Satoru Gojo has one very unfair advantage when it comes to your blindfold kink: his fucking Six Eyes.
“I want to blindfold you.”
Satoru paused mid-stretch.
“…You do realize,” he said slowly, voice dripping with amusement, “that I’m already wearing one, right?”
You groaned into the pillow.
“That’s the problem, Satoru! I want to be the one putting it on you. I want the control. I want you not being able to see because of me.”
“Aww. Is my poor little baby frustrated?” He rolled onto his side. “You finally get the strongest sorcerer in your bed and the one kink you can’t scratch is ‘take away his vision.’ because is physically incompatible with his stupid powers. Tragic”
You smacked his naked chest. “Shut up. It’s not funny.” Then you sat up, frustrated. “And the worst part is, even if I put one on you, it wouldn’t even work. You’d still be able to see everything. It’d be completely pointless.”
Satoru went still. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he reached up and slowly tugged his own blindfold down until it rested around his neck. “There,” he said softly.
You stared at him, waiting for the usual teasing. Instead, he leaned in closer, voice dropping into something quieter.
“…You’re right, I would still see” he said “But you still want to do it anyway, don’t you?”
“…Yeah.”
A small, crooked smile tugged at his lips.
“Then put it on me.”
You blinked. “But you’ll still—”
“I know.” He caught your wrist gently and guided your hand toward the black fabric on his neck. “I’ll still see every single thing. But I’ll let you put it on me anyway. And I’ll keep my hands right here—” he flattened them on the mattress beside him, dramatic and obedient, “—until you say otherwise.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Even if it’s useless… you still get to cover my eyes. You still get to pretend. And I’ll play along for as long as you want. Limited-time offer for very pouty frustrated girlfriends only.”
You stared at him for a long second. Then you climbed into his lap, grabbed the blindfold from around his neck, and carefully slid it back up over his eyes.
“…There,” you said, proud. “Blindfolded by me.”
His head tilted slightly toward the sound of your voice. Even though you both knew perfectly well he could still see everything.
“Mmh. Helpless,” he murmured, voice warm with amusement. “Completely at your mercy. Totally vulnerable. Please be gentle with me.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“It’s actually called roleplay.”
You hummed. Then, completely deadpan:
“Next time, you’ll be roleplaying with a gag in your mouth.” you said casually.
Satoru’s smile vanished.
“…Wait. What?”
You blinked innocently.
“What?”
“I—” He paused, visibly recalculating. “You have a gag fantasy too?”
“It just occurred to me.” She shrugged. “You don’t have the Six Mouths power, so that one should actually work.”
“…The what?”
“The Six Mouths.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Well, you have Six Eyes.”
“That is not how powers work.”
“I just know that next time we’re skipping the eyes and going straight for the mouth. Period.”
You leaned in and started kissing his neck, and all Satoru could think was—
Why the fuck am I actually wondering how Six Mouths would work?
his voice reverberated against your whimpers, possessing a soft lilt to his husky tone. his lips ran its course on your pussy. not even eating you out, just a damn tease.
his lower lip dragged itself, tracing your flushed folds. your wetness smeared on his lips. he pressed the gentlest, firmest kiss on to your throbbing cunt.
your hips lifted, just a little to meet with his mouth again but all he did was let out a chuckle at your desperation. “now, now, let’s be patient, alright?”
“spread your legs a bit more. can you do that for me, baby?” he blew a cold gush of soft air directly on to your clit, making you gasp, complying instinctively with his request.
he straightened himself up, away from your pussy, and tugged his trousers down— unveiling his thick, robust and undeniably hard of a cock, smeared with pre-cum on the pinkish tip.
prominent veins decorated his cock. the entirety of it was bruised a regal shade of purple and blue, purely from restraint, agony of not penetrating the pretty hole.
one hand of his wrapped itself around the base, slowly jerking it up and down sensually, coating his girth with the pre-cum from his. his other hand had adjusted his hair, pushing the wet strands of hair back. “look at me, baby. see what you do to me, sweetheart?”
“you’ve got your man so damn fucked, huh. doesn’t happen that often” you could truly see it, his face flushed, crimson injecting itself in to him, as blood was coursing to his head with profuse intensity.
his canine bit into his lower lip as he slightly lowered himself to you, a spread of his torrid tempered hand lay on your red marked thighs while his knees pressed on to the mattress’ softness.
the tip of his cock maliciously kissed your ready hole, only a little, not entering like you had desired for. his hold on his cock tightened as he vehemently guided it up and down your raw pussy.
your juices coated his length as his tip steered through your cunt, drenching on the mess, thrusting between your folds.
one hand of his had pinned your thigh around his waist while the other was too lascivious, shamelessly spread your pussy lips apart with his thumb and index fingers. “hm, yeah, look at her. so wet for my cock. yeah, makes so much sense, doesn’t it baby?” he raises one of his eyebrows while a smirk graces his wintry face. “so damn wet for me. nothing new though”
he was so egotistical, especially now seeing the condition you were in. cheeks burning with an impaling desire, mouth parted to whine and moan, cunt wet enough to completely deep throat him.
his cock, still idly dousing itself with your wetness in a cadenced pattern, a rhythm curated by him only. one that had a burning contact of skin on skin but deprived you of pleasure.
and as if he couldn’t get any more cocky— he slowly dragged his meat from your succulent hole to your lonely clitorus bud as he repeatedly slapped it, then, slowly nudged on it. the slit of his tip incessantly nudging around your clit had you instantaneously moaning his name in stutters. “i know, the dick’s too good huh?”
he was stimulating your pussy so well. consistently dragging the head of his cock between your labia, arrogantly chuckling every time you moaned in dire need. “fuck yeah, want me so bad don’t you? of course you do. why wouldn’t you?”
he had mockingly put it inside but slipped out of quick, a fake pout formed on his face. “shit– oops sorry, can’t put it in, cutie. it’s too big for you. what should we do? hm?” he feigned a sad look while teasing your entrance. how annoying.
“g-god, you’re so full of yourself” you, somehow, muttered through your gritted teeth which had earned a chuckle from him.
gojo used to think he liked everyone. even the pretty popular girls that just used him for help on their homework and the frat idiots who only invited him to parties because he was friends with geto. he was a good person. the kind of guy people went to when they needed something. a gracious genius with a heart of gold.
and then he met you.
annoying attractive you.
stuck in a study group together and forced to watch you twirl your hair around your finger while you leaned over to look at whatever nanami was typing on his laptop. chirping away clueless at his locked jaw, indignation bubbling up as you proudly presented an incorrect fact about digimon, eyes glittering with excitement gojo couldn't resist the urge to squash.
"erm, actually-"
he expected you to look crushed when he systematically explained every single thing wrong with what you just said. but no, you just nodded along, thanking him with a perky chirp that sent a stab of embarrassment through his carefully crafted mask. pushing up his thick glasses with a huff, grumbling a you're welcome he really didn't mean.
you pissed him off.
and he couldn't even pinpoint why.
maybe it was the way you didn't care about being wrong. all those interests you seemingly shared that you couldn't even get your details correct about. or how sweetly you smiled at him no matter how much of a dickhead he was when he mocked you for it.
but the only thing that made him feel remotely better was watching the cracks in your cute facade start to form with each consecutive jab, how the light in your eyes dimmed and your lips started to curl down when you saw him, the way you began to leave study sessions early or sit as far from him in class as you could. excusing yourself from conversations, chewing on your bottom lip whenever gojo opened his mouth.
geto told him to stop when he accidentally knocked your books off the table.
nanami called him an asshole when he pointed out that your notes were kinda sloppy.
he might've dropped it. only showed up to the study group when you weren't there. shut his mouth and stewed in his irrational irritation when you bent over to pick up your glittery pen in some ridiculously short skirt.
but then he had the cruel misfortune to be assigned your partner in a project worth far too much of his grade for him to not give a shit. and you, of course, wouldn't take the fucking hint when he said he'd rather do it by himself than risk you screwing it up.
he couldn't stand you.
the last place on the planet he wanted you to be was in his dorm.
so, uh, how the hell did he end up like this?
your glossy lips wrapped around his throbbing cock, his swollen tip ramming into the back of your throat as he threaded his fingers through your hair, his glasses nearly falling off his face as he fucked your mouth. one hand on his keyboard as he attempted to focus on the work at hand, even though his eyes kept drifting to where you were tucked beneath his desk.
"i-is this all you're good for?" he groaned, gritting his molars as he pulled you by your loose ponytail, tugging you back and forth, nearly whining at the greedy way you were sucking and slurping around him.
you couldn't speak.
but he took your weak moan as a yes anyway, the reverberations rolling through his body as his abs reflexively tightened, itching for a quickly impending release.
fuck. it wasn't fair.
you shouldn't look so pretty like this. so goddamn gorgeous with a mouth full of him and drool leaking from the corner of your mouth, rolling down your chin as you eagerly serviced him.
"is this your part of the project?" he sarcastically mumbled, struggling not to stutter when you were taking him so perfectly. tongue pressing up against his pulsing veins, letting out little gagging sounds when he fucked you faster.
"mm," you whimpered for him, and he was cumming down your throat before he could so much as warn you, thick ropes of it spurting out as he let out a filthy groan of your name.
sure, he could probably finish the project in a few hours. but maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing if it, uh, took a couple days to complete.
"stupid girl," he muttered under his breath, his voice almost cracking as he sucked in ragged gasps.
after rough sex, satoru tenderly (and possessively) treats your sore & irritated body with balm
⟢
you spread your legs for him earlier, so how come it feels more embarrassing now?
"what's wrong? earlier, you were begging for more, now you can't even look at me while im taking care of you?"
nope. you couldn't even bear to look at him with raw vulnerability as he worked you out down there.
satoru was positioned between your thighs, opening your folds with two fingers as he applied the balm with his other hand. his touch was light, almost clinical as it ran over your inner labia. the skin he spent all night ravaging was now getting taken care of.
"it's just skin, baby. there's nothing you haven't already shown me a dozen times tonight."
a low hum escaped his lips as he dipped his thumb in the balm, bringing it back to your vulva as he rubbed it on your swollen clit. the clit he spanked over and over, completely fraying its nerves.
"no..its not—," you choked on your breath, shaking your head. "its not really..just skin.."
when he pulled back your clit hood and used his thumb to apply a gentle, cooling swipe on the direct bud, you realized your weak protests meant nothing. useless whimpers and whines fell on deaf ears.
he stilled his movements for a moment before stroking again.
"i know its not," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. "that's why you're acting like this, isn't it?"
you didn't have an answer. not when you were completely exposed to him in the most intimate and vulnerable way ever.
both of his elbows kept your thighs open to make sure he could see every part of you, every part of the flesh he had been shown tonight. your clit was an angry red beneath this thumb, still throbbing and twitching from every light touch. your inner labia were completely chafed by the brutal friction of his cock, the skin raw and glistening in the substance of the balm.
a deep sigh escaped him, a small pout tugged on his lips when he realized how rough he may have been. it was a repeated motion—dip his thumb in the balm, apply it on your vulva.
when the pad of his thumb smoothed the crimson part of your inner fold, your thighs trembled and clamped from the touch despite how careful it was.
"nope. absolutely not."
his voice wasn't angry, but it had the same authority he used when around others. before you could full close up, he pushed his elbows deeper on your thighs, applying just enough pressure to keep them wide open.
"don't close up. if i don't fix this now, you're gonna complain tomorrow about how much it stings."
the sight of satoru casually applying vulva balm in the area between your thighs was infinitely more embarrassing than him pounding like a beast inside you.
this was softer, more careful compared to the aggressive sex you had earlier. this wasn't the side of satoru you were usually exposed to, therefore every touch felt like a blow to your ego. not because he was softening up, but because you felt like a baby getting a bandaid on a boo boo.
in this situation, there was no move or retort you could say that could switch the power dynamic.
"remind me why you're doing this again?" your tone was seasoned with a pinch of sassiness beneath the fluster.
satoru looked up at you. he watched the way you rolled your eyes and dreadfully dragging your hands down your face, admiring the sight of you so helpless beneath him.
he couldn't help but let out a genuine chuckle at your usual attitude. "because you're mine..thats why."
his touch became softer, slower, more deliberate as he massaged the balm in, ensuring the substance absorbed in your irritated skin.
"and who else is going to handle you when you get like this? you'd probably try to walk off the soreness and end up face planting in the middle of the hallway." he added, a small smirk tugging on his lips.
"but i'm independent, aren't i? i'm a grown woman and you're treating me like a baby."
the fire in his eyes started to return as you retorted. his thumb moved idly and slowly like all his attention came back to your words.
"sweetheart, you were begging for me to ruin you ten minutes ago. i don't think 'independent' was exactly the word coming out of your mouth when you were wrapped around me."
he opened your folds, checking that he treated all the spots he ruined. then he leaned forward to place a tender kiss on your temple.
"you're a grown woman, yeah," he continued. "but even grown women need someone to clean up the mess they make."
"you're the one who made me a mess. is that my responsibility?"
satoru froze. he watched the way your eyes narrowed when you looked at him, defensive and fierce.
a slow grin spread across across his face.
"fuck, you're good." he breathed out, his voice rough with amusement. "technically.. no. it's not your responsibility to clean up after me. but i'm not asking you to take responsibility, baby. i'm telling you i'm taking it."
the humiliating, ego-bruising balm session finally ended. he crawled forward, draping a heavy arm over your waist as he dropped on the bed next to you.
"that's the difference between us," he murmured. his gaze was noticeably softer, tracing the shape of your lips. "you think this is about who's in charge or who owes what. but when i fuck you, i ruin you. the mess, the soreness, the way you can't even stand tomorrow? thats all mine. and since it's mine, i'm going to be the one to fix it."
right.
the tight knot of embarrassment in your stomach was replaced by the soft flutter of butterflies. despite how obnoxious this man could be, he always had a way to remind you that he wasn't as irresponsible as he displayed.
with you, he had the chance to strip away all the armor he wore to protect the parts of him that stayed reserved strictly for you.
vulnerability was so often viewed as a weakness. but watching him rest his head against your shoulder, you wondered if it was actually the absolute purest way to love someone.
"then have me," you whispered, feeling the heaviness of sleep pull you under. "have all of me."
.
.
.
the dialogue def might be the strongest part of my piece. after multiple daydreaming sessions in my life and creating fake conversations, it led up to this.
im pretty upset about how predictable my sentence structures are. im going to need to read a lot more🥹🥹
not to rain on anyone's parade but i miss when jujutsu kaisen x reader fics were actually well-characterised and not just slapping onomatopoeia and synonyms for cock together and calling it a day 🥲
summary: zuko's straight-forwardness in appreciating the attractive qualities of the lone stranger saved by aang has you curious on whether you could get him to spill on what he thinks of you. (no major movie spoilers)
"He's very attractive." Zuko admits, eyes unblinking as he stares at the unconscious stranger.
The entire team whips their heads to stare at Zuko in unconcealed shock.
"What?" Zuko mutters, gaze lingering on the surprised expressions casted onto him, before eventually landing on yours. "He is. It's all in the bone structure."
You blink, unable to process his straight-forward words that landed on you like a gut punch. You've never considered it, the fact that Zuko also found others attractive.
It seems like a completely, silly notion now that the thought has verbalised itself in your mind. Of course Zuko would notice if others were considered attractive. Maybe it just never occurred to you in all your years of knowing him—of also finding him—
You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look away from his prying gaze, confusion alight in his eyes from your taken-aback expression.
If he's unconsciously considered the attractiveness of this stranger... has he ever—no, this should not be your priority. It doesn't matter what he thinks of you, it's not like it would change a thing. He's practically admitted it non-verbally through that monotonous admission of his, that a person's looks is assessed by him in a completely, impersonal standpoint.
Bone structure? You shouldn't be curious. Knowing Zuko, he might accidentally insult your structure if you asked.
The curiosity does not disappear. In fact, it digs deeper and deeper into the crevices of your mind—subconsciously affecting your attitude around Zuko.
It doesn't help that it's painfully obvious that he's noticed your strange behaviour ever since his comment. Once, when his hand had come up to your shoulder to alert you that everyone was boarding the ship—and your entire body jumped in response. Again, when you completely blanked out when he asked if you would like some firecracker buns.
It's not like you wanted to hyper-focus on his observation on purpose. It's just that after years of knowing him and pushing down that sub-concious attraction—of not allowing yourself to even see him as anything more than the Zuko you know, the rebound impact of all your resurfacing emotions combined with his lingering presence is far too much.
Zuko isn't the type to beat around the bush either, one of the rare habits his uncle hasn't passed onto him. In a moment of needed reprieve, your attempt at regaining your composure fails spectacularly when you find yourself in a stand-still, cornered in the back of the ship—one firecracker bun in his hand as an offering.
"Have I said something to make you uncomfortable?"
Zuko's gaze is akin to a puppy's, wide-eyed and brows furrowed. Afraid that he's done something wrong, overlooked the choice of his words once again and destroyed the atmosphere without realising.
Straight to the point as ever, you'd appreciate it more if he had given you a few more minutes to come up with a reasonable excuse. Something more plausible than 'Do you find me attractive?', a lingering question that should've remained buried in the soil that you departed from nearly an hour ago.
"Not exactly." Taking the firecracker bun from his hand, the crumbs coat your fingers. You needed something to muffle your words, anything to distract you. It's easier to focus on the lingering spice that melts into your tongue, rather than his unblinking stare.
"So—I did say something." His mouth parts, a slight tilt downward in the corner of his lip. "Or I've made you uncomfortable."
There was no winning with him. Swallowing your last bite, you brush the crumbs against your sleeve, the slouch of your posture a key sign of surrender, your invisible white flag waving at the sight of his increasingly dubious expression.
"The first one." You admit with a sigh. "Earlier—"
He leans in subtly, a habit he does when he's listening attentively, and the luscious wave of his bangs brushes against your knuckles. His amber eyes pierce through you, and the words practically die off your tongue.
Why is he looking at you like that?
It isn't fair that he has such an effect on you. You still remember the old days, when he had a worser temper instead of the softened expression that lingers warmly on you. Plus, that horrible haircut, a singular ponytail with the rest of his hair shaved off forever engrained in your mind. Even recalling the image doesn't help calm your thundering heartbeat when the Zuko in front of you is so—overwhelming.
"You were saying?" He prods gently.
You swallow, averting your gaze. "When you mentioned... about attractiveness. Was that like—a spur of the moment kind of thing, or do you have a first impression for everyone you meet?"
His brows furrow for a moment, before recognition lights his golden gaze. "Ah—that."
"Right, that." You feel the seat warming beneath you in your embarrassment, a hallucination of senses in your sudden need to escape his assessing gaze. He barely even remembers his comment, and here you are, still obsessively prying over it.
"I was only answering Toph's question." He states. "No one was stating the obvious."
"The obvious." You muse. "Do you assess the attractiveness of everyone you meet?"
"I suppose it depends." He mutters, hand rubbing over his chin in consideration. "If it was during a battle, I wouldn't be prioritising on considering the opponent's appearance. As compared to someone knocked out on the ground, it gives me plenty of time."
You barely resist a snort. Only he could treat a topic like a person's attractiveness like one of his battle strategies. "I suppose you didn't have time during our first meeting then."
As soon as the words leave your mouth, both you and Zuko freeze. Your lips clamp shut, an immediate wince shuddering through your frame. Cat's out of the bag, you suppose.
"Never mind." You wave it off, your own laugh echoing much too loudly through your ears. "It wasn't like I was wondering—well, maybe I was. You just sprung it out of nowhere earlier, and I got... curious. You don't have to answer—"
"I did." He cuts you off unceremoniously.
You blink, his vague words echoing in the thin distance between the two of you. "What?"
He swallows, and for once, he's the one flustered in this conversation. "I did notice, during our first meeting."
No way. Your first meeting with Zuko was anything but pretty. You remember being covered in sweat, grime, and ashes coating your clothes as he shot flames at you from his palms. The twisted grimace on his face when you had him writhing under your grip, as he loudly declared his revenge on you, rupturing your eardrums with all his yelling.
"You mean—" You barely resist a grin stretching on your lips. "—when I pinned you down on your airship, and you were spitting death threats into my ear."
"Yes, that." His long locks cover his ears now, but you can bet the rims are reddened from the reminder. "You were formidable."
Formidable. No, that wasn't enough. His sudden focus on the floorboards of his ship made it obvious that he was simplifying his observation.
"I was gaining the winning hand." You state out-right, disbelief coating your tone. "And you had time to notice?"
A restrained sigh escapes Zuko's gritted teeth, already regretting his slip of tongue.
"What of the angle? Does the Fire Lord recall my bone structure during our first battle too, when I pinned you to the floor?" You tease.
He scoffs in a light-hearted manner, shoulder lightly bumping into yours. "It was the first time anyone had pinned me down. I wasn't exactly given another view to look at."
"Was the view bad then?" You prod.
"Not at all." He answers absentmindedly—quickly without hesitation.
Your lips part, speechless. Zuko immediately separates his shoulder from yours, a bashful expression overtaking his features.
"Objectively." He states hurriedly, waving his arms. "I was expecting to find the Avatar at the time, not... you."
The way he says it, the almost breathless note that leaves his lips. You devour it hungrily, now being the one to lean in, prying.
"And how did you find me, Zuko?" You ask earnestly.
He huffs in defeat. His softened gaze finally meets yours again, his eyes roaming over your features, ones that he's familiarised with for years, and yet... it still takes the breath out of him. "...You were the most beautiful person I've ever sparred with."
Oh... wow. You didn't expect that.
"You were threatening to kill me." You recall in disbelief.
"I was multi-tasking." He mutters, ashamed.
Your intended snort escalates into a cackle, unable to contain yourself. "I would have never guessed that from the way you glared at me. So full of shame—and destroyed pride."
"What about you?" He asks in a hurry, though his tone drops towards the end in hesitation—hinting his regret in the wrong change in topic. He grimaces, gaze dropping to his tightened fists over his lap. "...Did you find my scar hideous?"
Surprise colours your features.
Immediately shaking your head, you're at a loss for words on how to convey just how off-course he was on his guess. How could you ever find Zuko hideous? Your heart barely survived your visits to the Fire Nation, not when their own Fire Lord always insisted on attending to your presence personally, even when it arose suspicion of your shared bond with him, to have him so easily distracted when you arrived on his lands.
Even now, he's overwhelming your vision. Healthy muscles that are barely hidden under his clothes, or the hair he's refused to cut ever since his youth that now flows lusciously down his broad back. His amber eyes that glint golden when the sun reflects his irises, and even the conjured image of the way his arms move when he's fire-bending.
He's— "Beautiful."
By the time you realise your second slip of the tongue, Zuko has already blinked once, caught off-guard.
You purse your lips, finding this conversation to be as riveting as it is a weaponised self-attack. "Objectively speaking. You're attractive, Zuko."
"Objectively." He repeats slowly, amused that you're using his own deflecting choice of words.
"Fine, like really attractive." You deadpan. "It's annoying, because I'm supposed to be focused on the mission, and you're just... standing there."
It was the truth. You couldn't be the only one who noticed it. His subtle change in demeanour over the years, how he carried himself into a room now instead of randomly announcing his arrival at the worst timings. Even Sokka noticed.
He snorts, and the sound deflates the tension in your chest. "Funny, I should be saying that about you."
You gasp, expression aghast. "You're joking."
"It is not honourable to lie." He shrugs. "You've always been the most magnetic in my eyes. I can never find myself looking away from you."
You grow quiet, the genuine sincerity in his words leaving you defenseless. Have you been blind all along? Is that why he always sent letters—asking you to visit his nation for purposes other than meetings? Or why he sought for your company constantly during this entire trip, despite it being the first time the entire set of Team Avatar being together in months?
You had been too focused on what was comfortable and familiar, to teasing and prodding, that you never considered this.
"For the record." You whisper, leaning in to truly look at him. "I never found your scar hideous. You were always beautiful to me, Zuko."
He swallows, something intense flickering in his gaze—but too fleeting for you to catch onto it. Maybe it had always been there, when his eyes linger on your form when he accompanied you in his palace gardens, or even back then, when he was a banished prince who sought for you, even with a grimace on his face.
"That haircut when we first met, though?" Your smile breaks out into a toothy grin. "Absolutely hideous."
The softness in his gaze falters, before a groan rumbles past his throat. "Will you ever let that one go?"
"Never."
He lets out a low breath, drained of his energy. "I admitted to finding you attractive, and this is my repayment?"
"Who's finding who attractive?"
Sokka's voice strikes a jump in your shoulders, and Zuko's in an impressive halt, frozen completely after being caught red-handed.
"Ah, between the two of you—" Sokka whistles. "I was wondering who was going to break first. Congrats, love-birds!"
"We're not—" Your voice clashes with Zuko's. "This isn't—"
You sneak a glance to Zuko, and his hand is already covering half of his face, his embarrassment shielded by the shadow of his large palm.
Sokka's confused gaze switches between the two of you, blinking slowly.
"Ah, couple years too early?" Sokka shrugs, before clicking his tongue. "That's rough. I'll check back in with you guys in another time." Making his way back towards the front, he shouts once more to prove his point. "Just don't let me catch you guys making out or anything, I'll need to poke out my eyes for that one!"
"...We better restrain him before he starts blasting it as news to everyone." You groan.
"Agreed." He mutters.
Right as you made your move to leave, Zuko's hand grips yours—stopping you.
You lift your head, meeting his gaze. "Yeah?"
His Adam's apple bobs up and down, consideration clear in his expression before he decisively leans in. His voice is a warm hush, soft and intimate when he whispers. "For the record." Your own words echo back to your ears in the low hush of his voice. "I wasn't only referring to our first meeting when I said that you're beautiful."
His smile quirks up into something tender, a secret expression reserved only for you. ...At this rate, your curiousity was really going to be the death of you.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
a/n: i need to write more firelord zuko stat. he looks so good and still so awkward my childhood crush has been reignited.
Absolutely adorable aaaaaaa Zuko is so on character here, I wish people would do more like that when writing him too, I love how spontaneous he is with his thoughts sometimes, his bluntness is really funny. And please!!! Sokka is so funny too!! everything looks perfect and this was so damn cute, I hope I can find more stuff like this too
a/n: saw someone else do this and i loved itt so I thought I would do smth similarrr
summary: A completely normal morning turns into absolute chaos when the Gaang notices bruises on your hips, forcing you and Aang into a painfully embarrassing explanation while the rest of the group reacts in the most dramatic ways possible.
wc: 1.9k
contains: established relationship, romantic fluff, comedy, embarrassment, protective Aang, accidental public exposure, light suggestive themes, Gaang shenanigans loll
The morning had started completely normal.
Well-
Normal for the Gaang.
Which meant Sokka was loudly raiding the kitchen for food while Toph complained about him chewing too loud, Katara was trying to organize everyone, and Appa was snoring somewhere outside loud enough to shake the windows.
You were barely awake yourself.
Still tired.
Still sore.
And completely unaware of the bruises visible along your hips where your shirt had ridden up slightly. Honestly, you hadn’t even thought about them.
Not after last night.
Not after Aang had practically refused to stop making love to you for hours, kissing all over your skin while holding you tightly against him like he could never get enough. A blush threatened your face just thinking about it.
You walked into the kitchen quietly, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Morning,” you mumbled.
Katara smiled softly.
“Morning.”
Sokka looked up from his food immediately.
Then paused. His expression changed instantly. “…Uh.”
You blinked sleepily. “What?”
The kitchen suddenly went weirdly quiet. Even Toph tilted her head slightly. Katara’s eyes widened subtly. Sokka slowly pointed toward your waist. “…Should we be concerned?”
Your stomach dropped immediately.
“What?”
You looked down. And immediately saw them. Dark bruises wrapped around your hips. Finger-shaped. Very obvious finger-shaped.
Oh no.
Your face went hot instantly. “Oh my gosh.”
Katara stood immediately. “Did someone hurt you?”
“No!”
Too fast. Which somehow made it worse. Sokka looked horrified now. “Wait seriously, are those handprints?!”
You immediately tugged your shirt downward in embarrassment. “It’s not what it looks like!”
Toph snorted loudly from the table. “Oh, I can sense exactly what it looks like.”
“TOPH.”
“What? I’m blind, not stupid.”
Katara still looked worried though.
Genuinely worried. And honestly? You understood why. The bruises looked bad. Especially because Aang was incredibly strong now, even outside bending.
Years of training and fighting had changed him physically.
He was taller.
Broad-shouldered.
Muscular in ways he definitely hadn’t been as a teenager.
And sometimes-
Especially when emotional or passionate, he genuinely didn’t realize his own strength. Still, before you could explain properly The kitchen door slid open.
And Aang walked in. Immediately smiling the second he saw you. “There you are.”
His voice was still soft and sleepy. His head tattoos slightly glowing from just finishing morning meditation. He looked comfortable and relaxed. Completely unaware he’d just walked into a disaster. Then he noticed the silence.
And everyone staring at him.
His smile slowly faded.
“…Why is everyone looking at me like that?”
Nobody answered immediately. Sokka looked between you and Aang awkwardly. Katara looked deeply conflicted. Toph looked entertained. And you wanted to disappear into the floor.
Aang frowned slightly. “What happened?”
Then Katara spoke carefully.
“Aang…”
The second he heard her tone, concern crossed his face instantly.
“What? What’s wrong?”
Katara glanced at you briefly before looking back at him. “She has bruises.”
Aang blinked.
“…Okay?”
Sokka nearly choked.
“OKAY?!”
Aang looked even more confused now but then looked at your face. Then your waist where you were still unsuccessfully trying to cover the marks.
He immediately walked toward you, panic and embarrassment all over his face. “Baby, I didn’t hurt you, right?”
The fact he asked so genuinely somehow made your face even hotter.
“No!”
“You’d tell me if I did?”
“Yes, Aang.”
He visibly relaxed slightly.
Then immediately looked horrified again. “…Did I really leave those?”
You covered your face instantly. “Oh my gosh.”
Sokka looked traumatized.
“I’m never eating in this kitchen again.”
Toph was still cackling. Katara pinched the bridge of her nose. “A warning would’ve been nice.”
“We didn’t know they were there!” you defended weakly. Aang still looked guilty somehow. His eyes stayed fixed on the bruises. “…I grabbed you that hard?”
Your face somehow got hotter.
“You were emotional.”
Toph made a choking noise laughing.
“Oh this is GOLD.”
Aang immediately rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to bruise you…”
You softened instantly seeing how upset he suddenly looked. Because despite the embarrassment, Aang genuinely hated the idea of hurting you.
Even accidentally.
You reached for his hand gently.
“Aang.”
His eyes immediately lifted to yours.
“I’m okay.”
“…Promise?”
“Yes.”
He still looked uncertain. “I should’ve been more careful.”
Your chest softened painfully. “Aang, they don’t even hurt.”
Katara finally sighed. “Okay, now that we’ve established nobody is being abused- ”
“THANK YOU,” you muttered.
“- can we please never discuss this again?”
Toph immediately grinned. “Oh no, I’m discussing this for months.”
Aang groaned quietly before stepping closer to you again. Still embarrassed. Still pink-faced. But his hand automatically settled gently on your waist anyway. This time very obviously careful. You looked up at him teasingly. “Scared to touch me now?”
“Yes.”
You laughed softly.
“Aang.”
“I’m serious.”
His thumb brushed lightly against your hip where the bruises sat hidden again beneath your shirt. “I don’t like seeing marks on you from me.”
Your expression softened instantly.
“You know I liked them.”
Aang’s face immediately went red again.
“Baby.”
Toph gagged dramatically.
“Ew.”
Sokka pointed accusingly while backing toward the door.
“See?! This is why I’m leaving!”
Katara was fully covering her face now. “I miss when we were children.”
“We literally fought in a war,” Toph said.
“Somehow this feels worse.”
You started laughing helplessly while Aang buried his face briefly against your shoulder in embarrassment.
“I can’t believe this happened.”
“You walked into it.”
“I hate all of you.”
“No you don’t,” you murmured softly. Aang sighed dramatically before lifting his head again. Then quietly enough just for you- “…Still sorry though.”
Your heart melted instantly, because even now, after years together. After knowing you trusted him completely He still cared so deeply about your comfort and safety. You kissed his cheek softly.
“I know.”
And immediately
Some of the tension left his shoulders again.
Even while Sokka continued loudly announcing from another room that he’d been emotionally scarred for life.
SUMMARY: You were born a non-bender, but Aang tries to make you feel included.
WARNING(S): fluff, angst
WORD COUNT: 5,197
PAIRING: Adult!Aang x reader
A/N: Hope you like it! Comments and feedback are always welcome.
MASTERLIST
The first time Aang got you out of the house to teach you, he was all smiles.
Bright and hopeful, excited to share something that mattered to him. You don’t think you’d ever seen him look that happy, especially by the fourth attempt.
Airbending.
The others thought you might pick something up eventually. Water, earth, maybe even fire, but nothing ever came of it. And deep down, you knew nothing ever would.
You weren’t a bender.
You weren’t going to wake up one day and move the ground beneath your feet, or shift water with your hands, or throw fire. It wasn’t something you could learn. It wasn’t something anyone could promise you. You weren't born to be able to bend.
But Aang didn’t let it go.
And you didn’t have the heart to take that from him, no matter how much it pained you.
So you let him pull you out of the tower you’d been calling home for years now and take you to the Southern Air Temple.
You’d been there before, back when it was you, Katara, and Sokka, following him around while he showed you around. You’d seen far greater things, but the temple in ruins always settled heavily in your heart. It felt different now. More overgrown. Quieter.
Still beautiful though.
And you knew how much it meant to him.
You ran your hand along one of the columns as you walked, the stone cool under your fingers. You wondered if he ever thought about what this place used to be. If being here made it harder or easier.
“Okay,” Aang says, clapping his hands together as he turns to you. “Airbending. My area of expertise.”
His grin widens. And just like that, he looks like himself again.
You cross your arms loosely, raising a brow at him. “Confident?”
He moves past you, then circles back, positioning himself a few feet away. His posture shifts without him thinking about it. He looks lighter on his feet, shoulders relaxed, arms loose at his sides.
“I have to be,” Aang says easily. “I’ve only been doing this my whole life.” He steps back a little, giving you space. “Besides, you've made it through three trials. You haven't given up.”
“Three failures,” you correct.
“Three attempts,” he says, like it matters.
You sigh, finding your sandals more interesting, the dirt beneath them crunching with every press-down you make. You're pulled out of the hole you begin making up in your mind when Aang claps loudly again. The crack had made you flinch.
“Okay! Airbending isn’t about forcing anything,” he starts. “That’s why it’s hard to explain. You don’t grab it like the earth beneath your feet, or push it like fire. You… move with it.”
You nod, even if you don’t fully get it.
He gestures for you to stand straighter. “Feet apart. Don't stand too stiffly. You don’t want to lock yourself in place.”
You adjust, trying to copy him.
“Good,” he says. “Now, don’t think about making something happen. Just focus on what’s already there.”
“The air,” you say.
“Yeah.” He gives a small nod. “It’s everywhere. You don’t need to have a source like water or earth. You just… connect to it.”
You take a breath, slower this time.
Behind him, the wind moves through the open temple, brushing past the columns, slipping through broken archways. You can feel it on your skin, faint but constant.
“Okay,” he says. “Follow me.”
He steps into motion, slow and controlled. His arms move in a wide circle, like he’s tracing something invisible.
You mirror him. At least, you try to. Your movements feel heavier. Less natural. Like you’re thinking about every step instead of letting it happen.
“Loosen up,” he says gently. “You’re resisting it.”
“I’m not trying to,” you mutter.
“I know...”
You exhale, forcing yourself to relax your shoulders. Your arms follow his again, slower this time, less rigid. You shift, trying to follow what he’s doing again.
“Better?”
“Yeah. That’s good,” he says. “Now just…move your arms. Slow at first.”
You copy him, lifting your hands and pushing them forward in the same motion he just showed you.
Nothing happens.
You try again.
Still nothing.
Aang doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches on, further heightening the fact that you were aware he was observing your every move.
“Try not to think about it too much,” he says after a second.
You let out a small breath. “That’s kind of hard not to, especially when I’m trying to make something happen.”
“I know,” he says. “But if you focus on making it happen, it won’t.”
You glance at him. “That doesn’t sound very helpful.”
He laughs. “It’s true, though. Don’t think on it too much.”
You shake your head a little, but you try again anyway. This time slower.
Less stiff, more loose.
Going with the flow.
For a second, it almost feels right.
Almost.
“Now shift your weight,” he adds. “Don’t stay rooted. Airbenders don’t stand still if they can help it.”
You step lightly to the side, copying the way he moves. He’s already adjusted, already onto the next move before you've barely finished the previous action.
You’re a step behind. Always a step behind. Never able to keep up with the rest of them.
“Okay,” he says. “Now guide it.”
Your arms move through the air, and for a second, you almost think you feel something pulse within your palms.
But it’s gone before you can figure out what it might be.
Probably nothing to be honest.
You drop your hands with a huff. “Yeah. Still nothing.”
Aang steps closer, not an ounce of discouragement on his face. “That’s okay. It takes time. With more practice, you're bound to get something out of it. It gets easier. Trust me.”
“For you maybe,” you say. “You’ve been doing this since you were a kid.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you can’t learn something from it.”
You give him a look. “Aang, I can’t move a leaf, I couldn't shift the water from the stream, I couldn't move the stupid pebble that Toph had me attempt to move. Zuko even tried having me light the fire for the camp we set up. We almost froze. I can't move anything!”
“Not yet,” he corrects. Oh, how you wonder where he gets his patience and his calm from? Something you were surely running out of.
You sigh, but there’s no real frustration behind it. Yet, anyway.
He hesitates for a second, then moves behind you. “Can I?” he asks.
You nod. His hands hover near yours before settling lightly over them. Gentle, warm to the touch.
“Let me guide you,” he says.
You feel him push your arms through the same motions as before. Slower this time. More steady.
“Breathe,” he adds quietly. The warmth of his words tickles your ear.
You try to match his pace, his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
The air moves around you, brushing past your arms, your face. You can feel the wind, how it responds to him. The subtle breeze he lets swim in and out through your hair.
“Feel that?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
You almost laugh at the sensation, but you keep going. Letting your hands move with his instead of trying to lead on your own.
For a second, the motions feel easier. Like you’re not working as hard to exert them, act them out.
There's barely anything happening. Most of which is done by Aang. But the air in front of your hands stirs.
You pause.
“Did you—”
“I saw it,” Aang says quickly, a little quieter now. “Keep going.”
Your focus breaks.
And just like that, it’s gone. You let your arms fall.
“Of course.” You huff in defeat.
Aang doesn’t move away right away. “You felt it, though, right?” he asks.
“Barely.”
“It’s still something.”
You turn your head slightly, glancing back at him. “It only worked because you were helping. I’m not even sure that was me just now.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe you just needed to stop trying so hard.”
You don’t answer that.
After a second, his hands drop away from yours. You miss the warmth of them in an instant. The lack of his touch makes you want to pull him close again.
“Do you want to try again?” he asks. Chin dipping to try and get your eyes to meet his own. They don't. He looks down at the ground before waiting for your response.
You look at your hands, then back at him.
“Maybe later, if that’s okay.”
"It's okay. We can take a break."
-
The hill you found and settled on feels nice and cool underneath your touch as the sun dips.
Long shadows stretch across the mountains, swallowing the land around them, making it quieter. Emptier. At peace.
You and Aang sit side by side, and you disturb a patch of grass by pulling grass stems from the ground. You'd guess your anxiety was to blame for impulsively messing with perfectly good grass. Aang had lain back, eyes darting up at the sky. His thoughts wandering, you'd guess as much, seeing as his fingers stopped tapping against his stomach.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The wind moves gently through the open air, brushing past softly, reminding you of the reason for being there in the first place. You figured Aang could've been reminded of home. Of everything he lost, but who were you to speak for him?
Aang exhales slowly.
“It’s weird,” he says.
You glance at him. “What is?”
He doesn’t look at you. Just out.
“The sky. The temple, all the antiques we keep finding. Everything.”
His fingers curl slightly against the grass as he sits up.
“I used to think the temples would always feel full,” he admits. “Like, no matter what happened… I could come back, and it’d still feel like home. Still… alive.” There’s a pause. “But it only reminds me of how everyone I've ever known...is gone.”
That lands heavier than anything he’s said all day.
You don’t interrupt. You just listen.
“They’re gone,” he continues, voice quieter now. “The monks. My friends. Gyatso. The stories they all used to tell, the way we used to celebrate, the food we would eat… even the stupid games we played.” A soft, broken laugh slips out of him. “I’m the only one left who remembers any of it.”
Your chest tightens.
“I don’t even know if I remember it right anymore.” He finally looks down at his hands. "I keep thinking that if I die, my culture dies with me. What if I forget something important?” he whispers. “What if it all just… disappears with me? No one but me can carry on my past. My whole life rests in my hands.”
There it is. His fear. It hits you harder than you expected. Because for once, this isn’t about being the Avatar.
This is just a boy, a man now, sitting in the ruins of his home, terrified of being the last voice of his people.
You don’t think. You don’t weigh your next words. You just… say it.
“Then I’ll carry it with you.”
Aang freezes.
You don’t stop.
“I’ll learn it,” you add quickly, heart racing now. “All of it. The stories, the traditions... Whatever you remember, I’ll remember too. I won’t let it disappear.”
He’s staring at you now.
Completely still. Like he’s not sure he heard you right.
“And if you’re worried about it ending…” You hesitate, then push through it anyway, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.
“I’ll give you a legacy.”
The silence falls heavily on you both. You look out into the valley, feeling the wind settle.
And the second it leaves your mouth, you second-guess your words.
Oh.
Oh no.
Your breath catches. “I-I didn’t mean—”
Aang’s expression changes.
“You’d… What?” he asks softly.
You shake your head quickly, heat rushing to your face. “I didn’t mean it like that, I just mean, I mean I did, but not—” you let out a nervous breath, stumbling over yourself. “I just meant I’d help. However you needed, I—”
“You’d give me children?” he interrupts.
That stops you. Your mouth opens agape, then shuts.
His voice is so quiet you almost miss it. You look at him properly now. Really take in the man before you. Give him children? You'd be stupid not to want a family with him.
Something in your chest settles warmly.
“Yeah,” you say, softer this time. “If you wanted me to. The only thing I could really give back.” You release a nervous laugh.
Aang’s eyes search yours, like he’s trying to find any sign of hesitation. Doubt. Anything that screamed that you were just trying to make up for what you lacked in, but you weren't
There isn’t any. Because you meant it. Even if you didn’t take into account how much you did until just now.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says, but there’s no strength behind it. No real push. No malice. Just a hint of genuineness.
“I know,” you reply. A beat. “I want to, though.”
That hits him harder than anything else.
You see it in the way his breath stutters slightly, the way his shoulders drop just a fraction, like something inside him is loosening up for the first time all day.
“You’d really…” he starts, then stops, swallowing. “…you’d learn everything?”
You nod. “Everything you’re willing to teach me.”
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then his hand reaches for yours. Slowly, hesitant. Like he’s still asking permission to touch you, when he has every right to. When you don’t pull away, his fingers tighten slightly around yours.
“That means a lot to me, Y/n,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "I never even considered the idea of having children right now.
You smile, just a little. “I figured. It looked like your heart stopped for a second there.”
A soft huff of breath leaves him. almost a laugh, but not quite.
The wind returns, gentle once more, curling around the two of you as if it felt the heaviness settle between you. Like it had listened in.
Aang glances down at your joined hands, then back up at you.
For once, he doesn’t try to turn it into a joke right away. He just looks at you.
Like he’s still catching up to what you said and what it means. Not just the words, but the fact that you meant them. That you said them so easily, like it wasn’t something huge you placed in his lap.
It was.
You can tell by the way he keeps holding your hand, squeezing every now and then, like letting go would break up the moment too fast.
“I don’t know what to say,” he admits after a while.
You let out a small breath through your nose. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“I feel like I should.”
“You don’t have to.”
His mouth twitches a little at that, but it fades just as quickly.
“I just…” He looks away for a second, out at the valley below, at the fading light and shadows. “I’ve spent so much time thinking about what I lost that I never really thought about what could still happen. What I could still have.”
Your thumb brushes lightly over his knuckles before you can think better of it. Aang notices. His shoulders loosen again, but not enough.
“You make it sound simple,” he says.
“It’s not simple.”
This turns his attention back on you.
“It’s just not impossible either,” you say quietly. “There’s a difference.”
He studies your face for a second, and you can almost see the thoughts moving behind his eyes. Aang was never very good at hiding what he felt, but this is different. He's less open. More careful. Like he’s afraid of letting this conversation go in the wrong direction. Of making you angry.
“You'd really give me children?” he asks again.
Not because he didn’t hear you the first time. Because he needs to.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
“And learn all of it?”
“Yes.”
“The stories, the customs, the food, the prayers, the weird games—”
You smile a little. “You’re really trying to sell it now.”
That earns a breath of a laugh. Then he goes quiet again.
“Even if you can’t bend?”
There it is. You had a feeling it would come back to that.
You look down at your lap for a second before answering.
“Especially then.”
Aang frowns. You take a breath.
“I can’t give back from the lack of bending,” you say. “I know that. I know I’ll never be part of your culture in the same way you were born into it.” You pause, picking at a blade of grass near your knee. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t love it because it matters to you. It doesn’t mean I can’t help keep it alive. This could be one of the only things I can give back.”
His face changes at that. Softens. Something about those words gets through to him in a way the other words of the gang couldn't. Maybe it's because he knows you’re not saying it to make him feel better.
You’re saying it because you’ve already decided.
“I don’t want you to think this is all you’re good for,” he says after a moment.
You look at him, caught a little off guard.
“What?”
He turns toward you more fully now, his hand tightening around yours.
“The only thing you could really give back?” he repeats softly, using your own words. “Don’t say it like that.”
Heat crawls up your neck in half embarrassment, and half of something else.
“I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” His voice stays gentle, but there’s something firmer in it now. “But you make it sound like you have to make up for something.”
You open your mouth, then close it. Because there isn’t a clean lie waiting to spill past your lips. Aang notices that too.
“You don’t owe me a legacy,” he says. “And you don’t owe me children just because you can’t bend.”
Your throat tightens a little.
“I know,” you say, but it comes out softer than you intended.
He watches you for another second, then shifts closer, close enough that your heads are leaning against each other.
“You don’t have to try and even the score for what you think you're lacking in,” he says. “Not for me.”
His words land hard. Too hard.
Because some part of you had thought exactly that, even if you didn’t want to say it out loud. That if you could never stand beside the others in the way they did, through bending, through power, through something useful, then maybe you could still give him something that mattered.
Something lasting.
You stare down at your lap for a second, blinking against the sting behind your eyes.
“I didn’t mean for it to sound like that,” you say quietly. “I’m not trying to make up with children for my lack of bending with you.”
“I know.” He says it immediately. Reassurance following his understanding. “I know you’re not.”
It helps. His words. A little.
You breathe out slowly.
“I just hate that I can’t help out sometimes,” you admit. "Heck, even Sokka is out there being a hero... But what can I do?"
Aang goes still. Because he finally understands what’s underneath all of the hurt you've bottled up inside of yourself.
The discouragement after every attempt. The way you'd look away from everyone's eyes after every attempt. The way you'd say it’s fine, when it clearly wasn't.
He shifts again, this time dipping his head enough that he can see your face better.
“What can you do?” he repeats quietly. And it's just him, sitting with the question instead of brushing it off.
You don’t answer right away because you’ve already answered it a hundred times in your head. Nothing, was always your response. He frowns as though the crease in your forehead gave you away.
“You think being a hero is just about bending?” he asks.
You give a small shrug. “It helps.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You glance at him, a little caught. He doesn’t look away.
“You think Sokka is a hero, but he can't bend?” Aang presses.
You hesitate. “Yes, but—”
“But what?”
You sigh, frustrated now. “But he still does things, Aang. He fights. He plans. He actually contributes when something goes wrong.” You shake your head a little. “When things get bad, I’m just… there.”
The words come out flatter than you meant them to. Like you’ve said them before. To yourself. Too many times.
Aang’s expression tightens.
“You’re not ‘just there,’” he says.
You don’t argue. You don’t agree either. You just look away again.
“Do you remember the canyon?” he asks suddenly.
You frown slightly. “What about it?”
“You were the one who figured out how to settle the feud between the Gan Jin and the Zhang tribes,” he says. “You made them work together to get us out of being eaten by those canyon crawlers.”
“Wasn't that you—”
“And the village near the volcano?” he continues. “You were the one who convinced the villagers that they needed to evacuate.”
You shake your head. “That’s not—”
“And when Appa got hurt,” he adds, quieter now, “you stayed with him the whole night. You looked over him, you lost sleep over it too.”
You go still because you do remember that memory.
You remember thinking it didn’t count. That it wasn’t enough.
“That’s not fighting, though,” you say, softer now.
“No,” Aang agrees. “It’s not.”
He leans in just slightly, not crowding you, just enough that you can’t ignore him.
“But it’s helping.”
You swallow.
“It’s paying attention,” he continues. “It’s seeing things the rest of us miss because we’re too busy trying to win something.”
His voice softens. “And it matters.”
You look at him again because he’s not trying to make you feel better.
He’s not reaching just to say something nice. He means it.
“But when something actually happens—” you start.
“You’re there,” he says, cutting in gently this time. “You don’t run. You don’t hide. You stay.”
Your chest tightens.
“That’s not nothing.”
The wind shifts around you again. You look down at your interlocked hands.
“It doesn’t feel like enough sometimes,” you admit.
Aang nods. “I know.”
That catches you off guard.
“I get that, trust me,” he adds. “I’ve felt that too.”
You blink at him. “You?”
“Yeah.” A small, almost self-conscious smile tugs at his mouth. “Being the Avatar doesn’t automatically make you feel invincible.”
You let out a quiet breath. That… comforts you more than you expected it to.
Aang studies your face for another second, then reaches out again. This time, slower, more deliberate, as he nudges your right cheek with his left hand, before pressing a gentle kiss on it. You don’t pull away.
“I'm sorry if we made you feel that way. You don’t have to be like the rest of us to matter,” he says.
You let that sit. It doesn’t fix everything. But it settles the war that was waged inside you anyway.
“You really believe that?” you ask.
He nods.
“I wouldn’t be sitting here with you if I didn’t.”
That makes you look at him again. A small, uneven smile pulls at your lips.
“You’re really bad at letting people wallow in their self-pity,” you mutter.
He smiles back, softer now. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been told that.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head.
"Why do you keep talking like bending is the only part worth carrying on?”
That shuts you up again.
He’s not angry. If anything, he sounds a little sad. A little frustrated that you still can’t see what he’s trying to tell you.
“My people weren’t just airbenders,” he says. “They were monks, teachers, healers. They made toys for kids and baked fruit pies and played games and told stories they’d told a hundred times before.” A small smile pulls at his mouth. “They were annoying sometimes. And stubborn. And really nosy.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. Aang smiles a little wider when he hears it.
“My culture didn’t live in bending alone,” he says. “It lived in how we treated people. What we believed. How we lived.”
He looks down at your joined hands. “And you’ve been trying to understand that part of me since the day we met.”
Your heart settles.
“So no,” he says softly. “You wouldn’t be giving me the only thing you could offer.”
You swallow.
“Aang…”
“You’d just be giving me more of you.”
His words are so simple they almost hurt. You don’t know what to do with them. So for a second, you do nothing. Then your hand tightens around his. His eyes flick down to it, then back to your face.
You shake your head a little, a laugh leaving you, thin and shaky. “You always know how to make me feel stupid in the nicest way possible.”
That finally gets a real laugh out of him.
“You’re not stupid.”
“Mm.”
“You’re not.” He presses firmly, gently.
You look over at him. “I heard you the first time.”
“Good.”
The breeze picks up around the two of you, cooler now that the sun has dropped. It lifts a few strands of your hair and brushes the fabric on his sleeves.
Aang leans back on one hand, still facing you.
“I think I’d like that,” he says after a while.
You blink. “What part?”
He smiles, small and careful. A beat. “All of it.”
Something in you eases. Not all the way, but enough to let you breathe easier.
“Even if I can't bend?”
He tilts his head, brows furrowing in feigned shock. “You can't bend!”
You let out an offended noise and shove at his shoulder.
He laughs, catching your wrist before you can do it again.
“I’m kidding,” he says.
“You’re not.”
“Okay, maybe a little.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling a lot brighter now, and he is too, and the heaviness from a minute ago doesn’t feel quite so sharp in your chest.
He keeps hold of your wrist for a second longer than he needs to. Long enough for the mood to shift again. Just slightly.
His smile fades first, not into sadness, but something more aware. Serious. You felt it too. The tension.
The way he raised his hand and his thumb brushed once, almost absentmindedly, over the side of your face.
“Aang,” you say softly.
His eyes avert from your lips, falling on your softening gaze.
You lost your train of thought, the words you wanted to say falling off the tip of your tongue. Maybe it was nothing. His name just felt easier than everything else sitting between you.
His eyes search your face anyway.
“Yeah?”
You shake your head, but not because you want to take it back.
“Nothing.”
His mouth curves faintly. “You sure?”
“No.”
He studies you for another moment, then glances out at the valley again.
“You want to stay here tonight,” he says. “If you want, of course.”
You lift a brow. “You mean avoid going back and getting interrogated by Katara?”
“That too.”
You smile. “Tempting.”
“Very. It’s quiet here.”
You look around. The grass. The temple in the far distance, worn down but still standing strong, like Aang.
“It is.”
Aang nods, then looks back at you. Letting the quiet air take over as he took in his favorite view. You. Who went back to pulling at the patch of grass you disrupted, he can't help but let his smile grow.
“I love you.”
There it is again. His plain honesty. It always got the best of you. You feel your face heat up, but there’s no point in pretending you didn't hear him.
“I love you too,” you say, expression timid, but still facing the ground.
His heart beats faster. This was it for him. You were it. All he'd ever want, so long as the universe allowed you and him to last. To be.
His shoulders drop. His mouth softens. He looks younger for a second, and older too. Like the boy and the man he’s still becoming are both sitting right here beside you. Making your head spin and your heart full.
The wind curls between you again. Gentle. Familiar.
And this time, when the silence returns, it doesn’t feel empty.
It feels full.
Aang glances at your joined hands once more, then back at you, his expression almost shy despite everything you’ve just said.
"So you really want children with me?"
"Yes, Aang." Your grin grows as you stifle a laugh.
“Do you want to start...on our legacy?” he asks.
You smile.
“Right now?” you ask.
Aang freezes. “Right now?”
You shrug, biting back another laugh. “You’re the one who asked.”
His brain immediately starts short-circuiting.
“Okay, wait, hold on—” he lets go of your hand just to gesture wildly, before stopping again. “I didn’t mean like right now, right now, I meant like, someday right now. Future right now. Not, this exact moment on a hill—”
You’re fully laughing now.
“Aang—”
“No, because there’s—there’s steps!” he insists, pointing at the ground like the steps might appear if he believes hard enough. “There are definitely steps. We skipped all of them.”
“You asked!”
“I didn’t think you’d say yes that fast!”
You tilt your head. “You wanted me to say no?”
“No!” he says immediately. “No, definitely not that either, just, maybe a warning? A little preparation time?”
You grin. “You’re panicking.”
“I am not panicking,” he says, voice an octave higher than usual. “I am calmly evaluating a very big, important, life thing—”
He stops. Looks at you. You’re still smiling at him like this is the best thing that’s ever happened.
“You’re serious, though,” he says, quieter now.
You nod. “Yeah.”
That does it. He exhales, shoulders dropping, all that frantic energy softening just a little.
“Okay.”
A beat.
“Okay,” he repeats, like he’s trying to convince himself he’s got this.
Then.
“Not right now, though,” he adds quickly.
You laugh. “Not right now.”
“Good,” he says, relieved. “Because I think I’d pass out.”
“You’d pass out?”
“Immediately.”
You bump his shoulder. “Avatar, master of all four elements… defeated by the talk of children.”
He points at you. “You’re the one who started it!”
“You asked!”
“And I regret nothing,” he says quickly, then pauses.
You laugh again, leaning your head against him. He relaxes this time, letting your head rest against his shoulder, still a little flustered but smiling anyway.
“We can start with the easy stuff,” he mutters.
“Like what?”
“Like… teaching you those games I used to play here,” he says. “Much safer.”
this was honestly so cute and calm and idk but everything feels so right, damn i need to find more aang stuff that feels just like this, it feels right the way you write him, what a beautiful piece!!
“i want you to know that i’ll choose you in every single lifetime. and in one of those lifetimes, i will be the one doing this to you.”
still riding out the dizzying aftershocks of yet another climax, you mumble into the crook of your lover’s neck. the eager thrusts cease abruptly, leaving you with that delicious stretch where you can feel him throbbing inside like a second heartbeat.
satoru tilts his head, looking down at you with a slight pout. eyes of the most exquisite azure blink in elaborate bewilderment (and perhaps a flicker of hurt). that is, until you take his wrist, guiding his palm downward to gently rest against your lower belly. a distinct bulge, sensitive to the touch. that certainly wasn’t there five orgasms ago.
throwing his head back, he erupts into peals of unhinged laughter. the vibrations send straight through where your sweat-slicked bodies are connected, causing you to wince and reflexively clench your walls around his fat girth—making him groan mid-chortle.
“aw that’s so romantic baby, what the actual fuck was that?”
tears of amusement are now gathering at the corners of his eyes. honestly, you struggle to find it nearly as funny as he does. but then he dips down to nuzzle your cheek, with a roll of his hips that has you arching off the mattress with a loud mewl. gone completely is the torrent of sheepish apologies from the very first time he ever managed to fit inside you fully, long since replaced by cheekiness. now—in true satoru fashion—he unapologetically and lovingly stuffs his girl full.
“heh, i don’t doubt it for a second, though. in another universe you’d be packing for sure.”
he cooes, the thick ridges of his veins rubbing against your plushy walls as though molding their shape into you with every squelching, wet inch he takes before sheathing himself entirely to the hilt. an unified sigh escapes from you both. despite knowing it’s physiologically impossible, you could swear you feel the tip of his cock in your tummy.
“and, for the record...”
he gently boops your nose before pressing a light kiss to the tip of it. “i’ll choose you in every lifetime, alternative reality, universe, whatever. and let you put your big dick inside me.”
synopsis . Zuko rewarding his favorite servant after a long day of obedience and loyalty. content . afab!reader, forbidden relationship, pet play(?), dirty talk, degradation, servant!reader, face fucking, petnames, power play, switch dynamics, praise, oral sex (m!receiving), mentions of his honor (lol), etc.
“Does the mutt want a treat?” There's a certain warmth that comes with Zuko's words, no matter how harsh they may be.
And as you're sitting on the floor beneath him, you can't find it in yourself to be concerned with being addressed as such a degrading term. If anything, you'd been begging for the fire lord to treat you like this for months. Ever since your little scandalous relationship began, the two of you have steadily gotten more and more debauched with your private acts of pleasure.
Right now was no different.
“I’ve had a long day, and I’ve been thinking about this since earlier." Zuko's hands are at his belt and you're struggling not to drool from the sight presented before you.
He stands over you so tall and proudly, royal garments shrugged off only moments ago as his sculpted chest remain bare for your hungry eyes. The average servant could only dream of finding themself in such a position. You were instructed to keep your eyes up on his, but it was hard to follow orders once he tugged his cock free from the pesky fabrics in the way and then let it lightly tap against your face.
One hand was taut at his thick base whilst the other moved to palm the back of your head, forcing you to angle your face upwards as his hips worked to push his dick along the curve of your devastatingly gorgeous face. It nearly pained Zuko to see such a beautiful woman living the life of a servant. And to make matters worse, he simply despised how he couldn't have you in the traditional sense.
Even the fire lord had certain rules and traditions he couldn't break nor bend. Apparently, taking a lowly servant as one of his concubines was one of them.
Though, it’s not as if that truly changes whether or not he gets what he wants.
The head of his cock drools profoundly against your skin, leaving a nasty trail of need against you as he reels his hips back and lets his tip draw something sinful across your face. The people of the court would shudder if they knew of the things he did to you when no one else was around.
A hum vibrates lowly against his throat before he moves his cock to smear against your lips. "You were running your mouth so much-, mmh.. talking to—oh, who was it again? Sokka, right?” His brow pushes inward to scrunch and you nearly whine for him to enter your mouth already.
Containing yourself—just barely—you nod in response to his question, which ultimately causes his dick to slide to the right of your face.
Zuko smiles, “Yeahh, and like a good, loyal girl you turned down that offer of his. I’m so-," He pauses to let out a huff, smacking his cock against your cheek all crudely before finally dragging back over to your lips and then pushing past them. "Shit.. so proud of you.”
“Mnngh,” You're humming around his length as soon as it fills your mouth and you couldn't be more happy with yourself.
Earlier that day, Sokka had made a comment on how diligently you work and offered you a better serving position within his tribe. Loyal to a fault, yet not blind how stupidly handsome Sokka may be, you begrudgingly declined.
Which is why you’re being rewarded now.
“Tastes good, right?” He asks rhetorically, his throbbing shaft busy gliding down the center of your tongue and deep into your throat. It was rare that Zuko wanted to give your mouth a proper fucking, yet given the events of today, he simply had to grace your mouth with his presence. “Nod if you like your treat.”
You do exactly that, stupidly moving your head up and down whilst tears prick the corners of your eyes. He filled your throat up entirely and stretched your mouth open wide enough to bring pain to your jaw.
Then one of his hands move to pat at your head and his hips buck forward rudely, “Atta’ girl. What would people think if they saw how I stretched your mouth open like this, I wonder. Calling you a mutt…” He feels the way you moan around him as the term is thrown your way again—leading his mouth to quirk up into a smile. “…feeling how you moan around me because you like it so much. Hah.”
You began to swallow around him at the perfect moment and his nearly cocky expression breaks into the one you usually receive from him—one of pure, utter submissiveness.
“T-Tell me something, my loyal servant,” He tugs his cock out of your mouth for only a few seconds just to adjusts his hips and dangle the girth over your face. “Even as I debauch you like this, do you still think I’m an honorable ruler?”
Precum and spit drips down onto you, but you hardly bat an eye. Gulping shyly before whispering, “Of course, my lord.”
Zuko nearly rolls his eyes at the title, “Speak freely.”
You grin, leaning up and moving your mouth to his tip so you can suck at it—then your tongue rounds his head only once before you release a light pant against his feverish skin.
With your hand lifting to wrap around his base, you let his cock smack against the tongue you soon stick out before saying, “I think it’s most honorable how you treat me like this simply because I’ve asked you to. You call me a mutt,” Your tongue laps along the side of his dick and he shivers, “And then feed me like one with your cock. All whilst looking at me with those cute, apologetic eyes—as if you don’t really mean it.”
Zuko’s resolve breaks completely right then and there, and he whines upon watching you plant kissing across his every inch.
“I think you’re an honorable ruler because no one else in the Fire Nation knows how you submit yourself into the whims of some servant girl who’s mouth you can’t seem to keep your cock out of,” The moment you finish with your explanation, you’re taking him down your throat with quick, needy bobs of your head.
The fire lord’s footing shifts and he nearly stumbles with you, both hands flying to the side of your head to brace himself for how perfect your mouth feels. It’s in moments like this where he wonders why he doesn’t do this more often.
“T-That makes-, fuck.. no sense,” He refutes baselessly, a whine flopping off of his tongue mere seconds later.
You tug your lips and tongue away from his cock—drool spilling down onto your thighs and the floor below—and your lashes bat up at him. “Zuko,” his name from your throat makes him shudder again. “You’re an honorable ruler because I say so.”
Now his lashes were batting back at you and he found himself at a loss of words. He couldn’t quite argue with you when you were right. Had you said no, he would’ve agreed anyway.
People would be of great shock if they knew the real power you hold over him.
“Now,” You roll your tongue out once more, then place your hands behind your back, “Be a good boy and keep rewarding me, won’t you?”
The fate of the Fire Nation’s future could be found somewhere in your demands and Zuko hadn’t a single argument against it.
He’d do anything for you—even thrash his cock through your throat as you’ve asked him to, despite this being a severely forbidden relationship.
perhaps being curious about sukuna’s mouth stomach was your downfall because the way he’s got you sat on his fat tongue – forcing you to ride it – it’s got you completely falling apart. mind melting in your skull as he laps at your drooling cunt, the amused and self-assured look on his face only making you shudder.
two of his hands on your hips, guiding you along his tongue, his other two on your tits. groping at you like a huge pervert, pleased with himself and the state he’s got you devolving into. the tip of his large tongue prods at your hole and you’re gasping, legs shaking violently.
“absolutely not!– hnn– there’s no way that’ll—”
“—be quiet,” he hums, eyes focused on what he’s doing, “you were the one who was so curious so just shut up and take it.”
he’s having far too much fun, enjoying immensely how you’re borderline creaming from the pleasure. quickly, you’re losing yourself in the feeling of him exploring you and he’s loving nothing more. his cocks hard and tips leaking as your hips shake on top of him, you’re such a mess.
“is this what you wanted? Is this why you were asking those stupid questions, hmm?” he’s grinning, canines shown in his smile, “you just wanted to get devoured, didn’t you?”
his tongue flicks against your clit with the question before flattening against your pussy, grip on you grinding your delicate cunt down onto him again. you can’t even manage a reply to him because he’s got you cumming obscenely, coating his large tongue in your cum.
sukuna’s eyes almost roll in his head, he’s gonna have to make you do this a few more times before he’s satisfied.
ⓘ repost from my old account @/lovelivision
ა ˙˖ summary → there’s no one you hate more than satoru gojo. he’s arrogant and entirely too full of himself. when you agree to be strictly enemies with benefits, gojo takes this as the perfect opportunity to finally make you his.
ა ˙˖ content: 10.7k wc, accurate portrayal of fraternities so the boys are jerks srry, hazing, rough sex, mentions of blood, overstimulation, spanking, choking, desperate gojo, oral sex (both receive), jealous reader, mentions of terrible parents, some fluff, some angst
frat!jo 𝓍 fem!reader
chapter one chapter three
It was an undeniable fact that you were drunk on Gojo’s cock.
In the weeks since you started this arrangement, you fucked almost every day. Your excuse was that you were simply researching for your project, running experiments and proving theories wrong and right.
You were like two magnets that couldn’t resist each other despite your very different personalities and while you still couldn’t see yourself ever being anything other than possibly acquaintances, you would be lying if you said you didn’t warm up to him a smidge.
At least when he was between your legs.
“Satoru, haah, oh fuck!”
You cried as Gojo ate you like you were his last meal, his tongue lapping at your pussy in fast strokes, your back arching off your bed with his white locks gripped tight in your hands.
You hadn’t been able to keep your word and find someone more “digestable” to help satisfy your needs, you hadn’t really even tried when you had him fucking you into forgetting. Only Gojo was becoming more clingy, pestering you to go on a date with him and kissing you more than you cared to admit you enjoyed.
And while you were able to tolerate him in small doses when you weren’t fucking, your stance still stood: you and fratboys didn’t mix, Gojo was hardly the exception and that only extended to sex.
“Such a good girl.” he grumbles, plunging two fingers inside your hole while his tongue worked your clit in fast, relentless circles. You were already close, your walls fluttering around his fingers as he curled them, hitting that sweet spot inside of you.
“You t-talk too much.”
Gojo laughs against your pussy, hot breath blowing on you and pushing you closer to the edge. You gasp when he sucks hard on your clit, electric shocks shooting from the tip of your fingers to the bottom of your toes, body moving up the bed when his hands grab onto your hips and pulls you back down, his face pressed against your heat as he starts sucking you faster and finger fucking you deeper.
“I’m- oh god, fuck Toru, m’gonna-” Your nails are clawing at the sheets as your orgasm ripped through you, words dissolving into a broken moan as you came, your pussy clenching around his fingers, juices dripping down his chin.
Gojo didn’t stop. He kept licking you through the aftershock until you were a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him. Only then did he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and grinning at you.
Fuck him. Fuck his stupid, smug face.
“Look at you.” He says while climbing over your body, still completely dressed in his football clothes, his face shining where he failed to wipe, your arousal mocking you for still sleeping with him a month later. “All glowing and satisfied, my perfect girl.”
You panted, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you glared up at him, spreading your legs wider so he could fit between them. “I still h-hate you, asshole.”
Gojo knew you hated the nicknames he called you and yet he refused to stop. You even had to discipline him once when he called you “love”, going a few days without speaking to him though you’re still not sure if that hurt him more or you, what with your high sex drive.
“Mmm.” He presses his forehead to yours and quickly pecks your lips, his hard-on pressing against your thigh through his shorts. “Now it’s my turn.”
His mouth dropped to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave you yet another hickey you’d have to explain to your friends who were under the impression you weren’t seeing anyone since you dropped your last guy.
You barely had time to process it before he was moving his head back up and kissing you again, forcing you to taste yourself on his tongue. You sunk into it, arms wrapping around his neck and forgetting once again about your little no kissing rule. His hands roamed your body, squeezing your tits, pinching your nipples, before sliding down to grip your ass.
Gojo grinds his hard length into you and you moan into his mouth, your pussy clenching and begging for more.
Just as he was about to take his shirt off, a knock came from the door and made you both freeze, your eyes widening in a panic. Fuck, if anyone knew Gojo was in here you’d never hear the end of it.
"Oi!" Shoko's voice echoed through the hallway and it sent your pulse racing. "Open up! I forgot my key again!"
“Closet, now.” You practically hiss, pushing him off of you so you can stand and dress yourself. You were bouncing around the room, jumping into your pajama shorts and shoving Gojo toward the closet, your heart in your ass because the last thing you needed was your friend finding out you had been screwing her friend that you claimed to hate..
Of course, being the insufferable man that he was, Gojo simply took it as a joke and tried to kiss you as you opened the door and pushed him into the closet full of yours and Shoko’s clothes. You pushed his face away with a nasty glare, your cheeks flushed and thighs sticky with your release and his spit.
"You’re seriously gonna stuff me in a clos-"
You shoved him back and slammed the door in his face.
"Coming!" You quickly press down your shirt and smooth out your shorts and hair before moving to open the door for your roommate, praying she wouldn’t notice your messy hair and flushed cheeks and put two and two together.
Most of all you hoped Gojo would keep his fucking mouth shut. Bringing him here had been a terrible idea but he was already on campus when you texted him and you were horny now and didn't want to drive back to his place.
When you finally open the door, Shoko is standing on the other side with her hands on her hips and her eyebrows scrunched together. You smile awkwardly and pull the door further open so she can pass through.
“Sorry. Left my keys in the psych building.”
You clear your throat and smile, closing the door and following her further into the room while pretending like vomit wasn't rising in your throat and your heart wasn’t trying to escape your ribcage.
"What were you doing anyways?" Shoko asks, pushing past you with suspicion written on her face. "I was standing out there for like three minutes."
"Sorry, I was.." You paused, willing your voice to not sound so high pitched, pulling your rising shirt down. "I was in the bathroom."
It’s obvious she doesn’t believe you with the way she’s looking at you, studying your face and looking you up and down and you want to die. How embarrassing would it be to get caught with Gojo of all people after complaining about his existence since freshman year?
“Hm, you look flushed.”
“Yeah, just.. uhm- I just was working out”
Shoko rolls her eyes and starts to look around her side of the room, giving you a second to look at the closet and make sure Gojo didn't decide that he did in fact hate you after all and expose himself.
The door was still closed. At this rate you would be the one to expose yourself by panicking over nothing.
“Were you masturbating?”
Your friend's words have you snapping your head toward her, hair flying in your burning face. No Shoko, I wasn’t masturbating. My enemy just gave me a mind shattering orgasm on his tongue alone and would have done it again if you didn’t interrupt. Any more questions?
Is what you wanted to say, but instead you swallow your annoyance and stick with: ‘No, what makes you ask that?”
"Your face is basically glowing, your hair's messed up, and you took forever to open the door." Shoko shrugged. "I'm just saying, if you were, there's nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone does it. I do it. It's healthy."
Then, for a reason you’d never understand, Gojo decided that now was the best time to laugh. It was low, barely audible but loud enough to make Shoko look toward it with scrunched eyebrows.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! You were going to kill that six foot idiot. What the fuck was he thinking? You were a shaky, sweating mess when your friend turned to look at you, her eyes burning holes through your face.
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
She gestures wildly with her arms and nods past you, obviously annoyed at your decision to play dumb. “The noise from the closet! Do you have someone over?”
“I-” You swallow hard, fingers digging into your nails as you try to find a way out of this.
You obviously weren’t going to tell her it was Gojo, but if you did tell her you were hiding someone then she’d never stop trying to figure out who it was. It would be a nightmare and you would have to be twenty times more careful with Gojo or cut off your arrangement before you were able to find a replacement.
Either way, you were fucked.
“Yes.” You huff out, hoping she doesn’t push further and ask who it is but before she can respond, you’re speaking again in an attempt to distract her. "How was the library? Did you finish your paper?"
Shoko stared at the closet for a few more seconds then decided it wasn't worth investigating. She, thankfully, had never really been a noisy girl and you were grateful that she was your roommate instead of Yuki who would have ripped the door open herself.
"Almost. I need another hour, but I forgot my charger and my laptop's at six percent."
When she finally left, you stomped your way to the closet and yanked it open. You were beyond seething, ears on fire from embarrassment and annoyed that you had to tell Shoko you were in fact seeing someone when you wanted this to be left in the dark.
Gojo was wedged between clothes and a shoe rack, his hair slightly disheveled, grinning like a fucking idiot. You wanted to kill him.
“That was close.” He grabs your hip and walks you backwards, trying to kiss at your neck but you’re having any of it, placing your hands at his chest and shoving.
“What?” Gojo frowns at you and gives you his best puppy eyes but it only makes you want to hit him more. You cross your arms to stop yourself, head tilted back so you can look up at him.
“It was ‘close’ because of you! I told you to be quiet and you couldn’t even do that. I should end this right here since you’re apparently a child.”
That wiped the smirk off his face and he was stepping closer, grabbing onto your arm to pull you forward and you let him this time. His hands find your waist again and rub circles on your exposed skin, your body shivering in response.
“It won’t happen again, I promise.” He lets his fingers creep under your shirt, moving higher. “Now where were we?”
“Nowhere. We’re done.”
“Oh come on. I’m literally in pain, don’t leave me with blue balls, princess.” He pulls you flush against his chest but you push back, ignoring every instinct telling you that one quickie wouldn’t hurt.
“No Gojo. I have to work in an hour. I need to shower, eat and get across campus, we’re done here. Go home and figure it out.”
He pouts but you’ve seen enough, leaving him to figure it out as you move toward the bathroom and close the door behind you. You were still pissed at him but even more mad at yourself for still wanting him to fuck you after he almost blew your cover to Shoko. You didn’t really have work today but a cold shower and time to yourself was needed.
“I’ll pay you double whatever your job would.” His voice comes from behind the door, clearly not ready to give up.
Your hand stopped above the shower knob, turning to face the door in disbelief. "What?"
"Your job, sweetheart. Whatever you'd make tonight, times it by two, or three, whatever you want. Just call out and let me stay a little longer."
"Are you serious right now?” You blink, a mix of frustration and amusement coursing through you. “I'm not a prostitute, Gojo."
He doesn’t respond for a minute and just when you think he’s gone, he opens his mouth again. "You're not. I'm just saying your time is worth something, and I'm offering to compensate you for it."
You actually laugh at that, leaning your head against the bathroom door and fighting the urge to scream. "That is literally what a prostitute is."
"Semantics, it's also what a consultant is."
You open the door, deadpanning the too tall frat president, and point to the front entrance.
"Get. Out."
Later that day Gojo was sitting at some shitty bar with his friends, trying to drown out his emotions that were determined to consume him whole.
The same thought has been nagging him for the past two weeks. It wasn’t something he admitted to anyone outside of you, but he had been thinking of leaving his fraternity. Would his father be happy? Probably not. Did Gojo care? Not anymore. He hadn’t even intended on getting into a frat until his father told him he had already signed up on his first day.
Now here he was, a senior, making his own money as an employee of his family business and desperately trying to find a way out of this without blowing up his life. He never wanted to be president but it was another thing that was expected of him so he did it with a forced smile and he never regretted anything more in his life.
Before you came along, Gojo could get any girl he wanted. He never had to work hard to get laid, never cared for relationships either until you humbled him in front of his frat brothers and he just knew he had to have you.
He tried to win your favor over the next two years but when you weren’t avoiding him, you were reminding him just how much you hate frat boys and that he wasn’t your type. So imagine his surprise when you agreed to his proposal of enemies with benefits, though he truthfully had never hated you.
Gojo was trying to be better. Hosting less parties and letting Sukuna and the others take over more, drinking only once or twice a week, focusing more on school work to impress you and even wearing his glasses more and dressing in those nerdy clothes he knew you liked.
People questioned his new sense of style, his friends grew concerned over his lack of involvement and Gojo grew more desperate with each rejection from you. He just needed one date to show you that he can be the guy you deserved, why couldn’t you see the effort he’d been putting in?
While it was obvious you didn’t hate him like you used to, he still was miles away from becoming your friend let alone your boyfriend. Most people would have taken a hint by now, but Satoru Gojo was not most people. He only grew more motivated, determined to show you that he was worthy of being loved back.
“You look miserable."
Gojo looks up from his drink to find Suguru staring at him over the rim of his drink, his dark eyes searching for answers that he wasn’t willing to give. If Gojo told anyone about your relationship, he’d be violating your trust and he was sure he’d lose you forever. He wasn’t going to do that to satisfy his friend's curiosity.
So he simply shrugs and takes another shot, trying to wipe the image of your smile from his head.
“Fuck off.” Gojo picks up a new glass and tries to take a shot but Sukuna snatches it before he can and stretches his arm to keep it away, not at all bothered by the death glare his friend gave him.
“He’s been a pussy since he caught feelings for someone he knows hates him.” He tosses it back.
What? You never said he couldn’t tell people he liked you.
“Drink piss, you overgrown carebear. She doesn’t hate me.” While he knew it wasn’t completely the truth, he let himself live in his delusions. What was the saying? Fake it until you make it. He was simply manifesting your future together.
“Maybe I should shoot my shot, she’s nice enough to me.”
Suguru’s words have Gojo instantly fuming, snapping his head in his friend's direction and wondering if his smug smile is how you view him when he’s teasing you.
“The fuck? You’d actually do that?"
Suguru simply shrugs, unfazed. "Why not? If she’s into me, then you know she’s not into you and you can move on. If she’s not? Well, then it turns out we’re both losers." He took a slow sip, eyes never leaving Gojo’s face. "Might even be fun to see how desperate you get. How about a little friendly competition, huh Satoru?”
Gojo’s jaw clenched, biting his tongue to stop himself from something he’d regret. Something close to: Doubt she’d even look at you when she’s too busy bouncing on my dick.
The thought of Suguru, with his stupidly perfect smile and raven hair the girls loved, making a move on you made his stomach twist. He knew his friend could pull it off. Half the girls on campus already had a crush on him and you weren’t really his girlfriend, you could do whatever you wanted.
But Gojo was never one to back down, holding Suguru’s gaze and shrugging. He would just have to work harder, spend more time with you because there was no way in hell he was going to let anyone else, let alone his childhood friend, have you.
“Why did you join a frat anyways?”
You asked Gojo, looking up from your laptop and across the table. Gojo was wearing his glasses again and you had to keep squeezing your thighs together. That’s not what you were here for. You both had decided to get in a quick study session before the first game of the season, where he'd be playing and you’d be cheering.
It’s been some weeks since you started your arrangement and in that time, you’d been fucking almost everyday and spending most nights at his place under the guise that it was easier studying wise.
“Wasn’t by choice, princess.” His jaw clenched, hand squeezing around the pencil he had been holding, knuckles turning white from the force.
You wanted to laugh at that but you had never seen Gojo show true anger before and figured now wasn’t the best time for that. You still weren’t going to let up though.
“How is that not your choice?” You shift in your chair, ignoring the way his eyes are gazing into yours so softly, even though he was clearly annoyed at your question.
Gojo sighs, dropping the pencil and sitting back in the chair, letting it spin side to side as he stares at you with a titled head. “Generations of my male family members have attended Theta Phi, my dad kinda signed me up without my knowledge.”
You frown, biting the inside of your cheek when his leg rises and he brushes his foot against the inside of your thigh. Your body buzzes with the way he laughs at your glare, reaching down to swap it away.
“How can he even do that? Couldn’t you just.. I don't know, not go?”
Gojo laughs again but it’s more bitter this time, rotten with parental issues you probably shouldn’t get into considering you had your own and discussing your personal lives wasn’t a part of your agreement.
“Now who sounds privileged?”
You give him a straight face, foot lightly kicking at him and rolling your eyes when he grins.
“I’m being serious. My mom wanted me to do gymnastics on a professional level and I had no interest so I just didn’t do it. She eventually got over it.” You shrug.
Well your mom wasn’t completely over it but that wasn’t your business. You made your own discussions and what others felt about them was on them. You’d barely talked to her since you broke the news to her freshman year and your father had died when you were a child so you really only had your sister, with the occasional birthday or holiday text from your mom.
“Not that easy in the Gojo dynasty.” He emphasizes the last word and you can tell by his sneer just how much he hates his family,
“I told him I wasn't doing it. Told him of my dream to become a physics professor and he laughed in my face and threatened to not pay my tuition if I didn’t join.”
He pauses, closing his eyes for a few seconds before opening them again.
“My family is filthy rich but you don’t get anything for free. You have to prove that you're worthy of a college inheritance, a spot in the wills, and a position in the family business. My father told me if I didn’t join the frat then I’d only have a spot in the will after college. Didn’t want to graduate with loans so I played along.”
You blinked, the heart that most people claim you don’t have, suddenly aching for Gojo. You hadn’t considered that his family might be a bunch of money hoarding psychopaths but you guessed it made sense with their status.
You never had to worry about your mother paying your tuition, she couldn’t afford it anyways. You survived off of a scholarship and your own income from jobs you worked since you were sixteen. The only thing you had to do was keep your grades up and not be reckless with your money.
You were suddenly grateful to have grown up on the poorer side, because you couldn’t imagine having someone dangle money over your head. Let alone your own parents.
“Physics? Didn’t peg you as the type.” You lean forward and smile softly, elbows on the table with your hands folded in front of you.
He mimics you, eyes brightening and seeming grateful you were changing to topic.
“What? The glasses and secret nerdy clothes didn’t give me away?” His foot plays with yours and you let it, biting back a moan when you think about how his glasses fog up when he fucks you with them on, messy white hair falling in his face.
You had noticed the different physics books lying about his room but never really thought much about it. You couldn’t understand how a parent could treat their child like an investment and not an actual human. With his family money, Gojo could have been one of those students that chased their dreams instead of fortune and actually been happy.
While you still thought he was arrogant and still hated fratboys, this opened a new side of him to you. A side you could empathize with.
“Seriously though Gojo, I'm sorry your family is so shit.”
He leans an elbow on the table, placing his chin in palm and giving you the dreamiest smile, lashes brushing together when he blinks slowly. “Aw, you feel bad for me, princess?”
“No.” Your cheeks burn and you sit back in your chair. Of course he’d ruin this, you were never being nice to him again! “Merely pointing out a fact.”
He pouts and stands. “Well now I'm sad. How about you make me feel better?”
When he pulls you from your seat, you let him, heart racing because this would be the second time this week that Gojo has fucked in you in this very study room, libarians oblivious to the shenanigans the two horny college students were up to.
He grabs your chin while you place your hands on his chest, steadying yourself as he pulls you close. When he leans down to kiss you, you turn your head but he goes straight for your neck. He’s sucking and biting, and you’re hardly trying to shove him off, enjoying the feeling of his lips on your heated skin.
“We have to- mmm, we have to be quick Toru. You have a game and I have to cheer for it, remember?”
He spins you toward the table, pushing you forward and waiting for you to brace yourself. thump! thump! thump! Your heart is going a mile a minute as you dig your hands into the desk, biting your lip when he reaches forward and unbuttons your pants, slowly pulling them down to your feet.
When he rises, you can feel his breath blowing on the back of your calves.. higher to your thighs.. Just beneath your ass and he’s leaving a kiss there, fingers coming up to rub your pussy through your panties.
You suck in a sharp breath and he licks a long strip from your clit to your hole, not bothering to move the fabric.
“Did you know,” He starts, pressing two fingers to your clit and rubbing, holding your leg tight to keep you still. “psychology says that the more you hate someone, the more you fixate on them and that it can turn into passion.”
You bite your lip, moving your hips back for more friction and growing annoyed when he holds you dead still, lightly tapping at your thigh as a warning. These were the only moments you’d ever bite your tongue, because while you loved to dom him, you loved for him to dominate you more.
"Do you love me yet, sweetheart?"
“Fuck you, S-satoru.”
He laughs, kissing your ass before standing up, the sound of him digging through his pockets and ripping open the condom sending chills through your body.
Gojo pushes his boxers down and slides the condom onto his cock with ease, holding onto your ass and taking a moment to breathe because the sight of you was almost too good to be true.
“Fuck, sweetheart. You’re so fucking soaked for me, you want me to fuck you now?”
You push your hips against him, the warmth of his girthy cock rubbing against your ass. “Fucking obviously.”
"Ask nicely." He’s back to his teasing voice and you want to rip your hair out. It’s been a day since you had sex and you needed him desperately, even if you’d never tell him that.
"Gojo." You groan, fingers burning from how hard they dug into the wooden table.
"That's not nice." He leans over your back, grabbing your chin and turning you to face him. "Try again."
You grabbed his wrist and dug your nails in. "If you don't fuck me in the next thirty seconds, I'm going home."
Gojo laughs out a “That’s my girl.” and kisses you quickly before pulling back up.
He moves your panties out of the way and pushes inside in one smooth motion. You gasp, spine arching when he pushes it down, pulling you further back onto his cock. He was thick, stretching you open so perfectly, your walls gripping around him possessively.
Gojo sets a brutal pace from the start, his hips slamming against your ass with each thrust. The table creaked beneath you, and somewhere in the back of your mind you worried about someone hearing, but the thought was distant, drowned out by the pleasure building low in your belly.
You cover your mouth with your hand, biting down onto your palm when he wraps your hair in his fist and pulls your head back, scalp burning from the sting of it.
“This is what you needed, isn’t it?” His voice was strained, losing some of its usual cocky smoothness as lost himself in your cunt. "Acting like you’re too good for me, but your pussy tells a different story.”
You hate him, you really fucking do. You wanted to snap back at him, to say something cruel, but he angled his hips just right and hit that spot inside you that made you see stars. All that came out was a moan, loud and shameless in the quiet library.
He slows his hips just a little, yanking your body up against his. You glare at him but he doesn’t care, just grabs your jaw and squeezes until you move your hand.
“You want the entire library to know how well you take my cock?” He asks, peering down at you and you once again, find yourself drifting in his eyes, pulse skipping beats from the way he looks at you.
You can’t speak so you just shake your head no, licking your bottom lip and pushing your hips back against him. He leans down and kisses you, sucking your tongue into his mouth and moving his hand to rub your clit.
“Then shut the fuck up, princess.”
Gojo doesn’t give you the opportunity to respond before he’s slamming his hips back into yours, cock rubbing against your gummy walls and sending you spiraling. You were so close, inner walls clenching around him, your whole body trembling with the effort of holding back, waiting for him.
“Fucking pussy squeezing the life out of me, shit, gonna cum already, princess.”
Gojo never slows his pace, your lower body bumping into the table with each brutal thrust, his hand on your clit rubbing harsh circles. Tears seep from your eyes and you don’t see it but they fall from his too and straight into your hair, his free arm wrapping around body and pulling you close.
He leans his head down to your neck, sniffing deep and inhaling in your scent, mind spinning from your pheromones and his eyes rolling back. He squeezes you tight, the sound of his erratic breathing in your ear, clouding your senses, driving you fucking insane.
You hated to admit it but you loved when he was clingly like this, taking up your space while he fucked and prasied you. You often think of how different things could have been if he wasn’t who he was.
After one hard thrust, your knees buckled and you fell forward, Gojo going down with you. Your cheek laid against the cold surface, and Gojo hovered over you, his chest against your back, his mouth next to your ear.
“You drive me crazy, fuck, just let me make you mine already. Please, baby. Give me a chance.”
You wheeze out a laugh and he shifts his angle, hitting something that made your toes curl inside your sneakers, and the laugh turned into a whimper that you muffled against your own arm.
Gojo noticed, because of course he did. He adjusted, angling his hips to hit that spot again, and again, and again, each thrust a deliberate press that made your vision blur.
He looked at you and grounded low in his throat. Your eyes were half-closed, lips parted, cheeks flushed. He was claiming you in body and soul and you didn’t even realize it yet. The only trick was your stubborn mind, getting you to see that you wanted him just as bad as he wanted you.
"Say you want this. Say you want me." He kisses you and looks you in the eyes as he fucks you, his own pleading.
You squeeze your eyes shut up, biting into your fist to keep quiet as your orgasm crept up on you.
He made a sound of annoyance and slammed into you, your teeth greeting, nails leaving marks on the table that would surely tell anyone else what happened here. The orgasm that had been building crashed into you without warning, rolling through you in waves that made your thighs shake and your breath come in short, ragged gasps.
You bit down on your own tongue to keep quiet and tasted salt and blood.
Gojo’s rhythm faltered, his grip on your hip tightening as he fucked you through it. Slower now, deeper, grinding his hips against your ass on every downstroke. You were still clenching around him when his breathing changed and his forehead dropped to your shoulder.
"Close," he huffed.
"Then finish."
He thrust three more times, balls squeezing as he groaned with each stroke, and then he buried himself deep and held still. His legs strained and shook as he drained himself inside of you, and you felt the pulse of his cock through the condom, felt the way his whole body tensed and then released.
His breath was hot and uneven against your shoulder. He stayed there for a long moment, his weight pressing you into the table, both of you breathing hard.
You let him stay like that for a minute, the heat of his chest pressed against your back and your eyes fluttering closed as you came back down to earth. Something had changed this time and you couldn’t tell what it was but you felt it deep in your soul and it scared the fuck out of you.
Just when you were about to tell him to get off, he started to slowly pull out.
You felt the warmth immediately, the wet cum against your thigh. You turned your head, looking down between your bodies, and saw it. The condom had fucking ripped at the top!
"Gojo."
He stood up and looked at you, expression going from satisfied to panicked in about half a second.
"What’s wrong?"
You point to his cock, hair matching his and sticking to your sweaty face. "That’s what’s wrong."
"Shit." He grabbed the condom off his half hard cock and held it up. It was still mostly intact, but the seal had in fact broken at the base. "Shit, I’m sorry. How much got in you?"
“Just get something I can clean myself with.” You fight the urge to curse him out, knowing it wasn’t really his fault. You trusted that Gojo was only sleeping with you and you were on birth control so that wasn’t an issue. But what exactly was the problem?
Gojo pulls his pants and boxers back, moving around the table to grab a box of tissue at one of the desks and handing you a few. He watched as you wiped between your thighs, cum leaking from your pussy and the sight has his cock twitching in his jeans. Something possessive and nasty at the thought of you leaking with his seed while Suguru tried to steal you from him.
“I’m on the pill, remember? Relax.” You notice his strained face and wrongly assume it’s because he’s having a pregnancy scare. You had no fucking idea.
When you’re both decent enough, Gojo stops you before you leave out, hand on your arm as he stares down at you. You raise a brow, eyes wandering and fighting back a smile at the sight of your strawberry lipstick on the side of his mouth. Hot.
"Suguru asked about you.”
You give a confused smile, wondering what that had to do with you. You like Suguru, you weren’t close but still friends. Why would he be asking Gojo about you? The thought made your stomach ache.
“Did he?”
Gojo looks like he’s trying to keep his annoyance in check, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Mhm, I think he likes you. Said he’s gonna try to make a move on you.”
Your frown this time, even more confused than before. Sure, you thought he was cute that one time during freshman year but you never really thought much about him outside of the very few times you hung out with the girls.
“I don't date frat boys."
"Right. You just sleep with them."
You can hear the malice in his voice and now you’re annoyed, not wanting anything to do with whatever rivalry he and Suguru had going on. You snatch your arm away from him and deadpan him, a storm quietly building in your chest.
“I sleep with you.” You correct him. “A serious lapse of judgement, not a fucking pattern. I’m not interested in your friend.”
Gojo scuffs, taking a step back with hurt in his eyes. “A lapse of judgement? That’s what we’re calling this?”
“That’s exactly what we’re calling this.” You say with more venom than you mean to, annoyed that he was accusing you of something you hadn’t even done nor had any plans to.
“Keep lying to yourself, (name). I won’t be around to watch it.”
He pushes past you and you’re left confused on what the fuck just happened.
A week goes by without you seeing each other. Gojo doesn’t call or text, so you don’t either.
You pretend that the anonymous flowers placed outside of your door aren’t from him, that the late night deliveries of beef bowls or your favorite sweets weren’t placed there by a certain 6’3 white haired frat president.
He was mad at you for something you didn’t do and while you told yourself you didn’t care, you hated the permanent knot in your stomach. You had grown used to spending most of your nights at his place, asleep in his bed and waking up to him with his arms wrapped around you.
You told yourself that you hated it, hated him, but the truth was you weren’t sure what you felt anymore.
You didn’t love Gojo but you had learned to tolerate his presence, even felt your ice cold heart melting a bit around him. You told yourself that this was simply sex, but you had unknowingly found yourself finding comfort in his presence. So having your new norm snatched away from you made you feel sick.
So what did you do? You ignored him.
You go back to using your toys to get off, even if it does nothing but leave you sexually frustrated once again. You work on your project alone and send him copies of your research notes through google drive, but that’s as far as communication between you two went.
You had never in your life begged a man to speak to you, to take you back and you weren’t going to start now. Gojo was a frat boy at the end of the day, maybe it was for the best that you cut things off.
It’s better this way.
"You look like shit," Shoko says, leaning against the doorframe of your shared bathroom with a mascara wand in one hand.
"Thanks," you muttered, not looking up from the sink.
You didn’t want to go out, would rather stay home and get ahead of school work but your friends wouldn’t hear it. They told you that you were too depressed and it was making them depressed and when you tried to argue, they literally pulled up texts to show the difference in the way you texted a week ago vs now.
You didn’t deny that you were a bit drier than usual but blamed it on school and cheer stress, what will all the games going on.
They didn’t believe it, which is why you found yourself fixing your hair and makeup, and squeezing into a body tight red dress. Girls night out at the club, dress your sluttiest! Yuki had said.
"I'm serious. Are you sick? Are you dying? Should I call someone?"
"I'm not dying, Shoko."
She sighs and looks over at you but you don’t face her. Can’t face her. "Then what's wrong with you?"
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You turned off the faucet and dried your hands on the towel, avoiding eye contact because Shoko had this creepy way of reading people, and right now you did not want to be fucking read.
You were going to get pissy drunk and forget that you ever agreed to that stupid arrangement in the first place.
You meet Yuki and Utahime at the club around eight, annoyed that your boobs keep spilling out of your top and the way men that were definitely married with children keep looking at you.
It was at that moment that you realized when Gojo had been leaving you covered in hickeys, no one ever batted an eye at you and now that most had faded, heads were starting to turn again.
It made you hate him more for doing this to you. Making you so fucking stupid.
The club was packed, some DJ from out of town was performing (he wouldn’t stop saying it), and the bass was already rattling in your chest before you even got to your reserved booth. Yuki ordered a round of shots as soon as you sat, and Utahime was already scanning the room for cute guys. You could feel Shoko looking but tried your best to ignore her, skin tight with an annoying wave of anxiety.
You had the sudden urge to throw up and were thankful when Yuki arrived with drinks, immediately grabbing a shot glass and tossing it back.
Utahime leaned across the table, her purple hair falling in her face as she looked at you with concerned eyes that pissed you off. Everyone was treating you like a baby when you were fine!
“Okay seriously, what’s going on? You look like you’re experiencing your first heartbreak.”
You blink, feigning innocence with a forced smile. “What do you mean?”
"You've been weird lately," Yuki added, not even trying to be subtle about it because she never gave a fuck. "Like, mopey and it’s concerning but annoying."
You roll your eyes. They’re being dramatic as usual. Just because you hadn’t been fucked in seven days didn’t mean you were mopey. Sure, your pussy literally ached every day to be fucked but that you always took care of it, even if your sex drive only grew more and more.
“I’m fine. I’m just tired from studying for midterms.”
“Look.” Shoko cuts in, taking a shot and turning to face you better. She takes your hand in yours and you fight the urge to snatch it away.
“I don’t know who that guy was, but it seemed like he really made you happy. Maybe reach out to him and try to fix things. I hate to see you down.”
You scuff, lightly pulling your hand away and tasking another shot. “There is no other guy.”
“Really? So what about when I caught you hiding a guy in the closet like two weeks ago, that was a lie?”
Your face flushed at the memory but you swallow it and hide deep in your heart, veins jumping at the image of his face.
“Whoever he is,” Yuki continues. “you should have hot make up sex or whatever. You've been down since whatever happened, and life's too short to be miserable over a boy."
"Can you all just fuck off?” You snap, anger burning hot in your chest. “Seriously. I'm not down. I'm not miserable. There's no fucking guy."
None of the girls seem convinced but they drop the topic anyways and move onto how Yuki and Choso broke up. You take this time to collect yourself, blaming your outburst on not getting laid and not because you couldn’t stop thinking about the one person you “hated” most.
That’s when you looked up and saw him. Gojo walked in the front entrance like he owned it, Sukuna and Toji on his left and Suguru to his right.
Your breath got stuck in your throat. He looked otherworldly, in a back shirt that clung tight to his chest and showed off his muscles that he usually kept hidden. His shades were covering his eyes, white hair tucked behind his ears and his jeans showed off that perfect thin waist you loved to hold onto whenever he fucked you missionary.
Your heart dripped to your stomach when you got a closer look, because on Gojo's arm was a girl you didn’t recognize.
She was pretty. Brunette, tall, wearing a bodycon dress that hugged every curve, and she was clinging to his bicep like it was a lifeline. Laughing at something he said, tilting her head in that flirty way that made you want to throw up right there.
But when you looked at Gojo, he looked miserable. His smile didn’t reach as high as you knew it could, his jaw was tight and his head kept turning to look elsewhere, as if he’d rather be anywhere but there.
"Oh, great," Utahime muttered after following your line of sight. "The frat brigade."
They came over because that’s just your fucking luck. Sukuna spotted your booth first and steered the whole group in your direction, because Sukuna had zero boundaries and loved making people uncomfortable which is why you hated him maybe even more than you hated Gojo.
"Hey, ladies," Sukuna said with a grin that was all teeth, sitting next to Shoko. "Looking hot as fuck tonight."
"Looking like a felon, as always," Your roommate replied flatly, unamused.
Suguru laughed and slid into the booth next to Yuki. Toji grabbed a chair from a nearby table and flipped it around, straddling it. And Gojo..
Gojo sits directly across from you, the brunette settling beside him, still attached to his arm. You roll your eyes.
“Hey.” He says to no one in particular, even though you can see his eyes linger on yours through his shades and you feel your heart skipping literal beats. What the fuck was that about?
You look away, reaching for another drink and looking away, fingers trembling just slightly around the glass, eyes glancing at the dance floor. Fucking get it together.
You listen as Gojo introduces the girl, not caring to catch her name and just that she’s apparently a friend of a friend. You listen as everyone says hello, and give her a silent mode and strained smile.
The conversation shifted naturally, Sukuna talking about the latest football game where they crushed the rival 4-1. You were there obviously, performed your cheer routine and pretended like Gojo wasn’t somewhere all hot and sweaty. It was a true test to your strength to not walk up to him that night.
"Gojo scored three of those goals," Suguru said, nodding to him. "Man of the match, again."
"Three goals," Toji repeated, stealing one of your shots and winking at you when you flip him off. "And he still looked like someone kicked his dog after the game."
The girl leaned into Gojo and whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was, it made him exhale through his nose, not quite a laugh but enough for your jealousy to creep to the surface.
Something hot and ugly twisting in your chest.
Fuck this! You weren't going to sit here act like some desperate whore when men literally beg at your feet for a chance to fuck you. Screw Gojo, there were plenty of fish in the sea and one was bound to match your freak.
You tossed back the shot that had been sitting in front of you, slammed the glass on the table hard enough to make everyone look at you, and stood up. You yanked down the hem of your dress and walked away without a word.
“Where are you going?”
You heard Shoko yell after you but you ignored her, venom dripping from your pores with each step. It was time to remind yourself who you were, and that wasn’t some cock drunk slut who moped over a man she hated anyways.
You pushed through the crowd until you reached the dance floor, where the music was loud enough to drown out your anger and started dancing
Your hips moved in circles, arms raised above your head, eyes closed as the music flowed through you. The bass was like a second heartbeat and you let it take you somewhere else. To a place where you didn’t have to think about Gojo and his stupid fucking face or the fact that he shows up with a girl on his arm after not texting you for a week.
You felt a guy appear behind you, his hands on your waist as he started moving with you, pulling your back against his chest. You let him even though you felt nothing. No spark, no heat, literally nothing. Just unfamiliar hands on your body and the faint smell of cologne that wasn't the one you were used to.
You were doing it on purpose, you knew that. Dancing with a stranger because you wanted Gojo to see, for him to feel even a fraction of what you felt watching that girl cling to him.
It took him about four minutes. You counted and smirked when he appeared in the crowd, leaning against a pole as he watched you with his glasses pushed up and malice in his eyes.
You lean into the guy more, letting his hands roam up your chest. Gojo smirks when he squeezes your boob, taking a sip of his drink and tilting his head.
You're breathless, annoyed that he thinks this is a joke and grabs the man’s hand roughly, guiding it down your dress further and further, never breaking eye contact with the man you’re supposed to be forgetting about.
When the stranger's hand is touching your bare thigh, Gojo breaks, passing his drink to someone and making his way through the crowd.
You hardly blink when a hand closes around your wrist and yanks away from the confused stranger with enough force that you stumble. Gojo keeps you upright even though his cheeks are clearly red from anger, glaring down at you like you insulted him.
“What the fuck are you doing? You some kind of whore now?” He leans down, voice tight and low against your ear.
You yank your arm back and take a step back, chest heaving as you squared up to him. “How fucking dare you? You're not my boyfriend, Gojo. You don't get to drag me around like I'm your property."
He stared at you, those blue eyes sharp and frustrated. "You're right. I'm not your boyfriend. Because you won't let me be!"
You're quiet for a split second, nostrils flared and fists balled at your side, heat moving up your chest to your neck.
“Can we not do this here?”
He laughs, grabbing your arm and pulling you close again, towering over you and forcing you to tilt your head back to see him.
“Why not? You were so brave a few seconds ago, let’s air our shit out right here. Don’t be embarrassed now, it’s beneath you.”
"You have a new fuck buddy now," you say, crossing your arms and purposely pushing your boobs up. "So I don't see why any of this is your problem."
"She's not my fuck buddy. My friends set it up because they think I need to move on from you." He ran a hand through his white hair, messing it up. "Sukuna literally said I've been unbearable to live with since we stopped talking."
"Boo hoo." You lack any sympathy considering he’s the one that walked out on you. Fuck. Him.
"Will you stop being a bitch for five seconds?"
"Excuse me?"
He steps closer, evading your space to the point that you only smell him and his fuck ass cologne, nose greedily breathing it in. “You heard me.”
“You’re not my boyfriend because you’re not my type! Now fuck off and let me forget anything ever happened between us.”
He laughed but it was hollow, lacking any true emotions. “But I’m your type when I’m inside of you.”
Your face is a fucking furance, especially when you realize others are looking. Your mouth opens and closes, searching for some witty response but your mind draws a blink. This was humiliating. How did you go from a secret situationship to publicly yelling at each other because you were jealous of the other giving someone else attention?
Your life was a fucking mess.
“Fuck you Gojo.”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” He smirks and it’s hateful and lust, making your nipples harden underneath your bra.
Without thinking, you grab his shirt and pull his mouth against yours, kissing him hard enough that your teeth clack. It was angry and messy, and you bit his lower lip until he hissed, and his hands were on your hips and then your ass, pulling your chest flat against his.
His tongue sweeps into your mouth as you moan and shamelessly grind against his leg, his hands guiding your hips back and forth. The music is blasting, your mind is on a different planet and you don’t notice the way your friends are looking from the booth in pure shock.
When you gain some common sense and remember where you are, you pull away and look at Gojo with glassy eyes, relishing in the way his lips are red from your kisses.
“Wanna fuck Toru?”
When he nods yes, you're dragging him by his hand through the crowd and into the men's bathroom.
There’s no words needed when the door closes, so you drop to your knees and start unblocking his belt and unzipping his pants. Gojo is clearly flustered, but helps you pull his pants and boxers down with shaking hands.
He watches you with one hand braced on the wall and the other moving to grab your hair, lips parted as he breathed heavily.
You stroke him a few times, thumb rubbing over the red tip and spreading the pre before taking him into your mouth without warning. Gojo curses under his breath, hips jerking forward, and you wrap one hand around the base while you work the rest with your tongue.
This was your first time going down on Gojo but no one would know with the way you easily take him, swallowing his cock until it’s down your throat.
You’re sloppy about it, letting salvia drip down your chin and onto your exposed chest, sucking his cock like a pornstar, your mouth making obscene wet noises. You suck hard, looking up at him through wet eyelashes and watching his face contort, jaw clenched and eyes dark.
“Fuck,” He breathed, hands tightening in your hair and guiding you to suck faster. “Just like that.”
You took him deeper, relaxing your throat and letting him control your movements. His hips start to move, slow thrust that make him hit the back of your throat and your eyes water. When you moan around he shudders and reaches a hand down to stroke your cheek.
"You're so good at this," he said, voice rough. "You're so good at pretending you don't want me, but look at you. My little cock obsessed slut."
You pull back just enough to run your tongue along the underside, from base to tip, and smirk when he makes a sound that’s almost a whimper. You take him back in, bobbing your head in a rhythm that matches the muffled bass from the club.
“Haah, fuck!” You could feel him getting close, the way his thighs tensed, the way his breathing turned ragged.
"Wait, princess, fuck, I'm gonna-"
You don’t pull off. When he cums, you swallow all of it, throat working at his cock as he shoots hot ropes of thick cum into your mouth. His groan is wrecked, a raw sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest, and his fist slams against the wall as his knees threaten to buckle. You held him there, mouth sealed tight around him, until the last tremor faded and he was just a gasping, trembling mess.
Then you let him slip free, wipe the spit and salt from your lips with the back of your hand, and tilt your face up to meet his stunned, glassy stare. If you knew how hot his moans were when getting his dick sucked, you would have done this sooner.
“Wanna get out here?”
When you made it to Gojo’s place, you both wrestled each other’s clothes off and didn’t make it to his room before he was inside of you. He took you on the couch two times and once in the kitchen, bent over the sink as he fucked you hard and deep.
Now you were laid on your back on his bed, watching as he reached for another condom. Before you could stop yourself, you let your heart lead for once and called his name to stop him.
“No condom this time.”
He freezes, looking back down at the latex and back at you. “What?”
“Wanna feel you this time Toru, please?”
And he broke, tossing it and climbing back over your body and kissing from your tits back up to your face, stopping to lick inside of your mouth, his hard cock pressing against your entrance. He pauses, looking down at you with his white hair falling to the sides of his face, all sweaty from your previous sessions.
“Say it again.”
You smile and wrap your arms around his neck, pull him back down and nipping at his lip. “I want you Satoru, wanna feel you raw.”
He gives a shaky breath and without wasting any more time, pushes into you slowly, stopping every inch to savor your warmth around him. Feeling him bare inside of you made you gasp and claw at his shoulders, the new sensation of his pulsing cock making you feel lucid.
He groaned against your neck, stilling once he was fully seated, letting you adjust to the new feeling as he fought the urge to bust a fat fucking nut.
"You feel so good," he said, voice cracking. "Fuck, you feel-"
"Move," you whisper, scratching down his back.
He started slowly, rolling his hips in deep, deliberate thrusts that hit every nerve ending you had. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he moaned your name against your collarbone.
This was different from every other time. Before, it had been fast and rough and detached on your end, two people using each other to blow off steam. This was something else entirely. He was looking at you, really looking at you, and there was so much emotion in his eyes that you felt tears prick at your own.
He licks them away, both hands reaching down to grab onto your ass so he can pound you harder.. faster, so fucking deep. He moves faster, and you meet him thrust for thrust, your bodies naturally finding a rhythm that has your heart lurching.
The pressure built inside you and when that coil snapped and you came for the fourth time, you came hard, back arching off the bed, mouth open in a silent cry, clenching around him so tightly that he followed you over the edge with a groan that sounded like your name.
“Fuck-, I love you, sweetheart. Fucking love you so much.”
He buried himself deep, groaning loud and squeezing your ass hard enough to leave a print. His hips moved in circles as he emptied himself and you felt it, the warmth of him spilling into you, no barrier, nothing between you, and it was so intimate that you felt tears slip again.
You let him hold you that night even though you don’t hold him back, mind stuck on the fact that Gojo loves you and now your relationship would never be the same.
You woke up first that day and deeply regret it.
The morning light was creeping in and your body was sore enough that you almost regretted riding him two more times after, letting him stuff you full until his balls were empty. Gojo was still asleep beside you, one arm thrown over his face, white hair a mess on the pillow. You slipped out of bed carefully, pulling on one of his oversized soccer jerseys that fell to your mid-thigh, and padded barefoot into the hallway.
You were snooping, just trying to use the bathroom when you noticed one of his draws were still open and a bunch of polaroids were spilling out. You told yourself you were just going to fix them so they wouldn’t get destroyed.
You pulled the draw open, heart lurching when the first one you saw was a photo of you. What the fuck..
It was from sophomore year, the one time you went bowling with your friends and had been forced to interact with Gojo. He had been taking photos but you never thought about it. It wasn’t creepy, just an off guard photo of you laughing at something and it made you sick.
You started digging through the rest, ears burning when you found a few more of you off guard, some of you with the girls that he took. You looked so happy in all of them, Gojo’s photography style making it look like you were the center of his world.
Your fingers trembled as you flipped through the polaroids, each one a moment you barely remembered. He'd seen you. Really seen you. And you spent two years hating him because he wore Greek letters on his chest and you built your whole personality around hating everything that stood for.
Your throat aches, eyes burn. You press your palm flat against the sink to steady yourself, knees weak and blood running cold.
When you grabbed a few photos and turned to confront him, Gojo was standing in the doorway. He was shirtless, sleep still in his eyes, and he looked from your face to the open drawer with an expression that could only be described as pure panic.
"How long?" You ask, holding up the photos. "Satoru, how long have you been taking pictures of me?"
❦ lisa's note: messy af tbh! one more part to go, lemme know what ya think :')
stealing your husband’s chocolate and finding out it was laced with an aphrodisiac!
[content: MDNI, crack smųt, a very unserious piece of work, piv, hair pulling, use of aphrodisiacs, sukuna’s sour but then he’s sweet]
Never in your life have you been so horny it hurt.
“Kuna, please—harder,” you cry out.
“I’m going as hard as I fucking can, you little slut,” he snaps, each thrust matching every harsh word that gets spat through his teeth. “THIS IS WHY YOU DON’T EAT RANDOM. CHOCOLATE. ON. THE. COUNTER.”
“I’m sorry! Fuck!! I didn’t know!”
“There was a note saying DON’T eat it—you just didn’t give a shit because you’re a thief and a glutton. A liar now, too,” he continues to scold you over the chocolate bar he was going to give to Jin so he’d stop groveling over his ex. It’s been 6 fucking months, he’s tired of having to listen to him go on and on about Kaori. Enough is enough—he needs to go out and sleep with someone.
And now Jin’s never going to shut up. Sukuna doesn’t even want to look at you right now—let alone reward your behavior with dick.
“And now you’re cryin’ like it’s my fuckin’ fault.” It’s him who should be crying right now. “It’s simple: Leave my fucking snacks alone. I always get multiples of each so you’d keep your grubby little hands off them. Why can’t you just be normal and go in my wallet?? Fuck—Arch that back some more.” He cracks his palm over your ass. “Yeah, hike it up nice and high.”
“I can’t!” It feels like it’s about to break with all the weight he’s putting on it! Both of his hands pinning you down, burying every last inch of his cock inside of you.
He scoffs, nudging for you to close your thighs, then planting his knees right next to yours so they stay that way. “Do you want to cum?”
“…yes,” you whimper.
“Then fucking arch it.”
You sniffle. “Okay.”
He breaks character and huffs out a laugh as he watches you continue to helplessly stretch and squelch around him, making a creamy mess all along his shaft. He straightens his back, big hands now firmly grabbing your hips as he picks up the pace.
“Yeahh—stay right there,” his chest rumbles as he lets out a low, drawn-out groan. The smack of his hips growing louder, driving himself right into that little spot that won’t stop screaming for his attention.
It has his attention now.
The new angle had you whining into the pillow, absolutely reeling from how good he was at this, despite his complaints. He knows how to be rough. Nearly lifting you off the bed once he starts pulling your hips back, heavy balls smacking against your sensitive clit as he makes you meet each and every rough thrust he delivers.
“F-fuckk!” you choke out, barely able to form a coherent sentence as you start babbling out a bunch of words.
“So fuckin’ spoiled.” He complains, but just barely. “C’mon brat—you’ve been working me like a fuckin’ dog, give it to me already.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t believe you. You sound like you’re in heaven right now. “Mmhh—I love you so much.” His scowl deepens. “So, so much—you’re so fucking big.“
“Tch.” He grabs a handful of your hair, then yanks you back until you’re up against his chest, lips grazing your ear while muttering in it. “I don’t want an apology. What I want is for you to cum on my fuckin’ cock already. Or should I just stop?”
“No, no don’t! Please! I’m trying, I swear,” you begin to plead with the man.
“Try harder.” Then he smiled, because he felt you squeeze around him. “Jesus Christ—you need to me talk you through it too? The chocolates supposed to make you horny, sweetheart. Not useless.”
“It’s not my fault,” you whimper, and squeeze around him again, pulling a condescending huff out of him.
“You poor thing,” he hums. “Probably spent the whole day waiting for me to come home so I could make you feel better, huh?”
His breath tickles your ear and you nearly moan. “Mhm—I thought about it all day.”
“Well aren’t you sweet,” he mutters, tone as condescending as ever. “You got what you wanted, too. I’ve been taking care of you for a while now. How many times have I cum in you now?”
“I… I don’t know—“
“Of course you fuckin’ don’t.” He cuts you off, unamused by your answer. “Want me to do it again? Fill you up, make you feel all nice and warm?”
“Please.”
“Give me what I want then. If these sheets aren’t soaked by the time I’m about to cum again, I’m pulling out and finishing on your face,” he lets go of your hair and begins to laugh. You don’t get much of a chance to react before you feel the pads of his fingers on your clit, pulling a gasp out of you once he starts rubbing little circles on top of already fucking you. “Heh—let’s see if playing with this cute little clit saves you.”
And he knows you don’t deserve it—any of it, honestly. Unfortunately, he can’t help himself, not with the reactions he gets out of you. He married you for many reasons—getting to spend the rest of his life with a squirter was one of them. The moment your breathing grows labored and you sound like you’re gonna start to cry, his lids grow heavy and he starts saying all the things he told himself he wouldn’t say today.
"Yeahhh, that’s it, baby—fuuuuck—takin’ it so good.” He is fucking gone. Voice thick, filled with nothing but lust and awe as he presses against your lower belly. “C’mon, you want it here, right? Yeah, you know what to do—don’t let some fuckin’ asshole finish on your sweet little face.”
Yes. Your husband just degraded himself. And you just egg him on without meaning to. You were already whining about how it was too much, the incoherent “want it inside,” just made it better worse.
“I will, I’ll give you so fuckin’ much if you just give me one—just one. Easy. Shit—I’ll fill you up as much as you want afterwards.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but that doesn’t matter when it’s what has you crying and trembling and finally gushing around his cock.“Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, that’s—fuuuuck yeah. Good job, sweetheart—good fuckin’ job. Fuck.”
Funny enough, he came right after you, which was a relief because that meant his job was done and he was finally able to give his dick a fucking break after hours of feeling like he was working for free, when he had already worked a regular eight hour shift prior. The biggest relief of all was seeing you lie limp in bed, after slightly worrying if you ever actually would.
He leans over you with a smug smile, already having forgotten how much you pissed him off earlier as he moved some hair away from your face. Checking to see if you’re actually asleep or not, then feeling a deep sense of peace when seeing that you are. He presses a kiss against your cheekbone, and in the most loving way hopes you stay that way because he cannot do that again. Then finally, he gets up to use the bathroom.
The peace is only lasts four steps until it’s completely shattered again when he hears your weak voice.
You’d been living in the quiet leftovers of your marriage for months, pretending the cracks weren’t as obvious as they felt. So when your parents gifted you a high-end android, you assumed it would just highlight everything that wasn’t working in your home.
Instead, you ended up with something far more complicated than a machine, and a presence you didn’t realize you’d been missing.
Marriage had never been all sunshine and rainbows.
You knew that better than anyone. Not because you were cynical, but because you held it in your hands long enough to feel the splinters of something breaking, piece by piece.
People liked to pretend it was a fairytale, that love was some permanent, living thing that stayed with you forever – comforting lies wrapped in ribbons.
But real life didn’t care about your vows or your good intentions. It crept in slowly, like water slipping under a doorframe. A small leak at first, barely noticeable until the puddle had soaked through the floorboards, and you couldn’t remember what the room used to look like before everything swelled and warped.
Deadlines. Bills. Exhaustion.
Mornings that bled into nights without ever really feeling like days had passed. Conversations that died down until even the silence felt hollow.
You watched the way relationships aged.
The way people did, too.
How love shifted from something bright and reckless into something painfully heavier, something that you had to carry instead of something that carried you.
And still…you couldn’t say that you didn’t love him
Not entirely.
Because there was some foolish part of you that still clung to the ghost of who your husband used to be. The boy who cupped your face as if you were something precious, who laughed so loudly at your stupid jokes that his shoulders shook, who swore your names together like a vow that could never break.
People warned you back then, about marrying so young. They’d called you impulsive. Said that you were too lovesick to understand what forever truly meant. That first loves burn out – they don’t last.
But you’d brushed all of it off, drunk on the certainty that only a couple of twenty-year-olds in love could afford. How could it be so wrong to marry someone you wanted to spend your life with? He’d been your person – through finals, through your first real job, through the nights you laid tangled together whispering about future plans you truly believed you’d earn.
He’d felt like home, then.
So you married him.
And then real life slapped you across the face.
Stress settled over both of you like thick fog, creeping in through every crack. Responsibilities stacked themselves higher and higher every year. His affection began thinning, so subtly that you kept convincing yourself you were imagining it.
It started with the casual touches.
His hand would pull away from yours too soon. A smile that never quite reached his eyes. The absentminded kiss he forgot to come back for.
Then it was the bigger things.
Distracted conversations that trickled into silence, arguments that flared up over nothing and cooled into resentment. The weight of never being understood, of talking in functional circles, of being met with a sigh instead of warmth.
He stopped noticing you. Stopped reaching for you. Stopped caring about whether you felt wanted.
And somehow, it was always your fault.
You became the problem before either of you admitted there was a problem.
He didn’t cherish you, but he still expected your body on the nights it was convenient for him. Intimacy stopped being something shared, and instead became something extracted. A duty. A quiet transaction. Something owed rather than earned simply because he wore a ring that matched yours.
And each time you let it happen, some fragile part of you folded in on yourself, apologizing for existing.
You tried. You really did.
Marriage counseling. Scheduled date nights. Soft apologies you forced past your teeth even when you didn’t believe them. Little gestures meant to remind him of who you used to be together. You twisted yourself into unfamiliar shapes, trying to fit the mold of a wife he might love again.
And when nothing worked, desperation nudged you into one last attempt. A night you still couldn’t think about without feeling that sinking pit in your stomach.
You’d gotten another late-night text from him, something about having to stay late at the office. Again. Buried under another project. Another shipment. Another prototype in the testing wing that apparently needed endless revisions for a presentation.
So you cooked his favorite dinner. Pack it in carefully sealed containers.
Put on the expensive lingerie he’d bought for you years ago, the set that used to make his eyes darken at the sight of you.
Slipped into a dress that didn’t feel like it belonged to anyone you recognized anymore.
You stupidly hoped that maybe he’d look up at you when you walked in. That he’d remember the woman he once couldn’t keep his hands off.
The fluorescent lights on his floor were unkind – too white, and cold, and sterile. The scent of coolant and disinfectant drifted in the air from the testing wing. Machines thrummed behind glass walls, their movements pulsing like mechanical heartbeats.
You’d pushed the door open without knocking, trying to breathe past your nerves and steady your hands trembling with glass tupperware.
And you’d found him with his pants hanging around his thighs, buried deep in his secretary, bent over the shiny wooden desk.
There wasn’t any hesitation.
No shame.
No guilt or fear shining behind his eyes.
Just cold indifference.
You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. Didn’t do any of the things movies taught you about what heartbreak looked like. Your brain shut down before your heart could catch up. A silent implosion. Everything collapsing inward while nothing moved on the outside.
You just stood there, clutching the stupid meal you made for him, watching the version of your life you hadn’t realized died months ago. Something your heart denied for far too long.
She looked at him like she’d always been his.
He looked at her like you hadn’t been in the doorway at all.
When he came home later that night, the argument was exactly what you’d expected, the same rotation of excuses polished into accusations.
You never paid attention.
You didn’t try hard enough.
You let yourself go.
You made him feel alone.
He treated his betrayal like a symptom of your shortcomings. And despite seeing the truth with your own eyes, a part of you – the exhausted, worn down part – believed him, absorbed the blame like a sponge.
After that, neither of you mentioned it again.
He didn’t stop seeing her, you knew that. He didn’t even bother hiding it well. You could smell perfume that didn’t belong to you lingering on his coat, see the faint lipstick smudge on his sleeve. He’d tilt his phone just out of your line of sight at dinner, come home at 2am reeking of whiskey and someone else’s hands.
If he wasn’t locked away in that glass office downtown, designing machines that resembled humanity more convincingly than he did, he was somewhere else, laughing and drinking and living a life that orbited far from yours.
He didn’t care that you knew. He didn’t have to.
Because he knew you wouldn’t leave.
You were afraid of what you’d lose, of who you’d be without him, of the life you’d have to rebuild from scratch. The apartment with its floor-to-ceiling windows and sweeping city views, the sleek appliances, and the lights glittering below.
All of it was his money.
His job.
His world.
And the thought of having to crawl back to your parents’ house, of unpacking your things in your childhood bedroom like some version of a failure, made your stomach knot. They would’ve welcomed you home in a heartbeat, that wasn’t the problem.
It was the shame. The humiliation. The feeling of being someone who couldn’t keep the life she’d once been so sure of.
So you stayed.
Not because you forgave him, you doubted you ever would.
But because the loneliness was something you’d grown accustomed to long before the marriage itself ended.
Those first few nights were the worst.
When the city’s lights poured in through the windows, drenching the room.
When the hum of distant circuity drifted from the manufacturing district.
When your reflection in the mirror looked more like a stranger than the woman you’d always thought you’d be.
Sometimes, staring out over the skyline, you caught yourself wondering when exactly things had shifted. When the warmth of your life drained out. When you stopped living and merely existed. When everything began to feel a little more artificial than the machines he spent his days creating.
Your mother’s face flickered softly across the glass panel embedded into the kitchen wall, her image slightly out of sync with the sound coming from the little speaker balanced on the counter. The delay made everything feel more distant, like you were watching an old video call instead of actually talking to her.
“—and then your father said he doesn’t know why the basil keeps dying,” she was saying, hands animated as she rambled. “I told him it’s because he never listens to the care instructions, but does he believe me? Of course not.”
You murmured something back vaguely agreeable, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were agreeing with. Your attention was half on her, half on the plate in your hand, one of your husband’s, flecked with dried sauce he couldn’t be bothered to rinse off.
You stacked it on top of the precarious tower already teetering in the sink. The ceramic clinked against more ceramic. You scowled at the sound and immediately hated yourself for it afterward. It wasn’t the plate’s fault that the kitchen felt like a graveyard for tired arguments.
Your fingers were damp and a little pruney from earlier, so you wiped them against the hem of your shirt. The fabric stayed wrinkled no matter how much you smoothed it. You felt like that a lot lately, rumpled in a way that didn’t come out with a simple fix. Creased down to the seams.
“Sweetheart, are you even listening to me?” your mom asked, the scold in her voice softened by static.
“I am,” you muttered automatically.
You nudged one of your husband’s with your foot as you passed through the living area. A polished leather pair, left dead in the center of the entryway like a trap. The muddy soles had already smudged the glossy floors. You’d spent all of yesterday on your hands and knees polishing those same tiles until your back ached and your fingers cramped.
You kicked the shoes toward the wall. They thudded dully. And in the moment, you didn’t care how they landed.
“Just tidying up,” you added, like that explained everything.
In the panel, she squinted at you, leaning closer as if that would somehow help the resolution. Behind her, you could see the blur of your parents’ living room, the familiar couch, the framed photos, the sun filtering through the curtains.
A shape moved mechanically in the background, near the sliding glass doors. Her garden unit – smooth casing, slender limbs, careful hands tending to the flower boxes on the back patio. You could tell by the angle it was pruning the hibiscus she’d been bragging about for months.
To her, the little machine was a miracle. To you, it was another reminder that she had help, and you didn’t.
“You look exhausted,” she sighed. “Long day?”
Long month.
Long year.
Long marriage.
Your back throbbed from bending to pick up after someone who acted like the apartment cleaned itself. You hadn’t eaten yet, and it was—what, nearly evening? And a headache had settled somewhere behind your eyes like a slow, pulsing bruise, the kind that made the lights feel too bright and sounds too loud.
But if you stopped moving, if you sat down and let that exhaustion show, your mom would pick up on the tension in your voice and start lecturing you about hydration, or sleep cycles, or your rising cortisol levels.
“Something like that,” you said, lifting an empty glass from the coffee table. His, based on the faint ring of condensation and the trace of some expensive whiskey clinging to the bottom. You moved it back to the kitchen out of habit.
Her gaze sharpened.
There it was, that familiar crease between her brows. The one that said: you’re not telling me everything. She’d always been a little too good at reading you.
“How’s he doing?” she asked, casually enough that someone else might have missed the weight under the question.
You paused, fingers tightening around the glass before you set it in the sink with the others.
He’s fucking his secretary.
He’s drinking more.
He’s barely here, and when he is, he feels even farther away.
All of those things hovered on the back of your tongue. And none of them made it out.
“He’s busy,” you said instead, forcing your voice to sound as bland as you could. “Work’s been kinda…consuming him lately.”
You’d gotten good at telling the half-truths. Just enough honesty to be technically correct, and just enough vagueness to keep the rot hidden away.
“And the city?” she asked. “You’re adjusting? Still getting used to all the noise and everything?”
You bent to pick up one of his work shirts tossed over the back of the couch. The cuff brushed your cheek, and you caught the faint trace of perfume, something sweet and fruity. Not your scent. Not any product you owned. It was that same smell that clung to him when he stumbled home last night, muttering something about “networking drinks” in a tone that dared you to question it.
“Yeah,” you mumbled. “I’m fine. Really. Just busy, mom.”
You were getting good at that, too – that little word fine, stretched so thin that it barely meant anything anymore.
“Mhm.”
That was the sound she made when she didn’t believe you, but hadn’t decided whether or not it was worth pressing.
She watched you move around the living room, straightening cushions, folding the blanket you’d used on the couch last night when you couldn’t fall asleep in your own bed. Her eyes softened, then hardened, then softened again. The constant cycle of maternal concern and restraint.
“I was looking at old photos earlier,” she said suddenly. “From your graduation. You looked so…bright then.”
“Mom,” you warned lightly.
“I’m not saying that to upset you,” she said quickly. “You just—you had this glow. You and him. You looked like you believed the whole world was about to open up.”
You remembered that day. The heat of his palm pressed against your back. The way he kissed you in front of your parents, grinning against your own smile. Back then, he’d ramble about the future like it was something precious you were both holding onto.
Now, whenever he mentioned the future, it was numbers and sales projections and quarterly reports. Deadlines. Market expansions. Work always.
He didn’t talk about your future anymore. Just the company’s – or just his.
“Well,” your mom tried again, a little more tentatively, “your anniversary is coming up, isn’t it?”
You stiffened.
God. That again.
You forced your shoulders to relax, forced your fingers to uncoil as you draped the blanket over the back of the couch.
“Yeah,” you said. “Next week.”
“Are you two doing anything special?” she asked, hope laced in her voice like she was trying to paint something brighter over a wall already peeling.
You could’ve laughed.
You pictured him hunched over his desk in that sleek glass office, blue light reflecting off his tired face, some new prototype’s specs glowing on the screen. You pictured him ignoring your messages, letting the read receipts sit there like little ghosts.
Special?
You were lucky if he came home before midnight, much less remembered what date it was.
“I don’t know,” you muttered. “We haven’t really talked about it.”
Because you hadn’t really talked about anything that mattered in months.
Her sigh floated through the speaker, full of frayed frustration. “You deserve to be celebrated. A night out, a trip—something. You’re so tired lately, and he—”
“Mom, I said I’m fine,” you cut in, the words sharper than you meant.
Silence fell over the room for a second. You pretended to busy yourself with rearranging the throw pillows, even though they were already lined up perfectly
“...You always say that,” she murmured. “And I know you hate when I worry, but…you don’t seem like yourself anymore. You sound…dimmer. I just think you need to find a way to relax. To feel a little optimistic again.”
Optimistic.
Did she think it was like a light switch you could just flick back on?
You closed your eyes, breathing in slow. “Mom, I really don’t want to do this right now.”
She finally seemed to catch on, because she pivoted almost abruptly, latching onto a (somewhat) safer topic like a lifeline.
“Speaking of,” she said, brightening, “did you get your gift yet?”
You blinked. “My what?”
“The gift from us!” she repeated as though it were obvious. “For your anniversary. We sent something to the apartment. I assumed it would’ve been delivered by now.”
A prickle of unease crawled up your spine.
“No?” you said slowly. “I haven’t gotten anything. What is—”
The buzzer crackled from the intercom by the front door, loud and sudden enough to startle you, heart skittering from the unexpected intrusion.
“Oh! That must be it!” your mom chirped. “Go on, answer!”
You wiped your sweaty palms over your sweatpants as you shuffled toward the door. The intercom screen flickered to life, displaying a grainy feed of the lobby and a deliveryman standing beside a tall crate on a hover-dolly. His uniform was dark and sleek, the jacket stamped with a logo you knew all too well – a stylized six-pointed crest outlined in chrome blue circuitry.
KAISEN TECHNOLOGIES.
The company your husband poured his life into.
The same place he’d been when you found him—
You stopped that train of thought before it could derail.
You pressed the talk button with a stiff finger. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the deliveryman greeted politely. “I have a scheduled installation for a personal household assistant, model S-Series, limited prototype. Should only take about twenty minutes or so. May I come up?”
You stared.
The words sounded like gibberish, but you certainly knew what they meant. You’d heard them on commercials playing from the giant screens downtown, seen them on sleek ad banners your husband had casually dismissed over breakfast.
“They’re overpromising the software,” he’d muttered once, scrolling through a projection hovering above the kitchen table. “Marketing bullshit. People don’t need something this advanced doing their goddamn dishes.”
You remembered laughing weakly, saying something like, “Maybe if we had one, you’d actually help at home for once”.
He hadn’t laughed. He’d just smirked, leaned over to kiss your jaw in that distracted way he did once in a while, and murmured, “I already have a personal assistant. She makes my coffee and keeps the place presentable. Why would I need an Android on top of that?”
It had stung then. It burned even hotter now.
You stared at the man on the screen, trying to force your scattered thoughts into some kind of order.
“...Assistant?” you echoed, stupidly.
“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, unfazed.
Somewhere behind you, your mom’s image leaned further into frame, her eyes sparkling excitedly like a child on Christmas morning. “We really splurged this time,” she said, delighted. “The S-Series is their newest. Your father pre-ordered one a few months ago, and we love ours. We thought it could help you around the house.”
You turned slowly toward the screen, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Mom…” you muttered. “You bought me a fucking android?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she huffed, waving her hand like you were being dramatic. “Don’t say it like that. Everyone has one now.”
Everyone.
Except you.
Because your husband worked at the company that manufactured them and still refused to bring their tech home.
“They’re normal appliances,” she continued. “Think of it like a dishwasher. Or—or a smart fridge.”
“They’re not dishwashers,” you snapped. “They look like people.”
“Exactly,” she said. “They’re intuitive. They make life easier. That’s the point.”
“Mom, I told you I don’t want an Android,” you said, the words tumbling out almost too fast. “I’ve said that so many times. I don’t want something that walks around my apartment, pretending to be human, okay? They’re—I don’t know—creepy. And they’re taking jobs away from real people, and I don’t need—”
“You do,” she interrupted firmly. “You do need help. You’re up there killing yourself trying to keep everything perfect while he’s—” she broke off, lips pressing into a thin line. “While he’s busy. Just let it help you.”
“I don’t want that thing to help me,” you retorted, the words spilling out like fire before you could cool down.
There was a moment of silence, and guilt rushed in as soon as your anger receded. You scrubbed your hand over your face.
“I just mean…” You exhaled shakily. “I really don’t want one. They’re too human.”
“And what’s so wrong with that?” she challenged. “Better than humans who forget to appreciate what they have.”
That stung.
Not because she was trying to hurt you, she never did. But because she didn’t even realize how on the nose she was.
The intercom buzzed again, more insistent than the last. You glanced at the screen, watching the deliveryman shift his weight, his eyes flicking toward the camera like he could see your hesitation through it.
What would your husband say if he came home and found an android standing in the kitchen?
He’d hate it.
He’d look at you like you’d betrayed him.
He’d think you did it to spite him. To make a point about all the late nights, all the broken promises, all the ways he’d left you alone in this glass-walled apartment.
Or worse, he’d think you did it because you were lonely.
He’d sneer and say, “You really needed a replacement that badly, huh?”
He’d remind you that he already has a personal assistant.
He’d act like you’d misunderstood your role, like you were being ungrateful for wanting help.
He’d ask if you were planning to use it to spy on him. To report what time he came home. Who he brought with him on the nights you weren’t there.
None of that had happened yet, but you knew him. You knew exactly which ways this could go wrong.
“Just let him in,” your mom urged. “Trust me. You’re going to love it. You won’t know how you lived without it.”
You thought about how you were already living without most of the things you’d thought you couldn’t live without – his hand in yours, his laugh in the mornings, his warmth pressed up against your back in bed. You’d learned to survive the absence of those.
Why was the idea of something new in the apartment – something that looked at you with artificial eyes, that listened, that learned – somehow more terrifying?
A household assistant.
A machine that would catalog your habits, your expressions, your routines.
Something that would be there on the nights he didn’t come home.
Something that would see how empty this place really was.
You rubbed your thumb over the edge of the intercom, feeling the smooth glass catch against your skin.
You didn’t want an android.
You didn’t want your mother to look at you with that crestfallen disappointment if you refused.
You didn’t want your husband to come home and see the crate and decide this was the final proof that you were too much. Too needy. Too dramatic. Too everything.
But the deliveryman was still waiting. And your mom was still watching you like she could will you into accepting the help she thought you desperately needed.
You inhaled slowly, trying to brace yourself against the sense that something in your life was about to rearrange itself again, with or without your consent.
You lifted your hand. Your finger hovered over the button for a second too long.
And you pressed it.
The lock downstairs clicked audibly through the speaker.
“Come up.”
Your mom was still talking when the elevator chimed somewhere down the hall, a muffled “ding” sound that made your stomach drop straight through the floor.
“Oh! That’ll be him,” she beamed, completely oblivious to the cold panic that bled across your face. She sounded like she was announcing something simple, like a neighbor dropping off a casserole, not the delivery of something with a price tag probably larger than your student loans.
“Mom, wait—”
“I should let you go so you can talk to the technician,” she rushed on, already reaching to end the call. “Call me later, okay? And send some pictures once it’s all set up!”
“Mom—”
You stepped back from the panel, fingers still hovering near the glass like you could somehow undo it if you moved fast enough. Call the man back. Tell him the wrong address, the wrong person, the wrong life.
Too late.
The connection light on the elevator panel by your front door blinked from idle blue to an insistent white. Someone had already keyed in your floor.
When you looked back, your mom’s face was gone from the kitchen wall. You didn’t even get the opportunity to decide whether you wanted to thank her or beg her to cancel everything. You saw only your own reflection on the dark glass – tired eyes, rumpled clothes, hair pulled back that had definitely seen better days. And the apartment around you suddenly felt so staged, like one of those fake showroom spaces devoid of anything real.
You wiped your palms down your thighs again, though it didn’t help. Your skin still felt so clammy. You tried to breathe in slowly. In, out. The way the meditation app – the one your mom insisted on downloading – always told you to. Instead, your brain offered you a parade of worst-case scenarios.
You pictured your husband, short-tempered and tired, walking in on this exact moment. A stranger in a Kaisen Technologies uniform, some gleaming new android standing where his shoes sometimes landed when he kicked them off.
He’d scoff. Laugh, maybe. Or worse, he’d go quiet in a way that meant you were about to have a very calm, very controlled conversation about how dramatic you’d really become.
He’d say something about not being enough for you anymore. He’d say you didn’t trust him. He’d say that the prototypes are unstable and that you were stupid for inviting one into your home.
Your stomach lurched.
And the elevator chimed down the hall. Close.
The apartment seemed to hold its breath with you. The vents hummed with the climate system. The fridge clicked softly. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed in the distance, swallowed quickly by the layered traffic noise. Life outside felt far away and much too close all at once.
There was a sudden knock at the door, then. Three brisk raps against the wood.
You didn’t have to answer. You could pretend you weren’t home, make the man take the crate back down to the loading dock, tell your mom later that there’d been some kind of mistake and the delivery actually “never showed.”
But you could picture the way her face would fall at your rejection of their concern.
Honestly, you were so tired of disappointing people.
So you closed your hand around the door handle before you’d talk yourself out of it.
The man standing in the hallway looked exactly as he had in the grainy intercom feed. Mid-thirties, maybe, a compact build, uniform pressed crisp. The KAISEN crest gleamed against the black fabric of his coat, catching the hallway light whenever he shifted his weight.
Behind him floated the crate.
It was taller than you by at least a head, standing upright on the hover-dolly. Up close, the casing was even more unsettling. Not boxy like the industrial transport crates you’d seen at loading docks – this thing was sleek. Smooth and rounded, a capsule designed for something fragile and expensive. No panels. No hinges. No obvious seams. Just that pulsing, faint blue line running along both sides.
Like a heartbeat.
You couldn’t unsee it.
“Good evening,” the technician greeted, offering a practiced, polite smile like he’d done this a thousand times before. He probably had. “Am I speaking with Mrs—?” he read off your husband’s last name.
Sometimes, hearing that name hit you like a slap in the face, even after all this time. Some part of you expected to turn around and see another woman standing there – more put together, less exhausted, more deserving.
“Yeah,” you said. “That’s me.”
“Great,” He consulted his tablet, eyes flicking over the information. “I have an installation order for one S-Series domestic assistant, owner ID linked to this residency. Does everything look correct here?”
You swallowed. “Yeah,” you said again. “That’s…right.”
“Perfect. May I bring the unit inside?”
You hesitated for a moment, but stepped aside anyway. “Sure.”
He guided the crate through the doorway with minimal effort, and the dolly glided quietly into the threshold. The capsule’s white surface picked up on the warm lighting of the foyer, reflecting it colder, like daylight on fresh snowfall.
“Where would you like him?”
Him.
Not it.
Not the unit.
Not the assistant.
Him.
You glanced automatically toward the living room. The big open space with the couches and the coffee table and the tall windows you used to think were romantic. The place you’d once pictured children sitting on the rug, toys scattered, your husband smiling.
Now it was just another room you kept clean.
An exhibit.
“Um,” you started, clearing your throat. “There is fine. The living room, I mean.”
He nodded, already steering the dolly that direction. The crate floated a few inches above the floor, perfectly balanced, the blue strip of light brightening as it moved. You followed at a careful distance, like the man was escorting a wild animal into your home.
“Is this your first installation?” he asked casually over his shoulder.
“First android, period,” you said. “I’ve only ever seen them in ads. And, you know…out on the street sometimes.”
You didn’t mention that your husband worked on the systems that made them possible, that he’d come home ranting about design meetings and firmware updates and ethics reviews, all while insisting he didn’t want one “invading his personal space.”
The technician chuckled. “You’ll get used to it quick,” he said. “Most people do. They’re more intuitive than the older lines. Less mechanical. You talk, he listens. You ask, he acts. Simple as that.”
You weren’t sure that reassured you.
He stopped in the center of the living room, directly in front of the couch. The crate’s glow cast blue over the glass coffee table, the rug, the wall where your wedding photos hung – the few that you’d never had the heart to take down, even though it felt like a whole lifetime ago.
“This a good spot?” he asked.
You stared at the high-tech coffin-pod a few feet from the framed moment where you’d still believed in forever.
“It’s fine,” you murmured.
“Alright.”
He bent over the side of the capsule, pressed his thumb against a recessed port you hadn’t even seen, and the tablet in his other hand chimed in recognition. A series of icons flashed across its surface, lines of text scrolling rapidly.
“I’m just going to sync his data to your residence,” he explained, not looking up. “Tie him into the network, link access to the local grid. He’ll be able to route to your home systems once he’s fully online.”
You nodded, pretending you understood anything he’d just said.
“Um,” you found yourself asking, “is it…safe?”
He glanced at you quickly. “Safe?”
“You know. Like…is it going to go rogue or something and stab me with a kitchen knife while I’m sleeping?” you said, only kinda joking.
He laughed. “You’ve been watching those old school horror flicks, huh?”
He shook his head, turning back to the tablet. “No, ma’am. Strict domestic protocols, layered failsafes, and remote monitoring. If anything glitches enough to be dangerous, he’ll shut down long before he can make it to the silverware drawer.”
The mental image did not help.
“So it can’t hurt me,” you clarified.
“Can’t initiate harm,” he corrected. “He can restrain you if your vitals suggest you’re about to do something risky, like jump off the balcony, but that’s emergency intervention protocols. See, look—”
He spun the tablet just enough for you to catch a glimpse of a diagram – bright red rings labeled “inhibitors,” cascading down an abstract humanoid outline. “He’s got more restrictions than my first three exes combined.”
You huffed a weak, unwilling breath that was close to a laugh.
And the technician seemed satisfied.
“Alright, here we go.” He tapped another command on the tablet.
The hum from inside the capsule deepened, and the seams of the front panel unsealed with a soft hiss of pressurized air slipping free. You heard the interior locks disengaging, muted clicks that stack stop another, like someone cracking their knuckles one by one.
The front opened and rose with slow precision, lifting up and back until it hovered open like a door on invisible hinges.
You told yourself that you were ready. That you already knew what to expect. You’d seen the ads, after all, the glossy posters and the videos your husband waved in front of your face with an eye roll.
But nothing had prepared you for seeing one in your living room.
He stood just inside the capsule, anchored to its base by unseen supports. His synthetic skin appeared flawless and almost warm. His broad shoulders were set in a straight, almost military line. The clothing they’d dressed him in was simple – a fitted white shirt and dark pants, perfectly tailored. No wrinkles. No signs of wear. No human traces.
His hair was a soft white color – not gray, not bleached, but a manufactured shade that refracted light rather than simply reflecting it. It was styled in an effortless way, but you were sure it had been agonized over in design meetings.
His face—
Your thoughts finally snagged there.
He was handsome. Beautiful, even. Not just in a generic way, but ethereal like a marbled sculpture. A machine designed with aesthetic intent, like the engineers had sat around asking themselves what humans found most comforting. A straight nose. High cheekbones. A mouth and a pair of lips that looked like they could curve very easily into a smile.
If he’d been on the street, you might’ve assumed he was a model. Or an actor. Someone who made a living existing as an image.
“Holy shit…” You whispered.
The technician let out a low whistle. “They went all out on this one,” he said, more to himself than you. “You must have some very generous parents.”
You couldn’t tear your gaze away long enough to answer.
“What’s its name?”
The man checked the tablet. “Model designation S4-T0RU,” he said.
You snorted under your breath at the corporate-sounding cadence of it.
“Don’t worry,” he added. “You don’t have to call him that. It’s more for the system logs.”
“You call it a him,” you noticed.
He shrugged. “Easier than ‘the unit’ when they look like this.”
Like what?
Like actual people?
He tilted his tablet, tapping through menus. “This is the new cognitive baseline model. A prototype batch. They were designed to look more approachable than the older androids. Helps encourage better bonding.”
Would bonding make your life easier?
“Alright,” the technician adjusted a few more settings. “Shall we power him on?”
There was something grotesquely intimate about watching it.
A small tremor began in the android’s hands. His fingers extended, curled back in, then spread again, as though he were testing the concept of articulation after being dormant for so long. His shoulders rolled back, the line of his spine shifted as the internal stabilizers adjusted. You could hear clicks below the surface of his skin, the mechanisms aligning.
Then his chest expanded. Not a breath, you knew that. But it still looked like one.
“Core’s online,” the man murmured, watching the readout. “Motor functions are good. Optical systems in three…two…”
The android’s eyelids fluttered.
And they opened.
A bright blue light flooded his irises, outlined with barely visible lines of circuitry if the overhead hit them just right. The pupils contracted and expanded, calibrating the room’s brightness.
His gaze swept outward.
He looked at the technician, then continued past him, scanning the room, gridding the space into reference points. Walls, windows, furniture, ceiling. His head turned with deliberate control, cataloging angles and distances.
Then he saw you.
You knew the exact moment his sensors processed you as an object in the room, because his gaze stopped behaving like a camera and started behaving like attention.
Those vivid eyes fixed on your face and stayed there.
Your breath stumbled.
There was nothing inherently threatening in his expression. His brows weren’t drawn. His mouth didn’t curl. But there was clearly focus there. An alertness most machines weren’t supposed to have, at least not in your mind.
“The visual system will keep refining for the next few minutes,” the technician said, oblivious to the way your whole body felt off-center. “He’ll track motion, scan the environment, that sort of thing.”
The android blinked again, slower this time, as if testing the speed.
“Hey,” the tech called, raising his voice. “Unit S4-T0RU, can you hear me?”
The android’s head turned toward him. “Audio input confirmed,” he stated.
His voice startled you.
It was…warm. Deep, but not overly so. Clear. If you’d heard it through a wall, you would’ve assumed a real person was speaking.
“Motor check,” the tech said, as if this were all routine. “Step forward.”
The android did, lifting one foot with fluid ease and placing it on your living room floor. No stutter. No jerk. Just one, perfectly controlled step out of his own coffin. He stepped again. Stopped where indicated. His posture shifted, subtle adjustments making him look marginally less like a mannequin.
“Balance is stable,” he reported.
“Good,” the technician said. “Stand by.”
He tapped through another sequence on the tablet. “We’re going to run the environment mapping now,” he explained to you. “He’ll sync with your space, note exits, furniture locations, potential hazards. Think of it like him learning the layout.”
He angled the screen away, then entered a final command.
The android’s gaze went distant. The vivid blue of his irises seemed to glaze over, dimming and changing to an opaque, milky-white color. His pupils disappeared entirely, and his head began to turn in a slow, systematic sweep.
“Is he okay?” you asked.
“Oh yeah, it’s perfectly normal.”
The android looked up, tracking the vents. Looked down, mapping the furniture edges. Sideways, toward the balcony door and the lock, the latch, the railing beyond the glass.
“What happens if I move something?” you asked, hugging your arms around yourself.
“He’ll adapt,” the man said. “Ongoing spatial updates. He’s constantly logging new information.”
Constantly logging.
Learning everything.
You didn’t know whether to be unnerved or relieved. Maybe both.
“He’s also tying into local services,” the tech added. “Weather feeds, emergency dispatch, building alerts. If there’s a fire alarm, he’ll know before you do. Panic levels go down by about thirty percent in homes with androids.”
The android’s eyes snapped back to clarity like someone had thrown a switch. And they landed on you.
Again.
You swallowed.
“You are currently the only registered user in his proximity. So he’ll prioritize you by default. Once your partner gets home, you can add him as a primary or secondary profile.”
A ridiculous spike of anxiety shot through your spine.
He would hate this, you thought again.
He would hate walking in and finding this.
Your hand must have twitched, because the android’s gaze dipped, tracking the movement like a reflex. His head tilted by a fraction, as if making note of it.
“Does he—” You had to wet your lips before you could continue. “Can he…like, read my mind or something?”
The technician laughed. “No, ma’am. But he can read vitals if you authorize it. Heart rate, breathing, temperature, that kind of thing. It lets him respond appropriately. Fetch water if you’re dehydrated. Call emergency services if your vitals crash.” He shrugged. “Honestly, they sometimes catch things doctors miss.”
You wondered if he would notice your heart was beating way too fast right now. If he would flag it as panic or just data.
“We’ll keep it off by default,” he said, maybe reading your unease more accurately than the machine currently was. “You can toggle that in settings whenever you’re comfortable.”
You nodded slow, trying to absorb all the information he was dumping on you, but it felt like you didn’t belong in a world advanced enough for things like this.
“S4-T0RU is optimized for domestic efficiency, safety protocols, and household upkeep, so he’ll follow any spoken commands. He can cook if you want him to. Clean, run errands, hold a conversation. Everything is customizable—”
He ran through more features – voice activation, phrase recognition, manual override commands – the words continuing to wash over you in a blur a technical terms. Cognitive cores. Adaptive learning. Emotional response matrices.
“Sorry,” you said quietly at one point, rubbing the back of your neck to loosen the growing knot there. “I’m not super tech savvy like my husband.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to program him or anything. Just talk. He’ll take it from there.”
Just talk?
It was never that simple. Because “just talking” was the exact thing that had been failing your marriage for months.
“One last thing,” he added, thumb hovering over a highlighted option on the tablet. “This model has the updated learning module. It’s still a little experimental, but it’s been proven highly effective. Over time, he’ll adjust not just to your schedule, but to your preferences. Tone, boundaries, social comfort – the more time you spend interacting, the more natural he’ll feel.”
“So he…actually feels emotion?”
“Well, not real emotion, obviously,” he clarified. “He’s still a machine, so he’s not going to fall in love with you or anything. But he’ll simulate appropriate responses to make coexistence smoother. If you hate being overwhelmed with questions, he’ll talk less. If you like conversation, he’ll initiate more. If you sound sad, he might offer a distraction. That kind of thing.”
Your cheeks heated, and your gaze dropped down to the floor.
“So I shouldn’t get attached.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “We can’t regulate your feelings, ma’am. We just build the hardware.”
That might have been the most honest thing anyone connected to KAISEN had ever said to you.
“Anyway,” he tapped his final confirmations. “Everything seems to be looking good here. He’s all yours.” He held the tablet out for you. “Just a signature here to acknowledge the installation.”
Your fingers wobbled slightly as you signed your name with the stylus. Your married name. His last name. The one that now apparently owned a machine.
“Perfect.” He pocketed the tablet, then turned to the android. “S4-T0RU, primary owner is in front of you. Acknowledge.”
The machine straightened subtly. Those bright blue eyes locked onto you again. “Primary owner detected,” he said. “Facial profile initialised.”
A thin line of light scanned down your face from somewhere inside his irises, too quick to be anything but imagined until your skin tingled in its wake.
“Profile saved,” he said.
“Alright,” the technician said. “He’s going to be a bit stiff for the first few hours. Think of him as…waking up from a really long nap. Things will kinda smooth out as the model refines. Any questions before I head out?”
Yeah, about a hundred, actually.
None that you could articulate at this exact moment.
“Wait—what should I say to him?”
“Whatever you want.” He smiled. “Start simple. ‘Hello.’ Ask him to do something easy. It’ll help his routines.”
You stared at the android again. He stared back, silent, as patient as a statue.
“Okay,” you said weakly. “Yeah. I’ll…figure it out.”
“If you have any questions or issues, the support number’s in his menu.” The tech snapped the hover bands back onto the empty capsule and began rolling it away. “Enjoy your new companion.”
The elevator doors slid shut behind him, taking the crate and his easy confidence and the last human presence in the apartment with them.
When the silence settled again, it was different from before.
Suffocating.
It was just you.
And him.
Neither of you moved. You just watched each other. He tilted his head, awaiting something – a command, maybe, an input, a script to follow. You didn’t realize until now that his height had him practically towering over you, the broadness of his shoulders leaving a shadow on the rug.
You cleared your throat. “Uhhh…”
His focus sharpened instantly at the sound. Micro-movements flickered across his features, a tiny adjustment of his brows, his gaze softening.
“Hello,” he said.
The greeting slipped through the space between you, warm and smooth. He delivered it in a voice that sounded like it belonged to someone you’d meet in a bar over drinks.
“Hi,” you answered.
Brilliant, you thought. Truly stunning conversation.
His eyes dipped, flicking briefly to your hands where they twisted in the hem of your shirt, then back up. “Your heart rate is elevated,” he said calmly.
You stiffened. “I thought that feature was off.”
“My ability to approximate baseline human vitals is independent of active monitoring permissions,” he replied. “However, I apologize for alarming you. My intention is not to cause distress.”
Great. Now you were being reassured by a machine.
“I guess I’m just nervous?” you said, forcing yourself to drop your hands.
“Nervous,” he repeated. “Is it because of my presence?”
You hesitated. “A little.”
His head tipped to the side again. “Do you wish for me to move farther away?”
The offer was so unexpectedly considerate it threw you. “No!” you said quickly, wincing at how pathetic that sounded. You weren’t really sure if you did or didn’t. You weren’t really sure what you wanted at all. “Sorry. I just—I’m not used to this.”
“This,” he echoed. “Owning an Android?”
“Having one in my home,” you clarified. “My husband, he—” The word snagged on your tongue, and you swallowed. “He works for Kaisen, actually. He never wanted one to begin with.”
“He is employed at Kaisen Technologies,” the android said, as if confirming it with some internal database. “That aligns with the registry attached to this residence.”
You felt oddly exposed, like your life had been laid out somewhere on a dashboard and color-coded without your consent.
“He considers me unnecessary?” S4-T0RU asked. There was no bitterness in the question. Simply a search for data.
You could’ve laughed. If anything, your husband considered you unnecessary.
“He thinks people get too attached,” you explained. “He thinks it makes them pathetic.”
The android absorbed that silently. “I will endeavor,” he said after a moment, “not to make you pathetic.”
It was such a blunt, literal attempt at reassurance that a small huff of air broke out. He watched the reaction with quiet attentiveness, as if cataloguing it for later.
“You have not used my designation yet,” he observed, almost gently.
“Designation,” you repeated. “Right. That whole…string of letters and numbers.”
“S4-T0RU,” he supplied. “It functions as an identification code.”
“That’s, uh…that’s a lot to say every time,” you murmured. “Do you like it?”
He paused. It wasn’t a mechanical lag, but almost the impression of consideration.
“I have no preference,” he said. “I was activated with it. It is familiar. But if it displeases you, you are encouraged to select an alternative. Assigning names often increases user comfort.”
Of course, they’d studied that. Of course, some team in a glass boardroom had looked at charts proving that naming your machine made it stick harder in your life.
You breathed out slowly.
“Okay,” you said. “Can we try something simpler? Maybe…Satoru?” you asked. “It’s easier to say than S4—whatever.”
He repeated it.
“Satoru.”
The syllables rolled off his tongue smoothly, carrying a certain warmth that hadn’t originally been there with the code. He blinked once, then twice. You had no idea what was happening in there, but he seemed almost…pleased? Maybe it had meant something to him. Maybe he’d been waiting for permission all along to be called something human.
“Satoru,” he said again. “Name registered.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“I have been informed that my preferences are secondary to yours,” he said. “However…I find that I do not dislike it.”
It was maybe the closest thing to “I like it” that you’d ever heard from something that didn’t technically have feelings.
“Alright then,” you said. “Satoru. It suits you.”
“What should I call you?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked. “Me?”
“Yes. You are registered as primary owner. But I would prefer not to address you as such in casual conversation. It appears to cause social discomfort in most documented cases.”
Should you laugh at that?
You gave him your name. Your first. And it felt strangely intimate, handing it to him like a gift.
He repeated it, the same way he’d repeated his own. Testing the shape of it. Filing it away. When he said it, it didn’t sound like an entry in a log. It sounded like something that belonged to you.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For…what?” you asked, genuinely confused.
“For providing parameters. It will make interacting with you much more precise.”
You snorted softly. “I’m glad I could help make your job easier.”
“Making your life easier is my job,” he corrected gently. “Not the other way around.”
You stared at him. No one had said something like that to you in a very long time without wanting something back.
And when the silence settled again, it felt different this time. Less like a vacuum and more like…space. Something you could fill, if you had the energy.
He glanced once toward the kitchen. Toward the sink full of dishes, the cluttered counter, the half-finished mug of tea ringed with dried residue. “There is a significant backlog of cleaning tasks in this residence,” he observed calmly. “Your posture indicates muscular fatigue. And your caloric intake today appears insufficient.”
“Excuse me?”
He blinked, tilting his head. “You have not eaten since at least midday. Your stomach produced audible sounds during the installation, and your energy levels are likely low. Would you like me to prepare something?”
The fact that he’d noticed all of that – had logged it, interpreted it, presented it back to you like a summary report – should have freaked you out.
And it did.
Yet, you were also…embarrassed. Seen. In a way you hadn’t been in a long time.
“I don’t even know if you can cook.”
He considered that. “My core contains comprehensive culinary databases and optimized preparation protocols for five hundred and twelve common dishes. I can also adapt based on your preferences. Or learn.”
“I’m not that hungry,” you lied.
His gaze flicked briefly to your midsection, then back up. “That is inaccurate,” he said gently.
When you glared at him for the intrusion, he looked completely unbothered.
“You’re very…direct,” you said.
“I can adjust,” he offered. “If you prefer softer phrasing, I will attempt it. This is why emotional learning modules exist.”
You rubbed your hand over your face. “No, it’s fine. I’m just not used to anyone paying that much attention.”
“That’s rather unfortunate,” he said. “Luckily, my goal is to provide as much attention as you require.”
You stared at him again. At the blue eyes that glowed faintly in the low light. At the face you knew had been engineered to reassure and appeal and sell units. At the artificial man who had been in your apartment for less than an hour and had already noticed more than your husband did on most days.
Maybe you should’ve been terrified. And maybe you were. But beneath all that unease, beneath the skepticism, there was something tiny and traitorous blooming. A hesitant curiosity.
The future your husband had scoffed at wasn’t about companionship purchased in cold, chrome packages. It was about what happened when the people who were supposed to love you stopped acting human, leaving you staring into the eyes of a machine that somehow felt more present than anyone else did.
Satoru watched you quietly, waiting.
You realized he wouldn’t speak again until you did.
“Okay,” you said softly, surprising yourself. “Maybe…I am a little hungry.”
He straightened, a hint of animation touching his features. “Understood.” He turned toward the kitchen with a fluid pivot, steps silent on the floor. “Would you like to accompany me, or would you prefer to rest?”
Rest.
You couldn’t remember the last time anyone had suggested you do that while they handled things.
“I’ll come,” you heard yourself say, legs moving before your doubts could stop them. “You’ll probably break something if I don’t.”
He glanced back at you, and for the first time, you could almost imagine there was the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes – not coded, not scripted, but emerging.
“I will endeavor not to,” he said.
And as you followed him into the kitchen – this strange, too perfect figure navigating a space worn down by your ordinary exhaustion – an unsettling thought slid quietly into your mind:
Maybe you always needed an Android.
Art by: @521jie on X
A/N: I watched a Detroit: Become Human edit the other day on tiktok and I felt inspired by my og robot crush Connor to write this oneshot...tehe. And as always, I hope you enjoy, and a repost is always appreciated, my loves!
reading this again and god, i really need more gojo android stuff, like i love detroit and the concept is so cool too i need more of this. really one of my favorites fanfics over here
I’m thinking about nanami who has a not so secret crush professional interest in gojo’s wife (fem!reader). nsfw 18+ drabble. mlist
──── ୨୧ ────
On Nanami’s birthday he enjoys the celebration and praise from everyone, but there’s one little thing nagging at the back of his mind through all the cakes and badly wrapped tie pins. He doesn’t say anything, but your presence is pointedly missing, and that tiny fact is enough to dampen his spirits despite the jovial atmosphere. He’s a little grumpy by the end of the day as a result, more so by the way Gojo seems to be hell bent on clinging to him. After one too maybe bear hugs he finally makes a remark, a snide little comment about how he much prefers Gojo’s “other half”. Gojo just grins that same shit-eating grin as usual, but his grip on Nanami’s shoulder is tight when he chirps in reply “let’s go see her then, right now!”.
Nanami barely has the chance to open his mouth before he’s engulfed in a sizzle of energy. Gojo’s hand still firmly clasped over his shoulder, he finds himself standing in an unfamiliar bedroom, and when his vision finally focuses he chokes at the sight that greets him. It’s you, blindfolded, splayed over crisp white sheets and wrapped up like a gift. Each bare limb is glittering, bound expertly in an intricate banding of yellow ribbon - his favourite colour. He hadn’t had a favourite colour before, not until he’d seen you waltz in one morning donning a yellow sundress, looking like a beam of sunlight personified. He sees you in the daisies that pepper the footpath, the warmth of a summer day, the sand beneath his feet on the beachside, and now in the restraints lacing each of your oiled limbs like a bow atop a gift he’s been pining after for years - and it’s all just too much.
He’s speechless, unable to even lift a finger to argue when Gojo guides him into a chair directly across from where you’re perched on the bed, giving him a stellar view of just how far gone you already are. Nanami is dizzy, tenfold when his eyes roam down and he notices the little red light blinking between your spread thighs, tucked beneath a pair of pale blue panties already soaked through and glistening a little with the vibration.
Gojo’s smile has settled into a sharp line, and his voice is low and cutting when he leans down to purr into Nanami’s ear, his hands massaging either tense shoulder. “You wanted to fuck my wife, right? Well take it all in Nanamin, this is the closest you’re ever gonna get.”
