to follow him up the aisle, the roar of the arena swelling behind you, you can’t shake that you’ve made the wrong decision. You feel it, that strange, electric thread stretching thinner and thinner behind you as the tunnel swallows Gojo whole.
BUZZWORD
It should be fun.
Geto is easy to talk to, he’s polite, thoughtful and gentle, and all the right things. You trail behind him between the shelves as he talks about a book he likes, or some theory he discovered that explains so much and makes so much sense.
You try, you really do. You nod your head and attempt to store that information away.
But everything just doesn’t feel right. It's hard to store that information away when your head is full of that look Gojo had given you, the way his white hair had stuck out from under his helmet, damp from the effort and glory of winning, eyes sparkling under the stadium lights, the way he had lifted his stick to point at you.
Geto is kind. But your tastes don’t match. Your jokes land in different places. He's nice, and you do enjoy his conversation. But not in the same way you had enjoyed Gojo’s company that day in the cafe.
You don’t feel nervous. You don’t feel excited. Honestly, you just feel like pretending.
And as if the universe is screaming at you about something just beyond your grasp, when you reach for the same book, your fingers don’t brush. And you don’t want them to.
Geto’s phone buzzes when he’s in the middle of explaining some theories from this guy called Slavoj Zizek? He winces at whatever he reads.
“Sorry,” he starts, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I need to head out. But hey, here–” He pulls a paperback off the shelf and hands it to you. “This is the one I was talking about. I think you’ll like it.”
you accept it automatically. “Thanks,” you say, and then he’s waving and gone the next moment, door swinging behind him.
For a while, you wander the bookstore in an attempt to rationalise the complex emotions warring inside you. Geto is your crush. You know this. And yet, it all feels so superficial. Gojo had been right, there was nothing personal about the things you liked about him to explain the crush.
You stand in the quiet of the aisle, holding a book you frankly don’t care about, surrounded by a silence that feels like the wrong choice made tangible long after the last customer walks out. Heavy rain falls outside, pelting against the roof of the store, a steady white noise that backgrounds your thoughts.
When the bookstore begins to close, you’re ushered outside. You swear as you’re suddenly caught in the harsh weather and through the heavy sheets of rain, there looks to be no other store open. Hastily, you run out in the rain to find some place where you can get cover over your head. Finally, you see a small awning from a closed shop.
You run under the awning, hugging your arms to your chest as you wait out the storm, feeling stupidly alone and stupidly unsure why you’re this upset. This is what you wanted right? But the part of your heart that has always known the truth traitorously voices the thoughts you’ve been pushing down all this time.
Gojo.
Through the sheets of heavy rain, someone is running towards you. Tall, white hair, still in his jersey, his hair now damp (read: soaked) with rain water rather than sweat.
He skids under the awning, breathless, terribly drenched, an unopened umbrella in one hand.
“What the hell,” he says immediately, voice sharp with concern and frustration. “Are you trying to get pneumonia? Why didn’t you go home? Didn’t you check the weather? It clearly said it was going to rain today!”
You blink, gaping at his sudden presence. “What are you, no, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”
He snorts. “Yeah, I was. Until Suguru texted. Said he left you at the bookstore and for me to pick you up. Seriously, you didn’t even bring an umbrella?”
The situation finally catches up to you and you frantically gesture to his own umbrella. “How can you lecture me when you just ran out all the way here without opening your umbrella? it’s literally in your hands, all you had to do was open it!”
“Like i had the time to! My legs are literally burning from the game and you made me run all this way out to save you!”
“I never asked you to!”
“Well, I had to!” He steps closer, finally freeing himself from the rain completely. His presence fills up the cramped space under the awning and you catch a whiff of cedar and sweat. “I couldn’t just let you die out here in the cold!”
Speechless, you open and close your mouth like an idiot. Finally, you manage to ask, “How did you even know I was out here?”
“Weren’t you listening? I told you Suguru told me he ditched you!”
At Geto’s name, your face falls. Ah, right. your little moral dilemma about Geto.
Gojo also calms down a little, his chest heaving a little slower as he uses the silence to catch his breath. his eyes scan your expression, picking up on the way you bite your lip, eyes looking away.
“Hey,” he says, voice soft though still strained. “You okay?”
Your throat tightens. “I guess? I don't know. Look, sorry. I appreciate you coming.”
“Don't give me that. Just don’t. You’ve told me every embarrassing thing about yourself when you outed that you, you know, like Suguru. Don’t hide something from me now. Are you upset that he left?” His hand comes out to wipe water off your cheek. “Don't cry.”
You scrunch up your face in mild disgust. “I’m not? That's literally just rain water.”
“Oh. So you're okay?”
You inhale and let it out slowly. Were you okay? You shouldn’t be, not if Geto was your crush and he just ditched you. And yet, under Satoru’s shadow as he stands in front of you, blocking the rain, brows furrowed and lips pressed tight as he looks you over in concern, you find yourself feeling okay. More than okay.
“Why do you even like him?” He asks, quietly, a question that would have easily been lost to the rain if you weren’t hanging off his every word.
“I told you,” you start, just as quiet. “He saved me that one time.”
“Yeah?” He opens the umbrella with one hand, and holds your hand in the other, gently guiding you out from under the awning. Rain hits heavy against the fabric and he holds you close to keep you out from the storm, your chest grazing his. “He saved you that day in the rain, did he?”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
“Just like this?”
Mutely, you nod. In his arms, you barely notice the slight chill.
Gojo searches your eyes for something. He exhales, long and uneven, like he’s been holding this in for longer than he’s willing to admit. And yet, he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t tear his gaze away from yours, just keeps holding the umbrella over your head, tilted ever so slightly in your direction such that you’re completely covered.
“That day,” he says, quiet but steady, “When you got caught in the rain after that stupid orientation thing? Suguru wasn’t on campus. He went back home for a month before the semester started and didn’t come back until the second week. I was the one that found you.”
Your breath falters. “What? But he… he gave me his hoodie. His name was on the tag.”
“Yeah,” Satoru laughs, a single disbelieving puff. “I was wearing his hoodie. He wasn’t at the dorms so I stole some of his clothes to wear. It’s whatever, he steals some of mine sometimes. The point is, I was the one that helped you.”
For a moment, you stop breathing entirely. The rain pours around the two of you, a curtain of noise, but it’s silent under the umbrella.
You’ve never seen Gojo so nervous. Definitely not before the big game earlier, not on any of the practice dates, never when he talks to a group of people. Between the two of you, nervousness came more naturally to you. And yet, standing before you vulnerable, wet lashes stuck together, cheeks flushed from running and is that a faint bruise forming on his jaw? He looks nervous and it’s a sight that sends warmth all over your face.
His eyes are unbearably soft as he waits for your verdict.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice sounds too small.
“Because you thought it was Suguru. Because you liked him. And back then, I didn't realise that I wanted you to know it was me.”
Your heart thuds, something a little more daring saying the next few words for you. “And now?”
This moment was perfect. The two of you had been slowly closing that small gap of distance, eyes seeing nothing but each other and suddenly all those rom coms and kdramas come to mind. All those scenes of first kisses (forgetting the practices because those didn’t include real romance), all those late night conversations with Shoko about what it’s like, they all come and leave your brain.
But instead of leaning in and sealing the deal, Gojo’s entire body suddenly stiffens. His arm around you loosens, placing more distance between the two of you.
What the hell?
His gaze drops a little further before coming back up with a discipline that can only come from reciting the digimon opening theme over and over in his head. “Now I'm trying really, really hard not to stare at you.”
Curious, you look down to your soaked shirt where the fabric clings painfully close, embarrassingly sheer. It only serves to emphasise the lines of your bra and though you can’t really see anything, Gojo’s face is flushed pink not just from exertion, and his jaw is tight.
“Satoru–”
“my place,” he blurts. “we should, uh, get you warmed up. Your shirt is literally see-through and if I have to keep pretending I don't notice, I'm going to walk myself right into traffic.”
“That is so dramatic.” The beginnings of a smile causes the corner of your lips to quiver upwards at his flustered state.
“i’m dramatic,” he insists, voice strained, still not looking. “now come on. I still don’t want you catching pneumonia out here and Sig Kap is literally right near the gate. We can keep talking there when you don’t look like a puppy left out in the rain.”
“Says you.” You eye his white hair plastered to his forehead and smile, reaching up to move a few clinging strands from his eyes. “But okay. I’d like that a lot.”
Unfortunately, the gesture makes him look back down at you, inevitably making him catch an eyeful of your chest. He closes his eyes. “Let's just go before I give you this umbrella and walk onto the road.”
You laugh a little. “Geez, you really are dramatic.”
He walks you to Sig Kap, refusing to stand fully under the umbrella. When you try to grab his arm and pull him under, he only launches into a talk about being a feminist and how chivalry isn’t dead and how much he hates periods and loves matcha. You laugh and he smiles down at you before looking away. Seriously, he needs to get over that.
At the door outside the house, Gojo stops you.
“Here.” he hands you the umbrella, fingers brushing yours, before reaching down to take his jersey off. You instinctively blush and look away, but considering your state of undress it would only be fair if you stole a glance. So you peek at him from the corner of your eyes.
You only manage to look just below his abs when something warm and slightly damp flops over your head.
“Hey!”
He takes the umbrella back from you, standing in front of you and covering your back with the umbrella.. “Put that on before we head inside. Take your wet jersey off, hurry.”
Feeling warm despite the rain, you hastily pull off your soaked top, making sure he’s looking politely away, and throw his jersey on. It’s still damp but not as drenched as your own. Looking down, it falls past your skirt and just above your knees.
“You’re going to walk in shirtless?”
“Better than you walking in looking like that.” He doesn’t give you a moment to think about his words. “Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.”
He leads you to the now familiar front door and when it opens before Gojo can even touch the doorknob, you understand the reasoning of his actions.
“Dude!” Hikari cheers, wrapping an arm round Gojo’s shoulders and eagerly pulling him in despite his grunt of protest. “Congrats on the win, man!”
Hikari quickly notices your presence.
“Oh. So you’re already celebrating, huh?”
Gojo brushes past him, his hand holding tours to guide a path through the sweaty frat boys. “Shut it, Hikari. Is Sukuna in?”
“Nah. The whole floor’s gone.” Hikari answers, raising his voice as Gojo quickly places distance between him and you.
When the door of his room closes behind you both, he turns and pulls you in, his hand falling down on your hips, pulling you close. You both look like wet dogs but you couldn’t care less.
“Sorry about them,” he mumbles against your hair.
“It’s fine,” you pause. “Who's sukuna?”
“The guy in the room next to mine.”
“Oh.”
He hesitates, searching your eyes in the dark of his room. The storm rages on beyond his window, rain entering through a slightly ajar window, but neither of you make the responsible move to close it. Instead, you find yourself pressing up against him, hoping for more.
“Sweets,” he says, his voice low. “Please don’t tell me this is still practice.”
“It’s not.”
He takes a deep breath in. “You piss me off. You’re annoying, and insistent, and you always get what you want.”
You frown a little. “Hold on, I thought this was going a different way.”
He shushes you by placing a finger against your lips. “You never listen to me and you never act how I think you will. You’re definitely not normal and your thoughts are all weird and messed up. But you’re always in my head and you have the prettiest smile and the softest voice and when you tell me to shut up I want to drop to my knees and lick your feet.”
“Okay, it’s definitely getting weird now.”
“I think I’m seriously doomed,” he whispers despite your protests. “Because I bought that coffee you gave me months ago and I still drank it even though I hated how it tasted. And I haven’t been able to get it up without thinking about you and those pretty lips.”
“Now I see why you don’t do relationships.”
Gojo chuckles, eyes unbearingly soft. “I think I’m in love with you, Y/N. You’re all I can think about.”
You let out a slow exhale.
This was not how you imagined any of this. That day when you sat down with Shoko to plan a devious scheme to get with Geto, you naturally assumed it would end with him by your side, or with a crippling inability to reassimilate with society.
Never in a million years did you think you’d be here, in Gojo’s enormous room inside a frat house, him hanging off your every word.
But thinking on it now, there’s nothing you want to change in your plan.
“I think I’m in love with you too.” You say just as quietly, a smile playing on your lips.
“Really?” If he had dog ears, they would have surely perked up. “Because I was lying, I definitely don’t just think that.”
“Woah, let’s calm down a little.”
He chuckles, breath misting your face.
His thumbs rub circles and you shiver at the faint sensation.
“Cold?”
You bite the lip and nod. Now that you’ve confessed, the forbidden desire building up in your core no longer feels like something you need to hide. Instead, you embrace it, and you let Gojo see the change in your eyes.
He nods back, looking down at his jersey on you.
“You should probably take this off or you’ll get sick.”
You grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it over your head, leaving you in just your bra. You mentally fist bump your past self for overthinking your attire earlier that morning and throwing on a matching set.
His pupils dilate as he looks at you, eyes lingering on the delicate lace.
“Am I moving too fast?” He whispers, breath misting your ear as he leans in.
You rapidly shake your head, heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with tension, the rain pattering against the window like a distant drumbeat.
He sighs, a low, relieved sound that vibrates through his chest. “Good. C’mere.”
He backs you up against the door, the wood cool against your bare back. His hands slide up your sides as he traps you. The guise of getting you out of wet clothes feels like a thin excuse now, but you don’t mind, your own hands already tugging at his waistband, eager to feel more of him.
Gojo’s lips crash into yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim your mouth. You kiss back just as fiercely, fingers digging into his shoulders as you push against him, guiding him backward step by step. He stumbles slightly, surprised by your assertiveness, but a smirk tugs at his lips against yours.
He falls onto the couch with a soft thud, pulling you down on top of him. You straddle his lap, only because it’s the only position you’ve had experience with thus far, and the friction of his hardening cock against your core sends sparks through your body. Your mouths meet again in a heated makeout, tongues tangling, breaths mingling in short, desperate gasps.
His hands roam your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. You arch into him, pressing your bare breasts against his chest, nipples hardening from the contact.
“Fuck, you’re so hot like this,” he growls, nipping at your lower lip. “Where were you hiding all of this, hm?”
You shiver, fingers digging into his shirt. “You like it when I tell you what to do, don’t you? Big bad frat boy, already so hard because a girl’s got you pinned.”
He groans, hands gripping your ass to grind you against him. “Keep talking like that, and I'll show you who’s really in control.”
But you don’t stop. Instead, you push him back further into the cushions and trail your lips down his jaw, his neck, biting lightly to mark him. He lets you, for now, his breath hitching.
His eyes look down your body, hands feeling the softness of your skin before resting at the waistband of your cute, little skirt. He smirks and before you know it, you’re torn from his neck because he flips you onto your back in one swift move, pinning your wrists above your head.
“My turn,” he purrs, voice rough.
You try to wriggle free. “What are you doing?”
“You've always had a thing against my tongue, haven’t you?”
“That was weeks ago, I don't—wait a minute!” Your hands find his head, trying to push him back up but he refuses, settling properly between your legs and lowering.
“Relax.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, eyes on yours. “I'll make you feel good. I always do, don't I?”
You hesitate, your arms losing their strength as the tension eases from your body. He watches you carefully, his gaze soft yet intense, making sure you’re okay before he moves. With a gentle nod from you, he lifts the edge of your skirt and flips it up onto your stomach, groaning low at the sight of the damp spot on your panties.
“So cute,” he hums, his free hand sliding between your legs to rub at the numb poking out through the fabric. “This little clit’s begging for attention.”
You let out a startled gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sudden touch. It’s all still so new, the sparks of pleasure shooting through you like electricity.
“You want my mouth on this pretty pussy, don’t you?” He murmurs, lowering to mouth against your panties.
His warm breath seeps through the thin material, and the flat of his tongue presses against you, exploring with teasing pressure that’s not quite enough to satisfy the ache building inside.
You jolt again, the sensation overwhelming, back bowing slightly as if to instinctively pull away. He doesn’t let you go far, his hand on your thigh tightening to pull you back against his mouth.
“I know, I know,” he coos against you. “It's too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, looking down and feeling a fresh surge of heat when you meet eyes with him.
“That’s it, just feel it,” he encourages, his thumb stroking your thigh in slow circles.
Finally, he draws your panties to the side and doesn’t waste another second.
Gojo’s mouth descends on your pussy, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit.
You gasp sharply, hips bucking up as he sucks the sensitive nub between his lips, rolling it gently. His hands hold your thighs apart, fingers digging into your skin to keep you open for him. He eats you out like he’s starved, tongue delving inside you, tasting your wetness then circling back to your clit with firm, insistent strokes.
“Oh god,” you choke out, the words tumbling from your lips in a breathless rush. “Fuck, it’s too—fuck it’s so good!”
With your hands free, you curl your fingers in his soft white hair, guiding him exactly where the pleasure feels strongest. It's your first time feeling anything like this, and the intensity builds fast, a coiling heat that’s overwhelming but addictive.
He hums against you, the vibrations making you whine as his tongue thrusts in and out, mimicking what’s to come, stretching you open with wet, probing motions.
“Mmm, taste so fucking sweet,” he growls between licks, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your folds. “You’re clenching so hard already—gonna finger fuck you open so you can take my cock later.”
He adds a finger, sliding it inside your slick heat slowly, curling it to brush against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That's it baby, feel how wet you are for me? so tight around my finger, imagine how you’ll squeeze my dick when I'm buried deep.”
You nod frantically, the haze of pleasure making it hard to form words.
He senses your building release, slipping a second finger inside to stretch you further, scissoring them gently to prepare you while his mouth latches back on your clit, sucking harder. “Come on, cum for me—wanna taste you so fucking bad, sweets. I want to feel you shake.”
The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over your body without warning. you cry out, back arching off the surface beneath you as your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with release. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you through it, drawing out every shudder until you’re boneless and gasping for air, his tongue coaxing every last tremor from your oversensitive folds.
Gojo pulls back slowly, a string of saliva still connecting to you until he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he crawls up your body.
“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he murmurs, leaning in for a deep kiss and letting you taste yourself on his lips.
You kiss back weakly making him chuckle, and he pulls back with a wet chu.
“You okay?”
You nod weakly. One moment you’re catching your breath on the couch, the next he’s lifting you over his shoulder and laying you down on his bed.
You yelp, feeling gravity turn on its head until you’re safely on his mattress.
Watching as he eagerly strips, you say, “You got a bedframe.”
He grins widely, shimmying down his boxers to join his sweatpants on the floor. “Yeah, I did. Do you like it?”
You huff. “Yeah. About time, Satoru.”
Gojo’s smile is oddly bright as he gets on the bed and hovers over you. He shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, his blue eyes darkening as they fixate on your chest. Without a word, he moves down, his mouth hovering just above your skin before he presses his face into the soft valley of your tits, inhaling deeply as if savouring your scent.
“God, I love these things.” he groans, voice muffled, his lips brushing the sensitive underside. “So goddamn perfect. Feel how hard you make me just staring at them?”
You squirm, indeed feeling his cock throb against your leg. “You’re such an animal.”
“I can't help it. Been thinking about these ever since last time.” He peeks up at you though he’s still hesitant to part with them completely. “Can i fuck them?”
Your nod is all the consent he craves. He straddles your waist carefully and guides his thick length to rest in the plush channel you’ve created by pressing your breasts together. The first slide is torturously slow, the velvety skin enveloping him as he rocks forward, the tip emerging shiny with precum near your collarbone.
“Shit, yes,” he hisses, hips snapping in a shallow rhythm. “So soft, so fucking warm around me. Look at that, sweets. Your tits are hugging my dick like they were made for it.”
His voice drops lower, rough with building pleasure, each word punctuated by the slick glide of skin on skin.
You watch him, mesmerised by the concentration etching his features, brow furrowed, lips parted as he pants. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his temples as his abs flex with every controlled push. The friction builds between your tits, his precum smearing across your skin, making the slide even smoother and more obscene.
He glances down to watch his cock disappear and poke out from your cleavage. “Open your mouth for me, baby.”
“Sweets,” you remind him.
He lets out a stifled groan, hips jerking forward. “Sweets, please. Let me see your pretty tongue. Want it on my tip when i come through so fucking bad.”
The nickname sends a thrill through you, and you part your lips obediently, flattening your tongue in invitation. He groans at the sight, hips stuttering as he angles higher, the flushed head of his cock brushing your waiting mouth on the next thrust.
“Fuck, just like that,” he rasps. “Your tongue feels so good lapping at me like that. Swirl it around, taste how much I want you. God, sweets, you’re killing me.”
You do, tracing the sensitive underside when he pushes forward, the salty tang of him flooding your senses. His reaction is immediate, a deep, guttural moan escapes him, his rhythm faltering as he jerks deeper, chasing the wet heat of your mouth.
“Can't get enough,” he growls, drawing back only to thrust again, his tip kissing your tongue with deliberate precision and drawing back a sticky string of his precum and your saliva. “Gonna fuck your mouth next, stuff it full of my cock until you’re choking on it. You'd take it so well, wouldn’t you? Suck me down like the greedy little thing you are.”
Saliva pools on your tongue and drips down to mix with the mess on your chest. He watches it all with hooded eyes, rutting faster now, the slap of his hips against your breasts echoing softly in the room.
“Fuck, sweets—gonna cum,” he warns through gritted teeth, his forehead creasing in that pretty, desperate way. “Can’t hold back with you squeezing me like this. Shit, i’m gonna paint you, mark every inch of these pretty tits.”
He lurches forward suddenly, back bowing as he towers over you, one hand bracing beside your head while the other strokes his base to control his release. The first hot spurt lands across your neck, thick and warm, followed by another that arches toward your open mouth. He aims with a focused groan, pressing down on the head to guide it, ropes of cum landing on your tongue, filling your senses with his taste.
“Take it, that’s a good girl,” he pants, voice breaking on a final, shuddering thrust. “Look at you, covered in me. So fucking hot, dripping with my cum on your face and tits.”
His body quakes through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving yours, drinking in your reaction as he milks every drop onto you.
When he’s spent, he collapses forward slightly, catching himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you and leans down.
Your lips meet his in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongues tangling slow and sweet at first, then hungrier as you melt into it. The taste of him, salty from earlier, mixed with the faint tang of your own arousal, ignites you, and you tug him down, hands roaming his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under sweat damp skin. A soft moan escapes you, and he swallows it, his grip tightening just a fraction.
He pulls back and pants against your lips, half laughing.
“Sorry, I should have warned you. Kind of not the most virgin friendly thing to do, huh?” He sits up and reaches for some tissue to clean you. “Should of saved this for inside you, sweets.”
You clench, squeezing your thighs together. “I’ve never…”
His eyes soften, wiping the last of his cum. “I know, sweets. We can wait if you need to, there’s no rush.”
But curiousity and want is a dangerous cocktail and you find yourself shaking your head. “I want to.”
Gojo lets out a shuddering breath and nods, sliding off your chest, his cock glistening and heavy against his thigh. “Let me get you warmed up again.”
He doesn't find much difficulty with that because one hand against your slit and his eyebrows are rising, feeling your wetness despite the lack of attention.
You blush, feeling caught. “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s embarrassing.”
“What’s got you so wet, hm?”
You squirm, feeling the lingering pleasure flare up. “It’s not my fault you’re so vocal.”
“Dirty girl. You like hearing how good you make me feel?” His thumb smears your entrance, picking up and spreading the fresh arousal that gathers there and it’s as good as any verbal answer. “Feel that? So worked up with nowhere to go.”
His fingers part you gently, circling your entrance with feather-light strokes that make you gasp.
“Let me warm you up again, sweets. You’re so swollen here, feels like you’ve been waiting for more. Gonna make sure you’re nice and ready for me.”
He plays with the mess between your legs, his own expression a mix of hunger and restraint, breaths coming in measured pulls as he fights the urge to rush. One finger dips inside you shallowly, then two, curling just right to brush that spot that sends sparks up your spine.
The stretch is easier now, your body remembering the pleasure, and he coos softly at your soft whimper, thumb finding your clit to rub in slow, firm circles.
“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans quietly, voice rough around the edges. “So warm and wet, it’s killing me not to slide in right now. But we’re taking our time, yeah? Making this perfect for you.”
Your hips rock instinctively into his hand, the coil of heat tightening low in your belly, and he grins, leaning in to pepper kisses along your jaw.
“Look at you, getting into it. My sweet girl, so responsive.”
You whine, the pleasure having reached a plateau and when you buck up for more, he withdraws his hand. The loss makes you whine but he hushes you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, reaching over to the nightstand and searching through his messy drawers for a condom.
The foil crinkles under his fingers as he tears it open and positions himself at your entrance. You're still slick, he’s made sure of that, but the anticipation makes you clench, nerves building up. He notices your sharp inhale and lets his tip nudge your slick folds, parting them teasingly though he pauses there to let you feel the pressure without pushing in.
“Hey, eyes on me, sweets,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the way his chest heaves, his cock twitching against you. “You still okay? Tell me if it’s too much, I’ll stop, I promise. But fuck, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be inside you.”
“I’m okay,” you whisper breathlessly, fingers curling into the sheets below. “Just… go slow?”
He notices and slides a hand down to interlace your fingers, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss to your palm. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
The stretch is immediate, a slow burn as he guides himself in, sinking bit by bit. His cock is much thicker than his fingers but the warmth of him, the way he watches every flicker of your expression with that twitch in his jaw, makes it bearable.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he rasps, eyes shutting briefly. “Gripping me so good already. Easy, sweets, just relax into it.”
His voice cracks a little on the end, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds himself still once he’s halfway in.
It aches, but the fullness is intoxicating, waves of pleasure chasing the discomfort as your body yields. You gasp, squeezing his hand and he coos softly, stroking you with his thumb.
“Can I keep going?”
You nod and even before your next breath, he’s already sliding in and bottoming out with a shared gasp, hips flushed against yours. His forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the humid air.
"How's that feel? Too much?” He asks softly.
“Full… so full,” you whimper, rocking experimentally and he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up just a fraction before he catches himself.
“Fuck, want me to move, sweets?” He shifts beneath you, guiding your hips in a gentle circle to grind against you, his praises making the movement slick.
“Please,” you gasp out as the fullness sparks pleasure deep inside and he rewards your honest words with a slow roll of his hips.
“Good girl,” he praises, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he starts to move, shallow thrusts that build a steady friction. Each slide in and out drags against your inner walls, drawing out filthy whimpers and sighs as he hits that sweet spot with precision born of his experience.
Soon, your toes are curling and your back bows off his mattress, desperate to meet his thrusts.
“Listen to those sounds you’re making,” he coos, emphasising his words with a deep thrust. “You’re taking me so well, sweets. makes me want to stay buried in your forever.”
The pace gradually quickens, his control fraying at the edges as your moans encourage him. He shifts the angle, one leg hooking over his shoulder to deepen the penetration, and the new position has you crying out, pleasure coiling tight in your core.
Sweat beads on his skin, dropping onto your chest and he leans down to capture a nipple between his lips, sucking gently as he thrusts harder, the wet slap of skin echoing softly.
“That’s it, let go for me,” he urges against your tits, teeth grazing the peak before soothing it with his tongue. “I can feel you squeezing, you close for me already? Come on, sweets, chase it.”
His words weave through the haze, dirty and devoted, spurring you higher as his freehand slips between you to circle your clit in time with his hips. The dual sensations overwhelm, building to a peak that has you trembling beneath him.
When it hits, it’s blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls clenching rhythmically around him and pulling him deeper. He groans your name like a prayer, thrusts stuttering as rides it out with you, prolonging the bliss with expert rolls of his hips.
Only when you slump, sweaty and panting, does he let himself follow, a filthy groan escaping his lips as he buries himself deep one last time and spills into the condom, body shuddering as he struggles to hover over you.
He doesn’t pull away immediately, instead pressing his hips closer to ensure you’ve gotten everything before collapsing half on top of you, peppering lazy kisses along your neck.
“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “My perfect girl, did so good for us.”
You whimper against the ticklish sensation. “You're too heavy.”
He chuckles and rolls off you, slowly pulling out to pull the condom off and discard it. you watch him with sleepy eyes, eagerly nuzzling into his arms when he settles back beside you.
“Need anything? Water? Cuddles?”
You hum, feeling the satisfaction morph into a drowsiness that has you melting into his arms, only feeling his warmth.
“You?”
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m so glad I stole you away. You’re so fucking perfect for me.”
You lean into his side, feeling a sense of indescribable completeness that fills you with certainty.
Geto Suguru may have been everyone’s first love but Gojo Satoru is the one you choose.
And judging by the way his arm tightens around you, the way his grin softens when he looks down at you, he knows it too.
Geto Suguru is everyone’s first love.
Even to this day, your friends will roll their eyes and insist that can’t possibly be true. But from experience, that was exactly who he was, someone to admire from afar like a painting behind glass. Beautiful and alluring, and just out of reach.
You see him now up, sitting on the couches at the house party driving the murmur of conversation with ease, a red cup used to gesture. Laughter ripples outward in waves, people leaning closer, drawn in.
You smile out of solidarity, resting against the wall with content misplaced at a busy place like this.
“Did you wait long?”
You turn your head to find your boyfriend weaving through bodies with the casual confidence of someone who assumes space will make itself around him. Two drinks in hand, hair messy under his cat, grin already forming because he’s caught you staring.
You push off the wall, reaching automatically for whichever cup is closer but he pulls back to sniff both before handing you the opposite one.
You take it gratefully and when you take a sip, you realise it’s your favourite juice.
“Wait time longer than the lines at Universal,” you tease.
He grins, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Next time I'll get us the priority pass. Not that it looked like you minded the wait. Don’t think I didn't see you eyeing Suguru like that. Do I have competition again?”
You shove him playfully. “Please, like I'm the one who’s been draping themselves over him for the past hour.”
Across the room, Geto laughs again, someone hanging off his shoulder while he tries to keep the liquid in his cup from spilling. He catches your eye briefly and lifts his cup in greeting. You return it with a smile.
Next to you, Gojo sighs dramatically.
“Wow,” he says flatly. “Right in front of me too. Why can’t I see any remorse in your eyes?”
“Because there isn’t any there,” you snort. “You're the one who told him to come tonight.”
“Where there’s Satoru, there’s Suguru.”
“I learnt that the hard way.”
He hums, arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against his side. His thumb starts tracing lazy circles just above your hip, absentminded and affectionate, a touch so familiar you barely notice as you lean into him in return.
“Still,” he murmurs, quieter now, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to keep looking at him like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking about what you could have had.”
You tilt your head to look up at him. His expression isn’t jealous, not completely, just searching, softer than the bravado he usually wears.
“I'm not,” you promise gently. “It was always superficial. You know that better than anyone. I guess now, looking at him is like looking at a relic of a different version of me.”
He hums. “He would have liked that sentence.”
You roll your eyes, ever so familiar with his dramatics. “You have nothing to worry about, baby. I promise.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You reach up and adjust the brim of his cap slightly, smoothing down a piece of hair that refuses to stay put. “Besides, I think I traded up.”
“Keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me,” he grins, voice lowering.
You smack his chest but your other hand lingers in his hair, fingers slipping into the soft hair at his nape. "Don't get cocky.”
Too late. He's already smiling wide, not the loud, flashy grin everyone else gets, but something softer and almost boyish reserved just for you.
Gojo leans down and finds your lips. The kiss is slow and unhurried, deeper than something meant for a crowded room but not quite indecent, like he’s forgotten where you are or just doesn’t care.
He pulls back just enough to talk. “Hey, I have an idea that’ll solve this three way jealousy.”
“What?
“Why don’t we just have a threesome?”
a/n: i had to repost this because i realised i could fit everything into one post but holy hell reformating everything made me wanna die so please smash that like button hit subscribe and don't forget to turn on that notification bell ++ shoutout to flatline and happy pokemon day to those who celebrate
synopsis: he left you behind. he shouldn't be surprised when you moved on - even if it's with his roommate.
pairing: former childhood friend!geto x f!reader x lovestruck!gojo
content: mdni, angst and smut, college au, former friends, pining, yearning, emotional hurt, gojo being obsessed and down bad, lowk asshole suguru, jealousy, mixed feelings, regret, messy relationships, insecurities, multiple povs, shower sex, unprotected piv sex, pulling out, hickies, gojo being a huge tease, possessive gojo
art credit: @thatsallitchief div credit: @/tsumiinum
What the fuck was Geto supposed to do when you were haunting him at home too?
Walking through the door, sunglasses barely making the morning light bearable enough to handle through his hangover, only to discover a more headache-inducing sight. You curled up on top of his best friend, limbs tangled together under a thin blanket, your makeup smeared on his cheeks as you dozed off on his chest.
This was all wrong.
It wasn't supposed to end up like this. You weren't supposed to end up with Satoru.
It should be him there. Him with an arm wrapped around your waist, him stroking your hair while you slept.
Geto felt fucking sick. Stomach churning at the idea that his fate and Satoru's got somehow gotten swapped before he reminded himself that he picked this path.
Had let the distance between the two of you grow into something he couldn't cross, let the silence stew until you both suffocated in it.
He could regret it now. Wished that he'd done things differently.
Pushed harder than just sending stupid letters to stay in your orbit. Stopped lying to himself sooner that he didn't need anyone. Didn't need you.
He shut the door behind him as slowly as possible, biting down hard enough on the inside of his cheek to start bleeding, like the iron would overwrite the sour taste left on his tongue at seeing what he screwed up.
It was pointless though, when apparently the entire universe was conspiring against him, his foot landing on a floorboard that abruptly let out a loud enough creak to cause both of you to stir at the sound.
You sat up first, covering your mouth as you yawned, glancing at the still-on TV, muted for some reason before his roommate moaned something about morning wood.
And okay, maybe Satoru might be his best friend, but he never resented him fucking more than in that moment, unfamiliar jealousy rearing its hideous head as he froze two feet from the threshold.
"Wanna go fuck in the shower?" Satoru lazily hummed, voice thick with sleep as he sat up with you, sliding a sleazy hand up-and-down your back.
"I should-" You sleepily started, rubbing your eyes as you looked around, stopping the second your stare settled on him in surprise. "Oh."
This was how it was now, he reminded himself. You were a stranger sleeping with his friend. One he happened to have a history with.
Did you remember it? Have any regrets that still cast shadows on your thoughts, crept into your brain when the lights were off and the world was quiet?
"Yo, Suguru," Satoru laughed, a lopsided smile curling up on his lips as he dragged his bright blue eyes over his hungover form. "Rough night? Your forehead's kinda red."
Humiliation he wasn't used to burned his cheeks, hate he knew he had no right to feel constricting his chest as his pulse hammered in his eardrums.
"Just crashed back at the party," Geto wrlyly muttered, forcing himself to look away like he didn't feel like fucking shit seeing you here. With him.
He had known for a while that his bad habits couldn't last. That he couldn't keep pouring from an empty cup, draining himself dry every day he stayed in this stupid party scene, chipping away parts of his soul like there'd ever been anyone other than you that would make the hurt over leaving half of it with you go away.
Maybe it was because he was miserable, that the leftover alcohol in his system had loosened up the parts of him he kept locked up tight and tucked in the deepest recesses of his mind, but everything he usually shoved down kept bubbling back up.
Geto had always held onto the moronic idea of running into you in some museum, maybe studying a sculpture or painting, lips pursed and pretty, and he'd pretend to bump into you, act like he hadn't seen you there. Casually brush his fingers against yours, that you'd be impressed with how much he changed. No longer lanky, not a loser who couldn't face his feelings. Admit that he missed you before asking you on a date.
He buried it again, shoveling dirt on top of the stupid fantasy as he reminded himself that neither of you were the same person you used to be. Didn't fit each other the way you once did.
Maybe you'd dump Satoru, and you'd be the one to disappear from his life this time. Or maybe you wouldn't, and he'd be stuck watching you fall for the only other person who made him remotely happy.
"I'm gonna take her out to breakfast later, you wan' us to pick up anything for you?" His best friend called out to him as he walked away, forced himself to take every step away from the two of you.
"Nah," he muttered, pretty sure he'd just throw it back up anyway with the nausea shifting and swirling thick and heavy in his stomach. "I'm fine."
Satoru said something to you, soft enough that he couldn't hear, but he didn't fucking miss your cute laugh in response, a genuine one that he hadn't been graced with in years.
Were you laughing at him?
He sure felt like a goddamn joke.
A punchline to a cruel cosmic twist. Tempted to blame it all on the universe - but he didn't need some higher power to tell him he was an idiot.
Geto was just finally facing his guilt. Paying an overdue punishment for pulling away from you when he should've pulled you in closer.
How much good would a sorry even do now when your heart stopped being his years ago? How much, exactly, would it hurt to find out?
"F-fuck, S'toru," you panted, cheek squished against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, water droplets rolling down your skin as his hips drilled into your ass.
Fast strokes that left you whining and wiggling, caged in with one of his palms pressed flat by your face, his other arm wrapped low around your waist, fingers perched just above your clit before he started to expertly play with it. Painting pretty circles over the sensitive bud, his mouth latched on your throat like he wasn't satisfied unless you were right at the brink of overstimulation.
Teeth scraping over an already sore spot above your collarbone, sucking messy marks like it wasn't enough that he showed you off last night, he needed everyone to know you were still his even when you were alone.
"I'm a lucky guy, huh," he breathed into your skin, all hot and heavy, emphasizing each syllable as he thrusted harder into your pussy.
You would've giggled if you had any air in your lungs to let you.
Barely pulling together enough of your sanity to throw him a little scoff, glossy eyes focusing on him just to see him smirking down at the sight of his thick cock disappearing back inside you as he bottomed out again in one mean stroke.
"Shit," you half-squeaked, nose scrunching up as you squeezed down on him harder, only earning an unfortunately attractive chuckle from your boyfriend.
Gone was the inexperienced guy who sloppily fingered you in a dressing room. Replaced by a pretty playboy who had cast a spell on your fractured heart and captured it for himself in what? A week?
"Got you all to myself," he proudly groaned, pumping into you like it was already his favorite past time.
He lightly pinched your clit, and you shivered, whimpering at the contact as you ached for more of him.
But Satoru was still rambling behind you, murmuring between kisses he eagerly delivered to every inch of your throat. "My pretty little girlfriend is needy, huh?"
His teasing made your whole body tense, muscles straining as he pushed you closer and closer to the precipice. You would wager a guess he'd never even had a girlfriend before judging by how giddy he seemed to be to even say it.
"Don't make me beg," you huffed at him, the pressure of his cock pushing deep against your womb and his fingers rubbing fresh circles over your clit nearing the point of pleasure teetering on pain.
"Who, me?" Satoru feigned innocence, but you knew if he wasn't hungry, he probably would be drawing it out even longer, dragging you to the edge only to pull you back and then do it over and over again.
He was easy to read. You knew what he wanted without him even hinting at it.
Valiantly working to piss you off until you wanted to get back at him, to make you attempt to try the same stunt with him - pushing and pulling back-and-forth until one of you snapped.
It was kinda nice, in a funny way, to know that you didn't have to work so fucking hard to understand double meaning in his sentences, to search his face to sense if he was about to fly off the handle or on the verge of throwing punches in public.
You supposed he was about as far as you could get from your ex-boyfriend.
And that was a good thing, wasn't it?
"Stop thinkin' so much, sweetheart," Satoru playfully scolded you, picking up the pace toying with your clit, and before you could process it or stammer out a protest, you were cumming on his cock, clamping down with a filthy moan you prayed to everything out there in the universe that Suguru couldn't hear on the other side of the apartment.
Trembling and shaking as Satoru supported your weight, holding you up as he coaxed you through your climax, pulling out at the last second to cum all over your back, moaning your name with not even a sliver of shame.
He readjusted to let the water wash over your back, wiping some of it away with his hand before pulling your body closer to his, moving so you were both under the warm stream.
"Think you were made for me," he dreamily murmured, washing you with his bar of soap, taking his time to clean you up, humming to himself as you stood there and let him.
You didn't say anything.
Didn't even know what you could say when you were hesitating over how much of yourself to give him.
Just sort of rested your head on his chest and let him hold you for a few minutes as you tried not to think too hard about any of the worries still sticking to the horizon.
Maybe Suguru had gone back to sleep. Hadn't stayed up to hear, well, any of that. He looked exhausted, dark rings under his eyes, shirt stained and ripped - not that he seemed to even notice. He barely even looked at either of you, just walked straight down the hall.
You guessed he had already made it pretty clear how he felt about your relationship. That he thought it wouldn't work - that Satoru would leave you for some other woman. Drop you once he got bored.
And yeah, you knew deep down that he might not be wrong, but you had enough regrets to last you a lifetime. You wanted to give Satoru a chance.
You just hoped he'd catch you if you fell for him.
He shut off the water, stepping out first, letting waters drip all over the floor as he snagged the single towel off the rack and tossed it at you, cock bobbing as he walked towards the door.
"Gotta grab another one," he chuckled, running his fingers through his still-damp hair. Pausing with his other one on the door, brows pinched together as he waited for you to wrap the thick towel around your body, to make sure you were covered before he opened the door. "Be right back."
You nodded, yawning as you climbed out onto the wrinkled bath mat, trying to wrap your brain around how fast it was all moving, how easy it was to fit in Satoru's life. Or how easy it would be if your brain didn't keep bringing up the fact that sooner or later, he would find out that you and Suguru actually knew each other before they had met.
Would he pissed?
Should you pull off the bandaid and tell him soon? Just casually bring it up like Suguru meant nothing to you now? Say that all you'd been was childhood friends?
That was technically true.
The door swung back open while you were still running over all the different ways that conversation would go as you dried yourself off, just for him to waltz back in with a towel loosely slung around his hips, his pretty white happy trail standing out - and your phone in his hands.
"Your phone was ringing," he hummed, and you felt your brows knit together in confusion at who the fuck would be calling now.
"Who is it?" You asked, tucking the towel in securely as you padded over to him, careful to not slip on the water he dripped everywhere earlier.
"Unknown number," he answered, shrugging his shoulders as his mouth curled up in a crooked smile. "Got a secret boyfriend I don't know about?"
You rolled your eyes at him, reaching up to grab your phone only for him to lift it up out of your reach.
"Don't be a dick," you scolded him, getting up on your tip toes trying to snatch it back from him. "Give it-"
It buzzed again, and he craned his neck up, squinting to be able to read the message that popped up on your screen.
"Unblock me, brat," he read out loud, and you froze. Arm still outreached as the air got knocked from your chest.
Shit.
Maybe you should've been preparing for this conversation instead.
"Your parents or something?" He laughed, misreading the situation entirely. Thinking he was lightening the mood, turning it into a joke. "Got daddy issues or mommy issues?"
"It's, um, probably my ex-boyfriend," you admitted, biting your bottom lip as his arm finally dropped - and you grabbed your phone back from his now limp grip.
"Your-" He stopped himself, blinking hard and fast, blue eyes burning as you unlocked your phone, quickly tapping away until the number was added to your blocked list.
"Blocked now," you muttered apologetically.
"Were you guys, like, a casual thing?" He tepidly asked, and you knew what kind of answer he was expecting - especially considering the two of you had been fucking on-and-off for years without you ever mentioning him.
"Not really," you shrugged, feeling weirdly embarrassed just over talking about that chapter of your life. Thinking back to who you were when you were his. "We, uh, lived together, and everything, but it was pretty bad."
You didn't know why you stayed as long as you did.
Convinced that any acceptance was better than being alone, taking the love you were offered no matter how toxic it became.
"You lived together?" Satoru almost sounded jealous, and you found yourself staring down at his muscled thighs, toned from the gym, free of any tattoos or scars. Your pretty, perfect boyfriend.
"The last time me and you, y'know, had sex before this, I was actually on a break with him," you confessed, but it didn't make your chest feel any lighter. "I left him not that long afterwards."
He was supposed to stay in the past. Just like Suguru was.
It was sorta surprising he'd bother even calling or texting anymore after he scoffed that he could take care of himself.
You were always the replacable one.
Satoru cupped your face, forcing you to look up at him, to see the adoration still glimmering in his eyes - like his jaw wasn't clenched too. Shoulders tight and tense as his mouth curled up into a smug smirk.
"Sucks to be him then."
a/n: reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated as always<3 love hearing your thoughts :3
Suguru Geto doesn’t kiss. Only hits it from the back. Doesn’t stay the night. And he definitely doesn’t chase. Everything with him is simple and transactional— until the new girl at the party rejects him without blinking. Now he’s got something to prove. The only problem? The closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend it’s just a game.
a/n: chococat and frat!geto are both so underrated >:( and the amount of times i accidentally wrote fart instead of frat
(credits to @/VoidBringerr on x for that lucious fanart :P credits to @bhavihelps for the divider :D)
Suguru Geto, vice president of the frat, walked like the world had already signed itself over to him. Girls gravitated toward him like it was instinct. He didn’t chase. He didn’t try. He didn’t need to. They lined up anyway.
Suguru Geto who rolled into lectures twenty minutes late—that was if he even showed up at all—and still somehow pulled stellar grades. Suguru Geto who submitted assignments seconds before the deadline, unbothered, unhurried, like time itself would wait for him. Suguru Geto who never really had to work for anything.
Things just came easy to him. Until you.
Shoko introduced you at one of the frats parties.
You’d been her childhood best friend before your parents moved overseas for work, and when she found out you were coming back—same college, same city—she nearly lost her mind. Promised she’d show you everything. The best cafés. The quiet corners of town. And of course, the “hot parties.”
The hot parties were always at the same place.
Infamous brothers. Infamous parties. The kind of place people warned you about and went to anyway. Geto and Gojo at the center of it all, like twin pillars of chaos and charm.
They carried a reputation like cologne—expensive, heavy, impossible to ignore.
Even you, the new girl, had heard the stories.
Frat boys who only did casual. Hook up, have their fun, and send you home before you could even fully come down from the high of it. Don’t linger. Don’t catch feelings. It was practically printed in invisible ink on the walls of that house.
And honestly? The rumors didn’t bother them. If anything, it saved them the trouble.
Most girls knew exactly what they were walking into. Some even liked it that way. No strings. No expectations. No pretending it was something deeper.
And Suguru was always clear. He didn’t chase, he selects.
No lingering.
No feelings.
No kissing.
No sleeping over.
Clean lines. Clear rules. Strictly transactional. Mutual pleasure, nothing more.
You walked into the party trying not to look as out of place as you felt.
People moved through the frat house like they owned it—like they’d been born under neon lights and bass-boosted speakers. You followed behind Shoko as she pulled you through the crowd, grinning like she was about to present you with a prize.
“Satoru, Suguru!” Shoko called out.
Shoko looked like she had personally delivered a miracle. Her hands in the air around you. Basically like that one picture of Will Smith.
They turned immediately.
“Shoko has told me so much about you!” Satoru beamed before pulling you into a hug that was all limbs and spilled alcohol. His drink sloshed onto your top and his shirt. He didn’t even care, or didn’t notice.
“I’m glad I can finally put a pretty face to the name.” He pulled back, still holding your hand, and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles. Surprisingly gentle. Almost princely.
You laughed, easing your hand back. “I’ve heard a lot about you too.”
From the side, Suguru’s eyes dragged over you—slow, assessing.
“Good things, I hope?” Satoru grinned. He knew better. Most things people said about him weren’t flattering. Just accurate.
“Something like that.” you smiled, soft and amused.
The sound of your laugh did something strange to Suguru’s chest. A small, sharp skip. He frowned internally. That was new. He’d watched girls strip in front of him without so much as a pulse change. Why did a simple smile from you feel different?
“You must be Suguru, right?” you turned toward him.
He’d already been staring. He didn’t even pretend otherwise.
“Yeah,” he replied smoothly, confidence sliding back into place like it had never left.
“It’s nice to meet you.” You said. He stepped forward and pulled you into a hug, hands settling at your waist. Familiar. Controlled. Easy.
“Nice to meet you too, pretty girl,” he murmured, shifting so his arm rested around your shoulders afterward, keeping you tucked neatly under his side.
“Let’s get you something to drink.”
The kitchen counter was cluttered with liquor bottles, and red cups stacked in the corner. He grabbed one and started mixing something without asking what you liked. You took the cup when he handed it to you. Your fingers brushing.
“Thank you.” It was small. Polite. Not breathless. Not flustered.
He showed you around the house, introducing you to the brothers and the regular girls who might as well have been honorary members at this point. The house was massive, loud, vibrating with music blasted by DJ Yu—a freshman who’d apparently been given the job mostly to prevent him from launching himself off the roof into the pool and breaking his bones.
You laughed at that. Suguru liked the sound again. Too much. “Thank you for the tour, Suguru,” you said eventually, still loosely under his arm.
“We’re not done yet,” he replied quickly. “Haven’t shown you upstairs.” He winked. This was the part where girls usually blushed. Leaned closer. Whispered something suggestive. Begged, even. Instead—
“I’m fine.” You stepped away. His arm dropped. The music kept playing. People kept going around him. But something in his head went quiet.
Rejection? That… didn’t happen.
“I’m going to look for Shoko. Thanks for the tour though.”
You waved lightly before heading toward the couch where Shoko sat between Yuki and Satoru. You slipped down next to her, and she draped her arm around your shoulders—the same place Suguru’s had been moments ago.
He stood there for half a second too long.
Then he followed.
He sat on the armrest of the couch, close enough to still be in your space, but not touching this time. Not claiming.
Something in his ego felt… dented. You hadn’t blushed. Hadn’t hesitated, hadn't chased. You just walked away. A strange feeling settled in his chest. It was small, but sharp. Annoying. His pride stung in a way it never had before. This didn’t happen to him. Usually it was easy. A lazy wink. A hand at someone’s waist. A low comment spoken close enough to feel. Girls were already leaning in, already asking to go upstairs before he even decided if he wanted them.
He didn’t chase. He never had to. So why did the thought of you walking away still sit wrong with him? It wasn’t about you. It couldn’t be. It was just the rejection. He had something to prove something to himself now. He saw you as a challenge.
And Suguru liked winning.
He had been so sure he would win.
There was something in him that needed to prove it — not just to himself, but to his friends too. Even though they hadn’t seen him get rejected by you.
Drunk,immature, and his ego bruised in a way he’d never experienced before, he’d walked straight over to the other frat brothers — Satoru, Haibara, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna — like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. “I can bag her,” he’d said with a careless laugh. “Even when she’s being difficult.”
They’d teased him, of course. Raised brows. Doubt. Curiosity. He’d leaned back in his chair, drink in hand, acting like it was already decided.
“I like the challenge,” he’d added. “She’s my challenge.”
And Suguru had always been the one who could make even the most stubborn girls soften. Fold. Give in. And to him you were certainly one of those.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Next Friday, he stood near the couch, drink loose in his hand, eyes fixed on the front door more than he’d admit.
Waiting for you.
Satoru had insisted on the pajama party. “Intimate,” he’d called it. No one bought it. It was just an excuse to see girls in lace and silk. Satoru looked unfair as usual. Blue plaid pajama pants hanging low, thin white shirt clinging in a way that made people stare too long. He acted oblivious. He wasn’t.
Suguru wasn’t exactly subtle either.
Grey sweatpants. Black shirt. Sleeves pushed up just enough to expose strong forearms, veins faint but still prominent beneath warm skin. The cotton of his shirt clung lightly to his chest and shoulders, outlining muscle without trying too hard. It stretched when he moved, hinting at the strength underneath.
He looked comfortable. Relaxed.
The sweatpants hung low on his hips, the fabric thin enough to suggest more than it hid. When he shifted his weight or leaned back against the counter, the outline of his bulge noticeable. Not exaggerated. Just there. Impossible to ignore if someone let their eyes wander.
And people were looking. He could feel it. A few girls tried to be subtle. Most weren’t. Normally he’d smirk. Maybe lean back a little more. Let them look. Tonight, though, his attention stayed fixed on the door. Until you walked in.
Your eyes met his from across the room before you started walking toward him.
And just like that, something shifted. The air felt heavier. Quieter.
You were wearing a small purple lace and silk sleep dress — delicate straps resting on your shoulders, the fabric catching the light with every step you took. It skimmed your body just enough to leave very little to his imagination.
He loved your outfit.
The way the lace traced your silhouette. The way the silk moved softly against your thighs. The way it looked like it had been made just for you.
Heat pooled low in his stomach before he could stop it. His hand tightened subtly around the cup he was holding, pupils dilating as his gaze dragged — slow, deliberate — from your face down to the hem of your dress and back up again.
But it wasn’t just desire. It was the way you walked toward him. Calm. Unhurried. Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
When you hugged him — when your body pressed against his — he felt exactly how you fit against him. The thin layers of fabric between you did very little to dull the contact. Warm. Close. Distractingly close.
His body went rigid for half a second, hyperaware of every point of contact. The heat pooling low in his stomach felt even heavier, unwelcome in how fast it came.
You pulled away first. His hands lingered at your waist a second too long before dropping. He followed you into the kitchen without thinking about it. “Do you always do this?” you asked, not turning around, focused on pouring yourself a drink.
“Do what?” he replied, leaning back against the counter, palms resting against the edge behind him. Casual. Like he wasn’t watching you over the rim of his cup. “Following girls around,” you clarified, taking a sip before leaning back as well. Now you were beside him. Close enough that your arms brushed lightly.
He didn’t move away. “No. Just you.” Smooth. Effortless. Delivered like it wasn’t a line.
“You’re so rehearsed,” you snickered into your drink. You barely looked at him. Your attention drifted to the kitchen, the music, the people passing by. You adjusted the hem of your dress. Anything but him.
And that — more than anything — got under his skin. Because he was used to being the center of attention.
He was used to being watched. But you? You acted like he was optional. His jaw tightened slightly, though his smile stayed lazy.
“If I’m rehearsed,” he said, pushing off the counter. He stepped into your space, one hand bracing against the surface behind you. Close enough to crowd. Not close enough to touch.
“I wouldn’t be standing here trying to figure you out.” His head tilted slightly as he leaned in, just a fraction closer. There was something different in his tone now. Less polished. Less automatic.
He let it show — just a little — that this wasn’t routine. That he was actually trying. You raised a brow lazily, finally meeting his eyes. “But go on,” he continued, softer, almost coaxing. “If I'm rehearsed, tell me what you think I’m going to say next.”
His other hand came to rest on the counter behind you, boxing you in without quite trapping you. Testing. Seeing how much you’d tolerate. How far he could push before you pushed back.
You only chuckled. Took another slow sip of your drink. Like his proximity meant nothing. Like he wasn’t practically caging you in. You set your cup down and crossed your arms. “You’re trying to figure me out?” you said evenly. “You’re doing a bad job, then.”
A quiet beat passed. “Am I?” His voice lowered, amusement threading through it. He liked this. The resistance. The way you didn’t melt or giggle or fold. “And yet…” A lazy smirk curved his mouth. “You’re still standing here.”
The confidence was still there — but thinner now. Sharpened. His eyes dropped to your lips for a second. Just long enough. Just slow enough.
“I’m still here because I’m entertained. Not because I’m doing you a favor by letting you figure me out,” you said evenly. Calm. Almost absentminded.
You took a small sip of your drink. “I’m also curious what cheesy line you’re going to try next.”
Suguru’s lips twitched. A quiet breath left him — not quite a laugh, but close. “Cheesy?” he echoed softly. He reached up without asking, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. Slow. Deliberate. Tucking it behind your ear like he had every right to. Then he leaned in. Close enough that his breath ghosted over your skin, lips barely grazing the shell of your ear. “Wanna find out?” he murmured.
He pulled back just enough to watch your reaction. Waiting for the shift. The blush. The swallow. The crack in your composure. It never came. Your expression stayed the same. Relaxed. Mildly bored.
“I'm good.”
Two simple words. You nudged his arm away — not aggressively, just enough to move past him — and walked back toward the couch where Haibara, Shoko, and Yuki were sitting. Like it was nothing.
Like he hadn’t just made a move on you. Suguru stayed where he was. For a second, he didn’t move. He didn’t fully process it. The rejection hit slower this time. Not sharp. Just heavy. Settling somewhere behind his ribs.
His heart was still beating too fast from the closeness. From the warmth of you. From the almost. He wasn’t sure what churned in his stomach more.
The sting of being brushed off. Or the fact that he wanted to try again.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru was fucked.
The scene from last Friday wouldn’t leave him alone. It replayed in his mind in sharp, unforgiving detail. The way you looked at him. The way you sounded. The way you said I’m good like he wasn’t worth your time.
He could still remember how close you were. The warmth of your body. The faint trace of your perfume that seemed to linger in his memory no matter how many showers he took.
He had thought about that single interaction more than the dirtiest things he had ever done. And he hadn’t even properly touched you. Every time it replayed, something twisted low in his stomach. Not lust. Not exactly. Something heavier. Stranger.
Something he’d never felt before.
His lecture dragged on endlessly. Some rant about foreign economies and stock markets. The professor also spiraling about his own investments tanking.
Suguru didn’t hear a word. His thoughts kept circling back to you. When class finally ended, he left without thinking, shoulders tense, jaw tight.
Everything felt dull. Boring. Until he saw you. Sitting on a bench outside. Headphones in. Sunlight spilling over you like it was intentional. Like the universe was presenting him with something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
You looked… beautiful. Your legs crossed neatly. Your outfit soft, effortless. Your hair falling perfectly over your shoulders. Brows slightly furrowed as you stared at your phone.
Beautiful.
The word made him pause.
He’d called girls hot. Sexy. But beautiful? Perfect? That was new. And he didn’t like how easily it was when it came to you.
He swallowed the thought down quickly. It was just the chase. That was all this was. Right?
He called your name as he approached. You looked up at him. And his heartbeat ticked up, just slightly. “Oh, hi,” you said, tugging one headphone out.
“You done for today?” he asked casually, already calculating how he could stretch this interaction. “One lecture left,” you sighed, slipping your phone into your pocket and pulling the other headphone out.
“When?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Come on. I’ll walk you.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He picked up your bag from the ground and slung it over his shoulder like it belonged there.
“You don’t have to,” you called, following behind him as he started toward the main building.
“Where’s your lecture?”
He ignored the protest entirely.
“018.”
He adjusted his pace slightly so you could keep up, leading you toward the back of the building without another word.
The hallway was quieter here.
Room 018 came into view on your right.
He stopped in front of you. You stepped closer, reaching up to tug your bag off his shoulder. “Thank you for walking me,” you said lightly. “Even if it was against my will.”
He scoffed, crossing his arms. “So charming,” he muttered.
“I’ll see you later.” He ruffled your hair — casual, almost teasing — before stepping past you and walking away.
Good thing he walked away. Otherwise he would’ve seen it — the slight widening of your eyes, the faint warmth rising to your cheeks where he’d ruffled your hair.
The last time — at the party — he had been closer to you. Closer than this. But there had been dim lighting and music loud enough to swallow hesitation. Alcohol warming your skin. Shadows to hide behind. This time there was none of that.
No haze. No flickering lights softening the edges. Just daylight pouring through the windows. Just the quiet hum of campus around you. Just him standing there, fully aware, fully sober. Good thing he walked away.
Otherwise he would’ve seen it — the slight widening of your eyes, the faint warmth rising to your cheeks where he’d ruffled your hair. He would’ve known he’d affected you.
An hour later, you stepped out of your lecture hall. And stopped. Suguru was leaning against the wall across from the door. Like he’d been there the whole time.
His phone hung loosely in his hand, forgotten. He found your eyes almost immediately, a lazy smirk spreading across his face like this had been inevitable. “What are you doing here?” you asked, walking up to him.
He hadn’t prepared an answer. Not really. “Thought I’d walk you home,” he said honestly. The words leaving before he could dress them up. You blinked at him. “You waited an hour to walk me home?” A small huff escaped you — half disbelief, half something else.
“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to,” he replied, pushing off the wall. His hands slipped from his pockets, reaching for your bag again and slinging it over his shoulder like it belonged there.
You fell into step beside him this time. “For someone with such a reputation,” you said lightly, “you’re being such a gentleman.”
“And what does that reputation entail?” he asked, glancing down at you like he genuinely didn’t know. Of course he knew. He just wanted to hear what you thought and heard.
“Come on,” you muttered, looking away. “You know what people say about you.”
“I do,” he replied smoothly. “But I’m wondering what you heard.” There was something different in his tone now. Less teasing. More searching. Because for once, it wasn’t about what the campus thought. It was about what you thought.
“You’re a manwhore,” you said plainly. No hesitation. No sugarcoating. His eyebrow twitched slightly. “You don’t do face-to-face,” you continued. “And you don’t kiss.” Your gaze stayed forward, focused on the path ahead. His eyes, however, were locked on you.
“People talk,” he said simply. Even though most of it was true. He had kissed a few girls back in freshman year. Early on. Back when he was still figuring out what he preferred during hook ups.
He’d learned quickly that he didn’t. Kissing complicated things. It made girls linger. Made them think. Made him pretend he wanted something more. “So it’s not true?” you asked, your gaze snapping up to him.
“I didn’t say that,” he chuckled, glancing back at you. This time, you were the one who looked away first. A quiet beat passed.
“Why no kissing?” you asked. There wasn’t judgment in your voice. Just curiosity. That made it harder to brush off. He exhaled through his nose, shoulders rolling slightly as he considered how to phrase it.
“Keeps things easy,” he said finally. “Sex is transactional. You feel good, I feel good. End of story.”
His tone was matter-of-fact. Almost clinical.
“But most people don’t get anything out of kissing,” he continued. “You kiss someone because you want to be close to them.” His eyes flickered toward you. “Seems more personal than sex to me.” He said it like it was obvious. Logical.
Like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. And you could follow what he meant. You understood the train of thought. You just couldn’t understand him. Because to you, that sounded backwards.
Detached. Safe. And maybe that was the point. “How do you even get in the mood without kissing?” you asked. You were trying to follow his logic. You really were.
“You just do,” he replied easily. “You don’t really get in the mood to do your assignments either, but you still do them.” He said it like it made perfect sense. You giggled. It was soft. Unfiltered. And something in him twitched at the sound.
He’d had girls whisper filth in his ear. Beg. Moan. Say things far more obscene. And yet a simple giggle from you did more to him than any of it ever had. “That’s… one way to put it,” you said, shaking your head slightly.
“What about you?” he asked.
“Mh?”
“What do you like?”
The question caught you off guard.
“Uh…”
You frowned faintly, thinking.
No one had really asked you that before.
You knew how to flirt. You’ve had boyfriends before — not many, you could still count them on one hand. From the outside they’d all seemed fine. Good guys. But when it came down to it… They hadn’t really known what to do with you. Everything had always revolved around them. Their pace. Their finish. “I don’t… know?” you admitted, shoulders lifting slightly.
“What do you mean? Even virgins know what they like.” He looked at you, genuinely confused.
“I’ve had a few boyfriends,” you said quietly, a hint of pink rising to your cheeks. “But they weren’t really any good. And whenever I tried to explain or try something different… it didn’t really work.” There was embarrassment there. Not dramatic. Just subtle. Like you’d quietly decided somewhere along the way that maybe you were the problem.
“Maybe I’m just not made for sex,” you added with a small, almost self-conscious laugh.
Something in Suguru hardened at that. Not lust. Not entirely. Something sharper. Because the idea of you thinking that — of some mediocre guys fumbling their way through you and leaving you convinced you were the issue — irritated him more than it should have.
“Or,” he said calmly, cutting in, “you just didn’t have the right partners.”
“When it happens with one boyfriend, it could be coincidence,” you said with a faint, bitter chuckle. “When it happens with two? That’s not really a coincidence anymore.”
He looked at you differently then. Not like prey. Not like a challenge. Like something he wanted to prove wrong. “If you had the wrong ones twice,” he said evenly, “that just means your sample size was bad.” There was a faint smirk there, but softer than usual.
“It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.” His tone wasn’t teasing. It was steady. Certain.
And for once, he wasn’t trying to get you into bed (well not completely) He was trying to undo something someone else had planted in your head. And that might’ve been worse for him. Because this wasn’t about winning a challenge anymore. It was about wanting to be the one who showed you differently.
“Thanks,” you said softly. “That’s… oddly comforting.” For a second, something warm settled between you.
“Maybe I could be the one to show you,” he added, a wink following right after.
And just like that, the warmth shifted. A quiet bucket of disappointment washed over you. Right. He was still him. Still the campus manwhore. Still the guy who turned everything into an invitation. “Yeah,” you said lightly, pushing his shoulder with two fingers, “no thank you.”
He laughed, not offended. But something flickered behind his eyes — quick. Almost unreadable. The conversation eased after that. Safer topics. His time in college. Your time overseas. Gossip about mutual acquaintances. Who dated who. Who cheated. Who dropped out.
It felt normal. Almost easy. And that was the dangerous part. Because you genuinely enjoyed talking to him. By the time you reached your building, the sky had softened into late afternoon gold. You stopped at your door. “Thank you,” you said, taking your bag back from him. “I really enjoyed our talk.”
And you meant it. His expression shifted — subtle, but softer than the smirking version he wore so easily. “My pleasure,” he replied. Polite. Controlled.
“I’ll see you around.” He gave you a small wave before stepping back from the entrance, giving you space as you unlocked your door.
He didn’t linger. But as he walked away, hands sliding back into his pockets, something about the interaction replayed in his mind.
He enjoyed talking to you. Not flirting. Not teasing. Talking. And for the first time, Suguru wasn’t sure if that made things easier… Or infinitely more complicated.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
“Where are you going?” he asked when you took a different turn instead of heading toward your building. He was standing outside your lecture hall again, like he had been for the past few weeks. It had become a routine of sorts — he would wait for you, walk you home, and talk with you about nothing and everything.
“I have to go to the library,” you replied. “My professor assigned something last minute, and I want to get it done before the weekend.”
Suguru fell into step beside you without hesitation. “Mind if I join?” he asked, his arm settling over your shoulder in a way that had slowly become familiar. At some point, you had stopped shrugging it off.
“Sure,” you said, looking up at him with a stern expression. “If you promise to be quiet.”
“I promise,” he replied, lifting his pinky in a childish gesture.
You sighed, but your lips curved slightly as you hooked your pinky around his. A pinky promise. The library was warm and quiet when you stepped inside, the faint scent of paper and coffee lingering in the air. You led him toward a quiet corner where a small table with two chairs sat facing each other.
To your surprise, he actually kept his promise. He opened his laptop and pulled up his own assignment, though he barely looked at it. Most of his attention was on you. He watched the way your hair fell forward when you leaned down to write, the way your sweater slipped slightly off one shoulder, the crease between your brows when you concentrated, the back of the pen resting against your soft bottom lip. His textbook sat open and untouched, the words blurring together because he couldn’t stop glancing up at you.
“I have to grab something,” you said eventually, standing from your chair. He stood immediately. “I’ll come with you.”
“You do that a lot,” you remarked as you scanned the shelves. “Following behind me.”
“Are we having this conversation again?” he replied lightly, his eyes focused on you rather than the rows of books.
“You’re like a big puppy.”
He laughed at that, an actual, unguarded laugh. “That’s what I’ve been reduced to?”
“That’s what you’ve been upgraded to,” you corrected as you spotted the book you needed. It was on the top shelf. You stretched up on your toes, your fingers barely grazing the metal edge beneath it. Suguru stepped closer behind you, not quite touching you but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back. He reached over you easily and grabbed the book.
Instead of handing it to you, he lifted it just slightly higher. You turned around with a small frown, your brows knitting together as you tried to reach for it again. He watched you from above, his smirk lazy but his heartbeat louder than he liked to admit.
“Not even a thank you you? Or a please,” he teased. “Didn’t think you were ill-mannered.”
“Do you want me to beg you?” you countered, your tone unimpressed. The thought alone made something stir in him. “Would you?” he asked, leaning a fraction closer.
“No,” you replied immediately, crossing your arms despite the way your stomach fluttered at his proximity.
“Then you’re not getting your book about…” He glanced at the cover. “International politics.” You flushed faintly, embarrassed that he had said the title out loud when it was perfectly normal.
“Fine.”
He waited, expecting more. “Please, Suguru,” you said flatly.
It wasn’t breathless or sweet like he had imagined, but hearing his name leave your lips so casually still did something to him that caught him off guard.
“Not good enough,” he replied, shaking his head.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” you said, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. “Do you have some sort of worship kink?”
He chuckled and stepped closer until his chest brushed lightly against your body. “Just trying to teach you manners.”
You scoffed. “Fine. Keep the book.” You pushed past him and walked back toward the table, your pride too intact to play along with whatever game he was trying to start. After a second, he followed you, the book still in his hand. This hadn’t gone the way he imagined. You didn’t fold. You didn’t beg. You didn’t give him what he wanted.
And he hated how much he liked that. “I’m going home,” you said as you began packing your bag. “Already?” he asked.
“Might as well. I can’t really go any further without that book.”
You walked ahead of him again, refusing to look back, your pride too strong to let him win.
And as he followed behind you — because of course he did — Suguru realized he admired that stubbornness far more than he should have.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
His room was quiet, the late afternoon light spilling lazily across the floor. Suguru lounged on his bed with his phone in hand, half-reading through the fraternity council group chat. Over a hundred messages flooded the screen about some reckless freshmen stunt that could get the house in trouble. Arguments about whether to kick them out or just put them on social probation dragged on endlessly. He barely cared.
His phone suddenly rang. Your name lit up the screen. The number you had reluctantly given him two weeks ago. A smile spread across his face before he even realized it.
“Sweetheart—”
“You really took that book with you?” you half-yelled through the phone.
His smile shifted into a slow smirk as he leaned back against his pillows. Usually you were composed, cool, untouchable. Hearing you slightly ruffled did something to him.
“You said I could keep it,” he replied lazily.
“I didn’t expect you to actually take it.”
“You told me to. Who am I not to comply?”
“Did you even register it, or did you just steal it?”
“It’s not stealing if I bring it back.”
He could practically hear your eye roll through the phone.
“What do you even want with that specific book?”
“For someone as smart as you, you’re awfully slow.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I dont want that book. I just want to hear you say please.”
“I already did,” you snapped.
“That wasn’t good enough.”
“Then you should’ve been more specific.”
“I was specific,” he said calmly. “Just say the words and I’ll give it to you.”
“Oh, please, Suguru,” you replied in an overly sweet, dripping tone.
It was sarcasm.
But the effect was very real.
“Go on,” he murmured, smirk widening.
“Fuck off.” The line went dead. He stared at his phone. You really just hung up on him. He almost pouted. Still, he was getting closer. You wouldn’t be this annoyed if you didn’t care.
Twenty minutes later, a knock sounded at his door. He rolled off his bed, expecting Satoru, maybe Haibara or another brother.
Instead, you stood there. Arms crossed. Cute frown firmly in place. “Give me that book.” No greeting. No smile.
“So impolite,” he tsked, leaning against the doorframe. He found it amusing that you had come all the way here for a book you could probably find online. A part of him wanted to believe you were enjoying this just as much as he was.
“Suguru, please. I have plans this weekend, and the deadline’s Monday.”
“You’re getting closer,” he replied.
You stepped inside his room without waiting for permission. It was surprisingly tidy for a frat house. You went straight to his desk and began rummaging through the drawers.
“It could save you a real headache if you just asked nicely enough,” he said, watching you search. You straightened and finally turned to face him. There was something different in your eyes now. Determined. Slightly desperate.
“Suguru,” you exhaled. “I really need the book. Please.” That one was more sincere. And it hit harder than the sarcastic ones. He didn’t move. From the outside, he looked unbothered. Inside, his stomach was flipping and his heart was beating fast enough to power a small city.
“Please,” you said again, softer this time. He swallowed. “Knew you could be polite,” he said lightly, ruffling your hair before stepping past you.
He grabbed the book from his bag. It hadn’t moved since the library. Your hands reached for it immediately. He pulled it back again. “What are your plans this weekend?” he asked casually.
Your expression shifted to mild annoyance. “Seeing a friend.”
A friend? His jaw tightened slightly. What kind of friend? Why did that word suddenly irritate him? “What friend?” he pressed.
You scoffed. “I came here to get a book, and now you’re interrogating me about my social life.”
“You want the book?” he challenged. You hesitated for a second. “I’m going on a blind date. Now can I please have my book?”
A blind date. The word landed heavier than he expected. Jealousy flared before he could stop it. It didn’t make sense. You were a challenge. A game. A mission to see how long it would take to get you in his bed. So why did the idea of someone else sitting across from you make something ugly twist in his chest?
He lowered the book without another word. You grabbed it immediately. “Thank you,” you said, smiling.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru laid quietly in his bed that same night you came storming into his room. His head clouded with jealousy and also lust.
You saying ‘please' and almost begging him really did something to him. It may have been because you wanted a book and not because you wanted him, but that didn't matter to him. The words that bordered on begging had taken their toll on him, and especially on his cock.
The room was dark, except for the faint glow of moonlight slipping through the curtains, casting shadows over the rumpled sheets. Suguru's chest rose and fell unevenly, his mind replaying the scene over and over.
'Suguru, I really need this. Please.' Fuck, the way your eyes had locked on his. It twisted something deep in his gut, even when he had completely taken your words out of context.
A hot coil of envy still in his stomach because of that stupid blind date, but his dick still throbbing with need.
He groaned low in his throat, palming himself through the thin material, feeling the heat radiate from his skin.
With a frustrated huff, Suguru shoved his boxers and sweats down his thighs, freeing his cock. It sprang up, thick and heavy, the tip already glistening with pre-cum in the dim light. He wrapped his hand around the base, squeezing firmly, and let out a shaky breath.
His mind flooded with images: you on your knees, not for your blind date, but only for him. Begging to touch him, to taste him.
'Please,' you'd probably whisper, lips parted, eyes dark with want.
He started stroking, slow at first, his fist gliding up the shaft, thumb swiping over the sensitive head to spread the slickness. A jolt of pleasure shot through him, making his hips buck involuntarily. Fuck, he was so hard it ached, veins pulsing under his grip. He picked up the pace, hand twisting slightly, imagining your mouth instead—wet and warm, sucking him down greedily.
His free hand clutched the sheets, knuckles white, as he jerked faster, the slick sound of skin on skin filling the quiet room. His balls tightened, drawing up as the pressure built low in his belly.
He muttered your name, head falling back against the pillow.
In his mind, you were there, begging louder, your voice breaking as you rode him, pussy clenching around his cock. He thrust into his fist, chasing that fantasy, breaths coming in ragged pants.
He couldn't hold it anymore.
With a choked groan, Suguru came, hot spurts of cum shooting over his hand and stomach, his body shuddering with the force of it. He milked himself through it, every last pulse, until he slumped back, spent and sticky. The jealousy lingered, a dull ache.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru had almost manifested it — the worst possible outcome.
And somehow, the night had gone exactly that way.
That’s how you ended up still wearing your date outfit — burgundy dress, black heels — on a grimy frat couch, completely out of place in the chaos of the house. But right now, you didn’t care.
The bass thumped through the house hard enough to rattle the walls, music vibrating through the floorboards. The air was thick with sweat, perfume, and cheap alcohol. Out in the yard, a small group lingered in the glow of porch lights, passing a blunt between them and laughing too loudly. Satoru stood near the kitchen island, effortlessly charming two girls at once, his grin bright and shameless, while across the dance floor Toji had a girl pressed flush against him, moving in a way that made it very clear neither of them cared who was watching.
Suguru sat beside you, arm wrapped loosely around your shoulders. His thumb traced slow, absentminded patterns along your arm while he held his cup in the other hand, occasionally bringing it to your lips so you could take a sip.
You leaned into him slightly.
He leaned back into the couch, gaze lazily fixed on you, pretending he wasn’t studying every expression on your face.
“He was barely taller than me,” you complained, arms crossing. “And in the same sentence he claimed he was 6’1.”
Suguru brought the cup closer to your mouth again. You took a sip.
“That sucks, sweetheart,” he murmured, rubbing your arm soothingly.
“He wore this stupid expensive watch and could not stop talking about it. I swear I just sat through a forty-five minute TED Talk about watches.”
You let your head fall back lightly against his chest.
His heartbeat picked up immediately.
Your perfume. The warmth of your body. The way you looked — dressed up for some idiot who didn’t deserve it.
He kept his expression neutral. Secretly, he was relieved it had gone badly.
“And then,” you continued dramatically, “he showed me his stock portfolio. And then not even his car — the car he’s planning to buy after college. Like that’s supposed to impress me.”
“Business major?” Suguru asked knowingly.
“Ugh. He was.” You groaned into your hands. Hands completely covering your face now.
He chuckled quietly, then set his drink down and gently grabbed both of your wrists with one hand, pulling them away from where you’d buried your face.
You reached for his cup instead and took a long drink before handing it back to him.
“I don’t get it,” you sighed. “I think I’m cursed when it comes to men.”
His jaw tightened slightly at that.
“Or,” he said calmly, “your taste is just terrible.”
You shot him a look. He smirked faintly. “Good thing I could fix that for you.”
You chuckled and nudged him lightly with your shoulder. For once, you didn’t follow it up with a snarky comment or a casual rejection. You just laughed. And he hated how much that did to him.
It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a laugh. Just you relaxing around him for once. But something warm and unfamiliar twisted low in his stomach. Maybe turning this into a challenge hadn’t been his smartest idea. Because somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling like one. He told himself it was still about the chase. About winning. About proving that even you would fold for him eventually.
But hope had started to creep in. And that was dangerous. “Wouldn’t that just make you one of my bad decisions?” you asked, tilting your head up at him.
His eyes were already on you.
“You think I’d treat you like that?” he asked, and for once there wasn’t much teasing in it. There was something almost earnest there, like he genuinely needed to know.
“You want me to be honest?” you chuckled lightly.
“Depends,” he said, though his voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be.
You studied him for a second.
“I think some bad decisions could be worth it.”
His breath caught before he could hide it. For a split second, his composure cracked — eyes widening just slightly, jaw tightening like he was processing what you had just given him.
Worth it.
His heart was pounding in his throat now, loud enough that he was sure you could feel it through his chest.
His hand on your shoulder tightened slightly, pulling you closer without him fully realizing he was doing it. Your gazes didn’t break — not once. Slowly, his free hand slid down to your wrist. He lifted it carefully, like it was something fragile.
His lips brushed against the pulse point there — soft, lingering just long enough for you to feel the warmth of it.
Then higher, to the center of your palm. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t showy. It was deliberate. He looked back up at you. The music in the other room felt distant now. The world narrowing to the space between you.
“You won’t regret me,” he said quietly.
At first, the kiss was soft — exploring, tentative. But as it went on, it took on a life of its own. His tongue flicked against your lower lip, seeking entrance. When your mouth opened for him, he pressed closer, his body fitting against yours.
The kiss grew more urgent, more demanding. His hand left your cheek and tangled in your hair, pulling you even closer. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his body pressed against yours without an inch to spare. And the sounds he made — low, almost desperate — sent a shiver down your spine.
His mouth left yours, trailing hot kisses down your jawline, to the spot where your pulse thundered in your throat. You felt him smirk against your neck — he knew what he was doing to you.
“Wanna go?” he murmured against your neck, his breath hot where your pulse fluttered.
You nodded eagerly. he was already on his feet.
Your hand stayed in his as he pulled you up with him, fingers tight around your wrist as he led you through the crowd and up the stairs. The music downstairs faded with every step, replaced by the sound of your own breathing and the rush of blood in your ears.
The second you stepped into his room, the door shut behind you with a heavy click.
He didn’t waste time.
His hands gripped your waist firmly, pulling you closer as his mouth crashed back onto yours. Tongues tangled languid and heated– exploring each other with deliberate strokes.
You toed off your heels with a quick kick, the clatter lost in the thrum of music drifting up from downstairs. His fingers found the zipper of your dress, tugging it down slowly.
The fabric loosened, slipping around your shoulders like a whisper of surrender. "Let me make you feel good," he murmured against your lips, voice low and rough, pulling back just enough for the words to sink in.
"I'll show you what your previous ones couldn't." His hands slid the straps down your arms, the dress pooling at your feet in a silken heap, leaving you exposed in nothing but your lingerie—lace clinging to your skin, a fragile barrier.
His mouth claimed yours again, the wet smacks of kisses echoing in the room, mingling with the bass-heavy rhythm from below. Both hands cupped the underside of your ass, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs hooked around his hips, and he carried you like that, devouring your mouth as if it were the last kiss he'd ever steal—deep, insistent, stealing your breath.
He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, settling you on his lap. One hand traced the curve of your waist, skin warm under his palm, before dipping lower to toy with the delicate lace of your panties.
His fingers lingered, teasing the edge, brushing close enough to make you ache. Then he slipped inside, parting your folds with a confident stroke. His thumb circled your clit in slow, firm circles while two fingers curled into you, pressing against that sensitive spot deep within. The stretch was perfect, building friction with each deliberate thrust—curling, twisting, scissoring to stretch you open. "This okay?" he asked, voice a husky murmur, smirking as he watched your face twist in pleasure.
"Must feel good, huh?"
You could only nod, breath hitching as he ramped up the pace, fingers pumping faster, thumb relentless on your clit. He leaned in, capturing your mouth briefly before his lips trailed to your neck, nipping at the skin. With his free hand, he reached behind you, unhooking your bra in one smooth motion. The lace fell away, and he palmed your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples, rolling them until they peaked hard under his touch.
Your whimpers filled the air, soft and desperate, and he groaned low, his cock twitching harder against your thigh. It had been straining against his pants since you kissed him back, thick and insistent, your sounds only adding to it.
Pressure coiled tight in your core, his fingers relentless, curling just right to hit that spot over and over. Your body arched, thighs trembling around him as the wave crested. A burst of colors exploded behind your closed eyelids—an orgasm ripping through you, fierce and shattering, the kind you hadn't felt in ages. Your walls clenched around his fingers, pulsing as you came undone, slick coating his hand.
You panted, chest heaving, but he was there instantly, mouth sealing over yours, swallowing your gasps like they were his to claim. You tried to kiss back, lips clumsy against his, but the aftershocks still quaked through you, leaving you boneless.
"Need a moment?" He leaned back onto the bed, propping himself on his elbows, biceps bulging against the fabric of his shirt, veins standing out in sharp relief.
The haze cleared just enough, and you slid off his lap, dropping to your knees on the cool hardwood floor. The chill bit into your skin, grounding you.
"You don't have to," he said, thumb brushing your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.
"Let me give you something back," you whispered, hands already at his belt, fumbling with the buckle in your eagerness. Your fingers shook, haste making them clumsy.
"Calm down, sweetheart," he chuckled, the sound dark and fond, his hand covering yours to steady it, unfastening the belt and popping the button with ease.
His cock sprang free as you tugged his pants down, thicker and longer than any you'd known before—heavy, veined, the tip already glistening with precum. You wrapped your hand around the base, stroking once, twice, before leaning in to swirl your tongue around the head, tasting him on your tongue.
He hissed, fingers threading into your hair as you took him deeper, lips stretching around his girth. You bobbed slowly at first, hollowing your cheeks, tongue pressing flat along the underside as you sucked. Saliva slicked him, your hand twisting in tandem with your mouth, working him with eager pulls.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned, hips bucking slightly. "So proud of you, taking me like this. My sweet girl." His praise washed over you, spurring you on, but just as his breaths grew ragged, his grip tightened in your hair.
He pulled you off with a wet pop, right before he could tip over the edge. "Not yet," he rasped, eyes dark with intent. "I want to be inside you when I come."
In one fluid motion, he shrugged off his shirt, revealing his muscular chest and abs. Then he scooped you up from the floor like you were weightless, manhandling you onto the bed. He flipped you flat on your stomach, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settled behind you. His cock pressed hot and heavy against your ass.
"Sugu," you moaned, voice muffled against the sheets, body arching back in desperate invitation.
He didn't make you wait. Lining up, he thrust in deep, filling you in one smooth stroke. The prone position let him grind against you, cock dragging along your walls with every snap of his hips.
His hands roamed—one sliding up to cover your mouth, fingers pressing against your lips, "Open," he commanded softly, and you did, sucking on his fingers as he fucked into you harder, the wet sounds of skin meeting skin filling the room.
"Bet you've never felt this good, huh?" he groaned against your ear, pace unrelenting. "You're so gorgeous like this.”
“How does my cock feel? Come on, tell me."
You could barely form words, pleasure overwhelming you—mewling around his fingers, body rocking with each thrust. It felt too good, too full, his dirty words stoking the fire higher.
But after a few minutes, he slowed, a frustrated huff escaping him. This position—it wasn't hitting right– not like he thought it would. He usually stuck to from behind, keeping emotional distance, but now... He pulled out fully, the sudden emptiness making you whine.
Grabbing your waist, he flipped you onto your back with effortless strength, manhandling you again, your legs splaying open. His cock looked even harder, flushed and straining as he positioned himself between your thighs.
"Fuck, needed to see you," he muttered, slamming back inside, the angle deeper, hitting new spots that made stars burst behind your eyes.
"Want to see your pretty face." His hand found your clit, rubbing in tight circles as he drove into you, mouth descending to yours in a messy, claiming kiss.
The combination shattered you—his cock stretching you, thumb working your clit, lips bruising yours. Tension snapped like a wire, your orgasm crashing over you, walls fluttering around him as you cried out into his mouth.
"I'm right behind you," he panted, thrusts erratic now, chasing his release. With a final, deep grind, he came, spilling hot inside you, body shuddering. "My pretty girl," he whispered, voice wrecked. "So pretty just for me."
You both rode out the waves, breaths mingling as he collapsed beside you, pulling you close. The high faded slowly, but even as warmth lingered, his thoughts lingered.
He had broken two of his rules to get you into his bed. No kissing. No face-to-face. Both gone. And he had hopefully broken your man-curse.
This was supposed to be simple. A challenge. A bruised ego that needed repairing. A girl who had rejected him and needed proving wrong. That’s what he had told himself from the beginning. That he was chasing the thrill, not you.
But somewhere between kissing you and needing to see your face, something shifted. He had never needed that before — never cared about eye contact, never cared about expressions. It had always been easier that way. Detached. Controlled.
With you, it hadn’t been controlled at all. He wanted to see you. Needed to. Needed your face in front of him like proof that this wasn’t just another meaningless night.
And that realization unsettled him more than anything. He liked you. Not because you rejected him. Not because his pride had taken a hit. Not because he had something to prove. He just liked you.
Still, even as that truth pressed against his ribs, he tried to smother it. This is why you don’t kiss. This is why you don’t do face-to-face. It complicates things. It makes it real.
You were just a challenge– a bet he had made with himself. So why did something twist painfully in his chest when he saw you slipping out of his bed?
You moved quietly, gathering your dress from the floor, smoothing it down like you were preparing to step back into your own world.
His hand reached out before he could stop himself, fingers closing gently around yours.
“Where are you going?” he asked, and the softness in his voice surprised even him.
You glanced over your shoulder at him with a faint, knowing smile.
“Thought you had rules,” you said lightly. “No staying over, and all that”
His thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles. Instead of letting go, he lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a slow kiss against your skin.
He tugged you back toward him, and you fell against his chest, your body fitting against his like it had earlier. “I don’t think those rules really matter when it comes to you,” he admitted quietly.
He leaned in, pressing slow, unhurried kisses along your cheek, your jaw, your temple. There was no rush this time. When he reached your mouth, he paused, studying you for a second before kissing you softly. “Rules don’t apply to you,” he murmured against your lips.
You smiled despite yourself. The rational part of you knew better. It told you he probably said similar things before, that this was just another smooth line delivered in the afterglow.
But the part of you still tangled up in him, warm and softened and wanting to believe, chose not to argue.
“Besides. I'm not done with you”
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
You and Suguru had settled into something dangerously undefined in the six weeks you’d been seeing each other.
Not official. Not casual.
If he wasn’t at your apartment, you were at the frat. There was barely a day you didn’t see him. He still walked you home almost every evening like it was routine, like it had always been his place beside you. But now it didn’t end at your door.
Now he’d stop halfway down the street and say, “You studied for hours. That deserves food.”
He called it a reward. He always paid. And when you’d protest — because you always did — he’d just shrug with that lazy grin of his. “You already do enough for me,” he’d say lightly when you would try to pay him back. And without fail it would always send a wave of heat within you.
And it turned out you weren’t cursed when it came to men. The men before had only cared about themselves. Suguru had proven that wasn’t a universal rule.
Your things had started to mix with his. Your apartment was slowly overtaken by his hoodies, sweatpants, jackets, a toothbrush he’d left behind and never taken back. But his room wasn’t much better. Duplicates of your skincare products lined his sink because he “wanted you to feel at home.” Your panties mixed into his laundry. Your perfume soaked into his sheets.
It was a challenge for Suguru at first, but that feelings were quickly replaced by something real– feelings? love?
You were tucked away in the library now, headphones snug over your ears, soft music humming in the background as you tried to focus on your textbook. Four hours of studying had drained you, and nothing new was sticking.
With a quiet sigh, you packed up your bag and started weaving between the shelves toward the exit. That’s when you heard it. “Have you seen Suguru and his girl?”
Satoru. You recognized his voice. Too loud for the library. You slowed instinctively. “Looks like he’s finally mature enough to have a girlfriend. Finally done with the ‘I have rules’ bullshit,” Satoru added, amused.
“Yeah, right,” another voice responded. Sukuna his voice.
You couldn’t see them clearly from where you stood, just shapes a few shelves away. You should’ve walked away. You didn’t. “Remember what he said?” Sukuna continued.
Satoru sounded confused. “What?”
“His ego got dented when she rejected him at that first party she showed. Said it was a challenge for him. Wanted to see how long it’d take for her to give in.”
The words hit before you could brace for them. Your heart dropped. The air felt thin.
“Oh,” Satoru muttered after a beat. “I feel bad for her. She’d be good for him.”
“She would,” Sukuna said. “Too bad he’s… him.”
Your vision blurred before you even realized tears had gathered.
Challenge.
The word echoed louder than anything else.
All the late nights. The borrowed hoodies. The way he’d said rules didn’t apply to you. Your stomach twisted violently. You didn’t wait to hear more. Your legs moved on their own, carrying you down the aisle and out of the library before your brain could catch up.
You were supposed to go to him today. You couldn’t. If Satoru and Sukuna knew, how many others did? How many people had watched you and thought you were just part of some ego game? The humiliation burned hotter than the hurt.
By the time you stepped outside, tears were already spilling freely down your face. You walked fast, almost blindly, ignoring the strange looks from people passing by.
You didn’t care. You just needed to get home.
You got home after what felt like eternity, and let your bag drop by the door. Your apartment felt different now. Smaller. Louder with memories.
Every corner held him. The couch where he’d pull you into his side. The kitchen where he slow danced with you at 4:00am after a rager. The bed where he made love to you multiple times. The faint trace of his cologne still lingering in the air like it refused to leave.
You walked to your closet to grab pajamas. It was littered with his stupid hoodies and shirts. You’d stolen them absentmindedly over the weeks, and he’d never asked for them back.
You pulled one down. Even after sitting in your closet for days, it still smelled like him. Ridiculous. Your throat tightened again. You changed slowly, forcing yourself to breathe, pushing the tears away with the heel of your hand. But the second you lay down on your bed, it all came rushing back.
Challenge. You were just a challenge to him
The words echoed over and over. Apparently that’s all you were. A dented ego. A game. A timer he had started the moment you rejected him. Your mascara smudged against the pillow, but you didn’t bother fixing it. You were too embarrassed. Too humiliated.
How many people knew? How many had watched you walk into that frat house nearly everyday while they secretly pitied you. The room blurred. You cried until exhaustion dragged you under.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
When you woke up hours later, the apartment was dim. Your face felt tight, puffy. You reached for your phone. Notifications flooded your screen.
Seven missed calls.
Twelve messages.
All from Suguru. Right. You were supposed to go over after the library. Your chest twisted. You dropped the phone back onto the mattress like it burned.
In the kitchen, you opened the fridge and stared at it without seeing anything. There was food. Plenty of it. You just weren’t hungry. Your stomach felt full of something heavier. Regret. Shame. Hurt. You closed the fridge and went back to your room, curling in on yourself again.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru stood outside your lecture hall the next morning, scanning the crowd. You weren’t there. He checked his phone again. Still nothing. That wasn’t like you. You always texted back. Always.
He sent another message.
Then another.
Then called. This time it went straight to voicemail. You declined him?
Something cold slid down his spine. Had he done something? He replayed the last few days in his head, searching for a misstep.
Nothing made sense.
Within minutes he was outside your apartment, slightly out of breath from walking too fast. His heart pounded harder than it should have.
He knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again.
Still nothing.
His jaw tightened as he knocked a third time, more urgently.
The door finally opened while you stood half-hidden behind it. Your eyes swollen. Skin blotchy. Dark circles under your lashes. It hit him like a punch.
“Sweetheart—” He stepped forward instinctively, but you shook your head. “Don’t,” you whispered.
His chest tightened immediately. “What’s wrong?” he asked, voice softer than he meant it to be.
“I’m not feeling well,” you said. The lie was obvious. Being sick might explain missing class. It didn’t explain the puffy eyes.
“Let me take care of you,” he said quickly. There was uncertainty in his voice now. Fear, almost.
“I’m fine.”
You started to close the door, but his hand caught it gently. Your eyes lifted to him again. God. The sight of you like this hurt more than he expected.
“Sweetheart, please,” he said quietly. There was no cockiness left. No smirk. No lazy grin. Just concern.
“No,” you said, firmer now. “I said I’m fine.” There was bite in your voice this time. He hesitated. But then slowly stepped back.
His hand dropped to his side and the door closed. And he stood there, staring at it, something unfamiliar and heavy settling in his chest.
He knew it now. You were mad at him.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru tried everything. For two weeks straight, he showed up at your door.
Sometimes you didn’t open it at all. Sometimes you did. And every single time, his heart climbed into his throat. The seconds between knocking and hearing the lock turn felt unbearable. A mix of dread and hope twisted together in his chest. Relief when you opened it. A selfish flicker of happiness just from seeing you.
And then the guilt.
Because every time you stood there, you looked a little more tired. A little more guarded. Like something inside you had dimmed. It was subtle to anyone else but not to him.
Your eyes didn’t light up when you saw him anymore. You didn’t lean into the doorway. You didn’t tease him. You didn’t call him Sugu.
He stood in front of your door with coffee from your favorite place and the sandwich you always ordered. It was early, but he knew you’d be awake by now. He had gotten up earlier than usual just to make sure he got it before the morning rush.
It took a while before the door opened. When it did, you looked the same as the night before. Puffy eyes. Skin slightly blotchy. A fragile kind of tiredness that made his chest tighten.
“How are you feeling?” he asked carefully, like speaking too loudly might break you. “Fine,” you said again, your voice still rough from sleep.
“I got you breakfast,” he added, holding up the cup and the small paper bag. He tried to smile, but it felt wrong when you didn’t mirror it. You took the food from his hands.
“Thank you,” you said politely. The door closed before he could say anything else.
You didn’t eat it. You couldn’t. The sandwich stayed untouched in the fridge. You took a few sips of the coffee, but even that tasted wrong.
The next day he showed up again, this time closer to evening. You still opened the door for him. That alone gave him a flicker of hope. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly.
Your eye bags were lighter, but the tiredness hadn’t left. Your lashes looked heavy, your nose faintly red like you’d been crying recently. He noticed. He didn’t mention it, he didn't want to push it.
“Dinner from your favorite place,” he said, lifting the bag slightly. You hesitated before taking it.
“Thank you.” The door closed again. More firmly this time.
The day after that, he tried something different. Maybe it wasn’t about food. Maybe it was about effort.
It was noon. You didn’t have lectures. He stood outside your door with a bouquet of your favorite flowers tucked under his arm. He raised his hand to knock. The door opened before he could.
You startled slightly when you saw him there. You were dressed to leave — skirt, sweater, jacket, scarf wrapped around your neck. You looked put together.
Beautiful.
But the dullness in your eyes was impossible to miss. The spark that used to be there when you looked at him wasn’t there.
“Hi,” he said quietly. It felt strange standing this close to you again.
“Hi,” you replied.
“Going somewhere?”
“grocery store.” A lie. Your fridge and pantry were still stocked. You just needed some air.
“Ah,” he said, holding out the bouquet. “These are for you,” He watched your face carefully, searching for anything — softness, annoyance, something.
You took them. “Suguru, please stop doing this.” The flowers rested against your chest.
“Doing what?” he asked, though his voice was tighter now.
“Whatever this is. Stop wasting your money.”
You stepped back into the apartment and walked toward the kitchen. He half expected you to throw them in the trash. Instead, you grabbed a vase and placed them inside. Careful.
That hurt more.
He stepped inside slowly, unsure if he was overstepping. You returned to the doorway and stood there, leaving a respectful distance between you. Too much distance.
He took a step closer. You took one back.
His heart shattered.
“Please tell me what’s going on.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
Not angry. Not screaming. Just tired.
“Did you win?” Your voice was steady. Cold. But your eyes betrayed you — glossy with tears you were trying very hard not to let fall. He frowned slightly. “What are you—”
“The challenge,” you cut in, your hands sliding into the pockets of your jacket like you needed something to hold onto. “Did you win the challenge?”
You said it clearer this time. Slower. His stomach dropped.
It had started as something stupid. A careless comment. An ego he didn’t know how to soothe when you rejected him. He had never been rejected before. Not like that. Not calmly. Not without you even flinching. You had unsettled him. And instead of admitting that, he’d turned it into a game. A challenge. Something to conquer. He had said it drunk once. Careless. Laughing it off in front of people who didn’t matter. But somewhere between chasing you and actually knowing you, it had stopped being about pride.
It had become something else. Something he hadn’t planned on. You leaned back against the counter, watching his expression carefully — the shock, the dawning realization.
“Where did you hear that?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.
“That’s what matters to you?” you scoffed, pushing yourself off the counter. You walked toward the door.
A bitter laugh slipping out before you could stop it. One tear finally escaped, sliding down your cheek. He moved before thinking, his hand closing gently but firmly around your wrist.
You didn’t turn around.
“It started out that way,” he admitted. The words felt heavy coming out. “But it didn’t stay that way.” Silence filled the space between you.
“The first time you rejected me, at that party” he continued quietly, “I didn’t know how to handle it. I’ve never been told no like that. You left me feeling… off. And instead of dealing with that like an adult, I said something stupid to my friends.”
He stepped closer. You didn’t pull away this time.
“But when I got closer to you— when I realized I actually wanted to get closer to you… not to win, not to prove anything, but because I wanted you—” His composure held, but his voice cracked just slightly. “That’s when it stopped being a challenge.”
You finally turned your head just enough for him to see your profile. “How does that fix anything?” you asked quietly.
Your eyes were glossy now, tears threatening to spill, but you refused to let them fall again. You stood straighter, trying to hold yourself together. He saw through it immediately. And it broke him.
“I can’t fix how it started,” he said, voice low, steady but strained. “I can’t erase what I said. I can’t pretend I didn’t humiliate you.”
For a second, he just looked at you.
Then, before he could overthink it, he let go of your wrist — only to drop down in front of you.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just… down. Both knees hit the floor. You blinked in shock.
“Suguru—”
He took your hands in his before you could pull away, holding them gently, like he was afraid they’d disappear.
“I can’t change the past,” he said, looking up at you now. No smirk. No ego. No control. “But I can change what I do next.”
Your breathing faltered.
“I don’t want to win you,” he continued. “I want to deserve you.”
His thumbs brushed lightly over your knuckles.
“It started stupid. It started with my pride. But after everything. it stopped being about proving anything.” His jaw tightened slightly. “You weren’t a game to me. You weren’t something to conquer. You were the first person who made me want to stay.”
That word hung heavy between you.
Stay.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he added, quieter now. “And I don’t expect you to believe me just because I’m here.” His grip softened.
“But I’m not getting up until you understand that you were never just a challenge.”
Your fingers threaded through his hair, the movement so natural it felt like second nature. When your lips met his, he inhaled sharply, the sound almost a gasp. Your touch was soft, the kiss gentle but filled with longing.
His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into the kiss, his hand coming up to cradle your face. He held you like you were something precious, something fragile.
As you broke away, he looked up at you, his expression vulnerable.
“Stand up," you ordered, voice sharp like shattered glass, cutting through the heavy silence of the kitchen. He rose slowly, eyes locked on yours,
You pushed up on your tiptoes, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was more punishment than passion—fierce, biting, a reminder of the hurt you carried. Pulling back just enough, your breath ghosted over his mouth. "I'm still mad at you."
Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly, not in affection but in the raw need to anchor yourself to something, anything, amid the ache in your chest. "That's okay," he murmured, voice breaking just a fraction as he leaned in, capturing your lips again.
His hands found your hips, shoving you back against the counter, the cold marble slamming into your spine like a slap. It stole your breath, the chill seeping through your shirt. He broke away for a heartbeat, eyes dark and pleading. "Take it out on me."
Your hands fisted the collar of his jacket, yanking him with you as you backed toward the bedroom, the hallway blurring in your periphery. He followed without resistance, letting you lead, letting you use him like a weapon against your own pain–something he caused.
In the dim light of the bedroom, you shoved him down onto the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. You climbed onto his lap seconds later, straddling him, your skirt riding up your thighs. His hands hovered at your sides, hesitant, waiting for your cue. "Tell me what you need," he said, voice thick with desire, eyes burning into yours like he was memorizing every fractured line of your face.
"Touch me," you replied, the words vague, laced with the numbness you wielded like armor. But he knew. God, he always knew.
In a swift move, he flipped your positions, pinning you beneath him on the bed. The shift stole the air from your lungs, his body heavy and warm over yours, a stark contrast to the ache inside. His hands slid down, hooking into the waistband of your skirt and panties, dragging them off in one rough pull. Leaving you bare and exposed for him.
His fingers parted your thighs, tracing the slick between them before diving in. One digit slipped inside you first, slow and deliberate, testing your readiness despite the tension coiling in the room.
You were wet—traitorously so—your body responding even as your heart screamed no. He added a second finger, curling them deep, pressing against that spot that made your hips buck involuntarily. His thumb found your clit, rubbing in firm, insistent circles, building the pressure with each thrust of his hand.
The wet sounds of his fingers working you filled the space, obscene against the quiet sobs building in your throat.
He watched you, unblinking, as your breaths turned ragged, your walls clenching around him. "Let go," he whispered, voice raw, like he was begging for absolution.
The coil snapped, pleasure ripping through you in a violent wave—your orgasm crashing hard, leaving you trembling and spent. Tears welled up, spilling hot down your cheeks, not from bliss but from the pain he gave you, the reminder of what he had done to you. You cried softly, the sound muffled against his shoulder as he held you through it, his touch gentling but never pulling away.
He kissed the tears from your skin, murmuring your name like a prayer, but you turned your face away, the intimacy too much, too raw. When the haze cleared enough, you shifted, rolling onto your stomach, presenting your back to him—a wall he couldn't breach. He paused, hands stilling on your hips. "Why are you turning around?" His voice cracked a little, laced with confusion, the question hanging heavy in the air.
"Don't wanna see you right now," you said, the words heartless, slicing through him like a blade. You heard his sharp intake of breath, felt the way his grip faltered for a second, his heart shattering audibly in the silence. But he didn't stop. He couldn't. Positioning himself behind you, he freed his cock—hard, aching, a testament to how deeply he still craved you, even in ruin.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling you with a stretch that bordered on pain, your body yielding despite the emotional chasm. He moaned your name, voice breaking on each syllable as he began to move, thrusts deep and measured, grinding against you from behind. "I missed you so much. Fuck, I missed you–." His words were a litany, desperate pleas wrapped in groans, his hips snapping harder as if he could fuck the distance away.
You bit the pillow, stifling the moans that threatened to betray you, the pleasure building traitorously even as tears soaked the fabric. He reached around, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in time with his pace, drawing you under despite yourself. Your body clenched around him, the orgasm pulling you apart—waves of heat pulsing through you, leaving you gasping, spent once more. He followed seconds later, spilling inside you with a broken groan of your name, his release hot and claiming, body shuddering as he collapsed over you.
He always came with you, your body the one thing that could still unravel him completely. But the warmth faded fast. He barely caught his breath, chest heaving against your back, before you were shoving him off, scrambling out of the bed. The sheets tangled around your ankles as you snatched your discarded clothes, pulling them on with frantic hands.
"I have to go," you said coldly, the fleeting spark of vulnerability from moments ago snuffed out like a dying ember. You didn't look at him, couldn't bear the devastation in his eyes. "Please leave as soon as you can."
The words landed like a final blow, the door clicking shut behind you as you fled to the bathroom, leaving him alone in the wreckage of the bed, heart in pieces on the floor.
To your surprise, when you stepped out of the bathroom, Suguru was gone. For a second, you just stood there, staring at the empty space where he had been. You had expected him to still be there. Leaning against the wall. Waiting. Stubborn.
A part of you had wanted him to stay. You just didn't want him to see you fall apart again. During Sex? a little embarrassing but could just be from the pleasure. But afterwards?
You needed a distraction. And he was right there. But now the silence felt heavier.
The tears came again, hot and uncontrollable. You didn’t bother wiping them away this time. You let them fall as you changed back into your clothes, hands trembling slightly as you pulled your sweater over your head.
You didn’t crawl into bed.
Instead, you slid down beside it, sitting on the cold floor with your back against the frame. Your knees pulled tightly to your chest, arms wrapped around them like you were trying to hold yourself together.
You missed him. That was the worst part. Not the humiliation. Not the anger. The missing. Because after he made a joke out of you and your self-respect, you still missed him.
His words replayed in your head.
It started that way, but it didn’t stay that way.
You didn’t know if you were strong enough to believe.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru was a wreck.
He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. The dark circles under his eyes were deeper than they had been when he’d stood outside your door. His room was quiet, but his mind wasn’t.
It felt like he was already halfway to completely losing you.
You had gone cold. You stopped replying the way you used to. No calls. No lingering touches. No softness in your voice. And the worst part was that just a few days ago, he’d thought things were finally going well.
You had let him into your space. You had kissed him. You had sex with him. And then you’d looked at him with those same eyes and said you didn’t want to see him when he fucked you. When you told him to leave, he felt something in his chest physically crack.
A knock sounded at his door. He didn’t move. “Come in,” he called out, his voice rougher than usual. Satoru pushed the door open without hesitation. “You missed the meeting today.”
Right. The fraternity council meeting. It had completely slipped his mind. Then again, everything had slipped his mind lately. The only thing replaying on a loop was the way you had looked at him when you said he needed to leave.
“Sorry. Forgot,” he muttered, still staring at the floor.
Satoru raised a brow and walked further into the room before dropping down beside him on the bed.
“What’s up with you?” he asked, nudging Suguru lightly with his elbow, trying to keep it casual.
Suguru turned his head slightly.
The dullness in his eyes, the exhaustion etched into his face, the way his hair hung loose around his shoulders — it was enough to wipe the grin off Satoru’s face. Suguru looked forward again, jaw tightening.
“She found out.” That was all he said. Satoru didn’t need more context.
“I’ve been trying to fix it for two weeks,” Suguru continued, his voice quieter. “I thought I was getting somewhere.” He stopped there, but the strain was obvious. Satoru leaned back slightly. “What happened?”
“She let me in,” Suguru said. “She let me into her apartment. She kissed me. We had sex. And then she told me she couldn’t look at me when i was fucking her. Said she didn’t want to see me.”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “And then she made me leave.”
Satoru tilted his head. “Isn’t that usually your thing?”
Suguru let out a hollow laugh. “Yeah. It was.”
The old him would have shrugged it off. No strings, no expectations. A girl walking away first would’ve been convenient. But this wasn’t convenient. “I don’t want that with her,” he said quietly. “I don’t want it to be casual. She’s not like the others.”
Satoru studied him for a moment before placing a hand on his back. “Then tell her that.”
“I did.”
“Then tell her again,” Satoru replied simply. “And again. Until she believes you. You don’t get to mess something up like that and expect one confession to fix it.”
Suguru frowned.
“You hurt her pride,” Satoru continued. “You made her feel like a joke. That doesn’t disappear because you look miserable.”
Suguru’s jaw clenched.
“So what do I do?”
“Show up. Not to win her. Not to convince her. Just show up because you want to be with her. "Be consistent." Satoru said while he gave Suguru a pat on his shoulder.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
A month had passed. Almost every single day, he showed up at your doorstep and would walk you to school or the library.
At first, it was awkward. You would put your headphones in and walk a step ahead of him, pretending he wasn’t there. But he didn’t complain. He was just grateful you hadn’t told him to leave.
After a while, the headphones disappeared.
You still weren’t chatty like you used to be. Conversations were short, polite. “Hi.” “How are you?” “Good.” But even that felt like progress. Hearing your voice again felt like something he didn’t deserve but desperately needed.
He felt like he was starting over. Now he carried the weight of every silence, wishing he could go back to one stupid drunken comment and erase it from existence.
Two weeks in, you spoke to him first.
Just a question about class. It was small, almost insignificant, but it felt like a door cracking open. After that, conversations came in fragments — short, cautious exchanges. He didn’t push. He took whatever you gave him.
His feelings didn’t fade with time. They worsened.
Every day you looked impossibly prettier to him. He found himself craving small things — the sound of your voice, the way your perfume lingered when you walked past him, even your soft smile that wasn't even directed at him but a stray cat lounging on the pavement.
After three weeks, it almost felt like before. You walked beside him instead of ahead. You talked about something dumb a professor said. You even laughed once. You were still guarded. He could feel it.
But he was a greedy man.
After four weeks, you let him wrap an arm around you once. Just once. He had to focus on breathing because his heart felt like it was trying to climb out of his throat.
And now, a full month had passed. He stood outside your apartment like he had every day before.
“Hey,” he said softly when you opened the door. You weren’t dressed for class. You were wearing a simple white dress and a jacket. Casual, but clearly not for studying. You looked beautiful.
“Suguru… it would be better if you didn’t walk me today,” you said, leaning against the doorframe.
Something uneasy stirred in his chest. His brows furrowed. “Why?”
You hesitated just a second. “I have a date.” The word hit him harder than he expected.
Date.
His mind went blank for half a second, like someone had cut the power. “What do you mean?” His voice came out softer than he intended.
“I’m going on a date,” you repeated.
He felt it then — panic. Not loud. Not explosive. Quiet and suffocating. Like something tightening around his lungs.
“Why?” he asked again, the question more raw this time.
“I thought it would be good for me to get back out there,” you replied.
Get back out there.
Like he was already something behind you. He stood there for a moment, unable to process it. He had known he wasn’t entitled to you. He had known you didn’t owe him anything. But hearing it felt like the ground shifting under his feet.
“Please don’t,” he said quietly. The air between you grew heavy. He wasn’t jealous in the old way. This wasn’t ego. It wasn’t competition. It was fear. Fear that he had taken too long. Fear that the progress he thought he’d made wasn’t enough. “Please don’t go,” he repeated, his voice unsteady now. You looked at him, unreadable.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me whether I can,” you said, crossing your arms. You were right. That made it worse. “I’m going to be late,” you added, pushing off the doorframe.
He moved without thinking, his hand landing on your shoulder. He stepped closer, gently pressing you back against the frame. Not rough. Not forceful. Just desperate.
His hand slid from your shoulder down to your hand, his fingers wrapping around yours.
“Please,” he said again. His eyes were glossy now, and he didn’t even try to hide it. “It took me too long to say this properly,” he continued, his voice cracking just slightly. “But I’m in love with you.”
The words hung between you, heavier than anything he’d said before. “I still want you,” he went on. “I still need you. This past month has been torture. Watching you walk ahead of me. Not knowing if you’d ever look at me the same again.”
He swallowed hard. “I don’t care about pride. I don’t care about being right. I just— I can’t watch you walk away like this.”
“I’m so sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t trust me,” he said, the words rushing out before he could stop them. His grip on your hand tightened slightly, not to hold you there, but like he needed something steady. “I would do anything to prove to you that you’re going to be it for me.”
“Suguru,” you said softly.
Your voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was tired.
A tear slipped free despite yourself, trailing down your cheek. His thumb came up instinctively, brushing gently beneath your eye to catch it before it fell further.
“Stop,” you whispered. But he shook his head slightly. “You’re the first girl I’ve ever wanted to prove myself to,” he said, his own eyes glassy now, his composure barely holding. “And I plan on you being the last.”
Your breath hitched, and that small sound almost broke him.
“I don’t want to win you,” he continued, his voice quieter now, steadier in its vulnerability. “I don’t want to chase you because my ego’s bruised. I want to choose you. Every day. Even if you don’t choose me back right now.”
“I want to be better for you,” he said. “I really do. Even if it takes the rest of my life to prove it.”
There was no cockiness left in him. No pride. Just something raw and honest sitting in his chest, waiting for your answer.
Your hand found his wrist and gently pushed it away from your face.
“I want to believe you,” you said, your voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady. “But I don’t trust you.”
This time, you wiped your own tears away. He didn’t try to stop you.
“I felt used and stupid” you admitted, the word sticking in your throat. “Because of you.”
His expression shifted immediately, something wounded flashing across his face. “I never used you,” he said quickly. “And you’re not stupid.”
“But that’s how I felt.”
That landed. Hard.
It knocked the air from his lungs because he knew it was true. It didn’t matter what he meant. It mattered what you felt.
And he had done that.
He had let you fall for him while knowing how it started. He had kept that piece of truth tucked away because it was easier.
“Please,” he said quietly now. “Give me the chance to replace that feeling.”
He looked wrecked. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just… worn down. Like someone who hadn’t been sleeping properly. Like a man who knew he had messed up something precious and was terrified of losing it. His shoulders weren’t squared the way they usually were. His confidence wasn’t sitting on him the same.
“I’m scared, Suguru,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “I don’t ever want to feel like that again.”
His jaw tightened. “Then I won’t give you a reason to,” he said, almost immediately.
His hand rose slowly, carefully, giving you enough time to pull away if you wanted to. When you didn’t, his fingers slipped gently beneath your chin, tilting your face up just slightly. So gentle.
“Please,” he murmured. “Let me prove it.” There was no arrogance in him now. No ego. Just hope. And for the first time in weeks, you smiled at him. Small. Fragile. But real. The tight, suffocating feeling in his chest loosened instantly, like something had finally unclenched.
“I really don’t know what to do with you,” you said with a shaky chuckle, another tear slipping free. The sound of your laugh — even broken like that — made warmth spread through him. That faint sparkle in your eyes, the one he’d been missing for a month, flickered back to life.
And he realized he would spend the rest of his life protecting that sparkle if you let him. “Don’t make me regret this,” you whispered as you wrapped your arms around him.
For a second he just stood there, stunned. Then his arms came around you — firm, almost desperate — pulling you into his chest like he had been holding that hug in for weeks. His warmth surrounded you again, familiar and grounding, and something inside you finally unclenched.
He exhaled into your hair. When he pulled back, it was only enough to look at you. Your eyes met his. You rose onto your toes slowly, giving him more than enough time to move away if he wanted to. Instead, he stayed completely still.
You pressed the smallest kiss to his lips. Barely there. Soft. Careful.
It had been a month, but it felt like relearning something delicate. Testing if you still fit each other.
His breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
One of his hands came up to cradle your cheek, not guiding you, not pulling you closer — just resting there. Letting you know he wasn’t taking control this time.
You were. You kissed him again. Still soft. Still unsure. Like the two of you were introducing yourselves all over again.
When you tugged him gently inside and shut the door behind you, he followed without resistance. No urgency. No hunger.
Just closeness.
Your lips met his once more — slow, polite, almost shy. There was no claiming in it. No desperation.
Just warmth.
He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your skin. For a moment neither of you moved. It felt fragile — like one wrong step could undo the careful rebuilding of the past month.
You kissed him again. Soft. Intentional.
He followed your lead immediately, matching your pace, letting you set the rhythm. There was no urgency in him, no greedy pull of his hands. Just patience. Every time you shifted closer, he responded. Every time you slowed, he did too.
He wanted you to feel it — that you were in control.
His hands rested at your waist, steady but light, as if he was afraid of holding you too tightly. When your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, he let out a quiet breath against your lips.
Not rushed. Not claiming. Just there.
You tilted your head slightly, deepening the kiss by a fraction, and he followed without hesitation, his thumb brushing gently along your side in a slow, grounding motion. He wasn’t leading. He was responding. Learning you again.
When you pulled back just slightly, he didn’t chase your lips. He stayed close, his nose brushing yours, waiting.
He let himself be guided by your movements, his mouth moving softly against yours. His hands remained at your waist, his touch light but firm, anchoring you to him.
He was almost hesitant with the way he kissed you, like he was re-learning the shape of your lips, the touch of your tongue. Every movement was deliberate, every breath synchronized.
He was letting you set the pace, following your every whim, like your body had become his compass. And as your hands tangled in his long hair, drawing him closer, he went willingly.
Every sense was heightened — the taste of him, the way he smelled, the way he felt under your fingertips. It was intoxicating, the way he responded to your touch.
You pulled away from his lips, but only to wrap your arms around him again. Your hands slid around his neck, your cheek resting against his shoulder as if you needed to make sure he was real.
“I missed you,” he whispered, his voice low and almost disbelieving.
One hand stroked gently over your hair, slow and soothing, while the other traced absent patterns along your waist.
“Me too,” you replied softly. It was barely audible, but he heard it. He always did.
His arms tightened slightly around you, like he was afraid the words might disappear if he didn’t hold you close enough. Without rushing, he slipped one hand beneath your thigh and lifted you carefully. You instinctively wrapped your legs around him as he carried you toward your bedroom, steady and protective.
He set you down gently on the edge of the bed. Instead of climbing next to you, instead of escalating, he walked to your closet.
He pulled one of his hoodies from where it hung among your clothes and handed it to you.
“Change,” he said quietly. In his other hand were the sweatpants and shirt he’d left at your place weeks ago.
“I’ll change in the bathroom,” he added before stepping out.
When he returned, he was wearing gray sweatpants and the black shirt you loved on him— the one that made you stare a little too long whenever he wore it. The hoodie swallowed you the way it always did, sleeves falling past your hands, fabric bunching around your thighs.
You sat on the edge of the bed waiting for him.
You did actually have a date tonight.
But you hadn’t been excited about it. Not really. Shoko had pushed you to try. To move on. To protect yourself. But your thoughts stayed on Suguru.
And here you were, listening to Suguru like it was second nature. He placed his folded clothes neatly on your desk before turning back to you. Then, instead of climbing into bed, he knelt in front of you. Right at your feet.
His head rested gently against your knee.
“Wanna be with you today,” he said quietly. “Forget that date please. I just want it to be me and you.”
Your fingers slipped into his hair, guiding his face up slightly. Your thumb brushed over his cheek.
“Please don’t go,” he added, looking up at you — eyes soft, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see.
“I won’t,” you said. You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips — slow, certain.
Then you tugged at his hands, pulling him up with you. He let himself fall back onto you– his arms keeping from crushing you, both of you landing in a quiet tangle of limbs and fabric.
He pulled the blankets over you instinctively, wrapping them around the two of you like a shield from the outside world. For the first time in weeks, there was no tension. No fear. Just warmth. He held you close, your head tucked beneath his chin, your legs tangled together.
His heart felt full — steady, content. And this time, he wasn’t going anywhere.
The rest of the day blurred into something warm and quiet. You stayed in bed far longer than either of you meant to. At some point your phone buzzed again — the date calling, then texting, asking where you were.
Suguru reached over without hesitation, glanced at the screen, and blocked the number before you could even respond.
You blinked at him. “What?” he muttered defensively. “He doesn’t need an explanation.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.
Eventually you crawled out of bed, but Suguru followed immediately — wrapping himself around you and following behind you like an oversized puppy. you complained half-heartedly as you tried to move toward the kitchen.
“And yet you’re not pushing me away,” he replied, his chin resting on your shoulder.
You ended up making dinner while he hovered behind you, arms loosely around your waist, occasionally pressing a kiss to your shoulder or cheek. It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t heated.
It felt like he was afraid that if he let go for too long, the moment might disappear.
You ate at the small table in your kitchen, talking about mundane things — a professor’s weird habit, something stupid Satoru had said, a cat you saw earlier that week.
Halfway through a show on the couch, you noticed Suguru wasn’t even watching.
He was watching you.
When you caught him staring, he didn’t look away.
You fell asleep curled into him, his arm firm around your waist, your legs tangled together. The television kept playing long after neither of you were awake.
Morning light filtered through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the room. The TV screen displayed a quiet, glowing message:
Are you still watching?
Suguru was breathing steadily behind you, his chest rising and falling against your back.
You tried to gently shift out of his hold, wanting to brush your teeth and freshen up before he woke. His grip tightened instinctively. “Don’t go,” he murmured, still half asleep, his face nuzzling into your shoulder.
“I’m just going to the bathroom,” you whispered. He groaned softly but loosened his arms.
A few minutes later, as you stood at the sink, toothbrush in hand, you caught movement in the mirror.
Suguru was leaning in the doorway, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep.
He walked over without saying anything and reached for his toothbrush — still sitting in the cup beside yours.
He paused briefly, almost surprised it was still there. You hadn’t thrown it away. He didn’t comment on it. He just started brushing his teeth next to you.
The bathroom was quiet except for the soft sound of running water and the hum of the light above you. It felt strangely intimate — domestic in a way that didn’t require effort.
When you finished and set your toothbrush down, he immediately stepped closer again.
His front pressed gently against your back, arms slipping around your waist.
He rested his chin on your shoulder, eyes half closed.
You could feel it now, his hard-on pressing against your ass. He left a small kiss on your shoulder, before turning your chin gently to meet his gaze in the mirror. His eyes held yours, full of quiet intensity. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispered, voice low and earnest, giving you the space to breathe, to choose.
But you didn't want to stop. You leaned into him, your head tilted to his and he captured your lips in a deep kiss.
His hands slid up your sides, turning you around when he broke away for a second. He lifted you effortlessly onto the bathroom sink counter, the cool porcelain a sharp contrast to the heat of his body. Your legs parted instinctively, the kiss growing hungrier, tongues sliding together in slow, languid strokes.
His palms roamed your body without a word, one hand cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it peaked under his touch. The other hand traced the curve of your hip, dipping lower to squeeze your thigh, pulling you flush against him. You arched into his caresses, fingers threading through his long hair, tugging lightly as his mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, nipping softly. He kneaded your ass, grinding his erection against you through the fabric, the friction building a delicious ache. Your breaths mingled, heavy and uneven, bodies pressing and shifting in a wordless dance of rediscovery, his touches tender yet possessive, mapping every inch like he was afraid you'd vanish.
Finally, he broke the kiss just enough to scoop you up again, carrying you from the bathroom to the bed with ease. He laid you down gently on the soft sheets, his eyes never leaving yours as he hovered above.
Starting at your collarbone, he pressed a feather-light kiss there. He moved to your nipple, taking it into his mouth with a gentle suck, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud until you gasped, his mouth ghosted wet kisses across your stomach, each one a promise, leaving a trail of heat.
His hand was already between your thighs, fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He rubbed slow circles at first, coaxing slickness from you, before dipping lower to tease your entrance.
Then his head followed, settling between your legs. He licked a broad stripe up your folds, groaning against you as if savoring the taste. "You're so gorgeous," he murmured, voice muffled but fervent, before diving in fully—tongue lapping at your clit with frantic urgency, sucking gently as his fingers slid inside, curling to stroke that perfect spot.
"Missed you so much," he breathed between licks, the vibrations humming through you. His free hand gripped your hip, holding you steady as you writhed. "Never letting go of you again."
He sucked harder onto your clit, tongue swirling, drawing whimpers from your throat. "So sweet," he praised, fingers thrusting deeper, faster. "Let me spoil you—let me make it all better." The words spilled out in a rush. His mouth working you relentlessly until the pleasure washed over you, your body tensing and releasing in shuddering waves.
“Sugu” A soft cry on your lips.
He crawled back up, lips glistening, and kissed you deeply. You didn't care about the taste of yourself on his tongue—it was intimate, raw, a shared secret that made your heart swell.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as he positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open with a delicious burn that turned to fullness. You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed it, kissing you through the initial thrust, his hips rolling in a steady rhythm.
It was all soft moans and heavy breathing now, the room filled with the quiet sounds of skin meeting skin. He braced on his forearms, gazing down at you with eyes full of adoration, thrusts deep and unhurried, grinding against your clit with each pass. "My sweet girl," he whispered against your lips,
voice breaking with emotion. "I love you." He kissed your forehead, your cheeks blushing with each declaration. "I'm so in love with you." His pace quickened, but it stayed tender, loving.
"I'm all yours—always." He said through panting. You clung to him, nails digging into his back. Lost in the connection, the way he filled you completely, body and soul.
A few tears slipped from your eyes, A mix of overwhelming joy and the relief of being wanted so fiercely.
He noticed immediately, pausing to kiss them away, his lips soft on your damp cheeks. "I've got you." he murmured, nuzzling your nose with his
He shifted then, pulling back from your face to grab your leg, lifting it gently. He pressed a kiss to your calf, eyes locked on yours, before draping it over his shoulder. The new angle let him sink deeper, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, drawing gasps from you both.
The pleasure coiling tighter with each shared breath, each whispered endearment. Your walls fluttered around him, and he felt it, hips stuttering as he chased the edge with you. "Come with me," he breathed, voice husky, and you did—climax crashing over you in sweet, rolling waves, your body arching into his.
He followed right after, spilling deep inside with a muffled groan against your neck, holding you close as tremors shook you both.
His arms wrapping around you, peppering your face with lazy kisses as you came down, murmuring how much he loved you.
He stayed buried inside you for a moment longer, his chest heaving against yours in rhythm with your slowing breaths. His weight was a comforting anchor.
He lifted his head just enough to gaze into your eyes, a soft smile curving his lips. “So proud of you,” he whispered. He brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead with his thumb, then leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your temple.
Slowly, he eased out of you. “You did so well for me,” he murmured, his lips finding the shell of your ear. “My perfect girl.”
You melted into his touch, the praise wrapping around you warmer than the sheets tangled at your feet. He left you for a short while to come out of the bathroom with a warm damp towel.
With deliberate care, he began wiping you down, starting at your neck where sweat glistened on your skin. The cloth glided over your collarbone, tracing the swell of your breasts, circling each nipple until they pebbled again under the gentle friction. He paused to kiss the spot he'd just cleaned.
The cloth pressing tenderly between your thighs. Mindful of your sensitivity, his free arm holding you steady. “Look at you,” he said softly, eyes dark with lingering heat but softened by love.
“Still so beautiful, even after I wrecked you.” He kissed your shoulder, then your arm, working his way down to your wrist.
He tossed the cloth aside and gathered you closer, pulling the rumpled sheets over both of you. His body molded to yours from behind now, spooning you perfectly, one arm draped over your waist while the other pillowed your head. He nuzzled into your hair, inhaling deeply.
Your eyelids grew heavy under the weight of his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest lulling you. His hand splayed possessively over your stomach, fingers tracing lazy circles as sleep crept in. You drifted off, limbs entwined, hearts beating in sync—the world reduced to this moment.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru was waiting outside your lecture hall again. He still insisted on walking you everywhere. To class. To the café. Back home. Today, though, he didn’t turn toward your apartment. He turned toward the frat. You glanced at him but didn’t question it. He held your hand the whole way up the stairs, a little quieter than usual.
When you reached his room, he opened the door and then turned to you with a strange expression — somewhere between excited and terrified. “Stay here,” he said. “And close your eyes.”
You raised a brow. “Suguru—”
“Please.”
You sighed dramatically but shut your eyes anyway. You heard him moving around. Something fell over. A soft curse. Then the sound of plastic rustling. “Okay,” he said, a little breathless. “Open.”
You opened your eyes.
He was standing there holding a huge Chococat plushie and a bouquet of your favorite flowers. The plushie had a small tag tied around its neck.
You took a step closer, reading it.
Will you be my girlfriend?
Your lips parted in surprise before you let out a soft giggle.
“Sugu…”
You took the plushie from him first, then the bouquet. He looked almost painfully nervous — hands hovering like he didn’t know what to do with them.
It had only been a couple of months since you’d started seeing him again. Officially unofficial. Rebuilding. Healing.
And even though your anxiety had lingered in the beginning, even though some nights you still remembered the hurt — the way he treated you now didn’t feel like strategy. It felt like certainty. He looked at you like you were the only person in the room. Like you were the only person.
“Well?” he asked, trying to play it cool and failing miserably. You stepped forward, your hand sliding up to rest against the side of his neck. Instead of answering, you kissed him. Slow at first. Then a little deeper. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide.
“Is that a yes?” he asked, a nervous laugh slipping out. You nodded eagerly. Relief washed over his face so fast it was almost funny. He let out a breath he’d clearly been holding for the last thirty seconds — maybe the last month.
“You bought Chococat because I said you reminded me of him?” you teased, hugging the plush to your chest.
He nodded immediately.
“You said I had the same energy,” he defended. “You do,” you giggled.
He didn’t waste another second. He wrapped his arms around you, lifted you clean off the floor, and spun you around like he couldn’t contain himself.
“You’re officially my girlfriend,” he said, grinning like an idiot.
You laughed, clinging to him.
He set you down only to cup your face and press a firm, happy kiss to your lips.
“Won’t be long until you’re my wife,” he added, half-joking, half-not. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile.
summary. Gojo Satoru—strongest, cockiest, and, according to him, the hottest man alive—bows to no one. Until you came along and suddenly, he’s on his knees.
word count. 10.6k (i..dont know)
content. mdni fem! reader, zombie apocalypse au, violence, blood, pet names, satoru is a certified tease, cute banter because we love that here, they're so down bad for each other, smut, oral (fem rec.), p in v, loss of virginity (reader), praise, breeding, creampie, overstim, soft satoru <3
author's note. i miss my man
The sky had been burning when the world ended.
You were fifteen—just a kid with scraped knees and a heart too big for the horrors it was about to witness.
Sirens wailed through the streets, helicopters thundered above, and the sharp stench of smoke and decay clung to the air like death itself. One moment, your parents were urging you to run, voices trembling with fear. The next, everything shattered. A scream. Blood. The gurgled breath of something that wasn’t quite human anymore.
You had survived. Somehow. Alone.
But the cost of survival was everything.
-
The woods are silent, save for the crunch of your boots over frostbitten leaves. The moon hangs high above, pale and cold, casting everything in an unforgiving glow. You keep your knife gripped tight in one hand, the other cradling your growling stomach. It’s been three days since you last found anything remotely edible.
Every snap of a branch, every whisper of wind feels like a threat. Years alone have trained you to expect the worst.
Then you pause.
Smoke. Just a wisp of it in the air. You sniff again, slower this time. It's faint, but definitely there.
You move like a shadow, quiet and cautious, weaving through trees toward the scent. And then you see it:
A flickering campfire nestled in a hollow clearing, throwing gold and orange light onto the figures beside it. Two men. Asleep—at least, you hope they are. One is lying flat on the ground, the other propped against a log, limbs long and sprawled, a blindfold covering his eyes.
There’s food by the fire. Real food. Bread. Cans. Water.
You inch closer, heart hammering. It’s been years since you’ve seen other people. You don’t know if that makes this moment safer… or far more dangerous.
You creep into the circle of warmth, fingers itching toward the supplies. Just one thing. That’s all you need.
You barely breathe as you crouch beside the campfire, the heat brushing against your frozen skin like a long-forgotten comfort. Your fingers tremble as you reach for a loaf of bread—real bread—but just as your hand closes around it, your boot nudges something metallic.
CLANG.
The tin can hits the ground, and for a moment, silence swallows everything.
Then—movement.
You whip your head toward the two figures by the fire. One shoots upright in an instant, long-limbed and alarmingly fast. The other groans awake, slower, disoriented. You don’t even have time to run.
"Don't move," the taller one says—voice low, commanding. You meet his gaze and—holy hell.
Snow-white hair, cerulean eyes. He stands like someone who’s fought the world and won. His blindfold hangs around his neck, exposing everything. It's him—the one with the voice that makes your skin prickle and a face that doesn’t belong in this nightmare world.
"Well, well," he drawls, taking a step forward. "And here I thought we were the only pretty faces left."
You swallow, frozen. His companion grabs a weapon, steps forward too, more cautious.
"Who are you?" the second man demands.
The white-haired man’s eyes never leave yours. He smirks.
"She’s hungry. Look at her. Poor thing."
You clench your fists. You’ve survived too long to be pitied.
"Touch me and I swear to god—"
The man raises his hands, mockingly innocent.
"Easy, sweetheart. No one’s touching you… unless you want us to."
You scrunch up your face, disgusted and his grin widens just a little.
You lift your knife. “I don’t want trouble. I just need food.”
“I’d say knocking over our supplies in the middle of the night is kinda trouble,” the dark-haired one says. His hair is tied back, strands falling loose around his face, his grip on his weapon steady. “Who are you?”
You swallow thickly. It’s been so long since anyone’s asked you that. Your voice is hoarse. “Just someone trying to survive.”
The white-haired one takes a lazy step forward, hands raised in mock surrender.
“Chill, Suguru. She’s not here to kill us,” he says, and then turns back to you. “You got a name, mystery girl?”
You eye him warily. “…Why do you care?”
He grins. “Because mine’s Gojo Satoru. And this grumpy one is Suguru.”
Suguru rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell her our names, dumbass.”
But Gojo—Satoru, apparently—just shrugs, looking far too amused for someone who just woke up to a stranger trying to rob him.
Your fingers tighten on your knife. But something about him… those eyes… that voice…
“You really gonna stab the guy who might be your best chance at staying alive?” he asks, cocking his head. “Come sit. Eat. Or run. Up to you.”
Your stomach growls loudly.
Satoru grins wider. “That’s what I thought.”
You slowly lower your knife, but don’t put it away—not yet. Your eyes stay locked on them as you inch closer to the fire. The warmth should be a comfort, but your muscles are still taut, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.
Satoru sprawls back onto a log like he’s done this a hundred times. He’s still smiling—lazy, smug, like he’s enjoying this little show. Suguru doesn’t relax. He stays seated, but his eyes follow your every move, knife still held tight in his hand.
You kneel beside the fire, close enough to reach the food, far enough to lunge away if you need to. There’s a dented pot with some kind of stew, still warm, and a few pieces of bread wrapped in cloth.
“Help yourself,” Satoru says, waving a hand like he’s offering a royal feast. “We even warmed it up for you.”
You shoot him a glare but reach out cautiously, taking just a little. You sniff the stew first. Watch them.
“Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned,” Suguru says dryly.
“That’s what someone who poisoned it would say,” you mutter, tearing off a bite of bread.
Satoru snorts. “She’s got a mouth on her. I like her.”
You ignore that. Instead, you eat slowly, eyes flicking between them. They don’t move. Suguru keeps watch. Satoru lounges like this is the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.
“How long have you two been out here?” you ask finally.
“Long enough,” Suguru says, tone clipped.
"Too long," Satoru says, tossing a pebble into the fire like this is just another lazy night for him. "We move around, but we've got a base. Old prison, about twenty miles from here. You?"
You don’t answer right away.
“Alone,” you say after a beat. “I’ve been alone.”
The fire crackles between you.
Suguru’s gaze softens—just for a second. But Satoru’s smile stays.
“Well,” he says, stretching out his long legs, “you’re not alone anymore.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’m not staying.”
“Didn’t say you had to.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But something tells me you might not leave either.”
He’s not threatening. He’s just… certain.
You’re crouched by the fire, still tense, still not entirely trusting, when Satoru leans back on his hands, head tilted.
“You should come with us,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You’ll be safer.”
Your eyes flick to Suguru—he doesn’t hide the way his jaw clenches.
“She could be a liability,” Suguru mutters. “You don’t know her.”
“No,” Satoru agrees, grinning at you. “But I like her.”
Suguru sighs, deep and disapproving, but you see it—that soft flicker in his eyes that means he’s already given in.
Satoru turns back to you. “We’re heading out at first light. If you’re in, pack whatever you’ve got.”
You nod, hesitant. But, maybe… maybe this is the start of something.
-
A gentle nudge to your shoulder. Then a voice, light and annoyingly cheerful.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. Big day today.”
You blink awake to Satoru crouching beside you, white hair a wild halo against the rising sun. He grins.
“You snore, by the way.”
“I do not.”
“You do. It was cute.”
You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Remind me why I agreed to come with you again?”
“Because I’m charming,” he beams. “Now come on. We've got a long way to go—and Suguru’s already in a mood.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe he wouldn’t be if you stopped talking.”
“Ohhh, savage!” he clutches his chest, stumbling back like you just stabbed him. “You wound me, stranger.”
You roll your eyes and sling your bag over your shoulder. “Not a stranger anymore, remember? You practically adopted me last night.”
Satoru grins, falling into step beside you. “True. You’re my problem now.”
“Joy,” you mutter, but your lips twitch despite yourself.
Suguru’s already waiting up ahead, arms crossed, brow arched like he’s already tired of this nonsense. “You two done flirting or should I keep walking?”
You open your mouth to protest, but Satoru gets there first.
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Suguru.”
“I will leave you in the woods,” Suguru replies flatly.
“You’d miss me in an hour.”
“You wish.”
You stifle a laugh and glance between the two. “Are you always like this?”
Satoru flashes you a grin. “Buckle up, sweetheart. You haven’t seen anything yet.”
-
The trek through the forest had been relatively quiet—birds rustled above, trees whispering overhead, and Satoru talking your ear off. But midway through the journey, something shifts.
Suguru’s head tilts first, eyes narrowing at the faint crunch in the distance. Not a squirrel. Not a rabbit.
You hear it next.
Low. Guttural.
A hiss.
Then another.
They come from the trees. Slow at first—one stumbles into view, then two, then more. Rotting limbs. Glazed-over eyes. That sickening gurgle of hunger.
“Aw, shit,” Satoru grins like it’s a party. “Looks like we’ve got company.”
Suguru already has his blade drawn, calm as ever. “Don’t play around, Satoru.”
“No promises.” He rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck with a sharp tilt. “Time to impress the new girl.”
The first zombie lunges—and Satoru moves. A blur of motion, too fast to follow. The undead’s head twists unnaturally before it even hits the ground.
Suguru moves more fluidly—clean, precise slashes. No theatrics. Just deadly efficiency. His blade slices through two more, not even a drop of blood on him.
But they just keep coming.
Your heart pounds in your ears. Adrenaline surges. You’d been careful to avoid confrontation all these years, but this is different. You're not alone anymore. And you won’t be dead weight.
You draw your blade—sharpened scrap metal turned makeshift machete—and steady your breath.
One charges. You duck, spin, and drive the blade clean through its skull. Another reaches for you. You kick it back hard, burying your weapon in its chest before pulling it free with a grunt.
Satoru whistles low. “Well damn.”
“Focus,” Suguru mutters, cutting another down.
You move together now, three separate forces of destruction.
Satoru’s grinning like a madman, whirling and laughing with every kill. “You seeing this? She’s got bite!”
Suguru flicks blood off his blade. “You could take a lesson from her.”
Zombies litter the ground within minutes. The forest falls silent again—except for your panting breaths.
Satoru walks over, brushing blood off his cheek. “Well, that was fun. You good?”
You nod, chest still heaving. “Peachy.”
“Okay, badass,” he says with a grin, then nudges your shoulder playfully. “I take it back. You’re not just some lost little stray. You’ve got some claws.”
Suguru simply gives you a once-over, silent approval in his gaze.
You sheath your blade. “Told you I could handle myself.”
Satoru grins wider. “Yeah, and it was hot.”
-
The journey's been long, your legs aching from the endless trek, your guard never once lowered—not even with Satoru’s ridiculous jokes or Suguru’s unnervingly sharp eyes on you.
But when the trees begin to thin and the rusted silhouette of a massive abandoned prison looms ahead—walls towering, fences lined with jagged barbed wire, and lookout towers standing tall like watchful sentinels—you feel something you haven't in years:
Hope.
Gojo stretches lazily, like the walk didn’t faze him at all. "Home sweet hellhole," he grins. "Bet you weren’t expecting this kind of palace."
Suguru doesn’t say much, just gestures for you to follow. The guards on the watchtower whistle low when they see the trio approaching, and the gates creak open. Inside, the prison yard is alive—people bustling, fires burning in steel barrels, children laughing (actual children), and survivors moving with purpose.
You're stunned. You didn’t think this kind of order still existed.
A kid runs up to Gojo. “Satoru! You’re back!”
“Obviously,” he winks, tossing his jacket at the kid. “Miss me?”
You stare, wide-eyed.
“You’re like… respected here?”
“Terrifying, isn’t it?” Gojo deadpans. “Stick with me, newbie. I’ll show you the ropes. Maybe even let you survive.”
Suguru glances back, quiet for a moment. “Don’t get too comfortable. It’s safe, but it’s not paradise.”
Gojo leans closer to you as you're led through the gates.
“Don’t worry. If anything tries to eat you—aside from me—I’ll kill it.”
Your face burns and he just smirks like he’s got you all figured out.
“Aww, don’t get all shy, now. Where’d all that bite from earlier go?” he teases, voice low and entirely too smug.
You shove him with a scowl, cheeks still flaming. “Shut up, lecher.”
He stumbles back with a dramatic gasp, hand clutching his chest. “Lecher? Ouch. You wound me, sweetheart.”
Suguru sighs ahead of you. “Ignore him. He gets like this when he’s not punched often enough.”
Gojo just throws an arm around your shoulders, unbothered and still grinning. “Admit it, you missed human interaction.”
You glare up at him. “I missed silence.”
“Too bad,” he chirps, “you’re stuck with me now.”
You follow Gojo through the looming gates of the old prison turned fortress, the creak of rusted metal echoing off cold concrete walls. The place is… intimidating, but secure. High fences, makeshift watchtowers, guards with weapons patrolling like hawks. Survivors glance your way—curious, cautious—but no one approaches just yet.
“Well,” Gojo grins, throwing his arms out dramatically, “welcome to paradise, sweetheart.”
You shoot him a glare, but before you can answer, a voice calls out.
“Don’t call new recruits that, Gojo.”
A tall woman leans against the infirmary doorway, cigarette dangling between her fingers, lab coat stained with faded blood. She looks you up and down, then flicks ash to the ground with a sigh.
“Ieiri Shoko. I’m the doctor over here,” she says. “You look like hell.”
“…Thanks?”
“She means ‘you’ll fit right in,’” Gojo says brightly, nudging your shoulder. “She’s got a warm heart under all that… nicotine.”
Before you can respond, another figure approaches—sharp, calculating, blond hair swept neatly back and a stern face that reads no nonsense allowed.
“Nanami Kento,” he introduces himself. “I hope you know how to follow rules.”
You stiffen slightly. “Depends on the rules.”
Gojo chuckles. “Play nice, Nanamin. She’s new.”
“And she’ll stay alive longer if she learns structure.”
You barely have time to absorb that before someone barrels into the conversation like a human golden retriever.
“Gojo-sensei! You’re back!”
A pink-haired young man skids to a stop beside you, eyes wide with excitement. “Whoa—new person?! Hi! I’m Itadori Yuji!”
You blink, overwhelmed by the sudden burst of energy.
“Yuji,” Gojo sighs fondly. “Tone it down a little, yeah? She’s been through it.”
Yuji’s smile softens. “Right, sorry. Still—welcome. You hungry? We’ve got canned peaches! They’re not that bad if you hold your breath.”
A scoff cuts through the chaos.
“That’s how you welcome someone? ‘Peaches if you hold your breath’?”
You turn to see a girl with sharp eyes, short auburn hair, and a confident stance stroll up like she owns the place.
“Kugisaki Nobara,” she says, hand on her hip. “Don’t let the dumb smiles fool you—Yuji’s annoying, but he’s not dangerous. Usually.”
Yuji pouts. “Rude.”
And last, from the shadows near the barracks, a low voice.
“Don’t overwhelm her.”
A tall boy steps forward, dark hair, brooding expression. Cold eyes meet yours briefly before shifting away like he’s already bored of this interaction.
“Fushiguro Megumi.”
You blink. “Nice to meet you… all.”
“You’ll get used to the chaos,” Nobara says. “Eventually.”
Gojo’s grin widens, like a proud dad watching his weird little family.
“See? Told you you’d like it here.”
You’re not sure yet. But for the first time in years, you’re not alone.
-
The base is a repurposed prison, all concrete walls and rusted bars, but the way Gojo walks its halls, it might as well be a palace.
“Welcome to paradise,” he grins, pushing open a barred door that creaks like it’s complaining. “Don’t let the charming décor fool you. The rats love it here.”
You roll your eyes but follow him in. He gestures with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “Your very own cell—er, suite.”
The room is small, but clean. A bed shoved into one corner, a patched-up mattress, and even a chipped mirror on the wall. You nod, impressed despite yourself.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I gave you the one with a window. You can thank me later.”
You smirk and step back out into the hallway. “Trying to impress me, Gojo?”
“Oh, absolutely. I’m a peacock in the apocalypse, baby.”
You laugh under your breath and follow him down a narrow hall. There’s a dip in the concrete, a crack in the floor you don’t notice until your boot catches—your heart jumps as you pitch forward, but Gojo’s arms are immediately around you.
Strong. Steady. Warm.
“Careful now,” he murmurs, voice all silk and smugness. “You fell for me already?”
You’re pressed against his chest, your breath caught in your throat, face heating up. He doesn’t move right away—his hands settle on your waist, casual and intimate in a way that makes your stomach flip.
You shove him off with a flustered glare. “Shut up, lecher.”
He grins, wide and infuriating. “That’s more like it.”
The rest of the tour is quieter. You pass rooms where others sleep, the mess hall, the infirmary where Shoko’s set up shop. You even glimpse Yuji hauling supplies with Nobara snapping at him in the distance.
But then Gojo stops in front of a heavy iron door—no windows, no markings. His face changes. The joking fades.
“Whatever you do,” he says, voice low, “don’t go into the commissary. Not alone. Not ever.”
You blink, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness.
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His blue eyes sharpen beneath his snowy lashes.
“Because even monsters like us keep our secrets somewhere,” he says softly. “And some doors are locked for a reason.”
You stare at him, heart knocking against your ribs.
But he flashes you that lazy grin again, like nothing happened. “Now come on. You haven’t seen the courtyard. Yuji likes to wrestle people out there—it’s horrible. You’ll love it.”
And just like that, the moment passes… but the warning stays.
-
The rooftop’s quiet late at night.
The chaos of the base fades into a hush, just the distant hum of wind brushing over cracked cement and rusted fences. You lie back against the cool surface, arms behind your head, eyes fixed on the sky above. For once, it’s clear. A spatter of stars gleam like glass shards across a velvet sky.
You let yourself breathe.
No infected. No screaming. No fear.
Just the stars.
Footsteps approach—light, familiar, cocky.
“I knew you were a stargazer,” Gojo says, easing himself down beside you with a dramatic sigh. “You’ve got that dreamy, melancholic look. So poetic.”
You don’t look at him. “You’ve got that annoying, uninvited energy. So parasitic.”
He barks out a laugh. “Ow. You wound me, sweetheart.”
A beat passes. Then another.
You can feel him watching you, but for once, he doesn’t speak.
And somehow, that’s more unsettling.
“…You alright?” you ask, finally glancing his way.
He’s leaning back on his elbows, white hair messy from the wind, blue eyes locked on the stars—but they’re distant. Quiet. A far cry from their usual teasing glint.
“I’m heading out tomorrow,” he says casually. “Scouting mission. Few days tops.”
You blink. “Oh.”
Something flickers in your chest. It shouldn’t. Not like this.
“Oh,” you repeat, softer. “Right.”
A part of you wants to ask why he’s going. Another part wants to pretend it doesn’t matter. You settle for neither, chewing your lip, trying to ignore the weight settling in your gut.
Satoru glances at you then, his smirk lazy but his voice just a touch softer.
“Try not to miss me, yeah?”
You scoff. “I’ll throw a party the second you leave.”
“That’s what they all say,” he murmurs, leaning just a little closer. “Then they realize how boring life is without me.”
His smile is all mischief—but behind it, there’s something warmer. Something real.
And for once… you don’t fire back. You just look at him.
Maybe you’ll miss him a little. Just a little.
-
You don’t expect his absence to linger. But it does.
You feel it in the small silences—the way the mess hall feels quieter without his dumb jokes echoing through it, how sparring sessions feel colder without him barging in with some smug, offhanded comment about your form.
At night, you find yourself back on the rooftop. The stars are still there, but they don’t sparkle like they used to. It’s stupid, you tell yourself, because what kind of person starts depending on a man like that?
He’s loud. He’s infuriating. He teases you relentlessly.
But… he saw you. When you thought no one ever would again.
Shoko notices the way you’ve been spacing out more. She doesn’t say anything until the third night.
“You okay?”
You nod. Too quickly. “Fine.”
She squints at you. “You’re not fine. You’re moping.”
“I’m not moping.”
She clicks her tongue. “Acting like someone’s girlfriend.”
You nearly knock your cup over. “I’m not—!”
But you don’t finish that sentence. Because the words feel too close to something you’ve been avoiding.
You try to bury it—tell yourself it’s just concern. You’re just… grateful. It’s not like that. You don’t miss his stupid smirk or the way he always stands too close just to fluster you. You don’t care about how his hair always looks so damn soft, or how his voice drops a little when he’s serious with you.
You don’t.
You don’t.
Then the whispers start.
“No signal from the scouting team.”
“They were supposed to be back by now.”
A cold chill snakes down your spine.
You start going to the gate more. Just to check. You pretend it’s coincidence.
It’s not.
You catch yourself gripping the straps of your bag harder than usual. You’ve never hated waiting so much in your life.
Until one evening—
The gates finally creak open.
Your breath catches in your throat as the guards call out a name. Several figures walk through the archway, dust and blood clinging to their clothes.
And there he is.
White hair, blue eyes. One sleeve ripped off, a gash on his collarbone, dried blood staining his neck—but he’s alive.
“Satoru,” you whisper, already walking forward.
His eyes find yours instantly. That grin pulls at his lips like it never left.
“Aww, did you miss me?”
You don’t answer. You just hit his shoulder. “Idiot.”
But then your hands linger, and before you can stop yourself, you’re pulling him into a tight hug.
He stiffens, just for a second. Then his arms slide around you, strong and warm.
“Try not to cry too hard,” he mutters, voice light—but there’s something tight beneath it.
“I hate you,” you mumble into his shirt.
“Sure you do,” he chuckles, and when you pull back, his smile softens.
You don’t know what this feeling is. Or maybe you do. You just don’t want to name it yet.
But you know this: You’re glad he came back.
And for now, that’s enough.
-
You wander the halls of the prison alone, the hum of fluorescent lights above your head flickering inconsistently. Satoru had taken the kids out back for training, and with nothing to do and no one to bother you, you figured you’d finally explore the rest of the base.
The place was massive—too massive. Each cell block looked like the next, corridors looping endlessly into each other until your curiosity outweighs your sense of direction. One door, rusted and slightly ajar, catches your eye.
You should’ve turned around.
You push it open.
Inside is dark, dusty. Shelves line the walls, broken crates and old rations tossed everywhere. You wander deeper, hesitant but unaware. That is…until it hits.
The smell.
Rotting flesh, stagnant air, the thick, unmistakable stench of death.
And then—movement.
Shuffling. A low groan. Shadows twitch. A hand smacks against a shelf and knocks it over with a crash.
They're here.
Your eyes snap wide and panic sets in instantly. There are so many.
You run.
You shove a metal shelf in their path, throw an old stool, anything you can get your hands on to slow them down. Your breaths are shallow, desperate. But just as you near the exit—
Your ankle gives out.
A sick snap, searing pain, and you crash to the floor with a cry. You scramble backward, pressing yourself against the wall, using your good leg to kick anything that comes close.
This is it. This is it.
You squeeze your eyes shut, heart pounding.
Gunshots.
The sound like thunder crashing right next to your ear.
You blink up, barely processing the white blur tearing through the undead like paper.
“I told you not to go in here!” he shouts, voice slicing through the chaos.
“Satoru—!”
The zombies turn just in time for Satoru to drive his fist into the nearest one’s chest, cracking bone and sending it flying back into the others like bowling pins.
“Seriously?” he growls, stepping in front of you, his broad back shielding your crumpled form. “I leave you alone for five minutes.”
One lunges from the side. Gojo ducks effortlessly, grabs it by the throat, and slams it into the ground so hard its skull splits open on impact. Another claws at his shoulder, but he just grabs its wrist, twists, and kicks out its knee in one brutal motion. It collapses, and he doesn’t even look as he drives a sharp piece of wood through its head.
And then—you're in his arms. Just like that.
Lifted effortlessly, pressed against his chest as he strides out of the hellhole.
You cling to him, trembling.
“I didn’t know it was the commissary,” you whisper between sobs. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—I just—God, I’m so sorry, Gojo, I—”
His voice is low, firm, but gentle. “Hey. Breathe. I’ve got you.”
You look up at him, lip quivering. “I—I made you worry…”
“Yeah, you did,” he says with a wry little smirk, but his eyes are too soft, too relieved to match it. “Don’t ever do that again, got it?”
You nod.
“Good,” he murmurs, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your face. “Because if I lost you... I’d have to kill the rest of the world just for pissing me off.”
Your breath hitches.
You stare up at him, heart pounding, face flushed from more than just the sprint for your life.
“W-What kind of psycho logic is that?” you mutter, trying to deflect, your voice barely steady.
Satoru smirks down at you, still holding you effortlessly in his arms like you weigh nothing. “C’mon, don’t act so surprised. I’m dramatic, haven’t you noticed?”
“You’re insane,” you whisper, trying not to combust under his gaze.
“And you’re blushing,” he points out smugly, nose nearly brushing yours. “Kinda cute, actually.”
You twist in his hold, hiding your face against his shoulder. “Shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled.
He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through your chest. “Can’t. Teasing you is the only thing keeping me sane these days.”
You can feel the tension slipping away, replaced by something heavier, warmer. He lowers you gently onto a nearby bench just outside the danger zone, kneeling before you like it’s second nature, hands skimming your calves as he examines your ankle again.
When he looks up this time, his expression is different. Less playful. More raw.
“I meant it, you know,” he says quietly. “You scared the hell out of me in there.”
You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” he cuts in, hand brushing yours. “But next time, brat, wait for me. No solo adventures.”
Your lips twitch. “You’re calling me a brat now?”
“Borrowing the title. Think I earned it after saving your ass.”
You huff a laugh, cheeks still warm. “…Thanks.”
His grin softens. “Anytime.”
And just like that, you both sit there—his fingers still wrapped gently around your hand, his thumb rubbing absent circles over your knuckles—as the adrenaline fades and something else takes its place. Something quieter. Heavier. Charged.
-
Satoru insists on carrying you the whole way to the infirmary, ignoring your every protest.
“This is unnecessary,” you mutter, burying your face in his shoulder to avoid every curious glance.
“You twisted your ankle and almost got mauled. Humor me,” he says, smug but gentle, like the two can coexist in him with ease.
He kicks open the infirmary door with his foot.
“Delivery for one idiot who wandered into a no-go zone,” he calls out casually.
Shoko looks up from her desk, raising a brow at the sight of you both. “Well, well. If it isn’t the base’s golden boy and his damsel in distress.”
“I wasn’t distressed,” you blurt out instantly, wiggling in Gojo’s hold.
“Oh?” she hums, amused. “You sure? Because I could’ve sworn I heard ‘Gojo! Help!’ from all the way down the hall.”
You splutter. “That’s not— I mean—”
“Loudly,” she adds with a pointed smirk.
Satoru just laughs and sets you down on one of the cots, his hand lingering a little longer than necessary on your back before stepping aside.
“She’s fine. Just the ankle,” he says. “But maybe check if she sprained anything else. She fell pretty hard.”
Shoko moves closer, completely ignoring the medical part for now, because she’s too focused on watching the both of you squirm.
“Ohhh,” she teases, eyes sparkling. “Look at the two of you. Cute. Almost like a couple.”
You and Satoru freeze at the exact same time.
“Nope!”
“Not a couple!”
“Definitely not!”
You shoot each other a panicked glance and then immediately look away, flustered messes in stereo.
Shoko snorts. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
You glare. “Can we just focus on my ankle now?”
“Fine, fine,” she drawls, clearly enjoying herself. “Just sayin’. Wouldn’t be the worst match. You get saved, he gets to play hero. Very fairytale.”
“I hate all of this,” you mutter under your breath, while Satoru just smiles to himself, unbothered but definitely pleased.
When Shoko starts wrapping your ankle, he leans against the wall with his arms crossed, watching.
And you swear you see it—that tiny, knowing glint in his eyes.
Like he wants her to say it again.
Because maybe, just maybe… he doesn’t mind the idea.
-
It’s later that night when there’s a knock at your door. You’ve barely had time to settle in, still awkwardly hobbling around on one foot with your bandaged ankle.
“Who is it?” you call.
“It’s your favorite,” comes the unmistakable voice from the other side.
You roll your eyes but can’t stop the tiny smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t know Nanami suddenly got chatty.”
A muffled chuckle. “Ha. Hilarious. Open up.”
You limp to the door and unlock it. Satoru is standing there, a little disheveled, hands full.
“Brought you dinner,” he says casually, holding out a tray with two mismatched bowls, steam still curling from the soup. “Figured you might be tired of Shoko’s painkillers and snark.”
You blink, caught off guard. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” he says dramatically, stepping in without being invited. “That’s what makes me so noble.”
You laugh despite yourself, and he grins like that was the goal all along. He sets the tray down on your little desk, then gestures toward your bed.
“Come on, sit. Can’t have you falling over again. One near-death experience per day is my limit.”
You sit, trying not to look too charmed when he settles next to you—close, but not too close—just enough for your knees to brush.
“I still feel terrible about earlier,” you say after a moment, poking at the edge of your bowl. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“You didn’t worry me,” he says too quickly, too nonchalantly.
You glance up. “Liar.”
He sighs and leans back on his hands, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Fine. Maybe I panicked a little. Sue me.”
A silence lingers, not uncomfortable. Just… warm.
Then, softer: “Don’t do that again, okay?”
You look at him, really look at him—the shadows under his eyes, the slight dip in his brow, the way his voice softens when it’s just you and him.
And something in your chest stirs. Something that’s been creeping in, slow and steady, ever since he offered you food by a fire that first night.
You nod. “I won’t.”
He glances over, catches your gaze—and doesn’t look away this time.
There’s something unspoken passing between you. Familiar. Intense. Safe.
“You’re really something, y’know that?” he murmurs.
You raise a brow. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
He smirks. “Depends. You gonna fall harder for me if it is?”
You flush instantly. “Satoru—”
He laughs and nudges your bowl toward you. “Eat before it gets cold, princess.”
You grumble under your breath but dig in.
And Satoru?
He watches you with that same lopsided grin, heart doing something stupid in his chest.
Because yeah—maybe you fell.
But maybe he’s been falling, too.
-
It’s past midnight when you stir.
The pain in your ankle has dulled to a throb, but it isn’t what wakes you. It’s… something else. A presence. Warm. Close.
You blink against the low glow of the hallway light seeping under your door, and when your eyes adjust—
You see him.
Satoru.
Slouched in the chair by your bed, long legs awkwardly folded, head tipped to the side, snowy hair falling across his face in soft, messy tufts. His mouth is slightly parted, breathing slow and even. His arms are crossed, like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep there.
Like he was just keeping watch.
Just in case.
Your heart does a little flip.
You shift quietly, trying not to make a sound. But even with all your care, the mattress creaks—barely. His eyes snap open immediately, hand twitching toward a weapon that isn’t there. Pure instinct.
Then he sees you. And relaxes.
“Oh,” he breathes, voice gravelly with sleep. “You’re awake.”
You sit up slowly. “Were you… here all night?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Not all night. Just since… y’know. Evening.”
You squint at him. “Satoru.”
He sighs. “Fine. Yeah. All night.”
You stare at him. “Why?”
He shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “Wanted to make sure you didn’t wander off again and get yourself eaten.”
You frown. “You should’ve slept in your room.”
He smirks. “What, and miss out on babysitting you?”
You chuck a pillow at him.
He catches it easily and grins. But when he sees you holding his gaze, that grin softens.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he admits, quieter now.
Something gentle settles in your chest. You pull your blanket up and scoot slightly to the side.
“…There’s space. If you’re tired.”
He blinks at you. “Are you asking me to cuddle, orrrr…”
You glare. “I’m offering you a more comfortable sleeping arrangement.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
He slides in beside you carefully, so carefully, like you’ll break if he jostles you too much. And then you feel the warmth of him next to you, his presence steady and solid and safe.
“…This okay?” he murmurs, his voice a whisper in the dark.
You nod.
And slowly, slowly, you feel his fingers brush yours under the blanket. He doesn't hold your hand—not yet. Just touches.
Testing the waters.
You don’t pull away.
And in the silence that follows, you hear his breathing even out again.
But yours?
Yours is all over the place.
-
Morning sunlight filters through the barred window, casting soft stripes across your face.
You're warm. So warm.
Your cheek is pressed against something solid. Something that rises and falls gently beneath you. And there’s a hand resting at the small of your back, pulling you closer, keeping you there.
Your heart skips.
Your eyes blink open—and there he is.
Gojo Satoru. Asleep. Face relaxed and serene, messy white hair haloed in gold light. His other arm is curled under your pillow, supporting your head like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And you're lying on top of him.
Your breath catches in your throat.
You should move. You need to move.
But just as you're about to untangle yourself—
Click.
The door creaks open.
You freeze.
“Oh my god,” comes Shoko’s voice, casual, amused, and way too smug. “Well, well—what do we have here?”
You nearly leap out of bed, scrambling to sit up—only for your body to protest painfully, and you wince with a hiss.
Satoru wakes with a start, blinking up at Shoko in confusion before slowly realizing the position you're in.
“Oh,” he says blankly. “Morning, doc.”
You swat his shoulder. “Say something useful?!”
Shoko just leans against the doorway, arms crossed, grinning like she’s discovered the world’s juiciest secret. “No no, don’t let me interrupt. I was just checking on the patient, but clearly, she’s in very good hands.”
You’re burning. “It’s not what it looks like!”
Shoko raises a brow. “Oh, so you weren’t cuddled up like two lovebirds all night? Should I tell Nanami you’ve finally found someone willing to put up with your nonsense, Satoru?”
He stretches lazily and pulls the blanket back over himself with a smirk. “Actually, yeah. Tell him. Maybe then he’ll finally stop lecturing me about responsibility.”
You groan and bury your face in your hands. “I’m never going to live this down.”
You glare at Satoru through your fingers. “This is your fault.”
He grins. “You offered me a spot on the bed, your majesty.”
You shove a pillow at him. He catches it—again.
And then he smiles, soft and teasing, voice still a little raspy from sleep.
“...So. Want me to sleep over again tonight?”
“Get out.”
-
The first few days are rough.
You try to walk without limping. Try to reach for things on your own. Try not to feel like a burden.
But then there’s him.
You wake up to warm food at your bedside, Satoru leaning against the doorframe with a smug grin. “Brought you breakfast in bed, sweetheart. Don’t get used to it—I’m not always this nice.”
He very much is.
He offers his arm without asking when you need support. Doesn’t mention it when you wince or grit your teeth. Just lets you lean on him, like you’ve always belonged there.
You try to carry something heavy across the hall—he appears out of nowhere, snatching it from your hands. “Tsk. You trying to die or what?”
You try to help in the kitchen. He catches you wobbling and swoops in with a hand around your waist. “Whoa there, Bambi. What happened to ‘taking it easy’?”
You try to sneak off to explore the base again. He corners you in the hallway with a look that says absolutely not. “You’re still healing, brat. Unless you want me to carry you everywhere again?”
Cue your entire face combusting.
He’s annoying. Cocky. Ridiculously persistent.
But…
He adjusts your blanket when you’re asleep on the couch. Tucks a water bottle by your side without saying anything. Teaches you how to balance properly on one foot so your ankle can recover without straining the other.
And at night, when you think everyone’s asleep, you catch him checking on you—quietly, carefully. Making sure you’re okay.
You pretend not to notice.
But your heart notices. It notices everything.
-
You stand in the middle of your room, shifting your weight onto your healed ankle, then back again. No pain. No tightness. Just a deep breath and the quiet realization:
You’re better. Finally.
The door creaks open without warning—because Satoru never knocks—and in he strolls with his usual swagger and two mugs in hand. “Morning, sweetheart. Brought you—"
He stops in his tracks.
You’re standing. Not limping. Not clutching the edge of the bed for balance.
Just… standing.
He squints, slowly lowering one mug. “...Why aren’t you in bed?”
You raise a brow. “Because I’m not dying?”
“Oh no. Absolutely not.” He sets the mugs down and points a very offended finger at you. “You don’t just get to get better without warning me. I was emotionally invested in this arc.”
You laugh. “Sorry to ruin your Florence Nightingale fantasy.”
“Ruin? Excuse you, I was thriving. Who’s gonna let me spoon-feed you now?”
You roll your eyes, limping toward him just to mess with him. “I could pretend, if it makes you feel better.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
He walks over before you can say anything else—his hands hover, cautious at first, then one slides to your waist. “You really okay?”
You nod. “I’m good. Really.”
Satoru lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Then he grins. “Alright. Guess that means I can stop being your personal nurse and go back to being your favorite nuisance.”
You’re smiling. He’s back to teasing. But there’s a softness in his eyes that lingers a little too long, a thumb that brushes your hip before falling away.
He missed taking care of you.
And maybe, just maybe, you kind of miss being taken care of.
-
You’re jogging laps around the edge of the prison yard, the early morning chill nipping at your cheeks. It’s peaceful—quiet enough that your footsteps and the rhythmic beat of your breath are the only sounds you hear.
Until a familiar voice breaks through the silence.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite brat, back in action.”
You slow down, a smirk tugging at your lips as you turn toward the voice—and promptly choke on air.
Satoru.
Stretching.
Shirtless.
His snowy hair tousled from whatever ungodly workout he’s been doing, sweat gleaming on the hard lines of his chest and abs like the universe conspired to craft a Renaissance painting just to spite you. His sweats hang low on his hips, revealing that infuriating V-line that should not be legal in a post-apocalyptic society.
You blink. Once. Twice.
He grins, catching the way your eyes are very not subtly stuck on him.
“Like what you see?”
You scowl, instantly turning your gaze to a very fascinating patch of dirt on the ground. “Please. I’ve seen better.”
“Mmhm.” He takes a deliberate step forward, arms crossing over his annoyingly perfect chest. “Name one.”
“...”
“That’s what I thought.”
You huff and start jogging again, forcing your eyes to stay forward. But then he jogs up beside you—shirtless and smug, of course—and easily matches your pace.
“You sure you’re fully healed? What if you, I dunno… trip and fall again?” he says, tone mockingly sweet. “Need me to catch you, princess?”
“I’d rather faceplant into a zombie.”
He laughs, low and lazy. “I dunno, that sounds painful. Better to land on something soft. Like me.”
You glare at him, cheeks burning. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet,” he nudges you playfully with his elbow, “you’re still jogging next to me. Who’s really winning here?”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the warmth crawling up your neck. But deep down, you know.
He’s definitely winning.
-
After the jog, Satoru insists you “cool down” with some light sparring. You roll your eyes, but follow him to the training mats anyway. He’s already bouncing on his heels when you step in front of him, still shirtless, still smug.
“You sure you’re up for this?” he teases. “Wouldn’t want to break you again.”
“I’m more worried about bruising your ego,” you shoot back, taking your stance.
He whistles low. “Feisty. I like it.”
The sparring begins—light jabs, easy dodges. You’re nimble, focused, but he is... effortless. Every time you swipe at him, he ducks with a grin. When you go in for a kick, he sidesteps and lets out an exaggerated yawn.
“You done yet, sweetheart?” he asks, still dancing around you. “At this rate, I could do this blindfolded.”
“Shut up and hold still!” you lunge at him again—this time faster, bolder—but he grabs your wrist mid-swing and spins you around so fast the world tilts. Before you know it—
You’re pinned.
Back hits the wall. His hand holds your wrists above your head, other arm braced beside you. His body is dangerously close, breath fanning your cheek. His tone shifts, deeper. Rougher.
“You keep mouthing off like that,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming, “I might start thinking you want me to put you in your place.”
Your breath catches. “I—”
“Hmm?” he leans in, lips ghosting your jaw. “No witty comeback now?”
You try to move, but his grip tightens just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you that this isn’t a game anymore.
“I could kiss you right now,” he whispers, “and there’s nothing you could do about it.”
Your heart hammers in your chest. “You wouldn’t.”
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous.
“Wanna bet?”
Your breathing is shallow, heat rising to your cheeks. You’re acutely aware of how close he is, the way his chest brushes against yours with every breath, the sharp glint in his eye, the smirk that’s far too smug for your sanity.
And then—
His lips graze your neck. Barely there. A soft brush of heat against your skin. You flinch—not out of fear, but from the jolt that shoots down your spine. Goosebumps bloom instantly. His breath tickles your skin.
“Sensitive,” he hums, lips ghosting up toward your jaw, “...cute.”
“Satoru—” you whisper, voice barely audible.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His gaze drops to your lips, heavy and unblinking. And he leans in, slower this time, like he wants you to feel the anticipation. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat—
And then—
“AM I INTERRUPTING SOMETHING?”
You both jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.
Satoru spins around with a groan, still caging you against the wall. “Shoko. Seriously?”
She stands a few feet away, arms crossed, one brow cocked and a wicked smirk playing at her lips. “Wow. Could cut the tension with a scalpel. Should I come back later or just pass you a condom now?”
“Shoko,” you squeak, face on fire, squirming to escape Gojo’s hold.
He lets you go reluctantly, chuckling under his breath. “You wish you caught the good part.”
“I did catch the part where your face was buried in her neck like a starving vampire,” Shoko deadpans.
You bury your face in your hands.
Satoru just laughs. “You jealous?”
“Please. I'd rather not watch my coworkers dry hump in public,” she says, already turning on her heel. “Anyway. You two lovebirds done? I need one of you to help with supplies.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Gojo waves her off. Then he glances back at you, still all flushed and flustered, and leans down one last time to whisper in your ear:
“To be continued, princess.”
And just like that, he strolls off like nothing happened.
You're left against the wall, heart pounding, neck tingling, completely and utterly undone.
-
It’s quiet for once.
Most of the clan is out on a supply run or patrolling the perimeter. You’d offered to stay behind, helping Shoko reorganize her medical supplies before wandering off with a basket of laundry—warm clothes folded under your arm as you pace the empty corridors of the prison, barefoot, relaxed.
You finally set the basket down in the communal quarters, humming under your breath while sorting through what belongs to who. It’s… peaceful. The late afternoon sun slants in through the high windows, bathing everything in warm light.
Until—
“Picking up where we left off?”
You jolt, nearly dropping the shirt in your hands.
Gojo.
Leaning against the doorframe, casual as ever, sleeves pushed up, hair a bit messy like he just woke from a nap. His eyes are glinting beneath the lazy droop of his lashes, and that smirk—that godforsaken smirk—is unmistakable.
He saunters in before you can get a word in.
“Geez, you sneak up on people like a damn ghost,” you mumble, cheeks already burning as you turn back to the laundry.
“Aw, don’t be shy now,” he teases, coming closer. “You weren’t so shy when I had you pinned against the wall.”
You stiffen. “You got interrupted. Big difference.”
“Oh? So you wanted me to kiss you?”
You glare at him over your shoulder, but he’s already behind you, arms slipping around your waist—loosely at first, giving you a chance to push him away.
You don’t.
“I was thinking about you,” he murmurs against your ear. “All damn day. Thought I’d come see how you were holding up without me.”
“I was fine,” you huff, but it’s so breathless it betrays you instantly.
He chuckles. “That right?”
His hands glide up your sides, slow and sure, fingertips teasing the hem of your shirt. “C’mon, sweetheart. Just admit it—you missed me.”
You turn in his arms, glaring—but it’s weak at best. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Maybe,” he leans in, forehead brushing yours, voice dropping, “but I still remember how fast your heart was beating last time.”
You swallow.
And this time? There’s no Shoko to walk in. No patrols due back. No reason to stop.
You hesitate for a beat.
And then you pull him in by the collar.
The kiss is feral. All teeth and tongue and breathless gasps. Weeks—months—of tension snapping all at once. His hands find your waist, gripping tight as he hoists you up like you weigh nothing.
“Fuck—” he groans against your lips. “You’ve been killing me, y’know that?”
You wrap your legs around his waist and tug him closer. “Good.”
He pulls back, grinning. “Oh, you wanna play it like that?”
You don’t get a chance to answer before he’s kissing down your jaw, your neck, dragging that maddening tongue of his down your collarbone. His hands are everywhere—palming your hips, your thighs, sliding under your shirt like he owns you.
Which, at this point, maybe he does.
“Tell me to stop,” he pants, hovering over your lips again. “Tell me now, and I will.”
You look him dead in the eyes, tug his shirt over his head, and whisper:
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
Your back hits the nearest wall with a muffled gasp, Satoru’s mouth already on yours, hungry and hot. His hands roam your body like he’s memorizing it with touch alone, fingers tugging at fabric with a frustrated groan.
“Off,” he growls into the kiss, already pulling your shirt over your head like it's offended him. He sets you down to pull your pants down along with your panties. And the moment you’re bare before him, he stands back, breath catching in his throat. His eyes—icy blue and blown wide with lust—roam your figure, landing on your chest like he’s just been given the meaning of life.
“…Can I motorboat your tits?”
You blink.
You laugh, startled and breathless. “Are you—are you serious right now?”
His lips curve into a wolfish grin, and he’s already surging forward to kiss you again. “Maybe next time,” he mumbles between kisses. “I don’t think I can wait to taste you now.”
You arch a brow, teasing, breath catching when he trails his mouth down your jaw. “Next time?”
He chuckles, low and dark. “You think I’m letting you off the hook after this?” His hands slide down your waist, thumbs stroking your hips. “Nah, sweetheart. I’m gonna ruin you.”
Then he sinks to his knees.
The grin fades into something hungrier, more reverent as he kisses the inside of your thigh, dragging his teeth gently across soft skin. “Spread ‘em for me,” he says, voice a whisper but firm. And when you do, he groans like he’s just tasted something forbidden.
You cry out the second his tongue touches you, hands flying to grip his hair. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t want to. It’s slow, torturous—his pace deliberate as he works you open, devouring like a man starved. His moans vibrate against your skin, and when your legs tremble, he just pins them open wider, groaning, “That’s it… let me hear you, baby.”
Your back arches as Satoru licks another slow, devastating stripe up your core, tongue curling at your entrance before he moves to suck gently on your clit. Your fingers tighten in his hair, thighs instinctively trying to close around his head—but his arms loop under your knees, spreading you wider, holding you open like he owns you.
“You're not going anywhere,” he mutters, eyes flicking up, glazed over with lust and something dangerous. “Told you. I’m gonna ruin you.”
Then he’s back at it—slower this time, tongue flattening against you, then circling, dragging soft groans out of you as the tension coils tight in your belly. He eats you out like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, savoring every movement, every moan he draws. He alternates between deep, dragging strokes and sharp, teasing flicks, lips closing around your clit to suck just hard enough to make your breath hitch.
You cry out, hips bucking up into his mouth, and he growls—low and throaty—as if turned on by how wrecked you already are.
"Fuck—so sweet," he groans, voice muffled against you. “Could stay down here all night.”
And he means it. He shifts slightly, tongue plunging into you now, slow and shallow, nose nudging your clit as he drinks in every sound you make like it fuels him. Every little tremble, every whimper—he devours it.
He doesn’t stop. Not when you start trembling, not when you whine his name in warning. He keeps going, lips slick and relentless, until—
Your vision whites out. Your body tightens, back bowing, mouth falling open on a silent scream as you fall over the edge, pleasure shattering through you like a storm.
Only then does he pull back, lips and chin glistening. He breathes hard, eyes dark and blown, grinning like he just won a war.
“That’s the sound I wanted to hear.”
He stands up again to pick you up, carrying you to the nearby table, settling you on it, completely bare under the low light, legs parted slightly, chest heaving. You’re flushed, trembling—not from fear, but anticipation. Nerves. Heat. It’s all crashing together in your head, and he sees it.
His hands move to his waistband, fingers curling beneath the fabric of his pants. He tugs them down with practiced ease, freeing himself—and your breath catches.
Your eyes drift down instinctively, and your stomach tightens at the sight of him. He’s big. Thick, flushed, already hard and aching.
Your pulse stutters, nerves flickering to the surface. “Oh…”
“Hey,” he says gently, fingers brushing your cheek. “You okay?”
You hesitate, biting your lip. “It’s just… I’ve never done this before.”
Satoru freezes for a moment. His expression doesn’t shift much—but his eyes, bright and blue, soften in an instant.
“…You haven’t?” he asks quietly, tone a stark contrast to the sinful smirk he wore earlier. You shake your head.
He exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself. Then he leans in and kisses you—slow, patient, loving.
“Well, fuck,” he murmurs against your lips. “Now I really have to behave.”
You blink up at him. “You? Behave?”
He chuckles, brushing his thumb over your lower lip. “Okay, maybe not completely. But I’ll go slow. Make it good for you. You trust me, right?”
You nod.
“Good.” His voice drops a little. “Then let me take care of you, yeah?”
He’s gentle—so gentle it almost breaks you. His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, down your neck, to your chest. He pauses there, kissing over your breasts, fingers caressing your sides as though you might disappear if he’s not careful.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes. “Gonna remember this forever.”
When he finally lines himself up, he doesn’t rush. He keeps kissing you, whispering into your skin.
“Breathe with me,” he says. “Nice and easy, baby. Just relax.”
The stretch burns, but his voice never leaves you. His hands never stop moving—stroking your sides, brushing your hair from your face, thumbing away the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes.
“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs. “So tight, fuck—squeezing me like you were made for me.”
Your breath catches, eyes fluttering shut.
“Look at me,” he says softly, “I wanna see your face.”
You meet his eyes—blown wide with emotion, affection, reverence. And that’s when he starts to move. Slowly, so slowly you can feel everything. Every drag, every pull.
“Feels good?” he asks, and when you nod, he smiles like you’ve just handed him the universe.
“You’re perfect,” he groans, picking up pace just a little. “Takin’ me so well, sweetheart. My pretty girl, lettin’ me be her first.”
You moan—part embarrassment, part bliss—and he kisses the sound from your mouth.
“Can’t believe no one’s touched you like this before,” he mutters against your skin. “But I’m glad. Glad it’s me. Glad I get to show you.”
He starts rolling his hips deeper, each thrust slow and purposeful, coaxing pleasure out of you bit by bit.
“Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”
You’re already gasping—your body burning, overstimulated from the build-up and the way he moves inside you. Every drag of him is a stretch, a delicious ache, and you’re trying so hard to keep up, to breathe, to hold yourself together—but it’s too much.
And then it hits.
Your climax crashes over you like a tidal wave—louder, sharper, more intense than the last—and your body tightens instinctively, your walls fluttering around him like they don’t want to let him go.
“Fuck—” Satoru’s voice breaks, a guttural groan tumbling from his throat as he stills, trembling above you. “You’re gonna ruin me, baby…”
His grip tightens on your waist, jaw clenched as he tries to hold back—but you’re squeezing him so tight, so perfect, and his restraint shatters.
“You’re killin’ me,” he grits out, starting to move again—deeper, slower, more intentional—but there’s an edge of desperation now. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “Feels so good—fuck, I don’t wanna hurt you.”
You shake your head, nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t stop,” you whimper, barely able to form the words. “Please…”
He kisses you hard—like he can’t help himself, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. “You’re doin’ so good for me, sweetheart. So, so good…”
“‘Toru-” you whimper.
That breaks him.
He groans, slamming into you harder, mouth finding your neck as he nips and kisses down to your collarbone. “Fuck. Say it again.”
You whimper again, brain hazy. “‘Toru…”
He kisses you slow then, deeper. Rough pace never faltering, but his hands gentler now—one wrapping around your waist, the other brushing the hair from your face.
“Mine,” he murmurs against your lips. “You’re mine now, yeah?”
You nod desperately, legs locking around his hips. “Yours.”
“Damn right,” he grits, driving into you harder, chasing both your highs with everything he has.
The overstimulation has tears stinging your eyes, your legs trembling, voice catching on every moan. And when that next orgasm builds too fast, too hard—it snaps through you like a live wire. Your body arches off the table, clamping down around him again—
—and Satoru snaps.
“Shit—take it, baby. Let me fill you up, yeah? Gonna make you mine, fuck, you already are—look at you...” he chokes out, thrusting deep one last time before he comes, spilling into you with a long, breathless groan. His arms wrap around you as if to anchor himself, holding you so close, like he needs to feel every inch of you, inside and out.
“Look at you,” he murmurs between pants, pressing kisses across your face. “Takin’ me so well… You’re mine now, yeah? All mine.”
You nod, dazed and boneless, wrapped in his warmth.
And he stays like that, inside you, forehead resting against yours as he murmurs soft, reverent praises—like this wasn’t just your first time.
Like it was everything.
Your body’s still trembling—nerves fried, skin flushed, heart thudding against your chest as if it’s trying to burst free. You’re barely aware of anything except the warm, strong arms pulling you into a careful embrace, the kiss he presses to your temple like it’s the most sacred thing he could ever do.
“Hey…” Satoru murmurs, voice all honey and rasp, rough around the edges but impossibly gentle. “You okay?”
You nod, chest rising and falling against his, cheeks still hot, but there’s a smile on your lips.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just… wow.”
He laughs softly, the sound low and breathy as his fingers brush along your spine in lazy, soothing strokes. “You were incredible,” he says, and he means it. Every word. “So good for me. So perfect.”
Your face scrunches with a flustered noise, burying it into his shoulder. “Stop…”
“Never,” he grins, nosing into your hair. “You don’t get to be all pretty and sweet and make those sounds and expect me to stay quiet about it.”
You groan. “Satoru—”
“Shhh.”
His palm rests on your back as he holds you close, thumb drawing lazy circles. You can still feel the dull, pleasant ache of him inside you, the heat he left behind. His breath is warm against your cheek. Safe. Comforting.
“You did so good, baby,” he murmurs again, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw. “First time and you still managed to rock my fucking world.”
Your heart stutters. “Wasn’t just the sex,” you say quietly.
He stills for half a second—and then he smiles, soft and genuine.
“I know,” he whispers.
You’re still breathless, body flushed and boneless in his arms when Satoru gathers you close, lips pressed gently to your temple. The air between you is warm, quiet save for the distant hum of life around the base. He shifts a little, glancing down at the table beneath you both, and you catch that flicker in his eyes—guilt, soft and creeping.
“I should’ve…” he starts, voice low, almost sheepish. “Shit, I should’ve taken you somewhere better. A bed, a blanket, something that wasn’t a hardass table. It was your first time and I just—” He pauses, brows pinching like the regret’s eating at him now. “I got selfish.”
You lift your hand to his cheek, thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth. “Hey,” you whisper, leaning in until your lips ghost over his, shutting him up with a kiss so soft, so full of emotion it makes his heart stutter.
When you pull back, your smile is small but sure. “It was more than okay. Because it was with you.”
Satoru blinks, breath caught in his throat. And for once, the man with a mouth like a wildfire doesn’t have anything to say.
Until he pulls you tighter into his chest and mutters, “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”
You just grin into his skin. “Guess we’ll go down together then.”
Then silence. Not awkward, not tense—just full of warmth. Full of everything. His arms around you. Your fingers laced with his.
You don’t say it. Not yet. But maybe one day soon.
For now, the way he holds you like you’re something to be cherished?
It’s more than enough.
author's note. finally have time to post consistently! last month or two were BUSY so couldn't do much </3 i'm proud of how this one turned out ^^ also, shoko is such a baddie i love her
please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.
everyone’s talking about how unhinged fans are nowadays about their blorbos. well let me tell you that when the polish writer henryk sienkiewicz first published his novel ‘with fire and sword’ in parts between 1883 and 1884, and killed off the beloved character longinus podbipięta, people nationwide were so upset they’d go to church and ask for requiem masses to be held in his memory. match THAT freak
Synopsis: With your world turning upside down, you begin to slowly connect the dots of who your neighbor really is. It seems that no matter where you are or what situation you’re in, it all relates back to Hanma Shuji. Things are moving a bit too fast for you…so, how will you manage?
Pairing: Hanma Shuji x Neighbor! Reader
Warnings: Cursing, mentions of violence/violent behavior, slight trauma mentions/suggestions
A/N: *gasp* THANK YOU SO MUCH! 😭 Honestly, I was about to abandon the whole thing, but since I’ve been getting a lot of questions about it, I’ll be posting the rest of it every week or so. This part was kinda short, so I apologize in advance. Enjoy!
after vowing to loathe hanma for as long as you live, you somehow end up tangled in his bedsheets.
themes ⤸
fem! reader, 18+, enemies to lovers, alcohol consumption, one night stand, hate sex, sex with feelings, breeding kink, creampies, oral sex, doggy-style, cowgirl, rough sex, unrequited love, one sided love, angst (if you squint), hanma has feelings, mitsuya is your best friend
word count ⤸
7.2k (unedited)
a/n ⤸
so, when i posted a sample of this, some of you were kind enough to say that you liked it enough for me to continue the story. n so, i wrote more, n some more, n then, even more, n now it’s over 7k words, oops. it’s longer than i originally planned it to be, but it’s probably my new favourite out of all of the fics that i’ve written (so far), which may or may not be heavily influenced by the fact that it’s about hanma, hhh. it’s three am here, so i’m definitely not editing today, but i’ll get around to it one day. pls enjoy the full fic, n thank you to those who encouraged me to finish this ♡
reblogs are appreciated ~
there are many emotions that you can associate with each time the fates decide to test your misfortunate knack of bumping into hanma shuji, but happiness isn’t one of them. and unfortunately for you, today is yet another of those days.
you’ve never been able to pinpoint the exact reason why the mere sight of his face is enough to irate you, nor are you able to explain why just an utterance of his name influences the instinctive reflex to roll your eyes before you’re able to stop it from happening. most of the time, you like to think of yourself as the better person, but there comes a time when one must simply accept that they are not above disliking someone enough to sneak into the office kitchen to swap the salt with the sugar just to see their arch nemesis grimace into their morning cup of coffee during the weekly team meeting. and there must also come a time when one will be humbled, embarrassed, or suffer at the hands of karma, no matter how much it may sacrifice the reputation of your own ego. or his, for that matter.
and today is that day.
you don’t notice anything unusual when you first wake, refusing to open your eyes when you regain enough wit about yourself to recognise the heat of this morning’s sun burning into your right cheek. your left is pressed into the pillow beneath your head, your limbs splayed in all directions under the bedsheets. you can feel a tendril of hair tickling your forehead with each upward breath that is puffed from between your lips, which, with one flick of your tongue, feel dry due to lack of hydration. it is with this discomfort that your eyes finally blink open with great effort, lids drooping with exhaustion. for a long, blissful moment, you’re not conscious enough to recognise that this, in fact, is not your bed. nor is it your bedroom, either.
that long, blissful moment continues as you move to stifle a yawn with the back of your hand, eyes blinking to regain some sort of coherency. only then, do you realise that your prone form is tangled in a mess of grey, silken bedsheets that do not belong to you. instantly, your spine stiffens, rigid with the brief flicker of anxiousness that has rendered you frozen. this pause stretches for far longer than what is probably deemed necessary, and before you take a proper look around you, you’re throwing the sheets back and stumbling from the ridiculously comfortable mattress, almost tripping over your own feet in your panic. there’s a bedside table that looks to be carved from an expensive oak—the sight of which makes your nose turn up—but nonetheless, it is what you reach out for when your ankle rolls painfully and you stifle a yelp by pushing your top row of teeth into the plush cushioning of your bottom lip. only, it seems that it’s unnecessary for you to catch your balance on the bedside table, but at that exact moment, the other occupant of the room reaches out and curls their fingers around your wrist in order to steady your balance.
this time, you do scream; a stressed noise that even makes you wince, and you yank your wrist free whilst simultaneously losing said balance and landing hard on the ground. the impact forces a shocked grunt from your mouth, but you’re not focused on that, because you’ve now realised that you’ve awoken—as naked as the day you were born—in the bed of someone you do not know.
except, the fates decide to prove you wrong, because the stranger breaks the silence, speaking in a low baritone that has served nothing but to aggravate you in every single possible way for the past decade.
‘what you doin’ down there?’
and then, a shock of dark hair—mixed with bleached strands of golden-yellow—appears within your line of sight as he peers over the edge of the mattress to eye your sprawled form on the floor. heavily lidded eyes dance across your naked skin, but you’re too busy gawking at him in horror to recognise the flicker of arousal that passes over his features. when your jaw finally has the mind to stop hanging open, it snaps shut and your brows lower, pulling together as you glower up at him, thrusting an accusatory index finger in his face.
‘you!’
and he, in typical hanma fashion, smirks. mockingly, he raises his own hand to point at his own bare chest, his other palm occupied by the weight of his head as he leans on it, appearing very comfortable with looking down at you. ‘me?’ he drawls, smirk widening when you finally recognise that you’re not wearing any clothes, and you rush to sit up, hands scrambling to grip the bedsheets and yank them from the bed in a desperate attempt to hide your nakedness from his greedy eyes. in doing so, though, you’d failed to think of the possibility that he’d be just as naked as you are, and your cheeks are lit aflame upon the sight of his cock, semi-hard against the crook of his thigh, nestled amongst a neatly trimmed patch of pubic hair. he isn’t nearly as embarrassed as you are—in fact, he only seems to be amused at your current predicament—and he simply lazes across the bare mattress, the corners of his eyes stretching slightly as he grins wide enough to bare his teeth at you. the sight makes your stomach twist with something that isn’t quite like disgust, but you promptly ignore it in favour of glaring at his stupid, smug face instead.
‘y-you!’ you splutter again, recognising the burning feeling of anger quickly settling in the centre of your chest. your voice is shrill as you demand, ‘what the hell are you doing here!?’
he looks at you pointedly, a single, black eyebrow quirking up toward his hairline, ‘i live here?’
you have nothing to say to that, so instead, you redirect your anger toward the very obvious elephant in the room—how in the hells did you end up in his room? his bed? when you voice these questions aloud, you watch his eyebrows pinch together in what you can only describe as thinly veiled annoyance.
‘what? you don’t remember?’
he sounds angrier than you’d expected, but it only fuels your own irritation, an emotion that isn’t foreign to you, especially when it concerns him. ‘obviously not,’ you snap at him, eyes wandering over the expanse of his thighs, all the way down to his ankles. you follow the lines and curves of his muscles as he pushes himself upright, eyes narrowing down at you.
it’s no secret that the two of you don’t get along. you’d immediately taken to disliking him when you first met as teenagers, and it appeared that he’d felt the same. then, you’d graduated from university, and you had made the mistake of thinking that you had finally escaped from seeing his insufferable face every damned day, only to have the misfortune of accepting a secretarial role at one of the largest law firms in the country, and being introduced to the senior partner, hanma-fucking-shuji, on the very first day. and, much like in his teenage years, hanma had made sure to live up to his infuriating nickname—the reaper—and has continued to make your life a living hell ever since.
and, of course, he hasn’t earned the role of senior partner for no reason. last night had been the celebration of yet another big win added to hanma’s ever growing repertoire, and this time, it had been the much awaited end to a very public murder trial that had stretched on for far too long, in your opinion. and despite the fact that you’d dramatically announced that you’d rather die than celebrate anything associated with the most insufferable man on the planet, it was kokonoi and mitsuya who had dragged you along anyway. you’d been tucked away in the corner, sitting on the plush velvet seat that had looked like it had cost more than your monthly rent, and when mitsuya had politely suggested that you at least fake a smile every once in a while, instead, you had grumbled every curse under the sun.
after that, you don’t remember a thing.
so, for reasons unimaginable to you—because, really, you had no idea as to why you would subject yourself any sort of company with him of all people—you’re now sat on hanma’s bedroom floor, wrapped in a thin, silken bedsheet that looks as obnoxious as his face does, absolutely mind boggled as to how you ended up in this situation.
you must have really pissed someone off in a past life.
begrudgingly, you meet hanma’s gaze, and in a voice so minute that he has to strain to hear you, you dare to ask, ‘uh…? did we—?’ you motion a hand between the two of you, and if possible, his frown deepens.
he leans closer to the edge of the bed, golden orbs staring down at you, hard. ‘you really don’t remember?’ you shrug, nose crinkling into a grimace. he pauses, gaze distant as if he’s seeing right through you, and then he scoffs out a, ‘huh.’ then, instead of answering you, he rises from the bed and steps over you to make his way over to the built in wardrobe that dominates the opposing wall. he doesn’t answer your question, but with the alarming lack of clothing involved throughout this entire exchange, and with the familiar ache that is nestled deep into the muscles of your thighs when you shift your legs, you already know the answer. dread spreads across your entire chest, and you belatedly think to yourself: what the fuck have i done?
hanma? of all people? hanma-fucking-shuji? how, and most importantly, why? why can’t you remember a thing from last night—surely you hadn’t drank that much? and why in the hells didn’t you go home with mitsuya, as you’d promised to earlier that night? at this thought, you frown, and you wonder if mitsuya even knows where you are. the thought of him panicking upon your disappearance makes your stomach fill with nauseating guilt, strands of hair gluing themselves to back of your neck that seems to get clammier and clammier with each passing second. your eyes skip across the vastly large room, searching for your handbag, which you hope that you’d had enough sense to bring with you, and your shoulders sag with relief when you spot it, dumped at the foot of the bed. however, before you’re able to make a beeline toward it, you’re distracted by hanma flinging one of the wardrobe doors open, and he looks at you from over the crook of his shoulder as if he hasn’t just flashed you an eyeful of his bollocks swinging between his legs, his expression touching upon an eerie shade of cold, ‘you should leave. wouldn’t want you to get caught with the reaper, now, would we?’
you don’t hesitate to do as he says. scrambling to find your clothes laying in a crumpled pile next to your handbag, you hurriedly pull the crinkled fabric of your work dress over your head, chucking your bra and stockings into the handbag and feet rushing you toward the bedroom door. you feel his eyes watching you from his spot by the wardrobe, your cheeks heating upon the realisation that he is yet to dress himself.
pausing by the door with your handbag haphazardly thrown over your shoulder, you loiter, pointedly refusing to look at his naked form as you mumble a very hesitant thanks. you may be mortified that it was him, of all people, that you chose to have a one night stand with—albeit one that you cannot remember—but you also can’t deny that it was also him that made sure you had somewhere safe to stay for the night. he could’ve easily kicked you out after having his way with you, and yet, for a reason far beyond your capabilities to think about right now, he let you stay within the comfort of his bed, which, you are loathe to admit that it is, in fact, a very comfortable bed.
in response, he echoes your thanks with a laugh that sounds anything but genuine. he jabs a thumb in the direction of the door, and orders, ‘i’ve got shit to do. fuck off.’
shame and irritation immediately boil your blood, and you have half a mind to give him the ear-thrashing that he has had coming for a long time, but right now, you’d love nothing more than to rid yourself of his presence, and so you turn away, yanking on the door handle and shuffling out into the hallway. you don’t look back to realise that he’s still staring after you.
you find your heels thrown on the floor by the entrance door, and you ignore the churning of your stomach when you retrieve one of them from its place on top of his evidently expensive pair of brogues. said heels are shoved onto your feet and as fast as your newly forming headache will allow, you leave the apartment, door slamming shut behind you.
once you’re waiting inside the elevator, you use the time to travel down six floors to straighten your clothes in a bid to make it look like that you’re not currently performing the walk of shame. and once you make it past a very awkward smile shared with the receptionist at the front desk, you’re out onto the street, one hand smoothing down the messy tendrils of hair that billow in the morning breeze, the other, dialling mitsuya’s phone number. the phone doesn’t even manage to ring twice when he picks up with an immediate urgency, and you are made aware that he’s been trying to call you all fucking night, where the hell have you been?! five minutes later and he’s still spewing on about how close he was to calling the police and reporting you missing, but as much as you love him for loving you enough to be this worried about you, you have far more pressing news to share.
‘’suya,’ you interrupt his angry ramble, pressing the button at the traffic lights as you await the signal to cross. ‘you’ll never guess what’s just happened—’
and for the next twenty minutes, you inform him of the circumstances of your whereabouts. by the time you finish, you’re already halfway through your journey home.
‘no fucking way,’ mitsuya blurts in a way that is very un-mitsuya-like.
he then proceeds to tell you that after sulking in the corner of the booth for majority of the party, you’d suffered an uncharacteristic bout of alcoholism, and had drank so much that both mitsuya and kokonoi had caught you—still somehow standing upright—sneaking off to the bathroom to vomit. however, after you’d fallen over for the third time, kokonoi had made the decision to send you home via taxi. you’d stepped outside to clear your head, and mitsuya, the gentleman that he is, had accompanied you as you’d sat on the curb with your head pressed between your knees. his role, surprisingly, had been replaced by none other than hanma-fucking-shuji, who had stepped out for a cigarette and had offered to watch you whilst mitsuya went back inside to say his goodbyes. but when he returned, neither you nor hanma were in sight.
‘i really thought this was gonna be like one of those documentaries where i’d keeping waiting for you to come home, but instead, the police find you dead in some dude’s bin,’ he says quietly down the phone, and despite the need to tell him that his imagination couldn’t be any more far-fetched, you feel the familiar burn when your eyes prickle with fresh tears. you swallow down the lump that forms in the back of your throat, mumbling a soft apology into the microphone, which he laughs off, voice shaking as he says, ‘it’s about time, anyway.’
your lips part, ready to question what he means by that, the wind picks up and billows the skirt of your dress around your thighs, and because of this, the air blows into a place where you really shouldn’t be able to feel the wind. this is when you are suddenly hit with the horrifying realisation that in your earlier panic, there is one item that you had failed to retrieve from hanma’s apartment.
your underwear.
卍
it wouldn’t be until three weeks have passed before you next encounter hanma.
for exactly sixteen days, and counting, you do your upmost to avoid bumping into the ‘absolute beanpole-freak of a man’ as baji had once summarised hanma’s stature when he’d decided to join in on your rant to kokonoi after overhearing you whilst passing by in the hallway.
the entire office is aware of the mutual rivalry between the two of you, which explains why most of them are baffled as to why you’ve suddenly halted your efforts to slander hanma’s name at every given opportunity, and have instead resorted to either paling by a few shades or stammering a lame excuse—which usually consists of very little coherency—and making a swift exit from the conversation. it was only after chifuyu had reported to the group that you’d said that you had to leave early because your pet cat was having a tooth removed, that kokonoi had later called that evening to tell you to ‘get your shit together’.
you don’t even own a pet cat, for fuck’s sake.
if you’re being completely honest, you’re surprised that you’ve managed to avoid him for this long. usually, you arrive at the office long before it opens to the public, which, unfortunately for you, is also the exactly time that hanma likes to arrive, usually wasting most of his free time to annoy you by interfering with your daily routine. once, after a particularly bitter argument in front of the entire office body—caused by him ‘accidentally’ tripping over and spilling freshly brewed coffee all over your work tablet—he’d spent the remainder of the day sporting a very large, bright red sore after you’d retaliated by throwing the desktop mouse straight at his ‘stupid fucking face’.
he’d thrown in an empty threat (or two) to have charges pressed against you, before retracting it when your eyes had glistened an interesting shade of pink, all with a smug grin plastered to that stupid fucking face of his.
but this week, you’ve resorted to travelling to work with baji and nahoya, who, by almost everyone’s standards, are late to work everyday.
it’s far from ideal to arrive to work after the clock reads past nine am, but you’d rather be reprimanded for tardiness than to risk the alternative.
but it seems that a few of your coworkers are becoming a tad concerned by your behaviour, as on the seventeenth day, you are called into your manager’s office. at first, you fear that you really are in trouble, but those anxieties are quickly quashed when he asks if you’re faring well. it is only after that you repeatedly insist that yes, you are fine, and thank you, but no, there’s no need for him to lighten your workload because you promise that you are not stressed, and yes, you’ll tell him if you need any assistance, and sorry, but you don’t know what’s on the lunch menu for wednesday, does he finally allow you to leave. after this, you do your best to act as normal as possible, but you clearly fail in doing so, because this only results in another call back to your manager’s office the very next day.
in the end, you throw yourself into your work, hoping that it’ll serve as a much needed distraction. it works for the majority of days eighteen, nineteen and twenty, but when you breach the third week, that is when your luck runs out.
you’ve stayed late to finish up some notes that haven’t yet been submitted, but when you need to use the printer, you are frustrated to find that it won’t switch on, despite checking all of the nearby plug socks, and pressing every damn button on the blasted machine. after fighting with the printer for a good fifteen minutes, eventually, you huff a curse under your breath and decide to leave to use the machine on the floor above you, but not without delivering a swift kick to the base on your way.
this late in the evening, the building is quiet—too quiet—and it’s almost a little eerie as you click, clack your way over to the elevator. there are probably only a few other stragglers within the entire building, so it doesn’t take long before the doors are sliding open to allow you inside. you reach the upper floor within seconds, which you could’ve easily made on foot, but you’re feeling far too lazy for that. once you locate the printer, you set to work on making sure that everything is switched on correctly. you’re balancing on the tips of your heels to reach the plug socket when, suddenly, there’s a large tattooed hand brushing the the curve of your waist, before it tightens to hold you in place. the other hand closes over your mouth to muffle the shriek that gets stuck in the back of your throat. pulse hammering, your spine stiffens when there’s a warm weight that presses to the round of your behind, trapping you against the printer.
a pair of lips ghost over the shell of your ear, ‘you’re avoidin’ me.’
you’d never have thought that you’d ever be relieved to hear hanma’s voice, but the second that you recognise him to not be a random stranger breaking into the office to have their way with you, your spine relaxes for a short moment before your relief quickly morphs into the shape of anger. enraged by his audacity to not only sneak through the office to catch you off guard, but it’s multiplied by the fact that he’s also dared to put his hands on you in a way that would look compromising to anyone who may walk past. you also despise the fact that after three weeks of working hard to avoid him, it’s all been undone with just one whisper into your ear.
you glance down and recognise the black inking of the kanji for ‘punishment’. how fitting.
despite the fact that he can’t see the look on your face, your eyes roll and before he sees it coming, you bend your right arm and elbow him as hard as your strength will allow. he grunts, hand falling from your face, but to your surprise, he maintains his hold on your waist, long fingers biting through the fabric of your blouse. the hand that displays the kanji for ‘sin’ traces up the length of your throat before it curls, index finger stroking along the length of your jugular. ‘behave,’ he murmurs, hot breath fanning the curve of your cheek as his lips follow, huffing a short laugh when you attempt to elbow him again. this time, he’s prepared and he doesn’t even flinch when the sharp edge of your elbow collides with his rib cage. instead, his fingers twitch against your neck, and he hums happily, ‘so fuckin’ sexy.’ he emphasises the last word with a nudge of his groin against your backside, accompanied with a phantom of a moan that you’d’ve missed if not for the fact that his lips are now pressed to your temple.
his words only fuel your irritation, which only just masks the fact that the position he has you in is starting to affect you. not that you’re ever going to admit it aloud—especially not to him.
‘fuck you,’ you spit at him from over your shoulder.
he sneers down at you, humming as he shifts his hips, and you hate the fact that when you feel the hardened shape of his length grinding into your thigh, it encourages the heat that is slowly beginning to burn between your legs. ‘fuck me?’ he repeats, sin now sliding over your skin to grip the back of your neck, roughly shoving you forward so that your chest presses into the hard surface of the machine below you. there, he easily holds you in place with one hand, and he towers over you from behind, hips pressed flushed to your backside. ‘you’ve fucked me before,’ he hisses, punishment trailing a long index finger down the length of your spine, which, to your horror, instinctively arches to encourage his touch. you almost hope think that he’s going to grab at your ass, but instead, he croons mockingly into the shell of your ear, ‘or don’t you remember?’
you freeze under him, recognising the barely concealed fury that is laced between each syllable that leaves his mouth.
so that’s what this is about.
you don’t get to dwell on the subject of his bruised ego, because he’s grabbing at you once again, spinning you around until you’re both stood chest-to-chest. you barely have a second to crane your neck to glare up at him before he’s gripping your jaw and angling your head so that your neck stretches towards him. your hands fly to shove at his chest, to no avail, because he’s built like a brick wall, apparently.
instead, you resort to simply slapping his hand away, ‘don’t fucking touch me.’
he’s silent as he glowers down at you through the lenses of his glasses, regarding your expression for just a few, short seconds, before he steps back. you dare not acknowledge the disappointment you feel at the loss of his warmth. just when his stare starts to feel a tad uncomfortable, he smooths a hand through his hair, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. he’s frowning, lips parting as if he has something that he wishes to say, before he clearly thinks the better of it as his mouth closes again. he nods once, whether to you or to himself, you’re not sure.
‘fine,’ he says shortly.
and then before you’re able to respond, he’s turning on his heel and disappearing down the hall. you stare, long after he’s walked out of your line of sight. the heat that’s built deep within your gut eventually simmers, but it takes longer that you care for, and it takes even longer for you to remember what you were doing on this floor in the first place. twenty minutes later, you’ve finished your work for the night and you’re just locking the office door before you make your way home, when one thought repeatedly circles through your mind:
you forgot to ask for your underwear back.
卍
somehow, it happens again.
this time, you wake to a finger stroking over the curve of your cheek and tickling the baby hairs back from your forehead. the sensation makes you stir, brows pulling together as your eyes slowly peel open. exhausted, your eyelids are heavy, and it takes a few blinks to recognise that, once again, you’ve awoken in a bed that doesn’t belong to you.
this time, however, your foggy mind is able to put together the blurred memories from the previous night:
you’d attended a dinner with your colleagues, who’d later suggested continuing the night at the club down the road. it’d taken some convincing, but you’d agreed, only to immediately regret it because during the short walk down the road, you’d bumped into another office party who, by chance, were also making their way over to the very same club. you hadn’t recognised any of these people, except for the one golden-eyed man who had glanced at you once, twice, before turning his cheek and pretending that you weren’t there. that had been fine with you; two of you could play that game.
except, this game didn’t last for very long.
once the newly-extended party had reached the club, it hadn’t taken all of one hour before the two of you had engaged in a heated argument outside of the club, and in one moment, you were yelling every insult under the sun and in the next, he was backing you against the wall and shoving his tongue down your throat.
a warm puff of breath is fanned across your face and your nose crinkles.
not again, you want to cry aloud, but your words die on the tip of your tongue when you blink up to see a familiar pair of golden-coloured eyes already focused on you, apprehension pinching his brows together. you’re unable to stop yourself from sighing, eyes drifting to where the bedsheets pool at his bare waist. you don’t have to look under the fabric to know that you’re also not wearing any clothes. you decide that you lack the energy to start an argument this early in the morning, so instead, you simply lay there with your eyes closed.
lying this close to him, you can hear each draw of breath into his nostrils and you feel each exhale blowing gently across the side of your face. it’s peaceful, despite the fact that you’re a little unnerved by his uncharacteristic quietude. but, all too soon, he breaks the silence by shifting next to you, and the mattress first dips, then raises as it eases without his weight. you listen to the bedroom door opening and swinging shut, and only then do your eyes peel open. you’re alone in the bedroom, and for a reason unknown to you, your heart hammers away in your chest. just like the last time, there’s an ache set deep within the muscles of your thighs, and you can’t stop your mind from drifting to recall the night before. you’re so deeply immersed into your thoughts that you almost miss the sound of his footsteps approaching the room. when he enters, the door hasn’t even fully closed before he’s burying himself back under the covers, the full length of his body pressing as close to you as possible. you have half the mind to shove him away, but you are betrayed by your own body, which welcomes the arm that snakes under your neck and pulls you closer. your right cheek is smushed into his shoulder, the rough impact making your teeth knock together.
‘’m tired,’ he grumbles, low voice even deeper when thick with sleep. the sound vibrates across his chest and dances down your eardrum, your own breath tickling its way across his collarbone. in response to him, you hum a noncommittal noise.
the fact that you’re cuddling up to the one man who you had sworn to hate for the rest of your life is one that makes your gut churn with the niggling feeling that this isn’t how things work between the two of you. the majority of the past decade has been spent fighting, shouting and cursing each other to hell and back, and although your life would be much easier without the stress that is hanma shuji, you also can’t deny that since you’d awoken in his bed all those weeks ago, it’s all you’ve thought about. he’s insufferable, yes, and on more than one occasion, you’ve loved nothing more than to slap away the smug smile that is perpetually glued to his face. but even you must admit that something has changed between the two of you. what, exactly, you cannot be sure, but you aren’t given the chance to question it, because the pads of his fingers are bumping under your chin and when you blink at him through sleep-laden eyelids, his gentle expression is one that you’d never thought him capable of.
‘tired,’ he repeats, his own eyelids drooping as his gaze lowers to your mouth, ‘don’t wanna fight.’
and that’s when you realise that you’re tired too.
it must’ve shown on your face because something flickers within those golden orbs of his, and then he’s tilting his head so that his lips ghost over yours. there’s a soft brush, before they press to yours properly, his fingers firming against your chin as he holds you in place. to your surprise, he kisses you lazily, very much unlike how he’d kissed you last night, and as much as you’d enjoyed what you’d received the night before, this kiss makes your toes curl. his tongue probes to caress yours, and although you probably taste of day-old alcohol and the stale flavour of sleep, he breathes a moan when you return his efforts.
your skin is enveloped with the smell of him, the taste of him, the warmth of him, and it isn’t long before you begin to feel your pulse throbbing between your legs. his hand moves from your chin to stroke his thumb to the length of your neck, and you press closer, legs shifting beneath the bedsheets. as if sensing your hesitation, he encourages your intentions by slipping one long leg between yours and suddenly, his arousal presses to the crook of your thigh, his length burning as hot as you are. your clit throbs harder, and you move so that you’re propped by your elbow, now leaning over him. this position allows you to kiss him deeper, your free hand reaching to push back the longer strands of hair from his face.
his forehead feels feverish beneath your fingers, and soon, his kisses burn as hot as his skin does.
a hand strokes your thigh and then tugs. ‘c’mere,’ he murmurs into your mouth. he positions your body over his own, your thighs straddling his hips. your cunt is pressed flush against his cock and he’s unable to muffle the groan that escapes him when his tip glides through your slick folds until the blunt edge bumps your clit. you whimper against his lips before his tongue languidly slides along yours. you lose yourself to his attentions and when his hips begin to slowly roll underneath yours, you pull your mouth from his to mewl quietly into the crook of his neck.
the head of his cock repeatedly knocks your clit and one particularly harsh thrust has you crying out a tad louder than you’d expected. the sound has the corners of his mouth curling upward, and he doubles his efforts, hips canting harder with each thrust. you keen, eyes screwed shut tight as your fingers cling to his shoulders, and you moan his name, to which he responds with a low growl and a nip to your collarbone. your arousal coats his erection, which aids the one thrust that has him prodding at your hole. it clenches instinctively, and then, it’s stretching with the thickness of his girth as he fills you.
once sheathed, his hips still, his hands stroking and tickling wherever that he can reach, which, with those long arms of his, is everywhere. your tongue is inside his mouth once more, your fingers clutching, tangling and pulling at his hair and he groans, girth twitching deep inside you. his hips jump once more, and then his length is caressing your inner walls, and each time he sheathes himself inside you, your clit drags along the texture of his pubic hair, the sensation clenching your walls tight around him. his breath stutters and he moans, ‘fuck, baby, just like that.’ his paces quickens, and his voice trembles with his efforts as he whispers filthy promises into your ear. ‘gonna fuckin’ fill you,’ he coos happily, ‘you gonna let me breed you, huh?’ you clench around him again, ‘f-fuck, baby, pretty little pussy’s gonna fuckin’ milk me dry.’
he pants heavily, and the power behind his thrusts makes your thighs shake in an effort to stay upright. the room is filled with the clapping of his pelvis colliding with your own, his balls slapping your ass as he plunges deep into you. you can do nothing more than desperately clutch at him as he drills into you, the heavy weight of his cock claiming the hot cavern of your cunt as its own. rapidly, you reach your peak and as you tip over the edge, you exclaim your pleasure around the syllables of his name. this apparently pleases him, and his biceps flex when his arms wrap around your middle, holding you right against him. he continues to rut into you, your cream staining a white ring around the base of his girth.
he groans a long, drawn out noise that has you suspecting that he must be nearing his limit.
you couldn’t be more wrong.
just as you’re teetering on the edge of another rapidly building orgasm, it’s interrupted by the sudden schlick of his cock tugging free from your hole. your surprise comes in the form of a sharp yelp, only to morph into a squeak when he flips the both of you over and rises to sit on his haunches.
‘get on your knees,’ he orders, and usually, when you aren’t drunk on arousal, you would’ve reprimanded him. but, this time, his bossiness only turns you on more, and you scramble to turn away from him to position you body so that your knees dig into the mattress. a large, warm hand presses to the small of your back, guiding you until it arches, your press pressing into a pillow. ‘baby, baby, baby,’ he moans, fingers dancing over the sensitive skin on the back of your thighs. you’ve never been one for pet names, but the way he praises you makes your clit tighten when it pulses. there’s a pause, and you feel your skin prickle with the familiar sensation of being watched, and for the first time, you feel self conscious. but, when you try to curl in on yourself, you’re stopped by the mattress shifting once more, and then he’s pressing the flat of his tongue over your slit, and sucking. a breath hitches in the back of your throat, and if not for the strong grip holding your legs apart, you would’ve snapped your thighs shut together. instead, his tongue encourages you to rock your hips, and his teeth graze your clit, throbbing an electrifying heat throughout your entire body.
‘oh my god—shuji,’ his name slips from between your lips before you can stop it, and upon realising what you’ve just said, you freeze. the tongue delving between your folds, however, does not. he’s loud and messy as he sucks at your clit, and he hums, the vibrations making your toes curl. at some point, he gives your clit a break, and instead plunges his tongue into your hole as far as it’ll reach. this stretch feels a tad strange, but still just as good, and you cry out when he repeats the action, curling his tongue inside you.
already, your second orgasm is building and you chant the words, ‘gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna—a-ah—!’
your entire body shudders, and the pillow muffles your scream before it is ripped away from under your head and you have no choice but to sob out into the open air.
your pussy clenches around nothing, and hanma watches your essence creams out from your tight hole, dripping a puddle onto his bedsheets, his palming fisting at his cock as he does so. licking at his lips, he rises above you, and smiles when he grinds the blunt head of his cock past the opening of your cunt, and watches as you greedily suck him back in. he moans along with you as he fucks into you over and over again, cursing when your cream messily marks his cock as yours.
fuck, he thinks he’s in love.
his eyes bore into the centre of your back, and he’s momentarily distracted by the thought of just how long he’s dreamt of doing this with you. distracted by the memory of how fucking embarrassed and hurt he’d felt when he’d finally gotten you into his bed and you hadn’t remembered how you’d gotten there. distracted by the memory of the lonely nights that followed your avoidance of him, his hands no longer being good enough to placate the ache in his chest during those lonely nights, all because nothing—no-one—has ever made him cum like you do. ten years, it has taken to get you to want him like how he’s wanted you all this time. ten fucking years, he’s pathetically lusted and pined for you, and now that you’re finally letting him touch you in the way he’s wanted to touch you since you were both nineteen years old, he’s no longer willing to let you pretend that there’s nothing between you.
a harsh thrust has your fingers curling into the sheets, back arching further as your hips start to rock in time with him. he breathes hard between his teeth, fingers bruising the soft skin of your hips as he pistons himself so deep inside you that you squeal, a shrill, elated noise that makes his balls tighten with the promise of his approaching orgasm. he doesn’t want it to end yet, so he slows in a attempt to last longer, but you shatter his plans when his birth name is panted from your kiss-swollen lips and with that, a yell of euphoria bursts from his mouth. his cock jerks and he breeds your cavern full of his seed, the thick, white ropes painting your inner walls white. you drain him for everything that he has, pussy repeatedly clenching and unclenching, milking every drop from him. he struggles to catch his breath for a long time afterwards, pulse drumming away in his ears. when his blood finally simmers, he slowly pulls from the addicting heat of you with a soft moan of protest. his cock is still half hard, weakly twitching with interest when a large glob of his seed breeches your hole and he watches, awed, as it slides between your cum soaked folds before it joins the mess that you made on the bed earlier.
he licks his lips, and your taste still clings to the inside of his cheeks. eyelids drooping, he relishes in your flavour, and he’s tempted to have another taste. his prick encourages the idea with another jerk, the muscle jumping between his legs as it furiously engorges with blood. again. he waits until you regain the energy to move, before he tries to kiss you again with a hesitancy that makes your brows quirk upwards. he’s half expecting you to reject him, so he’s pleasantly surprised when you readily accept his mouth moulding to the shape of yours. the sliding of your fingers across his scalp coaxes a low hum from the back of his throat, and he easily pulls you onto his lap, arms tightening around your waist.
he’s spent over a decade trying to get your attention, and now that he finally has it, he’s going to make sure you remember this time.